#i’m actually slightly horrified at the thought of other departments using some of the labs as they are now

[littlefreya]

Heart of Darkness

Synopsis: Slight sequel to Overprotected. Walter’s longing wife comes to visit him at his office.

Pairing: Detective Walter Marshall x OFC

Word count: 3.9K

Warnings: Explicit, graphic smutty sex, rough oral sex, choking, role play, pleasure denial, rough sex. MaleDom / FemSub. Slight fluff though. 

A/N: A special thanks for @agniavateira or helping me proof my work. I don’t own Night Hunter / Nomins or Marshall!

Title: Heart of Darkness

The heating is broken at the station. It’s either that, or Walter came up with some new methods of torture to interrogate his suspects. I’ve never seen him in action, I’m not sure if it’s the shame of this very darkness that lives within him, or his desperate attempt to keep me safe from the horrors of the night. His colleagues filled me in a while ago, mentioning he tends to go rough, violent, even brutal at times. 

They know very little for I bask in Walter’s darkness. I’m the first to witness the terror that consumes him and shadows his soul. I drink from his desire, joining him in this violent lovemaking. It’s the only thing that helps him cleanse his demons.

It brings us closer. 

And yet, he doesn’t want me here. He fights to keep me secluded as if I was some porcelain doll. 

As if I don’t see my share of blood and death every day. 

I walk through the chilled halls of the station, wrapping my arms around myself to keep warm. Even though I’m wearing a large, thick winter coat, it feels like it’s four degrees here. I shouldn’t have worn a skirt beneath all this, but how could I have known? I left five text messages which remained unanswered. It’s not unusual. He is busy, and sometimes he forgets. 

It doesn’t mean this doesn’t piss me off.

I find him in his office, with a phone pressed to his ear. His bulky body faces the window while he talks down some crime lab trainee for messing up the evidence. He turns to see who dares to barge his office uninvited, his blue eyes pale as glaciers. They immediately melt as he realizes it’s me. 

“I don’t care how. Get a new sample or I’ll make sure you’ll never hear the end of this!” He ends the call without a goodbye and drops the device on his desk. His arms grab the edges of the chair tightly while he stares down, letting his soft dark curls fall on top of his forehead.

“What are you doing here, pet? You know I don’t like you coming here.” 

I take off my long coat, hanging it next to the door. His office is only slightly warmer. It’s smaller, and Walter emits enough warmth on his own. Everyone is walking around in their coats and jackets but he's in a black wool sweater per usual, with the sleeves rolled up to expose his wide forearms.

“I missed you” I answer, pretending not to tremble but the fumes that come out of my mouth give me away. 

I take a small, slow twirl in the secluded space, inspecting the room. There's so little light in here. On the shelf, he has some books about the history of crime and criminology, with his diploma and badges of honour laid next to it. Not out of pride, but out of compliance. Walter is not an arrogant man, he’s actually the opposite. He doesn’t have time for chasing glory, all he does is out of pure heroism, some would even say out of altruism.   

The morbid photos next to his desk catch my eyes. Images of victims. They hang on a board latched to the wall, along with a map, and a thick, red string that trails the locations where the bodies were found. These are young women, mutilated, their lives were stolen from them by selfish monsters. 

I get to see my share of blood every day, sometimes even death. But, this is not something anyone should see. 

And this is what he sees all the time, probably also in his dreams. The ghosts of the girls he couldn’t save haunt him; it’s not his fault, but he’d never see it that way. For him, every girl who died on his watch is a girl he has failed.  

My fingers press against the ring on my finger, twisting it anxiously. I can feel my heart shrinking to the size of a walnut. I wish I could suck the pain out of him as you do with poison.

“I told you…” he speaks with a deep frown on his face, as if he is angry with me for entering his cave of horrors. He was in a foul mood before I got here, and I defied his request. I am the one teasing the tinders with more wind and fuel. 

All I wanted was to bring my light into his world, at least for a little while.

“You visit me at work all the time,” I answer, inching closer toward his desk. I try to ignore the sourness in my throat as the horrifying images on the wall stare right at us.  

He gives me a small smile, almost invisible amongst the wrinkles of grumpiness on his forehead. 

“It’s a part of my job to come to the hospital, and it’s the only one in the county.”

That’s how we met. 

I was in my first year of residency. The tall, burly man with the most caring blue eyes appeared in the hospital. I have seen Walter once before that, spending an evening at the local Irish bar with his friends. The toughness on his face was the only thing I remembered then. I thought he was hot, obviously, though I didn’t bother approaching him. 

I didn’t fall in love with him until I saw the ocean of benevolence he kept under that hard shell. 

He came to visit a victim and stayed the night to make sure the aggressor won’t return, and that the girl is taken care of. I felt his eyes on me every now and then, silently observing me when I was checking up on other patients. He tried to strike a small conversation, about the girl first, and then about my job at the hospital. I believed the British giant was just being polite and passed the long, boring night by chit-chat. I should have known I was being interrogated to see if I’m single or not. 

Suddenly, he appeared at the hospital every other day, to check up on “the girl”. The first night, he brought me some coffee because “I work crazy hours,” and he thought I’d like some to drink. Then, it was coffee and a sweet pastry to eat. For a week and a half, I had a constant visitor who took care of my caffeine and sugar intake. My colleagues teased me for suddenly wearing perfume to work, and how I’d blush whenever “Sir Big Dick” arrived.

On the last evening, he came to my department and found me signing some charts. I’ve told him the girl was released during the morning, but of course, he knew that. He smiled at me and offered me a single red rose instead, asking if I’d like to accompany him for a real dinner this time.

Four years since then, he comes to visit even when there are no victims. Sometimes, I’m worried he does that out of fear that something will happen to me, and not just out of a romantic gesture to see his wife. 

“Is it part of your job to stalk your wife?”

He slouches on his chair heavily, making it squeak beneath his weight. His eyes rise to gaze at my face. There is a weariness in them, the kind that even sleep can’t cure anymore. I fear the day when my husband will stray too far from the light, when the heart of darkness will clutch its ugly thorns in his tender flesh. 

“It is my job to make sure the citizens of this county are safe.” 

I roll my eyes at him, walking to stand behind his chair. My hands reach to clutch his broad shoulders as I begin to knead the tense muscles with mild force. He stiffens for a moment and then emits a soft groan, flexing and trying to relax beneath my touch.

“Do you bring red roses to all the citizens in our county?” I speak with a sultry voice, moving my hands to his collarbone. Walter closes his eyes and throws his head back, a deep groan vibrates from the pit of his throat. 

“Only the hot ones,” he answers as his hand finds my leg and snakes up my bare skin, running all the way up beneath my skirt to find the curve of my ass. “You’re shivering.”

“It’s freezing in here.” I answer, leaning into the warmth of his palm as he strokes up and down my thigh to keep me warm.  

“Why are you dressed like that, then?” he guides me toward him to sit in his lap. His hands run up and down my legs, exposing more of my skin while a soft smile spreads across his rugged face. “If I wouldn’t know better, I’d say you came here to seduce a police detective.”

I bite my lower lip, wrapping my hands around his neck while my ass sinks against his groin. I feel so safe in his touch, with his coarse hands that burn hot on my flesh. 

“Why? Is that a crime?”

“Actually, yes.”

I pull away from him, standing against the edge of the desk with a teasing smirk across my face. His hand reaches out to my knees, not wanting to break contact. He has been deprived of it all day long, abandoned in the cold. 

Now here I am, the only warmth he knows.

“Show me then.”

He licks his lips, still smiling as he is caught up with my little flirtatious act. “Show you what, pet?”

“What interrogation methods would you use? How would you squeeze a dirty little secret out a seductress like me?” I place the heel of my boot between his straddled thighs, preventing him from moving and asserting my dominance to provoke him.  

His eyes narrow at me while he considers the idea. I see how the ethical balance begins to tip, the ball falling from one scale to the other. His better judgment becomes lost in a thick cloud of lust. 

“You keep secrets from me?” he asks as he plays along.

“Maybe…” I stretch the word, giving him a wicked flirtatious smile. 

Somewhere deep inside this good man, there is a big black dog, hungry to rip this willing victim to shreds. 

He peers at my leg and then up into my eyes while his fingers reach to gently tickle beneath my knee. I hum in delight, throwing my head back, my leg losing its strength, my assertiveness leaning on the edge along with my ankle. 

“I’d begin by putting you in a position where you don’t have any power whatsoever,” he speaks in a voice that’s gruff and low, his fingers now pressing hard and I’m forced to straighten my leg and lower it to the floor.

The smile on his face becomes cold and his eyes darken as he moves to stand in front of me. His leans against me, his torso pressed against my chest, his chin against my forehead as he lowers his head.

“Down on your knees.” 

These words take my breath away, making my skin prickle with nervousness. I follow his orders with the obedience of a good wife. My knees lay pressed against the cold floor, I try not to tremble too much. I’m not sure if it’s just the temperature of the room, or the dark glare on Walter’s face.

His groin is at the level of my face, the outline of his cock showing through the fabric of his trousers as it begins to harden.

He reaches out his hands to cradle my face. Stroking my hair back, examining my face as if he is learning my features for the first time. The smile diminished from his face the moment I went down on my knees. Now he stares at me with the severity of his bad detective attitude.   

“You’re very pretty,” he compliments me, but it sounds more of a fact than anything sweet. His fingers caress my cheeks and then at the corners of my lips, forcing me to part my lips. “Pretty little mouth too, does it talk?”

“I ain’t telling you nothing, Detective” I play along, if I’ve known we’re actually doing THAT, I would have prepared a script. 

His hands run to stroke the hair away from my face, beginning in a tender affectionate touch, he collects every strand lovingly until my hair is bundled between his strong palms. I can feel the softness of his touch draining away. 

“Undo my belt.” He commands. 

“I don’t…”

“You don’t want me to ask again.”

My hands tremble with fear and excitement as my fingers fumble with the metal clasp of his belt. Walter’s eyes look at me carefully, completely devoted to this role. I wonder how much of his job is pretence and how much is actually him.

“What do you say if I’ll fuck your mouth until you cry?” 

He asks while reaching one hand to unzip his trousers, freeing his beautiful large cock and stroking it in front of me for display. I can’t help but lick my lips, like a hungry kitten presented with creamy delight. The little drop of pre-cum that trickles down his shaft is too inviting. 

“I’d say you still won’t hear a word from me,” I provoke. 

Walter gives a short smile, tugging my hair back painfully until I’m forced to part my lips open into a breathless gasp of pain.

 “Take me in your mouth.” 

Usually, when I please him, I’d begin with a soft teasing, licking my way up and down his hardness until I finally take him in and begin working him sensually.

I am not granted any of that courtesy right now.

Walter forces himself into the wet heat of my mouth with the delicacy of a grunt. A deep, throaty groan echoes in the room as he is surrounded by my hot saliva and is pressed against the softness of my tongue. 

I choke out a mewl as he completely fills my mouth, feeling the head of his cock nearing the back of my throat. My cheeks betray me, sucking by instinct to savour his girth. Every inch of my body knows Walter all too well, it succumbs to the man that owns it, physically and emotionally.  

I look up to him with helpless glossy eyes. Victory showers his face, golden and bleak at the same time. He lets his callous long fingers clasp around the hollow of my cheeks to force me to keep my mouth open wide just to please him.

I gasp for air as he pulls back slowly. Just a cruel act to make me think we’re done, but we are far from that.

“Loosen your mouth pet, I am going deeper.”  

He warns and shoves himself in again, this time deeper as promised, relishing on my muffled whimpers he puts one hand on the back of my head and begins to buck his hips. Fucking my mouth in the rhythm that fulfils his lust.

My heart pounds on my chest, my knees begin to hurt as I try to move with him. But I’m his good girl, breathing through my nose, letting my tongue lap around his lavished cock lovingly while he uses me as the wet hole he unloads into. 

His eyes are glistening, ecstasy drawing near. I look up to stare at him, admiring how glorious he is. My large man, so confident and dominating. His beautiful dark curls frame his square face, bringing out his high cheekbones and bright blue eyes. And damn, that voice, those low melodic hums of pleasure making my entire body shake.   

I choke onto his swollen cock. Tears stained dark grey thanks to my eyeliner and mascara, run down my cheeks.

“Don’t cry beautiful,” he speaks with cynical sweetness, his thumb wiping the tears away from one cheek as he carefully withdraws from my mouth, allowing me to breathe once again. “All you need to do is tell me what you’re hiding and this will end.”

I gasp for air, my chest slightly heaving while his fingers run under my eyes to clean the black mess that is smeared on my face. He remains silent, the wrinkles between his brows are deep and severe while he is still pulling his bad cop act. Yet the way his hands run over my face with care gives him away so easily.

“Is this the worst you can do? Some detective you are!”

I provoke him, laughing patronizingly with my voice still husky, the edge of my throat slightly sore from having to endure his size in its depth. Walter chuckles momentarily before grabbing my shoulders and pulling me up to sit on his desk. 

“Spread ‘em” he nearly barks, but it’s not really an order since his hands press my knees apart widely, exposing the dampness on my underwear. He smoothes both hands up my thighs roughly, his thumbs reaching out until reaching to my core. 

I let my head back, feeling how his thumb massages me, pressing against my covered clit and drawing circles against it.

“You like that, little slut?”

“Yes…” I throw my head back and moan, my hands holding hard at the edges of the desk while I spread myself to him as much as possible and grinding my hips to steal more friction.

“You want more?” he teases while his fingers slowly slip my underwear to one side, exposing me to the cold air in the room. I’m so drenched for him right now, held open, anticipating like sliced fruit. He reaches out for his cock and begins to stroke himself in front of me, a wicked grin adorning his face.

I’m very much aware he can finish himself just like this while leaving me here to beg out of thirst. Well, I can do that too. I lift my hand to touch myself, nearly losing balance but he shoves his thighs between my legs right away and holds my wrist away.

“Ah, ah” he forbids. “You’re not touching yourself, you’re still under investigation.”

“If you don’t finish me off…” I threaten him but my intimidation breaks into a pathetic cry as I feel the head of his cock rubbing against my clit. 

“You’ll what?” he asks, running the tip between my throbbing lips and up to my clit. Back and forth he tortures me, increasing the pace and then slowing down. His groans convince me he may be enjoying this more than actually fucking me, seeing me so helpless and weak, willing to cry and beg for him to just put himself inside me. “I’m still waiting to hear what you’re hiding.” 

I close my eyes, head thrown back in agony and pleasure at once, so close yet so far away as Walter pushes just an inch inside, and then pulls out and strokes me again. 

I am still not willing to break completely, what’s the fun in that? I know my man, and I’m aware of his darkest desires and capabilities.

Let him unleash his worst. 

“Not a word from me, Detective, you’ll just have to try harder.”

His nostrils flares. 

“Fine, then I’ll just have to punish fuck you, drill you like a whore.” He pushes all the way in, making me whimper with bliss as I am finally whole again. 

I’ve led him just to where I wanted. His body conquering mine, filling me with the pleasure that’s not just physical.

Somehow both his hands find their way to my neck, holding me constrained while he allows my body to stretch for him. He makes me stare directly into his eyes, holding my face close to him, his hot mouth hovers onto mine, our breath mingling.  

I wrap myself completely around him, my boots pressing onto his ass to keep him buried deep inside. My hands hang onto his shoulders as if hanging to lift itself. 

He begins to finally move, grunting against my ear, his beard tickling at my neck while he thrusts me fast and hard. I grind onto him, our bodies making the erotic sounds of wet bodies as they slam together. 

This isn’t romantic lovemaking, he’s not tender and caring. His force is controlling, consumed by his demons once again. He fucks into me as if he wants to rip me apart, his hands depriving me of air, tight, perhaps too tight. Yet it’s still love, he would have not been able to have this with any other person and I would have not given it to him if I have not loved him as much.

The desk moves as he pounds me, he stretches his arms somewhat to lean me back, so he can look at me as I squirm beneath him, choked, fucked, and beautiful in his arms. We have both long forgotten our stupid game. We were too lost in the act of seeking out pleasure in one another’s bodies. 

I look back at the man I love, feeling the tremor that dances between my legs. My entire body quivers. My muscles embrace him deep inside as I come hard around his cock, snapping my eyes open, gasping at his sight.

He has his fingers engulfed roughly around my throat, leaving blue bruises. If he’d want me to stop breathing at this moment, he could so easily just push slightly tighter. I’d die happy in his arms, but I know he’d kill himself before ever really hurt me. His hands finally snap from my throat and reach instead to hold my face, crashing his lips against mine into a deep hungry kiss before breaking away and letting out one final gasp as true bliss sweeps him away. 

For more than a few moments, Walter is lost, buried deep inside me, surrounded by light.   

That’s when I break, entangling my fingers in his big soft curls, I inch my lips toward his ear to whisper, 

“I’m pregnant.”

Walter backs his face away to look at me, first with disbelief, his eyebrows rising, unable to even form a word. I’ve never seen so many emotions at once. Then a smile appears, so wide I think his cheeks may hurt. His beautiful teeth show and he lets out a chuckle of joy, sounding almost half-believing. 

“Really?” 

I melt as I see the twinkle in his eyes. The man who is always so grumpy and gruff looks now like the sweetest, most caring person in the world. 

“Yes, we're going to have a baby.” 

He kisses me lovingly, his arms wrapping around my back and holding me tightly. 

“Detective Walter do you ha… SHIT!” A young cadet barges in, finding me with my legs spread around Walter while he is still panting heavily with his curls sticky at his forehead.

It’s as bad as it looks.

The frown immediately returns to Walter’s face. Looking at the cadet as if he is ready to murder him at the spot.

“GET OUT!” he yells, throwing whatever’s within his reach to force the cadet out faster.

I can’t help but chuckle, wrapping my arms around my mountain of a man, there is so much of him to hug, it always makes me feel so protected. He leans his cheek against my forehead and then lets out a deep sigh. 

That’s when I know the darkness is returning, and now he has a brand new fear in him. 

#Henry Cavill #Detective Walter Marshall #walter marshall #Walter Marshall Fic #Night Hunter #Nomis #HenryCavill

[dumbdotcomm]

lessons in opposites

(a/n) a commission for my pal @fanfic-inator795! enjoy some raph and donnie bonding !

It’s not that Raph really prefers one brother over the other; he’s been blessed with three great brothers and one fantastic sister and Raphael is grateful every day, as sure as he’s got life and breath in him, he’s so grateful that he’s not alone. 

April asks, just for laughs, for a silly documentary on their Lair Games, if Raph had a favorite brother; and off the bat, on instinct, he wants to deny that he does. He loves them all. But then he blurts out Mikey’s name without thinking and then things start to shift, and Raph starts to wonder if he’s a terrible brother for that.

“It’s not a big deal, Raph,” Donnie says, after having seen the clips of how little faith his brothers had in his athleticism, and that one little clip of Raph easily admitting Mikey was his favorite, followed up by Leo, “It’s just a joke…”

But he says it in the way that’s pinched and just a little forced like he does when he takes hard hits and bad falls and just wants to laugh it off because he’s fine. 

Raph swallows, nods, presses a smile that feigns belief in Donnie’s words, but he can’t stop glancing over at his brother’s face the whole rest of the time they watch April’s (incredibly edited) documentary film. 

His brother keeps his eyes downcast and does that thing where he wrings his hands till they get weirdly slick with this mucusy stuff. 

Like when he’s hurt and holding back. 

And Raph makes a silent promise, then, that he’ll definitely make it up to his brother.

---

Life has a funny way of just screwing plans and promises over. Raph trains extra with his father on early mornings, learning to think, to focus, to get his fears under control. Donnie locks himself into work by the time training is over, and then they go patrol and watch something on Netflix and then the day is spent and it’s 4am. 

So it’s not exactly intentional, the way their paths just don’t cross long enough for Raph to really get the chance to make it up to Donnie. But it’s still shitty and Raph knows there’s something he can do- he has to. 

And so he googles a bunch of stuff going on in Manhattan, something that wouldn’t be so obviously intended on compensating for basically saying Don is his least favorite brother. Something Donnie won’t suspect, because if he did- 

“If you asking me is a way of ‘reparations’ for the Lair Games documentary, Raph…”

“It’s not-” Raph raises his arms in innocence, and crosses over his plastron, “Turtle’s honor, Donnie. ‘S just the guys...they’ll be all ‘that’s lame’, and you…”

“Wouldn’t think a teddy bear world is lame?” Donnie quirks his perfectly drawn brow and cocks his head a little at Raph.

This is going abysmally, but not quite in a way that wasn’t expected. Raph bites his own tongue from just spilling his intentions heartfeltly- because he can’t scare his brother off right now. He’s gotta play it cool. 

“Uhhh, I mean, I-”

“Because you’d be pretty accurate,” Donnie interjects, and despite his voice remaining flat, his lips curve into a ghost of a smile, and Raph’s heart stops pounding so hard, “I was wondering when you would finally ask one of us, ugh a dream come true.”

Raph genuinely cannot tell if Donnie is being sarcastic, though roughly fifteen years of training has at least let him gather, from that weird way his brother’s eyes got super overbright when he was excited, that Donnie really, like super straight up, means it. 

“Wow…. well, aight then,” Raph laughs with his words, still not believing how easy it was to simply…ask to spend time with his brother, “Just pick a disguise and we good!”

“Yup, normal disguise. Friday it ‘tis,” Donnie returns the laugh, a touch awkward, before taking his sandwich back to his lab. 

And the slightly manic look that Raph catches in his brother, just as he slips from view, makes a lot of little pieces in Raph’s head come together, like a little, horrifying jigsaw puzzle.

Because Raph has been blessed with having Donnie as a brother for fourteen years, he knows a terrible plan forming when he sees one. 

-----

Donnie takes pride in his intellect, like not in a super cocky way, he’s just glad he’s been gifted with the ability to make a pea shooter in one afternoon that also has the capability to laser off a bastard’s face. 

Still he’s not too prideful to admit that he’s sometimes stupid as hell, in the emotional department, and social department. And while that’s not exactly ideal, Donnie’s got four pretty incredible siblings to lean on for that and so he doesn’t really complain about the impossibility of picking up social cues. 

But sometimes, like when his older brother is standing across from him uncomfortably stiff, babbling on about Teddy Bear Town- well sometimes Donnie kinda wishes he did get it. 

It’s only until he’s stacking his third layer of his sandwich that Donnie really understands what this is all about. Because Raph’s got his ‘I’m nervously trying to make it up to you’ stink, and then Donnie remembers the documentary, and Raph’s commentary, and the really…awful way Donnie pretended not to feel afterwards. 

He doesn’t want Raph to pity invite him, he doesn’t need that. And Donnie’s gonna make sure his brother knows he’s fine- he’s chill and and he’s okay with potentially being Raph’s least favorite. 

So he’s supposed to respond to Raph nonchalantly, to just go with Raph and be cool about it but- 

“Shelldon, download all the info you can find on Teddy Town…”

-----

“Rise and shine, bud!” 

Donnie must’ve drank four extra shots of espresso to be this hype this early, and Raph grips the steering wheel of the Turtle Tank a little harder to try and not smell so nervous. Because there’s no way Donnie could have actually known what Raph’s intentions were, like he had to have just thought that this was a normal thing, and not a ‘I’m so sorry I made you feel less than appreciated, please forgive me’ type of thing. 

And Donnie is definitely onto something, even if he’s not onto Raph. He’s just got that glint in his eyes, and Raph feels just a little bit selfish for wanting this to be a normal day- for his brother to  just be-

“Uh...thanks for taggin’ along,” Raph doesn’t intentionally cut Donnie off, but his brother’s talking a mile a minute about the history of Teddy Bear Town and Raph knows that he’s only doing it because he feels he has to. 

Donnie stops himself, blinks, and puts his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, “It’s no big deal…” he says, in complete contrary to his hyperactive Ted Talk, “Being benched for a sprained ankle was shit, needed to get out anyway…”

He glances over at Raph and looks instantly, incredibly smaller. 

Raph thumbs the steering wheel, drumming against it in thought, in a search for words. 

He doesn’t have to do this kinda stuff with Mikey, and Leo never shuts up- and Donnie is just…

“Bluetooth, connect to my phone,” Donnie says abruptly, before Raph even gets the chance to think of something to say. 

And they stay quiet, listening to music the whole way there.

------

Things feel significantly less awkward in the bigger crowd. Raph is grateful for all the noise and movement that he can shift his focus on, instead of the downcast way Donnie’s been carrying himself since halfway through their ride over here. 

And Raph’s always kinda felt his younger brother had a tough time expressing himself- that they were different that way. That Raph carried his heart on his sleeve and that his brother didn’t. But now he’s starting to see that maybe he’s got some things twisted. That he and Donnie are a lot more alike in these things than Raph thought. 

“Stay close,” he tells his brother, because as aloof as humans are, they’re still humans, and they don’t always accept what’s different.

Raph remembers telling Donnie that, when they first met April, when Donnie surprisingly was the first to reach out and grab her little hand and compare it to his. And Donnie had looked at him weird, and yeah, well humans aren’t the only ones that don’t understand ‘different’. 

The memory hits Raph so suddenly, and almost makes him miss a step. 

He turns to find Donnie staring at him, which must mean Donnie noticed, because of course he did.

And Raph stares back because oh. Holy shit. 

“Uh…” Donnie glances around awkwardly, “Raph, you’re giving off a weird...vibe right now. You good-”

“Can we talk?” Raph blurts out, and surveys their surroundings, for a place to dip, “Like real quick?” 

Donnie looks like he wants to bolt now, which would be ideal in the packed hallway of the mall. But he doesn’t. He just swallows and darts his eyes and nods.

Sure. 

Pros to being trained ninjas is the ability to disappear quickly, and they find a quiet, tucked away spot where Raph finally lets himself breathe. 

“You’re different,” he says it quickly and rushed and Donnie’s eyes briefly widen in some sort of surprise, but Raph presses on despite his sloppy start, “You….you think different, you think, like, way smarter than us, an’ you make different jokes and express differently an’ that doesn’t. It’s not bad, Donnie.” 

His brother keeps his eyes to the ground, kicking gently at nothing, “I don’t care that you said I’m your least favorite, Raph,” he mumbles. 

“But you do,” Raph counters back, and keeps his voice leveled, tries not to talk to Donnie too softly or else he’d feel babied, “And that’s normal, and I wish I could say that what I said wasn’t...I dunno, like a…”

“Reflection of how you feel?” Donnie poses, but his words aren’t angry, even if Raph feels his brother’s got full rights to be.

He sighs, deflating a little, “Yeah...yeah, I guess it’s that. But not because I think...it’s because I get really...weirdly insecure man. You’re a freaking genuis and I know you never try an’ make us feel dumb, but- and then we’re both super bad at words and I just… I dunno Dee.”

Raph takes the extra step to go close the distance between him and Donnie, and Donnie stiffens up- at first, for just a couple of seconds, “But I love you, ‘cause you’re an awesome person, and ya not my least favorite. You’re not. And ya don’t gotta pretend you’re cool with everything.”

Donnie pulls back, a dorky smile on his face, which is infinitely better than the sad way he looked earlier, even better than the way he pretended like everything was good and it wasn’t.

“You don’t have to pretend either,” Donnie says, unlocking their eye contact, and staring back at his feet, “I know you were trying to...to make it up to me, but. You could’ve- you didn’t have to invite me.”

“But I wanted to,” Raph says it and means it with everything he’s got, “Really, Donnie. A-and I wanted to do somethin’ that ya wouldn’t think was me just tryna get on your good side, ya know. Somethin’ we could just...do.”

“And I messed up, the whole info-dumping….” 

He’s doing it again, he’s making himself smaller and Raph’s not allowing that. 

“Okay, half of that stuff, I woulda never known- and ya looked all’a that up just to get to understand me better. I just didn’t want you...t’ think you had to...say all that.”

“And I didn’t want you to think you had to invite me,” Donnie quips back, but ends it with a small smile, “So I guess we’re in the same proverbial boat.”

Raph snorts, “The boat of insecurity…”

And Donnie, stiff and awkward and still full of feeling, takes his turn to hug Raph fully this time, “Screw that boat.”

-----

In the end Donnie makes his bear with a shitton of detail, getting so wrapped up in it that they spend a couple hours there.

And Raph’s bear is simple, not all that complex like his brother’s- but that’s more than okay, actually.

Their differences were more than okay.

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #raph #donnie #commissions #fanfic-inator795 #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt raph #tmnt #fic #my writing

[fallingstarstuff]

Chapter 25 (WIP)

This is a preview of Chapter 25 (well, more like the first 2/3rds of it) and it is a work in progress, so some wording may change in the final cut. Also Tumblr ate all the formatting and I’m to lazy too put it back in, so just imagine italics in all the right spots.

Full fic on AO3: From the Mouth of an Injured Head

For @cipher-the-sidhe

 - - - - - - -

You had so many questions.

In that moment, none of them mattered.

Gaster shuffled inside your apartment while you clung to him with your legs dangling, his arms wrapped securely around you while nudging the door shut behind him with a foot.

Gaster had feet.

The hand that wasn’t holding the bundle of weeds rubbed soothing circles on your back, but you could not stop crying. Your joy at seeing him was a very fragile and perilous thing, made of spun glass and inches from turning to dust. Part of you was convinced this wasn’t real. 

Stars, let this be real.

You could feel hard bones pressed against your body under the lab coat. No longer was he an amorphous dripping mass of shadows. Skeletal arms, ribs, the knobs of his spine, all of it so strange and unfamiliar. He even smelled different, or rather you registered a scent where there was nothing before. He smelled of ozone, old books and magic. 

Your sobs waned, hiccups taking their place and you felt Gaster bend down, his spine bowing, to set you on the floor. Your fingers tightened their grip on his lab coat, not wanting to let go. His head turned, reassuring kisses dusting your neck, and after a few moments your arms slowly unwound, falling back to your sides.

Gaster straightened up, smiling down at you in an abashed way that didn’t reach his eye sockets. 

<I apologize for taking so long to return, the journey here was far longer than I expected.>

You shook your head, still trying to take him in with wide eyes, “I don’t understand.” you whispered. “It worked?”

<Yes, perhaps not precisely as intentioned, but as you can see...> He gestured almost grandly to himself, the success of the extraction process self-evident, <I am sure there is much explaining to be done, I cannot imagine what the experience must have been like from this side.> he glanced around your apartment, noting the machine that was ripped apart in your hallway and the huge chunks of wall missing as well as the scorched and warped platform. The scene of destruction curved his mouth into a confounded frown.

Despite the litany of questions you meant to ask, somehow the first one out of your mouth was: “Why do you have a bunch of weeds?” you rasped, pointing at the greenery. There were dandelions, queen anne’s lace, and buttercups, all slightly wilted clutched in his hand.

Gaster flushed, and you noted that the color blooming on his skull was not the muted lilac you were used to, but a several shades closer to violet. <I had read that humans offer bouquets of flowers as tokens of affection. Unfortunately the options available along the road were quite limited.>

He held out the bunch of foliage, and you couldn’t help the broken laugh that escaped you, nor the slow, tired smile as you accepted the hastily constructed “bouquet”. “Thank you. You are too sweet. I don’t have a vase or-” you blinked, your exhausted mind sluggish to process his words. “What road?”

<The road down from Mount Ebott. I will speak with Doctor Alphys but clearly the procedure did not go entirely as planned and the convergence point collapsed. When I was ejected from the void I was flung out of the most proximal convergence point to this one.> he paused, waiting for you to find the answer, like his favorite pupil who always knew just what to say next.

You didn’t.

You were so tired.

Your head throbbed.

You SOUL hurt.

<...I exited the grey door in the Underground.> he provided the answer when you did not respond, eye sockets narrowing. His phalanges gripped your chin, tilting your head up so he could examine you closely and critically for the first time since he arrived. You were sure he was alarmed by what he saw. You could hardly stand to look at your own reflection, skin paler than ever, bloodshot eyes, and bruises under them. Chapped lips, wild-maned, broken.

“I look like shit.” you supplied, knowing he would never say that, even if he concurred.

<You look like you haven’t slept.> he signed, concern growing.

“‘Cause I haven’t.”

<Alex, it’s been two days.> His skull contorted with dismay.

“I thought you were dead!” you cried, voice splintering as fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. Gasters eye sockets widened, taken aback. “Everyone thinks you’re gone. I couldn’t feel you and there weren’t any readings and Sans said I killed you!”

He dropped down to one knee, lowering himself so he could hug you again as you broke down into tears, pulling you against his ribcage and softly stroking his phalanges through your tangled hair. Your weeping almost instantly slowed, soothed by his presence alone. He wasn’t dead, he was here, he was out of the void, he was here with you.

<I don’t understand, I can still sense you now, clearer than ever. It was how I navigated my way here. The link between our SOULs should still be there...May I see your SOUL?> he signed as he reluctantly pulled back.

You nodded, wiping your eyes with your palm and bracing yourself. The embers in your chest flared like they’d been exposed to fresh oxygen as you drew your SOUL out, hissing in pain through clenched teeth.

Gaster gasped, his bones rattling.

It was worse than you could have imagined.

The normally vivid blue was dull, no longer the bright glowing radiance that made your surroundings seem dim in comparison. Instead splotches of ashen grey mottled the surface, obscuring the usual luminosity giving your SOUL the appearance of being diseased. Of course it felt like it burned, but you hadn’t expected it to look like it too.

<What did you do!?> To say Gaster was horrified would be an understatement.

You shrugged, “Pulled you out of the void, apparently.”

There was an incredulous pause, then, <...What!?>

“The machine broke,” you gestured at the mangled device, “So I guess I got you out myself. Things got really foggy there at the end. I think I hit my head.”

He shook his skull, utterly dismayed at your flippant response. Swiftly, he took the flowers from your hands, dumping them on the counter and without warning, scooped you up, one long arm under your back, the other tucked under your knees as he stood back up and held you in an effortless princess carry.

<Have you any idea how much I’ve wanted to do this?> he signed with summoned hands, looking rather irate as he walked towards your bedroom, stepping over broken machinery.

“Carry me off to bed?” you said with an attempt at a cheesy grin, the expression marred by your exhaustion.

<Hold you, like this,> he corrected, <and I wish it were under any other circumstances. I have not seen a SOUL Burn so severe in all my years, how are you still standing!?>

“Alphys didn’t seem too worried.”

<Had she misplaced her glasses!?> he signed, outraged.

“Nah, I did actually, couldn’t find them anywhere... I didn’t give her a chance to look at my SOUL. Kicked them all out. Started cleaning. Didn’t stop.” you muttered. 

<If you were a monster you would likely be dust. You nonchalance at this is deeply troubling, can you not feel the pain?>

“It does hurt. Feels like fire in my chest.”

<And you haven’t slept. I take it you haven’t eaten either. Have you had anything to drink??>

“Sorry.” you murmured, leaning your head against his bony shoulder. 

<No apologizing.> he tutted, shaking his head, <Humans are truly remarkable creatures.>

He laid you down on the bed, propping pillows under your back so you remained upright. Part of you wanted to object to being coddled but another part would have let him do whatever the hell he wanted. Let him dote on you, let him fuss. Whatever made him happy, whatever let him stay.

Which was why you tried to get out of bed to chase after him as he attempted to depart your bedroom, and he rounded on you with an uncommon amount of anger.

<Stay.> he signed sharply, pressing you back down against the bed, one large hand splayed over your chest. <I am only going to be a minute.> His expression softened, <Rest, please. It is my fault you are in this state->

“This isn’t your fault!” you yelled.

<We both know that is far from the truth.>

“Please don’t leave me, I don’t know if this is real, I can’t feel you.” your voice was trembling now.

He leaned down, kissing your forehead. <It is very real, I assure you. I will be right back. Please, stay here.>

“...Kiss me first.” you ordered, eyes hard.

He arched a brow bone at you. <I just did.>

“No, properly.” You were never like this. Needy and burdensome, sure, but it was rare you demanded something of him. But you needed to feel him, to know this wasn’t just a particularly vivid dream. And if you couldn’t sense him with your SOUL, well, this method would suffice.

Gaster was never one to deny you, and so his long fingers slowly curled along your jaw, tiling your face towards him and his skull lowered to meet your lips with his. This was the same, familiar in all the ways his restored form was not, soft lips against hard bone. And when your lips parted in an open invitation he did not waste a second, his tongue delving into your mouth, heatedly gliding over your own.

This was very different.

There was no icy cold. No strange shifting shadows, but a solid warmth, his tongue slick and buzzing with the unmistakable frisson of magic. Like fire whiskey, like a tingle of electricity, lighting your nerves, even your charred SOUL lurched in your chest from shock. 

You squealed a surprised sound at the unexpected sensation, and before you could manage to pull away, his hand swiftly snaked around to the back of your neck, fingers woven through your hair as he cradled your head and kept you firmly in place. Insistently, yet not without tenderness, he kept kissing you, allowing you to feel and understand that he had changed. Even this act, this thing you had loved and found comfort in, would not be the same as it once was. But it was him. Undeniably, it was Gaster, he was here. A tension in your frame relaxed and you finally reciprocated, a tangle of tongues and lips and breath as you felt him sigh in relief.

Slowly he drew back, looking into your eyes, searching for a sign of alarm or discomfort. He wouldn’t find even a hint. 

<Please, let me take care of you.> he signed, fingers carding through your hair.

You relented with a nod, and true to his word Gaster was gone and back in short order, fussing over you once again. He had water that he made you drink, and some nearly expired granola bars he’d raided from the very back of your snack stash, probably the only pre-packaged food he could manage to find that was remotely healthy.

“I’m not hungry.” you murmured.

<You need food if your SOUL is to heal.> holding the opened package out to you sternly.

Reluctantly you ate, the food flavorless and tasting no better than ash.

<I would like to attempt to administer healing magic to your SOUL, if you will allow it.> he signed, sitting next to you on the bed. 

“Your magic is back?” you asked. It should have been obvious, if he was no longer in the void, it would stand to reason his magic would have returned to him.

<I have not yet attempted to utilize any, this will be a field experiment.> he signed with a wry grin, <May I?>

You nodded, and with a wince, drew out your damaged SOUL again. He examined it closely, phalanges hovering over the surface but never making contact with the core of your being.

The ring-shaped pupil in his left eye socket lit up a brilliant ultraviolet shade.

Then, for the first time, you felt Gaster’s magic.

It was completely novel. You were familiar with Sans and Papyrus and how their magic wove about them, but Gaster’s was very far removed from theirs. Very far removed from your own. If Papyrus was a steady stream, you a flame, and Sans a veritable firestorm, Gaster was...highly structured. Rhythmic and orderly. Layers of magic that conformed to perfect, precise arrangements.

It was like music.

Warmth and green light spilled forth from his fingers and you gasped, shuddering as his magic poured directly into your SOUL. Stars that felt so good. Like your SOUL was submerged in warm water, seeping in and soothing all of the damage your outburst of magic had inadvertently wrought. There was a sort of pressure there too, like a firm hug, or being swaddled in warmth. It was hard to translate what your SOUL felt into physical sensations, that magical core just too far removed from the physical matter of nerves and flesh. Those sensations were overwhelming after only a few moments, and you felt Gaster’s hand hold yours after you screwed your eyes shut and tried to remember how to pull air into your lungs properly.

It could have been a few minutes or a few hours by the time his magic abated, your SOUL slipping back into your chest and your breaths a shaky series of pants.

<How do you feel?>

“Mmmelty...” you slurred, “Like goop...” 

He smirked, then stifled a yawn behind a hollow hand, and you watched him, fascinated.

“You’re tired.” you said, awed and wide-eyed.

<It would appear so, yes. I believe I am long overdue for a nap.> he grinned.

You matched it, perhaps a little more conniving. “You’re sleeping here with me.”

<I would think not.> he quickly retorted, his grin slipping quickly into a frown, <You need your rest. I’ll sleep on the couch.>

“Like hell you will.” you responded hotly. You doubted he would even fit without his feet hanging off the end, “You’re staying with me. My house, my rules, and tonight I need my boyfriend here with me.”

He stared with raised brow bones at your declaration, as if waiting for you to correct yourself.

You did not.

<I haven’t any other clothes.> he weakly objected.

“So?”

<I would rather not sleep in this coat.>

“So take it off.” you said, like it was obvious.

<I am not wearing a shirt underneath.>

“Oh.” Was he shy?

<I don’t want make you uncomfortable.>

...Stupid, stupid skeleton.

“Gaster I swear to god, if you don’t get in this bed in the next five seconds I will use my magic on you, I don’t care what state my SOUL is in.” 

He sighed, hastily unbuttoning his lab coat, unbuckling his belt and kicking off his slacks, both carelessly tossed to the floor to reveal boxers with a little bone print pattern. It also revealed his bones, and you couldn’t help your eyes roving over his new (or perhaps old) form. He looked just as one would imagine, an animated skeleton with a broken skull, but it was so very strange to see the monster you’d fallen in love with appear this way.

“Cute.” you commented pointing at his boxers, and he rolled his eyelights. 

<I had to pilfer through my old office in the lab, it would seem everyone forgot it existed when they forgot me. My options for clothing were considerably limited.>

He crawled into bed with you, mattress dipping down with his additional weight, and you situated yourself against him. You didn’t have much choice, he was huge, taking up much of the space.

<Are you sure this is ok? I can wait until you fall asleep and go to the couch.>

“Does this bother you?” you asked, glancing up at his wary eyelights. 

<What do you mean?>

“Am I offending your modesty?”

<Not particularly...I thought you were afraid of skeletons.> 

“Not this one.” you answered simply, fingers lazily trailing over the bones of his arm in a tired sort of fascination. “Never you.” He wore the fondest of smiles then, carefully running his fingers through your messy hair, and you felt your eyelids grow heavy.

“Wanna make it even?” you murmured, words slightly slurred as you fought to stay awake.

You heard him make a sleepy ‘Hmm?’ sound, and felt it through his ribs, a low and deep hum that made a strange heat curl in your belly. 

You reached for the hem of your shirt, grabbing a fistfull of the fabric and tugging it up your body--

Quicker than you could track, his bones clamped around your wrist, pulling your hand right back down, your shirt along with it. Gaster’s skull was a blazing amethyst, and his eyelights were dim little pinpricks.  

<No. That will not be necessary.> You could hear his breath shuddering slightly, and you thought you might have heard a quiet rattle of bones.

“No fun.” you mumbled, rolling onto your side and tucking yourself securely against him. He was, well, bony. Hard and solid against you, perhaps not the most comfortable bedmate. You hardly cared, he was here, you were not alone.

<Will you please sleep now?> he asked, perhaps a little amused and exasperated at your antics.

“‘s long as you’re here, yeah.” you drowsed, words thick. “Thought I lost you.” Your eyes slipped closed and you could no longer read his signs, but you could feel unfamiliar arms made of bones wrap around you, and very familiar lips pressed against your temple. 

“...Love you.”

You were asleep within seconds.

You did not dream.

#My writing #fanfiction #fanfic #undertale #w.d. gaster #gaster #from the mouth of an injured head

[definitely-not-an-alb]

Under this cut are 1,4k worth of tumblr!fic based on @beatrice-otter‘s If Peter Grew Up In The Folly AU that started with a single addition about how Peter being a nerdy teen around the Folly would have influenced/modernized it earlier. Only very slightly edited (because I’m drunk and it’s late).

Peter bullies Nightingale into buying a home computer ‘for work’ when he’s still a teen (‘Why can’t you use the ones at the library like everyone else?’ - Peter, taking a deep breath before launching into his prepared 10 point argumentation in favor of modernizing and digitizing the Folly - ‘No, of course I won’t put it on the web, I’ll put it on these disc. Yes there’s a diff- look. Once I’m done transcribing these, you can just put in one of these discs and key-word search whatever you need.)

Thus, ironically, and thanks to one overly nerdy teen living in the station, the Folly becomes the most technologically advanced department of the Met for a short time

(Postmartin doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be delighted or horrified, but Peter seems to know what he’s doing there, security wise, and he wouldn’t want to dampen the youth’s enthusiasm about archivism)

Turns out, Data Input doesn’t bother Peter after all, as long as it’s something he cares about, like architecture, or magic. Even if he keeps getting into forum fights with that one other guy working on the ‘Victorian Architecture’ entry. Historical brick making details aren’t extraneous!

Thomas’s not at all sure about this whole World Wide Web-Thing, especially after he had to comfort Peter over that ‘crowd sourced’ (whatever that means) encyclopedia … thing the boy likes to work on because Peter didn’t want to tell his mum someone put up an internet page full of what basically amounts to lies about her and his dad

‘It just makes me so angry, you know, because I could change it - I should change it, really, because it’s all wrong what it’s saying, but i can’t -’

He really should have seen all of this coming, then

‘How did you break a Nokia?’, Peter asks him, the first time it happens, as if brands and manufacture tell Thomas anything about how possible or impossible a feat that is. ‘Give it here, I might be able to fix it - but you did charge it this time? - How the hell did you get sand in there?’

There’s a certain relief in having Rose back him up on the ‘No Magic (At All) Before You’re Old Enough To Drink’-Rule, because Thomas knows from experience Peter doesn’t listen to him. Ever.

So Peter ropes him into his magical experiments involving proper protocols and the old lab equipment and an army of tiny calculators.

Peter’s A-levels are better in this AU, but maybe he still can’t draw, or he’s good, but not quite good enough (Uni waiting lists were invented by the devil) so he spends a year of so actually employed by the Folly as an ‘Independent Data Management Contractor’ or something ridiculous like that.

Also he might be seriously reconsidering that whole Architecture-thing. He might have prepared his application for Hendon already, actually.

‘You wanted to be an architect since you were six, Peter. Six.’ - ‘I also told you I want to be a wizard. Let me be your apprentice. Please.’

Thomas doesn’t know how to explain that what Peter was thinking of when he was six isn’t what being a wizard is, and that whatever he’s thinking of now isn’t it either. Never will be.

He tries to explain that it isn’t up to him, but to the commissioner, and that he’s doing just fine on his own.

‘Well, accidents happen?’, Peter says ‘What does the Met do when you’re not there for once?’, and Thomas can’t tell him how much he worries about that too. ‘And you’ve been working more! You said I shouldn’t try to learn because it’s all going away anyways, and now you’re working so much more then you used too.’

Thomas wants to argue that’s not true, but Peter made a graph. And what is he supposed to say when faced with that thick red ‘Number of Major Falcon Incidents per year’ line curving upwards sharply, it’s prognosis well on it’s way to a number last reached before the war.

‘It’s still not up to me.’, he says, somewhat helplessly, and with a sigh, ‘Are you sure?’

Thomas, remembering all those evenings spent reading out loud (because, damn him, he still thinks that’s a family bonding activity for all ages) of watchmen and selfish witches and truth, justice, freedom, reasonably priced love and a hard boiled egg, thinks that he really, really should have seen this coming.

So Peter spends a frustrating week or two desperately trying to create a werelight - Thomas will be damned if he lets him join up without ever proving that he’s not the rare case of absolute incompetency. But he succeeds (impressivly fast, even thought Thomas would never tell him that).

Also, turns out Peter hadn’t told Rose about his decision before already making Thomas say yes. There will be words, about that.

For now, he has two years to convince the Commissioner and the Homeoffice. He takes Peter’s charts with him.

There’s accusations of nepotism, never officially, of course, but Peter makes a game out of how many pints it takes until someone asks him if he’s really the weirdo DCI’s bastard or some such. He’d think it would pass around that he’s not, but alas, no such luck. He figures it’s the least annoying thing people can pester him about, in the end.

Peter’s not yet 22 when Thomas has to take him to the Commissioner for his pledge, and for a second there when Peter stumbles about the cloth-part (they practiced, of course, but he still always does) Thomas can’t help but think how painfully young Peter still looks to him.

Peter isn’t his boy, of course, never will be, and Thomas knows Rose made sure he knew about his dad, knew what really happened, but still he can’t shake the feeling -

He’d been scared Peter wouldn’t be up to this, but now he’s more worried he won’t be.

But Peter takes well to magic, and surprisingly even better to policing - maybe not in the way he or Neblett would like, but certainly in the way he’d scribbled a thin blue line for ‘Reported Minor Intracommunity Conflicts - DemiMonde’ into his charts and graphs from the beginning. He gets along with the Rivers, most of them, and with the Other generally in a way Thomas never could

(never, he has to admit to himself with some shame, cared too. He’d like to say Peter is just young enough, new enough to fly under their radars, but he has to admit, that’s not it. And he certainly didn’t expect this, with Peter’s history. He finds he’s glad it didn’t turn out differently.)

And when they are standing for the first time together on a deadly quiet doorstep there’s little apprehension in Peter, past the obvious tension appropriate to the occasion. And whatever there is in his eyes when Thomas hands him the phosphorous grenade, it’s not anything Thomas has to be worried about.

He’s more relieved, that evening then he’d like to admit.

Then there’s that shout, the big one. They’d had ‘big ones’ before, Major Incidents, but in retrospect, Thomas has to admit (shamefully, again, always shamefully) that he should have seen that this one was different. And the number it did on Peter. He definitely should have seen that.

But in the beginning, it’s just Abdul with a body for Peter to look over (’Yappy Dog’, he tells Thomas on the phone while heading from the morgue to the plaza. ‘One hell of a supernatural yappy dog’) and a maybe magical portico beheading and an interview with a talkative, surprisingly autonomous ghost, that pegs who exactly Peter is halfway through the conversation and starts to clamp up.

Just as well, seeing as there’s a scrappy PC yelling ‘Oi, what do you think you’re doing? This is a crime scene!’ at him while marching full speed across the plaza.

PC Lesley May is the kind of gal he’d probably be best friends with had they come up together. ‘I asked Neblett about her, says she’s a great copper. Incredibly perky.’ - ‘Oh, I’m sure she is’, says Thomas when Peter tells him about her later that week over kebab, making him sputter. ‘No that’s not - not like that! I mean everyone’s saying she’s going places, you know.’ - ‘You think so, too?’ - ‘I guess? Doesn’t matter, really, she wouldn’t recognize magic if it smacked her in the face, and Seawoll already called dips on her, apparently. Had her assigned to his murder team, and so I thought we might make her our liaison.’

‘And the case?’ - ‘Yeah.’, Peter says. ‘Definitely one of ours.’

#rivers of london #my fic #tumblr fic

[rainybookshop]

From Top to (Cauldron) Bottom

Pairing: Pansy Parkinson x Percy Weasley

Words: 1529

Summary: Somehow, she finds herself in a secluded alcove listening to Weasley prattle on about cauldron bottoms, of all things, but worst of all, she thinks she might be enjoying it.

A/N: Other titles I considered for this fic include: "(Cauldron) Bottoms Up", "A (Cauldron) Bottom Full of Hot Strong Love", "Started from the (Cauldron) Bottom Now We Here"

Read it on AO3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11551263

They meet at a ministry function at which Percy Weasley is uncharacteristically drunk.

Well, to be fair, at the start of the night he’s as stuffy and impossibly proper as she remembers, but between the free-flowing wine at dinner and the rather excessive amount of brandy in the dessert and the champagne the minister had insisted on toasting with, Percy is a tad flushed and just the tiniest bit dishevelled, red curls falling over his eyes on one side and tie slightly askew.

She has no idea how they ended up sitting next to each other, but between her mother’s careful social calls to her ministry contacts – which she’s sure have taken the form of at least one large “anonymous donation”-  and Weasley’s job as assistant to the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, they’ve ended up at a table with six extraordinarily dull but undoubtedly important young ministry employees. She has absolutely zero interest in the controversial new broomstick legislation or Hermione Granger’s absurd house-elf charity – which has somehow received support from the Minister himself – but she also knows, with her father in Azkaban and her own reputation rather badly tarnished - that she’s in desperate need of a fresh start.  

So she fakes interest, and nods politely, and sips her wine, and pretends not to notice the fact that she’s had eyes on her all night, and she knows it’s not just because her dress is doing truly incredible things for her cleavage. She tactfully ignores the way two of the ministry employees glance sidelong at each other when she sits down, or the way the rest of them have either summarily ignored her or leaned forward with inane questions that are clearly a horribly transparent excuse to stare at her chest.

The self-important idiots don’t seem to realize that she’s already let go of her prejudices – the important ones anyway, she’s not above thinking she’s better than Granger simply because of that awful bushy hair. But from the vicious “character pieces” that vile cow Skeeter still publishes in the Prophet and the thinly veiled but unmistakably cool reception she’s been receiving all night, it’s clear that the rest of the wizarding world isn’t necessarily ready to do the same.

So she’s taken aback the first time Percy Weasley turns to engage her in conversation. He’s stiff as a board but perfectly polite, blue eyes fixed firmly on her face. She doesn’t really have an opinion on the new requirements for apparition licenses, but he clearly does, and she’s not a Slytherin for nothing.

“I’m not sure I know enough about it to really give my opinion,” she demurs. “Have you given it any thought, Weasley?” she asks, ignoring the badly-concealed whispers on the other side of the table.

“Well it’s a rather promising step forward for the Department of Magical Transportation,” he responds enthusiastically, freckled face lighting up, “both to help decrease the completely unacceptable number of splinching incidents among young wizards and to ensure fewer violations of the Statute of Secrecy. Honestly, the amount of wizarding resources wasted on memory modifications due to apparition in front of Muggles is appalling, not to mention the liability of unreported Muggle apparition sightings…”

And he’s off, reciting statistics and quoting previous policies, and it’s surprisingly easy, after that, to let the conversation flow – he has a frankly ridiculous amount of interest in ministry politics, and absolutely zero idea what constitutes scintillating conversation, but he also seems to genuinely consider any opinion she ventures. He nods thoughtfully when she mentions the ludicrous rules surrounding property inheritance that Draco had been whinging about all last week, and he actually huffs out a surprised laugh when she makes a dry remark about the Head Auror’s choice of robes, eyes crinkling in a way that some people might consider attractive.

She’s sure her mother’s aspirations of her finding a respectable job at the Ministry are going up in smoke, and she knows the hour she spent carefully curling her hair was a waste of time, considering no one but Weasley has shown any genuine interest in her all night, but she’s also not having as miserable of a time as she expected.

The next hour passes in a blur of long-winded speeches and a generous second helping of wine and a blatantly political toast to diversity and equality and doing away with antiquated notions of blood purity. And somehow, she finds herself in a secluded alcove listening to Weasley prattle on about cauldron bottoms, of all things, but worst of all, she thinks she might be enjoying it. There’s something rather intoxicating about having his attention so singularly focused on her, even if he likely just needs an outlet for his boundless enthusiasm and she’s cultivated a rather impressive ability to sit through long-winded tirades after being friends with Daphne for the better part of a decade.

She’s never going to tell a soul this, but she also thinks he stands tall in a way that draws attention to the way his shoulders have filled out a little since school, and he has an attractive dimple at one side of his mouth when he smiles, and he’s wearing cologne that she thinks might be Muggle and actually smells quite nice. And she’s sure it speaks to some deep-rooted psychological issues but she kind of likes how prim and proper and overwhelming put-together he tries to be, carefully enunciating his words and making sure his eyes rest firmly on hers, even if she swears she sees them flick down to her mouth for a split-second once.  It’s – intriguing, almost, and she would break her wand and go live with Muggles before she admitted this, but it might be a little bit endearing, too. She should probably be more concerned about this, but she fancied Draco Malfoy for seven sodding years, after all, and at least Weasley shows promising signs of actually being interested in women.

“It makes perfect sense, you know,” she tells him once it seems that Percy has finally run out of steam. “My grandfather was a potions master and he was absolutely livid the day a nearly-finished experimental love potion ate right through the cauldron and leaked all over his workshop. He had to shut down his lab for a week until the assistants stopped professing their undying love for each other.”

She narrows her eyes slightly at Weasley, who is staring at her, wide-eyed and apparently speechless. She’s a little worried that he’s more drunk than she realized.

“It’s…a good idea, Weasley, really,” she adds, just in case that will stop him from standing there gaping like a fish. “A ministry policy on cauldron bottom regulations is long overdue,” she adds, watching his eyes glaze over and wondering if he’s about to have some sort of fit.

She certainly doesn’t expect him to suddenly lean down and press a firm kiss to her lips, one hand clumsily cradling her cheek and the other resting tentatively on her waist.

She just has a chance to taste the champagne and chocolate cake lingering on his lips from dinner and to appreciate just how nice his tall, lanky body feels pressed against hers before he abruptly pulls back, looking horrified with himself.

“I’m sorry,” he sputters, blue eyes wide as saucers and face the same colour as his hair. “It’s just – no one’s ever said that before. And, um,” he continues, and she watches as he somehow manages to turn even redder than he already is. “That was terribly improper - I don’t know what came over me, I’ve likely had too much champagne, and you’re beautiful, of course, but you were just… so, so interested in my work and I …I’m sorry.” He finishes, avoiding her eyes, and tugging nervously on the edge of one of his shirtsleeves.

A year ago, she would have been horrified with herself at the idea of kissing any of the Weasleys, let alone the pompous Head Boy who used to glare at her disapprovingly every time she giggled too loudly in the halls. But everything’s changed, now, and there’s no blueprint for what to do when the world falls apart. It might be ridiculous to think about kissing Percy Weasley, but she already tried to hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, after all, so she really doesn’t think she can make things any worse.

“Weasley,” she begins. He still won’t look at her. She can’t believe she’s doing this.

“Percy,” she says, and he finally meets her gaze. She darts her tongue out to lick her lips, and watches, satisfied, when his gaze drops to her mouth. She wants to savour this, a little. She takes a slow step closer, swaying her hips and biting down a smirk when his eyes rake over her from head to toe. She tilts her head up to meet his wide-eyed gaze, keeping absolutely still for one deliciously tense, charged moment.

“If you’re going to kiss a girl at a party, you need to at least do it right,” she tells him, reaching up to pull him down by his tie so she can kiss him again.

#Harry Potter #percy x pansy #percy weasley #pansy parkinson #hprarepairnet #getting together #first kiss #cauldron bottoms #humour #fluff #hp rare pair

[sun-summoning]

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv

part v: in which there is a name

“Maybe I can come with you.”

“No.”

“Why not? Your mom loves me!”

“No.”

“But—“

“No!” Sasuke grumbled under his breath, already regretting having brought Naruto with him to KU Cafe to wait out for Tinder Girl. And also to work. Looking down at his course syllabus and how much of his textbook he actually skimmed, Sasuke was about three weeks behind on his readings. He broke out his highlighter and pencil, ready to mark some stuff on the pages to make himself feel like he was studying. “Fuck my life.”

“Are you already behind?” Naruto asked. He had his laptop open in front of him as he typed up his essay. Or, you know, browsed Imgur. “Didn’t class just start?”

“Didn’t you just shut up?”

“Didn’t you just let me come to lunch with your mom?”

Sasuke kicked him under the able and Naruto proceeded to kick him back. He wasn’t sure how much time they spent being idiots before something as loud and as blond as Naruto came up to their table and sat down. 

Ugh. It was Ino.

“Hey losers!” she yelled. Shikamaru followed behind her and sat down as well, grunting his greeting.

“Ugh,” Sasuke said none too subtly as Naruto said a proper hello.

Sasuke actually managed to focus because now Shikamaru was playing Candy Crush and Naruto and Ino were doing that thing where they chat and flirt and think no one else can tell how badly they want to bang. Soon after, one said something and the other giggled and then Sasuke was visibly cringing at them while Shikamaru stared at them blankly, just done. 

Ino proceeded to talk and talk, completely oblivious to the way Sasuke was looking at her like he wanted to kick her. 

She was talking about a friend that she wanted to set Shikamaru up with, describing her as really smart and really sweet. She might’ve said a name because then Shikamaru said he actually already knew her and so Ino said a fuck you for ruining her plan (as, you know, this was somehow Shikamaru’s problem).

Ino was so fucking annoying. And not in an endearing way that Sasuke might admit Naruto was (but only under the threat of having his junk dissolved by acid or some other equally horrifying scenario). No, Ino was the kind of person he stared at and wondered how they could talk without realizing how offensive their voice was to other people.

Her voice actually hurt his head. He didn’t hear her often because he wasn’t really the social type unless Naruto made him go somewhere, but she always had a way of making him want to wear headphones or jab q-tips into his ears none too gently. Back in high school, Naruto used to call her The Banshee. That was probably before he developed his weird crush on her. 

“--well what about you, Naruto? Want to date my friend?”

Sasuke looked up and saw the brief flash of hurt on Naruto’s face. It was quickly covered up by a smile though. “Can’t,” Naruto replied. “I have a date tonight.”

Sasuke couldn’t help but smirk because that was a petty move he never expected from Naruto and while his best friend certainly didn’t have a date tonight, judging by the way Ino was finally rendered silent, she seemed to think he did. 

Then she looked at him. Sasuke glared back at her and Ino glared at him too. “What about you?” she drawled, more so talking to herself. Then she smiled and she laughed and Sasuke thought his ears were bleeding. “Actually, nevermind. You’re not good enough.”

“Your face isn’t good enough,” Sasuke muttered. 

Ino looked ready to sass him back but he caught a glimpse of the clock hanging on the wall behind her and realized he had to go. 

It was time to meet with mother dearest, after all.

-

After leaving Naruto to the loud one and the lazy one, Sasuke cut across campus to get to the Senju Building where the Biology Department was located. He had his first-year bio class here and all the associated practicals in the building’s labs. Cutting around all the students waiting for the current classes to end so they could attend their own, Sasuke searched around for his mother but found someone else instead.

Tinder Girl.

There she was. Sasuke recognized that obnoxious pink hair, soft and shiny and the colour of cotton candy. It was pulled up into a bun with a few fallen strands framing her heart-shaped face. Her green eyes were slightly hidden behind a pair of glasses, but Sasuke remembered them from her photos and their near encounter at Karin’s. They reminded him of the shade of green Xerox paper. Or something. He shook his head, realized his comparisons were awful, and decided that it was time to stop being a creep lurking yards away from her and be...a creep that approached her? 

Sasuke took a step forward and froze. Shit. Was he being creepy? Shit. He totally was. Shit. 

It took Sasuke a moment to realize that Tinder Girl was talking to his mother. His mother. He watched as his mother handed her a pile of exam booklets and proceeded to say things that Tinder Girl was typing into her phone with one hand. Tinder Girl was a TA, but apparently she was one working for his mother. His mother!

Cursing, Sasuke pressed himself against the wall to make sure she wouldn’t be able to see him. It didn’t occur to him that the people who could see him probably thought he was crazy, but they were also irrelevant so whatever.

“Sasuke?”

His lips thinned as he turned and saw--

“Juugo?” Sasuke raised an eyebrow, surprised to see him there. He’d actually taken first-year biology with Juugo years before and from what he’d heard from Karin, this was their friend’s third time taking the course. Ideally he’d pass this time.

“Hey!” Juugo said, punching Sasuke’s shoulder in a way that he probably considered light. He grinned. “What are you doing here?” He gestured to the lab behind Sasuke. “Are you in my practical too?”

Sasuke frowned and wondered how that was a question. “I. No, Juugo, I am not in your practical.” 

“Oh, that’s a shame. We could’ve been partners! Maybe next week.”

“Huh?” Sasuke tried not to openly gape at Juugo because back in their first-year at KU, they were lab partners. “Right,” Sasuke replied. Figuring it would be best to hide in the crowd of students while waiting for his mother, Sasuke made an effort to catch up with Juugo. “How’s...your third time in this class going?”

Juugo actually grinned. “A lot better than the other times! Last year Karin was helping me but she got frustrated and bailed halfway through.” No one really blamed her. “But this time I got a tutor--oh, she’s right there!”

He pointed to where Sasuke had been looking earlier, and because fate had a love/hate relationship with him, he found Juugo pointing at Tinder Girl.

“She...” Sasuke swallowed thickly, tearing his eyes away from the girl waving goodbye to his mother and then turning to Juugo. “You know her?”

Juugo nodded. “Yep, she’s really helpful. She really knows her shit.”

“Does she.”

“You bet--”

“Juugo,” Sasuke interrupted. He spoke gravely while gripping Juugo’s arms. “I...I need a bio tutor. Can you give me her number? Or something?”

“Sure!”

“Fuck. Great. Thanks--”

“Sasuke!”

Turning around, Sasuke saw his mother waving at him. Behind him, Juugo was busy scrolling through his phone for contact info.

Sasuke meant to rush him, but then his mother called his name once again. Feeling every bit like a little boy being yelled at by his mother, Sasuke sighed heavily and told Juugo he’d see him later.

-

His mother took him to a place that would serve him something overpriced, tiny, and definitely lacking in carbs. Still, being with his mother meant she would be paying so Sasuke convinced her that they needed an appetizer and while he was eating his entree, he began planning for dessert.

“How’s father?” he asked, beginning at the top of their list of small talk questions for meals together. After all, this certainly wasn’t his first lunch alone with his nosy, nagging mother.

She scoffed and all but finished her glass of wine. “He’s fine,” she grumbled, signalling the waiter for a refill. 

“Stubborn as always?”

“Did you expect anything different?” Mikoto rolled her eyes. “How’s your brother?”

“Fine,” Sasuke echoed. “Don’t you, like, talk to him all the time? Doesn’t he work in your department?”

“Yes, but we don’t work together. Moreover, he doesn’t tell me anything.”

Sasuke wondered why she thought he would tell her anything. “Right. Well. He’s fine.”

The waiter arrived with her third (or was it fourth) glass and she was quick to sip it. “Honestly, the only updates he ever gives me are regarding his health concerns and that’s only because I’m his emergency contact.”

“What?” Sasuke wondered why his brother wouldn’t use him or Shisui. “Wait, what? Health concerns?”

Seeing his worry, Mikoto waved a well manicured hand. “Your brother’s fine -- well, mostly.” Her face contorts with utter disgust. “Just whatever venereal disease he deigned to pick up in this quarter. Honestly, as a mother I’m disgusted, but as a scientist I can’t help but be impressed that my own son managed to contract -- nay, maybe even create -- a brand new disease.”

“He...what?”

“Honestly,” his mother continued, not even remotely fazed by Sasuke’s concern or confusion. “ A new STD before a grandchild! Has he no shame? No sense?” She glowered into her glass and before Sasuke knew it, it was empty. “Your brother...” She trailed off into a long string of curses and when she was finally satisfied with her grumbling, she looked up at Sasuke with a perfectly painted smile. “And how are your studies, darling?”

“Really?”

“Hm?”

“Seriously? You’re going to completely ignore the fact that you told me Itachi is dirtier than I thought and try to talk about school?”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Fine. School is fine.”

“Fine?” she echoed. “The last time your studies were fine, you went on academic probation.”

“My studies are fine,” Sasuke insisted. He sighed heavily. “I got some grades back and I’m doing great!”

“Define ‘great,’ Sasuke.”

“Bs.”

Mikoto pursed her lips but didn’t say anything further. “Honestly, darling, you should thank the gods for nepotism and privilege. Not everyone gets to be born into old money like you--”

“What the shit, mother.”

“--and if you don’t clean up your act, I’ll--” Mikoto cut herself off and broke into a doting smile. “Oh, I can never stay mad at you! Please just finish your degree already so we can get you to work with your father and we can leave your academic failures in the past.”

He was mildly offended by her words, but it wasn’t like he could fight back. 

Sasuke was smart. He was clever and he knew what he needed to and he was naturally talented at any task thrown at him and honestly if he tried, like really, truly tried, he could ace everything. He was just, like, lazy. Not always, of course. If he put his mind to it, he could do it. But if Sasuke didn’t care and if Sasuke didn’t have a goal in mind, he could literally watch cat videos all day until he withered away. 

“Are you, perhaps, seeing anyone?” his mother asked, changing the topic.

“I...what?”

Mentally skimming the list of standard small talk questions generally exchanged at lunch with his mother, Sasuke began to panic because this was not one of them. For all her frustrations with Itachi’s social life and how frequently she complained about it, not once did she ever ask about Sasuke’s. Maybe it was because she knew he was too awkward to bother with a love life. And he was kind of an asshole. Mostly he was an asshole.

“Naruto, maybe?”

Sasuke gagged. “I’d sooner cut off my own...” He paused, trying to think of a proper exaggeration, “internet access.”

Mikoto rolled her eyes but smiled. Teasing Sasuke about his relationship with Naruto would never get old. 

“You can’t blame a mother for asking, dear. You’re not getting any younger, and I would prefer to know I’m leaving you in capable hands.”

“My hands are perfectly capable of taking care of...myself.” He grimaced, thinking about his phrasing. But then he saw an opportunity. “Except, mother, I too think it is important that I am left in capable hands because you also are not getting any younger.”

She levelled him with a glare but Sasuke smirked because he had an idea.

“Yes. Say, mother, do you maybe know anyone that might be interested in...me?”

His question visibly caught her off guard and judging by the sudden fear in her eyes, she was probably thinking of people within her friend group of older women. 

“If you think,” she began in a low voice, “for even a moment that I let you pull the same stunt your brother did with that...woman--” She had to pause to take a deep, calming breath. “You are wrong, mister!”

“What, no!” 

Sasuke sighed because of course his older brother’s exploits with that art dealer his parents were fond of had to ruin his current search for Tinder Girl. If Sasuke recalled correctly, Itachi had an affair with some cougar. An older, married woman named Konan, and his parents were furious when they found out. Although, Sasuke thought with a snicker, not as furious as her cuckolded husband must have been.

He considered just telling his mother the truth. Something along the lines of “Hey, I was coming to see you earlier and saw you talking to this girl with green eyes. You know, not with pink hair. But I mean I wasn’t even looking at her hair so maybe her hair is pink, I don’t know, whatever. Anyway. She was, uh, cute. Do you know her?” Saying that in his head actually sounded fairly normal after the babbling was edited out. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but his awkwardness and the reality that he would be getting an introduction from his mother occurred to him and he bit his tongue.

Okay. Okay so maybe he needed a different plan.

-

After lunch, Sasuke went straight to the house where he knew Juugo lived with Suigetsu and some other guys. He knocked, and after receiving no answer, tentatively opened the door and, fortunately, it was unlocked. Sure, that was entirely inappropriate, but the whole reason Sasuke was here was inappropriate anyway. Besides, he knew everyone who lived here so at least no one would think he was a serial killer in the event that they came across him. But then again, knowing him didn’t mean he wasn’t a serial killer. Sasuke paused to remind himself he wasn’t a serial killer and then considered the possibility that Juugo or one of the others living here might be a serial killer instead.

Suddenly a little bit nervous, Sasuke decided to call out, “Juugo?”

No one replied, so Sasuke headed down to the basement where he knew Juugo’s bedroom -- and not a serial killer’s torture chamber -- was. This was so dumb. God, this was so dumb. But Juugo knew Tinder Girl and so Sasuke had to do this.

Unsurprisingly, Juugo wasn’t too far from his bong and was busy munching away on some cookies.

“Yo,” Sasuke greeted, getting his attention.

“Sasuke!” Juugo held out the bag of cookies but Sasuke shook his head. “What are you doing here?” 

In a surprising show of hyperactivity that made Sasuke question what Juugo had taken, he proceeded to run around his room, opening doors and drawers in search of something. 

“So,” Sasuke began, “earlier you mentioned your biology tutor...”

Juugo nodded and made a vague noise of acknowledgement, but his head, left arm, and shoulder were also under his bed, so it was possible he just sniffed something unfortunate. 

“Juugo?”

“Yeah?” 

Juugo continued whatever search he was conducting under his bed and Sasuke pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck my life. Juugo. Dude. Okay, what are you doing?”

Finally, Juugo made a noise of triumph and stood up with a wide grin on his face. “I’ve been looking everywhere for this!”

‘This’ happened to be a big purple backpack with as many patches sewn onto it as there were holes in places that probably saw a lot of wear and tear, which annoyed Sasuke because logically the patches should have gone over the holes, but they weren’t, so that meant they were only there for aesthetic and Juugo didn’t know what their actual purpose was. “Like for fuck’s sake,” Sasuke grumbled, eyeing the patches disdainfully. “Are you packing?”

“Yeah,” Juugo said, holding the bag with one hand while using the other to pull things out of his closet and stuff them inside the pack. “I decided I’m going backpacking in Sound.”

“Why?”

“Because, you know… yolo.”

“What?”

“Yolo.”

“That isn’t a valid response to everything.”

“It’s an acronym.”

Briefly, Sasuke wondered if Juugo even knew what an acronym was.

“And I only live once. I mean why shouldn’t I go, Sasuke?”

“Um, because I know for a fact that you spend a fair chunk of your student loans on weed so it’s kind of just irresponsible to say fuck it and backpack for shits. It’s not a bad thing to consider your credit score before making decisions.”

“Oh, Sasuke.” Juugo shook his head. He smiled a smile that infuriated Sasuke even further because of how damn chill he looked. “You can’t always be so responsible.”

“I’d hardly say I’m responsible.” He just wasn’t irresponsible. Sasuke shrugged. “Whatever, man. Can you just answer my question from earlier?”

“You had a question?”

Sasuke was about to tear out some of his hair in frustration when Juugo lit up and grabbed his phone.

“Right. My tutor. You wanted her contact info, right?”

“I...yes.” 

Juugo ripped a sheet out of his notebook and proceeded to write some stuff on it. 

Sasuke blinked when Juugo handed it to him. He didn’t even look at what Juugo had written just, too busy scanning the contents of the page that were probably things Juugo would need to study later on. “Um. Don’t you need this?”

“Huh?” Juugo shook his head. “Nah, I have her number in my phone.”

“No, I mean the other stuff.”

Juugo actually looked perplexed. “What...” He stared at Sasuke like he was an idiot. God, maybe he fucking was, coming to Juugo of all fucking people. “No, I already have her email address too.”

“No, I--you know what. Sure. Fuck it. Okay.” Sasuke figured he should make some sort of physical gesture of gratefulness so he patted Juugo’s shoulder, narrating his actions with, “Pat, pat.” Satisfied, Sasuke nodded to himself. “Right. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!”

-

Sakura Haruno.

Her name was Sakura Haruno.

Like any logical person, the first thing Sasuke did was Google her. He searched her up and, given that her name was probably listed on pages by KU’s Biology Department, the first page was littered with info regarding her research projects, her awards, and, of course, her office hours. She was young and brilliant apparently. And when Sasuke made the transition to Images, he even found a photo of her standing beside his mother and some other people. That made him uncomfortable, so he wasted no time skipping to the next few photos. He came across one of the selfies he had seen on her Tinder page and barely fought back his grin.

“Are you looking at porn?” Naruto asked.

“No, dumbass,” Sasuke replied, aiming for polite considering he was, after all, hanging out at Naruto’s apartment right now. He needed wifi since he’d already used up all his data for the month, and he wasn’t particularly inclined to go home yet since he knew Itachi was around.

Sasuke just couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe he actually made progress without scaring the shit out of Hinata Hyuuga or having to suck up to Karin. He did it. He did it.

Naruto laid his head on Sasuke’s shoulder and took a glimpse at the current image on his phone. He paid no heed to the way Sasuke tensed up, clearly uncomfortable with the contact. “That’s her?” Naruto asked, already knowing the answer. The pink hair was a giveaway. “That’s Tinder Girl?”

“Yeah.” Sasuke frowned. “Her name is Sakura Haruno.”

“But like...can we just call her Tinder Girl?” Sasuke didn’t protest and Naruto looked overly excited to keep the nickname. “Hey, don’t you feel a bit creepy?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Doesn’t it kind of suck to miss out on the spontaneity though?” Naruto drew back, probably sensing that he used up Sasuke’s daily quota for physical interaction. “Don’t you just want to like...just meet someone and then get to know them?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s...that’s really dumb.”

“No it’s not. Fuck you.”

Sasuke snorted, considering the idea of making requisite small talk. “I hate surprises. This is just, like, basic recon before I have to go into a social situation.”

“That’s sad.”

“You’re sad.”

“No, honestly, you’re sad.”

Unfazed, Sasuke shrugged. Naruto called it sad but Sasuke called it smart, and, honestly, pragmatic. It was a way of gauging whether or not the search for Tinder Girl was worth it. And of course it was worth it because--

“I just found her Instagram!”

Apparently no longer opposed to the Tinder Girl search, Naruto grabbed Sasuke’s wrist to look at his phone as it went from the selfie he found on images to her actual profile on his browser. He opened her profile on the actual app and they sat there, stunned with the progress. 

“I found her fucking Instagram,” Sasuke whispered. He scrolled through her pictures, careful not to press anything he shouldn’t, finding a variety of pictures of food, of nature, of herself, of her friends, of--

“Wait,” Naruto said beside him. “Is that...”

Sasuke knew what Naruto was looking at because he too was praying it wasn’t.

It was her. The Banshee. 

Sasuke had to groan because he didn’t just see her once on Tinder Girl’s Instagram account. Nay. Ino Yamanaka was in just about every other selfie Sakura Haruno had, making the same silly faces, doing the same activities. Even pictures of food that Sakura Haruno posted had Ino Yamamaka tagged in them. This, Sasuke realized, meant that they were, most likely, really good friends. Best friends, even. This didn’t have to be a bad thing, but, Sasuke recalled their interactions earlier this morning and knew she would never be of help.

Beyond considering Sasuke a prissy little fucker, a sentiment Sasuke shared regarding her, The Banshee had a complex relationship with Sasuke’s own best friend, which meant getting her to help him would probably come with a price. 

Actually, now that he thought about it, it wasn’t that complex. They were fuck buddies that thought they were subtle about it in front of others but who flirted so painfully obviously that they were kind of infuriating to watch. 

Dammit. Sasuke took a deep breath. Ino was friends with Tinder Girl. 

Fucking hell.

It occurred to Sasuke that he might have to whore out Naruto to Ino for information. Turning to look at his best friend, Sasuke genuinely considered the option before realizing that that would be inappropriate.

“Although...”

Sasuke smirked. He had a plan.

-

“I found her fucking Instagram!” Sasuke yelled when he came home that night. He saw a pair of high heels at the door that were too small to indicate that Itachi had picked up crossdressing, so he figured his flavour of the week was probably over. Without a care for their privacy, Sasuke pushed his brother’s bedroom door open and held his phone out. “Look!”

As expected, Itachi was with someone blonde and blue-eyed and half-dressed. She made a noise of indignation and Sasuke made a noise of not giving a fuck.

Itachi frowned at him, but humoured him nevertheless. “What is it?”

“Sakura Haruno,” Sasuke said smugly. He began scrolling through the photos. Seeing a familiar one — the one that had caught his attention when he first found her on Tinder — Sasuke pressed it to open it and turned his phone to his brother.

His brother seemed to wince at the sight of it, so Sasuke drew the phone back, confused. It wasn’t until he saw the red heart beneath the selfie that Sasuke realized—

“You just liked her photo.”

-

tbc

-

-

-

-

note: i’m sorry this took nearly two years and i’m sorry if like i’m not funny anymore. i tried. also i was sick and watching archer for the past few days so i apologize if the lunch scene felt off. 

#fic #tinder au #sasusaku

[antlerscolorado]

chapter 8, part 3

From the outside, the Department of Paranormal Research looks like an abandoned textile mill, close to the edge of town. A large wire fence with a NO TRESSPASSING sign encircles it, and a special code is required to get through the gatehouse, which stands empty, any previous guards replaced by a simple keypad of numbers. Austin knows there’s a parking structure cleverly tucked inside one of the old buildings on the DPR campus, but August pulls his car up to the front doors instead, throwing it into park.

“Good luck,” he says, not insincerely.

Austin grunts a response and undoes his seatbelt, sliding out of the car.

The interior of the DPR is a stark contrast to the crumbling brick of its exterior, with white walls and seamless, white vinyl floors that reflect the ceiling’s strips of fluorescent lights. The lobby is vast, with the Department’s logo embossed into the floor, and a large display on one wall that holds a plaque for every agent lost in the field. Austin knows that Richard’s name is on there somewhere, but he doesn’t stop to look for it, moving with purpose towards the secretarial desk at the far end of the room.

The secretarial desk is flanked by a large, open archway and a staircase, one leading back into the cafeteria, and the other leading up to the offices. Austin remembers that much, at least, from the times he’s been here before. The secretary at the desk, a woman with bright orange hair, looks up at the sound of Austin’s boots stomping their way across the lobby. Her name tag reads JANE, the letters just barely legible underneath the stickers plastered to it.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Austin says, “I’m here to see Cillian.”

“Oh!” Jane looks surprised. Austin gets the feeling that he doesn’t exactly fit the usual demographic of people Cillian has meetings with. She glances over at the computer monitor sitting slightly off to her side, clicking her mouse a few times. “Are you his two o’clock appointment?”

Austin shrugs. “Probably?”

Jane seems satisfied with the answer, somehow, and picks up the phone behind the desk, pressing a four-digit number into the keypad. She cradles the receiver between her shoulder and her ear, her jaw working in small, repetitive motions. Austin can’t quite comprehend the action until Jane winks at him and blows the biggest bubblegum bubble he’s ever witnessed, popping it quickly between her teeth.

“Director Hume?” she says into the phone. “Your two o’clock is here. Should I send him up?”

She waits a few seconds for an answer, then nods at Austin and gestures towards the stairs.

“He’s straight back and to the left,” she calls after him.

Austin ascends to find himself on a floor that could have been cut-and-pasted from any office building in the world - or any movie set facsimile of one, even. Rows of cubicles, each staffed by an agent, interns rushing back and forth with paperwork and coffee. Straight back, as Jane directed, are a line of conference rooms and private offices, each with windows that look out onto the main floor. The blinds of most are drawn, save for the one to the far left, in which Austin can see Cillian behind a large desk, typing furiously at a computer.

Well, someone’s got to run the place while Jacob’s away. Austin places a hand on the office door, and lingers for a second before opening it. It feels surreal to be back here, at the DPR. He’s never entered the building as an agent before - he ran away before that could happen. What if they try to convince me to stay?

He shakes the thought off - he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it - and pushes the door open. Cillian looks up, running a hand through his hair and pushing it back from his forehead.

“How was Jacob?”

“Feeling better,” Austin says. There’s a chair directly across from Cillian’s desk, but he opts to throw himself down on the leather couch pushed against one wall, sitting with his legs spread and his back sunk down into the cushions.

Cillian makes a noise of dissent, but moves on without commenting. “And your father?”

“Oh, he was there.” Austin tips his head back, resting it on the back of the couch and staring up at the ceiling. “He said Abbott was fired for unethical experiments on children. He killed a bunch of them, and lied to the Department about it. They didn’t find out until Abbott wanted to mind wipe the survivors.”

“Jesus,” Cillian says, hoarse and horrified. “And then he went and became a teacher?”

“He used the underground labs for some drug test for a while,” Austin says. “After the DPR sealed them up. I guess whatever he was trying to do fell through, because he left. Jacob says the labs got turned into the Underground after that.”

Cillian doesn’t reply for some time, but he begins to type again, the sound of clicking keys filling the room. Austin picks up his head to watch, wondering if he should interrupt, but deciding against it. Eventually, Cillian glances up, over the frames of his glasses, as if just remembering that Austin is still in the room with him.

“You said Abbott was involved with a drug test? In the Underground?”

“I think it was before the Underground was a thing, but...yeah.” Austin frowns. Where is he going with this?

“It’s entirely probable that Abbott would choose to seek sanctuary there, given his history with it,” Cillian says. “Especially considering the fact that some of the people who worked on the drug trial with him still live there.”

“What?” Austin sits up much straighter, his heart thudding in his chest. Can it really be that easy? “How do you know?”

“While you were gone, Jacob found some notes of your father’s, detailing a criminal rehabilitation program that the DPR never put into practice after his death.” Cillian stands from his desk, straightening his tie. “We thought it would be worth testing out, offering the people we have in detainment the option to work as an agent in exchange for more privileges, proper wages, sometimes a reduced sentence.”

“Does it work?” Austin asks, also getting to his feet.

“Surprisingly well.” Cillian pushes his chair in and picks up the phone next to his desk, punching a number in and waiting only a few seconds before speaking into the receiver. “Agent Warcrest? I need you to meet me on Sub-level One.”

Cillian hangs up the phone without giving Agent Warcrest an opportunity to answer, and breezes out of the office. Austin catches up with him in the hall, struggling to match his brisk pace as he leaves the room of cubicles and closes in on a bank of elevators in the hall outside.

“Wait,” Austin says, catching his breath as Cillian calls up the elevator. “You think one of these criminals knows something about Abbott?”

“I’m almost certain of it,” Cillian says. The elevator doors slide open, and he stands aside, letting Austin enter first. “Only one of the agents in the rehabilitation program is a former member of the Underground. I remembered reading something about involvement in a drug trial while looking over the interviews for potential candidates for rehabilitation - same agent.” He steps inside the elevator, swiping his badge on a scanner mounted near the doors, and pressing a button for a floor marked S1. “Agent 013. We classify the names of the criminals in the rehabilitation program - I’m sure you could imagine the PR disaster it would be otherwise. And they’re all assigned handlers from within a pool of regular agents who volunteer. Agent Warcrest is one of those.”

“So you think this...Agent 013 worked under Abbott?” Austin asks. The elevator rattles around them as they descend, and he clutches the cool, metal bar protruding from the walls. “Shouldn’t they have told you that in the first place?”

“Yes.” Cillian’s voice is steely. “It almost certainly should have come up.”

So whoever this is lied to the DPR, and knows Abbott. Maybe they’re some kind of co-conspirator. Austin swallows, finding his throat dry. There’s still no telling why Abbott stabbed Jacob. Jacob didn’t say, and Cillian hasn’t, either. Maybe neither of them actually knows. And why did Abbott pay to have me brought back to Havenwood? None of this makes sense - there has to be something bigger going on.

The elevator chimes, opening on a long hallway full of doors, each labelled with a number. It looks significantly more dilapidated than the rest of the DPR, the lights on the ceiling flickering, the linoleum floor stained with dirt and scuff marks.

“This is where you keep the rehab agents?” Austin asks.

“Some of them,” Cillian says, disembarking the elevator. “But it’s mostly where we keep the criminals.”

Someone roughly Austin’s height is waiting outside of one of the doors, a person with dark skin and dark, wavy hair pulled back into a short ponytail at the back of their head. They’re wearing a flannel shirt over a black dress and leggings, and magnified behind their glasses are a pair of eyes that are the strangest color Austin’s ever seen. They’re a gradient of purple and bright blue, blending in the middle before fading out to each respective color at the bottom and top.

“Cool contacts,” Austin says.

“They’re not contacts,” the stranger replies, grinning wide enough to show off a pair of fangs. “But thanks!”

Oh. Vampire, then. Austin kicks himself for assuming anything different. Vampires almost always have oddly colored eyes, but it’s been a long time since he’s run into one - there don’t seem to be very many in the Southwest.

“Austin, this is Agent Warcrest,” Cillian says, by way of introduction. “You’ll be working with them, if we determine it’s safe to enlist Agent 013’s help.”

“Rainer, please. Agent Warcrest is so stuffy.” Agent Warcrest - Rainer - nods at Austin, still grinning. “I guess we should get this show on the road, huh?”

“Please,” Cillian says stiffly. It’s clear that he has some choice words for Agent 013, whoever they are.

Rainer laughs, taking their badge out of the pocket of their flannel shirt, and scanning it on a panel next to the door in front of them. The locking mechanism buzzes, and Rainer holds the door open, ushering everyone inside.

The lights pop on once the door shuts again, and Austin blinks, finding himself in a room that’s really more of a small, cramped observation space. There’s just enough room for him, Cillian, and Rainer to spread out, and a few feet of walking space from the wall behind him to the wall in front. Though the wall in front isn’t really a wall at all - it’s a huge, Plexiglass window that stretches from floor to ceiling, separating the observation space from a larger room. A cell, really, given that it has no visible doors or windows.

The cell is furnished like a basic dorm room, with a twin-sized bed crammed into one corner, a dresser, desk, and chair in the other. At the desk, feet propped up, chair tipped back onto two precarious legs, is a man. He’s turned largely away from the agents in the observation room, reading a book, but Austin can hear, clear as day, that he’s whistling.

“Agent 013,” Cillian says, his voice cold enough to make even Austin feel like he’s in trouble. “You haven’t been entirely honest with us.”

Agent 013 turns his head just the barest amount, his lips stretching into a genuinely affable smile. The overhead light catches on his black hair, a few errant strands and locks struggling to escape the pompadour it’s styled into.

“Please,” he says, turning his book over and setting it down on the dresser. “I told you, you can call me Dallas. We’re all friends here, Director Hume.”

8.2 || 8.4

#story