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rowan-underthehouse · 3 years

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Backseat Driving

Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Ruby/Sam Winchester

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 3547

Warnings: Descriptions of violence, mild sexual content, language

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

Summary:

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

Read it on Ao3 here

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

“Shit.”

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

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

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

“In a way. I sensed your longing.”

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

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

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

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

And Dean gives up the fight.

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam sighs deeply. “I know.”

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

“…help you unwind.”

Sam steps on the gas.

…

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

It’s driving Dean crazy.

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

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

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

“Want you,” Cas gasps out between kisses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We should take this somewhere else.”

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

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

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

…

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

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

Sam tries to enjoy the last few seconds of silence.

Ten…nine…eight…

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

“Dean…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam doesn’t have time to interject.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ruby?”

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

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

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

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

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

“A town called High River 60 miles North.”

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forget it.” Dean grumbles.

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

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

Dean scoffs “It’s not out in the-“

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean ignores him.

“What’s your name?”

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

“Does it matter?”

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

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

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

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

“Actually, I think I can.” He sneers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not-Sebastian looks confused.

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing. Just doing her annual press tour.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deal.”

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

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

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

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nightshade-minho · 4 years

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-Nightmare- (10)

Warnings: Um, like always, get tissues ready, I guess.

He hated this.

Being in the same room as five other people, three of which he hated, wasn’t how he wanted his evening to go. He wanted to be home with you, watching movies and cuddling under about ten blankets. He regretted ever going to that party and meeting the insufferable redhead. God, he couldn’t believe he’d fucked up this bad.

Even now, as he ate dinner, he tuned out the conversation around him. From time to time, he would glance up at Rina, jaw clenched, hate coursing through him.

It was her fault. Right? It had to be.

Whatever. He just had to get through this dinner, and then he’d be able to go home with you. And...maybe, maybe he would confess to you. It was scary to think about...he could feel his heart thumping, and his palms were sweaty. But he knew it was what he had to do. You probably didn’t like him back...but he couldn’t keep it in. He’d kept his feelings locked in for so many years, and now that they were finally out, he couldn’t reel them back in. He felt like an emotional wreck.

He didn’t care if you didn’t feel the same. Seeing you with the necklace around your neck had only solidified what he already knew- you were meant to be his, and he would do anything to make sure that would happen.

When Rina had accused you of changing him, that was the last straw.

Fuck Rina. He probably shouldn’t have snapped at her like that, but he couldn’t help it. He made his way to the bathroom, not wanting to be in the same room as her anymore.

Splashing water on his face, he wiped it clean and sighed, running his hands through his hair. He couldn’t wait to get out of here, couldn’t wait for this to be over.

As soon as he stepped out of the door though, he was met with her face, uncomfortably close to his as she caged him against the doorway, expression furious.

“I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m really not having it.”

“My problem is you. Why the fuck can’t you just leave me alone?” He snapped.

“I know you’re not dating her. I know it. I tried giving you the benefit of the doubt but...it’s so hard. I almost believed it at first...but now, it’s just so laughable. You two, trying to fool everyone into thinking that you’re dating. It’s pathetic.” She spat.

He remained silent.

“What I wanna know is why you left. Is there something wrong with me? Am I unfuckable or something?” Her voice quivered a little, a sprinkle of vulnerability before it regained its usual confidence. “There were millions of guys falling over themselves to want me, to fuck me that night.. Have you ever paused to consider how it would have affected my reputation? You running out of the room just minutes after we entered together?”

“Look, Rina...you’re being unreasonable-”

His brain almost short-circuited when he felt her lips on his. He was consumed with the need to push her away...the acute awareness that you were in the other room.

But for some reason...he couldn’t. He was tired of the game they were playing. Maybe if he just gave her what she wanted, she’d finally stop. She’d stop bothering you two, and he could live his life with you in peace.

So he kissed her back. She pulled away after a few seconds, panting and looking at him with shining eyes. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

He shook his head, eyes widening. “My girlfriend’s literally in the other room-”

She scoffed. “Seriously, Minho, drop the act. I know you two are in a fake relationship. You make it blindingly obvious.” She stares curiously up at him. “Do you...actually like her?”

Minho didn’t say anything, averting his eyes and trying to breathe normally.

She let out an incredulous snort. “Jesus...you’re such a cretin. That bitch doesn’t like you back, you do know that, right?”

“I...”

She pulled away completely, grabbing his wrist and pulling him forward a little bit, peeking around the wall. Minho felt the dread rising in him as she did so, his throat going dry. His eyes took in Juyeon and you on the couch, him leaning closer to you, his hand on your inner thigh. He couldn’t see your expression as your back was facing him, but he’d seen enough. He felt anger pulsing in him as he looked away, scowling.

He hated the way his legs and fingers felt shaky. There it was again, that weakness you caused. He’d been prepared to submit, prepared to accept the weakness as a part of him...but you clearly didn’t feel the same way. So what was the point?

He grabbed Rina, dragging her to the side and whispering in her ear. He’d had enough.

“Where’s that asshole’s bedroom? I wanna fuck you on his bed.”

She grinned, pulling him in for another kiss as she led him to the bedroom, pushing him onto the bed and straddling his lap.

Somehow, Minho didn’t feel anything, not even arousal, as she moved her hips against him, unbuttoning his shirt rapidly. He felt blank, vapid...his body moving as if it were a robot.

Even as he kissed her furiously, he could feel his actions fueled by his frustration and anger. How he wished you were the one on his lap right now...but you’d made it increasingly clear that you didn’t want him in that way. He could make peace with that.

“Fuck you.”

As soon your shaky voice hit his ears, he pulled away like lightning, his eyes landing on your face. The shocked, devastated expression on your face breaking his heart.

Before he could even say anything, you ripped off the necklace, throwing it at him and running away.

He felt tears prick his eyes. That expression on your face...it was now etched in his brain, the memory of it making him nauseous. Why did you look so horrified, so heartbroken? You didn’t like him, so why were you so angry, so sad? The implications of it scared him. What if...

He pushed Rina aside, bending down to pick up the chain, his eyes filling with tears. It wasn’t broken, thankfully. He tucked it into his pocket, turning to the girl on the bed, who was glaring up at him.

“Are you really walking out, again? You do realize-”

“Shut up. I’m done with you. Do whatever you want, I don’t fucking care, okay? I’ve hurt the person who means the most to me multiple times, and you’re to be blamed for some of it. I know I’m the one at fault...and I also know I would have never recognized my love for her if you hadn’t thrown your little tantrum, and forced us into this fake relationship. But if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from all this, it’s that my feelings for her definitely aren’t fake.” He rambled, breathing hard. For some reason, her dumbstruck expression gave him a weird sense of satisfaction.

He ran out of the room, walking to the door as fast as he could and trying his best to avoid Juyeon’s eyes.

***

Minho found you walking down the street. Your back was to him, but he could almost sense the hurt in the way you walked. His heart ached, especially because he knew he was the reason you looked so defeated. He opened his mouth to call out...but he couldn’t.

You deserved so much better.

He inhaled again, working up his courage.

“Y/n!”

You stopped in your tracks, slowly turning around at the sound of his voice. He walked closer, sighing and running a hand through his drenched hair. “Y/n...please...”

“What?” You snapped, crossing your arms. “What could you possibly have to say to me?”

“I...um, I’m s-”

“No.” You scoffed, holding your palm up. “Don’t you dare apologize. You’ve done enough of that.”

He tilted his head to the side, his sadness slowly transforming into anger.

Actually, why was he apologizing? What right did you have to pretend like you were the victim here? You had no idea about his feelings. You didn’t know what he was going through. You were the one who’d started it, flirting with Juyeon.

“Why the fuck should I be the one to apologize?!”

Your eyes widened. “Wha...Minho, you were literally making out with the girl who wants to send you to jail just a few minutes ago! It was just...irresponsible.” In all honesty, you could care less about the immaturity of the action. You couldn’t tell him the real reason after all, could you? That you were jealous.

“Do you ever not think with your dick?” You asked, feeling your emotions burn. “You know...they were right. You are just a fuckboy without any substance.”

The words hit him like a knife. He opened his mouth, closing it as he felt his heart burn at the words, partly because somewhere deep down...he was scared they might be true.

He felt his anger boil over as he took the necklace out from his pocket. “You know what, Y/n? It’s true, what you said in the letter. This friendship was a mistake, after all. I wish I’d never fucking met you, never wasted all these years on someone as boring and mundane as you!” He threw the necklace on the ground, swallowing. The slightest streak of hesitation ran through him, his inner voice telling him to stop and think...before he shook his head, snapping out of it and crushing it under his shoe.

You let out a small gasp, swallowing your tears as you stared at his feet.

“I knew we’d be breaking up tonight. I just never thought it’d happen this way.” He whispered. He was glad for the rain right then, thankful that they were masking the tears running down his face. He hated the lies he’d just spewed.

You paused, hiccuping as you felt fresh tears run down your cheeks. You were sure you looked like a raccoon, mascara dripping down your face.

“Minho...you were right. I’m the one who should apologize. I’m sorry.” You took a deep breath. “Sorry I ever fell in love with you.” You choked out, lips quivering as you watched his face slowly twisting with shock. You turned around, not wanting to see it anymore, walking away from him as fast as you could, your heart pounding and legs shaking.

Your dress was sticking to your body and your hair was plastered to your head. The cold rain was making you shake, wishing you’d brought a jacket. Your heart felt colder, though.

They say confessions in the rain are supposed to be romantic. This felt anything but.

***

You cried into your pillow once you reached home, feeling empty. You were a muddle of emotions, your entire body still wet from the rain.

He didn’t even run after you. Didn’t even care.

Then again, what reason did you have to be angry? He wasn’t really your boyfriend. But...you also had to accept that he wasn’t your best friend anymore. It had come straight out of his mouth.

Your best friend had disappeared a few years ago. The guy you lived with now wasn’t that Minho, wasn’t the Minho who gave you the necklace, the one who cared about you. He was different. Maybe he did belong with Rina.

At least, did this mean that Rina wasn’t pissed at him anymore? You were glad that he wouldn’t have to go to jail, at least. You didn’t hate him that much...no, quite the opposite. You still fucking loved him. And you hated yourself for that.

By the time you felt the drowsiness settle in, the sun rays were already poking through the curtains.

***

Minho felt like he’d just been struck with a hammer. The sound of thunder was all he could hear apart from your words repeating themselves over and over in his head.

You fell in love with him.

When? How? Why?

He couldn’t comprehend it. He’d watched dumbly as you left, even after you became a dot in the distance. It had felt like he was rooted to the spot, his legs having lost the ability to walk and his brain, the ability to think.

He ran his fingers through his wet hair as it slowly dawned on him. The realization that he hadn’t been alone in pining for his best friend, that you’d also been going through the same thing as him. You were in love with him…

He let out a shaky sob as he realized just how badly he’d fucked up.

***

The sound of the doorbell ringing woke you up. It was still pretty early in the morning, and you groaned as you dragged yourself out of bed, having had only 3 hours of sleep.

You hated your heart for hoping it was Minho, coming to apologize…even though you knew an apology wouldn’t be enough for you to forgive him. It was hard…but you had to stay away from him. You needed space, time to think. Seeing his face so soon would be too raw to handle. You’d forgive him immediately, even if he said nothing. And he didn’t deserve to be forgiven.

It still disappointed you when you opened the door to see Juyeon standing there with his hands in his pockets.

“What are you doing here?”

He pressed his lips into a thin line. “I just…wanted to say I’m sorry. And after what happened, I wanted to comfort you.”

You nodded expressionlessly, trying not to show how broken you were. You wanted to be strong.

He tilted his head, and the look of sympathy on his face made you want to cry even more.

“Can I…come in?”

When you remained silent, he quickly cleared his throat. “I mean…I just want to explain.”

You thought for a moment and shrugged, stepping aside as you went back in, sitting on the couch. He came inside, hesitantly sitting next to you.

“Look…I have a few things to admit. First off…I like you.”

Your eyes widened. Yeah, he flirted with you…but you didn’t know he actually had feelings.

“Rina-“

He shook his head, interrupting you.

“Rina and I aren’t together. We’re literally cousins. Everyone on campus knows that.”

You wrinkled your nose. They were? “Um, ew. Then why did-“

”She doesn’t talk to me much. Just a week ago, she approached me telling me about the whole situation, about Minho running away and humiliating her. I’d already kind of heard about it, but the way she was talking about it painted him in a much more vindictive light, you know? And then she told me about how she thought that maybe you two were faking your relationship. Which I found pretty absurd at first, but I quickly realized it could be the truth.”

He took a deep breath, glancing at you to make sure you were still listening before looking back at his hands, folded in his lap.

“She knew I had a tiny crush on you. So, she made me help her carry out her plan to get you two to break up, saying that she’d be able to get you to like me.”

He looked up at you, his eyes sad. “It was wrong of me to help her. She’s just deranged and obsessed with her ‘reputation’. I understand if you never want anything to do with me ever again. I just have one question.”

He looked at you, asking for permission. You nodded, signaling him to go ahead.

“Do you actually like him? Like, as more than a best friend?”

You paused, trying not to let the tears spill as you nodded. He sucked in a sharp breath, nodding with his lips tightly pressed together.

“Oh.”

You rubbed at your eyes, turning to face him completely. “Look, Juyeon…what you two did was pretty messed up. I never thought one person could be so petty to the extent of wanting to send someone to jail just because they refused to have sex with them, but here we are. A series of mistakes and misunderstandings are what got us here…but, whatever.” You scoffed.

“I’m sick and tired of all this. I don’t like Minho anymore.” Lie. “It isn’t just this situation that changed my mind…Minho changed way before Rina stepped into the scene. And..I think this was just a wake up call, letting me know that he’s no longer the person I thought he was.”

Juyeon took your hand, holding it gently. “You…you deserve better.”

You shrugged again, avoiding eye contact. There was silence for a few minutes.

“Y/n…?”

“Hm?”

“Give me just one chance, please? A chance to show you I can make you happy?” He asked, biting his lip as he looked at you hopefully.

You paused as you observed his face. Juyeon was…actually quite good looking. And besides assisting Rina in her shenanigans, he seemed to be a genuinely nice guy. He’d always been kind to you. Your mind was screaming at you, telling you this was a bad idea…that you didn’t have feelings for him, that you were still not over Minho...but the word already came out of your mouth before you could stop it.

“Okay.” You squeezed his hand.

***

Minho woke up with a yawn. The first thing he noticed was how the bed he was in definitely wasn’t his. He was used to this kind of situation, but usually there’d be a naked girl sleeping next to him. This time, though, the bed was empty.

He got out of bed, heading for the door and seeing Chan sat at the breakfast table.

“Oh, good. You’re up. Breakfast?”

He shook his head, groaning as last night’s memories came flooding back. Your disturbed expression when you caught him with Rina, your tears as you confessed, the broken necklace.

He’d picked it up after you left. It was ruined, the little diamonds chipped and the clef cracked. He’d put it in his pocket, going to his car and driving straight to Chan’s. After what you’d said, he’d thought it would be better to give you some space.

“How long will you be staying here?”

“A while. I just don’t think I can face her again after yesterday.” He mumbled.

Chan nodded understandingly. The first thing Minho had done when he reached Chan’s place was cry, telling him the whole story from beginning to end. He’d felt slightly better after letting it all out.

“You know, you should get your clothes. I don’t have enough spare ones.” He chuckled, turning to look back at his plate.

“Oh fuck..I don’t think I wanna see her again so soon…”

“Just for a few minutes. You need your stuff after all.”

“I can’t just talk to her so soon! How can I act nonchalant and aloof when she confessed to me the other night? When we both hurt each other?”

Chan shrugged. “Hmm, you’re right. Fine, then. I’ll go get your stuff, and also inform her that you’re going to be staying with me for a while. Okay?”

“Okay.”

***

Chan made his way out of his car and to your apartment. He knocked on the door, waiting as he whistled a tune under his breath.

The door opened.

“Oh, hey, Chan. What are you doing here?”

Chan frowned as he stared at Juyeon, looking him up and down.

“Um..I could ask you the same thing.” He thought about how Minho had told him about what he’d seen on the couch.

Juyeon shrugged. “Long story. Y/n?” The man turned around, calling out for you. A few minutes later, you appeared beside him, and he put his arm around your waist.

“Oh, hi, Chan!”

“Hi, Y/n.” Chan spoke slowly. “Um…Minho was wondering if he could get some of his stuff.”

“Why? Is he going to be staying at yours?”

“Mhmm. For a while.”

You shrugged. “Yeah, okay. Wait here.”

As you left, Chan turned to Juyeon with a glare. “What the fuck is going on between you two?”

“What do you think? We’re together now…sort of.”

Chan’s eyes widened. “B-but…”

“But what? I’ve always liked her.”

“Minho likes her too, you know.”

Juyeon stopped, raising an eyebrow. “He does?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, it sure doesn’t look like it. I don’t care if he has feelings for her. All I know is that I could treat her better than he ever could.”

You came back, handing Chan the bags with a smile on your face. Chan returned your smile. “Thank you, Y/n. Have a nice day.” He glanced beside you. “Juyeon.”

“Wait, Chan…tell Minho I said Hi.” You said slowly, playing with your fingers as you felt your tension grow.

Chan paused, nodding with a fake smile as he went back to his car, his mind swimming with thoughts.

How would Minho react when he tells him this? He had a hunch that it would not be pretty.

#minho angst #lee know angst #lee minho angst #skz #stray kids angst #skz angst #stray kids #kpop #kpop angst #kpop smut #minho smut #lee know smut #skz smut #minho fluff #lee know fluff #chan #bang chan #juyeon

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bookandcranny · 3 years

Text

Shortwave Radio

Why he decided to leave behind a perfectly good astral cluster and go sight-seeing on a spinning ball of dirt in this great cosmic nothing of a solar system is a mystery to the entire family, but it’s been almost ten years now and so they’ve all had no choice but to conclude that he’s not coming back any time soon.

The right thing to do is to support him in it, so says tender-hearted big brother Hercules, and if that means jumping through a few hoops to attend some strange human ceremony in this hot and lifeless wasteland, then that’s simply what they’ll do.

summary: Five siblings from the stars come to earth by invitation of their estranged little brother, who’s only request to them is that they take a road trip across the American southwest and try to learn to see this planet the way he sees it.

content warnings: dysfunctional families, carsickness, strong language, fear of abandonment, and accidental misgendering of a nonbinary character

length: about 7k words

also, have a playlist!

🛸🛸🛸

On a particularly sticky day in late July, a black minivan rolls up outside Gruber’s Convenience somewhere in the vague liminal world of the i-110 out of El Paso. Shimmering like a mirage the vehicle comes to a stop and five figures shuffle into the station. Working the counter is a greasy-faced teenager who calls himself Benj, though according to his nametag he’s Benjamin until the end of his shift.

If he weren’t intentionally ignoring the group that just walked in, resenting the loss of quiet and the cool air that just escaped with the chime of the door, Benj would notice a few things about them. For one thing, while they all look quite different, all five of them are wearing the exact same clothes: pale blue t-shirt, gray jeans, plain white sneakers, not a toe scuffed or sullied by the dust they kicked up coming in. They’re perfectly inconspicuous outfits, but too new, too deliberate in their banality.

The people in the clothes have much the same effect. They’re collections of ordinary, aesthetically pleasing parts assembled as if at random, almost uncanny at the wrong angle. Not supermodel pretty, but perhaps stock photo passable. One of them keeps touching things. Just, touching them. He trails his fingers over snack cakes and little pouches of corn nuts with an unreadable expression. Three of them are clustered together in front of the drinks fridge speaking in hushed tones.

The last one of the bunch is hovering in the corner making eyes at the shop’s resident mascot, Garfield, an uncreatively named tabby cat who’s taken to sleeping on a box underneath the AC unit. The cashier does notice her (he thinks she’s a her) if only because she’s kind of cute, in a straight-laced camp counselor kinda way. He’s already building up an idea of her in his head, every atom of it more false than he realizes.

The Christine or Sydney or whoever reaches down and gives the cat a poke, which turns into an experimental stroke.

“Mrph?” says Garfield, like cats do.

“Mrph?” parrots the... Liz maybe? No, not quite, he thinks. Garfield blinks at her, yawns. She withdraws, looking half offended by his indifference.

“Don’t take it personal,” Benj says. “He’s not very social.”

She looks at him for the first time and he reevaluates his earlier assessment. Eyes too pale, too far apart-- not ugly per se but definitely not worth the possible write-up he’d get for flirting with a customer.

“He’s the owner’s cat,” he babbles, scratching his chin and looking anywhere but at her. “Or so they say. Honestly I think he just showed up here one day and no one could get him to leave.”

Before she can reply, one of her matching buddies comes up to the register and dumps an assortment of snacks onto the counter. It’s a baffling, eclectic pile, but like any good retail worker Benj has long since learned not to examine anything too closely.

“Road trip, huh? Where are you guys headed?”

The radio behind the counter has gone all staticky. He fiddles with the antenna.

“Visiting family,” says snacks guy. His voice is soft and monotonous, a stark contrast as the guy’s built like a US SEAL.

Benj looks from face to face. “All of you?” He’s having a hard time believing any two of them are related.

He nods, once. A stiff, decisive shake of the head. The crackling of the radio is getting worse. Benj turns it off.

“Will that be everything, sir?”

Another nod.

“Herc, wait!” One of the man’s supposed relatives comes up behind him and shakes him by the shoulders. “Hercules, look at this.”

He slams a book down on the counter, one of the cheap paperbacks Gruber’s pedals between the condoms and the first-aid kit stuffings. The cover reads, “The Chest from The West” and features a heavily airbrushed model in a cowboy hat and unbuttoned flannel shirt.

“What am I looking at?” Herc asks.

“Get this too. I want to read it.”

“Why?”

He opens his mouth but whatever he’s about to say, Benj doesn’t really want to be present for it. He quickly scans the book and throws it cover-side-down into the bag. Let them work this one out on their own, hopefully somewhere else.

“Your total’s $29.75” He spins around to shake the radio, which is somehow now back on and blaring louder. When he turns back, the register is telling him everything’s been bought and paid for. Guy must be lightning quick with a credit card, he thinks.

“Huh. Guess you’re all set, man-- sir.” He hands them their bags. “Have fun at your family thing.”

He flashes the big guy a thumbs up. He looks strangely staggered by the gesture and replies haltingly, “Thank you. You also, have fun.”

“Come on, sibs,” the more energetic one chirps. “Cass? Cass, come on.” He drags his sister away from the cat, who’s just starting to warm up to her. “That’s you, remember? Let’s go.”

They don’t get any gas from the pumps outside. Benj is pretty sure he saw the testy looking one with the ponytail shoplift a bottle of off-brand cola, but he isn’t paid nearly enough to care. At least after they’re gone the radio starts working normally again.

Hercules drives, though it’s not so much driving as sitting in the driver’s seat and telling the van to go. Earth machines are simplistic and easy to manipulate. Slow though. Cass is riding “shotgun”, as is apparently customary for the navigator. Andromeda, Zeta, and Camelopardalis share the backseat, where the formermost is rehashing the same tired debate with the latter.

“We need to work out a better earth name for you,” he insists. “Myself, I’ve been doing some research and I’m thinking about going by ‘Andy’ from now on.”

“I’m not calling you that,” says Zeta.

Camelopardalis asks, “What’s wrong with the name I have?”

“It is a bit long,” Cassiopeia agrees. “A shorter one would help you fit in better.”

“Speaking of fitting in, something else has been bothering me. What’s your gender supposed to be?”

“My what?”

“You know, your gender. We all picked one.”

“It’s almost like you didn’t read the brief,” Zeta says, instigator that she is.

“It’s almost like none of you read the brief, that I took the time to write specifically to help you all acclimate to earth culture.”

“Zeta, don’t upset Cass,” Herc scolds.

“I’m not upset.” She turns in her seat to stare pointedly out the window. There isn’t much to look at, just miles upon miles of rolling desert interrupted by the occasional billboard or truck stop, all crawling by at a snail’s pace compared to the sort of travel they’re used to. Not that she’d recognize the analogy. She misses the cat.

Camelopardalis fiddles with their seatbelt. “Which one are you again?”

“I’m a ‘man’,” Andromeda recites. “Earth men are known for their physical prowess and carnivorous diet, they live in cave environments, and often congregate in packs called ‘fraternities’.” He waves the gas-station novel in the air. “I’m going to research their habits and perfect my persona. By the time I’m done with this I’ll practically be a local.”

“I don’t know… Zeta, what made you decide to be the other one?”

“Flipped a coin.”

“Women,” Cass informs them. “Can be most commonly identified by their long hair, fastidious hygiene habits, the use of traditional face paints to accentuate the eyes and lips, and by fleshy protrusions of the upper torso. Any of these traits can indicate an earth woman, though none are necessarily required.”

They throw up their hands. “How is that helpful at all then! Zeta?”

“What do you want me to do about it? I didn’t invent them. Hercules, are you sure these ‘snacks’ are safe to eat? They have a strange texture.”

“If you don’t like it, don’t eat it.” He punctuates the point by reaching back and grabbing a cream-filled cupcake off the pile. He tears the plastic with his teeth and eats half of it in a single bite. He barely tastes the thing, but he’s hoping if his siblings follow his lead their mouths will be too full to whine at him.

“Yeah, Zeta, don’t be a bitch.” Andromeda opens a pack of mini donuts, albeit more gingerly, and pops one into his mouth.

Cass whips her head around. “Where did you learn that word?”

He holds open the paperback and points to a page.

Austin hesitated. “I’ve never ridden a horse before. What if I fall?”

Derek chuckled manfully. “Don’t be a bitch, city boy,” he teased. Then he placed his large, calloused hand upon the small of Austin’s back. He leaned in and whispered, “Don’t worry, I won’t ever let you fall.”

The navigator leans over the center console and tries to snatch the book away but he dodges swiftly, clutching it to his chest.

“That’s foul language, Andromeda Alpheratz.”

“Earthers use this kind of speech with each other all the time. It’s a sign of familiarity and affection. You guys need to be less formal if you want to blend in.”

“If it’s meant to be an insult,” Camelopardalis wonders. “Why would they use it to convey affection.”

“Because they’re brutish, unevolved lifeforms,” Zeta sneers. “‘Blend in, blend in’. The rest of you can worry about blending in with the apes. I’m only doing this for Perseus.”

“We’re all doing this for Percy,” Hercules says in a chastising voice that makes even Zeta shrink down in her seat. “So can we please agree to be somewhat civil and not make this trip more painful than it needs to be?”

There’s a murmur of general agreement and peace is restored, however temporarily. Camelopardalis clears their throat.

“I still don’t really understand why we couldn’t land directly at Perseus Nine’s coordinates.”

Cass huffs, blowing a dark curl out of her face. “For the last time, Percy specifically requested we partake in the human ritual of the ‘road-trip’ for this last portion of our journey. It’s the same route he traveled the first time he came to earth, and apparently holds some sort of sentimental significance. It’s important to him we experience the same pilgrimage. For some reason.”

She adds the last part under her breath, knowing full well the others will still hear her. They can hear one another when separated by countless miles of empty space, their voices resonating from star to star, clear as a bell. Compared to that, the close proximity of a rented minivan is stifling. There’s an uncomfortable intimacy to it, these crudely assembled physical forms pressed together, bloated and heavy with all the trappings of humanity. Sweat and road dust and gravity cling to Cass like an over-warm coat and she longs for the cool estrangement that comes so easily in the void of space. It’s tough to be a star-dweller away from her star.

“The reasons don’t matter,” Herc declares, and his word is as good as law here. He is the eldest of them, though the concept of seniority is abstracted somewhat by the literal millennia they’ve all lived through.

Percy is the baby, as well as the black sheep of the family, so to speak. (His actual moniker among their kinfolk roughly translates to “the dissonant note”, a scathing insult for those who knew what it meant.) Why he decided to leave behind a perfectly good astral cluster and go sight-seeing on a spinning ball of dirt in this great cosmic nothing of a solar system is a mystery to the entire family, but it’s been almost ten years now and so they’ve all had no choice but to conclude that he’s not coming back any time soon.

“At least we can check one more stop off the list,” Zeta quips. “What’s next?”

Cass checks her itinerary. “We are to visit one national historic landmark, one ‘tourist trap’-- whatever that means-- followed by a stop at ‘Diane’s Diner’, home of the world’s best pie. After that, we can head straight to the meet-up location.” She glances at the clock on the dashboard. “We’re a little behind schedule but we should make it right on time as long as there are no unexpected delays.”

An hour and a half of driving later, Andromeda throws up corn chips and mini donuts all over the back of Herc’s seat.

They pull over on the side of the road. The desert sand is just beginning to give way to sparse yellow grass, brittle from the sun. Herc steadies Andromeda, looking viscerally displeased as he finishes emptying out his recently manifested stomach.

Camelopardalis frets through the whole episode. “We’ve all been eating the same food, except for Zeta. If it’s poisonous, one of us will be next.”

“It’s not poison, it’s carsickness,” Cass sighs. “Honestly, I’m starting to think none of you even looked at the brief.”

“Zeta, look in the back for something to clean up with.”

“Why me?”

“We’re going to lose so much time…”

“Would you rather hold him?”

Andromeda retches.

“Do you think Percy would care if we skipped a couple stops?”

“Cassiopeia Sigma,” Hercules begins sternly.

“Alright, alright. I’ll figure something out.”

Fortunately they’ve happened to stop within walking distance of something called The Trinity Site, according to the map. Camelopardalis and Cass go ahead to check another stop off the list while Zeta and Herc clean up the van and make sure Andromeda isn’t actually dying. (How embarrassing, to be a quasi-immortal astral being only to perish at the hands of a tainted twinkie.)

They wander from the roadside, following the map and occasional signposts, and shortly find themselves standing in front of an ominous looking stone obelisk with a bronze placard affixed to one side.

Trinity Site: Where the world’s first nuclear device was exploded on July 16th, 1945

There’s more but Cass stops reading. Camelopardalis asks her to explain what the plaque means by nuclear device-- they’re familiar with nuclear power as a concept, fission and fusion, ideas not far departed from the system of energy exchange that sustains their natural bodies in the heart of their stars-- but goes pale when she goes into the relevant applications of said devices.

“Wonderful,” she grumbles to herself as she snaps a few photos of the monument with a disposable camera. “I’m sure Percy will be thrilled.”

“Excuse me.”

The pair turn to see a man in a colorful button-up and khakis and a woman with a day-old sunburn peeling off beneath the straps of her tank top.

“Boy are we happy t’see the two of yous. Couldja take our picture real quick?”

The woman holds out a camera, a significantly more professional piece of equipment than the one Cass is holding.

“Oh, sure,” Cass replies. She’s nervous as she takes it from her hands. She’s never encountered this sub-species of human in her research before, and finds it difficult to parse the woman’s peculiar dialect. Both of them are smiling, but they’re also showing a lot more teeth (and a fair bit of gum) than she thinks is normal. A subtle threat?

Nevertheless, she fumbles with the camera for a moment before managing to take a decent snapshot. The man wraps an arm around his wife’s waist and she slots herself in against his side.

“Ope, wait, let’s do a silly one to send to Marsha and the kids. Were my eyes closed? No? Perfect, you’re a doll. We’ll leave you kids alone now.”

“Sure,” she says again, feeling out of pace.

“My nephew wears his hair like that,” the man says without segway. He’s talking to Camelopardalis, they realize. “It’s very… hip.”

They touch their hair. They hadn’t given it much thought before, might not ever have if he hadn’t pointed it out. It’s nice, they think.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

His expression flinches into a puzzled frown. Cass smacks their arm.

“Sir! Thank you, sir.”

After they’ve walked away Cass gives him another jab for good measure.

“His hair was longer than the other one’s,” they complain. “And the chest was sort of fleshy. How was I supposed to know?”

“We’re lucky you didn’t cause an incident. Earthers carry weapons in this part of the world.”

They rub their arm. “I don’t know, they seemed nice.”

Still they give a fleeting glance at the plaque behind them and argue no more.

They return to the van, now blessedly puke-free. Andromeda is looking better too. They all pile in and almost immediately Camelopardalis misses the freedom of being able to move without touching somebody. It may be their imagination, but the car seems to be moving slower than ever.

“How was it?” Zeta asks, despite her obvious disinterest.

“Uninspiring,” is Cass’ reply.

The other nods and doesn’t force her to elaborate. “I wish I knew what Perseus intended for us with this… chore list.”

“It’s not important, we just do it.”

Herc is always a steady presence, but even he is starting to sound annoyed with repeating himself. Zeta, of course, can’t leave well enough alone.

“If we just knew what he wanted us to do or say we could do it and go back to how we were before.”

Cass snaps. “Maybe you should stop complaining and make an effort for once.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The car erupts into a heated four-way argument. Only Hercules resolutely abstains from comment, though his hands tighten into fists on the steering wheel. The fight doesn’t end in resolution so much as exhaustion. Everyone’s too miserable to keep hurling accusations and insults for the next hundred miles, and at length they lapse back into tense silence.

Zeta rests her head against the window, taking the arythmic rattle into herself, breathing it out in silent, frenetic melodies. She dislikes fighting with her siblings, no matter what they might claim to the contrary. It doesn’t happen often, or didn’t, but things have been different since Percy left home. The littlest star-child had a natural soothing presence to him, one that she’d long taken for granted. Earth is so noisy, she thinks. She strains to listen but she can’t hear a trace of him anywhere.

She tries to imagine what he’d say, if he were here.

“What are we even doing?”

Probably not that, but she already has everyone’s attention now so she figures she might as well keep going.

“I mean, we’re still behind schedule, we can’t stop bickering, Andromeda can’t even eat right apparently, and I’m pretty sure half of us didn’t even look at Cassiopeia’s brief.”

“Are you getting to a point?” Cass asks irritably.

“I’m just saying we’re all… bitches.”

“Zeta!”

“Get comfortable with it! We’re all bad at this. Me, you, all of us. So can we just stop blaming each other and have a truce in the interest of getting this over with?”

Cass opens her mouth, then lets it fall shut, sinking back into her seat. For a moment it seems they’re heading for another long awkward silence, when Andromeda sits up and points out the window with a sudden urgency.

“Look!”

Herc slows down and they see a billboard lit up in eerie green neon light, directing them to the next off-ramp.

Must see attraction! Visit the one of a kind Ancient Aliens Exhibit!

The star-folk look at one another.

“Is this what they call a tourist trap?”

“It seems likely.”

Andromeda is glowing-- in a very literal sense-- with excitement. “It’s an exhibit about us.”

“‘Ancient’? Speak for yourself, I’m still only in my six-thousands.”

Needless to say, they do stop at the roadside museum. Cass takes pictures aplenty and, to her surprise, actually enjoys it. Andromeda is disappointed to find there isn’t actually a display dedicated to their kind. Instead there are a lot of grainy photos of some squat, bug-eyed species called “greys” and diagrams of the Egyptian pyramids for some reason. He gets over it by the time they get to the gift shop.

By unanimous decision, they do not buy anymore snacks, though Zeta’s eye does linger on a cooler in the corner advertising “the ice cream of the future!”. Herc does however buy a number of souvenirs. (Rather, he convinces the automated register to record a purchase that didn’t technically take place, and bumps up the number in the bank account of one very nice tour guide while he’s at it.)

They leave with a mood ring, a handful of polished stones in a small velvet bag, a “gravity defying” purple yo-yo shaped like a UFO, and Camelopardalis sheepishly lays claim to a friendly looking martian figurine with bendable limbs. Overall, spirits are much higher by the time they make it back to the van.

“Hercules,” his meek younger sibling ventures. “Could I try driving? I’ve been curious about it.”

Feeling generous and more than a little tired of staring out at the road for hours at a time, he agrees. He shows Camelopardalis the basics and makes sure they know how not to veer off the road or into other drivers and then he climbs into the middle backseat and stretches out his arms so the siblings on either side of him can tuck in against him and rest. Eventually even the diligent navigator Cassiopeia begins to doze. It’s been a long day and none of them are quite accustomed to the burden of having earthbound bodies.

When Andromeda wakes up the first thing he registers is that it’s getting dark, the day reduced to a slim red band sinking over the horizon. The second thing is the yelling.

“What do you mean you don’t know!”

“I thought I could read the map myself--”

“What about you, navigator? What were you doing?”

“--didn’t mean to--”

“As if you’re one to talk! I can’t believe--”

“--and you were the one who--”

“Shut up!”

Hercules’ normally subdued baritone booms through the van. The windshield wipers begin swinging as if in indignation, while the passengers wince and cover their ears. Andromeda can’t remember a time when his brother’s frequency had felt so violent. The shivering resonance it leaves behind makes his teeth ache.

There’s a pregnant pause, then Cass slams open the door and begins to pace.

“Shit!” she yells at the empty air. They’re parked in a field somewhere, no sign of life save for the buzzing of insects and the rumble of a train somewhere off in the distance. Cass kicks at the ground and screams again. “Shit fuck bitch hell! We are so fucking lost! And so fucking late!”

Andromeda winces again and gets out to try and calm her. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“It is not! We’re probably missing the ceremony right now. Percy will never forgive me for this.”

“It wasn’t your fault…”

“I’m supposed to be the navigator!”

“Well, yes, but…” The words come out strangled. He touches his chest and realizes he’s breathing rapidly. His eyes are beginning to water as well. “I should’ve… I didn’t…”

Zeta hurries over to him. “What’s wrong? Are you going to be sick again?”

Without warning he doubles over and begins bawling.

“Hercules, do something! Something’s wrong with him!”

“Don’t… don’t… don’t…” he gasps and stammers.

Herc clutches his brother. “Don’t what? Talk to me.”

“Don’t fight,” he finally chokes out. “I don’t want to lose anybody else.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Percy,” he sniffles miserably. “He doesn’t care about us anymore. He has earth now, and all his new earth friends, and we can’t even do this one thing for him. It’s my fault. I knew he hated when I called him a dissonant note and made fun of his earth music but I did it anyway. Now he probably hates me and all of us and this whole thing has been for nothing.”

The eldest braces his arms on Andromeda’s slumped shoulders. “Percy doesn’t hate us. He invited us here because he wanted to see us.”

“Herc’s right, Andromeda. Percy doesn’t have it in him to hate anyone.”

“It’s not easy, but he chose this. He chose earth. We have to respect that.”

Zeta grumbles, “And just what is so special about this stupid planet anyway?”

“It has cats,” Cassiopeia says quietly. Her sister glares but she stays firm. “Well it does. And… people.”

“Strange, silly earth people,” Camelopardalis adds, nervously fussing with their hair. “Confusing and contradictory and fascinating.”

“People who hurt each other for no good reason.”

“People who are kind for no good reason too.”

Andromeda wipes phosphorous tears from his eyes and takes out the rumpled gas-station paperback. “In this book Austin leaves his job as a big city lawyer to follow the cowboy he’s in love with.”

“You think Perseus traveled to earth for cowboy love?”

“It’s a possibility!”

Cass scoffs. “I honestly don’t think he was thinking that far ahead. You know Percy. He probably crash-landed without any plan whatsoever. Or, he probably thought he knew what he was doing, and then when he actually got there he was terrified. And then he probably didn’t want to say anything because he was afraid his siblings would think less of him once they realized he was actually just as clueless about earth stuff as they were. That would probably be really, really stressful for him.”

“Are we still talking about Percy?”

She makes a wordless noise of frustration and kicks up another patch of grass.

Andromeda puts an arm around her. “If… Percy was worried about that, I’d tell her-- him! I’d tell him that he shouldn’t be, because there’s nothing he could do that would make us stop believing in him.”

She exhales. “Thanks.”

“I was talking about you, Cass,” he whispers. “It’s you I believe in.”

“Thank you, I got that.”

“I just… miss him, I guess.”

Herc hums in agreement. “Barely a millennium old and he’s already grown up and gone completely terrestrial. This past century has been the longest of my existence.”

“Hercules, it’s only been ten years.”

That news causes him to make such a face that Zeta starts laughing. It’s the first time she’s so much as cracked a smile the entire trip.

“So… what do we do now?” Camelopardalis asks.

After a moment, Cass grabs the map off the dashboard and holds it open.

“A little more light please?”

They step up behind her and hold a glowing hand over the paper. Her brow creases in concentration.

“Alright, I think we’re somewhere around here,” She gestures. “And we need to be here. There’s no way we’re going to show up on time, but we can still show up. We owe him that much.”

They get in their seats, Herc back at the helm, and begin trying to reclaim the distance they lost with the unplanned detour. Cass breathes a sigh of relief when road signs start to reappear. A driver honks at them as they pick up speed and Herc steers closer and makes their radio start playing at top volume. Zeta opens the window and a cool night breeze tickles her skin. The stars are bright and beautiful above them, and looking up, suddenly home doesn’t feel so far away.

All at once they slow to a near stop.

“What’s going on? Why are we stopping?”

“Traffic,” Herc says like it’s a curse. “Looks like there was an accident.”

“Take this exit,” Cass commands. “We can cut through the next town and get ahead of it.”

So he does and soon they find themselves driving through the quiet streets of Kismet, Nevada. That is, quiet until Zeta catches sight of something out the window and yells, “Pull over!”

“What! What is it now!”

She points, and they see. The sign ahead reads, “Diane’s Diner: Home of the World’s Best Pie”. They pull in so fast they nearly end up colliding with a stout aproned woman who’s pushing a teetering hand cart across the lot.

“What do you maniacs think you’re doing?” she demands as they clambour out of the van.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” Cass says in a rush. “It is just very important to my siblings and I that we get to this establishment.”

The woman huffs. “You’re a mite late then, I’m afraid. We’re closing up early tonight. Got a big catering order I have to deliver.”

Herc asks, “Are you Diane, of the diner?”

She laughs. “Close. I’m Maddie Finkle of the diner. Diane’s my mother’s name. It’s a family business. But what brings you folks here looking for Diane at this time of night? I don’t think I’ve seen your faces around town before, and I always remember a customer.”

“Do you remember a customer named Percy? It would’ve been years ago, but this place was very important to him. He’s our brother.”

Maddie’s eyes light up. “Why didn’t you say so! Of course I know Percy. And if you rowdy lot are his siblings, then I’ve got a message for you.”

“A message?” Percy hadn’t said anything to them about a message. Maybe this was his way of ensuring they actually made it to the last stop on his list.

“Well, sort of. Come, come, help me load up all this grub and I’ll tell you everything.”

Herc and Zeta go to either side of her and help push the wobbly cart to a truck with the diner’s logo emblazoned on the side. As they load the boxes, Maddie speaks.

“I first met your Percy when I was just a waitress, mama still working the kitchen. One day this kid walks in, looking as lost as can be, comes straight up to the counter and tells me he’s just fallen from outer space and could use some assistance.” She barks a laugh. “I didn’t go for the whole alien thing but that second part was a lot more believable. He looked a mess. I asked if he needed something to eat but he just said he needed a safe place to rest for a moment. He’d been on his feet all day, walking and hitchhiking his way clear across the desert.

“Of course I wanted to know where he was going that was so important, but he said he didn’t know for sure yet. Said he was following a melody, a song he’d heard from very far away that had drawn him to this place. I told him I couldn’t help him there. The only music we had in the diner was this old stereo system mama had put in when she first opened the place and it was long broken. Mama was too sentimental to get rid of the old thing and the repairman couldn’t do anything for it so broken it stayed.

“He asked me to show him so I did, figuring it couldn’t hurt anything. Then that kid walked up to the busted speaker and just like that it started playing again like it was new. I told him, ‘For that, I owe you more than a place to rest your legs. Stay in town for a while, let us put you up and get you back on your feet, or at least let me drive you to the train station so you can get where you’re going.’ But he refused, and before long he was gone again.

“Then, not a couple days later, spaceboy comes back traveling with this other kid, heading in the opposite direction. I ask him what happened and he says he was going one way but he changed his mind and turned around. He leans in like he’s sharing a great big secret, like we’ve been friends all our lives, and says, ‘I found it, Maddie. I found the song.’ Weirdest kid I’ve ever met! But they make a cute couple, him and that boy, and they’re some of my best customers to this day.”

They finish packing up the truck, Maddie leaning leisurely against the fender as she reminisces. Herc frowns, confused.

“Was that the message?”

“Yup.” She pops the P. “He just told me to tell you the story. Not sure why. I mean, it’s a good story, I think. But you already know all about it, right? You’re his family after all.”

“No, he never told us,” he admits softly.

“Huh. Weird. But then, he’s kind of a weird kid, yeah? I always wondered, is it all you aliens who talk in riddles like that, or just him?”

“I thought you said you didn’t believe his claims.”

“I didn’t the first time, but if your Percy’s one thing it’s… Perc-istent.” When no one laughs, she pushes onward. “Well, that’s all of it. We’d better get a move on, huh?”

“‘We’?”

“Sure, aren’t you folks on your way to Percy’s place too? I figured you’d be staying over, and I gotta get everything set up for the wedding tomorrow.”

A palpable shock ripples through the star-folk. “Tomorrow?”

“‘Course, what did you think all this was for?” She pats the truck. “I wanted to get everything ready ahead of time so we’re good to go in the morning. It’s not easy being the caterer and providing my lovely self as a guest on the same day, but I couldn’t let those sweet boys down.”

Andromeda slumps over, leaning on Herc for support. “Percy told us the wedding was tonight.”

The chef raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like someone’s been having a little fun with you. Nah, they’re doing some sort of get-together tonight since neither one of the bachelors wanted a bachelor party, but the actual wedding ceremony’s definitely not until tomorrow.”

“I’m going to end him,” Cass mutters under her breath.

“Hurry up now,” she says. “I’m sure the groom-to-be’s expecting you.”

The five follow Maddie’s truck away from the main drags, away from the buildings, the scenery becoming gradually greener as the road turns from asphalt to gravel. At last they find themselves pulling up in front of the house that Percy has come to call home. It’s a raised ranch, flanked by evergreens and patchwork plots of small white and yellow flowers that Percy’s fiance must have planted, and a tower of plastic chairs and tables covered by a tarp.

It’s a nice place, large and somewhat secluded, set apart from the noise of traffic or threat of nosy human neighbors. Percy’s sensitive to loud noise and, after all, still an alien living in secret amongst humanity. Yet as they get out and follow the caterer where she’s cutting around back through the garden, they’re struck by the sounds of laughter and music and lively chatter.

A group of earthers are gathered on the patio, smiling faces lit by a string of twinkling lights. A man with a guitar strums along with the music coming from inside.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Andromeda whispers.

“You think there’s a second Perseus Nine about to be married in this town?” Cass shoots back.

Zeta hisses, “Quiet, I can hear him.”

To his surprise, Herc can too. Above the noise, laced into everything he touches, there is a resonance, his baby brother’s unique personal frequency. To describe it as sound alone would perhaps be inaccurate; it’s a vibration, an echo. Percy is everywhere in this place: his whispers and his shouts, his twinkling laugh, but also the part of him that no human being can detect, the part of him that is still, and will always be, of the stars.

He must sense them too, because in that moment he appears standing in the doorway, bathed in its yellow light. His face breaks out in a glowing grin and he runs to greet them, bolting like a comet being pulled into his siblings’ orbit.

“You made it!” he exclaims.

Zeta snorts and allows him to throw his arms around her. “No thanks to you and your list of demands.”

“You brat,” Cass accuses. “You told us the ceremony was tonight.”

Percy tilts his head to look at her, his expression not half as guilty as it should be. For a moment she reels at the sight of him; the body he’s constructed for himself has aged since the last time they crossed paths. It’s subtle, the way his dimples have deepened into true laugh lines, and his hair has grown ever longer, though it also isn’t as tangled as she remembers. He is still himself, underneath, the light of his true being faintly visible beneath the skin.

“I was worried if I told you the real date you wouldn’t make it in time. You’re not used to traveling the human way. It can be messy.”

She grimaces. “You’re not wrong.”

“You’re actually here way earlier than I thought you’d be.” His smile falters, only slightly. “This is… everyone?”

Herc swallows. “The others…” he begins, but quickly finds he doesn’t have the words that should follow.

“Well, it’s not like I had enough chairs for all two-hundred-ninety-seven of them anyway.” He reaches out and squeezes his brothers tightly. “Hercules, Andromeda, It’s so wonderful to see you. Camelopardalis, Cassiopeia, it means so much to me that you came. I know it probably wasn’t easy. Zeta…”

She scoffs. “The only hard part was putting up with these bitches.”

Hercules interjects, “We shouldn’t keep you from your party. Go on, I need to get some things from the van.”

“You didn’t bring presents, did you?”

“It’s customary for weddings, is it not?”

Percy grins. “You’re becoming a real expert on earth customs.”

He shrugs and looks at Cass. “I just read the brief.”

Percy invites his family in, along with Maddie, who is perfectly tickled by the siblings’ awkward affection. After helping her bring in the food, Percy beckons over the man with the guitar.

“Adam!”

The man looks up. He has a boyish, freckled face and a head of dark curls that spill over his brow. He sets down the instrument and comes to slot himself against Percy’s side, thoughtlessly, as if that was always where he was meant to be.

“I’d like to formally introduce you to my fiance, Adam. And Adam, this is my family.”

His smile broadens. “Hey, great to finally really meet you guys. Percy talks about you all the time. Did you have a long trip?”

They look at one another for a moment until finally Herc shrugs and says, “Only about twenty-five trillion miles, give or take.”

The happy couple linger for a moment longer, sharing stories and talking about honeymoon plans. Adam is especially thrilled when Andromeda and Zeta begin to co-narrate an embarrassing tale from Percy’s childhood in the Alpha Persei Cluster. Eventually though the pair wander off together, leaving the star-folk to their most harrowing challenge yet: mingling.

“Sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“Camelopardalis.”

The guest, one of the couple’s mutual friends, goes a bit bug-eyed. “Wow, okay, that’s really cool. Kind of a mouthful though. Got a nickname?”

“Nick… name?”

“Like, something that your friends call you for short. My friends call me Dee, but my highschool nickname was Dent.” They point to a scar on the side of their head, just above their left ear. Their fair hair is buzzed short, making it easy to see. “Long story. What if for now I called you ‘Cam’?”

They consider it. “I think I’d like that.”

“Cool, nice to meet you, Cam.”

“Nice to meet you, Dee.” They hesitate. “Would you say you’re a man or a woman?”

Dee frowns.

“Nevermind! I’m so sorry, I just don’t understand the earth gender binary at all. Everything about it just seems so arbitrary and senseless.”

Oddly enough, their new friend perks back up at this.

“Honestly, same,” they laugh.

Andromeda joins shortly, having struck up a conversation with Dee’s partner who is deeply intrigued by his review of “The Chest from The West”. The three of them spend a while swapping book recommendations. Meanwhile, Zeta gets hit on by a slightly intoxicated young woman with an undercut and an eyebrow ring, although the star-dweller vastly misinterprets her none-too-subtle questioning about alien biology. Cass meets Adam and Percy’s pet dog, Chowder, and deems him as good a companion as the convenience store cat.

Herc catches Percy alone in the kitchen and the two have a long overdue talk. It’s clumsy but earnest, and when Herc mumbles something out about possible future family visits, Percy throws himself into his brother with such vigor that he momentarily forgets about gravity and starts to float off the ground.

“I’m sorry too, by the way, for the whole thing with the list,” he sighs. “It probably seems pretty stupid, I just kind of hoped I could get you to see this world the way I see it. Full of life and love and adventure.”

“And music,” he finishes, catching the way his gaze flits back to the patio. To Adam, singing softly and dancing with one of their friends.

He nods. “I thought maybe then you’d understand why this is so important to me.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to see earth the way you do,” Hercules confesses. “But I don’t think it was stupid of you to try either, and I don’t think it was for nothing.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the mood ring. The friendly prismatic face of a cartoon alien glints up at him. Perseus takes the gift with an understanding chuckle and slips it onto his pinky finger.

“No, not for nothing.”

Tomorrow, there will be a wedding. Percy and Adam will stand in front of their friends and family and exchange their vows. Adam’s mother will complain about them not booking a proper venue for just short of an annoying amount of time, Maddie will bring out a ridiculously tall tier cake that will taste almost as good as one of her mother’s pies, and for once Percy will not be the worst one on the dance floor.

Tomorrow, there will be a bright silver band around Percy’s fourth finger, neighbored by a smaller ring in the shape of an inside joke, and with all the weight of a promise.

#aliens #original fiction #writeblr #short story #original writing #road trip #me? posting my writing again? its more likely than u think #lgbt #my writing

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bgharison · 4 years

Text

Nincompoop -- an H50 Fix-it coda 10.22

Prompt from @rijariz

So I really want Danny to say "I told you not to make me come looking for you, you stubborn Ass. But before we go back I have some conditions. No exes, no mysteries, and no more 3 letter agencies please!!!"

Thanks for the prompt!! This was written kind of quickly, un-beta’d, and I might polish it later, but I hope it does service to your wonderful idea. I ended up splitting up Danny’s dialogue, but I think it worked. :-)

***

“Danny,” Steve sighed, closing his eyes and gripping the phone tight. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

“I almost didn’t answer; I didn’t recognize this number,” Danny said. “Not that I mind -- texting is fun and all, but yeah, it’s . . . it’s good to hear your voice, too. This your new number? The team will want --”

“I’m calling from a payphone. It’s -- “ he stopped. “I started thinking, maybe I shouldn’t keep in touch.”

Danny was silent. Steve could feel the hurt and betrayal from thousands of miles away.

“We still don’t know if the threat is over, there could be more . . . I can’t do this, Danny, I can’t keep putting people I love in danger.”

“Steven. Don’t do this. You plunge yourself into that hole of guilt . . . you go too deep, there’s no coming back.”

Now Steve fell silent. He had promised to come back, but maybe it was safer if he didn’t.

“Steve? Steven!”

“I love you, Danny. Take good care of Eddie for me.” He hung up the phone before he could change his mind; before his emotions betrayed him.

Danny slowly thumbed the call off his phone screen, then pulled up another contact and pressed call.

“Yeah, Catherine? I’m gonna need Steve’s location. It’s time to bring our boy home.”

*******

Danny pulled the scarf up around his neck, hunched against the wind and a few determined pellets of freezing rain, as he made his way to the rental car building. The inconveniences of flying in to a small airport, he supposed.

The Jeep he’d requested was fueled up and ready for him. He tossed his bag into the passenger seat as he climbed in, wincing a bit. He hadn’t been back to driving for very long, and the flight had already stiffened his healing muscles. At least the bruising was completely gone. It had been weeks before Tani could look at him without tears.

The freezing rain quickly gave over to snow, making the drive even more peaceful. He thought nothing of the conditions. Montana snow was still easier than Jersey ice.

He wasn’t surprised to see Steve on the porch as he pulled up to Joe’s ranch. He wondered if there was ever -- would ever -- be a time that Steve wasn’t hyper-aware of his surroundings. He wondered the same for himself, now, as he pulled himself carefully, stiffly, out of the driver’s seat.

"I told you not to make me come looking for you, you stubborn ass."

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d look for me here,” Steve said, pulling a blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“Yeah, for someone who needed to get away from memories . . . you picked a weird place for that,” Danny said. He studied Steve, taking in his appearance. His cheeks looked a bit pinched under his thick, soft beard, but his beard was trimmed, his eyes clear. Danny had seen worse. He snorted as he took in Steve’s bare feet.

“Must be slipping if you could track me,” Steve said. “Or was it a lucky guess?”

“You gonna let me come in, or you gonna get frostbite on your toes?”

Steve smiled at him then, genuine and full of affection. Danny felt relief wash over him.

“Get in here, Danno.” Steve held his arms open, and in a few steps, Danny felt himself wrapped tight, cocooned with Steve in the warmth of the blanket.

******

“I can’t believe you low-jacked me,” Steve said, but he was grinning.

“Catherine said she’d tag the one thing you’d never ditch.”

“My Sig?”

“The picture of Grace and Charlie, actually,” Danny said. He raised his eyes to look into Steve’s.

Steve’s breath caught. “I love them. That’s why I can’t come back, Danny. She knew, she knew exactly how to get to me, how to hurt me the most -- I almost lost you. What if it’s not over? Hell, what if someone else I took down decides to come after me? What if they go after the kids?” He stood up abruptly and walked to the fireplace. Resting his hand on the mantel, he turned his back to Danny.

Steve flinched when Danny rested a hand on his back. “Turn around and look at me,” Danny said softly.

Steve turned, reluctantly, and even with his head ducked down, Danny could see tears threatening to well over.

“Steve. You remember the last time I got shot? Did that have anything to do with you?”

Steve shook his head.

“No. That was one of my old cases. That guy could have decided to go after the kids. Thank God he didn’t. But Petterson did, remember? He took Gracie. You’re not the only one who’s made enemies in their line of work, Steven. I have, too. Your dad did. Your mom. And Joe. But you have something they didn’t, Steve, you have a family. An ohana. You taught me that -- you gave me that. And now, instead of turning to that family for comfort -- comfort we all needed -- you ran.”

“I’m exhausted, Danny, like never before. I thought, getting away, getting some space, would . . . and then I almost lost you, because of a vendetta against me and I thought -- I wanted to get as far away as I could, before anyone else got hurt. I didn’t want to risk hurting the team any more by staying.”

“You hurt us by leaving,” Danny said softly. “You hurt me, leaving.”

“Danny, I’m so sorry,” Steve said. “I should have been there for you.”

“Did leaving help? Has some space and distance helped you, Steve?”

Steve shook his head, the tears finally spilling over. “No,” he rasped. “God, no.”

Danny pulled him into his arms, Steve tucking his face into his uninjured shoulder. Danny could feel a few hot tears splash onto his neck.

“You needed a vacation and instead chose an exile,” Danny said, rubbing Steve’s back. “Nincompoop.”

Steve chuckled and held Danny tighter.

“I’m pretty sure we’re both exhausted,” Danny said. “Come on, let’s get some rest. Then we’ll talk.”

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to follow Steve down the hall and into the bedroom he was using. Steve shucked off his jeans and pulled on a pair of soft, faded flannel pants.

“My bag’s still in the Jeep,” Danny said, but he was already unbuttoning his jeans and flannel shirt. Steve reached into a drawer and pulled out a similar pair of flannel pants and tossed them to Danny. It was easy enough for him to shed his jeans, but he winced as he tried to ease his arms out of his shirt.

“Let me help,” Steve murmured. He gently, carefully slipped the shirt off Danny’s broad shoulders and tossed it aside. His fingers traced carefully over Danny’s black t-shirt, where he knew the bullet wound was, feeling the small bandage still present. “It’s healing?”

“Yeah, Steve. It’s healing just fine.” Danny pulled on the flannel pants, shooting a glare at Steve’s smirk when he rolled the hem up. “Shut up and gimme some socks, would’ja?”

The bed was soft, the fluffy quilts just the right weight, and Steve’s shoulder the perfect fit. This was different than sharing the bed in DC. There was no hesitancy, no caution. DC had been about efficiency and Steve’s raw anguish. This . . . this was mutual exhaustion and mutual comfort.

“I shouldn’t have left,” Steve said, rubbing his fingers absently over Danny’s bicep. “You were already living in my house, this should have happened a while ago.”

“Well. Technically, nothing’s happened yet,” Danny said. He thought they were on the same page, done with fighting this thing between them, but what if --

His thought was cut off by Steve leaning up and over, pressing his lips to Danny’s in a soft, sweet, lingering kiss.

“There. Now, technically something has happened.”

“Can I hope for more to happen?” Danny asked. He couldn’t keep the grin off his face if he tried, but Steve looked solemn.

“If you can forgive me,” he said quietly. “And if you can’t, I’ll understand.”

“Goof,” Danny said, wrapping his hand around the back of Steve’s neck and pulling him down for a kiss, one that was not quite as soft, or sweet. “Steve. I do forgive you. Yeah, it hurt but . . . I know you were trying to do what you needed to do, to protect us. But next time, listen, hunh? When you get wrapped up inside your head and feel like you need to run, listen when I ask you to stay, yeah?”

*****

Danny woke slowly, the smell of coffee and bacon drifting in from the kitchen. He sat up in bed, stretching out his stiff shoulder, and stopped in surprise at the sight of Steve’s bag, open and mostly packed at the end of the bed. He slipped out of bed and padded toward the kitchen, careful not to trip on the too-long pajama pants.

“Babe?”

Steve grinned and poured a second mug of coffee, holding it out to Danny.

Danny accepted it and took a grateful sip. “Your bag is almost packed.”

“Good work, detective.”

“You thinking of running away some more?”

“Thinking of running home,” Steve said slowly. “With you. For good -- no running; not me, not you.”

Danny pretended to think it over. “Okay. But before we go back I have some conditions.”

“Okay,” Steve said cautiously.

“No exes, no mysteries and no more 3 letter agencies please!!!"

“Danny, you have to know, Catherine wasn’t --” Steve started earnestly.

Danny held up a hand to interrupt him. “Babe, I know. I, ah, might have been the one to suggest Catherine get you through the first leg of your little expedition. She told me, it’s not that way between the two of you . . . explained it when we were talking about putting that locator on you. I don’t just mean Catherine. No more Lyns, or Ambers, or Brookes . . . no more half-assed attempts to convince ourselves that there’s anyone else for us but each other.”

Steve nodded enthusiastically.

“And for the love of God, Steven -- I don’t care who comes with an envelope or a message from the beyond -- no more. Stop letting your past hurt you. You’re not responsible for the choices of your parents. You don’t owe them anything. You don’t owe the CIA or the NSA or any other alphabet a damn thing.” Danny didn’t try to keep the anger out of his voice.

“The Navy?” Steve asked quietly.

Danny heart skipped a beat. “You’d give it up?”

“For you.”

“Babe. Asking you not to love the Navy, to cut yourself off from your fellow sailors . . . God, your brothers . . . no. No way. But no crazy stunts! No more jumping in with Junior on crazy missions!”

“I’ll ask you first, I promise,” Steve said, grinning.

“Ask -- first -- no, no, Steven, that is not --” Danny stopped, narrowing his eyes at Steve. “You’re joking.”

Steve shrugged. “Mostly.” He turned back to the stove and cracked some eggs into a skillet.

“So?” Danny asked. Steve looked back at him over his shoulder.

“So, what?”

“So, do you agree to my conditions?”

“Yes, Danny,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. “Yes, I agree to your terms, I accept your conditions, nag, nag -- here. Eat your breakfast. We need to get to the airport, catch the next plane out.”

Danny took a bite of perfect scrambled eggs and moaned softly. Steve raised his eyebrows and gave him a heated glance.

“I never even got my bag out of the car,” Danny said.

“Well, that’s gonna make packing real easy for you, buddy.”

“Or . . . you did, at one point, want to get away. Get some space. Clear your head.” Danny gestured around the ranch house, the wide porch, and the peaceful scenery around them. “You could still do that.”

Steve put his plate down across from Danny’s with a thunk. “I thought you wanted me to come home.”

“Oh, I do. Absolutely. But . . . we’re here already. We both could use some time away, some time to rest, and heal . . . together. Don’t you think?”

Steve nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds nice, Danny.”

Danny grinned back at him. “And, you know, we can see if . . . maybe that something more we mentioned will happen.”

Steve stood up quickly.

“Ste -- where you going?” Danny waved his fork at Steve’s still full plate.

“I’m getting your bag out of the car and calling Catherine to say thank you,” Steve said.

“Nincompoop!” Danny called after him.

“Your nincompoop,” Steve yelled back over his shoulder.

Danny shook his head in resignation. Steve still didn’t have socks on.

#H50FixIt #coda 10.22 #mcdanno #mostly fluff #prompted ficlet

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joelmillerthirstqz · 3 years

Note

You asked for more prompts so here I am! 49 - Chair Sex. Joel + any female. They try chair sex once, then find other types of chairs and go wild. There's a list of chairs wiki, pick whatever ones sound most fun/kink. In case Joel being ridden gets old (ha!) feel free to mix in other creative positions. Or add in a new kink with each chair! 2 or 3 different chairs is plenty or do more if you want. I'll leave chair/kink combos up to you unless you want me to pick.

ilu buddy, if you have preferences, hmu!

That said, I did write a chapter that isn’t really super bound to plot for Like Real People Do where Molly is just trying to integrate their record collection and ties Joel to a chair to get him to stop pawing at her for two seconds. Because I love that you prompted me, here it is! Not posting on AO3 until it threads into their story chronologically.

---

“Joel,” Molly mumbles, pulling the record from its sheath to confirm its in the correct place and nodding before adding it to the shelf.

Joel followed her down to the floor after she’d shooed him up onto the couch for unsettling her piles. Molly had undertaken the delicate work of integrating their pilfered record collections (50, his; 49, hers; 5, a mutual pile broken in the attempt to bring them home from the music shop outside of town) when the rain made clear they wouldn’t be going anywhere for the day. Her objection to his proximity came at his tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, a reliable precursor to him becoming more distracting.

“Joel,” Molly protests as his knees cage her hips from behind, mouth dropping to her bare shoulder, index finger tugging a knitted cardigan off of it.

“Do we know different alphabets?” he criticizes, pointing to the next record she’s picked up. His mouth slips to her clavicle, hand snaking around her middle.

“Joel!” Molly turns, eyes flashing. Joel shifts to sit on his heels, raising his hands in surrender.

Molly bites her bottom lip and considers him, rising smoothly and moving to the door to retrieve the rope hanging there. She returns with a kitchen chair loudly dragged behind her, wooden feet scraping the floor.

“You can’t keep your fucking hands to yourself, so you’re going to be good while I finish it,” Molly gestures to the chair. Joel looks up with raised eyebrows and smug interest, shrugging and complying with a tilt of challenge to the set of his jaw. Molly hisses into Joel’s ear, doing her best to secure his arms behind the kitchen chair from above him, even as he tries to nip at her neck when it comes near enough. He holds his arms in position for her to bind them, though, so she cinches the rope tight and hovers close to his face.

“Unnecessary, you were doin’ just fine,” Joel’s close enough to breathe against her mouth for her to hear him.

“I am on ‘C’, Joel,” Molly protests, flopping with her back against the couch to sort her crate among the piles of Joel’s records awaiting their new companions on the floor.

Joel’s leg starts to shake immediately, his eyes restlessly calculating. His hands can’t help but clench to test her knot-tying, broad knuckles making the fabric rasp as he moves.

Molly’s eyes shoot up to watch him between two records she’s comparing to one another, narrowing at the sound.

He tries to look innocent for half a second before letting his legs fall open. Molly flicks a glance to his capable thighs, annoyed that he’s realized what makes her miss a beat.

She moves a complete pile to the bookcase, gently setting a bookend to hold them while she finishes the rest of the shelf. Pausing to shrug her sweater off, she doesn’t look up when she hears the chair creak with impatience.

“How about, if I’m good until ‘M’ I can come help again?” Joel proposes.

Molly looks at him over the top of a record once she’s seated again.

“You’ve been terrible from ‘A’ to—” she glances down, “‘H’,” Molly says, fixing him with a haughty, pitying look. “Rough track record.”

“I’d show you my hands if you hadn’t tied ‘em,” he complains.

Molly smiles and resumes her task, stacking records one at a time after careful verification of the sleeves’ contents.

Joel’s leg starts to bounce once again, impatience not disguising the way his eyes rake over her.

Joel spots the cover of the next record.

“That counts as an ‘M’,” he supplies.

“And we had no such deal, Joel Miller,” Molly says without looking up at him, the tap of another record hitting a stack resounding.

“Molly—” Joel sounds strained, quiet.

Molly looks up at him critically. She rises silently and unbuttons her jeans, sliding them down and off. Her shirt follows, and she settles back against the couch in her underwear, largely ignoring him. Rising to put everything up to ‘R’ on the shelf, she takes her time watching him crane towards her in profile.

Settling primly onto the couch and selecting the next of their dwindling disparate stack, she looks up at him from under her lashes.

Joel watches her singularly, nostrils flaring as his jaw tenses.

Molly flips up two records as if to ask him to opine on their order, smirking and setting one aside when his eyes don’t leave hers. Stepping over him without sitting down, she scrapes his chin with blunt nails, Joel going easily to her touch, trying to get close enough to her abdomen to catch her off-guard.

She finishes stepping over him to cross the room for the record player, Joel lurching forwards to try to catch her off balance as she goes. He takes in the slope of her back and long legs and thinks his mouth may actually water, agonizingly hard as she carefully sets the needle.

Later, Joel would swear he’d recognized what she’d put on, but all the drifting sound does is intensify her form returning to him.

Joel bites at her, barely out of range as she settles back over his lap, closer to his knees than his hips. Molly tilts her forehead close to his, looking at him before brushing her lips against his.

Smiling down at him, flicking his top shirt button open, Molly slips the first knuckle of her finger into his mouth, fascinated by how pretty it is below his beard, inflected with scars from busted lips over the years.

Joel bites her index finger and there’s a sharp crack as he twists out of the rope holding him.

“Fuck!” She protests, Joel tugging her against his lap forcefully, tongue in her mouth without prelude (though she’s prepared to accept).

He rises with one of her thighs in each of his hands, adrenalin narrowly tempered by remembering to turn his palm up to catch her head as he pins her under him on the floor.

Molly’s more smile than surprise, biting her tongue when he tears her underwear, other hand getting through his belt, button, and zipper in a second, maybe two.

Joel penetrates her quickly, which would have been a stupider idea if she’d liked watching him puzzle his way through being out of control less.

She grunts as he frames her face with his hands, heedless of trapping her hair under his hands.

“Not—done—” Molly manages to complain, flailing a wrist towards the records, one of Joel’s hands pressing directly down onto her thigh, spreading her open beneath him.

“Yeah? Got too close,” he stumbles, focused on finding the right angle to take her apart.

Molly bites his earlobe when she has the chance, nails leaving neat punctures on his shoulders in her wake. Joel snaps his hips in kind, shrugging at the pinprick sensation.

He collects her wrists in each of his hands, spinning her to her stomach and entering her again, rough enough for her to sigh with the impact. Joel slows for a scarce moment before she shoves her hips back against him, earning a swift reply. Her shoulders ache wrenched behind her, but she melts with his teeth grazing her jaw, shallow thrusts angled where she needs.

“I should come and leave you right here for that,” Joel murmurs against her ear, lost in how they move together, a stuttering but coordinated rhythm building sweat on both of them.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t,” Molly breathes, catching his free wrist and moving his hand to her core. She bites his lower lip harder than she needs to while he takes up stroking her clit like he’d known the pattern his whole life. Her whole life.

Joel releases her hands to capture her jaw in his palm, kissing her seriously, past the bounds of necessary with his cock hilted into her.

Molly’s eyebrows draw together and she whimpers, twitching around him without reservation. Joel smiles against her mouth and presses his tongue deeper when she smacks him softly, riding her orgasm through.

He spans his hand between her shoulder blades, snapping his hips with commanding calm, firm and rapid. Molly basks in the deep resonance of his thrusts, scrabbling at the carpet as he stretches her from a new angle.

Molly grins as her suspicions are confirmed and he comes far sooner than usual, clearly spurred by light denial. Joel makes this tame, consumed noise that has her reaching back for him, needing him closer even as he falls to his elbows over her, gasping. When his breath changes, Molly wriggles onto her back, tugging him close and admiring the way their hearts meet below rapidly expanding ribcages.

“You’re helping me with the rest,” Molly whispers into his hair.

“Mhm,” Joel acknowledges, stroking her sides.

#tlou fic #asks #molly x joel #the last of us #the last of us 2 #the last of us ii #joel miller #joel #tlou ii #tlou 2 #joelsbeard

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ohmightydevviepuu · 4 years

Text

our little life (rounded with a sleep) / chapter 3

our little life (rounded with a sleep) chapter three

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful detective. She had blonde hair, green eyes, no family, and she was good at finding people; in fact, she proclaimed this on her office door. “Swan and Humbert,” it said. “Private investigations, missing persons, and bail bonds.”

Only lately, she's been thinking that maybe it should say "Emma Swan: Loner, Loser, Complicated wreck."

Her partner's been killed on a case after she made a deal with her landlord to find what had been taken from him. But when she tracks a possible perp to a bar on the outskirts of town, Emma will find out exactly how deep the rabbit hole goes.

always, always, always because of @thisonesatellite and @profdanglaisstuff thank you AGAIN to the amazing team at @captainswanbigbang

cw: canonical character death rating: T/M (implied violence, language) AO3 chapter one | chapter two | chapter three

chapter summary: Emma’s tracked down her suspect but then he looks into her eyes like he can see her, like he recognizes her--

And it’s a big fucking problem. She doesn’t trust him. They are not a team. No matter what he says or how blue his eyes are when he reads her like an open book.

“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” James Hook said. “A woman such as yourself deserves my full and prompt attention.”

His voice was familiar; exactly as she had heard it in her dream down to the cadence of his accent.

“Does that line ever work?” Emma asked.

His eyes twinkled with appreciation. “I,” he said seriously, “will let you know, yeah?”

He was wearing eyeliner, kohl smudged around his eyes. Blue button-up shirt--partially undone, matched his eyes, would look even better on the floor--buttoned waistcoat, jeans that showed off his--

Fuck.

Emma needed a drink before she ended up like one of the co-eds.

“MacCutcheon,” she said simply.

“How do you like it?”

“In a glass,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Tough lass,” he said with a laugh, pouring her a shot.

“Yeah, well,” she said, picking up the shot glass and downing it in one. The condensation left a ring on the cocktail napkin. “It’s been a long day, and I’m thirsty.” She looked around, taking in more of the place--anything to look at instead of staring at Hook and his partially-unbuttoned shirt. “What’s with all of the swords?” Emma asked, gesturing at a wall covered in weapons.

The Rabbit Hole fell on the upside of ‘dive’, but only just barely. Maybe it was the Edison bulbs. The soft yellow glow gave everything a patina of ‘vintage’ instead of ‘grimey’.

“And what are those, boat hooks?”

“Aye,” he said.

“What are you, some kind of sailor?”

“In another life,” he said, the fake grin stretching across his face, “I served in the Royal Navy.”

“You’ve practically got an armory in here,” she said.

“That’s the idea,” he agreed.

“You don’t seem like the type of guy to collect old-fashioned weapons.”

“Aye,” he said again, the eyes twinkling--again. “I collect blondes from bottles, too.”

Emma was a natural blonde--probably another legacy from one of her parents. She returned his gaze and said only, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

There it was: the real smile. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps I would. James Hook.” He held out his right hand to her, and Emma shook it, which was when she noticed that he only had the one.

“I know who you are,” she said.

“Ah,” he said. “So you’ve heard of me? Well, it’s always nice to leave an impression.”

“Oh,” Emma said. “You have. You’re handsome, and charming--”

“Do go on,” Hook said, shifting his weight against the back counter.

“The kind of guy who--now, stop me if I’ve got this wrong--steals a man’s wife and leaves a boy motherless, then keeps up the grudge by breaking into his home and stealing from him again.” Emma watched him during her recitation. This was her favorite part: skips always broke down when the hot piece of ass they’d been planning on nailing turned the tables and cuffed them.

Not in the fun way, either.

But Hook just looked at her, stepping forward again and bracing his elbow against the bar, his chin in his hand. His fingers curled against his upper lip, his eyes were wide and innocent, and the fake grin had returned; the change was so smoothly done it was--almost--imperceptible.

“Sounds like a lovely tale,” he said. “But I’m going to wager the truth is rather more gruesome.”

Emma was calm. She was focused. And he was not lying.

“Besides,” Hook said evenly, “I’m going to need you to be a mite more specific in your accusations; you see, I’ve had many a man’s wife.”

“And I need you,” Emma said, matching his tone, “to return what you’ve stolen.”

His smile--the fake smile--faltered. Just for a second. “Tell me something, love,” Hook said, leaning into her personal space, his eyes never leaving hers, “If a woman comes to you and begs you to take her away, is that theft?” He ran his tongue over his lower lip and winked at her.

“But--why would she leave him?” Emma asked before she could stop herself. The son, they had a son--

What were they even talking about?

“Because he was a coward,” Hook said easily. “Because she loved me.”

Emma pulled herself away from his gaze. Whatever was going on here--he wasn’t lying.

“So, lass,” he said, “you know who I am, but you won’t even tell me your name?”

“What fun would that be?” Emma said.

“If you’re helping Rump--Gold,” Hook said, with particular emphasis on the name, “I’m afraid you’re fighting for a lost cause.”

“I’m not fighting for anything,” Emma said, “except for my fee. Tell me what you know about Graham Humbert’s death.” She grabbed his wrist. “And I’m gonna let you in on a little secret--I’m pretty good at knowing when someone is lying to me.”

“He came in here the other evening, on the hunt,” Hook said, biting down hard on the ‘t’. “He often did. It’s rather a target-rich environment, as you can see.” He gestured at the crowded room and leered. “That’s the last time I saw him.”

Emma smiled, the kind that showed no teeth, that was small and controlled, and tightened her grip on his wrist. With her other hand, she pulled her phone out of her pocket, unlocked it and scrolled to David Nolan’s entry. “He came here looking for you the night he died,” she said. “A fact I think the sheriff--” Emma held up the phone to show him “--will find fascinating, don’t you?”

He started to pull away, but Emma twisted his wrist just enough to put pressure on it--enough that pulling away would make a scene and potentially force someone to call the sheriff anyway. The singer finished a song to a scattering of applause, and Emma kept her grip and her gaze on Hook.

“Well done, lass,” he said. Emma let go of him and his hand reached up to rub the back of his neck. He had rings on two of his fingers and his thumb, and a freaking earring, a black stud. “You’ll be Emma Swan, then.”

“There goes my air of mystery,” she deadpanned.

“On the contrary, love,” Hook said, licking his lips again. “You’ve bested me. I can count on one hand the number of times someone has done that.”

“Is that a joke?” Emma said drily. “Because you’re a terrible liar.”

“Ask me what you’ve really come here to ask, Swan,” he said, and something in his face had shifted, like he had dropped the act of whatever part he was trying to play. His eyes were serious and the tone of his voice had lowered.

“Did you kill him?”

“I did not,” Hook said.

Emma believed him. Shit.

“Now then,” Hook said. “Emma Swan. Bail bonds, private investigations. Twenty-eight years old?”

They weren’t in the bar anymore.

According to the paperwork Graham had pulled, Hook had owned The Rabbit Hole for more than twenty years--clearly a typo as the man appeared exactly as Gold had described him: mid-thirties, no more, no less. It was difficult to picture him running off with a woman Gold’s age.

He’s older than he looks, Gold smirked, and had looked at Emma in a way that made her want to shower. And rather partial, I’m afraid, to brunettes.

Emma had confirmation of this, at least, when Hook had called out to a beautiful brunette in a micromini, tights and an artfully ripped t-shirt. Lacey, my darling, cover for me here, will you?

She’d laughed and given him--and Emma--a wink, and it was obvious what she thought Hook and Emma were doing, and why they needed cover. I’ve got this, Jamie, she’d said.

And he’d taken Emma to a small but immaculate office, dimly lit, rimmed with books, and offered her a chair with a bow before taking a seat behind the desk. She’s new, Hook had said of Lacey, but she does the job like she’s been here for decades. Something about that had amused him; Hook seemed consistently to be amusing himself with jokes only he understood. Any man who kept a skull-and-crossbones on the wall was definitely a man with an unusual sense of humor--in fact, this room had a distinct nautical theme, with a red flag draped above the black one and an honest-to-goodness ship in a bottle on his desk, and it was all a far cry from the badly-curated murder-tinged whimsy that made up the decor of the main bar.

“That’s oddly specific,” Emma countered. “Do I, like, get a prize if you’re right?”

“An educated guess,” Hook answered, and said nothing else as his eyes settled over her. Emma felt like she was being evaluated; not the first time that had happened, and she had no idea what he thought he was looking for.

“So, then,” he said. “Your Graham Humbert came looking for me.”

“He wasn’t my anything,” Emma said quickly. Maybe too quickly.

“Aye,” Hook said. “Of that I’m well aware.” He twisted his thumb against the metal of one of his rings and broke eye contact, looking down and away from her. “We weren’t friends, you know. Barely even acquainted. But you might say that we had certain connections in common.” Hook looked at her quickly and looked away again. “I hadn’t seen him in as long as I can remember.”

There was something strange underlying the words. Not a lie, but not the truth. And something about the phrase tickled Emma’s memory, like she had heard it somewhere before.

“He was involved with Regina Mills,” Emma said, realizing it at the same moment she said it.

“Indeed he was.” Hook made a sound, almost like a bark, and it took Emma a moment to realize it was a laugh. There was no amusement in it. “You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but she rather held his heart in her hands.”

Emma winced.

“Apologies, love,” Hook said quickly, and with apparent sincerity. “That was in rather poor taste, I admit.”

“You were too, weren’t you?” Emma asked instead of acknowledging his half-assed apology. “Involved with her?”

Another harsh laugh escaped him. “Indeed I was,” he said, “though not in the way you’d think. I did some work for the family. A long time ago.”

Emma smirked. “A man who used to be a sailor and now owns a bar?”

“‘Used to be’ is right, Swan,” he said, “but one might consider the bar payment.” He did that thing again, where he over-emphasized the harsh consonants. “For services rendered.”

“You realize you are the only one in this entire neighborhood who owns their property outright instead of paying rent to Robert Gold?”

“Am I?” He examined his fingernails. “That’s fortuitous.” It was obscene, the way Hook made words sound, but Emma knew a distraction when she saw one. This man used words as deflections, armor not unlike her collection of leather jackets.

“She came to see me,” Emma said.

“Did she?” That got Hook’s attention. “And what did you think of Her Majesty the Queen?”

“Her what now?”

“Regina, love. Latin.”

“You speak Latin?” Emma’s eyebrows definitely went up.

“And Greek,” he pointed out, smirking.

“They teach you that in the Royal Navy?”

“Something like that,” he agreed.

Emma’s head was beginning to hurt. This was shaping up to be the world’s worst first draft of “Who’s on first”--she wasn’t getting anywhere, and she needed another drink.

“What did she want?” Hook asked, and for the first time, there was genuine curiosity in his tone. He twisted behind him, pulling out a bottle, then repeated the process and came up with two glasses pinched between his thumb and forefinger, placing one in front of her. He pulled the cork with his teeth, poured himself a shot, and then gestured at her with the bottle.

Emma gave him a look.

“You’re something of an open book, Swan,” Hook said, the picture of innocent hospitality, “or did you not want another drink?”

“Regina wanted to know,” Emma said, ignoring his outstretched hand, “what I was doing about Graham’s death.”

“Don’t make a man drink alone, love.”

“I don’t want a drink,” she lied. “Or a man.”

Hook pouted. “Now who’s not telling the truth?”

Emma took the bottle from his hand and poured herself three fingers’ worth.

“I do find that spirits can be an excellent solution to so many of life’s problems,” Hook said with false cheerfulness, “so I am glad to see that you are making progress.”

Emma left the glass on the desk and leveled a glare at him.

“Are you?” he said, raising his eyebrows, “making progress?”

There was a knock on the door at the same time as it opened, and a young man stepped in. Nearly as tall as Hook, he had long, dark blonde hair that he’d slicked back, leaving some fringe to fall messily at his temples.

“Alright, Liam?” Hook said.

The young man--Liam--coughed and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, only Lacey said you were back here--”

“And you wanted to interrupt?” Hook asked, a mix of exasperation, fondness and something sharper in his voice.

Liam shrugged.

“Swan,” Hook said, “allow me to present my lit--younger brother, Liam, who was just leaving.”

Emma nodded at him, with his slightly-less-blue eyes and the curious way they watched her.

There was a look in Hook’s eyes as his brother walked out that Emma was not prepared to acknowledge. She pushed her untouched tumbler of rum back toward him and snapped, “Enough. Why did Graham come here to see you?” Emma demanded.

Hook shrugged.

“He tracked you down through property records,” Emma said. “Because the Mills Organization paid you in real estate for work you did for them a long time ago?”

“So it would seem,” he said.

“You know it says on the deed that you’ve been the owner here for as long as I’ve been alive?”

“Does it?” he smirked. “And yet I’ve retained my youthful glow.”

There it was again--not a lie, but not the truth.

He’s older than he looks.

Emma sat, toying with the tumbler she had pulled back toward her seat, running her forefinger around the ring of the glass and saying nothing.

“What can I say, Swan,” he said. “‘I contain multitudes.’ Not unlike your Graham Humbert.” He looked at her as though he was expecting a reaction; Emma stared at him.

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Ah,” he said, as though to himself. “Not a believer, then--well, surely that will stop you getting killed.”

Hook considered her for a moment before tossing back his shot, then said: “Walt Whitman, lass. American poet.”

“Didn’t study poetry at any of the high schools I got kicked out of,” Emma said. “What does my listening to you recite poetry and mutter to yourself have to do with Graham?”

Hook shook his head. “Absolutely nothing, love,” he said. “Merely pointing out that you might be surprised by what they teach you in the Royal Navy.”

“You don’t know anything about what I believe,” Emma said sharply.

His blue eyes blazed. “I know that everything you think you believe is wrong,” he said.

“A man is dead, Hook,” Emma said. “I need you to stop fucking around and give me back whatever it is you’ve taken.”

“She’s dead, Swan,” he said sadly, the fire gone just as quickly as it had come, “and whatever that bloody crocodile has you looking for, I don’t have it.”

He had that look again.

Crocodile.

“Just like Milah, when the crocodile took her from me.”

“His wife?” Emma said. “Look, I’m sorry she died, but Graham--Graham was murdered.”

“Died,” Hook snorted. “Like it was some kind of accident--”

“That’s not what I said,” Emma protested, feeling suddenly on the defensive.

“--lass, it was no more of an accident than Humbert laid out in the alley.” Hook poured himself another shot and held it. “And you, Swan, helping him? I fear we’re working at cross purposes.”

“I’m just here to retrieve something on behalf of my client,” Emma said, exasperated and confused, “and to get paid Same as Graham, only he ended up dead and I would prefer to avoid that.”

“It’s a shame, really, Emma,” he said, apparently not listening. “I think we could make quite the team.”

“And what,” Emma wanted to know, “would our objective be?”

Hook paused and looked at her before he drank the second shot, and Emma still had no idea what he was looking for. He took a breath and said: “To avenge your partner,” he said, as if it would be that simple. “To exact revenge on the man who took my hand, Rumplestiltskin.”

“Swan!” Hook called, rushing after her. “Swan, wait up!”

Emma was ten or fifteen feet out the door of The Rabbit Hole when she doubled back quickly and pushed herself against him. “Whoa!” she cried. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

Hook smiled at her and pulled them closer together. “It’s about bloody time.”

Emma hit him. “I seem to have a shadow,” she said, gesturing at the figure running into the darkness--the one that had lunged itself at her and forced her up against Hook.

“I suppose,” Hook said, pretending to consider it, “that’s a plausible excuse for grabbing me, but next time don’t stand on ceremony.”

Was the man insane? “Do you have any idea what you sound like right now? Who the fuck is Rumplestiltskin?”

Hook’s face fell. “I sound like a crazy person,” he said. “Apologies, love, I realize Humbert didn’t--” He paused, took a breath. “Would you settle for ‘dashing rapscallion’?”

“Excuse me?” Emma stuttered.

“As opposed to ‘crazy person’, Swan,” Hook pushed, and then leaned in closer at her continued silence, angling his head so their eyes were level. “Scoundrel, perhaps?”

He was close enough to--

He was very close.

“I think, Swan,” he said, very softly, his eyes boring into hers, “that you are not the only one with a shadow. Don’t turn,” he warned, “just look at me.”

The full focus of this man’s attention was nearly unbearable. Emma desperately needed to break eye contact and maintain her wits, which was how she noticed the red streak on his shoulder.

Where she’d grabbed him.

Unfortunately, that drew his eyes to the spot as well, and he knew immediately what it was.

“Swan,” he said, and he sounded disappointed. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” Emma insisted. “Just, the jerk who came after me must have had a knife or something.”

“Give me your hand,” Hook said.

“What?” Emma said, trying to pull away.

He wouldn’t let her. “It’s cut,” he said, getting impatient. “Let me help you.”

“No,” Emma said, taking a definitive step back. Hook countered by stepping forward, back into her personal space. “It’s fine.”

“Swan,” he sighed. “It’s not.”

And he ran his hand down her arm, curling his fingers around her wrist and lifting it for closer inspection, balancing her hand on his left wrist against his prosthetic.

“I’m not taking medical advice from a man who has named himself after a character in a fairy tale and who thinks my client can spin straw into gold,” Emma muttered. “Not even when he suddenly decides to be a gentleman.”

Hook’s face twisted, that already-familiar smirk pulling at his mouth as he took something out of his pocket. “I,” he said, and his tone was serious in spite of his expression, “am always a gentleman.” He looked at Emma through eyelashes that were thicker than hers were after several rounds of lash primer as he repeated his bit with the cork and moved to pour the contents over the small slash in her palm.

“What is that?” Emma asked suspiciously, then swore as the liquid hit her skin.

“It’s rum,” Hook said. “And a bloody waste of it.” He handed the flask to her before she could refuse and pulled out a handkerchief from his coat pocket, pressing it into her hand before Emma could try to pull away again and tying it off with his teeth.

Just--his teeth . Why?

His eyes never left hers, not even as he stepped away from her.

“He’s gone,” Hook whispered.

Emma sighed and took a swig of the rum in resignation. “Scoundrel it is, then,” she said, taking a definitive step backward and crossing her arms across her body in the universal signal for back off. Because she knew what he was doing, she had seen this movie before, and it hadn’t ended well.

They were not a team.

They could not be a team.

“Why were you following me?”

“I wanted to continue our conversation,” he said. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Emma shook her head slowly.

He grinned, shrugged. “And," he said, "I would like to see Regina Mills. I was hoping you would be so kind as to facilitate transportation.”

“You don’t drive?”

“I don’t drive a car,” Hook said. “It’s not by choice that I live here in the city, love, it’s by necessity.”

Emma felt her resistance wavering. “What makes you think I’d be willing to help you?”

“You seem,” Hook paused, as if searching for the correct word, “motivated.”

“What happened to cross purposes?”

“I look at this very simply,” Hook said. “I help you get what you want, and it gets me what I want. No more, no less. Besides, I find that I quite fancy you--when you’re not yelling at me, that is.”

“I don’t understand you,” Emma said.

“The mystique is part of my charm, I assure you,” Hook said, raising his eyebrows.

But she had already given in to whatever scheme this was, had given in the minute she pushed herself against him.

The minute he had held her arm and pushed into her space.

Emma gestured for him to go ahead, and they started walking to her car. Hook took in the careworn yellow Beetle with a grin on his face. “Quite a vessel you captain here, Swan,” he said, pulling the door open on the passenger side.

“It seemed like the best choice at the time,” Emma said softly, meaning it, momentarily hating herself for how wrong she had been--and how much this felt like the same beginning all over again. She ran a quick address search on her phone and came up with nothing; it was odd, given the extent of the Mills Organization’s influence.

“I know where she lives, lass,” Hook said. “I’ll navigate.”

Emma pulled out of her spot, the silence growing between them, interspersed at odd intervals with his muttered directions until he spoke. “You know, Swan, most people would find your silence off-putting, but I should warn you that I love a challenge.”

“No challenge,” Emma said. “I’m not looking for someone who’s gonna give his heart to the world, or some true love riding to my rescue.”

“But?” Hook prompted.

“I mean,” Emma said, dripping with sarcasm, “somewhere in the universe, there's gotta be a guy who'll keep me warm when I'm cold, feed me when I'm hungry and maybe, on occasion, take me dancing.”

“No,” he said. “That’s not it. You’re afraid--to talk, to reveal yourself.”

“Am I?” Emma said flatly. “What are we doing now? What happened to ‘a bit of an open book’?” She finished with a horrible imitation of his accent.

“You’re afraid to trust me.”

“Afraid to trust the guy who believes in fairy tales, Captain Hook?” Emma snorted. “However did you guess?”

“Bartender’s a sympathetic ear, love,” Hook said, “but I don’t need you to share. You have that look in your eyes.”

Emma’s entire body went still.

“The one,” Hook said, as if she didn’t already know--didn’t own a freaking mirror--hadn’t seen the look on his face that very night, “you get when you’ve been left alone.”

“Now I’m some kind of lost girl?” Emma forced herself to laugh. “Nice try, Hook, but my world ain’t Neverland.”

He made a noise, halfway between the unamused bark-laugh and a sigh, and said: “My point, Swan, is that an orphan’s an orphan.”

Emma said nothing, but Hook pressed on. “And True Love--well, that’s the rarest magic of all, or so they say. Have you ever even been in love?”

Emma narrowed her eyes at him, took a deep breath, and lied. “No,” she said simply. “I have never been in love.” She pulled the car against the curb and turned off the ignition. “We’re here,” she said.

“Who’s the guy, Swan?” he said, and his voice was almost free of affect. She could--almost--believe he meant it.

“What guy?” Emma said, because fuck him and his open-book bullshit.

“The one,” Hook said as if it was obvious, “who left you with such a high opinion of me.”

Emma got out of the car and slammed the door shut behind her.

@kmomof4 @shireness-says @spartanguard @optomisticgirl @eirabach @winterbaby89 @stahlop @teamhook @iamlaxdris71 @snowbellewells @carpedzem @scientificapricot @ultraluckycatnd @therealstartraveller776 @wyntereyez @nikkiemms @searchingwardrobes @courtorderedcake

#csrt #our little life (rounded with a sleep)#cs fic #captain swan rewrite a thon #cursed!killian #season 1 divergence #an alternate theory of the curse

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ears-awake-eyes-opened · 4 years

Text

Intoxication (part 2)

(NSFW. Sexual content. 🔥🔥 Intense Hayffie experimenting with emotional drugs as an alternative to forced sobriety in District 13. Hayffie trying to have a sexual relationship without falling in love, and basically failing at the latter. The tattoo I created for Effie is revealed.)

“‘I’LL be her escort,’ he said. ‘I’LL look out for her,’ he said. ‘But I can’t promise she won’t get a scratch or two,’ ...Ha! The audacity to wink at me with those eyes and all the places they’ve been. How patronizing! Why did I expect HIM to keep ANY of those promises!” Effie ranted to herself as she paced her living quarters. She paused long enough to glance at her reflection in the small circular mirror. I’M the fool for trusting him.

It’s not like Effie would have escorted Katniss to District 2 or anywhere outside the relative safety of 13, but she should have INSISTED on... something. Though her heart knew that nothing was safe anymore.

“Thank god for Cinna. Still protecting our victor from beyond the grave. ...I hope somehow he’s in a better place than this.”

When the broadcast had shown Katniss shot down, Effie feared the worst, even knowing the design of the Mockingjay suit.

“What if one of those bullets had hit her neck? Her head? What if the loyalists had gunned down everyone in that tunnel?... Everyone except for Haymitch, of course. He’s preserved by a quarter century of alcohol. The only thing not bulletproof is his liver.” Her rant continued, but dark circles beneath her eyes told a more complex tale of worry. Effie hadn’t been able to sleep until they were back in 13.

She’d seen Katniss in the hospital. “Bruised ribs. A bruised lung! That child has already been bruised more than anyone should have to be in a lifetime. She deserves better. She will ALWAYS deserve better.”

Usually when Effie spoke to her ‘mirror on the wall’ about deserving things, she was thinking of herself, but not now. She realized — she believed — that she didn’t have the capacity to make the kinds of sacrifices required to be truly deserving.

She thought again of Cinna, wondering how his eyes had opened within the Capitol. She thought about her victors.

She had passed Haymitch in the hospital earlier without saying a word. She was angry with him for making promises that couldn’t be kept and angry with him for not keeping those impossible promises. She was more angry with herself for worrying about him and not being able to stop that feeling. And she was angry with herself for looking at him with her terror coated in the relief of seeing him unharmed.

She knew he’d recognized the look because he hadn’t pressed her for conversation. He’d let her walk away and fume by herself. Now she was angry too that he hadn’t followed her and angry with herself for thinking that he might have.

Even still, the knock on her door after an hour of pacing didn’t surprise her. She took her time opening it, glancing first in the mirror again. What am I doing? What am I even doing here?

She opened the door regardless. She didn’t stop herself. “What!?”

“Well, hello to you too, sweetheart.”

She didn’t ask him in, but she stepped to the side and left the door open. Familiar with Effie’s brand of agitation and nonsense, he saw the invitation for what it was. He ventured inside, sliding the door closed behind him.

“Do you want to talk?” he asked.

She pretended to busy herself with clothing and accessories on the table. “No.”

“Do you want to just be angry with me.”

“Yes.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

He stood beside her without touching. “What’s happening here?”

“Preparations for Finnick and Annie’s wedding...”

He captured her wrist and asked again, holding her pulse with his thumb. “No. What’s happening HERE?”

She tried to pull free, and he wouldn’t let go. “Haymitch!”

He stepped closer and loosened his grip. She didn’t withdraw her hand; she let him touch her, feeling exactly what her heart was doing. “Damn you.” She looked in his eyes this time and saw the reflection of her own intensity.

The wildness came out all at once and they were kissing. It wasn’t calm or familiar like the night before the Quarter Quell. This was not about comfort.

She bit his lip. Inadvertently? It didn’t matter. His mouth was rough with her too.

The bite stung. He tasted the metallic flavor on her tongue. His blood or hers? That didn’t matter either.

“Where?” he asked, “These bunks are so damn small.”

She knew what he was asking. “Anywhere... everywhere.”

He shoved her against a wall, “Haymitch! These walls are thin. The neighbors will hear.”

“The floor then,” he said, unbuttoning her shirt.

“The floor!? We’re not animals!”

“Yeah, we are,” he muttered into her mouth. She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t contradict him.

“The table,” he suggested.

“Civilized people EAT there.”

“Fine!” He let go of her, frustrated and in the frustration he just wanted her more. “This was a bad idea anyway.”

His irritation was erotic, and there’s no way she was letting this feeling go to waste. She positioned herself between him and the door. “If this is a bad idea, then why does it feel so good? ...Stay.”

The boiling reduced to a simmer. He reached behind her to make sure the door had latched. Then he pinned her against it, and methodically began taking off her clothes, starting with the turban. He interrupted her objection, “Shhh. No talking.”

Her hair fell to her shoulders, and he leaned in to smell it. “This is my favorite part of you.”

“Well, don’t get used to it.”

“We’ll see.”

“There are other parts of me you’re going to like more.”

Unbuttoning more of her shirt, he glimpsed a tattoo below her left breast. — a red tree branch scattered with colorful leaves shaped like feathers. The colors were natural: a bluebird rather than Caesar’s former hair, morning sky before rain rather than cotton candy. The branch curved with her breast and continued somewhere within her shirt. He traced the curve. “What do we have here?” Wanting more of her breasts could wait a moment.

“Something one of a kind.”

Like you. He didn’t say. Instead he pushed her shirt to the floor, wanting to see the rest. The branch transitioned into red ribbons, flowing and crisscrossing down her side and disappearing into the waistband of her pants. He tugged those to her hips, far enough to trace the ribbons which crossed the small of her back, hugging more of her curves. The ribbons separated at her spine, ending in a tiny pair of dancing shoes in the hollow of her sacrum.

“Jesus, Effie...” Capitol people are known for tattoos, but this one was unexpected. He wanted everything with her at once. “... I want to fuck you.”

“Shhh,” she mimicked his earlier statement, “No talking. ...It’s my turn.”

To hell with buttons. She pulled up his shirt, and he lifted his arms to encourage. The shirt caught on his chin, so she yanked it until it was free. It fell to the floor with hers.

“Are you trying to take my head off?”

“That depends on which head.” She toyed with the button of his pants.

He pulled her to him, unhooking her bra, stripping it away, and learning the shape of her breasts in his palms. Kissing her again would have meant taking his eyes off her body, and he didn’t want to do that yet. Without an alcohol-induced haze, everything was sharp along the edges, including his desire for her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced this quality of feeling. How much of this could he say without saying too much. Then again, maybe they were better off not talking.

The fine hair on his chest and stomach tickled her, gold and silver. Her smile wouldn’t stop.

“You’re beautiful,” he caressed her cheeks.

She knew.

“I’m a sure thing tonight, sweetheart,” she teased him with his sarcastic endearment.

He knew.

Still, he wanted this to stay as good as it felt right now. It had been longer for him than he cared to admit since the last time he’d had sex, and maybe the only time in 25 years that he wasn’t doing this drunk. Plus this was the first time with Effie. They’d been dancing around it for quite a while, and he wanted it good.

“Come here.” He lead her to one of the bunks. This time she didn’t object to the location. He could have fucked her against the door, as ready as she was.

They stripped down pants. His body was gorgeous. She stroked him in lieu of telling him so. “I don’t usually do this naked,” she said.

“And I don’t usually do this sober,” he admitted. His sexual experiences with women were usually just for him. The other wasn’t particularly relevant. But Effie was relevant, even when she was ignoring him. As her strokes turned to tugs. She definitely was not ignoring him.

He grabbed her waist and lifted her up onto the bunk. She wrapped her legs around his back, keeping him in front of her.

He kissed along the length of her tattoo from her breast to her hip, then slid his hand along the curves of the rest, stroking where he knew those dancing shoes lived in the hollow of her sacrum.

Why the shoes? He wondered without asking. He’d ask her later if she didn’t tell him first.

He rested his forehead against her chest and slid his palms up her thighs to the apex. He brushed against her with his thumbs circling.

She hadn’t expected this gentleness. Like this, he terrified her. She was too full of feeling.

“How do you want this, sweetheart?”

Keep going, exactly like this, she thought, but she denied the impulse. “Rough and impersonal,” she said, “...I don’t want to fall for you.”

He met her gaze, surprised again. She was pleading, but he kept touching her the same, even more tenderly. “Rough I can do, but not falling for me is up to you. I can’t make any promises.”

“That’s exactly why this can’t be too personal.” She said it with her hands behind his neck, stroking his hairline with her fingertips. Her touch tingled down his arms and legs and to his groin. He wondered if he could come like this, with just her hands in his hair.

This was personal. She was right. This wasn’t the time to fall for anybody, especially a Capitol girl who he knew all too well to be irritating as hell and now incredibly attractive in nakedness.

Effie moaned softly. “Are you going to fuck me or make me come in your hands because I’m close, honey.”

They needed to switch this up. Like now.

“Get on your knees,” he told her.

She hesitated, not used to men making demands of her.

“...If you want this rough, then get on your knees.”

She lifted her legs onto the bunk, and complied. He was quickly behind her grazing the length of her tattoo with his palm, and teasing her before slipping inside, all the way to her cervix.

The fit was perfect, curving to just the right spot. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of saying so, but her body betrayed her, with pleasure building so fast.

He clutched her hips, digging in and moving with a force that she certainly couldn’t call gentle. The ribbons of her tattoo danced in his hand. It was such a turn on, and curiosity got the better of him, “Why the red shoes.”

“To remind me that I make my own life... Oh, god... Haymitch...”

“‘God,’ works just fine, sweetheart,” he taunted as she clenched around him.

“Oh, you arrogant fuck... Oh, god...” she couldn’t help but say it again.

He reached around her body and flicked the sweet spot, without tenderness.

In the mix of pleasure and pain, she exploded with an intensity that wouldn’t be a secret from her neighbors after all.

“Honey, I like the way you make your own life,” he groaned, caressing the image of those tiny red shoes in the hollow at the base of her spine. It was erotic — the bit of gentleness that he couldn’t resist offering, the feeling of her skin, his sober awareness of her orgasm, the way her hair brushed against her neck as he moved inside her.

This was personal. This was just as personal as looking into her eyes. It wasn’t the how of it. It was her.

He tried to make it last because maybe this was a one time thing and this was all he’d have of her. And maybe they would be better off that way.

He didn’t think to ask, is this okay? This felt so much better than okay. He didn’t think to ask, where should I come? All at once it was just happening, and inside her was the only place he wanted to be. The release was almost better than liquor on his tongue, down his throat, into his veins. For a moment she was the best thing he’d felt.

As he came down from the high and his body eased, he could feel her crying.

Shit. He pulled out and lay beside her.

“Hey.” His voice was tender now. Screw what she’d said about the need for roughness. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head ‘no’ and laid it beside his.

He wiped his thumb across her cheeks catching her tears.

“I thought you might be dead,” she said, “Both of you. When Katniss was shot and the transmission stopped. I couldn’t know what was happening, and I thought maybe...”

“I’m here.” He kissed her cheeks, tasting salt and faint flowers, like a remnant of the froofy Capitol cocktail she used to be, and like what he imagined of the seashore. He wondered if she’d ever been there.

“We’re a team. ...I don’t want to lose you.”

He slid his hand up her spine and held her with their foreheads touching. “I don’t want to lose you either.”

Shit. This was so goddamn personal. They gave into the desire to let it be so. Who kissed who first was irrelevant. There was no clashing of teeth or tasting blood — just silk, like feathery leaves and ribbons, and dangerous words they thought but didn’t say.

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avengerscompound · 4 years

Text

She Sets the City on Fire - One Summer’s Night

She Sets the City on Fire: A Bruce Banner Fanfic

MASTERLIST PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Square: @brucebannerbingo - U4 Pining

Rating: E

Warning: Age Gap, Self Doubt, Recreational drug use, Smut (M|F vaginal fingering vaginal sex, squirting, sex while under the influence of drugs)

Word Count: 5234

Pairing: Bruce Banner x OFC (Summer)

Summary: Bruce is drawn to Summer. She’s everything he wished he could be. Carefree, exciting, and she knows exactly who she is. There are so many reasons a relationship with her wouldn’t work. So why can’t he stop thinking about her?

A/N: On the first chapter

2. One Summer’s Night

Bruce didn’t call Summer.

She was too young. This was a one-time thing. A guy like him couldn’t be with a woman like her. He wasn’t sure there was a person on the planet that could tie Summer Martin, but he was fairly certain that if there was it wouldn’t be an over-the-hill scientist with a rather serious rage issue.

Although…

Maybe there could be something. Starting with sex wasn’t a good sign though. Especially for him. He’d never done anything like that before.

Besides he didn’t have her number anyway. So it wasn’t as if he could call her.

He did have Aidan’s email address though. He could email him and ask for it.

But it wasn’t like Bruce was a hard man to track down these days. People knew where he lived. His email address was on five different official websites. If she wanted to see him, she could have contacted him. She probably didn’t want to start anything with him. And who could blame her?

If only he could stop thinking about her.

“You’re thinking about her again.” Tony teased as Bruce had been staring off into space again.

Bruce shook his head and looked over at his friend. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“She really got you good. I haven’t seen you this smitten. Ever.” Tony said. “Why don’t you call her?”

Bruce shook his head again and tapped the screwdriver he was holding on his hand. “I can’t. Tony. I’m old enough to be her father. That’s not an exaggeration either. If I had a child her age, no one would even think I’d had them young.”

Tony snorted. “Wow. Of all the men in the world to start fishing for jailbait, I never expected you to be one…”

“See … which is exactly why I need to leave her alone. Even if… even if she was interested in me like that, I can’t do that to her. I can’t condemn a person to a life with me. Especially when theirs is still laid out in front of them.”

Tony came over and put his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “I have never seen you like this. I mean…. When was the last time you even got laid?”

“Before the accident,” Bruce said.

“Maybe she’s just what you need. Someone casual who won’t be tied down and doesn’t get caught up in the details. Call her. Let her decide what she wants to do with her life.” Tony said.

Bruce frowned and thought about it for a little while. He decided he’d send an email to Aidan. If Aidan ignored it, then that was fate telling him it was a bad idea. He didn’t say what he wanted to ask about, just that he wanted to talk.

It was ten minutes later when his phone rang.

“Hello, Doctor Banner, why do I get the feeling that you’re not calling me about my research?” Aidan said.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said. “Not that I’m not interested in it…”

Aidan laughed. “It’s fine. I’ve seen how Summer draws people in.”

“Do you think she might … would she be interested in…” Bruce said, not sure how to even ask the question.

“Yeah, I do. And you should call her. I saw her reading one of your books the other day. I don’t think that’s because she has a sudden interest in Nuclear Physics.” Aidan explained.

“Don’t you think… aren’t I maybe… a little unsuited for her?” Bruce asked.

There was an exhale of breath on the other end of the line before Aidan spoke again. “It’s not for me to say who either of you sees,” he said. “Summer is low commitment and low maintenance. And she is a lot younger than you. Whether that makes it a bad match isn’t for me to decide. But can I tell you a story?”

“Yes,” Bruce said, as his stomach began to turn itself in knots.

“I didn’t grow up with Summer. Part of that is the fact I’m eleven years older than her. And part of it is because I was raised by my mom and my dad barely had anything to do with me.”

“Yes,” Bruce said. “Summer told me. I’m sorry that happened. I know what it’s like to have a negligent father.”

“Shit happens,” Aidan replied. “When I finished school, my dad paid for me to go to college and gave me a job. I didn’t even have to try to do anything. It was all being handed to me but with the condition that I didn’t embarrass him. So I went a little wild. I started partying. I got into some pretty heavy drug use.”

The story was a familiar one. Tony had done a similar thing thanks to neglect from his father. He’d also pulled himself around so Bruce knew not to hold that kind of thing against anyone.

“When I found out Summer had moved into the city for college I tracked her down,” Aidan continued. “She was so excited to spend time with me. I was a complete mess, but she followed me around. She came over on weekends and she’d make me breakfast. She’d follow me out clubbing. One night she came to a really skeevy party with me. Fuck, I regret taking her to that. Except I don’t, because I ODed. She found me unconscious with a needle in my arm. Called an ambulance. Called our dad. Demanded that he send me to rehab. Convinced him to buy that building under the pretense of us living together so she could keep an eye on me.”

“She told me your dad forced her to live with you,” Bruce said.

“She says that so it looks like our dad loves me. I’m sure he does, but not like he loves her. I don’t blame him though. She’s the best of us. I’d be dead now if it wasn’t for her. She turned my life around. I have my Ph.D. and my job because of her. I’m clean because of her. She’s worth having in your life even if all you get from her is a weird friend. So call her. You have my blessing.”

Bruce took down her number and then stared at it willing himself to call. If Aidan was right, maybe that’s what she could be. A friend. Someone to help get him out of his head. She did seem to have that effect on him.

He dialed the number and held the phone to his ear. It rang three times before Summer picked up.

“Who hasn’t heard of texting?” She said in way of introduction.

Bruce’s heart began to race and he felt the Hulk raise his head. “Hello. Yes. Sorry. It’s Bruce.” He stammered.

“Who?” She asked.

He swallowed thickly and tried to calm himself. This had obviously been a mistake. She thought of him so little that she didn’t even recognize who it was calling. “Bruce Banner.”

There was laughter on the other end of the line. “I just got you to say your full name. It’s nice to hear from you, Bruce Banner.”

Bruce felt a large part of him relax and Hulk seemed to settle back into a doze. “It’s nice to hear you too.”

“Aww, that’s always nice.” She said. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Something with you?” He said and cursed himself as soon as the words left his mouth.

Summer burst out laughing and a deep flush crept into Bruce’s cheeks. “That was so smooth. I bet you’re drowning in pussy,” she teased playfully. “Anyway, Romeo. There’s a rave on in Hell’s Kitchen tonight. I’m going with some friends. Wanna come?”

Bruce agreed before he even registered what he was agreeing to. When he hung up the phone, he immediately started to freak out. A rave? He’d just agreed to go to a rave. The guy with the huge green rage monster hiding inside him agreed to be pressed up in the dark with a bunch of sweaty strangers listening to music that grated on his nerves. Not to mention that a rave was the worst place for a first date ever. How could he even talk to her at a place like that?

As the hour approached, he got ready to go out. He put on a dark purple button-up shirt but left it unbuttoned at the collar and put on a suit jacket. He knew he wasn’t going to fit in but he didn’t think there was any way that he was going to be able to regardless of what he wore.

He had a car take him to the club and when he got out he scanned the crowd for Summer. There were a few groups milling around the front and a line forming at the door, but he couldn’t see any sign of her. He thought he’d go get in line with the people who were not only 20 years younger than him, but dressed completely differently, just to save a spot when there was a tap on his shoulder.

He turned around to see Summer, only she was barely recognizable to him. She was wearing knee-high faux fur boots in hot pink and black and a matching latex outfit that consisted of what looked like just a bra and panties. There were pink fur cuffs on her wrists and she was wearing a wig made of pink and black tubes and ribbons in various shades and materials. She had appeared to accessorize with pink glow sticks. They hung around her neck and wrapped around her arms and waist.

“Hey, Bruce!” She chirped, leaning up and pressing her lips to his.

It was one of those kisses that could be whatever you want it to be. Her lips only barely parted and it lingered just that little longer than normal. Bruce was so startled by seeing her in a complete cyber costume that he forgot to kiss back and she pulled away and grinned at him.

“Bruce, these are my friends; Cassie, Amanda, Liam, and Rachel. Everyone, this is Bruce.” Summer said indicating to her friends. The group was all dressed in similar clothing, but various colors and levels of skin showing. Liam had color in his hair and he was wearing black flared pants and a black mesh singlet with yellow hazmat symbols on both. Bruce felt extremely out of place, but he shook everyone’s hands and even returned Cassie’s kiss when she leaned in to kiss him.

“Cass, do you have any more glow sticks?” Summer asked.

Cassie dug through her bag and pulled out a handful of glow sticks - the kind you’d get in tubes from the dollar store. She and Summer then went to work cracking them and popping them together so that Bruce was wearing two circles of different lengths around his neck and one around his left wrist.

Summer took Bruce’s hand and led him to the door as the others followed behind them. The bouncer looked Bruce over. Bruce was sure he was about to get turned away. Especially given how long the line now was. Instead, the bouncer pulled the rope away and stepped out from in front of the door.

“Enjoy your night, miss Martin,” he said, holding the door open for all of them.

“How many times do I have to tell you; it’s Summer?” She said as she passed him and headed inside.

“The bouncer knows you?” Bruce asked, glancing back at him. He had to yell over the sound of the club. The loud and rhythmic thud of the bass traveled right through him and the scratch of what he could only think to call melody, though it was anything but that, drowned out almost everything else. As they walked through the club, Summer and her friend lit up under the blacklights. Their bare skin painted with some kind of UV paint.

Summer stopped walking and pulled him down so her mouth was against his ear. “I’m kind of a big deal around here.” She said.

She led the group into another roped off area and up some stairs. A guy who looked like he was Bruce’s age greeted her, pressing himself close to her body as he spoke with his lips hovering close to her ear. She laughed and then continued on her path to a long, low table surrounded by beanbags and cushions.

It was a little quieter in this part of the club. You didn’t need to yell to be heard and the music felt a little more like it was a background sound. Bruce took a seat on one of the beanbags and Summer sat down directly in his lap.

“Who was that guy?” Bruce asked.

“My uncle,” she said uncle with air quotes, which made Bruce think it was just a man who was friends with her parents and she’d been raised calling him that. “He works with my dad. Total creep.”

Bruce looked around the group. He wasn’t sure what to do and they were all digging around in their bags. He wasn’t sure where his hands were supposed to go either and all he could think was how much he wanted to put them on her thighs and how completely inappropriate that was. “Did you want to dance?” He asked.

“In a minute.” She said, almost casually.

A waitress arrived with a tray full of bottled water and she placed it on the table and left without even waiting to see if they wanted anything else. Liam pulled a baggie of colorful pills from his pocket, took two out and swallowed them with water before tossing the baggie in the middle of the table. The others each took one or two. When Summer went to take one too Cassie snatched the bag and shook her head.

“I’ve got yours right here, bitch,” she said, putting a little pink unicorn tablet on her tongue. Summer leaned over to her and Bruce watched as they kissed. They were all tongues, and Bruce shifted a little uneasily under Summer.

When Summer pulled back she looked down at Bruce. “Do you want one? No pressure. I don’t care either way.”

“Do I get to take it like you did?” Bruce asked aiming for playful, immediately cursing himself as soon as the words had left his mouth.

Summer started laughing. She pushed her face into his chest, trying to smother it. “Okay. Okay. Let me just go ask Cassie. She does like kissing so I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

Bruce shook his head, the flush he felt creeping into his cheeks and up the back of his neck.

Summer tilted his face up to hers. “Let me get something out of the way, so I know for sure you aren’t agreeing to take drugs to fit in or impress me.” She said. Her hands went to his hair and she leaned in and kissed him. Her tongue coaxed his lips apart and dipped briefly into his mouth and one of her hands slid down his arms, moving his hand to her thigh. When she pulled away she looked him dead in the eyes. He had trouble keeping eye contact with her, but he forced himself as he felt his breath hitch. “I’m here with you, Bruce. I plan to go home with you if that’s something you want to happen. Unless you choose not to or something unforeseen happens, you’re getting laid tonight. So knowing that, do you want to take some E?”

Bruce shook his head. There was a part of him, this part that had never got a chance to shine. The one smothered by bullies at school and then crushed by the accident that created the form of the Hulk, that wanted to be reckless. That was relishing being with these carefree youth that had just accepted him as part of them, as much as he didn’t fit in. He knew what ecstasy was supposed to do too. That could make the Hulk quieten right down and he could be a version of himself he only knew the edges of. But the risks with it were that he come out and Bruce couldn’t risk that here.

“Come on then, let’s go dance,” Summer said, getting to her feet and pulling Bruce along with her.

She led him down to the dance floor. It was crowded and the strobe lighting played off her skin. The UV paint she’d used on her skin glowed in the lights and made her look like fae.

They started dancing. Nothing over the top. It was just face-to-face with her arms around his neck and his hands on her hips. She moved against him, bouncing and rolling her hips in time with the deep thud of the bass. She seemed to have unlimited energy and moved with such abandon. It was like the music just flowed through her.

He seemed to get high just on her. He was mesmerized by her. Drunk on her own enjoyment. The way the light played of her skin. The way she moved. She was the music come to life. She turned in his arms and began to grind her ass up against him and brought his hand to her public bone.

He nuzzled into her neck and she leaned back and kissed him. It was wet and hot and his hands slid up to her stomach. Her friend Cassie came and joined them, grinding into Summer. Summer broke the kiss with Bruce and leaned in and started kissing Cassie. When they broke apart, Cassie leaned over Summer’s shoulder and captured Bruce’s lips.

“I need a drink,” Summer said, squeezing out from between the two of them. Bruce pulled away from Cassie and followed after Summer. Cassie appeared completely unphased, simply turning to the closest person and continuing to dance.

The table they had staked out earlier was still free. In fact, their bags were just sitting underneath, undisturbed. Summer collapsed down in a bean bag and grabbed a bottle of water as Bruce sat carefully next to her. He took his own bottle and drank it quickly.

“Are you having fun, Brucie?” Summer asked shifting so her legs were draped over his lap.

“I think so. Yes.” He said, running his fingers through the fur on her boots.

“Those feel nice don’t they?” She said leaning forward and running her hands over his cheeks. “This is all scratchy. I wonder what it feels like on my thighs.”

Bruce looked from her blue eyes that were blown out thanks to the ecstasy coursing through her system and down to the bare skin on her thigh. He then did something he couldn’t have ever even imagined doing before. He lifted her leg and leaned down, rubbing his cheek on the inside of her leg.

Summer snorted and broke down into giggles. “That tickles.” She leaned in and rubbed her nose against his and teased her lips over his cheek. “Do you want to dance some more?”

“I will if you want to,” Bruce said.

She trailed her fingers through his hair, making his scalp prickle. “Do you want to go home and fuck?”

He swallowed and nodded. “Yes. Please.”

She grabbed her bag and got up, grabbing Bruce’s hands and helping him to his feet. They went and found Cassie and Amanda on the dance floor and let them know she was leaving.

“Can I come too?” Cassie asked, trailing her fingers up and down Summer’s arm.

Summer shook her head. “Maybe next time. I love you, Cass.”

Cassie leaned in and kissed Summer gently. “I love you too, Summer.”

In the back of the cab, Summer linked her fingers with Bruce’s and nibbled at the skin under his ear.

“Is Cassie your girlfriend?” Bruce asked. He was afraid of the answer. Summer was exotic and hard to read. He wanted her, but he wasn’t sure how much of her he could handle.

“No,” she said simply. “We have sex a lot. I think if we were different people we might be girlfriends. Mostly she’s just my friend. She has sex with Aidan too.”

“Would you like to date?” He asked. “Me that is.”

Summer hummed, running her fingers up and down his thigh. “I don’t know. I haven’t been anyone’s girlfriend for so long. I don’t know if I’d make a very good one. Last time I did it, I felt like I lost a little bit of what makes me, me. There’s a song I heard once…” Summer licked her lips and started singing. “A triangle trying to squeeze in a circle. He tried to cut me so I fit.”

“I don’t want to change you, Summer,” Bruce said.

“You know what I’d like to find?” She said. “I’d like to find a person who met me and loved me just exactly how I am, even though I don’t want to be tied down. They’d love me so much that they would be happy to let me float about and do the things I like to do and they’d trust that I loved them too and I’d always find my way back to them. But because I loved them and they trusted me, I didn’t feel like I wanted to do those things anymore.”

“You want someone who doesn’t change you, but inspires you to change yourself?” Bruce asked. “But then what if the person you changed into wasn’t the one they loved anymore?”

Summer shook her head and for a moment she looked really sad. “That’s a huge problem, isn’t it?”

“I really like you, Summer. I can’t stop thinking about you,” Bruce said.

“I’m here now. Let’s just see what happens in the future when we reach it.”

The cab pulled up out the front of the Avengers Tower and Bruce paid and let Summer in. She looked around in the empty lobby at all the official signage and in the elevator, she wrapped her arms around him and nuzzled into his neck. As soon as he let her into his apartment she began to work the falls in her hair out which he realized now were more like hair accessories than a wig.

“Do you want anything to drink?” Bruce asked.

Summer looked up at him with a handful of ribbons. “If you have something like Gatorade I will love you forever. Otherwise, water is just fine.”

“I don’t but if you give me a minute I can get some,” Bruce said. “What color do you want?”

“Ooh, blue, please!” Summer chirped.

Bruce headed up to the labs and helped himself to a blue Gatorade from the drinks fridge. When he got back to his apartment, Summer was sitting on his bed. The falls were all gone from her hair and she’d taken off her boots. She took the drink from him and she drank half the bottle in one go. She poked out her tongue at him as she screwed the lid back on.

He chuckled. “Yes, it’s blue.”

“Like one of those lizards,” She said putting her drink on the bedside table. She took Bruce’s and pulled him closer to the bed. “Would you like to see if you can get me to do my little trick?”

“What’s your little trick?” Bruce asked.

“Go get some towels.” She said. “This can get a little messy.”

Bruce looked at her confused but did as he was told. He collected some towels from his linen cupboard and brought them back to his bedroom. When he returned Summer was standing by the bed completely naked. He couldn’t quite get over how perfect she was. Even the little imperfections she had. The stretch marks on her hips, the scar on the top of her left thigh, the small amount of cellulite she had, all those little things that everyone has just made her more perfect to him because it meant she was a real person despite how she might otherwise come across.

She motioned to him to come close and he approached her slowly, starting to get a little nervous again. She wrapped her arms around him and rubbed her cheek against his before kissing him on the corner of the mouth.

“I still have my clothes on and you’re completely naked,” Bruce said.

Summer laughed. “Something does seem remiss. Let me help.”

She began to slowly and carefully undress him. Hanging his jacket over the back of a chair. Unbuttoning his shirt slowly and kissing a trail down his chest as she did. She helped him off with his shoes and then his pants and when he was finally naked he was so hard, his cock felt like it was throbbing.

She took his hand and guided him back on the bed. He ran his cheek up the inside of her thighs and she moaned and spread her legs wider for him. “Oh god, Bruce,” she moaned, clutching at the sheets. “Your skin feels so good on mine.”

Bruce ran his nose along Summer’s pubic mound, dipping his tongue between the folds of her labia. He hummed as he relished the taste of her, her fluids coating his tongue.

“What did you want to show me, Summer?” Bruce asked, looking up at her from between his legs.

Summer sat up and spread the towels, before sitting down on top of them. “Have you ever made a girl squirt?” She asked.

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “I uh… maybe?”

“That’s a no.” Summer teased, pushing him with her foot. “Come on I’ll teach you.”

She took his hand and using her fingers she guided two of his up and down her folds. She let his hand go and lay back, letting Bruce take his time. He rolled them over her clit and circled her entrance a few times before pushing two of them inside of her.

“Okay,” she sighed. “Push them right in as far as you can, and then you need to curl them towards you.”

Bruce followed her instructions, pushing his fingers into her right up to his knuckles. He curled them inside her pressing his fingertips up against her inner walls.

A shudder passed through her and he felt her clench around his digits. “So now, move them around a little, you’re looking for a bit that feels smooth and spongy compared to everything else.” She said, with a slight breathlessness.

He moved his fingers inside of her until he found a spot that did feel different. Softer and with more give. He pushed his fingertips against it. “Here?”

Summer moaned and raised her hips up, pushing into his hand. “Fuck. Yes. That’s the spot. Now you need to press really hard and do this.” She made a gesture like she was beckoning him to her.

Bruce started stroking his fingers up and down along that special spot. Summer moaned loudly and squirmed on the bed. “Fuck. Just a little harder, Bruce.”

He pressed down harder and the noise she made didn’t even sound human. It was such a deep animalistic cry of such complete pleasure. It made his erection throb painfully and his hand went to his cock without even thinking.

Bruce continued to move his fingers inside Summer. He increased the pressure and pace as he elicited more and more incoherent noises from Summer. He was completely entranced by her. The way her body moved as it clenched and squirmed below him. How her face contorted in a look of pure pleasure. All of a sudden her whole body seized up, her cunt clenched around his fingers and as her body let go again, she came. He’d never seen anything like it. She gushed on him and cried out a long string of curse words he hadn’t heard outside of Tony hurting himself in the lab.

“Holy… Summer!” Bruce gasped. He desperately wanted to taste her again and dropped down between her legs and lapped at her soaked pussy, drinking everything he could.

Summer sat up and grabbed the Gatorade from the nightstand, drinking what was left and tangling her free hand in Bruce’s hair as she watched him eat her out.

“Brucie,” she half moaned, as Bruce’s teeth grazed over her clit. “How about we take care of you?”

Bruce gazed up at her. “Can we just make love?” He asked.

She giggled and pushed his hair back from his face. “Of course.”

“Oh,” Bruce said jumping up and going to his side table. “I saw these and thought of you.”

He pulled out a box from the drawer and handed it to her. She looked at it and her face lit up. “You bought glow-in-the-dark?” She said as she excitedly opened the box and pulled one out. She stood up on the bed and held it up to the light.

“What are you doing?” Bruce asked.

“You have to charge them up,” she laughed. Bruce laughed softly with her and moved the towels off the bed.

“How long will that take?” He said sitting beside her and kissing along her soft stomach.

She giggled and flopped back onto the bed, pressing the packet into his hand. “Go on then.” He got up and sheathed himself and she started giggling. “You need to turn off the light.”

He chuckled and switched the light off. With the blinds drawn it was almost pitch black. There were now only two sources of light. The glow of his alarm clock and the brighter green glow of his dick. Summer squealed with delight and clapped her hands.

Bruce chuckled and moved back to the bed, his cock bouncing as he walked. Summer laughed harder and got up and wrapped her arms around him. They started to kiss and Summer turned them, pushing Bruce back onto the bed and climbing into his lap. Ever so slowly she sunk down onto his cock humming as he filled her.

“What do you think it looks like inside of me now?” She asked as she slowly rolled her hips against Bruce and held him close.

“A spooky green cave?” Bruce offered.

She started giggling. It was infectious and he was soon laughing with her. “My mysterious glowing uterus. It’s where you need to go for healing potions.”

Bruce pushed her hair from her shoulder and rubbed his cheek on her exposed skin. “You’re so odd, Summer.”

“You love it.”

Bruce hummed in agreement and rolled her onto her back. They began to move as one, thrusting and rolling their hips with each other. They kissed and nipped at each other’s skin. Moans were made and names were murmured as they brought each other to the brink of climax. When the came, it was together. Clutching at each other.

Bruce slopped out of her and got up to dispose of the condom. When he came back Summer was sitting up on the bed stretching. He sat down next to her and leaned back against the headboard. She snuggled into him, draping her arm over his waist.

“You’ll stay?” It was half question, half statement and full of hope.

“Of course,” she replied. “Will you make me breakfast? I like when people do that. I like doing it too when people sleepover with me.”

“Anything you want,” Bruce answered. The answer scared him a little. He knew it was true, but he knew right at this moment, he belonged to her.

// NEXT

#brucebannerbingo2019 #bruce banner #bruce banner x oc #hulk #hulk fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #smut #she sets the city on fire #one summer's day

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anxiouslynumbme · 4 years

Text

Carmuel Missing Scenes/Moments

Warning: (Sexual Situations, Strong Language, Drug Use.)

3x06

_______________________________________________________

Samuel had tried to get Carla alone all day, but she was a master at avoiding him. He couldn't let her do it again. So he'd settled on watching her for the rest of the day, hoping that she wasn't desperate enough to use at school.

Carla looked almost robotic and it seemed she was losing more of herself every time Samuel looked at her.

He looked at his bruised hand with a grimace, maybe taking his issues out on a locker wasn't the best idea. Samuel's anger at Valerio hadn't died down, if anything, it festered.

The school day had finally come to an end and he couldn't see Carla anywhere. Samuel didn't how he missed the fact that she had already left, when he'd been watching her like a hawk. Samuel knew she wasn't going to be happy when he suddenly showed up at her door. But she gave him no choice.

Once he'd reached her house, Samuel pushed his nerves to the side. A woman, he recognized as Mirella smiled at him, after opening the door.

"Uh, Hi. Is Carla here?"

He should've called first. But she wouldn't have answered, so Samuel couldn't really feel bad about it.

"Yes. Come in, sir. I'll go get her."

Samuel slowly made his way inside, waiting awkwardly in the foyer and not for the first time, he could see just how different their worlds were. A moment later he heard Carla's angry footsteps stumping down the stairs, Samuel whirled around to see she was still in her uniform, which never failed to cause him to stir. But that was obviously not why he was here.

"Have you lost your mind? What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Tell me you didn't take it."

Samuel could see the agitation all over her soft features.

"You are the most frustrating person I've ever met. You're lucky my parents aren't here."

"Carla - "

"Just follow me." she huffed, quickly turning on her heel and walking up the stairs.

While he'd been to Carla's house before, Samuel had never actually seen her bedroom. The second he stepped through the door, his eyes roamed every corner with burning curiosity. It was spotless, which came as no surprise since they had maids. He paced around until he was at her desk, his hand smoothing over the surface. He grinned at a picture of her and Lu when they were younger, Carla's smile looked so genuine.

"Samuel?"

He cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. Sorry."

"What do you want?" she sighed tiredly.

"Did you ta - "

"No, I didn't. I literally just got home."

"Good. Now flush it down the toilet."

"You know I'm not gonna do that."

"Why do you need it?"

Carla simply stared at him, fingers going for her shirt, unbuttoning the first, second, then the third button. His body surged in attention, before his mind snapped into focus and he looked away.

"Your tricks are getting old, Carla."

"Don't flatter yourself. Since you came uninvited, I'm changing out of my uniform anyway. If that makes you uncomfortable, wait outside. Better yet, why don't you leave my house all together?"

"Sure, throw it away and I'm gone."

"You really are insufferable." Carla puffed out a breath, he subtly let his eyes wander over to her, she had changed into a simple white shirt and was sliding her legs through grey cotton shorts. Samuel breathed in relief, he wasn't sure he could've handled it if he had checked and found her naked.

Once she was fully clothed and facing him, Carla crossed her arms. "I'm not getting rid of it, Samuel. So let it go and go home."

"I can't do that. Not when I know what you're about to do."

"Why do you keep doing this?" Carla asked harshly.

She knew why. They both did. It didn't matter that she didn't want to acknowledge it, or that he was too scared to say it again. Samuel couldn't just walk away from her when she was obviously having such a rough time. Such a rough time that she'd resorted to this extreme level of dealing with it. And Samuel'd be damned if he was going to just idly stand by and watch her self-destruct.

He disregarded her question, striding towards her. "Give it to me."

"No."

"Carla, I'm not leaving unless I know you don't have it."

"What is wrong with you?"

"I'm trying - "

"No, seriously," she interjected with a glare, "are you constantly losing brain cells? What I do is none of your business."

Samuel wasn't fazed by her words. He was about to open his mouth when his eyes thoroughly took note of her state. Her body was quivering, her curled fists were visibly trembling as she breathed heavily. Drops of sweat pouring out of her forehead and down her pale face, her sullen eyes were misting over with tears.

A painful stab of worry rocked him as he raised both palms to her face, Carla blenched but didn't move away from his touch. Taking it as a good sign, Samuel moved closer to her, his thumbs soothingly rubbing back and forth across her cheeks.

She had gone too far and his stomach dropped at the realization.

"You need help, Carla."

"No, no. I'm fine. I'm handling it." her wavering voice was proof that she didn't believe her own words. She was starting to shiver all over, Samuel quickly grabbed the first blanket he saw on her bed and threw it over her shoulders, wrapping it tightly around her.

"Thank you."

Samuel tilted her chin up. "You have to stop."

"I know - but I can't," she told him in a low voice.

"Of course you can. You are so strong, I know - "

"No, you don't get it. I...I can't carry on without it."

"What do you mean?"

"I need it. I just have to."

"Why? Why won't you just talk to me?"

"I - I can't, you know that."

"Yes. But I don't know why!"

"Samuel, please. Don't. Not now, I'm so tired and I feel so - " Carla broke off with an evident shudder, swaying in the spot, almost losing her balance. Samuel instantly held her closer.

"Okay, okay," he said, kissing her forehead gently, "I'm sorry."

Samuel felt her body sag against him and his arms tightened around her, lips trailing light kisses down her right cheek. "It's okay. You'll be okay." he kept repeating it to affirm it for both of them.

And then Carla collapsed completely, a loud sob leaving her mouth. Samuel's entire body stilled with her tears, Carla always kept it together, he had never seen her break. A vicious, unsettling emotion cut through him deeply, his gut wrenched with her cries; head pounded with every gasp of pain out of her lips.

"Shh, it'll be alright." Samuel felt so helpless, his arms gripping her to him so firmly, he was scared it was cutting her airflow. But Carla didn't care, her arms grasping onto him just as hard, crying her soul into his chest.

Samuel didn't know when exactly they had fallen down on the bed, or when had tears started streaming down his face. Witnessing Carla's hurt so transparently, rattled him to the core. Only when Carla lifted her head off his chest to look at him, did he notice how the sunlight had dimmed in the room.

"Why are you crying?" her voice was hoarse as she wiped a tear from his cheek.

Because you're in pain, he thought to himself, And I don't know how to help you, I don't know how to make any of this better.

Samuel simply shrugged with a weak smile. She didn't push it, leaning forward to kiss the rest of his tears away, leaving him with shivers running down his spine. Samuel shut his eyes in contentment, tugging her closer to him; his other hand massaging the back of her head.

"You should eat something," he said after a period of serene silence.

"Like what, macaroni?"

His heart fluttered. "I could make you some, I'm sure you have everything I need in your kitchen."

"I was kidding, Samuel. Do you ever eat anything else?"

He paused, pretending to consider it. "Not really, no."

Carla chuckled. "You know, I could make you something."

Samuel looked down at her, waiting for those eyes to gaze back up at him. "Carla Rosòn Caleruga can cook?"

"Of course," she replied, suddenly hoisting herself up and straddling his waist, her haunting eyes piercing his. "I'm a woman of many talents."

"I'm well-aware," his reply came out breathless, "I just don't think cooking is one of them."

Carla giggled, the sound humming through his system. "Fine, you got me. I can't cook for shit, but I'm a very fast learner. Maybe you could teach me, Chef."

Even though Samuel knew he wasn't much better, he nodded with a grin. "I'd be honored."

Carla then bent down achingly slow before finally meeting his lips. The kiss was lazy and deep, his tongue swirling with hers in a consuming tremor that traveled through every inch of his body, striking his lower region.

Samuel knew it was the wrong time and they should definitely stop. Carla had just finished crying in his arms, not to mention she was suffering from withdrawal. And a part of him knew she might be feeling too exposed after showing such vulnerability; she might be deflecting the issue by turning things sexual and not talking about it. But while Samuel knew that they needed to finally talk about everything; that she needed some time and space to recover, he couldn't help but feel they both needed this. They both needed the comfort they found in each other. Even Just for a moment.

The kiss was quickly turning heavy, her fingers making quick work of his buttons. His palms clutched her shirt before slipping under it, his fingers tracing the soft skin of her back as their hips ground together ardently.

"Carla." he groaned into her mouth.

They had to stop. Samuel was reluctantly slowing the progress of their eager embrace, when he heard a muffled ringing under his head. He couldn't register the sound at first, his head fuzzy with everything Carla.

Samuel pulled away slightly, his hand reaching under him and retrieving Carla's phone. He managed to catch the name on the screen before handing it to her.

His jaw ticked. Yeray.

Carla frowned, silencing the phone and throwing it carelessly to the side. She tried to kiss him again but he stopped her.

"You should really eat something," he said quietly.

Carla paused, staring at him. She finally inhaled loudly in resignation and flopped down next to him. It was tense for a few minutes before she rescued them from it.

"Fine. But we're not eating macaroni."

He smiled. "Deal."

_______________________________________________________

The ended up ordering pizza, which they were currently eating in front of the pool. They'd spent the time waiting for it to be delivered, talking seriously and mindlessly, he'd told her that Rebe found out about the deal he'd made with the police, but left out the part where she'd called him out on why he'd started things with her. They also talked about silly shit, that made them both guffaw and relax. And Samuel was just realizing that even though Carla was still fidgeting and a bit antsy, she was looking a little better; and she hadn't brought up the drugs or her need for it.

"My parent will be home soon," she announced, her voice still a bit scratchy, "you'll need to go."

He said nothing in response, merely nodding. Samuel wouldn't get anywhere asking her why and he didn't want to ruin this time with her.

"Wanna go for a swim?" Carla asked abruptly.

"A swim?" he repeated stupidly.

"Yep." she grinned. "Come on!"

And then she was taking her clothes off. Samuel swallowed, exhaling a sharp breath; watching as she peeled off her shirt and shorts before diving in, water spattering around her. Samuel's hesitation lasted about a second. Because seeing Carla smiling, her eyes beckoning him to join her in the joy she was having - no matter how temporary - made his decision fairly easy.

He stood up, shedding his clothes, and quickly jumping in after her with only his boxers on. Carla let out a cheerful laugh at the splash he caused. They both immediately swam to each other, their laughter dying down as they gazed upon one another. And when she leaned in to kiss him, he softly spoke.

"I don't want to taint us."

Carla blanched in surprise. "What?"

"I - I shouldn't have kissed you the other night. But more importantly, I shouldn't have gotten with Rebe in the first place, knowing how I feel about you. And now I have to live with the fact that I hurt her.

"And even if I don't care about Yeray or his feelings. I know what that's like. We shouldn't do that to him."

Her gaze left him with a scoff. "Trust me, what I have with Yeray is not like that."

"What do you mean?"

"It's just different."

Samuel narrowed his eyes. "Do you even like him?"

"I do, I just - "

"Don't lie. Why are you with him?"

"Because...he's fun."

He snorted at the feeble excuse. "Fun? That's the only reason?"

"Yes. That's enough for me."

"Is it?" he was irritated with her statement

"Yeah, we're both young and we're just having fun. What else is there?"

If Samuel didn't know any better, he would've thought she was intentionally provoking him. What else is there?

Love. Passion. Us. What we have, what we feel for each other, his mind was almost screaming at her.

"Well, whatever it is, you have to end it. I mean, if you want this - us."

Carla was quiet for a moment, peering at him in a way that made his insides churn.

"You're the best person I know," she whispered.

Samuel's eyes lowered shyly, his heart skipping a beat at her praise. But he was just being decent, nothing more. Guilt still twisted his stomach, knowing the questionable things he'd done. Especially recently.

"No, I'm not, I'm - "

"Yes, you are," she said resolutely, "now please believe that Yeray and I are not what you think we are. Not to me, at least."

Samuel didn't get a chance to prompt her further as she nudged him forward and he didn't resist. Because Samuel was only human and the girl he was in love with was half naked and wet. He licked his lips and Carla smirked at the action, grazing his mouth teasingly.

Returning her soft kiss, Samuel felt their hands interlock- his fingers slotting through hers and he winced slightly from his still sore fist.

Carla glanced down in concern at his rapidly swelling knuckle, it was getting redder by the minute. "What happened?"

"I might have punched a locker," he said sheepishly.

"Why?"

"Well, it was either the locker or Valerio."

Carla tutted with a sigh. "Samuel, why would you do that? It's not his fault."

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's not, it was my decision. He only did what I asked."

"And if he hadn't, you would've never had the opportunity in the first place." Carla's eyes left his shamefully, it was the same look she had when she'd walked out of the bathroom this morning.

The truth was that it was on Samuel too. He'd provided the place for Valerio and Rebe to push drugs. The guilt prevented him from telling Carla that they'd used his house and it was eating him inside, even if he knew she might be understanding. But as he stared at her, she still looked drained and Samuel was too damn afraid to break the peaceful spell that'd been cast on them.

"Regardless, I can deal with my own shit," she said stubbornly, "and you definitely shouldn't go around punching lockers."

Samuel's lips quirked in amusement. "Sorry."

"You should be. I like your hands."

"Yeah?"

"Hmm," she said, playing with his fingers, "they're very nice and. . .skillful."

His heart jumped at the insinuation and he let out a low chuckle. "Really? That's nice to hear."

Carla's reaction was to slowly bring his bruised knuckle to her lips, peppering soft kisses across it. Samuel's eyes found hers intensely as she darted her tongue out and licked up the back of his index finger; till she finally took it in her mouth and sucked.

His body heat rose to an alarming level of arousal. Samuel closed his eyes, chest heaving, the sensations that burst over him, causing him to twitch in his underwear.

"Fuck," he breathed out, before his free hand took charge and ran itself through her hair, tugging on it gently so she would release his finger.

Samuel's lips pressed against hers with fervor need and Carla responded in kind, her tongue keeping up with the urgent movement of his.

And because every fiber of his being was chanting it. Samuel's mouth drew back, staying close, lips brushing hers. The words crawling incessantly under his skin until he couldn't stop them from being whispered against her.

"I love you."

Carla went rigid in his arms. And he mentally cursed himself, but he didn't regret saying it. What did she expect? Samuel couldn't keep it in any longer.

Carla pulled away stiffly. "Stop saying that."

"Why? It's the truth."

She rubbed her temples in distress. "No, it's not. You don't even know me."

Samuel gaped at her, how the fuck could she say that? Not only did she say he didn't know her, but she kept refusing to believe his feelings. And here Samuel thought the worst thing would've been her not saying it back.

"You're not actually serious, are you? I know you, Carla. In fact, I'm pretty sure I know you better than anyone."

And although his heart was in his throat with nerves, Samuel needed to say it again. To kill any doubts she had on the matter. "I'm in love with you."

Seeing her flinch from his words, physically hurt him. Samuel could feel the searing pain of her rejection, as she closed yet another door on him. She wasn't looking at him, and he didn't know if he should be thanking her for sparing him the mortification of having to look her in the eyes as she shut him down; or yell at her for crushing his heart without even looking as she did it. The strained silence was starting to choke him, Samuel weakly started to move; wanting to make his way out of the water - which now felt like it was scalding him.

"No, no, no," Carla said, grabbing his wrists, "don't leave like this, please."

"I should go." his voice was embarrassingly small.

"Samuel, you don't understand, I - " she looked almost frantic.

"It's all right, Carla." he tried to free himself from her clasp.

"No, no, it's not."

Samuel could see the agony on her face, and his resolve gave in, needing to comfort her. "It's okay."

"Fuck, stop saying that!"

Her exasperated tone shut him up momentarily as he waited for her to say something.

"It's not so easy for me to say it."

That should've hurt, but instead Samuel felt flickering hope flaring up inside him. That meant she felt it. She felt something for him, she just couldn't express it. And how pathetic was it, that it was enough for him to know that.

"Hey," Carla continued, her eyes pinning him to the spot, "let's make it a little quieter."

"What?"

"Let's quiet things down." Carla took a long deep breath and then she began to sink down; until he could only see her silhouette. Samuel's instincts took over, following her lead.

She was a vision under water, her hair floating around her, eyes as captivating as ever. Samuel swam towards her, both of them staring and unmoving.

A second later, their eyes closed and their foreheads touched. Samuel could sense the inescapable calm slowing down his hammering heart. They stayed down as long as they could, but oxygen became a necessity.

They resurfaced, their foreheads still connected, both gasping for air. They rested in the same position for a long time, trying to delay the inevitable end.

"It's getting late. You have to go," she said.

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

Samuel pushed away from her, their eyes glued to one another as he tried to steadily get out of the pool.

He reached for his clothes, not caring that he was going to wear them while still wet. After Samuel was done, he looked back at the girl still in the pool one more time, her back to him. And he could feel the dark clouds emerging again over them as he hastily made his way out of her house.

_______________________________________________________

Samuel couldn't get past the fact that he was standing in Yeray's house. Carla's, too, if what he'd heard was true. Yeray bought her a fucking house.

Why was he here again?

The second Samuel'd arrived, he regretted it, but Guzman seemed more down than usual after Nadia and Samuel felt bad for the way he'd been treating him, so he stayed.

But Samuel also couldn't keep up a conversation with him, because his eyes seemed determined to find Carla. This was her party and she was no where to be found. A little later he was sauntering around the enormous mansion and he finally spotted her talking to Valerio.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he muttered angrily to himself, marching towards them. By the time he reached them, Valerio was walking away and Carla looked frustrated. She also looked fucking breathtaking, but that was beside the point.

"Hello."

Carla's head whipped in his direction, raising her eyebrows. "Samuel, you came."

"You did send an invitation."

"Yeah, I just didn't think you'd come."

"I wasn't going to."

"Okay, well," she said with a rehearsed smile, "make yourself at home. Have fun!"

"Why were you talking to Valerio?"

She didn't care enough to pretend anymore. "Relax, Samuel. I don't have anything."

Samuel did relax but he didn't like seeing her so restless.

"It'll get better," he said softly, wishing he could help her, "it'll get easier to resist, you won't always feel like this. You should go see someone and - "

Carla scoffed loudly. "Right. What do you know?"

"More than you, clearly," he retorted a little harshly. She was back to being cold, and it put him on edge. He was fucking sick of it.

Carla shook her head with a chuckle. "Correction, you think you know better."

"In this case, I do. Because right now, you actually think that drugs are gonna make your problems go away. It doesn't work like that and you know it."

"No." she sighed, looking away from him. "it doesn't make anything disappear. But it sure does make life a lot easier and way more fun."

"For a short amount of time and then you're left with the consequences."

"I'm okay with that," she said with indifference, "anyway, I have guests to entertain. Enjoy the party, Samuel."

He opened his mouth to to stop her from leaving, but nothing came out. Suddenly feeling watched, Samuel glanced around and saw Rebe glaring in his direction.

Seriously, why that fuck was he here? He should've stayed home.

As if on cue, Guzman stepped next go him. "Now you're the one in need of a drink."

"I always need a drink," Samuel replied, staring at Carla across the room, "right now, I need twenty."

"Well, Samu," Guzman said, throwing an arm over his shoulder, "I'm sure that can be arranged."

They were five drinks in, and Samuel still couldn't glance away from Carla as she walked around the party, trying to look like she didn't need her next fix like she needed her next breath.

"What's going on with Carla?" Guzman asked from beside him, his tone a bit concerned.

Samuel didn't know if he should tell him. Carla wouldn't like it, even if she pretended not to care what people think. It was private, she just needed to get help and she would be fine. The only reason he'd told Polo; because even if he wasn't the main reason Carla was using currently - the asshole deserved to be reminded of the weight of the pain he had inflicted.

"She's just been having a really tough time."

"Why? She's got a rich boyfriend. She's somehow gotten away with covering up a murder, seems like she doesn't - "

"Don't," Samuel bit out in warning, "you don't know her as well as you think you do."

"All right, sorry." Guzman was taken aback by his tone, showing both palms in surrender. "Listen, I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive her for what she'd done. But you're right, Carla and I haven't been close in a long time. She's definitely - changed."

Samuel's curiosity piqued, his mind racing to ask about Carla before he had gotten to know her. "What was she like?"

"I mean, she hasn't changed that much. She's always been wild, down for whatever. Smart, she recognized what she had and was always quick to take advantage of it. Since she was my sister's first friend, she was mine too."

Guzman let out a small laugh. "I used to have a crush on her."

"What, really?"

"A very small and brief one, years ago, yeah. To be fair, everybody had a crush on Carla."

Of course. Samuel didn't doubt it for a second. She was magnetic.

"We used to talk all the time." Guzman smiled in remembrance. "She helped me with girls, she actually helped me with Lu."

Samuel grinned, wondering what it would've been like if he had actually known her back then.

As though she knew they were talking about her, Carla's laughter rang through the air, making both Samuel and Guzman look toward the noise. She was dancing with Yeray, her back pressed against his chest. Samuel's heart pinched painfully and it must have shown on his face, because Guzman put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You really love her, don't you?"

Maybe it was the alcohol but Samuel felt no need to hide it. "Yes."

"Come on," Guzman said, standing up and motioning for him to follow, "let's get the rest of those twenty drinks in you."

And it didn't stop at twenty, he'd lost count at some point. Samuel had no idea how he actually managed to get home. The last thing he remembered was Carla dancing with Yeray and then his face was smashed into his pillow.

_______________________________________________________

Samuel wanted to rip his eyes out. This was probably the worst hangover in the history of his short life, and he was expected to sit through classes.

In the middle of his conversation with Guzman, he'd heard the commotion outside. Samuel couldn't really make out what was happening, but he saw Rebe in the middle of Polo and Valerio and instantly sprang to his feet.

"Why the hell are you defending him? He's the reason for what happened last night!" Polo yelled from the floor after Samuel had hit him a couple of times.

"I'm not defending him and what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Carla's in the hospital because of him! The bastard gave her drugs. Again!"

But Samuel didn't hear anything after Carla and hospital. His breath left him in a gust of panic. He froze in terror, heart pounding in his ears.

"What?"

"She overdosed and almost died drowning."

Stop. Stop talking, please. Samuel was going to pass out.

"Tell me." Samuel managed to grit out the demand through the crippling fear that had swept over his body, and Polo understood what he wanted to know.

"They said she's stable, but we can't see her right now."

And then Samuel's panic turned into blind rage as he lunged at Valerio.

"I told you to stay away from her!"

"Samu, stop! Please!" Rebe was pleading loudly. "Samuel! Stop, stop. It was me!"

He faltered mid-hit.

"What?" Samuel didn't recognize his own voice. It was eerily calm.

"I, I did it," Rebe stuttered, "I sold Carla the drugs last night. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" he could feel his entire body shaking.

"I - I was upset and I didn't know she would take all of it, that she'd actually over - "

"You didn't know!" Samuel snarled and she winced. "So it would've been okay to give it to her if she hadn't overdosed!"

"No, I - "

The principal's door opened, stopping Rebe in her tracks. Azucena looked down at the floor and they all followed her gaze. It seemed during the fight, Rebe had dropped a bag of drugs.

"What is this?" Azucena asked, looking at all of them.

Samuel didn't have time for this, he started to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Azucena asked, "I need to talk to everyone immediately!"

"You can expel me later," he replied, his feet speeding up.

"I have to go with him. Our friend, Carla . . ." Samuel could vaguely hear Guzman's voice from behind him as he sprinted outside.

________________________________________________________

Carla's father was staring at him and Samuel was staring right back. He was batshit crazy, if he actually thought that Samuel was going to leave. He'd been sitting in the hospital for the past hour. Guzman and Lu next to him. Yeray and Teodoro siting across from them, while Carla's mother was inside with her, having been the only one allowed to.

After a nurse came out and assured them again that Carla was doing much better and they could see her soon, Samuel felt like he could get up to get some water. He found Yeray standing in front of the vending machine and Samuel almost walked back to his seat, but he knew he needed to hydrate.

Samuel was taking a large gulp of water, when he noticed Yeray still standing behind him. "You want something?"

"I didn't know." it almost sounded like Yeray was talking to himself.

"Sorry?" Samuel asked, even though he really didn't want to speak with him.

"I thought she liked me, I didn't know he was forcing her to be with me."

And for the second time that day, Samuel's heart stopped.

"What did you just say?"

But Yeray was unable to answer, his lips trembling and he looked like he was about to cry. But Samuel didn't give a fuck how Yeray was feeling as he took a threatening step forward. "What did you mean?

And despite the fact that Samuel was already somewhat connecting the dots, he wasn't prepared for what came out of Yeray's mouth next.

Samuel was moving for Teodoro before Yeray was even finished talking, his veins lighting up with undeniable fury.

"You fucking asshole!" Samuel's bellow traveled through the hall, as everyone turned to look at him. Teodoro was standing, looking at his phone and when his gaze darted to him, Samuel could see the confusion in them.

"Your own daughter! What the fuck is wrong with you?" without hesitation, Samuel’s fist bashed him hard. And he could finally see realization dawning in Teodoro's eyes as he staggered back. Guzman and Lu were on Samuel in seconds, both trying to hold him back.

"Samu! What are you doing?" Guzman asked.

"Are you out of your mind?" Lu added incredulously.

Venom replaced the brief hint of remorse in Teodoro's eyes as he advanced on Samuel.

"I will end you, you dumb shit!" Teodoro promised, grabbing Samuel out of Guzman's grasp by the collar, before punching him and pushing him up against the wall. "You just signed your death warrant!"

Samuel growled, shoving him back with all his might. "You don't scare me, you disgusting, no good - "

"Hey, hey, break it up!"

Security had gathered around them and started pulling them apart. Actually, they were hauling Samuel away, as they checked on Teodoro.

"Are you okay, sir?" a security guard asked.

"Yes," Teodoro hissed, "throw him out."

"You don't have the right to do that!" Samuel shouted as another guard dragged him away.

"Stop. Don't make this worse for yourself, kid," the guard told Samuel almost kindly as he guided him outside.

"What the fuck was that, Samu?"

Samuel looked up to see that Guzman had followed him out, he was staring at him in complete bewilderment.

"He's a sick of piece of shit!"

"I know that but - "

"He forced Carla to be with Yeray as a part of a fucking contract for his wineries!"

"Holy shit..." Guzman stepped back in shock, his eyes wide.

Dizziness began to hit Samuel at an accelerating rate, this hell of a day was catching up to him all at once. He put a hand on the wall beside him, his head spinning.

"Samu? You okay?"

"All right." Lu had joined them, but Samuel could barely hear her. "I don't know if that was sheer insanity or - wait, what's wrong with him? He looks like he's gonna faint."

And then Samuel was hurling all of his stomach's content onto the ground.

Guzman was behind him, placing a hesitant hand on his back. Samuel kept coughing out everything inside him for a good five minutes. Maybe it was less, but it definitely felt like five.

The painful retching finally came to an end, Samuel slumped against the wall, utterly worn-out.

"Well, that was gross," Lu said, "but I'm sure it only helped. So, is one of you gonna explain what was that back there?"

"I'll tell you later," Guzman said.

"What, why? Just tell me."

"Later, Lu," Guzman insisted, "Samu, you need to go home and get some rest, man."

He couldn't, he had to see her. His anxiety was running high, winding him up so tight, he though he might throw up again.

"I have to see her," he said, his voice gravelly.

"You can forget about that now, genius," Lu said.

"He can't keep me out forever, he doesn't own the hosp - "

"No, he doesn't," Lu interrupted, "but he's still a very powerful, feared man, and you just royally pissed him off."

"I don't give a shit."

"Clearly." she rolled her eyes. "Guzman is right, even if there's a chance you get to see her, it's not now. Go home."

Samuel didn't care about their logic, his emotions were too strung and there was no way in hell he was leaving.

He wasn't there for her, that was all Samuel could think about. He hadn't been there when it all went down, he was too busy drowning his sorrow in alcohol. Guilt and regret clutched his heart.

"I'm staying," Samuel said with finality, moving away from the vomit at his feet to the next nearest wall and letting his body slide against it till he was seated on the ground.

"Okay," Guzman said, sitting down next to him.

"You don't have to."

"She's still my friend, Samu. I want to."

"All right, I'm going back inside," Lu said, turning around, "I'll keep you updated."

"Hi," a voice said a while later.

Samuel glanced up at Rebe, and quickly turned away. He had no idea how she wasn’t at school with Azucena, and he didn’t care to ask. He was still furious. She'd told him she was done, she'd promised. Carla almost died because of the drugs she’d provided.

"What are you guys doing out here? Why aren't you inside?"

When Samuel didn't answer, Guzman supplied, "It's a long story,"

"Uh, okay. Are visitors allowed yet?"

"No, not yet," Guzman told her.

"Leave, Rebeca," Samuel gritted.

"Samu - "

"Leave."

She took a deep breath. "No, I understand that you're mad, but I'm not gonna go."

Samuel wanted to say something back, but he was beyond exhausted. And as long as she didn't talk to him, he could ignore her presence. Samuel was a bit confused when instead of going inside, Rebe chose to sit down next him, she still made sure it was a few inches away. And so the three of them sat there, waiting.

Samuel shut his his eyes, his mind conjuring up images of Carla; smiling, talking, kissing him. And he could feel them trying desperately to ease the overwhelming dread and panic that had erupted within him.

#samucarla #carmuel #carla x samuel #samuel x carla #carla roson #samuel garcia #elite

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syntaxeme · 4 years

Text

Giardino Segreto ch. 7

[Read on AO3] | [First chapter] | [Next chapter] Rating: T Chapter summary: An unexpected visitor throws Alastor's morning off-track, and he's forced to discuss some personal matters with a professional colleague. Well, it was bound to come out eventually.

— — –

In the morning, Alastor fought with himself over whether he should leave before Angel woke but decided that doing so would probably upset him. Besides, this was the closest he’d felt to 100% healthy in some time, so he supposed he might as well enjoy it as long as possible before they had to separate again and the tension returned to his chest. He remained exactly where he was until Angel eventually stirred, realized he was there, and promptly pinned him to the bed with another firm kiss.

“Morning,” he said cheerfully, not allowing a moment for Alastor to answer before kissing him again, crawling closer to kneel over him on all fours, rather more predatory than expected and certainly more energetic. When the phone rang across the room, he broke away for a moment to look in that direction.

“Ahem. Should you…get that?” Alastor managed through the haze of pleasure clouding his mind. Angel’s aggressive kisses had sort of blindsided him, and he was now having trouble regaining his footing. His hands absently came to rest on Angel’s thighs on either side of him, and the boy looked down at him with a playful smile.

“It can wait.” Another kiss, and his hips rested against Alastor’s, sending a jolt through the demon’s body. He was forcibly reminded of how little Angel was wearing—a pajama top that fell just past his hips and not much else—and started to get lightheaded from all this sudden provocation. Some part of him felt he should argue, should point out that this was all happening very quickly and maybe Angel should take a moment to fully wake up before jumping into…well, whatever it was he was after. But between the boy’s sweet voice moaning from his kisses and his sleep-warmed body so close, the words simply wouldn’t come out. His hands slid upward subconsciously to grasp Angel’s hips, and when they deliberately ground down against his own, he bit the boy’s lip by accident.

“I’m sorry!” he said quickly, but Angel was smiling.

“Whatsamatter, Al?” he purred, licking a smear of blood off his injured lip, running his fingertips very lightly down Alastor’s neck and collarbone to make him shiver. “Too much for ya? Who woulda thought the big bad Radio Demon would get all nervous just from a little teasing?”

Oh, he is dangerous. Alastor was very familiar with torture, but never this particular brand. He had almost no sexual experience at all, in fact, and certainly none that was recent. It had never ranked highly on his list of priorities or preferred pastimes. That said, Angel was, as usual, an exception. More than anything, Alastor wanted to please him, and whatever that entailed, he was up for it. Eager for it, he might even say.

“I’m not drunk anymore,” the boy noted, leaning down to speak between kisses on Alastor’s neck and slowly unbuttoning his shirt. “A little hungover, but I bet you can take my mind off it. The way you were kissin’ me last night, you sure seemed interested. So what’s stoppin’ ya?” He made a very compelling point.

“Chéri, I—” Alastor tensed and gripped harder at Angel’s hips as they ground roughly into his again. Possibly even more electrifying than the feeling itself was the low moan Angel let out, the knowledge that he must be enjoying this too. Before Alastor could gather his wits and try to speak again, the moment was disrupted by a knock at the suite’s front door.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Angel groaned miserably, forcing himself out of Alastor’s lap and off the bed. The Radio Demon remained where he was, very still and sort of dazed, as the boss grabbed a robe from the closet and headed for the door. “Venture, I swear to—”

“Angelino!” a familiar voice squealed when he opened the door, and Alastor’s mind vaguely registered who his visitor must be.

“I tried to tell her you would be down soon,” Venture said, calm as ever, “but she insisted on seeing you right away.”

“Molls, holy shit!” Angel’s voice pitched upward with delight, and Alastor was forced to accept that whatever had been going on between them before Molly’s arrival, it wasn’t likely to continue now. Part of him was grateful for the interruption. Another part was absolutely murderous. Regardless, he dragged both parts out of bed and went out to join the others in the living room.

It wasn’t until Venture’s eyes fell on him and a wicked smirk curled her red lips that he finally realized how this must look—him, coming out of Angel’s bedroom after having escorted him back the night before, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, possibly still a bit flushed from Angel’s surprise attack. At any other time, he would have righted his entire appearance with a wave of his hand, but Molly was there, and she had clearly already seen him. So instead, he hastened to make himself presentable the old-fashioned way, buttoning his shirt, straightening his cuffs, fumbling very slightly from nerves.

“Alastor,” Venture purred with no small amount of relish. “Fancy seeing you here. I suppose that explains why the boss was late getting downstairs.”

Before Alastor could argue that this was not what it looked like, Angel rolled his eyes and answered, “Venn, shut the hell up. You can head back downstairs and I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Good. This show isn’t going to run itself, you know.” She shot Alastor a look that said they would be talking about this later, then left for the elevators.

“Um,” Molly said, not taking her eyes off Alastor as she came in and Angel shut the door behind her.

“Oh, Molls, this is Alastor,” Angel said, putting an arm around her shoulders. With an impish smile, he added innocently, “He, uh, works under me around here. Al, my sister, Molly.”

“Charmed,” Alastor said, ignoring the look Angel was giving him and instead offering his hand to Molly. She was too polite not to accept it, though she did seem awfully wary of Alastor. “I’ve heard a lot, so it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“You too,” she said with a weak smile before turning to Angel again and lowering her voice as if that might keep Alastor from hearing her. “Could we talk? Just us?”

“Sure. Al, you wanna go make sure Venn’s not stagin’ some kinda coup downstairs?” As the twins went to sit together on the couch, Alastor disappeared into Angel’s room to dress himself, trying and failing to shrug off the embarrassment of having been caught in such a compromising position with the boss. After excusing himself from the suite, he headed for the elevators—but Angel chased after him.

“Hang on,” he called, scampering across the carpeted hall to practically throw himself into Alastor’s arms and kiss him again. When he drew away, he held a finger up to Alastor’s nose and told him with mock severity, “We’re finishin’ that conversation tonight, damn it.”

“I look forward to it, cher.” He watched Angel walk back to his room, then finally forced himself down to the third floor to face the music with Venture. He wasn’t looking forward to the conversation by any means, but at least it would give him an opportunity to process his feelings on the matter himself.

When he reached Angel’s office, Venture was in discussion with one of the family’s soldiers—but upon seeing Alastor arrive, she grinned and dismissed the underling without another word. “Well, well, well,” she teased, watching the Radio Demon closely. “Now I know why we had that chat about ‘distance’ yesterday, as you’re obviously getting very close with our young don.”

“I’m contracted to someday claim his soul; it’s only sensible that I keep him close,” Alastor answered evenly. “Besides, you’re one to talk. Don’t you often become ‘close’ with your charges?”

“Oh no, dear, we aren’t talking about my patterns at the moment. We’re talking about yours, and how this particular contract clearly falls far outside them.” She remained where she stood, just behind Angel’s desk, and watched him pace about the room. “Did you sleep with him?”

“No.” Neither literally nor euphemistically. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Then what were you doing in his room?” she asked dubiously.

“Nothing.” Thanks to you. “He asked me to stay with him last night, so I did.”

“But even that’s notable. You wouldn’t bother if you didn’t have some investment in his feelings. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to recognize it. You~ care about him. Don’t you?” Venture raised her head, seeming pleased with what she’d discovered. Alastor’s silence was answer enough. “Then he must be more special than I realized. And did that happen before or after the contract?”

“How is that relevant?”

“So before. You approached him because of your interest in him. How very interesting.” Just as Alastor knew how commonly she developed feelings for her human charges, she knew how rarely he developed attachments to anyone. “I should’ve known as soon as you brought me here. You’ve put more effort into this operation than any other project I’ve seen you take on.”

“Yes, yes, I know, this all ranges far beyond my typical modus operandi,” he agreed, his tone lighthearted despite fearing what consequences this revelation might have. “Believe me, I’ve been aware of it since day one, but I’m doing my best to adjust to the role I’ve been cast. Besides, you’ve been enjoying yourself, haven’t you? Angel keeps you on your toes, and I can only imagine how refreshing a change it must be to work with a reliable group rather than trying to corral your associates from all over Hell.”

She listened to his little spiel with an almost sympathetic smile. “Are you afraid I’m going to leave now that I know this is personal for you?”

Alastor was loath to admit being afraid of anything, and he especially disliked the idea that he or the Giardinos might need Venture there by any means. Even if she did leave, he was sure he could still pull this off on his own—but her presence made it significantly easier, and he knew well that the way to any Overlord’s heart was through their ego.

With an exaggerated sigh, he confessed, “I’m afraid you know much more than I do about the sort of business Angel wants to do. If we were to lose you, we would have to find someone else to take your place, and it would surely be a downgrade.”

“I’m not quite sure if you’re complimenting me or threatening to replace me,” she laughed and waved the matter aside with an airy gesture. “But that’s all academic, because I don’t have any plans to leave. Why should I? I consider it a privilege, not only getting a front-row seat to whatever’s going to play out between you two, but participating in the performance myself. I only wish you would’ve told me about this sooner. I’d be making more of an effort on his behalf.”

Alastor raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you suggesting you’ve been holding back in your duties?”

“I’m suggesting I’ve been doing what Angel’s asked of me, and it hasn’t yet required my full repertoire of skills. If I’d known how invested you were in seeing him succeed, I might have been trying harder.” With an offhanded salute in his direction, she retreated to her desk and sat, head down, attention focused on whatever business transactions they had in the works at the time.

Well, the conversation could have gone worse. Alastor still wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t try to use this against him at some point, but at least she hadn’t ferreted out the whole truth. Now that she was no longer grilling him, he was left to wonder what Angel and Molly were talking about upstairs. Yes, he could check if he so chose, but he wanted to respect Angel’s privacy; if the boss wanted to share it with him later, that would be his choice.

He wasn’t sure why he was so worried in the first place. Molly was the absolute least dangerous member of the Dellarosa family, so her presence really shouldn’t concern him. Yet he remained uneasy, too hung up on how convenient it was that she’d appeared the very morning after their dispute with Enrico.

#RadioDust #Giardino Segreto #poor Alastor he is suffering #Hazbin Angel Dust #Hazbin Alastor #Hanahaki Disease #human!Angel Dust #Angel Dust x Alastor #Hazbin Molly

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one-of-us-must-be-crazy · 4 years

Note

ALTERNATIVELY Samuels goes in for scheduled maintenance and realises halfway through that he still has Amanda's underwear in his pocket from some ~shenanigans that they were up to last night and spends the whole time hoping the tech people don't discover this

He runs one final check on his firewalls surrounding his memories, a few mundane things he leaves out, to avoid suspicion but most of his memories are build around the existence of the radiant human next to him (who was currently cursing up a storm at a tech who tried to ask her out IN FRONT OF MY PARTNER?!).

He loves her.

And it’s fine, here of all places, where the techs in charge have been informed of the unique situation, and they keep quiet in exchange for a) their considerable lab fee, and b) they get to work with a sentient machine. A real rarity.

But as he gives his lover’s hand one final subtle squeeze before lying down on the reformat chamber’s base, he remembers something.

True, as the tech had said, he has no metal in his pockets, nor any other conductive material but he does have a piece of torn fabric, torn lace and satin, that was in it’s very brief and adventurous life a pair of Amanda’s underwear until it’s death today around noon.

Now he just prays to whatever spirit might listen to some soulless plastic idiot like himself that none of the techs will notice if a bit of white lace starts to fall out his jacket pocket.

Of course, he should have thrown them out, or not torn them to begin with, but honestly the entire situation shouldn’t have happened, and it isn’t as if he was a wholly willing participant. Yes, he gave his consent, and true he’s the one that ran the wifi for the lock on the door and the one who told Amanda to get the lights on her way over but it wasn’t his idea, and if he had his way it wouldn’t have been bloody initiated at all becuase damnit, he likes this job, this office,and sure Amanda coming over on his last day at WeYu to fuck him on company time was an intriguing idea for them to say Up. Yours. to the corporate entity that wrecked their lives but here……

“Christopher, your girlfriend is here,” he likes that he has his own office again. It’s small, with two small arrow-slot windows you can barely see out of, and not enough outlets for a fish tank, but he has a couple hanging low-light plants, and a desk with a picture of Amanda in a glass frame. There’s also a business-card holder shaped like a little antique robot, and a plastic fish–both light hearted gifts from her.

Now, as soon as he realized that the kid working the front desk recognized her, he knew that Ripley was likely dressed for going out rather than coming straight from work–it amused him deeply that while everyone recognized the pretty girl he’s got a picture of, and talks about almost nonstop, none of them recognized Amanda when she would come in, covered in soot and grease from work in her coveralls.

But nothing exactly prepared him to look up to Amanda in an outfit he’d never seen before, and a look on her face that made him feel like a particularly sought after pastry behind a bakery case being stared at by a hoard of small children.

Amanda was beautiful, he always thought so, but she had her hair down in long, loose curls, she had put on a little make up, and he could smell the sweet mint of her gloss from across the room even if a human couldn’t.

a blouse that unbuttoned in a way that asked to be undone, especially, he noted as she shrugged off his green jacket, it buckeled around her breasts where the shirt met it’s stretching limits despite fitting well everywhere else.

a skirt that fell just long enough that it wouldn’t have been eye-raising to the office dwellers on their floor, but to someone very familiar with what it covered it made him skip a line of thought and back track to be sure his coding was running correctly.

and stockings….white lace stockings under that beige and green plaid skirt and the cute flats he knows that she hates but wears on their dates anyway becuase she likes their height difference.

“Why….are you wearing stockings?” he asked, baffeled before it dawned on him that– “oh no. Ripley absolutely not–not here–I don’t–I don’t even know if that lock works…”

“I can’t surprise my boyfriend at work without you assuming I’m just looking for a little action?”

“Not when you’re wearing a skirt,”

“So?”

“And tights?”

“Mmm no,” Amanda lifted the hem of the skirt just far enough to reveal the lower part of garters, “You were right the first time: they’re stockings. But if you’re not interested..” she turned. without lowering the skirt until she was sure he saw the garters in the back too, “I’ll just go,”

“waitnothatsnotwhatisaid”

“Alright then,” she said, facing him again, sitting at the guest chair in front of his desk, taking a quick inventory of the desk’s surface: computer, picture frame, jar of pens, the stupid knick-knacks she’d gotten him. She looked over her shoulder at another chair. “You know you should get a sofa in here. Make people feel more welcome.”

“I rarely deal with clients in here myself. If ever. Actually you’re the first person to com in here. Amanda this isn’t–”

“You didn’t have an issue with getting it on against the wall of the Weyland-Yutani office?”

“Becuase I hated them to whatever degree I was capable of. I like it here. I want to keep my job here. And it’s…”

“What?”

“Well it’s just a bit much, dear. We had dinner last night–at the place I like, no less, we walked home the long way, and you had electric candles all over the flat and…” and it was sweet. Amanda had enjoyed a bath with him later on, then gone to bed with him gentle and slow, as romantic as anything they’ve ever had.

“Then consider this as something for me–” he laughed at her,

“–What?”

“Amanda if this was for you I’d be pinned to a wall already and you would not be wearing a skirt,”

“Maybe I wanted to treat you to something special,” she undid the next button down on her blouse. Her partner looked like he wasn’t breathing anymore.

“What fantasy do you think I have for you to dress like that?”

“What fantasy, Christopher I know you like me dressed up and I have dated straight men before: your tastes aren’t that different.”

“Oh.”

“But….Do you want to do something deviant for once? Or should I go home?”

“What….do you want to do?”

“How sturdy is that chair you’re sitting on?”

Christopher couldn’t exactly explain how the next moments unfolded, but Amanda kissing him open mouthed while she shimmed down his pants enough to access her target, her across his lap, grinding into him only for him to realize that her panties (white lace, matching the stockings, her eye for detail when put forth the effort was amazing) were in the way and if he tugged them down it would only serve to bring her legs closer together, the opposite of what he wanted though–though if she wanted anything, any form of human sexuality he’d oblige willingly and excitedly–so what to do.

what to–

the sound of tearing and snapping elastic made Amanda gasp, move her hand from it’s previous job on him to his shoulder as she levered herself up a bit, and onto him, he kissed her neck hard enough that Amanda told him it was a bite, and the scrap material of her underwear is shoved in his pocket so he can hold onto her tighter.

When it’s over–

–…..for the second time…

he gently nudges her off his lap, he has to finish work (unlikely now) and she should go, now here for nearly an hour, before someone comes in to see what’s taking her short visit so long.

Amanda combs her fingers through her hair, buttons her shirt, and doesn’t bother with the garters and stockings, her long, strong legs competely bare save for that little skirt, and it cost every ounce of his self control to not reach his hand up under it when she leans over the desk to kiss him goodbye.

“Leave that skirt on,” he mumbles against her lips.

“Yeah?”

“There are a few things I want to do tonight–”

“I’ll leave the skirt on. Nothing else. And you know, no promises I’ll have the skirt on when you get home either. If you’re there by five we’ll still have half an hour to if the tech shop doesn’t want you ‘til seven.”

“Leave before I do something very irresponsible,”

“I love you too,” she says, and she knows, but he repeats it to her with a smile far more bashful than he should be feeling in this situation.

Now he knows that it’s there still, in his pocket, as he slowly shuts down entirely for a diagnostic, and he dreads that the scanner might—

“Mr. Samuels?”

“Yes?”

“Alert, and online,” the technician noted, more to himself than to Samuels, who was still trying to figure out if ‘Mr’ was part of the particular dream he had while coming back to life.

“I’m not wearing my jacket,” the tweet jacket that he wore over his shirt that Amanda claimed she utterly hated by has now fucked him in each time he’s worn it.

“The buttons had metal backings, we had to remove it. It’s hanging over–oh here I’ll get it,”

“No! no I can–”

The technician lifted the jacket and Samuels noticed the white lace spilling out of the pocket the same moment the tech did.

“I…That’s. I can explain.”

The tech bit back a smile.

“Did you really have so little faith in our ability to not kill you that you guys needed a last roll in the back of the car?”

“…………please don’t tell anyone.”

#annie gets anons

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princessbee23 · 4 years

Text

Just the Two of Us, Pt. 5

I’d never felt we had a super traditional marriage. We eloped to the Oregon coast, a road trip that we didn’t come home from for nearly a month. I wore a different white dress every day until we’d gotten married, and on that day I still didn’t wear an actual wedding dress—just a simple white sundress that I still wore from time to time. We both worked full time—although your career was much more involved than mine. We’d both decided having kids just wasn’t for us. We didn’t go to Church on Sundays and a good portion of our home decor were nerdy trinkets we’d collected on the way. But, I did do most of the cooking and you did usually end up behind the wheel if we were going anywhere. You took the traditional role as the more dominant one in our relationship—both in general and in bed— which wasn’t a small feat considering that I generally had a very dominant personality. “You’re a fucking brat and I love that about you,” you’d always say.

But, nevertheless, the comment your new friend made when he saw me in my ruffled Pioneer Woman apron still made me feel... domesticated. “What a pretty little house wife,” he’d said. His wife had smiled politely, nodding in agreement.

I stared down at the lemon curd I was working with and tried to hide my look of disgust. You didn’t say anything about the comment, but you didn’t even try to mask your own disapproval. Jonas, the man in question, dropped it with an awkward laugh.

This was only our second attempt at having a couple to be friends with. The wife—Laura—had spotted my day collar while we were out at our favorite little hole-in-the-wall bar playing darts and compared it to her own.

“Oooh, another couple in the lifestyle I see!” She’d chided.

People didn’t often recognize that the necklace I now kept around my neck had any meaning beyond looking elegant, so you’d looked at me and shrugged, and I grinned at her. “I see you know your stuff.”

She’d brushed her hair away from her neck to show us hers, although it was significantly more flashy. A thick silver band to make up the choker and a thick ring—it was slightly more obvious and not made to be elegant, but a day time show piece. “Of course!”

She and her husband had joined us for a few drinks and another round of darts. Our conversation flowed so smoothly that we even opted for a game of pool. I, for the record, can’t play pool to save my life, so you spent your time behind me, hands guiding my arms to teach me how to shoot. I’d get so distracted from conversing with our new friends, feeling your girth through your pants pressed against my ass. You’d sneak a hand down to pinch mine after every good shot I’d made. We had a really good night that night.

Now, though, being in the privacy of our home, it seemed we’d be seeing their true colors. We’d both been worried about it just before we asked them over for dinner.

“I dunno, B,” you’d groaned. “You know how couples that say they ‘live the lifestyle’ can be. The guy’s usually a douche, the woman is more of a thing to him than a person.”

I’d nodded. “I know, I know. If we don’t like them we can forget they ever existed though.”

You were right, to be fair. The dom/sub relationship that WE had was just a part of our life, something we’d discovered we both enjoyed that made existence feel relevant again since we’d given up on believing in some grand meaning. Sure, I had multiple night time collars and the beautiful, simple day collar you’d surprised me with in England, but we still had the rest of our relationship as well. We both played our roles well, but it didn’t consume the entirety of our lives together.

Others, though, if they “lived the lifestyle,” they really LIVED the LIFESTYLE. At least the ones we’d met. The doms, the men, were usually incredibly demanding, and the women just gave into it. The other couple we’d tried befriending after finding out had invited us over and the wife had been in a full on French maid outfit... just for us to be there. He called her all sorts of filthy names. I gave you one look and you snuck away to text your buddy to call and say a pipe had busted at our house so we could bail. We never spoke to that couple again.

I looked up from my mixer just long in time to catch the look you were giving me. I told ya so.

I looked back down to my curd, now turning a lovely milky yellow after the cream was added. Lemon silk pie was one of your absolute favorites, and I’d been excited to make it for you all week.

Jonas made polite conversation with you for several minutes, about similar interests and work. I’d let out a quiet sigh of relief, hoping maybe he’d just started off on the wrong foot.

My stomach sank, though, when I heard him clear his throat. “So, uh, you ever thought about letting your buddies use your wife? Or we could even just switch wives for a night?”

I knew you so well that I could’ve swore I heard you grit your teeth, even over the sound of my mixer. “Absolutely fucking not.”

I didn’t dare turn away from the counter. You weren’t an angry guy; you kept your cool relatively well in the majority of situations. This wasn’t going to be one of them.

“Okay okay, I get it. What’s yours is yours, I just figured—“

You cut him off right there. You didn’t yell, but I knew how you sounded when you were livid. “Number one, share my wife? Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t OWN her, it’s not my place to say ‘hey my buddy wants to fuck you tonight so you’re gonna do it.’ That’s not how this works. Number fucking two, switch wives? Hell no. Women aren’t fucking Pokémon cards, you don’t trade them when you want a good time.” I heard you scoot in your chair; you tended to stand up when you got heated.

“Relax, man, it was just a suggestion. You know, some fun. Laura likes to join couples for three ways sometimes, or we could do a couple thing too so you’d still be in the room.”

“Yeah!” Laura piped up. “Jonas has a gorgeous cock, I’m sure you’d love watching him fuck your pretty wife and she’d like it too.”

Now I ground my teeth. This is what i hated about trying to befriend other couples who may be into similar things that we are. I was never B, I was always just your wife, as if you owned me—just another toy, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.

“The two of you should probably go.” I knew you were frustrated. You’d always been adamant on keeping our personal lives between the two of us, regardless of if we happened to meet someone that recognized the subtle signs—like my necklace, or you leading me by the wrist instead of my hand.

“On c’mon,” Laura purred. “You know you could have a lot of fun with me, too.”

I spun around at this, ready to finally put in my two cents, but you’d already taken a large step back and headed to the door. You opened it wide, motioning with your arm. “Out.”

I hated that things had gone poorly; we both thought it may be interesting to have friends in our life that we could be open with to some extent, but this seemed to be common place with most couples. At the same time, though, seeing you completely shut down ideas that a lot of men wouldn’t be opposed to sent a tingling down between my legs. I turned back to my pie and went back to debating if I wanted to do meringue or whipped cream for the topping. You’d handled everything flawlessly.

You walked into the kitchen and settled your chin on my shoulder. “We don’t actually NEED to be friends with a couple, right? We’ve been fine for this long.”

I nodded and turned toward you, and you settled your hands on my waist. I touched the tip of my nose to yours affectionately. “I’m content with just you.”

You grinned and let your lips drift down to my neck. “I’d hope so.” You nibbled at my skin, and I let out a soft moan. “Besides, now I don’t have to be unwillingly patient.”

I grinned and spun around, purposely bending over just a bit to let my ass press up against your hardening cock. I took my pie off the counter. “It still needs a topping... meringue or whipped cream.”

“Canned or fresh?”

“The squirty kind. I used all the cream I had for your pie.”

“Mm...” you settled your chin back onto my shoulder and slid a hand under my apron and between my legs, rubbing me through my jeans. “Meringue. You can finish it later, though.”

I bit my lip and place a hand on his forearm, it moving up and down as he rubbed me. “But it’s your favorite. You don’t want me to finish it now?”

You worked your way up and unbuttoned my jeans, pulling at them to force the zipper down. Your hand found its way to my panties and you rubbed me through those, kissing the back of my neck now. “It’ll still be my favorite tomorrow, kitten. I’m hungry for something else right now.”

I pulled away from you unwillingly to put the pie back into the fridge. You grabbed the can of whipped cream from the door and set it on the counter before it could swing shut, and then grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me to you to lock me into a kiss. You pushed me back against our kitchen island, which was clear except for a cookbook and two bottles of wine. Using your forearm, you pushed them to the side to clear space for me to hop up onto the countertop.

You untied the string of my apron and pulled the loop from around my neck, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. You kissed down my neck and wrapped your fingers under the bottom of my shirt to pull it off over my head, leaving it in a puddle with the apron.

I slid my fingers up into your hair as your lips found my nipples, relishing the feeling of your tongue making a big circle around each one. You pulled my jeans off and let those fall to the floor too, leaving me only in my little cotton boy shorts.

You kissed back up to my lips, making me lean back just enough to make it easier for you to have a hand wrapped around my throat and another in between my legs.

Your kisses were generally so soft and sweet, not too terribly wet, just enough to keep me wanting more. The way you kissed me while teasing me endlessly was the same way you’d kiss me if we’d been cuddled up in bed.

You stepped back and pulled my panties down over my thighs, let them fall with the rest of my clothes, and spread my legs wide, standing in between them with your crotch pressed into mine. You cupped one of my cheeks in your hand, running your thumb across it gingerly. “You know, that pie you make me is actually my second favorite dessert.”

I pressed my face into your hand and batted my eyelashes at you. You were so incredibly handsome; dark hair, dark eyes, thick eyelashes. A sharp jaw and always just a bit of stubble. You had tattoos up and down your arms, just like I did, and you had the most dazzling smile I’d ever seen in my life. “Oh?” I murmured, trying not to get too caught up in admiring you.

“Mhmm.” You stepped back to the counter and grabbed the can of whipped cream. “You’ve always been the first, Princess.” I leaned back for you, propping myself up on my forearms to give you absolute access to everywhere you’d need to be.

You took the can and covered both of my tits in whipped cream, spread my legs a bit wider and covered my freshly shaved pussy in it as well.

You set the can down and immediately started licking my newly found, edible bikini off of my body. Your tongue felt so good against my tits and nipples. I let my head lean back and just enjoyed the sensation, letting out soft moans every so often.

The thing that no one would ever guess about you, from the outside looking in, was that you were incredibly attentive to my feelings and emotions—honestly, that was one of the biggest reasons our dynamic worked. So, when something like this happened, you exclusively focused on me and my pleasure during our play time—you hated the thought of anyone possibly making me feel like I wasn’t as valuable as I was. Idiots like Jonas rarely ever did, but you always felt the need to correct it anyway.

You kissed down my body slowly, a hand now on each of my thighs, pushing them just a bit wider with every kiss. Once you’d made it down to my pussy, you started licking everywhere but the most sensitive spots, taking your time to clean up the sweet mess. Once the majority of it was gone, you ran your hands up my inner thighs and spread the lips of my pussy. I bit my lip and glanced down at you, and you smirked up at me before running your tongue from between the lips to my clit.

I laid back against the counter, running my hands up to my tits as you started to work my pussy with the width of your tongue. I slid my hands back down my stomach and into your hair, curling my fingers into it.

I don’t know how long you swirled your tongue over my clit and lapped at the entirety of my pussy, but the cum that came gushing out of me attested to how good you were. You licked my pussy just a bit longer, enough to get my legs shaking.

I was panting when you kissed back up my body. You kissed up my neck to my ear and whispered, “One more time. You ready for that baby?”

I nodded and locked my lips to yours, having sat up so that it was easier. I loved the way I tasted on your lips. I think it was because... somehow, someone as perfect as you had taken the time worship my pussy. You did it often—any other time you would’ve been far more strict about letting me cum. But I always loved tasting myself on your lips.

I pulled your t-shirt over your head, and at the same time, you dropped your pants and boxers below your waist. You pressed the head of your dick up against my pussy. “Beg for me, kitten,” you whispered against my lips, not bothering with pausing out kisses.

“Please fuck me, Daddy. Please.”

"I dunno...” Your voice was playful, a subtle grin across your lips. You pushed my legs a bit further open, taking a second to just barely push the head of your dick into me--just enough that it was the worst kind of teasing, the kind that left me helplessly begging. “I may like hearing you beg.”

“Please?” I whined, shimmying my hips to try to get you further into me.

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me, Daddy. Please? I’ll do anything you want.”

“Anything, huh? Like what, Princess?”

“I’ll--” You’d starting running the head of your cock up and down my pussy, in between the lips, and it was making it hard to speak. “Mm, I’ll--I’ll blow you for--” You dipped the head of your cock back into me before going back to teasing me. “I’ll blow you for as long as you, mm, baby, for as long as you want. Down on my knees--” You ran your hand up my stomach to play with one of my tits, leaving the head of your cock in me for the moment. “--looking up at you just the way you like. I promise.”

You ran your hand up to my face to run your thumb along my cheek affectionately. “That’s my good girl,” you purred, ever so slowly pushing your dick into me--inch by inch, letting me cling to your hand as you stretched me. You kept pushing into me all the way up until my moans had gotten high pitched and my grip on your hand couldn’t have been any tighter. “Awh, baby, is that all you can take?”

I nodded, biting down on my lip, and wasn’t surprised when you gave your hips a hard thrust and pushed just that much further into me. “Mm--Daddy--”

“‘Daddy’ nothing, baby.” You slipped two fingers into my mouth to keep me from protesting any further, the look on your face making it evident that you liked the way my tongue felt against them.

You lowered your hands to take both of my wrists, pinning them against my stomach while your other hand pushed my leg to the side.

The way your cock filled me was one of the greatest pleasures I had in life--I felt myself stretch every single time you pushed into me, my pussy filled as much as it possibly could be. It didn’t matter how wet I was or how easy it was for you to push in; it never failed to make me gasp.

You pushed in and out of me for a few minutes, tightening your grip on my wrists every time I started to squirm. “Now, Princess,” you’d lean down and whisper. “You know to take it like a good girl.”

I nodded, fighting the urge to buckle my hips. You were pushing in and out of me deep and slow, looking up to occasionally make eye contact with me, but you were mostly focused on my pussy lips wrapped around your cock. Every single time you pushed back into me, your dick would hit the back of my pussy, encouraging high pitched moans. That, as much as it could hurt, felt incredible at the same time. The way your warm, thick cock felt with every slow inch... I wanted to wait to cum. A second orgasm this soon would’ve been too exhausting.

You pulled out of me suddenly, leaving me pouting and longing for more, but that didn’t last long. You took hold up my legs behind my knees and jerked me forward, planting your hands on the counter with your forearms behind my knees now, forcing my legs up and open. “Was that a whine I heard?”

“Yes, Daddy...”

“You know better.” You didn’t give it to me slowly this time. As soon as you had the head in, you slammed into me, leaving me to bite down on my lip to keep from damn near screaming.

“Ah--Baby--” I ran my hands up over my face and into my hair, tits bouncing with every hard thrust into me. I couldn’t help it this time--my back arched, just making it easier for your cock to get further into me, and I slid my hands back down to my chest to cup my tits.

“Uh uh,” you said sharply. “Move your hands.”

“Yes, Daddy...” I opted to instead kind of prop myself on my elbows to be able to look you in the eyes and, to my delight, you slowed just enough to lean in and kiss me.

“How’s that feel?”

“Mm.” I cherished the feeling of your lips on mine while you were fucking me, your face so close to mine that I could really see that hungry look in your eyes. “It feels so good, Daddy.”

“Oh yeah? And just why is that, Princess?”

You were guiding your dick in and out of me slowly, and I was struggling to keep myself from cumming. I don’t know exactly what it was--maybe the position, maybe just the way my pussy stretched slowly instead of quickly. “It just feels so good when your cock stretches me out like this, baby,” I managed. “I love it when you use me this way.”

“That’s my girl.” You pulled me down off of the counter and spun me around, pushing me up against it so that I had to use my hands to keep myself steady. You wasted no time pushing back into me, wrapping my hair around your hand to pull my head back while you pumped in and out of me. You kissed the top of my ear gently and whispered, “You need this, don’t you?”

“Ah--y-yes Daddy. I always need this.” You used your free hand and ran it down my stomach, your fingers finding my clit, making it substantially harder to keep myself in check. “Daddy,” I whimpered. “I’m gonna cum if you don’t stop--”

“So cum, baby.” You let go of my hair to get a hold on my throat, tightening your grip as I finally gave in and let my pussy clench around your cock. I used one hand to keep my head steady and the other to dig my nails into your forearm, moaning out your name as I gushed, my own cum covering your balls and your cock and dripping down my legs. “Did that feel good, Princess?”

I nodded and you let go of my throat while I collapsed down on the counter, arms folded to rest my head on as I panted and enjoyed the feeling of you finishing yourself of with a few hard, deep thrusts, your cum soon joining my own dribbling down my legs.

We took a second to catch our breath before I turned to face you, satisfied. You finished rebuttoning your jeans and kissed my temple. “Love you.”

“I love you.” I bent down and picked up your t-shirt, pulling it on over my head before scooping up the rest of my clothes to stick into the hamper. “So... no threesomes?”

You chuckled and took my chin between your fingers, giving me a peck on the lips. “Not a chance, baby. Afraid you’re mine.”

I stole another kiss from you and laughed myself.

Yours.

I could live with that.

You grabbed both of the bottles of wine from the counter and headed for the living room. “C’mon Princess, that lame anime on Netflix is calling our names.”

I tossed my clothes into the hamper in our laundry room and followed you into the living room for what I was sure would be a low key night of cartoons and possibly a wine fueled round two.

Perfect.

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chalantness · 5 years

Text

fic: I Turn Around, and There You Are

Rating: PG-13 Word Count: ~4100 Characters: Steve/Natasha Summary: “If I could go back in time, do it all over again—meet you all over again, fall in love with you all over again—I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

A/N: THIS FANFIC CONTAINS MAJOR MOVIE SPOILERS.

And then goes to fix those spoilers because canon is a cruel place and I thrive on my bubble of fanon bliss. This concept was heavily inspired by an idea by @gomustanggirl16 from a while back about Natasha waking up in an alternate dimension, in the life of "another Natasha", and it's a concept that I've wanted to write for so long. I heavily adapted the original prompt to fit what I feel could be canon, but I hope the theme of the prompt is still appreciated!

Read On: [ ao3 ]

Natasha blinks back at her reflection in the water, strands of hair slowly falling from her braid, curling around her face as she lifts her chin up and stares at the sky. She’s not quite sure why she expects it to be dusk out. Why she feels as though the sky should be dark and endless, and the miles of grass and evergreen trees surrounding the Avengers Facility should be an expanse of rocks and slopes and shadows. She feels displaced, almost, as if she should be in on an entirely different planet, in an entirely different place in time. Maybe it was in a dream she had recently. It’s been a long while since the guilt and doubt and darkness managed to float back up to the surface, but it’s still a possibility.

“A little early to be out searching for shooting stars, don’t you think, Mom?”

His voice is low and smooth and familiar, lilting in amusement, and she doesn’t quite know why she holds her breath as she turns around.

Steve. Those eyes—the brightest, clearest shade of blue, framed by those ridiculously long eyelashes of his—are exactly like the man she remembers, exactly like those eyes she’s stared into for far too long. But it isn’t him. He has the same sculpted jaw, the same dimple in his cheek, but his face is younger, no older than a teenager.

And the strands of hair flopping over his forehead, perfectly disheveled, are a scarlet red. Her red.

Mom. His voice tugs at something in her hazy thoughts, and suddenly, she feels ridiculous for not recognizing her own son for a second, no matter how fleeting. She must not have had as much sleep as she thought.

“You say that like it’s uncommon to be staring up into space around here,” she quips in return, fingers instinctively reaching out to tuck his collar back into place. She doesn’t know when James started taking to button-downs just like his father, but at least he has the sense to throw it over a graphic tee and leave it unbuttoned, or else she’d accuse her husband of influencing their son into dressing like a senior citizen. “Maybe I’m expecting your Auntie Carol to be flying in any second,” she points out, one eyebrow raised.

James arches an eyebrow in return, and, god, it takes all she has not to grin like an idiot. He may have his father’s face to a tee, but those expressions are all her.

“Is Auntie Carol coming?” he challenges, lips twitching at the corners, and then he’s laughing and ducking his head away as she ruffles his hair.

“Did you come out here just to sass me?”

He runs his fingers through his long hair as he shakes his head. “I’m done getting my ass kicked by Dad for the day, so Nikki’s swinging by so we can grab milkshakes.”

“Nikki?” The name slips from her lips before she can quite catch it.

James gives her a look. “Stark,” he says slowly, eyebrows furrowing together. “Do we know another Nikki?”

“I—no.” Natasha shakes her head, an odd sensation tugging at her chest as she laughs. “Sorry. Guess your Mom is running on empty right now.”

“Want us to bring you back something from the diner?” a voice asks, young and bright and chiming like bells, and she and James turn to watch as Nikki walks over to them. She has a designer handbag hooked on her arm, her black pumps clicking against the concrete as she pulls off her favorite pair of rose gold Ray Bans from over her eyes. She beams at them, her face almost exactly like her father (only so much prettier and sweeter, and Natasha’s sure to give Tony shit about it whenever they’re together) as she tucks her aviators into the collar of her blouse, coming to stand beside them. “I’m told carbs and grease are the perfect cure to sleep deprivation. Or so my father tries to convince me.”

“Tony Stark will find every reason to justify having burgers once a day,” Natasha mumbles, earning a chuckle from James and a giggle from Nikki as she leans in to smack a kiss on Natasha’s cheek. “I’ll find something to eat here. You two have fun.”

“Bye, Mom,” James says, pecking Natasha’s other cheek before Nikki starts tugging him away, and Natasha feels her chest tighten ever so slightly as she watches them go. She can’t quite help but think that something seems—off. Like some small part of her mind can’t quite keep up.

She may not have Steve’s endless optimism, but still. It’s been years since she’s felt like this. Like she’s simply waiting for the world to pulled out from under her.

But before she can dwell on this thought, however, voices from around the corner pull her attention to her right, and an odd sensation hits her stomach as she watches Clint walking out from around the building, his head tipped back in a laugh as the two girls on either side of him are talking over each other excitedly, their words too quick and too high-pitched for Natasha to quite make out, even if she could focus on them. But her attention is on Clint, and her stomach flips, an odd tingle sliding down her spine as they walk closer to her. Seeing Clint makes her feel as if she’s falling, and for a moment, she is—staring up at the side of a cliff, the air rushing around her, eyes blurred with tears—

“Mom!”

Natasha sucks in a breath, blinking quickly as her daughter practically bounds over to her, bow in one hand and a quiver strapped to her back. Her long, red curls are flying with her every step, and her eyes—the same bright, bright blue as James, as Steve—stare up at Natasha as she huffs out a breath.

“Can you tell Uncle Clint that he’s being ridiculous?” Tatiana asks—practically demands, her face pulling into a frown that makes Natasha feel as though she’s staring back at a younger, sweeter reflection of herself.

“Hey, it’s only fair I get the last cupcake considering you ate my last cookie the last time you visited!” Clint laughs, pointing one end of his bow at Tatiana as she rolls her eyes, her lips twitching to fight off a smile. Then he turns to Natasha, eyes twinkling in amusement. “An eye for an eye, right, Nat?”

She wants to laugh, quip in return about picking on someone his own age, but she can’t. Her voice is caught in her throat, her chest tightening in something a little like dread.

A soul for a soul.

A soul for—

“Nat?” Clint asks, his smile faltering. At her side, her daughter’s amusement shifts into something akin to confusion, and a little bit of concern, too, and that seems to snap Natasha out of her trance as she shakes her head a little, curving an arm around Tatiana’s shoulders.

“Sorry, I—” She licks her lips. “I’m a little spaced out right now.”

Clint’s easy smile slides back onto his face, turning quickly into a smirk. “Steve keeping you up at night, huh?”

“Uncle Clint,” Stephanie gasps next to him, her fair cheeks quickly flushing a bright pink that makes her skin glow, that make her eyes seem that much bigger, somehow. Clint laughs again, throws an arm around his goddaughter and pulls her in close, and the way that Stephanie wrinkles her nose and turns her head away from Clint’s sweaty shirt is an expression that makes her look entirely like her mother. She looks every bit like Wanda the same way James looks every bit like Steve—with her dark, dark hair and her high cheekbones and her full bottom lip. But her eyes? Those stormy blue eyes, deep and endless and reflecting with her every thought, her every emotion. Those eyes are all Bucky.

Tatiana makes a face and steps away from her mother, as if Natasha had been the one to imply that her father was too busy making love to her mother to let her sleep.

Natasha glares at Clint. “What’s the matter with you?”

But Clint just beams, shrugs his shoulders and uses the fletching end of the arrow in his hand to tap Tatiana’s shoulder. “Okay, okay. Time for lunch, girls.”

“You coming, Mom?” Tatiana asks, her smile bright and hopeful, and, not for the first time, Natasha wonders how her little girl has grown so fast. Wonders how lucky she must have gotten to be the reason that her daughter can smile so easily, almost carelessly, not knowing an ounce of the hardships Natasha had suffered at her age. Her life is nothing like the one Natasha had and everything Natasha had wished for when she was still young and hopeful. When she believed there was more for her than what was crafted for her.

Natasha feels her throat tighten ever so slightly, feels her eyes beginning to sting, just a little, and she hopes that Tatiana can’t tell that her mother is seconds from tearing.

Suddenly, she feels that familiar tug in her chest, making her think—making her realize—that this isn’t exactly what she remembers. Suddenly, she feels a little bit heartbroken that she can’t remember what it was like to watch James and Tatiana growing up. What it was like to stumble through being a mother, knowing it would be worth it.

“No,” Natasha says, her voice a little soft, but just as a question flickers in her baby girl’s bright blue eyes, Natasha gives her a smile. “But eat the last cupcake for me, okay?”

“Nat!” Clint exclaims, earning a giggle from Stephanie and a snicker from Tatiana as she gives Natasha a quick hug, then releases her, bounding back over to Clint’s side and bumping her shoulder into his arm. “Oh, it’s on, Little Widow,” he says, then breaks out into a run, and Tatiana and Stephanie squeal in protest as they hurry after him.

This isn’t real.

Natasha licks her lips, exhaling a shaky breath as she watches them race into the building.

This isn’t real. That’s why everything had felt off. Why she’d felt so displaced. Why, for the first time ever, everything felt perfect. A soul for a soul.

She died on that planet, for that stone, and this is—

This is—

“Love,” a voice murmurs, breath warm against her ear, sending a delicious shiver down her spine as large, warm, calloused hands slide up her arms, spinning her around and drawing her into his broad chest. Steve smiles down at her with those twinkling blue eyes, with that crooked grin of his, as he dips his head down to press his forehead against hers. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. Yet, she can still feel everything. The warmth fluttering in her chest, the tingles sliding across her skin, the firm press of his lips over hers.

She feels every touch down to her soul, too perfect, too tangible to just be a figment of her imagination.

And it pulls her in, tempts her senses, because then she’s twisting her fingers into his shirt and slanting her mouth harder against his, drawing a noise of surprise from the back of his throat as she kisses him harder, deeper.

For just a moment, she lets herself get drawn into the illusion. For just a moment, she lets herself indulge in the one thing she never, ever risked hoping for.

Until Steve is chuckling against her lips, easing himself away, just a little, as she opens her eyes to find him peering down at her in amusement. “That’s one hell of a hello,” he murmurs, holding her a little tighter, squeezing her a little closer, and maybe she’s imagining how perfectly she fits in his arms. Maybe she’s imagining how his hold feels strong and safe and sturdy, yet his body feels at complete ease against hers. He cradles her like she’s precious, like her one true place has always been right here, right in his arms.

She closes her eyes, twisting her fingers tighter into his shirt. She wonders if this would have been what it felt like with her Steve. It’s stupid that she still wants to know.

“What were you doing out here by yourself?” The question is mumbled against her temple as he draws her to her chest, and she rests her head on his shoulders, letting her body sway with his.

“Nothing,” she admits, burying her face into his shoulder. “Our children came running through not too long ago, by the way.”

His chest rumbles with a chuckle as he cups the back of her head, letting her lean back against his touch as she stares up at him, a soft, small smile on her lips. His fingers tangle into her hair, gently massaging at her scalp, and she lets out a hum of appreciation as her eyelids nearly flutter closed. “That explains that look on your face,” he teases with a curve of his lips at the corner, his eyes sparkling, until a beat passes and his expression softens. “You seem to be getting these bursts of nostalgia more often lately.”

“It seems so,” she breathes out.

“They grew up so fast, didn’t they?” he asks, giving her a dimpled, crooked sort of smile as she nods. “Sometimes I wish I could do it all over again.”

Despite the tightness in her chest, she manages a laugh. “Have another baby?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, not—not just that.” He slides his hand down her back, curves it over her hip, squeezing gently, and he brushes a soft, quick kiss to her lips. Like he can’t quite help himself. “If I could go back in time, do it all over again—meet you all over again, fall in love with you all over again—I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

She feels her heart flutter, warmth tugging at her, making her press as close to Steve as physically possible. “You think it would happen again?”

His smile doesn’t falter, not even a little. “I do,” he answers easily.

“You think we would still find each other?” she asks, stretching up on her toes, pressing her forehead against his. “You think it would still be us in another reality?”

She knows that her words could sound doubtful—could sound worried or wary—but Steve, it seems, knows her in any reality, in every figment of her imagination. Because he gives her an easy, soft laugh, kissing her gently, tenderly. Slowly. Like they have all the time in the world. Then he draws back just enough to meet her gaze, tucks her into his chest as he repeats, “I do.” He lifts his hand from her hip, brushes his thumb across her cheek as he cups her face, and the way he looks at her is something that could only be described as pure awe. “I know it would happen all over again, no matter the variables, because I don’t believe in an existence where I don’t fall in love with every part of you.”

She blinks, her eyelashes dotting with the tears she hadn’t noticed gathering in her eyes. Her heart flutters in her chest, wild and racing. Hopeful.

“Yeah?” she asks, breathless.

He kisses her, hard, hungry—and murmurs, “I’d bet my life on it,” against her lips, before slanting his mouth deeper into hers, and she can’t focus on the way every inch of her feels weightless and hazy, can’t focus on the fact that none of this is real, that none of his has happened, could happen. She can’t focus on anything other than Steve.

Slowly, slowly, he eases his lips from hers, nipping at her bottom lip just once before drawing back, and it feels as though he takes the warmth of the illusion with him as he steps away, still smiling at her. She feels the edges of her vision start to blur, then fade, and she takes a breath, trying to brace herself. Trying to be strong.

“Natasha.”

She turns around, blinking quickly, and suddenly the world is darker, and colder, and she finds a man standing just a few feet away from her.

“Strange?” she asks, eyes glancing over his robes, down to where the ends of his cape brush the surface of the water that they’re standing in the middle of. It stretches on for miles and miles around them, with that same, desolate planet just beyond the horizon, and she knows that she’s back to—back to wherever she was meant to have stayed in the first place. She may have never met Stephen Strange before, but after hours of combing through his files, staring at his photo, turning over his last words to Tony in her head—she knows even before his nod in response that this is true. “What—” She glances up at the expanse of space above their heads, exhaling. “Is this another illusion?” she asks.

“No,” he answers, drawing her eyes back to his. “Neither was the other world you were in.”

She shakes her head once. No. “That wasn’t real.”

“Maybe not to you. But to the Natasha whose mind you occupied for a short while, it’s very real. That life? It’s hers.” His lips twitch into the wisps of a smile. “Did you like it?”

“I—” She knows there isn’t any point in lying to him, so she simply deflects. Old habits and all that. “Does it matter?”

“When Steve comes here, you’ll want it to matter.”

Her heart stutters in her chest as she flinches back in surprise. “Why would he come here?”

“They found all of the Stones,” he tells her, stepping closer, letting her catch his gaze. Letting her see the truth in his words. “They reversed The Snap. They won the war.” He says the words calmly, slowly, as if knowing just how heavy it feels to have them settle over her mind, into her heart. As if knowing how much pure relief is coursing through her veins, making her breath hitch, making a smile pull at her lips. “And now Steve Rogers is coming back to return the Stones at the exact points in time that they were all taken.”

“He’s coming here,” she says, voice barely above a whisper as she holds his stare. “So why are you here?”

His expression softens ever so slightly. “The obligation of being able to see so many outcomes and so many realities,” he starts with a tilt of his head, “is that, when you have the rare chance of seeing an outcome change for the better, you feel compelled to see it through.”

She feels her lips pull at the corners, just barely, but the smirk is there all the same. “And here I thought that speaking of the future will only change its outcome.”

He returns her smirk with one of his own, genuine amusement glinting in his eyes. “It does, always.” He steps closer, reaching out and resting a tentative hand on her shoulder, and it’s odd that the gesture feels a little bit comforting. She has a feeling he’s not one to touch, so maybe there’s something about this moment—about her—that makes this a special circumstance. “But when you go back, if you choose to go back, you won’t remember this conversation. You won’t remember anything that you saw of that other reality.”

Natasha blinks, lips parting slightly. “Go back?” she echoes.

“A soul for a soul,” Strange recites, the words making a rush of emotion course through her veins, too quick for her to dwell on. “An exchange required to keep the universe in balance.” He pulls his hand from her shoulder, tipping his chin a little to meet her stare. “That goes both ways, Natasha.”

She sways, taking a step back, and she knows the warmth unfurling in her stomach is—hope. Overwhelming, consuming hope.

“There’s no guarantee that the life you saw will be the life that unfolds for you if you return to your reality,” he warns, though something in his tone tells her that he believes—no, he knows that this won’t be that much of a factor to her at all. “Nor will you have the memories of that other life to work towards. You’ll be taking a gamble.”

(“You think we would still find each other? You think it will still be us in another reality?”

“I’d bet my life on it.”)

“Taking a bet?” she asks in a breathless sort of laugh, and, for the first time, Strange smiles. It’s a good look on him, if he wasn’t so damn serious. Or maybe because of that.

“Close your eyes,” he tells her, the command soft but firm, and she does exactly that, feeling her smile widen just a little bit more as she feels him step closer. “I must say, I think I’ll look forward to seeing your future unfold back home, Natasha Romanoff.”

Home. Her heart stutters. “I do, too,” she whispers, and she thinks she hears him take a breath, thinks she begins to respond—

But the voice that calls her name isn’t his.

... ...

“Nat?”

She sucks in a breath, gasping, feeling water ripple out from around her, sliding into her suit and wetting her skin as she feels herself quickly moving to sit up. Her heart is racing, thrumming against her ribcage as she glances around, at the endless water stretching out around her, into the horizon of mountains and rocks.

She’d hit the bottom. She’d fallen all the way down, and she’d hit the bottom, and she knows it hadn’t hurt. She hadn’t had the chance to feel anything before—

Before now. Before she’d opened her eyes, startling awake, and finding herself here.

“Nat.” Her name comes out as a choked, strangled sort of sound somewhere to her left, and then she’s turning her head, her breath catching in her throat as she finds herself staring back at the brightest, clearest shade of blue she’s ever seen. He’s a few paces away, mostly silhouetted in the dark shadows of the sky, and though the faint outlines of his suit seem different, she knows this is him. She knows it in her bones, in her soul. She’d recognize this man anywhere, simply from his voice and his breath and his presence.

Then he’s moving toward her, his large, warm, calloused hands reaching out, pulling her up, and her body feels hazy and weightless, disoriented, but that doesn’t matter.

Because then she’s being pulled against his chest, his hands wild and frantic, trying to touch every part of her all at once, until they come to cup her cheeks gently—so, so gently, like she’s something precious—and he stares down into her eyes. His are wet with tears, his expression brimming with emotion as they flicker across his face, too quick for her to quite catch, until there’s nothing but hope and pure, genuine relief written in every inch of his face. He’s never quite touched her like this before, yet something in this moment feels familiar, just vaguely so. Or maybe she simply believes it is, because she’s imagined it countless times, in the small, secret part of her mind that indulged in the idea of her and Steve. That wondered if maybe something would be there between them if the dust ever settled, if the war was ever over and the fight was well and truly done.

If they got to go home.

She exhales a breath and lets her head fall forward, her face pressing into his neck, his pulse racing against her lips, just under the delicate curve of his throat.

“Tell me this is real,” he pleads, tightening his hold on her, drawing her back to meet her eyes again, as if he’s terrified that she’ll slip right through his fingers if he looks away for just a second. His expression cracks at every edge, thumb tracing up her cheek, over her temple, fingers tangling in her hair. “Tell me you’re real.”

“I’m real,” she says, not getting the words out fast enough, reaching up to touch his face, and his entire body eases as he leans his cheek against her palm. “I’m real.”

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his forehead falling against hers. “Fuck. Nat. Nat.” He shakes his head, lips pulling at the corners, and there it is—that smile she fell in love with.

She slides her hands over his throat, her thumb smoothing circles over the thrum of his pulse. “Let’s go home,” she whispers, drawing a burst of laughter from his lips, a little wild and a little shaky, overwhelmed with relief, but still beautiful all the same. Still perfect.

For the first time in her life, it feels perfect.

#endgame spoilers #avengers endgame spoilers #romanogers #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #chanty writes

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polynymph · 5 years

Text

What Once Was Chapter 7

At least it didn’t take two weeks this time! We get a little closer to finding out a bit more about Armyah’s past and her connection with Asra.

TW: Swearing, could be seen as NSFW because Julian is a subby, touch-starved boi and I love him

The wagon bounced on the uneven road of the town square. The sun was just rising as Portia, Armyah, and a few other members of the palace staff arrived at the market. It was hot, but the dress the Countess had chosen for the magician that day was a sleeveless, off-the-shoulder type. She had never worn anything like it, but at least the length was much more modest than that of the sea green ensemble she had the day before. Portia was across from her, chatting away with another servant about matters in which Armyah didn’t understand. However, she did recognize the word “courtiers” and the mere mention of them made her stomach drop and fingers twist around the mint fabric of her garment. She would be meeting them today. Turning to look out the window and clutching her bag to her chest, she tried to focus her mind on the bustling crowd. Suddenly, the coach lurches to a stop and the group file out onto the busy street. Armyah is careful not to trip down the stair in her borrowed, nude heels. A handful of servants and the magician huddle around Portia, awaiting orders. The stout woman clapped her hands and rubbed them together confidently.

“Alright everybody, listen up,” she said loud enough for them all to hear, “noon o’clock we’ll be making the announcement here in the city square. ‘Til then, you all know your errands. Talk to me if you don’t. Any questions?” She looked to each member of staff in case there was any need for clarification, but they all nodded in understanding. She nodded, signaling for the servants to disperse. They spread out into the marketplace as she waited for them all to leave before turning her attention to her friend. “I thought you’d might like to check on your shop,” she smiled. Armyah breathed a sigh of relief, Portia knew she was homesick. “I’ll try to find you, but if I don’t, try to be back here by noon.” They waved goodbye to each other and the servant disappeared into the throng. The magician turned on her heel and walked briskly, excited to see her home. She knew the way like the back of her hand; right, straight on, then down the ally. There it was…her own little oasis. Even in the misty overcast in the sky the shop seemed to glow. Practically skipping up the steps, she rested her palm on the heavy wood door to release the sealing spell. Her hands shaking from glee, she unlocked the first two locks, but fumbled and dropped the keys before she could get to the third. The fortune-teller dipped down to retrieve them, but paused when she spotted a small, leather pouch resting on the stoop. Taking the rough material in her hand, she could feel the energy resonating from it. She picked at the knot and pulled the string open; herbs, bark, resin, and incense…a magic mixture. She poured a small amount into her palm and inhaled deeply. There were hints of sage and marrow root, but the strongest scent was myrrh; a protection aura. She had a strange sense of déjà vu as she smelled the strong aroma, but she couldn’t place it. She casted a sidelong glance to either side of the street, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. Pocketing the pouch, she reached back down for her keys and turned the final lock. However, just as she leaned on the door it swung open and she nearly collided with a person standing in the doorway. Doctor Devorak was looking right at her, eye just as wide as hers. She freezes in her tracks, struggling to speak. For a moment, they both just stare at the other.

“Armyah! Fancy seeing you here,” Julian smiled awkwardly, guilt written all over his face. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d check to see if you’d gotten home all right.” He fidgeted under her incredulous glare, “and here you are, getting home all right! Marvelous!” He laughed weakly, and she put a hand on her hip disapprovingly, “I’ll, ah…stop wringing my hands now.” For a second, she thought about calling for the guards, but she hesitated. This was the second time he had been in her shop; the guards might think she was harboring him. At least, that’s what she told herself. Regardless, she fixed him with a narrow gaze.

“How am I supposed to believe you?” she was a little indignant, how was he even getting in with the protection spell? “You’ve broken in not once, but twice now! What are you after?” He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and trying to look innocent. Trying and failing.

“What? What am I after?” he stammered, “Why, I’m not after anything. What would I be…” He trailed off, eye going wide, “Oh, you don’t think I’m a thief, do you?” He smiled that roguish grin of his, “I’m a lot of things, but not that.” She wasn’t budging.

“And I’m supposed to just take you at your word?” she asked suspiciously. That mischievous smirk never left his face as he shucks off his overcoat and starts to unbutton his black waistcoat. She flushes deep crimson, but she can’t seem to look away from the doctor. He’s in the same billowing undershirt as the night before, his arms are outstretched and palm up in submission.

“Search me,” he challenges, “if you find something of yours, I’ll show myself to the stocks.” He grins wickedly at the magician, daring her. “Go ahead, search me until your satisfied.” Julian lowers his eye, presenting himself for inspection. Her ears grow hot at the insinuation, but the urge to wipe the smugness off his face outweighs her embarrassment. She drops her bag unceremoniously to the ground at her heels.

“I think I will,” she said as she took a languid step toward him. From the stunned look on his face, he obviously didn’t expect her to take him up on his offer. It was just as satisfying as she’d thought it would be.

“What, ah…what are you doing?” he shifted as she got closer, but his arms never lowered.

“Calling your bluff,” she teased. He looked almost impressed, but his smirk returned once again.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” He puffed up his partially exposed chest, “Well then, don’t be shy. I promise I’ll be good.” Armyah was within arm’s length of him as her chocolate eyes roamed over his body. Tentatively, she ran her hands down one of his arms. She could feel how cool his skin was through the gauzy material of his shirt. Becoming a bit braver, she moved closer until there was a sliver of space between them; she doesn’t dare look up at his face. The leather of his gloves creaked as he flexed the lean muscles of his arm under her hand. Julian looked down, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration of her assessment. It was clear she was avoiding looking at him, but he couldn’t help but tease her. He loved how her cute, button nose crinkled in annoyance. “Ohh, you have such lovely hands,” he practically moaned, “you can squeeze a little harder, you know…I won’t mind.” There it was. The nose crinkle and a satisfying shade of crimson flooded her cheeks. She presses more firmly as she follows her evaluation down his other arm. Did he dare test the limits? Yes…yes he would, “come to think of it, I haven’t seen you up close in broad daylight before,” he purred, “you’re much prettier than I realized, I’d like to get a little closer.” He reached for her, clever fingers wrapping themselves around her slender wrists and tugging, trying to close that last inch of space between their bodies.

“Stop moving,” she demanded harshly. His eye went wide, and the tips of his ears burned. He didn’t know she had it in her. Her commanding tone stirred something within him that he hadn’t felt in a long time, causing him to bite his lip. He had the overwhelming urge to drop to his knees in front of her and beg forgiveness; swear to her up and down that he’ll be good for her. Instead, he obediently dropped his arm back to his side. Armyah looked questioningly at Julian’s reaction. Feeling bold, she circled behind him as if she were a predator and he, her prey. He twisted around to watch her, not willing to let her out of his sight while in such a vulnerable position. His eye is bright with interest making her face warm under his shameless stare.

“I had no idea you were so…hands-on,” he chuckled, “how daring of you. Aren’t you afraid someone will see?” She knew he was baiting her, but she almost backed off. The only thing stopping her was sheer curiosity; she wondered what other reactions she could get out of him.

“Did I say you could move?” she took a less harsh, but no less authoritative tone. She got the same response: blushing hard and chewing his bottom lip.

“I, ah…no,” he stuttered, flustered, “you didn’t.” Did he have a thing for being bossed around? ‘Interesting…’ she filed that information away in the back of her mind.

“Then turn back around.” He complied without hesitation. She slid her hands down his back and fine tremor rips through him, “besides…shouldn’t you be the one afraid of being seen?” He struggles to speak as her fingers continue to trace the length of his spine.

“Er, well, I suppose that’s true.” She places her hand on his hip and moved around to face him again, trailing over his hipbone to check his pocket. An unexpected hard edge is ridged under her palm. ‘Is that…?’ She pulls her hand away swiftly in panic, losing her nerve. She actively looked anywhere but his red face.

“It’s not what you think!” he explained quickly, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small pocket knife and held it up to show her. She breathed a sigh of relief, but she was quite finished with searching him.

“What are looking for?” she asked evenly, “maybe I can help you find it?” He looks almost terrified at the very idea.

“Oh no no no no…” he shook his head vigorously, “you don’t want to be caught up in…this.” He gestured broadly to himself. She looked at him curiously.

“I just meant that I know where to find everything in the shop,” she explained, “are you looking for something specific?” Julian’s throat bobbed when he swallowed, and he let out a slow, shaky sigh.

“I…I was looking for answers.” He was frustratingly vague, almost like Arsa. “But I didn’t find any. Not the ones I wanted, anyways.”

“Alright,” she shrugged.

“Wait…what?” he looked at her as if she had two heads.

“I believe you.”

“Really?” She smiled sincerely.

“Really.” He rolled his eye at the magician.

“Terrible idea,” he stared off in the distance, over her shoulder, “you shouldn’t trust anyone, Armyah, least of all me.” He retrieves his overcoat with a showy flourish and slipped it back on. “I do hope your satisfied, though.” He fastened the silver buttons of his waistcoat back in place before returning his attention to her once more. “Well, I’m sure you have things to do, so I’ll just be getting out of your way.” He takes a wide step, contorting his long, lanky form to allow her to pass.” Armyah’s eyes follow around to him.

“Doctor Devorak-” she started but was interrupted by his hand raising for her to stop.

“Take care, Armyah,” he says softly, “If the powers that be should ever entangle us again…” He smiles, but not that mischievous grin of his, it’s genuine. “Call me Julian.” His eyes flicker to something behind her. His broad grin takes only a second to fade before shock takes over his features. The hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end. Slowly, she looks over her shoulder. Portia had come to find her, but she wasn’t looking at the magician. All of her focus, the suspended disbelief in her wide eyes, was focused on the man behind her. Armyah looks back at Julian who pays her no mind. Tears well up in his stormy eye.

“Ilya?” Portia squeaked. She couldn’t believe he was in front of her. After all these years she thought he was dead. He looked different, more stern; no longer that gangly teenager with the voice that cracked with every other word. Oh, how she made fun of him. She stumbled forward, throwing herself at the doctor. The magician had to back into the wall to get out of her way. “Ilya is it really you?” Fat tears were rolling down her face. Her shaking hands fall to either side of Julian’s face. He smiled at the small woman.

“It’s me…” It came out as barely a whisper. Armyah looked between the two: the same auburn hair, stormy eyes, and strong jawline. There was almost a family resemblance between them. You could even say…the magician’s breath caught in her throat as she remembered the letter she had gotten from his desk in the library. Dear sister…

“You bastard!” Portia cried, banging a fist weakly against his chest, “What are you doing here out in the open? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Her fingers curl, tugging at his ears and drawing a shameful wince from the teary-eyed man.

“You’ve grown so strong, Pasha…” he choked, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to see it.” Her face flushed with anger as she let go of Julian’s ears.

“Ohh, I’ll show you sorry, you son of a bitch!” she rasped. Then, she remembered the woman beside them. “Armyah!” The magician went ridged at the shorter woman. “I-I…I’ll catch up with you later.” Portia pulls the floundering doctor into a nearby alley as the fortune-teller grabs her bag and ducks into her shop, shutting the door behind her. She looks around the deserted store, nothing looked to be out of place. Stooping under the curtain to the back room, the familiar smoky scent of incense fills her senses. Running a hand forlornly along the reading table, Armyah’s gaze falls on a pile of Arsa’s belongings in the corner; clothing and magical relics. The Countess’s theory resonates in her mind: maybe one of his possessions could give her an inkling of wear he might be. She picks up a carved totem of some sort, but nothing. She tries an ivory statue, even a shirt he wore before he left, but none of his things carry even a trace of his magic. Sighing in defeat, Armyah pads across the shop to the door. Once last mournful glance at her home before she stepped out into the street and locks the door. She considered skipping the cross-me-not spell since the doctor was getting in anyway, but she decided it was better safe than sorry. The magician places a cool palm on the wood grain and summoned an aura of protection over the door. The temple bell chimes loudly twelve times, signaling noon.

She rushes to the town square, following the dull roar of the crowd. Portia is already there, her eyes still raw from crying. She on the edge of the fountain so she can be better heard. The statue of Count Lucio on his rearing horse looms over her.

“Hear ye, hear ye!” she calls out to the crowd, “This is an announcement from the palace of your Countess Nadia!” The square was densely packed with people, smaller folk and latecomers circling the perimeter for a better view. Armyah slid carefully amongst the buzzing crowd. “On the eve of the passing of your most glorified Count Lucio, the Countess will open the palace gates once more!” People around her start chatting excitedly, “that’s right, folks! All are invited not to mourn, but to celebrate the spirit of our dearly departed Count!” A ripple of loud enthusiasm passes through the crowd, but Armyah was distracted by the familiar scent of myrrh. She turns her head and finds a hulking figure in the shadows underneath the pillars that surround the square. Their eyes are shrouded under a hood and heavy brow. Though the excitement in the square is growing, the figure looks more like a harbinger of despair. “It’ll be a Masquerade like no other before!” Portia continued over the bustling mob, “Spread the word, tell your friends! You won’t want to miss this!” As the crowd erupts in chatter, the massive stranger moves down a side street, the magician dashing after them. The stranger’s lumbering pace that’s easy to follow and she catches up to him halfway down the street.

“Have…have we met before?” she calls out to him; surely, she would remember seeing a person of his stature, but her mind draws a blank. He turned slowly as if he dreaded the very sight of the young magician.

“Yes,” he said monotonously, his voice like rumbling thunder. He shuffles away with a suffering look as the chain around his neck rattles with each heaving step. Did he leave the pouch at the shop? Did he know Arsa? However, before she could ask he had already disappeared into the shadows. Armyah headed back to the town square where Portia was tossing flower petals and rice onto dancing cityfolk. Noticing the fortune-teller, she climbs down from the fountain and jogs over to her.

“Armyah, there you are!” she exclaimed with excitement, “You missed the beg reveal! Would you look at this crowd?” She gestured behind her to the celebration. Motioning for the magician to follow, they both climbed up the steps to the servant’s coach. Portia plopped down on the plush seat and patted next to her for her friend to sit. “No incidents back at the shop I hope?” her smile had a shade of desperation, “nothing out of the ordinary?” Portia’s eyelid batted at a hummingbird’s pace, pleading.

“Umm…no,” Armyah faltered, “everything is just as I left it.” Portia looked torn, like she wanted to explain what happened back in front of the store, but she couldn’t muster the courage. The wagon lurched to life, chased by wild laughter down the street with ringing news of the upcoming Masquerade. The magician wrung her fingers with the strap of her bag. She had so many questions for Portia, but there were too many people around. Maybe if she asked something simpler… “Do you have any family?” It seemed vague enough, but the look on her friend’s face was pained.

“A brother…” she said carefully, “I haven’t seen him since we were kids, though.” Armyah could see the resemblance back when they were next to each other. She should have seen it before, they both have that mischievous glint in their eye. “You?” The fortune-teller didn’t know how to answer besides “I don’t know”. She didn’t really want to get in to her past, or lack thereof, with so many other staff around.

“No,” she lied…or maybe she wasn’t lying. The air between the two grew awkward and neither of them looked the other in the eye so they made the rest of the trek to the palace in silence. When the palace came into view, Armyah saw the bridge lined with carriages.

“Oh!” Portia squeaks, “the courtiers must have arrived!” A shiver ran from the magician’s head to the base of her spine. Portia must have notice, because she gives Armyah’s arm a comforting squeeze. “Don’t worry, remember these people can’t wait to meet you!” It doesn’t help calm her nerves. “I’ll be right there the whole time.” Armyah gave her friend a strained smile. When the coach comes to a halt, all the servants file out and dissolve into the corridors of the palace. Portia links her arm with the magician and escorts her through a wing of the palace that smells strongly of incense a half dozen different perfumes. Armyah could tell they have reached the parlor door by the music and cackling laughter from within. ‘They’re just people…’ she told herself over and over. The room was hazy, swimming with elegant plumes of smoke and it took all of her effort not to cough. Figures sprawled lazily on pillowed couches. The Countess noticed her first, glancing up from behind a gleaming pipe organ as she played a victorious chord. “Announcing Armyah,” Portia declared after clearing her throat, “friend of the palace and skilled magician!” Every head turned to face her, the apprentice’s face grew hot at the attention. “Armyah, this is Pontifex Vulgora, Procurator Volta, Praetor Vlastomil, Quaestor Valdemar, and Consul Valerius.” She gestured at the corresponding person as she introduced them.

“Welcome, Armyah,” the Countess greeted coolly. The sight of her lifted a bit of tension from the magician’s shoulders.

“Ooooh! This is Armyah?” the stout woman Portia had introduced as Procurator Volta asked as she picked off the refreshment tray, “She’s cuter than I imagined!” She wore a robe like a nun’s, but no holy symbol. However, there was a broach of a red beetle clasped to her chest. Armyah noticed that her right eye was completely white.

“What a delightful surprise,” Praetor Vlastomil was bony, deathly pale man clad in black from head to toe. Something in his eyes was unsettling to the magician. Perhaps it was because his pupils were vertical slits like a cat. Her eyes narrowed at the red beetle broach that he, too, had fastened to his shirt.

“Sit, Sit!” Pontifex Vulgora piped up, patting the seat beside them with a clawed gauntlet. “Sit here beside me, Armyah! Don’t be shy!” Their red tinged face and wide lizard-like eyes make the fortune-teller shift with uncertainty. She hadn’t expected such enthusiasm with their welcome. They all seemed very delighted to see her, making her feel more at ease. A cold, metal hand took hold of her wrist and pulled her down onto the couches and into the fold of conversation. The Countess watches carefully from her seat where she plays the organ, drawing contemplative tones.

“Tell me, Armyah,” she asked evenly, “how was the announcement received?” The magician was about to answer, but she was interrupted by a thin, almost green complexioned person in a doctor’s uniform.

“One can only imagine!” the previously announced Quaestor Valdemar had smirked, “Even we, the favorites of the Countess, closest to her heart, had no idea!” They seem almost indignant that they weren’t told beforehand.

“That or dear Countess, who shares everything with us, could orchestrate such a surprise!” Volta grated as she stuffed a handful of finger sandwiches into her mouth. Vulgora eyes the Countess in vexation from their seat next to Armyah.

“A surprise Masquerade!” they inflated, “How lucky we are, not having to worry about planning for it!” The Countess struck a low, irritated sounding chord.

“How lucky Armyah would have to be to get a word in with all of you,” she rolled her brilliant, ruby eyes. “My goodness.” All eyes were on the magician again, causing her to squirm under their hungry eyes.

“Oh, but how lucky she already is!” Vlastomil acclaims, “to be taken in by the Countess, an unproven, unknown apprentice!”

“And to take such a, dare I say, chance?” Volta agreed, “so very unlike our most thoughtful and meticulous Countess.” The Countess scoffed.

“It was not chance that led me to Armyah’s door,” she sneered.

“Then perhaps the Countess could inform her adoring court…” a deep, smooth voice rumbled from the chaise on the far wall. A man with a long braid that faded flawlessly from black to blonde was swirling his glass of wine in his elegant hand. “…how exactly it was the she arrived at the witch’s door that night.” Valerius looked much too young to be a Consul. His sophisticated grey robe embellished with gold trim revealed much about his status. He was very severe with golden, piercing eyes. Handsome, if not unsettling. He stood from his seat, not bothering to set down his glass and paced over to the magician, eyes evaluating her. “Or perhaps the witch might tell us herself?” The tone of his voice was condescending, he sneered as he called her a “witch”. It wasn’t specifically a derogatory name for people like her, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“Perhaps don’t call me that…” Armyah spat venomously. The rest of the courtiers round on Valerius, gasping with bright, hungry eyes. Almost as if there were waiting with baited breath on how he would respond.

“Witch?” he asked in mock ignorance, boots clicking as he walked over to the opposite side of the room. “Is that not your occupation?” He smiled and glanced over his shoulder at the young woman, “ah, forgive my mistake. You are but an apprentice.” They all turned to back to the magician with hands fluttering over their mouths as if he had just paid her the greatest insult. The Consul held his narrow gaze even as the Countess’s sonorous voice rises over the whispers.

“You know,” she said, tired of the courtiers’ antics, “if you all wanted to know so badly how that night transpired, you might have simply asked.” She rolls her eyes, “as it happens, I was having some trouble sleeping-”

“As you have been for some time, Countess!” Volta piped up.

“Yes, Procurator…” she ground through gritted teeth, “as I have been for some time, I was having trouble sleeping.” The Countess took a deep, calming breath before she continued, “on that night, I woke haunted by the spectre of a dream with no escape for my mind: no comfort from my terrors nor anyone to whom I could turn, who might understand them.” Mournful, she places a graceful hand over her heart to extenuate her grief. “Indeed, I was in a desperate state…desperately seeking someone, anyone who may be of help to me.” Her version was a bit more dramatic than the story Armyah would have told. ‘She knocked on my door, asked me to stay at the palace for a bit, and then I gave her a reading and she left’ was a more apt description. “It was I who was lucky, to come across the one I needed so soon. A benevolent universe brought us together, did it not, Armyah?” The Countess’s glimmering eyes fell fondly on the fortune-teller. The courtiers shift, studying her with a new intensity, causing her to squirm in her seat uncomfortably. The moment was seized by an airy sigh as Valerius peers at her through his wine glass.

“A benevolent universe brought you together?” he ridicules incredulously, “with all due respect, Countess, your mind may have been too occupied of late…” His thin, tapered hand swayed in the magician’s direction, swinging his wine glass with it. “To see the full capacity of our wide and welcoming arms!” The Consul threw his arms wide, sending a sparkling arc of wine sailing from his glass and splashing across the front of a dumbstruck Armyah, soaking her borrowed dress. A collective gasp swept the room as the heady liquid seeped through to her olive skin. The Countess’s expression as she strikes a sour chord and rises from the organ was practically murderous. “Oh, my apologies,” he shrugged nonchalantly, a satisfied smile stretched across his face, “how clumsy of me! Surely, a witch as skilled as you knows some hocus or pocus to remedy this dilemma?”

“Enough, Valerius!” the Countess boomed, “You have exhausted my patience for tonight.” She marched over to the young magician and wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. “All out you, out! To your chambers!” The courtiers skittered out of the room like scolded children. Valerius, with a smirk, bowed dramatically as he exited the parlor. “I would appreciate if you could make it there without spilling, but I won’t count on it,” she called after him. She looked to the wine-soaked fortune-teller and shook her head, sighing, “I am sorry, Armyah,” she tutted, “I had imagined many outcomes to this evening’s affair and I must admit…this was one of them.” The Countess lowered her eyes, gazing mournfully at the ruined dress. “We must rid you of these garments, but I have taken enough liberties with your wardrobe,” she beamed at the magician, “so please, do not hesitate. Tell me what you would like, spare no expense.” Portia stood ready as the Countess laced her jeweled fingers together, both eagerly awaiting Armyah’s request. It seemed as if the Countess wanted her to ask for fine silks and riches. Perhaps she enjoyed showing people with gifts? Or was this an apology for the “test” a day before? Whatever it was, Armyah didn’t have to consider long…she knew exactly what she wanted.

“My old clothes, please,” she squeaked. Portia’s warm smile stretched from one ear to the other, the Countess, however, did not look amused.

“Ah, I thought you might say that,” the servant chuckled. The Countess regained her composer and gave the magician an even look.

“I suppose you would…” she said nonchalantly, “you shall have your old clothes then, Armyah.” She looked away, thoughtful, as if she were debating whether or not to say something. “I regret if this comes as a surprise, Armyah…” her brilliant garnet eyes met the magician’s somberly, “but your comfort here is of great importance to me.” The air was filled with a brief moment of awkward tension, “Portia will escort you to your chambers where you will be bathed, and your garments returned.” Armyah shifted her weight from one leg to the other, uncomfortable, afraid that she had offended the Countess. “I believe you will find them much as you left them.” She turned away from her servant and guest, Portia seizing the moment to lead her friend out of the parlor and down the hall; the melodious sound of the pipe organ chasing after them. Armyah couldn’t help but feel as though she were a child being sent to bed after disappointing their guardian. Portia and the magician were silent as they walked the brightly lit halls of the palace to the bath chamber. She sunk into the steaming water and breathed a sigh of relief, the tranquil bathroom did much for her mind as it did her body. The same oils were lined along the tub, though the rose scented one she had used the precious night had been refilled. She was going to reach for it, but then her eye caught a familiar word marked on a glass vile: chamomile. Chamomile was her favorite flower; it was unassuming but had so much purpose. She uncorked the oil and sniffed deeply, the beautiful floral scent filled her. Though, she didn’t expect a twinge of pain behind her eyes. Maybe the concentrated aroma was overwhelming to her senses. Whatever the case, she poured a generous amount into her palm and washed thoroughly. After Armyah had bathed and changed into her comfortable handmade clothes, Portia returned her to her chambers. She bid her friend goodnight and shut the door behind the servant, turning and resting her back on the heavy door. A glint at the window caught her eye, a parcel was waiting for her by the window next to the incense burner; a tightly spiraled note perched on top, addressed to Armyah. ‘A gift for my dearest guest, this emerald which seemed to have called your name. Wear it in good health. -Nadia was written in flawless calligraphy. Even in writing, the magician could feel her imperious gaze, penetrating and full of contemplation. Unwrapping the paper, the gold chain slipped through her fingers as she held the jewel. In a gradual wave, she sensed the familiar energy wash over her. There was no mistaking it: this was Asra’s magic radiating from the gem in gentle, soothing ripples. She had remembered her unsuccessful search in the back room for a connection to her teacher. Now, with this brilliant trinket alive with his energy, she had a chance.

Armyah waited until the halls were quiet and the only sound was the metallic clanging of temple bells echoing through the city; midnight. She stole out of her room with the emerald hanging around her neck and dashed through the empty halls, the thought of hearing her old friend’s voice again causing her to shiver excitedly. She knew the way to the veranda well by now. Humid wind pulled and swelled against her, moving languidly down the stairs and through the garden. When she had reached the fountain under the weeping willow tree, she spotted someone familiar hanging from its branches.

“Faust!” Armyah exclaimed happily, the lavender serpent hissed gleefully. Did she know the magician was coming? Or was this where she spent her time? She coiled her way down the wide trunk of the tree. Armyah padded over to her, resting a gentle hand on her smooth head and trailed it down the snake’s slithering body as she glided across the bark and onto the soft grass. It was only then, when Armyah noticed the carving on the back side of the tree; Armyah. Her name etched into the mossy willow in her teacher’s recognizable handwriting. However, it was old…much older than the three years in which she remembered knowing him. Faust interrupted the magician’s thoughts by sliding up her leg and up to her shoulders. The serpent took immediate interest in the emerald, tongue flicking after it as Armyah unclasped the pendant from her neck. Returning to the gazing pool, she sat on the marble edge of the fountain. Closing her eyes and breathing deeply as she dangled the green gem over the water and dropped it in. Light caught every glimmering angle as it sunk to the bottom of the pool causing the water to change colors and shapes to bloom over it.

“You’re back,” a familiar voice breathed. Tall palms swept behind Arsa against a glittering sea of stars. His curly white hair catches starlight in every whorl. “I saw the water changing this time,” he smiled, happy to see his apprentice and familiar, “Faust, you’re looking lively. Being around Armyah does that to you, doesn’t it?” His bright, violet eyes twinkled as he laid his chin on his palm. He looked weary, which wasn’t too surprising. His sleeping habits were, as Armyah calls them, predictably unpredictable.

“You look tired,” she smiled, grateful to be able to see him and talk to him. He looked content, as if his secret escapades must had been fulfilling.

“Do I?” his silvery eyebrow raised, “I don’t feel tired. I was just about to get in the water, but you beat me to it.” His apprentice rolled her eyes at his joke. Faust slithered across Armyah’s lap, taking sniffing flicks at the water. “You two have definitely gotten closer,” Arsa beamed, “she’d opening up to you.” His eye shifted away from hers, guiltily. “It may be time for me to do the same.” Armyah’s breath caught in her throat. She must’ve made a face because Arsa laughed, high and unrestrained. “No really, it’s true! I want to start being more honest with you.” His time in…wherever he is must’ve given him a lot of time to think. “What’s on your mind? Ask me whatever you like, all that I ask is that you start being more honest with me, too.” He must have been talking about when she finally told him how she felt about being left behind in that dream.

“Who is Julian to you?” she asked, the burning question brought her relief as it left her lips. She had seen the depth of emotion that crosses the doctor’s face whenever he speaks of Asra. Her teacher, however, looked confused.

“Julian?” his eyes narrow in thought, then soften in realization, “Ah...he goes by that name too.” Armyah's eyebrows knit together.

“Is that not his name?” she wondered. Had he used a fake name all this time?

“I knew him by another name.” Another vague answer, “he was a...friend, once.” A blush rises to his tan face, “then more, then...something else.”

“Something else?” He wanted to be more honest with her, but he was still frustratingly unclear.

“Something that I had to get away from,” Asra is somber for a moment before laughing bitterly. “Who is Julian to me...who is he to anyone?” He looks past his apprentice's shoulder to the start behind her. “Julian is whoever he needs to be to get what he wants.” Armyah's heart drops. She should have known that he was lying to her all along, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. “Why do you ask?”

“We’ve crossed paths a few time,” she answered carefully, “he’s asked about you.” Asra sneered and rolled his eyes.

“To think he would come for me after all that…” he shook his head, “I’m done talking about him. He’s a hack physician with a lot to learn and, until he does, nothing good will come of him.” With a deep sigh, he clears the heavy mood with a smile. Armyah knew there was some animosity between her teacher and the doctor, but she hadn’t expected it to be this bad. “So that’s what you wanted to know? That wasn’t so bad.” She looked away, “or…is there, perhaps, something else on your mind?” He knew her too well. His twinkling eyes searched hers with wordless depth. She remembered the carving of her name on the willow tree.

“Who am I to you?” Arsa’s soft violet eyes go wide and lips part. For a moment, he looked confused, almost hurt. Sighing, he folded his hands in his lap and leaned forward to look his apprentice square in the face.

“You’ve helped me grow,” he breathed, “I’ve learned so much from you.” She didn’t think that was the whole truth, “I wish I could tell you so much.” He looked pained, desperate for her to remember something, anything.

“Is it something to do with before?” she whispered, “When I lost my memory?” He doesn’t answer. “Did you carve my name into the tree?” Asra’s eyes widen in fear, he hadn’t expected her to find it. He almost forgot about it himself.

“You should get some rest…” his voice cracks as he looks down at his feet. Before Armyah could respond, the water ripples around his image until it disappears. ‘So much for being more open…’ she sighed and looked to the lavender serpent who is watching from her shoulder.

“Come one, Faust,” it’s hard not to smile at the ruby-eyed snake, “We’ll see him again soon.” With a shake of her head, the magician gathered the snake into her arms and headed back inside the palace. What was he keeping from her? Why couldn’t he tell her? Frustrated, she tried to shake the thoughts from her head, but she stops dead in her tracks. No, it couldn’t be…she had known Asra for three years. Still, she was missing over 20 years of memories. Maybe he isn’t who he says he is. Perhaps he used her amnesia to manipulate her into thinking he was a completely different person than who he was before. Armyah’s blood runs cold as she remembered Julian’s words that first night in the shop.

“That creature is far more dangerous than you know…”

Thanks for reading! Tell me how I’m doing!

Tag List: @julians-chest-hair

#the arcana #the arcane game #julian devorak #julian x apprentice #portia devorak #nadia satrinava #asra #count lucio #Muriel #What Once Was

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flowersfrombefore · 5 years

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Flowers and Pianos: Part 1 (Roger Taylor X Greta Stirling) (OC)

A/N: This started as a daydream a while ago and I decided to finally write it! Also there aren’t any explicitly Bisexual Oc’s that I’ve seen so I decided to make my own. I really enjoyed writing this chapter and I hope you guys love it as much as I do. I’d really appreciate any feedback you have to give. Also let’s play: Find the Almost Famous reference! Comment if you find it.

I can’t possibly write a summary without giving away parts of the story or sounding melodramatic so screw it here’s the gist of the start: Greta and Roger are both musicians who meet accidentally at a party after one having a sort of break up and the other running into an ex with the person they cheated with.

Warnings: Drinking (a lot of drinking), swearing, implied smut, angst, language, (ummm this is the 70′s so Greta kinda being ashamed of her sexuality?? yeah just to be safe I’ll put that)

Word count: 3387

^^^^ That’s our girl folks.

Greta’s original intent for tonight was definitely not hiding in a bathroom with a bottle of Vodka. It was not her idea to invite her ex girlfriend to a party. And it was hardly her idea to see her with the person she cheated with. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised in the least. So not everyone had known you were together meaning no one really knew there was a breakup, of course she was still coming. Just keeping up appearances until it made sense for her to leave. That’s what Greta thought at least, until she saw what was obviously the real reason for Sarah to still hang around her band.

Over the few weeks since she had caught them together, Greta thought her anger may have dissipated. It had at least dulled towards Michael. Her best friend and almost more crucially, her band’s guitarist, couldn’t take much of the blame. Greta had never told him that the pretty blonde journalist was more than just that. She’d never told anyone. No it wasn’t his fault for fucking her, It was Sarah who let it happen, probably encouraged the whole affair. The only thing that mattered at this point? Greta’s ex was a journalist, ‘the enemy’ as most tended to call them. And Sarah had more information about Greta than Greta would have liked to have publicized. The tabloids finding out about Greta’s most recent love affair could be the end of her band.

So at eleven at night, in a complete strangers home with hundreds of other bands around drinking and playing music, Greta found herself sitting in a completely empty bathtub with a bottle of Vodka in her hands. Trying to drown the thought of the one she used to love kissing her band mate somewhere in the mansion. And the reminder that, until she was certain there was no bad blood, her career could be on the line.

Greta’s vision began to cloud, well not cloud exactly. The edges of her vision were simply fading out and blurring together very slightly. If she focused she could still see but staring at seemingly nothing was becoming easier and easier. Soon enough the clouds began to form in her mind as well. She knew that if she drank a little more she’d reach the state where she felt light and happy. That point where she would smile for no reason and feel almost as if she was floating. She took another gulp of vodka and winced. It was stronger than she would have liked but it was the only thing remaining untouched in the house, probably because of it’s awful taste. She set the bottle down on the rim of the tub with a loud bang, almost missing the surface.

She leaned farther back and let gravity slide her down farther into the tub until she was almost laying down. She thought briefly about turning the water on so it would soak through her clothing. There was no real reason or purpose to do this but for some reason her mind had wandered to the feeling of soggy clothes clinging to damp skin. It was like a warm memory of being a kid and jumping into a pool with your friends with all your clothes on even when your mother said not to.

A piercing bang broke through her blanket of silence as the door flew open, hitting the wall so hard she was surprised that it didn’t shatter the tiles. She could have sworn that she locked it to avoid such an intrusion as this. To her dismay a disheveled head of long blond hair was the first thing she registered. For a moment she panicked. It could have been Sarah, Sarah did not need to see her like this. It would just give her more fuel for her future article to cast Greta in a bad light, or it would even just give her more of a reason to think her ex girlfriend was pathetic. She braced herself to be recognized soon enough, until the person standing in the door stumbled in and lifted their head to look into the mirror. It wasn’t Sarah. It wasn’t even a girl.

It was only now that she realized her vision was blurrier than she thought before. When there was nothing to look at except the slightly varying shades of white on the bathroom walls it seemed that she could see perfectly fine. Now, trying to make out the face of the boy standing before her seemed to be almost impossible. He would have to be closer for her to see, which she dearly hoped would not happen. She didn’t need anyone seeing the drunk crying mess that she was. She pushed herself as far back into the corner of that bath as she could trying not to be noticed.

She watched him as he combed his fingers through his hair trying to untangle it. From what she could see he looked about as drunk as her, squinting into the mirror seemingly trying to see better. He supported himself on the counter with one hand that was gripping a little tighter onto the edge than it would if he was sober. Well this was a party that started about an hour ago, most of everyone was drunk.

After a moment the boy turned from the mirror, shut the door and slid down it onto the floor. He wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling them into his chest, as he hung his head. The straight messy hair of his fell in sheets across his face hiding it even further. Greta still didn’t want to make herself known but he didn’t look alright and it felt wrong to intrude if someone came here needing to be alone. Even if she had been there first, she thought, he didn’t mean to intrude on her so it was fine.

“Hey.” Greta’s voice came out very quiet, she couldn’t tell yet if she was going to be slurring her words. “Do you want me to leave? Sorry I didn’t say anything earlier.” The boy raised his head in surprise but he didn’t jump. His shoulders that had been slumped before stiffened up a little bit and he drew his arms tighter around his knees. He was trying to hide just as much as Greta had been. “I’m sorry I’ll go.” Greta made a move to push herself up out of the bathtub, but her body however had other plans. She put a small amount of weight on her feet and immediately fell back down the short distance. She groaned in pain and rubbed her elbow that she’d hit on the short fall.

“You don’t have to go.” There was only a slight slur to his words meaning he hadn’t probably been drinking as much as her observations had lead her to believe. Something about his voice sounded familiar.

A slightly awkward silence fell for a moment. Neither party knew weather to give in and leave or to stay.

“Can I have some of that?” The blond broke the silence, making a vague motion to the half empty bottle of vodka still balancing on the tub.

“Sure, why not?” Greta shrugged and waved him over. “Get in, I don’t trust the floor to be clean and neither should you.” He gingerly got up, sure to steady himself on the door and on the counter before walking over. Greta pulled her knees up to her chest to make room and the boy climbed in the empty tub with her. He crossed his legs and sat across from her. Greta grabbed the bottle of the side and passed it to him. Without hesitation he brought the bottle to his lips and gulped a good amount down. He didn’t even flinch. “If you keep drinking like that you’re going to pass out before the nights out.”

“That’s the idea.”

Finally Greta was able to see his face. He was quite attractive, dare she say pretty? Probably pretty enough to pass as a girl if you weren’t looking properly, or if he had his shirt buttoned normally, unlike now. It was unbuttoned about halfway down his chest, not so modestly revealing some rather prominent hickeys. It dawned on her after a moment who was sitting in front of her.

“You’re Roger Taylor aren’t you? From Queen?” She tried to mask the excitement in her voice but the alcohol made that a bit difficult. Of course she recognized his voice. Anyone in their line of work knew who Queen was. Her band had actually only just been talking about the possibility of working with Queen only weeks ago. And, though she’d never really admitted it, she’d always liked Roger best when she’d had small encounters with the band. For a fleeting second she hoped maybe he would remember her from a brief meeting at a concert a few years before, realizing instantly that that would be a ridiculous thing to hope for.

“That would be me.” He downed another quarter of the Vodka. “You’re Greta Stirling right?” He lifted the bottle to his lips again, until Greta moved forward and took it from his hands.

“Okay drummer boy don’t drink all of it I still found it first.” Greta smirked and leaned back holding the bottle to her chest. To her surprise her action wasn’t met with a look of annoyance. He smirked right back at her, rolling his eyes sarcastically. “But yes that would be my name. However much I wish it wasn’t right now.” She regretted voicing the last part the moment she said it. She had no desire to voice her personal issues at the moment. She just wanted to get blackout drunk and possibly cry alone. Although getting blackout drunk with Roger Taylor seemed like a good alternative to the crying aspect.

Roger pushed himself forward, grabbing the bottle from Greta’s hands, or trying to anyway. He slipped and fell on top of her, spilling a good amount over Greta’s shirt. There was a bit of regret in Rogers eyes as he looked down to see what he did. That was of course, until Greta broke out into a fit of laughter. Against his better judgment, which of course was out the window at the moment, he stayed leaning over her, watching her laugh.

“I’m sorry, oh gosh I didn’t mean to do that I just wanted it back.” His words were almost impossible to discern through his own laughter. Greta raised the bottle up and pressed it against Rogers chest, the sheer force pushed him back to the opposite wall of the tub. The pair continued in their fit of drunken giggles for a while. Every time one stopped the other let out a final chuckle and everything started again. Finally their laughter did die down and silence befell the room. Both were brought back to thinking of why they had ended up here in the first place.

“Alright then Roger of Queen,” Greta sat up, thought the initial effort was a struggle. “What happens to land you in an empty bathtub at such a lively party. Due to your reputation I thought you’d have better things to do.” Oh she really was saying things she shouldn’t say tonight. Intoxication wasn’t good for her filter. “Or was the vampire that left those on your chest responsible for landing you here?” In honesty Greta knew she was no one to judge. She and Roger happened to have the same reputation of sleeping with everyone they met, although in the last year Greta had been out of that spotlight. Too busy fucking Sarah to keep it up. ‘What a waste of a good year’ she thought to herself.

Roger looked down to where Greta had pointed at and cursed under his breath. Hastily he buttoned up his shirt. Obviously they were something he didn’t want anyone to see. An odd occurrence for him, at least from what Greta had been led to believe by anyone who met the man.

“Sorry, that was extremely unnecessary of me to say, especially due to my own reputation.” Greta hung her head.

“Yeah I have heard we share an affinity.” Roger chuckled. “Its fine. You’re right though.”

Greta felt rather relieved. It didn’t sound like he was only saying it was fine just to keep some kind of peace. She’d only known the man for a few minutes but she felt like he trusted her, and she him. Maybe that’s just what happens when you lock yourself in a room together alone with a bottle of alcohol so strong it makes your chest burn.

“Oh do tell, maybe it’ll make me feel better.” She knew it wouldn’t, but she wanted to listen to his voice.

“Its nothing. Or it should be nothing. Just a girl that was touring with us, I thought..” He trailed off for a moment, searching for the right words. “I thought maybe we could be more than a hookup, I guess she didn’t. Simple as that really.”

Greta narrowed her eyes at him knowing he wasn’t telling the full truth.

“But what did she do?”

“She slept with our guitarist, Brian.” His voice broke only slightly. It could have been the drinking but Greta guessed it wasn’t.

Greta let out a mildly disgusted laugh, shaking her head at the remark. Of course she did, what groupie didn’t do that.

“Welcome to my boat Blondie, everyone just fucks another member and leaves you with enough marks to remind you who they were and what they were to you.” Maybe not the most sensitive thing Greta could have said on the subject but it’s how she felt. Lightly her fingers brushed over the last faint bruise that was still left from Sarah. Roger passed her the Vodka.

“Good to know it’s not just me. Sorry that you’re in it to though.” Greta passed it back to him.

“Fuck it. You wanna know what. She’s in this house right now, probably fucking my guitarist without a god damn thought that maybe I didn’t want to see them…together.” It was half between a cry and a yell and if she hadn’t been in front of Roger it was likely tears would have started.

Fuck.

That was the first thought that went through her mind. Fuck. She hadn’t thought to make it vague. She said ‘She’. She really shouldn’t drink and talk about her problems when this could slip out. Frantically she searched for something to cover up her mistake with. To her favor Roger was also too drunk to fully comprehend what she’d said. Or at least she hoped.

“God, so’s mine. You wanna know what’s the worst though.” The bottle was empty now. “I let her come back. These aren’t old.” He gestured to the now covered hickeys. “These are fucking from today!” Roger buried his face in his hands, digging the palms into his closed eyes. He was trying not to cry just the same as Greta. “Why did I let her back?” This was not directed towards Greta and she knew it. It was to himself, and oh god did she understand.

Greta was no good with words. It had always been a problem for her when a friend needed comfort. All she knew how to use was physicality. A hug, a kiss, anything of the sort was what she knew how to do. It hardly seemed appropriate but seeing someone hurt was something she couldn’t let just happen. She inched herself forward with her hands, bringing herself closer to Roger who was still hiding his face in his hands.

For a moment she hesitated. Her fingers hovered over his jaw line but she withdrew when she thought for a moment about what she was doing. She just wanted to help. This was all she knew how to do. Before her thoughts could catch up to her actions she brushed her finger tips over his jaw before firmly placing them there. Gently she lifted his head to look up at her. She was right in her previous thinking. His eyes were red and wet with tears now, he looked helpless. It startled her for a moment, never thinking she’d see Roger Taylor look anything but confident and cocky.

“The same reason I’m about to do this.” Her heart only started racing the second before she pressed her lips against his. She hadn’t felt a boys lips on hers in…well, however long it had been since she met Sarah.

Roger tensed for only a moment, almost as if to pull away until Greta’s lips were on his. After only a brief second Greta tour her lips away, knowing that she’d probably fucked up by doing so in the first place.

“Roger I’m sorry I didn’t-” He cut her off, a hand gently coming down around the back of her neck to pull her back to him. Hands in each others hair, fingers tracing patterns in skin, lips locked together desperately, they stayed together for who knows how long.

Greta supposed she could blame it on the alcohol. She could blame it on the fact that they were both heartbroken. It even crossed her mind to pin it on wanting to be with a man again. Every one of these excuses tried to build up in her as she kissed him, unconsciously suppressing the fact that this was the first time in a while that she had felt something real.

In the process of trying not to end up in a tight corner Greta had crawled into Rogers lap. Her still wet shirt had been pulled off, half because it was soaked in Vodka and half because it left her skin free for fresh marks. She hadn’t realized how much she missed the feeling until Roger had parted from her mouth to suck on the skin just under her collar bone.

She kept telling herself this was all just the effect of the drinking.

“Roger what the fuck is this?” Her tone was so hushed it was hardly a whisper, she knew if she opened her mouth while this boy kissed and sucked on her neck like that she’d let out a moan loud enough that the whole party would know what was going on. Maybe she would. Maybe Sarah was close enough to hear. No, no she wouldn’t. She refused to fuck Roger out of malice and revenge. He didn’t deserve it and she was better than that.

“I don’t fucking know but please don’t stop.” He looked up at her with eyes so soft and pleading she wouldn’t have thought for a moment to stop. It was probably just the blurry vision or the lighting but the fuzzy edges around her sight made him look like an angel. Almost like he glowed. He was beautiful. She’d always known he was, but right now he was more beautiful than any picture could show.

Maybe it wasn’t the heartbreak and the alcohol that led them to eventually get up and find an empty room. Maybe it was something else that made them both too weak to resist the others touch.

Sure the heartbreak could have been the reason for the need for touch, for sex, for any intimacy. It could have been the alcohol that made the idea of sleeping together in another person’s house at a party seem okay.

Very likely it was heartbreak and betrayal that made them both cling to each others bodies for hours, until they were too exhausted to continue.

It was not however, any of these things when after the fact, they stayed together wrapped in each others arms. It was not hurt or intoxication that kept them talking about anything and everything until they both fell unconscious only as the sun rose.

And it most definitely was something real when they awoke the next morning still pressed against each other as the sun cast it’s light through the curtains. It was something real when Greta found that Rogers reputation for leaving girls in the middle of the night had not applied to her, as his arms still held her tight and his lips still pressed softly against the back of her neck.

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