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arazialotis · 9 months

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Get Him to the Con - Part 6

Pairing: Jensen × Reader

Word Count: About 7600

Summary: The reader stumbles into Jensen at her favorite bar, a very drunk Jensen. She soon realizes Jensen was booked for a con this weekend and has to be eight hours from town in only two.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Warnings: Language, Mutual Pining, A very mild jalapeno pepper in the beginning

Although this is an RPF, it is a character I created and should not reflect back IRL. I intend no hate or ill wishes to him or his family. This is purely just for writing and wasting my time as coping skill. Maybe some of you will enjoy it too. I apologize in advance for any mistakes or grammatical/spelling errors. I appreciate any feedback or suggestions!

-----

Sunlight filtered into the room through sheer curtains blowing in the gentle breeze. Birds chirped outside, greeting the day with a chorus of melodies. A peaceful sigh brushed the back of your neck. An arm wrapped around you, holding you close to the solid form behind you. A hand bordered on the edge of your shirt that must have ridden up during the night. Another grazed the back of your bare thigh, and another pressed hard against your ass. A soft moan escaped past your lips as you pressed further into it. You would have been content to stay here forever. Wait! Your eyes shot wide open. That was one too many hands.

You jolted from bed, now fully awake. Jensen grumbled but rolled over to the other side, not ready yet to face the day. Thankfully, it gave you enough time to get your shit together. Where were your pajama bottoms? You were a notorious chronic stripper. Always starting the night off with too many layers because you were cold, but as you started to warm up, thus commenced the unconscious removal of layers. It didn’t help that Jensen was hot. Like, temperature-wise. The guy was a fucking furnace. You weren’t concerned last night about it because you thought you’d be too anxious to sleep at all. Turns out you were so very wrong. Hopefully, he hadn’t noticed.

Jensen sniffed, and the sheets rustled as he turned onto his back. The bedding became tented near the area you had believed was his third hand. Change of plans. You abandoned looking for your missing pajamas and opted for jeans and a sweatshirt. After a quick trip to the bathroom, you left on a mission to find breakfast and coffee, sure Jensen would appreciate the privacy to tackle the obvious, albeit impressive, situation on his own.

The town was bigger than Lebanon, but not by much. At least it was walkable. The downtown had one restaurant but didn’t open until eleven. Traffic was busy on the main stretch of the road, filled with trucks, semis, and livestock trailers. Tires squelched through puddles and mud. Across the way, loud mariachi music called travelers to a pop-up tent where there was a line of hungry patrons waiting. An intoxicating aroma of spices broke through the smell of cattle. You eagerly went to join the queue.

Forty minutes of walking, waiting in line, and waiting for food seemed like an appropriate amount of time to give Jensen. On the way back, to Anthony’s credit, you did peek into one of the empty rooms, which was completely stripped of wallpaper, carpet, and wood paneling. The furniture was pushed to one corner and covered with a plastic tarp. You knocked on your motel door. Jensen answered, having changed into black jeans and a Family Business t-shirt tie-dyed with bleach. His hair looked so soft, still free of product. It was the most unkempt you’d seen him, yet you craved to see more of his natural state. How he would appear on a lazy Saturday morning with no one to impress.

It was another morning with more uncertainty of how to start the day, of what to say, of what to address. Both of you stood there frozen in time, staring at each other. Though the storm had broke last night, a new one began to brew in the spaces between. There was a need to feel clouds clash against each other, to feel the shake of thunder, to watch lightning flash in each other’s eyes. It wasn’t only you who felt the flush of heat; Jensen’s cheeks visibly reddened, lost in the memory of a dream, wishing it had been reality. At any moment, the clouds would break, and the floodgates would release. Thankfully, you had the perfect solution.

“Breakfast burrito?” You held up the heavy paper bag as a barrier between the two of you. “I didn’t know what kind you would want, so I got one of each. There’s eggs and potatoes, eggs and chorizo, veggies…”

---

Jensen had taken the entire leg of the journey yesterday, so you insisted on starting the drive today. You rushed through, getting ready and eating breakfast, eager to leave the creepy motel behind. There was a minor traffic jam on 36, but it lasted only twenty minutes, and you were flying down the road once more.

Jensen finished his last sip of coffee. “Didn’t we listen to Led Zeppelin all of Thursday?”

You gasped. “This is Greta Van Fleet, you uncultured swine.”

It took him a second, but he got there. “Did you just insult me with a line from Toy Story?”

“It’s a good line.” You defended, “Why reinvent the wheel?”

“Uncultured,” He scoffed. “I’m not the one listening to a cheap knock-off.”

You continued the playful banter. “You sound exactly like all those cake-eaters on Reddit whose only knowledge of musical theory stemmed from listening to Entry of the Gladiators too many times at clown school. I enjoy it so I’m going to listen to it. Fuck the pretentious haters.”

Jensen chuckled silently, shaking his shoulders. “You’ve been holding that in for a while.”

You nodded your confirmation.

“Entry of the Gladiators?” He asked for clarification.

You used a series of “da da das” to sound out the melody of the iconic circus theme music.

“Ah, of course,” He recognized it not even halfway into the first stanza. “Who wouldn’t know that had a title other than ‘circus music?’ Clown school,” He chuckled again. “I’m going have to steal that line for future use.”

“It’s going to cost ya.” You warned.

“What’s the price?” He questioned.

You took your eyes off the road, studying his face. His finger was brushing against his lower lip as if offering them up freely as compensation. A wave of anticipation coursed throughout your body, landing in your toes. As you leaned closer, testing if he would meet you, you chickened out instead and adjusted the volume before focusing back on the road.

“The price is your admission that this is actually a decent song and that you’re somewhat intrigued.” You settled.

Jensen had not yet pulled away from leaning in. “Oh, I’m intrigued, alright.” He admitted but was talking about an entirely unrelated matter.

It was not even two hours once you hit the Colorado border, but this entire trip had felt like a lifetime of trying to reach an unknown destination that was finally in sight. The wooden sign read ‘Welcome to Colorful Colorado.’ The car slowed to a stop on the road’s shoulder.

“Come on,” Jensen complained. “We’ve already taken a hundred pictures this trip.”

But you were already halfway out of the car, bounding into the tall grass and wildflowers to get closer to the sign. “We’ve taken three!”

“Be careful!” He warned. “You’re going to get bit by a rattlesnake or infested with ticks.”

“Well then, you better come over here and protect me. I'm sure a big, strong Texan such as yourself ain't afraid of no rattlesnake."

The grass swished against his calves as he came closer.

“As for the ticks,” You continued, bravery rising up. “We’ll have to turn on some country music and see what Brad Paisley advises for those.”

He raised his arm above his head, leaned against the wooden post, and looked down at you. The intensity of his gaze normally would have made you turn and run or, at the very least, create a distraction to diffuse the tension. Instead, you stepped closer, a whisper away from him. The sun shone through the gap between.

Gravel and tires met as another car slowed, pulling off the road behind yours. Three girls piled out of the car, laughing and squealing at each other. Fuck. You stepped away from him.

“Hey,” One of the girls called. “We’ll take your photo if you take ours!”

“So it begins,” Jensen mumbled under his breath.

You didn’t understand why until they stepped closer. You raised your hand to shield the sun from your eyes. One girl was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt over a black tank, the anti-possession tattooed on their chest, one in a shirt that had the side profile of the Impala that read ‘The Winchester Brothers’ like it was an advertisement, the third’s shirt was just Jensen’s face everywhere in the style of a 90’s album cover.

The shock of realization crossed their faces slowly and then all at once.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” One repeated over and over while simultaneously hitting her friend’s shoulder.

The one subject to the abuse just stood there, mouth hanging open as if her brain was having trouble computing the reality of the event. The third gulped, wide-eyed, and turned a hundred and eighty degrees walking back to the car.

You snickered and whispered to Jensen, “Fight, flight, freeze.”

He snorted but then recomposed himself, calling over to them. “Y’all don’t happen to be traveling to Denver for a certain convention now, are ya?”

“Oh my god,” The fighter repeated again. “I told you it was going to be worth it.” She pulled the fleeing friend by her collar back to the group. “I told you!” She then directed to Jensen, “We’re huge fans of the show.”

“Yeah?” He chuckled as if the shirts didn't give it away.

The frozen one thawed. “Were you in Lebanon, like literally yesterday!?!”

“Sure was.” He said. “Did you see my note?”

Two of them squealed while the other said, “We must have been like an hour or two behind you.”

“Well, we are all here now. Should we get a picture or something?” He suggested.

“Oh my gosh! Yes, Please!” The one in the Impala shirt gushed.

You offered to take the photo, and as you were receiving instructions, one of them asked you, “So, are you like his… cousin? Assistant?”

Jensen was yacking it up with the other two girls. You looked him up and down, not sure what to define it as. Caught somewhere in between. Wondering if it would cement into something more. But then it hit you. This road trip was almost over. You were leaving him by the end of the day. You’d go back to your life and he to his. Who knew the next time you’d be able to see each other, let alone work on a relationship? If that’s even what he wanted. Was it what you wanted? Honestly, the guy might be looking for a quick fling. Again, was that something you wanted? Jensen felt your gaze and met it; his lips pressed together. Your brain spun from overthinking.

“Friends,” You sputtered out. “We’re just friends.”

Relief radiated from the girl, but you were more focused on Jensen, wondering if that sigh was a hint of disappointment. But god dammit! If he wanted something more, he was going to have to be the one to bring it up! Several pictures later of the group and singles, Jensen realized he needed to take control of the situation, or he’d never leave.

“Alright, alright.” He attempted to settle them. “I didn’t do my hair today, but one of those has to be decent, and there’s a dinner I gotta catch tonight.” He looked at his watch to sell that he was running behind.

They thanked him profusely, trying to draw out the moment as much as possible.

“Actually, can you get one real quick of me and… my friend… before we head out.” He asked.

Oooh. Was that as intentionally backhanded as it felt?

“Get over here.” He impatiently waved you over. “Wait, actually, do you have your phone? I think I left mine in the car.”

You nodded and handed it over to one of the girls, knowing fully well that his phone was in his back pocket; he just had the common sense not to hand his phone over to random fans. (Unless he was very drunk per your first encounter). Although you had been the initial one to want a photo, now that you had an audience, you didn’t know how to act. One of the girls had her phone out as well, possibly recording the interaction. You stood next to his side with your body angled towards him as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder. The girl with your phone counted down before snapping a pic.

“No, no, no.” Jensen complained and reset. “This feels too photo op-y.” He adjusted his jeans as he squatted down. “Hop up.”

“What? Jensen!” You protested.

“Don’t ‘What, Jensen’ me.” He argued. “You did it yesterday, and it was cute, and I’d like a picture.” He tried to encourage you with the wave of his hand. “Oh, don’t get all shy on me now. One way or another, I’m getting you in the air for a picture, whether willingly or over the shoulder with just your ass in the frame, which I wouldn’t complain….”

“Fine, fine.” You chuckled as you gave in to his demand.

His knees popped as he lifted you quickly, and you bounced in the air.

“Gentle,” You scolded. “I’m not paying for your knee replacement surgery.”

“Smart ass.” He bit his lower lip and pinched the underside of your thigh.

You shrieked with laughter, and Jensen turned to look up at you.

“Oh, that is adorable.” The girl called, taking a few candid shots.

“Just friends?” Another mumbled though the two of you were not privy to the conversation.

The third agreed. “How much you wanna bet he’s going to make an announcement tomorrow he’s off the market?”

“I’m not betting on a hand already lost.”

After several more moments of thanks and prolonging the experience, you finally made to part ways. You and Jensen sat in the rental. As you waited for the girls to take off, Jensen saying something about not wanting to be followed the whole way to Denver, you played with the filters on the photos and sent the best ones to Jensen. He then added the one of him next to the sign in Lebanon to Instagram. Later as he was driving down the freeway, you read the whole thing: If there was one word to describe this year so far, that word would be unexpected. The start was unexpectedly filled with chaos and turmoil, as most of you know, though maybe I should have seen it coming. But these last few months have taught me unexpected isn’t always a bad thing. It can come in the form of unexpected kindness from strangers, unexpected friendships, unexpected journeys, unexpected mysteries, and unexpected healing. All of which has led me spontaneously and unexpectedly back home. Oh, home, let me come home.

Though he had driven all of yesterday and you only had a couple of hours in today, he insisted on seeing you through to Denver. Though he teased you over your deplorable and sometimes downright terrifying driving, you thought it was really because he wanted to reinforce the driver picks the music rule. (You weren’t ‘that’ bad of a driver). It was sole stubbornness that kept him from admitting he liked Greta Van Fleet or confusing them for Zeppelin in the first place. Instead, he went for an indie playlist of his featuring bands like Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros, The Flaming Lips, and Beach House.

The drive continued ever onward, and though Colorado did have some rolling hills, the bare wasteland and fields you had become accustomed to over the past few days drew you to the brink of insanity.

“Hey, Jensen.” You said.

“Yeah?”

“Clouds or Mountains?”

He thought on it for a second. “Clouds.”

Sure enough, he was right.

A half-hour, he prompted you. “Hey, Y/N.”

You only humphed a response.

“Clouds or mountains?”

“Clouds,” you grumbled.

A few minutes later and a new shape emerged on the horizon.

He asked again, “Clouds or mountains.”

You whined again. “Clouds.” And sighed a deep sigh before quoting, “I want to see mountains again. Mountains Gandalf! And then find somewhere quiet where I can finish my book.”

Jensen chuckled. “I always forget how big of a nerd you are. We should watch those movies together sometime.”

“Yeah, we should!” You concurred. “We can marathon them and have a hobbit day where we follow the meal schedule and everything. Breakfast, second breakfast, elevensies, luncheon….” You listed off. “Tomatoes, sausages, nice crispy bacon,” You impersonated a few more quotes. “Malt beer, ripe meat of the bone.”

His stomach grumbled. “Ah, man, I'm hungry just thinking about it.”

“How?” You giggled. “You had three breakfast burritos.”

“Two and a half.” He defended.

“Hold on,” You said before unclicking your seatbelt and shuffling to the back. “What do you want?”

His tongue flashed over his bottom lip. After his dreams last night, you were the only snack he was concerned with. God, how he wished he had a few more days. Perhaps canceling on the con so you could keep driving wouldn’t be such a bad idea. You could just keep heading to Vancouver. He’d make it to set on time. Most likely. Okay, if he was able to have his way with you two days late, but it would be so worth it. You reoriented yourself in the front with your stash. “Goldfish, Pringles, and we still have a few pretzels.”

He was going to make his move tonight. He didn’t want to wait any longer. He was ready to take things to the next step. He was glad to have you as a friend, but he wanted more. From the moment you slid in next to him all those months ago at the brewery, he knew he was a fucking goner. Sure, at that time, he was as drunk as Jimmy Buffet in Margaritaville, but that instinct hadn’t lied to him. It held and only grew. It had taken him these past months and this road trip to build up this decision, to finally have the courage to act on it. He just wasn’t quite sure how to initiate it yet.

“Hey,” You called him from his thoughts. “You gotta help me with these. I really only want to take the granola and trail mix up with me to Estes Park.”

His heart immediately sank. Maybe he didn’t understand or hear you right. “Estes Park?”

“Yeah.” You confirmed. “I actually got an unbelievable deal at the Stanley Hotel. You know, Stephen King’s inspiration for The Shining. Like such a good deal, the ghosts may be luring me there. So I may call you in a panic tonight and probably should get some salt on the way up. Oh man, how awesome would it be if you and Jared stayed there and made a little ghost hunter special? But I figured you’d be busy with the con all weekend, and we wouldn’t get to see each other much anyways, so I might as well make the most of being out in Colorado and hike the Rockies while I’m out here.” You rambled.

“Right.” His heart stayed in his stomach, remembering your early conversation about what you told your friends, not realizing it was a partial truth to them. “Cause how else are you going to have your meet-cute with some handsome lumberjack unless you trip over his fallen log?”

He meant it as a joke, but disappointment twisted inside you. So the kiss had been a fluke, and this morning was just a natural reaction. He wasn’t interested. It made sense. More so than what you had thought.

“Exactly.” You said.

Friends. You thought. Just friends, he thought, and his cheeks flushed. Simultaneously, you both swallowed a lump in your throat. The ride from there on was quiet. There was an obvious tension in the air. Not like the storm waiting to break as was before. No, this was more like when your grandfather brought up politics on Thanksgiving. At least you had other rooms to escape to then.

You played on your phone a bit, tried, and failed to read. The motion of the car and focusing on the stationary words was too much for your brain to process. Jensen seemed lost in thought. Like he wanted to say something but never was able to work it out. Maybe if you could tell him how you were feeling. Just let it all out. That you didn’t know how much longer you could handle the ‘just friends’ thing. It was pretty easy when thousands of miles separated you, but being so close together, it was near impossible to deny your emotions. At any moment, they could explode out of you. But you didn’t want to risk it. Didn’t want to make a mistake and lose him altogether.

“Hey, Y/N?” Jensen pulled you from your thoughts.

“Yeah?” You responded hopeful.

“Clouds or mountains?”

It was not what you wanted to hear, but at least some of the tension had lifted. You squinted and took in the hazy purple shape in the distance. After a few moments of analysis, your eyes widened. You softly and repeatedly slapped his shoulder in excitement.

“That’s a fucking mountain bitch!” You squealed in delight.

He laughed boisterously.

“We made it!” You proclaimed.

Jensen slipped into a British accent in an attempt to impersonate David Attenborough. But it came out more gentler, more breathy, and a higher pitch than his usual deep voice.

“After years of endless searching, the pair of travelers laid eyes upon their destination. The high peaks of the mountains are a stark contrast to the flat sea of plains they had battled tirelessly through.”

You melted, and a high whine sounded in the back of your throat. Jensen glanced at you and bit his lower lip as you quickly recomposed yourself. It was such a sweet and delicate noise. He wanted more.

“Little did they realize, the end of the great migration is only the beginning. The female will depart from the male to venture further into the hills, gathering resources for the nest. All the while, the male will be left defenseless against hoards of a terrifying new threat. Fangirls. If either of them survives the next perilous chapter, it will be nothing short of a miracle.”

He was unsuccessful at coaxing another whimper from you, but your giggle was just as pleasurable.

“Oh my god,” You chastised him with a chuckle. “You’ll be fine. You secretly feed off the praise and attention even though you act like a complete grump.”

“And what about you?” He asked. “I know you packed an entire walk-in closet, but do you have bear spray?”

“Bear spray?” You furrowed your brow.

He rolled his eyes at your lack of unpreparedness. “What about water? Do you have a camel pack?”

“I’m sure my water bottle will be just fine.”

He scoffed. “First aid? Gauze if you get a cut or need to make a splint?”

“Jensen,” You stopped him. “I’m going on popular trails part of the National Parks Service. If I run into any trouble, I’m sure there will be plenty of people around to help. If not a handsome lumberjack, perhaps a park ranger.” You added for the spite of it.

He clenched his jaw, trying his hardest to ignore the jab. “No, we are stopping at an Arc’teryx or, or Patagonia or something. Make sure you have all you need.”

Was he panicking? “Jensen,” You said his name again, hoping to ground him. “I have everything I need. I’ll be fine. I’ve hiked before. There lot’s of places back home.”

“But this is, like, the actual mountains.” He continued to argue. “Wild terrain, no cell service, bears, cougars…”

Your laugh cut him off. “I think you should be more worried about cougars this weekend than me.”

"This is serious, Y/N." He groaned.

"I'll be fine. I promise." You affirmed.

"Will you…" He started. He didn't want to be overbearing, and he knew you were fiercely capable and independent, but anxiety was getting the best of him. "Will you just text in the morning and when you make it back, so I know you're okay?"

"I'm sure you'll hardly be able to check your phone, but yes, I'll text you." You agreed.

"And take lots of pictures, so I can live vicariously through you." He added.

“Deal!”

The last leg of the journey remained quiet and calm, Jensen’s indie playlist providing a soft ambiance, even as the skyline grew heavier with angular earth jutting into the heavens. Even as Denver grew from a speck reflection of sunlight to a concrete jungle, neither of you could think of what to say. Your gold necklace glinted in the side view mirror, and the orange sun streaked across your face.

You had arranged with a rental company to come meet you at the hotel where the convention was taking place. That way, Jensen would still have a car, though you figured he may have a driver for the event itself. For the first time in this journey, an active map with actual directions had been pulled up to navigate the way through the city. Though now you were wishing you had encouraged his earlier plan to keep heading west. As the minutes counted down to arrival, your hearts grew evermore tender knowing soon they’d be parted.

Jensen pulled into a roundabout, a fountain in its center flowing into a garden of roses, through the archway leading to the hotel entrance. He put the car in park, but the engine ran idle. Both of you stared directly ahead, not quite believing the trip where time stood still was finally over.

An intrusive vibrating buzzed into the quiet. You looked down at your phone, notifying you the pick-up was here, as a black Malibu drove under the awning next to you.

“That’s my ride.” You said defeated.

Jensen nodded, and as the trunk behind you popped open, his door creaked as he exited the vehicle. You studied the lines in your hands as they lay in your lap, wondering if they held any insight into your fortune. If you could read them, perhaps they could guide you forward. But all you could do was sit with that same feeling as the morning you first left him. The trunk next to you slammed shut, signaling it was time to go. You scrambled out of the car but froze, facing Jensen, trying to discern the look on his face, not knowing it mirrored yours.

“Well…” He bumped his fists together. “This is it.”

“Yeah.” You agreed.

“Be safe.”

You let out a half-hearted laugh. “You too.”

Jensen pounced. It happened so fast your brain couldn’t process it until it had already happened. His lips worked hard against yours as you met his claiming pace. One hand wrapped around your waist, pressing you against his hard frame. The other wound around the back of your neck, leaving no room for escape. Your fists clenched the fabric of his shirt with such strength at any moment, it could tear. Gravity had no hold here as it felt like you were floating far above the atmosphere. Harsh clashes drew out into savoring breaths, and when you finally pulled apart, you found you were out of air entirely.

You looked up at him, your noses nearly grazing.

Ask me to stay, your eyes pleaded.

Please, stay. His heart begged.

Someone nearby cleared their throat, and you took a step back, color flooding your cheeks. Yet, still, there were no words to say to each other.

The Enterprise driver rolled down their window. “Lady, I got a schedule to run.”

“Right, of course,” You snapped back to reality as time and gravity came rushing back with an oppressive force.

Jensen rubbed his lower lip as if waking up trying to remember a dream.

“Thank you?” It came out as a question.

You didn’t know what you were thanking him for. The kiss, driving, paying for the hotels, maybe everything. Had you ever thanked someone after they kissed you? More people were around the entrance now; some under the awning, some looking through the glass windows of the lobby, and more than one had their phones out. Your chest began to tighten, and your vision blurred. Your mind grew evermore blank the harder you fished for something else to say.

His brow creased, and he tilted his head slightly. “You’re welcome?”

A high voice called his name, followed by another, and then a tank of a man came barreling over, mumbling to Jensen the need to check his phone more frequently. That he wasn’t about to have another Nashville on his hands. Without another word, you got into the car and drove away. Jensen’s eyes stayed fixed on you until the car was out of view.

---

The view on the way to Estes Park should have been stunning, breathtaking, and spectacular, but you were two-for-two. Two-for-two on leaving Jensen at a hotel and crying on your way to your next destination. And it was stupid. You shouldn’t be crying. You should be elated. It probably had something to do with tuning into a radio station playing that dreaded Neil Diamond song you couldn’t seem to escape.

He kissed you. Like, kissed you, kissed you. There was no mistaking it this time. Yet, he didn’t ask you to stay. He didn’t say anything. You knew what you wanted at this point. You wanted him. You wanted to try and make some sort of relationship work despite the distance, despite his status, despite everything. But you were going to leave it in his hands. He had to decide what he wanted and then fucking communicate it to you. With actual words, though, the lips had been enjoyable.

You chewed on your thumb, thinking things over. Maybe you should turn around and head back. Give him an opportunity to actually say what he was thinking. But then again, he was going to be so busy this weekend that you wouldn’t have time with him anyways. No. You were staying the course. You were a brave, independent woman and didn’t need to be hung up about some guy. When you booked this trip, you wanted to see ghosts at The Stanley and you wanted to see the mountains. So by god, that was what you were going to do. If he had anything to say, he could come find you.

The Stanley was impressive, to say the least. It had a glamor to it, feeling as if it stood still in a bygone era. The ghost tour was fun and spooky, and you even managed to catch an orb on camera, despite the rule, ‘no videos allowed.’ Though it felt lonely. You kept thinking of quick remarks to say to Jensen or feeling the same chill down your spine or how he’d undoubtedly say your orb was just a spec of dust yet secretly keep a box of salt close by that night.

Sleep was impossible. It wasn’t the scratching on walls or the footsteps above, even though you were on the top floor, or the swinging chandelier. It was the fact that he hadn’t called or texted. And yes, despite your horrible cell reception on the road trip here, you did, in fact, pay for cellular service. And it seemed to working just fine as you reconnected with friends and family ensuring them you arrived to Colorado in one piece.

You don’t kiss someone like that and not follow up! You buried your head under a pillow. You also don’t kiss someone like that and thank them. What had you been thinking? You weren’t thinking that was the problem. Possibly even had a panic attack given by the growing crowd. No wonder he hadn’t called you. What was he supposed to think? You tried to rationalize the thought process. You had shown gratitude towards the action, thus indicating you appreciated the gesture. But even you didn’t buy that.

An icy caress crept up your spine, sending shivers throughout your body, and you reached your breaking point.

You shot straight up. “Can’t you tell I am being haunted enough by my own idiocy!” Perhaps it was your own imagination, but the creaking floorboards seemed to settle, and warmth flooded back. “Thank you!”

You laid back down and pulled your phone out, staring at his number, the photos being the last thing you sent. You had to put a feeler out there.

‘Thanks again for an amazing trip! If you’re looking for a buddy on your next road trip, let me know. And don’t worry, the ghosts here are all bark, though I can’t say the same for those in room 217.’

You slammed your phone on the one-night stand and prayed sleep would find you.

Morning came quickly, too quickly. Your alarm cheerfully chimed you awake though you did not meet it with the same attitude. After hitting snooze twice, you regretted your decision to wake up early and beat the crowds. The sheets crinkled as you reached over, searching for Jensen, only to remember he wasn’t there. The realization was enough to get you moving instead of what you really wanted, opting for a lazy morning in bed with him.

Though it had been a struggle to pry yourself free from the bed, it had been the right call. Prime parking was still available at the head of the trail, which was starting to fill in even at this ungodly hour. The trail up to the Sky Pond was going to be a long one but worth it, or so you kept telling yourself. You double-checked your supplies, ensuring you had enough water, food, and a compass. To Jensen’s credit, you probably could have been more prepared, but you also didn’t want to be weighed down. You snapped a few pictures of the map at the start of the trail, just in case. It would all be fine.

Two hours into the hike and you had convinced yourself you made the right call. The landscape and views were astonishingly serene. There was peace and euphoria blowing like wind through branches, rushing like rapids of a river, sweetly singing like birds in the breeze, gasping like the lack of air in your lungs, dripping like the sweat on your brow. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, but you just needed a second wind. It would be worth it, you repeated. And you were only thinking about Jensen every 500 feet or so. Progress. You had already passed Alberta Falls, and it had been spectacular. There was something healing about the sound of water. There was more to come, and it would be worth it, repeating the mantra of the day.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, so too did the heat of the day. Conserving water throughout the hike was essential, but staying hydrated was just as important. You guzzled down another few sips. As you rounded a bend, you hesitated, seeing the ascent. The backpack bearing weight on your shoulders grew heavier, and you adjusted the straps. Your breaths deepened, and a few crude words muttered from your lips as you prepared for the climb. If Nesta could do it, so could you.

Your legs shook as you started, already weary from the elevation gain. You wondered what it would be like at the convention right now. Would you be hanging out with Jensen? Meeting his friends and coworkers? Or would you just be milling about, waiting for the day to be over? Probably the latter. He had asked you to text in the morning, but he hadn’t even responded to your message last night. He was probably too busy with the day. Or just as confused about the kiss as you. The first time it happened, you didn’t talk about it, so why would now be any different? Whatever the situation, you bet if you were still in Denver, it would include air conditioning, less sweat, and the opportunity to read. But you could read at the lake and cool your feet off. If you ever got there. The mental games were becoming as big of a hurdle as the physical limits.

You were too in your head that when you hit the next rock, your foot missed it entirely. Landing on the step below, your foot slipped out from under you, and you came crashing down on your hip with a big thud.

“Fuck!” You cursed and then hissed through your teeth.

“Woah!” A voice called in the distance, and the sound of heavy boots beat against the rocky steps. “Are you alright, sweetheart?”

You braced yourself to get up and were met with a helping hand. The green pants and khaki shirt were a dead giveaway for a park ranger. He was tall and broad with dark brown curls and soft whiskey eyes. His skin was darkened from days in the sun. And unlike you, he was barely breaking a sweat.

“Yeah.” You winced as he helped pull you up. “Wasn’t watching my step.”

“At least you can stand.” He said, “But let’s take a look anyways.” He crouched down beside you. “A few scrapes and you’ll definitely have a bruise. Can you twist your ankle?” You did as he instructed. “Bend the knee.”

You looked down as he tenderly applied pressure to certain areas. You confirmed the scrapes from the few bright red streaks traveling down your calve and brushed at the dirt that ran your whole length.

“All looks to be in working order.” He assessed, brushed off his hands, and started digging through his pack. “I have acetaminophen.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” You gladly accepted it and washed it down with water.

“Here.” He took his water bottle and ran it down your leg, clearing the cuts of debris. “You’ll want to clean that better once you’re finished for the day, but you should be fine until then. Where are you hiking up to?” He asked.

“Sky pond.”

“Ah, me too, actually.” He took his hat off to fan himself and ran his hand through his bouncy curls. “Someone has been messing with the trail cams up there, and I gotta reset them. Mind if I join you?” Maybe it was because you pursed your lips, he quickly added. “If not, I’ll hang back for a while and create some distance. It’s so peaceful out here I wouldn’t want to ruin…”

“No. It’s cool, we can hike together. Though I’m probably slower than you’re used to.” You said.

“Oh, I love a leisurely pace. So much to take in. Maybe even catch sight of the bear I keep hearing about.”

“Bears?” You raised your brows. “Yeah, you can definitely stick around.”

As you hiked onward, you learned a little about each other. Where each other were from, family, careers, hobbies. He moved out from Maine recently, but being stationed in the Rockies had always been a dream of his. The ascent finally leveled out a bit, and you were able to catch your breath.

“You have a partner back home?” He asked.

You chuckled.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just… complicated.” You explained.

“Hold that thought.” He said. “There’s an excellent view back here most people don’t know about.”

He started in through the woods.

“So much for staying on the trail rule.”

He looked back and winked. “Perks of traveling with a ranger.”

“Definitely not impersonating one and preying on single hikers.” You teased but also voiced the concern in the back of your mind.

“And disgrace the badge? Never.” He smiled.

“I do have bear spray.” You lied and gripped your shoulder straps tighter.

“Well, I’m glad I came across you. I left mine down at the station. If we did come across B 712 I was going to yell real loud and hope for the best.” He teased back.

Despite the warning bell in your head, you continued onward, following him further from the main path. The forest cleared to a rocky cliffside overlooking a massive gorge carved from the very glacier this trail was named after. It made you feel so insignificantly small and at the very top of the world all at the same time.

“Wow.” Was all that came to your mind.

“Ah, don’t get too close to the ledge now.” His arm went in front of you like a mother who braked in the car too hard. “If you slip here, well…” He peered over the steep ledge.

You took out your phone and scanned the area with the lens. “Pictures never do it justice.” You said disappointed.

“I never get sick of the view.” He stated. “You should come back when the colors change, it looks like the valley is on fire. Sorry, you were saying earlier?”

“Right. Yeah, no…” You were flustered, wondering how much to share. “It’s just I really like this guy, and I think he likes me too, most of the time anyway. But I don’t know what he wants. And I don’t want to get hurt. So I’m kinda stuck in this pining phase, and I don’t know how to get out of it until he’s ready. I’m not making sense.”

“Hmm.” He pondered. “I mean, I’ve known you for twenty minutes I can say with certainty he likes you back.”

You rolled your eyes at the pass. “No, it's different. He’s like a big deal. Like a big fish in the ocean, and I’m a trout in a pond.”

“First of all,” He stopped you. “I hate that analogy with a passion. Second, If you’ve put him on a pedestal and he’s reinforced that in any way or hasn’t corrected that, he is not worth the time of day. No matter where you are in your walk of life, comparing yourself to other people never ends well. And using that comparison to deflate your own worthiness or happiness is going to lead to a self-fulling prophecy of missed opportunity.”

Wow, that was deep and stung a little. “Are you really a park ranger or a psychologist?” You teased.

“I listen to a lot of Brene Brown podcasts.” He admitted. “What, it gets lonely hiking up here all the time; gotta do something to keep the mind busy. You said he likes you; what makes you think that?”

“Shall I lay on this bolder while you connect this back to my relationship with my mother?” You gestured to the rock next to you.

“Fine, fine.” He retreated. “I have a knack for wanting to fix things; car engines, relationships, trail cams. Let me say this, and now that I’ve creeped you out enough, I’ll let you hike in peace, but you said you don’t know what he wants, but have you asked him?”

“Well… I…” You stuttered. “I’m waiting for him.”

“Why?”

“Because…”

He raised an eyebrow at you.

“Because that’s what you do. The guy asks the girl. He makes the moves.”

He scoffed. “I guess that’s fine. I didn’t take you as being so old-fashioned.”

“I’m not old-fashioned.” You scoffed back.

He raised his hands in surrender. “It’s not a bad thing if that's what you want.”

“No, it’s just… this is in his court. It’s his move.” How could you explain the situation without giving it away?

“Two-for-two with the horrible analogies.” He pushed.

Oh, he was getting on your nerves. “He’s an actor! Okay! Like a somewhat recognizable one. And I’m just,” You gestured to yourself. “A nobody, covered in dirt.”

“Oooh. So it is the pedestal thing. Man, I’m good!” He leaned against a pine and crossed his arms smugly. “The way I see it, if you like him, and he’s given you all the signals back, you need to get over your own insecurities and open up a channel of communication, or you're going to be stuck in that small pond forever.”

Tears were threatening to spill from your eyes. “How?” You whispered.

“Simple. Tell him how you feel and ask him the same, ask him what he wants.” He suggested.

“And what if, what if he doesn’t want what I want? What if I lose him altogether?”

“It’s a risk, but do you really want to be trailing behind him forever? Putting your whole life on hold while you wait for him to catch up?” He pushed. “‘Sides, you know where I’m stationed, and I’ll make my intentions clear from the beginning.”

You squinted your eyes at him. “What’s your name?”

His grin widened, showing off his canines. “Why, you going to report me, sweetheart?”

“No.” You stamped your foot. “You are obviously entitled to a raise. I bet you find all the single hikers and help them with their existential crises.”

“It keeps me busy.” He bit his bottom lip. “The name’s Dean. You?”

You scoffed. Of course, it was. “Y/N. I think I’ll let you continue on your own from here.”

“I understand. I came on too heavy.” He sighed. “Should’ve stuck to the surface-level topics.”

“No, it’s not that.” You said. “It’s just I’m heading in the opposite direction now.”

You weren’t going to wait to keep hashing it out with him. A new determination had sparked. The branches snapped underneath your feet as you started the way back to the main trail. You wondered how fast you could run down a mountain.

“Hey, take it easy,” Dean called after you. “I don’t want to come back on the trail tonight to find you twisted an ankle on the way down. Where are you off to so fast anyways? Really taking those words to heart.”

“Denver.” You shouted back. “There’s a con I gotta get to.”

-----

Continue to Part 7 Here!

GHTTC Tags: @maggiegirl17 @foxyjwls007 @djs8891 @deans-spinster-witch @tmb510

#supernatural #spn #spn fandom #jensen ackles x reader #jensen x y/n #jensen ackles

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wri0thesley · 3 years

Note

omg wait no hold on I just requested overhaul but then I remembered your overhaul thirst post about him pulling a "curing hysteria~" as an excuse and thought I'd request something along that vibe (no oun intended). I think that'd fall under orgasm control, overstim? (hope this is okay!)

hysteria antidote - overhaul x fem!reader (4k)

seeing nothing but the same four walls every day of your life is playing havoc with your brain. overhaul thinks perhaps you're suffering from hysteria. he has the perfect cure for that.

cw: not sfw/minors dni. dark content!!! dubious/non-consent. captive reader. talk of death, blood, etc. medical kink, gloves, fingering, overstimulation, orgasm control. misogyny. mentions of pregnancy/breeding. afab reader, fem pronouns.

[a/n: idk the internet said the 28th of may was his birthday so consider this both a birthday fic and a fic to celebrate 6k followers, sorry that i am gross and horrible but tbh im having a great time <3]

You really don’t think it’s unreasonable for you to be going out of your mind.

Since the Boss was taken ill, and Kai – Overhaul, you remind yourself, though he’s always just a little less sharp with you when you trip over the new name than he is with anyone else – took over leadership of the Shie Hassaikai, you’ve been pretty much stuck indoors.

Considering that you’re pretty sure he only has fond feelings towards maybe three people in the entire world, including you, you guess you ought to feel special about it – but all it actually does is make you feel like a trapped bird, caged and restless. It doesn’t help that all of the other members of the organisation have started being weird around you; people who you’ve known most of your adult life, people who you’ve worked beside and killed beside and done other horrible things beside (for the good of the organisation, of course)--

But now, they look at you like you might break at any moment. They treat you like an invalid. Their brows crease when they see you out and about, quietly murmuring; “Shouldn’t you still be in your room?”, avoiding touching you at all costs. There’s a kind of fear in their eyes, that they’re going to be told off for even speaking to you, that they’re afraid of being caught close to you.

And you know exactly who’s to blame for that.

You’d tried to speak to him about it, once; you’d thought that perhaps he might be amenable to your desire to do something to help the Shie Hassaikai. He’s always wanted to restore them to their former glory, after all! But after you’d let out your little impassioned tirade, his eyebrows had creased over the bird-mask.

“You don’t sound well,” he’d said to you. “Go back to your room. I’ll talk to you about it later.”

You had missed, at the time, that he hadn’t said ‘we’ll talk about it later’. He’d just said ‘I’ll’. When he had come, that is how it had been; the reassurance that he was keeping you safe. That he didn’t want you to be tainted. That he was keeping you well.

Your quirklessness has never been an issue before, but it certainly hasn’t been a boon. Still, for Kai--

“It’s disgusting,” he’d said, agitated by the discussion. You’d stared at his hands, thinking about the destructive power he himself wielded. “Quirks are a curse, and you not having one is just proof you’re not infected.” He’d looked up, golden eyes piercing directly into yours. “I’m going to keep you perfect.”

Overhaul is not a doctor, for all of his talk about illness and disease and plague. You think he could have used his quirk for something meaningful, once; but you also know that his burning curiousity, his disgust of anyone who deems tainted, his utter lack of morality . . . those are all things that would not have been welcomed in the medical profession. So instead, he deals in needles and pills and altering drugs in the underground labyrinth of the compound.

Sterile rooms, with examination tables and scalpels and impersonal, silver-grey equipment. Pill boxes that rattle when he passes them to you and tells you to take three of those a day, one of those, that one has to be taken to with food--

The idea that you won’t take them doesn’t enter his head, and though he has never . . . overhauled someone in front of you, you have walked past other members of the organisation mopping and disinfecting blood and gristle from sterile flooring.

It is better to go along with him, so you take the supplements and the pills and submit to the way he grabs your chin in gloved hands on the doctor’s chair, tipping your face up to shine a light into your eyes and watch your pupils dilate. But inside, you are screaming.

You’re not made to be locked in one room, occasionally allowed out to pace the hallways of the upstairs – never the underground ones, not any more – with restless footsteps and your muscles fizzing with desire to taste fresh air. You’re not made to stare at the same walls and breathe the purified air and think about how empty the compound is, now that Overhaul is in charge of everything--

(Too many knick-knacks attract dust. Pollen allergies act up, if there are too many plants, and he hates hearing people sneeze. Furniture should be easily movable and barren, to assist in the twice-daily cleanings of every room that people walk through.)

But it’s getting too much for you. Suffocating. You feel like you’re choking on air all of the time; you take the pills, because the thought of what he could do to you is terrifying, but sometimes you wonder if perhaps it would be better if you didn’t.

You’d woken up that morning to the sound of rain hitting the high windows in your bedroom, and you had longed to go outside in your thin nightwear and spread your arms and taste the air, smell the rain, feel it hit your body in fat droplets. Your entire being had ached. You’d tried to distract yourself, with what little there was in the barren prison cell that you called a bedroom – but when the door opened at four thirty exactly, and Kai had stood there with his face as impassive as ever, you had not been able to stop yourself.

Hand fastening around his upper arm (you shouldn’t touch him, you know you shouldn’t, but the same four walls are getting to you), you’d begged him;

“I want to go outside.”

If anyone else had touched him like that, they would already be splattered against the walls and floor. But all you get is a furrow of his eyebrows, careful fingers (gloved, of course; the latex against your skin always makes you shudder) pinching at your hand to get you to let go of him.

“No,” he says. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“I don’t care,” you’re petulant, you know, frustration bubbling up in every cell of your body. “If I stay in here for one more day, I will tear myself into pieces.”

“You’re being over-dramatic.”

“Kai—”

“Don’t call me that.” His rebuttal is sharp. “You know I’m doing this for your own good.”

Your face twists into something ugly. Overhaul hates it when you do that; hates the way your brow wrinkles, your mouth moves, your normally lovely face (one of very few he can bear to look at unmasked and not feel as though he is going to get sick from merely breathing the same air of you) marred.

“You’re not,” you hiss at him. “You’re doing this because you’re fucked up! Because you’ve got some weird fucking ideas about what’s clean and what’s unclean, because you’re on a power trip, because you don’t care about other people--” Your voice is pitching and modulating, all of the things that you usually try and keep balled up inside of you spilling out that the floodgates of how unhappy you are is open.

You’re breathing heavy as Overhaul, clearly irked by what you’re saying, tugs at the wrist of one of his surgical gloves. If he’s going to kill you, good – at least it will be better than this, you think, your breath coming in short sharp pants after the outburst.

He lets go. His hands fall to his sides. His golden gaze on you is very level.

“You’re hysterical,” he tells you. An exasperated laugh falls from your mouth.

“Yeah?” You ask him. “Of course I am. Do you know the last time I breathed fresh air?”

“Seven months, two weeks, three days.” He says it without blinking. Your shoulders tense. Has it really been that long? “You haven’t been ill once in that time. The world out there is filthy.”

“It’s normal to get sick,” you try and tell him, but Overhaul is moving forward; past the doorway, and into your room. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound of a lock ominous. You don’t think you’ve ever been alone with Kai in your bedroom.

In the medical examination rooms, sure. In his office. In common areas, back when he was just the boss’ troubled protege and not the boss himself--

His eyebrows twitch in disgust as he notices the dust on your bookshelves. You’d stopped letting any of the cleaners in here a month ago; you’d refused to clean in the mean time, taking whatever small victory against your captor that you could.

“You’ll give yourself respiratory issues,” he says.

“Good,” your voice is cold, but you realise you’ve backed away from him. For all of your attempts to stand up to him, you’re terrified. Everyone knows what he can do. “Better dead than here--”

Gloved fingers around your wrist, so tight you can practically feel them bruising.

“You don’t mean that,” he says. His voice has gotten softer, cajoling. You’re trembling in his grip. “I told you. You’re hysterical.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” you say, but your words feel like you’re spitting them out around a mouthful of gravel. “I—I’m calm--”

Your knees knock against your bed, but Overhaul is still clinging to you; still too close. Your heart is beating so fast that you can hear it pounding in your ears.

“You’re not. You’re hysterical.” He repeats it, calmly. The hand not on your wrist reaches up and cups your face, a gloved thumb stroking across your cheek as if you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. The scent of the latex is overwhelming. “But that’s alright. It’s not your fault.” He clicks his tongue behind the mask. “It’s mine. All of this checking for the physical sickness, and I didn’t think about checking your head.”

You fall onto the bed as his knees knock against yours, your back hitting the wall. It’s just a plain, single bed; rumpled sheets, because you’d fought against any attempt for someone to come in and collect your laundry, too. Overhaul looks silly in your room, you think dimly; like a huge black crow in the nest of a small, frightened wren.

“If you fight,” he tells you, “I’ll disassemble you. I’d rather not. I don’t want to taint you by using my quirk. But . . .” He’s sinking to his knees in front of you, those same methodical hands pushing up the skirt of your dress. “If I did, I’d get a blank mind to work with. I won’t hesitate. But I’d still rather simply fix you without having to break you into pieces first.”

You know him too well to think that he’s bluffing.

After all of the vitriol you’ve spat at him, he’s unwilling to kill you. Would it be worse, to be mindless and brainless under Kai’s quirk? You’ve heard some of his failed experiments before; babbling, drooling, broken things. He’s killed them sometimes just to put them out of their misery.

What if he did that, and your mind remained perfectly capable – just utterly unable to communicate with your body? A prisoner in your own skin. Worse than even now. You swallow back the lump of fear.

“H-how are you going to do that?” You ask him.

You start at how cold the gloved fingers are on your bare thighs, as Overhaul pushes them apart. Cold fear prickles down your spine. You’re too scared to fight back, but everything he’s doing is making you want to run.

“Did you know,” Overhaul says, those same hands sliding higher, to tug at the waistband of your underwear. “In the past, there were rumours that doctors would cure hysteria by genital massage and stimulation?”

His words are very clinical, but there’s a thickness to his voice behind the mask that fills you with revulsion.

“It might be nonsense, of course,” he says. Your underwear is being tugged down, pulled around your thighs, your knees, your ankle. “They theorised that the best cure was regular intercourse, male semen, pregnancy and childbirth--”

“Kai—” Your voice is a soft whine, fear-filled. This time, he doesn’t snap at you for calling him by the name he’s left behind. He simply says;

“Spread your legs.”

You don’t want to. But you want to risk what he’s threatening you with even less, so you tearfully open them as wide as you can go. He shifts forward, and the tip of the beaked mask digs into your inner thigh as he studies you like you’re nothing more than a diagram, not a living, breathing person--

“Next time I’ll have lubricant ready,” he says, under his breath, and your heart seizes up at the implication that whatever he’s going to do to you, there’ll be a next time.

You start at the sensation of gloved fingers gently parting the lips of your sex, Overhaul’s golden eyes drinking in the sight of you spread open and bare. You’re shaking, but for some reason the way he’s looking at you – the utter concentration in his eyes – makes a curl of heat flare deep inside of you.

“Don’t,” you breathe, trying not to squirm. “Please--”

“I don’t want to have to,” he says. His tone remains calm, unbothered. “I’m doing it for your own good, you know that. Just helping you along.” One finger slides through the slit; the sensation of the gloves against your most intimate, heated parts makes the muscles in your thighs clench. It’s . . . not exactly unpleasant, but neither it is pleasant. “Do you think I’m getting any pleasure out of this?”

He doesn’t like getting his hands dirty. You know this; everyone knows this. If this particular thought was so unpleasant to him, you don’t doubt he’d have found somebody else to do it (the thought of one of the other members of the Shie Hassaikai doing this to you fills you with even more revulsion than the idea of Overhaul himself). But you can’t say that out loud. Not after what he’s threatened. So you press your lips together and shake your head, gasp dying in your throat as one of Overhaul’s latex-covered fingers prods gently around your opening.

“You’re getting wet,” he tells you, as if you can’t feel the shameful slick beginning to leak from you. “That will make this easier. Good.”

You hate that the praise makes another jolt of arousal go through you. You don’t want to like the feeling of his gloves, rubbing at your heated cunt; the sensation of a fingertip circling around your entrance, brushing the bud of your clit and making you want to clamp your thighs around his hand.

He sinks the tip of one finger inside of you and you jerk, your hips out of your control as you try and sink away from the intrusion. Overhaul clicks his tongue again in annoyance at you. The hand holding the lips of your cunt open moves, to land on your hip and pin you between the bed and the wall so you can’t squirm again.

“I’ll sedate you next time, if I have to,” he says. “I’m not getting anything out of this. I’d prefer not to have to do it at all--”

He’s lying. You know he is. But you can’t call him out for it, so you press your trembling lips together and try to stop tears spilling out from your lash line as the finger inside of you sinks further and further inside, past his first knuckle, right down to the base.

He crooks it inside of you and your hands curl into the bedsheets, nails digging into your palms through cotton. His touch is curious, exploratory; has he ever actually done this to anybody before? He slides over a rough patch inside of you with the latex-tipped finger and a moan escapes your mouth against your will, your head falling back against the wall. Narrowed golden eyes look up at you as he repeats the motion; taking in the gloss of your lips, the widening of your eyes, the way your shoulders are shaking up and down.

You can feel yourself pumping more slick out; helping the glide of his finger inside of you, as he begins to carefully thrust it in and out of you. His touch is made all the more impersonal by the mask obscuring everything but his eyes and eyebrows; you can’t even hear him breathing.

Your cunt is fluttering around him, pleasure swarming you in breathless waves as he withdraws his finger entirely. He lifts the glove to his eyeline, looking only vaguely interested in how the white latex glimmers with your arousal.

“I’m going to use two now,” he tells you – and that is all the warning you get before two fingers beside one another are opening you up, scissoring your tight channel apart with an ache that you feel up to your hips. You bite back the whimper, but you’re unable to stop the choked breaths that are falling from you as he fucks you with them in steady, constant thrusts.

A covered thumb brushes your clit; swollen, now. Sensitive. Standing to attention. Your hips attempt to jerk in his hold once more, a strangled noise that’s neither pleasured nor pain falling from your throat. You’ve touched yourself, of course you have – even recently, just to try and assuage some of the boredom that fills your exactly-the-same days – but Overhaul’s fingers and thumbs and touch on you are so entirely different from that.

He continues his assault over your clit, those same eyes watching you with that same detached, clinical disposition that he’s had most of the time. There’s a cast to them that suggests there’s something more, but whatever emotion – if, indeed, he’s still capable of that – he’s feeling about having you at his mercy in this way has been pushed to the back of his mind as his thumb rolls and pinches at the bud.

Your body goes all-over heat, Overhaul’s fingers still pumping in and out of you, the slick noises of your shaming wetness echoing around the prison of the four walls you’ve spent seven months in. You’re teetering on the edge of something, hot and needy and wanting – and as Overhaul’s thumb sweeps over your poor aching clit again, you tilt your hips forward for as much stimulation as you can--

And he pulls his fingers out of you.

The heat fades into nothingness as you let out a noise of disappointment. Overhaul’s head tilts to one side, considering.

“What do you want?” He asks you. “Say it.”

No. You don’t ‘want’. He’s wrong. You keep your mouth pressed tight now that the damning noise has fallen out of it; you have managed to not let the tears trembling in your eyes spill forth. Your gaze meets his, defiant and tired and afraid all at once.

“Alright,” he sighs. “If you’re going to carry on being difficult.”

He does it again; his fingers plunging into you, scissoring you apart, rubbing against your folds with a practised agility now that he’s done it for the first time. He has always been a fast learner; always been observant. His thumb is back on your clit with ceaseless assault, and all over again you feel heat begin to build up; tension that crawls into every crevice of your being and worms its way deep inside you despite how badly you don’t want this.

The hand holding your hip loosens somewhat, allowing you to messily thrust your hips into Overhaul’s stimulation. You’re torn; you shouldn’t want to hump against the gloved fingers stimulating you, you should be wriggling and squirming away. But it feels so good; even with the skin-tight covering of rubbery latex, Overhaul’s fingers seem to find every one of your weak points and exploit them.

There it is again, building up on you; a ball of tension in your stomach being gradually wound tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. Your hips flex against his hand, your fingers clenching and unclenching on the bedsheet--

He denies you the peak of your orgasm for the second time.

And a third.

And a fourth.

“Kai--!” You’re too far gone to even think, after the pleasure has been pulled from you so cruelly, over and over again. The tears spill over your cheeks., rolling down in fat, shaming droplets. Overhaul’s eyes narrow.

“No,” he says, vehement – more emotion in his voice than you’ve heard all day. “You know what to call me.”

You know what he wants you to call him. You know that he wants to leave his old name behind, start again, be someone who can drag the Shie Hassaikai out of the shadows and into light and power once again – and he thinks that the name will help. You gurgle out a sobbing, strangled noise;

“O-Overhaul, please--”

Three fingers are plunged as deep inside of you as they can go, crooked to rub against your sweet spot; as Overhaul murmurs, detached but soft;

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

They thrust into you, his thumb rubbing your clit with firm, certain strokes – and this time, as the orgasm rushes up on you all at once, he doesn’t stop. He fucks you with his fingers through it, his thumb not ceasing the circling. Pleasure washes over you, finally, in great waves and crests. You feel yourself gush on his fingers, soaking him in your wetness (his eyebrows furrow again, at how close your fluid comes to spilling over his bared wrist; but you are too relieved to think about anything other than finally getting what you need).

Your hips flex, gasps falling from your mouth with every thrust of them – and you expect Overhaul to pull his fingers out of you. To stop touching you. Perhaps to strip off his gloves and put on a new pair – you know he always carries spares – and sneer at you as he walks out of the room.

But Overhaul’s fingers do not move from inside of you. The fierce rhythm of his fucking and petting and rubbing does not stop, even as the final aftershocks of your orgasm clench loosely about him and his constant stimulation becomes more of an annoyance than anything else on heated, sensitive skin.

You squirm, trying to push your thighs together to get him to stop touching you – but the hand not fucking you forces your thighs to stay parted with the curl of fingers into supple flesh, leaving you helpless to do anything but let him carry on touching you. Carry on fucking you.

A short, sharp shock of an orgasm rips through you as he swirls his thumb over your clit just so, and you realise that you’re drooling down yourself as well as panting; helpless and sloppy, utterly unable to do anything except lie there and take it until Overhaul decides he’s had enough of touching you.

You come, what? Twice more? Thrice? Until the pulsing of your channel is painful, your skin feeling red raw, your whimpers into the ceiling dry and broken. Only then does he pull his fingers out of you with a lewd pop.

A gush of your fluid that his fingers were stoppering soaks your bedsheets, and you watch, dazed, as Overhaul stands up. He looks down at you for just one moment, that stretches unbearably long in the heat-and-sex soaked atmosphere of the room.

He strips his gloves off of his hands, eyebrows twitching in disgust as he leaves the crumpled latex on your bedside table. He’s sliding on another pair as he speaks;

“Feel better?”

No. No, you don’t. You feel worse. You feel disgusted and violated and aching, your body over-stimulated and exhausted, sweat and drool and bodily fluids clinging to your skin. But if you tell Overhaul that--

“Yes,” you say, voice very soft and small and weak. You cannot see his mouth, but you see the way his eyes flash happily, the overall sensation of him smiling.

Why does Overhaul’s smile make you so scared, when Kai’s smile used to just make you feel warm?

“We’ll need to do it a few more times,” he tells you, as your blood runs to ice in your veins. “Such maladies aren’t cured in a day, after all. But . . .” He turns, rearranging himself carefully, his mask readjusted. You can’t see him as he speaks the next words. “I’d like to try some of the other suggested remedies, too.”

You think of his earlier words.

‘They theorised that the best cure was regular intercourse, male semen, pregnancy and childbirth.’

You’re never going to escape, are you? You’re going to be trapped in this compound until the day you die, and Overhaul is going to think that he’s keeping you safe--

“Take a shower,” he says to you, as he opens the door. It is not a suggestion. “And stop not letting the maids come in here to clean. I’m not having you get sick.”

You think he might be the sick one.

#overhaul x reader #yandere overhaul #overhaul smut #overhaul x you #chisaki kai x reader #bnha smut #bnha x reader #dark content for ts #5555 event fic #not sfw text #writing #afab reader #fem pronouns #misogyny for ts #bnha posting #medical kink for ts #non consent for ts #dub con for ts #non con for ts

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rextasywrites · 3 years

Text

Look At Me -Donna Beneviento x reader

Years had passed since then, and whenever you asked Mother Miranda about Donna, she just told you that Donna didn’t want anyone close to her, and that you should stop putting your nose into things that weren’t your business. But she was your best friend after all!

The reader misses their best friend Donna so much...how will their reunion go?

If there is more demand for Donna x reader content, I’d be more than happy to write more for her! I do have a soft spot for her!

Warnings: bit spoilerish, angst, crying

“Look at me.”, you cupped Donna’s cheeks through the veil she was wearing, the lace feeling rough under your fingers. It’s been years since you last saw her face, since she last let anyone come close to her. What had happened to her?

You two grew up together. You clearly remembered how much she always loved the dolls her parents made. They were a fairly well known puppet maker family after all. From a young age, she knew she’d step into her parents' footprints, them teaching her things as soon as she could hold a hammer and sandpaper. Her only friend was you as you didn’t taunt her about the scar in her face she had gotten very young. You loved watching her make new dolls and gave her suggestions what she could do differently. The first doll she ever made was gifted to you, and you have kept it on your nightstand ever since.

But then, her parents fell ill. Nobody knew what was happening to them, and they died only several minutes apart, leaving Donna as an orphan. For the first few weeks, their gardener looked after her, cooking her meals and holding her when she cried over her parent’s deaths. How they held hands as they drifted into their forever sleep, how she had to watch her parents go from healthy and strong to barely able to hold down a simple soup.

That’s when Mother Miranda came into the game. She felt pity for the girl and took her under her wing. The house of the Beneviento family was far outside of the village and only a dangerous walk across a rope bridge connected her to the village. Mother Miranda made sure the girl got enough food and some time in, she adopted her. Now, Donna spent most of the time with Mother Miranda, and after some time, the gardener disappeared. Nobody knew what happened to him, Mother Miranda suggested that he might have drunkenly fell off the rope bridge.

Mother Miranda taught Donna everything she needed to know when it came to school things, but she also gave her the Cadou. The day before she got the Cadou was the last time you ever saw her.

That’s when you decided to take matters in your own hands. The rope bridge was ways more terrifying than back in the day when you were kids, laughing and throwing stones into the river beneath it. With wobbly legs you made your way towards the house, a good march away still. Only when the house was already visible you realized that the birds had stopped singing their songs.

The house looked just how you remembered it - the waterfall crashing down behind the cliff, muting every possible sound. You knocked on the door in a certain manner. Back in the day, to show it was you and that you wanted Donna to come play with you, you knocked two times quickly, a short break, one quick knock and one last long one.

Memories flooded your mind but before you could lose yourself in them, the door was opened. To your surprise, it was Angie opening the door. She had always been Donna’s favourite doll, the second doll she ever made. “Welcome here, (Y/N)!”, Angie crackled and opened the door more for you to step into the house.

“Where is Donna?”, you asked as you looked around. The interior hadn’t changed at all. Everything was looking like the day you had last entered the house so many years ago.

“Donna? Oh Donna is in her room! She isn’t doing well!”, Angie said and pointed you towards the staircase leading to Donna’s room. Well, you didn’t need that reminder, you still knew where it was. “Go to her! You know her so well!”

You nodded at Angie and patted her head, the doll jumping with happiness. She kinda liked it that you weren’t scared by her at all. Together you headed towards Donna’s room and you knocked on the door.

“Mother Miranda?”, Donna called out. Her voice was muffled, maybe she was hiding under a blanket or had her head under her pillow.

“No, it’s me, (Y/N)!”, you replied.

“(Y/N)?! You shouldn’t be here!”, Donna called out, her voice clearer than before. Angie looked at you and you looked at her. You two nodded at each other and you opened the door to Donna’s room. For sure she was in her bed, blanket up to her chin. Her face was hidden by the veil even now that she was alone. “Does Mother Miranda know you are here.”

“No, why should she?”, you asked and sat down on the bed next to Donna, who was still laying down. “I am here because of you and not because of her.”

Donna nodded, avoiding your gaze by looking at Angie, “May you please leave us alone for a bit, Angie?”, and the doll nodded, heading out of the door and closing it. “(Y/N), why are you here?”

“I missed you, Donna.”, you instantly confessed, didn’t want to beat around the bush. “I haven’t seen you in years, Mother Miranda keeps me from seeing you...and I just couldn’t stand it anymore!”, the word vomit out of your mouth didn’t stop, and Donna felt her heart opening up.

“Oh…”, she muttered. Had it really been years? At some point, she lost track of time passing.

“You are my best friend, Donna, and I missed you so much over those past years…”, you continued to talk, letting out all these feelings that had built up over time. “I just wanted to see my best friend again.”

To your surprise, you heard a soft sob coming from Donna, and by the way her body shook, it was clear that she was crying. Tears of years of built up loneliness, anger and sadness spilling over. “Oh Donna...look at me…”, you whispered not to scare her, but Donna moved her head away.

“No! Don’t look at me! I’m ugly!”, she cried out, grabbing the veil and pulling it tighter over her face. Her body was shaking even more and tears stained the veil.

“But Donna...I know your scar, and it doesn’t make you ugly.”, you added in confusion. When you last saw her, she wasn’t happy about the scar but she learnt to live with it. Why now…?

“No, no, you don’t understand.”, Donna shook her head even harder, making you fear that she’d give herself whiplash. She loosened her grip on the veil once it was covered in tears and snot.

“I do understand. Donna, I am your best friend, please, let me see. And let me help you.”

Those simple words, the simple encouragement from you, broke Donna’s heart even more. It had been years since she last heard your voice, and it only just now dawned to her how much she had missed you too. With shaking hands, she slowly lifted the veil, revealing her ‘ugly’ face.

The Cadou was visible on the right side of her face where her scar used to be. You didn’t flinch or showed any kind of disgust. It was Donna after all. And she was still your best friend, no matter what that thing on her face was.

“I am so ugly.”, Donna cried out and threw her arms around your body, her head in your lap as she wailed even harder, the self disgust so evident it hurt.

“You are not. Who the fuck is telling you this bullshit?”, you asked and shook your head. Yes, she looked different, but why did it even matter? What mattered was the friend you finally reconnected with after all this time.

“I am! Just look at me! What do you see when you look at me?”

“I see my best friend and a wonderful woman. A talented doll maker and mother of Angie. You are amazing Donna.”, you whispered, making Donna look up to you in confusion.

“You don’t think…?”

“No, I absolutely do not think so. With scar, without scar, or whatever that thing is...you are still Donna.”, you smiled.

And for a short second, you saw that Donna was smiling too. Oh, how you missed her pretty smile. Your heart grew ten times at her happy expression, and you dared to wipe a tear off her cheek with your thumb. “I am so glad you are back in my life.”, Donna muttered, the crying clearly exhausting for her. “Just...don’t let Mother Miranda know. She won’t be happy about this....”

“I don’t care about Mother Miranda. All I care about is you, Donna. How about we go into the kitchen and make some tea? Catch up with everything that happened in the past few years?”

“Sounds good. Come with me.”

#Donna Beneviento #Donna Beneviento x reader #Donna Beneviento x you #resident evil #resident evil village #resident evil 8

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dastardlydandelion · 3 years

Note

Please post the sickfic prompt turned corpse disposal. 😂

sure! that one’s p bloodless, i can post that one.

ao3 link

content warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced spousal abuse, minimally described fresh dead body, illness description

Billy isn’t sick.

Billy doesn’t get sick. He really doesn’t. Hasn’t had so much as a cold in years, albeit he’s claimed one as cover here and there whenever coke overuse made him maybe sorta sniffly and Neil started to eye him up like he might be suspicious.

Billy isn’t sick.

If he’s feeling achy, well, he’s just sore because Neil laid the belt on him pretty hard two days ago after he got sent home from school midday Monday, written up and suspended. If he’s coughing, well, it’s just because he’s been smoking more than usual. Neil’s been stressed out lately, so that means Billy’s stressed out too.

“No,” his father says sharply when Billy takes a seat at the breakfast table.

And Billy blinks at him, confused but careful.

“You’re not going to sit with us and cough all over the food like a human biohazard. I raised you to show more courtesy than that.” Neil gives him a stern look. “Go back to bed.”

“I’m not even—“

“Go back to bed, Billy.”

Billy hears the warning heighten in his father’s tone. He doesn’t argue. He hauls himself back to his bedroom and it’s whatever. He wasn’t really hungry anyway.

* * *

Okay, so Billy is sick.

He got himself suspended because he felt something coming on. He knows his body. He was feeling off kilter and sluggish, uncomfortable in the chest when he inhaled too deeply. So he put his boots on the desk in history class and flipped the teacher the bird when she asked him to sit properly. Even went the extra mile and sneered, told her to blow him when her jaw hit the floor.

He figured it’d buy him enough time to recover without having to call in sick, or get in trouble for skipping class. A suspension was one indiscretion and only likely to invoke one punishment. Skipping multiple days would’ve been multiple indiscretions and more likely to invoke multiple punishments.

In retrospect he should’ve just called in sick because the whole point of avoiding that route was avoiding having to admit it, but he can’t really hide it. Whatever he’s got came on hard and fast, doubled-down by Monday evening. It hasn’t gotten any better. Billy feels bad all over, the cough is near constant, and he’s shaking with chills. Puts his leather jacket on before he buries himself under the blankets and still can’t get warm.

And the coughing, ugh, the fucking coughing. Billy knows he’s being loud. He tries to hold it in but he just can’t. Spasm after spasm squeezes his lungs until they’re aching for air. His chest feels like it’s full of swamp muck and all he can do is ride it out, clutch at his ribs until he makes it to the oxygen on the other side.

Billy should get up. He should make himself get off his ass, go buy some cough drops or at least refill his glass of water. He’s going to make it happen. He’s definitely going to make it happen…just maybe not yet.

He never really gets around to it. Spends most of the afternoon slogging through coughs and trying to get comfortable even though it doesn’t really matter which way he tosses or turns, he’s still cold to the bone, chest stabbing with every burdened breath. The day drags and Billy catches snippets of the other members of the household moving about, knows it’s evening when Neil sticks his head in.

“I dug this out of the cabinet for you,” he announces, holding up a blue container. “Vapor rub. It’ll calm your cough down. Help you sleep.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

His father pads across the carpet, sets the container down on Billy’s nightstand, right within reach. He hovers uncertainly, eyes narrowed. Opens his mouth to say something and maybe he does, but Billy doesn’t catch it, snapping upright to bury another flurry of coughs into his closed fist. It’s a forceful fit and before he knows it, his father’s thumping him on the back. He’s probably trying to help but the heel of his hand connects with one of the bruises the belt buckle left and Billy can’t stop himself before he flinches.

Neil retracts his hand, leaves without another word. Billy rakes in breath at the coda of the coughs, air scraping against his roughshod throat. He goes as deep as he can even though it hurts, snatches the container of vapor rub.

Billy begins to unscrew the lid and notices some of the ointment is crusted under the lid. It flakes off. This stuff looks old. Billy checks the date on the label. Sure enough, it’s been expired for close to a year.

He throws it across the room in frustration, watches it bounce off the wall. Lies back down and pulls the covers up to his chin.

At some point Neil bangs on his door and demands he cut out the racket, probably thinking Billy rebuffed his generosity. Billy’s too exhausted to bother explaining the shit’s expired. Instead he turns his face into the pillow and smothers his fits into the fabric, hoping it muffles the sounds.

* * *

Sometime later Thursday morning, Susan knocks on his door. Billy contemplates pretending to be asleep. Really, he wishes he was. He’s feeling pretty rundown but he can’t seem to get more than a wink before he wakes up coughing.

But if he doesn’t answer it now, she’ll probably just bother him later. So Billy plods to the door and pulls it open.

“What?”

“Um,” Susan begins eloquently, blinking at him as she fiddles with the thin object in her hands. A thermometer.

“Neil tell you to do this?”

“N-No, but, uh. It’s probably a good idea to check your temperature. No offense, Billy, but you don’t sound so good and you’re awfully flush…”

“If I cared, I’d check myself,” he snorts irritably. “Try to stick that under my tongue and I’ll break it in half. Save your mother hen shit for Max.”

With that, he slams the door in her face. They’ve no love for each other. On infrequent occasions Susan will forget this and make some half-assed attempt to get closer to him. Billy’s always quick to remind her where they stand. It doesn’t take much.

Afternoon rolls around without Susan bugging him anymore. Billy isn’t a big reader but he doesn’t feel up to much else between increasingly productive coughing bouts that leave him hacking up gross, greenish globs into his small wire mesh trashcan. So he flips through some music magazines and the book he’s supposed to read for english class until he gathers enough energy to kick himself into gear.

He didn’t bother changing out of his clothes yesterday so he doesn’t need to change now. Just sprays himself with some cologne, figures he probably smells because he’s sweating nonstop. Discomforting drenching cold sweats like getting caught outside in icy rains, an experience Billy was blissfully unfamiliar with until Neil decided to leave sunny California behind.

He browses the small medical selection at Melvald’s, grabs a couple bags of cherry flavored lozenges and a bottle of cough syrup. Covers a couple fits with the crook of his elbow on the way to the counter. He swallows the gunk that comes up because there’s nowhere to spit it into and scrunches his nose in disgust, feels like freaking slime sliding down his throat.

It’s the town cuckoo who rings him up. Or that’s her reputation anyway but she doesn’t seem particularly nutty to Billy. Hell, seems less weird than Susan does when she’s doing shit like talking to the spiders she takes outside.

“Time to go, Little Creepy Crawly,” she’d singsonged last week, shaking a daddy longlegs out of her tissue on the front porch. “Go be free.”

“You need fucking friends,” Billy had told her after the fact. Sound advice, he’d thought. Susan only ducked her head and disappeared into the next room.

Town Cuckoo gives the amount. Billy digs through his wallet and comes up two dollars short. Ugh. Fucking brandname linctuses. Shit’s a ripoff but there was no generic equivalent on the shelf.

She tells Billy it’s on the house, forehead crinkling just a bit as she studies him, eyes all melty with sympathy. Screw that shit. Billy isn’t anybody’s charity case. He gives her a pointed glower as he stamps a five down on the counter, takes the two bags of lozenges, and leaves.

He eats through half of the first bag until his throat tingles with menthol and artificial sweetness, and actually manages to sleep for a few solid hours. He knows it’s been hours because when he wakes himself coughing, it’s dark out. Nighttime.

Billy curls inward with the spasms, tries to catch his breath between stabbing pains. This sucks so much. He’s hacking up more gunk. Attempts to rub some of the discomfort from his heavy, congestion leaden chest to no avail.

He just keeps coughing and coughing and he knows before long, Neil’s going to get in his shit about the noise so he forces himself to throw off the covers. His bruises are still healing. He doesn’t need any more.

Billy crams his feet in his boots and drags himself down the hall. To his surprise, Susan’s sitting at the kitchen table. She’s crying. The sobs wrack her whole body the way the coughs wrack his and her cheeks are blotched cherry red just like his lozenges, tear tracks shining under the kitchen light. It throws him, really. He’s lived with Susan for years and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her cry. She just. Doesn’t show much emotion at all, let alone displays like this.

Billy watches it the way he’d watch a car crash. Susan doesn’t even notice him until he’s coughing again. He curls his fist around his mouth, muffles them as best he can. Fumbles for his car keys when he’s made it through to the other side.

“Where could you possibly be going?” Susan asks, her voice thick, like there’s a bubble in her throat.

Maybe Neil hit her. Billy’s seen it so he knows it happens sometimes even though he’s pretty sure it’s not often. Not like how Neil hits him. Or hit his own mother. Susan is probably Neil’s favorite, obedient like a well trained dressage horse following all of his cues. Isn’t anything like his own mom who defied Neil like a wild mustang he couldn’t tame, who went braless and smoked hash with the hippies, screamed her lungs out at Neil in furious harpy volumes and called him names no matter how mad it made him. Who did her best to give back as good as she got even outmatched, even if it made him madder, throwing things or fists or swinging Billy’s Little League bat.

Susan is submissively behaved and tepid tempered, always wears her bra under the clothes Neil buys her in the fashions he prefers her in. Susan speaks softly and sweetly, never stays out unscheduled and doesn’t smoke anything at all, always smells like floral perfumes and lotions, never ever, ever like cigarettes or marijuana or other men’s cologne. When Neil hits Susan she goes slack and sloth and silent, and does not lift a finger to fight. It is the only thing she and Billy have in common.

“Nowhere,” he answers. “Gonna sleep in the car before Neil gets on me about making noise.”

“Billy, it’s too cold for that…besides, Neil isn’t going to wake up yet.”

“How do you know?”

What, does Susan think she’s a fucking fortune teller now?

Sure enough, she doesn’t have a straight answer for him. She stumbles over syllables that don’t shape into sentences and the last thing Billy feels like doing is indulging her.

“Pfft. That’s what I thought. By the way, you’re ugly when you cry.” Billy glares at her until she turns away, timid, bowing her head. He heads out to the Camaro, gets in the driver’s seat and pulls it back.

Yeah, it’s cold out but he can’t get warm inside under the blankets anyway. Neil’s already in a bad mood. He’d only barked about the racket last night but his father’s bite is worse than his bark and Billy knows better than to expect a second warning.

* * *

Friday morning, the frosty air scrapes Billy’s throat raw and makes him cough so, so hard. He’s beyond done with this shit, fuck everything. He takes shallow breaths to avoid the pangs of going too deep. The coughing still brings up gunk he spits out and he can feel the congestion crackling in his chest like thick, goopy molasses drowning his lungs, sticking between every rung of his ribcage.

It’s actually. Kind of. Beginning to concern him.

Is being sick normally like this?

Billy hasn’t been sick in so long, he seriously doesn’t know. But it’s been days and he’s not feeling any better. He feels worse. He really does. Breathing has become a grueling travail. Even to his own ears, his exhales sound wet and ratty. The coughing was a nuisance when it first came on but now it’s just downright exhausting.

But.

Well. He’s gotta be okay. He’s too young to be like, seriously sick. It’s probably just one of those things where it’s going to get worse before it gets better. A lot of things are like that, right?

Everything gets worse before it gets better. He’s fine. He’s definitely fine.

Billy goes inside. Everyone’s at the breakfast table and he doesn’t take a seat because he’s a biohazard and Neil already looks dour. Susan’s pouring him coffee. Max nibbles at a piece of toast. She has a cut on her cheek that wasn’t there when Billy saw her yesterday. Doesn’t look bad, just a simple scratch stretched under her eye, but when he peers closer is that…is that a bruise?

Yes. It’s pretty small. Faint. He would’ve missed it entirely if the thin red thread of her cut wasn’t so stark against Max’s pasty skin.

He’s smart enough not to ask in front of Neil. He doesn’t say anything. Gets the juice from the fridge and pours himself a glass. He’s two sips in before he has to set it aside, covering his mouth as another fit takes hold.

Neil is glaring when he makes it through. Right. Don’t cough around the food. Billy isn’t even sitting with them but whatever. He’s not gonna poke the bear. Heads off to Max’s room and waits.

Eventually she comes in to get her backpack, frowning at his presence. “What’re you doing in here?”

“What happened to your face?”

“Geez, Billy, you sound terrible.” Her nose crinkles.

“I asked you a question, Max.” Billy impatiently twirls his finger, slightly annoyed. He already knows he sounds bad, doesn’t need to be reminded.

Max turns away from him with a shrug, starts stuffing her textbooks into the bag. “I fell on the pond yesterday when I was playing with my friends. Where I fell…the ice wasn’t smooth. It was rough and it scratched.”

Billy narrows his eyes and measures her up. It isn’t a particularly unlikely story. But he wants to be sure.

“You’d tell me if it was Neil, right?”

“…of course I’d tell you if it Neil.” Max looks up from messing with her stuff and faces him with clear resolution in her gaze. “Neil hits you all the time so if he hit me, you’d be the first person I’d tell.”

Billy keeps his eyes on her as he goes over what she said. She doesn’t look like she’s lying. She doesn’t sound like she’s lying. Besides, Neil’s striking hand probably would’ve left a bigger bruise and he can’t place anything on it that would’ve scratched her skin like that. Neil’s fingernails are short and blunt, smoother than Billy’s, which get jagged when he bites. He doesn’t wear rings beyond his wedding band, and his is smooth silver, no shiny rock cut in the middle like Susan’s.

“Alright,” he concedes, turns to leave.

The coughing fit hits heavy, like a wrecking ball to the chest. Billy hangs onto the doorframe with one hand, covers his mouth with the other. It’ll pass. It’ll pass. It’ll pass.

Christ, he’s sick of being sick.

It passes. Billy keeps his grip on the doorframe as he works on drawing in air.

“You okay?” Max asks from behind.

And he can’t actually answer that just yet, still catching his breath.

“You sound really gross, like you’re literally dying.”

“I’m not…I’m fine…even run you to school, if you want.” Billy relaxes his grip on the doorframe and turns back to her.

“Oh.” Max perks up at that, eyes bright. “Yeah, can you?”

She lowers her voice as she adds, “I’m mad at my mom. I don’t really wanna ride with her.”

Billy doesn’t ask what for. It’s probably something stupid. Susan getting after her for not zipping up her coat or touching yellow snow or some other dumb shit. He’s too tired to care, really.

“Sure I can, s’what I just said, isn’t it? Finish getting your stuff together, bus leaves in five.”

* * *

Billy does’t go home for a long time. After dropping Max off, he just sits in the parking lot for awhile, rests his head against the steering wheel while the heat blasts from the vents. He’s got it all the way up and he’s so sweaty his hair’s plastered to the back of his neck, but he’s still freaking cold.

He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this.

Or.

Okay, maybe he does.

Eventually he pulls out of the parking lot, drives around listening to music just to be doing something. Winds up in another lot, an empty lot, where the rumor is they’re going to build a mall next year. Billy hopes so. Hawkins is mind-numbingly boring. Sometimes he just wants to scream about it, set fire to the fucking cornfields and scream at the top of his lungs.

His lungs aren’t really up to screaming right now though. Neither is his throat, really, tender from coughing spasm after coughing spasm tearing it up. Billy doesn’t know if he’s even been this sick.

He’s even considering bringing it up to his dad, maybe even. Asking Dad for help. And that.

That means he’s either desperate or delirious, and neither is a particularly reassuring thought.

Fuck.

Billy despises the fact it even crossed his mind. He can’t go to Neil. He won’t. That’s stupid. Neil would probably just dig him out some more expired vapor rub. Definitely wouldn’t take him to a doctor, at least not until the bruises heal. Maybe he’d compromise and get him the cough syrup Billy didn’t have enough cash for…

Between musings, Billy finds himself squeezed in another fit that pummels his chest like invisible fists. It’s so bad he’s left battling for just a breath of air, so forceful for one very scary second he’s even worried he won’t get it. That the coughing will go on and on, and he’ll never take another breath again. That they’ll find his body right here in the empty lot where maybe the mall will be one day.

Except the coughing eventually does subside and Billy does manage to get some air. But the fit spooks him a little. Takes enough out of Billy that he decides he’s probably going to have to go to Neil. Shit.

He puts it off as long as he can. Doesn’t even go home until he knows everyone is done with dinner. To his surprise, Neil isn’t watching tv. Billy heads down the hall. The light is on under Max’s door. The light is on under the master bedroom door too. Billy hesitates before knocking.

Does he really need to go to Neil?

Maybe he was exaggerating when he was worried earlier. Billy’s hand retracts from the door. It's promptly clamped around his mouth for what must be the hundredth time. He’s hacking hard into his palm, chest throbbing.

He doesn’t actually mean to open the door. But he grabs the knob for support and jerks when the metal is shockingly cold under his fingers. The next thing Billy knows, he’s stumbling over the threshold.

Susan whips toward him, eyes as wide as dinner plates and mouth frozen open in horror. At first Billy thinks it’s him. She’s so disgusted she’s horrified by him and his biohazard germs and any second Neil’s going to pick his head up from the bed and bark at Billy for intruding without so much as a knock, and then—

Then his eyes fall to the long bloodied baiting needle in Susan’s suddenly trembling hands.

“S-Self d-defense,” she quavers, backing away, that needle outward in her shaky, shaky hands almost like she thinks Billy’s going to advance on her. “It was s-self defense, B-Billy, I had to.”

Because Neil’s still motionless, facedown on the bed even though his son’s still coughing, making a racket and expelling biohazard bacteria in his very bedroom. He’s still coughing, fuck, his eyes are watering, but they aren’t so watery he can’t see what’s right in front of him. Billy plants a hand down against the dresser and tries to breathe.

“Self defense,” he rasps at the end of the fit, blinking at the acupuncture kit open inches away from his hand on the dresser.

“S-Slightly preemptive self defense,” Susan amends, swallowing. “Make no m-mistake, I had to. I had to, he— he was right on the verge of a b-blowup. You know your father, Billy.”

That is true. Billy knows his father well. He doesn’t speak to Susan as he shuffles up to the bed. Gulps down some of the gunk in his throat, grazes his father’s cheek with his fingertips. There’s blood welled up in a hole at the base of his skull but he’s warm, kinda, so maybe Susan didn’t kill him after all. He moves his fingers to feel for a pulse.

It isn’t there. Neil’s dead? Neil’s really dead?

“Dad?” he tries. It comes out a hoarse squeak. He clears his throat and tries again. “Dad? Dad, c’mon.”

Billy jostles his father’s shoulder. It yields no response. The bare skin is still warm, deceptively so. There’s not so much as a flicker of life beneath it.

“Holy shit,” Billy gasps.

Susan presses back against the wall, eyes still very wide, clutching that baiting needle so tight her knuckles are blanched. Her hands shake and shake.

“What are you going to do?” she asks in a whisper.

“What am I going to go?” Billy echoes. “I— I don’t know! What are you going to do? Call the cops?”

Because even if her self defense was preemptive, to use her description, maybe it’d still fly. Billy has bruises. Maybe Susan has some too hidden under that deep cranberry dress.

“Cops?” Susan’s mouth tightens as her head gives a firm shake. “Of course not. Don’t you know what police are like? Your father would’ve fit right in.”

Billy considers this as he coughs, stuffing them into the sleeve of his leather jacket. He can’t say his own experience with the law has ever been positive. And Neil was a security guard. What’s a security guard if not a wannabe cop?

“You planned this,” Billy heaves out when he’s done coughing.

“I’m….I mean, y-yes, but I—“

“What was your plan?” Billy interrupts. “Where were you going to go from here?”

“I didn’t expect you to show up,” Susan says, soft and frowning.

“I live here,” Billy points out and he laughs. Strange, strained laughter peals out of him until it triggers another bout of coughing because. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

“Oh, Billy…do you want some water? Maybe you should sit down.”

“Where?” he rasps between coughs. “Next to my dead dad?!”

“Keep your voice down,” Susan urges, waving the needle like a conductor’s baton. “Max is still awake.”

Billy wipes the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. Stares at Susan as he does his best to take even breaths.

“You’re wheezing.”

“You’re deflecting,” he fires back. “What are you going to do?”

“Um, uh…chop him up,” Susan admits quietly. “I’d p-planned to chop him up.”

“That’ll make a mess,” Billy blurts out, blunt.

“Messy, yes, but it’s the easiest way. I can’t exactly carry him.”

Billy touches the small of Neil’s bare back, skims his fingertips between hair thin acupuncture needles. He probes at the small of his own back, winces when dull pain pulses through the bruise. His throat is thick with something other than phlegm and his heart is racing rabbity fast. In this moment, Billy makes a decision.

“Not by yourself.”

Susan gapes.

“Where we taking him?” Billy asks.

“I…I honestly didn’t have an exact location mind, but farther away. Not here in Hawkins, the town is too small.” Susan swallows again and tugs at her sleeve. “I planned to bag his parts in pieces and drive a few hours out and spend the night disposing of the bags in different areas.”

That makes sense, he thinks.

“Sometimes I go to this gay bar about two hours away. Pretty big dumpster in the back.”

Billy tries to hit it at least once a month, if he can save up enough of his allowance for gas. Sometimes he collects enough chump change from idiots at school who forget to close their lockers, and isn’t above duping people outta their dough by turning on the charm, either. His interest in girls isn’t exclusive, he finds a helluva lotta guys interesting too. It’s just nice to get out of fucking Nowheresville even on the nights he doesn’t end up fooling around with anybody.

Susan looks absolutely bewildered.

“Gay bar,” he repeats slowly. “You know. Pride pub, homo hub?”

“I know what a gay bar is, Billy. Why on earth are you going to one?”

“Gee, I don’t know, maybe it’s because I’m secretly a drag queen bingo champion,” Billy scoffs in annoyance and it turns into a cough. The one sets off a fit.

“Billy, um…I don’t, um. I’m not judging your preference in partners or your private life, but you’re too young to be going to the bar. Any bar. It’s not legal, you’re a teenager.”

Jesus, he can hardly breathe. He feels like he’s going to fall over. Maybe he actually should’ve sat down next to his dead dad.

“Oh dear. I’m— I’m going to get you some water.”

Billy doesn’t fall over. He has good stamina. He’s hard to knock over, prides himself on that fact. He makes it through the fit upright. His chest is sore from the stabbing and he’s a little dizzy, perhaps from fatigue or breathlessness, but he’s steadfast.

Billy accepts the glass Susan holds out to him upon her return. Her fingers feel like icicles as they brush his and he suppresses a shiver. Takes slow sips and finds a little relief. Eventually sets the glass down on the dresser when he’s done.

“Technically, it’s not me who goes to the bar. You’re right, I’m not twenty-one yet. But Jason Scott on the other hand, well, he’s twenty-five.” Billy fishes his wallet out and frees his fake ID from its fold. “Looks pretty legit, right?”

Susan silently studies the piece of plastic and worries her lip between her teeth.

“But we don’t actually have to go into the bar to put my dad’s body in the dumpster anyway. I mean, going inside would really be a pretty bad idea…”

“Indeed it would, but I’m glad you showed this to me. It wouldn’t be smart to put Neil anywhere you or I associate with at all. But if you’re not actually associated, it’s an option.”

“It’d take less time than the way you were gonna go about it. Cleaner too.”

Susan nods her agreement. “However, I still might…mm, Billy. I’m not sure if you’re going to like this. But in order to prevent him from being identified, I think I’m going to chop off his head…and his hands. Well, perhaps those I’ll just burn with the clothes iron, um. Either way, his fingerprints need to be destroyed.”

Billy’s gut lurches as he soaks it in. It sounds logical. He can’t deny that, but something about the idea of his dad’s decapitation doesn’t sit. Kinda gives him the heebie-jeebies. And that’s weird. That’s really weird because he’s okay with everything else.

Well.

Okay, maybe he’s not okay with it, but. He understands it. It’s Neil. Of course he understands the bruises she may or may not be hiding, the fear in her heart regardless.

“Do you have to chop his head off? Can’t you just smash his face in?”

“I considered that,” Susan says, nodding again. “Those cast iron lion bookends on the shelf are nine pounds each. I weighed them this morning.”

Billy likes the sound of that better. Neil is going to be dead and disfigured either way. He’s not sure why it makes a difference. Maybe it doesn’t, really. He thinks he might have a fever. Maybe the fever’s just getting to him, making him a little loopy and pulling his thoughts in less than rational directions.

“I could do that part,” he offers. It’d probably take him less time to bash Neil’s face in than it’d take Susan. He has more physical prowess, after all, more power to put behind the blows.

“Are you up for that?” she asks, eyeing him skeptically.

“Yes,” he snaps, somewhat defensive. He’s sick but he’s not helpless.

Billy’s claim isn’t undermined by the brief bout of coughing that overtakes him. He halts the reflex to clutch his ribs. Not now, not in front of her. Especially not with what they have to do.

“There’s two bookends,” Susan points out, seems a little nervous as she watches him cough. “We could take turns.”

With that, she disappears from view. Billy hacks some more gross globs into his hand and for convenience’s sake, just wipes it off on his jeans. When Susan comes back, she has one of those big black contractor trash bags. Spreads it out on the bed beside Neil’s form.

They roll him together and Billy doesn’t know what to make of what he feels when he actually sees his father’s face, features devoid and dead. Very, very dead. Tears do not sting his eyes. They just well up watery because he’s coughing again, battling for breath again, so, so wrung and exhausted, lungs like sodden sponges sopped with sputum.

Then he’s holding the bookend, cast iron artistically sculpted, the maned king of the jungle bearing his teeth in a roar. Billy looks at his father’s dead face and hesitates for only a heartbeat. When he brings the heavy object down, he puts all the force he can muster behind it and it makes an utterly atrocious noise Billy will never forget, but—

Some part of him has always wanted to do this. For that part of him, it is the only thing he’s ever truly wanted. And when Susan takes her turn Billy watches her face and realizes, oh, going slack and sloth and silent with the taste of Neil Hargrove’s hand isn’t the only thing they share at all.

* * *

They wait until late to don gloves and roll Neil up in the shower liner. They stuff him in the bed of his own truck for transport. Billy takes the torso end because it’s heavier, Susan hefts him under the legs. Billy drives because he knows the way even though it’s the last thing he feels like doing.

It goes mostly okay. He only has a paroxysm bad enough to make him pull over once.

Susan reaches across the seats and rubs his shoulder. Billy’s too busy getting his breath to shrug her off.

“I’m sure you’re not going to love this idea, but I think it’s time to see a doctor. This could be bronchitis, Billy, or even pneumonia.”

“Pneumonia isn’t real,” Billy grouses tiredly. “It’s like the boogeyman. Just some story old people made up so their grandkids wouldn’t play in the rain and track mud all over the house.”

“Uh…um.” She blinks owlishly, forehead creasing. “No, that’s not quite accurate…”

“I’m screwing with you, Susan.” Because that’s easier than conceding to her.

It would’ve been one thing with Neil. As fucked up as things were, Neil was his dad. Neil was supposed to take care of him.

But Susan. Susan is different. Susan is mostly Max’s weird mom who displays about as much emotion as a mannequin whenever she isn’t (wasn’t) dancing on Neil’s puppet strings or talking to the spiders as she shakes them free from soft tissues. Albeit tonight is a game changer. They’re very literally partners in crime now.

“We could even go to the ER after this,” she suggests uncertainly, wary edge to her tone.

“That’s for emergencies. I can wait.”

“If you’re sure.” Susan hums in her throat and draws her hand away.

They have good timing. The bar’s been closed for almost an hour by the time they get there and all the cars have cleared out. Billy backs up to the dumpster so he and Susan can stand on the bed and lift Neil in that way, rather than having to drag his deadweight out and struggle to raise his cumbersome bulk up over the side.

He doesn’t want to be out here any longer than he has to. Whole thing gives him the heebie-jeebies. He feels like a cop is about to pull up any second now and frankly, it’s cold as fuck. He’s cold as fuck.

Not as cold as the unearthly chill that seems to pierce through the plastic liner when Billy lifts his father’s trunk for the second time tonight.

“Do you feel that?” he irresistibly asks Susan, watching her adjust her grip on Neil’s legs and searching her face for the eeriness he’s feeling.

“Feel what?” Susan asks, frowning.

Death itself? Billy doesn’t know.

“Nothing, it’s…just cold, I guess.”

“Oh, Billy, I think you have the chills.”

And he knows he does but it’s not the same thing. He doesn’t comment any more on it. Together they get Neil up on the metal rim of the open dumpster, push him over. Garbage crunches and crinkles beneath his deadweight. Billy feels another coughing fit coming on and manages to suppress it until he gets back inside the truck.

“Do you want me to drive home?” Susan asks.

“No. I know the way better, it’s easier if I do it.”

“You could, um. I mean, you could direct me if I get a little turned around. You’re looking pretty tuckered out.” It’s dark but Billy can hear the frown in her voice.

“Alright,” he sighs out. “Fine.”

Because she’s not wrong. He’s drained at this point. Shoving his dad’s body in the dumpster spent the last store of energy he had. He and Susan swap places. She doesn’t have much trouble once she actually gets back on the main road.

“Thank you,” she murmurs eventually. “If I had to do this myself, I’d still be in the middle of it.”

“Yeah…sure thing, I guess.” She killed his dad. No big deal. Billy blinks, isn’t sure what else to say.

“…so, um…you like the fellas, huh?” she asks, voice light and not a bit unkind.

“Uh-huh." He shrugs. "Guys, girls, I mean, I'm not that picky. A hole’s a hole, a mouth’s a mouth, fingers are fingers.”

Susan chokes on a scandalized gasp and Billy gets a chuckle out of it, even as it turns into a cough.

“That’s, uh. T-That’s certainly crude.”

And it’s funny really, that Susan seems more creeped out by a boorish comment than she did by holding his dead dad’s corpse legs.

By the time they get home, Billy’s so beyond spent he knows he can’t even make it to his room. Doesn’t bother to try. Collapses on the couch cushions without attempting to take his boots off. Smothers what has to be the goddamn millionth round of coughs into the throw pillow.

When he picks his head up, Susan’s standing there, fiddling with the thermometer again, fretful expression on her features. Oh, fuck it. Fine. Billy bites the bullet and takes it from her, begrudgingly jamming the thing under his tongue.

#billy hargrove #susan hargrove #neil hargrove #my fic tag #anonymoose #can't get enough of these two as a murder duo

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hazbincalifornia · 3 years

Text

Mine

Chapter 19: Blitzo gets some release... eventually.

Warnings: Mpreg, explicit sexual content. The actual smutty stuff starts after the line partway through.

Likes, replies, and reblogs are all appreciated, both here and on ao3!

Ao3 link

Blitzo stared up at the balcony, one eye twitching as the rope tied to it flapped in the wind. Stolas was somewhere out of sight- probably laid out on the bed with a rose in his mouth. At the thought, Blitzo could feel his lower muscles clench and he gritted his teeth.

An hour ago, when he’d sent the text message, there had been no response. Not even a read notification. Stolas had practically been begging him to come over before, what was the deal? Was he busy? Oh sure, great, the one time Blitzo needed him...

He’d sent another message. Then another one. By the fourth (approximately seven minutes after the initial text) Blitzo was starting to bounce on the bed again, groaning as heat burned him from the inside out. Visions of feathers and the sharp snap of a beak danced through his head, and one hand clutched at his stomach, claws digging just barely into the skin to keep him from slipping away entirely as the other hand jabbed the ‘call’ button.

It went to voicemail.

“Stolas. Answer your goddamn phone. Ghhh-” His hand had drifted back down between his legs. “F-fuck, you’re the one that always wants me to pound you, so will you be there when I actually need you? I need to feel your tight little ass and your soft feathers and bite into your neck, I wanna watch you go red and feel you pulsing around me.” The bedframe squeaked as he humped the mattress for emphasis. “I swear to fuck if it was possible I’d give you all this back, fuck you full until you know what it’s like to be carrying this little bastard. You’re gonna be my bitch and you’re gonna like it.” Blitzo panted for a moment. “Call me back, because we are going to fuck or I’m shoving a cactus up your ass, got that?”

Blitzo had then jabbed ‘end call’ and fell back on the bed, pulling his fingers out of himself and staring at the ceiling for a minute as his heart pounded. He was about to reach for the dildo again when his phone started buzzing- Stolas had responded by sending several texts, one right after another.

!!!!

That’s wonderful Blitzy! I was in a meeting, I’m so sorry!

Stella should have left just an hour ago, I’ll check but the house is ours for a few days. Your timing is impeccable.

Do you need a ride over?

Blitzo had rolled his eyes and replied, swiping his jizz-soaked hand on the pillow to clean later.

its fine i hve a van. b over ther soon

Another reply from Stolas.

❤️ I assume you’ll want to use the front door, I’ll tell the servants to let you in. The balcony might be difficult in your condition.

Blitzo had hissed at that, glaring down at the phone.

ru saying i cant do it? fck u, Ill go up the usual way

Are you sure? It’s no trouble.

just b ready

Blitzo scrubbed his legs down with five different washcloths in the bathroom and pulled on pants- and they were nice tight ones that showed off his butt too. He stuffed his phone in the pocket before tugging on the lightest shirt in his closet- a long-sleeve mesh thing he’d gotten for partying. It had been a crop top before, so at least when it rode up he could pretend it was supposed to look like that. He considered for a moment before deciding against a light jacket- he was gonna be going straight to the mansion and in the van for most of the way. Finished, he struck a pose in the mirror, and yeah, maybe it was the unbelievably horny hormones, but he looked and felt hot as shit right now.

Then, of course, he’d reached the mansion and realized that he needed to scale a rope up fifty feet while pregnant, and some of the enthusiasm drained away as the brat shifted around inside of him.

“Okay. You’ve done weirder shit,” Blitzo said aloud, cracking his knuckles before curling both hands and his tail around the rope. Climbing ropes were easy. He could do this in his sleep. Probably had at some point, or at least while drunk. He’d been in the circus and did all kinds of crazy physical stunts for IMP, a single rope while he had some weight around his middle was nothing.

He got about three feet off the ground before realizing that the whole ‘fucked center of gravity’ thing combined with the sweat on his palms and slick already starting to soak his pants might pose a problem. No matter, he could still do this. He steeled himself, fingers flexing around the nylon as he shimmied up a bit more, thighs clamping and releasing as his hands moved up over each other.

Left. Right. Left. Right. Squirming inside that made him lose his grip. The rope burned as he slid down, legs getting double-soaked in the slick already starting to make the line smell like a glory hole.

His phone buzzed, but checking it would require letting go of the rope, and nothing was going to make him do that. He snarled, starting to climb again. Left. Right. Left. Right. Time slipped away as he laser-focused on trying to get up the damn rope. Come on, he’d done it a couple times before and he’d always made it, he wasn’t going to be a fucking pussy-

“Sir?” A voice that reminded Blitzo of an airport announcer cleared its throat from behind Blitzo and he nearly lost his grip again, biting back a yelp.

“What the fu-”

It was an imp in a spiffy little suit with a mouth pressed into a thin line and a cracked horn. Butler, probably. “His highness Prince Stolas had requested that I make sure that you were alright.” His fingers were interlaced tightly enough that Blitzo could see the veins popping out. “If you need, I can escort you to his room.”

“I know where his fuckin’ room is, that’s where I’m going,” Blitzo snarled.

“It’s been fifteen minutes since you arrived, sir. He’s waiting.” The ‘sir’ had enough venom to kill a Magne, and Blitzo looked up to the balcony, then down to the ground. He doubted he’d cleared twenty feet and his palms were feeling slippery again.

There was a moment of contemplation before he started sliding back down. “Not one fucking word from you, got it?”

The other imp just nodded, directing them to a side door. At least Blitzo was taller than him so he could feel a little less like a kid caught pissing in the parking lot, and at least these pants were absorbent enough to not leave a trail.

___________

It was like a reverse walk of shame, considering he hadn’t even gotten laid yet. The little butler was, mercifully, good at being quiet, only existing by the clicks of his little feet on the floor and the fact that Blitzo saw him out of the corner of his eye while doing his best to stare straight ahead. He knew vaguely where Stolas’s room was going the normal way, but today the mansion felt labyrinthine, conniving to keep Blitzo from getting to the damn bed. He was pretty sure he was squeaking as he walked now.

After about five agonizing minutes in which he sorely regretted wearing tight pants considering his cock was already straining at them, they finally neared the right room, and Blitzo could practically smell Stolas through the door, all rich cologne and earthy soil and cinnamon. The butler knocked only once before nearly getting knocked out when it flew open, smacking him in the face. Blitzo barely noticed, staring up and up at Stolas who was dressed in only a loose bathrobe.

Man. For having only not seen the guy for two days, he’d somehow managed to forget just how huge he was.

He didn’t have very long to contemplate that thought however as Stolas scooped him up in his arms, twirling him around like a doll with pupils glowing white. “Ohhhh, I’m so excited! And you dressed up for the occasion too, what a sexy little top there.” One finger traced over his belly, hooking at the bottom of the mesh. “Leaves nothing to the imagination…”

If he wasn’t going to mention the rope thing going tits-up, Blitzo wasn’t either. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a sex god and you want me, can we just get to the part where I get to fuck you already? You have no idea how uncomfortable is is to be walking around dripping like a faucet.”

Stolas laughed, nuzzling against Blitzo’s cheek before settling him down on the bed. “You certainly seemed eager on the phone! So no roleplay for now?”

“Just get your feathery butt over here so I can pound it into bird-meat,” Blitzo growled, frantically tugging at his pants as Stolas gave a pleased hoot, shedding his robe in mere seconds before crawling atop the bed, already aroused.

“So forceful when you talk dirty…”

“You like that, don’t you?” Blitzo considered taking his sweaty shirt off before realizing that was coordination he didn’t have at the moment, considering his fingers had gotten slippery just trying to remove his damn pants. He liked this shirt, he didn’t want to tear it. Taking in a deep breath, (fuck, Stolas the full thing smelled so much better than just his stupid shirt had) he peeled his underwear off, chucking them across the room hard enough that they hit the wall with a soft ‘splat’ and slid down, leaving a slimy trail. Red fingers curled around gray thighs, spreading Stolas wide with a snap as the prince let out a tiny ‘eep’.

“Right to it then!” His tone was eager, toe-claws flexing in and out as Blitzo reached between his own legs to coat his fingers more thoroughly in whatever pre-jizz junk had been oozing out of him for too damn long.

“You’re so eager, aren’t you?” Blitzo could practically feel his voice lowering as his cock pressed the rest of the way out, oozing more of the lube-juice against his fingertips. “You want me inside of you, filling that perky little ass of yours until you can’t fucking walk.”

“Yes, yes!” Stolas wiggled a little with a wide grin as Blitzo shifted closer, lifting the owl up so he had better access to his backdoor, probing in with his fingers for only a second before driving in hard, getting an absolute howl out of Stolas that faded into a moan.

“You’re mine for however long it takes to get rid of this heat shit, got it? You’re my little toy today, because this is all… your… fucking… fault.” Blitzo accented each of the last four words with a thrust and Stolas gripped at the sheets, tail thumping up and down on the bed with each one. One of the thumps sent a white feather fluttering up and Blitzo stabbed it with his tail, glaring at it as his claws dug into Stolas’s legs. All thoughts were starting to flood his mind except for the heat around him and the legs clutched in his fists. “Mine. You hear that?” He reached up for Stolas’s chest, hauling him up by gripping a handful of feathers with sticky fingers.

Because of his height, Stolas was staring down at him with now-flushed cheeks, but Blitzo couldn’t find it in himself to care because he was still all the way in, walls tightening around his dick with slick spilling out and soaking the sheets. “You’re property of Blitzo as long as I want you.” He grabbed Stolas’s wrist with one hand, shoving the palm flat against his middle. “Your baby, your fucking problem.” The hand still gripping Stolas’s chest tugged him down, pulling him into a kiss as a few downy feathers drifted down to the bedspread.

Blitzo was very, very glad they’d figured out kissing a while ago, because his brain was running on heat-daze and frustration and he never would have been able to figure it out now. He could feel Stolas’s hot breath down his throat and a hot feathered body pressed against his own and the palm on his belly, and when he thrust again he could feel the gasp Stolas made.

“You like that?” Blitzo almost breathed, fire singing in his veins. “Of course you do, I’m fucking good at this. Now lay down and take it like you always want to. You’re mine, and I want all of you.” He smeared some of the lube stuff off his fingers and onto the end of his tail, wrapping it around Stolas’s cock. Stolas fell back on the bed, shuddering a little with a dreamy grin.

“Take me, Blitzy.”

If he hadn’t already been about to pound Stolas to within an inch of his life, the breathy way he said that would have done it.

“You’re asking for it,” Blitzo snarled out, pulling back and snapping forward as his cock squirmed inside of Stolas, the owl throwing a hand over his forehead as the bed snapped against the wall from the force, his tail starting to stroke up and down on Stolas’s length. The smell of Stolas’s arousal was getting him off almost as much as the actual fucking was, and he wanted more of it. “Don’t you want to take advantage of all your hard work? Look at me. I said, look at me.” He smacked at Stolas’s side before continuing jerking him off and all four eyes shot back open. “You put this kid in me, you’re gonna watch as I fuck you right back.”

“I’m watching, I’m watching,” Stolas said, eyes falling back to half-lidded. “You look s-so delicious like that… I could just eat you uuuuuup!” The word dragged as Blitzo curled the tentacle of his cock down, clearly hitting the g-spot from the way that Stolas’s lower eyes started twitching. He started moving his tail up and down faster, curled tightly around Stolas’s length.

“C-could say the same to you, you look and smell so so good…” Blitzo could feel something building, and would have been embarrassed that it was so quick if he hadn’t been trying to bust properly for days now. “Gonna fill you up, take it, take all of it you fucking-” He came before finishing his sentence, gasping as he pumped load after load into Stolas, seeing the owl actually bloat slightly on his thin waist from the sheer volume. Stolas more fell than laid back, panting as Blitzo pulled his tail back, the owl’s cock still twitching and on the edge.

“Mm, so full, B-Blitzy-”

“Finish for me.” It was a voice that invited no discussion. “I want to see you jerk yourself off.”

Stolas nodded, wrapping his fingers around himself and stroking up and down while biting down on the skin under his beak. It only took a few pumps before he cried out Blitzo’s name, semen splattering his feathers as he panted from the aftermath.

“Good bird.” Blitzo looked at Stolas’s sticky fingers as they traced over the owl’s body, palm resting flat upon his slightly-bloated stomach.

“That was more than usual.” The words were light, all four eyes eyes glowing as he prodded at it. “You were excited, weren’t you? Wanted to really fill me up- I don’t know if I’ve ever been able to see it like this before. It felt fantastic, and we match now!”

“Oh, hardehar. Come back when my jizz makes you puke up acid and your gut starts moving.” Still, he couldn’t hold back a half-smile as he rolled his palm over his still-erect cock. “So, good and bad news.”

“Mmmm?” Stolas tilted his head.

“Good news is that I’m ready for another round already.”

“And the bad news?”

“Whatever this heat shit is, it didn’t go away yet.”

Stolas tapped the middle of Blitzo’s face as he grinned. “Ah, so it’s only good news, then.” He pulled Blitzo into a kiss and the imp shifted onto his lap before pressing up against Stolas's face, not caring that Stolas was a sticky mess but only that his mouth and that beak felt perfect at this exact moment.

They had plenty of time, after all, and now that he was here, Blitzo planned to enjoy every damn second of it.

#one time #shadow writes stuff #helluva mpreg #daddy blitzo #spicy text

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writing-for-me-at-this-point · 4 years

Text

Firstborn | i. in sickness and in health

Summary: You make a pact with a demon, in exchange, you give him your firstborn.

Word Count: 2224 words

Page Count: 6.3 pages

A/n: so, my first series! hope you guys like it!

Tags: none :)

[ F I R S T B O R N M A S T E R L I S T ]

The song of nature seemed to irritate you with every passing day.

Every day you heard it.

The birds chirping to communicate with one another, the winds danced as their limbs created wistful music, an owl coos to its young, the shuffling of trees as their branches snapped gently against one another. Life went on, it was peaceful, it was thriving. The sun was shining through the horizon as it rose from the ashes of the night, blessing those who could walk into its rays with warmth that fueled humanity, something that your sister may never experience again.

Finishing up your letter, you signed your name in the bottom corner, before folding the paper gently into thirds and placing it over the candle on your desk. The flame licked the paper before latching on, crippling it and its contents physically though the smoke carried them to its destination, your hand settling on the ash of the desk before using it to draw a small symbol.

With your right pointer finger, you used the ash to create an arrow that pointed up your arm on the back of your left palm, adding three circles on the line and finishing it off with another line from one side to the other. Sitting for a moment, nature still called, your heart was still beating, your breathing was calm and even, and then you slowly stood before making your way to your sisters room. You knocked lightly, your ear against the door to listen to the broken air that escaped her lungs, but there was no response.

Pushing open the thick wooden door, the room was quiet and settled, [ S/n ]'s breathing was as steady as it could be indicating her sleep. A sigh only escaped your throat, before you moved out of sight, following the long hall of your ancestral home that had shelves and shelves of medicines and other concoctions.

Your family believed in the old sciences, and even with all their accumulated knowledge in the Hold under the house, you couldn't find a damn cure. The tissues in her lungs had become mutated, they started to eat themselves while her body attacked it, the cancer was quick and deadly. It had only been three months. Three months and here is your sister, who stood proudly as a budding doctor, now an ill and fading flower whose never to return the next spring.

Your temper was starting to rise again, your teeth were grinding against one another as you made your way to the porch of the house, wiping your hands on the trousers that were fitted to your form. The large blouse you wore was rather baggy, so you had it hold to your form with a scarf wrapped tightly to your waist down to your hips, your rolled up sleeves allowed your marked arms to be shown.

"Yoohoo~ [ Y/n ], I'm here to bless you with my presence~" Solomon's voice had cut through your darkening thoughts, the irritated chuckle that you let loose made the magician beam in delight, the knocks on your door starting to rev up in energy.

"Solomon, please, I need help. Not another migraine." You opened the door, his eyes looking down at you in shock, he had surely grown over the past few months.

"You look absolutely decrepit." He eyes the bags under your eyes and dulled skin, the slouch of your back made you look even shorter than usual, and your hair that was braided had smaller hairs that stuck out from its ties.

"Eat shit, little brother." You scoffed, watching as he rolled his eyes and made his way into the old family home, straight to the kitchen to fix himself a strong drink. The long midnight blue cape flowed behind him, the rest of his clothing was like that of any noble- only darker and accented heavily with golden threads, he always made sure to look his best even as a child.

"Can I stay with you? Please?" The small boy looked up to you, his hand on yours as he stood next to your bed, stormy grey eyes begging for comfort. His hair was a mess, a large crow plush you had sewn was crushed between his arms, and his rounded, innocent eyes were stained pink, tears gleaming on his cheeks.

"Mmhmm." You mumbled, shifting onto the colder side of the bed, allowing Solomon to enter the warmth and comfort only you could give him. As he settled, you threw the blanket on him, one arm going under his pillow to wrap around and allow your fingers to thread through the snowy locks, the other laying on his waist. He placed his head under your chin, and you felt his small shivers lessen as each moment passed.

"Can... can you sing?" He asked, whispering as he kept the crow stuffed between you, laying the plushy near the center of your chest, innocent eyes shut peacefully for once in the entire night.

"I can... hum? I'm a bit- too tired to... sing." Your voice was cutting out, fading into sleep and back to him, starting a small tune once you felt him nod. You continued until you could hear his breathing even out, your humming and the vibrations that came with it lulled the boy to sleep, so once you were sure he was at peace- you allowed yourself to fall into it as well.

Solomon dropping a glass onto the table brought you back to the present, watching the baby you had always taken care of now curse himself for spilling some alcohol, so much has changed and yet you still saw the little boy who would follow you to bed every night in fear of monsters or even your other siblings coming to torment him.

"God- fucking- damn it! These big ass cups always slip out of our hands- why, why do we still have these?" He complained, shaking the run off whiskey from his hand, turning to place a cup in front of you as he pulled a chair to face you before sitting down to start downing his drink. He made sure to leave the larger, original, bottle on the table between the two of you.

And the silence settled in. You honestly didn't know if you were losing your mind, with your tempers threshold lessening each day and your self care plunging into its own despair, you held the same routine of searching for an answer that was the tether to your sanity. The same thing everyday.

Every.

Damn.

Day.

What was that saying? Insanity is doing the same actions, expecting different results? That's it, your mind must be gone, it must have died once your sister became bed ridden- your mind decaying since then, and the dust that it had left during the winds chilled dance through the household. While nature sang.

While it moved on.

"It's bad. So bad." Your voice broke mid-sentence, ending as a whisper, deciding to stop talking and take a large swing of the burning gold.

"I can tell. Her aura is... faint. I'm sorry to have left you alone with this. I should have come here sooner. I should have-'' His eyes watered, his grip tightening on the glass cup, deciding that even looking into your eyes would be disrespectful. Everything was rushing towards him now, though he held himself in a better manner than most, when it came to his family- came to you, he always was such a baby.

"You had things to do. You're building your own life, Solomon. I wasn't going to hold you back from that." You sighed, this wasn't his fault, it wasn't anyone's fault. Well, maybe fate or destiny at this point. You were too tired to care.

"I should have come to you though. Helped more. You didn't need to go through this alone." He still wasn't looking at you.

"But I did. And I can't take that back. And neither can you. All we can do is move on." You slowly took his fingers off the glass, before taking them into your palm, rubbing his pale knuckles to sooth him- quite amusing to see the tension almost immediately leave his shoulders. His eyes were on your form now, not your eyes just yet, but you were getting there.

"What are you thinking, in the big head of yours?" You mused, even if it was a whisper, you tried to lighten the air for him.

"Well, this is one time I'm glad to pronounce I'm adopted, seeing that if I was related to you- well, I wouldn't have a head. A dome maybe?" His voice fell flat, before turning his head lazily to you, his teasing tone opposing the face he was making. You both chuckled before you felt silence throw her blanket over the both of you again, the air was still lighter than before.

"You tried everything. Everything." He repeated, gazing at his hand in yours, switching the positions so that he was lightly rubbing the back of your hand. You sighed, nodding your head, and folding your other arm on the table to lay your head on it. Your breathing was even, Solomon's mimicked yours, but your heart was starting up just a bit.

Solomon was thinking.

Not the best of things.

But we were desperate.

"You tried everything. In this world. In this realm." He turned to look at you in the eye now, his grey eyes that usually held a warm and fuzzy gaze now were icy, you felt the shiver trail up your spine at this.

"[ Y/n ], I have an idea. Please let me explain it first though." You nodded at him.

"I- I have made progress in my studies in magic. A lot. And now, now I can contact beings from other realms, things that were never human." He took a deep breath.

"Things like angels and demons, deities and protectors, and through this... I have made pacts with them. The angels are not allowed to interact with our world directly, something that was in place since many of their own fell from the realm, so we can't ask them for help- unless it's through prayer and at this point I'm sure they aren't going to." He shook his head with a sigh, your head slowly coming up as you straight, listening intently to him.

"But, there are beings who can help us directly, who aren't inherently evil as the church made them seem. They are demons- that is a fact, but they were once angels, [ Y/n ]. Making a pact with one gives direct results, and usually making a pact is a symbol of trust due to it giving you some hold over the demon, but they can still make one for a price. And, though I know many, there are very few I can trust with you."

"Are you trying to say... you think I should make a pact?" You questioned.

"Well, yes, but please be open to it. Demons aren't evil by nature. They just live their lives at their pleasure, they indulge, some are fallen, some are born, some are created. They're like us, humans- just... just different bodies? You'll see what I mean if you agree."

"Agree?"

"Agree to making a pact with one. I won't force this on you. I have made my fair share, but due to my reputation I don't think many would want to help me personally." He awkwardly chuckled.

"And. I don't want to force anyone to help me as well." He finished.

Demons? You didn't know what to feel at this point. You felt insightful- Solomon had explained it well enough, and he knew much about the topic, and you were desperate. You couldn't just leave [ S/n ] to just die, in pain, unable to even move on her own, not after everything she's done. Not after she had saved you and the rest. She deserved better. More than what life could give her.

Did it matter then? It's not like the demon would ask for your soul, from what Solomon said, and you frankly are starting to care less and less if the demon was to ask for it.

"Let's do it." You said, pulling his hand to you while looking him in the eye, his surprise was evident but the spark in his eye- it was dangerous.

"I knew you'd always get into magic."

"Hush. I never said I didn't approve. I just- I don't want to-" You stopped yourself, a harsh intake of air.

"Lose control." He finished. You nodded again, standing up as Solomon followed quickly.

"Don't worry, I'm a great teacher, and this is your first pact! It's important. That's why I have the perfect demon, he isn't too aggressive and is rather amusing, not to mention he has the best control of his abilities compared to his brothers." He tried to start up the lighter conversation, as light as it can get, but you appreciated the gesture.

"Well then, what's his name?" You asked, moving back to your room, Solomon following you quickly.

"He's the Avatar of Greed, considered a deity nowadays, but he is one of the highest ranking demons so he can pull through in helping [ S/n ]."

"His name, Solomon. Not his life story."

"Mammon."

#mammon x reader #mammon x mc #om! mammon x reader #obey me mammon x reader #obey me mammon x mc #obey me x reader #obey me imagines #obey me x you #x reader #reader insert

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littlekatleaf · 4 years

Text

Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive flame (part 6)

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

Something was buzzing right in his ear. Almost like a chainsaw but not quite. On the other side, hair tickled his cheek. What dragged him back to full awareness, though, was the flayed feeling of being watched. Junkrat shifted and opened his eyes. The room was empty, but a door clicked shut down the hall. Waking up sandwiched between two people was odd. More so that neither was Roadhog. Most odd, though, was how comfortable he felt. Despite the congestion and headache, his body was relaxed, warm. Sleep had been dreamless and deep. Untangled himself from the blanket, from Hana and Lucio’s arms, carefully so he didn’t wake them.

Least the floor felt solid under him again. Maybe getting better. Step-tapped down the hall, listening to see who might be awake in the not-yet dawn. Nothing from Mei and Satya’s room or Lena and Emily. Also silence from his own room, which could only mean Roadhog was awake. Otherwise the snoring’d be enough to deafen. He stood in front of the closed door for a long minute. Knock? Just go in? That idea felt weird. Wished it didn’t - didn’t used to. What had changed? Maybe should go back to the couch and pretend like everything was fine. Would be easiest - he considered it with longing. Now that he’d been up a minute realized was still a little dizzy. Unfortunately, though Hana and Lucio were cozy he didn’t want to give them whatever plague he had.

Raised a hand to knock. Hesitated. Maybe Roadie’d just got up for the bathroom. No reason to interrupt him, demanding an explanation for something he hadn’t done. Dropped his hand. Stepped back.

He turned and detoured to the kitchen - maybe another drink’d knock him out. Give Roadhog enough time to fall asleep too; then he could crash in the cot with no one the wiser. He’d just put the kettle on to boil when the house sat comm beeped.

Jumped to reach it before the sound woke someone. “Yeah?”

“Fawkes - it’s Morrison.” As if it’d be anyone else on the other end of the comm at the ass crack of dawn on Christmas.

“Hey old man.” Serve him right, callin’ him Fawkes. Ain’t no one called him that.

The disapproval practically radiated from the link through the silence, then “Where’s Lena?”

“Still sleepin’, her ‘n everyone else. Ain’t even daybreak here, mate.”

Another heavy silence. Wondered whether Morrison’d call him out for insubordination. Or at least being annoying. Grinned as Morrison contented himself with a deep sigh. “There’s been further intel. Null Sector was sent to retrieve a device that was supposed to be under guard in the settlement attacked yesterday morning. Our source says they weren’t successful. It’s unclear whether the device was left behind or taken when the settlement was vacated. We need to send in a recon team to ascertain whether the device is still in play.”

Junkrat considered asking whether he remembered it was a holiday, but figured he did. Maybe it was just another day for Morrison, too. “Suppose this needs to happen asap, yeah?”

“If we don’t get in there, they will. I hope I don’t need to explain how problematic that would be.”

“Nah. Got it.”

“I’m sending schematics. Have Lena look them over before she goes, then delete. Can’t have anyone else getting hold of them. And tell her to report immediately upon her return.”

“Always does, don’t she?” For all her tendency to lighthearted fun, Lena was conscientious and responsible and it grated to think Morrison didn’t recognize that.

Course Morrison didn’t bother to respond, just cut the connection.

“Dipstick,” Junkrat muttered. The question was, what to do now? Not a question, really. Wake Tracer, interrupt her holiday, and give her Morrison’s assignment. After all, who else could do it? The whispered tone was sly. Had a point though - why did Lena need to have her holiday morning interrupted for a simple recon mission? Seemed like something one person could do alone. Why drag anyone else out into the cold. Oh Jamison. You think you could be trusted with this? Laughter scraped his thoughts. He scowled. Course - why else would Morrison tell me. A small, considering hum. Perhaps… a chance to prove yourself somewhat useful. Yes; exactly. He’d take care of it - be back before anyone else got up. Prove it wasn’t just Roadhog they needed.

The kettle whistled shrill and he startled, yanked it off the burner. Fortunately still heard Hana snoring from the living room. Dumped boiling water over two teabags, Roadie’s opinion be damned. No time for ‘real’ tea. Needed to get moving before someone caught him. He checked the files Morrison had sent - straightforward enough. A small case, with something inside that looked very much like a bomb - one big enough to take out several city blocks. He memorized the look of the case, the details of the bomb - tried not to imagine what the explosion would look like… would feel like. Then deleted the files. Gonna do what he was supposed to this time. Gonna follow orders. Not gonna take the device for himself and disappear. Not this time.

Are you quite certain you are capable? The illness, the fever… you are likely not up to it. Perhaps you should wake Tracer. He clenched his jaw. ‘M fine. Can do this on me own; told the voice. Told himself. Not weak. Not pathetic. Almost like his own body rebelled his decision, a sudden urge to sneeze had him scrambling to keep from spilling his tea as he stifled the fit. Just a cold. She’ll be right.

In case, though… in case he wasn’t capable…and maybe to see… see whether it was the money, the treasure… Junkrat found a piece of paper and scribbled a handful of words and a set of coordinates. Not the words he really needed to say, but the question he needed answered. In case, and to see. He slipped the paper under Roadhog’s door - usual snoring now - and headed out. Be back before anyone realized he was gone - but if not, the note would tell Roadhog what he’d need to know.

Night was cold - though supposed that went without sayin’. Always cold, here. Not sure he was gonna ever get warm. Be a bit of a hike, without the ute… but didn’t want to risk disturbing Lena to get the keys. Didn’t mind a walk now and then. The tea was still warm, the caffeine lending him a measure of energy. Somehow, his body felt a little floaty. Make the walk easier, maybe. The snow had stopped, sky gone clear and dotted with stars that shimmered like diamonds scattered on deep indigo velvet. The moon was high and full, reflecting light over the snow covered fire road.

Junkrat walked, following the tire tracks from earlier in the day, just barely visible. Good thing, too - not sure he’d remember the way otherwise. His breath puffed clouds. The depth of the quiet was unexpected - birds still sleeping, too cold for crickets. Snow creaked under his steps, ice-covered tree branches snapped. Then, somewhere in the mountains above the high, mournful cry of a coyote. Raised the hair at his nape, a chill of goose flesh over his arms. An answering yip, off to his right. Another farther ahead. Hunting. Wondered who was prey? Another howl, then a high scream, and more barking howls. The pack had caught something, likely a rabbit, and the sounds made him shiver. Rubbed a hand over his forehead, kept walking as the sun rose over the mountains.

As he drew closer to the settlement even through the congestion, he caught the lingering scent of explosives, of charred metal and burned wood. Fortunately, still seemed just as deserted as it had before. Bots no more than twists of metal and scrap. Listened carefully for any signs of life, of movement but there was nothing. A breeze kicked up, rustling tree branches and sending skirls of snow swirling around his foot. He shivered suddenly, coughed. Right. Check the cabins fast, in and out and no meandering.

Former inhabitants must’ve cleared out in a hurry - one of the cabins had the remnants of an unfinished meal scattered over the table. A spilled mug, puddle of coffee frozen. Stove unlit, the place was no warmer than outside. Clothes, books, toiletries all left behind. First cabin clear - no case. Second and third cabins much the same. Was downright eerie.

Junkrat was entering the last cabin when he caught the unmistakable crunch of footsteps from somewhere behind the building. His heart tripped, double-timed. Fuck. No chance it was any of the Overwatch crew - they’d have taken the ute and hadn’t heard it. Not bots, either, steps too light and quick for a mech. Looked around the cabin - hide or fight? Hadn’t brought much in the way of weapons. Couple of grenades and that was it. Perhaps you didn’t think this one through, yes? What will you do now, with no bodyguard to protect you?

Junkrat pushed the thoughts away. Fuck that. He’d lived most of his life on his own. Didn’t need Roadie. Exactly. He’d figure this out. The cabin was all one room, not offering much in the way of hiding places. Under the bed would only be a trap. Maybe if he closed the door quick and quiet the lock would hold… Was just about to do so when a small black case caught his eye. Someone had shoved it under the bed, but not far enough. The case or the door?

Kicked the case farther into the darkness under the bed and lurched for the door as a shadow fell across the entrance. Click of bootheel on the threshold. A sense of foreboding washed over him like nausea. Junkrat squinted in the dim light of dawn and the figure lifted her head, revealing a shock of red hair and suddenly his entire body went numb.

“Well, well, well. Jamison Fawkes.” Her face was still in shadows but he knew that voice, the Irish lilt. Hearing it outside his head made the world tilt and he almost staggered. “There were rumors that Overwatch had taken in a Hog and its pet Rat.” She glanced around the room, as though Roadhog might be hiding somewhere. “You’ve come alone?” Her tone was one of delight.

“Ain’t alone. Me body guard’s just in the other cabin.” Lies came easily, and though his voice was hoarse, it was steady. He lifted his chin. “An’ I ain’t a kid no more, neither.”

“It has been some time. Indeed, you are no longer a child.” Felt her gaze taking in every inch of his body. A shiver he couldn’t suppress climbed up the back of his neck. She stepped toward him and he resisted the urge to move back. She reached out and placed her right hand on his chest. Her fingers were like white spider legs, and her nails were dagger sharp and still painted purple. His heart stuttered under her palm. “You feel hot - are you ill?”

“Just your hands are cold,” he tried, but even as he said it, he knew he was going to sneeze. Fucking always. He ducked away from her as his body convulsed. “AhRissshah! Issh! HaRiiissh-uh!”

As he tried to catch his breath, she backed away from him. Didn’t realize she was moving toward the bed until it was too late. She leaned down and with one swift motion pulled the case free. “Overwatch should have sent someone else. Not a boy...weak… ill.” Her teeth flashed in a grin. “I would love to stay, to see how you have been after all this time, but I must deliver this. Perhaps I will return, and perhaps you will still be here.”

Knew he should run, but he had no energy left. Reached into his pocket for a grenade instead- maybe it’d take him out, but she wouldn’t have the bomb. Could see exactly how a real explosion felt. He yanked free the explosive, she raised her right hand and a stream of purple and gold energy flew from her palm. Everything went white, then black.

#oversnez #snezfic #rat what is you doin #constitutionally incapable of writing shortfic

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7deadlycinderellas · 4 years

Text

The Ghost of the Red Keep, ch1

Ao3 link

Arya is one and ten when she first hears the voice.

The cat Syrio had been having her chase had led her deep into the vaults and cellars of the Red Keep. Or perhaps she let it lead her there. An excuse to go exploring, if a weak one.

The dragon skulls had been a great find, the pale white figures staring down at her. She can scarcely imagine beasts that big even existing.

She whispers about these to Sansa and Bran when she returns back to the Tower of the Hand.

Sansa threatens to tell on her for wandering off, and Arya privately vows to never tell her fun things she discovers again.

Bran is interested, terribly, but balks when Arya offers to take him down to see them.

“I can’t sneak away as well as you can,” is his excuse, and Arya only feels a little bad when she accuses him of being scared. He’d been scared of the crypts in Winterfell so he’s quick to claim he’s not.

He is right though, since they’ve all come to King’s Landing, it’s been harder for Arya to shirk her lessons. She can only blame getting lost so many times, even if the Red Keep IS huge and unfamiliar and full of interesting hallways.

Thank all the gods for Syrio’s dancing lessons. The strange assignments he gives her are perfect for a getaway. The cats especially, she can blame for having a mind of their own.

The second time she sneaks down to see the dragon skulls, is when she hears the voice.

It’s not a scary voice, though the setting would expect it. It’s awfully dark down here, only with an occasional torch, no natural light whatsoever. It’s dark and quiet, and strangely warm. Arya dislikes that. True as a northerner she’s used to darkness, it’s the artificial nature of the darkness down here that she distrusts. It’s the sort of darkness that hides secrets.

The voice sounds young, and she can’t make out any actual words. She also doesn’t see who the voice is attached to.

When she returns to her lessons, she whispers to Sansa,

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sansa looks at her with a withering gaze. They had supposed to be working on learning the proper depths of a curtsy based on the rank of the person they are meeting.

“You’ve heard Old Nan’s stories. Ghosts are left behind by people who die tragically and can’t move on.”

Arya ponders her words.The Red Keep has been the site of lots of violence, from the battles in the days of old to the execution of her own grandfather and uncle. It made perfect sense to her that it might have a ghost.

“I think there’s a ghost under the castle,” she tells Bran that night.

The two of them had snuck off into the Godswood after supper. Summer, Lady and Nymeria are supposed to stay there all day, so as not to frighten and upset the servants. Sometimes Bran and her sneak theirs up the stairs at night, for the most part, the wolves seem content among the trees.

They scavenged a pair of long branches to use as swords, and he’s trying to show her what he’s been learning during training. Once she offered to show Bran the moves that she learned from Syrio, he became more willing to show her what he learned in return.

“Like a person ghost, or a dragon ghost?”

Arya pauses a moment, in thought. Bran takes that moment to strike the stick from her hands. She only pouts for a moment before answering, because his question caught her off guard.

“Do dragons even have ghosts?”

“They must,” Bran tells her, “They bond with people. They understand words- that’s why the dragon riders all spoke Valyrian. They should be able to die and leave something behind.”

Arya suddenly wonders if their wolves have souls like them. Bran’s right, they must. But then she shakes her head, because it’s beside the point.

“No, it must have been a person ghost, I heard it talking.”

“What did it say?”

Arya frowns.

“I couldn’t hear it.”

Bran makes a face.

“Well it doesn’t sound like an interesting ghost.”

And then he knocks her stick from her hands again, so her focus shifts. She doesn’t think about her ghost again until later that night, lying in bed, trying to sleep.

What could the ghost have left keeping it to the world?

The next week is full of hustle and bustle, and so Arya doesn’t get any time to sneak away and try and catch her ghost.

One morning, someone comes and escorts Sansa away from the breakfast table.

“What’s going on?” Arya asks her mother.

Catelyn reaches underneath the table and squeezes Arya’s hand, both, she assumes, to provide comfort, and also to stop her from bolting.

“Your sister’s betrothal to Prince Joffrey has been made official. The Queen wishes to speak to her.”

“Sansa’s really going to get married?” Bran asks through a mouth of bacon.

Catelyn smiles, but her lips are tight.

“Not for a few years. I convinced Cersei that it would be more appropriate to wait until her moon’s blood comes reliably every moon, rather than when she first flowers.”

Arya notes the pucker on her mother’s lips, and feels a private joy that she seems to find Prince Joffrey as odious as she does.

And once that whole mess has passed through, the end of the week is Arya’s twelfth name-day.

Her gift that year is unexpectedly nice too, a brand new saddle. It’s made of shiny brown leather, and Arya spends the morning in the stable, oiling it until it shines. After breakfast, Myrcella invites her to go for a ride, so she even gets to try it out.

Myrcella’s twice as giggly as Sansa is, but she’s never been mean, so Arya decides to go.

When she buckles the straps, Arya wonders why the saddle has an extra stirrup on one side and the back is raised unusually high.

“Oh, that’s in case you want to ride sidesaddle like some southern ladies do,” Myrcella tells her, mounting her own horse.

Arya makes a face. Of course there’s a catch.

“Not that you have to,” Myrcella tells her, arranging her skirts atop her own mount. “Only the very most proper ladies do. The other couple sidesaddles I’ve seen are basically plush armchairs stuck to a horse’s back, you can’t even control the horse. Even Mother rides astride, on the rare occasion when she doesn’t take a litter or the wheelhouse of course.”

And Myrcella’s riding normally too, so Arya figures it’s okay. She looks back at the princess, who’s chosen to wear a dress with an extra voluminous skirt so that it doesn’t impede her at all. She suspects that might be her mother’s next move when she realizes she won’t be able to keep Arya off her horse. At least the other ladies here enjoyed riding too, Sansa never did.

The hump in the back of the saddle feels really strange pressed in Arya’s rump, but she’s still small enough that she fits over the front easily enough, with her legs astride, and it’s not like they’re riding very fast.

They don’t go very far, or very fast. They can’t really gallop until they go into the Kingswood proper, and Arya knows the guards who are riding with them would never allow it.

It is very nice to not be stuck sitting inside all day though.

About halfway through the ride, Arya asks her,

“Do you ever hear ghost voices down below the castle?”

Myrcella furrows her brow.

“I don’t think so. I think the castle probably has at least a few ghosts, but I’ve never heard them. I did hear some voices down in one of the cellars when my septa was teaching me the going ons of the castle proper. I think she must have thought they were ghosts too, because she sent me away. I wasn’t frightened, I think it was just Varys talking to some of his little birds. They need secret places to do that after all.”

Arya frowns, and lets Myrcella natter on and change the subject. She’s pretty sure she would have recognized Varys’s voice, and it didn’t sound like more than one person.

Her name-day supper with her family is nice. They even bring up lemoncakes for dessert, and Arya’s extra pleased that someone remembered it wasn’t just Sansa who liked them.

She lays in her bed that night and decides that as a now very grown girl of two and ten, that she should go and seek out her ghost.

She begs off Syrio’s lesson in the afternoon, claiming illness. He looks her up and down and declares, “the dance does not wait for good health,” before tapping her with the practice sword and declaring, “Though it would be good for you to develop bad habits so early on” and dismisses her.

She speeds away, excited. She would feel poorly about skipping out on his lessons were it for her justification that she was already using the skills he had taught her.

She’s glad for being small, and being able to make herself quiet now. Quiet as a mouse, that’s what she is, creeping in down below the castle cellars.

It’s quiet down here too, and she doesn’t hear any voices at all, ghost or otherwise. She does find a couple of interesting things though.

She goes by the stores of preserved meats and jams. It smells sort of nice, like spices and burlap. It is also, as far as Arya knows, supposed to be the last of the cellar rooms, but this was where she turned off and found the dragon skulls. Which means the next room she finds isn’t supposed to be there.

She doesn’t see much, a straw mattress with a ragged blanket on the ground and a small trunk at the end of it, before she feels movement behind her and lets out a yelp and pushes.

The figure that she’s pushed falls back against a box full of pickle jars and lands with an “Oof!”. Huh, that was strange, Arya didn’t think ghosts could feel pain.

“You’re not supposed to be down here. The kitchen girls only come down here right before and after breakfast,” he says. It’s the same voice she heard before, Arya’s sure of it.

“I’m not a kitchen girl,” she says with a touch of indignation. It normally wouldn’t bother her, but he was the one who snuck up on her. “My father’s hand of the king.”

The figure chuckles. Arya can get a better look at him now, despite the low light. He’s a boy- well, close to a man maybe- he’s big even though his face is still youthful. Arya guesses he’s older than Sansa but maybe not as old as Jon or Robb. He has a shock of black hair- it’s messy so she guesses he’s been working- and strangely bright blue eyes. And now he’s begun to chuckle.

“Then you’re really not supposed to be down here, and you really shouldn’t have seen me.”

He looks her up and down, and Arya feels like she will need to defend her messy braid or her worn clothes that used to be Bran’s.

But all he does is look at his feet and add a “Milady.”

Arya feels her indignation grow into annoyance, and so she shoves him again.

He sputters, and Arya’s pretty sure she hears ‘not a very good lady though’, so she says.

“Don’t call me that. And what do you care, you’re a ghost?”

The boy stands up with a huff,

“I’m not a ghost, I’m a blacksmith.”

Well that makes no sense.

“If you’re a blacksmith how come you’re down in a cellar during the day instead of in the forge doing blacksmith-y things?”

“Ask myself that a lot. I used to be an apprentice in Flea Bottom. Wasn’t great but I got to see the sun at least. Then old Jon Arryn shows up asking me questions, next thing I know he’s dragging me off, and the queen shows up and she tells me I’m going to work in the castle smithy but I have to sleep down here and get up to the forge before the sun comes up and be back down here right after dinner, and- wait, why am I telling you this?”

Arya furrows her brow and shrugs. If he wants to tell her this, he can, he seems nice enough. Maybe he’s not a ghost, maybe he’s just lonely.

“Jon Arryn’s dead though,” she blurts out.

The boy looks alarmed.

“He is?”

She nods,

“Six moons ago. That’s why we came here, because my father’s King Robert’s new hand. “

His eyes become downcast.

“That must be why…”

“What?”

He sits on the end of the bed, his mouth set in a hard line.

“I’m not supposed to go anywhere but the smithy, or to use the privy around the corner. Master Mott brings us both dinner every midday, and when I first got here someone would leave a basket of food every few days. But for about six moons, it hasn’t happened, and the queen warned me that everything in these cellars are strictly inventoried”

Arya is horrified.

“You’ve been doing blacksmith work on one meal a day?”

She had used to watch Mikken in the forge at Winterfell, watched him pour the molten metal into molds and hammer at the results. The work had looked hot and sweaty and most of all, strenuous.

Arya jumps up,

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

She leaves the cellars, and makes for the castle gardens. Most of the plants in it are ornamental, only planted to look pretty. Useless for Arya’s goal. But against one wall, several trees from the walled-off kitchen gardens hang their branches over.

On the end of one of them is a huge, rosy pink, fuzzy cheeked peach. She can nearly reach it if she just stretches a little bit further-

“Arya!” she hears a voice admonish behind her. Arya jerks stiff, turning her back to face the wall, tucking her hands behind her back.

It’s just Sansa, dressed in an immaculate gown and not a hair out of place in her fancy Southern style.

Arya sticks out her bottom lip and looks at her sister through her eyelashes. That look used to get her out of quite a bit of trouble when she was younger, Jon in particular had a hard time saying no to it. As she’s gotten older, she’s done her best not to abuse it.

This isn’t abusing it, it isn’t even for her at all.

“I just wanted a peach,” she tells her sister, in her most pleading of voices.

Sansa looks exasperated for a moment, but then the face Arya’s seen her wear less and less often appears. The face of her sister.

Sansa reaches up and plucks the peach with ease. It’s not fair, Arya thinks, why does Sansa get to be so tall when she’s not even going to do anything with it? She hands it to Arya, and turns to leave with a,

“Don’t spoil your supper.”

Arya sneaks a cheese tart off a plate, left behind for a servant, before returning to the cellar.

She presents them to the boy with the blue eyes with a grin, and a,

“Sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

The boy eyes the bits in her hands, before taking the tart, and chomping down on it in two bites. He wipes the crumbs from his chin before beginning to work on the peach.

“S’okay,” he says through the crumbs, “I didn’t ask yours either.

“I’m Arya, of House Stark,” she tells him with pride, her chest slightly puffed up.

“Seven hells,” he mutters through his full mouth, “What’s a fine lady doing running around in a cellar? Shouldn’t you be learning how to curtsy, or look down your nose at people like me?”

Arya wrinkles her nose.

“I’m not that kind of lady. And besides, I thought you were a ghost, that’s why I came down here.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you were looking for ghosts in cellars.”

Arya looks up and down at him guiltily.

“Because otherwise I’d be upstairs learning to curtsy. It’s not fair! My brother Bran gets to learn to swing a sword and shoot an arrow, but I’m not even allowed to watch anymore! He has to sneak out and show me what he learned at night. I’m stuck learning needlepoint and manners!”

“Isn’t that the sort of thing you need to learn to be a lady?”

Arya makes a face.

“If that’s all being a lady is, then I don’t want to be one.”

The boy snorts,

“Well you’re halfway there, sneaking around in a dirty cellar, dressed as a stable boy and sneaking food to a bastard blacksmith who’s kept hiding like a naughty dog.”

Arya frowns.

“You said that the queen saw Jon Arryn bringing you here and she was the one who makes you stay down here?”

He nods.

Arya did not like the queen. She didn’t like the way she fawned over Joffrey. She didn’t like how her face always looked like she was smelling something bad. And she really didn’t like how she had insisted that all the children’s direwolves be confined to the Godswood, just because Summer had tracked mud in one day.

But keeping a boy down in the cellars, hidden from nearly everyone…

“I should tell my father you’re down here,” Arya tells him with a firm voice.

“No!” he tells her standing up suddenly, his voice loud and firm. It surprises her, but does not frighten her, even with his size. Arya must have stiffened though, because his voice softens before he continues.

“I don’t think you should tell. The queen, when she saw me, she was...I’ve never seen someone so angry. “

Arya purses her lips,

“The queen doesn’t scare me.”

“She should. She scares me. I’d almost thought she’d have done something...worse to me if Jon Arryn hadn’t been there.”

“My father will protect you, he’s not scared of the queen.”

The boy’s face goes white.

“He should be too. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out she had something to do with how Jon Arryn died, especially since no one’s bringing me food anymore.”

Arya feels her chest go cold, the thought of losing her father a shock. She also feels anger, at the queen’s hypothetical role in Arryn’s death. And, a rush of pity, for how scared the boy seems to be.

But Arya is nothing if not defiant.

“Well someone’s going to need to bring you food again. You’ll get sick trying to do smith work on one meal a day.”

An idea sprouts in her mind.

“I could find a basket and start sneaking you things every few days. I’ve been down these cellars like four times and no one’s caught me!”

She expects him to push back, to tell her it’s too dangerous, or inappropriate. She doesn’t expect him to say what he does next.

“You would go out of your way to do that for a bastard blacksmith you just met?”

Arya blinks.

“Why wouldn’t I? I don’t want you to starve.”

The look on his face does its best to make her mad again.

“Just don’t get in trouble on my account.”

Arya rolls her eyes,

“I’m always in trouble anyway.”

She turns to run back up around the cellar stairs when she freezes,

“You still never told me your name!”

He looks up at her.

“Gendry Waters.”

“I’m Arya,” she half whispers while partially up the steps.

“You told me that already.”

“I know, but I wanted to make sure you would remember.”

She takes another step and turns back,

“And so you can quit calling me ‘milady.’”

Arya bounces up the cellar steps and back into the normal world of the Red Keep.

Before supper, she searches through her trunks trying to find the little cloth basket she had used on the road to gather nuts and berries. She tucks it into the top of her boot, and changes back into the old woolen dress she’s supposed to be wearing so that the skirt will hide it.

During supper, she keeps surveying the table for things she could nick and slip inside. The turnips in gravy were an obvious no go. The duck had a dry, crispy coating, but she didn’t think she could get a whole leg to herself without anyone noticing. She settles for a pair of bread rolls for this time.

She’s just dropped one into her lap when Ned says,

“It’s good to see you feeling better Arya, your dancing master was concerned.”

“What? Oh yeah, it was strange. I just came back up here and laid down for a few minutes, I’m fine now.”

Her mother reaches out and lays her hand across Arya’s forehead.

“You feel fine now, you must have tired yourself with all the excitement this week.”

Excitement, Arya thinks, that’s a good way of putting it.

In one swift movement, she slips the roll into the basket.

After supper, Bran quietly asks her if she wants to go to the Godswood.

“I told Mother I wanted to see Summer. We’ll stick to that if we get caught.”

Arya nods.

“Go first, I’ll come down in a few minutes.”

Instead, she leaves right behind him, dashing up corridors and down steps on little cat feet. Maybe it was good practice, she thought, though she can’t imagine Syrio had this in mind.

She slips into the cellars, just as dark now as they were in the day, and leaves the basket perched behind the box that Gendry had shown her earlier. She doesn’t see him, he must be sleeping if he has to wake so early.

She hopes the rolls make a decent breakfast.

She looks back over her shoulder as she leaves, wishing she could have said something when she left the basket. His eyes had looked so lonely.

Arya is two and ten when she decides that maybe the ghost could be a friend.

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #fic #gendrya

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inexchangeforyoursoul · 5 years

Text

Have some proper content from me lmao ( AO3 )

It’s been a long one… He’d already been tired for the briefings and whatnot in the morning, which was followed by a day spent on retrieving smuggled support items with the League. It was fun, he supposes… the sneaky mission impossible thing. Much more enjoyable than lying through his teeth, at the very least. Then it turned out that the loot included some extra booze in courtesy of Giran, leading to this impromptu celebration that’s been going on for hours. Which wouldn’t be a problem, if not for the fact that it’s past 11pm already and he needs some goddamn rest. An all-nighter before illegal activities? Never again.

Whatever high quality drink there was in the two bottles draped in Cyrillic text sure packed a punch, though. Tomura was worryingly unaffected and Sako was keeping himself together, but a lick of the stuff knocked Jin and Himiko the fuck out and had Spinner in the corner humming off-tune to whatever came on the radio. Doesn’t stop him from chugging down what’s left in one go, though.

All in all, on top of wistfully thinking of his bed, Hawks would be lying if he wasn’t rather buzzed, too.

But even that’s no excuse for this.

“I’m not sure what I should be more upset about,” he mumbles with half a pout on his face, breaking the quite possibly hour-long silence. “The fact that I’m spending my last few hours off on a Saturday night slow dancing with a dude in a dump, that it’s you of all people, or… that I’m actually enjoying it.” He’s being slowly but surely lulled into sleep, in fact. Concentrate, man. Shake off the warm coziness and concentrate.

There’s a short, easy-to-miss hum that has an almost content ring to it. “You were the one to scrape me up from the floor, remember? Any and all complaints are on you, feather duster.”

That’s fair; a smile ghosts his lips, but he doesn’t bother with an answer. One of Dabi’s cool hands gets bored of tugging at the cluster of feathers on the small of his back since forever, so it digs into them, earning a pleased sigh from Hawks as he snuggles a little closer. The asshole doesn’t even smell that bad for someone who barely showers… a little pungent, a little burnt. Must be his quirk’s doing. It sterilizes everything.

“… you sure have become comfortable around me,” the villain notes as he plays with the red plumage, slowing the hardly-dance (that started as another hardly-dance with a bouncy idiot dragging his even more drunk ass around, making him almost throw the fuck up in the process) down until they come to a halt. There’s a thoughtful look on his face. “Especially for what a nervous, jumpy wreck you are.”

Hawks lifts his head from the shoulder in a moment of vague clarity; he’s… right. For starters, he wouldn’t be clinging to Dabi like this if he was even remotely sane, the guy could grill him on the spot without effort if he wanted to.

Could. But he also knows… that he won’t.

“Well… your own damn fault for making me feel safe,” he sighs eventually after the spark of common sense slips away, and leans his chin back down. Fuck, he really needs to crawl into bed asap. But first he’ll have to, well… wake up. Then pocket the rest of his feathers so he can take the midnight train relatively incognito… then either take the elevator that he hates up to his apartment, or take the currently inhuman effort and get all of his feathers from both the bag and his room to zoom up. And hopefully not hit the one closed window. Ugh.

“Oho, and I almost blamed it on the booze. Thought you didn’t trust me?”

He moans in annoyance; there’s a mocking smirk hidden in Dabi’s voice. “Hell yeah, I don’t. But, like… you never made any remotely suspicious moves. What am I supposed to do right now? Kick you in the nuts, for which this is a golden opportunity for, by the way… maybe headbutt your face, earning a number of piercing imprints? Or just, like… scream? Oh nooo~, big bad criminal has me in his clutchesss~”

The overdramatic damsel whines earn a breathless laugh from the other, who then pulls away. “Okay, okay… show your face, midget. Look at me, you hear?”

“Anyway, I just ‘ave no energy for that shit,” Hawks continues unperturbed and motionless in not wanting to let go as the logorrhea wave goes on. He already misses being warm. Bummer. “Hell, you don’t trust me and just gave me the back scratching of the decade! What’s the deal with that, huh?” Two cold, rugged hands, which are pretty much the polar opposites of Dabi’s heated torso, come up to cup his face and tilt it upward.

“See?” SEE?! There he goes again. Still, being touched this gently is really… nice. It’s not something he’s used to… nor something he would have thought Dabi capable of being, to be frank. He can barely keep his eyes from closing. “This is what I’m talking about. My shit is safe. About-to-fall-asleep safe, with that big fucking payload of safety that you dropped on me. I’m gonna sleep pretty damn sound tonight, if I say so. Huggin’ my pillow and shit, like a bear… full of honey. At hibernation station.” Wow. Nothing he says makes fucking sense anymore. Thinking before opening his mouth is everything but an option right now. Oh, one more thing: “ … and I’m no midget,” he adds while lifting both pointing fingers.

“Mhmm, mhmm,” nods Dabi after every other line, observing the hero’s pink-tainted face. “… I’ve suspected as much, but you really are more than just a little tipsy,” he concludes then as a matter-of-fact. He taps Hawks’ face a few times with a hand. “I’m warning you that there are no pillows to brood on around here if you dare fall asleep on me, chicken.”

“Hrmm… Whatever. Your bony ass will do. Is warm.” … okay, whoopsy-daisy, he definitely should not have said that. Even if he finds all this touching enjoyable beyond words… and admittance. Speaking of which, the hell is even Dabi’s game? This shit could be taken as interest.

… wait. Wait, fuck… what if he is being flirty!? Abort, ABORT.

The adrenaline rush that comes with the thought dissipates like half of his exhaustion; Hawks peels his eyes open to take a good look at the villain. But his first reaction is to squint. Then squint even harder.

“Waiiita’seeec… are you… sober? Already?” His voice hitches high with disbelief and wings flare in a hiccup of scorn. “How the fuck, you downed like half a bottle of that shit! You were a mess— no, a disaster!!” he continues in an accusatory tone, with puffed wings of indignance and air karate chops, as if being the bigger mess at the moment was supposed to be a jab specifically at him. It’s Hawks who’s supposed to be the sane and rational one around these parts…! It’s him!!

“My body’s long burned through that shit, birdy,” Dabi informs him, his face infuriatingly and inexplicably neutral while sporting the smuggest barely-smile on his face.

The comment itself, on the other hand, rouses a goofy snort-giggle from Hawks, which reminds him of the fact that he is, in fact, everything but sober. ‘Burned through it…’ fucking hell.

Unimpressed head shake; Dabi lets go of his face and takes two steps back while putting his hands on the hips instead to have a good, condescending look at the other. Hawks is trying his best to suppress the giggles, and is leaning to wherever gravity takes him before his wings, relatively small as they are now, do their damnest to correct his balance while on autopilot.

He finishes his checkup with a deep sigh. “Yep… as wasted as they come.

“ You,” the hero points at him, tip of his finger as eerily rigid on target like a chicken’s head while he sways around lightly, “were near passed-out on the floor, young man.” The corner of his mouth is still twitching as his face is getting redder.

“Not anymore. You are about to kip over, though,” he states, tilting his head. “And damn if I’m not gonna watch you try not to.” Having said that, he steps forward with a hint of an amused smirk to give a tentative shove himself.

Hawks leans back fast and far enough from the impending hand of doom that it would indeed make him stumble backwards, if not for grabbing onto Dabi’s jacket. The villain connects with his target meanwhile- via finger flick to his temples.

His wings reflexively flap once as he’s yet to retain balance of any kind, and Hawks feels the redness creep up to his ears in embarrassment, then he peeks downwards… but the stars just aren’t aligned to put the returning idea into motion. Not if he wants to avoid falling ass backwards, that is. He sticks his lower lip out a bit, still staring. “… should ‘ave kicked you in the groin while I had the chance.”

“Too little, too late. Face is up here, bird brain.” He pulls the hero back onto his wobbly legs by the collar. “Get your wings flapping and your ass home… you are a hilarious mess.”

“Good enough for a joke… But, an absolutely ill-advised suggesshon. Drunk,” he says, pointing at himself with his free hand (as the other has yet to let go of Dabi), then back at his wings; “as small as they get while rede— reartaning… retaining funky– fuck it, they are… just big enough to lift me. When I’m not fucking like this. There.” Damn, if he’s stuttering, all hope is lost. Next time he’s packing snacks to drown out the booze before it drowns him. He wouldn’t risk flying like this either way, but damn it all, if Dabi really is fully sober… god, he’ll never let him live this down, will he.

“‘Flapping’ around like this would actually end up about as well as that horrendous mobile game did for any of us,” Hawks moans then. “Which you would pay to see, I know. Anyway, what I’m saying is… that the only way I’m flying right now… is if you chuck me, pal. And that ain’t gonna get me anywhere.” Even getting to the nearest train station would be a hassle by flight. Actually… it will be a hassle, no matter what, his legs are not exactly—

“WoAH…!” is the single most natural reaction he has to… well, being lifted off the motherfucking ground like a toddler. “The hell are you doing?!”

This is not something that just happens to the one guy on the block with functional wings, you know? When Hawks wants to leave planet Earth, it’s out of his own volition. It’s also him who divebombs villains or snatches various people off the ground, or from the air, it’s never the other way around. This? This is weird, this is unnatural, hell… literally unheard of, actually?

Because he can’t, for the life of him, remember anyone, ever carrying him. Not even as a child.

Not this way, at the very least… he has been on a stretcher a couple of times, but that’s never a good experience… you don’t land on one without a good, all kinds of painful reason. It feels nothing like this. This… this actually feels…

“Giddy up, then, because I’m taking you to the station. I sure as hell don’t feel like dealing with you in the morning,” Dabi huffs, interrupting the other’s epiphany. A drunk Hawks, he can deal with; he’s tolerable, if not, dare say, adorable, but hungover Hawks?! That just sounds like a living nightmare. He’ll have to deal with his own headache in a few hours. He’ll pass on this, hard.

“… you’re unnecessarily heavy for a half-pint canary,” he mumbles after a few steps; the bird has some muscle to his name, but is no body builder. And a shorty. He’d be impressed if said weight wasn’t literally on his shoulders. Also… he’s a little worried about the hero’s sudden silence. He’s got enough presence to hold onto him, though, so the guy can’t be that far gone.

“… Well,” Hawks drawls after a pause, “fun fact, Dabi… when at peak condition, my wings add up to roughly fifty per cent of my body weight. We’re being hella easy on you.” He gives a tentative swing with them, barely missing the villain’s head with his right one.

“Do that again, and I’ll make sure that you won’t be able to fly for a month.”

He lets out a soft laugh at that. The warm, alcohol-induced tingles still dancing at his fingertips may be a factor to consider, but he’s thoroughly enjoying this.

Not him being the one to fly just to get his head over the sea of people, gasping for air, even without the crowds being present… is an experience for sure. And being so much taller while still rooted to the ground one way or another, and able to see everything there is to see on an empty street at night feels straight-up sublime, and the wind that the freight train passing them carries with itself is blowing through his hair as the ka-chak, ka-chak of it quickly fades into the abyss, and, and…

… this is nice. Holy shit, is this nice.

He closes his eyes for a moment… which, of course, ends up not being just a moment, but the rest of the trip. He doesn’t even notice Dabi stopping until he speaks up.

“Your stop, Tweety. Wake the fuck up, man, I’m not your perch.”

“… ah.” The disappointment slipped through that one… oh well. The fact that he gets dropped about as gently as a sack of potatoes doesn’t help, either. He actually fell asleep there, didn’t he.

He takes a look around; they stopped at the end of the alley almost opposite the station. That’s good… he has yet to put on a shitty disguise. AND has his feathers attached, that one won’t do at all, into the bag they go, and out of the bag the strack suit comes. While he’s waking up and doing his thing, Dabi’s already sneaked over the fences of the next two houses and struts up to the platform from the street corner one over. With a head scratch and a sigh, he trods towards the entrance a minute later, too, attempting to look like someone who’s on villain trail.

The doors of the train slide open, and he collapses opposite Dabi, who’s fiddling with his phone. A few seconds later he pushes the button to slip back out. There’s a fresh note folded to as small as humanly possible left on the seat, lost next to baked good crumbs on the left, a piece of chocolate wrap just past that, and a lone piece of gum that looks as if it had been there for a while.

“‘He’ better send a message so I know he wasn’t murdered, kidnapped, or arrested on the way home,” Dabi says as the doors close, muffling the last bit. He turns around.

Hawks lifts a hand as a sign of understanding. The villain nods and swings his own arm in a half-hearted wave as he leaves. He takes a look around the outer walls before slinking back out and heading off to the opposite direction they had come from.

Hawks is left alone with his thoughts in the empty car. Eventually he remembers that he has a KFC cap at the bottom of the otherwise empty bag, too, along with… two leftover nuggets from yesterday that he forgot about. Cold and probably stale, but shit, that’s a godsent right now. As the train leaves the platform and he bites into his surprise reserves, he starts pondering.

Somehow… he’ll need to make him do that again.

#dabihawks #hotwings #dabi #hawks #bnha #kate writes #it's pure fluff and banter

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unabashedrebel · 5 years

Text

Prison Break

The dark dank chasms of Stormwinds own prison were a cold affair. The smell alone was enough to force more than a few guards to hastily switch their shifts. Shouts and screams often echoed through the poorly lit stone brick walls. Races from all walks of Azeroth professed their innocence, hollered about their unfair treatment, or spouted insanities borne of their solitude.

But one voice yelled just a little louder. A metal cup had banged against iron bars for the better part of an hour. “I dont belong here!” The human pleaded. “They’re going to escape!” Was another of the popular phases. “Please! Someone! Just hear me out!”

The man had made so much noise that even his neighbors started to berate him, “Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to sleep!” The cell overs occupant added. “You think you’re the only one who’s in here for some bullshit?” Another added. “Yeah I’m with the first guy! Shut the fuck up!” A distinctly Kezan voice added.

Finally the warm glow of a torch flame crept down the darkened halls. The pace quickening as the commotion continued, “Oy! You all keep it down or I’ll bring the mages in here to shut you up.” The guard barked. Halting the noise from all cells but one.

Loudly the clanking of metal on metal continued, “Please sir! Please just hear me out!”

The guard dressed in Stormwind regalia stopped in front of the cell with a labored sigh. “I hear this twelve times a week. I promise you whatever you have to s---.” The guard stopped in his tracks as his eyes went wide at the revelation, “Jenkins?!” The very guard he was coming to relieve.

Out in the quiet streets of Stormwind as the night began to descend on the Alliance capital a tall male in ill fitting armor of the guard strolled with an orcish prisoner in tow. Chains wrapped around the captive at both his ankles and wrists, leaving him just enough room to shuffle behind.

“So… something has been bugging me about this.” The Orc said in a low tone. “If you could have pulled this off why wait so long?”

An elvish voice replied, “Tell you what man. We live through tonight and I’ll tell you all about it.” Kirollis whispered. “So just, you know, act natural. And stop talkin’ to me like you’re bud, I’m a guard remember?”

The Orc gave a slow and subtle nod. His saviors words rung true in his mind, so deep into enemy territory that the slightest slip would undoubtedly earn them an execution rather then an extended stay in the Stockades.

“Get movin’ ya filthy green skin!” Kirollis boomed in his best Common accent as the pair passed through the archways leading to the docks. Shoving his companion forward in the process. A show for the soldiers stationed at the entranceways, who seemed to only laugh at the Orc’s misfortune.

Once cleared the rogue would confess, “Sorry. Appearances and all that.”

Grunting the captive would reply, “You enjoyed that.”

“Maybe a little.”

Suddenly the booming clangs of the great bell situated above the Stockades began ringing insistently. While Kirollis had assumed his charade would only last so long, it was still a little sooner then he would have hoped. Regardless, most soldiers moving to assist would at the very least assume it was an escape currently happening- rather then one already far in its progress.

“Oookay, let’s uh… lets walk just a little faster.” Kirollis muttered as they picked up the pace down the long ramps leading to the harbor. Time was certainly against them, and with no way to know the shipping manifests? They’re was blind, a leap of faith.

The Orc let out a gruff grunt as the shackles around his ankles jingled against strain as his strong legs struggled against their confinements. “I would be if you hadn’t insisted on these chains. You should have handed me an axe!” He growled, luckily away from anyone who may notice.

Kirollis shoved the Orc in response, “You know I could have left you in that cell right?” The revelation only producing a grumble from his ‘prisoner’.

Though both of them straightened up as a platoon of Stormwinds finest rushed passed them on the ramp. Most passing save for one towards the end. Stopping near the pair he would greet them with a wave, “You there, soldier. Where are you taking that prisoner?”

Kirollis froze a moment, haunching himself over to hide his height and shroud his eyes beneath the overbearing helm. Clearing his throat, “Oy, this one goes to the labor camps out in Arathi. I t’ink they lobotomized him or something. He’s a tad slow.”

The human laughed as he looked over the Orc. “I thought they came like that just stock.”

“Aye, I suppose. Ya should check the Stockades though. Some commotion goin’ on about there.” Kirollis added with a swift nod of his head. Silently hoping the man would take his advice rather then probe him further. “We got ah boat tah catch. And i’m ‘fraid they ain’t gonn wait.”

With another stern nod the soldier offered his blessing, “Carry on.”

Once they were out of earshot the Orc let out an undignified grunt, “Really?”

“I had to sell it dude. You know how humans are. Always think they’re superior and the rest of us are idiots. Maybe just take a little pride in the fact you got one over on him. He can think what he wants, but at the end of the day he’s the dumbass that let us go.”

“Mmm…” The Orc remained silent, content to take the win on that front. Though a moment later he posed, “How do you plan to fake the transfer papers?”

“I’ve got it covered.” Kirollis mentioned as they approached the dock, and their exit. Placing a hand on the Orc’s shoulder he would attempt to pull him into a cloaking spell. But instead of disappearing from sight they remained. “Uhm…” The rogue cleared his throat before gripping a little harder

“Uhm?!” The Orc tipped his gaze over his shoulder toward the rogue. “I thought you had this covered.”

“I haven’t done this in a while okay?! Maybe I have performance anxiety.” Kirollis tried to rationalize. Far be it from him to pick this time and place to educate the Orc on how the relationship between Sin’dorei and mana worked.

“Do you have a plan B? We have company.”

“Plan B was shouting that you escaped and trying to slip away in the commotion.”

“I hate you.” The Orc stated in a spiteful whisper.

“Yeah yeah, just follow my lead. I got us this far didn’t I?”

Two guards approached from the wooden docks, leaving their post from the boarding plank of an Alliance transport ship. “Hold there.” One said before holding up a hand in a stopping gesture. “Do you have papers for that prisoner?”

“Yes, I definitely do.” Kirollis stated in an airy tone as he stepped around the Orcs right side. Shiftily positioning himself at the flank of both soldiers, until their back was against the waters below.

“I had em right here… hold on.” The rogue said as he shifted around against the blue tabard of Stormwind. It was all a ruse, however, as Kirollis quickly barrelled into the soldiers, knocking one into the other and finally into the water itself with a loud splash. Their metal armor surely would be their downfall in such a situation. All he would have to do is hope nobody noticed the missing guard. Looking over his shoulder he would casually mention to his new friend, “Get on the ship.”

With a gauff the Orc would reply, “You’re really starting to sound like a guard.” Though a chuckle escaped him, impressed with Kirollis’ ploy.

As soon as they were both on board the rogue quickly shouted, “Make ready for sail! Commanders orders, we’re to leave right away!” That commanding tone of his on full display. With a plated boot he would shove the gangplank back to the docks.

“Ya heard the man, make ready to sail!” The first mate of ship shouted as the rest of the crew fell into line.

The Orc leaned forward to whisper, “You know they’ll kill us as soon as they find out right?”

“Yep. Don’t worry about it, I’m pretty good at shooting down birds. And I got a plan before we make it to port.”

A trusting nod was given from the Orc as the two made their way below deck.

#guess who's back #back again #kiro's back #tell a friend #my dumb stories #story #canon #rp #Kirollis #the great escape

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rinusagitora · 5 years

Text

All that draws us together

Fandom: BLEACH

Characters: Momo Hinamori, Izuru Kira, Rangiku Matsumoto, Shinji Hirako, Nanao Ise, Roujuurou Outoribashi

Pairings: RenShuuKiraHina, Rannao, ShinRose

Words: 15,000+

Summary: Chapter 01. For Bleach Big Bang 2019. Fanart done by @worksbyweeds. WARNINGS--- smut, referenced abusive relationships, referenced self-injury, alcoholism; Momo knows all the ups and downs from life and love, yet she rides it again and again.

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19946449/chapters/47231944

Dreamwidth: N/A

FFN: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13345338/1/All-that-draws-us-together (sfw)

Momo's ears rang, an alarm may as well have gone off with the volume it blared. She couldn’t begin to comprehend even the simplest statements from the reports on her desk thanks to the phantom noise.

Truthfully, she expected no different. Sousuke Aizen was locked away more than two years ago, yet the fog never lifted. Her memories from the academy onwards were a big, ugly smudge only discernible as anxiety, and so much time had passed, Momo couldn’t begin to name the source of her ill feelings. Was it the taint built up inside of her guts? The sensation Sousuke was just beyond one of the thin walls on all sides of her, back to try again?

Izuru Kira sat before her suddenly. The chair he used scraped against the wood floor and the sound nearly made Momo hop out the window.

“Hello,” he greeted as he twirled a coin between his synthetic fingers. Momo never realized how lifeless his eyes were. Could he blink with such dry eyes?

“Hello, Kira-kun.” Momo wondered how long we watched her sweat. “Your arm is surprisingly functional.” She never cared for small talk, but she didn’t want to give away just how brain dead she felt.

“Kurotsuchi isn’t hailed a genius for no reason,” Izuru replied bitterly. Momo wondered if he wished Mayuri Kurotsuchi never resurrected him. The thought made her teary-eyed. Her and Izuru drifted after graduation. Izuru was transferred to another division, Momo moved up the ranks in gobantai, Sousuke’s plan to use them as pawns never kept them close either. But Momo still regarded Izuru as a dear friend. A symbol simpler days where she wasn’t beaten and he wasn’t dead.

“I hope rehabilitation hasn’t been too hard on you,” Momo said.

“No. It’s a part of me as much as my other arm.”

“What brings you here?” Momo supposed that was enough chitchat. She only saw at their lieutenant meetings, but his back was always to her and his shirt didn’t seem so baggy where the hole in his chest was.

Part of her wondered if he yearned for the years before they were broken too, when Izuru screamed how he didn’t want to die, and when her chest didn’t hurt all the damn time.

“I would like to reconnect.” That answered Momo’s question, at least.

“Me too. I owe you an apology anyways.” She owed him many apologies, him and so many other people.

“I owe you one too. But those can be postponed. I would like to take you to dinner tonight, somewhere nice if you didn’t have any plans.”

Momo never had plans. She was a homebody, always stuck in her dark barracks, where she obsessively cleaned everything in sight. Her bruised knees never healed because she scrubbed her floor every evening. She cooked for everyone under the sun and then washed her dishes twice over. She washed her upholstery twice a week because otherwise it smelled too much like Sousuke if she waited any longer. Momo hadn’t even gone out to eat for twenty years because her chest collapsed whenever she ventured away from her usual routine.

But she owed it to Izuru many things many times over. She needed a start somewhere.

“Tonight works fine. Did you have anywhere in mind?”

“We could meet at The Dragon’s Hoard in the North Rukongai. I could also pick you up at your barracks so you won’t have to walk. I made sure to clean the carriage,” Izuru propositioned.

A carriage was awfully flashy. Momo garnered enough attention after Sousuke Aizen defected. What would her squad think if she suddenly paraded around with another man, and one from money, after her tryst with a traitor and her attacks against her allies? Two years was decent time for her, but for some people, two or three years was a blink of an eye. “No need, I prefer walking,” she answered. “Shall I be there around seven tonight?”

“Splendid. I’ll see you then.” Izuru stood and deposited his coin on her desk. “I’ll get out of your hair now, Hinamori. Take care.”

Momo picked up his coin. He bent it into the shape of a heart and Momo’s heart felt like he bent it too.

He missed her, he loved her, and Momo was scared to love again.

---

It was impossible for Momo to sit still after Izuru’s visit. She needed her mentor, father figure, her monster spray.

“Captain!” Momo called outside of the rice paper door to Shinji and Rose’s barracks, “I need to speak with you momentarily, may I come inside?”

“The door is open, Momo-chan.”

"I hope I'm not intruding." Momo bowed as Rose motioned her to the table where he and Shinji sat.

"Not at all. We just finished supper," Rose said. "Shinji spilled some sauce on his clothes but he should be back momentarily. Sit, my dear."

"Thank you."

Shinji returned from the bathroom. "Just a heads up, you don't wanna go in there for awhile. That kimchi lit my ass on fire."

Momo grimaced. "So much for the sauce spill," Rose muttered.

"What's on your mind?" Shinji asked with a beer in his hand. "You look like you've seen a fuckin' ghost."

Momo bashfully glanced away. "I'm going on a date with Izuru Kira in a couple hours. I'm not sure how I feel about it."

"About him, or dating?" Shinji asked. “Two very different things, Momo.”

Momo frowned. She knew she missed Izuru Kira. Was it just their past she missed, or him? Or had Sousuke Aizen scared romance out of her altogether like a proper boogeyman?

"I… don't know," she confessed. "The history between us is enormous. I loved a man who hated me. I miss being a cadet with Izuru and Renji because nothing was complicated or painful. Maybe I don't miss Izuru, maybe I just miss the past we shared."

"Then maybe you aren't ready for dating again, Momo." Shinji took a swift swig. "It's only been a handful of years since you were betrayed by someone you loved and laid down your life for. That's a scar more permanent than the one on your chest."

"But there's no time like the present," Rose argued. "When was the last time you went out with a friend, Momo-chan?"

She didn't remember.

"Look, even if it doesn't work out between you two, you'll have tried. If your friendship survived through decades of abuse, will one failed date really smear that irreparably?"

"What if it does?" Momo asked.

"And what if not going means you lose out on a lifetime of happiness?” Rose took her hands into his own. He was knobby like a bird, but his hands cupped around her put her at ease. Rose's violet eyes glimmered too, the eyes of a man who made the most of a situation where he lost his humanity, was thrown from his home, lived a century in hiding, only to return home and marry the love of his life at the end of the whole endeavor. “Momo-chan, life isn't easy. If you are content with your life now, then by all means, go on alone. But if you want something new, perhaps happier, you should open that door and go on a date with Izuru."

Momo thought she ought to take a page rom Rose's and Shinji's book. Even as cautious as her captain was, the risks he took were calculated and almost always ended in his favor.

"I… I would like to go. I should get ready." Momo bowed her head. "Thank you, Captains. Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Minutes later, Momo stood before her mirror. She stared at her reflection. With foundation and red lipstick, she looked healthier, younger. Like she didn't smoke religiously and slept uninterrupted for eight hours. Of course, it was all a charade. It was a matter of time until her foundation caked around her crows feet and her red lipstick stained her teeth.

She was nervous. Rose's pep talk only lasted so long. It rubbed off like her makeup rubbed off underneath her nails when she scratched her forehead. Momo knew romance was complicated. God knew she wasn't in her prime anymore. Sousuke soiled her, she aged like milk, her voice was gravelly, and foremost, Momo was a traitor. She turned her sword against her family and friends. She turned against Izuru himself. Not exactly someone to lust for.

But she'd be fine, Rose's voice said. Izuru Kira had his own duressed hand in Sousuke's plot. If anyone let bygones be bygones, it was Izuru.

Momo knew that. Fear was irrational though, she didn't know her way out of it.

A knock came from the door. It just about scared Momo out of her skin. The absence of reiatsu was Izuru's new fingerprint, and so she rushed to the door, smoothed her hair, and then as calmly as humanly possible, she opened her door. Izuru wore a brown yukata decorated with cross-hatching. He was handsome, even with a gaunt face. His throat and his hands were sinewy, and when Momo thought back on it, she was always attracted to that. Her own veins scared her but the lifeless blood in him made him look like marble. Immortal, artful. Handsome.

"Hello," she said, "it's good seeing you."

Izuru nodded, and then he held out his arm for her to take. "Shall we be on our way?"

She held the inside of his elbow with her cupped hand. They walked together slowly, sloppily, like they hadn't ever walked together before. It was kind of cute.

"How's this week treated you?" Momo asked.

"Alright." He shrugged. "Rose says life goes on. If I'm stuck with… with this for awhile," Izuru held up his black arm to demonstrate, "there's no harm in making the most of it."

That was the most optimistic view he had in awhile. She was glad Rose was a good influence on him.

"I'm glad. Paperwork is finally starting to let up, too. The cadets are all registered with my division now. There aren't many transfers or promotions either." She hated when she had nothing to do, but less paperwork meant she had more time for her charcoal drawings. There were so many things to do and just not enough time in the day.

"Yes. It's nice. I have a social life back now. I haven't gone out with Renji and Shuuhei until just recently."

"That must be nice." She was a little jealous of Izuru. Momo long abandoned her social life. Once in awhile she met with Rangiku or Nanao, but since Sousuke Aizen's defeat, she had gone out with them once during New Year's. Otherwise she just saw them at work.

"It was therapeutic," Izuru said. Momo gleaned they drank. A lot.

"So," Izuru began, "what about yourself? Other than work, that is."

She smiled. "I'm uninteresting these days. Work, drawing. I wish I had more to offer you but I'm just... tired."

Izuru sympathetically pet her knuckles. "I understand. It's hard, even so long without them."

Her shoulders felt lighter. "I expected to move on like everyone else, despise them-- no, him, that awful excuse for a man; Sousuke Aizen-- the same as the rest, but I can’t bring myself to. And I expected, with him locked away, that I would sleep easily, but I feel more and more hollow each day, like I’m rotting with him."

Izuru squeezed her fist with his black hand. "I've been without sleep for so long now. Now undead, I wish all of my feelings would vanish, but there is this cavernous negativity that spans more than my body. It's taken over my home. It's taken over me."

"I'm glad we can speak about this,” Momo smiled, “it's hard to do when it's anyone else."

"Yes. I'm scared to speak of it to even Rose. It's a solitary life having to keep all of it bottled up." Izuru turned to her. Even with his dried out eyes, he looked emotional, like they ought to sparkle with melancholy. "I'm glad we can talk about it, though. It hurts talking about it, but it hurts more keeping it bottled up."

"Yes."

She didn't realize how she yearned to complain about her own misery. Momo wouldn’t easily shove her ill feelings back down afterwards.

They made their way to a seafood restaurant in the first district. The establishment had grown on Momo over time. Sousuke didn't like seafood, so its purity of his memory made it her foremost choice on the rare occasion that she wasn't in the mood to cook herself.

Izuru sat across from Momo. Momo folded her legs neatly beneath her, smoothed her hair, and then opened her menu.

"I know you mentioned you don't retain your sense of taste anymore," which was unfortunate, "but if you order the fried shrimp, the server puts on this little demonstration for you. There's fire." Momo was partial to anything which happened to explode.

"We'll be sure to check that out then," Izuru said with a hint of a smile. She couldn't remember the last time he smiled in her presence. He looked positively angelic. "How are you getting along with Captain Hirako?"

Momo thought back to Shinji's visits to her while she was in intensive care for the injuries she received from that monster Ayon. Shinji had that monster within his reach, but he was smart enough to keep Sousuke at arm's reach. The damage would've been gargantuan juxtaposed to hollowfication if he was any closer. Everything Sousuke Aizen touched decayed. Later, when Wandenreich invaded, Shinji was always by Momo’s side like a guardian. Shinji understood her, and he chose to ally himself with her.

"Truthfully, I wasn't sure what to expect at first. Withholding my judgement turned out for the better though, so I'm glad that was the case. Hirako-taichou is very much like a father to me. Our leadership styles mesh very well also. He's not micromanaging us, even when we do something wrong. He's more virtuous than myself."

Izuru nodded. "Good."

After they ordered food, Izuru shamelessly asked for sake (she didn't mind so long as he didn't drink himself into a stupor, she supposed) and she picked at their appetizer. Fried food wasn't her favorite since it laid in her stomach like a rock, but she remembered it fondly from years ago. Afterwards their conversation lulled. It had been so long since anyone courted Momo, she was out of practice and strained to think of something to break the silence. Izuru must have been as uncomfortable as she.

"I'm... sorry, Kira-kun. I'm not very good at this."

Izuru shrugged. "We aren't strangers, Hinamori. There isn't a lot of familiarizing we have to do. Maybe catching up, but we can take that slowly. I feel bad about it as well, but... I don't know, part of me wonders if this is a natural part of us dating."

She smiled sympathetically. "Thank you." At least one of them was rational.

"Hinamori, would you humor me and allow me to read your palm?"

"Since when did you read palms?" she asked as she held out her hand.

"A couple years ago, just out of curiosity." He traced the lines of her hand with his rubbery nail. "Your palms say you've experienced much hardship. Your lifeline is short and branches down. This means you feel weakened by certain negative experiences. Your headline is curious. It's mostly fused with your lifeline, and it's wavy and broken. This means you're creative when it comes to problem-solving, but you can be indecisive when you’re under immense stress. Your heartline begins beneath your index finger. This tells me you're comfortable in long-term relationships, and it's significantly deeper and straighter than the rest of the lines in your palm. Your relationships are incredibly important to you but you can be reserved in your relationships."

Momo realized how close Izuru was to her. Was it a parlor trick to distract her from his proximity so he could steal a kiss? How sweet. Momo wouldn't mind a trick like that. The very thought made her smile like a virgin maiden.

"Kira-kun, are you flirting with me?”

“Is it working?”

“Perhaps.”

Their food interrupted their closeness. Upon the fiery presentation, they clapped and Momo clapped so hard her hands stung. The date was splendid! So splendid, she prayed to muster the courage to cross the threshold and sit in Izuru’s lap. Perhaps it made Momo a whore once again, but couldn’t she enjoy the spare attention handsome men paid her?

“Is it good?” Izuru asked.

“The food? It’s delicious.” Momo pushed her plate to Izuru’s end of the table and made her way to his side. She leaned against him and held up fried shrimp to his head. “I know you can’t taste, but humor me?”

Izuru leaned in and gingerly took a bite of her shrimp. His eyes were half lidded. Momo was so close she caught a whiff of medicated lotion. It wasn’t bad, like peppermint. Despite their proximity, he didn’t lean in for a kiss, or hold her waist, he didn’t dare brush their noses together. Was he gentlemanly or nervous?

She felt ashamed enough to want to apologize. Izuru was as soothing as he was painful. It must hurt him too, like his lungs hurt. She could barely breathe like it was as if her lungs were blown out.

"Did... did I say something, Hinamori? You look upset."

Momo’s breath rattled. “This is just hard. It’s hard keeping up with my thoughts. I just know I’m scared and enjoying myself at the same time, and it’s an overwhelming combination. I want to do the right thing for… you, for us.” Us, like they were already bound together. They were. For forty years, they were within reach, just separated by a chain link fence, where they could touch fingertips but the gate was locked. The lock was broken with Gin and Sousuke’s absence, and they could embrace freely, but the electricity between them, all the history, was too much to simply dive into.

“Let’s get you home. Ma’am, we’d like our check now, please.”

“I-I’m so sorry. It’s not you. I’m just new to all of this, Kira-kun.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” Izuru picked her up by her elbow, handed over a handful of coins to the waitress for their meal, and when they came onto the street, Momo breathed fresh air. It made her eyes sting a little, but it was a relief to be away from the warm lights and her swarm of ponderences. The air was cold and his hand was cold. The cool air burned but it was better than those foreign walls. And when they walked, Izuru walked close, like she was coddled in a blanket of him.

“I understand this night wasn’t perfect,” Izuru said as they came to a stop in front of her barracks, “but I enjoyed myself. Immensely. I want to do this again soon, later this week soon. Can I bring you coffee and lunch tomorrow afternoon?”

The followup scared Momo. Would she always feel like she was squeezed like a balloon when they were together? Could she withstand the pressure? Was she ready? Izuru was. Even without the pulse in his neck, Momo knew he wasn’t nervous. They weren’t in the same stage of the relationship. Izuru was always three steps ahead of her.

“Do you love me? Can you love me?” Momo asked.

“There’s no can. I have loved you for decades. Even though I remember my life before I joined the Gotei, I don’t remember when I didn’t love you.”

Love scared Momo. But Izuru held her so fragilely, like her skin was porcelain, he adored her unceasingly for decades. Love terrified her, life terrified her, but Shinji and Rose told her nothing came from complacency. Nothing came from nothing. Momo risked her wellbeing in the past, what was the worst that could happen? Another flop because he didn’t adore her?

“Noon tomorrow. Come to my barracks, I’ll have lunch ready there. Do you like coffee?” Momo replied.

“I’ll take care of the coffee,” Izuru told her.

Momo smiled. She kissed Izuru’s cheek and said, “I’ll see you then.”

“Goodnight, Hinamori.”

Finally inside her barracks, she breathed a sigh of relief. It was a confusing, scary, nice, and yet it was nice. She would see how his visit over would fare.

---

Gobantai’s break room was well-used and therefore a royal mess since it wasn’t one of Momo’s many projects. She wiped down every surface, disposed of the trash behind the administration office, washed the windows, beat out the rug and the curtains, cleaned the sinks and communal pots, and mopped the floor that morning. She decided it was one of those chores she had to delegate in the future. Perhaps officers from other divisions who needed disciplinary action could be loaned to gobantai and deep clean her division.

Unfortunately, Momo’s work also piled up while she cleaned. She stared at her haphazard piles scattered across her desk from careless subordinates. As efficient as she was, Momo was certain she would have more overtime than usual since there wasn’t nearly enough time to finish it all before her lunch date.

Izuru met her at the door to the breakroom when noon rolled around. He carried a tin of gourmet coffee in his black hand.

“Hello, Hinamori.” He bent over her and kissed her cheek. Momo giggled girlishly.

“Hello there. Right this way,” she said as she motioned inside. “I made miso soup, fish fillets, and veggies. I didn’t know how much you wanted so… I made too much.” Which was fucking silly of her. He didn’t need sustenance, Momo scolded herself.

“I brought some coffee. This was my mother’s favorite, I wanted you to try it.”

Momo chose to ignore the sentimentality behind his statement. It was too soon for something so heartfelt, especially when his parents were dead. “Wow. This looks so… expensive.” The tin was a vibrant cherry red. There was a diamond on one face with the brand’s name in a sleek, sophisticated font. As scary as the sentimentality was, part of her was touched he wanted to share something so luxurious with her. “I’ll put this on the stovetop now. You’re welcome to eat.”

“I… wanted to give these to you first.” Izuru presented Momo with a bouquet of myrtles. “One of my officers is married to one of your officers. She told me there weren’t any real decorations in here, and I remembered you liked flowers, so I decided these were a good idea, I guess.”

“These are beautiful, Kira…. Thank you.” Momo adored flowers. They were the topic of her every drawing. It scared her how well he knew her, and how she actually liked the attention and the gifts. But his shower of gifts made Momo’s lungs tight like she drowned in them. If she wanted it, them, to work, she needed to trust his attention wasn’t a distraction from his ugly side. Trusting was so hard.

Momo methodically placed the bouquet into a pitcher with water and put it on one of the tables in the middle of the room. It melted lifelessly into the white walls and brown tables, like it had been there forever. It terminated her torrent of nervous thoughts with its natural aura.

“I apologize if it’s… unclean in here. I’m not in this room often so I don’t oversee much of the cleaning,” said Momo as she sat across from Izuru.

“If there’s any mess, I haven’t noticed.”

She popped open their lunch canisters and slid one half over to Izuru. “I wanted to make something easy on your stomach. I don’t know what heavy foods do to you.”

“Decadence is below me. I had my fill as a boy.”

“As nobility, you mean?”

“Well… yes. I was an only child of very wealthy merchants, I’m sure you know. They pretty well spoiled me.”

“Merchants?” Momo asked, “I thought you were… regular nobility. Born into superior blood, all that.”

“I was. My father was Kagekiyo Kira. He was an entrepreneur who saved his money farming and bought the silk farm which employed him once the master passed away. My mother’s father hemorrhaged money from his family, so they decided they could keep their lifestyle if my mother married rich, so they arranged their marriage.”

“I was unaware.”

“Of course. The only other people I’ve told are Shuuhei and Rose. I try not to flaunt my elevated status.”

Momo laughed. “You had no problem flaunting your intellect as a cadet. But your bragging was well-deserved there. You were one of the most brilliant cadets in Shinou.” He was the prettiest, too. Was he as pretty as his mother? Momo wanted to pry into his family, but his parents’ deaths was another sore spot, like patches of leprosy. “Did you lose the farm after your parents expired?”

“No. I still profit from it, although I have very little to do with the business now. I only attend to a few things. Quarterly inspections to make sure everything runs efficiently, occasionally scolding foremen when the situation calls for it.”

“What situation would call for your involvement?”

“A foremen or business partner behaving inappropriately with one of our women workers, disease outbreak among our silkworms.”

“I assume it’s… unpleasant.”

Izuru shrugged. “It’s frivolous when I compare it to our wartime experience.”

“Did the Great War do a number on your farm?”

“Due to evacuation protocols, our employees couldn’t work, and our consumers couldn’t buy. Our silkworms were surprisingly untouched. A few died of starvation, but most of them were fine. We’re recovering at a phenomenal pace thanks to an investor’s daughter finally marrying. Our textile company is supplying the marital outfits as well fabric for bedding, furniture, and baby clothes. It was an order which cost more than two million yen.”

Momo choked on her coffee. “How fucking much?”

“I told you it was a huge order,” Izuru laughed. “Of course, I decided to reinvest that money into the business. Equipment, facilities, payroll, et cetera. It’s not like I need any of it.”

“I had no idea. That must have been difficult.”

“I don’t know. There were other things on my mind. After losing friends and my arm, it all just blurred together. The simplest decisions were easiest to conjure and execute. I’m just glad they worked for the better. Losing our farm would’ve been detrimental to the Rukongai’s economy.”

Momo knew all about the poverty in the Rukongai. The best-off were the nobles, of course. But regular souls like herself grew up in two or one-room huts or row houses in less than enviable conditions, and the only reason they could afford homes and food was thanks to employment from nobility. As sleezy as the noble families were, they were integral to the survival of many souls. Izuru had half the brain to acknowledge that at least.

Izuru cleared his throat. “Enough about myself. I’m no businessman…. H-how’re you?”

“That’s quite a loaded question,” Momo remarked. Never okay. She always choked, always overthought, always misty-eyed. She needed out of her head because her hands were sharpened swords. Momo could grow flowers on paper or bleed herself like a pig. Momo could clean the entire barracks in a single evening or bludgeon herself with a meat tenderizer. It all depended on the day.

“I apologize. Do… you have any news with your hobbies?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“You draw, yes?”

“I do. I use chalk and charcoal to draw flowers and wildlife. Occasionally, I’m commissioned for larger pieces. I haven’t had any customers as of late.” She hadn’t bothered to accept orders in two years, however. It was… all too much for her.

“I haven’t seen any of your artwork, come to think of it.”

“I haven’t shown you any. I used to be very private about my drawings.” Everyone knew Momo was a traitor’s whore, though. Art critics were the least of Momo’s worries. “I’ll show you my sketchbook if you like, though. I have one in my desk I use while I wait for our meetings.”

“Let’s finish lunch first. I’d hate for this to go to waste.”

“Alright,” she agreed. Momo was too proud to admit she speedily finished so she could show off her drawings. She was eager for Izuru’s attention, eager for his praise. He helped her rinse their dishes and pile them into the satchel she carried them in. Momo guided Izuru to her office where she opened her desk and passed him a small, leather bound sketchbook.

“You’re welcome to peruse to your heart’s content,” she told him.

“These are gorgeous,” Izuru complimented. “Your use of color is breathtaking. I feel like they’re glowing.”

Momo’s ears warmed. She covered her mouth with her sleeve to hide her smile. “You think?” Izuru’s validation was intoxicating only two days into their relationship. Would she stumble like a drunkard if she stood next to him? “I just tried to exaggerate the color. Make it richer.”

“Well, you’ve done well. Can I see more of your sketchbooks sometime?”

“Yes. I would like that very much. A-are you free tomorrow evening?”

“Well, if you want to come for a drink with myself, Shuuhei, and Rangiku, you’re welcome to. This weekend would be easier for a private gathering.”

“Friday night, then?”

“I will see you Friday.” Izuru closed her sketchbook and bent over for a kiss. His cold, stiff thumb pet her cheek, like she was priceless and precious. She pressed herself into the curve of his chest and held his clothes in weak fists. It felt like the were light as butterflies, like when she opened her eyes, they’d be suspended by ribbon, puppets of pheromones and loneliness. Momo didn’t want to let go.

He slowly pulled away. Momo’s feet were firmly on the floor. Izuru’s eyes were partially lidded and a beautiful cobalt color. Breathtaking, like the ocean.

“Goodbye, Hinamori,” he said quietly.

“It’s Momo. Just Momo.”

“Okay. Goodbye, Momo.”

“I’ll see you Friday, Izuru.”

Izuru left her office. With every step, Momo felt hollow. He took a piece of her heart with him like the last one. She knew, she just knew, Izuru would put another scar on her heart like Sousuke did. Her scars already ached.

---

Momo tried to talk herself out of her paranoia. Momo knew Izuru for almost fifty years. She shouldn't question his intentions, she shouldn't have to. Izuru was always a friend, even when they were distant and hurting.

She couldn't keep her fears at bay. Eventually, Momo found Rangiku stashed in the corner of a cramped archive office in juubantai with a platoon of sake bottles.

"Miserable, are we?" Momo enquired.

"Yes and no." Rangiku slid Momo a drink. "Have some. You don't look much better."

Momo didn't drink. Alcohol touched her lips maybe once every few months, when she and Rangiku grieved together. She supposed she only drank with Rangiku.

"I think I'm in love with another man," Momo began.

"Izuru Kira?"

"Yes. Who told you?"

"He talks about you a lot." Rangiku lolled into Momo's lap. "Safe to say head over heels. Gets all smiley and talks fast and shit."

"I know…. I keep telling myself he's not Sousuke, but he's so perfect, Rangiku. Just like Sousuke was in the beginning. I feel like I'm freefalling into another trap. I'm fucking petrified."

"I see why. But you gotta take a risk, Momo."

Momo snort. "His captain said the same thing. I took a risk with Sousuke though, and look where that put me." Momo scratched her scar. "I don't know…. He compliments me and my brains drip out my ears. I'm still so juvenile when it comes to romance."

"No," Rangiku disagreed. "You didn't take a risk with Aizen. You were an innocent woman at the time. He took advantage of your trust and your love. There's a difference between him and Izuru."

"How do you know though?"

"What kind of gifts did Aizen give you?"

"Flowers."

"And what about Izuru?"

"Flowers and… and coffee. Expensive coffee. We drank it together, even though he doesn't like coffee. Sousuke never wanted it in the house. He complimented my drawings too. Sousuke never liked them. Izuru reminds me to eat too, and he asks me about my day,” Momo replied. Sousuke's eyes never smiled. Even in death, when Izuru kissed her, he looked so happy.

Momo wiped her eyes. "Why is this so hard?"

"Oh, sweetie, it's not your fault. I wasn't mad at you. I'm never mad at you. I just wanted to show you he's different." Rangiku coiled around Momo. "You're my best friend. I want you at my wedding and I want you to have someone to be so happy with it makes your head spin so I can go to your wedding too."

"I know. Sousuke left his mark all over me. Izuru deserves someone who can cope with their own feelings."

"Like he's any better. You two will make it work though. You're so sweet and he's so loving."

"But I turned my sword on him, Rangiku,” Momo wept. “He was protecting Ichimaru when Sousuke had that corpse doll on the wall. I ignored him for a man who tried to kill us all and now I'm punishing him with my own trauma."

"No you're not. He loves you, Momo.”

“So? He deserves someone more reasonable, someone who can tell when they’re projecting the past onto the present.”

“He’s got his own problems. He hates himself too. Gin left scars on Izuru too. What’s important is that you two love each other and help each other through these episodes,” said Rangiku, surprisingly coherent for someone who drank her way through at least a dozen liters of sake. “I know it’s hard. You don’t think it’s hard with me and Nanao? That I’m scared she’ll abandon me too like Gin? People like us deserve love, and we’ll get it, but we get the journey with it. You and Izuru are no exception.”

Momo buried her soggy, congested face in Rangiku’s shoulder, and she squeezed Rangiku as hard as she could. “I’m sorry for all this. I’m a disaster.”

“It happens to the best of us. Look at me, drinking my pain away.” Sterilizing Gin’s desertion with intemperance, exactly like Momo drowned herself in busywork. Something that kept grief at bay.

“Can I stay a little longer?” Momo asked.

“Of course.” Rangiku gave her another glass. “Drink with me, sweetie. Just exist for awhile.”

---

Momo woke up Rangiku’s couch with an enormous headache. Thankfully, Rangiku’s barracks were dark thanks to the thick curtains installed over the eastern windows, even though it was almost ten in the morning. Momo found her way to the bathroom, hesitantly pilfered the medicine cabinet for pain killers, and washed her sticky mouth with tap water. They drank too much whenever they were together.

She made her way to the kitchen to prepare Rangiku something to eat and a thank-you note. Her stomach was too feeble for anything but Rangiku was rarely hungover.

It was almost lunchtime when Momo walked into her office with another formidable pile she neglected thanks to her hangover. She was about to sit when she noticed Shinji laid across one of her sofas.

“Someone’s late,” he commented.

“I apologize, Captain. I was irresponsible last night. I’ll be more careful.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Shinji waved dismissively, “I’m more curious why. Does that Kira have something to do with it?”

“No, I was catching up with Rangiku-san.” Momo lied infrequently, but she was ashamed of her behavior over the last twelve or so hours. “I supposed we touched on myself and Izuru, but it wasn’t anything bad.”

“Izuru? What happened to the formalities?” Shinji sat up, folded his legs, and watched Momo with a coy smile. “Things going good for you two?”

Momo should’ve known there was no use to hide from Shinji. She was a terrible liar to begin with. “Yes. It’s… weird, sometimes, after having been Sousuke’s possession, but we mesh together well. I missed him. I missed feeling in love.”

“I’m more surprised you two got together. Rose tells me Kira’s been pining forever.”

“Sousuke Aizen swept me off my feet before Izuru could even consider romancing me.”

“So you won?”

“Won? I don’t understand. What did I win?” Momo asked.

“You told me Sousuke wanted to destroy you. To break you down, turn you into mincemeat. To need him so much you would die without him. Look where you are now: you got a man who loves you lots. You’re still alive after two attempts on your life. I think that counts as a win.”

She smiled. “I never saw it like that. Thank you, Shinji.”

“Anything for my baby girl,” he said with a wink. “I’ll catch you around. Take care, Momo.”

“Thank you. I will.”

---

Friday came with ease. Momo's days weren't by any means sluggish, but they weren't a blur either. It felt healthier than when time passed during her dissociative survival episodes.

She was undeniably nervous for reasons unknown as she approached Izuru's barracks. Momo told herself she was just the nervous sort. She was grateful it didn't show when she knocked on his door. Izuru opened his home with a smile.

"Good evening, Izuru. I brought some cooking supplies to fry up takoyaki."

"Come in. Thank you, I look forward to them."

Izuru's barracks were spartan. There was a grey couch, and grey curtains, and a square wooden table with square wooden chairs. There weren't any decorations. The only piece of humanity were his many nonfiction books in many bookshelves. Law, philosophy, medicine, language, history, zoology; Izuru was more scholarly than Momo realized. His brilliance only seemed more phenomenal. Although, Momo supposed his nights were filled with reading if he couldn't sleep.

"Did you want anything to drink, Momo?" Izuru asked.

Momo deposited her carry-on onto the counter. "Just water. Where are your pans?"

Izuru reached into a tall shelf and presented a large pan with tall sides. "Will this do?"

"Yes. Thank you." Momo put it on the stovetop. "I never realized how well-read you are."

"I feel like I'm wasting time when I read fiction. Novels aren't as easily dissected as poetry, so the theme isn't as clear, or as artful. Poetry speaks to the soul in a shorter and more poignant form."

She laughed. "I was talking about everything but your poetry books."

"Oh..." Izuru replied bashfully. "These books actually belonged to my father. He grew up very poor. When he had access to knowledge, he went overboard with it. But he shared the knowledge with me. I read them now. I feel like I'm closer to him and my mother when I read these books."

"You must've been close to your parents," said Momo.

"I adored them. My mother Shizuka was kind and wise, my father Kagekiyo was ambitious and devout. He told me the reason he wanted to buy the farm was so he could raise a family comfortably. They always found time for me. I remember playing with a ball in the garden. My mother taught me a lot about kidou too."

"That explains your advantage in the academy."

"I was certainly privileged." Izuru pulled an onion out of Momo's reach. "How finely do you need this cut?"

"No bigger than half the size of your pinky finger's nail. We'll only need half the onion to go with the breading, though."

Izuru swiftly halved the onion. "You don't talk much about your own family," he said. "I know your brother is Hitsugaya. Is he all the family you have?"

"No. We lived together with our grandmother before we came here. She’s a kindly woman. She's a maid for the Oumaeda family." Momo hadn't visited her grandmother in some time though. She was too ashamed that she attacked her brother to ever face her family and expect anything more than cold shoulders. She was too ashamed that she was brainwashed by a villain like Sousuke Aizen and gave everything to a man who just discarded her. "Unfortunately, my grandmother was unable to teach me like your parents could. Everything I learned in the Rukongai, I learned on my own."

"Momo, for someone self-taught, you are truly impressive. Your use of kidou is revolutionary. Your intrinsic power is sublime. I hope you don't think lowly of yourself because of something so silly."

"I don't. I suppose I'm just jaded because of the stigma against the common folk."

"The Seireitei is classist. There's no arguing that. I've always admired your innovation, however. You make kidou something mystical again."

Momo smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Well, thank you. I never saw it that way."

"Is it true you've invented your own kidou?" Izuru asked. "I heard a rumor from one of my officers who saw you fight during the Great War."

"It is. I have a number of spells I've created."

"I'd very much like to hear about them."

"Shizumu Hebi is my personal favorite. I create these snake-like ropes that slide across the ground and restrains anyone who steps on it. At first, it's nothing to worry about, especially in an open area. What makes them really deadly is when they begin multiplying every half minute. There's no limit to their growth until I cancel the spell, and even if my enemy is already captured, more can constrict them. It's actually how I killed a Jagdarmee. They suffocated from the tightness of my Shizumu Hebi."

"That is a formidable spell. That can't be all, though."

"It's not. I have a spell I call Ryuuzetsu that turns my saliva into a flammable liquid when I spit into water. I came up with it on the spot during the Great War and had access to a puddle. There's also Kijo Yubi, which makes my skin oil acidic. Kanbousu is a subzero kidou web that can peel off limbs or cause frostbite within minutes. Neneki Himo is a green goo that I have a number of uses for, namely support or defense. It's especially effective capturing melee weapons since it's so sticky. My most recent creation is Shinkirou. Sousuke Aizen and Shinji Hirako inspired it. It's a mirage that uses water particles in the air to bend light. When I tested it on myself, my environment refracted like a kaleidoscope. I need more time to tweak it, however. I can't find a way to exclude my allies from its effects."

"Momo, they're incredible. Your creativity is awe-inspiring."

"You know, flattery gets you nothing," Momo said with a teasing bump of her shoulder to his side.

"Not even a kiss?"

"Of course not." Momo puckered her lips and Izuru pecked her playfully.

"These should be done frying though." Momo dumped their takoyaki onto a plate lined with a fresh washcloth to absorb the extra oil. "They need to cool for awhile."

"Care to have a seat?"

"Sure thing."

“Oh, by the way, did Rangiku tell you she’s ring shopping for Ise-san?”

"She didn't...." Although, the last time Momo saw Rangiku was when they were drunk and miserable, when Momo thought it was more important to imagine bitterness in her and Izuru's hearts than check into her friends' personal lives. Nanao and Rangiku were her best friends. Momo wasn't nearly as good of a friend to them if she wasn’t up to speed with their wedding plans. "Has she chosen one?"

"Yes. I'd ask to see it after the ceremony, though. I imagine it’s meant to be seen with Nanao."

"Rangiku does have a soft spot for ceremony, doesn’t she?”

"Speaking of romance, have you heard from your brother?"

"No... what does he have to do with romance?"

"Rangiku tells me he has a girlfriend in the World of the Living. One of the Kurosaki girls, the one who can see us."

Momo frowned. "I didn't even know Kurosaki had siblings." If she wasn't comatose, she lived in solitude, away from current events, away from even her family. Toushirou ought to hate her and he had every right. Momo turned her sword on him, Momo hadn't spoken to him since their battle against Sousuke Aizen, she hadn't even visited him. She was a terrible friend, a terrible sister, and a terrible granddaughter.

"I'm sorry," Izuru said as he wiped her tears away with his thumbs. "I shouldn't gossip.... I think Hitsugaya should've told you himself, but he obviously hasn't reintegrated himself into your life."

Momo argued, "it's not his fault, Izuru. I left him. I attacked him. He's just a boy, he doesn't know how to cope with this."

"If you say so. I'm just livid whenever I think about it. I love you so much. I just want you to be deliriously happy, especially knowing how important your loved ones are to you."

Momo smiled and curled her legs to her chest. “If you don’t mind me prying, why did you join the Gotei? I know it’s a status symbol for most nobility, but you’ve never looked down your nose at anyone.”

“I wanted to get away from the family business so I took on other responsibilities here. I think my parents would have been disappointed, but….”

“We all have to leave the nest sometime. Your parents loved you more than anything, Izuru, I can tell. Even if they disagreed with your decision, I’m sure they would’ve loved you all the same and found a suitable heir to the business elsewhere.” Momo pushed his bangs behind one of his ears. “I want to think it’s for the better. I wouldn’t have met you if you hadn’t joined.” A selfish advantage on Momo’s part, but she was a selfish person.

“You’re right,” Izuru said after he kissed her cheek. “I’m glad I got to meet you, Momo. I’m glad I got to fall in love with you.”

She adoringly smiled at Izuru. He loved her so, and she loved to hear it, so she pressed a kiss to his lips. Izuru kissed her back. He pulled her closer by the back of her neck. Momo felt experimentive. She traced his lips with her tongue, Izuru happily pulled it behind his teeth. Sousuke Aizen was always so detached.... They never made out. He always just turned her over and did as he pleased.

But Izuru laid on his back. He pressed kisses across her jaw and her neck. Momo's cheeks were warm like her loins. He squeezed her breasts. She itched for his skin to scratch her, an itch she didn't realize until he touched her like an adult with fucking needs.

"Here," Momo sat up and eagerly untied her obi. "Undress me, Izuru."

His blue eyes bugged out of their sockets. Were he alive, she was certain his breath would have been ragged from arousal. His hakama bulged instead. He was aroused by her brazen order instead of her pain. It intoxicated Momo.

Izuru grabbed her open top and slowly slipped it down her arms to savor every piece of skin he uncovered. "God," he rasped, "you are gorgeous, Momo, every bit of you."

He kissed the top of her breasts, made way to her cleavage, and worked down to the underside of her breasts. She held fast to the clothes on his back because he was already so sexy and it was so long since anyone touched her so reverently and needily. When he kissed one of her nipples, Momo ground her hips against his. His erection wasn't warm but it was hard and strained against his hakama for freedom.

"I want to eat your pussy, Momo," he whispered against the shell of her ear. "Can I eat your pussy?"

Her brain must have fallen into her crotch because Momo couldn't conjure a verbal yes, only a loud moan and a fervent nod.

Izuru slipped off the couch, kneeled in front of her, and slipped off her hakama. Momo never wore underwear. They were too hot beneath her clothes. Momo guessed Izuru took delight in that by the way he licked his chops. He spread her legs, kissed the inside of her thigh, and kissed up into her groin. His broad tongue tasted her. Momo instinctively covered her mouth and Izuru pried it off. He pinned her hands to her sides and lapped at her moistened lips.

"Sweet god," Momo whined, "you're amazing. This is amazing."

Izuru pulled Momo's legs onto his shoulders. He followed her valleys and peaks with the tip of his tongue, and then he grazed over her clitoris. She gasped, her legs spasmed and closed around his head. He pulled her closer by her rear and enthusiastically writhed against it. "Fuck," Momo cursed. "Oh god, Izuru, fuck me."

Izuru stumbled back. "What?" he said.

"Fuck me," Momo pleaded as she pulled at his belt. "Please, I've never done anything that's felt so good. Please fuck me."

Izuru ripped off his obi, pushed Momo onto her back, and wrapped her legs around his hips.

"Just like that," Momo coaxed his cock's pink head into her, "treat me sweetly like you always do."

He wordlessly slipped inside of her. Momo's eyes fluttered shut. It was so much better when she was wet and needy like a cat in heat. Sousuke never treated her so well. He never pumped her slowly, never thumbed her clitoris for that extra euphoria. "Harder, Izuru, fuck me harder," Momo demanded. He scratched that itch so well and she wanted it more.

Izuru pound into her, the couch they fucked on rocked loudly, like music to her ears, her breasts bounced, Momo’s nails dug into his shoulders, he grunted rhythmically. Momo felt a kind pressure build inside her. It was so fast. Her everything from her chest down spasmed as she moaned. Momo had never orgasmed before but it felt like magic. “Yes. Fuck, yes,” she muttered gutteraly.

His constant piston finally became sloppy. Izuru’s eyes rolled in the back of his head as he orgasmed. His strength finally left him and he toppled on top of Momo.

For a minute, he only breathed. “Sweet mother of god, that was amazing,” he wheezed.

“It was fantastic,” Momo sighed contently. “I never… I never thought I’d actually enjoy it. But you are a stallion.”

Izuru kissed her. She tasted her cum on his lips. “It’s easy with you. You’re so beautiful. You’re classy when you’re like this too.”

Momo smiled. "Thank you."

He slipped off his kosode and draped it around Momo. "I'm sorry your takoyaki went cold. I can reheat them if you like."

"It's okay. I just want to lay with you."

“Okay.” Izuru guided her to his bedroom where he swaddled Momo in his arms. When she breathed, and smelled his medicine and linen, she found peace in what was once a cage.

---

Momo was decades older than what she looked, and as old as she was, the passage of time was always something weird. It crawled like molasses when she was younger. It was altogether surreal when she was depressed. When she was happy, it was a smudge, like she accidentally brushed her hand over one of her charcoal drawings before she sealed it.

Izuru perused her larger sketchbook and admired her flowers and birds. "Beautiful," he complimented. When he stumbled across a drawing she made of him, he smiled bashfully. "I suppose I have to acclimate to being a muse for another artist."

“You will. I plan to draw you every minute I can,” Momo said.

Izuru was found with her by Shinji or Rose every day around lunch or shift change. "My, you two are closer every day. One day we'll find you fused at the hip," Rose commented each time, and Momo always stroked Izuru's arm because it wouldn't have been so bad to be with him every minute of her life.

His uniforms began to turn up in her laundry. Momo cleared a drawer for his clothes in her barracks. She lost her charcoal in Izuru's home a handful of times so he bought an easel with a drawer. Somehow, they even swapped kitchenware. Momo's assortment of gaudy mixing bowls tumbled onto the floor when she looked for a bread pan in Izuru's home. Izuru's cups amassed at the foot of Momo's mug collection.

Momo missed the domesticity. When their homes felt like one, she never before felt so whole, even if it meant more cleaning she had to do.

Beneath where her uniform was piled in his closet, she found an open chest with a young, alabaster-skinned woman who wore a latex mask printed on a glossy page. Her heart fell into her gut and she burst into tears. She tore the chest from the closet and stormed into the common’s where Izuru nurtured another glass of wine.

She dropped the chest on the table. Her nostrils flared. “What the hell is this?”

Izuru normally has a passive if not mildly inconvenienced expression. His eyes were as wide as saucers then.

“Who the fuck are these girls?”

“It’s pornography. Th-they’re like actresses, but instead of performing for movies or plays, they're hired to act out sexual situations and then are photographed.”

Momo's blood boiled. Her chest burned. “Why do you have these? Aren’t I enough?” Was she ever enough?

"Of course you are." Izuru flew to his feet and held her by her arms. "Momo, I know this looks terrible, but I like certain things sexually that I know you're not comfortable with. I-I take care of my own urges so I don't subject you to them in the heat of the moment."

Momo shook her head. She reeled out of Izuru's hold. He lied. "You're lying. I'm not enough for you. You're exactly like Sousuke. I'm just a thing to rub one out in and clean your fucking house." She pushed her hair out of bed face. "I should've fucking known. I’ll never have anything good."

"Momo, that's not true. I love you. I-I know this is terrible, but it's cathartic for me to put myself in these situations---"

"Where girls are just things? Where you can slap them around? Fucking spank them like kids?" Of course Izuru groomed her to fit his fantasies. Sousuke played the long game, a couple years for Izuru to wait for her availability would've been nothing. Why her? Why was she always the object of people's malignance? How long would he have waited to shove her onto the floor with a bag over her head and sodomize her like the girls in his magazines? "Did you think I'd let you get away with this, Izuru? Did you really think I'd just let it slide?"

"Of course, that's why I kept it. You mean everything to me. This stuff is just recreational. There’s no emotional attachment."

Izuru was heartless and she was the fool between them to have let herself grow complacent with another man. They were all the same: they groomed her to be a domestic pet. The monsters were always so nice in the beginning. It was only easier for Izuru since Sousuke did all the work for him, forty years worth.

"You must think I'm stupid." Momo jabbed her finger against his chest. "Did you really think I'd be okay with this depiction of… of slavery? I'm no different than these girls to you! And you're no different than Sousuke. You know, you’re right. I'm so fucking stupid to have ever believed you were any different."

"God, Momo, you're acting like I fucking raped you. I'm not your fucking punching bag."

"This isn't my fucking fault!" Momo screamed. "Don't you pin this on me. I've never been enough for you. You’re selfish and twisted. It was only a matter of time before you wanted me to play like these girls. Fuck you, Izuru!"

Izuru rumbled like a volcano, "can you stop making me into the fucking bad guy? I love you! Something happens that you don't like, and you got to meltdown and you make some poor sod look like an evil bastard. I put up with it because you show progress everyday, but you can't treat me like a fucking fiend."

"This isn't my fault. You are a fucking fiend, apparently, with your sick bullshit. You people always treat me like a fucking blow up doll."

"You're a belligerent fucking martyr!" Izuru loomed over her with fiery eyes. "I love you so much but I will not let you treat me like a doormat!"

"You people are just evil! I am a plaything to you, and I'm a fool to have ever thought otherwise!"

Izuru slapped a vase off an end table. It flew across the room and crashed against the opposite wall. Her vision turned red, red like the blood on her teeth after Sousuke hit her, red like her hands when she picked up broken mugs. Momo shrieked in undilated horror. She scrambled for the door, bleary from her tears, and screamed for help, but the door wouldn't budge. Izuru's detestable black arm curled around her shoulder to pull her away from freedom.

"Shizumu Hebi!" Momo's kidou fell out of her pant leg and apprehended Izuru. She slammed her body against the rice paper door, fell into the porch, and ran for her fucking life.

Momo cowered in a dark, crowded closet somewhere in gobantai. She wasn't sure where else to go. Izuru would look for her at her house. She couldn't stay with Shinij or Nanao, they were too close to Izuru's friends Rose and Rangiku. She hadn't spoken to Shuuhei or Renji in some time, and she was certain Toushirou would've been no different. Izuru was like Sousuke: omnipresent even in his absence.

Izuru and Sousuke were one in the same and Momo hadn't changed one bit.

---

Morning came too soon. Momo only knew because she heard footsteps outside her nook.

She brought herself to her feet. Her throat was dry and she didn't bother to smooth her hair. She had a walk of shame to do, it wasn't her first. Momo saw their eyes in her peripheral. Her scar burned as they stared.

Momo took a seat at her desk and sighed at the stack of paperwork on her desk. It seemed like a mountain, a mountain to bury herself and her pain in like a tomb.

Sometime later, a knock came from Momo’s door. Kokona Honda, a beautiful young woman with blonde hair and dark skin, and a capable officer just a few seats below Momo, entered and placed a manila folder on the corner of her desk.

“Good morning. Here are the reports from the nightguard last night. How about some coffee--- holy shit, are you okay?”

“Yes. Bring me some coffee, if possible. Let everyone know all communications to me are to go through you first. Refill my water for my inkstone too.”

“Yes, Lieutenant…. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

Momo watched Kokona leave her office. Her fingers combed through her messy hair and returned to her paperwork. Momo worked herself into a familiar routine, just like her routine with Sousuke in charge. There was some comfort she found in that. Momo knew how to cope with dread.

Shinji was never punctual, not like her or Kokona. He was just on time according to his internal clock, but he took a detour from his ordinary route.

“Momo, I’m coming in,” he said. Momo cussed under her breath. "You two were noisy last night from what I heard."

"It's already made its rounds?" Momo asked hoarsely. No. Kokona told him, that fucking gossipmonger. All she really wanted for the time being was to be left alone.

Shinji placed a bottle of iced tea on her desk. “Drink. You sound like shit, and once you finish that, we can talk about what happened.”

Momo shook her head. She refused to drink. "Why does this always happen to me?" she asked. There was no point in hiding it from Shinji. "I'm never enough. My personality is bland, my sex is subpar, my food must be awful."

"Momo, drink," Shinji coaxed her. "Please drink for me."

For Shinji, she swallowed mouthfuls of tea until his bottle was empty. Her throat was sticky from the sugar.

"What makes you think you're not enough, Momo? You guys seemed to be doing just fine before."

Momo's eyes squeezed shut as she cried anew. "I found BDSM pornography stashed in his closet when I was folding laundry. Girls were tied up and smacked around a-and I lost it. We got into a screaming match. Izuru got so mad he hit a vase off a table a-and I got so scared that I ran and hid here all night."

"Oh, Momo," Shinji cooed, "I'm so sorry. You should’ve came to me."

"I couldn’t, your husband would’ve been so mad. I feel so stupid. I should've seen this coming. I should've known I don't get good men."

Shinji pet her hair. "Take the day off. I'll take care of things here. You need to get some rest."

"I don't want to go home," Momo croaked.

"Then you can sleep here. I'll turn off some of the lights, bring my work in here, but I won't leave you alone."

She nodded. "Okay." She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "I'm sorry."

“It’s all okay, sweetie, just take it easy for a bit. Why don’t we do something together to get your mind off this. Let’s go watch a game. Kyuubantai’s rugby team is playing against juusanbantai tonight.”

“I never pegged you as a jock,” she replied. “I’d like to go though.”

“Well, Kensei is playing and I’d like to support him.”

"Okay. I'll be there."

"I'm glad, Momo. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime."

Momo nodded, albeit physically and emotionally exhausted. She had allies and that was all that mattered. The men she loved were questionable at best, but she was never alone so long as she had her captain.

---

Momo walked alone to the rugby game with hot coco in her hands. It wasn't a cold evening, but she preferred something warm in her when she was upset. She needed it. If Shuuhei's captain played rugby, Shuuhei was sure to be there, and by extension Izuru too since those two did almost everything together.

Shinji met her at the gate with a vest over his colorful kimono. "Hey, darlin', don't look so down! We're here to have fun."

"Okay," Momo nodded. Shinji swept an arm over her shoulders and led her onto the bleachers where Lisa sat with bleacher chairs.

"Hello again, Hinamori," Lisa greeted. "I wasn't aware you drank."

"Hello, Yadomaru-taichou. I don't drink alcohol often. This is hot coco," Momo replied.

"Oh, nice. Have you ever tried it with hazelnut creamer? It's really good."

"No, but I'll keep it in mind for next time."

Suddenly, a whistle went off and each team ran after a pigskin ball. Momo wasn't the sporty sort. She frequently lost the ball and she couldn't make out what the exchanges between the opposite team members were. It looked more like a fistfight than sports. Eventually, she became bored and instead absently scratched her hot coco. She felt Izuru on the other side of the bleacher's, however, his reiatsu was as faint as death. Had he seen her? Did he look for her?

Momo glanced up to check. She could feel his cold eyes upon her like a film of sweat. He was there and she wanted to leave very much. The wound felt like a broken vase, brittle, sharp, raw. It hurt to even be near Izuru.

"I just remembered I have a package I need to pick up," Momo said quietly. She escaped before Shinji could protest. As soon as Momo reached the backside of the bleachers, she burst into tears. She briskly walked in the general direction of her barracks.

"Momo, wait,"

Izuru stood behind her with Shuuhei yards away, and Momo cried out in fright. "God, what the hell are you doing?" she barked.

Shuuhei came to a stop next to Izuru. "I told you she doesn’t want to see you."

"I don't!" Momo spat. "What the fuck do you want with me, Izuru? Come to justify yourself like Sousuke? I've had enough of your guys' speeches."

"Okay, now that's just low, Hinamori." Shuuhei groaned with his head in his hands. "If you two wanna duke it out, we can take it somewhere private. We’re lieutenants. We can’t just cause a scene."

"I'm not here to fight," Izuru complained indignantly. He took a step forward. Momo took a step back. "I… I just want to talk about the other day, Momo."

"I think we know each other's stances on that subject. I'm not your fucking blow up doll."

"You're not. I'd never make you into something cheap and two dimensional. You're like your flowers. You're full of vibrance and beauty."

"Izuru, you threw a fucking vase at me!"

"This is a private fucking matter!" Shuuhei took them both by the crook of their arms and guided them into the equipment room nearby.

"You threw a vase at me!" Momo resumed only seconds after they were thrown into the equipment room. "You were so mad you threw a heavy vase at me so fucking hard it shattered. It scratched my wall and my floor."

"I'll fix them myself."

"I don't want them fixed. I want to stay the hell away from me. I'm not going to be wrapping my ribs again because you get fired up about your porn."

"I'm willing to give it up, Momo. I'd do anything for you."

Momo stilled. "Really?"

"Yes, of course." Izuru held Momo by her upper arms and pet her arms with his thumbs. "I love you so much."

She was conflicted how to respond. On one hand, Momo wanted to trust Izuru. Rangiku and Rose told her to take the plunge. On the other hand, how many times would she have to plunge? How many times would she have to compromise? What abyss would she sink deeper in with each plunge of faith? On the other hand, Izuru loved her. Even without his reiatsu, she could see his adoration in his angel blue eyes. Momo hungered for that adoration. She wanted someone to compliment her, take her into their arms and adorn her with kisses, someone to let her know how much she meant for the rest of her life.

Momo had forgiven worse sins in the past. Even though there was a pit in her stomach, she chose to ignore it and forgive him. Izuru was a man of his word. Her pain was sure to be impermanent.

"Okay. I believe you." Momo wrapped Izuru in her arms and laid her head against his chest. Izuru sighed in relief. Old habits never died, she guessed. "I love you, Izuru."

"I love you too. I love you so much."

Momo's gaze discreetly turned to Shuuhei. He watched with an indistinguishable expression. She hoped he was happy for them.

"Can I take you back to Hirako-taichou and Yadomaru-taichou? I hear we're having a celebration dinner for kyuubantai if they win. We can meet up at the restaurant after the game," Izuru said.

"Sounds like a plan. I'll see you then."

Izuru and Momo walked hand-in-hand back to the rugby game with Shuuhei behind them. Izuru kissed her goodbye. Momo returned to her seat next to her captain who greeted her with an inquisitive look. "I'll tell you later," she said. "Where were we going to for the celebration dinner?"

"A hibachi restaurant called Monkey's Nest. Are you up for going?"

"Yes, of course."

Finally, the whistle blew. The referee announced kyuubantai as the victor and Momo watched them celebrate on the field. The audience shuffled out of the bleachers. Momo collected the bleacher chairs for Lisa and they rushed to meet Kensei's supporters outside the field for dinner. Izuru met her again. He grabbed her hand in his own and they waited for their party to be completed. When Kensei and Mashiro arrived with wet hair from their shower, their gaggle made way to the Monkey's Nest.

"Have you ever been here before?" Izuru asked Momo.

"No, but I am excited to try it out. I've never seen teppanyaki before this. Are they going to have a table big enough for all of us?"

"Of course. There are only eight of us. Shuuhei and I made sure to reserve a full table too."

Despite their easy banter, Momo sensed the tension in their group. She was certain gossip about her and Izuru's fight had spread among their little family, and Momo cursed those gossip mongers. She hoped Shinji knew better than to divulge her personal matters to anyone but his spouse. When she glanced over her shoulder with one eye, she saw her captain and Rose sandwich Kensei. Shinji was visibly concerned by her proximity to Izuru, and she didn't blame him when just that morning, she was in tears and told him she had to run away after their fight. He must have thought poorly of her. In his shoes, Momo wouldn't have any different of a woman who went back to a man that terrorized her only twenty-four hours ago.

When they arrived at Monkey's Nest, Shinji cut between her and Izuru. "Looks like we'll be sitting together," he said, "seating arrangements and all that."

"Oh... alright," Izuru said.

"We're sitting next to each other, Izuru. Gonna get in some real bonding time by the looks of it."

Izuru remained sullen. Momo was ashamed that she was relieved to see Shinji let Izuru know he was happy to intervene next time.

"Right this way," their hostess said, who guided them to their respective tables. Shinji sat between her and Izuru.

"I'm in the mood for something new, Izuru, got any suggestions?"

"I'm not the person you should ask. I don't taste anything unless it's very spicy."

"Aw, c'mon, you gotta have something you liked."

"Beef yakisoba."

"Beef yakisoba? That's unoriginal."

"I'm a creature of habit."

Shinji groaned. "That's a shame. I thought you liked playing around."

"You heard wrong."

Momo worried they would devolve into a screaming match. Rather, Shinji would scream at Izuru and he would sit there and take it like a miserable sod because he thought he deserved it. Izuru wasn't an alpha by any means. While Momo was grateful for Shinji's support, she didn't want him to steamroll Izuru like Gin did. "Captain... please stop. We're here for your friend Muguruma-taichou, not to bully my boyfriend. Let's talk about this later."

Shinji frowned. "Alright, hun,” he conceded, “I'll drop it for now."

"Can I sit next to my boyfriend?"

"Can't say no to my daughter, can I?"

Momo sat next to Izuru and he gratefully held her hand on the countertop. She smiled at him.

"The duck yakitori is great," Izuru whispered.

Momo nodded. "I'll give it a shot. How're we dividing the check, by the way?"

"There's a maximum of three checks per reservation. I'll cover you, Hirako-taichou, Muguruma-taichou, and myself."

"I can pay for myself."

"Nonsense. I want to pay for your supper," Izuru told her and pet her back.

"Okay."

"How'd you like the game?"

"I was lost the entire time, truthfully. I don't know anything about sports."

"Me neither, I just like watching buff guys run around."

Momo giggled. "Well, I won't deny there were a couple of very good-looking gentlemen playing."

Their chef came and took their orders. When he spread oil on the grill and lit it with a match, Momo squealed in delight. She adored fire shows, and it stoked nostalgia for their first date only two months ago. It felt so long ago. Simpler and sweeter. Izuru was bittersweet.

Her food was dumped on her plate with a knock against its ceramic body. Momo tasted it and hummed contentedly. It was delicious. Momo's stomach actually rumbled gratuitously for the first time in decades.

Of course, all things came to an end. They covered the party's cost and dispersed outside.

"Can I hug you before you go, Momo?" Shinji asked.

She nodded. Her captain swept her into his arms. His embrace was fatherly. Momo rarely hugged anyone, but Shinji's embrace was reprieve. Like a fortress.

"Let me know if you need anything at all. I'm on your side and I always will be."

She held Shinji's clothes in her tight fists. That was all she ever wanted, someone ceaselessly loyal. Someone she was enough for.

"I'll take you home," Izuru said. She wrapped herself around Izuru's arm and waved farewell to her captain. When they reached her barracks, Izuru gave her a shy kiss.

"Can I stay here tonight?" he asked. "I know you're still hurt, but I don't feel right if I'm not with you after hours."

"Yes," Momo answered eagerly, "stay the night."

They were pulled like toys into her bedroom, where they stripped into more comfortable clothes and cuddled beneath her purple quilt. Momo knew moments like that, like true love, weren’t fleeting. They could be bruised but always healed.

---

Momo juggled unease and glee the days that followed. A cloud of doom followed her like she had it on a leash, but she told herself Izuru apologized, she told herself he treasured her enough to change his ways.

Kokona minded her own business. Momo was sure her keen subordinate picked up on the lump in her throat, but if Kokona noticed, she said nothing, only gossiped about her new friend from juunibantai when they accidentally melted something heavy through the floor of the monitor room. Her captain was the same. Shinji's poker face was convincing in most cases, but Momo got the sense Shinji itched to meddle like a father. Nonetheless, she was grateful for the space they gave her and Izuru.

She only saw Shuuhei one afternoon in a lieutenant's meeting. Perhaps it was her pet doom cloud, but Momo swore his jaw was tense and he talked quietly when he presented the emergency protocol in case of a large spread fire in the Seireitei. Momo had pretty keen hearing, but even she struggled to hear him. What had him so upset?

Momo and Izuru never returned to normal. Her need for affection was peppered with a chest ache, like there was a knife stuck in her ribs whenever Izuru kissed her. She promised all was forgiven. The doom cloud was just paranoia.

Of course, it stung worse when Izuru undressed her and tried to make love to her. Momo always ended up on her belly and dry by the time he finished, and then he rolled over onto his own side of whosoever bed they happened to use, and a horrible, vindictive part of her hoped it was shame that sequestered and silenced him.

In the past, Momo just floated through existence. She never slept, never enjoyed food or friendship, she hunkered down ten hours a day on paperwork. Momo was convinced even if their happiness was punctuated with misery, it was worth it.

Something in Momo told her it wasn't worth it. Her conflicted feelings were getting old, especially when she was distracted from the biweekly lieutenant's meeting. Iemura was sure to yell at her if she was caught.

When Momo came back, she saw Rangiku laze with her arms crossed, legs outstretched, eyes glazed over. Shuuhei was her antithesis when it came to work. He was always attentive and efficient. But he was distracted that meeting. His eyes were glazed over, they darted side to side. Momo knew he rest even less than herself, but come to think of it... Rangiku and Shuuhei were good friends. Rangiku divulged a lot to him. Something had to have happened to one of them for both of them to be distracted. Come to think of it, Rangiku normally braided her hair by that point. She was sullen comparatively.

But Rangiku was getting married, Nanao fret over a venue. They were happy. They couldn't have broken up. Had something happened to Shuuhei? Momo wasn't ever close to him. He wouldn't have shared anything with her that he shared with Rangiku.

When the meeting ended, Nanao and Rangiku caught up with her.

"Hello there," Nanao said. "I just finished the Yobanashi Mountain saga. It's a great series," Nanao told Momo. "Nawaka is long-winded when it comes to politics, but the world-building is worth it. Can you really believe he's an uneducated pauper when his grasp of economy, diplomacy, and language is so complete?"

Momo reluctantly fed into the distraction. If no one wanted to talk about it, she wouldn’t bring it up. "Is this really only the first book though? You could make a sturdy wall out of a couple copies of these."

"It is. The size is definitely daunting, but give the first chapter a try. You'll know you'll like it if it just sucks you in."

"I'll give it a read."

"Nonono. Momo, what you really need to read is the latest bulletin news section. Apparently, the Kuchiki clan's Ashitchi Kuchiki is being charged with the premediated murder of a sex worker in the upper Rukon. He, like, beheaded her or some shit. It was pretty gnarly. It's a shame they didn't include pictures of the body though."

"Oh god, beheaded her?" Nanao squawked. "Wow. Y'know, those upper nobles got some sick bastards in their families."

"Yeah, but will he be charged?" Momo asked.

"I don't know. The investigator for the bulletin, I think her name is Misaki Tomushiya, last talked to the family a week before the bulletin was published. Your guess is as good as mine."

"I hope they charge that creep. I'm tired of boys like that getting away with everything. Why do they get to live comfortably when they terrorized some poor, innocent girl. That's not right," Nanao said.

"It's not, but..." Momo shrugged. "Let's be real for a minute. She's a sex worker. No one cares about sex workers. Everyone reveres the noble families, especially Central Forty-Six. He'll get away with it. I bet Central Forty-Six will even pay him for his trouble."

Nanao shuddered. "I hate to think about it like that."

"Unfortunately, that's reality."

"It is. It doesn't mean it's right. We need a judicial body that completely ignores class, gender, occupation, all that."

"Or make sure Central Forty-six has middle to lower class individuals in it so the rich won't be let off scott-free."

"That's if the poor folks of Central Forty-Six are unsympathetic to the rich. You come across virtual cults worshipping the Kuchiki and Shihouin especially," Rangiku chimed. "In the lower districts, they either love the rich or loathe them."

"I didn't think of it like that." Nanao frowned.

"Speaking of the rich, though.... Momo, I hate prying, but I've heard down the grapevine that you and Izuru are in a bit of a rough patch," Rangiku said.

Momo's heart fucking stopped. Oh god, was it so bad? Was she fooled again?

"Look... Shuuhei told me about the game and the porno thing with Izuru.... I'm worried about you, Momo," Rangiku explained. It cleared up her brooding episode at least. "I tried to ignore it, but you've been off for the last two weeks sweetie. I'm just super worried a-and I know it's not my business, but you're one of my best friends and I want you to be happy."

Momo sighed. "I don't know, Rangiku. It's all confusing. I'm trying to sort it all out, but it's so... messy."

"God, I'm so glad I'm lesbian," Nanao grumbled.

"Have you guys even fucking talked about it, Momo?"

"Well... no. I don't really want to talk about it. Every time I think about it, all those girls being tied up and---"

"Hey now... sweetie, you don't have to describe it. Just talk about it. Humor me, please. All I want is your happiness."

Momo's brow furrowed. "Okay. I'll talk to Izuru about the pornography."

"And you won't yell?"

"I won't yell. We'll talk like civil adults."

Rangiku embraced Momo. "I'm glad. I love you both so much."

"I love you too, Rangiku."

Momo hugged Nanao as well. "I didn't want to leave you out. You're an amazing friend, Nanao."

"I know, and I love you too. Will you help me put together wedding invitations tonight?"

"Of course. I'd love to. I just need to send a message to Izuru to let him know I'll be late tonight," Momo said.

"Thank you."

---

Momo returned to Izuru's barracks well after midnight. He worked at his desk with red ink and his student's poetry.

"Welcome home," he said with an audible smile. "I made miso soup for you. I hope it tastes alright. I can reheat it for you, if you like."

"Yes, please," Momo said. Her heart pounded as she sat at the dining table. "Rangiku advised me we needed to discuss the... the pornography," she said. “Can we talk?”

Izuru dropped his ladle. "Momo, I-I'm sorry. I promise I'm not looking at it. I just want you, I want to make you happy."

"I... I know. Just... let’s posture that I am enough for you emotionally and physically. Why did you have the pornography?"

“I…” Izuru swallowed nervously, “I like it because I hate myself. When I picture myself in these situations where I’m being smacked around, I feel less hollow because I have external pain to concentrate on,” he explained. “It was never about you. I just needed an escape.”

“Oh.” Like how Momo craved to be hit. “Why did you have pornography of it?”

“Well… there isn’t porn of men getting smacked around, so I have to resort to BDSM on women. There’s a weird crossover of sexual stimulation and self-injury.”

So it wasn’t that he wanted to make her into a blow up doll. Momo was enough, but Izuru was already in pain and she only made it worse. “Oh, Izuru.” Momo threw her arms around him. “Izuru, I’m so sorry. I never even imagined.” She was so sorry, her heart broke. Momo was so cruel to the people she was supposed to love. "I never meant to hurt you. I was blinded by panic. Please, can you forgive me?"

"I forgave you long ago, Momo. I can never stay angry you."

"I'm so glad," Momo said tearfully. "I love you, Izuru. More than I could have ever imagined loving Sousuke or any other man."

"And I have forever, and will always love you," Izuru said.

Momo couldn’t hold back her grin. She pulled Izuru into the bedroom, her supper forgotten, and she pushed him onto his back. "I'll make you feel so good tonight. Show you how much you mean to me."

"Holy shit," he cursed as she pushed open his top layers. "You are gorgeous, baby."

"Yeah?" Momo pulled down Izuru's hakama. "I'm gorgeous?"

"God, yes." Izuru squeezed her breasts. Momo shrugged off her top to give him better access to her chest. Breathlessly, he said as he played with her nipples, "please fuck me.... Punish me for keeping secrets."

Momo's mouth went dry. The power was magnificent. It flooded her loins like a warm tidal wave. "You want me to punish you?" she said. Her fingers wrapped around his windpipe like bird talons. "I'm gonna fuck you sore. I'll milk you for every drop you have."

He groaned. Momo pushed down his pants and licked his partial erection with her flat tongue. Izuru's hips rolled forward with hopes to push himself into her waiting mouth. She repeatedly licked the opening of his head. Momo wanted to build up before she altogether blew him. She wanted him to be right on the edge, she wanted him to hurt for her softness to surround him.

"You're a naughty creature," she cooed. She licked the underside of his scrotum, and up and up she went until she reached the tip, where she circled it. Momo returned to the base, where his balls met his hips, and lapped at the flesh.

"Yes," Izuru whined, "I'm so naughty. Please punish me."

Momo mercilessly pinched one of his nipples. "I’ll make you fucking hurt, baby."

"Thank you, Momo."

Momo swallowed his cock and sunk her teeth into his wood. He gasped and tensed from the neck down. It throbbed and twitched in her mouth. Up and down she went, her teeth grazed his flesh. Izuru couldn’t feel pain, but she could tell he was delighted by her administrations.

Her nails dug into his testicles. He sucked in air between his teeth and moaned. “Sweet god,” he whined. Momo pulled his hands into her hair. His fingers happily entangled in her loosened hair. She reached the head of his erection and bit down into his engorged flesh. With her teeth and her soft cheeks around him, the contrast must have been delightful for Izuru because he bit his lip to stifle his moans.

Momo moved town to swallow his testicles and stroked his wettened wood with her hand.

“M-Momo, I’m so close,” Izuru whined. Momo immediately pulled away and sat on his sto mach.

“Well, that’s too bad. I can’t have you coming when I’m not even finished with you yet." She pushed down her own pants and slid down his thickened mast. She rode him like a toy. He squirmed beneath her. Momo kept her promise. With her newfound power gone to her head, she withheld her orgasm to draw out his again and again. Izuru's eyes crossed, he could barely move.

When Momo couldn't draw another out, she pushed off of his cock and sat on his lips. She was surprised and delighted to find he still had the motivation to lap at her soaked vulva. He reached inside of her with his tongue and enthusiastically stroke that special place he played with draw every bit of misery out of her and let her know how much he loved her.

Momo combed her fingers through Izuru's hair and pulled him harder into her. "Fuck.... That's right. You're a good cum-gargler, baby. I love your mouth." His groan vibrated against her and she shuddered. "Baby, harder, I'm so close...."

His head shook back and forth to increase stimulation. It was incredibly efficient. Momo moaned and bit her lip in bliss. She came on his lips. He gripped himself and stroked himself, and he lapped and lapped as she came. He came again just after her, like her pleasure was his, and the thought made her heat travel from her loins to her chest.

Momo fell off Izuru. Izuru sleepily kissed her.

"Thank you, my love," Izuru said. "That was… wow. I knew you would make a fantastic dominant, but that was mind-blowing."

She smiled. "I'm glad I'm good for you, baby."

"You've always been great, Momo. Always."

Momo kissed Izuru's cheeks, and he rubbed his nose against her like a sweet little boy. Momo turned onto her other side so she could fit her back side against Izuru. He wordlessly cuddled her.

"I love you, Izuru," Momo said. Perhaps she loved him more after that stint. He trusted her so much, he loved her so much he wanted her to hurt him. Wanted her in a way where he was her toy one minute and her partner the next.

---

Momo felt different in the weeks that followed. Braver, happier, she dared to conceive. Momo had an outlet for her anger, Izuru had an outlet for his self-loathing, and they fit together like snug jigsaw pieces outside the bedroom. Momo couldn't contain the news from Rangiku, of course. It was all thanks to Rangiku that her and Izuru's relationship reached their newest high.

On weekends, Rangiku was easily found in gross, skeevy bars. She was in a pub which swam with tobacco smoke and the smell of vomit. Rangiku was at the bar with another woman from juuichibantai, and Momo sat next to her and waved down the bartender for a mojito.

"You're the last person I expected to see here. Delightful, don't get me wrong." Rangiku swept her into a hug. "This is my friend Satochi Ganbe. He's our newest seated officer."

Oh dear... a man with breasts. Momo should've known better than to guess. She needed to change the subject before she made a fool of herself.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Satochi. I trust you know me. I just needed to speak to Rangiku real quick, I'll be out of your guys' hair soon enough."

"Oh my god, is everything okay?" Rangiku asked.

"Of course. I just wanted to thank you for your advice a couple weeks ago. I know it's well overdue, but I wanted to make sure Izuru and I were... well, okay, I suppose." Momo smiled. "And we are. Really, we're better than ever. He seems comfortable too."

"Oh shit," Rangiku cursed. "Oh my god. Okay, we need to go outside. Uh, Satochi, can you just... just meet me back at mine and Nanao's?"

Satochi blinked like a cat. "Sure. I'll see you there, Rangiku," he said, and then downed his drink and left for the door. Rangiku and Momo waited a minute for Satochi to get some distance between them. Momo's heart pounded in the meantime. What the hell was the problem? Her and Izuru talked about the pornography. Their relationship was fantastic. Izuru promised there wasn't anything else he kept from her. Had he lied?

"Momo, please know that I love you and I love Izuru too, a-and this isn't my place to tell you, but... clearly you guys aren't being forthright. Has Izuru told you about Shuuhei and Abarai?" Rangiku said.

Her mouth went dry. "What about them?" she asked grimly. Momo's thoughts raced and yet she couldn't think of anything that had to do with them.

"Izuru is in love with them."

Izuru was in love with them. Izuru was in love with other people. People that weren't her. And he lied to her about it.

Momo fell against the bar's facade and dropped onto the packed dirt ground. She still wasn't enough. She gave him love, and that wasn't enough. He had to resort to pornography to please himself. She gave him her domination in the bedroom, and that wasn't enough either because he was in love with other people.

Momo wasn't enough to keep Sousuke.

Momo wasn't enough to keep Izuru.

Momo wasn't enough to keep anyone.

"Sweetie, I know this is just... awful. He should have told you. But you're my friend, I-I couldn't keep the wool over your eyes too," Rangiku said.

"Is he fucking them?" Momo asked.

"No. They know how he feels, but they haven’t acted on anything."

Momo felt like her heart was scooped out like she scooped seeds out of a gourd. Her head was so foggy. She was duped again. Momo was duped again and she felt so stupid. She didn't want to feel anymore.

"I want to go home," she said. She just wanted to go home and draw, anything to get her mind off the news.

"Okay. I'll get you home, sweetie."

Rangiku helped Momo to her feet. She couldn't remember the walk back to her barracks. All she remembered was Izuru was on the couch with a book and she just felt dead inside.

"Was I not enough?" Momo asked. "Is that why you're in love with Shuuhei and Renji?"

Izuru was very much dead. Nonetheless, Momo could almost see him blanch like she caught him red-handed. "Rangiku, you told her?" he said indignantly. "I told you that in confidence!"

"And you haven't told your fucking girlfriend. What did you expect from me? She's my friend too. I-I can't just stand idly by while you fucking lie to her."

"We haven't done anything!" Izuru spat. "Please, Momo, you have to believe me. I love you so much. I know I've made mistakes, but you keep me on the straight and narrow path. All I want is you."

Momo refused to be fooled again. Izuru was like Sousuke, pathological. Everything that came out of his mouth, however sweet, however much Momo yearned to have faith in him, it was a blatant lie. It tainted every memory. Every time Momo kissed Izuru, every meal they shared, every time they slept together, every time they made love. It was all a lie.

"I can't believe you. Do you think I'm a fucking moron? A fucking thing you can just play with?"

"No, not in a million years, Momo. Never. You are everything. God, you are the very reason I get up in the morning anymore. Yes, I’m in love with Shuuhei and Renji, but I was so drunk and it just slipped out. I promise I was trying to tell you, I just couldn’t find how."

"Get out," Momo said. "I can't bear to listen to your drivel anymore. Get the fuck out."

Izuru stood statuesque with his eyes wide open and his mouth agape. It was like something was caught in his throat; tears, a plea to let him stay. But he said nothing, and he could no longer cry.

"I'll get my things tomorrow morning," he croaked. And then he left. His footsteps didn't make a sound as he walked out the front door.

Momo hobbled to her easel. She sat on her legs, she picked up a stick of pink chalk, and she scribbled some kind of flower on the coarse paper. The sound of the universe completely escaped Momo. Anything she could have felt walked out the door with Izuru.

"Momo... is this really the time to draw?" she asked. "Please, come sit with me.... I'll call Nanao over. We'll stay here tonight."

"I'd like for you to go home," Momo replied. "I would rather be on my own."

“Momo---”

“Rangiku, please. Just… go. I don’t want to be around anyone right now.”

Rangiku waited only a moment before she left too, with a sniffle that rang in Momo’s ears.

#bleach #bleachbigbang2019 #renshuukirahina #momo hinamori #izuru kira #rangiku matsumoto #nanao ise #shinji hirako #rannao #shinigami karin au

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lightsandlostbells · 5 years

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Druck season 2, episode 7 reaction

Goddamn, Druck. I’ve been dragging my ass with the rest of the S2 reactions because honestly, the content is pretty rough and rewatching it requires a certain amount of emotional fortitude, lol.

Anyway, here’s me putting myself through S2 hell so I can catch up to recap S3 hell!

Episode 7

Clip 1 - Interesting choice of entertainment

As I mentioned in the last reaction, I thought we might start with Mia calling off their relationship, as if last night was her way of saying goodbye to Alex, getting in just a little more time together because she did as Kiki asked. But obviously that wasn’t the case, because Mia and Alex are very much still in bed together.

They are sitting up and watching a movie on a laptop. In the movie, a woman kisses another woman. We cut away to Alex and Mia sitting there stiffly, sneaking glances at each other, as we hear the scene get sexy, with zippers unzipped, lots of panting and wet smacking sounds. Both of them clearly getting turned on by this video. Alex shifts and I think he covers his lap a little more, lol. He shifts closer to her and “subtly” puts his hand out for the taking. I love that Mia notices and smirks a little but doesn’t seem to take his hand.

This whole part of the scene was so weirdly true to life, lmao, if you’ve ever ended up watching a film that was more explicit than expected with someone. I had a friend who ended up watching Y Tu Mamá También on like a first or second date, neither of them knowing what the movie was about, and it was apparently very awkward.

Finally he turns off the film and kisses her. She leans away eventually and starts asking him about the scene - whether he was turned on by her or the scene. He’s like … both? He asks whether Mia watches porn and she says yes.

There was some debate about like … whether it’s in-character for Mia to watch porn or whether it’s hypocritical of her to do so as a feminist, and I don’t want to even get into the larger debate about whether porn can be feminist because holy shit is that a can of worms, but whether or not you think it’s compatible for Mia to watch porn with her being a feminist, people do a lot of stuff that isn’t 100% in line with their ideals. A lot of feminist criticism also opposes makeup and believes it to be a product of patriarchy, but Mia wears lipstick anyway. So just on the level of whether this is consistent with her as a character, i don’t think it’s wildly OOC.

There was also a lot of (understandable) debate about them watching a lesbian sex scene while still dodging a clear answer about Mia’s sexuality, especially right after Kiki made that comment about Mia being bi in the previous night’s clip, which again went unanswered. By the end of the episode they did give us an answer, but watching in real time made it feel more like they were drawing out the answer. I guess I’m wondering just why they chose to do so? Was it to tease the audience, or were they trying to find a way to drop the answer in naturally (because I can think of places where they could have done so earlier), or was there intended to be a reason story-wise that Mia’s a little vague? Is it just because it’s related to her romantic history, and it’s difficult for her to mention? Because she could mention her bisexuality without talking about specific relationships, although it’s true people might ask whether she’d ever been with a girl.

I think the most likely reason is perhaps that the Druck team didn’t expect just how much people wanted from them about Mia’s bisexuality, and they wrote in more scenes mentioning it after they saw fan reaction.

About the video they’re watching - it’s called Wach and it’s apparently by Funk (the channel that does Druck). You can watch it on YouTube although it seemed kind of dreary so I confess I didn’t watch much of it, lol. If it’s really good and I’m missing out, let me know! Anyway, the movie’s about two girlfriends but in the scene Mia and Alex are watching, they’re having a threesome with a guy. Not sure if there’s any bigger significance other than the nod to something else from Funk, and nudging at the topic of Mia’s sexuality, or the sex topic between Mia and Alexander.

He suspects she has a bigger reason for asking and draws a question mark on her forehead. This dude needs to take improv classes already, that’s clearly where his heart lies. Also, I think Mia might be asking why he’s turned on to get his opinion about two women together? I mean, I guess that could be the in-universe explanation why the talk about her sexuality is a little vague is that she wants to see how he’ll react first.

They have a pillow fight and she shoves him out of bed, he runs back into the room and tackles her and they roll around. WATCH THE LAPTOP! Eh, I guess Alex can afford another one.

They’re playful and cute. Things get heated and he slips his hand to crotch level, which makes her shake her head and back off. He asks her what’s allowed. LOW BAR, I know, but at least he doesn’t pressure her to go father than she wants. It’s sad and I don’t want to praise him for showing basic human decency, but William’s comments when Noora didn’t want to sleep with him, saying it was a funny joke and such, or that he’d managed to sleep with her soon anyway, always bothered me, so I’m glad this wasn’t recreated in Alexander.

Mia gives him the finger, and then adds another, which is deeply fucking iconic, and we end as he slides his hand down her pants. Well, damn. A big departure from Noora, not so surprising because Mia has a lot of differences from her (such as drinking alcohol when Noora did not). Part of me is proud of Mia for being upfront about what she wants and setting boundaries for what she doesn’t, the other part is like ohhhhh nooooo, girl. You told Kiki you’d break up with him, you don’t want to go any deeper with him! (...pun intended.)

Clip 2 - Bubble bath

Mia and Alex are taking a bubble bath together, lying at opposite sides. That’s quite intimate. They are doing some types of The Sex at this point even if it is not The Whole Shebang so maybe not surprising, but certainly we’re seeing their physical relationship escalate as a faster pace than Noorhelm. They seem comfortable in there together. Alex says they should stay in there as long as they can. Like, days. Well, if you can tolerate pruning, cold water, and marinating in your own filth for that long, go for it.

Mia offhandedly mentions Alex’s grade retention and he looks tired and not ready to talk about it. That water just got a few degrees colder.

He asks why she’s so cautious, if it’s because of Kiki. Mia lies to him that she talked to Kiki and everything’s cool. MIA, NO. Really???? Not a good idea. You’re not only disrespecting Kiki with what you’re doing now, and lying to your friends, but now you’re lying to Alexander, too. I know that she probably just wants to stay in this bath and in this bubble of Alexander’s apartment where everything’s OK and she gets what she wants and no one is mad and her personal life isn’t messy, but this is not the way to go about it.

OH SHIT he actually asked about negative experiences and whether that’s why she’s bi. Errrr, is he implying that she likes girls because she’s been burned by men? YIKES. Mia tells him that statement alone is reason enough to only date girls from now on. Okay, so is that confirmation of her bisexuality? (I guess if I have to ask, probably not the clearest it could be.) And she says that she could also ask why he only does one-night stands and moves fast. He says it’s complicated. So basically, despite becoming more intimate, literally lying here naked in this tub together, both of them still have some friction, both aren’t completely opening up to each other.

She chides him for his so-called hard life, with his nice car and apartment, and he reminds her that this is his sister’s flat, and we finally get an answer of sorts that his sister is in Bali. (By now we know the truth, but when this aired I wrote in my notes: “Super dark theory: the sister is dead and he means they scattered her ashes in Bali or something like that.”)

He talks about it’s hard with his parents and then says he wants to get out of the tub as the water is getting cold, which is one hell of a turnaround from wanting to stay in there for days like a minute ago. Mia says things are difficult with her parents, too, and she’s sorry. That makes him lie back down in the tub. Tension averted for now. They fist-bump. I guess their couple thing is hand gestures? Like Jonas has Hanna’s nose, meanwhile Mia and Alex are just flipping each other the bird and knocking knuckles. I can get into that, they certainly have a lot of options.

Clip 3 - Truth or dare

Mia and Alex step outside and turn off airplane mode on their phones. So they’re really hiding from everyone, huh, not even letting text messages come through. This is shady as hell that Mia’s doing this when she told Kiki otherwise. She’s lucky because this is holiday break, but she can’t camp out in Alexander’s apartment away from the rest of the world forever

Mia told the girls she was ill. DUDE. All of them were worried and checking in on her. I wonder how many of them truly believed her and didn’t have any suspicion of what she was really doing? Kiki in particular seemed to wonder how she was doing, and I’m not sure she totally bought Mia’s excuse. But whether she did or not, that must make Mia feel a ton of guilt. (Though she still doesn’t break up with him...)

I love this shot of Mia and Alex looking so small and uncomfortable once they stepped outside, like it’s overwhelming and harsh to leave their bubble.

They go back inside because it’s cold, or because they don’t want to face the outside world, and Mia is pensive. She spins around the thermos like it’s spin the bottle (and lmao when it lands between them, fixes it to point toward Alex) and says truth or dare. I wonder why she chose that moment to get some truth between them? Because she feels guilty about the lies she told her friends? Because she wants to know this thing she’s lying to them about is worth it, and that means she has to open up?

He says truth. She asks, “Why me?” He says it’s because she knows who he is. Which true, if you assume he means all the way from when she told him off about Kiki back in season 1. She’s been pointing out his flaws all along. And I mean, maybe he has a shit opinion of himself, but she wasn’t wrong about him (at least not entirely) and she didn’t fall for an idealized version of him, Alexander the rich bad boy with the cool car who’s the most wanted guy in school. She saw through that and she saw him at much of his worst, and yet somehow she’s here anyway. And I don’t know if this is exactly what he meant, but she also knows him in the sense that they have some things in common, like dealing with difficult parents, being Christmas orphans, etc.

Mia directs the thermos at herself and says truth. Bold move considering she knows what he’s probably going to ask; she’s really just ready to talk to him about it, and this is maybe an easier way to do so, framing it as a game. Alex takes a moment to think about what to ask and then asks why she’s so cautious. She tells the story of when she was 13 and she had a crush on her friend’s older brother, who was 18. He paid her a lot of compliments and she thought he liked her. He pressured her into sleeping with him, she didn’t want to but did it anyway, and then he never texted her again. Some people are school knew about it. She felt bad about herself and couldn’t talk to anyone.

The age of consent in Germany is 14, making what happened to Mia statutory rape. This adds perhaps even more impact to Mia reporting Bjorn later in the season, because it doesn’t sound like the first guy faced any repercussions for what he did; with Bjorn there is hope that justice will be served.

I think this explains a lot about why Mia was cautious about Alexander in particular, because he’s the kind of guy who was feeding girls compliments, sleeping with them, and cutting them off. Didn’t Alexander compliment Kiki’s stomach or something? And then of course Mia had a front-row seat to him ghosting Kiki after sleeping with her, and then seeing it all happen again like a slow-motion car crash. I really, really hope this makes him think about what he was doing with girls before Mia. Remember how he tried to justify himself in episode 2 about what he did to Kiki, not making her promises and saying how he couldn’t have torn down her self-image all by himself? Here he sees the long-lasting effects of that behavior on someone. Just think, there are probably Mias out there who will end up telling their stories to someone else, and the guy they’re talking about will be Alexander.

Alex is about to turn the bottle back to himself, but Mia stops it and says she also had a thing with a girl that ended before she came to Germany. No details on why it ended, if it was something really bad or more of a mundane breakup. Since she’s not going into details, I’m assuming whatever happened wasn’t horrible, but I’d still like to know more details about it.

Could they have handled Mia’s sexuality better? Yes, of course. But at this point I was just glad they addressed it directly. It would be nice if they touched on it in the future: we haven’t yet had the build-up of Matteo living in the flat, or being rescued by Hans, but with both Hans and Mia being members of the LGBT community, it would be really nice if they were able to support Matteo, and then we could hear more about Mia’s sexuality, too, like her past relationship, how she realized she was bi, etc.

He says no pressure, they have all the time in the world. THANK GOD. Low bar, I know, but I also still think there’s value in showing men being respectful and not pressuring women into sex? If you consider that the target audience is teen girls, this is a message that they need to be hearing - that they are allowed to set sexual boundaries and that boys have to respect them. And for teenage boys, while Alex has done a lot of messed-up stuff regarding girls, this part can still be used as a model for respecting boundaries and getting consent.

Clip 4 - I bet Hans and Linn ate the soup later

Mia and Alexander are in Mia’s room, ostensibly trying to study but very clearly hot for each other and making this a kind of foreplay. However, they don’t get very far until Hans comes into the room. He asks whether Alexander made “grumpy cat” angry, lmao. I love that nickname for Mia. He flops on the bed as if checking out the view of Alexander. Hans, what about Michi??

UNFORTUNATELY the doorbell rings and Linn opens Mia’s door, saying there’s a girl with soup. We hear Kiki’s voice. UH OH. Damn, Mia didn’t even really have time to like, try to shove Alexander under the bed or anything, did she?

Alexander says it’s totally OK with him. Um, I bet it is. Would be a great opportunity to be like, hey Kiki, sorry for dumping you on NYE? Although he doesn’t look totally OK with it, though that might just be because Mia is so visibly worried.

Lol, Hans thinks for a moment, clearly recognizing Mia’s distress, and then strips off his robe and throws it over Alexander, and hey, he was the only one doing anything smart in the moment? Maybe not honest, but smart? OK, not smart, but it was ... something.

Well, Alexander ain’t up for hiding under a robe, he takes it off as Kiki walks in with a big pot. She eyes Alexander and Mia, saying she made soup. She looks stunned at first, but then gets pissed and says it’s one thing for her to fuck up and apologize, but this is the worst. I have to agree, honestly. Mia put the burden on Kiki to tell her what to do, and then she didn’t even respect Kiki’s wishes. And then she lied to everyone. After that whole performance with cooking Kiki a nice dinner to talk about how sorry she was? This makes it seem like Mia just doesn’t give a shit about Kiki’s feelings, her crying and apologizing was an act to make Mia feel better, not Kiki.

I wonder if Kiki was really thinking Mia broke it off, or if she wasn’t suspicious. Like she was definitely suspicious after Sam put it out there a few episodes ago, and some of her moves were kinda calculated toward figuring out the truth. The soup may have been genuine goodwill, but maybe she also wanted to see if Mia was really sick, or if she was hiding something. Kiki did look very shocked when she saw Alexander, but maybe she was telling herself that no, Mia wouldn’t lie, Mia meant what she said, Mia cares about her. So this moment was confirming her worst fears.

Kiki angrily puts down the bowl of soup and I have to give her some credit for not throwing it or dropping it, which is what I was expecting.

Alexander asked her why she lied, and Mia says she doesn’t know. Errr, not a great answer, Mia. I have an idea why she lied. She wanted the moral high ground of “making things right” but didn’t want to actually give anything up. She wanted to ignore or run from the problems instead of dealing with them.

Mia says she can’t do this to Kiki. Alexander is pissed. Honestly, I can’t blame him for that. He has his flaws, too, for sure, and has been a shit to Kiki, but he also asked Mia if things were OK with her and Kiki, and she said they were, and now he’s finding out they weren’t and she’s using that as a reason to break up. I’d feel pretty betrayed. She also gave them a few days where they were extremely open with each other, took their relationship to the next level physically, got vulnerable with each other, and after that, she’s calling it off. When she knew all along that it was a bad idea - like she could have nipped this in the bud at the benefit concert. Instead it’s like she dawdled and made their relationship more intense and meaningful before ending it for a reason that’s been there the whole time, which is so much worse. (For Alexander, a dude who doesn’t get close to people? Even worse.)

Mia has massively fucked up but from a story perspective, I don’t mind it? I mean … that’s good for the protagonist’s growth. I like how messy Mia has been. I think it takes her off the “perfect girl” pedestal.

Clip 5 - Panic attack

Mia is lying in bed in the dark at 21:00, so you know, she’s called it an early night. I feel you, girl. She reads her texts from earlier, where she and Alex flirted and discussed him coming over to study. How nice things were just hours earlier. No new messages.

By the way, I can see the tear streaks on her face when she’s in bed, nice detail.

However, after she puts it down and rolls over, her phone lights up. She checks it and Alex is telling her to come over. Typing in all caps so it seems extra urgent.

As she’s running to Alexander, you hear some heavy breathing and rewatching the scene, it definitely sounds masculine, but when I first watched this clip I was so surprised by this development and why Alexander needed Mia that I wasn’t paying super close attention (also not watching with headphones), and I thought it was Mia’s breathing as she’s worried and running out the door. The reveal that this is Alex’s heavy breathing during a panic attack really stunned me. It adds so much tension to the scene as Mia is running to his place, obviously heavy breathing is something that reminds you of dangerous or tense scenarios.

She runs up the stairs to his place and his door is open, the lights are dim. The way the camera follows her is really disorienting, it’s hurried, it’s shaky. The lights make everything eerier - it’s dark and the sign on the wall makes the room pink, it’s not unnatural. Watching Mia run through his apartment trying to find Alex feels like navigating a maze.

Mia calls out for Alexander and eventually finds him in his underwear in a corner, sobbing and hyperventilating. You can see him clearly in the light but there’s still something unfocused about it. Mia grabs a paper bag from the kitchen and has him breathe into it. He’s crying and saying he wasn’t there. Holy shit, this is a panic attack?

Mia holds him as he cries and gasps for breath. He asks her to stay, she says she’s not going anywhere. She makes a joke about it still being 50 euro with breakfast and he manages to laugh.

This pose at the end is definitely giving off Pietà vibes.

The camera goes from extreme closeups as Alex is gasping to pulling back once he lays in Mia’s arms and calms down a bit, once he’s able to breathe and laugh at her joke. Like we’re getting breathing room. The music also goes from really tense to something more gentle once he relaxes in her arms and she says she’ll stay.

Goddamn. So instead of Mia having panic attacks/trauma, it’s Alex??? It was Noora who was panicking in OG, but we’ve switched the roles, Mia is the one to calm down Alexander.

Props to Druck for showing a dude having a full-blown attack like this, in a very non-glamorous and vulnerable way. Panic attacks in general can be pretty visceral and they’re not pretty, and I think some media shies away from showing male characters in really fragile states like this. And it’s definitely a reversal of a lot of media gender roles to have Mia the fully clothed one who’s “in control” helping out Alex, the half-naked, sobbing and shaking one. And for this not to be portrayed as something weak, but something healing. Also, big props to the actors. Chris Veres didn’t hold back in this scene.

This clip really got to me, especially as someone who has experienced panic attacks. The earlier scene with Kiki discovering Mia and Alexander together had ratcheted up the drama, but this was one of those clips where I couldn’t really do anything else after I watched it for a little while, it had gotten under my skin that much. It’s hard for me to unpack it. Even rewatching it unnerves me, though Mia’s gentleness and compassion, and the ending where she says she’s not going anywhere, make the experience more uplifting. Bravo, Druck.

I think it helped that it was so surprising too, like we already got a very important clip earlier in the day, and it was the drama we were all expecting, the next step in the Kiki/Mia/Alex situation, but this definitely was not what I was expecting next, both in that it’s a divergence from the original storyline and that I figured the next clip would build on Mia dealing with estrangement from both Kiki and Alex.

Clip 6 - Giddy up

Mia wakes up in bed with Alex the next morning. I like the contrast here from the last scene, just what a difference the daylight can make, feeling so much less threatening, and I like Mia’s reaction, as if she’s taking in all that happened last night. She looks at a Polaroid picture at the side of the bed, of Alex and his sister. The fact that it’s beside the bed tells you how much Alex probably looks at it and misses his sister.

Alex stir and wakes up. Heh, the crinkles of their pillows and sheets are so damn loud? I kinda love it, though, it reminds me of how good it feels to slowly wake up after a good night’s sleep. He tells Mia that he had a dream where he was feeling bad and cried in front of Mia, weird right? Mia agrees. It’s very quiet and they’re whispering. Comforting, talking about it and acknowledging it without having to go into the ugly details right now. And Mia isn’t grilling him over why he was having a panic attack or anything, just being gentle. She strokes the hair behind his ear and kisses him. They kiss softly and it gets a little more intense until Mia reaches for the jar next to Alexander’s bed and grabs a condom. They smile and Mia sits up on him and takes off her shirt. The music helpfully proclaims, “I’m a cowboy” so I mean, we know what position they used. Not surprising Mia would be on top.

I have zero problems with Mia and Alexander having sex sooner than the season finale, as with Noorhelm, although I was kinda like … is this reeeeally the best time to take this step, kids? Not because of Alexander’s panic attack, but more about Kiki walking in on them and finding out, and Mia thinking she can’t do that to Kiki, and what the hell they were going to do. It felt like they had a lot to talk about. But even so, I can definitely see why Mia felt it was the right time to take this step. There was no way Mia was leaving Alexander after last night, and clearly they care about each other a ton. It must have felt not just like waking up in the morning, but that they survived the night. The panic attack made Mia realize the total depth of her feelings, I think, and so I can fully see why it led to increased tenderness and intimacy.

Comparing Mia and Noora, Mia has trust issues and a bad experience with sex like Noora, but William did more stuff that would’ve broken Noora’s trust and made her question her feelings for him before they had sex. Noora and William kissed, then William was cold to her in front of his brother, so Noora was upset, then they made up, then William smashed a bottle over a guy’s head, then Noora was upset at that and questioned whether she could be with William, then before they could get back together, Niko happened. Since they’ve kissed, Mia hasn’t really had so many reasons to be upset with Alexander himself - it’s all about the situation with Kiki putting stress on their relationship. So I can see why the sexual element of their relationship, and the relationship as a whole, escalated much faster; Mia had more time to build up trust with him without that getting interrupted.

Clip 7 - Crew love is true love

Hanna and Mia are in the bathroom and Mia’s been telling Hanna how fast everything has gone in the last few days. It sure did! By the way, Hanna’s looking very pretty.

I like how they went from the cowboy song in the previous clip being a non-diegetic song and transitioned into this one as a diegetic song, with it playing at the Abi party now. That kind of stuff is clever, and it’s smoother than just choppily switching songs between scenes.

Alex is going to therapy now, which I love. I love that we have the Bad Boy Rich Dreamboat character seeking professional help for his trauma, I love that Druck is mentioning therapy rather casually, normalizing it. It’s not something that’s considered shameful or embarrassing, just a potential avenue for help. Mia says she doesn’t think it was his first panic attack, but she doesn’t really know why. (I’d understand if people were ehhhh about Mia telling all this to Hanna if you want, like IDK if Alexander gave her permission to tell people about his panic attack. Mia and Hanna seem to be pretty trustworthy about stuff like Matteo’s sexuality and they’re not trading it as juicy gossip, but I would get it.)

Hanna says Jonas also won’t talk to anyone, not even Matteo. Ohhh no. That boy might need some professional help, too, if he’s that much of a mess.

Hanna’s totally hugging turtleneck guy/not Gereven when they enter the club. Mia looks around and sees Kiki with Carlos. KIKI, TREAT HIM RIGHT. CARLOS, TREAT HER RIGHT. Kiki glares at Mia.

Carlos gets a drink the same time Mia does and says, “What’s up Judas?” Not gonna lie, that’s mean, but it made me laugh. He does the typical “ugh girl drama BITCH FIGHT” thing, and lmao, I can’t help but think of like Jonas/Toilet Sam tussling in the stairwell in S1. Yes, it’s all girl drama, boy fights just don’t exist, ever!

Carlos is like, it’s none of my business, he doesn’t want to get involved, but he’s getting involved (lmao) and tells her how Kiki was in a very bad state the last few days, and says it would be a good move to smooth everything out. He’s like, good talk, and walks off. Without paying either, lol. Mia pays for him. Well, I guess she has some groveling to do. God, that talk was ridiculous but benevolent of him? He’s looking out for Kiki’s well-being.

"Two angry birds” aka Sam and Amira (and lmao I love that nickname) come up to Mia. Indeed, they look angry. Mia says she’ll make it up to Kiki. I mean, she should probably apologize to the other girls, too, for lying and putting them all in this awkward position where they’re torn between friends.

Heh, there’s some banter among the girls about Sam being the only one who’s single and when Amira is like helloooo, Sam says she has Allah. Although it’s played more as a joke, this follows the same pattern of people disregarding the Sana character as someone who can have romantic relationships and feelings. She doesn’t count in the conversations about who in their group is alone and who’s not.

Mia follows Kiki to talk to her. She apologizes and Kiki just looks annoyed. I don’t blame her considering that Mia’s last apology with the dinner turned out to feel hollow, all words but not backed up with actions. Kiki points out she was a hypocrite. I love Mia and I feel sympathy for her, but Kiki is really really not wrong.

Maybe this is obvious, but I’m seriously just realizing how close this situation is to Eva/Jonas/Ingrid in S1 (or Hanna/Jonas/Leonie), even more than Vilde, Noora, and William were to that situation. Mia fucked it up with Kiki to a level Noora didn’t with Vilde.

Kiki interrupts and tells Mia what’s what - that if she had been honest from the beginning, Kiki wouldn’t have stopped her. But instead, Mia went to her when Kiki was heartbroken and basically made Kiki tell her what to do and give her her blessing. That’s exactly what happened! Mia put the burden on Kiki and basically said her happiness was in Kiki’s hands, like either Kiki had to be the villain and tell Mia to break up with Alex, or put aside her own feelings and be OK with it, even when she was the person who was wronged. Kiki didn’t feel like doing giving her blessing when she felt like shit and had been betrayed by a friend. And she didn’t expect Mia to listen, but Mia should’ve cared about her from the beginning. Kiki calls Mia out on being honest not just with others, but with herself. Kki used to compare herself to Mia, Mia gives all these moral lectures that sound smart and clever, but it’s not about what you say, but what you do. Well, shit. She’s right. And Mia needs to hear this. I’ve said this before, but I think their relationship is really complex this season. Messy, but complex. And this dynamic between them, with Kiki feeling like Mia didn’t really care, or was judging her, goes beyond just Alexander’s involvement. It’s not just fighting because of a boy.

Mia is apologizing and Carlos comes in to ruin the moment and be like “You straightened it out?” Lmao dude, don’t interrupt. He gives them all a shot, which is his attempt to play mediator, I guess, so he’s dumb but he’s trying. Kiki clinks glasses with him, then walks out. When Mia calls after her, Kiki says you still want my blessing? But you need yours. Whoaaaa.

Carlos and Kiki walk off hand in hand talking about her breasts. Well, I guess it’s nice that they’re appreciated without the surgery. Though obviously it’s about how Kiki feels about her body, not Carlos.

Mia stays behind and has a Moment, I guess she’s thinking about how she needs to go all in with Alexander, get rid of her remaining doubts. Then she goes out to meet her girls, they smile and dance. Finally Kiki smiles at Mia and they dance together. I love their little glance of reconciliation. The girl squad has a group hug. Awww!

Toilet Sam comes in and greets everyone! He’s talking to Hanna and OF FUCKING COURSE that’s when Jonas and Matteo roll in. Jonas sees Hanna and Sam and legit pulls a Granpa Smpson exit, lmao at Matteo’s exasperated exit after him. Poor Matteo.

Mia and Kiki dance together in the closing moments of the clip, and it’s a fitting ending. Yay, they’re happy again! Truly the next three episodes will only be good times and no more suffering!

Social Media/General Comments:

LMAO, I fucking lost it at all the passive-aggressive Instagram stories that Kiki posted after the dinner from last episode. She tagged only Amira, Hanna, and Sam, not Mia, posting pictures that didn’t include Mia, set to Little Mix’s “Shout Out to my Ex” for that extra bitter flair. Which you know, fits Kiki’s relationship with Alexander, but honestly feels more like Mia is her ex going by the pictures, lol. Then Amira, Hanna, and Sam respond by posting Kiki’s posts WITH Mia, like good lord, the dramaaaaa of it all. I mean, they’re all making a statement, that they’re not ditching Mia, but how must that make Kiki feel? But it’s all so teenage and petty and immature that I love it.

Jonas flakes on Matteo, saying he needs to study, but it’s more like he’s staying home and getting wasted. Matteo is worried and says they barely see each other anymore. Jeez. This is a total reversal of what we’ll likely see in S3, unless they are BOTH total messes in that season. Then it’ll be up to wise men Carlos and Abdi to step up for their bros. We did see Carlos having some sage advice in this episode, so maybe it’s not such a wild idea?

Matteo and Hanna talk later and Matteo lets Hanna know that Jonas isn’t doing well and that he failed a math test. I don’t think it’s Hanna’s duty to fix Jonas’ problems at all, but it’s nice that Matteo and Hanna are talking together and trying to help Jonas.

The other girls were gossiping about Mia and Alex. Amira figured out that Mia probably wasn’t answering because Mia was at Alexander’s place. Sigh, Mia. How long did you think you could keep your relationship a secret? It always gets out, as you just learned last week!!

Kiki posts a LOT of stuff about fake friends on IG after she discovers Mia and Alex together, and it’s pretty juvenile, but you know, hashtag relatable. And understandable. Super teenage.

I like that Amira reached out to Kiki and said she was there if she needed to talk. Kiki has been a shit to Amira on multiple occasions, but Amira remains a true friend. And I hope Kiki keeps this in mind the next time she wants to say something racist or insensitive (not that she would recognize it as such, probably).

Druck gave out hotline information for teenagers after the panic attack clip, encouraging them to talk to someone, which is great. Again, I love how they’re encouraging teenagers not to go through their problems alone, whether it’s through therapy, hotlines, or talking to trusted friends and family.

Amira talked about religious discrimination on Instagram and how difficult it is to get into public service in Germany when you wear a hijab. She’s mentioned this before, when the girls were meeting with career counselors, and I really hope that we somehow get a S4 despite the girls’ graduation so we can get an Amira season. I would love to see her story talk specifically about her ambitions and how she tries to achieve them despite people constantly telling her she won’t be able to make it as a Muslim hijabi. Just send Amira to Australia and she can have a life-changing backpacking adventure. It would be amazing. (Skam never gave us the Evak + boy squad Morocco trip we deserved, so I am down for Druck providing that awesome travelogue content.)

I am not German so please feel free to correct me or clarify me on cultural and language matters.

If you got this far, thank you for reading!

#druck reactions #druck

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itsblissfuloblivion · 5 years

Text

Kindle - Chapter 18

A/N: We can’t really believe this is the last chapter!!!! It’s filled with fluff and love and hinny cuteness. We hope you enjoy it & thank you for reading along and sharing your wonderful comments!!! Love Love Love from @fightfortherightsofhouseelves & @gryffindormischief

Also available on FF & Ao3!

Harry never regarded a day spent at the Burrow, in the bosom of the Weasley family, as anything even remotely close to dangerous. Today, however, he found himself seconds short of being trampled upon, run down, and asphyxiated between the kilometers of lace and silk used to decorate the wide wedding tent slash ballroom. Hence why he can currently be spotted casually hiding behind a particular copse at the far end of the orchard, silently praying he will make it throughout the day alive.

It’s also where Ron finds him, harassed and out of his wits.

“I reckon if Mum hunts me down one more time to smarten up my suit and tie, I’ll scream bloody murder and then kill myself. Hermione would understand, she would,” Ron complains as he takes a seat next to Harry on the warm ground, knowing full well that he’ll be risking both his life and Harry’s as soon as Molly Weasley discovers soil stains on their wedding suits.

Harry snorts, eyeing his best mate amusedly, “I’m actually afraid of your Mum, you know. It’s only now I realise how naive I was to fear your Dad and brothers when we told them about the baby.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely. And don’t let her fool you, mate, but Ginny’s really Mum, only thirty years younger,” Ron elbows Harry and they both laugh easily, their shoulders visibly relaxing.

A pause and then Harry speaks, his lips stretching into a candid smile, “Hey, Ron?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m really happy for you, mate. You two - I mean, you’re perfect for each other,” he adds and Ron’s blue eyes turn moist as his cheeks color pink.

“Don’t-” Ron clears his throat, “don’t tell my sister, but that pretty much applies to you two as well,” he smiles sheepishly.

“Thank you,” Harry mumbles as he tries to swallow the newly formed lump in his throat.

They sit still, enjoying a silence that speaks of mutual contentment and a lifetime of friendship shared between them. To Harry, it seems amazing, fantastic even that he gets to be part of his best mate’s wedding day. His wedding day! When did they grow up so fast? When did all the years pass since that first day of school they shook hands for the first time, two scrawny, scared, lonely kids on a train leading them to great adventures. What would those two kids say if they knew that, sixteen years down the line, they’d go to each other’s weddings and cry with joy at the news of children coming.

“Oi! Happy tree friends over there,” George wheezes as he runs towards them. “Mum and the bride are looking for you. The ceremony’s about to start,” he adds, checking his watch, then smirks. “I’d be careful if I were you, Ronniekins. Your dashing bride looks like she’s about to have someone’s head.”

Gulping, Ron hurriedly pats his groom tuxedo in hopes of dusting off any traces of mud and grass, and gallops away, as fast as his black leather shoes can take him.

“I wouldn’t grin in your place, Harry, mate. Ginny’s also sent word to find you and take you back to her dead or alive,” George jokes, laughing at Harry’s desperate expression. “Frankly, I reckon she’s really about to lose it with everybody doting on her. Poor Angelina, she’s in for the same mad ride once we tell them we’re expecting,” he shakes his head and slightly shudders at the prospect.

Dumbfounded, Harry opens his mouth only to close it again. Inhales, exhales, and tries again, “Excuse me? You two-? You’re-?”

George’s face lights up, blue eyes sparkling brighter than Harry had ever seen them, pure bliss radiating from every inch of his being. “Yes, bloody hell yes!” He grins wide and Harry jumps in to hug and congratulate him with enthusiasm. “But don’t tell Ron yet, alright? I - erm, we don’t want to steal his thunder. I mean, he’s always got what Bill, Charlie, Percy, and then Fred and I didn’t need or want anymore. It’s his day,” George slowly says, embarrassed, his hand flying to the back of his head and eyes averting Harry’s green ones.

Harry claps him on the shoulder proudly as they shuffle their feet in tandem towards the wedding crowd, one future father and another.

On the other side of the orchard, Harry spots a dash of red hair and a mess of black. Lily and James Potter, dressed smartly in summer dress with hues of gold and a navy blue suit, sit close to each other, her head resting against one of his broad shoulders.

“What are you two love birds doing?” Harry sneaks up behind his parents, pretending to be grossed out by the fluffy scene unfolding before him.

“You look spiffing, son,” James nods in approval. “Hair like a hurricane is a family gene I’m afraid, but alas, you do have your charm,” he grins, winking at the younger version of him.

Snorting, Harry presses a kiss to his mum’s cheek and squeezes his dad’s shoulder before half-sitting in one of the delicate chairs in front of them. “Sorry we couldn’t pick you three up from the airport.”

Lily rubs some mostly imaginary smudge from Harry’s chin and smiles. “We’re your parents. And we can definitely handle ordering an Uber.”

“Dad can’t.”

“Siri hates me.”

Rolling her eyes, Lily pats James’ knee and sighs, “Yes dear.”

James’ retort is already on his lips when he follows Harry’s eyeline. “We fly halfway around the world and he can’t even pay attention to our scintillating conversation.”

Jolting, Harry turns to find his mother looking at him fondly. “He’s in love and his girlfriend is glowing and beautiful.”

A flush rises on Harry’s cheek as James muses, “Perhaps more than girlfriend?”

“Smooth, Dad.”

“It’s not a no, Lil.”

Harry growls and Lily pats his arm where it rests across the gilt chair back. “Don’t pressure him, James. Just because he has the opportunity to make his mum’s dreams come true while she’s on the same continent - ”

“You know - ”

Before Harry can finish his half-formed threat, Sirius drops into the seat next to him and grins. “Are we talking about my godson having eye-sex with the girl he could barely talk to like a human being not even a year ago?”

Head dropping to his forearm, Harry doesn’t bother interjecting as his family laughs at his expense.

His mum’s fingers brush through his hair, her smile warm, and despite the teasing, Harry realizes just how much he’s missed them. Which is lucky for the three menaces, because it puts Harry in a giving, patient mood, even when Sirius continues, “Remember when he kissed her and then ran away to do something academic and nerdy?”

“Biology really is magical,” James nods, “How else did he father a child with such a woman?”

Lily rolls her eyes and jabs at James’ middle. “You should talk - I seem to remember a very awkward hair-ruffling, mildly blackmail-ish first date invitation.”

Sirius nods sagely, “He didn’t speak for at least two weeks after that.”

“Harry’s an adult,” James accuses, a smile tickling the corners of his lips.

“Mature, Dad.”

“My son is charming and handsome. He probably won her over with his lovely smile.”

“Actually, I had her at professor.”

George comes to a halt at Harry’s side, overly large bouquet of flowers covering him from hip to nose before he peers around, “A little bird told me something about a hat, Indiana Jones, and a whip.”

Flushing, Harry rises and steps out past George into the aisle. “No comment.”

Across the yard, Ginny’s secreted herself off to fume where no innocent bystanders can be caught in the crossfire of her hormonally charged anger.

“You look like you’re ready to stab someone,” Bill approaches his sister, youngest daughter cradled in his arms in a weak attempt at putting her to sleep.

“Sure feel like it,” Ginny snorts, flipping her thick sheath of red hair over a freckled shoulder. “You’d think people’d understand I’m eight months pregnant, not disabled,” she add as she blows a considerable amount of air through her nostrils, eyes flaring so she rather resembles a dragon. To Bill, at least.

“Anyway,” Ginny plows on, fussing about her chair until she finds a comfortable enough position for her poor back and heavy tummy, “Have you seen Teddy?”

Bill round blue eyes morph into slits, “Wooing my eldest daughter, I suppose,” he responds with ill disguised nonchalance.

“Wouldn’t dare imagine how you’ll take it when they actually start dating,” Ginny giggles as her brother’s eyes widen, as if only then he’d acknowledged the possibility.

“Don’t.”

“Mr. Protective Father, aren’t we?” she raises an eyebrow, freckles gathering in a cluster right above it.

Bill sighs and takes a sit on the chair next to Ginny’s, transferring baby Dominique from one arm to the other, and squeezes his sister’s hand, “I truly wish that you’re carrying a little girl in there so I can even things up with Harry for knocking up my sister and stealing my daughter through that little godson of his.”

“You say knocked up once more,” Ginny pulls her hand away incensed, “I swear I’ll sit on you. And that’s a real threat seeing that I weigh about a billion kilos right now.” Her frown only brings a grin to her brother’s face, and she could never quite resist that mischievous, charming smirk Bill adorned when he felt comfortable or pleased, his ponytail hanging low over his back and fanged earring dangling in the shy summer breeze.

“Hullo, love,” Harry appears out of nowhere and plants a kiss on her cheek. “Hermione’s summoned you to the gallows. I mean, she’s called you up to her room for a last bride and bridesmaid rehearsal,” he grins, hands out an arm for Ginny to lean on as she rises.

“It’s ridiculous,” she sneers, breathing heavily as Harry lifts her, “I’m like a ticking clock about to explode and she has the audacity to call me a bridesmaid.”

“Maybe don’t explode just now,” Harry chuckles as they walk towards the Burrow, “I reckon Hermione wouldn’t appreciate it very much.” Ginny rolls her eyes, yet gives in to laughter seconds later. It’s easy being happy next to him, she thinks.

Knock-knock, Ginny raps her knuckles on the wooden surface of the door to her childhood room. It’s where Hermione set headquarters for her bridal transformation, in Ron’s words, and it was not a lie. Always a beautiful woman, Hermione was breathtaking in white satin, rich curls flowing loosely down her back.

“Might be the pregnancy hormones speaking, but I’m feeling attracted to you right now,” Ginny appraises her friend as she shuts the door firmly and drops herself on the old single bed, lifting her feet up on a freshly fluffed pillow.

“I’m afraid you took too long to make a move,” Hermione snorts as she tries to smooth down a rogue curl, hovering so close in front of the mirror she goes a bit cross eyed.

“Yeah, afraid so. Plus you’d probably have to fight Harry for me.”

“Oh, no, I’d never win. Heard he has a trusty whip he uses to impose discipline,” the bride smirks, switching her gaze to observe her friend through the mirror.

“Harry got drunk and confessed, didn’t he?” Ginny drawls, bored.

Hermione lifts an ebony eyebrow, “Trust me, I’m the victim here. Absolutely did not sign up to hear that.” She gingerly holds one heeled shoe and inserts her right foot with great care, long brown bushy hair shielding her face from view. “Although I must admit, role playing does sound rather...tolerable.”

Palm pressed to her mouth, Ginny giggles, “The word you’re looking for is kinky. And yes, do it. Just never tell me it’s my brother you’re doing it with. Can’t possibly stomach that.”

“Will the two of you ever grow up?” Hermione asks, hair pushed back from her face with one arm as she holds a second shoe in place with the other.

“Nope. I expect we’ll have children and lie that they arrived with the stork.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, “I’m marrying into this family.”

“Your decision, not mine,” Ginny winks and tosses a peanut into her mouth with high accuracy, a trick learned and polished over holidays spent with her brothers.

“Impressive. Where’d you get’em from?”

“Nicked them on my way here.”

Chuckling, Hermione lifts the heavy material of her wedding gown, her high heels tap-tapping on the creaking floor as she walks to sit next to Ginny. “So how are you feeling?”

“I’m aware I said it before, but like a whale waiting to be put out of her misery,” Ginny pouts, palms running light circles over her rounded stomach. “I may never voluntarily choose to have children again.”

“I gather it was a choice?” Hermione’s deep brown eyes meet Ginny’s, mischief glinting bright.

“Eh, it’s not like we did much to prevent it, to be fair,” she admits with a grin. “Nevermind that,” Ginny tries to lift herself up on her elbows, “How are you? It’s your wedding day!”

The two women smile so wide their cheeks hurt, features alight with happiness and giddiness. If Ginny didn’t feel like thrice her size and Hermione had not spend the last five hours getting ready, they’d be sure to jump up and down in sheer excitement. Still, given the circumstances, they settle for squealing at earnumbing frequencies.

The ceremony is beautiful up to the tiniest detail, and has a peaceful effect on everyone present. Madams Granger and Weasley seniors weep in tandem with a hormonal Ginny, Lily squeezes James’ hand, and Ron feels like bursting with joy. From the audience, Bill, Charlie, and George give him a thumbs up and three mad grins. Percy, on the other hand, sits poised on the edge of his chair, the image of British properness, while Arthur subtly wipes a tear from underneath his horn-rimmed glasses. In the middle of it all, Hermione gasps as though she can barely believe everything that’s happening, hand trembling as Ron slides the gold band on her finger.

The newly weds’ kiss hovers dangerously close to indecent, Ron lifting his wife off her feet in a toe-curling snog that has Sirius wolf whistling and Snuffles barking.

Barely two weeks later, it’s well past the ‘witching hour’ and Harry’s taken over the couch - his office surrendered in favor of a baby nursery - typing away at his latest revision of the post-dig paper, when Ginny shuffles out into the living room. “Harry?”

She looks so young, hair in a tangle around her freckled face, soft cotton nightgown dwarfing her even at such a late stage of pregnancy, that Harry can’t help but imagine a little girl of their own. Ginny’s fiery locks, his almond shaped eyes, her freckles, his knobby knees -

Ginny’s wince puts an end to his daydreaming. “I think. I think it’s time,” she grips the doorway, “Unrelated - we need to change the sheets.”

Nearly tossing his laptop across the room in frightened haste, Harry’s at Ginny’s side in two beats, palm finding the small of her back like it’s magnetized. “I’ll - we’re good. I’ll call Mum, they’re closest for Ted. Just. You’re packed, yeah?”

“Yes, yes. You nagged me about seven billion times. Today.”

“Well aren’t you glad I did?” Harry shoots back, blinking exaggeratedly.

Before Ginny can answer, she doubles over, breaths coming in short pants. “Stuff it. Go call your Mum.”

“Sir, yes, Sir.”

“Don’t sass me while your child is trying to violently expel itself from my body,” Ginny grunts, pinching his arm as he fumbles for his mobile.

It’s a quick, excited call that gets Lily and co. on the way before Harry’s dialing the hospital and tugging on street clothes.

Ginny’s movements are slow, hampered by the periodic spasms at her back, as she drags her soiled nightie overhead and pulls on a cottony grey dress that stretches comfortably over her belly. After a few failed attempts, she leans against the door to their closet and moans, “Harry, I can’t see the floor.”

Quick as he can, Harry trots over and brushes his thumb along her jaw. “Which ones, love?”

Sighing, Ginny nuzzles against his shoulder and murmurs, “My granny clogs?”

Not even a quarter of an hour later, Lily, James, and Sirius are gathered around the dining table while Harry lectures them as he reads down the checklist scrawled over two full pages of a yellow pad and Ginny strokes her belly, resting against the front door.

“You know, there’s this thing called texting, son. Plus we raised you alright.”

“And we are bloody doctors, Harry,” Lily adds, “Now go, or Ginny’s going to murder you before I see my first grandchild.”

Harry’d really like to point out that his mother did in fact work in a lab all her professional life, but considers it twice before opening his mouth to blurt out his usual sass for fear that either Lily or Ginny might eat him alive.

The trip to hospital is a blur, the odd hour at least eliminating some traffic as they trundle through the rain streaked streets. In between contractions, Ginny fiddles with the radio and does her best to smile teasingly. “You know, you’re handling this quite well.”

“I’m an adult, I can handle stress.”

Ginny glances at him sidelong. “Sure.”

And Harry does remain beautifully cool, calm, and collected as Ginny’s wheeled into the maternity ward, as he fills out the check-in paperwork, and even while she’s changing into her gown and getting tucked safely into the scratchy hospital blankets.

It’s not until her doctor comes in, snapping rubber gloves at her wrists, and explaining the steps of this first check up that Harry begins to leave the comforting haze that carried him through the last hour and realization sets in.

By this time tomorrow, Harry’ll be a dad. Again. And really, he’d have thought having Teddy, and nine months of lead in time would’ve made this a less terrifying thought. But as the time is counted in hours rather than months, weeks, or days, he can barely keep his hands steady enough to ring Ron.

He lets it ring once, then dials back again - Ron’s had his mobile set on ‘Do Not Disturb’ for most of the last month - and before Hermione manages more than a sleepy ‘hello,’ he’s blurting, “The baby’s coming, how soon can you get down here, I’m freaking out.”

Hermione’s laugh is quiet as she murmurs and shakes Ron awake. “Harry, take a deep breath, we’ll be right down.”

It absolutely does not help that Harry’s last glimpse of Ginny is of her moaning and promising to inflict as much pain onto him when the baby is finally out as she’s currently suffering, as, according to her, it’s entirely his fault.

Before Harry falls into the pits of despair, James Potter arrives to sneak a comforting arm around his son and helps him into a nearby chair, while a sleepy Teddy drops his head to one of Harry’s knees.

“There, there, my darling boy. The ER guy and your Mum will take care of Ginny until the Weasley cavalry rides in,” James pats Harry’s messy locks, kisses him on the top of his head.

“You mean Sirius made his entrance?” Harry grunts, forehead pressed closed to where Teddy’s is resting, his body twisted in a position worthy of a Cirque to Soleil contortionist.

“He’s really so good at what he does I can turn a blind eye to his dramatics.”

Harry lifts his head enough to catch a hurricane of red hair crashing by. The poor nurse trying to keep people outside of Ginny’s already crammed ward has no chance when faced with Molly Weasley, nerves wired to the tips of her overworked fingers.

By the grace of some lucky star, or rather by the force of the combined prayers of medical staff having to do their job with one Molly Weasley and one Sirius Black barking orders and shooting questions to and fro, Ginny’s not in labor too long, things moving quickly as they can. Even so, the rush of nurses and doctors dressed in pale scrubs flying in and out of her room doesn’t do much to quell Harry’s nerves.

At some point, Ron pressed a styrofoam cup of tea into Harry’s hand, long since gone tepid and untouched. Still, it gives him something to fiddle with. A lifetime passes before Sirius exits the room, wiping at his sweaty brow, and disappears to god knows where. But Harry has no energy to rise and chase after him, or rather ask why they needed an emergency specialist, or a million other questions. He can only sit there, straddling the metal chair, his palms pressing into his forehead until the tips of his fingers turn white.

He’s about to storm his way into the room when a nurse emerges, wrapped in a bright yellow apron and beckons Harry inside. Looking around, he catches a glimpse of bushy brown hair resting on Ron’s shoulder as his own mother and father seem to have dozed off to sleep next to them. Harry feels too tired to smile, but the family scene does bring some sort of comfort and familiarity to the newness he’s confronted with. He exhales loudly and steps in.

The crowd has dissipated somewhat and Ginny seems to be at a resting point, hair matted and face utterly wrecked. But she seems alright, all things considered.

“Hey, Gin.”

Her mouth twists in a tired smile, “Don’t Gin me. Your little basketball sized spawn is slamming its way out of my body. I deserve a ‘Hello goddess of the universe.’”

“At least you’ve still got your sense of humor,” Harry murmurs, ruffling his hair as Molly avoids eye contact and studiously examines a two month old copy of Reader’s Digest.

Ginny rolls her eyes and gestures him closer, not relaxing until he claims the chair next to her, barely perching on the stiff plastic seat. “I thought I didn’t want you in here, but,” she clears her throat and shares a brief glance with Molly, “Someone very wise helped me realize I needed my partner to finish this out.”

Molly’s lips tick up in a grin and Ginny continues, “You’re still not allowed down there but - ”

Before Ginny can continue her conditions, her entire body tenses as another contraction rolls through her body. And after that, it’s a blur of measured breathing and nearly cracked knuckles, until suddenly a little cry pierces the early morning light and Harry’s holding his squalling little son.

The whole world seems to shrink down to the three of them, that little room, and Harry’s whole world in the space of his arms. Or almost his whole world. At nearly the same moment his brain catches up, Ginny’s does too. “Where’s Teddy?”

“I’ll get him?”

Teddy’s hesitant when he reaches the doorway, eyes wide as he bites at his lip. “I can really come in?”

Ginny’s brow furrows, unused to seeing Teddy so restrained. Until she finds his gaze focused on the little baby boy, tucked against her chest. “You ready to meet your brother?”

His smile grows and he totters over to the bed, Harry at his heels. When he can’t manage climbing past the bed rail, Harry lifts him onto the edge of the mattress and Teddy reaches out a hesitant hand towards the pink bundle.

The baby’s chest rises and falls steadily beneath his tightly wrapped blanket and finally, after nine months, Harry’s life’s work is together and right before his eyes.

“Can we call him Victor?” Teddy asks innocently, his eyes wide with unrepressed wonder.

A laugh tumbles out from deep within Ginny’s chest and she leans in to kiss Teddy dearly on the cheek, her smile unrelenting. “I was thinking something more to the effect of...well, James. For tradition,” she adds, immediately searching for any signs of possible refuse from Harry. But there are only tears in his eyes, and Ginny just knows it’s the right decision - three generations of James Potters with their wild, messy, dark hair (and most probably bad eyesight). “And,” Ginny prepares herself to say out loud what she’d been thinking since realising that Harry had, in fact, two dads, one of them who held her hand through most of the night, calming her when she was in terrible pain and terribly frightened, “Maybe also Sirius?”

It’s likely too much for Harry, as he closes his eyes and keeps quiet for a minute, his breathing coming in and out unevenly. “Why?” He finally asks.

“They’re inseparable, the two of them, like peas in a pod. Only seems natural,” Ginny shrugs like its no big deal.

Before Harry can shout his happiness to the world, there’s a knock at the door and Molly’s face appears round the corner, leaving Harry wondering when exactly she managed to slip past.

“You have an adoring public waiting, dears. Everyone’s promised to keep it short.”

And then it’s like the circus has set up in the maternity ward of Mungo’s Hospital, too many people, too many grabbing hands, and entirely too much laughter. Somehow, the Weasley brothers all manage to gather themselves into an intimidating huddle, looming at the foot of Ginny’s bed as she settles back against the pillows, eyes drooping with tiredness, and Harry’s never felt so analyzed and judged in his life - not even when he defended his dissertation, and that’s saying something. “‘M sorry love, if they’re going to beat you up I can’t defend you much,” she tells him between two yawns.

Harry presses a kiss to her forehead and laughs. “At least I’m already in hospital.”

Growling under her breath, Ginny readjusts in the bed - wincing a bit - and scowls. “It was a joke. No one’s beating anyone up. God, it’s not 1950,” her voice drops as she eyes each of her brothers in turn, “Which is why Victoire’s birthday is just a bit too close to her mummy and daddy’s wedding day.”

Bill scoffs but he claps Harry on the back, as Charlie and Ron cackle, while Percy clears his throat uncomfortably and unnecessarily readjusts his eyeglasses. “We like you well enough, and Gin’s got you well in hand.”

“She’s got all of us well in hand,” Harry laughs, earning a playful scowl from Ginny, even as she dozes off against her newly fluffed pillows.

Like the mother hen that she is, Molly shoos the Weasley masses from room, only lingering long enough to press a kiss to Ginny’s head and nearly squeeze the life out of Harry. Lily rounds the bed next, finally standing out again now that she’s the only redhead in the room. With a smile, she cups Harry’s cheek. “I’m so happy for you, my sweet, darling boy.”

James hovers at her shoulder, furiously blinking away tears as his lips tilt in a grin. “You have a lovely little family.”

“I’ll expect 24-7 babysitting availability once you come to your senses and move back,” Ginny says with a laugh, her eyes barely open.

“You won’t have to twist his arm,” Sirius puts in, brushing a careful finger over James Sirius’ sleep flushed cheek, “Ol’ Jamesy is a sucker for all things baby. You’ll have to pry him out of your flat.”

Lily snorts. “You’re one to talk - Harry was almost as spoilt as ickle Diddykins that first Christmas.”

“I am extravagant with my love.”

Rolling her eyes, Lily squeezes Ginny’s hand and sighs. “We’ll come back and visit. Tomorrow - well today. Late. I know you’ll be more than tired.”

“Wait,” James pauses in his stride and turns back to the family of four cuddled up on the feeble hospital bed, “What’s this little tike’s name? If it’s been decided, of course.”

Sharing a look, Harry nods for Ginny to speak.

“He’s named after some famous double act,” Ginny dares a sheepish grin, “James Sirius.”

Ginny might’ve hit the two men with an iron chair over their heads and would’ve probably gotten more of a reaction. It takes whole minutes before they can speak again, their voices trembling and knees shaking as Lily half-carries them towards the exit, arms wrung through each of their own.

Harry climbs out of bed to walk them to the front door, accepting more teary hugs, sloppy kisses, and congratulations, before they disappear into the miraculously quiet hallway.

Back inside the small ward, Teddy’s dead to the world where he rests against James’ shoulder as Ginny shifts a bit restlessly. “You could go home and sleep in a bed - Teddy too.”

“Are you kidding me? First, all parties involved were more than happy for a sleep over at Mum and Dad’s posh hotel suite, and second there is no way I’m leaving this building while the two of you are here, alone.”

“Such a dad,” Ginny murmurs, eyelashes brushing her freckled cheeks as she drifts off, “Now stop trying to pretend that chair is comfortable and get up here with me.”

Kicking off his shoes, Harry makes to follow her instructions, even as he asks, “You sure? That nurse was a bit scary.”

“Poor baby.”

“You’ll have to protect me if Nurse Moody shows up.”

Ginny hums, already half asleep, “Of course, my love. Now come snuggle your tired wife.”

Harry’s heart stutters at the slip, his eyes shooting open wide to catch Ginny’s expression. But it seems it was indeed just a tired slip of the tongue. One that has him awake long after Ginny drifts off.

“Thank you,” he whispers into her ginger hair and presses his temple to it. His last conscious thought is of love, of his son carrying the names of two of the most important people in his life, two people who had shaped and defined him, of how much this woman, this incredible, beautiful woman means to him, of how easily she seems to understand him.

The next forty eight hours are full to the brim with last minute preparations at the flat - Hermione is an over prepared lifesaver - lessons in parenting from nurses, doctors, and nosy family, and for Harry, a few slight (and luckily private) freak outs that he’s got two kids and really wants to propose to his girlfriend.

Ron pulls his and Hermione’s little SUV up to the porte-cochère just as Harry and Teddy wheel out Ginny and James Sirius.

Luckily, the ride home isn’t too long but Ginny’s still ready for a nap by the time they arrive. It’s a team effort to get Ginny tucked in bed, James and Teddy fed, and all three of them to sleep. Still, Harry’s never been more content.

He’s sipping lemonade at the counter while Hermione does the last of their lunch dishes when Ron sidles up. “So, dad, how’s it feel to be ancient?”

“You’re the old married couple.”

Hermione smirks, setting the last plate to dry. “I’ve a feeling we won’t hold that distinction for long.”

They wander into the living room and Harry sighs, slumping back against the cushions. “My life has never been in the right order. Not that I’m complaining.”

Ron claims the seat on his left and Hermione the right, her head tucking against his shoulder. “Is there a ‘right order’?”

“Look at my wife, the philosopher.”

“She’s a woman of many talents.”

“You’re a couple of tossers.”

Chuckling, Ron takes another swig of his lemonade and throws his arm around Harry’s shoulders. “What? I’m serious.”

They share a laugh, muffling the noise against the palms of their hands, until Harry calms. “Tell me not to go wake my newborn son because I want to play with him. Or hold him. Or both, I can’t really decide.”

Hermione pats his arm. “Don’t.”

“Yeah, Gin-Gin will kill you if you screw the kid up.”

Harry shows a pretty sizeable amount of restraint - his own view of the subject - and manages to wait a whole hour before he tiptoes into the bedroom just to stare after Ron and Hermione return to the comfort of their own home. Glancing at his watch, he turns towards Teddy’s door and finds him sitting half atop his covers and thumbing through a picture book. “Hey, Ted.”

“Hi, wanna read - ”

A sad little wail of a cry sounds from the master bedroom and Teddy perks up, “Is James awake?”

“Sounds like it,” Harry rubs at the back of his head, “We’ll have to pause the - ”

“Let’s go, he’s crying.”

Teddy grabs Harry’s hand and tugs him into the hall, books forgotten in the wake of ‘big brother duties.’

In a few quick strides, they’ve reached the little bassinet and little James is giving his lungs a good work out. Smiling softly, Teddy brushes his fingers along James’ bootied toes. “S’alright. Harry’s here. He knows just what to do.”

The bed creaks behind them as Ginny slowly raises herself into a sitting position. “He is pretty great,” Ginny agrees, “Which is why he’s probably guessed James needs some mummy time.”

Gently, Harry lifts James from the cradle and passes him over to Ginny before he ushers Teddy from the room to choose a storybook.

It’s a bigger choice than Harry guessed, Victoire has told him the first book a baby reads is very important so they flip through half of Teddy’s collection before settling on Babbity Rabbity and her Cackling Stump.

They’ve given Ginny enough time so that James has been fed and burped, her clothes have been righted, and the baby boy is cooing softly against her chest. “We’re ready for some entertainment. Hospital was pretty boring.”

With care, Harry and Teddy climb up onto the bed - Harry claiming the innermost seat as he fans the book open before them. “A long time ago, in a land far away, there was a kingdom ruled by a foolish King who decided that he should be the only one to have magical powers.”

Ginny and Teddy snuggle close on either side while James blinks tiredly. “He formed an army, which he called the Brigade of Witch-Hunters, and armed them with black hounds. At the same time, he wanted an Instructor in Magic, so he made calls for a wizard or witch from one of the nearby villages to teach him.”

“A little dark for a first storybook,” Ginny teases while Teddy reaches to flip the page.

Harry presses a kiss to her forehead. “It’s got a nice ending.”

Not long after the story comes to a close, Harry’s mobile vibrates in his pocket. With a quick fumble, Harry manages to pull it free and swipe the call on before James Sirius wakes. “‘Lo?”

“Uncle Harry?”

“Hello, Victoire,” Harry says with a smile that only widens as Teddy perks up, “I know we’re tight, but I have a feeling you’re not looking for me.”

There’s a pause like she nearly drops Bill’s phone and then presses it back to her ear. Harry glances down at his wide-eyed godson. “Teddy’s right here.”

Reaching up with grabbing hands, Teddy accepts the mobile and trots out with an affectionate glance toward James where he sleeps in Ginny’s arms.

As Teddy disappears out into the living room, Harry chuckles softly before he twists and cups Ginny’s chin, pressing a kiss to her lips. “You’re - beautiful.”

She hums, deepening the kiss just barely. “So’re you, my love.”

James shifts a little restlessly in Ginny’s arms, snuffling in his sleep while Harry brushes a finger over his cheek. “I love you, Gin. You - this life we have together is better than anything I could’ve dreamt up for Teddy and I.”

“Better than just a doughnut?”

Laughter bubbles in Harry’s chest as he kisses Ginny once more. “I - you know how we talked briefly in New York?”

Brow quirking, Ginny turns a bit more to face Harry. “We talked more than a few times in New York, dear.”

“About - about adding another Potter to the world.”

“Seems we did that fairly well,” Ginny teases, darting a glance towards their sleeping son.

“I mean, making you one. About being officially.”

In all seriousness, Ginny asks, “Harry. Will you marry me?”

Jolting, Harry scowls down at Ginny. “No fair, I started first.”

“But I finished first - you always like that.”

“God, innuendo in front of our slumbering son?”

“What’s the answer, Potter?”

Harry drops his forehead against Ginny’s and feels his eyes filling even as his smile widens. “Yeah I’ll be Mr. Ginny Weasley-Potter-Whatever.”

“I like the hyphens,” Ginny laughs, her own tears forming, “Damn, I can’t wait until these excess hormones wear off. You do realize you proposed to a hosepipe, yeah?”

“A beautiful, amazing, cheeky, brilliant hosepipe.”

“What a bloke you are.”

“You’re the one who proposed - this is your choice.”

Settling James in Harry’s arms, Ginny presses herself close and sighs quietly. “It’s a good one.”

A cry pierces the air just as Harry’s miraculous coffee-fueled epiphany gets into full swing, sentence half finished as the ending dangles and then floats from his brain.

There’s probably only three people in the world he wouldn’t shout at for interrupting that flow and it’s the youngest of the three that beckons from the nursery. Teddy falls in at Harry’s side, his eagerness to be the world’s greatest elder brother only grown in the months since James came into their lives, and they find the little squalling bundle of Potter wriggling unhappily in his cot. “Alright, James?”

His tears pause for a moment as Harry and Teddy appear overhead, before the wailing renews in earnest. “Guess someone’s got a little gift in their nappy.”

Teddy presses his fists to his hips, power posing like a little superhero, and nods at Harry. “I’ll get the wipes.”

They go about the process of tidying James up, letting him swallow down a bottle of milk, then wander into the kitchen, standing side by side, staring aimlessly into the void of their mostly empty fridge, and then pantry. Harry bounces James on his chest as he slobbers over the collar of Harry’s t-shirt and Teddy sighs, chest rising and falling dramatically before he glances up at Harry and shakes his head. “Nothin’ to eat.”

“Unless you want some,” Harry shuffles a carton of baking soda aside and lifts a can from the back of the shelves, “Dehydrated milk?”

Teddy wrinkles his nose. “Ron’s?”

“You read my mind, mate.”

Harry and Teddy bundle themselves against the Autumn chill, tugging on wellies and winding scarves around their necks while James giggles happily while his chubby fingers jab at the dangling bits of his baby gym. Once they’re properly festooned, godfather and godson take care to ensure the littlest Potter is appropriately protected against the elements and admittedly overpack his nappy bag.

Luckily, the weather holds as they walk the few blocks toward Ron’s, the overhead bell soon tolling their entrance to the crowded shop.

Teddy tilts his head in the direction of the counter and bake case and Harry nods his approval, handing a few pound notes over before he carries James towards a free table in the back, his legs wriggling in the Ergo carrier. The line moves fairly quickly as gangly little Dennis rings up the line of hungry customers until Teddy’s next.

He places their regular order with a polite smile for Dennis and trots over to their table. “Dennis said t’ wait here and they’ll bring it.”

“We don’t need all that - ”

“Well too bad sir, this is a full service bakery and I expect a tip.”

“Gin-Gin!”

“Hello. Teddy Bear. I got some apple slices to go with this doughnut for breakfast.”

“You’re the one peddling fluffy strawberry clouds by the dozen,” Harry sticks out his tongue and starts freeing space for Ginny to take a seat next to him.

She laughs, “Only until my wandering brother and his wife return from their ‘second honeymoon.’”

Smiling, Harry sips at the tea Ginny’s set on the table and drags a third chair closer with his foot. “Take a load off, Madame Manager.”

Accepting the proffered seat, Ginny claims an apple slice for herself and ruffles Teddy’s hair. “And by the way, isn’t a second honeymoon usually more than six months in?”

“Hey, if Hermione’s willing to go on holiday, I’m not going to stand in her way.”

Dennis wanders by, bussing tables and offering refills as necessary, and slips Ginny a shortbread biscuit, which she accepts with a grateful smile before turning to Harry. “I thought her brain might leak out after the eighth month of negotiations.”

“She’s got a one track mind the minute anyone mentions institutional inequality.”

After a moment, Teddy wanders over to the little shelves tucked in the back corner and settles in on ‘his’ beanbag chair. Ginny sends him a wink and settles back in her chair, toying with the ring sparkling on her left hand. “Aye. And a few early morning shifts is a small price to pay.”

“Plus we do owe all - this,” Harry gestures a bit vaguely to their odd little family, “- to them.”

Leaning forward, Ginny kisses the sugary remnants of Harry’s doughnut from his lips, “And cinnamon crème.”

Much to Molly’s chagrin, Ginny Weasley doesn’t dress in white on the day of her wedding to Harry Potter (“I’ve already got a son, Mother!”), neither does she assemble a big party for the occasion. Instead, she chooses a dress to match the late autumn hues and combs her long ginger hair loosely against her back. Eyeshadow, lipstick, and a set of golden earrings she received as a wedding gift from her Bill and Fleur are her simple adornments.

Giving herself one last look in the mirror, Ginny smiles, confident as ever and clicks her heels on the wooden floor of her childhood room. At the door, there’s Arthur waiting for her. He kisses her cheek warmly, his fatigued hand brushing her tresses in light strokes, before extending an arm. Father and daughter together, they slowly descend down the circular staircase of the old Weasley family home.

“We’re so proud of you, love,” Arthur murmures as he holds his daughter’s hand.

It’s the whirlwind of emotions that deems Ginny speechless, and she simply clings on tighter to her dad as they walk towards the small wedding tent swaying gently in the November wind.

Family and friends are all waiting for her inside. Yet their faces are all a blur, she’s only got eyes for the man waiting for her at the other end, his hair the usual mess and his smile radiating love. Beside him, Ron claps his shoulder and greets his sister with a short nod.

Ginny squeezes her father’s arm and steadies herself as he kisses her cheek. Vaguely she realizes there are two women crying their eyes out behind her, Lily and Molly unable to contain themselves.

Another short inspection on her right side and Ginny is pleased to notice her little James Sirius securely snuggled between the two men whose names he bears. Taking a deep breath, she knows she can go on with the ceremony.

“I can never come to terms with how beautiful you are,” Harry whispers as she takes her place next to him.

“Don’t you make me cry in front of all those people, you handsome, brilliant man,” Ginny replies, her cheeks coloring ever so slightly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry grins and takes her hand, his thumb brushing over the engagement ring he placed there months earlier. It’s been a full year, a beautiful year. Best of his life, if he’s honest, at a tie with the one before. He’s established a permanent exhibition, his article on the dig is still published and quoted, his son was born, and to top it all off he’s about to marry the woman of his dreams, the one who’s made him happiest he’s ever been.

They say yes in a deafening wave of applause and cheers, grinning as they officially become Mr. and Mrs. Potter. Hand in hand, they walk down the aisle and accept all hugs, kisses, and congratulations, their hearts bursting with joy and beating in sync. Three steps ahead of them, a convoy made of Teddy, Victoire and Snuffles open the way, flowers spread around from their baskets. Behind, Ron and Hermione follow suit arm in arm.

“Not gonna lie, Harry, you kind of strong-armed me into doing the same,” George winks as they pass by, immediately wincing as a pregnant Angelina pokes him in the ribs.

Bill, Charlie, and Percy all hug their sister and cheerfully offer their congratulations to Harry. He takes a step backwards, offering Ginny enough space to celebrate with her family as he spots his own trio of mischief.

“Congrats, daddy,” Sirius smirks, cradling baby James in his arms.

Harry grimaces, “That sounds...gross, coming from you. And a little like you’re hitting on me, which I hope you’re not, giving that it’s my wedding day and you’re my godfather.”

Sirius rolls his eyes, then ruffles his godson’s unruly hair. “You’re alright, kid. No one’s mad enough to try and pry you away from that red haired temptress of yours.”

Before he can shoot his own comeback, Harry hears Lily’s giggle and feels her plump lips on stubbled cheek, as his father plants a kiss on his other one.

“Well done, son,” James booms. “Look at you - a proud father and godfather, an established archaeologist freshly married to a promising psychologist.” His smile extends to his hazel eyes, sparkling from behind his specs.

“She is rather brilliant,” Lily pipes in, squeezing Harry’s cheek. “And I’m not only referring to her formidable wit. I’ve read the study report on her work at the early education institution and it’s superb. I’m so proud of you two, my love.”

Harry lets himself be swallowed by the three sided hug before he can extract his own son from Sirius’ arms and find his beautiful wife.

Later, much later, when they’re giddy on pure bliss and champagne, snuggled close in their bed while their sons are fast asleep, Harry and Ginny feel like the luckiest people alive. And, in that moment, they truly are. They allow themselves to drift to sleep with their hands connected, ready to support and love each other in the days and years to come, for the rest of their lives together.

All in all, it could be honestly said that life throws a lot of unexpected things Harry Potter’s way, but his luck has been pretty good so far.

#itsblissfuloblivion writes #kindle chapter 18 #kindle #itsblissfuloblivion #fightfortherightsofhouseelves #gryffindormischief #hinny au fic #hinny fic #harry x ginny fic #harry x ginny #read-a-hinny-fic #jily #romione #ron x hermione

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builder051 · 6 years

Text

Tenement falls

The wait is over; the new novella is here! All 12 chapters are available on AO3.

I want to give a quick thanks to my wonderful friends ( my beta @mohini-musing and my artistic collaborators @sickandvomiting and @plotmatsu) and a brief warning for troubling content. There’s an in-depth trigger warning in the beginning notes on AO3, but the first chapter (below) deals with homelessness, drug addiction, illness, and the political climate of 1960s America.

With that, here’s chapter 1.

--STEVE--

“Morning!” Steve waves at the huddled group across the street. He pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the door. There’s a new crack in the glass pane set into it. As much as he hates dipping into the donation money for building repairs, he knows it’s not going to hold much longer.

“Hey, hey.” A redheaded woman pushes back the brim of her floppy straw hat and peers at Steve from behind her Peace Now sign. Steve knows her. She’s a regular in their corner of the neighborhood, and regularly sky-high. She looks sober enough today, though.

“You mind moving it down the block?” Steve calls

“Aw, man. You ask every day.” The redhead pouts, and another young woman laughs loudly.

Steve doesn’t, but it probably seems that way to her. He makes a point to ask only on the days he thinks she’ll remember. “It’s the same deal every day. I like your mission, Natasha, but you scare away the clientele.”

She flips him the bird.

Steve laughs. “Want some coffee? We’ll have a pot going soon.”

“Nah. But if you got pot…” She breaks off cackling.

“Very funny.” Steve joins in with a quiet chuckle. “Just…scoot down the block a little, ok? Then everybody’s happy.”

“Alright, alright.” Nat uses her sign’s pole like a walking stick and leads the motley crew of protesters toward the corner.

“Thanks. See you around.” Steve watches to make sure they stay put at their new station, then opens the door to venture inside.

The scent of the bleach from last night’s mopping dominates the dining room, but Steve can still smell notes of greasy food and unwashed bodies that betray what this is, despite his best attempts to prove otherwise. A collection place for the things nobody else wants.

Steve’s barely flipped on the light when someone’s already ignoring the closed sign and knocking on the glass of the door. “Hey, man!” a gruff voice calls.

“No, no, wait!” Steve whips around.

But the man disregards both the warning and the cracks in the pane. He knocks again, and the glass shatters, raining down like diamonds in the pale morning light.

“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” the man waffles, twisting nervously at his beard. “I just wanted to know if you still did breakfast…” His jaw trembles, even though it isn’t cold out. “I need some coffee real bad.”

“It’s alright.” It’s clear he needs something else real bad, but Steve commends him for coming to the shelter. Even if he didn’t read the sign. “Did you get cut? On the glass?” Steve opens the door and sweeps the shards to the side with his foot.

“Naw, man, I’m just hungry. I…” He lets out a huffing breath. “Do you got a cigarette or something?”

Steve knows he shouldn’t do favors for customers, otherwise they’ll come to expect it and he’ll be in over his head. And probably thousands in debt to boot. But he feels bad about the glass, so he reaches into his back pocket for the pack of Marlboros he’s not supposed to be smoking anyway. “Here.” Steve holds out a cigarette and his lighter. “We start serving breakfast at eight, ok?”

“Thanks, man.”

“Sure thing.” Steve watches him limp down the sidewalk, glad to have brought at least a little brightness to his day.

A car skids up to the curb and parks crookedly in front of the shelter. Steve doesn’t have to look to know who it is. He’d recognize his friend’s squeaky tires a mile away.

“An hour till showtime, and you’re already having a morning,” Sam says as he climbs out and pops the trunk. He points to the shelter’s busted door. “That glass finally gave out, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “I had an... enthusiastic solicitor. I’ll clean it up and find something to cover it with till the repair man can get here.” He starts inside to get a broom.

“Wait, help me with this stuff first,” Sam says, struggling to heave a crate.

“Sure.” Steve hops down the steps and takes the box. “What’s the haul today?”

“Tuna,” Sam grunts, hefting a second crate and slamming the trunk shut. “And corn. Just a couple days out of date. Not too bad.”

“Not bad at all.” Steve leads the way, tiptoeing around the remnants of the glass. “Guess I know what we’re making for lunch.”

“As long as it’s not tuna salad for breakfast,” Sam laughs.

They take the boxes back to the pantry, then set to work preparing for the breakfast rush. Sam boils water for coffee and oatmeal while Steve sees to the sweeping.

“There they are,” he says as he tapes a torn manila folder over the empty pane. “Already lining up.”

Sam dumps canned peaches into a serving bowl. “How many today?”

“Twenty? Maybe?” Steve estimates. “More coming.”

“There’s always more coming.” Sam shakes his head. Then, “You see Nat up on the corner? Still waving her banner?”

“Yeah, she and the whole gang were right out front this morning.”

“You should ask her to come in someday,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows. “Instead of telling her to move on through.”

“I do!” Steve tears off a piece of tape with his teeth. “At least once a week.”

“Start asking her every day. She’ll say yes eventually.”

“Eh.” Steve shrugs. “She’s not really my type.”

“She’s a fox, man. She’s everyone’s type.”

Steve laughs it off and tosses the tape into his tiny, cluttered office, then joins Sam in the kitchen.

“Mm.” Steve inhales the scent of the cooking oats. “Where’d you get cinnamon?”

Sam hesitates. “My mama’s kitchen.”

“You two-faced son-of-a-gun.” Steve smacks him on the shoulder with a wooden spoon. “You can’t expect me be stingy when you’re bringing in your own stuff.”

“Hey, you stop it.” Sam swats the spoon away. “Plain oats are nasty and you know it.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Steve says. “Well, no, it’s not, but you know what I mean.”

“Sure do, brother.” Sam looks up at the clock. “Quarter till. Need help putting out the dishes?”

“You’re not calling me weak, now, are you?” Steve lifts a bin of cutlery with one hand and a stack of trays with the other. “Mr. come-help-me-unload-my-car.”

“You know, if it wasn’t impossible to not to like you,” Sam starts, moving a decanter of coffee to a rolling cart, “You might be getting on my nerves with all that name-calling.”

“Well, I’ll count my blessings, then.” Steve shoots him a grin. He arranges the trays and silverware at the end of the food counter as Sam sets up the serving platters on the kitchen-side.

The sound of people jostling each other drifts in from outside. The paper-covered door makes it easy to hear what’s going on. A certain amount of anxious shuffling and sleepy grumbles are normal, but today it seems a notch down from violent. It’s another fact of life in these parts; punches get thrown from time to time. But it’s still something Steve likes to avoid.

“Alright, alright,” he mutters under his breath. “I’m coming.” It’s not quite eight o’clock, but if opening the doors a few minutes early keeps a fight from breaking out, Steve’s more than happy to do it.

The noise of the scuffle grows louder as Steve approaches the door. “Hey, stop it, man,” somebody says, clearly irritated. “Wait your fucking turn.”

There’s an incoherent grunt, then the sound of knuckles connecting with flesh. A body slams into the door, and the folder Steve affixed over the empty panel flutters to the floor. A silhouette with stringy hair crumples down onto the doorstep.

“Break it up, or I’m asking you to leave,” Steve say sternly. He’s afraid to open the door and dislodge the body slumped against it, but no one seems to be helping the guy. Steve bites the bullet and drops to a squat as soon as he unlatches it. The man falls backward against Steve’s knees, still mumbling obscenities.

“Fuck. Get off me.” His fist flies toward Steve’s face.

“I’m not on you,” Steve says, ducking the blow. “You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m…” The man trails off into something garbled, then uses Steve’s shoulder to claw his way to his feet. “Stop fucking looking at me, you goddamn fuckers--” He makes it two steps before his voice dies in his throat and he falls again.

“Oh, geez.” Steve reaches to help him up, but the man’s on all fours now, retching onto the sidewalk. It’s not the first time someone in line’s been too high or too drunk or too hungry, but it doesn’t make the situation any more pleasant.

Steve awkwardly pats his shoulder. The man moans in pain, and Steve realizes the left sleeve of his jacket is empty and flapping against the ground. “I’m sorry,” he says, quickly withdrawing his touch.

“Get away from me,” the man chokes. His lank hair hangs in curtains on either side of his face. The front he’s putting up is decidedly unfriendly, but something about him is familiar.

“Then fucking scram, man,” one of the others in line says, nudging the sick one with the toe of his boot.

“Hey, there’s no need for that.” Steve steps between them.

The long-haired man vomits again, then spits and growls, “I’ll fucking pound you.” He gets unsteadily to his feet again and raises his singular fist.

“Alright, break it up.” Steve gives him a light push away from the rest of the assembled homeless.

“Want me to call the cops?” Sam yells from inside.

“No, don’t do that,” Steve says. Then man’s on the verge of losing his balance, and Steve feels bad for him. “He’s just sick. Probably confused.”

The man coughs roughly, then gags. He drags the back of his hand across his lips.

“Alright.” Steve hovers his hand over the man’s quivering arm. “You ok?”

“Ugh. Yeah.” He spits again, then turns his head a fraction of an inch toward Steve.

“Oh my god.” Steve’s breath catches in his throat. The man’s hair is overgrown and he’s grimy and his eyes have sunken behind what’s probably been a lifetime’s worth of tragedy. But it’s not a face Steve could forget. “Bucky?” he whispers.

“What the hell…?” The man’s eyes go unfocused. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. He dry heaves hard, then sways on his feet.

“Buck?” Steve says hurriedly, catching him around the chest. “James? Can you hear me?” Come on , he thinks desperately. You know me .

Steve’s heart sinks to his stomach when he realizes that might not be true. Not anymore. They haven’t seen each other since the summer after senior year, when they both got letters in the mail. But Steve’s had sent him to NYU. Bucky’s had sent him to Saigon.

“What about an ambulance?” Sam’s at the door now, looking to see what all the fuss is about.

“Just get the fucker out of here,” one of the men in line sneers.

“Hey. You be quiet,” Sam tells him, jabbing one finger threateningly into the empty air between them..

“No, he’s confused,” Steve repeats, refusing to acknowledge the distraction. “He’s scared.” He hopes that’s what it is. But the droop to Bucky’s eyelids tells a different story.

“He needs medical attention,” Sam says.

“Yeah.” Steve weighs his options. Medical attention is a good idea. Emergency transport doesn’t rate as highly, given Bucky’s disoriented belligerence. “Yeah. I’ll, uh…”

“I’ll hold the fort.” Sam rolls his eyes. He digs his keys out of his pocket and throws them to Steve. “Go drive him to the hospital, you big-hearted fool.”

“Who’s name-calling now?” Steve shoots him a grin. “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

“Yeah, you do.” Sam flips the sign in the window to open , then addresses the crowd. “Come on in. Chow time.”

“Ok. I got you.” Bucky’s barely holding onto consciousness as Steve steers him toward the car. He tumbles into the passenger seat, and Steve tucks his legs in before slamming the door and hurrying around to the driver’s side.

“I’m gonna get you some help, ok?” Steve steals a glance at Bucky’s pallid face, then turns his attention to the road. He speeds to the end of the block and looks both ways. He fully intends to turn toward the hospital. But at the last second, Steve turns toward home instead.

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d0gdaze · 7 years

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Chapters: 1 . 2 . 3 . 4 . 5 . 6 . 7 . 8 . 9 . (ongoing)

Reddie / Stenbrough

Word Count: 3289

Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak is set up on a date with a friend of a friend, and this Tozier guy is a hot mess. || Stan has feelings. Bill is confused. Long and angsty and may or may not contain a roadtrip. AU - no IT. Characters are 17/18. Set in early nineties. More film based but contains elements from the miniseries and the book.

-Chapter 6-

The next day, everyone awoke in their own beds (or in Richie's case, the back seat of his truck), all hungover in one way or another, either from alcohol or emotion, or both. Ben was decidedly worse off than the rest of them, having had to rush to the bathroom at three in the morning to puke.

Bill had never felt worse. Knowing that he had probably just ended his friendship with Stan, someone he had known and loved and trusted, and who had trusted him, since they were kids. Knowing that they would have to talk, and it would be so hard and he would be stuttering so bad, and he would probably cry. And if Stan cried, fuck, he wouldn't be able to handle that. So he had lied there all night, counting the seconds, hoping that hey, maybe the sun would explode, or maybe he would succumb to some illness he didn't know he had, or maybe the floor beneath him would open up and swallow him whole, all of these things sounding so much better than talking to his best friend the next day.

Straight boys don't make out with other boys.

He couldn't get that particular thought out of his head. It felt so constricting, so uncomfortable. He had no idea what to do about it.

Straight boys don't make out with other boys.

But he was straight. He was sure of it. It had been one of the only constants in his life, up until the night before.

But straight boys don't make out with other boys.

The sun came up all too fast. Soon he could hear his family downstairs, Georgie switching on the television to watch morning cartoons, his mother idly humming as she cooked, the smell of bacon and eggs slowly sifting up to his room. Stan would undoubtedly be knocking on his front door within the hour.

Stan had gotten up before sunrise to go for a walk, deciding that he needed the fresh air after a very restless night. He had grabbed his birdwatching handbook and binoculars before he left the house. Birdwatching was something he used to do a lot when he was younger, whenever he wasn't with his friends or filling his religious obligations you could usually find him sat on a park bench, binoculars fixed on a birdbath or a specific tree. He had had a lot less time for it lately, but he still indulged himself when the rare opportunity occurred. When he was younger he could have named every bird as soon as he saw it and spell it correctly back to front, but that information had since been replaced with more important things, and he was much slower to recognise anything. It didn't bother him too much, really. He still enjoyed himself very much.

But he wasn't thinking much about birds as he walked down the street.

He was thinking about Bill.

His feelings were so muddled about the night before. He couldn't really remember any specific details, and what he did recall were broken up in fragments that didn't make sense when he put them together. The feeling of Bill's arms around his shoulders in the living room. Of Bill's breath, hot on his skin. Bill moaning softly as Stan dug his fingers into his waist. Bill's tongue in his mouth. He felt his face heating up.

It was everything he wanted, right? Yes, he liked Bill, he wanted to be with Bill, and that's what he got. He should be happy, right?

But it feels so wrong.

He had wanted to be with Bill, eventually, but not like that. Not so drunk they couldn't see straight. Not locked in someone else's bathroom covered in each other's drool, barely remembering any of it the next day.

He figured he should go talk to Bill about it, but what would he even say?

'Hey babe, had a super fun time eating your face last night but I think it was a mistake and I wish it never happened!'

He shook his head. It'll be fine! It was Bill, for god sakes, they trusted each other enough to talk about this.

Everything will be fine.

Bill dragged himself out of bed at 7.38am, figuring he would have to get up sooner or later, and he didn't really want his parents coming into his room to wake him.

He stumbled his way to the bathroom, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

He nearly screamed when he saw his reflection.

The left side of his neck was littered with hickeys. Big, blueish-purple marks all the way from his collarbone to his jawline.

“Oh fuck,” he said, leaning in closer to the mirror to get a better look, “motherf-fucker.”

There was a knock at the door, and he jumped.

“You okay in there Billy? Heard you swearing.”

Georgie.

“Y-yeah, George, I'm fine,” he called out, “just d-dropped something.”

“Mkay!”

Bill went back to inspecting the lovebites Stan had gifted him.

Fuck.

He knew that if his parents saw they would not be happy. And he knew that if any of his friends saw, they wouldn't let him live it down.

FUCK.

He searched his brain for a resolution, something, anything.

It was far too hot out to hide it up with a scarf, so that was out.

Maybe he could cover it with something?

He opened the mirror cabinet, knowing his mother kept some of her makeup in here somewhere. He rummaged around the shelves until he found a small tube labelled 'foundation'.

Here goes nothing.

He squeezed a far too generous amount into his palm and awkwardly rubbed it onto the side of his neck, and after he worked at it for a minute he decided that it was good enough, nowhere near perfect (it was too dark for his skin tone and you could still see the bruises coming through if you looked close enough), but enough to get away with it as long as he didn't draw attention.

He replaced the tube back in the cabinet, and cleaned up what had dripped onto the sink.

Stan had cut his birdwatching endeavour short, only staying in the park for half an hour or so before the lack of actual birds started to frustrate him and he left. He decided to take the long way around to Bill's, figuring that it was a nice enough morning, and the extra time he would have to think couldn't do much harm.

He could hear birds chirping in the trees around him as he walked, which irritated him slightly because where were the little bastards when he was looking for them earlier, huh? But it was still a sound he found soothing, and it helped calm his nerves, if only a little.

Somehow the walk that should have taken twenty minutes seemed to only take three, and before he knew it he was standing on Bill's front porch.

He straightened himself up and knocked on the door. He heard excited footsteps approaching him and soon enough Georgie was standing in front of him, flashing a toothy grin.

“Hey Georgie, is Bill here?”

“He's upstairs, I'll take you to him!”

Before Stan could refuse, Georgie had taken him by the hand and was leading him up the stairs, bounding up them two steps at a time. Stan just followed and laughed.

They stopped in front of Bill's room, and Stan braced himself before opening the door.

A few minutes later they were sitting under the tree in Bill's backyard, they didn't stay in his room as they didn't want to risk his parents overhearing anything or walking in while they talked.

“L-l-look, S-stan, I th-th-th- ab-b-b-bout l-l-” Bill was getting frustrated, it showed on his face, and he dig his fingernails into his palms. Stan just listened patiently, nodding gently, letting him know to continue.

“L-l-last n-nuh-night, it wh-was,” he could feel tears forming behind his eyes, a dry lump in the back of his throat.

Just talk, talk like a normal person for once, fucking hell.

“It w-w-was, was a m-m-m-muh, fuck,” his tongue just refused to do what he wanted, he could feel his hands trembling, his eyes blinking rapidly to stop himself from crying.

“It was a mistake,” Stan finished his sentence for him, “yeah, I know.”

Bill stared at him, feeling confused and angry and relieved all at once. He broke down, collapsing into Stan's chest, and just sobbed until the tight pain in his chest disappeared. Stan held him the whole time, not saying anything, not crying, not being able to pinpoint any particular emotion. He felt blank. There was no other way to describe it. He felt as if all of his feelings, good or bad, had just left his body, leaving an empty shell. Maybe they would return, maybe they wouldn't. He didn't know. Maybe they had left him and fallen into Bill somehow.

So he held his friend on his lap, unable to cry, or speak, or feel anything.

Eventually Bill stopped crying, stood himself up, gave Stan a weak smile, and headed inside, making sure he avoided his parents and brother as he went to his room.

Neither one had said what they really wanted to say. In a weird way, they were both glad they didn't. As it was, they could just spend a few days apart, and then they would be able to continue as if nothing happened. Their friends wouldn't ever need to find out. They wouldn't fight. They could just shake it off and pretend it didn't mean anything.

They didn't need to make it worse by talking about it.

That afternoon, Richie had met up with Beverly in town, and they had sat on the curb outside of the ice-creamery (Bev got vanilla and Richie got strawberry), talking about everything and nothing at all. Eddie, Mike, and Ben were all invited but turned the offer down, Mike and Ben had gone to the library together and Eddie was staying home to help Mrs. Kaspbrak clean up the house a little. So they were alone, and they both rather appreciated that fact.

“You and Eddie seem to be going pretty well,” Bev said, ever so casually, after finishing off the last bite of her cone.

“Yeah, well, I dunno about that.”

“Really? You looked pretty comfortable with each other a few nights ago.”

“That was before I told him I was leaving.”

Bev's smile faded from her face.

“Leaving?”

“Bev, you know I can't stay here. I love you guys but-” She was glaring at him now.

“But what, Richie?”

He shook his head. “I just... it's like I've spent my entire life in this cage, just wishing to be able to get up and go, and live the way I want to, and now I can, Bev. And I did, I left home in the middle of the night and just drove, and it's the best feeling in the world. And I need my life to be like that, Bev. Derry's just another cage. And maybe it's much better than my old one, the bars are wider apart and I've got other's to share it with. But it's still a cage.”

Beverly had to stop herself from slapping him in the face.

“This isn't fucking Dead Poet's Society, Richie! You can't just scream 'cease the day' and go live out of your fucking car!” The outburst was making a few people on the street turn their heads. Richie was in a mild state of shock. “I actually can't believe you right now, Tozier.”

“Bev-”

“What do you think is even out there for you, dude? It's like, we're all here, and we care about you, and we will help you, but you still don't think that's good enough?”

“Bev, please-”

“You don't think I'm good enough? Or Bill? Or Eddie, for god's sake?”

“Beverly.”

“Because I have known that kid for years and he has never, ever, opened himself up to someone the way he has with you. He was looking at you last night like you were the whole goddamn world. And if you fuck that up, I swear I'll-”

“BEV.”

“WHAT?”

Beverly fell silent, breathing heavily, eyes still angrily and somewhat desperately fixated on Richie.

Richie had plenty of things he wanted to say right then.

If I don't leave now, I'll never be happy.

If I don't leave now, you're all going to get sick of me.

If I don't leave now, I'll never want to go.

If I don't leave now, Eddie will realise how fucking messed up I am.

He said nothing.

“You know what, Richie? Fine. Go. If you don't want to stay then don't.”

She stood up and looked down at him, scowling.

“But don't call in seven years and ask to come back.”

And with that she stormed off, leaving Richie feeling wounded on the side of the road.

“What the f-fuck do you mean you're l-leaving?”

The seven of them were standing in Bill's front yard, all looking with differing expressions towards Richie, who was nonchalantly leaning against his truck, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, appearing much more relaxed than he actually was.

“I mean I'm leaving. Hitting the road. Saying sayonara. Adios. So long, fair well, auf Wiedersehen good night. Thanks for the accommodation Big Bill, hopefully I'll see you round the way sometime.”

Eddie couldn't understand what he was hearing. He felt helpless, unable to do anything. It was a bad dream, surely. Surely he wasn't really going, that it was all a joke. He would get in his truck and wave goodbye only to drive around the block and reappear yelling 'SIKE!' or something stupid, and they would roll their eyes and he would laugh and he would stay.

They still needed time.

They still needed to work things out.

He knew he didn't love Richie yet, but if he left he would never get to find out if he would.

Eddie felt panic set in, his breathing becoming shallower, his body completely frozen. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. All he could do was watch as Richie started to walk towards Bill, saying what might be his last goodbye.

Richie walked around to each of them individually, exchanging parting words and hugs.

“Bill, say goodbye to ol' Georgie for me. I wish I coulda seen him again.” “Stan the man! You bloomin' legend! Stay gorgeous, babe.”

“T'was a pleasure Hanscom, just wish it hadn't been so short-lived.”

“Mikey, my boy, keep keeping 'em in line, champ.”

Beverly had been avoiding eye contact with him through the whole affair.

“Miss Marsh,” he said, sounding as genuine as he could, keeping his voice low so the others wouldn't overhear, “I would say sorry, but I know it wouldn't be enough.” Bev finally met his eye, and he could see the utter distraught in her face before she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“If you ever find that you've forgiven me, I pray you'll call.”

Beverly kissed him on the cheek before letting him go.

And then Richie turned to Eddie, who had watched him the whole time, trying not to blink, trying not to hyperventilate.

Richie stood close enough that he was all Eddie could see.

“Don't leave now. You said two weeks.” Eddie whimpered.

Richie pulled him into a tight hug, resting his chin on the top of his head.

“Perhaps in another lifetime, love.”

“Please stay.”

Richie pulled away, only slightly, and tilted Eddie's chin up with one finger.

Then, Richie whispered something into his ear. To everyone else, due to the angle, it looked like a kiss.

And with that, Richie Tozier got into the driver's seat of his dirty, maroon, pick-up truck, waved at them one last time, and drove away. The next ten seconds were the longest ten seconds Eddie had ever experienced. As the rest of them watched the truck's taillights get further and further away, he stared at the ground. Suddenly he saw his whole future split in two. One half where Richie drove away into the night, never to be seen again. He would go back to his house, his mother would scold him for being out at night without a jacket. He would go to sleep and wake up and Richie would be in some other town. And Eddie would see his friends every day until eventually they moved or drifted apart as friends often did. He would leave his mother's house in a few years and have a place of his own, and he may even fall in love with someone else, get married, live a good, content, happy little life. And there would be days when he thought about Richie and there would be days when he didn't. And there would be days when Richie was just a foggy memory, possibly a dream, a good dream, but with out any reason to believe it was real. And Richie would do much the same or maybe he would just drive until it killed him.

And then the was the other half.

The half that scared him nearly to death.

Every single atom in his body was telling him to stay where he was. Just stand there, just watch him drive away. Don't do anything stupid. Dear god, don't do anything stupid. He's gone. He's gone and you can't change that. Don't do anything stupid. What would your mother do? What would your friends do? What would you do? DON'T DO ANYTHING STUPID.

“The offer still stands, you know.”

Eddie's feet hit the pavement before he even knew what he was doing. He sprinted as fast as he could possibly go, chasing after the truck, chasing after Richie. He could hear his friend's calling out his name, telling him to stop, what the hell are you doing?

He just ran faster, faster than he had ever run before, smiling and laughing the whole time, so weightless and euphoric that he felt he might start flying.

Richie had turned the radio all the way up, trying to drown out his thoughts. He had used all of his strength trying not to cry in front of the others, so as soon as he was out of their line of sight he just bawled, ugly, fat tears pouring down his cheeks, his glasses fogging up so much that he had to pull over.

He didn't notice Eddie sprinting to his car. In fact he didn't notice Eddie until he had already climbed into the passenger side seat, red-faced and drenched in sweat, panting and wheezing, looking like he had just finished a marathon.

“Ed, what are you-” he didn't have time to finish sniffling his way through his sentence before Eddie kissed him, probably the grossest kiss ever between all the snot and sweat and the fact that Eddie could barely breath and Richie was still uncontrollably sobbing, but in the moment they swore it was the best kiss that either of them had ever had.

Eddie had to use his inhaler a few times after they pulled apart, and Richie went to work drying his own face with the sleeves of his jacket.

Soon they could see Beverly, Bill, Stan, Mike, and Ben approaching quickly through the rearview mirror.

“Drive,” Eddie said, turning to Richie with wide eyes and a slightly crazed look on his face. “Ed-” “God damn it just drive!”

Richie quickly started the car and speeded away, until they couldn't see them anymore.

“Where are we going, love?” he asked, glancing over at Eddie who was smiling wider than ever, looking insane but still so fucking beautiful.

“Wherever the road takes us.”

#writing #reddie #stenbrough #reddie fanfic #stenbrough fanfic

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