#decades or something even so might as well avoid a higher body count

[venacoeurva]

Support group for Nerevarines who hate being Nerevarines and don’t take it up with a sense of duty or honor and just spend the entire year or so like “thanks you dead fuck. I hate this”

#Wren is there and he brought a charcuterie board #vena vents #not art #Like dude went through with it because he saw it as like someone's gonna end up doing it but a longer wait for the next person might take #decades or something even so might as well avoid a higher body count #pretty sure him fucking the devil was also a spite thing #mixed with like 30 other reasons

[ivymarquis]

Happiness is a Butterfly

It's been literal months since I read @ceilidho's divorce AU and guess what it is still rattling around in my brain because it is just scrumptious.

This is what I vanished to work on lol

Pairing| John Price x F!Reader Rating| E Word Count| 10.6k Kinks/Content/Warnings| 3rd person reader, Post Divorce John Price x Wife!Reader, Attempting to co parent, John is obnoxiously agreeable until he no longer wants to be, there is the s l i g h t e s t mention where reader is worried John might snap but he doesn't scout's honor, squirting, unprotected PiV, blow job, face sitting, unplanned pregnancy, childbirth, reproductive coercion if you squint, baby trapping if you squint, it is a lil dubby because John doesn't do anything behind Reader's back but he steamrolls the fuck out of her into getting what he wants lmao

The words choke in her throat like they don’t want to leave. 

Maybe that’s a higher power giving her just one last out to change her mind- to not say the four words that will upend the lives of everyone in the household.

She can barely bring herself to look at him. 

In the decade they’ve been married his temper has never been something she’s been afraid of, but in that moment it is all she can think about; every headline she’s ever read of a soldier snapping and killing his wife and children floating in her mind like a neon sign flashing danger. 

She’s never feared his temper but she’s also never croaked out the words I want a divorce to him before either. 

Her arms cross over her body as her gaze settles a bit off to the side of him. Everything about her body language is closed off and cagey as he looks up from his desk- no doubt having been mentally preparing for another round of come to bed, love - in a minute darling, almost done only to be caught off guard by the actual request.

He doesn’t answer her as he sits back in his chair, looking at her.

She chooses now to choke out the words because she really doesn’t think she has it in her to say the words with him standing. He’s sitting- still imposing as ever even if he’s always been magnanimous around the house- and she’s on the other side of the room avoiding eye contact.

He stands, still silent as the grave, before walking towards her in slow, measured steps and coming to a halt right in front of her. The ground has become absolutely fascinating as she refuses to meet his gaze.

As his hand raises she imperceptibly starts to shift, but absolutely nothing escapes John’s notice. “Don’t,” he starts before clearing his throat, his tone softer as he speaks again, “Don’t do that. You know me better than that.”

This time she doesn’t move as he goes to cup her face- takes her chin in hand and forces her head up. “Look me in the eye and say it again.”

It takes a moment for her to scrape together her nerves, eyes picking up off the floor to meet his. She’s not sure entirely what she expected but she thinks she assumed there’d be more of a reaction. He’s watching her- thinking- as she stumbles over the words.

Doubt twists in her gut as once again she squeaks out “I want a divorce.”

“Is there someone else?” he asks evenly.

“No! John I’d never-” It’s true; ever since he’d turned her head all those years ago she’s been blind where other men are concerned.

“Okay,” he soothes with his thumb against her cheek and she’s suddenly aware that this is probably not how this conversation should be going. “I believe you. Are you sure this is what you want?”

She’s been agonizing over this for months. She’s not even sure what gauntlet was thrown down to make her say enough is enough and have today be the day. Nothing spectacular has happened.

Maybe that’s reason enough. His job is always just the higher priority. While he always ensures his family is cared for while away, he drops everything for work in a way that simply isn’t reciprocated at home. Even when he’s physically here he spends so much time locked in this damn office he might as well be back at base.

Nothing has changed after begging and pleading and she is tired with a bone weary ache.

Are you sure this is what you want? Echos in her head while he awaits an answer.

“Yes.” No. “I’m so tired of being alone,” she confesses. “I’m tired of constantly having to beg you to be here even when you’re home. If I am going to be by myself raising the boys then I just need to be by myself.”

He doesn’t seem surprised by the words in the slightest. Probably because they’ve been having the same argument for years. This is not the first time she’s been frustrated with his job.

“Okay,” she can’t believe her ears with his easy acceptance. “If this is what you want, then okay.”

She sobs- alone- in their bed like the entire situation isn’t her fault, burying her face in the bedding to stifle herself from the kids. John’s gone.

Everything goes about as smoothly as it can. John doesn’t fight her on anything. With his schedule there’s no point in ironing out a visitation schedule through the courts. They agree to just work it out when they can, given how he can be called away at a moment’s notice.

They’re adults. They can handle this.

Once her nerves settle from the initial shock of actually saying the words to him, and she’s had a few days to think on his reaction, she decides she’s pissed.

The easy acceptance ruffles her feathers in a way she can’t put to words. She gave him a decade of her life, a home, three children- has kept everything running seamlessly while he jumped in and out of their lives to answer the call of duty and he didn’t even try to fight for her.

If he was being sullen or grouchy with her it would be easier to process everything- all the things set into motion that she started.

Perhaps she’s projecting. But he just acts like nothing is amiss as he comes by to pick up the boys or drop them off or just stop by to spend time with them.

She wakes up on the 15th and right on time she is awoken by a ding from her phone.

Perhaps, she thinks, it is a lapse in judgment to kick him out for not being around, given that she’s now cut into what already little time he has to spend with them. Isn’t that the focus of her argument? That it’s too difficult for the boys?

Their boys- three of them, each one a head taller than the last- are understandably devastated and struggling to deal with very big, very complex feelings that result in major meltdowns and fights. They blame her and they’re not wrong.

Then one day, when old habits die hard and she confides in John tearfully one day as he’s returned from his latest deployment to see them, while she can’t say it stops all together she can say there’s a marked improvement when they come back. 

What did he tell them?

Her phone dings on the 1st like it always does every other week and her agitation is palpable.

She doesn’t even need to look at the notification. 

John isn’t missing a beat this entire time and he’s driving her crazy. 

The notification is from the bank, of an entirely too large deposit to an account that only she has access to. John’s name is not on it and he can’t touch anything in it. 

He can however put money in it.

He is as steadfast and agreeable as always while stubborn enough to just bulldoze into getting his way.

She knows she should be grateful. That so many ex husbands abandon their children and former wives in favor of some shiny new girlfriend. That it would be so easy for him to throw her “if I'm going to be by myself then I'm going to be by myself” back in her face. 

Her career had been put on hold with the boys. When everyone was older and in school and didn’t need her so much the plan had been to go back. And then John had kept putting babies in her and the timeline got pushed further back with the subsequent births of their two youngest children. 

It would have been so easy for him to tell her to just figure it out herself, that this is what she wants and she can navigate life on her own just fine. 

Instead he deposits entirely too much money into an account he can’t access. 

She’s not sure why today is different, but she hits her limit and calls him. They’ve never actually spoken about his little transactions.

“You alright, then, love?” She remembers deciding to pick her battles and not harp that she’s not his love anymore. 

“What are you doing?”

There’s a brief pause.

“…I’m on base? About to take my lunch, actually. Maybe you can -“ she cuts him off before he can get any further. 

“I’m not calling to ask about your day and you know it,” she snaps irritably. “I’m asking about the deposit. What are you doing?”

John, once upon a time, used to tease about his spoiled, hot headed wife. She knows she is being the epitome of spoiled and ungrateful but come on- no one is this agreeable about a divorce. She doesn’t trust it. 

“I have no idea what you mean, love.” He assures her good naturedly. 

“You have no idea how several thousands have been deposited into my account?”

She wants to reach through the phone to strangle him when she hears that even tempered laugh of his. 

“I know how the money got deposited, love- I did it myself. I don’t know why you’re questioning my motives. We both know you haven’t worked outside the home in years- you need money to keep everything going.”

“John, it's too much. I know you know how much I spend in a month!”

He sighs. She can picture him sitting at his desk on base. Sprawled out in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t want you making decisions out of desperation.” He responds evenly. “The plan wasn’t for you to go to work until the youngest one’s in school next year. You’ve been out of the market for years, I can only imagine an employer trying to use that to short change you.”

He lets out a sigh, and she feels something akin to guilt for freaking out on him.

John’s always been the one to make the best out of a shit situation. To try to steady the boat in the storm. Even when his own wife (ex wife) is the one making waves. 

“I don’t want you making decisions out of desperation,” he repeats. “I just want you to be able to raise the boys comfortably without worrying about making ends meet.”

The something coils tighter in her gut. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes.

“You’re alright, sweetheart,” he assures her and once again she has to bite back a not your sweetheart anymore. 

“Now,” there’s the slightest shift to his tone and feels herself falling back into old habits again. As keyed in to him as a dog awaiting her master’s command. “What I was going to say earlier- I’m about to take my lunch. I would appreciate it if you could bring me the boys. I’d like to see them today.”

She can’t very well tell him no now can she?

The boys are her heart and soul but she sees them for exactly who they are- three rambunctious little spitfires always up to something. Good boys, but curious and mischievous. The curse of having smart children. 

Until they’re on base at least. All three are quiet as church mice, gathered behind their mother and peering at the soldiers from behind her skirt. 

She can’t truly correct the guards at the gate when they greet her as Mrs. Price- she hasn’t changed her name and isn’t sure if she’s going to. 

It’s not hers anymore, but it’s still her boys’ name and things are easier. She’d likely have to retrain herself to respond to her maiden name. 

The boys are hot on her heels until they stumble across John- as soon as he sees them, dropping a knee with open arms the trio are off like a shot as peals of “Daddy!!” fill the air. 

“You can just call me after you’ve finished lunch and I can come get them,” she states amicably, watching John as he wrangles the three of them. The sooner she can get out of here, the better off she’ll be (because God help her, watching him with their oldest two was how she ended up pregnant with the third, and watching him with them now just makes her yearn for something she no longer has any claim to).

Immediately the three boys are protesting, albeit not quite as vocally as they normally would.

“Mummy, no!” “Mum!” “But it’ll be fun!” the trio state their cases to varying degrees.

John shushes the three of them gently to keep them from winding up too much before turning to her. “Come on now, sweetheart, for old time’s sake, hm?”

Their little three stooges voice their approval of that idea, chiming in with various degrees of “Yeah!”

Ultimately it’s the desire to keep her children complacent that has her agreeing. She doesn’t want a scene.

Unfortunately, a (albeit mild) scene is what she ends up having anyway.

She knows (is hopeful, at least) that her oldest doesn’t mean anything by it while they’re waiting for their food and asks “So what time are we going to nana’s later?”

Her eyes snap to him about the same moment as John’s snaps to her, and she’s deliberately trying to avoid his gaze.

Why, oh why, could he not have asked either before or after lunch?

“We’ll probably get ready after we go back home.” she’s careful to keep her tone neutral.

“How fun,” Ah shit, she can hear the suspicion in John’s voice. “Any reason in particular, or just a fun weekend?”

“Just for the night. Mum’s picking us up tomorrow. Right Mum?”

The server chooses that moment to bring their food, which gives her a moment to figure out how the fuck she’s gonna weasle out of this conversation.

“Yes, I’ll come get you after breakfast.”

“Could have called me.”

“That didn’t seem appropriate. They’ll be fine with my mum.” Her gaze drops to her plate, knowing full well if she looks up that his eyes will lock on hers.

“Don’t see what’s inappropriate about me watching my own kids.”

It’s not that she’s happy to squabble with John where the kids have a front row seat, but there is a dark part of her that delights in watching him. He has been obnoxiously agreeable this entire time and the cracks are showing. It makes her feel like she’s dealing with another human being, because she knows she’s got her moments where she loses her mind during all of this and it’s beyond frustrating that he is so dauntless no matter the circumstances in every situation.

“It’s not-” Jesus, does she tell him? What does that conversation look like? “I have plans tonight.”

John is not a stupid man and she can see the moment he realizes she’s not planning a girl’s night out for herself.

That she hadn’t thought it appropriate to ask him to take the kids so she can go on a date with another man.

“I’m watching them,” he asserts before returning to his plate. 

“John-”

“I said I’m watching them,” his tone is softer, but leaves no room for argument. Conversation over.

There’s nothing wrong with her date. He is well mannered and polite, attentive when she speaks. No obvious red flags- he doesn’t dismiss her stories, doesn’t shirk back at the mention of her three children, isn’t rude to the server and isn’t texting on his phone opposed to actually engaging with her. 

There is nothing wrong with him and for an idle moment she pictures what her could have been like had she married a man like him instead of John. The 9-5, the set routine, the security and reliability of knowing that he is coming home at his regular time and he’ll be there for the boys various sports and activities. 

And yet all she can think of is John, who is sitting in their home, watching their children. Of the late night returns from deployment where they’d have their stolen alone time- quiet as church mice so as not to wake the boys who most assuredly would not be going back to sleep if they knew their father was home. 

Of the delighted squeals of their children when they come into the room to wake her for breakfast only to find him in bed like nothing was amiss. 

(And yes there was always the heartbreak that followed him walking out the door, the anxiety between phone calls that would brew until she once again could assess that he is alive and not dying blown to bits on the other side of the world)

There is nothing wrong with her date but he is not John, and that is an obstacle he will never be able to overcome.

She is safely deposited on her doorstep with polite pleasantries. She thinks he knows, has a kind smile and understanding eyes as she carefully tells him I’m sorry, I thought I was ready but I don’t think I am.

Someone will recognize him as a catch but John never let go of the hold on her heart. Someone will want this man but all she wants is John. 

It’s not as late as she thought it would be when she comes home- a fact that John immediately comments on when her eyes land on him while searching for him.

“Well that didn’t last long.” The air feels different from before she left home, and she stands stock still as he rises off the couch and strides towards her.

“I,” she starts and stops, choking on the words. Why the hell did she ever agree to letting him babysit again?

Yes he’s the father of her children and yes she wants him to spend time with them whenever possible but this is just so incredibly awkward for her. 

“I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again,” she finishes lamely. 

“I would imagine not, if the date ended that quickly. We were always out for hours, weren’t we sweetheart?”

She can’t quite get a read on him but the entire tone of the conversation is… odd. Hell, the entire conversation is odd. 

John is not one of her girlfriends for her to cheekily report back how her date went. He’s her ex husband for God’s sake. 

“We were,” she agrees amicably- mind spinning with memories of the various times they had stumbled into bed early in the morning, or crawled into the backseat of John’s car like horny teenagers or-

One moment her thoughts are full of the various times John had folded her up like a piece of paper, and the next she’s aware that he’s closed the distance between them while she’s distracted.

“Makes me wonder if that was your plan all along,” he ponders out loud. She squeaks in protest, rooted to the ground and not even attempting to put more space between them.

“Was it? Having me home with the kids while you were out with another man?” His tone holds far more warmth than one would expect of a man all but accusing his (ex) wife of being a hotwife. 

John’s hands grip at either side of her hips, thumbs rubbing in affectionate circles. She doesn’t quite know what to do with her own- she can feel the shift in the room. She hasn’t been with anyone since the last time they slept together, and there’s only so much fucking herself can due to take the edge off.

She can’t mimic the weight of a man’s body on top of hers- of his voice rumbling in her ears, the body heat radiating off of him as he coaxes one orgasm after another out of her.

She doesn’t want just a man though, in the broad scope of the term. It’s John. 

He stops stroking at her before making a few deliberate swipes. It dawns on her that he’s feeling at the seam of her lingerie set underneath her dress. 

“What’s this?” He asks, hands roaming and squeezing at her sides- possibly seeing if he can gauge which set is hidden away by feeling how the fabric wraps around her. 

It’s a new one. While she hadn’t been sure about sleeping with her date, the thought of wearing lingerie that at one point had been meant for John felt wrong. 

There’s a part of her willing to admit that at the rate things are going, he’s likely going to be christening this one also by the end of the night. 

“Were you planning on showing this to him?” John’s enjoying torturing her- dangling the man she wasn’t ever all that interested in just to bait her.

“No, I-,” she hadn’t really thought about it. There was no plan. She was going on a date, so she put on lingerie like she always has. 

Like she always did- for him. John would make a game of figuring out which set she had on.

“I just want you,” the truth bubbles out of her throat unbidden. 

John descends on her like a man starved- fingers digging into her hips with a grip that she knows is going to leave bruises later.

“Bed,” she mumbles between kisses. Given how John immediately starts herding her backwards towards the bedroom, he’s clearly on board with this plan. 

Once the door is shut, the pair cross the room before collapsing against the bed. 

Clothes are shed in a hurry, pried off with little regard as they’re shucked to the floor.

“This one looks lovely on you,” John murmurs in praise against her skin as he gropes at the lace adorning her body, dropping to his knees on the side of the bed. 

God has she missed this- missed him. The feeling is clearly mutual from the way he busies himself between her legs, lips peppering kisses across her inner thighs quickly while he makes his way towards the spot she wants him most, the gusset of her thong pulled aside.

Just as his breath is fanning over the core of her he pulls back slightly. Her thigh twitches in frustration, so close to finally having the nirvana of his tongue lapping at her only for him to have to be a tease.

“Has anyone else gotten a taste of this sweet cunt?” He asks, eyes on her with an intensity that has her squirming. 

“No! There hasn’t been- John, I swear I haven’t-“ she protests.

“I believe you,” he assures her. 

She probably should ask if the same could be said for him- for her own sake if nothing else. But she’s already made a slew of questionable decisions that haven’t gone the way she wants, and she errs on the side of not asking questions she doesn’t want an answer to.

Her eyes roll immediately once his mouth is on her. His hands grip at the underside of her thigh, holding them apart to give him unfettered access.

“John,” somehow she can’t quite wrap her mind around the fact that he’s got her back in their bed. Everything is novel and familiar at the same time, and she is overwhelmed by how easy it is to fall back into old habits. 

He pulls away just long enough to speak, “I missed you so much,” before going back to eating her out.

John is a man on a mission, and he is familiar enough with her body to know exactly how to get her where he wants her. He also knows all of her tells- God damn him. No sooner has he dragged her to the precipice of her orgasm does he sit back, content to let her dangle but stopping just shy of letting her finally topple over.

“Wh-why?” She whimpers, lust, anticipation and disappointment curling in her gut.

He’s so gentle with her when he takes her left hand in his own, thumb running over her knuckles in soothing movements.

“Where’s your ring, sweetheart?” his question is a non sequitur if she’s ever heard one, head spinning trying to catch up through the haze of pleasure she’d been drowning in just a moment ago.

“My ring?” She mimics more on reflex than anything else, mind still reeling to catch up.

“Yes, sweetheart, your ring.” He repeats, eyeline following hers as her gaze shifts to the jewelry box sitting on the vanity.

There’s no written standard on how long to keep your ring before getting rid of it, and she hadn’t been sure about it. Figured she could always get rid of it later- when it’s never a question of if she’s making the right decision. Even with the ink dried on the paperwork finalizing their divorce, the ring feels like the final nail in the coffin for their marriage.

So she put it in her jewelry box, where it is safe but out of mind and she could worry about it later.

She never thought for a second that ‘later’ would arrive in the form of her ex husband telling her “Go get it and bring it here.”

It’s a beautiful ring; everything she ever wanted growing up. The cut, the size, the setting- John did a lovely job when he picked it out all those years ago.

Gonna be an officer’s wife, sweetheart he’d told her after she’d accepted his proposal. Gotta look the part.

Surely no one can blame her for not gnashing at the bit to part with it?

She hesitates for a moment before ultimately deciding to just do as she’s told- John didn’t tell her to put it back on. So she holds it pinched between her thumb and pointer.

In an alternate dimension, where she’d gone back with her date and let him charm her out of her new lingerie, there would be some insecurity over her body. Bringing three tiny lives into the world takes its toll in the form of stretch marks and loose skin and some extra weight that just clings to her like a needy toddler- but any time John has seen her naked, he is as moon eyed as he was the first time all those years ago. Like he can’t quite believe his luck and he’s not entirely sure she’s real.

Tonight is no exception. As soon as she’s in arms reach his hands settle on her hips, pulling her closer to him.

“We’re going to lay some ground rules, and then I’m going to fuck you into the mattress. Am I clear, pet?” Warmth and affection roll off of his tone in waves despite his words. All she can do is nod dumbly.

“This,” John takes the ring from her before sliding it back on her finger,” stays where it belongs. Right here.”

He pulls her even closer- she has to crane her neck to look up at him. “There’s no more dates with other men. That stops tonight.”

Another easy acquiescence. She nods in agreement.

He spins her slowly, facing away from him and then pulling at her hips so she’s sitting on him. She starts to hover, holding herself up until he swats at the side of her ass. “Now is not the time to play with me,” he warns.

She settles, feeling the mattress dip underneath their combined weight. John clearly has a plan in mind as he guides her to spread her legs, a chill running up her spine as the air laps at her wet cunt. His erection presses heavy at her ass, trapped between his body and her own.

His left middle and ring finger tap at her lower lip and she opens her mouth on reflex. John doesn’t even need to tell her to suck, tongue laving over the thick digits automatically, the same way she would his cock.

“I’m not mad,” he whispers in her ear, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You tried and tried to tell me, and I didn’t take you seriously, did I?”

She can only assume that this is all rhetorical- that there’s no way he can expect an answer out of her considering she’s gagging on his fingers.

“As soon as you told me you wanted a divorce in my office, I knew what it was. You needed my attention, and I wasn’t listening. I don’t blame you. Hell, I practically forced your hand. So I’m not mad,” he reiterates.

“But you’ve got my full attention now, lovely- I can promise you that.” 

She twists as much as she’s able, watching John out of the corner of her eye while still sucking; her tongue tasting the metal of his ring as it ran along the base of it.

“We,” he pulls his fingers from her mouth, grinning when she chases his hand slightly, “are going to work this out. I love you, and I have no intention of letting another man raise my children.”

It would be easy to say the arousal dripping from her is left from when John’s mouth was on her, but that would be a lie. Him taking her in hand- literally-  and telling her he has no intention of letting her go is definitely doing it for her.

Wet fingers grab at her jaw and turn her head, making her melt into his hold as he kisses her. “There’s my good girl,” his voice is a rumbling timber purring in her ear.

She whines when those two fingers trace down her body- an appreciative squeeze of her breasts trailing to grope at her ass before finally slipping between her legs.

“John,” his name is a whimper against his lips as she wiggles in anticipation.

“So impatient,” he admonishes gently as he works his fingers inside of her.

Warmed by their body heat, his ring isn’t cold against her skin by any stretch of the imagination. If anything, it feels like a white hot branding iron everywhere he touches. That tonight is a reclamation as much as a reunion as he crooks his fingers inside of her.

It was easy to ignore the need that burned in her at night. She’d run herself ragged during the day chasing after children and keeping all her ducks in a row. With John gone, it was easy to shove the desire down and ignore it.

But oh now that he has her in his arms, fingers buried in her as he works her closer to her peak? She feels like she’s on fire. Greed burns at her insides, needing more. Nothing short of climbing inside of him would abate the desire roaring in her body.

Her hips cant in short motions, following the movement of his hand eagerly.

As reluctant as she is to stop kissing him, she can feel a crick in her neck starting to form from keeping her head turned for so long.

Her head lulls against his shoulder when his free hand slips under the lace of her bra and grips one nipple between his middle finger and thumb, his pointer finger teasing the hardened nub in a way he knows drives her absolutely insane.

“Oh my God,” she squeaks just a breath too loud, her hand immediately clamping over her mouth as John pinches her nipple just shy of pain in reprimand. “Not too loud,” he reminds her, mollified when she nods in acknowledgement.

He’s got her panting in need in record time, a small part of her suspicious that he’s going to stop her short of her climax again. The anxiety only serves to fuel the fire burning in her gut, giving the final push to tip her over the edge.

Apparently neither trust her ability to be quiet when her climax hits, because John’s hand abandons teasing her breast in favor of also making sure her cries are muffled. The other is soaked as she squirts, twitching and bucking in his hold.

“Need to shove your face in a pillow,” he comments dryly, a shit eating grin on his face as he takes in her blissed out expression.

He knows her inside and out; knows exactly how long she needs to recover before he’s tapping at her side and prompting her up. “Get on the bed and lay on your back.”

She complies immediately on shaky legs, standing to turn and crawling to the middle of the bed.

John is just as delicious now as he was over a decade ago, and her brain threatens to short circuit watching him crawl over top of her. There’s more grey hairs and fine lines creasing around his eyes, and her heart still thrums in her ribcage like a hummingbird.

She relaxes against the mattress, trusting entirely that John has everything handled. He positions her how he wants, settling between her legs and rubbing the tip of her cock against her wet entrance. 

“Please, John, I can’t wait anymore,” she begs, feeling like she’s about to lose her mind. The edge should be taken off considering John’s rather patiently gotten her off already once, and yet if anything it just makes her more frantic. As much as each swipe of his cock against her swollen clit sends tingles of pleasure up her spine, she’s gagging for him and running out of patience.

“You are a spoiled thing,” he admonishes good naturedly like he hasn’t made a habit of indulging her every whim and desire in the past decade up to and including getting a divorce.

“We might have our problems, sweetheart, but being able to fuck you right was never one of them, was it?” John teases as he lines himself up with her. She shakes her head in agreement. If she’s being truthful, that’s partially what had stayed her hand for as long as she had. The frustration with his work being so all consuming it was like his mistress had been a slow boil for quite some time. For years John would mollify her by fucking her into submission- and she has a sinking suspicion that their youngest was an attempt to get her to let up on the subject.

His generosity in the bedroom stems from equal parts wanting to please, and the pragmatic aspect that he is not a small man, and it’s usually easier for everyone involved if he gets her off before attempting penetration.

It’s like they haven’t missed a day- it takes a few thrusts to get her body to spread for him and then all the blood on John’s body dives south for the wet, warm cunt wrapping around his cock.

“This pretty cunt’s got me like a vice, sweetheart,” he praises, leaning down to kiss her.

“I missed you so much,” she whines into the kiss. “It feels so good.”

“I’m not gonna last,” he grunts against her neck, each clap of his hips against hers earning a whine. “You divine creature- got me wrapped around your finger, don’t you?”

An entire relationship’s worth of orgasms makes it so she doesn’t begrudge him that he’s going to be a quick shot tonight. His earlier statement is correct- if there is one thing the man knows how to do, it’s fuck her within an inch of her life. He’s proven that time and time again.

If anything, given their time apart, it appeases some of her anxiety- he must not be getting any from anyone else if he’s already this close to finishing.

“Look at me,” he instructs and she complies immediately. One of his hands strokes her face while his other arm braces his weight above her. “Tell me you love me.”

Her answer is immediate. “I do! John, I love you. I love you so much!”

His hips come to a halt against hers as he grunts against her neck in pleasure. “My perfect girl,” he praises, hands stroking at her sides as he comes down from his high.

She’s so caught up in the lust of the situation that it takes a second for reality to come knocking on her door. “Shit! Pull out!” she tells him, trying to scramble out from underneath him.

“What?” In all their years, ‘pull out’ has never been one of the instructions. He complies even as his brows knit in confusion.

“I haven’t been keeping up with my birth control!” Despite John’s easy assurance that he can just stroll in and assert that they are going to work through things (and she does want to)- adding a new baby on top of their mess will not help get shit sorted out.

Once again, his unflappable attitude has its way of driving her absolutely insane. “Bit late for that, innit? You’ve already had 3 of mine, what’s one more at this point?”

“One more at this point is exactly the point!” she tries to reason.

“We did say a girl would be nice,” he reminds her.

“That was before we got a divorce!” she hisses, trying to be mindful of her volume lest she wake their children.

“That’s nothing but paperwork, pet. We can have it sorted by the time you’re due.” John can tell he’s truly gone and wound her up more than he meant with that, immediately shifting gears to try and settle her back down. 

“Okay, too much. I’m sorry. Come here,” he guides her to lay down, which she does albeit with a fair amount of suspicion. 

John wisely chooses not to agitate her further or do anything that could be considered pushing in his luck (like, say, pointing out that despite her protests about another baby, she’s not said a peep about the cum dripping from her).

Instead he draws her up into his arms, sticking his nose firmly in her hair.

For a long moment it’s quiet, nothing but the sound of their breathing in the late night.

It catches her off guard when the tears come unbidden. One moment she’s happily lazing in her (ex-turned-hopeful-once-more?) husband’s arms, and the next she’s sobbing uncontrollably.

They’ve been through enough that it shouldn’t embarrass her. For fuck’s sake, she’d vomited all over him during the birth of their second son. But she feels like an exposed livewire sobbing over nothing and without warning.

“What’s wrong?” John mumbles as he wakes half-way, pulling her closer to him and stroking her back to console her.

“I mucked everything up,” she chokes out, burrowing her face against his neck. “I didn’t even want this, I just didn’t know what else to do!”

He shushes her gently, petting at her in an attempt to calm her down. “I meant what I said, pet. I know things have to change, but at the end of the day it’s just papers. We’ll get everything fixed back in its proper place.”

She doesn’t remove herself from the spot on his neck she’s nestling against, but quiets down and eventually they both fall asleep once again.

When she wakes again, she feels far more level headed- although neediness eats away at her. It’s like her body is craving to make up for lost time for the months they’ve been apart.

She can’t help herself as one hand trails down the thick hair dusting his torso, pressing kisses against his neck. Even in his sleep John responds to her touch- pulls at her to be closer to him, huffing as his dick twitches in interest. 

It only takes a quick lick of her palm and a few strokes to have him stiffening in her hand.

The dried spend on the inside of her thighs is enough of a reminder, even if she’s feeling affectionate this morning, that she’s going to have to figure something out for her birth control. 

For the morning at least the answer to that is easy- still working her hand in slow motion up and down on his shaft she kisses a trail down his neck and working her way south.

The movement is enough to have John stirring with a sinful groan in the back of his throat.

“Well good morning, gorgeous,” he greets, voice clouding in sleep in a way that makes her just want to sit on his face.

Humming out an acknowledgement, she continues to work her way down his abdomen. She does give in to the impulse to nip at the base of his happy trail, delighting in how he sucks back away from her teeth only to push at her head immediately after.

“Bad girl,” he admonishes with no true venom in his voice “Keep those teeth to yourself, hm?” he advises with an affectionate swat to her ass.

Rather than crawling down him, she’s got herself angled perpendicular to him. All the better for him to pet her with one hand while the other encourages her to take him in her mouth.

The moan he makes as she bobs her head is sinful, and she presses her thighs together and shifts her hips to get whatever little bit of friction she can- an action that doesn’t go unnoticed by John.

“That pretty pussy of yours needs some attention, doesn’t it sweetheart?” he asks, a warm hand running down her spine and trailing across her ass until he starts to tease her.

She works with a sense of urgency, even with John taking his time playing with her. They should have another hour or so to themselves before the boys wake up, but they’re also no strangers to a mad scramble under the covers with an unplanned interruption.

“Fuck,” he bites out a curse, hips flexing underneath her. That’s all the encouragement she needs to redouble her efforts, the hand not supporting her weight wrapping around him and stroking to help get him there faster. Despite their years together she’d never quite been able to take all of him down her throat.

“Look at me,” and the eye contact is all it takes for her to feel him stiffening beneath her. “Gonna swallow for me, sweetheart? Yeah, that’s my good girl- keep those eyes on- fuck,” he grunts, his climax hitting.

She’s well versed in swallowing his seed as he cums- keeps up the suction even as his orgasm tapers off just to see how long it takes him to grab her by the hair and pry her off of him.

“Sit on my face. And don’t even think about fucking hovering,” John orders and she complies immediately. His teasing while she’d blown him leaves her a horribly needy mess- None of the pent up lust releasing yet, although anticipation has her scrambling back up the bed and straddling his face.

He pulls at her hips, locking a forearm around her like he wants to make sure she isn’t going to change her mind and start teasing him back.

And fuck does that man know exactly where to lick and suck to make her eyes roll. One of her hands gripping the headboard for dear life, the other one buries itself in John’s hair. He takes direction like a champ, following the not-so-subtle cues from her as she pulls him where she wants him.

“Please, please, please,” she babbles breathlessly as he gets her teetering over the edge, only to release his hair in favor of clamping her hand over her mouth as her orgasm washes over her.

Her legs are weak as he guides her back down before getting her on her back and kissing her until she’s breathless. As engrossing as their make out session is, neither one particularly cares that they can taste themself on the other.

Eventually the pair wear themselves out, calming down from their earlier romp and managing to get into the shower and cleaning up.

It’s only after they’ve escaped the pull of their marital bed, as the water washes the lust out of her system that the reality of the situation comes knocking again, insistent.

“I want this to work, John.” She wants to melt at the way his expression softens at her.

“I do too, sweetheart- you have no idea how much.” A sigh escapes her, already fearing that they’re back on their loop that’s been the routine for the past decade. “What’s that for, hm?” he inquires.

“I want this to work, John,” she repeats “but things have to change. I mean it.”

“ I know you do,” he assures her, reaching down to kiss her temple. “I believe you.”

She’s uncertain if her refusal to be mollified is her winding herself into a snit again, or because she’s justified in the knowledge that this isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation.

Especially when his palm drops to hover over her belly.

“You can’t try to get me pregnant if you’re not retiring from the field, John,” she asserts. “I can handle the boys, I cannot handle a fourth baby by myself.”

And much like a kind stranger trying to lure a skittish stray dog into their car, John hums in agreement.

Retirement from the military as a whole, she knows, is far too much of an ask. John has spent his entire adult life serving and it will probably take a career ending injury to get him to agree to retire outright. However she’ll happily settle for him promoting high enough that he’s not one of the first people contacted when they need boots on the ground. She just wants her husband home. She’s paid her dues being the sweet housewife raising the kids alone while he plays hero on the other side of the world. He’s beyond capable of climbing the ranks to one that involves less clandestine missions and more paperwork, and it’s absolutely infuriating that he hasn’t.

(She knows it’s not entirely a blind devotion to country and crown and preventing acts of terrorism, and the fact that he enjoys fucking off to who-knows-where at the drop of a hat- never knowing where he’ll be 24 hours from now at any given time, and he doesn’t want to give that up yet. She tries not to think about it too hard though, otherwise she’ll melt down like chernobyl.)

The hot water runs out before John’s refractory period, which is a good thing for her sake because she’s a scatter brained mess right now. The man’s not 20 and she doesn’t begrudge him the time it takes to recuperate, but she’s swinging wildly between being sappy and sentimental and wanting back what she had, and knowing full well she needs to get a grip before she does something stupid like letting John talk her into trying for a girl.

By the time they dry off and dress there are three hungry boys who are in for quite the surprise to see their dad come morning. No doubt there had been a reasonable expectation that John would leave in the middle of the night after they went to bed.

John keeps the boys distracted and out of her hair as she gets their breakfast sorted. 

Before the divorce, the pair of them would go about their separate routines; making their morning caffeinated beverages of choice, idly commenting on the latest news headline, alternating getting things sorted for their children. 

Now John hovers. Like he’s not entirely certain if he wants her out of his sight. He wrangles the boys to their seats as she gets their food, but it’s like one eye is kept trained on her. 

Before the divorce, her children would make their protests- high pitch peals of ew! (The youngest, she suspects, merely imitating his older brothers who get a kick out of their parents' displeased stares) if they witnessed any displays of overt affection. While of course anything where they could see was kept G rated, once the boys thought something was funny they committed to the bit entirely. 

Now, while she’s distracted by John giving a chaste kiss to her temple and running his hands up and down the sides of her arm, she realizes that the boys are as silent as the grave. Three sets of owlish eyes watch them intently before comically making a big show of going back to their breakfast as they realize they’re caught.

“John,” she starts quietly, eyes watching the boys before shifting her attention back to her husba- ex-husband. “We really need to talk about this. Actually talk.” Not just fuck each other silly - she knows they’ll just slip back into old habits. They need ground rules. 

She knows how her husband works. If she can wrangle him into actually agreeing with a discussion, that is workable. John’s got his quirks and idiosyncrasies that she’s learned over the years. He won’t outright lie to her, he won’t go back on his word if he commits to something. But he will push and widdle and chip away at her to keep her compliant and happy enough to get off his dick (usually by putting her on his dick. Or mouth. Or hands. Or-

Anyway.)

“We will, sweetheart. Let’s just get through breakfast, hm?”

It is so familiar and yet still so different. The boys are running a mile a minute, eagerly soaking up the additional time with their father (the guilt gnaws at her- knows this could just be a normal morning. Had she either never divorced him, or kept him firmly away. This hemming and hawing that feels inevitable can not be good for the boys).

Screentime is a bit of a hot topic, but they need the boys content and quiet long enough for them to speak without interruptions. 

The eldest is a bit too old for the target demographic for Bluey, but his handheld console is enough to keep him entertained.

She can’t help but feel like her oldest boy and John are conspiring- John firmly telling him “Your mother and I need to have a little talk with no interuptions. You keep an eye on your brothers, got it?” only for the oldest to salute him with a “Yes, sir!” that has John grinning as he herds her towards his office with a hand low on her back.

The click of the door sliding shut is as loud as a gunshot.

“I know I pushed too far,” John begins. The pair of them stand in front of each other. “You kept asking for the same thing over and over again. I never thought you would actually leave, but I can’t say I was surprised when you asked for a divorce. You were trying, and I wasn’t listening. I meant what I said last night. I’m not mad.”

It…. stings. Knowing the truth the whole time- John thinking he can just wait her out. That he can lean on her despite her protests and eventually she’ll give up. But it’s a dull pain, considering it’s something she’s lived with for years. She’s well familiar with it. 

“So why? Why let it get that far. I know what you do is important. I know it’s selfish to ask you to give that up, but we’ve got three kids, John. You want a fourth! It is so hard to be the one who stays with them when you leave. They don’t grasp the situation. They just know that their dad’s gone and they miss you. And I cannot breathe when you are deployed and sent off to fuck-knows-where dealing with some of the most violent, dangerous groups on the planet. What if you don’t come home? How am I supposed to raise them without you?”

Sharp words coming from the same woman who kicked John out. But it’s the same story he’s been hearing for the better part of decade ever since their first was born. He can likely recite her speech from the heart at this point.

Like always, John is steadfast in the storm no matter how far into orbit she flies. He’s well acquainted with her whims, and knows just how easy it is to rile her up and yet also knows exactly how to bring her back down. 

At the moment her expression is similar to that of a wet hen’s.

“I didn’t think you’d leave.” It’s the truth and she knows it and it pisses her off. “I knew you weren’t happy with it, but overall we were happy with each other. I wasn’t cheating on you. I’m not a mean drunk. I might be absent at times but I’m not cruel. I keep you happy in bed. You want for nothing. The boys know I adore them. Every marriage has its problems. I thought we both understood that the nature of my job is ours.” He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. 

“I didn’t know what else to do,” she reiterates, and she’s not sure if her voice warbles from how angry she is at the confirmation that he thought he could wait her out until he felt like retiring (or, more likely- she buries him), or at herself because she picked him and how mad can she be when he’s been honest about his work from the start.

There’s no clear cut villain. John is right. His job has weighed down on them since the beginning. In the beginning she thought she could handle it. But three children later and she’s begun to realize- far too late- that it’s so much. Subjecting them to something they never asked for because they were born into this schedule where John is beholden to Kate fucking Laswell more than his own family (peace and love to her- she’s great but she is the walking representation of everything they are struggling with in their marriage).

Her mind is a jumbling mess, like twine that’s interlocking and needing to unravel. There’s no clear cut path forward. She will go absolutely insane if things continue on the way they have been, but the time apart has shown her that she doesn’t really want to separate from John. No other man can even come close to him.

“So now what do we do?” she asks.

John steps closer to her, reaching to run his knuckles across her cheek in affection. “I want to come home, sweetheart.”

“It’s not that easy.”

She expects some sort of protest. Some sort of Yes it can be, and she’s not sure if she’s got the mental fortitude to continue holding her ground. But she knows that nothing will change if she lets up now. This is the moment where she either needs to throw in the towel, or maybe- just maybe there’s a chance.

They’ve made it this far. But she is so tired. She can’t go back but she’s got no idea what’s ahead or how long it will take to get there.

“I know. All I’m asking for is a chance.”

“It is your last one John, I swea-” She’s always hated that stupid fucking movie trope where the man shuts the woman up by kissing her. Yet here she is, her (fragile) attempt at a stern warning cut off as John snatches her up and pulls her to him.

After last night, one would think they’d gotten enough of each other to not be groping at each other like animals in heat.

Mother fucker he’s doing it again. He doesn’t fight as she pulls away, though those pretty blue eyes are blown showing where he would have been heading had she not stopped him.

“I mean it, John. You said you want this to work, but I need to see changes. You need to be home and not fucking off half away across the world at the drop of a hat. I need to be able to make plans and know that you will be here.”

“Anything, sweetheart. I just want my family back. I swear, I’m listening this time. I’ll figure it out.”

The lust has calmed from his eyes as he approaches again, making her look up at him. “You remember our little conversation from last night?” 

He looks as serious as a heart attack, and there was a lot said last night.

She’s taking too long to answer, as he continues unprompted. “I know you’re not going to sign the papers overnight, and I’m fine with that. But your ring stays on, and there are no more dates with other men. You are mine. You are not single, and I expect you to act like it, hm?”

The chaste kiss to her temple is a sharp juxtaposition to the severity of his tone. He certainly doesn’t need to tell her twice.

“I promise,” she assures him, seeing how the intensity drains out of him as he’s mollified by her words. “I know I don’t have a right to ask, but did you- was there-” the words choke as she stumbles over them. She can’t be mad. She’s got no right to- they are divorced, and he (was) single and free to do as he pleases. But the idea of John drowning his sorrows in another woman’s body makes her want to claw someone’s eyes out.

And she really should have asked before he fucked her without a condom, but hindsight is 20/20.

Despite her inability to get the words together in the right order, John seems to know her question. He pulls her close to him, tucking her under his chin.

“No, sweetheart. There was never anyone else.”

The knot in her gut unwinds a little bit. “I love you, John. I’m sorry it came to this.”

“We’ll fix it, sweetheart.”

For a moment they stand there in the quiet, but there was no telling what sort of trouble their little trio might get into if left alone for too long. When John unlocks and opens the door, they both raise an eyebrow at the sight of their youngest dashing off around the corner.

Like the three little troublemakers had tried to listen through the door (which they would not be able to do- because she has tried once or twice), and the youngest was too slow to keep up with his brothers who are perched on the couch for all the world like they never left it.

The older two try to play their hand at staying cool, although the youngest boy is giggling- enjoying his “game” of teaming up with his brothers to try and pull a fast one on their parents.

“Do you have to leave?” The question from their oldest is deliberate, and succeeds in distracting them from the fact that their kids were definitely trying to eavesdrop on a conversation not meant for young ears.

“Not today,” John answers, ignoring the sharp look she shoots his way.

It’s a delicate balancing act as they stumble through picking up the broken pieces of their marriage. John can’t prove that he’s controlling his work hours unless she lets him in the house, but does give him shit about not moving in too soon. She doesn’t want him getting comfortable or complacent and back sliding on his promise.

Of course, John gets his lick back. There had been a stern conversation about condoms until her birth control is in hand.

Only to find out at her appointment that they can’t give it to her because she’s pregnant.

Mother fucker. Damn that “one shot, one kill” motherfucker. Their one slip up was the only discrepancy since they have gotten back together- that has to be when she conceived. Why did she fall in love with a sniper?

John is ecstatic with the news, as are the boys. She feels like a wet, disgruntled hen.

The new baby throws a wrench in her plans, but she can’t quite find it in her to be too disappointed once the shock wears off. John had been set on another baby, chattering on and on about how he hopes it’s a girl. They would have had another baby at some point, it’s just a bit sooner than she was anticipating.

No doubt for the boys, the new baby is an assurance that their parents aren’t staying separated. In their simplistic view, that’s as good as ink drying on paper that they’re staying together.

At her scan when it’s revealed she’s carrying boy #4, John kisses her temple and tells her how happy he is.

The youngest daughter that he’s got his sights set on is shelved for the duration of her pregnancy, not another peep of it mentioned.

A girl would have been nice, but she’s well experienced with wrangling John Price’s sons, and no doubt this one will fall into the group just fine.

John’s got quite the track record of giving her pretty babies, which everyone praises and compliments when the little man finally makes his arrival.

When he is home (which has been substantially more, she has to admit), he’s an active and involved father who’s besotted by his children and happily splits night duty with his exhausted wife. Keeps the older boys in line and behaving.

She doesn’t sign anything until John has a signed transfer request. While he’ll still be working in counter terrorism, and still be very close with the 141, his job no longer mandates he ups and leaves at the drop of a hat.

They celebrate quietly. Friends and family have made their opinions known about the back and forth tentative future of their marriage (mostly a well intended shit or get off the pot), and they elect to drop the boys with John’s parents to have a weekend for themselves.

There are no lusty slip ups and everything is followed to the letter but she wants to kill John when he grins at her positive pregnancy test.

Everything can fail, it seems. John merely commenting “Maybe this one will be a girl”, showing his hand that he hasn’t quite given up his dreams of a youngest girl to round out their gaggle of boys.

She doesn’t want to know the gender this time around, which John grouses about but ultimately accepts.

When Lt. Simon “Ghost” Riley promotes to a new rank, John is the one the man calls to ask him to participate in his ceremony.

She’s still in her second trimester, not quite teetering into her third just yet. John wants to bring the kids. If the third trimester exhaustion had stuck yet, she likely could have begged to be left out and he likely would have acquiesced. And the boys usually know better than to try anything when on base with John.

The day comes and she feels like a walking stereotype of an officer’s wife- gaggle of kids clinging to her skirt, the newest baby still clinging to her, and an unmistakable pregnancy bump.

“Cookin’ another boy in there, Mrs. Price?” Soap asks good naturedly while they’re waiting.

“Not quite sure,” she answers, eyes on her three more mobile kids making sure they’re settling in and behaving. “John’s been itching for a girl since before this one came,” she gestures to their youngest in her arms.

“Well, hopefully it’a girl then for yer sake- man’s gonna give ya a football team at this rate!” the Scot laughs, chortling at his own joke. There are times when she sometimes wonders how someone as charming as Johnny Mactavish got wrangled into clandestine counter terrorism missions, but then she remembers that as much as he can charm a bird from a tree, it’s comments like that that skirt just too comfortable that yes, he’s probably got a few screws loose. (She sometimes wonders about Kyle too, who is giving Johnny a “fucking really??” look, but can’t quite pin anything. The man is perfectly mild mannered and respectable, and she knows that their work can warp someone given enough time.)

“Hopefully so,” she answers amicably. While her pregnancy has been blessedly uneventful, she’s already over it and will be perfectly happy with this being her last.

Something tells her that John is going to get his wish, one way or another though.

Age in bio/pinned or I will block you ♡

#captain john price #John Price x reader #john price x you #captain price smut #dub con #dark!fic #<- that is just my typical 'catch all' blocklist tag for anyone who doesn't wanna read anything dark/dubious/etc. #I am being conservative with using the tag pinky promise #my writing

[swap-meetog]

(Greg’s POV)

A couple weeks ago I was at the local mall and there was one of those small kiosks that were basically raffle stations for different prizes.  I didn’t really notice that this one was from Chronivac Industries because the main prize offered a unique vacation experiences.

I knew I wasn’t going to win, but I filled out the slip of paper anyway.  A short time later I received an email saying that while I didn’t win the grand prize, I was being sent something as my name was selected as one of the many runner-ups.

The package arrived on a day in late May.  I was busying myself with yard work, trying to avoid my neighbor’s son.  His name was Lewis, he turned 18 about six months ago, just graduated high school, and was a lean, cute twink. He always seemed to linger in windows whenever I worked outside, and I saw him checking out my body on multiple occasions.  It didn’t bother me so much that he was openly gay, I just didn’t love the attention.

The package arrived in a small box.  It honestly looked like an iPod shuffle with a weird set of air pods.  The letter contained in the box said this device was able to swap the bodies of two people, but the small print made it clear that I wasn’t the winner of the raffle, and my experience might not be what I expect it to be.

The thought stayed with me for a little while, swapping bodies....

I noticed Lewis had wandered out into his parent’s backyard and I took stock of the situation.  I was 32, I had played minor league baseball for a decade and now I ran a sports podcast.  My body was still muscled and tight, but Lewis was much younger, so lean and cute, and I have never had an experience like that.

“Hey Lewis,” I said, waving him over.  He looked nervous and a bit excited. I showed him what I had, and he read over all the information much more carefully than I did, if I’m being honest.  I asked him if he’d like to try the device out, and swap bodies with me for a while.  

His eyes lit up with an energy I can’t even describe.  Oh, I should also mention at this point that this was late Saturday afternoon, almost 5 o’clock. 

We put the air pods in our ears and activated the device.  I blacked out and came too laying on the ground, staring up into my own face.  It had worked!  This was insane!

“Come on, little guy,” my body winked at me and offered me his hand, easily pulling me to my feet.  I felt light and dainty almost, it was unlike anything I have ever felt before.

“This is.... so weird,” I said, testing out my new, higher pitched voice.  I also watched as Lewis in my body began to rub his hands up and down my torso, which made my new dick start to get hard.  Oh shit, am I gay now that I’m this teen?

“I think this is awesome!” Lewis cried.  “And do you know what the best part is? Look at this.”  He handed me the device that caused all of this.  There was a timer on the display, counting down from 24 hours.  “We get to be each other for an entire day before we can switch back!”

Something about that didn’t sit well with me, but there was nothing I was able to do about it now.  He told me that he had planned to meet up with some friends that night and I should go hang out with them, in order to get the full experience of being him.  When I went in to his house to get ready for the night, his parents were acting strangely in my opinion.  Like they expected something out of me, but I didn’t know what they wanted so I just ignored it.  Giving this body back tomorrow, so who cares, right?

(Lewis’s POV)

I ran into Greg’s house the second he left in my body.  I couldn’t believe my luck.  He was so hot, my first thought was to go to the gym.  I grabbed his car keys (mine for the moment, how hot is that?) and left, leaving him in my body, in my house, getting ready for a night out with my friends.

I worked out for almost three hours, and look at me?  Can you blame me for testing this body out?

I have never had body hair, or pecs, or arms like this.  I am loving every moment I have in this body.  I do have a secret though, and that my plan is to keep this body.  I have wanted Greg for so long, and now I am him.  And there couldn’t have been better timing.

He thought he would be able to swap bodies and then swap back just like that.  There are two small problems with his current plan.  He clearly didn’t read the document all the way through, for one, so he didn’t know about the 24 hour recharge time.  The other was that he didn’t know nearly enough about me and my current situation before enacting his plan.

You see, I had told my parents on my 18th birthday that I wasn’t planning on attending college.  I just didn’t see the point.  My grades weren’t stellar, I wasn’t involved in any other activities, so my college prospects were poor.  My father, who is super strict, told me if I didn’t choose college the only other option for me was to join the Marines.  And he wasn’t going to budge.

So I enlisted, and tomorrow at noon I am supposed to report for basic training.  Only now, Greg is going to have to go in my place.  He can enjoy being younger again all he wants, but he’s going to have to keep it for a longer time than he wanted.  

Tonight I am going to finish up my workout, go home and play with his amazing cock, and maybe install Grindr on his phone.  Tomorrow I plan on setting up a chair in “my” front yard and watch the show as my parents drag him out of the house, load him into a car, and ship him off.  After that, who knows?  I have a full summer ahead of me, and I can do whatever I want.

(Part 2 coming soon!)

#bodyswap #male body swap

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: I

“And I can't wait another minute

I can't take the look she's giving

Your body rocking, keep me up all night

One in a million, my lucky strike.”

— Lucky Strike, Maroon 5

A/N: this idea started as just random concept drabbling between leyla @sunflowervolvimp3​ and i and we never really thought it would amount to anything tbh!! but as we started putting more and more into the plot and characters, we made the spontaneous decision to make it a full on, multi-chaptered collab fic! we have so many ideas planned and so much to elaborate on and we’re just so mfing excited to share it with you guys :’) any and all feedback is greatly appreciated 💌 we hope you enjoy the first part and that you fall in love with this stupid emotionally unavailable moron the way we did! happy reading!!

andrea’s askbox : leyla’s askbox : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : 

word count: 17.2k

content/warnings: vampire!harry being a lowkey asshole while downing straight tequila like a psycho, getting to know The Crew, Mitch being the iconic legend he is, mentions of smut, and Harry working his immortal charm on an unsuspecting human girl with a peculiar scent and intriguing personality

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Harry hates clubs. 

In his two hundred years of life, through many trials and tribulations, through tricky scenarios and annoying encounters, through thousands of unappealing circumstances and patience-testing events, he doesn’t think anything quite compares to the crowded, nerve-wracking experience that is a Los Angeles club on a Friday night during peak hours. 

According to his wise, humble opinion, it’s absolutely fucking petrifiying. He’d rather swallow a stake than have to spend hours in a dimly lit room with synthetic smoke choking his lungs, half-conscious humans stumbling around into him, and the stench of sweaty bodies mixed with liquor fumes, alongside the faint yet unmistakable waft of vomit. 

Yeah, Harry would definitely rather eat a red oak spear than have to shoulder that.

Despite his intense hatred for this Californian city during its after-hours, he can’t deny that he fits right into the scene perfectly. Decades of grooming and practice have made him a prime candidate for the fast-paced characteristics that come with the party nightlife. 

Fitting into these aspects aren’t something he had learned willingly; he didn’t really have a choice on the matter, considering his entire existence depends on mortals immature tendencies to get properly shit-faced and make stupid decisions in tightly-packed glorified bars. Harry never understood that— how a fog machine, strobe lights, and an undergrad amateur DJ could ever seem more appealing than the quiet, stable ambiance of a semi-formal bar. How deranged do people have to be to actually enjoy strangers spilling alcohol on them while attempting to shag someone else two feet away on the dance floor? 

Whenever he dwells too much on that thought, he gets a spiking migraine. After this long, Harry’s just come to terms with the fact that humans are regressing as a species. His conclusion is a bit cynical, perhaps, but hardly difficult to accept. One look at a news outlet provides enough proof to launch an Ivy League research project on the matter. 

He really shouldn’t be complaining, however, because the combination of overflowed close quarters and dampened inhibitions makes it the ideal hunting ground. Picking up a living blood bag at a club is basically as easy as walking through a vineyard and plucking grapes right off the stems. It’s practical, it’s fool-proof, and if he plays his cards right, he gets to feed and gets his more intimate needs tailored (a combo that he and his friends refer to as Laid and Drained).  

So regardless of his distaste towards clubs and their eager inhabitants, Harry had learned to mold his persona to fit the bill, making himself as approachable and desirable as possible. His life literally hangs in the balance; he’d put up with throngs of drunk sorority girls and their affinity for shitty perfumed drinks if it means avoiding desiccation. 

It’s not like it’s hard. All Harry has to do is make himself look more appealing than the other hundred men milling around the establishment, which— if he’s being brutally honest— isn’t that challenging. The moral, physical, and ethical standards of men have dropped frighteningly low since his time. Most of the ones that creep around clubs are overconfident, overzealous, boundary-lacking douchebags who think they’re entitled to a woman’s attention, and therefore make complete, utter fools of themselves in the process of trying to court one into their pants. Buying a girl one Sex On The Beach and dry-humping to Daft Punk isn’t the way to convince her to come home with you. 

Harry has developed his own guidelines and tactics for securing a nightly bedroom companion, and his ideas have been working wonders for him for decades now. 

The first and foremost rule is to clean up nicely. Personal appearance is everything. Humans are visual creatures; they build first impressions solely based on outward attraction. That trait is enhanced the higher their blood alcohol content rises. The drunker someone gets, the shallower they become, and it’s Harry’s job to work that to his advantage. And at the risk of sounding shallow himself, he thinks he does pretty alright in that department. 

Especially tonight, present in all the elements of his physique. He’s clad in a pair of high-waisted tan trousers that have been ironed to a crisp, his fitted graphic tee tucked neatly along his waistband beneath his black leather belt. His t-shirt is probably his favorite part of the entire look. It’s a baby blue sturdy cotton number with pastel yellow detailing along the cuffs and collar and a giant cartoon puppy in a striped bowtie taking up its center, smiling cheekily at the onlooker. Arranged around the doodle in faded Times New Roman bubble letters are the words WE’RE IN THE SHIT. 

Harry loves the irony of the article— the innocence of the drawing juxtaposed by the crude message. The piece is a conversation-starter— people almost always comment on it— and that’s exactly what he needs. Something to draw attention to himself and shadow all the other men. Something that shows he has a personality; that he has taste and a good sense of humor and isn’t just another walking genital. Plus, what person doesn’t enjoy a funny little contradiction, especially when it’s this cute?

On top of his graphic top, he’s wearing a tartan cropped blazer (open, of course) with a creme background and royal blue lines. The hem ends at the bottom of his ribs, exactly where his pants begin, and the jacket's hand-sewn buttons and strap detailings show that it's an expensive garment. It shows that he puts money and effort into how he looks, which is something anyone would appreciate when scoping for a possible hookup.

Harry’s shoes are the most casual factor of his fit. They’re a pair of light yellow Vans that match the collar of his tee. They’re plain, but he keeps them clean and they tie the whole look together without a hitch.

Accessories are everything, as well. Aside from the pearls arranged around his prominent collarbones, the gold-dipped cross hanging from a delicate chain around his neck, and the matching dangling cross earring on his right earlobe (again, he adores irony), he’s sporting a plethora of chunky rings on his hands, each unique and effortlessly complimenting his appearance. On his left hand, his index finger dots a ruby jewel embedded into a thick rusted band, another large metal one with dancing bears on his middle, and two clunky golden letters on his last two digits— his initials, HS. On his opposite hand, he has a medium-width plated ring on his middle finger with peace engraved along its rounded edge, an elegant lionhead number with an amethyst stone snug in its mouth, and along his pinky is a decently-sized opal set into a delicate polished frame. 

His two last rings are the most important of all. The lionhead is his daylight ring, which he hasn’t taken off since he transitioned. It keeps him from bursting into flames everytime the sun hits his skin. The opal was his mother’s, and it was her favorite. 

Harry’s attire is something he’s immensely proud of, even though a good amount of people deem him eccentric in the eyes of modern masculinity. He couldn’t give less of a shit. With his lightly tanned skin, alluring cologne and lacquered nails, his shirt stretching across the defined muscles of his chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and tapering waist, his thick thighs, sharp jaw, jade eyes, loosely tousled chestnut curls, and the vast array of dark ink littering his arms...

He looks good and he knows it. And all the people whose gazes glue to him as he passes by know it, too. Especially a random group of young women in line, who ogle at him shamelessly as he casually strolls past. He treats them to a sly wink, an irresistible dimpled smile, and a soft, cheeky greeting of, “Ladies.”

He gets off on the way they swoon at his refined English accent, giggling and waving. 

The only other component Harry has for succeeding in the club environment is simple, but it’s important: Don’t seduce, romanticize. 

Anyone— even inebriated idiots— can try and seduce a woman. And if she’s had enough tequila shots to cloud her thoughts, they just might succeed. But only a real man can romanticize a girl, and it yields way better results. 

Females are an emotional sect (Harry says that with zero misogyny; it’s just a scientific fact and he actually praises it), which means that if you entertain their interests and fluff their egos, they are bound to fall right into the palm of your hand. It changes the game completely because then they don’t feel that they have to pleasure you, they want to. They pursue the guy who flirts without being too vulgar, who appreciates and acknowledges their efforts, and who can go head-to-head with their wit by carrying unforced banter. They chase after him because he’s showing genuine kindness rather than just sexual interests and if he’s that attentive on the getting-to-know-you front, one can only imagine how skilled he could be in other bases. Chatting up a girl the right way, with patience and courtesy, builds credibility and prowess. And as a thank you, they’re usually more than willing to pay special attention to your needs, as well. 

Thus, romanticizing is always the expert move. So, yes, Harry detests clubs and the disaster that is adult recreation. But he’s fucking amazing at playing it to his favor. He’s great at calculating everything down to the smallest detail and he’s going to piggy-back on those skills for the rest of eternity. He’s so good at what he hates that his closest friends have anointed him the title of Walking Paradox. He’s more than happy to keep it. 

All of these thoughts are circulating around his skull, hyping him up for the game ahead as Harry and his friend group walk up to the bouncer at the entrance of the club they had chosen for the night, faint stars twinkling in the dark sky as the sounds and lights of the city fall away into background static. 

They cruise by the long line of people, hearing sounds of disagreement and grumbling coming from the other patrons waiting to get in. Harry casually tucks his large hands into the pockets of his light brown slacks as he pulls up in front of the burly bald man, who is wearing a black shirt with the club’s name printed in neon letters. The security guard is at least five inches taller than him, overswollen biceps and pectoral muscles rippling under the flimsy material of his work outfit as he crosses his arms over his barreled chest, cocking a single thick eyebrow at the seemingly young vampire. 

Harry delivers a good-natured smile up at the employee, despite the man’s obvious begrudging disbelief at what he is about to try and do. His friends chat quietly behind him, uninterested in what is happening; after years of being acquainted, they know that Harry is going to get exactly what he wants. He always does. 

He’s the best of them, that much is obvious. Not only when it comes to his experience with persuading sexual partners and getting himself a decent dinner, but he’s the best at convincing just about anyone to do anything, neutral of gender. He’s the second oldest of the crew, yet he seems to have the most knowledge and practice under his belt; his easygoing charisma, undeniable good looks, and dazzling smile could sway even the most stubborn of souls. Frankly, he’s so successful in getting his way that no one cares to try and argue for the leader position. Not when they can just sit back and let Harry do all the work. 

“Good evening.” Harry’s deep voice chimes giddily in the direction of the bouncer, his accent particularly heavy for no real reason. “How you doing tonight, mate?”

The guard— whose name tag reads Brock and Harry has to actively stop himself from snorting at how fitting the name is for such a brick of a human— looks down at him with a stony expression, voice flat. “I’m good.”

“Well, that’s great to hear!” The curly-haired boy’s simper widens, dimples popping into place as he skates into his next question with dramatic friendliness. “Haven’t had anyone cause you any trouble tonight, have you?”

Brock blinks once, attitude remaining coldly indifferent even in the face of Harry’s cheeriness. His words, however, are snipped and pointed. “Not yet.”

“I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way.” The young man comments sympathetically, nodding his head along with the worker. “Totally understandable.” 

“Good.” The employee remarks in the same detached tone, shifting on his feet, obviously growing uncomfortable and irritated with the conversation. “So I’m guessing that means you know you have to get in line.” 

Harry glances over his shoulder at the lengthy expanse of people gathered along the side of the building, a light wind filtering through his freshly-shampooed ringlets as he studies the way the bright sign on top of the club casts alternating rainbow colors across the crowd. 

He makes a disapproving sound by sucking at his teeth, lulling his sight back onto the guard. “I don’t know, man. At this rate, I feel like by the time we get to the front of the line, it’ll be last call.”

“Maybe.” Brock shrugs offhandedly. “It is what it is, right? Fair’s fair.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Harry returns his gesture, but his posture shows no intention of moving, the corners of his rose lip set in a knowing smirk. “But since you’ve been having a good night, do you think you could find it in yourself to just let us through? We’d greatly appreciate it.” 

The bouncer’s face hardens, any shred of professional amiability washing out of his defined features. “I don’t think so.” 

The vampire’s shoulders sag in exaggerated disappointment. “Are you sure? It’s just five of us. Don’t think we’ll do much damage. Right, guys?”

Harry glimpses over his back to his friends, who let their conversation falter for a moment to throw out a chorus of half-assed agreements, trying to keep themselves from snickering. 

“We promise we won’t cause any problems.” Xander speaks up, jutting his chin encouragingly at the man as his lips twitch slyly. He lifts one of his hands, the smallest finger sticking out stiffly and wiggling around. “Pinky swear.” 

The rest of the group bursts into a round of light laughter, causing Harry to release a few airy giggles of his own.  

Xander looks over at Niall, raising his eyebrows and quipping in an innocent manner. “Right, Ni? No funny business tonight. That means no climbing onto the bar again and stripping down to your socks.” 

“That happened one time!” Niall exclaims incredulously, socking the taller boy in the shoulder as the others laugh harder than before, his blue eyes narrowed and face pinched. “Once! And it was only ‘cause Harry challenged me to a tequila shot contest.”

The Irish vampire’s accented voice drops darkly as he reminisces. “Fuckin’ hate tequila. Makes me act like a moron.” 

“As if you’re not one already.” Mitch pipes up in his usual soft dialect, chuckling as he ducks away from Niall’s vengeful fist. 

Harry cranes back to face Brock, thumb playing with his daylight ring as his hands stay relaxed inside his trousers. He shrugs one shoulder easily for emphasis. “See? You can let us through. We pinky swore.” 

The entire charade seems to have only infuriated the security guard more than before, his brows now fully furrowed and a deep, unamused frown etched across his previously pursed lips. His voice is on edge with barely controlled anger. “I’m not putting up with any shit. If you want in, go to the back of the line. If not, leave.”

Harry sighs grandly in defeat, head shaking slightly. “Guess I’ll just have to go the other route, then.”

The creature takes a step forward towards the employee, close enough that their chests almost press together. The bulky man stands his ground, though there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes at seeing the smaller boy make such a bold move. 

“What the f—?”

Harry locks gazes with Brock, pupils dilating to twice their size, the usual emerald shade of his irises flickering a haunting red and looking sinister in the buttery light of the street lamps. Horror breaks across the worker’s face, the ability to form coherent sentences disappearing from his demeanor. Harry’s heightened senses can hear the way his heartbeat spikes, blood instinctively rushing into his chest as a response to the adrenaline materializing in his veins. The activation of human’s fight-or-flight modes is always so oddly pleasurable. Just feeling how they react so drastically makes Harry’s fangs tingle with longing. Fear is a good condiment, he’s learned; it gives blood’s usual metallic flavor a certain twang.

But at the moment, a beverage from this specific tap isn’t the one Harry has in mind. He has his interests set on something much tangier and full-bodied; maybe Casamigos golden tequila, or Don Julio's Blanco. Preferably mixed with a young office secretary or a Bath and Body Works employee instead of lemon and salt. 

All in all, Brock is just collateral for a much bigger prize, which lies behind the roped off area he holds dominion over. It’s Harry’s job to break that dam. 

Before the large man can fully react, the vampire begins working his compulsion strategy, tone coming out level and soothing, thick with persuasion and teetering along a sleepy undercurrent. “You’re going to let us through, and you’re going to forget we ever met.”

The guard’s pupils enlarge to match Harry’s, the look of utter terror on his face melting right off. His features go slack as the monster’s magical influence works its way through his brain, coating every neuron and bending him to the deliverer’s will. The man reaches over and removes the velvet rope blocking the group’s path, stepping off to the side obediently with an empty expression present across his appearance. 

The leader of the group smiles just as brightly as he had the second he’d walked up to the door. He passes by the worker, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder and feeling the muscular man strain under his supernatural strength. “Thank you very much. You have a nice night, Brock.” 

Harry’s friends follow behind him, echoing his parting message and sharing a collective chortle.  

The second the group dives past the frame of the club entrance, the whole ambiance of the atmosphere changes. Harry walks across the top ledge of the establishment, coming to a halt at the railing that overlooks the main level of the club, his inhumanly sharp eyes bouncing around all the corners of the building to construct some type of familiar layout in his head. Amidst the blinking lights, thick artificial smoke, and swaying bodies, his keen instincts sketch a mental image for tonight’s hunting ground. 

The bar is at the far left corner of the club, squared off and taking up a large chunk of the colorful tiled dance floor. The music station extends across the entire wall at the opposite end of the tavern, stocked with massive speakers and a professional turntable. Harry’s brows jump in mild surprise— it’s not every day that a club puts so much effort into their mixer. 

The animated dancing area is packed with people, the crowd all jumping and grinding to the beat of the bass, moving as one large mass while the rotating strobe lights hang from the cavernous ceiling, bathing their moving silhouettes in neon reds, drunken blues, groggy purples, and electric yellows. The dim surroundings and heavy fog make all the hues more intense, giving the endless party that timeless quality which people tend to enjoy about nightlife. It’s the night to remember effect that movies and shows always hyperbolize; he thinks this way because he’s well aware that not even a third of these people are sober enough to know what the fuck they’re doing, let alone recall it the following day. It’s comically ironic, really. 

But Harry profits off that liquor amnesia, so he brushes away his sardonic skepticism for the time being, settling his lean forearms onto the metal railing that lines the second story of the venue, which is meant to keep shit-faced customers from creating a messy lawsuit. He carefully absorbs the grandeur of it all, leaning his weight forward with a detached sigh, already flickering through the mental menu of his favorite drinks that he has expertly memorized. 

He’s in the process of choosing between a Manhattan— it isn’t a very complicated drink, which is exactly what he’s looking for; something simple and strong— or just straight tequila in a glass when he suddenly feels a familiar presence arrange itself beside him, bumping his shoulder playfully with their own.

Harry snaps out of his recipe retrieval, eyes casting to the side to land on his best friend of almost a century. He cocks an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for the thin, bearded man to make the first move towards conversation.

“You’re a real dick, y’know that?” 

The green-eyed vampire sputters into spontaneous laughter, the edges of his eyes crinkling as the small pits in his cheeks jolt awake. His tone is humorous and full of fake insult for the hell of the joke. “Wow, alright. So I get us into the club that you chose and that makes me a prick? Good to know. You can handle the muscle next time, then, if you’re gonna talk shit.”

Mitch cracks a gentle jesting grin, which is very on brand for him. He doesn’t seem like much, with his skinny, lanky frame, delicate features, shoulder-length hair, and somewhat scraggly stubble. He’s quiet, reserved, and hardly engages with anyone outside of their immediate group. He’s always been that way for as long as Harry could remember. 

When they had met back in 1924 at a speakeasy in New York, Mitch had given off a mysterious vibe that Harry had found amusing and intriguing. His slightly sickly appearance and distant persona made the younger vampire want to get to know him better; it was just so peculiar that this seemingly impassive man was working at an illegal bar as a live musician. One would think that a performer would have to display an engaging character to keep a loyal audience, but Mitch had been all the talk of the underground despite his unemotional coolness. It was startlingly unorthodox and Harry just had to know more. 

Therefore, with a bit of help from his convincing supernatural abilities, he’d secured a spot as the black market club’s leading vocalist. He wasn’t anything worth a Grammy, but he could keep his singing in tune and follow Mitch’s guitar rhythms easily enough, all thanks to his limited experience with piano. He fit right in. 

From the first show they had put on together, it was like they had known one another in a different lifetime. They clicked so flawlessly it was almost fictional. 

Harry was lively and charming on stage, working the crowd to his favor as easily as he could knock back a shot, wrapping every single patron around his jeweled pinky without breaking a sweat. His witty temperament countered Mitch’s timid disposition perfectly and that uncommon dynamic had been the foundation to their friendship. Their humorous shenanigans on stage (which included Harry pinching at Mitch’s ass and making vague vulgar motions at each other while harmonizing) was a hit within the drunken community, and it bled into their personal lives. They went from only interacting on stage to sharing drinks together afterwards, to hanging out outside of work, to deep late night conversations about the world and their experiences.

Soon enough, they were closer than either had expected to become. And once they found out each other’s true identities (Mitch had transitioned during the American Revolution, when a vampire in his battalion had given him blood to heal from a wound, unaware that the next day, Mitch would suffer a fatal gunshot to the stomach that would trigger his transformation) they grew inseparable. They had remained that way ever since. 

Despite his friend’s withdrawn tendencies, the older vampire never hesitates to make his opinions heard, obvious in how he’d just full-bodied Harry with that snarky comment. Even when it’s at his expense, Harry appreciates and respects the rawness of it. He loves the way Mitch is honest and straight-forward with everything that crosses his path— it’s one of his favorite traits about him and definitely one of the characteristics that had led Harry to deem him his best friend. He’s probably the most fulfilling person Harry has ever met and their friendship brings him a type of comfort that he doesn’t receive from anyone else.

Vampires can be so detached and cold not only towards humans, but towards one another, and it gets old at times. It’s unsettling not having someone to truly confide in, and Harry is grateful that Mitch had been so willing to fill that position.   

Due to this, Harry rarely takes genuine offense in Mitch’s digs. They’re normally expressed as a joke and they’ve both been alive for so long that thick skin is a default.

“How was I dick?” Harry inquires, slinking his head to the side with entertained curiosity. “If anything, he was the one being an asshole. I asked him to let us in nicely and he practically spit in my face!”

Mitch snorts in amusement, shaking his head lightly as his eyes streak across the humongous room in the same cunning manner Harry’s had. “You and Xander didn’t have to mock him that way.” 

That’s another thing that makes Mitch the better half of their power duo— he still has a decent shred of humanity in his unbeating heart. Pessimistic conclusions aside, Harry does have a bit, as well...but his is more like a paper-thin pencil shaving than a shred. Barely there, but there, at least. 

The young man returns his companion’s snort, rolling his eyes up to the hanging lights over their heads. “Was just some harmless teasing. Nothing bad came of it.”

Mitch scowls scoldingly. “It was unnecessary and mean.”

Harry mimics his expression with his nose scrunched sarcastically. “We were just taking the piss, and it’s not like he’s gonna remember it anyways. Stop being such a kill-joy.” 

“Stop being such an arrogant little shit.” 

“Or what?” Harry tilts his chin up challengingly, the amber specks around his pupils glinting tauntingly, faint black veins momentarily webbing across the whites of his eyes. He sweetens his voice into a honeyed drawl. “Are you gonna spank me, daddy? Have I been a bad boy?” 

Mitch belts out a feathery chuckle, shoving his friend with enough strength to send a regular human flying across the deck. But since the taller vampire matches his force, he hardly moves an inch. “Fuck off.” 

“I’m being serious!” Harry cackles, turning his hips and sticking out his ass towards his visibly disgusted acquaintance. “Go fucking in, if you want.”

He lowers his voice into a sultry hum, wagging his backside jestingly. “I like it rough, baby. Why don’t you bend me over this railing and show me who’s boss?”

It’s Mitch’s turn to roll his eyes to the ceiling, voice deadpan. “I think I’ll pass.” 

Harry juts his lower lip into a theatrical pout, sniffling faux tears. “You’re rejecting me that quick? Who’s the asshole now, huh?”

His best friend doesn’t even blink. “Still you.”

“I can live with that. And it’s probably a good call on your end to give up all this,” he signals vaguely up and down his tight torso with a ringed hand, grinning as he watches the veteran vampire pretend to gag, “because I don’t think Sarah wouldn’t be too happy about it.” 

Mitch’s humorous face immediately drops, eyes narrowing at the change in topic. “Very funny.” 

“I know, right? I’m a proper comedian.” Harry quips proudly, batting his lashes mockingly. “Where is Sarah, anyways? Have you heard from her lately?” 

Sarah and Mitch...They’re a complex couple, if they can even be called a couple. The two are more like occasional friends with benefits, “occasional” meaning “once every couple of months, if Sarah happens to be passing by.” 

Their relationship is open and very loose, mostly due to the fact that Sarah is fairly new to the world of blood-driven immortality and has decided to take full advantage of it. She’s been using compulsion to travel the world for the last three years since she changed, which had been the result of an unfortunate car accident. 

Mitch had been seeing her casually beforehand, keeping her around for the purpose of having a conventional feeding arrangement. Every time vampires feed, they heal the wounds they inflict with a bit of their blood, proceeding to then wipe the person’s memory with compulsion in order to eradicate any chances of getting caught. The caveat is that if a human dies with vampire blood in their system, they become one. 

Sarah’s death happened the day after she’d spent a night with Mitch, and one can imagine how distressed she had been when she'd awoken atop a metal table in a morgue within the basement of a hospital. Mitch had been there from the very first second she’d opened her eyes to her new life. Or rather, her dead life. He had helped her get accustomed to the next stage (meaning having to cut family ties in order to avoid a catastrophe— the less people that know the truth about the supernatural, the better) coaxing her through transition and teaching her the way to go about the rest of eternity without putting herself and others in danger. 

Vampires rarely have any compassion for life (usually out of spite, which stems from how their own lives were taken from them), so it’s not uncommon that bodies are found drained of blood in back alleys, abandoned warehouses, and washed up on banks of oceans and rivers. It could be either of two reasons, or even both: the monster doesn’t care about the consequences of their actions, or they never learned to control their urges. 

Harry’s crew isn't that careless. Through Mitch, they had learned restraint, taking up his practice of feeding enough to satisfy themselves without killing the host, healing them, and then erasing the occurrence from their memories. Mitch had come up with the tactic to cling to his humanity— to be as kind and nondestructive as possible— but if Harry’s being honest, most of their friends only play along because it’s convenient. No bodies means no police involvement, and no police involvement means being able to settle down in one place for an extended period, not having to stress about the annoying process of bouncing around the world for the rest of their lives to avoid detection. 

Keeping low was for the best, and when things get rough— whether it be a mistake on their part or a disastrous bender caused by another vampire passing through— they resort to drinking from blood bags until things tide over. Mitch has a contact at the nearest hospital, which is how he gets access to the stock, as well as how he managed to clean up Sarah’s passing so quickly. 

All in all, Harry had only mentioned Sarah to tease his friend, knowing the slight sensitivity that comes with the subject. Vampires rarely form emotional bonds, typically because it can get really messy, really fast, whether that connection be to a mortal or to another creature of their species. All of them have baggage of some sort— you can’t die, resurrect, be forced to abandon your family, and be a slave to drinking blood for the rest of eternity and just...be normal. That type of extreme emotional turmoil is corrosive towards love. It’s always better to just avoid it all together. 

That’s why this is so habitual to joke about; it’s a way to deflect. 

Mitch sighs grandly, Harry’s question echoing in his skull. “I don’t know where she is, to be honest. Last we talked was, like, four weeks ago, I think. She was in Japan, said she was drumming for a new upcoming band. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Harry nods his head once in understanding, itching to steer the theme of their conversation elsewhere now that he knows the topic is in a more sensitive state than he’d imagined. He doesn’t want to push Mitch into a depressive episode when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Spending the night consoling his sulky friend in the bathroom of a club is the last thing he wants right now. 

“I guess that makes Sarah the asshole, then.” He pokes jokingly, bumping the older vampire’s hip with his own. “She’s ghosting you. Get it? It’s funny ‘cause she’s actually dead.” 

Mitch’s sad expression shatters like glass, replaced by one of unamused secondhand embarrassment at the shitty pun. “I fucking hate you.”

“All the people who were ahead of their time were hated.” Harry sing-songs, turning up his nose haughtily. “Copernicus, Socrates, Einstein— all of them were hated for being geniuses. I’m willing to carry that same burden.” 

Mitch blinks at him three times. “No one hated Einstein.”

The curly-haired boy’s lips twitch darkly. “I’m pretty sure Japan did.” 

“You’re going to hell.” 

“I’m already there, mate.” 

Mitch shakes his head, but even through the black lights, Harry can see him trying to ward off a laugh. After a moment’s pause, he speaks up again softly. “It’s not that hard to refrain from humiliating innocent people who are just doing their job, H.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re still on that?” The broad monster groans in exasperation, palms slapping down on the metal rungs below him. “We were just having some fun! But fine. If it helps you fake sleep at night, I’ll try and keep my condescending flare to a minimum.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Mitch responds peacefully, tapping his nimble fingers casually along the railing, his action much less violent than his companion’s. “S’not too difficult.” 

“Whatever.” Harry scoffs, returning his intent gaze to the dance floor, scoping out the scene once again in hopes of finding a proper meal for the night. 

He zones in on a group of young women gathered along one side of the bar, their messy giggling and lack of balance giving away that they’re obviously sloshed off their faces. Seems promising enough. 

When he talks once more, his tone holds an attitude that plays on a grumble, but it’s somewhat distracted. “The least you could do is let me have some fun, considering I didn’t even want to come.” 

Mitch huffs, making an entertained noise in the back of his throat. “You say that every single time we go out, and yet you always end up taking someone home. Don’t know why you’re complaining.” 

Harry side-eyes him from his peripheral vision, the corners of his pretty cherry mouth dipping down grudgingly, mood defensive. “You drag me to these things so I’m not going to apologize for making the best of it. I put a lot of effort into my pick-ups! I deserve to get my dick wet.” 

“God, please don’t say that again.” His best mate physically makes a vomiting sound. “You’re acting like a spoiled fraternity douche.” 

Harry’s gaze ignites into flames, his back straightening out as he fully turns to face the shorter man. He’s never been insulted so low before. “Take that back!” 

“Take that back!” Mitch mocks in an exaggerated, high-pitched British accent, attempting to stifle giggles. 

“Take it back! You know how much I hate Gen Z.”

“Okay, boomer.” 

“You’re older than I am!” 

“I know. Your lack of maturity is a constant reminder.”

Harry opens his mouth, prepared to make a sharp comeback about how Mitch should have left the shaggy-haired stoner aesthetic back in the eighties, but then a heavy Irish accent interrupts his rebuttal. 

“What’s all this about getting your dick wet?” 

Both of the vampires turn towards Niall, finding Xander and Adam accompanying him in a loose semi-circle. 

Xander isn’t paying any attention, too busy tapping away at the screen of his smartphone, apparently engaged in a very riveting conversation with whoever is on the other side. Adam has his hands tucked into the pockets of his plum purple wind-breaker, looking over Harry’s shoulder, seeming to be adamantly searching for someone in particular amidst the mob on the level beneath them. Niall is the only one interested in their dying conversation, probably only because he heard something crude being mentioned. 

“It’s nothing.” Harry dismisses, but he can’t help but stick Mitch with a glare. “What’s the plan for tonight, then?”

Adam speaks up for the first time. “Charlotte and Ny texted saying they got here about ten minutes ago. Mentioned they were dancing near the DJ station, so I think I’ll go find them.”

“Sounds good.” Harry bobs his head in accordance. “We’ll see you out there, yeah?” 

Adam returns his action, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs that lead to the bottom floor. The leader of the group watches him trot onto the large spiral staircase, disappearing into the thick throng of people scattered across its wide steps. 

Harry shifts his attention to Xander, snapping his fingers a few times in his direction and giving a two-toned whistle. “What about you? What’s got your head?”

“Not what, who.” Niall teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and making kissy faces at their friend. 

Xander ignores him, glancing up at the green-eyed brunette to let him know he’ll be with him in a second, returning his focus back to his iPhone. After a few more elongated moments of typing, the older man finally locks his device. 

“I have a date.” He throws out casually, almost as if it should be obvious. 

“A date?” Harry reiterates slowly, not quite buying it. Xander doesn’t date. He couch-surfs just as much as Harry does. 

“Mmhm.” Xander glimpses behind his fellow vampire, eyes carrying intention. “It’s just a random dude from Tinder. I thought it’d be easier to set something up beforehand, just so I don’t have to spend the whole night trying to figure out if a guy is making eyes at me or trying to keep his whiskey down.” 

“Smart.” Harry shrugs his sculpted brows, impressed. A cocky grin toys with the corners of his mouth. “But we both know no one will ever compare to me.” 

“Right.” Xander scoffs in a deadpan manner, gifting him a tight, aggravated smile. “If only you weren’t such an emotionally unavailable prick.” 

“Oh, like you’re mentally stable enough for a relationship?” Harry bites back, but it holds no true malice, just some petty rivalry. “Piss off.”

“Happily!” The other vampire exclaims, clasping his hands together for dramatics. “Have fun finding someone out there. I’m just gonna grab a to-go box for my already prepped meal.” 

Harry doesn’t bother watching him leave. Instead, he turns to Niall, pointing at him to symbolize it's his turn to share his plans for the night. “What have you got, Lucky Charms?” 

His friend breaks into a jolly cackle at the nickname, arms falling crossed over his chest, hands absentmindedly squeezing his elbows in thought. “Well, I dunno, Tea and Crumpets. What’s your game plan?” 

Before Harry can answer, Mitch butts in, feeling left out of the banter and somewhat hurt that no one had assigned him an alter ego. “What’s my country-derived nickname?” 

Niall gives the American a slow once-over, shifting in his dark brown Clarks boots, fitted navy slack riding up his thighs and allowing his rainbow polka-dot socks to peek out. He hums lowly in the back of his throat, a grin spreading across his rosy cheeks. “Biscuits and Gravy.” 

Harry chimes in, his own arms casually folding over his strong chest, index finger tapping on his bottom lip as if mulling something over. “I quite like We The People, actually.”

The Irish lad snaps his fingers as if having a sudden epiphany. “Uncle Sam!”

Harry’s emerald eyes twinkle with glee at seeing the way Mitch’s go half-lidded, no longer entertained. “Four Score And Seven Years Ago.” 

“Okay, I think that’s enou—”

Niall wags a finger at Harry, lifting one shoulder in question, seeking approval on his next idea. “Star Spangled Banner?”

Harry copies the boy’s motion from before, snapping his fingers and making jazz hands. “I Pledge Allegiance.”  

“Ok, I get it!” Mitch whines with annoyed finality, pushing off the metal railing with a curt grimace on his scraggly face. 

“You asked!” Niall rationalizes between hiccups of evilly delighted joy, cupping his stomach as if to keep it from splitting open. 

“Won’t make that mistake again.” The older creature grumbles, leaning his back against the rungs and looking off towards the distance, communicating that he’s done being a part of the conversation. 

Once Harry manages to reign in his giggles, he rubs at his nose with the side of his finger, releasing a wistful sigh. He refers to the question Niall had stated before their little bullying fest. “I think I’m just gonna do what I always do— sway a nice, pretty girl into doing some not-so-nice but very pretty things.” 

“Solid.” The Irish bloke remarks, toying with the plastic buttons on his silk beige top. “Not much to do other than that, to be fair. Adam’s usually my wingman, but I guess he abandoned me for a girl’s night.” 

“Mitch is mine, and he knows better than to dip on me.” Harry roughly nudges his best friend with his elbow, dodging to the side when Mitch tries to hit him in return. 

Niall hums softly in amusement. “Maybe I should make Adam sign whatever contract you drafted for that poor bugger.” 

The curly brunette snorts. “Good luck. Adam’s as stubborn as they come. But, hey, if you can’t find anyone, just come to me.” Harry’s irises flit crimson for a millisecond, an ominous smirk buckling his features. “You know I’m always happy to share.” 

“Thanks,” his friend exhales flatly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you’re taking tips,” Mitch pipes up, vaguely signaling at Niall’s shirt with his chin, “maybe don’t wear that stupid shirt next time. The elephant doodles look ridiculous.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not taking fashion tips from anyone who actually enjoyed living in Ohio, then.” Niall snaps in an exaggerated American accent, middle finger jutting towards the other man. “The only thing you know how to dress is a cornfield scarecrow. Must be why you look like one.” 

Harry forces down more laughter, clearing his throat softly. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t get hammered— girls hate that.” 

“Note taken.” The pale boy runs his fingers through his hair, fixing it up and adding texture to appear more laid-back and rugged. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Later.” The younger vampire recites, giving a big thumbs-up. 

“Good luck out there. You, too, Boston Tea Party.” 

With that, Niall saunters away, leaving a fully laughing Harry and a grouchy Mitch in his wake. 

The two acquaintances decide to follow in everyone else’s example, descending down the looped staircase and chatting about Mitch’s latest gig at a new bar downtown. 

Harry praises Mitch's talent with his guitar, specifically the fact that he found a hobby which he enjoys so much that he’s willing to keep it as a permanent part of his life. It’s easy to get bored of things when you have hundreds of years ahead of you; everything can seem pointless, in the end. But Harry doesn’t think Mitch has ever let himself fall into those types of dark headspaces and he finds that extremely admirable. 

Harry wishes he could say the same. He’s no musical prodigy, that much is obvious, but he is an expert at playing a few specific French songs on the piano by memory. He rarely does it, though; only when he’s in a low state of mind, which— given the origin of how he learned said classical pieces— isn’t something he’s proud of. They’re tied to a very gruesome part of his past that he’d rather bury deep inside, but he can only push back his troubles for so long before they begin to leak out, staining the clean sheet of recovery he had sewn into place. Those arrangements just bring him a warped sense of comfort he can’t explain.

Even though he’s aware of the destructive aspects of the songs, he finds himself humming one now out of instinct as he elbows through squished bodies and flailing limbs. The second he notices he’s doing it, he cuts it off, focusing all his intention on making it to the other side of the room to the bar. It’s a hard trip when it feels like the walls of the building are closing in on him. 

When Harry finally breaks free from the Human Centipede re-enactment that is the club dance floor, he practically collapses onto the sleek glass counter. Death was less painful than that walk. 

He cranes his neck to the side wildly, suddenly remembering that his much smaller, much skinnier, much more crushable friend had been in tow behind him. To his utter shock, he watches as Mitch calmly weeds around grinding drunk couples with the poise and grace of a swan, filling the empty spot besides him without a single ailment in the world. 

Harry blinks at him blankly in silence, almost as if he’d grown an extra set of fangs. 

Mitch flags the bartender from all the way down the counter, not bothering to meet the green eyes peering at him in disbelief. “You’re so fucking dramatic, H.”

“How did you not die? Again?” Harry sputters, sight jutting all around the older vampire’s body, looking for any battle wounds or missing appendages. “I almost lost an arm in there!”

“It’s a good thing it wasn’t your favorite one, right?” Mitch smirks at his own lewd joke, the simper molding into one of genuine kindness when the mixologist slides up in front of them. “Hi, how are you? I’m good, as well, thank you for asking! Yeah, I’ve got something in mind. Don’t worry, I’m not one of the ‘just make me something sweet’ type of assholes.”

Harry zones out the rest of the friendly chat Mitch entertains with the employee, letting his gaze wander around the large auditorium-like room. He dances his vision over the DJ remixing music on top of the stage, head beginning to bop along to the beat that is currently shaking the seven foot tall speakers. He’s pleasantly surprised at how good this specific producer is. 

He continues scoping out the rest of the venue, taking notes of the different clusters of people that seem to hold promise for the plans he has in store later tonight. A small group of hippie friends here, a two-party duo of tipsy stoners there, and a clump of college students at the edge of the ruckus, stumbling around loudly. Things are looking somewhat decent, in his opinion. The hippies seem to be catching his attention more than the others— specifically, the one that looks similar to Stevie Nicks. That’s a fantasy that’s been waiting to be fulfill for decades now. 

Harry lulls his head forward again when he feels Mitch give a squeeze at his elbow, telling him that the bartender is waiting to take his order. He decides to go for the gold tequila, asking for it straight in a highball glass without any garnishes. The worker’s eyebrows jump up slightly at the unorthodox request, but he drops a polite, “Coming right up.” either way.

“You truly have no flavor.” Mitch tuts once their waiter has stepped away to prepare their drinks. “No taste buds whatsoever.” 

“Yeah? Well, you can suck my flavorless dick.” Harry chimes brightly, eyes crinkling shut as a result of a theatrical smile. 

The younger vampire goes to turn back around, legitimately interested in the girl he’d seen that looked like one of his seventies celebrity crushes, already running through scenarios in his head on how he’d get her into his bed for tonight. Weed and ABBA are probably good conversation starters for that, if Harry’s undisputed people skills have anything to say about it. 

As he’s rotating his torso, a blurred image catches his eyes. He does a double-take, honing in on a group of girls that look faintly familiar. He scans them carefully as they huddle around the corner of the bar area, laughing and toasting along to the multiple conversations they all have going at once. They look like the typical posse that would be a backdrop clique in a mainstream movie. 

He knows where he recognizes them from— it had been the same girls he’d spotted earlier up on the second deck.

Harry expertly surveillances each woman, picking out potential candidates as easily as he’d pinch petals off a flower. The one in the center of the group is obviously the leader, present in how she’s the prettiest and is somehow managing to juggle all of these interactions at once. It means she’s used to being the center of attention— probably strives under it. He throws her out as a potential; the last thing he needs is someone who everyone knows and seeks out. He wouldn’t be able to sneak away with her quietly. 

The rest of the girl crew all seem to be the same status-wise, appearing as supporting characters to the main one in the middle. He could choose any one of them blindly and it wouldn’t make a difference. They all seem so tight-knit, they probably share personalities, at this point. It’s like dipping his hand into a jar of jelly beans and they’re all the same flavor. That notion makes him laugh to himself a bit; maybe Mitch was right about his lack of taste. 

Then, Harry spots her, and all the other women immediately go up in smoke. 

It’s hard not to spot her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, but not in a good way. 

The prospective contender is off to the side, sitting atop a barstool with her feet tucked along the footrest, tapping them against the metal rung awkwardly. She’s talking to one of the other people in the group, but the interaction seems forced and not very satisfying, obvious in both of their faces. She’s tracing her middle finger around the edge of her glass cup distractedly, the contents inside barely touched, the ice in her drink long-melted. She seems disinterested in the chaos her friends are causing, her expression bored and borderline regretful, as if she doesn’t want to be here. 

The further he sizes the girl up, the more appropriate she looks for the role he needs filled. Since barely anyone is paying attention to her, that means he can lead her astray without too much resistance from her acquaintances, if any at all. She appears somewhat unimportant to the narrative— merely a background extra— and it makes him wonder what she’s doing with this clique of women that can’t seem to be bothered by her presence. It’s sad, really. Sad, but beneficial, because that means he can succeed in making her the supporting protagonist of his narrative, at least for tonight. 

The girl is attractive, but not anything astronomical. She’s unconventionally pretty in a way that makes her relevant, but not particularly distinct in the eyes of regular men with presumptuous standards. She’s easy to pass up, and if Harry hadn’t been actively pursuing someone of her bashful persona to card into his plans, he wouldn’t have noticed her. At the risk of once again sounding shallow, Harry’s aware that— physically speaking— he’s very much out of her league. His above-average appearance gives off the vibe that he’d fit better with the leader of the group instead of with her, but he doesn’t want someone that would raise suspicions as a result of their absence. This girl, sitting along the edge of the party with barely any purpose and no one to really question her whereabouts, is exactly what he’s looking for. She’s perfectly imperfect for the cause. 

Harry continues to examine her meticulously, analyzing other traits that can give him a better feel for her character. She’s clad in a pair of high-waisted pastel pink silk pants that stop right at her ankles, accompanied by a flouncy creme lace blouse tucked into her waist. Tan wedges, no accessories, delicate rosey nail polish, and minimalist makeup. The boldest thing about her is the brick red shade of her lipstick, which is easily shadowed by the sparkly sequin dresses, five inch heels, and layered tops her friends are wearing. 

Harry likes her outfit, though. It’s concise and safe, which he can appreciate. Yes, perhaps she looks like she belongs in a dentist’s office rather than a Los Angeles nightclub, but he thinks there’s beauty in simplicity. She looks cute, and that’s good enough for him. 

“She seems interesting.” Mitch’s soft voice snaps him out of his detail-hungry haze, drawing him back into the reality that is the black lighting of the club and the deep booming of the music’s bass. 

His friend slides his tall drink across the glass counter, the amber liquid inside warping his reflection. 

“I suppose so.” Harry answers passively, shrugging one shoulder in indifference while accepting the cup, ringed fingers clinking against the crystalline surface. 

He takes a leisurely sip from the straight tequila, its tangy kick sending a warm surge up through his ears and down his throat, spreading into his chest and along the trench of his tummy. Alcohol really is the cure to everything. 

Mitch gives him a deadpan look, the strobe lights alternating across the glossy surface of his hazel irises, highlighting smugness. “You’ve been gawking for five minutes. Put your pride back in your pants and go talk to her.” 

The curly-haired vampire flashes him a light smirk over the rim of his drink, absentmindedly tapping his two initial rings along the bottom of the highball cup. “Ever so blunt, aren’t you?”

Mitch scuffs, taking a swig from his trusty beer bottle. Out of everything, that’s the one aspect Harry despises about his best mate— that he goes to a club and orders the same drink every time. Where was the fun in that? Where was the excitement of trying something new? When you have an eternity, the least you could do is utilize it to your advantage. Cycling through every cocktail in human history is a prime example of making the best out of immortality.  

But Mitch is a creature of habit— as are most of their kind— and Harry knows he won’t shake easily. Not when it comes to surrendering his preferred beverage, and definitely not when it comes to sticking his nose in Harry’s intimate business. Meddling and being irritating are what best friends are for. 

“What can I say? Pep talks are my forte.” The older monster remarks sarcastically, bumping his bottle against Harry’s glass in encouragement, using the spout of his container to point in the general direction of the mysterious girl. “Now go make dinner.”

“But, darlinggggg,” Harry whines playfully, a smirk still tugging at the corners of his slightly liquor-swollen lips. “I made dinner last night. Isn’t it your turn?”

Mitch rolls his eyes and shoves Harry’s shoulder harshly, with just enough force that it actually has some type of impact this time around. “Just go, before she gets creeped out by your staring.” 

Harry’s own irises copy his friend’s actions as he pushes himself up from the bar, rubbing at the new sore spot on his shoulder with an exaggerated pout present. “Ow.”

Mitch blinks at him flatly, fighting off a grin. “You’ve had worse. Go.”

Harry swivels on his heel, once again facing the group of tipsy girls at the other end of the counter. It appears that most of them have dispersed into the dance floor, having found partners to entertain them for the time being, moving to the music as if there are no other people in the room. They had left behind three of their companions, one of which is Harry’s aspiring hookup; he gets the feeling that the two girls had stayed behind out of the kindness of their hearts, feeling too guilty to leave the runt of the litter all on her own. He hopes that’s the case because if so, the second Harry inserts himself into the situation, they’ll take that chance and split, leaving him to tend his meal in peace.

He tucks one large hand into the front pocket of his trousers, the grip on his glass tightening a smidge, rings biting into his skin as the condensation of the chilled tequila cools the small spike of pain. He spins his lionhead ring around his finger within his slacks, gradually drifting closer as he goes through a checklist of prized pick-up lines he could use to garner her attention. He ducks and dodges inebriated club-goers with ease now that he’s had something to take the edge off, finally reaching the end of the bar, slowly coming to a halt right behind his target for the night. 

Harry nearly passes out as soon as her scent hits him. 

It’s faint and tender and nothing quite like anything he’s encountered before, a mixture of honey and lavender that permeates through her normal perfume. He feels like his head’s been put through a wringer, his whole body clenching for a moment as raging sparks erupt across the pit of his belly. He indulges a deep breath, willing the blazing current away in order to keep his cool, but all he can see flashing before his eyes are images of her leaving traces of that smell smeared all over his face as he bobs his head between her quivering thighs.

He takes another penetrating inhale, centering his mind back into the present. He needs to behave.

Her friends spot him immediately, their side of the conversation faltering to ash. They give Harry a wide-eyed once-over, mouths parting in slight shock as they drink up his attractive appearance, gazes lingering along his thick chest as it strains the baby blue material of his tee. Their sights drag across his broad shoulders, dainty collarbones, and strong neck, faces gawking without remorse, blinking emptily at the slope of his sharp jaw and the peaks of his prominent cheekbones. They seem to be at a loss for words the second his dimples indent into place, his brows shrugging in a half-assed greeting before he cocks his head to side a tad, voice velvet as it directs towards the girl they had forgotten existed.  

“I’m guessing you’re the designated driver?”

Y/N jumps slightly in response at the new addition to the painfully dying conversation, not recognizing the heavy English accent and deep baritone that booms behind her. She had been wondering why Melissa and Isabel had stopped talking so abruptly, and she now has her answer. 

Y/N slowly goes to cast a curious glance over her shoulder and Harry can hear the pulse flaring in her neck from the sudden intrusion to her surroundings. His fangs prick along the inside of his bottom lip due to carnal instincts; he has to will them back into receding. 

 When her eyes land on the owner of the random words, her finger immediately halts its swirling motions along the hem of her glass.

‘Fuck.’ is the only thought that registers through her short-circuiting mind. 

The lanky, curly-haired brunette that stands before her gives a gentle yet confident smile, the gesture dazzling even in the low lighting of the atmosphere. He’s absolutely gorgeous, with deep pits carving into his cheeks, perfect teeth complimenting full cherry red lips, eyes the color of a rainforest canopy, and a broad frame that is somehow not overwhelming. He’s sporting neatly ironed tan slacks, a fitted cotton shirt with a cute yet crude graphic at its center, a fancy plaid coat, and crisp yellow Vans without a single smudge in sight.

Y/N can’t help but take notice of all the little details of his fit, especially the accessories. A beautiful pearl necklace laid along his delicate clavicle, a cross resting between his defined pectorals, and a matching earring dangling from his earlobe. Not to mention the array of clunky rings arranged along nimble fingers, hugging a tall glass carrying caramel liquor and somehow managing to dwarf the cup’s size. The extra decoration is sensual in such an unexpectedly delicious manner. 

The hand he has tucked in his pants ducks out to comb through his dark auburn ringlets and Y/N can feel her mouth water at the new round of elegant rings. The action activates the cologne Harry had thoughtfully spritz in specific pressure points along his body, the scent of tobacco and vanilla traveling through the fog-heavy air and causing Y/N’s stomach to summersault. 

The young man is as close to flawless as anyone could ever come. 

Y/N feels an unmistakable sharp pain shoot through her ankle, and she comes to the realization that it had been the tip of one of her friend’s heels. The reality check jars her out of the embarrassing daze he’d spelled onto her, open mouth snapping shut and her lashes fluttering over her previously unblinking eyes. 

“Oh! Uhm—uh—” She clumsily twists sideways to fully face him, swallowing thickly and tasting the remnants of the alcohol she’d barely been nursing. “N-No. I’m not— well, I don’t think…? We Ubered here so that wouldn’t make any sense ‘cause I have no car to drive...so...” 

The boy chuckles softly at her choppy monologue, his laughter warm and inviting, similar to the look reflecting off his shiney irises, the golden flecks around his pupils seeming to swell and shrink from the rainbow lights cascading across them. Despite being caught off guard and utterly embarrassed, she can’t seem to break eye contact with him. The longer she gazes into his eyes, the more relaxed she begins to feel, a fuzzy heat stemming from the center of her belly and spreading up her neck and ears. 

Y/N gulps heavily like before, willing her tongue to produce a less embarrassing comment. “Sorry. Let me...Let me start over…Hi.”

“Hello.” He quips back playfully, lopsided grin widening in fond amusement. He lifts his drink up a bit in greeting. “M’Harry.”

“Y/N.” The girl squeaks out, copying his gesture because it’s easier than forcing her disoriented brain to try and come up with its own. 

Harry flirts his intent up and down Y/N’s body slowly, checking her out without any subtlety. He wants her to know he’s interested. 

When his sight locks with hers again, he bats his lashes sultrily and pours as much passion as he can into his tone, accent weighing in just right. “S’nice to meet you, Y/N.”

Her entire face prickles at how her name sounds dripping from those faultless raspberry lips. She’d pay anything to hear him say it again. “You, too.” 

This is not what Y/N intended. This is most definitely not what she’d intended to happen when she’d reluctantly agreed to go out with some coworkers on a Friday night, giving in simply because she had promised herself she’d be more social within her new job. 

She had moved to California roughly two months ago, wanting to get away from her old life in the small, boring town she hated to call home. Buying the flight had been a drastic decision made when she had been under the influence of something she’d rather not admit, but the following day— after she had sobered up from a wicked hangover— she found herself not wanting to cancel the trip. Found herself craving the excitement and adventure of beginning anew somewhere far away from everything she had ever known. 

All of Y/N’s friends back home had supported her without hesitation, egging her preposterous idea and congratulating her on “getting the fuck out of here.” Her family had been a little less supportive, but after a few heartfelt chats about following your ambitions and a budgeting lesson from her cousin, they had gingerly gotten on board. They understood that keeping her trapped in that lame town where nothing really happened wasn’t the way to ensure her success in life. Therefore, the people closest to her had swallowed their opinions and respected her choice to dive off the deep end, in search of something better beyond the borders of their tiny city. 

Within a week, Y/N had secured a decent job at a semi-popular cafe, courtesy of a connection from a family friend. Within two weeks, after many sleepless nights full of Rocky Road ice cream and the bright white pages of ApartmentFinder.com, she had managed to book a nice flat close to her place of work. It was a miracle, if she’d ever seen one. Especially within the crowded, expensive community that is Los Angeles. Within three weeks, she had been walking out of the giant glass building that was LAX with only two suitcases in tow, boarding an Uber to her new life. 

Things had never seemed more picturesque, she’d thought. Everything was falling into place in a way that seemed almost blessed by the universe.

Then, the culture shock hit. 

California was different. It’s was so fucking different than anything she’d ever faced and she wasn’t prepared for the social difficulties she’d have to hurdle. All her life, Y/N had grown up with the same people around her, spending every school year with them up until graduation, expanding her friend group as time passed. Even after high school, she’d remained closely connected with most of her graduating class. The region she lived in was tiny, tight-knit and friendly; it was hard not to. She couldn’t even go to the store for groceries without bumping into at least three people from her Algebra II class. 

Point being, it had been ages since Y/N had been put in a situation where she actively had to try and make friends. She’d been through that challenge way back in kindergarten and had never been hit with it again. 

Until it smacked her across the head here in LA.

Y/N didn’t mesh well with Californians, she quickly found out. They were all about crazy parties and club-hopping, whereas Y/N had been raised on community cookouts and mass sleepovers. They enjoyed getting cross-faded and streaking down the beach at two in the morning, meanwhile Y/N liked stripping down to her undies and spending the night binging Queer Eye while stuffing her face with Cheeze-Its and Snickers bars. They freely boasted about their sex adventures while bussing down tables at the restaurant, while Y/N’s intimate life had been nonexistent since the move. 

It was just...startling, to put it lightly. It wasn’t what she had expected at all, and that’s mostly her fault for not doing the correct amount of research before jumping headfirst into a cliche LifeTime film. 

Therefore, Y/N had made a pact with herself one month in, swearing to let loose and allow her surroundings to sweep her into a new dynamic— into a new, social butterfly version of herself. She’d started accepting the invitations from her coworkers to go out at night, and she’d started putting more effort into being open to wild experiences, no matter how scary they might seem. Shutting down and refusing to mold to her environment would only result in her having to return home with her tail between her legs, and she’d rather jump naked off a pier than see her parents’ faces wracked with pity. 

And that’s exactly what she’d done a couple nights ago, at the encouragement of the group of girls she was at the club with now. It had, in turn, ended in her coming down with a mild cold, but at least now she’d be able to tell her friends back home a cool story about dropping inhibitions. 

Dropping inhibitions is also why Y/N’s here tonight, dressed in the most party-like outfit she could put together, prodding an overly-boozy drink into her system, attempting to release some of the tension that had been building in her head for the last couple of weeks since she’d left her old life behind. That’s why she’s here, with strands of her blow-dried hair catching on the dark red gloss Melissa has slathered on her mouth in a thick layer. That’s why she’s here, with synthetic smoke scratching at her lungs and drunken men and women bumping into her every two minutes, most of them too busy sticking their tongues down each other’s throats to realize they’d almost toppled her off her seat. That’s why she’s here, with a blasé expression plastered across her features as her coworkers talk over her head without a second thought, her mind far away from the walls of this overhyped horror house. 

Y/N had been thinking about how she’d just started her Disney+ membership, finding comfort in putting together a mental checklist of all the movies she’s going to plow through the second she sets foot past the doorframe of her apartment. Indulging on her childhood was an ideal form of escapism, in her opinion. She’s positive Walt Disney would agree. 

That’s what her brain had been lost in when Harry’s deep, melodic voice had interrupted her daydreams, sending her spiraling into an embarrassing performance of nerve-induced hysteria. 

Now here she is, blinking back at him dumbly, eyes the smallest bit damp from the smoke machine and neon flashes of light. And here he is, smirking at her over the rim of his glass, eyes raking down her wired up body suggestively as he takes a calm sip from what appears to be the straight tequila in his colossal, bejeweled hand. 

The English boy takes a gradual step closer to her, wanting to make sure he’s not crossing any boundaries that would make her uncomfortable. The scent of his cologne intensifies and she feels a fiery heat suddenly pour between her clasped thighs. It just hits her how long it’s truly been since she’s gotten laid and fuck, it’s sad.

Harry begrudgingly peels his attention away from Y/N for a second, aiming his words towards the girls standing behind her with their mouths still opened stupidly. Even from a respectful distance, his warm breath still washes across her jaw and cheek, causing electricity to zip down her spine. “You don’t mind if I steal her for a bit, do you?”

‘Yeah,’ Y/N thinks in the back of her muddled skull, ‘that’s definitely tequila.’

Isabel and Melissa slowly shake their heads in unison, glancing at each other as if to confirm he’d just spoken to them. 

The edges of Harry’s lips jolt into a kind, easygoing smile. “Thank you. Promise I’ll keep her safe.” 

Y/N feels her heart hiccup at his statement. If she’s not insanely mistaken, it appears to have carried an undertone of dirty intentions. God, she’s praying she’s not mistaken. 

The two girls clamber away on their tall pumps, rounding around Harry and pausing for a moment. They make moaning faces and vulgar motions behind him, encouraging Y/N to pursue the stranger. She then watches them disappear into the throng of crowded bodies, leaving her alone with the beautiful boy and her heart slamming against her ribs. 

Y/N focuses back onto Harry, licking her itching lips lightly, not knowing what to say next as he settles himself beside her. He rests his forearm on the counter along with his drink, tucking his other hand back into  his trouser pocket and fixing himself into a comfortable standing position, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. The friction between his jacket and the bar rides his sleeve up an inch or so, and Y/N gets a view of the anchor tattoo he has along his wrist, as well as the upside-down cross inked between his thumb and index finger. 

Harry catches her looking, mouth twitching with a smidge of arrogant self-assurance. He loves when girls drool over his tats. 

“I have more.” He remarks lightly, a pang of condescending pleasure shooting through his chest at the way she jerks and pins her gaze down to the floor. 

Blood rushes into her cheeks at the realization that she’s been caught and Harry’s teeth grind. It’s so hot watching her fidget for him. Maybe he finds her more attractive than he’d originally let on. “Would you like to see them?”

Y/N timidly coaxes herself into locking stares with him once again, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, barely nodding with a soft, “Sure.” 

She looks so pretty like that, he notices, staring up at him all doe-eyed and shy. It’d probably look even better if she were on her knees.

Yeah, he definitely likes her more than he’d thought. 

Harry proceeds to shift about, shrugging his coat off his strong shoulders, letting it slip down his lean arms and reveal the plethora of dark tattoos strewn across his left arm. Y/N watches avidly, drinking up every flex of his biceps under the black paint and every twitch of his pecs beneath his cotton shirt, the tendons along his throat going taut for just a moment. That moment is enough for her to etch the image into the back of her eyelids for the rest of her life. 

Harry tosses the article onto the table, extending his arm over its surface for her to get a better reading. She doesn’t miss the chance, her pupils tracing over every line and stroke of the pen, over every shaded area and meticulous detail. 

His voice comes out as a low, garbled murmur, his own irises studying her features with just as much intensity. “You can touch them, if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

After a moment of hesitation, the brim of her crystalline cup is replaced by the ridges of his smooth, tanned skin. She drags her digits over the naked mermaid, tracing the curve of her figure and the dip of her tail, then passing onto the stem of the large rose, ghosting over every thorn and prickle. Harry can feel her heartbeat through her fingertips and it’s making him throb. 

“They’re very pretty.” Y/N whispers, allowing her touch to fall away, palm finding refuge across the counter. “Did they hurt?” 

“A bit, yeah. But I’ve gotten so many done that I think I grew numb to the needle after a while.” Harry answers, shrugging one shoulder to show it’s no big deal. He grasps his glass once again and takes a drawn-out swig, extending the action just so she can see the way his Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. Once the cup is back in its place, his tongue peeks out and swipes any leftover liquid from his rosy lips, which then settle into a coy simper. “Plus, I kinda like the pain.” 

Y/N’s breathing stutters in her lungs and she swiftly swerves the topic onto something much less explicit. “So why’d you ask if I was the designated driver? That’s kind of an odd question. Very out of the blue.” 

Harry lulls his middle finger across the hem of his glass, exactly how she had been doing earlier, the motion weighed by an innuendo. She seems to understand it, present in how she bites into the inside of her cheek. “I just figured that a pretty girl like you would have easily found someone to dance with. So when I saw you sitting here looking all bored with your drink barely touched…I just assumed, I suppose.” 

And there it is again— the blood pouring into her face. Christ, if she keeps that up, he’s going to fucking lose it.

“Thank you, that’s— that’s really sweet. Proper gentleman.” 

Harry runs his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes snapping to her tinted mouth for a second, establishing some sexual tension that he’ll expand on as they go. “Who doesn’t like a guy who knows how to treat a girl, right?” 

Y/N clears her throat softly, obviously phased by his forward compliment, but she tries to play it off. “To answer your question, I— uhm...I’m not really one for the club scene, I guess. Don’t really like it, but I didn’t want to be rude and turn down the invitation.” 

‘Good girl,’ Harry thinks, silently cheering her on for having more brain cells than the typical human. 

“Well, that’s where we share some common ground, then.” He chimes brightly, a soft smile bringing his dimples to life. “I don’t care for clubs, either, but my friends have an affinity for them so here I am.”

He gestures vaguely towards the general direction where he’d left Mitch, continuing his rant. “The choking smoke, the annoying strobe lights, the crowded floor, the drunk morons—”

“Bumping into you without giving a shit.” Y/N finishes his sentence, her vulgarity drawing a boyish giggle from her companion and now she’s convinced she’d do anything to hear him laugh like that again. “And there’s always a faint smell of vomit coming from somewhere.”

Harry slaps his hand down against the glass table in passionate agreement, voice pitching up slightly as his brows jump in emotion. “Right?! It’s fucking disgusting. Don’t understand how anyone could genuinely enjoy it.” 

Y/N nods vehemently, sharing the same expression of utter distaste towards the subject. “It honestly doesn’t make any sense to me, either. Why come here when you can go to, like, a nice bar somewhere, y’know?”

Harry blinks at her in astonishment, her opinion mirroring his own with psychic-like accuracy. “My thoughts exactly.” 

“Great minds think alike.” Y/N responds playfully, taking a hearty gulp from her drink since the first time he’d spotted her from across the room. 

After a comfortable pause, Harry speaks up, also entertaining another sip from his own drink, which is now nearly empty. “Are you from around here?”

She can’t be. Rarely anyone born and raised here is willing to bash the status quo, and never so openly. 

She’s once again mesmerized by the attractiveness of his rings, but manages to get her composure in check. “Kinda. I moved here about two months ago.” 

Precisely his point.

Harry releases a curious hum over the cup between his lips. “Let me be the one to officially welcome you to Cali, then! Where people go to shitty clubs for fun and tan themselves into a strip of leather.”

Y/N sputters out a half-suppressed giggle and Harry’s brows almost furrow at the weird fluttering in his stomach. He rarely gets it.

Y/N takes another deep gulp of what he thinks is probably an Old Fashioned, silently praising the way she’d finished it off so quickly. She crunches an ice shard between her teeth and lets it melt across her tongue before engaging again. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here either though, are you?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to chuckle a bit and she fights off an endeared smile. 

“What gave it away?” He asks, purposefully doing a thicker, fuller accent, his teasing nature making the grin she’d just stifled fully break through.

Y/N lifts a shoulder offhandedly. “Your accent seems a little too…posh for this area. Or even this hemisphere.”

Harry scoffs softly, the pinky around his glass sticking up jokingly as he kinks an eyebrow at her, a few rouge curls falling across his forehead. “Keen ears, mate.”

Y/N lifts her drink up a bit with a playfully knowing air, mimicking an English dialect. “Cheers.”

He places his empty cup down on the counter, his middle finger once more ghosting around the edge absentmindedly. She notices the pastel yellow polish covering his nails, tiny black smiley faces decorating the lacquer.

“I like your nails.” She admires, tipping her empty lowball towards his hand for significance. “Did you do them yourself?”

Harry glances at his fingers, stretching and wiggling them out, his features taking on a bit of pride. “Sure did.” 

“Don’t think I’ve ever met a guy at a club who could pull off nail polish so easily.” 

The left edge of his lips flicks upwards. “How do you mean?”

Y/N’s gaze bounces back to his and the tone twirling in his jade irises tells her everything she needs to know about keeping this conversation going: he enjoys being praised. 

She chooses her next words carefully, wanting to appeal to his interests. “I mean that it looks amazing on you. The color suits your skin nicely, makes your hands look good.” 

Harry breaks eye contact, glimpsing down at his shoes and she realizes he’s actually trying to hide a blush. The fact that she had managed to coax one out of him boosts her confidence while simultaneously making his own waver. He’s never like this— never so easily flustered. He needs to get it together.

Harry tilts his chin back up, lower lip strung between his two front teeth. His voice comes out as a flirty laugh.

“Known you for maybe,” he looks at the beautiful watch on his wrist symbolically, “ten minutes, and you’re already stroking my ego just the way I like it. I think that’s a record.” 

Y/N doesn’t know if it’s the liquor she’d just consumed too quickly, or if it’s Harry’s intoxicatingly alluring scent dulling the region of her brain that controls fear, but she’s suddenly filled with a strange surge of courage and her thoughts are spilling down her semi-numb tongue before she can stop them. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good at stroking, so an ego’s not too hard to handle.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow, surprised at her brazen reply. He might have misjudged her more than he assumed. However, he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy this girl more than the one he thought he was going to receive. There’s just something about how she can match his banter without a problem, and how they share a lot of the same thoughts and opinions, that just lights a fire in his stomach. 

“Is that so?” His voice lowers in pitch and he scoots a step closer, fingers just barely brushing against her arm as he repositions himself against the bar. His question comes out as a sultry murmur. “What else can you handle?”

Y/N knows that she’s starting to cross a line, and with every passing moment, the likelihood of returning to her friends is getting smaller and smaller. She’s not mad about it. Riding off of the wave of confidence that had inflated her ego earlier, she mumbles her response back with the same tone and texture. “How about you buy me another drink and then maybe you’ll find out?”

Harry gives her a boyish grin and the indents that pop into his cheeks nudge his appearance from an incredibly attractive man to an adorable cheeky boy. He motions to the bartender for another round of drinks, only letting his eyes flicker away from her for the moment it takes to do it. “How do you like LA so far?”

“It’s...alright.” It’s Y/N’s turn to move closer to him now, flicking her hair off her shoulder, hoping that the motion releases the perfume she’d dabbed on her neck while getting ready. Judging by the darkening of Harry's eyes, it does just that. “It’s definitely a change in pace from where I used to live, but I think I’m slowly gaining the reigns. I feel like once I get acquainted, I could grow to love it.”

“LA’s definitely a toggle. You could either vibe with it, or it’ll eat you alive and spit you back out.” 

She bats her lashes at him in stunned fright at his bluntness, his face deadly serious without any twitch or give. 

Harry then bursts into high-pitched laughter, eyes crinkling shut and nose scrunching. “I’m just fucking with you, love. Ease up, hm?”

“You asshole!” Y/N exhales grandly, half in relief and half in indignation, slugging him on the shoulder. All she feels is hard muscle beneath. 

He continues to cackle, sticking his tongue out at her. “Looked like you were about to cry.” 

“It definitely crossed my mind, yeah!”

The bartender arrives with their fresh drinks and Harry tells the man to but both of Y/N’s on his tab. She feels her cheeks glow, telling him he doesn’t have to, but he waves it off and says he’s more than happy to serve such a nice girl as herself. Especially if she “hates the same things I do. Think of it as your initiation gift into the Anti-Club Club.” 

A handful of heartbeats tick by, full of comfortable quietness as they both savor their new beverages. Harry pipes up first, regaining their topic from before.

“But, yeah, Cali’s for sure a special place. You meet some cool people if you hang around for a while. But sometimes,” he pauses for a second, eyes gleaming with something she can’t quite interpret. “But sometimes you can meet a really interesting person in just one night.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Y/N clicks her nails against her Old Fashioned distractedly as Harry fixes her with that beautiful emerald gaze that makes her ears tingle. She cocks her head to the side knowingly, flashing him a soft smirk. “Sometimes, you just happen to meet that one in a million.”

“A lucky strike.” He adds, lifting his tequila an inch off the counter and tilting it towards her in what appears to be a toast, irises dancing with a certain type of suggestive mischief. “To meeting interesting people.”

The human girl clinks the rim of her lowball to the edge of his cup, shrugging her brows and reciting his comment back to him. “To meeting interesting people.” 

Y/N measures how the rest of their interaction goes by how quickly her drink shrinks. 

When she reaches down to the first ice cube stacked on top, Harry has managed to coax multiple rounds of laughter out of her, his humor startlingly similar to her’s in the most refreshing way imaginable. She quickly learns that despite his broad shoulders, lean torso, dark inking, and flawless features, he’s a complete and total dork. His personality consists mainly of voice impersonations and contorting his expression into an endless array of silly faces, which she takes to easily.

By the time Y/N’s amber drink has reached halfway down its container, the default touch barrier between the two has broken completely. There had been a few caresses prior, but now it’s more frequent, more noticeable, and each touch extends in time. She had been the one to initiate getting physical, which had sat so right in her stomach because that meant he was respectful and patient— definitely unlike most men in clubs. 

The mortal girl had gently shoved Harry’s chest when he’d made an nonchalant joke about how losing his swim trunks at a nude beach had been both the best and worst experience of his life, her cheeks boiling as she had felt nothing but more toned muscle beneath the cotton fabric of his top. She had gone back to tracing at his tattoos the further they got into sharing anecdotes and opinions, glancing up at him for permission in the middle of their exchange and smiling to herself when he’d nodded casually without a second thought. As the conversations continue, they both unintentionally get closer in distance to the point where the arm Harry had settled on the bar is now fully wrapped around the small of her back. She willingly leans into him, their knees and thighs brushing with every shift of their bodies and those minute moments begin to pile up their excitement.

By the time the alcohol in her possession bottoms out, she is nearly sitting in his lap, faces only a few inches apart. Y/N can’t recall half of what she had said, the subject having steered into so many different places that she couldn’t be bothered to keep track. Besides, she’s too focused on trying to keep a straight face as Harry plays footsie with her below the counter, his light yellow sneaker toying with her heeled velvet wedge. 

An important question on his behalf snaps Y/N out of her flirty stupor.

“So how do you like your new home?”

She blinks at him slowly, partially to try and give a seductive tinge to the interaction and partially because the liquor has started to truly settle in. It takes her a few heartbeats to process the inquiry. “I love it, actually. It’s a place of my own, for the first time ever. I couldn’t be happier.”

The corners of Harry’s swollen lips tick in genuine happiness on her behalf. “That sounds amazing. Congratulations on such a big step.” 

“Thank you! What about yourself? Renting anything neat?”

“Oh, I own a condo here.” He mentions casually, outlining the criss-cross pattern along the circumference of his highball glass. “I used to visit so often that I finally just decided to pull the trigger on one.”

“Look at you, investing in real estate.” She says in a teasing voice, her heel grazing around his calf slowly, cheeks sizzling as he parts his legs a bit to allow her the pleasure of traveling higher up.

“Mmhm.” Harry licks his red lips, free hand starting to trace over her own. The tips of his fingers are calloused and cold, the motion of them over her skin almost pulling a tremble out of her body. She does her best to restrain it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Is it nice?” 

“Hm?”

His lips twitch in endearment at how he’s managing to make her lose her train of thought. “Your apartment, darling.”

She rests the rim of her drink on the bottom of her lip as she speaks. “It’s nothing huge or fancy, but it’s a decent size and l can call it home. Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N loves how Harry's eyes flit to her lips for what she thinks is the billionth time tonight, his vision sketching along the curve of her cupid’s bow and dotting every peak.

Another warm glow of confidence spikes through her veins and she’s talking before she can analyze her thoughts. “Well, at least I think it can’t get much better than that. Although, I could just be biased. Could probably use an outside opinion.” 

It takes Harry a moment to register what she’s suggesting, a light blush creeping up the base of his neck as he realizes how he’s stopped so abruptly. Humans usually never get him this unnerved and it’s one of many times she’s made it happen. “An outside opinion?”

Y/N lists her head to the side. It sounds like he’s accepting the vague invitation, but she’s so anxious to mess this up that she’s second guessing herself with every passing second. However, with every touch, she wants Harry more and more, and that’s enough to propel her towards a more direct approach. “Mmhm. Like yours, maybe. Would you like to come back and see it?”

Harry pauses for a few of her heartbeats, and then bobs his head in acceptance. She can breath again. 

He finishes off the last inch or so of his tequila, a wicked grin creeping its way across his pretty, flushed mouth, long fingers carding into his loosely arranged curls. “I’m more than happy to be of service.”

A smile works its way onto Y/N’s own face at his response, her foot dropping back down his leg slowly. “I’m glad to hear.”

“Mm.” Harry takes her hand completely now and she almost moans at how much bigger his are, his rings pinching a bit, skin rough in some areas, but silky smooth in others. And strangely icy, but she enjoys it. “Shall we say goodbye to your friends first? I wouldn’t want them to worry about you.”

He knows her “friends” couldn’t care less, but he wants to be as much of a gentleman as possible. Romanticize, romanticize, romanticize.

Y/N snorts, knowing full well that they’d probably purposefully embarrass her in front of him as a joke. 

She squeezes his grasp lightly, giving him a soft smile. “You’re sweet, but it’s fine. They were actually behind you earlier, encouraging this whole thing, so I’m pretty sure they won’t mind.” 

Harry hums deep in the back of his throat and the sound melts into a cute chuckle. “I’m glad they helped, then. Think you can deliver them my thanks some other time?”

The young woman chews on the inside of her cheek at his comment, realizing that it suggests he aims on keeping her occupied for the rest of the night and well into the morning. She has to will herself not to lurch forward and kiss at his annoyingly perfect lips right then and there. “I’ll make sure to pass the message along.” 

With one last cocky simper, Harry helps her down from the stool and pays off their tab, offering her his jacket since most of her outfit is made of flimsy fabrics. Y/N takes it appreciatively, lashes fluttering when his scent envelopes her like a blanket. It’s the unique smokiness from his cologne, mixed with a slightly sweeter smell that she assumes is his shampoo, and a bit of something that reminds her of a vanilla candle. The aromas are sewn into every thread of his coat and she can’t wait to have those scents glued all over her more deliberately later tonight.  

Harry turns and plunges them into the throng of partiers, weeding through bodies with a type of determination that makes her insides twist. His arm comes up in front of him as he plows people out of the way with absolutely no regret, leaving her to throw out a few half-assed apologies in his wake. The idea that he’s excited to be alone with her has Y/N’s insides churning. 

Once they escape all of the grinding limbs and tight spaces, stumbling into the cool air of the starry night, she takes a huge gulp of air. She prays it will tide over the jitters running along the inside of her tummy. She has just now realized how riled up he’d gotten her and it’s all coming to a raging boil. 

Harry paces past the bouncer, throwing up two fingers in parting. “Later, Brock.” 

The security guard gives the young vampire a confused look, not recognizing him at all and wondering how he knows his name. 

Y/N repeats Harry’s phrase for the hell of it, squeezing his hand jestingly and he glimpses over his shoulder, grinning at her with sheer amusement and something much deeper swirling around the specks of copper in his irises. If there was a bit more light, perhaps she would have noticed the way his irises had glinted blood red instead of olive green.

She ogles at the way his back muscles shift and flex below his pastel blue shirt, her mind vaguely taking note of the light yellow detailings along the cuffs and collar. The tee is intriguing and fun and she hopes he’ll let her sleep in it after they’re done. 

She also gets distracted by the baby curls decorating the nape of his neck. She’s itching to tug at them and see what his response would be. Would he shiver in her grasp and let out a soft moan, or would he smirk darkly and tell her to go harder?

Harry suddenly halts, snapping her out of her thoughts as he presents his car. Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off. “This is yours?!”

She gawks at the vintage jet black convertible before her, feeling like she isn’t worthy of its chic presence. It looks new, shining in the street lamps like a thousand diamonds, not a scratch or dent in sight. 

Harry unlocks the passenger’s door, opening it and guiding her inside with a gentle pull at their clasped hands, shrugging his brows playfully. “Hope it’s not too shabby for your liking.”  

“Are you kidding?” The human mumbles in awe as she ducks down into the patented leather seat, running her free hand over the elegant cover. She sighs softly at the way his smell is lingering inside the vehicle, just as much as it sticks to his clothes. “I feel like I should bow to it or something.”

He laughs fully now, leaning down to get a view of her sitting prim and proper in his favorite car, looking gorgeous in her flowy silk pants, lace creme blouse, and his own clothes. He gnaws at his bottom lip to withhold a needy groan. “I think you fit right in.” 

Y/N feels warmth erupt into her face and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to distract her fingers from shaking. “Looks like I’m not the only one that’s good at stroking egos.”

“S’hardly a task. You make it easy, doll.” 

It’s the second pet name he’s called her tonight— it’s strangely vintage, same as his car— and she can’t wait to hear what others he has in store. Preferably in the form of breathy pants and broken whines.

Y/N flicks her gaze up at him through heavy lashes, attempting to stifle a sheepish smile. “Quite the charmer.”

A moment of silence suspends in the air, a light breeze filtering through Harry’s curls, swaying the jewelry around his neck as well as the earring hanging from his lobe. Harry speaks up with a type of hushed desire she hadn’t heard from him yet. “Can I kiss you?”

She blinks up at him once in mild surprise and then releases a sigh of utter relief. “Fuck, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Her hand reaches upwards outside the confines of the car, knitting into the thick fabric of his shirt and yanking him down. The second their mouths meet, it sets off a dozen fireworks in the pit of her stomach. His is softer than she had imagined, wet and warm, and his tongue carries the sourness of the tequila he’d been swishing the whole night. 

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, and then a quiet whimpery moan streams down his tongue onto her itchy skin. “Christ, that was hot.”

As much as she loves the taste of him— the tartness of the alcohol mixed with an inherent sweetness his lips carry— she forces herself to pull away, but keeps her sweaty forehead pressed to his. “Yeah. It was.”

With one hand still gripping the car door, Harry uses his other to cup her chin lightly, guiding her into another kiss. Now that they have both developed a feel for the other, this one is less tentative than the last. She tastes so fucking good on his tongue, like strawberry syrup—probably from her lipgloss— orange bitters, and bourbon. He just has to have more of it.

A helpless gasp escapes Y/N when Harry's teeth graze against her upper lip, only nipping enough that she craves more. More of anything he has to offer. 

He pulls away and the whine that plucks her vocal chords feeds his eternal soul like nothing else has in a while.  

The young man grins at her for a moment, half in smug satisfaction, half red-faced and desperate, before carefully closing the car door and making his way to the driver’s side. He slides in with ease, shuts his own door and buckles up with a click of the belt. The simple action has never looked so attractive before, but she’s certain that anything Harry does with his ring-covered hands would be attractive.  

He fishes his keys from his front pocket, asking her where she lives in order to try and orient himself. As it turns out, she’s not too far away from his own flat. He knows exactly which condominium she’s referring to without having to even search it up— a perk of living here for a few decades.

He also chuckles to himself a bit at the fact that she hadn’t mentioned he shouldn’t drive under the influence. Vampires have an extremely high tolerance due to their self-healing properties, so the drinks he’d had only gave him a soft, warm buzz. He just finds it comical— and slightly arousing— that she’s so eager to get at him that she’d let that detail slip her mind.

Harry starts the car, but doesnt pull out of the parking spot. Instead, he glances at Y/N as a crease appears in his beautifully sculpted brows. The idea of something displeasing him bothers her, and she’s about to ask what it is when he murmurs a quick, “Just a second, dove.” He reaches across to grab her seatbelt, pulling it over her body and securing it into place on her behalf, making sure it’s nice and proper before leaning back in his seat. He doesn’t know why he cared to do it, but he had. 

The simple action leaves another layer of heat on Y/N’s cheeks. Having him bent over her like that was just a teaser of what was going to unfold later and it already has her mind spinning. She can only imagine how much of a mess he’s going to leave her when there’s no clothes restraining them.

“Thanks.” She whispers, playing with the tips of her fingers.

“No need to thank me. Just wanna keep that pretty face in one piece.” 

He plops one hand on the steering wheel as he shifts into reverse, carefully backing out of his spot. His arm ducks behind her seat, head turning and veins chiseling into his neck. It takes all of Y/N’s willpower not to lean up and begin to darken his tanned skin with hickeys. 

Harry cruises up to the exit of the club parking lot, waiting impatiently for the turn signal, digits tapping away at the leather below them. Y/N can see him throwing pained little glances at her from her peripheral vision, obviously restless to feel her skin sliding against his. Each look causes the warmth between her thighs to swell. 

She’s talking before she can stop herself, voice bashful and soft as ever, yet full of boldness from the liquor she’d consumed. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something to you that’s gonna get us both killed.”

The tapping of his fingers halts and he cranes his head to face her fully, ignoring the flashing green arrow on the stoplight before them. 

Harry reaches over the center console, his nose dragging up the length of her cheekbone, causing her to squeak out a tiny whimper at the feathery sensation. It’s the first time tonight he’s touched her so intimately. 

The sentence he grits out next makes her entire body visibly shutter, his breath hot against her ear, damp lips smearing over her jaw as his oath burns into her flesh.

“And if you say something like that to me again, I promise you I’ll pull this car over and make you eat every fucking word.” 

#harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles smut #harry styles series #vampire!harry #harry styles #1d fanfiction #1d fic #one direction fanfiction #one direction fic #1d smut #one direction smut #ysijwa #harry styles one shot #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles dirty fanfiction #vampire au #smut #harry styles blurbs

[nosunwithoutshadow]

finally posting for day 1 of darklina week! (I have no concept of time)

Rating: M Chapters: 1/1 Words: 2k Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Universe, Fluff and Angst, Character Study, Loneliness, Angst with a Happy Ending, Feels

Summary: It’s the worst kind of cliche, but Aleksander doesn’t realize what he’s missing until it’s gone.

also on ao3

Aleksander misses it. The light. 

He didn’t realize it at first, in those lost few months after he tore the world apart to protect his people. Time stretched oddly then, as he adjusted to his new reality. He felt off balance, constantly teetering on the edge of falling into the abyss he created. The merzost coiled in his soul, making a home in his bones, craving more with each breath. He’d known the magic required a sacrifice before he stepped in front of the dead king’s army, accepted it, but a martyr never knows what they will have to give up to their cause before it’s ripped from them. 

(cont. under the cut)

He only discovers what’s missing later. After emerging from the other side of the void into a new world, one he has shaped, will continue to shape. He gathers what self possession he has left and returns to the capital, presenting himself as a tame housecat for the throne to use at their pleasure, repentant for the misdeeds of his family and content to hunt mice for the reward of a warm hearth and occasional pat. He blunts his fangs, hides his claws, and bats at toys tossed his way for the crown’s amusement, a domesticated predator biding his time. He returns to the tatters of the sanctuary he had begun to build and teaches every Grisha he can save how to sharpen their own claws so when the world comes for them, as it inevitably will, they will be ready. 

And when he has time to think again, when the urge to plunge the entire palace into a darkness they cannot escape has lessened enough that his bones don’t ache with the need, he stands in the courtyard of the Little Palace and breathes. He hasn’t lived without burdens since the day in his long-ago childhood when he realized that he and everyone like him would never be safe. It’s different now though, rather than weighing on him, the darkness drags him down, anchoring him to the earth like it would swallow him at any moment. And when he spreads his arms, exhaling and letting his eyes slip closed for the briefest moment, he feels…

Nothing. 

The days in Ravka are rarely truly warm, but dressed in all black, he’s used to the sun slanting down and soaking into his kefta. He sees the sun overhead, the near cloudless sky, feels a cool breeze rustle the fur at his cuffs, but the warmth he expects to feel doesn’t reach his skin. It’s as if he’s no longer quite part of this world, truly the abomination they call him, shunned even by the sun’s light. 

The small part of him that’s still human wants to strip off his layers in the lost hope that if he can only bare himself to the sun, it’ll be different. As if there’s any way he could ever give enough of himself to buy back what he’s sacrificed. He tilts his face up to the sky and feels nothing but the chill of the afternoon against his cheeks. 

His heart, that traitorous organ, hesitates before resuming its regular beat. He draws a deep breath, collects himself, and continues on his walk. He’d hardly been unaware that there would be a cost to his actions. Out of all the possible consequences, this is far from something that can’t be borne. He will find other ways to keep warm. 

Years pass, nearly too many to count, and yet he numbers every one. The time is counted in the lives he could not save, the indignities thrust upon his Grisha he cannot protect them from. The walls of the Little Palace grow higher, blocking the outside world and its taunting sun. Its light only serves to remind him of what he still can’t do: he can’t control the fold, can’t use it as the weapon he needs to protect his people, can’t stop them from being slaughtered beyond his limited reach, can’t promise them the true security they deserve.

He wears his layers like armor and tries to forget the missing pieces of his soul. He keeps the fireplaces of the Little Palace well stocked to ward off the cold. He nearly forgets what it feels like to have sunlight play across his skin, warming him even through winter’s chill.

But then.

And then.

Oh.

He’s spent centuries planning, but he could never have planned for Alina. Even less for what she would do to him. He touches her, and walls built over hundreds of years fracture, their foundations no longer solid. He sees her power, and he remembers dreams he no longer has any right to. He feels her warmth, and he finds he might give up what’s left of his soul to stay close enough for her heat to burn. 

It’s another small sacrifice to let go of her after that first touch, but he comforts himself with the knowledge that she won’t go far. He’s found her now, and the blinding potential of what that means threatens every ounce of his hard-won restraint. He rediscovers parts of himself he thought long-dead, pushing through dirt and cobwebs like a dormant seed, reaching out towards her sun. 

He will keep her close, there’s no question of that. Losing part of himself was torture enough the first time; he doesn’t know how he could bear it again. He’s endured so much, but not this. And she’s so much more than his scattered missing pieces. She’s life to his emptiness, the rushing river to his steady mountain, the celestial light to his earth-bound darkness. 

If he’d known just how much she was, he’s not sure he would have wanted her, the him before he met her. No blessing as potent as her comes without danger. And she is dangerous, all fire and fury, telling him “no” and crashing headlong into centuries worth of careful plans. Even so, he’s no fool to cast aside such a treasure, if he even could. He’ll hide her in his fortress, its defenses built for this day, and hone her into the weapon she was meant to be. 

It has to be said, his plans usually proceed much more smoothly. 

People are the fatal flaw to any plan, Aleksander knows, and that has never been more true than with Alina. Every time he thinks he’s learned to understand her, she surprises him again. He wants to hate her for that, at first. Even then, he can’t bring himself to, not really. His only consolation is those moments when he’s certain that she feels it too. That he’s not alone in this maddening need. She fills the empty spaces inside of him to overflowing, and even then, it’s still not enough. He’s never thought himself greedy, merely wanting what he’s earned, but for her, he might be. 

Even when their goals finally align, when at last she accepts him as her ally rather than her enemy, it’s still barely enough. It’s consuming, this need, more dangerous than merzost and infinitely more seductive. He can almost forget the hunger clawing at his soul when he’s with her, the warmth of her bathing his skin, sinking deep. She’s so powerful it’s blinding, and yet so unbearably human. A mess of contradictions, his Alina, and he wants to take the time to explore all of them. 

In the early days they don’t have much time for exploration, as one age gives way to another. The first time they bed each other is fast and desperate, fueled by all the times they’ve been denied before. It can’t even properly be called bedding, since they don’t make it farther than the nearest table. They manage to fall into bed together by the third time around, and the sense of completion as he slides into her, their eyes locked on each other, is enough to make all the centuries it took to get there worth it. Anger still simmers between them, and he can’t be certain that she won’t try to kill him before morning, but for this, he might let her. 

In the aftermath, he foolishly thinks that this must be the pinnacle. He holds her to him, reveling in the heat of her body and how perfectly it fits against his. Her light calls to his shadows, even lying quietly together like this, their bodies and spirits tangling into a single whole. 

He doesn’t have the frame of reference then to imagine how anything could be better, but then time stretches before them, and the walls between them slowly crumble. They rebuild and their lives mesh into one another, weaving around each other until they become inseparable. She reminds him of things he’d left behind, and he shows her what could lie ahead. He finds his shadows reaching out to her without realizing, what should be an unforgivable loss of control, but he can’t deny them their other half. He doesn't ask if she feels it too, conditioned by centuries to avoid any hint of weakness.

And he knows that there's no way he can complete her the way she fills the ache in his soul. It's an emptiness that's only grown over those same centuries, widened and deepened into a chasm he could never admit existed. She's his match in every way, but she's only lived a mere couple of decades. He can barely remember being that young, that long ago time when he knew so little about what was to come, what real loneliness meant. 

He clutches her to him at night, without meaning to, his body reacting to his mind’s unspoken fear that she may yet disappear. She lets him, sometimes tucking her body into the contours of his, other times turning in his hold to wrap her arms around him in return. 

They’re laying like this one night, her head against his chest, his nose brushing her hair, both sated and drifting on the edge of sleep. Aleksander idly considers his tasks for the next day, while his sun summoner traces patterns of light over his skin. She draws back, and he relaxes his hold enough to look down at her. Her thoughts are heavier than he expected, some inner struggle creasing her brow. He doesn’t expect the question that follows.

"Did you feel it, before me?" She hesitates, as if searching for the right word. "The… emptiness?"

And he remembers that he didn’t feel that much older than her when he'd opened the Fold, tearing apart the very fabric of the world out of his grief and desperation and fear of losing the people he had left. She may not be able to match the age-worn depth of his feelings, but he shouldn't underestimate the depth of them. The young feel everything so much more fiercely, he remembers. 

His mother had tried to tell him, back then, that what he felt would fade. He'd known she was wrong then, but he knows it with earned certainty now. Age may have dulled the edges of that grief, but to lose it would be to lose a part of himself. Time has given him perspective for those emotions as it held onto their all-consuming breadth. 

One forgot the passion of youth at their own peril. He'd made that mistake with Alina already. So many years, and still so much to learn. 

“Yes,” he answers. It costs him a small sliver of his pride, but the price is well worth it. In his arms, Alina relaxes, losing a small thread of tension he hadn’t realized she held. “I thought it was my burden to bear,” he continues. “I never thought we could have this.”

Her lips curve in the slightest smile. “I didn’t know what I was missing,” she admits. “Until I found you, I thought that’s how it was.”

He tightens his arms around her, pulling her up for a kiss. He takes his time, exploring the lips he’s come to know so well, reminding them both of what they’ve found together. 

“It might’ve been,” he says as they break apart. “But in a world where we met, I could never have stayed apart from you.”

She responds with a blush and a contented sigh as her lips return to his. They lay there together in their bed, passing kisses back and forth for nothing more than the pleasure of sharing them. The night deepens and, eventually, sleep catches up to them.

Alina relaxes in his arms, eyes fluttering closed. His shadows slip across the room and extinguish the last lamp. Comfortable darkness settles over the room while in the bed, Alina wraps Aleksander in her light.

#darklina #darklina week #darklina week 2021 #darklina fic #darklina fanfic #if you saw the first post no you didnt #thank you alexandra for letting me know I had the link wrong #bc I never would have noticed #my fic

[austarus]

HR Wells x Reader Hidden Among The Fairy Lights (Part 1 of 3)

**A/N: The picture/edit/gif does not belong to me. It belongs to its rightful owner.

*Just taking a small break from my Crisis of Infinite Wells reader insert series. Plus, I miss HR and I’m still baffled how they always dismiss him and Harry and all the Wells as if they mean nothing to the audiences. They mean just as much as Barry and Cisco and Iris. A reminder, the beginning dialogue is from the HR scene in 3x05.

Word Count: 4389

Part 2  Part 3

“You were named Entrepreneur of the Decade by “Tech Magazine”?” Cisco read off the monitor, arms folded as he maintained a look of doubt on his features. Iris sat on a chair; one leg crossed over the other as she rested her head against the palm of her hand. Barry stood right behind where his love sat, glancing from the screen back to the Wells doppelganger and crossed his arms like his best friend. Caitlin leaned against the main Cortex desk with both hands on her hips and a tired expression on her face. Wally hung back a bit on the other end of the main monitor desk. 

You were at the main desk, sitting back with your hands folded in your lap. With pursed lips, you would glance down at your fingers ever so often at this supposed trial. He lied to us, but so did Harry when he first came to Earth-1 and he didn’t turn out as bad. Just prickly at times and soft in others. When this meeting was called to confront HR, you had decided in your head that you’d want the full story from HR before judging his course of action to lie to you all.

“That's right,” HR confirm with a drumstick pointed at his entire resume, eyes avoiding your gaze. He had calmed his breathing, but when his eyes met yours, he felt the tension climb within himself. He hadn’t wanted you of all people to find out like this. If only my charade had gone on for a few more weeks, I would probably have entrusted my truth to you. You had been the one cutie on the Team to not look at him oddly, especially when he made minor errors during his charade. A voice at the back of his mind told him that you had probably already figured out that HR wasn’t who he proclaimed that he was, but then again, you hadn’t questioned him. So, he left it at that… until the team called for him to fess up.

“Is any of what's on here true?”

“All of it.” With a pocketed hand, HR waved a drumstick to the screen for emphasis. His electric blue eyes caught you looking off to the side. HR didn’t need to know what you were thinking to hazard a guess of what you thought of him right now. What everyone thought of him when they learned his truth.

“How? You can barely turn on a computer.” Barry quipped up, nodding his head towards a random computer.

“There are two parts to every idea. There is the inception and the execution. I provide the former.”

“So, you come up with the ideas?” Iris clarified while Barry kept a dubious look on his face directed at the dark-haired doppelganger.

“Yeah, I don't know how to implement them. I'm the idea man.”

“So, you didn't actually solve the cryptogram that we sent you?” Caitlin asked, knowing that she had already answered her own question.

“No, that was my partner at STAR Labs on my Earth. I'm the face of the company.” HR responded making a photograph gesture of his face before fiddling with his drumsticks once more. Caitlin gave him an incredulous look at his response. You moved your gaze up, taking a peek to the rest of the contents on the screen before looking back at HR. The drumstick fiddling had caught your attention more than once since his arrival here and you’re more than convinced that HR does it when he’s nervous. Especially when he’s been caught red-handed. “I'm more of the inspiration behind the company. Then I was exposed.” His tone had softened, glancing at you from the peripheral before dipping his head down. Your heart caught in your throat at his dejected body language. Iris and Barry locked gazes with each other before listening HR’s continuation. “Well, people thought that I was something that I... I guess I wasn't. Anyway, it... it kind of all fell apart for me.” HR let out a little breath, before continuing. Your heart fell a bit at the amount of hurt that had been laced with his voice. “But then I got your message. My partner brought me your message. I realized he's bringing me an opportunity to come to this Earth to write this book.” HR’s face gradually lit up as he finished, a true novelist articulating his emotions through his words and gestures.

“So many planets in the multiverse,” Cisco mused in disbelief to himself while everyone glanced to one another, “and we happen to pick the one Wells who's not a scientist.” You made eye contact with Caitlin, who shook her head while you did a subtle shrug of the shoulders.

“You're right. I wasn't completely honest with you- with all of you.” HR took a seat as he spoke, rolling a bit closer. HR let out a breath, swinging the drumstick around. He couldn’t look at you in fear of what he might find. “I feel badly about that. I regret that. But let me ask you a question, has there been none amongst you that has ever shaded the truth for what you believe to be the greater good?” He’s right, we all try to hide our demons, our own terrible truths from hurting others. Barry from telling Iris that he was the Flash, Cisco when he first found out he was a meta, and so on. I’m no different either.

“It sounds to me like you're a con man.” Wally interjected in the silence. Murmurs of agreement rang out through the members of Team Flash while you only raised a confused eyebrow at Wally’s conclusion. Then I guess we’re all con men? I mean, we’ve all kept the truth from each other before. You kept your comments to yourself as you watched the others and HR. You already had your verdict, setting your chin in the palm of your hand as you rested your elbow on the cool surface of the desk.

HR got up towards Cisco, readily defending himself, “Was I a con man when I showed San Francisco here how to track the beast using car alarms? Was I a con man when I showed him how to fashion a rope using carbon fiber?” You held in a snicker when he referred to Cisco as ‘San Francisco’. I guess that’s one thing we have in common with his Earth.

“I came up with those ideas!”

“You were prompted by my suggestions.”

“Oh?” Cisco shook his head slightly at HR.

“That is how ideas work! People, you need a muse! I can be your muse,” HR pointed to himself, hoping to any higher power that the Team would accept that role for him to at least do. You gave him a soft smile at his suggestion.

“What about stopping all the metas on your Earth?” Wally asked, gesturing to the doppelganger before taking a step forward. Barry and Wally exchanged looks before shaking their heads at one another as HR started speaking.

“More of an advisory role for me, but I was there. I remembered how we- you don’t think that's something? Let me present you with a scenario. You're confronted with something, a threat that you've never seen before. You don't know how to stop it. Who does?” He pointed his drumstick towards himself. The novelist needed them to reconsider whatever decision that they already had. To reconsider booting him off this Earth and to give him a chance. “That's value to you. Let me prove my worth to you. If I fail, I will pfft right back to my Earth, but if I succeed, I will have succeeded not just in redeeming myself but also… will have done some good with my life,” he quickly mumbled the latter part, feeling sheepishly embarrassed, maybe even humiliated by the last statement, but if this is the way to go for redemption then it was certainly worth trying for.

“You know, you're lucky we're pretty big on redemption and doing good here,” Barry spoke on behalf of the team, gesturing to you all with a hand, “so I think you can- I don't know stay for a few weeks, try to prove yourself, but if not, fyoo, back to your Earth.” You watched with a quizzical look as Caitlin left the room. Must be the exhaustion from today. I hope she’s alright.

“Thank you,” HR sighed in relief, clapping his hands together in thanks towards Barry. He couldn’t help the fact that his eyes took a quick glimpse of you. He told himself he wasn’t sure why anymore; he had been exposed as a fraud once more. You wouldn’t want anything to do with him. Simple as that.

“Hey,” Cisco had stopped HR with a pointed look and finger, “no more repackaging.”

“Word is bond.”

“That- just- no more of that.” Wally and Cisco started heading out from the Cortex.

“All right, HR,” Barry and Iris were the last pair to go, bidding their ‘goodnights’. You had gotten up with them, knowing there was nothing else left to say, but to go home for the night to rest up for any more of the new timeline metas. Walking halfway through the corridor towards the elevator and trailing behind the West-Allen Gold Standard, a thought stopped you. Maybe… he just needs someone to teach him- You weren’t able to finish the thought as your feet silently carried you back to the Cortex. There HR sat with his back towards you, a drumstick in hand and his other hand rubbing the back of his neck as he stared at the screen that held his resume and qualifications. While he was given a chance, you knew that he would have to effectively and efficiently find a way to prove himself before his time ran out.

“Word is bond, that’s a cute saying,” you softly spoke out, leaning against the metal frame of the Cortex entrance. HR let out a little “ah!” at the suddenness of your voice, accidentally throwing one of his drumsticks backwards. It sailed back towards your general area. You giggled at the reaction, picking up the instrument piece and handing it over to him when he had turned around. HR had let out a word of relief with a hand over his heart when he realized it was you. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

“For a little birdy, you sure do know how to be as silent and sneaky as a snail.” His cheeks felt warm when he heard you giggle; a bright smile had graced your features when you approached him. HR hoped you wouldn’t notice.

“Don’t you mean a mouse?”

“Snails can be silent.”

“I know, but the saying is ‘silent as a mouse’.” You pulled up a chair to sit beside him. The now dimmed lights of the Cortex had eased your headaches. “I guess that’s just another comparison between our Earths.”

HR looked at you oddly, running his fingers over both drumsticks that he held in one hand, “It doesn’t bother you?”

“Hm? What would?”

“How- How I say words and phrases differently? Do things differently from the people here on Earth-1?”

“I just think that makes you really unique,” you shrugged your shoulders a bit, giving him a soft grin. HR felt the heat returning to his cheeks again and now spread up to his ears. No one has really called him unique, certainly not in a good way either.

“But the others think its peculiar, just too much.”

“Well, I think it’s cool that there’s some form of variation from our Earth’s. Give the others some time, they’ll get used to you, I promise.” You secretly prided yourself with the ability to give people of various backgrounds and characters the benefit of the doubt. Open-mindedness as well as kind acts can go a long way, after all.

A deep chuckle left HR’s lips and you felt something jump in your stomach. HR glanced up to the monitor before looking back at you. “I’m guessing you’re not here just to chatter-chitter, huh.”

“You’re right, I’m not.” You folded your hands together in your lap, intertwining you fingers as you crossed one leg over the other. Almost looking business-like. “I have a proposition for you, HR.”

“Oh really?” The novelist quirked an eyebrow at you, he sat back to match your body language as if the both of you were associates discussing a business transaction.

“Yes sir, but you have to keep this a secret between us, ok? Word is bond?”

A smile laced itself onto HR’s ruggedly handsome features at your iteration of his Earth’s phrase. You swore the room lit up a little bit at his smile. “Word is bond.”

You nibbled on your bottom lip, choosing your words wisely before speaking up again. “… I also want something in return.”

“Naturally, an eye for an eye, but it’ll depend on the prize that you want. What’s your proposition, little birdy?”

“I want to help you realize your worth and value to the team. You know, find a way for you to be helpful with the time that you have here. And starting with teaching you the basics of turning on a computer.”

“At what cost?”

“Three questions.” You simply held up three fingers.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’d need to answer a total of three questions that I could have at any point of your stay here. No resisting and no shading of the truth. No avoidance, either. Just the honest to God truth.”

“…” HR remained silent, contemplating your proposition and the costs. Wondering your true intentions and if you would be the type of person to betray him. Like so many others have in my life. HR took one took at your smug-ish face before a sigh left his mouth. Your smile had twisted into a grin.

“Well?”

“Do you promise on your soul not to blackmail me?”

“Word is bond,” you repeated gingerly. HR reluctantly agreed with raspy voice, blue eyes holding some form of trust in you.

A cheeky laugh left your lips as HR relaxed a bit in his seat, sort of contemplating what he had just gotten himself into as he watched you stand up from your seat. You offered a hand to him, that grin on your face turning into a slightly mischievous one as your other hand had held your tablet close to your chest.

“Let’s get started.”

***

The next few weeks you would hang out with HR, teaching him the basics of scanning the city for metas, understanding the basics of how a computer works, and so on. He really had been putting in a lot of effort, asking to take notes which you thought was sweet, even if some of the others didn’t welcome it at the time. HR had gone to the extent of re-reading old meta case files that the team had stored and would go on coffee runs every morning just to make sure the team was awake for the next meta sent by Alchemy. You found out about the files one morning when you found him in his pre-caffeinated sleep state in the Cortex with the files littering the computer screens. You had gotten a spare blanket and draped it over him so he wouldn’t be cold.

It wasn’t until you heard some yelling and soft curse words being thrown around from within the Cortex, that your feet picked up their pace from where you were in the corridor. You tilted your head, standing at the door-frame as you can sense the frustration emitting from Cisco towards HR. Caitlin was rubbing her temples while Barry was just running a hand through his hair as he tried to keep his irritation off his face.

“Good afternoon?” Your greeting was more in the form of a question as you knocked on the metal door-frame to alert the others of your attention. Barry and Caitlin had breathed a sigh of relief at your presence, sending you gracious smiles towards you. Cisco had shut his eyes, massaging his temples. “I brought homemade goods?” You held up the bag that had been filled with sugar cookies, sweet berry tarts, and brownies.” A small smile was on your face, glancing at everyone before setting the goods down. HR lowered his drumsticks and internally felt at ease that you had come at just the right time before Cisco’s berating would soon turn even nastier. With swift feet, the author left the room, probably going to make a new cup of coffee that he’s gotten so attached to.

“Finally, someone sensible around here,” Cisco grumbled to himself, making his way to where you placed the goods in hopes that delicate pastries from your hands would calm his spiked-up mood. “Please keep him out of the labs today,” the mechanical genius leaned into you, holding up a brownie.

“He’s just trying to help, Cisco,” You whispered back to Cisco, giving your friend a side-glance.

“I know, but we really have a lead on all these husks, and we don’t want him distracting us from that,” Cisco stated almost desperately. “Please, just this once.”

“You’re lucky that I’m a good friend.”

“Yes, I am. And,” Cisco pulled out a paper from his pocket, handing it over to you, “I have a list for you.” You gave him a quizzical look as you took the paper and unfolded it, to which Cisco spoke again. “We’re going to need a few items for the break room and from Star City, mainly Felicity.”

“Why can’t Barry speed over to get these?”

“Because CCPD, specifically Barry’s new partner, needs him to be on time whenever they call or else, he gets reported to Sighn. Again.” Caitlin spoke up, taking a sip from her cup of lemonade.

Barry sheepishly looked over at you, a tart half-eaten in his mouth as he waved at you with a cookie in hand. “Uh huh,” you rolled your eyes, not really liking doing errand work, but at least you get to see Felicity again, “just do me a favor, don’t touch my algorithms.”

“No promises. Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes, San Francisco?”

“Don’t call me that.” He rolled his eyes. “Make sure you crazy kids don’t stay out for too long,” Cisco winked at you, hinting towards something he and Caitlin had confronted you about earlier that week. Barry looked confused as ever, mumbling out a huh ‘huh?’ with his mouth still full. The blood rushed to your cheeks before you flipped him off, earning a cheeky look from your friends who just smirked at your reaction. You left the room, throwing Cisco one more pointed look about your coding and algorithms before striding to the breakroom to find HR, who’s probably sulking with his heavily caffeinated cup of coffee.

***

“Hey HR,” you entered the breakroom, spotting the broad back of the dark-haired doppelganger, “why don’t you come run some errands with me?”

HR was silent for a moment; the only sound was the clinking of the coffeemaker as it began to hibernate once more. “Did they want me out of the labs today?” You heard the hurt in his voice as he finished brewing his perfect blend, turning around with a dejected expression. You nodded a bit as you looked down, taking a step closer towards him and resting a hand on his forearm. You squeezed it slightly, feeling incapable of lying to him about… anything really. His shoulders fell, shaking his head as he pulled away from your warm touch.

“Give them some time to cool off,” You spoke softly in a low tone. “In the meantime, we’ve got a few places to visit. And I’m definitely going to need a strong hand.”

HR chuckled a bit, holding his cup of java close to him. “I’m sure you can handle it on your own. You’re a strong, independent, and intelligent female.” His comments made the blood rush to your cheeks. You gently took a hold of his free hand, feeling stubbornness wash over you.

“Yes, but I want your help. I want you to come out with me today.” You pouted at him. The both of you stared at each other. “And I’m not going to take no for an answer.” You poked his shoulder as you stated that.

“…”

“…”

You smiled widely when he sighed in defeat, rolling his eyes slightly before setting his coffee down. You both knew his answer. HR couldn’t deny the amount of light that he saw twinkle in your eyes at how he gave in. He liked to think it was because he agreed to accompany you today, but… He pushed his thoughts aside as you giddily pulled him along as you grabbed one of his dark jackets that he had left on one of the couches. He hastily snatched up his drumsticks as well.

“Where are we going, little birdy?”

“We, my dear bookworm, are going to visit an old friend in Star City.”

***

After finishing up with Felicity in the Arrow Cave, you and HR bid her goodbye with the materials that Cisco had noted down for you, but not before she pulled you close and whispered “Go get’em tiger” in your ear, pushing you in HR’s general direction which caused you to stumble forward with pink cheeks. Said man looked confused at the exchange, you stuttered out that it was nothing. Felicity and HR had gotten along well enough, causing something to stir slightly inside you. But you shook those feelings away. Felicity sent Cisco a quick text message once the two of you left, feeling happy for her close friend, who sadly remains oblivious to the signs of love. HR seems like a nice enough guy, not as shady as Eobard Thawne. I just hope he doesn’t break her like all the other guys she’s been with before. Even Felicity had noticed the way HR had looked at you. The genius hacker pursed her lips and went back to monitoring the city. 

He does have to admit that leaving the labs today was a good change in scenery. HR didn’t feel as cooped up as he initially did. Leaving Star City, a thought came to you as you and HR entered downtown Central City. Cisco had also given you a grocery list to complete since him and a certain speedster were always running out of things to eat in the breakroom. I swear they have bottomless pits in their stomachs. A literal void of absolute emptiness that’ll never be satisfied. And how many freaking things do we need to buy??? HR and you had both agreed to drop off the tech pieces at the Labs for Cisco before completing the errand run. 

“HR?”

“Yes, little birdy?”

“Why do you always call me ‘little birdy’?”

“Is that the first question you wish to use?” He perked an eyebrow up at you. I feel like a Djinn about to grant three wishes to the one who released me from my lamp prison.

“… No.”

“Then I guess, my secrets shall remain in the depths of my being.” HR watched a pout form on your face, and he had to force himself to look away. Clearing his throat, HR asked, “Where to next?” HR made sure the leather backpack of tech Cisco needed was securely on his back.

“Apparently, we have to do the Team’s grocery shopping today,” you sighed in annoyance, running a hand through your locks. Checking the time on your phone, you chewed on the inside of your cheek. “I was hoping to at least have some time today to drop by CSMC.”

The CSMC? HR furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “What do you do exactly?”

“Me? Well I’m a Computer Scientist, guess you figured out that part from my expertise with computers.” You laughed a little at yourself, not noticing the graying of the clouds. “Felicity’s two years my senior back in grad school, she taught me all the ropes in coding and hacking. When I finally graduated, we both had big dreams for the future, one of mine was to fund an establishing tutoring program to encourage more girls into careers involving computer science, robotics, and mathematics.” HR grinned at the notion, readjusting the strap of the backpack. “Felicity soon joined me in my endeavors with advocating for younger girls while pursuing her own and ever since then we’ve been visiting CSMC when we can.  Society is changing and people are beginning to understand that these fields aren’t just for men, but for all people of various backgrounds. Central City and Star City work in collaboration to keep the centers running.”

HR was a bit speechless, the capability of your thoughtfulness seemed to know no bounds. “I shouldn’t have expected any less from someone as intellectually gifted as you.”

You glanced up at the taller man, a slightly humorous look on your face, “HR, I’m not smart. I just try to work really hard. I finished school at the bottom of my class actually. Hell, Cisco catches my mistakes still. It’s a miracle that I even got hired at STAR Labs. I’m not perfect really.”

“But you’re good enough that you’re able to work wonders with Team Flash. Saving lives, disabling villainous security systems. You really are an incredible soul.” I can’t do any of that…

I bet you’re incredible too, you just don’t know it yet. You pursed your lips smiling up at him, one that he returned before nudging you with his elbow. You giggled and nudged him back before walking in silence once more. “I think I know what I want to ask for my first question.” HR quirked a pesky eyebrow at you, his smile turning into a wry smirk. He pocketed his hands as you both seemed to lose track of time.

“What was your life like back on Earth-19?”

HR felt his blood freeze in his veins at your question. HR had stopped, causing you to stop as you found yourselves a few blocks away from STAR Labs. *The truth would come out sooner or later. A haunting voice echoed at the back of his mind, mentally presenting his nighttime demons that revealed themselves in his dreams. All of it.

#harrison wells x reader #harrison wells #hr wells x reader #hr x reader #hr wells #harrison wells fanfiction #The Flash #the flash fanfiction #the flash imagines #the flash cw #DCTV #dctv fanfic #DC comics #dc #hr wells imagine #the flash imagine #the flash x reader #team flash #team flash x reader #team flash imagine

[ratchetclankarecute]

Training Once Again

(Hornet and Herrah have a sparring session after the Everything!)

Herrah carefully ran an initial swipe over her needle, long disused. Well conditioned considering how long it had remained stored since she entered the Dream, but leaving much to be desired nonetheless. Her daughter (Hornet she said, a gift from a now apparently dead Vespa) had apologized profusely over not keeping her comatose mother’s needle in fighting condition upon its initial discovery, and Herrah had to reassure her that she could not have possibly expected an unused needle’s upkeep, much less along with her daughter’s other duties.

She hummed dissatisfied at the memory, oiling the cleaning cloth and running it along now slightly less dusty channels. Herrah probably should have expected to become martyred in Hornet’s memory, considering how young she had been when her mother began to Dream, but the constant apologies over insignificant or perceived slights on Hornet’s part troubled her immensely. 

She shut down talk of debts the moment she realized Hornet had meant her own birth, but that was but a facet of a much larger problem. 

Obviously no one, not even the White Lady, could have possibly raised her daughter to Herrah’s wishes without Herrah being there, but the idea of Hornet owing her own mother a life debt for *existing* struck Herrah at her core and broke her open enough for the flames of rage to be fanned into a choking inferno. Not to mention that entire issue was one of many, along similar premises of what defined duty or obligation. 

Herrah was at a loss at how to even begin pulling her daughter away from such self-destructive and shame-filled beliefs. She, of course, countered such ideas whenever they came up in conversation. That would not, however, solve the essence of the problem. 

And what if she ended up forcing Hornet to hide her true thoughts out of fear her mother would shame her for them?

Needle cleaned. She inspected the edge of it with an irritated sigh. The needle had remained sharp enough for her tastes, luckily, but her mind could not come up with anything but frustrations about helping her daughter. 

“Has the edge dulled that horribly?”

Ah, and there she was, approaching the bench to sit next to Herrah. Her own needle was held loosely in one claw, a heavily stained cleaning cloth in the other.

“No, no,” Herrah reassured her, “It is simply general frustrations that vex me now.”

Hornet hummed, in either sympathy or acknowledgement, Herrah could not tell, and began cleaning her needle alongside her mother. 

It reminded Herrah, invariably, of when Hornet first learned to care for her needle. When they had sat together so Herrah could walk her daughter through the proper motions of cleaning and sharpening a needle, and when Herrah explained the common pitfalls and the correct steps that should be done instead.

None of the caution Hornet had at first used excessively to avoid such mistakes showed in her motions now, but, Herrah reflected watching, it was completely unnecessary. Hornet had gotten centuries of practice while Herrah dreamed and it showed in her simple, almost thoughtless motions as she tended to her weapon. Her actual use of it had, in all likelihood, advanced to a similar level.

Which gave Herrah an idea…

“How about another training session?”

Hornet stilled and glanced up at Herrah.

Herrah continued, “I know you’ve likely learned far more than I could ever have taught you, but I would like to see how much you’ve grown in our time apart.” And besides, they could both use the exercise the hour or so of training typically provided. 

Hornet stared (in shock? In excitement? Herrah could not tell, even though it had been over a month since Hornet had dragged a bleeding, stumbling Hollow into Deepnest. It should have been time enough to know her own daughter’s mannerisms) then stood, tucking the cloth into her cloak.

“Lets!” Hornet agreed, “But be warned mother mine,” she tilted her head mischievously, “I have had centuries of combat experience by now, while you merely decades. Perhaps I may defeat you yet!”

Herrah burst out laughing, striding to the center of the room where they had always done the sparring part of training. 

“If you can, I would be all the happier for it!” she declared, “But don’t count your victories before you have fought your battles dearest daughter,” she swung her needle back and around, settling into a loose but ready stance, “Fight your battles…”

“Come what may!” Hornet finished, eagerly slipping into a combative pose herself.

They circled, briefly, before Herrah gave a lazy swing in Hornet’s direction. Hornet matched her, giving an equally slow parry. The spar continued as such at first, Herrah gently probing for a baseline, her daughter mimicking her demeanor to establish it, even as she remained tense, monitoring Herrah’s movements for any sudden ones.

Feeling both that Hornet was as prepared as she would ever be, and that she herself was properly warmed up, Herrah lunged her needle forward suddenly, giving out a heavy hup! as she did.

Hornet ducked to the side easily, coming alongside Herrah and slicing the thread off her needle in one smooth motion. 

Herrah swiped her needle up, preventing Hornet from completing the disarmament. She threw out a limb in a wide sweeping motion, at Hornet’s waist height. She would trip if she attempted a short jump to dodge the strike.

Instead, Hornet bounced off Herrah’s leg sending herself higher. She gracefully sailed to the height of Herrah’s mask and whacked her needle at one! two! three joints holding Herrah’s needle - and spun as she struck the weapon itself. 

Herrah didn't quite feel the needle rip out of her claws, but she did see whistle into the floor, sending out a twannng! as it stuck.

Hornet in this time had already landed and rolled back onto her feet, needle held for a continued fight, and eyes entirely on Herrah. She didn’t seem to notice that she had disarmed her mother, even as the weapon stayed quivering next her.

Herrah could only stand limply in shock for a moment. But only for a moment. Soon her shoulders puffed up in pride at her wonderful, wonderful daughter, who had grown so much. 

Grief at having missed her daughter’s progression would have overwhelmed her, had she not been even more overcome by the love and delight in how strong and capable Hornet had just shown herself to be.

Hornet, for her part, flagged in holding her needle up, confusion relaxing her body. She turned, looking up to see Herrah’s needle next to her, and froze, apparently shocked herself.

“Oh, you’ve grown so much…” Herrah murmured, enthralled in her daughter's prowess, “Daughter I-”

Hornet hiccuped, still staring up at Herrah’s stuck needle. Her needle fell, hanging from a claw, first limply, then not at all. It clattered to the floor as Hornet’s body shuddered with sobs. 

Herrah froze, checking Hornet for injuries that had no way of occurring before gently gathering her up into a hug.

“Daughter…” Herrah began, but Hornet only sobbed harder at the attempt at conversation, clutching at her mother’s fur, so Herrah picked her up off the floor entirely and settled in to wait. 

Herrah sometimes had one set of arms to hold her daughter, while the rest of her limbs remained free for whatever work needed doing, but no other work aside from comfort was needed, so she was able to dedicate one arm to supporting her, two to hold her close, and one to gently rub Hornet’s back and head in soothing motions.

She was, just as she was before the aborted training session, completely at a loss. All she could remember from the end of their previous sessions, was Hornet being frustrated at not being able to defeat her mother, maybe proud if she had gotten closer to doing so that day. By all rights, this should have been a well-deserved and well overdue milestone to have passed.

Unless that itself was the problem?

The imaginings of a child were prone to inaccuracy. The memories Hornet would have of her childhood and the hopes she cultivated at those times would have gone hand-in-hand in her mind. Perhaps the victory Hornet had imagined was shattered by the reality of her true victory in some way. 

Or perhaps something about what happened triggered emotions from an entirely different event. Many horrible things had happened to her daughter while Herrah was gone, and this might be the culmination of one of them. 

Or maybe it was something else entirely. She had no way of knowing until Hornet calmed down regardless, so Herrah concentrated on soothing her, pulling her closer whenever the sobs grew in harshness, stroking the spots that had comforted her as a younger child all the while.

Eventually, Hornet began quieting down, until the bawling became gentle weeping and the weeping became sniffles with an occasional hiccup. She pushed her mask out of Herrah’s fur, settling back against her arms. 

“Are you recovered enough to speak now?” Herrah asked gently.

Hornet laughed wetly, “I didn’t expect that!” she said, her voice threatening to crack but not quite breaking. 

Herrah chuckled too, massaging the tear stains on her cheek, “Neither did I, although perhaps we should have…”

Hornet stiffened. So the breakdown was about the fight. Not that there was very much doubt about that.

“Why didn’t you?” Herrah asked, “I know I didn’t because apparently, seeing Deepnest decayed as it is, was not enough for me to separate the daughter in front of me from the daughter I left behind.”

Hornet flinched, then turned, burying her mask into her mother’s chest.

“I didn’t think it was even possible,” she said, “I thought-” her breath hitched, “I thought-thought that you would still be strong?”

Herrah snuggled her closer. She hoped to prevent more tears, but some things needed to be addressed. 

“I suppose it’s always…” she tried to think of the right words, “...difficult, to learn someone you love is fallible after all.”

Herrah took a breath to continue, but was stopped by a sharp tug on her fur.

“That’s not what I meant,” Hornet insisted, “I thought…” she paused now too.

“When you trained me when I was young, I was frustrated with my defeats obviously, even angry at times. But...but I knew you would turn the skills you had on those who wished me harm if need demanded it. That you would always be there to protect me and now…” she dipped her head.

“...now I don't know that I can protect you,” she mumbled.

“And what makes you think you need to protect me?” 

Hornet’s head jerked up.

“You’re still my child, regardless of your skill. I will always defend you for as long as I live, in whatever way I can, even if you can do it better…” Herrah nuzzled Hornet’s little head, “I will still try my best. Always.”

Hornet continued staring.“But I'm stronger than you,” she said.

“That doesn't change the fact I'm your mother. It's my duty to love you as long as I live - therefore, I will protect you as long I love no matter what happens or how you change,” Herrah replied simply.

“But…” Hornet's breath caught in a sniffle before she could finish the thought.

“But…” Hornet sniffled again.

“But...I...you still...,” she buried her mask in Herrah's fur again and this time, Herrah simply held her. They would need to have more conversations about who protected who in the future, but it clearly needed to wait until they were both more emotionally stable.

And besides, they hadn't gotten the exercise that Herrah started the session to obtain.

Perhaps they could get it by switching roles. Make the teacher the student, and readjust accordingly, and make things new but right.

She could make sure that aside from the complete upheaval of who trained who, it would be like old times made new again. 

Except this time, it would be for her.

#hollow knight #hollow knight spoilers #hollow knight fic #my fic #my writing

[poptod]

The Dead Heed No Lies (Ch. 17)

Description: The Duat holds a great many rooms and a fair amount of Gods, and there is never a way of telling which will kill you and which will help you.

Notes: I am SO SORRY about not updating this for several days!! i spent some time with my friend danny and things sort of got out of control and she spent a couple days over at my house. I’ll be spending some time at her house starting tomorrow since my parents are headed out of town (business). Anyway, welcome to the Duat. Word Count: 4k

Chapter Seventeen: A Guide in Death’s Valley

A force blew through you, as though some creature were looking straight into your soul, an examination that burnt into your skin. You shut your eyes tight, trying to steady your grip on Ahk. The experience lasted only a matter of seconds, but by the time you reached the other side of the door, both of you were exhausted, panting and lying on the ground. Coughing, you made a weak effort to stand, only to fall back down on your knees. When you looked up, your eyes burning with tears, you saw a black sky above you, black earth beneath you, and a black valley ahead of you. Strangely, there were no metallic scents in the air – only lavender, and a distant honey.

"Remember," Ahk said with a grunt, rolling onto his back and staring at the sky, "we aren't dead. I don't think we'll have to... to go through all the, uh, trials, and things."

"You're helpful," you mumbled sarcastically, slowly standing up, and helping Ahk when you accomplished that.

The both of you stood there for a moment longer, watching the way the landscape seemed to breathe with a life of its own. Dark hills rolled down to make a shallow valley, where a thin stream ran beside you, its darkness an indicator of your presence. Palming at your waist, you grabbed your notebook. You opened it up to the map you'd drawn of Duat, the majority of it a graphite mess, but the replica of the Book of Two Ways' map would be of great use to you.

"So where are we?" Ahk asked, coming to stand beside you and look at the map in your hands.

"I'd say we're here," you said, pointing to a blank space, "meaning the first trial and tribulation would be snake chambers and squatting gods. Any idea what squatting gods are?"

"Absolutely no clue," he said.

What a comfort, you thought dully, snapping the book shut and hiding it back in your shirt. Stretching out your aching arms, the two of you began forward, the dull light of a clouded sky leading the way. He kept one hand intertwined with yours and the other on the hilt of his dagger, wary eyes glancing in every direction of the cavernous valley.

It took only a few minutes to reach the first room of what you knew to be a long hallway. Your map, though probably more incorrect than correct, predicted there to be rooms on either side of the valley, caves and homes where monsters and Gods sit with their trials and hardships for the ahk, or spirit, to pass. But you didn't belong here. Ahkmenrah might have belonged there, what with him not actually being alive, but you did not – you were flesh and bone through every day and night, and you weren't hoping to change that any time soon. That difference in you, that set you apart from everything else. Of course, you didn't notice this until Ahk pointed it out, stopping your trek to inform you.

"You're kind of... glowing," he told you, tilting his head curiously as he looked at you.

"I am the only living thing in the Duat. Probably not helpful, but there's not much we can do now," you said with a shrug. He agreed, nodding, and the two of you continued on your way, watching the hills for any sign of movement.

When the hills began to grow around you, reaching higher and higher into the sky, you heard whispers. Promises of a better life, murmurs of knowing something better than yourself. There you paused, as Ahk did, looking in every direction for the source of the voices. No movement, no falling pebbles, nothing at all, nothing but you and him.

"What are they telling you?" You asked in a hushed voice, your back pressed against his.

"They say I can be with my brothers, and my people," he answered, a breath caught in his throat. "What can you hear?"

You didn't want to say, as the moment he asked the whispers turned from general to oddly specific. At first it had been whispering grants of power, ways to a fruitful life, luring you into the life of a gold-starved Pharaoh. But when you spoke the tone changed, from hissing to hums. They murmured in your ear, close enough you could feel the heat of their words, telling you love is easy, you can take what you want, do not feel stricken with duty, it is all a lie, take what you want.

"They're telling me I can use the tablet to bring back the people I study," you lied.

"Should we keep moving?"

"I don't think there's much else we can do," you mumbled, and as he grasped your hand once more, you came to, and left with him.

As you walked forward the voices grew louder, louder and louder until you couldn't hear your footsteps over them. Trying your hardest to keep an even breath, you willfully ignored them, till Ahk pulled at your arm, stopping you in your tracks. Turning to him, you followed his line of vision to a large cavern in the side of the mountain. Inside you found the first room – the snake chambers, home of squatting Gods, and the paths of Rostau. At least, that's what it was according to Sepi's tomb.

Watching you with slit eyes, the snakes approached you in a mass of writhing scales, forked tongues diving out of their mouths to taste your scent in the air. You stumbled backwards, dumbfounded at their presence just as Ahk was.

"What do they fear? What do you fear, we will ssssee," a black serpent hissed out, wrapping its body around your leg as emerald scaled snakes approached. They swirled up your body, restraining your arms till you couldn't move, the black snake curling up your torso till it came to your neck, its fangs teasing at your skin. You didn't dare move.

It was only then, crowded over with snakes tasting your flesh, choking the air out of you and cutting off your blood flow, you saw what lay behind the snake den. The Gods, none of which you could recognize, and each carrying an instrument and humming low. You struggled, trying to pull at your arms and raise your head. Your efforts remained futile, even as you looked to Ahk, who was in the same mortifying situation. Black and white spots crowded your vision as your breath cut off, the snakes still whispering into your ear, lean into it, forget what you claim you need, you need nothing but yourself.

“Aren’t you a pretty thing,” a violent snake hummed in your ear, its tail curling around your neck. “Oh, haven’t you got beautiful, delicious memories, decadent, ssssucculent little thing, don’t you worry, we will take good, good care of you.”

Fear began to seep away from you, a warmth coating you as they began to overtake your body. It was far too easy to give in, to let them control you, to let go of your responsibilities and oaths to belong somewhere. Adrenaline left your veins, leaving only the exhaustion built from trekking through the pyramid and the Duat.

A bright shiing sounded from beside you, followed by frantic hissing and the splatter of cold blood. In sudden clarity you ripped away from the black snake's grip, turning your head and neck, gasping for breath as you tried to see where Ahk was. In one moment he was beside you and in the next he stood above you, ripping his dagger through scaled flesh. Caught in the moment he payed little attention to where he cut, simply ripping at everything that tied you down, leaving several tiny cuts across your skin, but it wasn't the first time you'd been hurt on this venture. The second you could feel your limbs again you clawed at the snakes wrapped round your torso, digging your nails into their flesh till they released, screaming and writhing in your hold. You stood as soon as possible, throwing the snakes in another direction, their cold blood still staining yours and Ahk's bodies.

"See? Not too bad," he said with a grin, brushing the dirt off your shirt. You almost chuckled breathlessly, before looking over his shoulder, seeing the sitting Gods stand, their instruments on the floor and their humming no more.

"Behind you," you whispered, never tearing your gaze from their menacing positions. He turned, frozen as the Gods stepped down from their pedestals, moving towards you.

"Do we run?" He asked, his grip on his dagger tightening.

"What else are we gonna do? Fight Gods?" You mumbled anxiously, looking around desperately for somewhere to run, somewhere you could hide.

"Well it's not entirely unheard of -"

The instant you found a respite up the mountain, a tunnel the dug deep into the earth, you grabbed his hand and ran. Stumbling, he followed after you, his pace quickening when the Gods began chasing after you. Approaching the small hole you practically dived into it, Ahk coming soon after till the both of you crunched into the tiny space. Their hands came after you, grey and green skin reaching to try and grasp you, one of them managing to get a grip on your hair and pull you.

Letting out a sharp yelp of pain you clawed at the hand, kicking your feet desperately to avoid being pulled out. Ahk grabbed at you, pulling you by your feet till the God’s grasp weakened, ending with you sliding back down the cave and curling up beside Ahk. Shaking with adrenaline and fear you kept close to him, hugging him close and watching with wide eyes as the hands kept reaching for you. They seceded a moment later as the earth moved. You looked to Ahk for an explanation, but as usual the both of you had level intelligence as to the happenings around you.

Crammed into that tight place, rocks surrounding you as the earth  began to shake, you tried to catch your breath. Ahk did the same, the two of you staring at each other as you panted.

"Earthquake," you noted softly as a large tremor ran through the ground.

"I didn't think the Duat had earthquakes," he mumbled, staring up at the obsidian ceiling.

"I, uh," you shifted in the small space, "I think it's probably Ra."

"Ra? Why - oh, yeah, the uh... the serpent battle. I don't know why I didn't remember that," he said, hitting his head with his palm. You reached for his hand, pulling it away from him and holding it tight in yours.

"You've been detached from your world for a long while. No one faults you for that, but we should probably not be around Ra, he's kind of a dick," you said, your breath catching in your throat with a particularly harsh rumble of the earth.

"Oh yeah, total agreement there," he grunted, moving on his elbows and knees to crawl out of the tunnel, reaching the light of the sky before it was overshadowed. You came up behind him, peeking over his shoulder.

The shadow cast upon the small opening was made by none other than Ra himself, standing at the size of a five floor building and towering above the valley hills. In his grasp lay the snake Apep, Ra's vice grip tight around his neck as he writhed, his fangs begging to be sunk into Ra's flesh. Apep wrapped his tail around Ra's free hand, squeezing till the blood cut off and bruises began to form. You winced when Ra cried out, both pained and determined as the fight continued, Ra stumbling back till he fell backwards. He rolled over, pinning the serpent beneath him. Letting out an uproarious cry, he freed himself from Apep's grasp, pulling out a dagger and pressing it into the serpent's mouth. Blood splattered across Ra's face, and in a rush Ahk grabbed your hand.

Pulling you out of the tunnel, Ahk lead you down the valley, never stopping his affrighted running till Ra was out of sight. Gasping for breath you fell to your knees, exhausted from the bolting speed Ahk had taken. He stopped beside you, panting as he rested his hands on his knees, looking off in the distance to see if Ra had noticed either of you.

"I think," he said, still trying to catch his breath, "he's big enough and we're small enough, I don't think he saw us."

"Oh God," you mumbled, coughing. "I really hope we don't need to sleep cause we're gonna have a hell of a time trying to find somewhere safe."

"Don't worry," he said in a sigh, sitting down next to you. "What danger comes next?"

"I'm not sure. If we were on the route of a dead person, we would've had to pass through the tunnel directly beside the squatting Gods, but we're not dead, so we can't go there. It looks like it's just a straight line, but I don't know where it'll lead," you said, pulling out your notebook and pointing to the various landmarks on your simple map, connected to an outlined list of all the dangers of the Duat.

"I really wish we could summon Ma'at right now n' ask her some questions," he mumbled, leaning his head against your shoulder.

"She said we could only ask one question," you reminded him. "Otherwise she'd kill us."

"I know, just hypothetical wishing. Can I see the map again?"

You dug the notebook out of your shirt and handed it to him. Opening it up to the right page, he held it so the both of you could see it, trying to pinpoint where you were. The two of you had just passed the snakes and ran a great ways, meaning you were somewhere near the lake of fire, most likely separated from that by the hills surrounding you.

"My theory is that we're walking down the middle, see this section," you said, running your finger down the thin middle of the map separating the trials from the Gods' homes. "That means that all the trials are either within the mountain or on the other side of it -"

"Meaning that on the other side of that range," he pointed to the right side of the valley, "is where Osiris and all them live."

"I believe so. Let's hope that everyone else is as big as Ra was, it'll be really hard to navigate that area if we're all the same size," you said, shutting your book and putting it back in your shirt as you stood.

Ahk stood with you, the both of you looking up at the tall mountainside, wondering how long it would take to scale that height. There were no more tunnels, no holes or caverns in the mountainside.

"How long do you suppose we've been here?" He asked, still looking up at the cliffs.

"Half a day maybe?"

He let out a whine of discontentment, which you couldn't blame him for – you'd been there less than a day and you'd already almost died three times. First was the snakes, second was the miscellaneous gods, and third was your mystery encounter with none other than Ra. The ravine, though, it stretched out endlessly; you would be walking it for days if you let yourself do so. You couldn't even see the portal behind you anymore. Out of all things that made you the most anxious, leaving you constantly wondering if the portal would stay open. There were a great deal of other things to be anxious about rather than that, so you kept your eyes open, and your thoughts clear.

Reaching for the nearest grip, you began your ascent up the mountainside, breathing deeply in hopes of avoiding serious exhaustion. Ahk came up beside you, but about five minutes into it the earth began to rumble again. Both of you looked to each other in a snap, the color draining from your faces as another tremor shook the earth, weakening your grasp on the rocks. You fell, sliding a short way down the mountain till you landed on steady ground. Looking to the sky and all around, you watched for Ra, as Ahk instinctively began searching for a hiding place. The silent communication you and Ahk had would come in handy once again, ending with him finding another small tunnel and forcing you inside.

"I feel like a rat," he said, following after you, sliding down the smooth rock of the too-circular tunnel. He slammed into you, apologizing softly as he situated himself to sit beside you.

"Better than looking like Ra's dinner at least," you mumbled, your eyes stuck on the entrance to the hole.

Trying to even out your breath, you ignored the tight space, hoping your mild claustrophobia would leave you alone – neither you nor Ahk needed an anxiety attack on your hands. The heat from both of you began warming up the small tunnel, a pleasant experience if you weren't already sweating from fear. A bitter scent invaded you, the smell of pools of blood from either within the mountain or from outside. You weren't sure which one terrified you more. With each thundering footstep the tremors grew worse, the giant approaching you slowly. Gripping Ahk you shut your eyes tight, willing for it to pass by you, pleading for safety within the mountain.

A shadow came over the tunnel entrance, an indicator you recognized too easily, and one that sent sheer terror down your spine. While you kept your eyes shut, Ahk looked on in a much braver act than you were willing to do. Instead you kept him close, as he kept you close, and the both of you waited for it all to be over. Peeking open a single eye, you watched as a foot stopped by the entrance. Both of you stopped breathing, petrified by the nearness. The giant, which you assumed was most likely a God, leant down there, knees pressed into the earth as they looked into the tunnel with a single, massive eye.

Immediately it saw you, watching as both of you clenched in fear, grasping each other tight as you tried to cram as far down the one-way tunnel as you could. Panic coursed through your veins in painfully harsh heartbeats. Long eyelashes blinked over the giant eye, a black and grey pupil following you and your frantic movements.

In a loud snap the eye left, in its' place a young woman with long black and blue hair, the dreads lined with expensive beads and a crimson and gold crown atop her head. She smiled a brilliant and kind smile, one that almost had you relaxing.

"Hello!" She said rather brightly, still smiling wide as she waved. "You aren't supposed to be here. How'd you get here?"

Her word choice made you want to think that she was hostile, but her tone said something else entirely, as she still remained as friendly as ever. The dress she wore, starting right below her breasts and running down to her ankles fitted her nicely, the red material tight around her waist and loose at her feet, allowing you to see the golden anklets she bore. When you saw the green beads gracing her collarbones, the cow horns in her crown, and the thin staff she held, her identity clicked in your head.

"Wait - are you Hathor?" You asked incredulously, your eyes wide as you spoke. Now Hathor, she was a God you could get behind, unlike Zeus and Ra. Osiris was okay but he was on thin ice in your books.

"Yes! I'm honoured you recognized me," she said with a laugh, her cheeks turning a soft pink as tiny creases appeared beside her eyes. "What are your names?"

"Uh, I - I'm (Y/N), this is Ahkmenrah, but usually we just call him Ahk," you introduced yourselves, almost stuttering in her presence, but you managed to hold together well enough.

Hathor, you hadn't thought about meeting her (or really any God besides Anubis), but that certainly didn't mean you weren't elated to see her. She was a kind Goddess, a protector of women and a patron of beauty. Not only that, but she appeared to live up to her titles with much integrity, helping you and Ahk out of the hole you'd sunk into.

"Ahkmenrah, you're quite the story around here," she said when you both stood on your feet before you. She brushed at his clothes, clearing the dust and blood off him before giving you the same treatment. Only when you stood directly in front of her did you notice her height, which was still notable, as she stood probably two or three feet taller than you.

"Really?" Ahk said, looking unsure if that was a good or bad thing.

"Oh yes," she said, nodding sagely. "Not everyone cheats death every night."

Ahk turned to you, an expression that begged the question, does this woman hate us or not? Unfortunately you did not know the answer, but you'd bet she in the very least wouldn't hurt you. You shrugged in unison with him, and the two of you followed her down the valley, keeping a faster pace to match her long strides.

"So, um - weird question, but are you going to kill us?" Ahk asked when you caught up with her.

"What he means is that most of the things and people we've met here so far have been, well..." you looked to Ahk, "um, let's say less than hospitable. We're just wondering what you plan on doing with us, if anything at all."

"Depends on where you're headed and what your aim is," she answered, and you prayed that she didn't know what you were actually doing. If she did, her phrasing definitely meant she was going to kill you. There was, however, the chance that Anubis wasn't telling each and every person the whole situation, and that left a little hope for you.

You spent the next hour or so walking with her and explaining to her the particulates of your predicament, the bulk of the story told by Ahk since he was there during the tablet's creation. Fortunately she took your word, believing that Khonshu blessed his family, and that you were there only to help. Of course, she was intelligent, and asked many questions, all of which the two of you were happy to answer. It was rare to find a God who acted kind and, in a way human, in all the best ways.

"It shouldn't be too hard to find your tablet. I know where it is, it's like a siren here – Khonshu doesn't live here, so when his magic appears, it's not in the ordinary for any of us," she told you as you walked.

"So you're going to help us?!" Ahk asked in an astounded voice, his mouth hanging open. You didn't blame him for that either, considering practically no one you'd met so far had been willing to help and guide you.

"That'd be wonderful," you added. "You don't have to, though."

"No, there's really very little to do here, and we can't do much on earth, so... it's fun to play with Anubis anyway," she said with a shrug, and in that moment you remembered that this was nothing but drama for Gods. Your life, magic on earth, Ahk's existence was all just drama and politics for them.

Ahk doubled back, his pace slowing to match yours. Standing beside you, he kept an eye on Hathor as he spoke in a hushed voice, leaning closer to you.

"Is this a good idea?" He whispered, his shoulder brushing yours.

"Can't be worse than our original idea," you mumbled back. He bit his lip uncertainly, glancing Hathor up and down before slowly agreeing with a tentative nod. Perhaps you couldn't trust her, but she was your best bet, and both you and Ahk had experience with cautious trust. Hathor would have to do.

#ahkmenrah x reader #Ahkmenrah #Night at the Museum #rami malek #rami malek character #ahkmenrah x male reader #ahkmenrah x female reader #gender neutral reader

[wisdomrays]

TAFAKKUR: Part 80

Aging: Part 1

I will start with the cliche: “man is born, grows, ages, and finally dies.” So this cycle of life is inevitable, although at different times in history the speed of this process has varied tremendously. In early times, when there was purity in nature, it is narrated that Prophet Noah lived for 950 years. Whether other people at the time had that long a life span is not known for certain, but this suggests that human beings lived longer lives in earlier times. Later, at some point it was reduced to a mere 30 or 40, years due to wars and diseases like the plague. Nowadays, lifespan depends on the level of prosperity in a society, ranging from 33 in Zimbabwe, for example, to 80 in Sweden. But then, why bother to avoid or prolong a life whose end is inevitable, namely death? If you consider the time needed for a human to mature and be educated, you will see that these days, people are assumed to have gained experienced after the age 30, and that the longer they live, the more wisdom they can gain and impart and the more good deeds they can accomplish for this world and the Hereafter. So prolonging the life span is not just a decadent materialistic pursuit, rather it can actually bear beneficial fruit for humanity, both spiritually and materially.

However, as one’s age increases, most bodily functions peak and then start to diminish. A better aging strategy would be to age in the healthiest possible manner; i.e., keeping the physical and mental functions as sharp as possible, in particular the memory, so as not to lose human dignity in old age.

Aging and Memory

As one ages, reactions start to slow, the speed of understanding and the level of concentration diminish. The precipitous decline of dopamine-containing neurons in the human brain after age 45 is a universal characteristic of the aging process. The nigrostriatal region of the brain is richest in dopamine and undergoes the most rapid aging of any brain area. Age-associated depletion of dopamine also accounts for less noticeable symptoms, like a decline in physical drives and brain functions. These reactions are mostly on a mental or psychological level. In addition to these, wrinkles appear in the skin, hairs gray, and joints become gnarly. Perhaps, most important of all, is that according to recent research carried out on the brain, by the time most people hit 40, their brainpower starts to weaken. This does not mean that people become incompetent, just a bit slower in the cognitive process. This phenomenon is called “generalized slowing” by psychologists. According to James Birren, the Associate Director of the Center on Aging at the University of California, Los Angeles, the first signs of aging appear on tests used to measure mental speed and acuity, in which people count the number of lights flashed on a screen, for instance, or trace a complicated pattern while looking at a mirror.

“But eventually the down-turn affects almost everything we do,” says Birren, “From how fast we hit the breaks when a car pulls in front of us to how quickly we learn new skills on the job or remember old what’s-her-name’s name.”

Then the question is whether the slowing process is unavoidable. According to psychologist Robert Dustman, the answer to this is yes. One of the country’s top experts on aging and the brain, Dustman directs the Neuropsychology Research Laboratory at the Veterans Affairs Medical Center in Salt Lake City. He’s just turned 70 and shows no signs of slowing down himself. “It is true that when we compare 20-year-olds with 60-year olds on almost any test that measures the speed of information processing, younger people on average score significantly better than the older ones,” he says, “But that does not have to be. There is a simple way I can ward off the scourge of slowness,” Dustman says. And the way to do this is to stay in shape.

At first it seems to go against common sense that in some way a mindless act like jogging or striding around a park is relevant to the speed of thinking. But Dustman explains the connection in a very logical way.

Every cell in the body requires a continuous supply of oxygen and nutrients to function at its peak. But surprisingly, no cells need a greater oxygen supply than the gray matter that rests between our ears. The brain, although it makes up only 2% of our body weight, uses up 25% of the glucose and oxygen supply.

Now suppose a person slips out of shape, their heart gets lazy, the arteries get clogged, the blood flow to capillaries slows down, and the oxygen and nutrient supply to the brain falls us. As a result, neurons get less than they need to function properly, the electrical signals slow down, and hence the mind slows down. A recent study shows that blood pressure (or lack of it) is highly correlated to memory; so much so that, a reduction of it causes the memory to weaken.

But getting older does not mean that one must face a full-scale slowdown, Dustman says. The problem is that by 45, when the brain is quickly falling into decline, most of us neglect to perform the activities that keep the arteries open, the heart strong, and blood flowing; namely exercise. Dustman’s own studies suggest that working out might be an antidote. In one of his studies, he ran 60 male volunteers, half in their twenties, half in their sixties, through the standard mental tests. As expected, the younger group had higher mental speeds. But when Dustman looked closely at the older group, he noticed that the ones who were exercising or had remained active had a brain speed that was comparable to that of the younger set.

The tests included actions as simple as pushing a button each time an X appeared in a long string of O’s to memorizing numbers and symbols. “On many measures,” says Dustman “the older men in good condition scored just as well as men 30 and 40 years their junior.” In real life, that is, they could find a number in a phone book or remember that sensible is a synonym for rational.

When one exercise, in other words, the sections of the brain which control movement and balance are fired up, the electrical signals zap back and forth along the nerves from the brain to the muscles and tendons. The eyes, the inner ear, and other sensory nerves all roll into action. The benefits of these can be detected clearly in the brainwaves and electrical impulses recorded by researchers.

Indeed, in Dustman’s study, the older men who were still fit had surprisingly youthful-looking brain waves. They produced more alpha waves, a pattern associated with calmness under pressure, and had steeper peaks and valleys in waves, which signifies an ability to block out distractions. Furthermore, when subjected to a sudden flash of light or a sound blast, they were faster to produce a wave called P-300, which is associated with fast reactions. “People in good shape can really focus,” says Dustman. “They can pen a letter to a friend without the sound of children playing downstairs disturbing them. They can fill out tax forms correctly after reading the directions once.” For someone who’s out of shape, the news is grim. In addition to problems that range from overweight to heart disease and diabetes, the results of a sedentary life style, it turns out that the brain will very likely start to weaken as well. Still, Dustman is optimistic. He once encouraged 42 sedentary people over 55 to exercise (walking or jogging) three times a week. After four months, the aerobic capacity of the volunteers increased 25 % and they scored better on mental speed tests. In light of this study, Dustman thinks that even easy exercise, such as brisk walking can speed up the minds of people after years of inactivity. The time required varies, however. In similar studies, it took about a year to observe an increase in the speed of the brain.

But it is not time that is important here; the goal is rather not to lose brain capacity until a very old age. It would be better if one were always to keep in shape, as it is easier to keep something that works running than to start it up again once it has slowed down. “The real benefit seems to come from making a lifelong habit of staying active,” says Dustman.

It is better to maintain a regular routine of exercises than to start up new ones. Researchers at the University of Illinois compared middle-aged lab rats who padded daily on a running mill to rats who negotiated a complicated obstacle course of rope bridges and seesaws a few times a day. Predictably, both groups got more blood flowing to the brain. But the obstacle-mastering rats had 25% more hard-wired connections between neurons. Assuming the same is true for humans, then exercises which require more brain activity are potentially more rewarding.

Aging and Sleep

The obvious dangers of not getting enough sleep include mental fuzziness, an increased chance of accidents, illness, psychological problems, and decreased productivity at work or school. But Dr. Eve Van Cauter wrote in the prestigious medical journal Lancet that less sleep can actually speed the process of aging. In her informative study, young men who were allowed to sleep only 4 hours each night showed signs of aging in less than a week. Their glucose tolerance dropped considerably, and they started to release cortisol, the stress hormone, at a greater rate than normal.

Sleep offers the body an opportunity to heal and rebuild itself. Pro-sleep nutrients might help in this cause. For example, it has been shown that nutritional supplements containing zinc, magnesium, and pyridoxine (vitamin B6) , among other benefits, help sleep efficiency. A herbal amino acid 5-hydroxytryptophan is another promising sleep aid to use in times of extreme stress. Among sleep promoting herbs from traditional Chinese medicine are ziziphus spinosa (jujube), schisandra chinensis, and bupleurum chinense (Chinese thoroughwax). These herbs seem to relax the muscles and soothe the central nervous system. Sleep is and remains to be the most precious source of energy replenishment.

Melatonin: A God-given Sleeping Pill

Melatonin is a natural molecule made by the pineal gland, which is located in the brain. Melatonin is made from an amino acid called tryptophan. Tryptophan is an essential amino acid, that is, the body cannot make it; we need to get it from the foods we eat. Tryptophan is found in wide variety of foods. As we consume tryptophan during the day, the body converts it into serotonin, an important chemical for the brain that is involved with moods. Serotonin, in turn, is converted into melatonin. This conversion occurs most efficiently at nights.

Melatonin helps to set and control the internal clock that governs the natural rhythms of the body. Each night the pineal gland produces melatonin, which helps us to fall asleep. Research about this molecule has been going on since it was discovered at Yale University by Dr. Lerner in 1958, but recently there has been a great deal more attention being paid to melatonin. About a thousand articles on melatonin are published annually. One major reason is that scientists are discovering that melatonin is not only associated with deep sleep, but also with our hormonal, immune, and nervous systems. Research is accumulating about melatonin’s role as a powerful antioxidant, its possible anti-aging benefits, and its immune-enhancing properties.

Aging and Free Radicals

A free radical is a molecule that contains an unpaired electron through reactions with the essential element oxygen. These molecules “steal” electrons from nearby molecules to complete that final electron pair for stability. Then they are no longer free radicals, but they convert the new combined molecule into a new free radical. In a living organism, this process can cause a chain reaction of severe cellular damage, unless prevented.

The theory that free radicals are agents of bodily destruction is gaining widespread acceptance, as is the value of antioxidants in preventing such an occurrence.

According to the journal Annals of Clinical and Laboratory Science, the excess of free radicals in our body, i.e. “the domino effect”, is a critical factor in many health problems. An interesting and concerning fact about free radicals is that they cause the same reactions within the cells that occur during exposure to radiation. Free radicals released in the body destroy even proteins, the essential constituents of the body that regulate hormones and enzymes and that make up nerves, muscles, skin, and hair. It is usually suggested that antioxidants are used to fight these harmful free radicals. Fruits and vegetables are plentiful in vitamins A, C, and E, the key antioxidants. Polyphenols, which are found in grapes and green tea extracts are potent antioxidants. In fact, scientists have found out that procyanidins are the most promising polyphenols. In Japan, scientists have discovered that they may be 50 times more powerful than vitamins C and E in fighting free radicals. Alpha-lipoic acid, which is soluble in both water and lipids, can neutralize free radicals throughout the body. In fact, alpha-lipoic acid is involved in so many different antioxidant functions that it has been called the “universal antioxidant.” Citrus bioflavonoids and certain fruit and vegetable pigments are also strong free radical fighters.

Deprenyl: An Anti-aging Treatment?

Deprenyl (selegiline) provides selective protection against age-related degeneration of the dopamine nervous system. It is the only inhibitor used in clinical practice. The rate at which dopamine neurons age is quite variable. Before age 45, dopamine levels stay quite stable. Starting at 45, the decrease in average dopamine content in healthy people is linear, at 13% per decade. When it reaches 30%, the symptoms of Parkinson appear.

The sensitivity of the dopaminergic nervous system to oxidizing free radicals has been well established. The protective effect of deprenyl in lessening the neurotoxic effect of the oxidants (6-hydrpxydopa and 6-hydroxydopamine) appears to correlate with increased antioxidant enzyme levels. The increase in the antioxidant level is proportional to the deprenyl intake.

There as yet has been no definitive study of the long-term use of deprenyl in healthy people as a life-extension and cognitive-enhancing drug. But there has been extensive animal research. The lifespan of deprenyl-taking rats is significantly greater than normal rats, in fact, all the control rats died before the first deprenyl-taking rat died. Early research with deprenyl in humans (early-diagnosed Parkinson patients) shows delayed development of symptoms. Deprenyl has also been established as a treatment for Alzheimer’s disease. Eventually, deprenyl has the potential of becoming a general treatment for aging in people above the age of 45.

Conclusion

Although we know for sure that there cannot be an absolute cure for aging, the results of it can be slowed down considerably. Soundness and health of mind are desirable traits for all ages, not just for the elderly. After many years, many elderly people lose much of their memory and mental capacities; this occurs just at the time when they can pass on all their wisdom and experience to the younger generations. Hopefully, with the advent of science and technology, the deficiencies in the brain due to aging can be avoided to a certain extent. The solution lies in a balanced collaboration of modern medicine and traditional natural cures that have been practiced for centuries.

#allah #god #muhammad #prophet #sunnah #hadith #quran #ayah #revert #convert #revert help #islam help #muslim help #reminder #religion #dua #salah #pray #prayer #welcome to islam #how to convert to islam #new muslim #new revert #new convert #Convert to Islam #revert to islam

[yutaya]

In honor of Veterans’ Day here is a TUA post about a Vietnam AU

I remember the first time I read a fic where Five killed Dave and I was like “hey quick question WHAT THE FUCK.” Then I saw it again. And again. There are loads of fics out there where Five kills Dave. Sometimes it’s just another mission from the Commission and he doesn’t even realize until later. Sometimes he observes for a while, knows that killing Dave will break Klaus’s heart but figures it’s necessary and feels super bad but does it anyway.

Friends, I invite you to consider:

The Commission’s messages, we have seen, are brief. They have a history of supplying no background information and leaving the details to their agents to figure out. Time to identify, locate, and wait for the right moment to fulfill the mission, in a non-timeline-threatening manner seems to be standard - although they do also seem to be expected to perform quite quickly as well. (”Just the one night” “Job delay”) As an agent, Five likely arrives in the proper time period, checks in to a predetermined spot, collects any commission-provided gear and info, and then heads out to find his target. It’s not like he gets zapped to a spot, immediately kills whoever he lands in front of, and moves on.

In a city, strangers on the street are not suspicious. A businessman flirting with a donut shop owner is not strange. A woman heading towards a tow-truck shop, even late at night, is fairly unremarkable.

In Vietnam, Five is too old to be just another soldier, too white to be easily dismissed as a civilian. The boys might shrug him off as a higher up of some sort. Five is clever, after all, good at utilizing what he has, plus probably had some sort of period-blending training in remaining unremarkable wherever and whenever he may go. Maybe any typical 60s American soldier would not bat an eye at some unfamiliar face in the background.

Here is the thing: Klaus Hargreeves is not a typical 60s American soldier. Klaus Hargreeves is from the future. The truths of his life include facts that the boys around him would think impossible. More importantly, Klaus has personal experience with Commission agents. Any person in the background might be a random occupant of this time period. They might be a ghost. They might be a time-travelling assassin. Those exist. He’s spoken to their victims. Odds are high for background faces to belong there, but the other possibility will always exist.

The old man existing innocuously in the background is a new presence. He is idly flicking his eyes over the faces of the people around him. He has a briefcase. The commission's biggest advantage is that people do not know they exist. They do not know there is anything to be wary of. If there were someone who did know about them, well. All things considered, it isn’t hard for Klaus to clock the guy as an agent.

Once Klaus has recognized a time-travelling assassin in his midst, he might consider the “whys” of his appearance.

- The most likely scenario: he is here for Klaus. Klaus, after all, does not belong here. Moreover, Klaus is currently something of an active escapee from time-travelling assassins, who weren’t finished interrogating him, killing him, nor hunting down his brother, last he checked, not to mention probably pissed that the cops got on their tail. It makes too much sense, unfortunately, that they would want to hunt him down.

- The less probable possibility: he is here for someone else. One of the citizens of the nearest town, perhaps, or one of the officers, or a fellow soldier, or perhaps one of Klaus’s unit. One of Klaus’s friends. Maybe it is pure coincidence that Klaus is uniquely qualified to notice that the man in the background is someone who might be about to kill somebody. 

Maybe he will smother his victim with a pillow. Maybe he will torture them first, cut off both their hands and laugh about it. Maybe he will run them over with a vehicle, then back up over their body so he can run them over again. Forward, reverse.

Fuck. That.

Maybe Klaus confronts the agent on his own. Commission agents are trained murderers and Klaus can literally be killed in one hit by a furry at a rave, but maybe this future business is something he wants to protect his people from, and hey, the advantage of surprise has to count for something, right?

Maybe Klaus is smarter than that. Maybe he has spent the past half a year learning the value of a band of brothers, learning trust and friendship and love. Maybe he pulls Dave aside, tells him that the old man over there is an enemy, and Dave requires no evidence to believe him. Maybe they go to their team, to their sergeant and their captain.

Either way, a confrontation happens. Likely there is a least a brief skirmish. Commission agents are on missions to preserve the timeline, which can be very limiting in terms of acceptable collateral damage - probably Team Klaus’s saving grace. The old man, although Klaus does not know this, is a legend in the time-travelling assassin circles. He could have killed everyone in the surrounding vicinity in seconds, if he so desired. What really saves Klaus and anyone else who might have been marked to die on a little slip of paper, however, is that the old man sees Klaus’s face. If there is any imminent danger he avoids it; his survival instinct has been honed by decades of desperation - but other than that, he sees Klaus’s face, and he stops. Stares. Anyone else might say it looks like he’s seen a ghost. Klaus sees ghosts all the time, so he would say the guy looks stricken. Shocked and desperate and hopeful and despairing, all at the same time. Actually, now that Klaus is seeing him up close, there’s something familiar about this guy...

They’re not fighting. Klaus isn’t stupid, he knows he’s at a disadvantage when fighting, so if he can have a conversation with the assassin instead, that is absolutely what he is going to do. He tips his hand - might as well, if the agent is here for Klaus then he already knows Klaus knows there are time-travelling assassins, and if he is here for someone else, someone knowing will probably prompt a retreat and regroup. Starts asking about the agent’s mission, who he’s here for, maybe informs the guy that he won’t be taking anyone from here. Klaus has a gun trained on the guy; he has the advantage.

(Five lets people think they can point a gun and have him - he knows he can jump away at any time.)

Klaus talks, and he makes himself less a coincidental look-alike, less possibly-a-hallucination, and more actually, impossibly, Klaus. Adult Klaus, Klaus as Five last saw him, but alive, alive, moving and talking, not a broken corpse - 

Something gives. Five says something, does something - and Klaus, who knows about time-travel, who knows that his brother, the time-traveler, lived to be an old man before winding up back in his child body in 2019, who knows that this mysterious organization of time-travelling assassins was looking specifically for Number Five - Klaus realizes exactly who’s in front of him, and he lowers his gun, because - Five! That’s different! He can trust Five.

(If there are any fellow soldiers who were part of this confrontation, they are appalled. They hiss at him, “Hargreeves, what are you doing?!” It only makes the impossible hope in Five’s chest flare brighter.)

“Five!” Klaus exclaims. “You bastard, I thought you were here to kill me! Holy shit, you got old!”

It’s the nail in the coffin. This is, actually, somehow, Klaus. Five has so many questions that he will have to ask - what the hell did he miss with his siblings that led to Klaus being here, of all places? What’s the date Klaus came from - by the looks of him it can’t be too long until the apocalypse. Could whatever crazy Umbrella Academy adventure this must be be a part of that fight that ends so terribly for them? If it is, Five can get valuable intel, can learn about at least the first part of the eyeball owner’s plot, has here the first major break in the apocalypse case in four decades - 

- and, louder than those thoughts, his heart pounds a deafening drum of Alive Alive Alive Alive Alive Alive Alive Klaus is Alive One of my siblings is right here in front of me and he is ALIVE.

(And so Five finds out about one of the ways his efforts to save his family could have gone, but with more info he can make improvements this time. Forewarned is forearmed, and now he knows who the commission will send. He has a hint as to how to jump to his family - the idea of screwing up and landing in a younger body is not appealing by any means, but - how has he not considered projecting his consciousness into a suspended state of himself before!? This is huge breakthrough. He has a briefcase that isn’t tied to him making him easily trackable; he can use the briefcase Klaus traveled here with to get home right now, and choose a destination accurately. (He can get his brother out of this active warzone while he’s at it, and if Klaus raises his chin and states that he’s not going anywhere without Dave, well - fuck the Commission, anyway. They want the world to end - their rules are not worth following. Five would be delighted to give them the huge middle finger of displacing someone in time.)

Five abandons the Commission earlier than another version of himself did - at his earliest opportunity, same as that other version of himself. He’s eager to finally start saving his family.)

#the umbrella academy #five hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #AU #my stuff #where your siblings can be shielded from rain #yes his name is five #four is the number of death #we all love klaus

[katehuntington]

Title: All I Want - part two Fandom: Supernatural Characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Pairing: Dean x Reader Series summary: Sam and Dean come across an object that could be the solution to Michael. The Pearl of Baozhu grants the beholder’s deepest desire. Once Dean focuses on his wish, the archangel remains caged in his mind however. Instead his former girlfriend Y/N shows up, who was killed in 2010 in Detroit, by no other than Lucifer himself. Summary part two: After another horrific nightmare, Dean joins his brother in search for an answer to take down Michael. They strike gold when they find the Baozhu, but Dean’s wish doesn’t ban the Archangel from his mind. Instead he reunites with the one person he never thought he’d see again. Warnings part two: NSFW, 18+ only. Spoilers season 14 episode 13. Angst, fluff-ish. Nightmares, descriptions of flashbacks, mentions of major character death, anxiety, grieving over lost loved one, swearing, alcohol consumption. All the tears. Word Count: 4019 words Author’s note: Part two of a multi part miniseries, based on the 300th episode “Lebanon”. Prepare for major angst, heartwarming reunions and heartbreaking goodbyes. Beta’d by the lovely @kittenofdoomage​ and @coffee-obsessed-writer​, thank you so much for your feedback!

All I Want Masterlist

February 7th, 2019 Lebanon, Kansas

    A rigid gasp for air ends Dean’s tormenting dream. He bolts up in bed, sheets and yesterday’s clothes clinging to the cold sweat that covers every square inch of his skin. His heart is racing as if he just ran up ten flights of stairs, shivers wrecking his body. Eyes wide open he stares at the opposite wall, trying to calm himself by focusing on his breathing. It’s not real, Dean. Not yet. Not now.

    The splitting headache that has haunted him ever since he locked Michael in that coolcell far in the back of his mind, pushes itself to the front, pounding behind his eyes in the rhythm of the archangel’s fists on the door. The hunter breathes in deeply and exhales, letting the air flow from his lips. He’s not in the box, he’s not drowning like he was a second ago, and although he knows it is written in Billie’s book that this will be how he will meet his end, he has to hold on to the present. Dean sighs and closes his eyes. I’m in control.

    A knock on furnished wood draws his gaze towards his bedroom door, finding the tall silhouet of his brother, carefully pushing it open. Faint yellow light from the hallway reaches into room number eleven, illuminating only one side of Sam’s face, but it’s enough for Dean to make out the worried expression in his features.    “Did I wake you?” Sam asks hesitantly.     But the oldest of the Winchester brothers shakes his head, rubs his eyes and glances aside at his alarm clock. Not even 3 ‘o clock, so that gives him… two and a half hours of sleep? If you can call back to back nightmares sleep, anyway. Then Dean notices the scratches on the wall next to his bed, traces of crimson in the concrete. When he checks his right hand, he finds his fingertips bloody, his nails scraped away to the flesh.

    The hunter shifts his gaze back to Sam, who honestly doesn’t look like his night was any better.     “What are you doing up?”, he wonders.     “Cataloging Bart Kemp’s stuff. Thought I might find something that could help us out. He owned a ton of occult objects,” Sam asserts.     “Need a hand?” Dean shifts, flopping his legs over the side.     Sam frowns at that. Dean who wants to catalog hundreds of ancient items? That’s a new one.     “Sure you don’t wanna get some rest?” Sam returns doubtfully, watching how his brother straps on his boots.     “Nah, I’m good. Can’t sleep anyway.” He gets up and runs his fingers through his hair, smoothening it out.

    Avoiding his little brother’s concern, he pushes himself past Sam in the doorway, awkward unspoken words hovering between then. He can feel the tall hunter’s eyes, fixed to unravel what Dean is desperately trying to hide. Endless nights of terror as Michael wreaks havoc in his mind. Reliving the worst moments of his life and experiencing the new definition of hell that is yet to come. Trapped in the Ma’lak Box, screaming for help, for his brother, for Y/N, as he tries to crawl his way out while the water seeps in.

    As Dean enters the library with Sam on his tail, he grabs yesterday’s half a bottle of Jack Daniels from the table, unscrews the cap and takes a swig. His eyes roam over the collection of curse boxes, books and scattered notes, again ignoring the look his brother is throwing him. He has never shied away from liquor, but these days he fills more whiskey tumblers than coffee mugs. Self-medicating, he keeps telling himself. Anything to shut the tremors down.     “So, what we got?” he wonders, trying to steer the attention away.     “Dean...”     “Don’t.”

    With an agitated sigh the oldest of the two sits down, dismissing his brother’s attempt to start the conversation that he’s been trying to avoid for weeks. But for a short second, his mask wears thin. It confirms the worries that keep Sam up at night as well. Suddenly his brother seems older than forty, the age that the hunter miraculously reached last month. He’s much older when you count the decades he spent in Hell. Add the losses he suffered, the pain he’s been through, sleepless nights and tainted dreams; he’s an old soul, tired and worn. Keeping the Archangel on lock down is becoming more difficult with each day. Especially now that Michael is trying to break him by using the woman Dean lost his heart to.     “I heard you,” Sam admits. “I’m pretty sure the entire bunker did.”     Dean rolls his eyes slightly before looking away, opening his mouth to fire a second warning. But then Sam drops the bomb.     “I heard you call out for Y/N, too.”

    Y/N. The name of the woman Dean loved more than he ever thought he would be capable of, especially after all the horror he bared witness to. The name that’s never mentioned, not because she’s not worth to remember, but because even after all those years, he’s still afraid that touching that subject will wreck him the same way her death did.

    His heart starts to physically hurt as pressure on his chest builds. Struggling to hide the discomfort from showing, Dean has another swig of whiskey. He can’t prevent his jaw from clenching as he swallows down the alcohol, allowing the strong after burn to distract him. He could blow up on Sam, remind him of the fact that last time when he brought her up, Dean threatened to break his little brother’s nose if he ever would speak of her again. But Dean doesn’t counter. He’s too tired to fight Sammy, too.     “What do you want me to say, Sam?”     Sam spreads out his arms and lets them fall against his side, despondency in his stance.     “Anything!” he exclaims, his voice a little higher and a little louder than he anticipated. “Dean, I know nightmares come with the job, but this isn’t normal. Not even for us.”

    “Of course it’s not normal, Sam! Having a fucking Archangel trapped in my head ain’t a typical day at the office either! Who do you think is causing these dreams, huh?” Dean snaps, looking Sam in the eye for the first time that night. Then he takes a breath and collects himself. Stop being an ass, Dean. Sammy’s just worried.     “Michael is pulling out all the stops to crush me before we pin him down. Keeping me quiet by giving me what I wanted didn’t work, so now he’s doing the opposite,” he continues, much calmer now. “During the day I can handle him, but at night…”

    Mixed feelings cause the hunter to pause. He doesn’t want to burden his little brother with the weight that comes with the knowledge. He’s troubled enough as it is, frantically trying to find another way to expel Michael and lock him away where he can’t hurt anyone else. Another option, a scenario that doesn’t include his big brother on the bottom of the ocean in the Malak’ Box. But God, Dean needs an outlet.     “So this is his new approach? He shows you your darkest days?” Sam assumes, frowning empathetically.     Dean averts his eyes back to the bottle, his fingers around the glass body.     “On the big screen,” he confesses. “I’m not just watching, though.”     “What you mean?”     The younger Winchester has taken a seat, leaning his elbows on the rosewood surface as he leans over the table.     “I’m not a witness,” Dean begins to explain. “Sometimes I’m under water, like I’m in the Box already. Other times I experience memories I wish I could forget, exactly the way it went down. It… It feels real. I’m there, in the moment, but I can’t stop it. I can’t change what I did or didn’t do.”

    Sam runs his hand through his dark hair, feeling terrible that his big brother is forced to endure this every time he closes his eyes. His mind floats back to the moment earlier tonight, when Dean’s screams reached his hearing. His own name echoed through the hallways, but the chilling cry when he called out for her, will stay with him for a much longer time.     “Dean, Y/N’s death was not your fault,” Sam tries to assure him.     But Dean disagrees, shaking his head as he leans back in his seat. “I was supposed to protect her. She shouldn’t have been there with me, Sam.”     “She was our back up.”     “Yeah, and it got her killed.”

    Dean swallows down another slug of Jack Daniels and sniffs when he lowers the bottle, having downed almost a quarter of it’s content already. He bites his bottom lip hard, tempted to draw blood as he thinks about that day in Detroit. He remembers the argument they had before entering the apartment building where Lucifer held up. She refused to let the brothers go in by themselves, claiming that they needed a third man in case the plan went south and there was no one to finalize the mission. She didn’t just wanted to be there for them, she wanted to be there for him. He was about to lose his little brother forever, and she wanted to catch him before he fell to his knees. Dean allowed it reluctantly, and minutes later her skull was crushed against the concrete, bringing her short but meaningful life to a screeching halt.

    He was supposed to have her back that night. She was his girl. His girl he failed to save. And it’s not just Y/N who haunts him, because the son of God was right. His father, the Harvelles, Ash, Bobby, Pamela, Charlie, Kevin… The list goes on. All perished either because they gave their life for the Winchesters, or because they got caught in the crossfire. That’s on him. Every loved one he ever lost lost, they are all casualties he blames himself for. He doesn’t need an Archangel to remind him of his wrongs.

    Dean rises to his feet and pushes his chair back, its legs drawing such a loud screech from the smooth furnished floor, that Sam startles. Both were lost in thought for a moment, until the oldest of the two snaps out of it and decides that it’s time to get to work.     “Let’s not dwell on the fact that Michael is making my time in Hell look like Disney World. As long as I’m still sane, I much rather spend my night finding a way to end him.” He frowns at his little brother, his mask back on. “What do we got?”         The younger Winchester gathers his thoughts and shifts some notes aside.     “Well, uh - amongst all this there are a few artifacts that could be interesting. One of them is called the Pearl of Baozhu. It’s one of the eight ancient Chinese treasures.”     “What does it do?” Dean wonders.     “It grants wishes. Technically it’s supposed to give you ‘what your truly heart desires’.”     Hopeful Sam looks up to the hunter at the head of the table, who shrugs and seems to consider it.     “That would be Michael out of my head,” he concludes.     “Exactly.”     Dean takes a look around at the stack of boxes.     “So you’re telling me that the answer to our problems is sittin’ somewhere in this pile of shit?”     “Better start digging,” Sam suggests, pushing a box in his direction.

    Serenity lingers in the bunker in the early hours of a new day. The table lamps spread their light over the surface underneath, their rays warm and gentle for tired eyes. Dean is surrounded by several boxes and books, going through a journal while leaning back in his chair and with his ankles crossed, somewhat more relaxed now that he contributes to something useful. He’s nursing his whiskey, kept busy in search for a clue in order to find the Pearl. It’s a few minutes past five in the morning, when Sam opens his third box of the night and reveals a small bag, the silk fabric tied together with a yellow cord. Curiously Sam takes it out and loosens the tie, unfolding a little red cushion, on which a perfect round shape rests.     “Dean.”         “Hm?”     His brother doesn’t look up immediately, biting the end of pen as he scans through Bart Kemp’s notes.     “I think this is it,” Sam states, looking down at the tiny object that could be the solution to everything.      Now he does captures Dean’s attention, his green eyes darting up from sloppy handwriting to the little white ball.     “That’s the Pearl?” he checks, for some reason expecting something so powerful to be bigger.         Sam nods, hope pulling at the corner of his mouth. Intrigued Dean rises to his feet and circles the table, his eyes fixed on the powerful artifact.     “Let’s do it.”     “Are you sure you don’t want to call Mom, or wait for Cas?”, his brother suggests, somewhat anxiously.     “No,” Dean dismisses, taking the unfolded red cushion in both hands gingerly.  ‘If this mojo works like you say; great. If not; why get their hopes up?”

    Sam holds his brother’s gaze for a moment, wondering if that’s all there is to Dean’s eagerness, or that the real reason why he’s jumping the gun, is his desperation for expelling the Archangel from the Alcatraz that is his mind. Deciding that this is not the time to test that theory, he agrees.     “Okay, so…” Dean reaches for the Baozhu, not sure if he can touch it without consequence. “What do I do?”     “I don’t know.” The younger brother shrugs hesitantly. “I… I guess you hold the pearl and concentrates on what your heart desires?”     “Michael out of my head.”      The man holding the Pearl imprints the sentence into his brain, while Sam shoots his sibling a short glare, as if just stated the obvious.     “Got it,” Dean reassures, just a little too quickly.

    To Sammy it might seem cut and dry, but the man who is about to make a wish isn’t so sure. He could think of a list of things he would want differently. What would the world look like if the Yellow Eyed Demon hadn’t come after his family? If all evil would disappear from the face of the earth, just like that? Would Mom have raised her sons to have a normal childhood? Would his father still be around? Would Cas have descended from Heaven? Would Dean’s path crossed Y/N’s? Would she be alive?

    Dean regains his focus, picks up the little white ball from the cushion and holds it between his thumb and his index finger. Michael out of my head. That’s all he needs to keep in mind. Right now, that is all he wants. Before he rolls the Baozhu into the palm of his hand, the brothers exchange one last look, but then Dean encloses his fingers around the tiny treasure with such great power, and shuts his eyes. With furrowed brow Dean concentrates.

    It only takes a few seconds before an eerie electric static reaches his hearing, triggering him to look up. The wall lamps in the library flicker violently, until the power shortage causes the back up generators to start running. All secondary equipment is switched off and the emergency lights come on, draping the Winchesters in a red gleam. Sam observes his surroundings allerted, his eyes adjusting to the sudden darkness. Cautiously the men try to pick up on even the slightest movement or sound, their senses heightened, driven by instinct.

    Then they hear footsteps. Sam pulls his gun from behind his waistband in a split second, aiming at the central War room. His brother isn’t as quick on the draw, though, a hint of familiarity in the way the boots sound on the marble floors slowing him down.     “Dean? Sam?”

    Right there and then, Dean’s heart stops. He knows that voice, he’d recognize it anywhere. Soft and clear, just like he remembers, just like he dreamed. Shell shocked he stares down at the other room, where a silhouette appears from around the corner. Now he inhales sharply, wide eyes fixed on the figure approaching. No way… It can’t be.

    The power switches back on, the ominous red emergency rays replaced with warm bright light. It reveals Dean’s careful suspicion and it knocks the air out of his lungs. He must be dreaming again. That, or he’s having a hallucination. It wouldn’t be far fetched, sleep deprivation and alcohol consumption considered. But when he steals a glance at Sam, he sees the same shocked expression while his brother slowly lowers his gun.     “Y/N?” he stammers.

    She walks up the steps and halts under the arched entrance to the library, a little out of breath after her run down the hallways of this immense place. She glances from one Winchester brother to the other, her wild eyes leaving Dean for a second as she looks around at the impressive library. She doesn’t recognize the place, but despite the brick walls and lack of windows, it feels welcoming and safe. Wait, is that a telescope?     “What in the Hell? Where the fuck are we?” she wonders, returning her gaze to Sam. “And what happened to you guys? You both look like you aged a decade overnight.”

    Sam lets the air flow from his lips with a short huff, not sure if she’s trying to be funny or doesn’t have a clue what is going on. It’s so unmistakably her, though. The wit, the way she lights the room, a carelessness in her stroll as she enters the library. This is, without a shadow of a doubt, his friend, the closest he ever had to a sister. He can’t take his eyes off her, and he’s not the only one. It doesn’t go unnoticed, because Y/N bounces her focus between the boys, frowning at the evident shock on their faces.

    “W- why are you looking at me like that?” Uncomfortably she rubs her arm, her gaze now fixed on Dean.

    Unable to answer, he dumbfoundedly stares, his mouth agape. A mix of disbelief and astonishment has the hunter frozen on the spot, something that rarely ever happens to him. In his nightmares the Ma’lek Box would slowly fill up, until he drowned. In reality it’s his emotions that overflow the walls of his mind, the waterline rising until it reaches his eyes. Mystic green shimmers, his vision fogging, but he still sees her. He still sees the woman he lost, yet never stopped loving.

    Finally he’s able to move, stepping forward tentatively. With each step, Dean gets a little braver and closes the gap between them. When she’s at arm’s length, he stops, frantic eyes darting to take in every feature he never wants to forget. Afraid to burst the bubble, he slowly lifts his hand to her face. What if he touches her and she turns out to be nothing more than a mirage? An apparition of his hopes and dreams, crumbling to dust once he gets too close? Michael has played these kind of mind games before and it wrecked the broken hunter every time his fairytale world fell apart. But like he has done all those times, he reaches for her anyway, because what if this time, it is real?

    His fingertips brush her soft skin, sending a shiver down her spine. Overcome by both love and fear that speak from his watering eyes, she returns a worried gaze. Not daring to speak, she keeps looking at Dean as he cups her face, brushing a messy strand away with his thumb. It’s clear as day that the connection moves the person who has such an important part in her life.

    Feeling her under his touch, being able to connect with her when he thought he would never be able to again, it’s too much. He swallows down the lump that creeps up his throat, tears threatening to breach the walls. She’s here. Fuck, she’s really here.

    Dean takes a final step towards the woman of his dreams while he pulls her in and, without wasting another second, he does what he has been longing for ever since her shattering death. He presses his lips to hers, kissing her with everything he has. For a short second he feels her tense against him, but then she slips her hands around his forearms and she answers him, melting into the kiss. The man who regained what he had lost can’t help the tremble in his breath, can’t stop the teardrops from rolling down his cheek. He doesn’t care about showing vulnerability, because finally… finally he got her back.

    They part and she opens her beautiful eyes, confounded by his actions. A small yet genuine smile forms, breaking the shimmering paths of sorrow that came down his cheeks. Then the hunter pulls her in a tight hug, burying his face in her hair. Her heart beats against his chest rapidly and he can smell the shampoo she always used, feel the warmth she’s radiating. Memories roll into shore and the tough hunter holds back a sob. Noticing his distress, Y/N folds her arms around his back, giving him a squeeze that calms him down like only she could. God, does this feel good. She came back to him. It’s then and there that me makes himself a promise. I’m never gonna let this go.

    “Dean, you’re scaring me,” Y/N whimpers after a while.     The older Winchester brother snaps out of it and loosens his grip on her, distancing himself from her slightly, now that he realizes he lost track of time for a moment. He struggles to man up and shoots her another reassuring smile, not wanting to upset her.     “I’m sorry,” he utters, his voice raw and on the verge of breaking. “It’s just… It’s really good to see you after all this time.”     Puzzled she looks at him, not sure what he means by that.     “What are you talking about? I saw you last night.”

    Dean narrows his eyes at her in confusion. She saw him last night? How is that even possible? She’s been gone for nine years!     “What day is it?”     It’s Sam who asks, drawing both their attention. Y/N looks aside, then averts her eyes as she thinks. Monday, or is it Tuesday? As a hunter, there is no routine. Nights last long and days fly by, blending together endlessly. She forgets what part of the week it is all the time, nothing new there. Home Depot was closed when she went out to pick up a few errands yesterday; that makes it Sunday. Which makes today...     “Monday,” she decides.     Sam motions her to continue.     “Monday, October 20th,” she adds. “2008.”

    Stunned both boys look at her, the youngest of the brothers letting out a sigh now that his suspicion has been confirmed.     “Y/N, it’s 2019,” Dean informs, his voice soft to cushion the blow.     She cocks her head back at him, staring into his green eyes. Then she chuckles, shaking her head.     She scoffs. “No, c’mon, guys. That’s… that’s insane.”     But when both men keep a straight face that doesn’t in the slightest suggest that this is a joke, the grin on her lips fades. Unable to grasp what is happening, she takes a step back.

    “How?” She questions firmly after a long silence, an uneasiness oozing through her veins.     “I think we - uh…” Sam stammers, not sure if he believes it himself. “I think we summoned you.”     Large eyes bore into him, then shift back to Dean, who watches empathetically how she struggles to process the information. Her gaze drifts off to nothing in particular, going over their words. This isn’t happening. This is fucking insane. Last week they wrapped up a hunt in Pennsylvania during Oktoberfest that involved a shapeshifter with a fetish for old school monster movies. That was enough crazy for one week, if you ask her. And now they are telling her that she was fast forwarded eleven years in time?     “You boys better tell me what the fuck is going on,” she demands. “Right now.”

Holy shit! That was a ride, wasn’t it? Stay tuned for part 3, I hope to finish it soon. Meanwhile, don’t hesitate to let me know what you think so far!

Read part three here

‘All I Want’ tags: 

@awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @justkending @the-is13 @wildsageleon

#Dean x Reader #Dean x Y/N #Dean Winchester x Reader #Dean Winchester x Y/N #Supernatural reader insert #SPN reader insert #Dean Winchester series #Supernatural series #Dean Winchester fanfiction #Dean fanfiction #Dean Winchester fanfic #Dean fanfic #SPN fanfiction #SPN fanfic #Dean series #SPN angst #Dean angst #Dean Winchester angst #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Supernatural #SPN #spn 14x13 #Lebanon #All I Want #Kate Huntington

[softpunks]

if we could restart everything | kdfd

if we could restart everything / kdfd / 3.8k / for the ina11 writing exchange

Sakuma just gives him a mildly exasperated look. “He’s the nicest one around here.” he replies, and that must say a lot about the other ayakashi if he’s meant to be the best one here.

“You could seek refuge there.” Sakuma says. “Though you might not like it.”

“Is there nowhere else?” Fudou asks. 

my contribution to the ina11 writing exchange! this is for @maryseph, whose prompt as og ina11 as yokai. it was quite a general prompt, so i checked out your blog beforehand to see what you liked and saw your love for kdfd, so i decided to make it about that. from og ina11 as yokai it went from teikoku trio (kotei penguin no3 trio?) as yokai.  sorry if it seems a little stilted or rushed, because i did cram this. my knowledge on yokai is purely based on growing up watching nurarihyon no mago and a bit of research, so sorry for any inaccuracies. anyways, i hope you enjoy it regardless! 

alternatively, read it on ao3 here 

(and @ina11writingexchange thank you for hosting this fun little event!!)

The 11th District used to be known as one of the few places where no spirits resided, due to a shrine protecting the entire area from both good and evil supernatural creatures. That all changed a decade ago, when the structure was destroyed by a calamity no one could explain even until now. For a while, rumors had circulated that it was caused by the yokai themselves, in order for them to get into the prefecture that was out of their reach for so long, but it died down shortly, because it turned out that even they avoided going to the 11th District. At most, they’d simply pass by, because it was nearly impossible to stay long. There was something about the atmosphere there, they would say, that made them feel like they weren’t welcome, and it would show. 

Though Fudou isn’t particularly active in their community, he does know enough that he could probably count the number of spirits who actually reside inside the 11th District with one hand, regardless of the area’s infamy, and he likes none of them, though it isn’t enough to stop him from going. He’s never been bothered by gossip in the first place — gossip is made by the mischievous, after all, and causing that is in his blood, second instinct, as a fox demon — but there’s always a sliver of truth to what others say, so he’s cautious as he travels towards the very place that so many of his kind avoid. 

Besides, as much as he hates to admit it, he’s desperate. With the current state he’s in, he can only keep going so far. 

“It’s past midnight; you don’t have to move so cautiously.” a voice suddenly says. Fudou glances up and sees Sakuma, perched at the edge of the rooftop of the house across, crouched like a bird despite how he’s in his human form. It looks ridiculous, but he’s probably doing it because the other is in his human form as well. Fudou can’t help but straighten up at the familiar sight of the spirit he hadn’t seen in years, despite how it hurts to do so and how he still can’t help but lean on the wall for support. Sakuma’s one eye — he lost the other one to a greedy daimyo who was interested in the yatagarasu, and that’s the other distinct feature about Sakuma besides his three legs — trails down to the way Fudou’s hand grips at the left side of his abdomen. Fudou doesn’t miss the movement, but it’s not like he’s willing to retract his hold. That’ll only make things worse. 

Sakuma must take Fudou’s silence as reluctance to believe his words, because he adds, “The humans are asleep. I would know.”

“Would you?” Fudou can’t help but retort. “Thought you stopped staying in places for too long ever since Kageyama.”

“Whatever.” says Sakuma flippantly, before eyeing Fudou’s wound once more. “That, I don’t want to know.”

“Good, because there’s no way in hell I’m telling.”

“—but out of all places out there, this one’s the worst one to stumble into.” Sakuma tilts his head. “Then again, you seem to have been wandering around for a while. It’s a wonder that no human has spotted you yet.”

“What can I say? I’m quite nimble.” Fudou says. Sakuma scoffs. “If this is the worst, then why are you here?”

“For a visit.” Sakuma shrugs. “It’s quite a nice place, actually. Humans aside.” 

Fudou still hasn’t felt that unwelcomed vibe that most spirits claimed to have felt in the 11th District, but then again, he isn’t really concentrating on anything but the conversation he’s having with Sakuma to distract him from the pain. “Right.” he bites out. “Well, I’m only here to pass by, so if you’re done,” Fudou resumes moving. “I’ll be off.”

Except when he takes another step forward, he can’t hide his wince at the sharp pain that shoots up his body. A bit more blood gushes out from the side of his stomach and spills past his hand, and it occurs to him, just then, that his wound might be a lot deeper than he thought. He must look like a pathetic sight to see, but Fudou grits his teeth anyway and tries to suppress the pained sound that threatens to escape him. 

Sakuma drops down to the ground beside him and walks over. “There’s a temple up ahead,” he says, glancing towards the direction of the 11th District’s tallest infrastructure. A tower, but Fudou doesn’t know for what. “You could seek refuge there, though you might not like it.”

Despite how Sakuma’s barely revealing anything, Fudou is smart enough to have a good hunch. “Is there nowhere else?” he asks. 

Sakuma just gives him a mildly exasperated look. “He’s the nicest one around here.” he replies, and that must say a lot about the other ayakashi if he’s meant to be the best one here. “So unless you want to drown in your own blood because your healing factor isn’t kicking in anymore, then no. At the rate you’re going, it’ll be daybreak by the time you get to leave the 11th District, and the humans will come find you.”

Fudou grimaces at the thought, because that’s the last thing he wants to do, even if he already is in human form. It’d be a lot easier to keep up the act if he wasn’t injured, because despite how his blood is red, it has a smell distinctly different from humans, and they’d recognize him to be a spirit, even though they have a belief that yokai don’t even bleed— that the moment you attack one, they’ll disperse like fog and disappear for good, just like that. It’s annoying, how perceptive the residents of this area are. “Fuck.” 

“It’s a good thing we met, Fudou.” Sakuma tells him. “It would be a waste to see you die.”

“Thanks.” he replies dryly. Sakuma nods and slowly reverts back into his original form. Fudou watches the transformation and his eyes follow Sakuma as he flies away, before he turns to the tower. “The spirit of guidance, huh.” he muses to himself, letting him think of the yatagarasu for a few more seconds before starting to walk. 

Much to his chagrin, he gets to his destination a lot later than he wanted to. It’s still evening, however, but the walk felt like forever, and Fudou regrets not asking Sakuma for any shortcuts, or even if he could carry him there. 

But when he finally reaches the entrance of the temple, the first thing he wants to do is go back. Maybe he’s near the district’s exit or something. All he knows is that he already wants to leave. It was out of desperation and cluelessness that led him here, but without Sakuma’s presence, his head is a lot clearer, and he’s gotten used to the pain from his side that he can make room for enough pride to turn away. 

In the hindsight, Fudou probably shouldn’t have spoken so soon. The moment he moves his body to start walking away almost as quickly as he came — meaning not fast at all, despite how he wants to be — his side immediately throbs like a warning. Fudou needs to rest, if not get patched up immediately. And if he leaves, he gets neither of those. 

Fudou grimly wonders if not listening will get him killed. 

Before he can make another decision, a familiar, low voice comes in from behind. “How long are you going to keep standing there?”

Fudou slowly turns. Kidou looks the same as always, tied dreadlocks and youthful features an exact imitation of what it was years ago. His unnatural red eyes are bright against the moonlight, and Fudou wonders how pathetic he must look to the other— practically a wounded animal, here because of his own weakness. 

“Not long.” Fudou finally answers, meeting Kidou’s gaze because he refuses to back down. He has to look up, because Kidou is at the top of the stairwell that leads to the temple and Fudou is at the bottom, right in front of the torii gate entrance, and pretends like it doesn’t bother him. Kidou always did say he got worked over the smallest of things, and Fudou didn’t want to prove him right. “If you really wanted me to get out, you would’ve told me when I was halfway through here.”

Kidou doesn’t say anything, only slightly twitches. It’s not a denial. Kidou probably knew Fudou was coming here the moment Sakuma departed. One of the few perks of being a bird, Fudou would like to think, but it’s really just in Kidou’s nature, to always watch over things, to always know what’s going to happen. Fudou would be lying if he said he wasn’t the same, but he gets his information from underground, in land, where he thrives the most. Kidou lives in the higher places, in the air, fitting for his status and personality. 

For a while, neither of them says anything. Then Kidou speaks up. “It’s cold. I’m heading up.”

As Kidou walks away, Fudou realizes that he’s been given an unsaid invitation inside. It makes his desire to leave wane slightly, but what really propels him to go despite how he knows— he can feel it in his bones, beyond the aching pain coming from his abdomen and the lightheadedness he’s been trying to fight off from the blood loss, that this night probably isn’t going to end well. Not that it’s been starting out great for him in the first place — is the thought that refusing might seem like he’s afraid, running away like a coward. And Fudou is many things, but he isn’t that. 

It’s a small temple at first glance, but when Fudou crosses the threshold after climbing up the hill, the inside turns out to be a lot larger than it looks. An illusion, likely possible because of the paper seals that surround the area. Behind the structure is the tower Sakuma had been talking about, which Fudou is confident has a walkway attached so Kidou can go there as often and as easily as he wished. 

Because Fudou has never stepped inside the 11th District before, this is his first time in Kidou’s house. Fudou settles down on the futon mat for the dining area and examines his surroundings as Kidou flits around. There isn’t much to see, but Fudou finds himself captivated with the tiniest of things anyway— the scratched up wood, the black feathers that are scattered around the room, the small cracks lining the walls. It looks almost exactly like what Kidou’s old temple looked like before, a long time ago. 

Kidou returns with tissues, bandages, and paper seals with unfamiliar characters Fudou can’t make out. 

It must say a lot about how exhausted Fudou is that he doesn’t protest when Kidou pulls off his yukata so he can treat the wound. After cleaning away the blood so he can get a look at the injury a lot more clearly, Kidou gets the paper seals and makes a few hand gestures, causing them to glow and surround themselves around Fudou. They both watch as the wound begins to heal itself, almost like the seals are utilizing the regenerative abilities of Fudou that he thought had given up on repairing the damage because it was just too much. 

“These are divination paper seals.” Fudou points out quietly. “Where’d a demon like you get access to those?”

“I know some people.” is all Kidou says in reply. He doesn’t give Fudou anything more than that. Fair enough, Fudou guesses. He knows enough about these kinds of things though. Knows that they’re hard to come across and aren’t often made, what more given. Kidou probably had to pull some strings to get them. Or someone gifted them to him. Fudou wouldn’t put that later possibility past him. Kidou is a special figure here in the 11th District, despite how the place is notoriously known for being incredibly anti-ayakashi. There will always be a few believers, and they will always hold some kind of special power. Fudou wouldn’t even put it past him to somehow be part of why outside ayakashi actively avoid this place. Protector magic, or something. Fudou wouldn’t know. 

“You’re weird, you know.” Fudou says at last. 

Kidou looks up to him. “You’re weird too.” he says back. “For coming here.”

Fudou shrugs. Kidou gazes down at the tissues that are dried with blood. “Did they cause this?”

“Your people? No, but given their reputation, they probably would’ve if they knew I was here.” Fudou answers. They say that if you absolutely need to go to the 11th District for whatever reason, it’s best to do it either late at night or in the early day, when most are still asleep. The humans here are unlike the ones in other areas, who either respect or fear ayakashi. They’re driven by hate, and they like to show it. Fudou will never know the origin to it, because it’s a fact that’s almost as old as time. 

He doesn’t know how the spirits that actually do live here manage to maintain their cover, but Kidou’s scent is more human than it ever was before, so Fudou guesses it must be that. He must’ve been spending more time in this form rather than his true one in order to start smelling like this, just to properly blend in, and Fudou can’t help but wince at the thought, because he’s never particularly liked turning into a human, even if he needs to, like now, for the sake of maintaining his secret. 

“I got sidetracked by something while I was passing by, and a few hunters who were in area nicked me while I wasn’t looking. I thought it’d heal by itself if I went to hide within the forest, but by the time nightfall was arriving, it wasn’t, so I went to the closest town.” Which just happened to be this. “I didn’t mean to come here.”

Kidou doesn’t even blink at the latter part. “It isn’t like you to get caught in something like that.”

He has a point. Fudou is known for purposely bringing trouble when he wants to, but this one was unintentional. There’s a reason why ayakashi are discouraged to travel in their real form during the day, or when they’re close to areas or in pathways that humans frequent. Fudou is a wanderer by heart, unable to stay in one place the way many spirits are, so he’s almost always in his fox form unless he wants to stop by a certain district or town and wants to explore it a bit. This was a lack of proper judgement on his part. He slipped up and forgot, so of course the humans didn’t hesitate to take advantage of that. 

“You’d know, wouldn’t you.” is Fudou’s only reply to that. 

“What did you get distracted by?”

Fudou doesn’t want to say it’s because he got lost in his musings, looking to the direction of the 11th District with old memories in mind. He was just passing by, not intending to step a foot into the area, but he faltered at the last second and allowed a second of sentimentality. It wasn’t worth it, he thought, because he ended up placing his guard down and got shot by a few arrows.

“It doesn’t matter.” Fudou says, not about to tell him. 

Kidou raises an eyebrow, but otherwise doesn’t comment on it. 

As the last of his wound fixes itself, his side eventually looking normal after the blood has been wiped away by a fresh cloth Kidou produces and tenderly uses, Fudou starts to feel drowsy, the events of today finally catching up to him. An effect of the speed healing, he supposes, because that always takes more stamina than wanted. It's why he doesn't complain when Kidou gently touches him and gives him a knowing, familiar smile. 

Really, Fudou would flip him off, but he's already losing conscious. 

When he comes to, Kidou is no longer there. For a moment, Fudou panics, thinks to himself, the bastard left me again, before he abruptly calms down and realizes the stupidity of his concern and anxiety. 

Since Fudou is fully healed and rested, his senses are working a lot better, so his keen nose can easily sniff out Kidou’s scent, one that lingers everywhere in the temple and drifts to the backdoor. The latter one is much more fresh, and Fudou guesses that Kidou must’ve went out. 

He follows the smell all the way up to the tower, which, sure enough, is connected to the temple through a pathway that leads up to a stairwell. It’s a long trek up, but Fudou does it with minimal grumbling until he’s climbed up what he thinks to be three floors and eventually spots the familiar puff of Kidou’s odd hair at the end of it. 

It’s not a surprise for Fudou to find Kidou here. He once told him how he felt more confident in himself when he was anywhere close to the sky. Fudou thought it was a testament of his god complex, but it might just be a thing of Kidou’s kind. Fudou wouldn’t know, even after all the years that have passed. Kidou is still the only tengu he knows. 

It’s still dark, but it doesn’t tell much about how long Fudou’s been out. A few hours, an entire day? Fudou doesn’t know. He quietly walks over to Kidou’s side and looks to the same view the other seems to be admiring, but all he sees are identical infrastructure, the emptiness of the streets. If he squints hard enough, he can probably see the end of the 11th District, but he doesn’t feel like making the effort. 

“Do you remember the last time we did this?” Kidou suddenly asks him. 

Years ago in the Iyo Province. The sky was a bright blue and they stood on a hill that overlooked a riverbank. There had been kids playing along the water, but no one paid any mind to a bird and fox lounging under the shade of a tree, idly talking about a nice dango shop stationed along the roads that Fudou wanted Kidou to try out sometime. 

Fudou blinks and the memory fades. “Since when did you care about looking back at the past?” he asks back instead of answering. 

Kidou simply shrugs. “Maybe seeing you makes me feel nostalgic.”

Fudou feels uncomfortable at the words, at the implications of them, because it’s been years, but he hasn’t forgotten what happened. Getting mad isn’t something he’s in the mood for though, despite how he used to have all these dreams as to how he’d confront Kidou, when he’d finally get to see him again. That desire waned as time went by, and though he liked to think he wasn’t necessarily avoiding Kidou — only cowards did that, after all, and Kidou did disappear off the face of the world for a long time — he never sought him out either, never took initiative to try and see him again. 

Why should he, when Kidou was the one who left? 

“You can blame Sakuma for that.” is all Fudou says to that. 

Kidou hums. He looks thoughtful, and Fudou is slightly caught off guard by the fact that he remembers how to tell what Kidou’s feeling or doing from just a glance. 

"Fudou," Kidou starts, just as Fudou is about to turn away. Fudou has an inkling of what Kidou is about to say, but in the end, nothing comes out, and the older sighs. 

"What now?" Fudou huffs. "Not gonna ever explain to me why you left?"

"Do you even want to know?"

The thing is, he doesn't. Not anymore. It's not like he cares, but it's not like he doesn't either. It's complicated, in Fudou's eyes, with no simple answer. But he hasn't seen Kidou in what feels like forever, and though the memories and banter feel the same as ever, it doesn't ache. Fudou feels like he's living a dream, and he doesn't want to break it with something so real like the truth. 

“It doesn’t matter.” he says quietly, and it’s true. “It’s not going to change anything, isn’t it?” 

Kidou doesn’t answer, which already tells Fudou enough. It suddenly feels awkward; Fudou wonders if he’s overstayed his welcome, if he should leave. 

But before that—

“Why’d you do it?”

“Why did I do what?” asks Kidou. 

“Help me.” Fudou says. 

Kidou doesn’t say anything at first. Then, “Why not?”

He doesn’t know what he expected, really. Kidou was never really one to give a straight answer. Fudou is a kitsune, a kind known for stirring up mischief, but Kidou, with all his wisdom and maturity, could never bring himself to be straightforward. That inability in itself caused more arguments and misunderstandings than needed, trouble in its own right and form, but Fudou feels resigned, because at least that part about Kidou hasn’t changed. 

“You’re insufferable.” Fudou comments. 

Kidou smiles slightly. “I won’t ask for any thanks.” he tells him. Fudou opens his mouth, about to respond that he didn’t come here to say thanks, when Kidou continues. “But stay?”

Fudou freezes. Kidou said that once, a long time ago, when they were sitting by the footsteps of his temple as the sun was setting back in Iyo. Fudou remembers that his anger was so strong it rang through his ears, blocked hearing the desperation in Kidou’s voice and stopped him from caring. Sakuma always did say Fudou’s emotions were his own unbecoming, because for a demon fox always in motion, the concept of just pausing for one moment to see the bigger picture, to see past whatever met the eye, had never been his thing. 

Kidou may have been the one who left, but it wasn’t like Fudou was willing to stay around either. It’s just not in his nature to do so, just as it’s not in Kidou’s to necessarily explain himself. Isn’t that what makes it Fudou’s fault as much as Kidou’s? Maybe that’s why they didn’t last. Maybe that’s why they were never meant to. Fudou will never really know, because it’s already happened, and he doesn’t want to talk about the past. Kidou is here, after all, in the present, and despite the front Fudou puts, he knows he’s let go of his resentment a long time ago. 

“Maybe.” Fudou says, turning to him. Kidou’s smile stays, and Fudou thinks that he doesn’t want to talk about the past either. 

After a while, the sunlight starts to creep up, engulfing the horizon in a beautiful orange hue. The view is magnificent, but Kidou and Fudou are only looking at each other, and they don’t say a word.

#inazuma eleven #inazuma eleven fic #kdfd #fdkd #writeblr #ina11writingexchange #writing #mine #au: yokai #au: exes #au: historical

[torannosaurusrexy]

Beautiful Demise

Chapter 2: “Red Roses”

➝ Genre: Fic

➝ Pairing: Park Jimin | Reader (Potentially Others as the Story Progresses)

{Assassin!AU} {Dark!Namjoon} {Incessent Sexual Tension} {Use of Chloroform} {Teasing} {Name Calling} {Fluff} {Cocky Jimin} 

WARNING: This AU is explicit, contains dark themes, violence, and language some readers may find unsettling, please take caution when reading.

➝ Word Count: 7693

➝ Summary: Blood. Thick, warm, and red. Quite the opposite when compared to the pure angelic light that white roses withhold. If blood and white roses are opposites...when put together do they disintegrate or dance hand in hand? Do opposites attract? Or kill?

Park Jimin, the man - and assassin - you met and loved being in the company of, has killed your father inside the most beautiful flower boutique you’d ever set foot in. Destroying your delicate white roses and with them...your heart.

/ Previous | Next \

Although delicate, the flower is one of the most ruthless plants on the planet. A single bouquet has the power to cause a waterfall of tears to cascade a viewers face, or to make a bride brightly smile with overwhelming happiness. They also have the power to kill. The most breathtaking of all with their beautifully arched eyebrows, dark locks of hair, and lips that were pressed to yours only mere hours prior to seeing him in the rays of moonlight dripping through the skylights that occupy the ceiling which lies feet above you.

“Jimin~ssi!” The panicked voice yells, your blood-soaked rose dropping to the floor when you register the name.

Against your hopes, Park Jimin, the man you met and let touch you, emerges from the depths of the dark shadows to let rays of decadent moonlight slip over his features. The same eye-catching, shimmering features that left you with a racing heartbeat. His hands, his fingers, each sublime digit drenched in scarlet. Tears continue to flow down your cheeks, no doubt leaving rivers separating your foundation that’s already long past its wash off time.

“J-Jimin?” You question, earning a flinch from the blood gloved young man. Backing up slowly, your feet crunch and crush the white roses beneath you, thorns digging themselves into the soles of your feet as you go. Although painful, the shock and adrenaline coursing through your veins prevent any feeling from penetrating your numb body.

You continue to back up until your back hits a wall.

“I can explain.” He starts, holding up his plasma bathed hands and taking a step towards you, your father blocking him from approaching you. Your blood runs cold at the sound of his voice. The same sultry tone abiding by his words.

You point a finger his way, the digit shaking on its own without permission or registration from your brain which by now has long since checked out, “You...you killed him…?” Your one hand claws at the wall, your fingers pawing and digging into the paint.

Jimin starts to step over your father.

“STAND BACK!” You scream, the echoing wind prevents the sound from being heard outside the boutique. Against your hopes, not that many people walk this street so late at night, it would quite the surprise to find someone coming to your rescue. “Don’t come near me.” You hold yourself at the bicep, caressing yourself into a protective self-hug. Jimin’s eyelids flutter, a shimmer to the flesh so ethereal and sickening to see. Your heart lurches for your throat. For god's sake, you wish him unsightly, ghastly even. You wish he was gone...how you pray to be granted the power of time reversal.

The room falls silent once more, the wind dying to nothing more than a passing breeze, as if Jimin controlled not only your every thought...but the weather as well.

Your name rolls off his tongue without warning, each syllable drenched in regret, you clench your jaw, ready to scream, yell...attack. Then in a flash, he’s in front of you, a hand swathed in white fabric that smells ether-like pressed to the lower half of your face, and as you take stress induced breaths, the substance glazes your tongue, tasting sweet by nature. Grabbing and pulling at his wrists, tearing deep scratches into the flesh proves futile when you start to feel woozy, a haze falling over you before you have a chance to register it.

Jimin sighs, the breath of air brushing back tresses of hair that have fallen forward to partially subdue your eyesight. “Please don’t think less of me.” He whispers in your ear, a pained expression viable on his face as he watches the consciousness drain from your eyes, a pang of guilt glistening atop his corneas.

“Brain’s gonna kill you.” A frustrated voice sounds, rousing you from your drug induced doze. You currently have no grasp on time, for all you know it could have been minutes since you passed out, or perhaps hours. Your muscles, however, help to register a rough outline of the precious man-made invention of measuring the indefinite continued progress called existence and events which your high mind can’t. Otherwise known as time.

“You don’t think I already know that?” Your nerves start to burn with the familiar touch pressing itself to your outer thigh, holding you upright. The second your carrier speaks, you know who it is.

Jimin.

His scolder continues, “I mean really Mochi, what were you thinking?” You listen intently, seeing that your eyesight has been revoked thanks to a suffocating blindfold that barely allows a whisper of light to peek through its tight-knit material.

You hear a sharp inhale, “Hoseok.” Jimin spits, cutting off his breath and revealing a new name to you, perhaps belonging to that of his fellow degenerate.

“That’s Jay to you.” He pauses, “She might be awake, it’s bad enough that she knows your name, much less, mine.” Hoseok growls, the sound of gravel crunching beneath his weight and the purposeful steps he takes.

“Give it a rest, hyung.” Jimin must have glared, or rolled his eyes at the other man who you can only assume is higher in age or ranking to him, his tone of speech and word choice carry a sort of maturity advancing that of your holders. Whether that be in age or skill, you can’t depict.

“Fine, i’ll drop the codenames; but don’t blame me when Namjoon murders you along with her for risking our secret by not using them.”

You can feel Jimin grip you tighter in anger. He must have a flaring temper hidden beneath those soft eyes that had you weak in the knees at first glance. “It’s not like you didn’t survive when you did the same thing.” He growls, hitting his opposites shoulder to walk past him and up a flight of stairs before stopping suddenly. A light emitting from either side of something solid catches your eye, you assume the object between the orbs to be a door. That very light is the only thing visible through your haze. You blink, listening to the angry footsteps that follow behind.

“Jimin, don't.” Hoseok shoots in tune, his otherwise playful demeanor changing to something far from exuberant.

The jingling of keys alerts your eardrums that your previous assumption was correct. Jimin must have taken you to a house, Hoseok as his aide. A strong breeze rushes past, the smell of flowers consumed within the solacing wind, it’s aroma permeating your entire being.

“Don’t what Hoseok?” Anger is ever present in Jimin’s tone, a fury so unrecognizable it worries you. You’ve only ever heard Jimin speak softly or...in lust pumped whispers, however, even you can’t help but lean towards Hoseoks argument. If you were just going to die by “Namjoon's” hands, then why was Jimin trying to protect you? As you said previously...he doesn’t owe you anything, Or does he think otherwise?

“That was different…” Hoseok chokes, “And I don’t want to talk about it.” The man’s voice is strained, rough and most definitely concealing a river of tears mere seconds from rising to the eye.

“Than stop pressing me about what I did.” Jimin pauses, adjusting the way you sit in his arms before beginning to walk again, this time the sound of his steps changing from loud clunks to an echo off of what must be elegant flooring. The sound of a solid door closes behind you and no matter how frantically you wish to examine your surroundings, the binding cloth prevents it. “You would never have reacted this way if-” He continues, his words following the echoing pattern his feet created.

“If what?” Hoseok interjects, forcing Jimin to spin around and face him when you hear his hand clap against his subordinates shoulder. The movement is quick and hurts your pounding head. “If I was stupid enough to try and get some in the middle of an investigation?!” He shoots, the loud yells assaulting your already delicate eardrums.

“If you remembered how to love!” Jimin screams back, and for a second you fear you’ll be dropped, the tense surrounding makes you feel like even more of an outsider than you already are, a feeble human accessory inappropriately worn to a grand gala.

“God,” Hoseok exhales quickly, “So you love her now?” He fights back.

“No, that’s absurd.” You feel Jimin shrug beneath you, your head that rests against his shoulder bobbing slightly with the movement.

“For the love of all things warm blooded I hope you live by those words.” He points a tantalizing finger in Jimin’s face. “She’s the daughter of a madman Jimin!” The assailant starts to stomp away and you bite your tongue to prevent from allowing the fire dimmed within you from growing into a raging inferno.

“He’s gone! Who are you to judge the type of person she is when the only evidence you have is lineage!” Silence...a silence filled with an ire so thick it burns your skin as the air it contaminates glides over your exposed thighs, your short cocktail dress most certainly flashing the world due to the way it bunches upwards.

“I don’t choose to not trust her Jimin,” Hoseok pauses, looking around the room and licking his lips, “It’s just who I am.” Footsteps resume, Hoseok or--as he was previously called--Jay, must be moving away from Jimin to avoid the chance at conflict. “By the way,” He hesitates, “Don’t bring her up again. You shouldn’t converse about things you will never come to understand.” His voice is even coarser than before, he must be teary-eyed.

You feel sympathy, why? Why in god's name would you feel sympathy for such monsters? One that committed the most despised crime against none other than your father, the other...his accomplice, and protector. “Good luck hiding her from Namjoon, because I won’t help you.” Jimin tenses, his arm shaking beneath your shoulder blades when he hears his superior's words.

“Hoseok.” Jimin starts, taking a step forward for emphasis but unable to continue nor approach him when the man his words flood towards leaves him standing alone in the oversized foyer.

Jimin freezes in the center of the large open entrance hall. He clenches his jaw as he stares off into the darkness in which his comrade and dear friend has disappeared off into. He squeezes you in his arms, unintentionally pressing his chin to the top of your head before releasing the extra grip and letting your head loll back against his shoulder. Shooing the blush that chooses to display itself across the mass of your cheeks, you decide to speak up, “Seems you pissed him off.” You whisper, trying to egg him on and get a reaction from him. The corners of your mouth tug into a sarcastic smile, doubtful he saw it.

“Ah, you heard some of that did you?” He weakly smiles, returning your sarcastic tone despite his last conversation. He pulls your attention towards him with his words, your head moving to face the sound of his voice, much softer than it was previously. “I’m sorry about him.” He jets his head in the direction of Hoseok, whether you can see it or not, you have a feeling the movement was there.

You reach upwards, your tied hands pressed together but your fingers still free to move. “I’m not.” You say dryly, pushing the bottom of your blindfold up and onto your forehead. “I assume it’s okay that I take this off,” You eye him, waiting for a response but instead continuing your assault, “Unless of course, you don’t want me to see my own death coming.” You can smell the blood lingering underneath your fingernails, it’s copper tinge cauterizing the inside of your nose. Jimin’s lips part in shock, words balancing on the tip of his tongue.

His shock quickly melts away to reveal a cocky smolder, one you dread but can’t help but allow your heart to leap at the sight of, “I’m not going to kill you, If that was my intention...you wouldn’t be in my arms right now.” You hate yourself for doing so, but the blush sifting onto your face is one you can’t stop. His eyes lock onto yours, his smirk pushing his eyes into thin lines of torment.

You clear your throat, settling your restless hands back towards you lap as Jimin begins to traipse up a grandiose staircase, the railing a smooth white to match the molding of the foyer. “Yeah, well...I just wish you would.”

Jimin furrows his beautifully arched eyebrows, a look of pain skimming his features. “I know I’m probably your least favorite person right now but...give us a chance. You’ll come around.” He winks.

“Like hell I will!” You exclaim with a laugh, sending him your own look of shock. You run a simulation in your head of the possible ways you could get out of and far far away from this situation, you imagine your tied fists making contact and bruising Jimin’s sculpted cheekbones. You can feel your heartbeat pounding as you see yourself running, jumping, throwing off your heels, making a break for it. Then you remember your unique predicament. The man holding you is of far greater physical strength, and with your hands tied...you’re an easy target for him. You sink your weight back down into his arms when you finally gather your senses and realize fighting against an assassin would be futilely ignorant, so letting your head fall back against him and closing your eyes is the best your thundering skull can allow. “But it’s not like I have much choice…” A single salt crested tear rolls down the side of your face to absorb itself into the lapel of Jimin’s expensive-looking suit jacket, now tainted with red.

Jimin blinks fastidiously as he watches your eyes fill with sorrow, at yet again another loss for words. Regardless of the blatant simulation of your father's death passing over the glaze in your eyes, Jimin can’t help but marvel at your beauty. The same beauty he saw in the girl at the bar. Her legs crossed over a barstool unbefitting of touching and supporting her. He sighs at the thought, that very noise being the key turning point which brings you to realize that either what Jimin did to you wrecked you mind, body, and soul in ways only toxins did...or the mental toll tonight's actions took on you have overstressed your body to the extremes. There’s only one antidote for such a thing…

Sleep.

You remember little of the aftermath that unraveled shortly past your father's death. A glimpse of a face, two young men. Jimin and one you remember as Hoseok, previously recognized as Jay. The conversations they partook in now blurred to you, simply hazes of the past that lingered sadly in your memory, nothing more than space keepers occupying your brain.

Now, soft fabric lie beneath you, a warm pillow encased in your arms while a thick duvet lay across your back. A warm breeze flows in from a source beyond your eyes’ reach, the smell of fresh flowers carried with it. You rouse with a smile, sitting up and stretching, expecting to find your bedroom lying past your eyelids. The euphoria you feel quickly becomes replaced by fear when an unknown bedroom sifts to visibility as the blur of sleep fades from your eyes. The room is bright, for the most part; excluding the dark wood flooring and thick faux fur carpet your toes cling to when you stand. Besides a harmless headrush, any sign of your previously remembered headache from the prior night remains absent.

Light gray walls, with dark crown molding and rectangles with curved in corners, grace its color. A double door sits closed in the center of a far wall, indented into it to form a niche in the rooms formatting. Another niche withholds a twin door, a single this time; the sophisticated wall designs dancing around the frame. You turn to look at the surface you rose from, a cloud-like mattress sitting proudly atop a bedframe much more expensive looking than your own metal one back home. The headboard is large, nearly towering in height. It’s deep suffocating wood withholding a carved lions head that loiters at the peak. Too many pillows grace the mattress, four with cavernous olive silk pillowcases to match the sheets, the other two made of the same material but in black. Examining the rest of the room drops to the bottom of your priority list when you hear the sound of someone humming in the direction of the breeze.

Your eyes find them standing on a balcony with open doors. Airy curtains flow towards you, the pair matching the others across the room. The male is hunched over, elbows pressed into the thick stone railing keeping him from falling to a rather painful death. He wears a loose white dress top, dress slacks holding onto his frame lazily when you note the carefree way it loosens at the ankle above his bare feet. He hums a sad tune, something so depressing in nature you feel tears well up in your eyes. The hardwood is cold, it’s chilling temperature aiding in the melody’s heartbreaking tune and feel. You take delicate steps of your tippy toes, eventually going flat foot as you grow closer. You lean against one of the doors, knocking on its frame with your knuckles and drawing the attention of the hunched man.

He jolts, halting the next verse of his song, “You’re awake.” He says, “I didn’t want to wake you,” He checks his watch. “Are you hungry? It’s past noon but I’m not one to dismiss the idea of pancakes.” He takes a step closer, but stops when he sees you move away from him by a step or so.

Jimin.

You gulp, clearing your throat. “Where am I?” He smiles weakly, assuming you’d ask such.

He places one hand in his pocket, the other runs through his hair slowly, the same shiny tresses you remember touching and inhaling the intoxicating scent of. “All I can tell you is you’re safe.”

“Am I?” You sass, distancing yourself again by placing feet of space between you two when you back up to sit on the bed. Jimin ignores your plea for room, stepping inside and closing the double french doors behind him.

He crosses his arms. “Do you...remember last night?” He asks, nervous wrinkles forming as his eyebrows crease. He looks as if he hasn’t slept, his hair is messy, but you believe that to be from his incessant need to run his hand through it rather than from the tossing and turning slumber usually serves. His eyes are big, droopy and partnered with two matching eyebags that despite the usual weakening they bring to your features, they seem to do little when it comes to dragging down his own.

You look him in the eye, “Which part? The one where you killed my father or where you kidnapped me and brought me here?”

He huffs in amusement, “So you remember some of it-it seems.” He moves across the room, a victorian divan supporting him as he sits, legs crossed and an elbow resting on the one arm supplied by the old style furnishing.

“You have a bad habit of not answering questions.” You look him up and down, hating yourself for admiring the way his dress pants hug him.

He sighs, flicking his thumb across his bottom lip. “In terms of location...,” He pauses, flicking his eyes toward you before acknowledging your question, “I told you I lived with a group of friends, you remember that don’t you?”

You nod, linking your fingers.

“This is our home, However, I can’t tell you where we are exactly.” He looks smug, like he’s bested you at a game of his own design.

“So, in short, I’m your prisoner.”

Jimin chuckles, “Prisoner is such a daft word. I prefer guest.”

“A guest who cannot leave.” You stand once more, walking to one of the windows as a means of protesting the meeting of Jimins cocky stare. The bright light blinds you momentarily, your eyes squinting involuntarily due to the strong rays of sun descending from the heavens. Jimin falls silent, watching your delicate movements. You look past the curtains, moving the light fabric to the side and into a silver curtain hold. Your breath catches at the view, there are flowers as far as the eye can see.

A garden of palatial proportions.

Jimin notes your reaction, “Would you like to see more?” He asks, and when you turn to look at the divan you find him standing back at the french doors instead, holding one open slightly. You hesitate, but the idea of seeing such a display of flowers urges you forward, one foot placing itself in front of the other without your initial input. You walk past him, his cologne following and blocking the sent of millions of flowers from entering your nose. You gasp, panning your eyes across the endless fields. “They’re a pain in the ass to tend to-“ Jimin starts.

“They’re beautiful.” You interrupt, smiling as you continue to gaze out and along the rows of flora and fauna.

Jimin smiles, for the horrible things he’s put you through in the past day he’s glad he can bring you even the smallest slice of joy, regardless whether it was his intention or not. The flowers stretch for miles, joined by rows of bushes that line the edge of the property. Beyond that is a great iron fence.

So much for planning to escape.

You continue to guap at the sea of variants: sunflowers, lilacs, anemone, irises, larkspur, marigolds, cock’s comb, peonies, and of course...hydrangea. Thousands upon thousands of breeds of flower reside within the stretching landscape. The overpowering colors painting the flower beds demand your overall attention and when granted it, you forget everything going on around you. You get sucked into a whirlpool of scents, scenery, and memories.

To be surrounded by so much beauty...do you even belong at all?

“How about those pancakes?” Jimin blinks innocently at you, leaning against the thick stone railing keeping you from diving headfirst into the gladiolus. You turn to him, mock annoyance carved into your features.

“Fine; I will have breakfast with you only because I am hungry, don’t start getting smart ideas.” You huff, turning back to look at the gardens as Jimin starts to laugh, stepping towards the door. You spot a fountain in the distance, an angel and demon dancing together at the top.

True beauty converses with death.

“Did you sleep well?” Jimin asks, placing a plate of blueberry pancakes in front of you. You nod, ignoring the food to instead admire the workmanship of the grand kitchen. Like the parts of the mansion you’ve seen, each aspect of the kitchen is opulent, bathed in a sumptuous beauty you’ve only ever seen in magazines. “I take it the bed was comfortable? I didn’t have it specially flown in from-”

“Jimin.” You suddenly say, cutting him off when you whip your head around to face him. He swallows, the sound of his name sliding off the tip of your tongue still forcing him into a blush induced silence. “Why the formality?” Jimin cocks his head to the side in confusion. “Why all the mock kindness? Why not just kill me right here right now and get it over with?” You grit your teeth, growing more and more fueled by a blazing anger still raging within.

Jimin steals a strawberry adorning the top of one of the fluffy pancakes. “Where’s the fun in that?” He smiles, talking through a full mouth. You huff, growing impatient with his answers. “My dear, I’ve already told you. My intention is to persuade you into silence; not to harm you.” He leans against the countertop. “If my actions came across as anything other than pure, I apologize.” He bows his head in mock sympathy, a whisper of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Pure, tch.” You snort, finally picking up your fork and knife to cut into the fluffy breakfast you had no incentive to eat previously.

“I know it doesn’t come across that way.”

“Oh, you picked up on that did you?” You sarcastically growl through a bite of the most delicious pancake you’ve ever eaten. You try not to show it, choking down the enjoyment begging to be depicted on your face.

“The CEO-” Jimin continues, starting to explain. “Your father,” He corrects himself after seeing the look on your face after hearing your father’s professional title. “He wasn’t the man you believed him to be.”

You gulp, swallowing the cloud-like breakfast treat and proceeding to respond in toe, “And I suppose you’re a saint.”

“Only on Sundays.” Jimin flashes a smile, one coated in derision so thick you feel like smacking him.

“Was that a joke…?” You ask, not really wanting an answer, “So you’re making jokes now?” You take another bite of the pancake, hating yourself for enjoying them.

Jimin clears his throat, ignoring your question but still acknowledging its existence with a smile. “Just allow me a chance to explain. You may even come to see that I, nor anyone in this house is the bad guy.” You can’t help but scoff, if Jimin plans to change your mind and opinion on his actions...he’ll be fighting for a while.

“Who else is in this house?” You question, “More killers like yourself?”  

A tease of a smile tugs the corner of Jimin’s mouth upwards, “Currently? Just you and me.” He answers, ignoring the fact that you were, yes, unswayable from the idea of firing shot after shot of hatred towards him and his mysterious friends.

You look him in the eye. “Hoseok?”

Jimin sits up, “Ah.” He relinquishes, chewing the inside of his cheek while moving one hand to rub the back of his neck, “You remember him huh?”

“Just his name.” You shrug, “And that he was taller than you.” You jib.

“Yeah, yeah. Anything else?” Jimin rolls his eyes, placing the flats of his palms onto the countertop assertively.

You grin softly, a whisper of amusement Jimin’s sure to miss. “Blurbs of callous words.” You explain, “Aimed at one another.” Jimin nods slowly, a stoic look of mourning pressed to his chiseled physique. “He doesn’t like the idea of me being here does he?”

“Yeah well-” “That makes two of us.” Jimin shakes his head, cocking it to the side. This side of you is different from the girl he saw sitting at that dark wood bar, this was the real you...and he was starting to rather enjoy her company.

Jimin returns to the topic at hand, yet again ignoring you and your quick retorts. He runs a hand through his messy locks, “I can’t blame him. Let's just say...Hobi has some issues I doubt he’ll ever get over.” He steals your fork, taking a bite of your blueberry pancakes. You don’t protest but internally you’re kind of sad to see the piece go to someone other than yourself.

“What kind of issues?” You press, “Besides, of course, being a mercenary and all.” Apparently, Jimin finds your hell-bent determination to insult him and his liaising with the law amusing, more so than previously.

He clears the mirth from his throat, “Don’t worry about it. Now hurry up and clean your plate. I have something to tell you.”

“You can’t say it here?” You sass back.

He pushes the plate closer to you. “Just eat your pancakes.”

You allow Jimin to linger his hand behind you as you walk through the gracious halls, he seems content with himself and the way he’s handling you. You assume he expected a much less cooperative being to wake up in his company. Aside from the obvious beauty gap, you detect between the Adonis next to you and yourself, you feel very out of place. The clothes you’re wearing aren’t your own, evident by the scent lingering on the fabric. However, the smell isn’t something Jimin’s exuded in your presence, not to mention that the size of the top appears too large to belong to the young man on your left. You ignore the article of clothing to instead count your footsteps silently and follow Jimins lead, all pushed forward by his guiding fingertips. The two of you approach the same door you left from previously, however, you had no idea that that's where you were headed until you recognized the painting hanging above a potted plant next to the door. The painting is of a beautiful goddess, men bowed at her feet, the head of another dangling from her slender fingers. “Gruesome.” You say, stopping to examine the brush strokes.

“Hm?” Jimin hums, turning to look at you before following your gaze, “Oh, yeah,” He agrees, “Jungkook made that.” He crosses his arms, his eyes moving along the paint just as yours do.

“Jungkook?” You look away from the goddess who lifts one of the mans’ faces towards hers to instead interrogate Jimin’s words.

“Mhm, he’s the youngest of us...and tends to draw when he isn’t training.” He chuckles at the idea of his younger. “Although…” He looks back up, scratching the back of his neck in thought, “I don’t know the inspiration for this painting.” He shrugs, turning back towards the door and pushing it open for you, “You could always ask him about it sometime.” He grins, watching as you walk past.

You roll your eyes, “Yeah, because I’m going to be here for a while.” You announce in mock happiness.

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He follows.

“Okay.” You nod, sitting on a futon at the end of the half-made bed.

Jimin stands in front of you, stepping forward after closing the door. “As I already told you...you can’t leave.” He crosses his arms.

“Ah yes,” You nod, “The whole ‘guest not prisoner’ conversation.”

“Yes,” Jimin laughs, “But I’m willing to...compromise on the matter.” You’re caught off guard. Never once did Jimin’s demeanor depict the possibility of a truce.

“Oh?” You cross your legs, realizing just how short the oversized sweater you're wearing really is, “And how would we do that oh assassin sir?” You expertly uncross your legs, experimenting with positioning that won’t allow Jimin a peek of below.

“First off.” He growls, stepping towards you and lifting your chin between his index and thumb. “Stop with the low jibs, they aren’t appreciated. I know what I did was wrong but the more you say things like that the less I regret it. So knock it off or there will be no compromise.” You blush, his stern tone forces the blood to rush to your cheeks and ears, turning you feverish. Never has a man had such an effect on you...and you hate yourself for allowing it.

“Fine.” You murmur, ripping your jaw from his grasp.

He nods his head once, “Thank you.”

You smack your lips together, “What did you have in mind?” You swallow, blinking quickly in the hopes of clearing your cheeks of any color that’s foreign.

If Jimin noticed, he doesn’t show it. “Persuading you into silence is my goal, if that is achieved and you promise to keep the activities that took place last night a secret by the end of this month...you’re free.” He explains, gesticulating with his hands.

“You mean, I can leave?” You raise your eyebrows.

“Only if you comply into gagged silence.” He wags a finger at you.

“And if I don’t?” Jimin falls silent, looking away from you and swallowing hard, his hands fidgeting profusely with the rings gracing his digits, “You kill me.” You guess, reading into the way Jimin runs out of vocabulary to speak, and how he refuses to meet your curious eye.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Jimin says, proving your guess correct. “Of course…” He trails off, his eyes fidgeting. “If you comply...it’s your choice as to whether you leave or not.” You can’t help but laugh in befuddlement, to think he actually believes you might want to stay? After everything you’ve been through and experienced with him, more than half of the experiences have been negative, the highlight of your time spent with him being a toss-up between the pancakes this morning and his lips against your neck...the one being a memory you’d rather like to eviscerate from your mind.

You scoff, looking him in the eye, “I have a feeling that leaving will remain my top priority.” You huff, squinting your eyes and shooting a less than appreciative gaze his way.

Jimin licks his lips, eyeing you with the same predatory gaze he had generously granted not a day prior, “And i’ll continue to think otherwise.” He smiles, genuinely proud of sticking to his gut.

You purse your lips, sighing through your nose, “Why a month?” You question, the length of time gnawing at the back of your mind. “What if I just agreed to be gagged and left right now?” Jimin smirks, clearly he’s imagined something far less Christian than you did.

“Well, as much as I’d love to get rid of those beloved--but unappreciated--remarks of yours...I can’t trust you with the information you withhold still fresh in that pretty little head of yours. Just be grateful for the chance at freedom I’ve so generously bestowed...alright?” You nod, playing with the tip of your thumb and upon looking down you notice it to be no longer swathed in blood, of course, some residual lingers in the crevices beneath your fingernails but even those are fairly well tended to.

Did Jimin...wash you?

Regardless, the details of how much of you Jimin has seen can wait for a more appropriate time and place, you have much more important and pressing matters that require your attention, “I have one request.” You hang your head towards your lap, fluttering your eyelashes to prevent tears from manifesting.

Jimin takes a step towards you. “Anything.” You feel the unwavering want and need to be comforted, but asking that of someone who not long ago was bathing in crimson seems not only inappropriate but completely and utterly coquettish, and despite your previous interactions, you don’t want Jimin to get the wrong idea.

“If you’re to owe me anything...then it’s this so don’t deny it-” You sit up straight, meeting the playful look traipsing through his eye.

He grows frustrated when you stare too long, your train of thought momentarily derailed. “Just spit it out, would you? You’re worse than Yoongi.”

You ignore the unknown name, sticking to your course. “My grandmother.” You start, swallowing out of fear that he might reject your proposal.

Jimin pushes his eyebrows together, “Yeah? What about her?”

“Well, she’s in a coma...and before my father died - thank’s by the way,” Jimin scoffs and looks away quickly, returning his gaze to you as you continue explaining, “He would send money to care for her...and running the flower boutique in her absence was my way of keeping her alive…” You bite your lip to stop it from quivering, and Jimin watches you do so.

He bounces on the balls of his feet, running one hand through his hair, “So you want me to send money to pay for her medical bills?” You look up, locking glossy eyes with him, “Alright, done.” He says without a second thought.

“No wait...well, that’s part of it but…” You gulp, looking at your sweaty palms. “I want you, or someone to care for the boutique while I’m away.” Jimin’s mouth falls agape, astray pieces of his hair falling back towards his face as he twists and turns with his hands on his hips, moving with restless energy.

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me!” Jimin spins around, facing the door and placing his face in his palms.

“You put this on yourself, don’t get testy with me.”

“Why you-” He points a finger your way, finding it difficult to hide the smile clearly scrunching up his features. “Fine,” He drops his hand, the palm of it smacking against his meaty thigh. “Anything else highness?” He cocks his head to the side, his tongue prodding the inside of his cheek.

You look down at your choice of attire, although the choice to wear it was never presented to you…anyhow, you find it acutely unbefitting yourself. “Perhaps a change of clothes?”

The floorboards creaked beneath your step, the sound echoing across the beautiful walls to land only again at your feet with the next movement you make. You pace back and forth over the same patch of warm--and worn down--carpet as you try to pass time. Jimin left you alone in his bedroom with absolutely nothing to do while he went shopping for you without...you. His decision appeared as ill-advised given the fact that he was buying clothes without the future wearer present, however, he wasn’t one to be persuaded. Despite his authoritative tone and direct order to stay put, you argued being able to go all so you could try on or even supply an opinion on the design or article itself that he chooses.

Considering your consistent restlessness and your rapidly growing boredom, it’s obvious that Jimin refused your allowment to come and instead left you here, alone in your cushy prison. In his absence, you made the bed, stared out the window at the millions of budding flowers, and finally turned on the TV that laid embedded in the far wall. The characters bounced across the television with bright smiles on their faces, the damsel rescued by the knight in shining armor once again.

If only that happened in real life...

Watching the jubilant actors portray such boisterous characters did little to subdue your expanding ennui, instead, their bright energy pushed you deeper into a cloudy haze of depression given thought, so you clicked off the screen, finally free from their clown-like smiles.

Now, you cease pacing to instead stare at the two ceiling-high bookshelves abreast the french door. You cross your arms, recounting the last words Jimin said to you as you examine the bookshelves’ contents from afar.

Don’t touch anything, i’ll be back soon.

“‘Don’t touch anything hm? Pft.” You roll your eyes, a crooked smile smearing itself across the moist skin of your lips, “Well you’re not here to stop me now are you?” You sass at Jimin, full well knowing he’s not nearly close enough to hear your remark nor defend himself. The floor beneath you transfers from area rug to hardwood as you make your way closer to the display. You skim your tough fingertips over the spine of the books all varying in language. Some were in Greek and Latin, others in what you assume is Korean. Oddly, very few are in English. However, one classic catches your eye.

Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

“Someone is sappier than they appear.” You chuckle, holding up the hardcover book and flipping open to the first page. The paper is crisp, but each turn of the next page is without resistance and falls over to join its siblings without complaint.

Clearly, it’s been well read.

Your eyes scan the ink staining the parchment, reading over the introduction. While doing so, you move yourself to the divan which sits close by. With every flick of a page, you grow deeper and more immersed in the words on the paper. That is...until you hear a thud followed by the carry of whimsical and jubilant voices from downstairs. You jump at the loud bang and the shaking it does to your rib cage. The book nearly flies from your grasp, but you manage to hold it close and slam it shut. When the voices soften into more relaxed tones, you stand, moving to place the book down on the divan, upside down.

You feel yourself start to shake, your hands moving with little conduct. Warily, you move towards the threshold, pressing your hands and ear to the cool wood of the bedroom door; listening through in the hopes of picking up conversation. It’s faint, but words begin to flood through. “You three are hopeless.” An amused voice chimes, the voice is deep and fairly new, but something about it seems recognizable. They continue, “We’ll have to work on your hand-eye coordination Jin.” Laughter ensues.

“Sure, tease me. You full well know knife throwing is Jimin’s forte, doubtfully mine.” The voice is higher in pitch, but carries a sense of maturity and age with each word the owner spits.

You start to hear footsteps, clunks against the hard marble you know graces the foyer. It strikes you that the owners of said voices are climbing the grand staircase, and with each step...they move closer to you. You quickly back away from the door, misjudging the distance between the doorway and the futon still at the end of the bed. You trip and stumble backward, landing on the remote that before, rest in your place. The television bursts to life, it’s volume loud enough to startle you into standing once more. You scramble for the remote, bending towards the floor where the remote has fallen past the futon and towards the bed, disappearing beneath it.

To your dismay, the voices grow nearer, to the point where they are audible over the loud cries and whoops emitting from the television. “I thought Jimin was out.” One says, the velvety tone to his voice sending chills down your spine.

“He is, well he should be.” The maturer of the voices announces.

“I swear if he lied to get out of practice i’ll-” The mellow--dare you say tired--voice reveals. Before you have a chance to regain your composure, the pair of doors open, a number of beautiful young men spilling through its opening. “-kill him.” The weak voice--belonging to a dark-haired boy with fair skin, fair enough to be compared to that of the most perfect pearl--finishes, completing his previously started sentence.

The group of men stand astounded, all give one. Three of the guaping dark haired boys examine you up and down, while the last leans against the frame of the threshold, looking everywhere but at you. He wears a serious mug, the bend of his eyebrows stiff and furrowed. His body is lean but well toned and he smiles weakly when one of the men say: “Who is she?”

The wallflower smirks, “Just another of Jimin’s toys I'm sure.” He starts to leave the room.

“Now now Hoseok, that’s no way to greet a pretty young lady-not that you’ve ever had manners-but I implore you apologize to her.” The mature voice flows from the mouth of an ethereal young man, his hair covering his forehead-which to the eye is quite the loss-, then again you fear the angels would be subjected to a competition for the top spot as divine beings if the boy revealed any more of his already beautiful face.

Hoseok—the boy who before leant against the doorframe—cocks his head to the side in disgust, approaching you. You lean back but your feet refuse to move, trapping you with your knees to the futon and your face only inches from his. He flashes you a pearly white smile, his canines shimmering as the light in the room glazed the pearlesque surface. The smile itself, however, is nothing if not filled with ire. Kneeling, he scoops your hand up in his, raising it to his mouth and kissing the top, “Deepest apologies miss, It seems the residents of this established household are too immature to accept that some people in this house get some.” The three other boys, before looking directly at you, now stare at the back of their comrades head, star struck.

The first one to speak being the same young man who demanded he apologize, “Jung Hoseok!”

“I’ll be in my room.” The degenerate responds, standing and slipping his fingers away from yours. He sends you a smirk before stalking from the room as if none of which took place bothered him in the slightest.

You shiver.

“Well isn’t he pleasant today.” The shortest of the males attempts, trying to break the tension clearly enveloping the room under a thick mist.

Jin, who you’ve connected to the mature voice responds, “Really Yoongi?”

Yoongi. Jimin mentioned that name merely in passing. Nice to have a face to associate with the name. “He was fine this morning, sarcastic tones, rude remarks...nothing out of the ordinary.” Jin goes on, scratching the side of his head in thought. “Something must’ve set him off.”

“Something other than the pretty mistress standing alone in Jimin’s room pantsless?” Yoongi sneers, causing you to flush and pull down your sweater.

“It’s not like that!” You snap, momentarily letting your tongue slip away from you. “I’ll leave it to Jimin to explain. It is his fault after all.” You cross your arms, turning away from them.

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear the risqué details of Jimin’s wrongdoing.” Yoongi bites his lip mischievously, “I’ll finally have something to hold over his head.”

“As a man of honor Yoongi, I hope you hold your tongue.” Jin chastises.

“Lighten up you two.” The third and final youngen speaks, his tone constructed of velvet and honey. He sighs, approaching you with care. He doesn’t touch you, only bowing his head once before meeting your gaze, “I won’t ask questions, and ignore them, they don’t know how to have fun.” He smiles, gesturing towards the peanut gallery behind him. It’s with that smile that for the first time since last night, you feel less trapped. “I’m Taehyung.”

Someone clears their throat, forcing all to turn towards them, “I leave you for a few hours and you already have three assassins gawking at you.”

Jimin.

#Beautiful Demise #BD #j-hopeyouchokeme #BTS #Fanfic #Fics #Smut #BTS smut #BTS fanfic #BTS fics #series #park jimin x reader #jimin x reader #pjm x reader #reader x jimin #reader x park jimin #reader x pjm #assassin au #bts assassin au #assassin #j-hope #jimin #taehyung #jin #yoongi #multi-releationship #antagonist namjoon #sorta #assassin jimin #assassin j-hope

[sumigakure]

Shifted Seasons

To: @sanjuno

From: @stormwind13

Title: Shifted Seasons

Rating: G

Word Count: 2684

Prompt: Madara is thrown into another world, where he learns all of his siblings are alive and meets two of them.

Warnings: None

Mito choked on the smoke billowing through the air and scowled, her eyes sweeping the battlefield - her husband was south, dealing with the Nine Tales, and would need her help to completely contain the beast. But first…. it’s master would need to be dealt with and she would spare her husband that pain of having to kill what had once been a friend. She released her own chakra, letting it seek out it’s complimentary force. Uchiha had always been easy, raging forest fire to her winter gales inclined nature, and she spared a brief thought to what might have been, had he not given in to the paranoia that his family was so known for.

There. She moved, calling her chakra to her fingertips, racing towards the source of fire in front of her - she would only have one chance to try this seal; Uchiha would never allow her so close twice - and tried the quick step that her brother in law had been teaching her. Uzushio had no such thing and she relished the sudden burst of speed… and the look of shock on her husband’s once friend as she wrapped her fingers around his throat, transferring the seal to his own skin, twining with his chakra.

There was a small pause as the seal took effect and Mito stumbled as Uchiha disappeared in a small puff of smoke and a soft “boop”. She twisted around, throwing her chakra outward, trying to find where her seal had sent him… but there was nothing, only the rapidly dissipating feel of foreign chakra - and not even true chakra, as she thought of it - where the man had once stood.

Her eyes narrowed for an instant before she turned and raced in her husband’s direction - time enough later to figure what had happened…. after the beast was subdued.

Madara regained consciousness with a scream - his chakra coils felt like they were on fire and he lurched to his feet, hand going to a weapon that wasn’t there and he paused as he remembered. He’d lost them all, in the first few minutes of the fight with Hashirama, and the two of them had resorted to physical attacks and ninjutsu. But now there was no Hashirama and no Nine Tails and his chakra was twisting itself painfully, the usual feel of fire warping into something else.

He glanced around, trying to orientate himself - Hashirama’s wife had done something to him - and stared. He… he was no longer near Konohagakure. In fact, he felt fairly confident in saying that he was no longer even in Fire Country, since he’d never seen a plain this smooth and flat before. It stretched onward in every direction, high grass dotted with unfamiliar flowers and while there was an occasional low tree, bent and twisted, nothing else was taller than his knees.

He tried to cast out his chakra - he was no true sensor, not like Tomoe had been, and even now there was a twinge of pain for her death, even over a decade later - and was driven to the earth as the low throb of pain rose like a flood to drown him. He wasn’t sure how long he knelt there, trying to breath through the pain, but when he was able to think again, he pushed himself to his feet and headed north, for no other reason than Konohagakure - Hashirama, his family - were to the south.

He lost himself in the walk, letting the sameness of the scenery wash over him and the dull throb of pain from his chakra turn itself into a marching drum - if there were enemies about, he would find himself in trouble, but after that last battle, he didn’t particularly care. Let them come - he was a Uchiha without home or family.

When he finally came back to himself, the sun was lower, turning the sky bright orange and red as it headed to earth. He thought he had walked a distance but it was hard to tell, with no landmarks to speak of, until he noticed the copse of trees in the distance. True trees, standing tall against the wind that he just now noticed had never truly ceased blowing during the day.

With nowhere else to stop for the night - with no destination in mind, there was no point in pushing himself - he turned towards the trees, intent on getting somewhere that wasn’t exposed, and stilled as a boy burst out of the trees, sprinting towards him.

Madara noticed three things in quick succession - the boy was clearly a Uchiha, with his black eyes and hair, he was young, perhaps mid-teens if he was on the small side of things, and that his only weapon was a sword of a style that Madara had never seen before - before his attention was refocused on what was chasing the boy. Men, clad in strange armor, armed with spears and more of the strange swords. They wore odd helmets and the armor was one continuous plate of metal, compared to his own dō-maru armor, though they only appeared to have chest plates on.

He hesitated for a moment - this was no concern of his, he’d washed his hands of his family when they’d chosen the Senju over him - but then one of the men let a contraption of wooden balls and rope fly and the boy went down with a yelp of pain, the weapon tangling his feet. He might have been many things - he was self aware enough to know that he was paranoid and had a tendency towards pettiness, never the best traits in a leader - but he would not willingly allow a family member to die in front of him.

Madara darted forward, scooping the sword off the ground next to the boy, and slammed into the group of men - six in all - like a landslide. The sword was awkward to wield - the balance was wrong, and he was nearly decapitated when he got it stuck in one of his opponent’s arms before he realized it functioned much better as a stabbing weapon than a cutting one.

Even without pulling on his chakra, the fight was almost ridiculously easy - who ever these men were, they had clearly only been intended as basic foot soldiers and not elite troops, and Madara had been more than capable of killing those since he was ten. More tellingly, perhaps, was the fact none of his opponents drew on chakra during the fight - non shinobi forces then, rabble from one of the civilian lords no doubt, and so much cannon fodder.

He cut down the last man and finally turned back to the boy, who was standing a short ways off - far enough out of range that he would have warning if Madara lunged towards him - and staring. Madara studied him more closely and revised his age estimate upwards - mid to late teens, given the lack of baby fat but the presence of the awkwardness that most teens still growing possessed - and well off. He had noticeable amount of jewelry and his clothes looked to be made of higher quality cotton and silks and were nearly completely impractical for fighting, though he at least had the good sense to wear what looked like closed toe boots, similar to what was worn in the northern countries.

“Madara…” The boy’s voice was hesitant, hands hovering in the like he wasn’t sure if he should be reaching for Madara or not. “Is… is that you?”

Madara opened his mouth to answer in the affirmative - it had been nearly a half decade since he’d left the village, so not being able to recognize the boy immediately wasn’t out of the realm of possibility - when a large shadow passed overhead, casting much of the field in shadow. He looked upwards for the source of the shadow - was it some sort of bird summons? - and stopped, thoughts freezing, as he took in the massive creature gliding through the air.

His stomach fell and something in him curled - what had that woman done to him? - as he realized that he wasn’t in some country that he’d never visited before, that this wasn’t going to be as easy as just avoiding Fire Country to plan some sort of retribution. He was somewhere else, somewhere with a large flying animal that he couldn’t identity and had no frame of reference for. Had she sent him to the summons realm? Could he even find his way back from there, when he had no contracts to his name and those Uchiha with a contract might not wish to help?

His attention was drawn back to the creature as a roar filled the air, shaking the grass and causing every hair on his body to stand on end. It was easily the half as tall as the tower that Hashirama had constructed in the village and a light green color - like newly budded leaves - that was striped with brown. He noted it had two legs and wings and no feathers, which was overshadowed by the fact that what looked like it’s head was nearly as large as he was. The boy didn’t seem to notice his shock, whirling around and sprinting across the field towards where the… thing was coming in for a landing.

“Izuna!” The boy’s voice rang across the clearing and Madara found the will to move again, following the boy at a much slower pace, so he wasn’t perceived as more of a threat than he was.

The boy didn’t seem to notice Madara following, slamming into the man that had slid off the creature’s back. The man returned the hug even as he tugged off the odd helmet that he was wearing, and Madara stopped - it was Izuna, though without several of the scars that Madara remembered. But Madara had been his younger brother’s constant companion since Izuna could walk and he would know him anywhere. He hung back for a moment as Izuna’s head tilted for a moment, followed by the boy shaking his head, slumping in familiar lines of regret and grief before the boy apparently remembered Madara was still there.

“It’s Madara!” The boy had tugged Izuna’s arm, turning his brother’s attention to Madara, and somehow, he hadn’t expected Izuna to glare at him and tug the other boy protectively behind him, even if he should have - whatever world this was, it was a different one where his brother had lived, assuming the Uzumaki witch hadn’t sealed him into some sort of nightmare. And if she had, Madara would kill her and everything she loved.

“You don’t know that,” Izuna said flatly, eyes suspicious. “He’s been missing for months, Ninigi, and there have been rumors of revenant activity from Ylisse, not to mention what Nagato does to those he captures. Even if that is Madara, there’s no guarantee that he’s the man he was.”

Ninigi. Another gut punch and Madara stared at the boy with new eyes - the youngest of them and the first to die, killed during the assassination of their mother - searching for anything that would connect the teenager to the gap toothed toddler that had always been following his older siblings and parents, reaching for hugs. They’d spoiled him, had let him be more like a civilian child than a shinobi one - with four older siblings, there had been no need to push his development, and Madara had always believed that had been what had killed him.

He hesitated, turning his attention back to Izuna, who had a had resting on an ax as the creature’s head hovered above the two brothers, but he wouldn’t know if he didn’t ask and if Ninigi lived, maybe, just maybe…. “Tomoe? Oichi? Are they alive?”

They’d each died at different times - Tomoe alone and in the daimyo’s court, poisoned by an unknown assassin, while Oichi had died on mission when she should have been safe - before Madara had turned twenty one, leaving him and Izuna alone, trying to hold together a collapsing clan by themselves when it should have been the five of them supporting each other.

Izuna’s grip on the ax tightened, but he answered, “They are. Not safe, not that anyone is right now, but alive.”

Madara stayed on his feet through sheer force of will - in this world, his family lived, intact and whole - and wondered how to convince his - rightfully - suspicious brother to let him come with them, even if he would most likely have to ride on the beast.

“Izuna,” Ninigi poked his older brother, “We should take him home, shouldn’t we? What if he is Madara - he looks like him, even if his hair is too long, and the clerics will be able to tell, won’t they?” He paused. “And he saved my life - we can’t leave him here after that.”

The look on Izuna’s face said that they most definitely could, but he glanced at his brother and Madara saw him relax - Ninigi would get his way. “My brother is right.” Izuna said finally. “And we can’t leave you to wander on your own in any case - there’s too many bandit groups for one lone traveller to be safe… and you do resemble our missing brother closely.”

It took them a couple of tries - Madara did not trust the flying mount and Izuna was both reluctant to let him have his back (which stung more than Madara cared to admit) or allow him to sit next to Ninigi, which was sensible, since of the three, the younger boy was clearly the weakest fighter. Unfortunately, Madara was too large to ride in front of Izuna and the mount wasn’t large enough to allow for much space with three men attempting to ride at the same time, so Madara was finally settled behind Izuna.

Ninigi twisted around to face him, face alight with mischief. “You’ll like this - Hashirama is the best wyvern on the entire continent!”

“Hashi -?!” Madara’s sudden protest was cut off as the beast launched itself into the air and he had to cling desperately to Izuna to avoid sliding from his perch. In front of them, Ninigi let out a whoop of excitement and leaned forward to peer at the ground below. Madara carefully leaned over to the side before wrenching himself backwards, ignoring Izuna’s yelped protest. He had thought that he hadn’t minded heights, but this showed he had clearly been laboring under a misunderstanding about what the definition of heights was.

If he kept his gaze fixed firmly on Izuna’s shoulder blades and carefully didn’t think about what he was on, it was fine and he could (almost) convince himself that he was…. Well, not on a flying beast that could probably eat him at least. He wasn’t sure how long the flight was, only noticing when the beast - no, Ninigi had called it a wyvern and he’d best remember that, if such creatures were common - shifted, spiraling lower in the sky and Madara risked another look.

They were heading towards what had to be some sort of fortress, built of stone and flat-roofed, unlike the the castles and fortresses of home, with their sloping roofs. The reason for the flat roof was explained when they landed there and Madara slid off as a group of men and women swarmed them, starting to unharness wyvern, chattering among themselves. When he was noticed, there would be a sudden moment of silence and then the whispers would start.

Izuna grabbed his elbow and pulled him in the direction of the stairs, expression thunderous. “There won’t be any stopping the rumors now,” he was grumbling to himself more than Madara, so the older man kept silent - Izuna had never responded well to people interrupting his grumbling and even if this wasn’t the same Izuna that he had known - he found he didn’t particularly care - he would assume that facet of personality held true. “Biwako will be able to clear this up.”

Madara followed his brother into the dim interior lighting, something that might have been hope unfurling in his chest - he had his siblings back.

If you enjoyed this piece, why not take a look at other pieces written by the same author on AO3.

#rated: G #Sumigakure Winter Wishes 2017 #submission #stormwind13 #sumigakure #rank: b

[calloutdicksjerksandthelikes]

Compliments

location: near Frankfurt, Hesse, Germany

Some years ago in September I went out around 1.30 pm to take photos of hay stacks a farmer had just made. Yellow on a blue sky. I walked into the agricultural space that extends in a size of roughly 4 km by 10 km around the city; almost all the crops were in, a farmer on his tractor was working a field at a distance of some 200 meters. No people, I noticed. I left the path to get closer to the hay stacks. I took photos. Then I noticed him. He was naked except for short, tight black boxer shorts, white sneaker socks and black sneakers; a black backpack. There was something about him that made me sense danger immediately. 

I am not someone who can sense danger well. But he was highly marked as danger. Call it animal instinct. He looked like a lot of trouble. The very short-cut hair did not conceal the air of troublemaker he exhaled. It was inscribed in his body, the finely toned muscles, the spotless outfit. A giant contradiction. This was not someone easy-going, proper, polished, educated. I looked around, still nobody anywhere in sight. I hesitated between running toward the farmer on his tractor , not knowing if I could get close enough before getting caught, and pretending I did not notice. So I settled for pretending I did not notice him and hoped he would just pass by. 

The next time I looked around, very carefully, I saw him coming toward me, he had left the path. I turned around and started yelling at him “Stop immediately!” “Do not come closer!” several times.

A smear in his face, he walked up to me. He stood at a distance of 10 cm, face-to-face. He said something, followed by an insult. He spoke non-native German with a mumble. The insult ticked me off. He turned around to walk away. I had a fraction to decide: take a photo or not. 

I decided to take a photo. He noticed. He raced back, pushed me to the ground. When I tried to fight him off, he sat on top of me and tried to take away my cell phone. Another fraction later, after I had tried to scream for help and he had noticed the farmer, I let go off the phone. The farmer would not be able to hear me, his tractor making a lot of noise. And I did not know how far this criminal psychopath would go, maybe strangle me? I let go off the phone. He took it, stood up and walked off. As soon as a safe distance emerged, I took off running for help. 

It took me less than 5 minutes to run to a house and get someone to call the police. It took the police an hour to come, on a weekday, daytime. Their excuse was that they “had more important things to do”. It would have been so easy to capture him, on foot, almost naked, in an open field, no bus, no cab in sight. 

Half a year later a police inspector came to my house. If I could help identify a suspect. He showed me a video still. There he was: almost naked, except for the black boxer shorts, the white socks and the black sneakers. Another day and month. He had done something worse to a woman in a pedestrian zone. He likely had done something a lot worse to a woman aged 18 traversing an open field years earlier. In the same time period he had insulted me, wrestled me down and stolen my cell phone, he had insulted women walking in an open space on two or more occasions. I told the officer that I had thought about the incidence, that I believed the suspect to be living here within walking distance; I argued that he is using the connection of two subway stops that are within city boundaries to avoid being charged the significantly higher fare for suburbs. The inspector was startled, then he demanded that I don’t think too much about it and not do anything about it. Suppression. Don’t make the police look dumber than they are. That’s why it takes so long to arrest a criminal.

At then end of the report taking, the policeman said to me that I should expect at least one of the charges against him to be dismissed. What? A cow deal? Where are we? Germany, a country were social harmony is valued higher than justice. He violated my constitutional right to my body, my habea corpus. And I am supposed to see him get away with less than he earned?!

Back then I posted fliers in public spaces offering a reward for any info that leads to his arrest. A few weeks ago I realized how right my hunch was about his clothing. I mentioned to the police officer then taking my report, that I thought his way of dressing very unusual, and I was mocked by my brother who had accompanied me. For years I had forgotten about the incidence, just to realize now how crucial that was: dress code and time of day. Somebody who does not work regular office hours. Somebody who routinely walks home from a more distant subway stop. I suddenly figured that he highly likely worked at a uni; and given that one incidence happened in a pedestrian zone, I know now which uni most likely. I visualize him walking to a subway station after work, via the pedestrian zone where there a plenty of distracted women; he chooses this path because he is foraging, it is not the closest subway station.  

They still have not caught him. No hurry, right, so much more important things to do. Just a few chicks complaining about indecent behavior, so what. A rape, oh come on, why didn’t that chick just take away his knife, right?

All the policemen I had to deal with in this case where male. One of them asked me why I had not attempted to scratch him with my finger nails. State of the art subject matter expertise, right? I reported that I believed the suspect did body toning. I had to explain to the policeman what that means. The policeman discarded it as him just being “young”. Let nobody look better than the average guy, German cultural mantra. Zero tolerance for individual differences.

Since when are women supposed to view it as a compliment when a man makes an unwanted advance? 

What kind of psychopath, other than a narcissist or sociopath, would make an unwanted advance or pass on a woman?

Call them by what they are: psychopath.

We women need to make sexual harassment socially unacceptable by calling it out. Don’t count on the police to resolve any of this, they won’t. 

No, it won’t go away. It does not matter how old you are or how ugly you are or where you live or what you do where and when.

Men like him need to gain control over a woman, even for only a second, to make them feel worth anything. That is how spiritually impoverished they are. They are the abyss. They are the scum of society. 

Women have lost ground every decade since the 1980ies, so don’t count on +time+ to take care of it. 

If you don’t let everyone know, you are on your own. 

Call them out for what they are before the law: criminals.

©calloutdicksjerksandthelikes2020

UPDATE:

I have kept thinking about how to launch a search for the suspect. With Covid-19, all business activity including unis have restricted access and canceled plenary meetings. I want to appeal to people to think of the 18-year old he raped, to think back if they knew or saw somebody around that time who fits the description.

In 2014 I told the police inspector that I think the suspect resides in Stierstadt, an eastern borough of Oberursel. I meant Stierstadt and the adjacent part of Weisskirchen, where there are high rises. It all happens in an area that can be thought of as a large triangle, with 3 rail express/subway stations on one leg, and the fourth station in the angle of the opposing leg. 

He raped the 18-year old in an open space that is adjacent to a subway-stop called ‘Oberursel-Stierstadt’. There are actually two subway stops with this name, one served by a streetcar, the other by an overland express train. In between these two stops, with identical names, is the open space field where the 18-year old was raped, some years before 2014. Now in 2014, when he physically assaulted me, insulted me and stole my phone, he traversed a huge open space connecting the streetcar station ‘Niederursel’ to the  station ‘Oberursel-Stierstadt’ which can be accessed on either the streetcar or the overland express stations. This is the area where he insulted women around the same time. Probably not a coincidence; after the rape, he might have avoided using his original destination, for fear of being recognized, rather than saving money. As I said to the police back then, he resides in Stierstadt or that western part of Weisskirchen that melts into Stierstadt. He uses a narrow connection across a village street to access one open space area from the other, like all the horsemen do when they ride their horses in the fields. 

The day he assaulted me, I hang up reward fliers at all the express rail and subway stations in the area, as well as all bus stops and supermarkets. What I don’t know is if he had already committed a crime at the express rail station ‘Oberursel-Steinbach’, the closest station to the high rises in Weisskirchen.

Back then it outraged me that the police were unable to find a man I was certain to live in Stierstadt, a tiny village of nothing, not even a high-rise, a village of older and newer single family houses with very few apartment blocks. All there is in this small village are two bakeries that have been there for decades. It is as dead-ended as any place can be. I had hoped in 2014 that a friend or family member would betray him to cash in on the reward. 

If I had not had so many negative reactions - from the police, from my brother - I would have continued to think about this in 2014 rather than now. Women get victimized and to make it complete, to ensure social control, men then make sure to invalidate their testimony, their memory, their perceptions. This is how women always end up on the losing end of matters, by systemic discrimination. 

I came across Europe’s-Most-Wanted yesterday and checked out the offenses and verdicts. One of the most horrifying discoveries: criminals with massive records of sexual abuse get less prison time than drug dealers. There is one guy with sexual abuse convictions for abusing dozens of children, and a verdict of 6 years total. He should have gotten 6 years for each child he raped. I don’t think anything speaks more clearly to the low status of assault crimes than the prison sentences handed out all over Europe. Something is profoundly wrong in a society where a sexual offender gets a much lower or even the same sentence as a drug dealer.  This is probably why the police are not really interested in sexual assault or plain assault cases; they built their careers on drug dealer arrests.

Update Q1 2021

There have been reported incidences of sexual harrassment in this town. A smaller man on a bike sexually harrassed women in an open space on two occasions. And a taller man, also on a bike, sexually harrassed women in an open space on at least four instances. All these crimes occured within a few weeks in Q1 in Oberursel.

Copycat crimes? Possibly. 

Cowards? Definitely.

Mysogenists or hate crime offenders? Absolutely

Catch them - trial them - jail them. Extradite them where possible.

[baileymacias]

Can Jump Rope Help You Grow Taller Cheap And Easy Tricks

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Increase Your Height After 22

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#Can Jump Rope Help You Grow Taller Cheap And Easy Tricks #How Much Hanging Increase Height