#it seems pretty casual so it might not make for good streaming material | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sugar-petals · 3 years

Text

SuperM Fluff & NSFW Notes

↳ 🌹aka some of their romantic antics plus random 18+ imagines 👋

warnings ⚠️ rated (super) m, boyfriends hc, porn mentions, partial fem!reader, sex toys

FLUFF

since baekhyun knows how to make scented candles, he creates one for you as a birthday present with your favorite fragrances.

every entry in mark’s diary involves fond thoughts about you.

taemin kisses you more than his cat kkoongie on a daily basis so let that sink in. his smooch obsession is getting out of hand.

lucas, having giant fingers after all, learns how to knit in order to make you a warm scarf. he’s still a bit clumsy with it and had to call kun for advice, but the result is surprisingly proper and quickly becomes your favorite item. it’s a little huge but well, he thinks in his dimensions. lucas’ next project is a beanie.

ten overwhelms you with pet names. in fact, he seemingly seems to come up with a new one each day.

kai is a candlelight dinner, rose petals and music kinda guy. he does every old-school thing in the book.

taeyong can cuddle endlessly in bed. he just doesn’t wanna leave.

lucas gladly shares his sweaters. they’re ginormous so, perfect cuddle material.

baekhyun is already a fool. so — when he falls in love, he becomes an even bigger fool. or, the contrary happens: he becomes dead silent around his partner because he’s so enthralled. he can take this more seriously than you think.

mark likes to write little cards and many many texts to express his love.

lucas is the type who can help you put on your jeans when they were shrinking a bit too much in the dryer. he’s pretty sexy like that and things can get really touchy.

cheesy fucking kai, and there’s only one guy who would do this, has actually lowered himself over a puddle once so you would have a bridge. brushed it off like a daily workout rep.

not one shower missed without baekhyun joining you. yes, it’s not always sexy time, he likes it when you shampoo his hair and whisper sweet nothings. and obviously: it’ll all devolve to a laughing fit.

taeyong is the type who wants to be proposed to.

taemin will get a motorcycle license and take you for a frequent ride. he loves getting those kind of back hugs.

both ten and lucas are great at making bracelets. wayv’s dorm is fully equipped with charms, strings, and pearls, so expect matching ones for you.

we’ve seen it, that one’s his favorite move. kai wraps his hand around your shoulder when you walk together.

mark will ALWAYS share his melon.

making you swoon on a DVD evening is lucas’ favorite hobby. he will buy you the most sugary-sweet romance movies. he will often browse streaming sites to select the latest sentimental plots. all these dramas seem to have a male lead who is suspiciously tall and lanky.

if you allow him, taeyong customizes your white tees with his cute drawings.

since taemin swims in money thanks to his profession as the god of kpop (yes, this is a registered job name because i say so), he can fulfill you any wish. he’s stingy and pouty when the shinee hyungs can pay, and the motherfucker baekhyun is even richer since his albums have been taking off so he opens his mochi wallet when superm is gathered, but you... are a different case. taemin will humbly empty his entire pockets when he overhears you gushing over something. there’s a voice in his mind going: must splurge!!

mark loves christmas, you establish an annual tradition to stage a whole couple evening.

baekhyun likes to play charades and especially do karaoke with you. he’s always cutely wiggling his butt and dances like a drunk uncle. he hits the high notes anyway and makes sure you score 100 points.

taeyong can make out with you while at the same time making sure that the milk doesn’t get burned on the stove. kiss’n’stirr multitask tyong alert. gotta make sure the cocoa is served in time, you know.

all the members enjoy playing board games. yep, imagine the fun and sheer chaos.

lucas has the funniest laugh ever indeed. he’ll react to all your jokes, no matter how lame they might be. intensely reassuring.

taemin’s hand is basically glued to yours.

taeyong and mark are the kinds of boyfriends that spoil their partner with skincare. fancy a nice face massage with a nice fragrant oil?

baekhyun has been baking heart-shaped pizzas ever since you started dating. he just can’t make them round anymore.

mark will join you on anything you’re currently bingewatching.

kai sometimes — only half-jokingly — goes down on both knees bowing forward with his hands on the ground just to show how much he wants to thank you. in case you didn’t notice: this guy treats you like a deity.

ten usually gets confused glances from the other members whenever he gets the current date wrong: he simply loses track of time with you.

lucas makes a habit of buying you flowers every other week. but on unpredictable occasions, and he arranges them in places you’d never expect.

taemin will build you a weird-looking snowman to make you laugh, and give it an even stranger name. ten will build one that looks like you. kai doesn’t build snowmen, he just stands there challenging you to throw snow balls at him.

mark will hang out with you at the beach constantly bringing his guitar. he’ll serenade you all the time.

returning from three months of touring, baekhyun has once climbed your balcony when your parents were in the other room. yep, he was that desperate to see you. somebody give this man a rope and helmet.

taeyong writes down heartfelt confessions on 365 folded slips of paper so you can open one every day. your reactions will range from ‘awwh!’ to straight-up tears.

ten does regular couple yoga with you. a mildly challenging form, not the circus acrobat version. he’ll do the difficult parts anyway. you can pretzel this guy up, he’ll do anything to make you laugh.

when it rains you hook your arm around his, and lucas always holds the umbrella. even the wildest gush of wind can’t make it turn inside out. you arrive home entirely dry. xuxi is so cute, he’s also a great source of cooling shadow in the summer without even trying.

taemin’s skinship overdrive doesn’t stop with endless hand-holding, back hugs and kisses. he wants to lay down in your lap whenever he can. he looks damn pretty with his hair splaying there. if you work on your laptop, you can pretty much count to ten and he’s already nestled there.

kai does pushups with you on his back. it’s a staple. each time he does one, he says ‘i love you’. he increases his count every day.

NSFW

it’s no secret that taeyong is great at acting or pulling off any outfit and costume. expect roleplay of the finest kind — literally. he looks good in a firefighter uniform. you’ll be burning up pretty much automatically.

taemin can’t keep his tongue in. it’s terrible. he’s always in the mood for head. his sloppy noises are the absolute worst, it turns you on way too fast.

lucas had some major problems finding condoms that fit him.

ten and taemin are so switchy, they have an unresolved power struggle going on. begs for a dominant third party to help them out.

kai owns expensive latex gear.

baekhyun may be the king of vocals and breath technique, but if you push him far enough he does get hoarse.

taemin often jokes how kai will one day break his dick from fucking too hard.

meanwhile, mark’s dick is already falling off – from fucking too often. this guy has some major hormones going for him. no surprise, a guy who can promote in four kpop groups at the same time is a stamina king.

taeyong likes eating pussy with another party involved. three’s a crowd my friend. sometimes it’s taemin who unleashes his spit waterfall power, sometimes it’s baekhyun who preoccupies himself with nibbling at the inner thigh while taeyong digs in.

taemin owns the most underwear.

mark takes valerian drops because he is so nervous in bed. it never really goes away, it’s his nature.

taeyong keeps a lube collection. a different flavor for all occasions. he likes associating certain scents with specific body parts.

kai has a heels kink. he literally goes wild over it.

taemin likes to have sex with favorite glasses on.

taeyong and kai are the most likely to cry during sex. baekhyun as well if you rough him up enough.

mark gets rock hard the fastest, followed by kai. he’s a grower.

taeyong gets the best inspiration for a song when he gets a casual dick riding.

taemin watches extremely x-rated erotic thrillers and bdsm flicks that are heavy on the plot. he gets more invested in the characters and actors than you think. since his japanese is amazing? of course he also owns a giant 90s hentai collection.

when he’s jerking off, baekhyun chokes himself. a) because he’d make too much noise otherwise and b) because asphyxiation is his favorite thing.

kai feels pleasure in his every cell. he cums the hardest. and, as you can expect, his body expresses it the most extremely, accurately, passionately. if you’ve seen it even once, you’ll never look at him the same again.

taemin has less experience than his discography claims, but more than you’d think. he researches sexual techniques as well. you can brace yourself.

mark has not just a tiger inside, but a freak inside, waiting to be unleashed.

sex while gaming is a go-to activity for baekhyun.

lucas has the best stamina when it comes to getting head.

taemin throws his head back during sex. and no, he doesn’t T-pose. i’m kidding — of course he does. but only when he’s on his back.

taeyong tends to grip a pillow when he cums.

or he humps one when he’s by himself.

ten has the best taste in sexy time playlists.

baekhyun has the best taste in singing his own playlist along.

oh, the things kai has bought at a gas station at 3AM.

baekhyun sucks strap the best. he can open his mouth the widest, drools a lot, and makes the best noises unsurprisingly.

how to turn on lee taemin? he likes getting slapped.

since he’s the most avid and most diverse eater, lucas’ sperm tastes the best. he’s shove 50 fruits into his system just to give you a sweet experience.

mark is absolutely a starfish.

kai wears fishnet tops if you fancy it.

curiously, baekhyun out of all people doesn’t announce when he’s cumming. you’ll hear it, though.

taeyong’s dildo collection is one for the books.

taemin has visited a pro dominatrix a couple times. needless to say, he was the #1 favorite client at the dungeon. having fully submerged into a fantasy world, taemin was one whip crack away from falling in love with the mistress. but then covid happened and the venue closed.

mark’s dick looks really pretty.

taemin can grind on the strap at every humanly possible angle. he’s almost always ready to take it. he carries a prep kit.

kai — that fucker — knows how to make you wet the most with his bare hands. prepare for the thigh ride of your life, too.

taeyong, baekhyun, and taemin have the best arches. kai is coming for the top three as well. ten’s arch is so good, it can’t be considered one anymore.

baekhyun knows every adult movie out there. theoretically, nothing can shock him. in reality, he melts in your hands.

taeyong is so sexually active with you, he has quit eating garlic.

kai will exploit your muscle kink in any way he can.

taemin, being a devil, has that one button on his phone that he can press when you go out for dinner. he’s OBSESSED with getting you off. once you head home, it’s basically running down your thighs.

ten has once opened a condom with scissors to scare away a date that grew weird on him by the time it got to the do.

lucas is too tall for doing missionary normally.

this will surprise nobody: mark is great at constantly keeping up the dirty talk.

baekhyun’s car is sort of like a brothel on wheels. he can’t count how many times he got down and dirty in there. he cleans it all up by himself.

kai can technically grip you the hardest but he’s the gentlest and great at caressing the whole body.

taemin has the easiest time saying what precisely he wants. he is also the best people reader — most your wishes he can pretty intuit. taemin observes your interests well.

ten likes his hair pulled and makes angelic noises when you do so.

baekhyun likes camgirls and erotic chats with strangers online. he spends a lot of money for nsfw internet encounters.

600 notes · View notes

outercrasis · 3 years

Text

Sessions

Pairing: College!Din Djarin x F!Reader

Rating: Mature (18+)

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: References to sex, masturbation (nothing actually occurs)

Summary: After meeting Mando, you just can’t seem to get him out of your head. (events directly follow Introductions)

A/N: Thanks for the kind reception to the first post of this AU! I’ll be making a masterlist soon for easier navigation :) Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future posts or if I’ve missed a warning.

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Lingering Impressions

Your day ended up being an exhausting one. Mando had been your most exciting session for more reasons than just the obvious. You'd reviewed the papers of two freshmen, a junior who wanted you to basically write their paper for them, and another graduate student who disregarded every suggestion you made. Needless to say, Mando's gratitude felt extra special after all of that.

Getting home, you're greeted with the welcome smell of something delicious coming from the kitchen as you throw yourself face-first into the couch. The open floorplan of your tiny two bedroom apartment allows Layla to spot you as you wander in.

"Hello to you too!" she calls over. "I'm making chicken marsala."

You lift your head up from the watermelon-shaped throw pillow to smile at her. "You are a saint and I don't deserve you."

"You totally don't," Layla teases back, happily returning to the stove. You flip over on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through your phone while she finishes making dinner. A comfortable silence fills the room, interrupted only by Layla's hums and the discordant sounds of cooking.

Layla has been your roommate since your sophomore year of college, randomly paired together by the dorm sorting system and inseparable ever since. The two of you clicked, a friendship forged over the awkwardness of early adulthood and a shared love of terrible reality TV. Both of you keep busy schedules while pursuing your respective master’s degrees and help each other out where you can. Making dinners for each other is just a part of that.

It’s not long before Layla brings over two steaming plates of food to lay out on your thrifted coffee table. She sits opposite you, preferring to sit on the floor rather than the couch. You’re eager to dig in, groaning at the first bite.

“I’ll take that as a thank you,” Layla grins, tucking into her own meal.

“God yes.”

“Long day then?”

You groan again, this time in irritation rather than pleasure. “Yes. I don’t know how many more know-it-all grad students I can deal with.”

She’s heard all about your nightmare sessions with students that think they already know everything. You’ve questioned more than once why they bother booking the session if they're just going to ignore your advice and decide their paper is perfect as is. It seems like a total waste of time for both you and them.

Layla sympathizes and shares her own gripes about some of the assholes she's forced to put up with while working on her research project. After all, no group project is complete without the one person who does nothing but acts like they know everything. Giving each other time to vent another small way the two of you take care of each other.

As you think back on your day and sessions your mind inevitably drifts to Mando. He hadn’t been anything like you’d expected. He was kind in his own way and by far the most amenable session you’d had all day. Not taking off the helmet was odd, as was not giving out his real name, but neither of those had really bothered you when it came down to it. If anything, they only serve to fascinate you further.

“Did something else happen today?” Layla asks, a spark lighting up in her eyes. She can always read you, something that can be either a blessing or a curse depending on what it is you're hiding. You take a few more bites before answering, already anticipating her reaction.

“Well I might have also met Mando today,” You try to throw it out there casually, hoping that if you treat it as though it’s not a big deal she’ll follow your lead. You should have known better.

“You what!? Tell me everything,” Layla screeches at you from across the coffee table. She pushes her food off to the side, clearly deciding that your unexpected meeting with campus's resident celebrity is far more important.

"He came in for a session. His paper was really good, it-"

Layla is quick to cut you off. "I literally couldn't care less about that and you know it. Tell me about him, what's he like? Is he terrifying?"

You can’t help but snort at that. You know why she asked of course - the rumors flying around about him getting out of hand these days - but when you think about him now they all seem ludicrous. The gentle way he spoke to Grogu and offered his hand out to the kid before leaving. The sincerity in his voice as he spoke to you, eager to hear any advice you had to give him. No. Mando was decidedly not terrifying. “He’s… just a guy,” you tell her, not really sure how to explain his unique presence.

The eyeroll you receive in response is warranted. “Are you kidding me right now? You probably know more about him than anyone else on campus and you’re going to tell me he’s just a guy?”

You shrug, shoveling another bite of food into your mouth. “I don’t know what to tell you Lays, I only spent an hour with him. He was nice, really sweet with his kid, and I’ll probably never see him again.”

You’re not sure why you feel a quick sting in your chest at that thought. It wasn’t like you knew him well or that he even owed you anything. Considering the fact that you’d gone weeks without so much as glimpsing him on campus you’d probably only have another chance to see him if he signed up for another session and there was no guarantee he’d return.

“So the kid thing is true?” Layla asks.

“Yeah. Really cute kid, pretty quiet.” Very quiet now that you think of it. You don’t have much experience with kids that young, but you’re certain kids Grogu’s age can talk. He hadn’t said so much as a word, only letting out an occasional noise or two. It was odd, but then he could just be shy or something. Another question you’d probably never have an answer for.

“Is the kid his?” Layla presses.

“I don’t know, it didn’t exactly come up while we discussed his paper on unique material applications,” you snap back at her. You wince a little at your sharp reply. It wasn’t deserved. Layla was simply curious and now the victim of your long day and swirling thoughts.

You quickly follow up with an apology. “Sorry. I just- I had a long day and I really didn’t learn much about him, okay?”

There’s a small sense of relief when Layla nods, backing down from her inquisition. “It’s cool, I get it. Just promise you’ll tell me if you see him again?”

“Yeah, I’ll let you know.”

The rest of the night passes like usual. You wash up after dinner, a fair trade since Layla cooked, and the two of you get to tackling homework that’s begun to pile up with the semester entering its full swing. Nighttime study sessions have been a regular occurrence since your undergrad days and have only intensified while pursuing your respective graduate degrees. It’s more about solidarity and accountability than shared workload, what with your program being in English and Layla’s in Marketing, but it’s nice. Simply having company is better than doing it all by yourself.

Around 10:30 you call it, eyes bleary from staring at your laptop. Layla is deep into a PDF reading so you leave her to her work and shuffle off to the shared bathroom. While the water heats, you brush your teeth lazily, going through the motions of your nightly routine. You test the water with your hand before deciding it’s warm enough to step in.

Your thoughts drift aimlessly as you stand under the hot stream, unfocused until they land back on him. It’s like you can’t help yourself, the way your thoughts have been returning to him all night. You’ve puzzled about him before, but only in the abstract. A hypothetical more than a real person. Wondering if rumors are true isn't quite the same as wondering about the man himself.

All throughout the night he kept popping up. One moment you would be considering the symbolic use of color in your assigned reading and the next you would be puzzling over Mando’s favorite color. Maybe orange, if his gloves were anything to go by. Layla's favorite song played and while she sang along you couldn't help wondering what kind of music he listens to. Rock probably, or was that too on the nose? As you sipped your drink you wondered what his drink of choice would be, alcoholic or not. Did he even drink alcohol at all? Something told you he wasn’t much for losing his inhibitions.

It's all the little things, all the little details that actually make up a person that no one bothers to speculate about that consume you now. Who cares about his favorite movie or favorite food when you can guess on whether or not he's been to jail?

As you wash the grime of the day from your body, your mind continues to drift further, settling onto the first thing that captured your attention earlier today. His hands. Those gorgeous sun soaked hands, how fluidly they moved across his keyboard. The firm hold of them when he shook your hand.

Eyes fluttering closed, you can't help imagining that it's his hands skating across your skin. You can almost feel the gentle roughness of them, the way he'd squeeze and hold you - tight, but not so hard that it hurts. Almost unconsciously, your hand begins to drift down your body, only to be interrupted by a pounding on the bathroom door. Your eyes snap open, confusion and embarrassment replacing your fantasy.

"Hurry up in there! I need to pee," Layla yells through the door.

You grumble in response, knowing she can't hear you, but quickly finish your shower. It's not quite as relaxing anymore, flustered by your wanton thoughts.

Getting back into your room, you check your email before setting your alarms for tomorrow. There’s the usual spam from online stores reminding you of limited time deals, a reminder that rent is due next week (lovely), and a couple generic university emails. Your eyes fall to your new tutoring appointment emails and you flick through them mindlessly to clear them out, knowing they’ll all automatically appear on your calendar.

Just as you’re about to close out of the app and get some well needed rest, a new email pops through. It’s another appointment alert scheduled for next week. You tap to open it and your heart flutters when you read the name on the form. Mando. No need to wonder about if you’d ever see him again now. You’d be seeing him Tuesday at 3 PM. Somehow you know he won’t miss his appointment.

×××××

Din is exhausted. Between Grogu, classes, and trying to find ways to make money, he barely has enough time to do basic functional adult things. Things like showering regularly, eating more than a required minimum of once a day, or heaven help him sleep.

He wishes he could afford a regular babysitter, allow himself some occasional reprieve but it's not possible. He makes just enough to keep the bills paid and at least Grogu's stomach full. There's also an ever present paranoia about letting a stranger into his home, much less to watch his son. Only Paz and Cara have ever babysat for him and even that was mostly against his will.

Din slumps onto his couch, exhausted from the long day. He’d found the couch on the side of the road. It’s well worn and has a couple holes in it, but it was devoid of fleas, comfortable, and most importantly, free. His helmet is off, sitting on the kitchen table where he’d left it after getting home from campus. He’s mostly used to it these days, but sometimes it can still feel suffocating underneath the custom bucket. Taking it off at the end of the day is always welcome, especially when Din sees Grogu’s eyes light up at his exposed face.

He allows himself just a moment of rest, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the back of the couch. Grogu had finally gone to bed, demanding three stories before he fell asleep and Din not having it within him to deny the requests. A small smile rests on his lips, thinking of Grogu's excitement at his mediocre storytelling. He already loathes the day when Grogu won't ask him to read anymore.

There are about twenty other things he should be doing right now other than sitting on the couch. The apartment hasn't been cleaned properly in weeks, dishes are piling up, laundry needs to be done, he needs to find a job for this weekend, should probably find better daycare for Grogu, has an exam to study for, and a paper to finish writing. He should be doing all of that and more, and yet he can't find the will to move. He stays planted firmly on the couch, letting his thoughts drift. A few different ideas and ruminations swirl around, but his mind settles onto one. Her.

She isn't what he had been expecting. When his professor had recommended a session with a writing tutor he'd been a little miffed at first. Din knew words weren't his strong suit, but he hadn't thought he was that bad. He probably wouldn't have even considered it if she hadn't immediately assured him that it was only a suggestion because she saw potential in his work.

He had still only been considering it, form half filled out, when Grogu had hit submit. He’d looked for a way to cancel the appointment, but couldn’t figure it out with the school’s poorly designed website, so instead he had resigned himself to going. After all, just the one session couldn't hurt and he'd already be on campus.

He thought the tutor would be some irritating know-it-all, pointing out all the mistakes in his paper. Either that, or that they'd be too nervous to make any real criticisms. He’d noticed the way people froze up around him, sometimes too timid to even look in his direction. She wasn't either of those things.

She was all smiles and kindness, not hesitant around him for a moment. Even Grogu took an immediate liking to her, as evidenced by the gift of his frog drawing. Din had more of those than he could count, but very few others had been bestowed the honor of his sacred amphibian themed artworks.

She challenged him in a way he liked, not rude but still forceful. Encouraging him to figure out what it was she was guiding him towards with the paper. Not taking ownership, simply identifying where ideas could be made stronger or clearer. They’d only worked through a few pages in the session and Din already felt more confident in his writing.

What he liked most though was that she hadn't even asked about the helmet. It was all he heard from those brave enough to speak to him. Where did he get it, why did he wear it, did he ever take it off, what does he look like underneath, and so on. Avoiding all of those questions got to be draining. She didn't even acknowledge it.

She had mentioned the rumors that were apparently swirling around campus about him but that was it. He was a bit grateful for that though, entirely unaware of how popular he'd apparently become. The stares that followed him on campus were hard to ignore, but he didn’t know about their accompanying whispers. He still isn’t sure if the rumors are a good or a bad thing. Her reaction hadn’t given him all that much to go off of. He wishes it had.

That thought stops Din short. Where did that come from? Why did her opinion of him suddenly matter after a single one hour session? Din can’t remember the last time he considered someone else’s opinion of him. Probably when he first brought Grogu home to meet everyone. Now here he is, wondering what his English tutor’s thoughts were about the rumors everyone has been spreading about him. He needs to get out more.

Din shakes his head free, trying to ponder other aspects of his life. Like when he’d be able to get the Razor Crest up and running again. She’d broken down again after only the second week of classes. Paz makes fun of him for riding on such an old bike, but she’s a classic. Din can’t get rid of her, no matter how much she likes to break down on him. In the meantime he could make due with the loaner truck from Peli.

Thoughts of his motorcycle only distract him for so long though. He realizes half-way through the fantasy that he’s imagining taking her out on his bike, feeling her hands clasped around his waist as he rides through the city. The way she’d hang on just a little tighter, pressing herself against his back, as he hits the throttle just a bit harder.

Din sits up on the couch and mutters to himself. “Come on, Djarin. Pull it together.”

She’s beautiful, yes, but to already be fantasizing about taking her for a ride? That’s a bit much. It has been months since Din has seen any kind of action, but he shouldn’t be this desperate after spending only an hour with a pretty face. Still, now that he’s thinking of it, his mind wanders to what she’d be like.

Would she take charge, calm and in control like she was earlier today? Or would she submit to him, allow him to do whatever he wanted? A small groan escapes Din’s lips at the thought of having her beneath him, begging for him to take her. How she would look spread out on his bedsheets, how sweet she’d taste. He can already imagine how good she’d feel wrapped around him, the way her eyes would look all strung out and cockdumb. It would be a beautiful sight if he’s ever lucky enough to see it.

An alarm Din forgot he set suddenly blares on his phone. He can’t even remember what he set it for as he’s yanked from his lewd imaginings, scrambling to turn it off. There’s a small wave of embarrassment as he registers where he allowed his thoughts to drift.

Ignoring the uncomfortable pressure in his jeans, Din pulls up the tutoring appointment form on his phone and signs up for another session. There’s an option to select a specific tutor and he’s quick to open it up, choosing her name from the drop down menu.

There’s nothing wrong about this, right? She’d helped him with his paper and Grogu liked her. She even asked if she’d be seeing him again. That was plenty of reason to have another session. His renegade fantasies had nothing to do with his decision to go back. Din is a man in control of his urges. If anything, this next session would prove that his thoughts were all just fleeting, just a simple result of going too long without anyone in his bed.

taglist: @honestly-shite @booksarekindaneat @wonderless-screwup @pinkninja200 @captain-jebi @ajeff855 @leias-rebelion

Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated 💕

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #college!din #college!mando #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian au #pedro pascal x reader #mandocrasis fic #sessions

194 notes · View notes

detectivesvu · 3 years

Text

Morning Coffee

Rafael Barba x Fem. Reader

Warnings: Language.

Word Count: 1,644

“I can’t get over how a few months ago I wanted to learn your name and now you’re having breakfast with me in my sweater.”

Waking up to the smell of hot coffee and homemade pancakes was Rafael’s preferred way to begin his Saturday. It didn’t happen as often (or really ever) as he would have liked. He was coming off one of the best nights of sleep that he had ever had, feeling more refreshed than he had in years.

He was confused for a moment when he woke up, not immediately recognizing the bedroom he was in. He lifted his head from the squishy pillow, only sighing in remembrance when he identified the white, clean sheets of your bed. He had spent the night in your company for the first time the night prior. He would be spending the next week or so off from work. No cases, no evidence to review, no statements to produce.

He hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with himself.

That’s how he ended up taking you out to a nice dinner and a lovely walk in the park afterwards. You invited him to stay with you for the weekend, figuring that getting away from his office and apartment would do him some good. After watching some cheesy movie and a night of love, Rafael was able to get the best sleep of his life. And now he had breakfast to welcome himself too when he decided to get up. He let out a content groan, and allowed his head to collapse back into the pillowcase for another few moments.

His eyes peered at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table closest to his side. It was 8:00 AM on the dot. He smirked and let out an incredulous laugh. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept later than 6:00 AM. Eventually, the delicious smells coming from your kitchen had tempted him long enough. He sat up in bed to stretch his tense muscles and crack his unpopped knuckles, it was always his first step in getting out of bed every day.

He pushed back the white duvet, wincing at the feel of the cool air hitting his skin. He made his way out of your bedroom, following the aromas of what he knew to be maple syrup and dark roast coffee. His padding feet stopped short when he saw you turned at the stove, clad in his cream colored sweater that he had worn the night before. He felt a heat creep onto his cheeks. He loved this picture.

You sensed his presence, turning around and smiling at him.

“Good morning, counselor,” You said teasingly; “Did you sleep well?’

He returned a grin, continuing his entrance into the kitchen. He gawked at the sight of the buffet you had prepared. A stack of pancakes with syrup, a fresh pot of coffee, bacon, and sliced fruit. It looked almost too good to eat. His rumbling belly proved otherwise though.

“Very well. I have to say that your bed is a hell of a lot more comfortable than mine.” He admitted, resting his hands on the sides of your arms.

He let his fingertips feel against the familiar material of his sweater. It was one of his favorites to wear this time of year. He liked it a lot better on you though. You flipped the last pancake in the pan, Rafael’s mouth watering at the golden brown disk.

“I just thought that a breakfast that’s more than three cups of coffee might be good for us both. I’m sorry if I woke you, I-”

“No, no, mi amor. Don’t be sorry. I’m partial to waking up this way all the time.” He drawled, his voice still thick with sleep.

He pressed a kiss to the side of your head, just below your temple. He eyed the small, purplish marks on your neck. There were at least three or four of them, he felt a little rush of pride at the sight. Images of last night flashed in his head, almost getting him riled up again.

You placed the last pancake onto the plate, finishing off the tower of fluffy goodness. You decided not to even worry about the dishes for now. You had all day to get them done.

“Breakfast is served. These pancakes smell heavenly, if I do say so myself.” You humbly bragged, turning and handing him a plate.

His eyes fluttered in delight as his stomach rumbling audibly this time. He gladly took the plate from your hands, ready to dig in.

“You’re too good to me.” He purred.

You laughed sweetly as he loaded his plate greedily. Poor guy was starving despite the rich meal you had the night before. You were pretty sure he hadn’t been eating well for a while. He let work consume him more often than not. He spent more time in his office than he did at his own home. You hated seeing him run himself dry like this. You didn’t want him to forget how wonderful and exciting life could be.

The two of you sat at your dining room table that was just large enough for the both of you. Rafael generously lathered his pancakes with butter and poured a stream of the sticky syrup. You kept a giggle to yourself when you saw the way his eyes rolled back into his head at the taste. You were even more impressed at your pancake cooking abilities. It was a home run in your books.

Rafael slowed his ravenous eating after the first few bites. He decided he wanted to savor the taste instead of inhaling it all down like it was his last meal or like he was late to a meeting. He had involuntarily trained himself to consume his meals quickly. His brain and body were always on the go all the time. It was nice to take it slow for once.

Rafael watched you from over the rim of his coffee cup, sipping the rich beverage slowly. He relished the taste of his preferred morning pick-me-up. He watched your every move. The way you delicately picked up your glass of orange juice and how you carefully cut your pancakes into bite sized triangles. Your entire demeanor comforted him. In just half a year, he had found more of a home with you than he ever had with anyone else.

His heart did a little happy leap when you walked into the room. His green eyes glowed brighter when he looked at you. He had fallen undeniably in love with you.

You had just stabbed a fresh strawberry onto your fork when you caught Rafael’s stare. You paused, looking to him with curious eyes and laughing nervously.

“What?” You questioned.

He blinked to break his trance, setting down his coffee mug.

“I can’t get over how a few months ago I wanted to learn your name and now you’re having breakfast with me in my sweater.” He confessed, his foot nudging yours under the table.

You looked down at the sweater. You had truthfully just grabbed it off the floor when you got up that morning because he had looked so good in it. It was soft, cozy, and reminded you of him. You were still getting used to seeing him in such casual clothing. When you first met him, the thought of ADA Rafael Barba wearing sweatpants seemed foreign. You adored seeing him so comfortable with you.

You sheepishly grinned.

“Oh, I just put it on. It’s super soft,” You explained; “But you can have it back if you want.”

He shook his head, beginning to feel himself get full.

“Keep it on. You look good in it.” He complimented, smiling again.

Your face grew hot, shoveling fruit into your mouth to hide your shyness. He went back into his pancakes with a chuckle, but he would just barely finish them off. You slid down into your chair shortly after, signaling that you couldn’t finish another bite.

“That was so good,” He said, resting a hand on his midriff; “Thanks for making it.”

You stood from your chair, taking his cleaned plate. You leaned down and kissed his head as you passed by.

“Of course. A counselor’s got to eat well. There’s more to breakfast than coffee and contemplation, Rafael.” You address him truthfully.

He gave a sarcastic scoff as he stood and followed you back into the kitchen. He topped off his cup, sipping it again.

“Oh, I know. If I had the time or luxury to afford a meal like this every day then I’d take it. Trust me.” He noted.

You felt sympathetic at that. Everyone who worked as hard as he did deserved something as bare minimum as a decent meal. You had been at a point where things like that weren’t always guaranteed. You knew what he meant to an extent.

“Well, as long as you’ll have me, then I think you can expect that.” You replied.

He set his cup off to the side, standing next to you to assist you in washing the dishes. He hummed thoughtfully.

“I might just take you up on that promise.” He responded jokingly.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, scrubbing your plate gently.

“Good. You deserve it.”

He felt overwhelmed with care and love. No one he had ever dated before had taken so much time and spent so much energy on making sure he was taken care of. He could take care of himself surely, but it was nice to let someone else willingly do it every once in a blue moon. He’d never not return the favor, he respected you far too much for that.

With the dishes clean and appetites satisfied, you had a clean slate for the rest of the weekend. You collectively agreed to lay low and forget about the raging world outside. Rafael knew one thing for sure.

He was one lucky guy.

#rafael barba #rafael barba x reader #rafael barba imagine #rafael barba x you #rafael barba x female reader #law and order svu #law and order fanfiction #law and order barba #detectivesvu

151 notes · View notes

ladyblogger-margie · 3 years

Text

Jane Austen Movie Night

Pairing: Marcus Pike (The Mentalist) x GN!Reader

Summary: Hiding your feelings for your best friend Marcus Pike is difficult during your weekly movie night.

Warnings: None, just fluff.

Word Count: 1220

Prompt: “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more”

a/n: I really liked the 2020 Emma. movie and that one line makes me swoon every time, and so does Marcus Pike.

MY MASTERLIST

Marcus opened the door mere seconds after you knocked. He smiled first at you and then at the pizza box and the six-pack of beers in your hand.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said to you and your heart fluttered. You ignored the faint heat in your cheeks and tried to push down the feelings you had for your best friend away and ignore them as you should.

You met FBI agent Marcus Pike at a gallery at random a couple of years ago. He was there for pleasure, not work for a change, and you had been there on a truly terrible first date. Your date was somehow both incredibly boring and incredibly condescending all at once. Marcus had swooped in to save you and correct the boring misinformation your date was spouting.

Thankfully, Marcus had pretended to be an old friend and your date didn’t put up too much of a fight about his presence. You and Marcus didn’t even notice your date had left until he was long gone. The two of you finished the tour together and have been friends ever since.

Since then, Marcus has grown to become one of your closest friends, actually your best friend. He was such an easy guy to be around. He liked the same movies you did, and was comfortable in casual and fancier situations.

Was it any surprise that you had fallen head over heels for a man this sweet?

Though you also knew him well enough to know he wasn’t perfect, but that’s how you knew for sure you guys were close - he let you see his flaws too.

He could be intense to a point where it was intimidating. His sincerity sometimes was so overwhelming it felt suffocating. He also carried with him some abandonment issues that led him to some jealousy and while that was understandable based on his history, it could also be taxing.

His unfortunate relationship history was the biggest reason you had never said anything to him about your feelings for him. He had told you numerous times that just how important to him your friendship was to him, how the stability of you in his life was something vital that he had grown dependent on. You couldn’t risk being another person who tore his life apart, not when being his friend was a true joy all its own.

So, there you were at your weekly movie night at Marcus’ apartment with pizza and beer and completely, silently in love with your best friend.

It was your turn to pick the movie this week and you were scrolling through one of his many streaming services looking for something interesting. You stopped over the latest adaptation of Emma.

“What do you think?” you asked him, gesturing to the screen.

“Jane Austen in pastels? Sounds delightful,” he replied as he handed you a beer.

“Perfect,” you replied, hitting play.

The movie started and you both dive headfirst into the pizza in front of you, not worrying about good manners at all.

Marcus scooped up the dipping sauce and leaned back to get comfortable.

“Hey!” you said, reaching out for the sauce.

“It’s not my fault you only picked up one sauce,” he explained, feigning innocence.

You scurried across the couch and huddled in close to him.

“Fine, I guess I’ll just have to hover and share,” you explained, actually thankful for the excuse to be near him. Your mouth was watering, and you were pretty sure it wasn’t just from the fresh pizza scent.

Marcus smiled softly at you before he said, “That’s just fine.”

You two worked through the pizza quickly, both leaning back with your second beers in hand. After finishing the pizza you didn’t both move back to your side of the couch, choosing instead to stay entangled with Marcus. It wasn’t the first time you had curled up with Marcus during movie night, but it was the first time it happened during a movie that wasn’t a horror film.

You watched the pastel colors dance across the screen, but felt your attention pulled more by the man next to you than the actors on the screen. Though you’ve read the book before, and this wasn’t the first film adaptation of it you’ve seen which helped you follow the story through your distraction.

Marcus clearly also had a familiarity with the material, he would laugh a second before the joke landed, or whisper a line alongside the actors on screen. He pulled you closer to him as he laughed, and the action seemed accidental and unconscious, but you didn’t point it out, afraid it would cause him to let you go.

As the film approached it’s romantic climax, you felt Marcus freeze around you. You couldn’t understand why.

On screen you heard Mr. Knightley say, “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more,” and Marcus brushed his thumb across the exposed flesh of your forearm and your breath caught in your chest. You realized Marcus was holding his breath as you covered his hand with yours.

“I like this movie,” you said in a whisper.

“Yeah, me too,” he replied with a breathy voice.

“Austen knew something about love, huh?” was all you could think to say.

“Mr. Knightley speaks the truth,” Marcus said, his hand travelling to your waist and turning you to face him, “It would be easier to talk about feelings if they weren’t so all consuming.”

You turned into him, bringing your gaze to meet his warm brown eyes and you felt your heart racing in your chest.

“What feelings are those?” you ask him, desperate for the answer you never let yourself wish for.

He pushed his lips against yours firmly, desperate with need and a complete lack of self-restraint.

It didn’t take you any time at all to react. You threw your leg over him and straddled his waist, wrapping your hands around his neck and grabbing fistfulls of his soft, brown hair in your hands and pulling.

He broke the kiss for a moment to just look at you and positively beamed at him.

“I’m sorry, we don’t-” he started to say, but you cut him off with a kiss.

“Marcus,” you said, pulling away, “Trust me, I want this.”

He smiled at you like a man seeing the stars for the first time and pulled you back to him for another kiss. He gripped your hips so tightly it locked you in place, but that was fine by you - there was nowhere else in the world you’d rather be than sitting in his lap and kissing Marcus Pike.

The movie ended in the background, but neither of you paid any attention. Instead you spent the rest of the night holding each other, kissing, and just smiling uncontrollably.

When you started to yawn, Marcus offered you some clean, cozy pyjamas and offered to bunk out on the couch so you could take his bed.

“I don’t want to assume anything,” he said, ever the gentleman.

“Come to bed with me, Marcus,” you said, leading him to his bedroom.

Falling asleep in his arms was better than anything you could have ever imagined, and you knew it wouldn’t be the last time you spent a night like this.

Birthday Challenge Masterlist

Tags: @autumnleaves1991-blog

#marcus pike #marcus pike x gn!reader #the mentalist #pedro pascal #birthday challenge

85 notes · View notes

jokertrap-ran · 3 years

Photo

(光与夜之恋 Light and Night) Evan’s 6✩ Inspiration: Umbrae Secrets [繁荫秘语] Date Translation (Prologue)

“I saw Mr. Lu in the elevator just now! He was acting different from his usual self and the look on his face was absolutely frigid…”

*Light and Night Master-list | Evan’s Personal Masterlist *Spoiler free: Translations will remain under cut *Join the Light & Night Discord (＾▽＾)~ ♪ *This 6✩ Inspiration has 8 Endings!! *Evan’s tag will be #For Night, For Revolution

It was an ordinary day of work. I’d just gotten to the office when Li Man’man opened the door and entered the room.

Li Man'man: No way, no way! You’ll never believe it! I’m doing all of you a favour by reminding you to behave today.

Brother Mao: Huh? What’s gotten you into such a tizzy?

Li Man’man rubbed the goosebumps that had arisen on her arms, shivering as she recalled what she’d seen.

Li Man'man: I saw Mr. Lu in the elevator just now! He was acting different from his usual self and the look on his face was absolutely frigid…

Li Man'man: I thought I’d turn into a block of ice in no time flat the moment our gazes met!

MC: What?

Hearing her recollection, I couldn’t help but to suddenly think back to what happened yesterday during lunch hour.

❖☆———————————★❖

At noon, I’d compiled a set of documents related to jewellery designs, just as Evan had requested and brought it up to his office.

A voice sounded from within when I knocked on the door of his office. It sounded unusually indifferent.

Evan: Come in.

❖☆———————————★❖

Pushing the door open, I saw Evan leaning against his chair, his brows were furrowed, hanging low, and there seemed to be thick storm clouds brewing in his eyes.

He was still staring blankly out the window in a daze when I went up to his desk.

Evan: Just leave it there.

MC: Okay.

Hearing me, he turned. The dark look on his face instantly lightened up.

Evan: Hm? Oh, it's you.

Evan: Sorry, I was just thinking about something.

Recalling the unusual look he had on his face when I entered, I couldn’t help but step on eggshells around him.

MC: Don't worry about it. Here are the documents you requested. Are you… okay?

Before he could reply, however, the landline on his desk suddenly rang, interrupting our conversation.

MC: I'll leave you to it!

Evan nodded apologetically at me and I took my leave from his office.

❖☆———————————★❖

Did something happen to make him unhappy…?

With his personality, he wouldn’t tell anyone about his troubles even if something WAS troubling him, no doubt.

❖☆———————————★❖

When I got home at night, I switched on the TV. It was coincidentally broadcasting a camping-related program.

The lush green forest, the joyous chirruping of birds and their songs… Everything there was powered by Mother Nature’s power of healing, capable of washing away all exhaustion in one’s body and mind.

I didn't know why I thought of Evan again, but I did.

MC: There’s a gigantic forest at the outskirts of Guangqi City and it’s clear weather out all the time now.

MC: Maybe he might feel better if I can somehow get him out to the forest for a walk...

An idea popped into my head and I scrambled to fetch my phone, searching for the familiar name in my contacts.

I was just about to hit the call button when I suddenly thought of a plausible issue.

MC: I don’t think he’ll reject me regardless if he wants to go or not if I invite him directly like that.

MC: Maybe I should feel around for his thoughts about it so that I don’t unknowingly coerce him into anything.

After pondering it for a while, I hit the dial button.

❖☆———————————★❖

Evan: (Y/n)? What's the matter?

MC: … Evan, I… err, have gotten interested in coffee lately.

Evan: Really? What flavour of coffee do you like? I'll be glad to recommend you things.

MC: Oh… I haven't decided yet.

MC: Ahem, have you ever seen a coffee tree? I've never seen it myself with my own two eyes! I really want to go see one~

Evan: About that…

He sounded hesitant, there was no doubt about it. I awkwardly scratched my head.

Did I come off too strange by bringing up that question out of the blue!?

Evan: Coffee trees have strict requirements when it comes to the environment they’re grown in. And as far as I’m aware, the PH levels of the soil and the amount of rainfall here in Guangqi City do not fit their criteria.

Evan: So, I'm afraid it'll be hard for you to spot one in Guangqi City.

Evan: But we can go see one together in Africa during your next vacation if you'd like.

MC: Eh? Africa? No need then.

MC: Ahaha… then, how about...

When there’s a will, there’s a way. I saw a glimmer of light at the end of the dark path in my mind.

MC: Then, what about a bamboo pith?

MC: I had some bamboo piths while eating hotpot a couple of days ago! I find that it’s a very amazing fungus! I really want to see one growing for myself!

Evan: It is. Although information is now widely accessible, it still hits different when you see it with your own eyes.

Evan: When are you free? We can go check it out together.

MC: Brilliant!

That's what I've been waiting for you to say!

MC: Are you free next weekend?

Evan: Yes, my weekends are open.

Evan: You… Are you this happy just to go to the forest for a walk?

MC: Hahaha, yeah! Super happy!

Evan: I'll come fetch you in my car next Saturday at 10 AM. Will that be alright?

MC: Sure! We're all set then!

Evan: Then, have you ever hiked or camped out before?

MC: No… but don't worry!

MC: I’ve watched lots of videos about camping on the internet! I’ll prepare all the equipment we’ll need this time!

Evan: Alright. I'll be leaving it all to you then.

❖☆———————————★❖

Soon, the appointed day arrived.

When I came downstairs lugging along a rucksack that towered about half a person tall, Evan, who was waiting by his car, looked slightly taken aback.

Evan: You…

I found myself blanking out as I stared at Evan, standing not too far away,

This was my first time seeing Evan dressed in such a casual manner. The soft and form-fitting material of his clothes made his shoulders appear wider and him, much more reliable. It was reassuring, to say so in the least.

MC: Haha, did I bring one too many things? Actually, I think so too.

MC: In case we don't find a bamboo pith today, we can still camp overnight in the forest with this.

MC: Don't you think?

He smiled as he approached, taking the heavy bag off my shoulders.

Evan: Sounds good.

Evan: You must have fun and enjoy your first camping trip, if anything.

The tenderness in his countenance was the same as always. Where was that coldness to him that a certain someone had mentioned?

I secretly felt a wave of relief wash over me.

MC: Let's head out then!

❖☆———————————★❖

After driving on the suburban roads for nearly an hour, we finally reached an area near the forest on the outskirts of the City.

Evan gently took my bag out of the trunk, slinging it over his shoulder.

MC: That's pretty heavy. How about you let me carry it myself?

Evan: Since we're going to be travelling together anyway, how about we both give it our best?

MC: Alright then. Thanks!

❖☆———————————★❖

Stepping into the forest, lush green foliage surrounded us all around.

The ubiquitous noise and lights were all isolated from here, creating a secluded and serene atmosphere.

The air was warm, humid, and carried the sweet refreshing scent of vegetation. Relaxation was literally oozing out of my pores.

I turned around to look back at Evan. He was standing ramrod straight as usual with a blank expression on his face.

MC: Evan, we're here to relax!

Evan: Thank you. I am very relaxed.

MC: You can afford to be more relaxed. Here, follow me. Open your arms like this, take a deep breath, and go "Ahh…"

He smiled helplessly at me. Just when I thought he was going to refuse, he mimicked my stance, opening his arms wide.

Evan: Ahh…

MC: Hahaha. Yup, just like that.

I took out a map and a compass from the bag.

MC: I will be the leader for today! I’ve already marked all the routes we can take. Let’s see… let’s go this way first!

Evan: Alright. As you say, leader.

We proceeded through the forest according to the directions shown on the map.

We chatted about the animals and plants that we saw as we walked. Or more accurately, Evan was the one introducing them all to me.

Evan: Sorry. It must be boring hearing me talk about all these.

MC: Nope. I’m actually even more interested after hearing you talk about them.

MC: Also, your expression changes into something a little different from what I’m used to whenever you talk about something you like.

Evan: Something that I like? I’m not really sure if it constitutes as me liking it, but I think I’ll like it if you do.

He smiled in a manner as if he didn’t mind it at all, stopping as he took out some tissues and a bottle of water from his bag.

Evan: Here. Wipe your sweat and hydrate yourself.

MC: Thanks.

The soft bubbling of running water entered our ears as we stopped to rest.

MC: Looks like there's a small rover up ahead, just like how it's drawn in the map!

Evan: Looks like the leader's leading well.

❖☆———————————★❖

Following the sound of running water, we soon found the river.

The clear stream rushed across the pebbles, the crystalline liquid glittering under the golden light of the sun. The wind that blew past the waters was very cool and very refreshing. It felt great on my slightly worn-out body.

MC: The cool breeze here by the river’s really nice! And the sound of dripping water’s also very calming.

Evan: Looks like there’s a flat rock over there where we can sit.

Evan: Do you want to rest for a bit?

I want to…

After pondering for a while, I finally decided to…

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

✥ Choose your Ending:

END 1 | Choice: Do Nothing [都不做]

END 2 +3 + 4 | Choice: Call Out [呼唤] ⊹Speak⊹

END 4 + 6 | Choice: Approach [亲近] ⊹Touch⊹

END 7 + 8 | Choice: Heart-throb [心动] ☆Light & Night★

❖☆————— ⊹ For Night, For Revolution⊹ —————★❖

#光与夜之恋 #Light and Night #Otome #Translations #Tencent #陆沉 #Evan #For Night For Revolution #繁荫秘语 #Umbrae Secrets

16 notes · View notes

mdawritings · 3 years

Text

Wanna Be Yours: Ch. 6

I.VI

Masterlist

Warning: rough sexual content, slapping, spanking, and all-around roughhousing.

Song(s): "Don’t Blame Me" by Taylor Swift

You throw your legs languidly over the chair in the corner of Hotch’s office. "I’ve already studied the material you gave me extensively." You rest your head against the arm of the chair, your eyes fluttering closed.

"If you don’t want the help we can stop these little sessions. That’s fine to settle for mediocrity. Truly, that’s your own mistake," Hotch huffs disapprovingly and you hear him stand up from his chair.

"I’m sorry. I’m just tired," You groan softly and force your eyes open, to see him leaning on the desk arms crossed against his chest as he looks over you. A small smile fights its way onto your face. He looks absolutely amazing today. He’s much more casual than usual. He has a green polo on and the top two unbuttons are undone just enough to let a little chest hair peek out. It’s got you all kinds of unfocused.

"There’s an exam in three days. You need to be prepared," Aaron raises a brow at you, waiting for you to sit up properly and pay attention.

"Isn’t it kind of unfair for you to help me study for an exam you’re writing?" You laugh a little under your breath, swinging your legs around to sit in the chair normally. You lean forward, resting your chin in the palm of your hand.

"I’m not giving you the exact exam questions. Just testing you on the material. Plus, I’ll throw in some questions about the extra stuff we’ve been discussing," Aaron nods and reaches across his desk for a notebook.

You let out another sigh and reach for your own notes. "God this is so boring." You pout.

Aaron raises a brow at your childish attitude and rolls his eyes, "You have something you’d rather do?"

"I have quite a few ideas." You grin and raise your eyebrows twice in jest. Aaron shakes his head at you, narrowing his eyes, "Fine. Fine!" You sigh frustratedly. You’re shocked he’s forcing you to study. Something about it is endearing, knowing that he does still care about your success in the class, not just purely driven by his sexual attraction to you. He holds out another sheet of information and you quickly scan the page, reading it at a pretty fast pace. "Yeah I already know all of this."

"You sure?" He countered, shoving his hands into his pockets, his thumbs hooked on the edges.

"Yes, Aaron, I’m sure," You hold the paper out to hand it back to him.

"How well do you know all of it? Is it practically ingrained in your brain? Can you recall it at a moment's notice? This is a timed exam after all." Hotch rattles off the interrogatory questions and you practically scoff at him.

"You have such little faith in my study habits it’s genuinely concerning. I’ve already made an extensive study guide, studied said study guide, and could take the exam today if I had to." You point out before leaning back in the chair again.

"How about we test your knowledge then?" He raises a brow crossing the room to stand directly in front of you. You crane your head back to be able to look at him. The way you’re positioned, you sitting, him standing, he towers over you, inevitably making his dominance over you more oppressive and obvious.

You scrunch your face up, feeling confused by his actions. "Stand up," He commands and gestures with his hand for you to move out of your chair. You stand up hesitantly but don’t move from your spot, unsure where he’s going with this. He sighs frustratedly and practically lifts you on your feet, moving you out of his way before sitting down in your spot.

You place your hands on your hips, frustrated with him, "Hotch, if you just wanted my seat you could’ve—" Before you can finish your sentence, however, Hotch grips you tightly, yanking you down, laying you across his lap. You let out a small screech in response, fearful you’re going to fall onto your face, but Hotch is quickly to catch you and hold you steady. "What are you—"

"Shut up," He groans out. He reaches forward, practically ripping off your blouse before rolling your skirt up to bunch at your hips. "I’m tired of the attitude today. You’re going to keep that wicked little mouth of yours shut until I tell you to open it, do I make myself clear?" Hotch’s large rough hand trails up your bare legs, before cupping one of your ass cheeks, rubbing and groping it.

You pause, unsure if you should verbally respond so you give a small nod. Hotch draws his hand back, smacking your ass, sending sharp stings of pain throughout your body. You yelp but sink your teeth into your lip, attempting to mute your sounds.

"I asked you a question," He growls out, rubbing over the spot he just smacked, both his hand and your skin warm from the contact. "Do I make myself clear?" He asks once more, placing heavy emphasis on each word and drawing out each syllable.

"Yes," You breathe out, attempting to catch your breath.

"Good girl," He uses his other hand to gather both your wrists, pinning them behind your back. "Corpus Delicti. Define it."

You furrow your brows, "What?"

Smack, smack. He doles out two insanely hard spanks to your ass and you cry out in response. "I asked you a question. Give me the answer," He growls, releasing your wrists so he can fist your hair in hand, "Define corpus delicti."

Your head is fuzzy from the pain and arousal as you squirm around, feeling his firm body below yours. "Corpus delicti," You pant slightly and struggle to find your words, "Also called body of a crime. It’s the principle that there must be facts or evidence that show the occurrence of a crime."

"Good," His hand runs lazily over both cheeks of your ass, his hand slightly cooler than your burning hot skin. He hooks his finger into your panties and pulls them down your legs. "The two components of corpus delicti?"

Just as you open your mouth to give an answer, Hotch thrusts two fingers into you at an achingly slow pace. His fingers are thick and fill you wholly and he curls them just right. "Oh fuck," You moan out, unable to contain your arousal.

He pauses for a moment and stills. "Don’t stop!" You whine impatiently. Just as the words leave your lips, you remember the question he asked you. "Wait, wait!" You cry out but Hotch brings his hand down harder than ever on your ass three times in rapid succession.

"Evidence that a crime has been committed and someone is criminally responsible for the act," You cry out, missing the feeling of his fingers inside of you, "That fucking hurts," You whine in pain, your head feeling fuzzy. You can barely think straight. Your bottom is on fire, your eyes sting with tears and you’re just aching for his touch again.

"You know what to say if you want me to stop," He tuts disapprovingly and the safe words you two have discussed race through your brain. You’re not going to say one. You’re in a whole world of pain but you’re most definitely enjoying, "Now if I recall, you’re not supposed to speak," He clamps a hand over your mouth, leaning his face in close to your ear, "Now be quiet. Otherwise, someone might hear you making all this unnecessary noise."

He’s taunting you. He raises his hand, spanking your ass, again, and again, and again. You’re not quite sure what spurred this on, but you’re assuming it has to do with the way you cursed at him. He finally lets up after another five spanks, your moans and cries muffled by his hand. At this point, your legs feel weak and you struggle to hold your head up. Tears stream down your cheeks freely.

"The principles of criminality?" Hotch runs his hand up your bare back, reaching for your bra clasp and undoing it to slide your bra off.

Your breathing is wildly erratic and just about everything you’ve ever learned seems to have disappeared from your memory. But out of fear of more smacks to your stinging cheeks, you rush to get the answer out, "Legality, actus reus, mens rea, fusion of actus reus and mens rea, harm, causation, and stipulation of punishment." You rattle off, letting out a small sigh of relief.

You feel his hand leave your skin and you squeeze your eyes tightly shut already anticipating the slap before you get it. He gives you two more electrifying spanks, "Ow!" You cry out, "What the fuck was that for?" You burrow your face into the arm of the chair and feel him chuckle softly beneath you. He keeps you pinned to his lap, pressing his erection hard into your stomach.

Hotch doesn’t reply simply pushing you up off his lap and back onto your knees. You sit back on your heels, squeezed in the small space between him and the arm of the chair. His hands go to his belt, undoing it and unzipping his slacks just enough to push his boxers down and free himself from his pants. He’s already hard, obviously aroused from the punishments he had been doling out to you. "Let’s put that mouth of yours to good use."

You bend down, taking almost all of him into your mouth. You wrap one hand around the base, pumping and stroking the remaining length that doesn’t fit in your mouth. You bring the other hand to cup and fondle his balls, eliciting a long, loud groan that rumbles deep in his throat. "That’s my good girl." He gathers up your hair in his hands, holding it out of your face.

You bob your head faster, picking up the pace as you run your tongue along the entirety of his cock. You pull all the way out to the tip before taking all of him back into your mouth again. His cock hits the back of your throat, causing you to choke out a gag, tears stinging your eyes again. You breathe through your nose as he tightens his grip on your hair. "Just like that… don’t stop. Take all of me, pretty girl."

Just as you feel him twitch in your mouth, beginning to buck his hips quite wildly, he pulls your head away.

"Why’d you stop I—" Hotch silences you with a passionate kiss, wrapping one hand around your neck to pull you closer, but not really tightening his grip in a way to cut off airflow. You moan into his mouth loudly and he guides you onto his lap.

You place your knees on either side of his hips, grinding against him. Your mouth focuses on meeting his, taking in every one of his moans. "Please, daddy," You whine, "I need you now." The name spurs him on and he lifts your hips just enough to push into you.

It’s a familiar feeling, but even now it still elicits a small gasp from your lips as you throw your head back in pleasure. This exposes the entire base of your neck to him, which he soon litters with small nips and kisses as he resists the urge to move you or thrust into you.

You squirm a little but he keeps your hips glued in place, "Please. Please I need more," You beg pathetically. You bring your eye line back down to look at him and he has that hungry, lustful glint in his eye that you love so much.

"What do you want me to do, pretty girl?" He mumbles against the skin of your neck and the vibrations of his deep voice send chills down your entire body. Your ass is on fire and every nerve ending feels electrified with his cock buried deep inside you like this.

"Please," Your begging intensifies and Hotch trails a hand between the two of you, rubbing your clit, increasing the pressure steadily, "Please, daddy, fuck me!" You need some form of friction, anything at all. He’s torturing you and you’re fucking sick of it. You’re hot and sweaty and horny and you need to finish.

"When are you going to learn?" He tsks softly and reaches up with his other hand to massage your breast, taking your nipple between his fingers. "You need to use your words." You whine impatiently.

"Please. I’m begging you," you tilt your head down and lean forward to kiss him quickly, nipping at his lips and aching to taste him. You let out a small cry in pleasure when he finally lifts your hips, just to slam you down onto him. He’s taking a rough pace with you. He’s wild and uncontrollable but you don’t even notice because your body feels so overstimulated. Between the pain in your bottom and the overwhelming pleasure, your head feels as if it's in a haze.

You’re on top of him, but he makes it evidently clear that he still has control, even in this position. His hands grip your hips with bruising strength and he thrusts his own hips up to meet yours with every bounce. He hits deep inside you and you cry out in pleasure, holding onto his shoulders tightly for balance.

Your skirt slides down from your hips a little, almost hiding the image of him thrusting up into you. You don’t last long, feeling the familiar pressure building between your hips, "Can I come? I want to come around you!" You cry out, "Fuck please daddy!" You struggle to get coherent words out, devolving into a series of incoherent curses and moans as Hotch continues to slam you down onto his cock.

"Go ahead," He mutters softly and leans in to kiss your cheek and down under your jaw, "You’ve been a good girl you deserve it," He speaks close to your ear and the feeling of his hot breath fanning across your face sends a small shiver through you as your eyes roll back into your head. You come hard around his cock, chanting his name and letting out loud, strangled cries of pleasure.

You can barely hold yourself up and you burrow your head into his neck as Hotch continues to fuck you through your orgasm, his pace unrelenting. You feel your legs trembling as Hotch’s pace grows erratic, his panting turning into guttural deep groans. "That’s it, daddy," You purr, nipping at his earlobe.

"Fuck!" Hotch cries out and thrusts into a few times before coming to a shuddering halt and throwing his head back onto the chair, breathing heavily.

You both stay there for a while, attempting to catch your breath and to get the strength to stand up. Hotch soon lifts you up, placing you back on your feet. He stands up soon after, tucking himself back into his pants and reaching for his belt. He walks back around to his desk. You both exist in silence, moving about the room, cleaning yourselves up. You bend down for your bra and blouse that Hotch so carelessly discarded.

"Come over to my place tonight." Hotch’s voice cuts through the silence as you are getting dressed. Your head shoots up to look at him and he can read the confusion that coats your face. He glances away from your line of sight and back at his desk. He busies his hands with some papers on the desk.

You pull your blouse on, attempting to button it before realizing a few buttons are missing. "Isn’t that a little… different for us?" You attempt to decode Hotch’s mannerisms but he keeps his focus down on the materials on the desk.

"I’m tired of hiding out in this stuffy office," He shakes his head, "Plus there’s only so many surfaces I can put you on here." He glances up at you, that mischievous smirk plastered across his face. "My apartment has a working AC system, food, drinks, and most importantly, a very large, very comfortable bed."

You hesitate, not sure how to respond. You want to go over to his place. It sounds nice but you have a sinking feeling you’re growing just a little too attached to your law professor.

"Well, I won’t be over until late tonight." You respond as Hotch picks up your bag from the floor, holding it out for you. You reach to pull it onto your shoulder. You glance up to see Hotch’s quizzical look, "I promised Charlie I would help him study. For your exam actually." You laugh softly and see Hotch’s face fall into a frown.

"Charlie Miller?" He clarifies and you nod.

"Yeah," You breathe out, attempting to right your clothing and smooth out your hair, "Something wrong?"

"He’s… just not someone I would picture you wasting your time with," Hotch crosses his arms against his chest, eyes focused down at you. You want to quickly dismiss his judgment, attributing it to Charlie’s lack of work ethic but you sense something else in his tone. Is that… jealousy?

You smirk widely, "Oh really? Are you sure that’s what’s bothering you?"

"What are you insinuating?" He tilts his head to the side, raising his brows, his voice flat and unimpressed.

"Oh I’m not insinuating anything, professor," You drawl out the title and grin at him cheekily.

He grips the front of your blouse, pulling you close to him, "Watch the attitude. Unless you want me to show you what real punishment is like tonight." He reaches down to grab and grope at your ass, eliciting a small hiss in pain.

You stay like that for a minute, your chest pressed against his, his hands roaming your body once more. He lets out a strained breath before letting you go, "Call me if you’re going to come over."

You nod, "Bye Aaron," You smile before turning to close his office door.

———

"I’m serious, Charlie, we have to focus," You laugh as he places a beer in front of you on your kitchen table.

"One beer is not going to kill your focus, kid genius," He rolls his eyes cracking open each of the bottles, "Besides, I’m the one who needs help with studying."

You grin and pull the beer out of his hands, "Fine. Then you get this back when we’re done."

"What? Are you punishing me?" He places a hand over his chest feigning shock and hurt.

You roll your eyes, reaching over to nudge his shoulder playfully, "Let’s just get started" You notice that Charlie has scooted his chair a little closer to yours, his thigh pressing firmly against yours. He brings his hands down to rest on his lap, his fingers brushing gently against your leg. The small contact doesn’t make you uncomfortable. It just doesn’t send sparks through your entire body the way Hotch’s hands do. You clear your throat, feeling your face flush. Your bottom is still wildly uncomfortable sitting here on the hard wooden chairs in your apartment.

"Outline the principles of criminality." You turn on a small smile. As Charlie starts to rattle off his answers, your mind wanders back to your study session with Hotch from earlier. Your ass is still stinging wildly. Your mind is still sort of foggy and you’re fucking exhausted. The aching between your thighs hasn’t ceased and you’re sure it won’t be going away any time soon if you decide to go over to Hotch’s tonight.

"Was that correct?" Charlie’s question startles you out of your thoughts. "Hey… y/n, you okay?" He places a hand on your shoulder.

You glance back at Charlie, realizing you’ve entirely missed what he said, "Uh yeah… let’s just move on. "Ex post facto?"

"After the deed or after the fact." He recites before giving a large grin, "So how am I doing, Einstein? Living up to your expectations?"

"You just might exceed them, Miller," You taunt but you can’t seem to get into the natural teasing rhythm with him. You can’t stop thinking about Hotch. You force your eyes back to Charlie, who seems to return the same level of unwavering eye contact.

Yes, it’s amazing when you’re with him. You’re never unsatisfied. The passion between you and your professor is unmatched. You can’t keep your hands off of him. But when you leave you can’t help but let your mind wander. Every interaction feels so static. Like your relationship is simply an exchange of services and it leaves you feeling used. Like you’re unimportant and worthless. Yet at the same time, he manages to make you feel seen. Hotch simultaneously sees the greatness in you, he acknowledges the potential and the intelligence you hold, while also treating you like every other man in power treats women. He sees you the way you want to be seen while reducing you to just your looks. You wonder if Hotch grows bored of you… what is to become of this arrangement? Do you lose the respect of your professor as soon as he no longer wants to sleep with you?

That’s when your mind stumbles over a thought you had never considered until right now: Are you the only one? He seems so comfortable with the dynamics of a student/professor affair. Are there other students he’s showering with praise before burrowing his head between their thighs?

"Y/n? Are you okay? You seem so distracted and lost today." Charlie’s voice is soft and warm.

"Yeah," You have to break his eye contact, unable to look at his features any longer, glancing down at your hands. His whole presence is the exact opposite of Hotch. Hotch is rough and blunt. His eyes are warm, the most beautiful light brown tone, contrasting with his jet black hair and warm skin tone. Hotch’s touch is rough, needy. His voice is gruff, abrasive. Charlie’s voice is smooth and velvety. Every touch from him is gentle, inviting. His skin is pale and his eyes are a bright blue. Hotch is a man and Charlie is… well Charlie is practically a boy. Still older than you, but immaturity and inexperience run rampant through him.

His hand reaches under your chin, tilting your face up to look at him. He doesn’t speak, his eyes just searching yours. And suddenly you’re kissing him.

His hands are warm on your cheeks. He pulls you close, your hands resting on his bare chest, easily accessible because the top buttons of his shirt are open. His mouth is soft and warm against yours. One hand comes to the back of your neck, the other trailing down to your back. He pushes your back, your body arching against him.

Soft slow kisses turn into more rapid, needy ones. Your hands explore his body and you notice just how different he is from Hotch. His skin is smooth and heavily muscled. He pulls you closer, attempting to remove any distance that remains between your bodies. You don’t have time to think, he just lets your hands explore his torso. His hands move steadily down, resting on your bare thighs before sliding just under the hem of your skirt.

Your fingers work at the buttons on his shirt and his large hands rest on your hips under your skirt. In a second, he pulls you as close as possible, settling you onto his lap. You let out a soft moan in response. And Charlie lets out a low chuckle that vibrates through your entire body. That’s enough for you to pause and think for a second.

What are you doing? What the actual fuck are you doing?

You freeze, stopping the kiss to pull away. You look over Charlie’s flushed features, his eyes alight with lust and his lips plump and swollen from your kiss.

"I’m sorry. I can’t," You start to speak and get off of his lap, taking a few steps away. You’re struggling to catch your breath and you haphazardly grab your belongings.

Charlie grabs your hand lightly, "Wait, wait where are you going?"

"I’m sorry I shouldn’t have done that," You shake your hand, yanking your hand from his grip. "I shouldn’t have…"

"Did I do something wrong?" Charlie scrunches up his brows confused.

"No! No," You reassure him, maybe just a little too forcefully, "I just… I really have to go." And with that you’re practically running out the door, running out of your own apartment just to clear your mind and get some air.

As soon as you step outside, your first thoughts are of Hotch. You’re not dating him, nothing is solid, there’s no exclusivity. He could be sleeping with a million other students for all you know, but for some reason, you feel dirty. You feel guilty. You can’t possibly comprehend why you feel like this. There are hardly any real moments of connection between you and Hotch. You enjoy each other’s company but it’s not as if you would ever spend time together without having sex. That would make what you and Hotch have too real. And it’s not. It’s just sex, no promises, no commitments. Just pure, animalistic acts of passion.

You think about Charlie. You’ve led him on. You let out a frustrated groan, walking down the block from your apartment. The weather is getting colder every day and you shiver slightly. As your feet scrape against the pavement you think about the other night when Hotch walked you home and you feel the guilt growing inside of you. Maybe there is some connection between the two of you. Or maybe that’s entirely one-sided.

Either way, whatever just happened with Charlie was incredibly wrong and should never have happened no matter how good it felt or how nice and kind he is to you. You have this thing with Hotch. Whatever the thing is, all you know is that you can’t think of anyone other than Hotch, even as Charlie’s hands gripped and massaged your skin. Your heart is pounding and your breathing is tremulous. It's getting so cold that you can see your breath hang in the air.

You dig into your bag for your phone. You flip it open and dial the number. "Aaron? I’m on my way over now."

Chapter 7: I.VII →

#aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #wanna be yours fanfic #hotch #hotchner #hotch x reader

27 notes · View notes

serenadeonacanoe · 3 years

Text

Waiting for something. (Namjoon x OFC)

Pairing: Namjoon x Original Female Character

Genre/Warnings: Smut, Fluff, Angst, too tired to beta

Summary:

Me: [12:24 AM] Soo... is this actually Namjoon then? Namjoon: [12:39 AM] It is. Me: [12:41 AM] I think I need proof. [...] Me: [12:51 AM] Okay, I am convinced. Namjoon: [12:52 AM] And how do I know this is Olivia? [...] Namjoon: [1:02 AM] Alright, yeah. I think that is the girl RM apparently not so low-key flirted with a few weeks back. Ollie hadn't planned to have her music show blow up when Namjoon jokingly flirts with her at a red carpet event, how could she? But now the footage is out there and yesyesyes all very funny... but wait... why are they still texting?

More chapters on AO3

CHAPTER 1

The truth was that there was something a bit gross about red carpet coverage. Yes, it was exciting and nervewracking in a good way, sometimes actually interesting conversations were held and most of the time - with the help of a little editing of course - the result was worth it. But there was also just a lot of waiting. Standing around. Constant screams around you. A. lot. of. fake. laughter. And that made sense in a way, who could keep their energy up for so long... well not me. Between interviews, I would just drop my shoulders, trying to relax my shoulders a little, just to cheer up again moments later, when I suddenly had another chance. Minutes of fast speaking, cheeriness and ... well, sometimes, yes, fake laughter would follow and then back to dreaming you could please take a nap on the sidewalk behind you.

"Cheer up! You forgot that you love this!" Nick, my cameraman murmured, his head still hidden from my view behind the camera on his shoulder. Still, I looked in his direction, my mouth fell open for a second. Jesus, he was right. Why was I complaining... when had I gotten used to all this spectacle to a point that I forgot that I was so very lucky. I was doing what I loved, just as much as the people I interviewed. How many people studying journalism and obsessed with music would actually end up where I now was. My own music show for a year now. Okay, online, not regularly on TV, but still financed by a network. But this was the 21st century and streaming numbers were probably more important to some than their own grandmother's life, yeah... I should have been more grateful. And while I stared at Nick, I could see a grin in the corner of his mouth, even though most of it was hidden. And then I grinned as well and interviewed Harry Styles. You know, casual Friday, some might say...

Somehow Nicks comment had saved my night. I forgot about the fact that I was tired, or that I had promised my mother three days ago that I would call and had never gotten around to it. Or that my ex-boyfriend was currently at the Great Barrier Reef with the girl he had told me nothing was going on with while we had been dating. It was me and people passioned about the art they were making, which hyped me enough to actually feel like I was doing a pretty good job of asking the right questions at the right time.

And still, Nick just hissed a hasty "Step it up!" at me when he realized that we had a pretty good chance at interviewing BTS next, even before I realized that they had gotten so close. I had definitely realized they were here somewhere, the screams had gotten so loud when they had stepped out of their car. But - bam! - suddenly a stern-looking woman pointed towards me and seconds later they were standing in front of our camera. Matching suits, polite smiles, super professional and me just in awe. Some clever editor would later play it up, as if I had actually gone into stand by mode, inspired by the fact that I turned around to the camera the next second and pretended I had lost my shit, before snapping out of it moments later, turning around again. "Oh my God. It's BTS, how are you guys?" They were professionals, but so was I.

I got two questions in before the woman tried to rush them away from me, but I pretended to not hear her and got one more question out there before we said our good-byes. Jimin waved at me like a toddler and for some reason, it made me "dawww". He didn't hear, but Namjoon, the last to move over to the next interview, did, turned around again and chuckled, before winking at me. I blinked. And then they were gone.

"Did Namjoon just low-key flirt with me?" I asked Nick, who was still recording me. "You wish..." he said, which made me laugh, and I nodded slightly, eyes closed as if to say "Guess so". Nick stopped recording and I dropped my shoulders again. Man, who was I to complain about fake laughing when I could go from quirky-hyper-music journalist-me to energy-saving mode in about five seconds? Checking my phone I realized it was time. I had to head inside, otherwise, there was no way I would make it backstage before stuff got really really hectic there.

The award show was alright. We didn't actually do any interviews backstage, the truth was that these things we so incredibly organized that there was no time to waste on the sidelines, no time for a chat unless it was pre-planned. This was all to show how much fun I was having, probably to be edited into a montage or something. And I mean... I was having fun... but then again it just sometimes felt a bit goofy, jumping around, clapping for people when they came off stage as if we were friends. After a while Nick and I had found a good spot where we weren't in anyone's way, could see the side of the stage and still had a monitor close to us that was showing us what the audience on tv saw. I finally relaxed a little after Nick had decided that he had enough material. He had set the camera down, and we were having a beer while watching the rest of the show.

It was towards the end of the show when the evening's hostess was giving a little speech about how much fun the event had been, followed by a montage of scenes from different celebrities getting ready to the red carpet. Nick said something about the fact that the turn around time for the clips was pretty fast, considering that some of this had happened only two hours before and I just made a "mmhh" sound to answer him when I was really checking my phone. Moments later he had kicked my shoe with his and I looked up confused. For a second I thought he was upset because I had not given him proper attention, but he gestured towards the screen and for a good reason. Because I was on there. Seemed like the behind-the-scene camera people had been standing right behind Nick when I had interviewed BTS. They showed my little "OHMYGAWD, IT'S BTS" moment and I had to smile, then there was a hard cut and next thing I saw was the whole "Did Namjoon just flirt with me?"-moment, just from a different angle. And with the knowledge that the whole audience inside the hall saw the same thing as well. I could hear the laughter and then while there was some sad applause, the live camera was in front of BTS, zooming in on RM... who was still looking up at a screen and seemed a bit overwhelmed, before acting all nonchalant about it towards the camera. The other boys were laughing their asses off, Hobi looked as if he was about to fall off his seat. Namjoon played the coolness up, even more, nodded into the camera, holding a hand up to his face, mouthing a "call me", before looking a bit uncomfortable the next second, maybe because he couldn't believe himself that he had just done that. And then they cut back to the hostess and I only realized that I had moved my hand in front of my mouth when I turned to Nick. He had laughed through the whole thing as well.

Okay. So, nothing about this whole bit had been particularly clever or as funny as everyone was making it out to be. Award show humor. What was funny was that everyone had seen my childish comment. Including the person, it had been about. It was harmless after all and so now I started laughing as well and I didn't stop for a good while. Yeah, I was a bit embarrassed. But at least they had made me look more relatable than desperate and Namjoon had taken the joke well.

When I got to my hotel room - several glasses of sparkling wine later - I realized my best friend, back home in New York, had texted me.

Lauren: [12:13 AM] So who is the new boyfriend? Me: [12:42 AM] If everyone who ever winked at me once was my boyfriend... Lauren: [12:47 AM] You'd still be single! ha!

More chapters on AO3

#namjoon fanfic #bts fanfic #namjoon x reader #namjoon fluff #namjoon angst #namjoon smut #rm

16 notes · View notes

athingthatwantsvirginia · 4 years

Text

How Kurt Cobain

PART TWENTY-SEVEN OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: drinking, anxiety about future, plentiful pop culture references, this is the product of intense writer’s block so who knows its quality honestly

Word Count: 4.3K

Summary: Ella takes a morning walk through Philly. Then, she takes Jess to Lane’s wedding.

Tangled beneath the sheets, Ella awoke with the sunlight streaming through Jess’s window and into her closed eyes. She squinted as she cleared her throat and shifted to find Jess’s side of the bed empty. Furrowing her brows, she raked a hand through her messy hair and sat up against the green wall, Nietzche’s eyes looking over her almost comically. Still, she found no Jess in the room, though the door was slightly ajar. The smell of coffee drifted in from the kitchen. She worried frantically if she had missed her interview with the Dean.

“Jess?” she called.

After only a moment, he waltzed in with the paper in one hand and a mug in the other. He smirked when he saw the scowl on her face. Yet another thing he could count on never changing. Ella Stevens was not a morning person. “Yeah?”

“What the hell? Why didn’t you wake me?” she demanded, rubbing at her eyes with both hands.

Jess snickered. “Like it’s so easy. I tried. You told me to fuck off.”

“I did not.”

“Oh, but you did. Twice.”

Groaning slightly, she shook her head at herself. “Sorry.”

“No problem. I’m used to the colorful vocabulary by now,” he shrugged, taking a long sip of his black coffee.

She rushed over to her bag, convinced of her tardiness.

“Woah, where’s the fire?” Jess asked.

“What time is it?”

“Relax. It’s only nine. Your interview isn’t until eleven, right?’ he asked, smug smirk ever-present.

Blowing out a small breath, she nodded. “Yeah. Jesus. I thought it was noon.”

“Why?”

“That’s usually how late I sleep when I forget to set an alarm,” she said, running her fingers through her hair again.

He chuckled. “Well, you’ve got a while. I had to get up to let the poet guy in. There’s donuts in the kitchen. Campus is only a few blocks away. I can walk you there later, if you want.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, she tried to fight the smile which threatened to cross her face. “I don’t need an escort, Mariano.”

“Oh, right. I forgot you know exactly how to get there from here,” he said, feigning understanding.

She rolled her eyes. “I brought a map.”

“That’s cute,” he teased.

“Fuck you.”

“It’s not the twentieth century anymore. Just let me walk you, Stevens.”

“Okay, fine,” she conceded, finally letting herself break into a little grin.

. . .

Cloudy light shone through the overcast sky in gray tones, but the air was light. Philadelphia was not due for rain. Ella breathed in the city as they strolled down the sidewalk. It was a little grimy, but so alive. The pulse of the noise and the people made her feel excited, inspired. She would have to draw something of it as soon as she got a moment. Jess had his hands shoved in his pockets, stealing occasional glances at Ella. He saw the same wonder in her eyes that he had when she’d come to visit him in New York all those years ago. A pleasant warmth radiated throughout him, and for just a little while he stopped wondering where they stood with each other, what would happen, about the words they still needed to speak.

She fiddled with the thin strap of her watch as she walked along. “Do you like Philly better than New York?”

He perked his head up as she suddenly broke the silence between them. “Oh yeah. Less people. Better art scene.”

“Really?”

“Definitely. And it also helps that my mom doesn’t live here.”

“Ah,” Ella replied knowingly, nodding slightly. “So, you guys haven’t talked much since the wedding, I take it?”

“Every now and again,” he shrugged.

They turned down a road lined with coffee shops and bookstores. Ella could tell it was a backwards way of getting to campus, but expected nothing less of Jess. It made her want to smile. The more she saw of the city, the more she could tell he belonged. Finally, he had a place where he fit.

“She did call me when April showed up, though,” Jess continued casually.

Ella uttered a small laugh. “Yeah. That was...straight outta left field. She’s a good kid, though. Can recite the whole periodic table in like sixty seconds. She kinda reminds me of my brother.”

“Adam?” Jess asked.

Ella nodded, the warm breeze blowing her bangs back from her face. Her hair was in a low bun, and she was dressed in the same clothes as the day before. Most of her wardrobe wasn’t the most professional. And straight-laced clothes, she thought, were an important balance for her visible tattoos.

“How’s he doin’?”

She shrugged, smiling lightly. “He’s good. Almost done with his junior year. He’s applying to all those big schools. MIT is his top choice, I think.”

“Jeez. Another valedictorian in the family?”

“Maybe. He might get a full ride, especially since…” she paused, biting at the inside of her cheek. Looking over at Jess, she saw his curious expression. He seemed more open than he ever had, comfortable in his own skin. When she continued, her tone was firmer, more direct. “Well, my dad left to live with my uncle in Baltimore a few months ago. It’s just Adam and Fiona back in the house. He’ll get lots of financial aid points for having a single step-parent.”

“Oh, that’s…”

“Yeah. But, I think everyone’s better off,” she said, averting her gaze from him. Again, Jess thought he saw her try and grab for a necklace, but instead she reached up to tug gently at one of her small earrings. “Once the baby thing didn’t work out with Fiona, my dad started drinking more and...I think he realized he’d never...losing my mom. He’s never gonna be the same. Adam’s doing well, though. And Fiona’s doing better. It’s better.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, appraising her with a careful eye. “I’m glad, then.”

“Me too.” She cast him a tiny, reassured smile. “Sorry. That’s heavy stuff and it’s not even afternoon.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry over,” he replied.

Rushing over a crowded crosswalk as the seconds blinked off the timer, Jess took her hand to lead her. She wouldn’t be late, but he could tell she was anxious to get where she needed to be. “We’re almost there.”

He thought for a moment about disentangling their fingers, but she gave his hand a squeeze instead. His heart glowed with nostalgia and hope. The noise around them seemed like music. Cherry trees, which dotted campus, were blooming and they stepped over the petals beneath their feet. Hardly thinking, Jess ran a thumb over the smooth skin of the back of her hand. Her smile grew.

They were approaching the brick building which held the dean of the art school’s office. Students whizzed past them with backpacks and frantic looks. A sense of surrealism dawned on Ella. She was going to end up at an Ivy League, after all. Just a little later than she had once hoped she would. The air smelled clean and damp with spring.

“So,” Jess began, coming to a stop a few feet from the walkway which led to the double doors, “after this, you’re all set?”

“Guess so,” she said, slightly breathless with the moment.

He hummed, looking around him. “Y’know, this morning, I was thinking-”

“That’s a bad sign,” Ella interjected.

Jess rolled his eyes. “Age has not helped your stand-up material, Stevens.”

“I disagree,” she said shortly. “Please, continue.”

He sighed heavily, separating their fingers and running a hand over his mouth. “Well, you don’t have a place to live here yet, right?”

“Not yet.”

“I was thinking maybe you’d want to come live with us. Above Truncheon,” he said, spitting out the words as fast as he could.

Ella’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really?”

Jess nodded shyly. “My bed’s big enough. And I don’t have that much stuff; there’s room for you. Chris already loves you. I’m sure Matthew wouldn’t mind either. And your sketches are down in the main room anyway. We could put a price on them and...only if you want to. I know it’s a lot to process, so you don’t need to answer right now or anything.”

Her eyes were calculating as she gathered her thoughts. “Just so I’m clear...you want us to get back together. And you want us to live together in your apartment. With Matthew and Chris. Above Truncheon.”

“Yes,” Jess confirmed, tone growing more confident, though his heart was beating painfully against his ribs.

“Are you sure? I mean...we haven’t seen each other in two years. Maybe time has corrupted me,” she said, voice serious despite her weak joke.

Again, he sighed. “I think we were both pretty corrupted to begin with-”

“How Kurt Cobain of you.”

“And I don’t care how long it’s been. We’ve got a lot to make up for. I feel like I’ve been waiting for you forever. And I’m tired of waiting. I’m ready to try again. Really try, this time. But only if you are. Only if you want this too,” he said.

A familiar nausea rose in his throat, and his hands began to shake. The only other time he’d taken such a leap of faith, it hadn’t gone over well. But everything was different. He was settled, with a steady income. She had graduated, and was finally embracing her dreams. His foolish hope persisted, even still. When he’d woken up next to her again, in a bed which he’d bought himself, and eaten breakfast with her, read morning papers with her, he could think of nothing he wanted more. Communication, he reminded himself. Open and honest communication. Even if he still wanted to roll his eyes at just the thought of Luke’s self-help nonsense.

“And,” he continued, when she hadn’t said a word, was only turning thoughts over in her head silently, “you don’t have to say anything now. I...dammit. I should’ve done this after your interview. I just got caught up after yesterday and this morning. I wasn’t sure if I’d see you later and...I didn’t mean to freak you out. I’m sorry. Really, you don’t have to say anything-”

“Jess,” she interrupted, finally locking eyes with him again. “Just shut up for a second.”

“Okay.”

After chewing on her thumb nail for a moment, she blew a breath out through her nose with finality. “Can I get cactuses again? There was no place for them at Lane’s. And, Jesus, you guys have got to organize your living room. I mean, the kitchen and your bedroom are okay. But I have no idea how you guys even find anything. The piles of paperwork on the table are, like, seven feet high.”

A slow grin formed on Jess’s face, and the worry began to clear from his brown eyes. “You can do whatever you want, Stevens.”

“Truer words never spoken,” she agreed earnestly. “You better make room for my fucking records then, too. They’ve been living in my car for way too long.”

Jess chuckled, nodding slightly. His eyes lingered on her lips. “I was thinking about kissing you, just now. Is that okay?”

Ella thought her heart would melt at his words. “Go for it, Mariano.”

Jess brought his hands to her waist and kissed her. For the first time in years. Ella smiled into it, pressed against him. It tasted sugary-sweet, from the donuts they’d eaten. Her fingers tangled into his hair, longer and less greasy than she remembered. But it felt much the same. A tingly joy began in her stomach and then spread throughout her body, new and old and welcome and perfect.

. . .

Of all the people not to be at Lane’s wedding, Ella did not expect Luke to miss it. For some reason, he was still out of town for April’s field trip. Not that it was any of her business, but she couldn’t help be slightly irritated at his absence. However, she wasn’t entirely alone. Though Lane and the other people in her life weren’t exactly sold on him, Ella had taken a shot in the dark and invited Jess. At Mrs. Kim’s millionth reference to her loneliness, her lack of a date, Ella had finally let it slip to Lane. She had seen Jess again. They were talking on the phone every single night. She was set to move in with him in a week. And, soon, she was calling him up. Hearing the surprised tone of his voice, his apprehension to come back to town. But, honestly, he’d caved a little quicker than she thought he would. All it had taken was her offering to try Hemingway again. And Kerouac. She knew she was going to absolutely loathe the latter, but it would be worth it.

As the ceremony ended, most of Lane’s family, including her mother, left the gathering in town square. None of them were eager to party with the townies. Kirk revealed the white food truck parked on the street opposite the gazebo to actually be the bar. He was exploring business ownership, and Yummy Bartenders was his most recent endeavor. Lorelai, without Luke and somehow having ended up with Rory’s father, Christopher, as her date, flocked straight to the alcohol. It made Ella snort a laugh, but inside, it made her heart ache. Luke and Lorelai had taken so long to get together. And now, things were headed nowhere good. A hot, dry sunlight shone down on them in yellow tones, and soon the sky would darken. Everyone’s mood had changed as soon as they left the church. Lorelai ripped off the bottom half of Lane’s dress, revealing her calves joyfully. Standing beside Ella, Rory let out a hoot of excitement and rushed over to the new bride. Snickering, Ella took the long pin from her low bun and let her blonde waves loose down her back.

Jess tucked her hair behind her ear gently as they both took a moment to breathe. The church had been stuffy and hot, filled to the brim with people. The air was no cooler, but at least there was a wide open space to mingle in. Grabbing his hand, Ella ventured a glance at Jess. As soon as his rusty Ambassador had rolled into town three hours earlier, she could sense how anxious he was. Maybe just being in Stars Hollow made him uncomfortable, or maybe it gave him too many flashbacks to his own mother’s wedding.

“You okay? I have the key to the diner, if you wanna go. I called Luke earlier and he said we could stay in the apartment. I’ll be up there later,” she said, tone apologetic.

Jess shook his head. “No. I’m fine. Just don’t know where we should sit.”

“Next to Miss Patty?” she asked. The dance teacher had noticed her across the way, and Ella waved back at her.

“She’ll eat me alive,” Jess sighed. “What about with Rory and Lorelai?”

Narrowing her eyes, Ella considered it. Then, she bit the inside of her cheek for a moment. “I don’t know. I haven’t been so close with them recently. And I don’t know if I wanna get in the middle of the happy family back together.”

“Fair enough,” Jess agreed. “Alright. Miss Patty and Babette, then. But I’m counting on your protection.”

Her grin grew wicked. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m your knight in shining polyester.”

. . .

Hep Alien was on fire, despite the wasted state of every single band member. Balmy breezes blew and Ella’s flushed skin was finally beginning to cool down. The night was dark and the sky clear. Every so often, her eyes flicked to Rory, Lorelai, and Christopher’s table. Sookie and Jackson had been sitting with them, but they had long since left. Without Ella to babysit the kids, they’d had to hire a new girl. Jackson could barely handle the nerves at a random high-schooler watching his babies. Ella twirled her rings nervously on her fingers, while Patty, Babette, and Maury chain-smoked across the centerpiece floral arrangement. Jess, at her side, had his arm around her shoulder. He stroked her upper arm absently.

He raised an eyebrow and followed her gaze to Rory. “What’s with you?”

“Hm?” she asked, blinking the reverie from her eyes. Facing him again, Ella was struck by how much more mature he looked. Back in Stars Hollow, but as a man with a publishing business and a decently neat bedroom of his own. Despite the uneasiness brewing in her stomach, she also felt pride appear. It didn’t shock her where he ended up. But it still made her feel such joy to see him successful and content.

Jess nodded in the direction of the Gilmores, three tables over. “Did something happen between you guys? Is it why you weren’t a bridesmaid?”

Ella shook her head. “No. I wasn’t a bridesmaid because Mrs. Kim hates me with the fire of a thousand suns. I mean, my outfit alone is probably enough for her to condemn me.”

Giving Ella a once-over, Jess smirked wider. Her camisole dress was black, with small pink flowers embroidered on it. It had thin spaghetti straps and fell above her knees. Of course, there were no heels on her shoes, black leather ballet flats. The ensemble was so very Ella, along with her dark eye makeup. And, it was true, Mrs. Kim was not a fan of anything which could be described as ‘so very Ella.’

“It does give off a certain Beetlejuice vibe,” Jess agreed.

“The best compliment you’ve ever given me,” she said lightly, then turned back to the crowd of wedding-goers. “But...I don’t know. Rory slept with Dean when he was married and then took a year off from Yale and stole a boat.”

“What?” Jess chirped, almost choking on the watery soda he sipped. He’d debated going to the bar, but decided against it. Best not to get drunk in the town where everyone hated you. Especially when your long lost girlfriend didn’t drink anyway.

A certain sadness came to Ella’s smile, shrinking slightly. She tugged at her earring. “Yeah. And she was fighting with Lorelai forever. They weren’t talking. I’m also pretty sure the guy Rory’s dating now is some trust fund kid from Yale with a porsche.”

“Ugh,” Jess grimaced, unable to hold back his distaste.

“We’re just...different. We grew up. Went in different directions. I mean...Lane and Rory are still best friends. I was friendly with her at a bachelorette party last night. But it’s weird now. I can’t...I don’t really know her anymore, I guess.”

Jess nodded.

She shrugged again, deflective. “I still love Lorelai. But I haven’t seen her much lately, since Luke didn’t want her to meet April, which is a whole different beast. Things...changed. But, hey, maybe I changed too.”

“You did,” Jess said. “But not in a bad way.”

She scoffed, gently plucking at the collar of his white button-up. He wore with it black pants, completing their gothic look when they stood together. Ella knew, though, that both of their outfits came cheap and basic. That’s why they had them. Of course, he still refused to wear a tie of any kind. “You too. Still a jackass, though.”

“Glad you see me in such a positive light.”

“But, in an arguing-with-me-about-Kerouac kind of way. Not in a gnome-stealing, running-off-to-California kind of way,” she explained, feeling goosebumps rise on her pale skin where his fingertips still brushed against her arm.

As much as Jess lived in his words, touch had always been such a major form of communication with him. Older and able to judge it more easily, Ella could see it. It calmed him down, made him feel safe. She could understand that. It was what happened when someone grew up in a place where they were often touched in anger.

“Well, the Kerouac defense will never change. He’s a genius,” Jess insisted mockingly.

Ella rolled her eyes, leaning back against him. “You’re impossible.”

“Right back at ya.”

The band began one of their familiar White Stripes covers. Ella couldn’t count how many times she’d heard it over the years, during nightly practice. It was so odd to see Lane in a wedding dress, all grown up. A nostalgic smile ghosted over her lips and she sighed. Neither she nor Jess said a word for a long while, comfortable in each other’s grasp. June crickets and cicadas sung, mixing with the sound of Zach’s vocals. Patty and Babette laughed heartily at something across the table. The air smelled of cigarettes and beer and summer-cut grass. Soon, the song faded away and Zach played the opening chords to something different, something Ella hadn’t heard him play in a long time. “Sweet Thing” by Van Morrison, a cover they’d attempted after Ella moved in, when she’d let Lane hear one of her Jeff Buckley live albums, on which he did his own cover of the song. She broke into a full grin. It was the perfect song for a late-night wedding reception, romantic and long and calm.

Jess seemed to notice her brightening up at the tune, as he sat up and faced her with a mysterious smile. “You wanna dance?”

She snorted a disbelieving chuckle. “Excuse me?”

“Do you wanna dance? I know you like this song.”

Ella raised her eyebrows. “Liking the song is one thing. Subjecting everyone to the horrifying visual of my dance moves is another.”

He rolled his eyes, standing up and extending a hand to her. “So dramatic. It’s a slow song. And we didn’t dance at Liz and TJ’s wedding. Making up for lost time.”

“Fine,” she sighed, taking his hand, and letting him pull her up. “But it’s your funeral.”

“I like to live dangerously,” Jess said, leading her to the dance floor.

“Whatever, James Dean.”

Before they were out of range, Miss Patty blew a stream of bluish smoke in their direction and gave a bark of haughty laughter. “I’d watch out for her, young man. Have you heard about the domino incident of 1992? Ella made the Gazette. Her talents run more towards the musical.”

His smirk grew. “I’ve been warned.”

They passed Lorelai on the way, lingering by the bar and sipping her Manhattan. Tumbler filled with cherries, sugar on the rim. The sight almost made Ella want to chuckle, almost grimace. The drink looked as sweet as cotton candy, but she would expect nothing less of a Gilmore woman. More than half of the sleepovers she’d had with Rory involved a midnight raid of the kitchen. S’mores pop tarts were one of Ella’s personal favorites. Lorelai reached out an arm to stop them, wavering drunkenly on her feet.

“Ugh, I can’t believe Sid Vicious is back,” she slurred to Ella, pointing at Jess angrily.

With Lorelai so close to her face, Ella could smell the tequila on her breath. “I told you before. He’s got more of a Richard Hell vibe, in my opinion.”

Jess blushed, but said nothing. He only tightened his grip on Ella’s hand.

“Your uncle is out of town,” Lorelai continued, facing Jess.

“That he is,” Jess said shortly. Time had passed, but it was clear Lorelai still wasn’t quite over her contempt for him. Though, he could definitely recognize what an asshole he’d been as a teenager.

Lorelai laughed bitterly. “He’s with his daughter. Who Ella’s met and you’ve met and Rory’s met. And I haven’t met!”

Searching her head for a careful response, Ella was utterly relieved when Rory came up from behind her mother.

“Hey, mom, let’s get some coffee for you, why don’t we?” Rory asked, voice bouncy and nervous.

“You got her?” Ella raised her eyebrows at Rory as she took her mother by the shoulders and began steering her away.

“Oh, I guess we’re going over here now,” Lorelai muttered in drunken surprise.

“Yeah, go have fun,” Rory answered with a little wink, disappearing into the crowd with her mother, headed for the table where her father and some steaming coffee sat.

Blowing out a long breath, Jess shook his head. “I take it that she and Luke aren’t seeing eye to eye.”

“Understatement of the year,” Ella scoffed. “No matter where she and Luke are though, I think you’ll always be a portrait of Sid Vicious to her.”

“Not even with the haircut?” he asked as they made it to the edge of the wooden dance floor.

“Not even with the haircut,” she replied with a smug smirk.

With a heavy breath, Ella placed her hands on the back of Jess’s neck as he brought his hands to her waist. She felt glad Hep Alien’s version of the song was nearly ten minutes long; it would have nearly been over after Patty’s warning and Lorelai’s ramblings if not.

“Don’t worry, Elle. Just follow my lead,” Jess said quietly, beginning to sway side to side, taking small steps.

“Shut up, I’m focusing,” she hissed, watching her feet.

He chuckled slightly. “Relax. Just look at me.”

Sighing again, Ella managed to drag her gaze away from her shoes and up to Jess’s big brown eyes.

“Hi,” he whispered, smiling fondly.

“Hi,” she replied, feeling the anxiety in her stomach lessen slightly. “Deja-vu, huh?”

“Maybe a little,” he said, shrugging. “But I’d say things are looking a little sunnier now.”

“Still finding those silver linings.” Ella gave him an affectionate peck on the lips.

Why was she nervous?, she asked herself. She didn’t need to be. Maybe it was the future creeping up on her, or her exit from the only place she had ever lived only a week away. But, as she looked at Jess, she felt her heartbeat slow. And her lips even turned up a touch at the corners. Where she was going, he’d be.

#jess mariano fanfiction #jess mariano imagines #jess mariano imagine #jess mariano #jess #mariano #gilmore girls fanfiction #gilmore girls imagines #gilmore girls imagine #gilmore girls au #jess mariano au #lane kim #lorelai gilmore #rory gilmore #jess mariano x oc #jess mariano x original character #original character #original character stories #fanfiction

73 notes · View notes

bi-outta-cordonia · 4 years

Text

In Another World, Part II

The continuation of the Colt x MC piece I was hoping to finally put out for @rodappreciationweek. The week itself is over, so this is just me slamming chapters up hoping to finally do a thing I’ve been thinking about for a minute!

Part I --> here!

Ride or Die: A Bad Boy Romance. Colt Kaneko x f!MC(Deidre Wheeler). PG-13, with warnings going out to Brandon’s rancid vibes. ~4k words.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seventeen, eighteen—her keyboard clacks in steady strokes, each letter spelling out a larger plan that should take no more than three years and some change to complete if she works hard enough. Every orientation event is over. Every “meet and greet” has long since burned the flames of excitement out her bones. Extracurriculars, plus honors programs, plus a few personal hobbies will fill her free time in between classes. But the main question again…

Seventeen credits or eighteen credits?

Deidre’s hands hover over the keyboard and she chews her lip.

“I know it’s not my business…” Deidre tosses a look back at Ingrid, her pouty lips pursed and her brow drawn. Ingrid glances pointedly at the open document on the computer screen. “We’re definitely still doing the competition thing, right? Pushing each other or whatever?” Deidre nods slowly. “Which is cool! But like…I don’t want you to burn out before we really get into it!”

Deidre frowns. “You’re taking seventeen credits.”

“Yeah, but that’s because I’m doing my lab first!” Ingrid waltzes up and clicks to the next screen, displaying the course load Deidre painstakingly puts together months before the first day of classes. “Do your lab first, duh. You already have a bunch of high school credits for the 100 levels.”

“But I’d still have to drop a class,” Deidre says.

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “God, I respect you so much but you can really be irritating.”

Deidre balks. “Alright—”

“Here, take a bullshit class and you can keep your seventeen.” Ingrid clicks a few buttons and lands on a page describing a philosophy class. She squints at the screen. “Blah blah blah, classical and modern conceptions of love, blah blah. You just need to get an A and you’ll be solid, yeah?”

Deidre shakes her head and turns her attention back to the screen.

“A look at the ways in which classical and modern conceptions of love and romance have changed over the natural course of time. What the course aims to do is interrogate how love has been defined and shaped by society and cultures. Bring an open mind and an equally open heart to a two day a week lecture!”

Seems simple enough.

Day one doesn’t fully prepare her for the sheer amount of bodies filling every concrete path between her and the rest of Langston. The way she works out her schedule, serious classes take place Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. “Bullshit electives” (Ingrid’s words) occupy her Tuesdays and Thursdays for the time being. One class that focuses on life skills and the other is apparently a philosophy class about love.

A comfortable pair of jeans and even more comfortable sneakers gets her through the throngs of people jockeying for space on the sidewalks. Some souls are brave (or foolish?) enough to bike through the madness but she remembers her favorite self-defense trick from her father—throw them bows.

Deidre shoves her way to Terrence Hall and wanders around the building twice before she finds the lecture room. “Room” because it’s small like a classroom and filled from front to back with desks. The age of the building shows in some of the dusty corners and faded paint on the walls. A good number of her peers sit scattered throughout the room, some leaning on desks and carrying on with casual conversations. A few of them eye her as she walks in. Their gazes immediately catch her old shoes and even older jeans. It’s almost funny how the braids and brown skin are the last things they see—at Mar Vista, it was the first but she at least had four years to show them all the money their parents had still couldn’t afford them a brain like hers.

She takes a seat in the front and rummages through her bag when she sets it down. Notebook, lead pencil, laptop open and ready—a long ten minutes pass and the professor walks in holding a cup of coffee.

He’s a small man and most certainly older.

“Thirty of you this year! Much less than I usually get for the fall semester,” he exclaims. His eyes scan over the class and the collective mood drops in an instant. Most of the students are sophomores. A lot of them are just trying to bang out electives first and this was one of the easiest classes the university offers. “Well, anyway—introductions, yes? As many of you should know by now, I am Professor Pines.” Some of the students giggle. “Yes, yes, terrible name, isn’t it? Regardless, I’d rather not spend too much time reflecting on my family’s awful choices in naming conventions.”

He hands a stack of papers to a girl in the front who passes the papers back. A steady stream of motion fills the room as students pass around what she assumes is the syllabus. When she receives her copy, she purses her lips:

20% for quizzes—

15% participation—

15% mid semester report—

25% group project—

25% final exam—

She almost groans along with the rest of the class when they all see it—group project. Professor Pines seems a bit too gleeful despite knowing he’s just cast them all to their doom.

“The basics of the course first,” he starts. “As this is a philosophy class, most of the materials we’ll be working with are going to come from a variety of readings we’ll be doing, examining facets of love and romance across multiple sources to answer that big question that hangs over us all—what exactly is love? What does it entail and how do we define it?” The professor clasps his hands behind his back and looks out over each student. “There are about a thousand ways to describe love but I want to have you all truly engage the topic. How we see it, experience it, and demonstrate it varies wildly and I’m eager to see what the lot of you come up with. Now, if you could all—”

The door opens and the professor stops for a brief moment. He continues with his next topic but it’s hard not to notice him digging through the papers on the table near him as he searches for a spare syllabus for his newest student.

Deidre sits up and thinks the weird boy from the frat party might recognize her as he scans the room for a seat. His eyes find her for all of a second before he struts down the path and takes a seat at the back of the room. She sucks her teeth and turns her attention back to the professor.

He goes on for a long while covering the basics and answering questions as he goes. Most of the students are just using the class to fill up electives—her included. Engagement seems like it’ll be interesting compared to her other classes but at the very least, she’s going to put some effort in. She took top spot back home and she’s going to have to work hard for even the smallest chance at achieving that out here.

“Before I let you all go, I just want to ask…” Professor Pines steeples his fingers, eyes intently watching the class. “What is love?”

His gaze rakes across the length of the room, each student slinking down in their seat and holding a careful breath as they gauge whether he’s the sort that will call on people or let them speak on their own. The silence lasts for a few more minutes until Deidre raises her hand.

The professor beams and the classroom lets out a collective sigh.

“Love can defined in a number of ways but the most basic would point to it being a psychological effect between individuals with well-defined social bonds,” she answers. “It can be a series of emotions, complex affections, and highly specific in terms of behavioral patterns defined by the parameters of a person’s relationship with the object of said love.”

Professor Pines nods approvingly and looks up. “Yes? In the back?”

“It’s a collective of impulses disguised as particular receptors in the brain that dictate meanings behind specific actions.” Deidre turns around in her seat and catches the boy from the party bringing his coffee to his lips for a sip. “Doesn’t always have to be deeper than that—sometimes the brain just does weird shit and we run around trying to add meaning where there doesn’t need to be.”

The class buzzes and Professor Pines seems even more giddy.

“Ah, a realist!” he says and the boy shrugs. “I always get one! Perspective is going to be key here, both in your understandings of the material and of what you take away from this class.”

Deidre raises her hand. “But the whims themselves would become receptors based on the emotional bond between the individuals in question, wouldn’t they? People can act out of a sense of impulse but love requires those impulses be tailored to prior experience with an individual.”

The boy snorts. “Not necessarily. People can say or do something under the guise of love but that doesn’t necessarily make it so. It’s the brain assigning meaning to whims.”

She bristles. “The presence of whims would require a prior interaction that shapes it.”

“Does it? I mean, I don’t believe in that ‘love at first sight’ crap but the existence of such narratives makes a pretty strong case for love being just the brain trying to find ways to assign meanings—”

“Which still can be explained through a prior interaction because ‘love at first sight’ still requires some form of meaningful—”

“And there’s the idealist,” the professor says, nodding thoughtfully. Professor Pines continues, “I don’t really want to keep any of you any longer, so please make sure to read over the syllabus.” He pauses for a moment, glancing between the front and the back of the room. “I have a feeling this is going to be an interesting semester.”

Deidre glances around and sinks a little in her seat at the other students tossing looks between her and the boy from the party. When she looks back at him, he lifts a brow and takes a languid sip of his coffee.

“Don’t ask me about that,” Deidre snaps. “I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“That bad?” Riya snorts.

“He’s a douchebag! He actually tried to pull some bullshit devil’s advocate crap day one of the entire semester and he wouldn’t even tell me his fucking name at the party!” Deidre dodges a couple rushing out the dorm and ignores Riya’s cackling.

“I mean, he sounds pretty hot…”

“Riya!” Deidre yanks her phone away from her ear and glares daggers at it. Her teeth grind as Riya’s raucous laugh rings through the tinny speakers and she lets out a roar that has heads turning her way. “You’re being a bad friend!”

“You have a crush on him! Look—Deidre—”

“I’m hanging up on you. Hand to God, I will absolutely end this call right now—“

“Oh my god, stop being dramatic.”

“And of course he shows up ten minutes late to class with Starbucks in hand—didn’t even give a fuck about everyone staring at him or the fact that he chose to further disrupt everything by walking his—” She fumbles her keys at first but eventually jams the metal into the door, “—stupid—dumb!”

Ingrid sits up but Deidre only gives a small wave as she quite literally throws herself on her own bed. She puts Riya on speaker and tosses the phone on her nightstand.

“Dee?”

“Hey Riya!” Ingrid says. Her eyes dart between Deidre and the phone. “Everything okay?”

“Deidre’s got a crush.”

“Shut up.” Deidre rolls over and faces the wall. “There’s a douchebag in my class.”

Ingrid pauses for a long moment. “Like frat boy rich douchebag or just regular smegular rich douchebag?”

“She’s got budding sexual tension with a boy that’s probably as smart as she is.”

“Riya—” Deidre pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Oh, mood.” Ingrid readjusts her glasses. “If he’s as hot as the dude you saw at the frat party, I’ll be the first to say you should go for it.”

Deidre braces.

“Speaking of which—”

“Riya.”

“You wouldn’t believe it but it just so happens—”

“I’MHANGINGUPTHEPHONEGOODBYE.”

A profound silence hangs in the room like the most uncomfortable and bloated thing in the world. Ingrid keeps penning away on her notebook and occasionally peeks at the textbook lying open next to her. Deidre lets the silence fester as she gets up and digs through her bag, pulling out notebooks and textbooks to get started on her own work.

An hour passes before Ingrid speaks up. “Ohhhhh…it was the hot guy from the frat party, wasn’t it?”

Deidre pointedly ignores her.

Three hours and seventeen minutes. She times herself only because it’s necessary. Darius used to joke and say she was going “beast mode” when she got so into her work that time just stops existing as a concept.

Even if time stops existing, hunger doesn’t so it comes as no surprise that her tummy growls when she finally shuts her last textbook. Day one and she’s already diving deep—perfect. She stretches as she gets up and grabs her keychain.

The dining hall is something else entirely. A bevy of appetizing foods fill the buffet and even more is served by the dedicated cooking staff, of which are all chefs of significant renown if she remembers correctly from the online facilities tour.

Stepping through the doors almost feels like stepping into another dimension. Extensive wood finish fills in every panel of the floor, mahogany furniture with fine leather seats make up a sitting area, and ornate paintings hang on all the walls. Her stomach gurgles again when the smell of baked chicken wafts in her nose. Deidre makes a beeline towards wherever that smell leads her.

Rotisserie chicken, beans and rice, steamed vegetables perfectly seasoned, freshly prepared mango and passionfruit juice—

It isn’t even the most delectable thing from the kitchens: lobster bisque, the freshest produce, the most tender cuts of steak, oysters, and even more. Savory and sweet collide in a mesh of flavorful smells that sets her appetite from moderate to desperate. She swipes her card for her meal and carefully dodges students shuffling about the dining area.

“Oh, right…” she mumbles.

Seems like every person decided now was a fantastic time to get dinner. The dining hall is packed from top to bottom with students. Some sit in groups with textbooks and laptops out on the tables. Others sit off on their lonesome reading from books while absently shoveling spoonfuls in their mouths. There’s a group of extremely attractive girls that waltz past flanked by some fit boys all wearing identical shorts and boat shoes.

Deidre takes a few tentative steps forward and scans the room carefully.

There’s a butt in every seat. Some eyes dart towards her as she walks past but they don’t seem to mind her presence. Or maybe they just don’t care.

She finds an empty seat and moves to set her tray down when a girl clears her throat. The smile that spreads across the girl’s face is sickly sweet—she’s clearly not happy seeing a face trying to squeeze into such a big space and her eyes noting the simple style of Deidre’s fashion makes the smile spread a little wider.

“I’m waiting on some friends. Sorry,” the girl says, clearly not apologetic.

Deidre stares at her for a moment before shaking her head and turning back towards the packed dining hall. She starts her hunt anew when a hand touches her on the square of her back.

“Hey, Deidre, right?” She turns around and finds Brandon’s face. His gaze roams uncomfortably, where he looks she isn’t sure but she’s just as equally sure she doesn’t want him to do that. “Where’s Ingrid?”

“Uh, studying,” she says. “How’ve you been?”

He shrugs. “Day one, so nothing really exciting yet. How about you? First day of college going well?”

“Yeah, just—” She nods towards the full room, “—looking for a place to sit. I didn’t think so many people would be here.”

Brandon’s hand slides a little further up her back and there’s a pressure there that feels like he’s trying to guide her. Her feet lock in place even though her body sways and when she locks eyes with him, he’s staring at her like he’s trying to gauge his next move.

“You should come sit with me and my friends,” he suggests. He points out a table full of students with laptops sitting out. “We’re all STEM—engineering mostly. Ingrid said you were mechanical engineering, right?”

The whole reason she goes to that frat party is to try out new things as a young adult. Life here doesn’t have to be all about hitting the books, it’s about exploring and Ingrid attempts to give her that on the first night. Going back inside was for Ingrid’s sake then and for the remainder of the party, Brandon couldn’t seem to keep his eyes to himself. He wants to get to know her and she should try getting to know him but there’s just something so strange about this.

Her eyes dart around the room and a piercing gaze connects with hers.

The weird boy—the douchebag in the leather jacket.

He’s holding a book but he’s got it hovering over the table like he’s about to set it down. His gaze flits to Brandon behind her and he makes a subtle nod at the empty chair in front of him. He’s got his feet in it.

“Uh, actually…” Deidre steps away from Brandon and tries not to sigh in relief as his hand falls away from her back. She musters the best sheepish smile she can handle. “I just saw a friend! I’ll see you later!”

She wants to kick herself—she doesn’t want to see him again if she can’t help it. But it doesn’t matter now, getting away is all that’s important.

The weird boy moves his feet quickly and sits up in his chair. His gaze lingers on Brandon while she sits down and lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding in.

“Is he gone?” she whispers.

He doesn’t answer her for a while. Eventually, he leans back again and opens up his book.

“You’re good.”

Silence fills the void between them as he occasionally flips through his book. Her confused stare morphs into an annoyed glare and she digs into her food once it becomes clear he’s done his one good deed of the day. Savory food fills her belly bite after bite and she swears to try the fried plantains next time. It won’t be anything like how her mom used to make, she’s sure, but the thought fills her with a sense of nostalgia.

She wonders what her dad’s doing right now.

He’ll be getting ready for work soon. The three hour time difference is still something she hasn’t gotten used to just yet but he doesn’t seem to mind getting “good morning” texts at six o’clock.

She sighs—he’ll have to find something to occupy his time now that she’s gone. He’s truly alone this time around.

Deidre looks up and the weird boy is staring straight at her. She hates his look almost as much as Brandon’s.

“What?” she says around a mouthful of food.

“You keep making weird noises and I’m debating on whether or not I want to ask what’s up with you,” he responds.

“You just—” She swallows her food. “I’m fine. Thank you for letting me sit down.”

He keeps looking at her and she tries her best to pointedly ignore him. Every so often her eyes dart to the book in his hand—Mount Washington by James Ashton.

“What’s really up with you?” Deidre looks up at him. He shuts the book and sets it next to his already empty tray. He crosses his arms and leans on the table, subtly glancing over her shoulder. “You were way too chipper for an eight o’ clock in the morning elective so I’m assuming you’re either new to campus or...”

His lips quirk when she narrows her eyes.

“Or?” she asks, already aware of the answer. “I’m a ‘nerd?’ God forbid someone takes their education seriously around here…”

He shrugs. “You still haven’t said what’s wrong with you.”

She chews on a bit of chicken slowly before swallowing, eyes finally connecting with his again. His are black as the night and striking. There’s nothing wrong with admitting he’s handsome in a boyish way. He tilts his head and her face grows a little warm.

“I was thinking about my dad,” she finally says. “It’s been the two of us for a while and I’m wondering what he’s going to do now that I’m not home.”

A small silence hangs between them.

“Where you from?” he asks.

“LA.”

The boy snorts. “Bullshit.” She fixes him with a questioning look and he shakes his head. “I’m from LA. I knew Mar Vista sounded familiar—you went to that prep school. State of the art or some shit.”

“It wasn’t all that, I promise you. Where’d you go?”

“Just a little further north—H.H. Huntington. Public school though, so nowhere near as fancy as what you got.” His face softens a bit though not nearly by much. “I left my mom back home but she’s had a year to figure out the benefits of having a house to herself by now. Your old man will get there soon.”

There’s a part of her that can’t help but think it’s a little sweet that his hard gaze softens further at the mention of his mother. Babies all grown up and flying out the nest is how their parents will see them. She wonders if her dad will even recognize her when she comes back—wonders if the boy’s mother has already accepted the young man that now walks through the doors when he comes home.

“You seemed pissed about earlier today.” His voice brings her back and she stabs at a piece of broccoli.

“In class, you mean,” she clarifies.

“Studious types—you can’t stand being wrong.”

“I wasn’t wrong—”

“And neither was I,” he interrupts. His eyes dart over her shoulder once more and she turns a bit just to follow his gaze. Brandon sits over with his friends and turns the minute her body starts shifting. The boy drums his fingers on his arm. “You done yet?”

“You were valedictorian, weren’t you?”

Her brows draw. “Why?”

“Chipper for an eight o’clock and you’re scared about the semester already…” He glances back over his shoulder. “And I told you Langston doesn’t take average kids.”

The boy is so weird. Not weird like Brandon is, which is the kind of weird that makes a person want to double bolt their doors. He’s weird in the sense that there’s a constant game of hot and cold that seems to fuel his every word. He’s perceptive—he remembers her mentioning Mar Vista despite only speaking to her for a total of two minutes. The last time she speaks with him (prior to dinner), he prods at her like an asshole kid poking at a hornet’s nest. His ability to pick things apart is apparent and—

Her brain literally stops.

Langston is filled with money. Langston is money. Average students means average in status only and it’s an extremely competitive school to get into.

Deidre’s eyes rake over the boy—his face, the leather jacket, the backpack slung over his back, and the white motorcycle helmet he holds in the other hand…

“You were…” It’s like the wheels are turning and his gaze immediately meets hers.

“Go on,” he quietly urges.

“You were the valedictorian of your school,” she manages.

He cracks a smile that she can only describe as vicious—she’s not sure why. “Yeah, this semester is about to be hilarious.”

She bristles. “You’re a dick.”

He smirks like he’s proud of it. “I’m walking you home, aren’t I?”

Deidre scoffs and turns away. Day one and she’s regretting some of her decisions already.

“I don’t even know your name,” she says.

“I don’t know yours either.”

“I tried to ask you at the frat party and you just blew me off,” she counters.

The boy shrugs. “My roommate wrapped up her date and I didn’t want to waste any more time. I guess I could tell you now but it’s way funnier thinking your name is...” A wicked smirk spreads across his face.

She looks at him. “Is what?”

“Stacy,” he says and laughs at the indignation on her face.

“It’s Deidre.”

“Or Becky,” he keeps prodding. “But ‘Deidre’ is nice. I bet people say it right.”

She sighs. “The first time, sure. But then they see the face that goes with the name and it’s impossible to get them to do it again.”

He goes quiet for a second. “Colt. And, no, it’s not short for anything. My last name’s the one that gets butchered though, but I’m not telling you that.”

Colt. His name is “Colt.”

“I prefer thinking of you as ‘the weirdo’,” she teases.

“Most girls save that kind of talk until after the first date.”

Deidre sucks her teeth.

“You think you can get away with things because you’re a smartass,” she bites.

“No, I get away with it because I’m cute. But if you want to go head to head over this, I won’t stop you.” Colt stops—they’ve reached the halfway point across campus. She looks up at him and feels one side of her brain wrestling with the other in the form of an oncoming headache. They stand there awkwardly (mostly on her part) until he nods down the path leading to her dorm. “Be careful, alright?”

So strange—one minute he’s a smartass and the next he’s being a white knight. Deidre wraps her arms around herself and nods.

“See you on Thursday…” She says, turning down the path. A quick glance over her shoulder and he stays rooted there until she gets a safe enough distance across the quad.

#playchoices #choices #colt kaneko #colt x mc #rod choices #choices rod #ride or die #ride or die: a bad boy romance

13 notes · View notes

thelittleredheadedmusician · 4 years

Text

Negative Effects of Habits

PG 2,921 words Gen AO3

There were weirder places to wake up than Gotham City – believe it or not – though that really only applies if you also fell asleep in Gotham City. Which Mia had not.

This wasn’t the safehouse that Ollie kept. Or the one Roy kept. Or Dinah’s apartment. Or even the fancy loft the Queens publicly owned. Mia was fairly sure this was a warehouse. An abandoned one by the dust that tickled her nose.

She pushed herself up from the wooden pallet she was laying on, thankfully it seemed that her pajamas had made the trip with her. Mia might have to start sleeping with her boots on after this because she wasn’t eager to introduce the bottom of her feet to the broken glass and rusty nails that were bound to litter the dim space. At least she had her tetanus shot up to date. Though she was a little annoyed Ollie’s paranoia was rubbing off on her.

And how did Mia know it was Gotham that she woke up in? Well the man’s voice that floated out of the darkness was cursing up a storm about the city. So, Mia had a pretty good guess that was where she was.

“Hello?” Mia called out cautiously. She curled her fingers into fists and shifted her weight the way Dinah and Ted had taught her. No bow didn’t mean she was helpless, Mia could pack a punch and she was proud of it.

The cursing quieted. “Someone there?” the voice called back, a low grumble with an accent. British, not anything crisp and high class but beyond that Mia couldn’t place it.

“Yeah! I’m here! Not that I actually know where here is.”

A chuckle sounded from the darkness. “Ok, love. Just hang on, I’m on my way. D’you think you could give us a shout? Lighter only does so much.”

“Normally when I wake up in places like this, I have a flashlight or a flare or at the very least my phone. I’m not really a fan of this gloom,” Mia offered.

A laugh came again, closer this time. “Don’t tell me, you’re a cape?”

Mia weighed her options, no harm telling him if she didn’t say which cape she wore. Right? Even though there was a touch of venom in the voice now. “Well right now I’m more of a plaid pajama than anything.”

“Clever,” he said, a light materializing and the man coming with it. He looked vaguely familiar, a glint of blonde hair, loose tie, and sweeping trench coat revealing itself in the flame. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Mia with her flannel pants, oversized t-shirt, and bare feet standing on the wood. “You’re not the chipper Batgirl, are you?”

“Nope. Definitely not,” Mia tried to assure him.

“You sure?” An eyebrow lifted as his eyes narrowed.

Mia frowned. “I’m positive. I went to sleep in Star last night. Where I live.”

“It’s just the hair and the locale,” he waved his free hand vaguely.

“Maybe I’m Supergirl. Or Miss Martian,” Mia said defensively, “she shapeshifts. Stargirl’s another blonde. And how do you know Batgirl doesn’t wear a wig?”

He laughed and tried to wave her off, “Ok, ok, love. Point taken. So, who are you? If it’s not one of the above.”

It was Mia’s turn to level him with a skeptical look, she didn’t have the best record with keeping her secret identity in check but that didn’t mean she had to go blurting it out to strange men just because they had a light and she didn’t. “You first,” Mia countered quickly.

His lips twisted into a smirk. Nodding, he reached into his coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tugging one from the box with his mouth and lifting the lighter to it. Once the pack was put away and he’d pulled a long drag he smirked around it again. Taking the cigarette between two fingers he exhaled a stream of smoke and the words, “John Constantine, at your service.”

Mia pulled her own lip between her teeth; Ollie had warned her about this man. So had Dinah and Roy. He was a powerful magic user who only helped if it suited him. He saved the world because he was a current resident of it, no other reason. More importantly though, he left a well recorded trail of death and destruction in his wake. Granted, Mia had no idea how she got here, in her pjs no less, so maybe some magical assistance wouldn’t be so bad.

“Speedy. As in the kid with the bow, not a runner.”

John – Constantine? The first felt too casual, the latter too formal for someone who’d seen her in her bleach stained pajama top – chuckled at that again. “I met your mentor once,” he gestured with his cigarette, the smoke curling up into the rafters, “he’s a whole lot more tolerable than the rest of the super friends. So, we’re both in the same boat here?”

“What do you mean?” Mia rubbed at her bare arms; she was starting to get chilly standing here.

“Figure of speech, love,” he winked.

Mia rolled her eyes, “I know that. And you knew what I meant.”

He shrugged and kept smoking, making her wrinkle her nose at the smell. “Well, you said you woke up here, right? I didn’t get to Gotham the conventional way myself.”

“Great,” Mia sighed. “Magic.”

“Now that is the type of response I wish more people had.” John dropped the butt of his cigarette, grounding it out beneath his heel. “C’mere, I’ll give ya a lift.”

She raised an eyebrow as he held out his arms, flicking the lighter closed and plunging them into the half-light of morning that made its way through the grimy windows.

“I’ll carry you out so you don’t cut your feet,” he sighed. “Mage’s honor. I’ve never seen the point of scouts.” She could still see the slash of his smirk in the dark.

She hadn’t wanted to step off the pallet in the first place but Mia felt more than a little awkward just letting him carry her. “I’m heavier than I look,” she warned. And it was true, since moving in with Ollie she’d put on weight and more than that, muscle.

“I can handle it, love,” something about his smile changed, seemed kinder. Mia nodded and John stepped closer. She slung an arm around his shoulders and held on as he slipped his arms under her knees and around her back and lifted her up.

Mia was hit with the scent of stale smoke and sweat and a wave of memories of her old life. She stiffened involuntarily. Freezing at the images and sounds that flashed through her mind at the smell.

John must have noticed because he stopped walking. “You alright?” He sounded genuine in his concern; Mia knew what the opposite sounded like.

“Yeah, fine, thanks.” Mia didn’t believe herself and she knew that John certainly didn’t but he kept walking and didn’t bring it up.

There was a door, heavy metal with rust peeling the paint off in flakes. John spun slightly so he could kick at it before shouldering it open. Mia squinted at the sun managing to break through the clouds. The parking lot around the warehouse was cracked macadam but relatively clean of debris and gravel. John set her down on a patch and Mia muttered her thanks, shocked a bit by the cold ground against the bottom of her feet.

Rummaging in his coat, John pulled the lighter and cigarettes out again. He offered her the pack this time and Mia leveled a flat look. “You really think you ought to be giving cigarettes to teenagers?”

His smile flashed behind the cupped hands of his lighter. “Just trying to be polite. So, who did you piss off?”

“Recently?” Mia returned the smirk as she thought about patrol the past couple nights. “Some gang bangers, a couple jackass pimps, handful of corrupt cops, and some neo-nazis just for good measure. Though there was an overlap between them and the cops.”

John laughed, “A girl after me own heart.”

“Hmm, sorry I swore off older men. And smokers.”

He motioned at her with his cigarette, “Now if the Justice League talked like that I might be more inclined to help them.”

“You obviously don’t hang around with enough sidekicks,” Mia raised her brows. The sass might be a natural trait, but it was honed by a tried and true tradition that she upheld.

“Actively try to avoid it. Do my best work alone, ta.”

“That why we’re still standing around instead of figuring out how we got here in the first place?” Mia crossed her arms and tilted her head in the way that made even calm and collected Conner shoot her an exasperated look.

John’s smile just slipped a little and he shook his cigarette in her direction. He half grumbled before turning away and taking another drag. “Well, I have a running list of those out to get me and believe it or not neo-nazis are on it.”

Mia lifted a brow. She wasn’t exactly surprised but…

“I’ve been a part of the punk scene since before you were born, love. Skinheads were never welcome.”

She matched his smirk. “Point taken. So how do a bunch of alt-right assholes manage to get us to an abandoned warehouse in Gotham. Why? And how’d you know it was Gotham?”

“Places give off energies and if you know what to look for you can sense it,” John said around the end of his cigarette, lighting another off of it.

“Like, auras?” Mia paid attention to Conner’s hippie friends. Even if she thought their healing crystals were a load of bull.

“Like auras,” John agreed with a grin. “Gotham’s is very distinct and very overpowering. S’a bit like waking up with a hangover and a bloody skunk shoved under your nose.”

“Delightful,” Mia said dryly.

“Ennit? Why? They’re probably just pissed. Petty revenge from some arseholes who think a parlor trick makes them bloody Merlin. Fact we haven’t seen anyone says this was more to inconvenience us than anything, I’d say. The how…” John trailed off and flicked the butt of his second cigarette onto the ground. He mumbled what Mia could only categorize as hocus pocus as he did so, the smoke from the butt swirling up and taking shape between his hands. John grew silent as he studied the shapes. Mia waited for him to shed some more light on the situation, or maybe conjure her up some shoes and a sweatshirt.

Mia shivered as a breeze tickled over her arms and lifted the loose hairs framing her face. It dissipated the smoke John was looking at too. “So?” she prompted.

John blinked, like he was surprised to see her still standing there. He shrugged off the trench coat and passed it to her with a half-smile. Mia ignored the stale scent and slipped it on gratefully.

“Well, it’s a pretty rudimentary teleportation spell. Sympathetic magic, you take something of the person and say a few words then put it where you want them to end up. Say a few words again and do a ritual and there you have it. Those blokes get some of your hair when you fought them? Maybe even blood?”

Mia shook her head, making the messy bun on top wobble. “One of the first rules of archery, you don’t want anything getting caught on the string so I keep it tied back. And I’m a ranged fighter, I didn’t get close enough for them to land a hit.”

John hummed. “Me it’s easy, leave a bit of a trail,” he nodded to the cigarette butts on the ground, “bit of salvia’s all it takes.”

Thinking back to the other night, Mia tried to remember the exact details of the fight but she took them out from perched on a fire escape. They were trying to harass a group of kids coming out of one of the city’s gay bars and with a few shots her arrows had them pinned to the wall of the building. She’d left a note for the cops to find.

“Crap.” Mia pressed her palms into her eyes. “Bubblegum.”

“What’s that, love?”

“I might have a bubblegum habit, but at least I’ll only be getting a cavity and not cancer,” she added when John’s eyes lit up, “I may have used some to stick a note saying ‘Punch me! I’m a nazi!’ to the one guy’s forehead.”

That had John laughing again. “Well, points for style, love.”

“So what now?” Mia sighed.

John rolled his sleeves down, even laughing magicians weren’t immune to the cold it would seem. “Well, I happen to know where the Gotham door for the Oblivion Bar is located, that should get me back to London. You, on the other hand.”

“I can get to a couple different safe houses, but I need shoes.”

“Ah,” John’s smile stretched wide. “That I can help with. Can’t make something out of nothing, magic doesn’t actually work like that, but if you give me my coat, I should have the supplies to do a little teleportation spell of me own.”

Mia slipped it off again and handed the worn trench coat back to him, wrapping her arms around herself immediately missing the warmth. “You’re not going to just drop me in a safe house?”

“No,” John chuckled. “I can bring your costume to you though.”

She raised a skeptical brow as John pulled out some chalk and began drawing markings on the parking lot between them. Well, if it didn’t work than she’d just demand John give her a lift, she’d already stolen his wallet from the trench coat’s inside pocket.

“Alright then, love. Just picture your costume in its display case or wherever you keep it,” he instructed as he held his palms up over the markings.

“Try closet,” Mia muttered but closed her eyes and imagined her Speedy gear. The sturdy red pants and Under Armor like top. The red breastplate/vest with its yellow arrow and her yellow gloves and arm guard. The yellow shin guards and knee and elbow pads, utility belt and hood. Red mask and bow and fletchings on the arrows. Yellow quiver and sturdy yellow boots. Most importantly those sturdy yellow boots.

As Mia saw her uniform in her mind’s eye John began chanting. There was a sudden flare of heat and then an even colder wind whipping it away. She peeked an eye open. Sure enough, her costume sat neatly folded on the chalk markings. Bow and fully stocked quiver next to it. Most importantly, her boots on top.

She snatched for them and John shrugged his coat off again. “Here, love, should be able to use this to change.”

“Thanks,” Mia said, draping it over her shoulders. She shoved her feet in the boots without tying them, taking everything over to change against the warehouse wall. “Do you mind holding it up? No peeking.”

“No peeking,” John promised, lifting his coat from her shoulders and stretching it out before him. He even closed his eyes and turned his head away. Mia was impressed.

In no time she’d slipped out of her pajamas and into her Speedy costume. Most importantly she had her boots on and tied tight. “Ok,” Mia said to John as she shoved her pjs into her quiver. “Guess this is where we part. I can walk to a safehouse from here and call Black Canary, she’s got friends in Gotham who can help me out from there.”

John nodded, fixing the collar of his coat before slipping his hands in his pockets. “Well Speedy, I’d say it’s a pleasure but…”

Mia laughed. “Agreed. Let’s never meet like this again, though I appreciate all your help.”

“Anytime, love. Anytime.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket, holding out a slightly bent and discolored business card.

Mia accepted it and raised her eyebrow. “‘John Constantine: Exorcist, Demonologist, and Master of the Dark Arts.’ Really?”

He pulled a face and half snapped his fingers, “Been meaning to get those reprinted. Point is, you seem to piss off the right kind of people so if you run into something a little above your paygrade in the future feel free to give me a ring.”

She slipped it into a pocket on her belt. “You have a phone?”

“It’s a recent acquisition.”

“Right. Oh,” Mia remembered suddenly, digging in her quiver for his wallet and tossing it to him. “You might want that back. Uh, it was insurance in case you wanted to disappear on me. Your reputation proceeds you.”

John caught it and laughed, shaking the wallet at her with a smile before he slid it back into his coat. “You. I like you.”

Mia flashed him one last smirk as she headed towards the city, “Told you Constantine, sidekicks are where the fun’s at!”

Laughing, John lit yet another cigarette and raised it to her in salute. “Cheers, love. I’ll have to remember that.”

A sudden thought had Mia spinning around. “John,” she called but he was still walking the other direction. “Constantine!” she yelled again.

He turned and squinted towards her, “Yeah, love?”

“You wouldn’t happen to be interested in catching the guys who did this?”

John smiled, slow and wide. “Actually, I really would.”

Mia grinned back. “C’mon then, let's play karma. I'm feeling bitchy.”

#dc comics #mia dearden #speedy #john constantine #hellblazer #fanfiction #fanfic #my fic #writing #own writing #green arrow #the blonde brigade #i love john constantine the little shit

6 notes · View notes

heartofsnark · 4 years

Text

This Is Love (Chapter One): Welcome to Hope County

Notes: Soooo, I’ve been talking about this for a bit and it’s time to just take the jump and start publishing my Far Cry 5 fic. I hope you enjoy. Also, i have like a series warning for this that will be on every chapter cause it needs it.

Summary: Dahlia Hale is the youngest person working at the Hope County Sheriff’s Department. Hailing from a small town in Louisiana, it’s going to take her some time to fully acclimate to the new environment and living on her own. Developing friendships takes time even for the most functional of people and for disasters like Dahlia it takes even longer. She gets along with her coworkers and there’s some religious family who’s taken a shine to her, for some reason. It seems like she’s on her way to getting the kind of friends she’s only ever dreamed about, even if it’s going to take some more time.

Then everything goes to shit.

Halfway through her six-month probationary hire and that nice religious family has kicked off a holy war with her becoming enemy number one.

To one side she’s a hero.

To the other she’s a monster. She’s not sure which is right.

Word Count: 9,290

Series Warning: I usually do not like to spoil endgame pairings in my fics, but this warrants being up front. This series is polyseed and involves heavy, recurrent themes of at times romanticized noncon, dubcon, large age differences, and stockholm syndrome that develops into a romantic relationship. The relationship between my oc and the Seeds is extremely unhealthy, toxic, and should never be replicated or sought out in real life. No matter how things progress or how they are portrayed at different points, this fact remains the same. i am comfortable exploring and enjoying these themes in fiction, not everyone is. If you are uncomfortable with or triggered by any of these things, please skip this and take the precautions you feel necessary to avoid this material. If you are an individual who struggles with separating reality and fiction; please do not read this. Otherwise, if you’re comfortable with and enjoy that kind of content, please enjoy.

Chapter Warnings: Bliss flowers, hallucinations, threats of violence (really not bad compared to whats to come)

A shiver rolls down Dahlia’s spine, the chill of the Montana night settling into her bones. A sign welcomes her to Hope County, her motorcycle tire spinning dirt at it as she passes. The moon shines bright in the sky, cascading silver light down on everything. It’s beautiful despite the cold, light reflecting off the lakes and streams that pass through the county.

It’s mostly woods and forests, fields of big white flowers and animals wandering through. The entire county is begging to be put on a postcard, from the animals, to the fields, to the…giant cement statue of a guy with a manbun…

Her tires squeal as she comes to a stop on the thankfully vacant road, she pushes the visor of her helmet up, as if the tint could cause her to see something like this. Sure enough, the white hunk of stone is still there. It’s of a man with his hair pulled back in a small bun, in one hand he holds a book and the other gestures outward.

Hair raises on the back of her neck and goosebumps collect across her skin, the statue is…eerie. It looms across the entire region, a creeping specter. Unnerving doesn’t even begin to describe it, her body has started to lean towards it, almost drawn to it.

Maybe it’s a historical figure for the county? People do that right, build monuments to founders or something. The clothes of the figure seem old fashioned, but she’s not sure about how far back the manbun goes.

She shakes her head and slaps her visor back down, she needs sleep. It shouldn’t be much further to her hotel. Dahlia revs her engine and rushes off that way, finally finding the large wooden hotel with its red roof. There’s a large wooden sign welcoming her to the King’s Hot Spring Hotel, the parking lot is decidedly vacant, and she comes to a stop by the smaller stone black sign that sits close to the larger wooden one, easy to overlook if someone wasn’t looking close enough.

“King’s Hot Spring Hotel

On May 12th, 1902 a 7.6 earthquake struck the mountain south of the hotel. It created a 10 million ton landslide that sliced a deep crevice in the earth and destroyed half the King’s hotel. 16 people were killed in the landslide, their bodies never recovered. To this day, their ghosts are said to haunt the site of the rebuilt hotel.

Built 1866.”

So, from a dirty cockroach motel to a haunted hotel, certainly a step up. She doesn’t really believe in ghosts, they’re cool as all hell, she loves creepy shit. But she doesn’t think any of it is real and if she’s wrong, maybe the ghosts will be nice enough to kill her. She parks her bike and shuts off the engine, unclipping her storage bag from it and making her way to the door.

The inside feels warm and welcoming, rustic. A large stone fireplace with a bear skin rug in front of it, wooden stairs leading to the upper floors. Her eyes scan the room and she finds a registration desk where a woman sits, reading from a white book. She stands out slightly in the old styled hotel, tattoos covering her arms. The woman’s light, almost milky, green eyes, look up to see Dahlia as she makes her way to the desk.

“I called ahead and reserved a room for tonight.”

“Hale, right?” The girl flashes a soft smile as she slides the registration forms across the desk and Dahlia finds herself looking down at the receptionist’s arms, SLOTH and ENVY with strikes through them; half tattooed and half scarred in the woman’s skin. Heavy-handed work.

“Yeah, that’s me, how’d you know?”

“Oh, not many folks check in here anymore, between the ghost tales and the new management.”

“Management?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow as she finishes scribbling in her info and handing her card over.

“Here,” the woman hands Dahlia’s card back along with a room key and a map, “I’m sure you’ll find the path.”

“Uhh…thanks…”

She shakes her head as she leaves the desk, doing a double take at the worker, who’s now back to reading the large white tome with a soft smile on her face. Dahlia is entirely too tired to deal with weird cryptic people, maybe she’s trying to play up the creepy factor of the supposedly haunted hotel. Probably intrigues the tourists or some shit. She takes her phone from her pocket, ringing Lloyd as she walks to her room.

“Hey, Stray,” He greets her with the nickname he gave her and she already feels a little better despite the chill and exhaustion.

“Hey,” Dahlia unlocks her room and strides in, there’s a deer head mounted on the wall and a vase of those white flowers on the bedside drawer, “just wanted to let you know that I am officially in Hope County.”

She tosses her luggage, along with the gunk the receptionist gave her onto the bed and does a fist bump for no one’s benefit but her own.

“That’s good, your interview is tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, hopefully it’ll go well, if not it might be another year of me eating cheese puffs on your couch.”

“You make it sound like you’re some sort of bum.”

“I mean…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m gonna be a mess when you go.”

“If I go, still gotta get the job.”

“You’re gonna nail it, I know it, me and Earl were friends way back. He’s not dumb enough to let you go. And if he is, well, I’ll be having some words with him.”

“You can’t fight someone for not wanting to hire me.”

“I mean, I can, uh, yeah, sweetie it’s stray, I was kinda, oh Caroline wants-“

“Stray, did you throw your fucking phone away?” Caroline, Lloyd’s wife, is on the phone in a second, worriedly yelling.

“I talked to you when I stopped off in Denver.”

“Yeah, in a dingy nasty motel and then we didn’t hear a word from you for over twelve fucking hours!”

“I’m pretty sure I could handle myself,” Dahlia laughs and rolls her eyes, the concern is appreciated but unneeded. She’s a cop and despite her short stature, she’s got muscles and knows how to protect her. Maybe it’s cocky and arrogant, but at this point in her life, she’s not afraid of anything hurting her physically, mentally and emotionally is a whole other ballpark.

“Still, what if you were in an accident. Have you ate? Do you know where you’re eating tonight?”

She ate back in Denver and her stomach is growling now, but she mostly just wants a shower and sleep. She’d rather just grab room service for breakfast.

“I’m fine, I’ve ate and I will eat. Stop worrying, now I’m gonna get settled in for the night, I’ll call you after the interview.”

“Wait, ha-”

“Goodbye, mon cher,” Dahlia ends the call after her casual term of endearment, cher and mon cher as normal to her as bud or pal. Maybe it’s just a Cajun French Louisiana thing, or it’s one of the many things she picked up from her dad. She instinctively plays with the ring that hangs from a chain around her neck, he was always so proud of where he came from, teaching her Cajun French from the moment she could talk. Would he be upset with her leaving the state?

She shakes the thought from her head, she can’t concern herself with the opinions of people who aren’t here, as much as they’d mean to her. Dahlia finally has the tools to be independent and make her own way in this world, she needs to seize any and every opportunity. She double checks that her door is locked, before stripping out of her clothes.

Dahlia sets her phone to play music as she takes a shower, singing along to it as hot water eases her aching muscles. Once she’s cleaned, she dries off and starts to make her way to the bed where her luggage is.

The large white blooms on the table between the bed and window, draw her eye, her suspicion confirmed that they’re the same as the fields of flowers she saw on her way here. They must be a common flower here. She’s not a plant person, but she can appreciate pretty flowers when she sees them. The petals are soft against her finger and she pulls out one of the fresh flowers, sniffing at it. It tickles her nose, the soft scent pleasant, but it makes her want to sneeze. She tucks it back in the vase and scrubs at her nose.

Her vision swims for a moment, suddenly light-headed. She hasn’t slept much and has been driving a lot, her eyes must be tired as well.

Dahlia digs some comfy sleeping clothes from her bag to change into. Content in her shorts and tee, the hotel much warmer than the outside chill. She pushes her luggage off her bed and takes a look at the Hope County map.

Her vision is still swimming but she reaffirms where she needs to be tomorrow for her interview. It’s over in Fall’s End at the Sheriff’s Department. Dahlia fishes a marker out of her discarded jacket pocket and then starts to write directions down on her right forearm before tucking the map away.

She rifles a cigarette from her quickly emptying pack, most places don’t like their hotel rooms stinking like nicotine.

Cool air rushes in as she opens the window, she leans against the windowsill, appreciating the view of the moonlight reflecting in the pool of spring water. Montana really is beautiful.

She lights her cigarette, looking away for a second to ignite it.

“Ooooh ooooh~” A soft melodic voice drifts in, piercing the quiet, and Dahlia’s head snaps back to the window.

In the grass, a woman surrounded by green mist spins and dances, singing softly into the night. She’s young, but still older than Dahlia with dirty blonde hair that falls past her shoulders. A white lace dress with flowers across the waist and skirt. Illuminated by moonlight, a heavenly glow, angelic but singing a siren’s song.

Who would be out there at this time of night?

Dahlia’s the only one in the hotel and she doubts the staff indulges in nightly dance sessions.

When did Dahlia start leaning further out the window?

Every fiber of her being screams at her to run to the woman. To jump out the window if she has to, anything to get closer to the hauntingly beautiful woman dancing along the decks before the spring.

Dahlia slams the window shut, quick and hard enough to rattle it. It’s late, she’s exhausted, she’s ridden her bike almost twenty-eight hours straight. Only stopping for a late night in a shitty hotel in Denver before getting back on the road at eight am this morning.

Between ghost stories and exhaustion her brain is fucking with her.

The woman’s singing is still there.

Softer now but still present, still beckoning.

Every muscle in her body is tense, prepared to bolt in order to go find that woman.

She smashes her fist against the side of her head, the impact of her knuckles rattling her skull as she literally tries to knock sense into herself. Her visions seem to clear a bit and she can’t hear the singing anymore, but she also might have concussed herself.

Her cigarette is stamped out before she’s even halfway through it and she’s setting her phone alarm before jumping into the bed.

She buries her face in the pillow, no matter what she hears or thinks she’ll see, she’s not going anywhere until the morning. This interview is the most stressful thing she’s dealt with in years, so much rides on it, and she can’t be exhausted tomorrow from chasing fairy ghosts or what the fuck ever.

Her mind is just playing tricks on her, it’s an asshole, it does that.

She’s not certain exactly when she fell asleep, but the next thing she knows her alarm is going off. Dahlia groans and forces herself out of bed, she hates waking up. Her interview isn’t even late, but god, fuck waking up.

Her head is clearer now, no swimming in her vision and no singing or sirens. She forces her way out of bed, groggily trying to go about her day.

She’s running late, she’s always running late, time isn’t real.

After taking her sweet sleepy time to get herself put together and inhaling a room service breakfast, Dahlia is running down the hotel stairs and scrubbing syrup off her chin. Why does she do this to herself? The receptionist calls out something and she waves her off.

Helmet slapped on and engine revving, she guns it out of the parking lot and makes her way to towards the Valley. She comes to a bridge and pulls her arm from her jacket to read her scribbled directions, remembering too late that she can’t read her own handwriting.

She squints trying to decipher what the hell she wrote, her chicken scratch leaving a lot to be desired. It looks like it might say she’s going to Holland Valley or Halland Volley or Hallard, something to that effect by crossing the Honne…Benne…Rover….Dridge… Why does she do this to herself?

She’s probably on the right track, probably. Dahlia readjusts her jacket, confirming that her mess of directions won’t be getting any clearer the longer she stares at it and makes her way over the bridge. More signs hang from the inner framework of the bridge, half of them bearing a cross symbol with what looks like sunbeams coming from the center, the other half states The Power Of YES; Take The Leap.

Heebie jeebies nest in her gut, those goosebumps from earlier coming back. Religion…

Maybe it was too optimistic, but she had hoped further up North she’d see less of…that. She did searches online and was told based on some statistical thing that Montana was less religious than Louisiana. But apparently religion isn’t completely avoidable in the United States.

The crisp smell of apples manages to break through her helmet as she leaves the bridge. Apple trees as far as the eye can see, bright red fruit gleaming under sunlight, a giant orchard surrounds the road. People mill about the apple trees; couples holding hands and parents hefting their children up on their shoulders to pick the highest apples their little hands can reach. A few people look at her as she rides past, the rev of her engine and the music pounding from her helmet drawing attention. Some looks are judgmental, others unconcerned, a small kid waves at her as she passes by and she waves back, smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. There’s a constructed Apple Statue in the orchard, noting that she’s riding through the Gardenview Orchard.

Over the horizon, built into the hills of the Holland Valley is a giant Hollywood style sign that says ‘YES’. It’s infinitely less creepy than the weird man statue, but far cheesier. Whether that’s better or worse? Who knows, but Hope County is definitely…weirder than she anticipated.

She passes through the orchard and coming up on the left apple trees are replaced with pumpkins on the ground. Fields growing them, some clearly bigger and further along in the growing process, none fully ripe, however. A house is built among the fields, one fence with a sign that says Rae-Rae’s Pumpkin Farm.

There’s a couple walking around, holding hands, but more importantly there’s a dog. A mottled coat of black, white, and blue gray with a bandana around their neck. The dog’s head raises at the rev of Dahlia’s motorcycle engine passing by on the road, tail wagging but he doesn’t run out, a well-trained doggo.

She’s running late.

She doesn’t have time.

One pet can’t hurt.

Dahlia comes to a screeching halt, tires squealing and bracing herself against her handlebars of her bike so she doesn’t fly across the farm. The couple taken aback, staring wide-eyed at her as she kills her music and yanks off her helmet. The doggie is still wagging its tail, eager to meet their new friend.

“Can I pet your dog?”

The couple is older, by Dahlia standards, so probably around their thirties…or forties…or twenties…ages confuse her. A woman with short sandy hair and a man with a knit hat over his head, the woman’s dropped jaw becomes a soft smile, her eyes gentle.

“Of course,” a thick southern accent tints her voice, “Boomer’s doesn’t know a stranger.”

Dahlia stays outside the wooden fence, not wanting to step on crops or something, but she leans over it. Boomer’s big brown eyes landing on her, so cute, she already loves him. A few coos and he’s already rushing over, standing to put his paws at the top of the fence so he can get some much-deserved love. She pets the top of his head, scratching behind his ears and around his neck. He eagerly leans into scritch and pet, licking her.

“Awww, such a good boy, yes you are,” she praises and laughs, soaking it in. Even if she’s running late, this is more than worth it.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” The woman asks.

“Nah, here for a job interview,” Dahlia answers, hugging around Boomer’s neck as she snuggles him.

“Where you interviewing at?”

“Sheriff’s department.”

“You’re kind of young for a cop, ain’tcha?”

“I’m an adult,” she says, shrugging her shoulders through the hug. She is a young adult and that’s all that needs to be said on that.

“They finally trying to fill that deputy position?”

“Seems like it.”

“Sorry, to brush you off so soon, but we have to go pick up some equipment before noon and we’re already cutting it close.”

Shit, right, time. She’s running late too, but the dog was worth it.

“No problem, have a good one, you keep being a good boy, Boomer.”

She gives a final scratch to his head, then slides her helmet back on, waving off the couple as she hops back on her bike. Her nerves have eased slightly at having gotten some time with a dog and even if she’s late, she doesn’t regret it.

Her engine revs and she’s back to traveling down the quiet Montana roads. The sheriff’s department is in Fall’s End. A water tower baring the town’s name lets her know she’s arrived in the right area. It’s not a huge town. Along the main road, there’s the sheriff’s department, a general store, a bar, a church. There’s little streets and roadways showing that beyond those there’s houses and an apartment complex. Not huge, but certainly bigger than where she’s from, which…isn’t saying much.

Dahlia parks her motorcycle outside the sheriff’s department, all those initially dissipated nerves are bubbling back to the surface. Her stomach in absolute knots and her muscles tense with anxiety. She shuts off her bike and pockets her keys then pulls off her helmet, fiddling with her hair. A deep breath, before she finally steels herself to step into the building.

There’s a desk to Dahlia’s right when she enters the building, an older woman with a layered bob of red hair.

“There something I can help you with, darling?” Her southern accented voice asks.

“I have an interview with the sheriff.”

“Really,” the woman’s eyes scan Dahlia up and down, eyebrows furrowed in judgement, “can I get your name?”

“Hale,” she murmurs, once again fiddling with her messy strands of dark hair. She knows she doesn’t exactly look the most professional right now. But professional clothes and motorcycles don’t truly mix. The woman, her desk tag says N. McClure, shuffles through some documents and reads over something.

“Okay, just take a seat and I’ll let Earl know you’re here.”

Dahlia plops down in one of the reception area’s chairs, fiddling with the cat ears on her motorcycle helmet. Her leg bounces up and down, shaking out excess energy as the woman at the desk starts to call back, asking for Whitehorse. It’ll be fine, Dahlia reassures herself, Lloyd and Caroline have been talking her up to their old friend. All she needs to do is be herself, maybe, probably not. She’s kind of a mess.

The clock hand ticks slowly, Dahlia feeling like she’s about to go crazy waiting for her interview to start. Finally, the woman hangs up the phone she was calling back to Whitehorse on, a soft smile on her face that pulls at the wrinkles around her eyes.

“Earl’s ready to talk to you, come on back.”

The older woman steps out and helps show Dahlia to the office door, passing through a bullpen style office area to get there, Sheriff Whitehorse is scrawled on a plaque by the door. Dahlia knocks and he tells her to come on in, she slowly opens the door and steps in. There’s a modest sized quaint office with only a few personal touches. She’s only seen old photos Lloyd had of himself and Whitehorse, from way back in police academy. The man before her is much older than he was in those photos, weathered with wrinkled skin. He looks like an old sheriff pulled directly from a movie; green uniform, cowboy hat, scraggly brown hair, and a mustache.

“You’re Lloyd and Caroline’s Stray, right?” He says, standing up from his desk to shake her hand over it. He’s over a foot taller than her, probably close to a foot and a half. His hand swallows her own whole, it’s probably bigger than her face.

“Holy shit, you’re tall.”

That’s not a good way to start an interview, but he seems to be laughing and smiling. So, maybe it’s fine. Lloyd once said she has a charm about her despite her lack of tact or decorum. She’s still trying to figure out what that charm is, but still.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” he says, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk. She follows suit, leg still bouncing like it was in the waiting room. Whitehorse puts a manilla folder down on the desk, the little tab labeled D. Hale. It’s surprisingly thick for someone who’s never met her in person.

“Lloyd and Caroline talk highly of you, hell the whole town does.”

“The whole town…?” She raises an eyebrow, what’s that supposed to mean? Reinette, Louisiana is a small town, it’s police department has about six people in total and everyone knows everyone. But certainly, they wouldn’t call up Whitehorse to talk about her.

“I swear Lloyd must have handed out the stations number to everyone down there, we’ve been getting two, three calls a day of people who can’t say enough good things about you.”

“Oh god.” Heat flushes up Dahlia’s cheeks, god damn it, Lloyd.

“You’ve left quite an impression on the place.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Dahlia pushes some hair off her face, fidgeting with the locks.

“And you haven’t been working there long, have you?”

“Not counting training, about a year and a half, I know I don’t have much experience.”

“Still making such an impact in a short amount of time, says something.”

“Thanks.” His words soothe her nerves and embarrassment a bit, maybe this will go well.

“But, there’s the issue of your record…”

“My record…?” She shouldn’t have a record, he opens the manilla folder and she feels bile raise in the back of her throat.

“Between what’s on the books and what everyone was saying, I was starting to wonder if there were two of you, Hale. Runaways, break in, fights, attempted grand theft auto, and petty thefts, the list goes on. Doesn’t exactly scream future cop.”

“I thought records got expunged at eighteen.”

“If you request it.”

“Oh…well then…”

“I know this all happened when you were a minor and you’ve been clear for the past two or so years, but…”

“It still looks bad, I know, I know. I’m not going to try to tell you some bullshit excuse or sob story. I did a lot of shit I shouldn’t have for a lot of reasons. I regret most of it, not all of it, but most of it. Lloyd and Caroline helped me get my life back on track, I know two years doesn’t seem like a long time, but I’m not the same kid I was when I did that shit.”

That what she tells him, but she’s not sure how much she believes it. It feels more like her situation’s changed than she’s changed, but if she just said that she’s no longer a delinquent because she doesn’t need to be, well, it wouldn’t sound as good or employable.

“What made you wanna be a cop?”

“Wanted to help people,” she answers with a shrug, it’s not really anything more complicated than that. Whitehorse huffs out what sounds like a laugh, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Okay, I gotta ask, why here? Lloyd and the whole town loves you. It’s a hell of a move and the pay raise ain’t much.”

“Look,” she sighs and folds her hands on top of her motorcycle helmet, calming her body down, “I love Reinette, I love Lloyd and I love Caroline. I owe them and the whole town a debt that I’ll never pay back. But, I’m twenty years old. I’m not their kid and even if I was it’d be time for me to go, I’ve taken enough of their time, money, and everything. Reinette, bless the town’s heart, it’s...dying. There’s more cows than people, our station has more cars than officers. It won’t be long before they do away with the town’s department and just do everything through the Parish. And the parish’s department doesn’t need any more officers.”

Her throat constricts as bile raises in the back of it, her stomach churning. After everything that town and its people have done for her, she’s leaving them. A traitor, betrayer.

“You figure any of those officers will even find work in the parish, at all?” He asks with a knowing, soft look in his eye. If he keeps in contact with Lloyd, he’s already well aware of the trouble in Reinette.

“I doubt it, town’s a sinking ship. Lloyd…he’s willing to go down with it,” her eyes sting and she clenches her jaw, containing herself, “I can’t do that. As much as they all mean to me, I can’t. Lloyd’s gonna retire when it goes under, I’m twenty, the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m trying to help people; I’m trying to make a difference. But my hands keep getting tied because of money, resources, anything and everything. Lloyd and Caroline gave me the means and the tools to make something of myself, I’m not gonna piss that away because some fucker decided we weren’t worth investing in, I…”

She’s clenching her fists and nearly smacking her helmet, anger and frustration welling up inside of her, a geyser of emotions threatening to break through. This is an interview, she can’t do this, can’t be emotional. She needs to stop this, a deep breath before she starts to speak again.

“I can do more here, I know no place is perfect, but I can do more here.”

“Well, no one can say you’re not passionate.” Whitehorse lets out another chuckle, seemingly amused.

“Sorry, certain shit, just winds me up.” She massages the back of her neck, why is she such a fucking idiot? No one wants to hire a cop who can’t keep their cool and throws a fit. She was supposed to tone down her dumbassery, not ramp it up.

“There’s nothing wrong with caring about what you’re doing.”

“Yeah…” She half-heartedly agrees, Whitehorse is trying to make her feel better. Her interview has become him trying to console her, absolutely pathetic. She might as well call Lloyd and Caroline now and tell them she blew it.

“You got any questions for me?”

“Uh…”

Did she just fuck this up as bad as she thinks she did?

“Not really, I just wanna get to work.” That earns her another chuckle from Whitehorse, even if he doesn’t think she’s competent, at least she’s entertaining it seems.

“Full of piss and vinegar, ain’t ya?”

“To say the least.” She lets out a dry laugh, but there’s no mirth of joy behind it. Not a shred of happiness as she thinks about what a fucking idiot she is.

“Well, if that’s all,” Whitehorse stands up from his desk, “I’ll go ahead and show you out.”

Dahlia stands up, the sheriff places a large hand on her back as they leave his office, finding their way back into the reception area.

“It was nice to finally meet you, Hale.”

“Same, thanks for taking the time to talk to me.” She’s sure that he’d rather be doing literally anything else, especially after that beyond trash interview.

“It’s no problem at all, I-”

The doors to the department open, a man and a woman in green deputy uniforms coming in. Another giant, the man is barely an inch of two shorter than Whitehorse, with shaggy dark hair and hazel eyes. More importantly, the woman while taller doesn’t absolutely tower over Dahlia, her long black hair is braided over her shoulder and her olive skin makes her hunter green eyes stand out all the more.

Dahlia’s throat feels tight and her heart race is a little faster. So…that’s a thing.

“We running a daycare, now?” The guy asks, looking down his nose at Dahlia, though that might just be because of the height difference. Either way, she glares at him, he’s been around her a grand total of five seconds and he’s being a dick.

“Pratt…” The woman, her name tag says J. Hudson, rolls her eyes at him. Her voice is warm and rich; why is Dahlia’s face so hot? Is she sick? Has the Montana weather already kicked her ass, what is this?

“This is one of the interviewees. Hale, these are my deputies.”

“Nice to meet you.” Hudson flashes a soft smile and what is Dahlia’s heart doing? It’s like someone’s squeezing it and filled her gut with bugs while they were at it. She fucks up an interview and now she needs a doctor, great.

“Same, I was, uh, just on my way out actually.” She needs to go sleep off whatever the fuck has just hit her.

“Good luck,” the taller woman gives a friendly tap to Dahlia’s bicep, “hopefully we’ll be seeing more of you around here.”

Dahlia is dying.

That’s the only explanation. She fucked up an interview and now she has the heart plague or some shit, hell of a day.

“Uh, yeah, I, um, ‘preciate it.” She’s avoiding eye contact and she doesn’t know why she's stumbling over her words and she doesn’t know why.

“Pssh,” Pratt scoffs, “she’s gonna need it.”

Suddenly, she can talk again. Weird. Hudson and Whitehorse shake their heads, clearly use to his bullshit

“Sorry about Pratt, he’s, well he’s Pratt.”

“Eh, every station has at least one cop who’s just trying to make up for his tiny dick.”

“I assure you, I-”

“Enough,” Whitehorse cuts him off, talking like he’s breaking up a child’s squabbling. Doesn’t really help make her look any more mature or competent, way to steer into the skid, Dahlia.

“For the millionth time, no one wants to hear about your dick, Pratt.” Hudson rolls her eyes, why is that being said for the millionth time?

“Well, that’s certainly my cue to go, have a good one.”

Dahlia quickly waves off the sheriff and deputies, making her escape. She takes the couple steps to her motorcycle with quick rigid movement, making sure she’s away from windows or the glass door, not wanting any of them to see her.

She lets out a low guttural groan muffled by how tightly her jaw is clenched jaw and knocks her knuckles against the back of her head.

Idiot, she fucked everything up by going on some huge ass fucking rant.

Despite the distance, this was a phenomenal opportunity the best she’s had. It’s not like she hasn’t looked into place in Louisiana, but something is always wrong. She’s never made it as far as the interview. Either she never gets a call back, maybe they’d seen her records the same way Whitehorse did and didn’t even bother giving her that chance. Or she’d learn the town, parish, city, whatever was no better off than Reinette. One of the sheriffs she talked to on the phone knew her stepfather and recognized her name, nearly making her puke before she hung up.

This was beyond a shadow of a doubt the best chance she’s had. Whitehorse has the Lloyd seal of approval which is as good as gold. And as much as the distance is guilt inducing…, the fear of betrayal and abandoning people who mean so much to her. But, she needs somewhere far away.

As many good memories as Lloyd, Caroline, and the people of Reinette have given her. There are still too many bad ones, too many people figuring out where she came from, one too many bad memories trying to be more than just that. As much as it may eat her up to leave, it’ll eat her up even more to stay. Between the impending unemployment and her own past, every good moment there has a shadow looming over it.

When she gets back to Reinette she’ll start working to get her record taken care of. Once that’s settled, it’s back to job hunting. A bump in the road, a moment of frustration, but she’ll come out the other end. She always does.

Her stomach growls, burning through a pack of cigarettes and stress binge eating sound like a great way to deal with this. She’ll find some place to stuff her face and call Lloyd once she gets back to the hotel.

There’s a general store, she doesn’t know if the bar lets minors in, so it’s probably her best place to grab some quick snack. She plops her helmet on and makes the short drive to the store, parking her bike outside and pulling her helmet back off to light a cigarette by the dumpsters. Her stressed brain is desperately craving nicotine.

She rips open her pack of cigarettes and lights one up, bringing it to her lips. Smoke pools in her lungs, clawing to her insides and easing her nerves if only for a second. Holding it there for a moment before breathing it out into the air. Her eyes are drawn to the neon sign of The Spread Eagle bar, even bright in the daylight. It also seems to have some activity despite the early hour. Well, early for a bar. A white truck pulls up in front of the building, a man with long grungy hair climbing out of the passenger seat.

Those odd pains in her chest and churns in her stomach fade as she inhales the smoke, looking up at the clear blue sky. A soft breeze blows through, carrying the gray trails away with it. Montana really is beautiful…

“Get back here!” A woman yells out, door to the bar swinging open violent as the man with long hair comes rushing back out, arms piled high with crates of alcohol.

Dahlia drops her cigarette and helmet, bolting towards the bar, as the thief tries to scramble into the back of the pickup truck. He gets the crates set down, but she’s grabbed the back of his shirt before he can climb in. A harsh yank, pulling the tall man back into her and away from the truck. She encircles her arms under his armpits and locks her hands behind his neck, grappling into a full nelson hold that keeps him from running off. The odd angle of these heights and the way he was yanked from the back of the truck leaves him on his knees in his grasp.

“Someone call the sheriff’s department!” She yells out, she doesn’t have any jurisdiction here or cuffs to actually arrest the guy.

He tries to fight back against the hold, attempting to break free, but all he manages to do is writhe and squirm. The door of the truck swings open, the driver jumping out, his feet hitting the ground with a heavy sound. Another man easily a foot or more taller than her.

“Help me, brother Theodore,” the man in her hold struggles to beg for help.

“We have strict orders from John Seed to confiscate this liquor.”

“Don’t know or care who that is, mon cher.”

“Someone like you doesn’t deserve to know him,” the guy tells her, sneering and she sees his finger twitch, brushing over the gun in his belt holster. She can’t have firearms going off in a residential area.

“All you’ll do is end up shootin’ your friend, don’t be stupid. Liquor ain’t worth bloodshed.”

He lets out a sigh and his hand relax, something clicking in his mind. The man, Theodore, chews his lip, eyes flickering as she nearly sees the gears turning in his head.

“What’s going on here?” A familiar rough voice asks over Dahlia’s shoulder, she doesn’t need to look to know Whitehorse has come to investigate. Even if she did, she wouldn’t dare look away from the man in front of her, not until she’s sure he won’t try to shoot.

“These pieces of shit peggies were trying to steal my liquor stash,” a woman explains, somewhere behind Dahlia.

“Liquors still in the back of the truck,” Dahlia tells them, none of it seemed to break, so hopefully it won’t hurt the bar too much.

“If it wasn’t for her, they would have cost me a month’s worth of sales.”

“Pratt, Hudson,” Whitehorse calls the names of his deputies.

“I got it here,” Hudson taps on Dahlia arm, cuffs in hand, and that weird heart thing is happening again.

“Um, yeah, o-of course.” She maneuvers away from the guy, she’s never stumbled over her words like that before. Hudson cuffs the guy and starts reading his rights off.

“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” Pratt barks out at the Theodore guy who's surprisingly obedient as he lets the deputy cuff him.

Dahlia scratches at her nose, watching the scene unfold. She’s finally gotten a good look at the woman who was being robbed.

And, not only is everyone here tall, they’re also apparently beautiful. The woman is than both Dahlia and Hudson, with honey blonde hair tucked up into a bun and soft blue eyes. Her features are soft, cherubic almost, with freckles over the bridge of her nose.

Have women always been this pretty?

When did women start being this pretty?

The fuck is her heart doing?

“Looks like it’s a good thing you were here,” Whitehorse tells her, a soft smile tugging at his lips, “you managed to get Mary May’s liquor back and stopped it from escalating.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess.”

“Someone you know, sheriff?” The blonde, Mary May asks. His smile gets wider and he squeezes Dahlia’s shoulder, a comforting touch.

“This is my new Junior Deputy.”

“I am?”

He’s not serious, there’s no way, he has to be fucking with her.

“Unless you changed your mind?”

“Hell no,” she shakes her head, “I am the new Junior Deputy, wait, Junior?”

“You’ll start with a six-month probationary hire, paid of course, manage that and we’ll take you on permanently.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“You’ll start next, c’mon down to the station Mary, we’ll book ‘em and get your report in.”

“See you around, stranger,” Mary May tells her as she follows after Whitehorse, Hudson and Pratt forcing the thieves along. Theodore shooting a glare Dahlia’s way.

“Look forward to working with you, Rookie.”

“Pfft, I give her a week, tops.”

And with that, Dahlia is left alone on the road of Falls End…with a new job.

She got the job.

She’s got to get through the probationary hire, but she got the job. Holy shit. Holy shit. And she starts in a week. She needs to call Lloyd and Caroline, she needs to find somewhere to live, there’s so much to do.

Dahlia is practically skipping back over to her helmet and bike. She’s gotta start getting her ducks in a row.

She speeds her way back through Hope County, making her way back to the hotel. She has so many fucking calls to make and shit to go through. Before she knows it she’s back in the Kings Spring Hotel parking lot, fumbling to get her phone. As silly as it may be, she’d rather call Lloyd and Caroline in a less populated area. She’s grinning ear to ear, enough to hurt her cheeks, she looks like a dork and that’s not going to get any better. Helmet under her arm, she dials Lloyd as she paces in the isolated parking lot.

“How’d it go?” Lloyd is asking before she even says hi.

“Six months, probationary hire, then we’ll go from there.”

‘So, you got the job?”

“That was the bummer way of saying I got the job, yeah.”

“I can hear you smiling!”

“Shut it!”

“Caroline! She got the job, yeah!”

“I,” she rubs a hand down her face, “I thought for sure I blew it.”

“What changed?”

“Some bar across the street got robbed right after my interview, I stepped in, next thing I know I’m the Junior Deputy.”

“Holy fuck, do you know what that is, Stray?”

“Dumb luck?”

“Fate, Stray, it’s fucking fate! The world telling you that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be!”

“You really are a sap, ain’t ya?”

“What are you doing now?”��

“I’m staying another night here, but once I hop off I gotta start looking into where I’m gonna stay. I start in a week, so I gotta start moving, I’ll see you all in two or three days once I make the drive. It’s gonna be tight, but I’ll manage.”

“Man, you’re really leaving.”

“No crying.”

“Seems like yesterday Caroline found you in the barn.”

“No crying.”

“You were so thin, just a little bag of bones…” His voice is choking up.

“I’m hanging up, you cry baby!”

She does just that, smiling up at the sky. It’s happening, it’s really happening. It feels like the start of a new life, a new her. There’s a jump in her step as she makes her way back into the hotel, room service food and she’ll start making phone calls.

“Miss Hale!” The soft lilted voice of the receptionist calls out when she sees Dahlia.

“Oh, hey.” Dahlia walks to the desk, head tilted in question, what could she need?

“A heads up, we’re switching the water in the tank for the shower and bath system to water pumped in from the spring.”

“Oh, that’s cool.”

“It’s so much more relaxing than regular tap water, be sure to use it tonight.”

“Uh yeah, thanks, by the way can I order some room service?”

“Of course.”

Dahlia goes through her order for room service, being assured the order will be put in and delivered before she knows it. With that she goes back up to her room, she starts digging through the bedside drawer, searching for a phone book for the area. There’s a white book in the top drawer, with that same strange cross like symbol that was on the signs along the bridge. She throws it on the bed, finding a local phone book beneath it, much more important.

She starts rifling through pages. Hope County is mostly a trailer park town, for people who can’t afford to build or buy an actual home and land. There is an apartment complex in Falls End, but the rent is high for pretty small apartments. The prices probably jacked since housing is so limited. She’d rather get a whole trailer to herself for cheaper and just travel further for work.

Hours pass by her making phone calls, seeing about housing and stuffing food in her face when she’s not talking. The Silver Lake Trailer Park that’s nearest the station has no vacancy or trailers available for rent, but they refer her to the Moonflower Trailer Park. It’s some distance, but with how fast she rides her bike, it’s doable. It’s the only place with vacancy, she’ll drop by with a down payment and check out the trailer tomorrow before she heads back to Louisiana to get her stuff and everything tidied up there. The world outside the hotel window has gone dark, moon hanging bright in the sky.

That settled she finishes off her food and collapses back on the bed. She’s still smiling, grinning ear to ear.

“Wooooooo!” She yells out and pumps her fist up at the ceiling, fuck yeah, she’s got this.

She’ll grab one of those spring water showers and then pass out for the night. She grabs her phone and sets it up to play music in the bathroom while she washes up. Her clothes hit the floor, air conditioner chilling her skin as she waits for the water to heat up. It has a soft floral scent and is tinted slightly green, spring water.

She steps in under the hot spray of water, letting it wash away the sweat and dirt of the day. Her muscles relax under the water and steam, as she scrubs the hotel soap into her skin. She blinks her eyes open once she’s done washing her hair, finding her vision clouding, her body feeling heavier and heavier. Must be the exhaustion of the day. Dahlia quickly finishes washing, the last thing she needs is to fall asleep in the shower again.

Her steps are shaky, her body swaying as the world swims around her. Colors distort and shift in prisms before her eyes. It’s like the night before, but times a million. Her movements sluggish as she dries herself and quickly pulls on her sleep clothes. She was feeling ill earlier, maybe it’s catching up to her? But it doesn’t feel the same. Not panicky and nervous. One of her favorite songs starts to play through her phone, though its eerie tones aren’t as welcomed in this moment.

She grips the sink for leverage, steadying herself as she looks into the mirror

All our times have come.

Her dark brown eyes aren’t dark brown, not quite. She tugs at her eyelids, the iris growing milkier and lighter than she’s ever seen it. What the hell is this? A soft melodic laugh echoes through the room, like it’s near.

Here but now they're gone.

She stumbles out of the bathroom, finding her empty bedroom. Nothing unusual.

Seasons don't fear the reaper.

The laugh rings out again, a flash of white passing by her open door. When did it open? She didn’t leave it open.

Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain...

She’s walking out her door before she can give it another thought, looking back and forth across the hall, who’s there?

We can be like they are

Her feet pad down the hallway, steps suddenly sure and confident as she tries to follow the voice. Like her body is being drawn, pulled, following sheer instinct. She needs to find them.

Come on baby... don't fear the reaper

A flash of white, the swish of lace fabric, that laugh again vanishing into one of the rooms. Dahlia is there, trying to wrench open the door. Then it rings out from behind her.

Baby take my hand... don't fear the reaper

A woman stands at the end of a long hallway, the one from the tight before. Long sandy hair and beautiful green eyes. A blue butterfly perches itself on her fingers, the woman looking at it in awe. Dahlia takes slow steps forward, she wants to speak, ask who she is and what she’s doing here. But her tongue is heavy, her throat tight, vocal cords numb, not a sound escaping.

Baby I'm your man...

Green eyes flicker from the butterfly to Dahlia, a soft almost mischievous smile tugging at the woman’s lips. She laughs again as Dahlia nears her, then she runs, childish and giggling she runs towards one of the rooms. Dahlia is chasing her even after she vanishes from sight, legs moving without her permission, instinct driving her to reach this woman. She doesn’t know why, but she needs to reach her, touch her. Be closer.

La la la la la

The laughter turns into soft humming, singing echoing through the halls. Somehow the sound is everywhere, all consuming and right in her ear, but also distant the source too far away for her to find. She walks down the halls, taking turns and climbing up stairs, following her instinct that pulls her in each direction she goes.

Valentine is done

Flashes of white fabric, doors closing and shutting. It’s a game of tag that she can’t seem to win, the small hotel has somehow become a labyrinth as she tries to find the humming woman. Short hallways and few rooms have been traded for never ending paths with room lining them.

Here but now they're gone

Sometimes spacious and open, other times claustrophobic, choking, walls scraping the skin of her arms where she has to fear she might become stuck. More halls and more floors than she’s ever seen, winding paths that make her dizzy. But she can’t stop searching for that woman.

Romeo and Juliet

One more turn, the woman is at the end of a hallway. Standing before a door, softly singing to what is now two butterflies balanced on her fingers. Dahlia starts to walk down the hallway, tight, claustrophobic. She keeps her hands on the walls as if it will give her more space, as if she could force the walls to open wider for her.

Are together in eternity...Romeo and Juliet

Her heartbeat races as she walks closer and closer, the walls threatening to crush her between them. She can hardly breathe, every breath ragged and tight. Dying. She feels like she’s dying, air being stolen from her lungs and heart pounding lie it’s trying to escape her chest. It worsens with every step she takes near the woman.

40,000 men and women everyday... Like Romeo and Juliet

Some part of her brain, the small part that doesn’t have a thick haze of fog clinging to it, tells her to run the other way. That with this feeling only growing with every step towards the siren, with her heart pounding harsher, breathing getting raspier, she’ll die if she keeps going. That this truly is a siren luring her to death, but she can’t listen to that part of her. Her body won’t. She needs to reach her.

40,000 men and women everyday... Redefine happiness

She’s getting closer and closer; the woman isn’t running this time. Just calming singly, like she doesn’t even notice Dahlia. She tries to reach out for the woman, her fingers nearly brushing the woman’s dress sleeve.

Another 40,000 coming everyday... We can be like they are

Then the woman walks through the door, Dahlia could curse and cry if her vocal cords would only work. Once again, the woman evading her, being just out of reach. But this hall has no doors along its sides, no turns or twists. The only two options are going back or going through the door after her. It’s not even a choice.

Come on baby... don't fear the reaper

She wrenches the door open and she’s in another world. No more wood walls and floors, her bare feet touching lush grass that tickles her skin. White petals float in the air and scatter across the ground. Trees curl around the area and when she looks out at the horizon, she sees that large statue of that man looming over the area.

Baby take my hand... don't fear the reaper

When she looks straight ahead at the middle of the field is the woman, she twirls, short white dress fanning out around her hips. She stops, turning to face Dahlia, she smiles softly. Delicate and angel like, she stretches her hand out. An offer, a beckoning.

We'll be able to fly... don't fear the reaper

The feeling of impending death lifts the very moment she sees the woman. Her heartbeat and her breathing easing, relief and contentment filling her body. She’s smiling and she doesn’t know why she feels alive. Free, like she can do anything. She’s walking closer and closer to the woman, each step making her happier and happier. Her body lighter and lighter. Calm and peace, she’s never known. She’s right where she belongs, she doesn’t need to be anywhere else.

Dahlia reaches out, finally about to touch her, a touch of their hands is so simple, so minor. But it feels like the only thing she wants. All she’s ever want, like every moment in her entire life has been building up to this, being here with her, whoever she is.

Before skin can meet skin, the siren fades to mist.

No, no, no!

She grasps desperately at the air where the woman once was, her heart racing, her lungs stinging like the airs been knocked out of them. The world is crumbling, falling down, everything going out beneath her feet. It’s falling apart and she can’t stop it, she can’t fix it.

Dahlia takes a heavy gasp, desperately sucking in a heavy breath and she blinks, the world around her has completely shifted. Her vision isn’t blurred, no more prisms of color before her eyes.

Cold, goosebumps raising up on her skin, shorts and tee doing nothing to save her from the Montana breeze. She’s outside the hotel, in the world she knows. That damn statue looming still in the distance ahead of her.

Dull.

The landscaped she was so mesmerized by this day, seems so dull now. She feels dull, after so many emotions, so much intensity both in fear and happiness…she feels so numb. Dahlia rubs her fingers together, her craving for the feeling of another’s hand in her own…there’s an ache. She was so close, but now she’s been plunged back into reality.

She stands out in the field outside the hotel, staring at that cement statue, it still seems to call her. Her heart telling her to go towards that looming structure, but her head tells her to go back inside the hotel.

So, she doesn’t move.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, just staring.

“Miss Hale!” A voice pulls her further back into reality, the hotel receptionist walking out towards her with a large blanket.

Dahlia blinks a few times, she no longer feels numb, the very real emotion of shame flooding in. She’s standing out in public, in her pajamas. Did she just wander out of her hotel room in her sleep clothes? She must look ridiculous.

“Hey…”

“Is everything alright? You just walked out of your hotel, looked like you were sleepwalking.”

“Uh…yeah, I guess.”

That makes sense, she must have went to bed and had a weird dream…yeah.

“Here,” the woman wraps the large blanket around Dahlia, “you must be freezing.”

“Thanks, sorry, I, just, weird dream.” She murmurs as they walk back to the hotel, Dahlia giving one last glance at the hotel.

“Dreams are nice, aren’t they? Sometimes you just wanna stay there forever.”

#far cry 5 #fc5 #joseph seed #john seed #faith seed #jacob seed #deputy oc #This Is Love #Dahlia Hale

30 notes · View notes

exoarcturus9 · 4 years

Text

Indebted 1/?

First time posting my written stuff, critiques are welcome, but please be gentle :v

Slow burn mirage/caustic (miraustic? caustage?)

Warning: Some blood and gore

-----

The room was spinning as Mirage slouched against the cluttered front desk of the smoky lobby. The cold air of the empty city pressed uncomfortably against his back. He’d left the door open. They’d know he was here. He had to hide. He had to doing something. He had to... The taste of blood in the back of his throat, the aching, spreading bruises that covered his torso where his shielding had given out, the pain, the pain, the pain. This was all he could think of as he collapsed to the floor. A broken rib, perhaps several, sent a stabbing pain through his chest with every breath. He’d been knocked around in fights before sure, but it never got easier, the feeling of choking, stifling pain. Where was his team?

Dragging himself into the cover of the desk’s squat walls, Mirage grimaced as he tried to assess his wounds. A burst of gunfire had caught his right side, although most of the wounds were from grazing rounds. Blood oozed from the ragged flesh, congealing in the matted material of his jumpsuit. Every inhale reminded him of the bruises on his chest and back, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of him was in just as bad shape. He got sloppy. He’d heard the sound of the grenade bouncing before he saw it. He should have known.

Outside the walls of the towering prefab building, the sound of gunfire was still echoing off the vacant city streets. His squad? He needed to move, before someone doubled-back and picked him off. Sweat plastered the dark brown curls of his hair to his forehead and made his skin prickle and itch. Bile rose in his throat. A concussion? Likely. Gritting his teeth, Mirage rummaged through the meagre supplies he had on him. Ammunition, grenades, batteries for his shields, but no med kits...

Suddenly, the sound of a door slamming closed interrupted his search. Mirage froze, his blood running cold. Fuck. As silently as he could manage, he raised his head just above the edge of the desk. Peering through the books and other clutter hastily abandoned on its surface, he readied a decoy to send sprinting toward the other door. It might buy him a couple seconds. That would have to be enough.

Whoever had come through the door was searching for something. Mirage could hear their heavy footsteps as they rounded the small hallway beyond the door. They must be at the other door now, maybe they’ll just leave? There was a heavy ‘thunk’ and a quiet hiss that made him pause. Was that...? Another ‘thunk.’ Then a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone was walking into the room. Mirage sent out his decoy and twisted to face the direction of the intruder. His body screamed in agony, his heart pounded, the rifle in his hands swung upwards, steady despite his frayed nerves.

“I don’t have time for your games, Witt, and neither do you.” Caustic’s gloved hand closed around the barrel of Mirage’s rifle, turning it aside. The younger man gave a start and his breath caught in his throat, sending him into a fit of barely stifled coughs. The trapper regarded him with a curious look as he released his gun, unfazed by how close he had just been to taking a high-calibre round straight to the chest. Perhaps he had trusted Mirage not to fire or he just trusted his shielding to take the brunt of whatever shot he managed to get off. Either way, it was evident from the way he hurried around the desk that time was indeed of the essence.

“Boy am I glad to see you,” Mirage wheezed. Then he paused and glanced up at Caustic with a nervous laugh. “Please tell me I should be glad to see you.”

“You should be thrilled,” Caustic replied, his voice muffled slightly by his omnipresent gas mask. Crouching in front of Mirage, the man seemed entirely unconcerned as he took in the wounded state of his teammate, vivid green eyes scanning him purposefully. The trapper was taller than Mirage and heavier too, prepared to haul his decidedly bulky equipment wherever his ‘experiments’ led him. His gloved hands were surprisingly gentle as he moved Mirage’s arm to examine it. “This match is going well, you’re too effective to squander.”

“I’ve noted your appreciation,” Mirage replied with tiny chuckle, throwing out a halfhearted ‘finger gun’ with his uninjured arm. Caustic was silent, but he raised an eyebrow in incredulity. Mirage raised his hands defensively and laughed. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” Caustic growled, though there was a faint hint of amusement in his voice. Between their hushed exchange, the trapper had been digging through his own supplies. To Mirage’s relief, he pulled a fully stocked med kit from the mess of his backpack. He handed it over hurriedly, suddenly drawn back into the severity of the situation around them. His next words were in a hushed whisper. “I need to clear the upper floors. We’re not out of the woods just yet.”

“I expected my rescue party to be a little more crowded. Where’s our favourite orni-ornithol...bird-lover?” He’d last seen Bloodhound chasing down another unfortunate challenger in the city’s narrow alleys. That was before things really took a turn for the worse.

“Bloodhound is scouting the buildings nearby, trying to root out another ambush. They’ll rendezvous with us here, if they’re able.” Caustic replied, returning to his supplies.

During his time at the Games, Mirage had gotten fairly good at hastily patching himself up, although the med kits themselves were fairly idiot-proof. With a grimace and only a moment of hesitation, he plunged the needle of one of the syringes into his chest. Fuck. It felt like being kicked in the chest, but with every breath the pain in his chest and arms subsided. A bit of quick-clotting gauze here, a few bandages there. Just needed to hold it together for a little bit longer. He was tough, he could do this. Right? Pushing his sweat-slick hair out of his face, he glanced up just in time to see Caustic eyeing him with that same unidentifiable look. In his gloved hand, he held something out to Mirage.

“Take this, I don’t need you succumbing in the middle of a firefight.” It was a small black gas mask, clearly not as high-tech as the one Caustic wore, but better than nothing. Mirage slipped it on without a thought. His breath was warm against his face, but calmer than before. The ring was closing in. Things were going to get messy. “The snares are set. Do what you do best.”

“This is going to be a piece of cake,” Mirage said with all of his usual casual confidence. Finally starting to lift himself up off the cold floor, he gritted his teeth slightly as a dull ache settled into his limbs. This was probably going to be pretty rough. “After all, I am the best.”

Caustic let his comments slide, surprisingly, without a sarcastic interjection. He nodded silently and headed for the stairs, shotgun in hand. Readying his own weapon, Mirage quickly surveyed the courtyard beyond the bulletproof windows. Not a soul in sight. The orange glow of the shifting ring moved ever closer, overtaking the outskirts of the city. Upstairs, he could hear the heavy metallic ‘thunk’ of Caustic laying more traps. There was something else... The rush of wind? No. Mirage glanced up instinctively, as if his would-be assailant was going to come crashing through the ceiling. Someone was landing on the roof.

Heart beating faster, the familiar buzz of adrenaline in his veins, Mirage took to the stairs, moving as swiftly and as quietly as he could manage. Caustic had to be on the third floor by now, surely he had heard it too. He could almost smell the acrid burn of the ring’s energy. How many could be left? He barely glanced at the second floor as he passed it. It was empty, just as he’d thought, but above him he heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun going off. Somewhere below him, a trap hissed, releasing its carefully formulated payload in the form of a heavy, choking fog of death.

Cresting the top of the third floor stairs, Mirage could see his trapper teammate grappling with another contestant, a gruff man of similar size. A gun lay discarded on the ground on the other side of the room, thrown by their struggle. Caustic had one hand on his shotgun, trapped between the two of them and the other on the man’s wrist, which held a small handgun pointed – for the moment – at the ceiling. Mirage sprinted straight toward them, rifle raised, ready to fire. Only he didn’t. The decoy only took a second or so to cross the room, but it was enough to draw the other man’s eye. That moment of distraction was all Caustic needed. A swift headbutt sent the man toppling backwards, his nose and lips exploding in a spray of blood. He staggered, the pistol in his hand swinging up wildly.

“No, I think you’re done buddy.” On the other side of the room now, Mirage had drawn the heavy pistol from his waist and fired three quick shots into the man’s chest. He fell and did not rise again.

“I must confess, watching you work is... satisfying,” Caustic noted with a suppressed cough. He knelt to retrieve the man’s discarded gun from the floor, giving it an appraising look. There was a fiery look to his eyes, excitement perhaps? Before Mirage had a chance to gloat over the compliment? Yeah, probably a compliment – the sound of sprinting footsteps reached them from the stairs. This time the trapper was ready.

The second man rounded the corner of the doorway – gun ready – just as Mirage had. But he had no holographic tricks up his sleeves. Just a few steps into the room and the trap to his left triggered, belching noxious green fumes into the room. Same mistake twice. What an idiot. Caustic was upon him in seconds, moving faster than a man his size had any right to. The man had brought his arm up to try to stop himself from inhaling the gas, but he was already coughing, tears streaming down from his burning eyes. Caustic grabbed his raised arm and swung the muzzle of his shotgun into the man’s gut. The shot shattered his energy shielding, threatening to send him flying against the wall of the stairwell. But the trapper held on.

Dropping the shotgun to the floor, his fist connected to the man’s jaw, sending him reeling. Caustic didn’t give him time to recover. The next blow connected to his stomach, which was no doubt already battered. Flecks of blood splattered over Caustic’s mask. He was relentless, eyes wild. When he was done, the knuckles of his gloves were smeared with red.

“I always relish the chance to observe the end so intimately,” Caustic wheezed through his gas mask, his breaths coming ever so slightly faster than usual. He flexed his fingers absentmindedly. Mirage wouldn’t be surprised if he had busted a knuckle or two with how hard he was swinging. Everything had happened so fast that he had barely managed to take a step forward to help, not that the trapper had needed assistance this time. The poisonous fumes of the trap were starting to dissipate, but Mirage was thankful for the gas mask nonetheless – he could feel his eyes watering, even at this distance.

“Y’know, I’m starting to think the two of us might actually be a pretty good team,” Mirage said with a laugh as he stepped forward and gave Caustic a friendly pat on the shoulder. His body ached, his heart was pounding, but the two of them were still in this thing. “Between my wits and dashing good looks and your uh... science and re-really strong fists...”

“I suppose I can agree with that conclusion.” The trapper raised his hand to examine the mess he’d left on his gloves as he replied, that faint tone of amusement creeping into his voice once again. Mirage wondered if he was smiling under his mask. “The evidence is certainly compelling.”

In the following weeks, Mirage only saw Caustic in passing. The trip to the arena was full of high nerves and lots of excitement. The journey home was... quieter. Celebrations were of course obnoxiously loud – Mirage was positive that was the only real way to celebrate, but after that most of the remaining contestants would keep to themselves and nurse their wounds, both physical and metaphorical. The massive ship seemed more forlorn, more contemplative. More boring, maybe.

-----

Upon boarding the ship, Mirage had pulled both Caustic and Bloodhound into a celebratory grapple, draping his arms over their shoulder and suggesting they take a photo to commemorate the moment – only mostly joking of course. Free autographs, anyone? Anyone? No? He imagined Caustic was probably seething at the intrusion, but if he was, he was very good at hiding it. He even replied ‘I’ll consider it’ when Mirage had invited the small crowd back to his bar for drinks when they landed – again mostly joking. But once the celebrations died down, the trapper vanished back into the quiet of his tiny onboard lab.

Mirage passed him there on several occasions, pouring over experiments, but he couldn’t bring himself to poke his head in and interrupt his work. The seemingly cordial relationship they held now felt as fragile as the delicate glass instruments in the scientist’s lab. To be honest, he did not miss the general disdain Caustic had regarded him with previously. One step closer to being friends, right? He wasn’t about to risk shattering whatever burgeoning respect he had stirred in the man. A truce perhaps? That would be a nice thought.

It was difficult to describe how the trapper regarded him now. It was intriguing – to use a familiar phrase. As he walked past the lab, on more than one occasion, he found himself locking eyes with Caustic as he looked up from his desk. There was always some unreadable, unidentifiable expression that crossed his face. A strange recognition? Curiosity? The lab was dimly lit – Mirage wasn’t sure how he got any work done – and in the shadows of the ship the trapper’s eyes took on an unearthly green glow. The first time he’d seen it his heart had skipped a beat, like some poor animal spotting a predator in the darkness of a shady forest. He was right to be wary, wasn’t he?

The two of them would not speak face to face again until they were back in the arena. This time on opposite sides on the front-lines.

#apex legends #caustic #mirage #apex caustic #apex mirage #elliott witt #alexander nox #mirage x caustic #fic #my fics #if anyone knows their ship name please let me know!#also very nervous to have people read this aaaaaaaaaaaa #caustage

27 notes · View notes