#there's a reason the first line is pray indulge me! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dp-marvel94 · 1 year

Text

Face to Face- Chapter 54

Summary: When Danny went through the ghost catcher, he expected to be cured of the ghostliness that had haunted him since the accident, not to wake up on the lab floor with his parents saying he’d been overshadowed but everything’s back to normal now. But why does Danny Fenton cry himself to sleep to then dream of flying? Why does Phantom, the ghost who was supposedly possessing Danny remember a life that wasn’t his? Most of all, why do both the human and the ghost feel that something vital is missing, in their very soul? Or: Trying to cure himself of his powers one month after the accident, Danny accidentally splits himself but neither his ghost nor his human half know that that is what they did

First -> Last -> Next

Word Count: 7,517

Also on AO3 and Fanfiction.net

Note: Finally! The much awaited (for me at least XD) concert chapter! This is probably the most self indulgent thing I have ever written. 😅😳

Seriously though, I put so much time and thought into this love letter to my two favorite things: Danny Phantom and Christian rock. 😂 I hope ya'll enjoy it just a fraction of the amount I did writing it.

(And on a serious note. A warning for some minor religious references and discussion here- the name of Jesus in a reverent context, a character asks another if they would like to be prayed for. I wrote a very long post on Tumblr going to more detail on some of these and my reasons for including them. See the link in the end note.)

Excitement grew, buzzing in Danny’s chest as everyone piled into the GEV. Even Jazz.

The boy raised a brow at his sister. “I figured you’d wanna stay home and read about the psychology of troubled teens or something.”

The red-head rolled her eyes at the comment. She shook her head. “Spike is going. He’s really into the metal scene and I thought going myself might be informative.”

Dad glanced back. “Is that your boyfriend, Jazzirencess?”

Jazz blushed. “We’re just friends, Dad.”

The parents exchanged looks, saying nothing else on the topic. Instead the conversation shifted, back towards the subject of the concert.

“Danny, sweetie. Who are we seeing again?”

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

Less than ten minutes later, the group arrived at the park. Dad pulled into a parking spot and turned the vehicle off. The teens were out almost before the van even stopped and practically run across the grass.

There was the stage, set up the field where Sam, Tucker, and his two halves had played frisbee golf on Thursday. Danny stopped a dozen feet away, just staring for a long moment. Not even four days ago he’d fought a dragon here. Signs of the struggle still mard the area: patches of dead grass, a few fallen trees, and –Danny winced at the sight– the destroyed bathrooms, bared off the caution tape. A row of Port-a-Potties has been set up in their stead.

The sound of a guitar broke through Danny’s thoughts. “Feels like I'm stuck. Going nowhere fast.” An older teenage girl was singing while playing. “My life is on the line. I'm running out of time.” The instrument suddenly cut off. Then her voice pitched down, speaking normally. “I’m gonna need more guitar in my ears.” A few more strums. “Perfect.” She glanced over at another teen, holding a bass. “Maggie?”

Beside Danny, Tucker leaned in, right next to his ear. “They’re sound checking!” The half ghost could practically hear the stars in his friend’s eyes.

“We’re listening to GFM sound check!” Danny felt just as giddy.

More strumming instruments, banging on the drums, growling and yelling into the mic. “Mic check! One, two, three! Can you hear me?!”

“Yeah!” Woah!” The few people already gathering in front of the stage yelled an affirmative.

“Sounds good, CJ.” The bassist backed up from the mic, leaving her instrument on a stand. “Let’s get dinner.”

“Pizza!” There was a cheer from the drum set.

The other two band members, all sisters if Danny remembered, left the stage, now empty of people.

Sam tugged on her friends’ arms. “Let’s scope out merch.”

The three hurried over to the merch tables, the group clustered under a tent. First GFM’s merch table, all black and pink and green. Shirts and tank tops. A jersey and hoodie. Wristbands and stickers. Pins. Even a skateboard- with cupcakes and a cheerleader in a black and pink cheer outfit with fishnets.

“I want one of everything.” The goth gushed.

Next Relent’s table- black cloth covered the table, displaying fewer options but no less enticing.

Danny eyed one particular shirt.

Tucker pointed. “Dude, check it.” The shirt showed a typical, if spooky, bed-sheet ghost, the scene complete with the band name, fire, lightning, and little bats.

“I’m so tempted.” The half ghost grinned.

Then Protest’s. A huge banner with the band’s logo hung on a frame, shirts displayed around it. In front of that was a table with posters, cds, stickers, and other offerings. A man with long brown hair and an upper arm tattoo was hanging up one last jacket.

“That’s a sick zip-up.” Tucker commented.

The man turned around…. He looked vaguely familiar. “Thanks man. My bro designed it.” He pointed to another man, a few tables down who was talking to some other people. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m-” He held out his hand to Tucker, only to be interrupted.

“Joshua Bramlett!”

The four turned, only to see-

“Grandma?!” Sam’s eyes crinkled in disbelief of the old woman zooming across the path in her electric wheelchair.

The man’s (presumably Joshua) eyes lit up behind his glasses. “Miss Ida!” He stepped around the group, bending over to hug the woman as her chair stopped. “How have you been?!”

The trio of teens stared, confused. “What is happening right now?” Danny asked.

Meanwhile, the bearded man and Sam’s grandma chatted. “These old joints are acting up. But I wasn’t going to miss seeing you boys for the world.” She patted his hand. “You have to meet my granddaughter.”

Grandma Ida wheeled forward, the man walking back to the trio with her. “This is Sam.” The old woman introduced.

“I’m Josh.” The man offered his hand with a smile.

“Sam.” The goth nodded, accepting the gesture.

“Tucker.”

“Danny.”

Two more hand shakes were given.

Josh then lowered his hands, putting them in his pockets. “Have you ever seen us before?”

“Us?” Danny raised a brow and the man motioned to the banner. “Oh.” The boy blushed. “You're in the band.” That really should have been obvious; hadn’t he seen him on the flier for this very show?

Josh chuckled, giving a shrug. “I sing for The Protest.” The words were so casual, “Are you excited for the show?” and the question eager and genuinely interested.

The half ghost instinctively felt himself relaxing. “Yeah! We’ve been talking about this for weeks.”

“Me and the boys will be sure to put on a good one for you.” He chuckled, before pointing back at the stage. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got more set up to do. I’d love to talk to you guys more after.”

Sure enough, Josh turned and walked away. The three teens stopped, watching for a long moment.

“He seems nice.” Tucker commented.

“That young man’s one of the sweetest, most genuine people you’ll ever meet.” Grandma Ida nodded, eyes twinkling with her smile.

“Who you’ve apparently met before?” Sam frowned down, hands on her hips. “You know the Protest’s lead singer. How come you haven’t taken me to see them before?”

The old woman just shrugged, a mischievous look flickering across her face. Then her eyes lit up, gaze flickering to something near the stage. “Is that Marco Pera I see?!” She called out. “Don’t you run off now! Come talk to Grandma Ida.” The old woman wheeled off, leaving the three teens behind.

The goth lowered her hands to her sides, mouth open. “Unbelievable.”

Danny tugged her arm, diverting her attention. “Come on. There’s another table.”

Sam turned back. Her brow furrowed. “I thought there were only three bands playing.”

Tucker shrugged, leading his friends to the table. Sure enough, there was more merch displayed.

“They have everything.” Danny’s eyes widened. Bags, CDs, posters, stickers, and pins were typical fare. But there were shirts in just about every color, not just black or gray. Keychains and coasters. Wristbands too. Even jewelry, bracelets that looked like they were made of leather.

“You should get that one, Sam.” Tucker pointed teasingly at a pink leather bracelet with the band’s name.

The goth rolled her eyes, giving the technogeek a punch on the arm.

“Hey!” Tucker protested.

Sam ignored him, instead reading the writing on the banner behind the table. “Chaotic Resemblance. Who are these guys anyway? They’re not on the flier.”

“We got added last minute.” A blond man, late twenties with a lip ring, looked up from his phone, putting the device in his pocket. “We’re good friends with the guys in the Protest and playin’ a few hours away tomorrow.” The man shrugged. He had an odd accent Danny couldn’t quite place. “Figured we could swing by.”

“Cool.” Danny said with a slight smile. He had no idea who this band was but the prospect of hearing cool, new music was always exciting.

Briefly, names were exchanged; the man’s name was Travis, yet another lead singer. He asked the trio if they’d heard of any of the other bands playing today and who they were excited to see.

“GFM.” Sam’s eyes sparkled. “I’ve been following their vlog for like a year now. The music kicks ass. And their music videos! I love the one for SMILE.” She stopped, blushing in seeming embarrassment from the rant. “So, yeah. I’m excited.”

Travis laughed, expression open and kind, before asking Tucker and Danny the same question. The technogeek mentioned reading a review of The Protest’s new ep on a music website he liked and listening to the songs a bunch. And Danny…

“Relent’s super cool. Sam introduced them to me, since they’re on that same label GFM used to be on.” He blushed, cheeks scrunching up with his smile. “I’ve listened to the new cd like a hundred times. Especially Ghost and Heavy.” Just a hint of sadness brushed his mind at the thought of that second one. “I… really like those songs.”

“You’ve gotta learn the words, right.” Tucker elbowed him playfully.

The halfa just felt more embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well uh…”

“Don’t be embarrassed.” Travis leaned forward, a conspiratory twinkle in his eye. “Let me tell you a secret. We love it when fans know the words.”

“Really?” Danny asked hesitantly.

“Yep.” The man nodded. “So you better sing really loud for those guys.” The half ghost nodded eagerly. Then, suddenly strumming sounded from the stage. Travis’ head jerked in the direction. “Oh, we’re sound checking. I have to go. It was great talking to you.”

Again, the trio watched him go. And Danny’s shoulder untensed. He felt better, embarrassment and lingering sadness gone. He knew all the words to Heavy because, well… he’d listened… and cried through the song many times. It’s not like anyone could blame him, right? The last two months had been the hardest of his life. But he’d gotten through it. He’d learned and he’d grown. And that song had been a tiny part of that.

Shaking the thought away, the trio of friends returned to their spot near the front. On the way they passed Danny’s mom and dad, both seated in their camping chairs with what looked like a few other parents. Jazz and a teen with black spiky hair and a nose ring stood on the other side of the stage, a little ways back.

The trio stood in front of the stage, excitement building as the band checked their sound. Minutes later, the musicians walked off, leaving the stage bare and ready. Music crackled to life on the speakers. Pre Recorded but familiar, fast paced and energetic, from bands Danny recognized. Anticipation grew.

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

The shadows were lengthening now, the golden light of late afternoon bathing the scene. The wind blew gently, not too hot or too cold. And the crowd gathered, people packing closer together near the stage. The half ghost’s heart fluttered with excitement. The show must be starting soon…

A cheer rang out around him. The boy looked up.

“Who’s ready to rock?!” It was an older man, maybe ten years older than his dad, bald but with a big, wispy beard and tattoos in a biker jacket. “I’ve always wanted to say that.” He chuckled. “I’m Dave. I’ve been volunteering with Guardians of the Children for ten years now. We’re so excited to have all of you guys here today. ‘Specially these awesome bands on the Gotta Rock ‘em all Tour.”

Another cheer rose up and Dave clapped. “Yeah! Give it up for these dudes.”

“Woo!!” Danny yelled, voice joining his friends.

More clapping and cheering… slowly the sound died down.

The older man pointed. “Later, one of my buddies is goin’ to tell you all about what we Guardians do. But now… are you ready to have your faces melted!?”

“Yeah!” “Woo!” “Yeah!” The half ghost caught a glimpse of Sam, her fists already in the sky. Tucker, mouth open to yell.

“Our first band wasn’t originally planned to be here. They’re on their own tour now but makin’ a special trip to see us. I love these guys. If you’re in my generation, you’re in for a treat.” Dave’s eyes sparkled knowingly. “Give it up for… Chaotic Resemblance!”

To cheers, the band sauntered onto stage, one by one. The drums pounded, cymbals clashing. Then the bass, an easy strum. The guitar, with a flourish and…

“How are we doing, Amity Park?!” Travis ran onto stage, now in a jean vest with studs and hair unbound.

The first song started, unfamiliar words fast. The guitars slung notes, fast and driving. The singer’s voice rose, high and resonating, with a twang.

Danny bobbed his head, a smile growing as he listened. The sound tickled his ears. This was cool! Not his typical style for sure. Maybe it was closer to something he’d heard his parents listening to…?

A hint of a bridge. The guitar solo. On stage, hair flew. The song swept up.

Around the half ghost, the crowd was swept up with it. Danny’s heart beat faster, hair flopping on his forehead with his movement.

The chorus, on final time….

“It's time we break!” Travis half-sung, half-yelled. “The identity crisis toda-ay!” The note held out, long high and reverberating. Instruments clashed, one finally flurry of head-banging.

With a final shout, the sound died…. And the crowd cheered.

“Yeah!!” The halfa clapped, the motion big and exuberant.

One voice rose above the rest. “Woah! Radical, dudes!”

Danny looked back, cheeks bright red. That was his dad, hands up and grinning like a mad man.

On stage, Travis chuckled, pointing. “Thank you, sir.”

The half ghost face palmed….

The show rolled on, embarrassment long forgotten.

“We’ve got one last song!” The singer started. “Thanks for having us.” A cheer from the crowd. The guitars started shredding. “We love you guys. God bless.” A final yell. “Let’s start a riot!”

Travis pumped the air with a fist. “Hey! Hey! Hey!”

Soon the crowd was copying….

Jumping. Hair slinging. Figuring out what to do during the song was natural, the crowd moving as one.

“This is the Riot Anthem!”

“Riot! Riot!” The boy’s heart pumped, grinning.

“Our final call to action!”

“Riot! Riot!” He shouted, fist punching the sky…

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

The set ended but the show went on, Relent playing next, just as the sun was starting to set.

“What you're about to see is not for free. No, I ain't got time for apologies!” Danny spat the words to the much loved song. “I'm a south boy killa. No scope headshot winner.” Screaming. “I can feel something staring at me!”

Bouncing, the half ghost’s spirit soared.

But the next song was Heavy. “I wrote this song based on my wife’s story. She’s been through so much. So many horrible, painful things. But she’s come out victorious.” The singer’s eyes flicking over the crowd. “So I hope her story helps people. I hope it helps you remember you’re not alone. And it helps you find the strength to break the silence and talk about the things that aren’t talked about enough.”

The drums pounded, slow and steady. The emotional words rang out. “I cannot take the pressure. This feels like forever…”

Danny sang along, vision threatening to blur….

The singer fisted the mic, eyes closed. “Look what you did to my soul. Look at the size of the hole.” He lamented. Tears collected in the corners of the half ghost’s eyes. “Why do I, why do I, why do I feel so heavy?”

The song trickled to a stop and Danny’s heart squeezed. He whipped the tears away….

One final Relent song. The music pounded. Danny jumped and head-banged, excitement returning. His head swung at the bridge, the best part of the song. He sung. “Time’s up! What! What! What! Welcome to the-”

A puff of cold air. Danny stumbled to a stop, looking side to side. His eyes caught on… he blinked. A young man with sandy blond hair, a leather jacket. Was that… the motorcycle ghost he saw in the Zone?

Nervous curiosity squirmed in Danny’s gut as the set ended with a bang. The instruments pounded as the people cheered. With waves, the band left the stage.

The half ghost glanced back, his eyes meeting the other ghost’s. The biker raised an eyebrow. Danny turned back to the front, biting his lip. He should probably go talk to the guy. There was a little time before GFM started.

He tapped on Sam’s shoulder who turned as he leaned closer. “Save my spot. Be back soon.” The goth’s brow furrowed for just a second. Then Danny muttered. “Ghost.” He vaguely motioned with his head.

With no more discussion, he ran off, weaving through the crowd. Sure enough… there was the biker ghost. Johnny? That was what the green haired woman he’d been with before had called him, right? Quickly, Danny approached, half a dozen questions buzzing in his head. But what came out of his mouth…

“You should put that thing out.” His eyes narrowed at the death stick in Johnny’s hand. “Don’t you know cigarettes can kill you?”

The older ghost burst out laughing. “Shit, kid.” He dropped the cigarette, the object disappearing into mist as it fell. “How can you even see me?”

“You’re standing right in front of me.” The halfa raised a brow, arms crossed.

“I’m invisible.” He rolled his eyes like it was obvious. “You a medium or something?”

“A medium? What-”

“Shit, I’ve seen you before.” The biker interrupted, snapping his finger. “You look like that twelve year old who was looking for his Mama.”

“I’m fourteen!” Danny bared his teeth. A cold feeling flickered in his eyes, green light swirling in them.

“Holy….” The other ghost’s eyes widened. “I thought you were the live twin to your dead bro. But… holy f-king hell….” He pointed. “You’re a halfa.”

Said halfa dropped his arms. “What… How?… I just flashed my eyes and knew it like that?”

“I felt it, now that I’m actually lookin’ at ya…” Somehow, Johnny’s eyes widened more. “How come I didn’t feel it before?”

Danny blushed. “That’s complicated…” He shook his head. “What are you doing here?” The question was curious, just a hint of suspicion.

“Watching a show.” He motioned to the stage, matter-of-fact. “Me and Kitten stumbled on a natural portal. Thought we’d have a bit of fun.” He leaned forward, voice lowering. “She’s good about knowing how long one’s gonna be open. Said we’ve got ‘til midnight.”

Danny’s brow furrowed. So that was apparently a thing…? But he didn’t ask. Instead he looked side-to-side…. “Where is she?”

“Snooping around backstage.” The other ghost grinned, mischievously, a hint of sharp teeth flashing.

New suspiciousness flashed in his eyes. A desire flickered- to get the thermos and catch the two ghosts before anything happened. But…. the boy sighed. Johnny was just standing here, watching the show like any other concert goer. He sounded like he was enjoying the music. Maybe Danny could hope….

Danny rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Can you at least try not to cause trouble?”

“Trouble?” The man laughed. “We won’t do nothing too bad.” He winked. “Besides, I’m digging these guys… and girls?” His eyes widened slightly, set on something behind. Probably GFM getting on stage. He shook his head, expression just a bit more genuine. “Believe me, the last thing I want is to stop the party.”

At that, Danny sighed. Behind him, cheers started. “Great. I’ll be near the front. Have fun.” He started turning to leave. “And really, don’t try anything. My parents are ghost hunters after all.” He pointed a thumb to the two Fentons adults, standing in front of their chairs. “You saw that big gun my Mom had in the Realms? She knows how to use it. And…” He flashed his eyes. “My folks aren’t the only ones’ armed.”

For a second, Johnny’s face paled, nervousness flickering across it. Then he smirked, summoning another cigarette with a flick of his fingers. “Alright, kid.” Burgeoning respect shone in those eyes. “See you ‘round.”

Danny ran back to the front, pushing through the crowd. In front of him, pink-colored smoke still shot up from the stage. He arrived at his spot just as Maggie ran on stage.

“What is up Amity? I need you all to make some noise for me tonight!” Arms spread, head back, the teen brought the mic to her mouth and growled….

“Don’t tell me to! Don’t tell me to! SMILE.” A guttural yell.

Hair flying. The crowd chanted around him. “S.M.I.L.E. Why don’t you smile for me?”

His feet pounded, his heart pounded, sweat running down his back. Beside him, Sam spat the words; he could almost hear her growling along. Tucker banged his head, glasses hanging on for dear life. Even so, his friends’ faces shone with gleeful happiness.

The second verse swung around, the chorus again. Danny’s mind filled up with the words, the rhythm. No room for anything more than the sheer exuberance.

The guitar and bass cut off, drums pounding the beat. “Okay, everyone settle down. Boys and girls, are you ready?” The guitarist, CJ, more chanted than sung.

The crowd clapped and yelled, hands in the air.

“LuLu, are you ready?” Pointing at the drummer. “I know I’m ready!” With a grin. “Maggie, are you ready?” Voice pitched up, a performatively raised brow. “Maggie?”

A pause. The audience held their breath, gripped with anticipation and...

“Go!” A growl from said teen. The breakdown hit.

And the crowd lost it. Jumping. Headbanging. Pushing and shoving. Moshing. The horde jolted. Someone ran past Danny. And…. they were circling?! The half ghost grinned manically.

“Jack!”

His ears twitched at the cry. A look back, eyes widened. And… Danny just about felt his soul leave his body. His Dad… his dad was in the circle pit. A flash of worry. But the man was keeping up no problem, sure on his feet.

Danny chuckled, turning back to the front as the last chorus started. His voice joined the rest. At least his dad was having fun….

“Anyone want cupcakes?!” Maggie yelled.

This was it, the last song! And there they were: clear plastic containers with neon-frosted confections. The famed cupcakes!

“Misery loves company, I bet you're fun at parties.” Cupcakes flew. “Chasing after all the things you think will make you happy.” Instinctively, Danny ducked. “You've been played so many times, you'd make the perfect barbie.” The sugary goodness rained down. “Pretend your life's a fairytale, the story's getting boring….” The guitar sped up, fingers flying across the cords.

Adrenaline rushed through his veins, heart pounding a mile a minute. He sang his lungs out. “I don’t need your fantasy!”

Beside him, Sam’s eyes shone with passion, a balled fist to the sky. “'Cause I'm gonna say, gonna say what I wanna say…”

A cupcake nailed her in the shoulder, pink icing smearing across her shirt and face. Danny laughed, pointing. The shocked look on her face!

“…my voice. You can't take it away!”

Something chocolate brown and blue flew at his face. The half ghost flailed to catch and…

“You can’t!”

Blue icing coated his hands. He dropped the cupcake…

“You can’t! You can’t!”

Right into Tucker’s hands. The technogeek smirked, taking a huge bite.

Danny lost it, bursting out laughing. Mind, body, heart, and soul wrapped up, caught up in the moment. Just him and the beat. The stickiness on his hands. His grinning, screaming, laughing friends. The press of the crowd around him. The words pouring out of his mouth.

“This is my life, my voice. You can't take it away!”

His core sang, buzzing inside him. This. This right here. It was amazing, incredible, perfect. The feeling almost euphoric.

This is awesome! The words were more yelled in his head than thought. An almost physical thing, like throwing the idea with his mind to-

“Misery loves company, I bet you're fun at parties.” Sam’s jump sent her careening into him. “Chasing after all the things you think will make you happy!” She’s never looked so happy to be wearing pink.

The breakdown. Tucker’s flailing arm jolted his side, icing smeared around the technogeek’s mouth.

“Now, you’ll see… I don’t need your fantasy!” With bared teeth, head raised to the sky, Danny had never felt so alive….

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

The set ended with a bang, the clashing of instruments as people cheered. The three sisters left the stage. The previous soundtrack started again, so much quieter than the live music. The half ghost almost felt the crowd breath out, decompress as one of the Guardian of the Children volunteers came up to speak. The mass of people shifted, the space for moshing filling in as some snuck closer to the front and others left. Jazz and Spike drifted closer, standing right beside Danny and his friends.

Danny took a breath, whipping his sweaty forehead.

His sister laughed, giving him a knowing look.

The boy raised a brow. “I’ve got icing on my face now, don’t I?”

“Yep.” Jazz’s tone was full of teasing.

“You want some?” With a grin, the little brother swiped for her.

“Danny!” The older teen shrieked, jumping away.

“Come on! Let me give you a high five!” He reached again.

Jazz weaved, dodging. “No!”

“Come on!” Danny got her right in her face.

“Ew! It’s sticky!” The girl fished in her bag, pulling on a sleeve of wet wipes. Frustiously, she whipped at the blue frosting. “Here, you heathen.” She shoved the package at her brother.

The boy rolled his eyes but obliged, whipping his hands. It did feel nice to get the sticky feeling off them.

A sudden screeching sound through the mic brought Danny’s attention back to the speaker.

The older man speaking smiled sheepishly. “Got too close to the mic there. As I was saying…”

What was the man saying? Danny should probably pay attention…

The boy shuffled foot to foot, watching, listening. He was getting tired from standing here so long. And thirsty. He’d sung, and screamed, and sweated a lot. He glanced back, wanting to go get some water. But his coveted spot…

Another screech. Danny’s gaze jolted back, focus returned. The mic was giving the guy problems, huh? He watched the stage, the lights slowly brightening in the growing darkness. It was well past sunset now. A flicker of movement below the stage caught Danny’s attention. Some thing darted by, dark and strangely formless. That was weird…

A few more minutes and the volunteer finished speaking, leaving the stage. The soundtrack returned as the lights on the stage dimmed.

Danny’s insides fluttered, anticipation rising again. He was still tired, previous emotional high lessened. But the last band was about to come on soon! The headliner!

Beside him, Tucker shook with excitement. “Oh, man. This is gonna be awesome.”

Danny nodded. The lights shifted, spot lighting the drums. And…

“Make some noise, Amity!” Josh ran on stage, jumping. “I wanna see you on your feet!”

The music rumbled and the crowd obeyed. A roar from the background track. Josh fisted the mic and growled. “I caught you like the monster hiding under my bed. Now I’m gonna rip you right out of my head! Like a baseball to the side of the face, I’ll make you disappear without a trace.” Heads bobbed, hands raised. “The match is in my hand… The match is in my hand!” The crowd shook, starting to jump. “You’re just a paper!”

A deafening pop and sound and lights died.

“A paper tiger!” The last yelled words sounded, only audible because of how close Danny was to the stage.

For a few more seconds, the crowd continued jumping, the band still trying to play as Josh sang without amplification . “Nothing more than a… silver tongued… liar?”

But the movement stalled, fizzling out. The half ghost stumbled to a stop, brow furrowing in confusion. Around him the crowd started to murmur.

On stage, the guitarist closest to the trio, short cropped hair and bare faced in a tank top, stummed, no sound coming through the speaker. His head turned toward the others already gathering around the drum set. “Did we just lose power?”

The drummer shrugged. One of the lights flashed on, randomly swiveling on its display. The spotlight shone right in the short haired musician’s face. “Woah!” He closed his eyes, head jerking away. The sound echoed out. The man blinked. “Hey, the mic’s back.”

More strumming attempts. Josh tried his mic again, lowering it with a confused look. The drummer motioned to something on the laptop set up beside the kit.

The guitarist turned his attention back to the audience. “Well, that’s how you know it’s live and we’re not just playing over a recording.” He laughed, strumming his guitar and making a face. “Anyone want to hear a joke?”

Under the stage something black flickered again. Danny titled his head, brow furrowed.

“What's a vampire's favorite kind of candy?” He gave a pause for effect, murmurs of question coming from the audience. Then… "A sucker."

Around him, people chuckled lightly, several groaning at the bad joke. On stage, the man continued. “There’s more where that came from. What do….”

The words drifted over Danny’s head, unable to keep his attention. Instead, his focus was on a… weird, unnaturally dark shadow. It undulated, half-slinging-half-crawling in the recesses under the stage.

Another electric pop. The lights swiveled.

Danny almost swore he heard laughter….

The half ghost’s head turned side to side, looking. Was… no one else really seeing this?

The creature…. The ghost (it must be another ghost, with the way his ghost sense was swirling in his throat) chuckled again, static echoing through the speakers.

A few people winced, covering their ears. “Okay, okay, no more dad jokes.”

Somehow no one was seeing the ghost. How? Other people had been able to see the Lunch Lady and Dora. Wait…. It must have been the partial invisibility like Sidney showed him. But why…

“Hey!” The word was hissed, just a hint of ghostly echo.

Danny’s head jerked, looking for the source of the noise. His gaze scanned the crowd. For just a second, his eyes met his mother’s, her brow wrinkled in concern as she stood up.

Then… his gaze met a wavering, ethereal figure. Johnny…

“Cut it out!” The ghostly man hissed. He drifted forward, unseen by the crowd even as he literally, intangibly floated through them.

Danny’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I’m not doing anything.” He muttered hotly, earning a confused look from Tucker.

The biker ghost “What? No, not-” Another crackle cut off the word, the man covering his ears. His eyes narrowed, fixing on….

The strange embodiment of darkness.

Oh. Danny realized

“Cut it out, Shadow.” The man complained. “I’m actually enjoying this. Go make a kid drop their ice cream or something.”

Danny raised a brow at that last part but Johnny waved him off, attention still on the shadow.

“I’ll bring out the flashlight, man. Just you keep it up and see.” The other ghost threatened.

The living (unliving? undead?) shadow seemed to deflate. With something like a sigh, it zipped off.

The lights came back on. “Hey!” Several positive shouts came from the stage.

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Danny picked up the words, from the other guitarist and unamplified.

The half ghost turned his attention back to Johnny. “What was that about?” He asked quietly.

The man shrugged. “There’s a reason they call me Unlucky Johnny 13.” He motioned, waving in the general direction the shadow had gone. “Thing’s got a mind of its own.”

That… answered no questions. But the other ghost ignored Danny’s confused look, instead lifting a hand. “There you are Kitty.” His eyes lit up and in a blink, he disappeared, materializing at the green-haired woman’s side seconds later.

Danny just blinked, taking in what had just happened. That was… something.

“...feel like my ears are burning. They’re talking about me, aren’t they?” The words drew the half ghost’s attention back. The guitarist pointed his thumb at his bandmates. “I’m being voted out of the band, aren’t I?” The look was falsely aghast. “This’ll be my last show with the Protest, guys. It’s been fun.”

What the heck had he missed?

Just then, his mom tapped on his shoulder.

Danny turned jerkily, surprised. “When did you get here?”

The woman’s brow furrowed in concern. “You had a strange look on your face. Is everything alright sweetie? ”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” His eyes flickered to the two ghosts standing at the edge of the crowd. The halfa’s voice lowered, stepping closer to the woman. “There’s two ghosts, the biker couple we saw in the Realms. And this weird shadow ghost that was messing with the sound. The dude, Johnny, yelled at it to stop and it flew off somewhere.”

His mom looked in the direction his gaze had flickered. “I can’t see them.”

“I don’t think anyone else can either. Just me.” The boy shrugged. “It’s a ghost thing.”

“What are they doing?” She asked.

“Just watching the show. Johnny said they came through a natural portal and wanted to have some fun.”

Her forehead wrinkled in worry at the statement. “A natural portal again?”

“We’re good to go!” The crowd cheering interrupted Danny’s response. Josh’s words echoed. “Let’s start this again.”

“We can talk later.” Danny had to raise his voice to be heard. Accepting a nod in response, he turned back to the front.

The band was walking off the stage, only to return moments later to cheers.

The instruments pounded. The singer held the mic to his mouth and… “I caught you like the monster hiding under my bed….”

The song started again and Danny jumped, previous confusion and worry quickly forgotten.

“You’re just a paper! A paper tiger! Nothing more than a silver tongued liar! Paper! Paper Tiger! Incinerated by my new found fire!”

The crowd jumped and screamed. Song after song, excitement built.

Josh sang. “You may feel a change but don't be afraid.”

“The transformation has just begun!” The short-haired guitarist quipped with a grin, pointing at the audience….

The words half-chanted. “In the freak show. In the freak show. In the freak show.” Hands flailed, shoulders shook as Danny and his friends danced.

“Your mind will be blown away! Hey!” Each word punctuated by a fist to the sky. “Hey! Hey!”

“Welcome to the Freakshow!” Second chorus ending, the crowd reached a fever pitch.

His heart beating in time with the music, Danny head-banged. His hair flung, dripping with sweat.

Something square and silver at the edge of his vision. Head turned, brow furrowed. His mom had her phone out, lens facing him.

The boy snorted. Sore neck bobbing faster, he stuck out his tongue at her….

In the small break before the next song… “You’re supposed to take pictures of the band, not me!” Danny laughed…

The set forgaged on. Shredding guitars, pounding drums, screamed words. The songs were incredible. And the message in between…

“If you leave here tonight with one thing, know that you are loved so much. Do you guys understand me?” Murmurs of agreement. “So much. You have no idea.” Josh’s eyes were wide and earnest, so much conviction behind the words. “After we’re done playing tonight, we will be over at the merch tent. Please come talk to us. You are looking at four sinners so we don’t have all the answers, I promise you that. We don’t. We would love to hear your story. We’d love to pray with you. We’d love to talk with you. That’s why we’re here. That’s why all of these bands are here, why we drove hundreds of miles to be here today. To share the hope that we have in Jesus. We love you guys so so much. Come hang out with us. We’ve got a few more for you….”

Danny’s heart squeezed, something deep in him touched by the words. He didn’t know about all of this, but that offer… to be heard, to be listened to. There were plenty of things he couldn’t say but…

Another song started. By now, the almost euphoric excitement had smoothed, lessened, morphed into a more quiet, heartfelt joy. Even still, the words sent goose bumps over the half ghost’s arm.

“This is the time for life revolution

Setting a course to reclaim the broken.

We look to find those lost in the night.

Following hearts that lead like a compass

Fire will rise and we let it guide us.”

The singer leaned over the crowd and the half ghost sang, his soul pouring into each syllable. “Despite the pain, we’ll stay unbroken.”

Each voice ringing in harmony, brown eyes and blue eyes met. Something in Danny’s chest fluttered, breathless and awed. He could never describe the feeling, not completely. But when gazes met… belief resonated. Both meant every single word….

To cheers, the set ended. The lights dimmed as people started walking away. And for a long moment, Danny stood in front of the stage, eyes wide and heart light. That amazed feeling stirred…

“We need to get a picture!” Jazz’s hand on his shoulder drew him out of himself.

“Yeah. Go for it.” The boy smiled, letting his sister put her arm around him.

The pair took a selfie, each with matching grins. The red-head lowered the phone. And Danny finally registered his friends and family hovering around him.

“That first band was so good!” His dad gushed. “They’re just like that band I was in in college! Good ol’ Skunk Punks! But they’ve got much better hair. And better lyrics.”

“Your strengths are in things other than lyrical composition, dear.” His mom graciously didn’t speak on the hair comment.

Sam pulled him and Tucker across the grass. “We need to get pictures with everyone! And merch! I want one of like everything.”

“Yes! I need the GFM snapback. Their set was so good!” The technogeek laughed, pointing at the icing staining her shirt. “They got you to wear pink. And.” He puffed out his chest. “I’m the only one who didn’t get icing on them

The goth rolled her eyes but then a mischievous look passed her face. “That’s what you think.”

“What are you- Hey!”

She swiped a glob of crusting icing from her shirt and shoved it at him. “Ha!”

“Not my beret! Sam, how could you!?”

Danny just laughed.

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

Everyone bought merch. The Relent Ghost shirt and a wristband for GFM and The Protest for Danny. For Sam, the pink and black skateboard, a delightfully cute and creepy pink, green, and black shirt, and a bunch of CDs. (“Who even buys CDs anymore? You can just stream that.” Tucker wrinkled his nose. The goth pulled his hand down over his face. “I want to actually support the bands I like, Tucker. Spotify doesn’t deserve a cent.) The technogeek proceeded to buy his own CD and his coveted snapback.

Danny’s parents even got in on the action. Dad apparently bought a Chaotic Resemblance shirt for everyone in the family. And the famed pink leather bracelet.

Pictures were taken with every band.

“A silly one next!” Noses were scrunched up in ridiculous expressions. Two members of the Protest pretended to be punching each other. Danny laughed more still.

Words were exchanged, excited ones about the show….

“Awesome set!” Each GFM member was offered a high five.

More casual ones, about school and interests. (Unsurprisingly Josh and co were very personable.)

“Yeah. I just started ninth grade. It’s going pretty well.” “What’s your favorite subject?” “Science. I’ve always wanted to be an astronaut…”

And somber ones.

The last band Danny got to speak to was Relent. His heart twisted, words lingering heavy on it. You should say something, a voice in him, not audible but very much present, whispered. The ghost boy listened.

“The last few months have been… really hard for me, for a bunch of reasons. But… I’ve listened to your song, Heavy a bunch of times. And it’s really helped me. Like… uhh… when I couldn’t sleep and just wanted to cry. And… yeah. I’ve listened to it alot and all your other songs so…. Thanks for writing them and putting them out. And… uh… thanks for being here tonight.”

Danny looked down, nervousness flopping his stomach.

“That’s why we write songs and tour.” The lead singer (In their introduction, Danny learned his name was Miggy.) “Like I said on stage, I hope that our songs help people. Thanks for telling me, man.” His expression softened, earnest. “Do you mind if I pray for you?”

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

As Danny’s friends and family walked back towards the GEV, the boy lingered for just a moment to look over the field. For just a second, three ghostly figures flickered into existence. Kitty and Johnny, the black shadow curled at the man’s feet, floated in front of the stage, unseen by all except the half ghost. The man nodded in his direction, lifting a cigarette-gripping hand. The green-haired woman waved.

Danny returned the gesture, lips quirking as the couple disappeared. He had a feeling he’d be seeing them again.

With the ghosts gone, the boy turned his attention back to the activity across the field. The bands were still active, packing up instruments and putting them in the vans and buses. Soon enough the stage would be torn down as well, leaving no evidence of the concert that had been here.

Even so, the half ghost’s heavy heart felt lightened. He felt better after talking to Miggy; that had been good for him. The boy sighed. This had been an incredible night.

Sam bumped his shoulder. “Come on. Tucker asked and your dad said he’s taking us to Nasty Burger for shakes.”

It looked like the night wasn’t over yet.

Everyone piled into the GEV and his dad pulled out, leaving the almost empty parking lot. A few minutes later found the trio sitting at a picnic table outside the restaurant, each nursing their own shake.

Chatter batted back and forth, jokes and memories. The three looked through the pictures that had been taken.

“That’s a good one! You got him mid-head bang.” Tucker pointed while he and Danny leaned over Sam’s phone, admiring a picture of Josh Bramlett with his hair spread in a halo above him.

“I love this one.” The goth swiped. This photo was of GFM’s drummer, an excited grin plastered on her face.

“Drummer pics are so hard to get! That’s awesome.” Danny congratulated.

The conversation continued on, milkshakes almost finished and…

The half ghost sighed. “Thanks guys for being there.”

That got him strange looks. “Dude, of course we were going to come to the show with you.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I…” Danny shook his head. He wasn’t exactly sure what prompted this line of thinking but… “I mean…. Thanks for being here for me. With the accident and then splitting myself. I know it’s been hard and you’ve been the best friends I could ask for.” He’d told them as much at Sam’s that day, when they’d convinced Phantom to talk to Fenton about re-fusing and his denial of his death. And even before that…

He blushed. “You guys are the ones who convinced Phantom me to stop denying we were the same person. You guys… you saw me.. You knew me even when I didn’t know myself. So…” He bit his lip. “Thanks for sticking with me,” There in the Hot Topic dressing room, after his ghost self had flown off… “even when I was a jerk to you guys.”

His friends’ expressions softened. “You really don’t have to thank us, Danny. That’s what friends are for.” Sam said.

“Yeah.” Tucker smiled. “We’re your friends. Of course we’ll stick by you. You’d do the same for us.”

Danny sighed, shaking his head. “Like I said, you guys are the best.”

His best friends both reacted out. An awkward group hug… the table in the middle had just their arms touching each other, heads close together. But Danny closed his eyes, heart warm.

This really had been the best day.

End note: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoy it. :) As always, feel free to let me know what you liked.

#my fic #face to face #double danny #split danny #danny phantom

40 notes · View notes

heartinajarofpickles · 6 months

Text

Dinner Is Not Over

Part 6

I really wanna draw the line! when you wanna keep me out of my mind, you want to put me down until I'm fine

Things have never been more interesting, although the state in which Crowley was, was far from ideal, the peaceful (and boring) sleep had already finished, ever since he woke up he had kept on moving, the demon was on the road and nothing was stopping him. It wasn’t a good thought the one the angel was having, but it was not like he was going to tell anyone about it, after what felt like a zillion years of repeating their actions something was finally happening, of course he felt guilty about enjoying this, but the demon dancing around earth brought him so much pleasure, he just couldn’t hold back, so he indulged one more time for old times’ sake.

As good as it was to have him back the angel realized that everything he had purposefully interfered with one way or another drove the demon into madness, fist that goodbye which leaded him to steal and drink viciously, then the messages on the voicemail, that made him destroy his beloved old machine, and finally not watering the plants became the starter for the destruction of the flat in the hands of its owner, somehow even after all that, after all the mistakes the angel had committed, he still jumped to his Bentley and drove to the library, even after everything he had messed up Crowley still went to him when everything was crashing down.

Aziraphale couldn’t pay as much attention as he would’ve wanted, it was his little secret after all, so he watched her get in the coffee shop when Uriel came and scolded him for not having things ready on time, so he had to pretended to fill out a solicitation form, and while he looked away just for one second, when heaven once again stole the angel away from the demon, Crowley got hit by the car, once his attention drew back to the dark figure on earth he observed it there laying on the ground.

Thankfully for both of them, as one couldn’t stand the pain and the other couldn’t stand seeing him that way, Muriel came out of the library and helped her get back on her feet, doing what Aziraphale so desperately wanted to do.

It wasn’t just a detail that looked different, absolutely everything have changed, even just by taking a look at the entrance the angel felt like he was going to faint. Since he saw Muriel selling the books 3 years ago Aziraphale refused to take a look at his shop, instead of paying attention to his business he focused all of his energy and thoughts to the demon, vigilating, watching over his dreams praying that they wouldn’t become nightmares, keeping vigil on their soft vulnerable state; So to see such a minimalistic place with all the books in metal shelves with bright white lights and those funky chairs, stole all the breath from Aziraphale, his space on earth, the one that he had rightfully owned from many many years was deformed, twisted in the hands of what was assumed to be his successor, change wasn’t wrong of course but no one really asked Aziraphale if these changes could be done. Not that it mattered, first because the only time they asked for his opinion was as a way to show support, he was always part of the statistics never the leader of the campaign, on a second note he would’ve said no; If anyone asked him for permission to change things up he wouldn’t have let them as the bookshop was already perfect as it was, this probably being the reason why no one asked him.

As he was staring at the screen everything slowly became prettier, the harsh image dissolving, the absurd colors mixing, the world was blurry now, a shield his body crated to protect him from his new sad reality, so he embraced it, he let the tears run through his face, play on his cheeks and land on the floor, first one by one but then allowing others to join many of them came and once they arrived it became impossible to make them leave, the only way they left was when they landed on the papers scattered on the ground, but instantly being replaced with a new one that had emerged from that holy eye, just as this was happening Michael came to retrieve the solicitation forms Uriel had sent Aziraphale earlier, when they saw the archangel in an awful state.

— “What is your problem?”

Nothing, Aziraphale wasn't registering any information around him, for once the world was quiet, heaven hell and earth for an instant shut up, they left the angel there, all alone, so he could grieve, grieve the space he lost and his favorite guest there, tears holding onto the past and incredibly terrified of the future.

All of this was wrong, and he couldn’t do anything but watch, that’s what he has been doing all along right? Just watching, watching how Crowley invented those beautiful stars, watching how Crowley tempted those humans all through history, in order to instigate curiosity, to make them made choices, freeing them or dooming them, the ways in which he made sure they live their lifes, that they could exploit their humanity and push them through the edge so that they could break their fragile minds and understand more, ask more, want for more, all of that just using her mind, perhaps putting them a few inconveniences on the way, he was a demon after all, but never doing anything that would truly hurt them, in the end his chore was to observe the humans, to accompany them, and Crowley was a being of word, he would stay there for them. But what had Aziraphale done in that time?, besides enjoy all of the earthly pleasures without giving the humans something in return, of course he was nice, but that was his nature, the sword too but that was so many years ago and he was created to be nice, a few miracles here and there, sometimes not even being committed by him, he was perfect because that’s the way it was intended to be, he was an experiment gone right on every single way; unlike Crowley that put so much effort into defying all the ideas others imposed onto him, that it became incredibly tiring for everyone, especially for herself, if only they inverted that time into being actually evil, they would’ve been Satan's voice already.

If it wasn’t clear before Aziraphale aspire to be like Crowley, but Aziraphale never had to hide, perhaps because of their agreement, but they were equally involved, so if they discovered them (like they did years ago) they would still have the other, but that’s not what he wanted, he wanted to be wise, he wanted to know, he wanted to ASK, he craved the skill that the demon have developed for thousands of years but that he wasn’t able to explore without being punished for, so he could only stare at pages full of knowledge and the demon by his side.

The glimpse of a light ceasing to exist pull him out of his string of thoughts, as he was watching around he realized Michael was standing there and that the earth between them had disappeared.

— “WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM AZIRAPHALE?” Michael repeated yelling.

— “Please put it back on” came out of the angel's throat in a desperate attempt to keep feeding his soul with torment.

— You are not on lookout duty, that's for the angels below, but of course you aren't making your job, are you? I'll be surprised the day you do something! Just look at you, you pathetic excuse of an angel, the only thing you have done is stay in that little store of yours, you have committed more sins than the whole building and word says your faith is as weak as that friends of yours, do you want to end up like him? It would be ridiculously at this point that you would go against any of this, any of us, all the power you hold is thanks to us, everything you have has been given to you by heaven, including that demon you follow around like a puppy, and this is how you repay us? Wasting your time fixated on that screen looking at him, we have been generous but if this continues we might have to do some adjustments.

With each word Michael get closer and closer to Aziraphale’s face, until their noses met their eyes did too, although the archangel eyes were staring deeply into Michael's, Michael was nothing but a white and gold mass in Aziraphale’s crystalline eyes, he was there, but his soul was still on the image trying to rebuild it to its old state of glory, his consciousness was becoming incredibly small to search between the atoms, and then too big to be sorting through galaxies in order to find a glimpse of hope through all this mess. The yells from the most experienced angel make him weak, he wasn’t feeling good and his environment just made him feel worse, he fell into the ground and just like before everything went quiet, Michael was still shouting, or at least that’s what it looked like, their face was moving cheeks all blushed up veins popped and little drops of liquid emanating from their forehead but even like that Aziraphale wasn't listening, he stared in amusement and fear seeing how the universe kept moving leaving a passenger behind.

13 notes · View notes

idlebeks · 1 year

Text

A Jumble of Guardian Fic Recs

Here we go again. With the 2018 drama Guardian this time. Same rules apply. These are all Weilan with no regard for theme or rating. I shifted a bit away from this fandom over the last year, so most of these are older. If anyone has recs for the newer fics in the fandom, feel free to send them my way.

when the light goes out by janonny

“Shen Wei…” the lantern says, and for a moment, his tone sounds fond, almost longing. Then the lantern continues in a jovial tone, “That is a good name.”

For some reason, Shen Wei starts at that, feels an odd jolt of deja vu.

Shen Wei stumbles across a lantern in the library that is always lit, sitting wholly out of place next to a window that allows in neverending Dixing light.

down comes the night by egelantier

Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei, trapped in the darkness under the mountain together while investigating a dangerous case, finally share some secrets and reach a new understanding.

Discidium, Reparandam by galaxysoup

The corner of Professor Shen’s mouth tightens slightly in the specific way that means he’s embarrassed but too reserved to show it, but it does put a halt to his efforts to make sure Zhao Yunlan has his gun, a backup gun, a warm enough jacket, a snack, and a willingness to preserve himself in the face of danger.

Call Me Maybe by Jo Lasalle (Jo_Lasalle)

A story in which Zhao Yunlan is good at paperwork, Shen Wei is an unreliable borrower of clothes, and the Black Cloaked Envoy needs better occupational health and safety provisions.

Get You A Man Who Can Do Both by marycrawford

The first time Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei met was while they were both petting Da Qing, so it was only reasonable that Da Qing got invested into their relationship right from the start. Also, Shen Wei’s first words to Zhao Yunlan were “This is a very intelligent cat,” which was the best and most appropriate come-hither line anyone ever used on anyone about anything, end of discussion. Da Qing just prayed that Zhao Yunlan wouldn’t fuck this up.

Put Him In The Longboat 'Til He's Sober by galaxysoup

It’s not that Shen Wei is intoxicated, it’s that the world has lost structural integrity at a molecular level.

wavelength by synonemous

If this was a movie, Zhao Yunlan knows this is the moment when the video would freeze and they’d play a clip of his voice saying the ever cliché, “So I bet you’re wondering how I ended up here.”

When it snows in summer by yantantether

In Zhao Yunlan's apartment, Shen Wei ushered him to the couch and stood over him as he slumped down. Zhao Yunlan threw his head back with a groan, exposing the line of his throat broken by the bulge of his Adam's apple. Looking up through half-closed eyes, he said, "Well, doc? What are you going to do with me now?"

Just gotta know by yantantether

'I'm not dumb,’ Zhao Yunlan says. He puts his right hand around Shen Wei's bicep, indulges his curiosity, squeezes gently. As he suspected, there's hard muscle under the rich fabric. Shen Wei hadn't been damaged by a fall from the roof, hadn't even been ruffled by Wang Yike's attack; he's letting Yunlan touch him now, but he doesn't have to.

He crowds closer still, keeps his hand lingering on Shen Wei's arm.

'I know humans, Prof,’ he says. 'And you're not one.’

Kite by Xparrot

Shen Wei is very confused (it's all right; Zhao Yunlan is there to catch him.)

Silence sharp as blades by frith_in_thorns

There's something I need to take care of this morning, Shen Wei had said, two days ago, and then had neatly removed himself from Zhao Yunlan's apartment and whatever this relationship was that they had been building together, without saying any more about where or why.

Every ridge hand-picked by the late sun’s slant light by wildestranger

Zhao Yunlan hasn’t been this happy and this angry at the same time since he was nine years old and his best friend broke his Nintendo when Zhao Yunlan beat him after a three-day tournament.

He wakes up on the office couch to see his team, mildly concerned but mostly bickering, and the Black Cloaked Envoy, standing calmly to the side as if he wasn’t secretly Shen Wei and probably sweating nervously under his ridiculous costume. Shen Wei, who has been lying to him for weeks about coincidences and being a normal if unusually enlightened professor; looking at Zhao Yunlan like he’s about to take up the invitation in all his sideways smirks and shameless hands without ever quite doing so; responding to Zhao Yunlan’s outrageous flirtation by consistently stepping closer but never close enough.

Zhao Yunlan gets up to greet this man, his destiny – who is currently scowling behind his fancy embroidered mask – and smiles as filthily as he can make it. Whatever else they might be to each other, Shen Wei has been taunting him for weeks. Zhao Yunlan is going to take him home and fuck him until he cries and he wants Shen Wei to know that.

“Long time, no see,” he says.

The Black Cloaked Envoy blanches.

soften endless nights of wind and rain by wildestranger

Zhao Yunlan is new to managing a partnership of equals, but it is clear that his understanding surpasses Shen Wei’s. There are debts that can be exchanged, but this one is too heavy for Zhao Yunlan to ever pay back. And the Black Cloaked Envoy is too used to taking care of himself; he is not used to thinking that someone else ought to take the trouble.

However, Zhao Yunlan is getting good at getting around Shen Wei. He knows his weaknesses, and where they can be weaponised to strike at long-held beliefs about himself and his duties in the world.

There is no necessary conflict between saving the Black Cloaked Envoy for the sake of the good he can do in the world, and saving Shen Wei for himself.

Dare to Hold by Trobadora

Zhao Yunlan lifts an open palm, his smile turning into a grin. "Welcome to the SID!"

And then, because his brain-to-mouth filter is plainly broken, and upsetting Shen Wei to a previously unknown degree apparently calls for an encore, he adds, "Though I'm wondering, why do I get the impression you'd have been less upset if I'd asked for a kiss?

Proof of Affection by laireshi

Fortunately, Zhao Yunlan stumbles upon a locked box that might contain information on the Hallows. Unfortunately, he doesn't know how to open it. Good thing that the Black-Cloaked Envoy is there to help.

"Oh," Zhao Yunlan says after a moment. "Wait, so, does this box want us to kiss?"

I Call 'Do Over' by Muzu

The Hallows have one final trick to play, and Zhao Yunlan is going to grab it with both hands.

when we reunite, the world will tilt on its axis by kyrilu

Zhao Yunlan tries to figure out how he should approach the matter of young Shen Wei.

Everything's not lost by frith_in_thorns

"Yes," says the man in the white coat, "Yes, all right," which is a bit rude — no one is forcing him to stay and listen to Zhao Yunlan; no one's got him strapped to a bed.

Small Arrangements by Thevetia

One of his braids had come undone and was falling across his face. He batted at it, resigned. He was untidy and disheveled, which was just so wrong for Shen Wei that Zhao Yunlan couldn’t help himself.

“Let me,” he said, and reached out to tuck the strands back.

Zhao Yunlan gets to take care of Shen Wei, and gets a little more back than he was expecting.

Makes Me Feel Sad for the Rest by Tethysian

"If Shen Wei wants romance he can have it some other time."

Set between episodes 14 and 15 when they obviously banged.

Quantum Immortality and the Timeline Convergence by china_shop

The other him tensed, eyes narrowed. “Hologram, clone, robot doppelganger, evil twin, or face-stealing Dixingren?”

“Time traveller. The Hallows brought me from the future to set things right, and I haven’t eaten in days, so you should give me that.” He pointed at the bowl of noodles. “You’ll thank yourself later.”

The Way Home (Forever for a Miracle) by starandrea

The Envoy takes Sha Ya and Hua Yuzhu back to Dixing, only to find hostile streets and a palace overtaken by rebels. They tell him to flee, and he does… but at the Lord Night’s pillar, he rages. The result may or may not be an amnesiac Ye Zun, one who claims no memory of the last ten thousand years and no Dixing abilities at all.

Shen Wei finds himself forced to choose between his brother and his home. No matter which path he takes, the SID will have to deal with the consequences.

which a minute will reverse by nightwalker

Shen Wei watched the young field agent wring his hands, and the realization of what was happening came over him like a shroud.

'Twas Brillig by Xparrot

Zhao Yunlan's job is to save a few kids. He's got that. He just has a few questions. Like where are they, and how do they get out of here, and why does his head hurt so much?

And who the hell is this guy in the black cloak and mask?

I'll Dream of You (I'll Never Be the Same) by umadoshi (Ysabet)

A story cycle for my take on two of the evergreen joys of (drama) Guardian fic: the idea that Zhao Yunlan spent (a lot) more time in the distant past than the drama showed us, and how the time loop results in there being no time in his and Shen Wei's relationship when one of them wasn't already in love with the other.

Bonus: fun with Dixingren biology!

if I kiss you (kisses will end) by umadoshi (Ysabet)

Shen Wei let his hands slip under the hem of Zhao Yunlan's shirt, finding bare skin. "Do you think I'm some shy virgin?"

"Nah, but you seem like you might be more of a romantic than me."

"I'm not so sure." Shen Wei ran a thumb firmly along Zhao Yunlan's ribs, felt the heave of his chest as his breath hitched. "But 'slow' isn't what I'd like."

Set after episode 14.

Flesh from Bone, Soul from Flesh by ratbones

A couple months after their return from the 'dead', Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei are finally getting something of a much-deserved break. Then the SID gets called in on a case: a triple murder of government officials on a public street. Zhao Yunlan knows one of the victims way too well.

Ice and Shard by frith_in_thorns

Zhao Yunlan didn't know what made him realise that something was wrong. But something definitely was.

Five Times Home by marcicat

Five times Zhao Yunlan ran away from home.

All the Boundaries Between by frith_in_thorns

In Dixing, expecting to have died after lighting the Lantern, Zhao Yunlan wakes up.

Like you're running out of time by frith_in_thorns

Zhao Yunlan is stuck in a time loop. Shen Wei is stuck on the outside.

war-worn by kyrilu

After his trip to the past 10,000 years ago, Zhao Yunlan attempts to adjust to the present.

he listens to you (to his heart) by sobsicles

Zhao Yunlan stares at him for a very long moment, and Shen Wei is helpless to do anything besides stare back. They gaze at each other for too long, and then Zhao Yunlan's face cracks into a smile he never seems to be able to stop.

"You look like a sad puppy," Zhao Yunlan comments, his gaze fond.

"And yet, you're the one who needs a leash," Shen Wei replies, inwardly satisfied when Zhao Yunlan jolts in surprise at his boldness.

Or, the one in which the whole SID team knows Zhao Yunlan only listens to Shen Wei, and they're not afraid to request his assistance.

A Name You Make Your Own by starandrea

Zhao Yunlan has known Shen Wei's name for a long time.

Once More from the Top by Muzu

With the power of the Hallows at his fingertips, Zhao Yunlan decides to make a few changes before he burns out.

Tonight Will Be Fine by laireshi

"Professor Shen?" Zhao Yunlan asks. "Shen Wei? Is there something—"

"I think the sword was poisoned," Shen Wei admits very slowly.

The Hourglass Runs Both Ways by Piplover

Zhao Yunlan was entirely out of his depth and he knew it.

Travelling back in time may have made for some amusing movies and TV shows, but the reality was far from glamorous or fun.

Nightmares Are Over by laireshi

Shen Wei seemed to be frozen in place, still as a statue. His eyes were open but unseeing; tears were running down his cheeks.

Flu-like Symptoms by Aythli

The Dixing woman sneezed in his face. Twelve hours later, despite the fact that Zhao Yunlan was assured that Dixing viruses weren’t contagious to Haixingren, he woke with a raging fever and bone-wracking cough. A Dixing illness, his feverish brain pondered, needed a Dixing expert. Although Shen Wei was the obvious answer, Zhao Yunlan was virtually certain his expertise came from actually being Dixingren, and he wasn’t about to risk infecting him. No, he needed someone unlikely to catch it, or at least probably safe from being affected. So he summoned the Black-Cloaked Envoy instead.

The Blood I Bleed Is Red by Anonymous

“The professor’s okay, then?” Da Qing joins him in watching the professor walk away. Zhao Yunlan takes out a lollipop and plays with it, but doesn’t unwrap it yet. Shen Wei’s gait is perfectly even, each footstep in perfect rhythm. Perhaps too perfect. “Apparently.” “Huh. You don’t think—” He stops and sniffs, stepping closer to Zhao Yunlan. “Eh? Chief? Were you injured?” “What? No. Why?” “You stink of blood.”

Collared by nightwalker

The cat took mercy and moved his bony elbows, crawling across Zhao Yunlan until he could sprawl on the far side of the bed, with his head on Shen Wei’s pillow and his legs on Zhao Yunlan’s knees, effectively pinning him in place. “When are you going to buy Shen Wei a new collar?”

Weighed Against Each Other by syriala

“Fortunately, I am used to getting injured,” Shen Wei says, as he heals the cut on his wrist.

Zhao Yunlan isn’t looking at him, but he sees Shen Wei smiling from the corner of his eyes.

Zhao Yunlan finally turns towards Shen Wei again, hoping that the cursed smile is gone from his face, but it’s still right there on his face, if faint, and he wants to put a genuine expression on Shen Wei’s face. Wants him to look after himself.

He wants him to be okay.

Etched Into Bone, Into Heart by Trobadora

Zhao Yunlan clears his throat. Leans towards the stranger, makes an effort to mix earnestness with his best blithe voice, hopefully projecting a self-assurance he's not feeling. "Sorry, but who are you?"

Instead of losing his sight, Zhao Yunlan loses his memory.

We're Not Bound To Break by starandrea

“You were my friend and protector. Now it’s my turn to be yours.”

Kunlun brought him forward. Shen Wei has every intention of bringing him back.

Forty first times (and the forty-first time) during the reunion of Shen Wei and Zhao Yunlan.

The Once & Future Emperor by Kakushigo

Five thousand years ago, Emperor Kunlun walked the earth with Hei Pao Shi beside him. Together, they united the lands of Zhōngguó and brought back magic. Then, in one horrific night, Shen Wei lost his Emperor and his will to live.

It was said that one day Emperor Kunlun would walk the earth again, but after so long waiting, Shen Wei begins to doubt. When he finds the reborn Emperor, Shen Wei wants nothing more then to stand by his side, but wonders if he'll be welcome once all his secrets come to light.

Let Me Read Your Lips with Mine by Kakushigo

Zhao Yunlan had become Lord Guardian at 18, taking over Guardian Bookshop and the hell gate contained within. His normal day consisted of pretending to know how to run a normal bookshop and teasing his cat, until a local professor swept in and swept Zhao Yunlan off his feet.

a token of devotion by Cross_d_a

Ten thousand years in the distant past, Zhao Yunlan unknowingly begins to court a young Shen Wei.

Truth Serum (side effects include) by whatisthesoulofaman

AU where Shen Wei doesn't immediately pass out after that drink and we see Zhao Yunlan put him to bed.

A constellation of two by naye

"You know, I thought about you a lot," Zhao Yunlan said. "Back when I first met you."

All-Consuming by ratbones

Zhao Yunlan is the chief of an organization that definitely is not the secret police. Shen Wei is an ordinary biology professor. They've never met. The strange events taking place in Dragon City are being addressed by the proper authorities and pose no danger to the citizens. Anyone displaying symptoms including headache, high fever, and disorientation should seek prompt medical attention for the best prognosis.

Black Scales by ratbones

There's something lurking in the hills around the Alliance headquarters. Something big, fast, and deadly.

Also, General Kunlun is suspiciously bad with a dao.

Prince of Thorns by Sylvia

Steel was the only thing that had a discernible effect on the rose thicket. Dark energy splashed uselessly against it, absorbed without a trace. Cold that would slow molecules ghosted across the fresh green leaves as a harmless frost, melting away easily in the afternoon sun. Fire… Shen Wei had not dared to try fire.

A rose thicket encages the SID, Zhao Yunlan is trapped in unnatural sleep, and Shen Wei is forced to rely on Zhao Xinci’s assistance.

like dating a brick wall by china_shop

“Tell me what’s wrong,” said Shen Wei, and the injustice of it took Zhao Yunlan’s breath away.

Le beau au bois dormant by Xparrot

When Shen Wei falls victim to a mysterious Dixing attack, the SID is on the case, and Zhao Yunlan is going to save him, no matter what.

filled my lungs with oxygen by egelantier

Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei are enjoying their happily ever after together. But there's a price Shen Wei has to pay, over and over again, for both of them staying alive. Zhao Yunlan is prepared.

Now Lie in It by Xparrot

Ten thousand years before he's even born, Zhao Yunlan falls in love, all over again for the first time.

#fic recs #镇魂 guardian #guardian fanfic #weilan #I had forgotten just how many talented authors hung out in the Guardian tags back in the day #so many good fics there

21 notes · View notes

susiecarter · 1 year

Note

thank you so much for your wonderful reply to my ask about the wips!❤️ please believe me when i say i’m patiently looking forward to ALL of them! (especially the gq/croc eggbaby series omfggg!!! plus the superbat sequels and top gun big bang aaaaa!)

now i can’t lie, i am constantly eyeing ‘bvs was Bruce Wayne’s kinky coma dream’ because that line alone makes me madly curious! so if i had to pick one idea that i’d LOVE to know more about, it’s definitely that one! thanks a lot again for indulging me!!! ❤️

:D And you are too good to me, anon, I can ONLY HOPE they're each worth the wait in the end! <333 (The eggbaby series is totally growing a plot on me, which I'm praying does not careen out of control. :'D And the Superbat sequels will probably take me the longest, just FYI, but I hope the guarantee of the Top Gun Big Bang makes up for that! :D)

... Honestly, I sometimes forget that not everyone in the entire world has been witness to the great struggle that is BvS Was Bruce Wayne's Vaguely Kinky Coma Dream. :'D Basically, it's pretty much what it says on the tin: fresh out of the theater after seeing BvS for the first time, I found myself pretty firmly convinced that the theatrical cut of that movie makes a hell of a lot more sense if it's Bruce having a strangely prescient, kinky dream than anything else.

Consider the following:

The original theatrical cut of BvS had noticeably less of Clark's POV than Bruce's; the Ultimate Edition has several additional scenes of his investigation of Batman + Lois putting the pieces together and realizing he'd been set up to fail at the Capitol. Without knowing that, though, and having only seen the theatrical cut, I felt like Clark's side of the narrative was weirdly insubstantial, and he seemed a little extra distant, uninvolved, arbitrarily deciding to fly around all stonefaced and threaten Batman ... not unlike the way Bruce might plausibly see him/imagine him to be, in other words.

(Except, that is, when Clark's talking to his mother, and suddenly seems genuinely troubled, more real, warmer; as if, even doing his best to strip Superman of any humanity, Bruce can't manage to imagine a son talking to his mother without some whiff of love and meaning and comfort involved. ;-;)

I have no reason that I know of not to like Jesse Eisenberg, and he's a good enough actor that I'm confident he was doing exactly what he was directed to do, as well as it was possible to do it ... but if BvS is Bruce's dream, it makes fifteen times as much sense to me that Lex Luthor is so blatantly Joker-inflected! Like, of course he is; when Bruce's brain has to generate A Villain, naturally it goes straight for "clearly unhinged, laughs too much, desperately obsessed on a personal level", you know?

(Also, Bruce's kinky brain being in the driver's seat makes Lex delighting in having Clark on his knees on the roof actually secretly a matter of Bruce assuming everyone must want Clark on his knees and dreaming accordingly, which doesn't hurt anything. :'D)

Even in a dream, I don't think Bruce could ever go as far as giving himself the chance to save his own mother; that is both too self-indulgent and too implausible, and he'd reject it as unreal in a heartbeat. The best his subconscious can do is put somebody else's mother Martha in danger, and let him rush in and save her instead. ;-;

The blatant plot U-turn of "oh wait Superman was never the enemy! HANG ON, HERE'S A CONVENIENTLY WORSE ENEMY, let's team up with Superman to beat him!" also makes more sense to me if Bruce, like, needed on a subconscious level to beat Superman up, to prove to himself that he could, but never actually wanted to kill him. Therefore, as soon as he'd pulverized Clark to his own internal satisfaction and indulged the desperate urge to drag Clark around by the throat and put his boot on Clark's chest and (nearly) ~impale Clark his subconscious was soothed, and free to say "okay, now that we've worked through that, we can be friends with Superman, no problem :) let's save the day together!"

HOWEVER, Bruce is still Bruce! There are no true happy endings, in BvS!Bruce's head. The best his brain can do is let Superman die a hero, so Bruce a) was right to have changed his mind about him, b) never has to interact with him again or actually deal with/do anything about any of the shit he was working through via a half-hour-long kinky fight scene where he got to watch Superman gasp for breath in the rain on his knees, and c) gets to dedicate himself to doing right by Clark's memory (and he might, might, even mentally allow himself some hope of success, with Diana there to help).

Obviously this still leaves plenty of stuff to finagle! Why is Bruce's dream so long, so involved, and so weirdly accurate on certain points? I decided the obvious answer to this was my favorite answer to everything: the ship.

So BvS Was Bruce Wayne's Vaguely Kinky Coma Dream became an AU premise that approximated a time-travel fix-it, in which Bruce Wayne was badly injured during Black Zero (along with plenty of other people), and the ship detected that and connected itself to him (along with plenty of other people) to keep him suspended in an unconscious state while it repaired him. Bruce's kinky brain was driving, cast Clark as the villain until it didn't anymore, flavored everything with Bruce's impressions and expectations ... but the ship used its own data to supplement and stabilize the coma dream until he was physically ready to wake up again.

Which is to say: the ship knows Clark's name and Clark's mother's name, even though Bruce couldn't. It knows about kryptonite, even though Bruce wouldn't, not right at the end of MoS. And it also knows about its genesis chamber, its ability to create things like Doomsday if required to, and, of course, Apokolips—which means the Knightmare ALSO suddenly makes sense, not as Bruce being precognitive? being sent messages from an alternate dimension? who tf knows! but as the ship, aware of the actual Space Threat out there, trying to insert that Space Threat appropriately into the narrative ... only for Bruce's ridiculous stubborn subconscious to shove Clark right back into the middle of the Knightmare, still the bad guy. :'D

ANYWAY, yeah, so then Bruce was going to wake up from his Vaguely Kinky Coma Dream, having experienced BvS and his whole arc of coming to the understanding that Superman's not the villain inside of his own head, and knowing Superman is Clark Kent on top of it, and knowing the actual Lex Luthor is out there, possibly an issue, possibly intending to steal Zod's body and make Doomsday. And he himself would also have JUST EXPERIENCED Clark's death and Clark's funeral, and would be wanting, more than anything, to try to make sure Clark doesn't die this time. And he'd already be three-quarters in love with Clark, while Clark has absolutely no idea who the hell he is or why he seems to know random things about Clark/Kryptonians/the ship or why he seems so weirdly preoccupied with and sad about and protective of Clark–

I have had several thousand words of this thing drafted for literally years now. However, when I first started working on it, I didn't know shit :'D and all I had to go off of with Diana was BvS + some early WW trailers where her movieverse powerset wasn't totally clear. So I wrote some stuff that turned out to make no sense, and then stalled out trying to decide how I wanted to fix it, and then JL came along and gave me a new angle on where the plot should maybe go, and and and ...

... yeah. I've reworked bits and pieces of the outline several times, I finally have a pretty good idea how I want the full story to turn out, but I still haven't actually nailed all the pieces down in order, redrafted the early beginning sections, or, you know, written the rest of the darn thing. :'D

Anyway! That got super long, I'm so sorry, I don't blame you if you noped out of that about halfway through :D but yeah, for all the time that's passed, I'm still really stuck on the idea and still really enamored of everything I worked out about what to do with it and how I wanted it to go, so. I am definitely hoping to one day finish what is literally the first fic I ever started writing in this fandom. /o\ :D

#asks #asks:anonymous #susie is ten pounds of words in a five pound sack #as per usual /o\#susie has a very big very scary list #and this darn thing has been the first item on it since literally 2016

13 notes · View notes

exultedshores · 1 year

Note

I don't really know if it's 500 words or less but DVD commentary, from ‘pray you never feel this same kind of remorse’? OwO? :

“It’s a far cry from the way Corvo used to just barge inside – because he does, in fact, own the place – and Teague manages an appreciative smile despite the fact that the sight of Corvo tugs painfully at his heartstrings. “Nothing but my bidaily reminder that I’ve grown old.”

“You’re not that old yet.”

Teague snorts. “Clearly you do not restrict the Lying Tongue.”

“About as well as you restrict the Wandering Gaze, I’d say.”

Corvo speaks the words loftily, yet they physically feel like a vice around Teague’s heart.”

DVD Commentary Asks

pray you never feel this same kind of remorse

Aaaah thank you for indulging me! <3 I'm very fond of this fic, it's one of those stories that just clicked instantly in my brain and was super easy to write down. I wish all my writing was like that :') I'm going to put my thoughts under a 'read more' again because they contain some spoilers for the fic itself.

The first line is a direct reference to an earlier scene in the fic, where Corvo entered Martin’s chambers without announcing himself and interrupted his prayer, because Corvo felt entitled to Martin’s time, and really, his very life. At this point in the story, Corvo has come to respect and trust Martin, so we’re getting explicit on-screen Character Growth! Also, I don’t think the Duke of Serkonos actually owns the Grand Palace, as the edifice was paid for with taxpayer money, but hey, it works for the pun.

Martin’s bidaily reminder of growing old is his prayers – I don't think I stated it explicitly, but he prays in the morning and in the evening, and he’s having trouble getting up from his knees now that he’s getting old. Imagine those two Overseers in Byrne’s office sitting in front of their little polyptych of the Seven Strictures – that’s how Martin sits, and the poor man is well over sixty and has not been taking good care of himself :’)

And then, naturally, follows Stricture-based banter – the Abbey has so many issues, but their ideology makes for great dialogue material, let me tell you. Plus, it’s a neat way to segue right into the meat of this scene – Corvo knows Martin has been looking at him in that way (established in the scene prior to this one), and he’s not going to just let it go. And, well, Martin doesn’t think there’s any possible way his feelings are reciprocated, based on, you know, the whole poisoning thing. So he figures the only reason Corvo would bring it up is to punish him for it, which is why the topic has him so instantly tense. Corvo does still have the authority to have him beheaded on a whim, after all.

Except, of course, that's not what happens and everything works out just fine, but misconceptions from a pov character are always fun ^-^

#ask #Shores answers #Shores rambles #thank you Flower <3<3<3 #I love talking about fics

2 notes · View notes

rosieartsie · 2 years

Text

A little excerpt from what I got done today! I fully indulged in my husband's hope that Bishop John Vigil was very hot. Surprise, he is a very hot priest indeed.

Vincente is out cold. He’s going to riot when he wakes up and realizes that Mercutio has drugged him to keep him well away from that fucking snake of a man, that he’s gone in his place to meet with the renown Bishop John Vigil, but that’s a risk Mercutio is willing to take at this point. Let him be mad. Mad as hell and safe from the church sinking their claws into him. Mercutio knows that Bishop Vigil is very likely planning to try and bring Vincente back into the fold after all and not for no reason. Vincente among other Catholic priests ordained for this kind of work would be a guiding light in this spreading, poison fog of possessions. But Mercutio won’t let Vincente be tempted into a position where he doesn’t get to do his best work, where someone above his head far away from all of this gets to choose who lives or dies. He’d despise it and regret it for the rest of his life. Mercutio will tell him that when he gets back and Vincente wakes up. Vincente will punch him in his nose, scream at him some, and then… then they’ll be okay, and they’ll do the work that they’re meant to be doing. Together.

Mercutio takes Vincente’s car to the place Vigil wanted to meet which is, aptly enough, a little local diner that sits just outside of town. Twenty four hours, fifties color scheme, the worst coffee in the county– he almost wants to bring Vincente to the place once he pulls up because it’s definitely their sort of dive. The meeting time is for midnight, which is also rather fitting in a way that’s almost annoying to Mercutio when he considers how well Vigil knows their modis operandi– work all night, drive all day, sleep when dead. He gets out of the car at 11:45 to have a cigarette and notes that there’s only one other car in the section of the lot dedicated to customers, and only three cars parked aside for employees. Quiet, remote… and Vigil is already here, sitting inside in a booth where Mercutio can clearly see him, long, slender hands cupped around a cup of coffee. For a priest he’s stupidly handsome, so handsome Mercutio’s willing to bet he’s not as holy as he makes himself out to be with his power and his prayer beads. He’s handsome the way Mercutio imagines the devil is handsome, dark brown hair finger combed back from his face with a single strand tantalizingly hanging near his eye, the artful strokes of aging lines beginning around his eyes in his cheeks. His eyes too- they’re the sort the devil might have, entrancingly, almost creepily bluish green, bright and clear like pool water lit up at night. It’s an odd, unique color and with a gaze like that and such a lovely, expressive face, Mercutio is sure he could convince fucking anybody to eat apples, or pomegranates, or whatever. He’s tall and affable, and when Mercutio first met the man because Vincente wanted, after a while on the road, to finally make confession about leaving the church and choosing a new path, Bishop Vigil had clasped Mercutio’s hand in both of his own, smiled so, so sweetly, and said ‘Take good care of our brother.’ Mercutio wanted to spit at him. Mercutio wanted to tell him he looks like a man who fucks. Mercutio wanted to scuff his black shoes and kick dust up on his long, crisp papal robes. Our brother. He’d said it with such a palpable, explicit fondness. The sort of fondness of a father giving away a bride praying day and night that the marriage ends in divorce. The sort that said, you’re an adorable pastime, but he’ll come back to me in the end.

If Vincente had come to meet with him, had sat across from that handsome, familiar man who taught him so much… Vigil would certainly use that fondness and concern to usher Vincente lovingly back into being his fucking lap dog. He’d smile sadly when Vincente would insist that they help someone the church doesn’t deem worth the trouble. He’d charm Vincente into doing work that only makes the church look good and use the Good Book’s bajillion words to twist that work into seeming like a truly altruistic endeavor.

Mercutio puts out his cigarette once he’s burned it down to the cherry and it’s 12:01. He’ll be damned if he shows up on time for fucking John Vigil and as far as John Vigil is concerned, he is damned. When he comes inside the door creaks and painfully fluorescent lights greet him. There’s a hostess stand, but the restaurant is empty except for John Vigil so Mercutio moves right on past and slides in across from the man. Those bright eyes take him in and in a blatantly performative show of confusion, the bishop looks around the restaurant before meeting Mercutio’s eyes again.

“Where is Brother Flores?” Mercutio sneers a little, but it warps itself into a smile just before he’s bearing his teeth at the holy man.

“Busy, I’m afraid. You’ve got me for the evening. I’ll pass on the info you’ve got about the case, but anything other than talk will cost you.” He winks at the bishop but Vigil only smiles serenely at the lewd flirtation thrown his way, hands still curved comfortably around the steaming cup of coffee in his hands. It’s almost white he’s put so much cream in it, and littered on the edge of the saucer are what Mercutio counts to be six sugar packets. Indulgent. Salacious. Mercutio would probably like this man in another life, but just now he wants to slap that sweet, amused look off of his face.

#New Faith #Vincente #Mercutio #Bishop John Vigil #oc shit #original story #horror #writeblr

5 notes · View notes

dopaminepig · 3 months

Text

31st January 2024

Today marks the first month I have set myself free from the grip of alcohol. The aim of these posts is to not only document the changes that are taking place for myself, my surroundings and my family, as I ween myself off this toxic substance, but hopefully influence just one reader to do the same. If you’ve been considering going alcohol free, or even just cutting back, read on. My suggestion would be to arm yourself with all the tools and information out there first, before taking the plunge into sobriety. It took me about 7 weeks to prepare mentally, and the date I chose just happened to be New Year’s Day 2024, but you may want to choose another milestone, a random day in a few weeks, or today – It’s your journey, and I’d love to hear about it.

25 years. That’s how long I’ve been blind to alcohol’s vice-like hold of me. For 25 years, I have binge drank, on a more-than-regular basis, between 4 and 7 days a week. It has been at the forefront of my mind for 2 and a half decades, constantly coaxing me into ‘just one’ knock off drink after work, or ‘just a couple so you can ride the bike home’ on those nights out at the footy with the guys. But it is never ‘just one’ or ‘just a couple’. Many, many times, I end up wasted on the couch on a weeknight after promising myself it would just be one. Many times, I have had to leave my motorbike at the event and go and pick it up the next afternoon (sometimes a couple of days later). Alcohol doesn’t allow me to moderate consistently. Or is it my brain giving in too easily to moderation inconsistency? Either way, it became obvious to me over time that moderation is just too much of a hassle. I was forever thinking about alcohol - How many could I have each night to justify ‘moderation’? Was having 2 nights off a week reason enough to indulge for the other 5? Surely, I can have just 1 more on a Thursday, I’ve only got to get through 1 more day at work and I’ve already had 4, so what’s 1 more? Opposing options to questions like these were forever battling inside my head, and about 90% of the time, the option where I got to drink would win. Moderation is a constant internal battle. Maybe you can relate?

So, after failing at moderating for what seems like a decade, in November 2023, I decided that 2024 was going to be a sober year, just to see what happens. Now I’m not saying that I will never drink alcohol again. I’m saying that I hope that WHEN I make it to the end of 2024 without touching a drink, I won’t WANT to touch another drink. I hope that my productivity is through the roof, my mind is sharp, my relationships are strengthened, and my 4-year-old daughter doesn’t associate cans of drink with always being beer and that they are my cans of ‘beer’. And just maybe I’ll have a new sense of purpose in life, rather than just wandering through it, praying the weekends come sooner so I can double or triple my weekday alcohol intake and fall in line with social acceptance again. I mean, you’re allowed to get plastered on the weekend, right?

You may be wondering how much I had been drinking. Let me tell you first and foremost that there will be others out there that drink more than these levels and feel like they do not have an issue. There will be others out there that drink less than these levels and are realizing that they can get more out of life simply by cutting back or going AF. This is not a pissing contest. I’m not comparing myself and my habits to anyone and I want to make it clear that I’m not saying that you must give up alcohol for good to reap the potential benefits I’m hoping for. I’m just documenting my story as it will make me more accountable, and if I can sway others along the way to reduce their intake and make a fresh start then that’s all I can ask for.

For about the last 2 years, in terms of a general weeknight where I’d given in to the popular allure that alcohol was going to put me in a good mood, the afternoon would go like this: I would arrive home from work about 4:40pm and be on the couch by 4:45pm, beer in hand. By the time I had to pick up my daughter from daycare at around 5:15pm, I would be on my 3rd beer and pretending it was my 2nd so that my wife didn’t get upset that I was driving over the limit. For the record, I would never drive after a 3rd beer. Now I can sit here and tell you in all honesty that the daycare centre was only a 3-minute drive away, and along backroads only. I can tell you that I know my limits and I would never put my child at risk. But, technically speaking, if those 2 beers were heavy beers, in Australia and I dare say in most countries, I would be a touch over the legal driving limit. Not the finest period of my life.

There were instances where I would come home earlier, or not need to head off for pickup until later than usual, and therefore have time to knock back 3 or even 4 beers in that brief period of non-parenting. Or there were even times when I would be out of beers and head straight for the spirits, pouring my usual ‘3-nip with mixer’. In these instances, my wife would come charging in from the home office, ask me how many I’d had, and without needing the answer, she’d reply “don’t worry about it, I’ll get her myself”. This routine would occur 2 or 3 times a week and would set the tone for the night; Me, half-pissed, sitting on the couch waiting to see my little baby girl, and my wife of 5 years; a woman I have known and loved for 17 years, seething at me and my relationship with alcohol. By the time my wife and daughter had come home, I may have been into the spirits, or I might be finishing off one last beer before reaching for the top of the kitchen cupboard, where the strong stuff was.

And by strong, I just mean normal, everyday 40% home-made spirits. My Dad started distilling his own spirits a few years back. Now it’s great that he’s got a hobby, and I don’t even mind that he’s drinking 5 days a week. Let’s face it - a) I’m never going to change him, and b) He’s 74 in March this year. He worked his butt off as a blue-collar worker for 50-odd years to support his family. He can enjoy his remaining years as he wishes. The issue for me is that while he lives 700kms away, I would still be able to order what I wanted, at cost price mind you ($15AUD per litre) and it would arrive the next time they or one of their friends was travelling down our way. There were ALWAYS bottles of Dad’s spirits in our house.

So, while I was reaching for the spirit bottle, my wife would be hating on me even more. “How many of those are you having?” she would ask, as if I knew the answer to the question. How could I know? It was not me making the decision…

The rest of the night was usually spent ‘drunk parenting’, playing games, doing puzzles, and getting our daughter ready for bed. Mostly though, it would be my wife that put her down to bed, as she wanted to lay down by 7pm herself. This was just the opportunity I needed to pour another spirit and mixer, head back to the couch where I would aimlessly search for something ‘light’ to watch, while scrolling Facebook. Generally, about 10pm I would realize that I should not have had that last drink, and pray (metaphorically speaking) that I don’t have a bad hangover the day while knocking back a glass or 2 of water. I would stumble into bed, pop on some relaxing music from YouTube, and pass out a few minutes later with my headphones in my ears.

This was just a normal weeknight. The weekends were worse.

Depending on the weekend and our schedules, I might have to wait until midday to crack my first beer. As I write this now, I am disgusted with these words. How dare common weekend activities like taking our daughter to the park or Saturday morning shopping get in the way of me drinking a beer in the pool?

Assuming we had no plans for the rest of the day (or even if we did, my wife would need to drive), a typical Saturday would play out similarly to a general weeknight, except I would have had a 4 or 5 hour head start on the drinking. The only difference being my wife wouldn’t be as annoyed with me because it was the weekend. It was the mid-week shenanigans that mostly pissed her off - mostly.

I say mostly because it was actually Sundays that gave her the most anxiety. Looking back now, just 1 month into sobriety, I can see why. It was my ‘last chance’ to write myself off before the work week started. It was always the ‘next’ week that I would drink less and instantly become a better husband/ father/human. But moderation wouldn’t allow this, as I now know.

Sunday mornings I would normally resist the urge to start drinking until the NBA started. Here in Australia, we get live NBA from around 10am. If the Celtics weren’t playing or if they had the 1pm game, I would find the next best game and start the stream. For some reason, I would always go straight for the 3-nip spirit with mixer to start off my Sundays. I think it was to get my buzz on from the get-go. And for some reason (probably the increase in spirit intake) Sundays would generally be the day my wife and I would get into a massive fight. Sometimes it was from the built-up tension from the rest of the week’s drinking. Sometimes, my wife simply said something that annoyed me in my drunken state, and it kicked off from there. Either way, looking back, absolutely ashamed of how I’d acted, it was always my fault.

I want it to be known that while things did get heated on those paralytic Sunday afternoons, at no point were either of us physically abusive. Unfortunately, that does not excuse some of the things that were said that cannot be taken back. I will forever be sorry for the way I acted on those days to the love of my life.

*****

I’ve decided I will end these entries with something that I’ve noticed that has changed for the better, since giving up booze. After a week or so of sobriety, I was able to not just set my alarm for 6am or even 5am, but actually get out of bed without hitting the snooze button. For a few weeks I was just having a coffee with my wife, but now I’m doing stretches, breathwork, and even started to write. This morning I got up at 4am and just started tapping away on the keyboard, writing this first post. It’s fucking amazing what you can achieve before sunrise without a hangover.

Reach out! I want to hear about your sobriety journeys...

Peace.

#Alcohol #Sobriety #Dopamine Hit #Reach Out

1 note · View note

uwusenpaiuwu · 3 years

Text

Baji Being A Menace To Society (And Your Relationship) 2.0

Sequel to: Baji A.K.A. The Worst (Best) Matchmaker

Summary: Baji’s at it again, acting out-of-pocket and creating chaos for absolutely no reason, other than to see you suffer. In his own Baji-esque way, of course.

Pairing: Sano Manjiro | Mikey x Male Reader

Warning(s): Boku no Pico is mentioned, but there is absolutely nothing graphic; mentions of masturbation

Note(s): I am so sorry if it isn’t funny. Sadly, I am but an amateur writer, not a comedian. Still, I hope you all enjoy! ^^

"(Y/n), want some ice cream? My treat."

Usually, you'd be the first to jump at an offer for a sweet treat, especially when you don't have to pay. However, as of now, the word 'ice cream,' when said by Baji, instantly triggers your fight-or flight-response. Paired with the fact that he’s broke as hell, your suspicions only increase for the sudden indulgence.

Since you know you're no match for the long-haired menace, your body automatically prepares to flee, legs twitching to lurch into a sprint. Unfortunately for you, just before you can get the fuck out of there, your hand is being grabbed by Mikey, who leisurely begins to tug you along to claim your dessert.

“You like ice cream, right?” he turns to ask, eyes unbelievably soft when looking at you.

And because you’re weak for him, all you can do is nod stiffly, trading in your sanity for the pleased grin that spreads across his face, his confident strides thereafter likely a result of him successfully remembering another miscellaneous fact about you, as has been the case since you officially started dating him. From the most trivial of things, like which brand of pens and pencils you prefer, to the slightly more important stuff, like ice cream being one of your favorite desserts; he’s made the effort of remembering them all.

He really doesn’t need to do any of that, ‘cause you’ll love him either way, but the conscious decision to do so is what makes you love him even more.

Zoning back into reality, you shake your head to reorient yourself. It isn’t the time to be going over the reasons why you’re such a lovesick puppy.

No, there are other things to worry about, mainly Baji.

You squeeze Mikey’s hand as you’re led to the nearest ice cream parlor to try and calm yourself. It works for the most part, especially when you get a reassuring squeeze back.

‘Right,’ you tell yourself, ‘it’s going to be okay.’

After all, Baji wouldn’t do anything too drastic, right?

~~~

You were wrong. So, so wrong.

Despite nothing having transpired yet, every alarm in your head is going off, pounding at the door of reason to get you to wake up and realize that it’s Baji you’re talking about, the same person that sets cars on fire when hungry and punches the first unfortunate soul he passes by on the street when sleepy.

You really should’ve listened to your survival instincts and ran. Alas, it’s much too late to escape, leaving you to wallow in your anxiety, while you wait for misfortune to strike.

And strike it does.

“Please, don’t sit next to me. You make me nauseous.”

“That’s cruel. I bought you ice cream, and you treat me like this?”

Yeah, he may have bought it, but you refuse to eat it because of how intensely Baji is staring at you. Fucking weirdo.

"Oh, do you want some of mine instead, (Y/n)?" Baji accentuates his question with a sensual lick to his ice cream from the edge of the cone to the finessed peak, making you extremely uncomfortable as he stares you down with the full motion.

As slowly as he licks his frozen treat do you slowly raise your middle finger, eliciting chuckles from the other occupants of the table.

You think you won that mini battle, though?

Ha! Nope.

Baji mirrors the vulgar action, not once breaking eye contact as he dips the tip of his finger directly into his ice cream, pulls it out, and proceeds to lick that, too.

Disgusted, you promptly avert your attention elsewhere, praying that Baji won’t continue being, well, himself.

Your prayers fall on deaf ears.

"It's cold!" As soon as the exclamation leaves your mouth, your blood runs glacial, knowing that you've unintentionally played into Baji's trap. The appearance of a sly, almost feral, smirk when you whip your head around to glare confirms what you already know.

The curtain has risen, and you’re standing center stage in a performance you can’t break free from.

"Aw, can't let it go to waste,” Baji continues, reaching over to scoop the ice cream you’re 100% certain he purposely spilled on the front of your shirt, with his fingers.

Then, to your horror and everyone else’s shock, he asks, without an ounce of virtue to his name, "Want me to lick it off with my mouth?"

Chifuyu is seated on the other side of the table, hiding his face in his hands. “Baji-san...”

"It'll stain if it dries like that." Dear God, how you wish to un-see Baji batting his eyelashes at you.

“I don’t care!” At this point, you’ve resorted to clumsily scooting your chair as far away from him as possible, which isn’t actually as far as you’d like considering your surroundings. Hell, so long as you put some distance between yourself and the crazy bastard that wants to see you suffer, you don’t mind having to force yourself halfway onto Mikey’s lap. (The firm hand that keeps you steady by the waist proves that your presence isn’t unwanted either.)

"Geez, (Y/n), you're such a scatterbrain."

Seeing Baji sell the line with a slow tugging of his hair behind the ear has you torn between laughing and dying a little more. Truthfully, his acting is frighteningly impressive, and you would’ve applauded his performance, if not for the fact that the role he’s playing still haunts your dreams.

By this time, most of who accompanied you to the ice cream parlor have figured out what kind of drugs Baji is on this time, which also means that those fuckers have seen, or are at least aware of, the cursed trilogy of questionable porn that’s being reenacted before their eyes, with you as an unwilling co-star. Those that are puzzled as to why people are shoving their fists in their mouths to refrain from laughing are obviously God’s favorites.

“The fuck is going on? I wanna laugh at Baji’s dumbassery, too.”

“Pah-chin... I think it’s best you don’t know.”

Interestingly enough, the one you’re most concerned about hasn’t said anything yet, splitting his attention between observing the scene unfolding and eating his portion of a deluxe sundae.

Then, out of nowhere-

“I understand.”

You and Baji freeze where you are, each of you grasping the other’s collar, you to shove him away, and him to draw you closer.

“(Y/n),” Mikey says, your name rolling silkily off his tongue in a tone much too fond for his next words, “if you like roleplay, just tell me.”

...

“Huh?”

“I’m fine with pissing, remember? So, roleplay shouldn’t be a problem.”

Heat rises to your face at an alarming pace, and it continues to climb as Mikey takes your free hand in his, which serves not to comfort but to unintentionally remind you of the humiliating experience from a few months back. And just when you convinced him that you didn’t want anything to do with getting freaky with the body’s excreta, too.

“You’ve got it wrong! I don’t- arfghfgh?!”

Your prayer to help cool down your flushed cheeks must have been heard, but you’re pretty damn sure you didn’t ask for Baji to shove his ice cream in your mouth!

“Oh, yeah. (Y/n)’s a fuckin’ geek when it comes to roleplay,” the unhinged bastard speaks in your stead, indifferent to the nails clawing at his hand clamped over your mouth. “You should try it with him. We were doing a scene from his favorite anime.”

Mikey tilts his head, interest positively piqued. “Which one is that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, leader?”

Mikey raises an eyebrow.

Baji opens his mouth.

You lunge.

It’s a series of events that happens in the blink of an eye and ends with loud crashing as you tackle Baji to the ground.

“Listen up, Baji Keisuke. We took an oath that day, and if you dare utter a word of what went down, I’ll consider that a breach of the code of secrecy and take you down, making sure you drown in a pit of your own shame and despair.”

Surprised to have been pinned down so quickly, it takes a while for Baji’s brain to catch up, but when it does, he’s frustratingly unfazed at the threat.

“Oho~ How scary. Too bad for you, I have no shame.”

“Not even if I tell Mama Baji where your porn stash is?”

That has the great Baji tensing up.

“You wouldn’t dare use an underhanded tactic like that.”

Your lips turn into a wicked grin. “Are you sure? I have as much dirt on you as you have on me, and like you, I won’t hesitate to use it to my advantage.”

If your grin is wicked, Baji’s is downright evil, showing off his sharp, gritted canines and all.

“You got balls, (Y/n),” he snarls, “but mine are bigger.”

The boy beneath you opens his mouth, and faster than you can stop him, he just...does it.

“(Y/n) (L/n) watched Boku no Pico and liked it!”

Silence.

Silence is all that’s heard for a good, long minute following the booming roar of the revelation.

You dare not look up to gauge everyone’s reactions, instead keeping your icy glare fixated on Baji, who looks smug as shit for having caused the glorious eruption of heat to spread like wildfire across your entire body, from the tips of your ears down to where your skin disappears under the collar of your jacket.

This...

This is war.

Taking in a deep breath, you answer his uncalled for declaration with your own thunderous shout of, “Baji watched Boku no Pico and jacked off to it! Twice!”

Baji laughs. “Oh, pray tell, saintly (Y/n), how many times did you jack off to it?”

“None of your fucking business, asshole.”

“Pretty fucking sure it is, since we were in the same room.”

Someone chokes, while you choke Baji.

“We. Swore. To. Secrecy. You. Asshole,” you practically growl, with each of your words accompanied by a ruthless back-and-forth shaking of the other boy’s person.

“Let up on the choking, dude. I’m not into that. You, however-”

Unable to take the ceaseless slander to your name anymore, you reel your fist back, but, upon seeing Baji’s cheek turned to you, jaw jutted out, as if inviting you to take your best shot, you hesitate. You know you wouldn’t be able to pack enough of a punch to actually leave an impact on him, which is terribly upsetting.

On the bright side, there’s still one tactic you can use that’ll be just as effective, a technique courtesy of your health teacher, who happily taught it to the class to use in case of an emergency.

Technically, it’s meant to be used to assess a person’s level of consciousness, but you suppose it can be used to get back at inconsiderate idiots, too.

“Ow! Ow! What the fuc-! Ow!”

You keep a straight face as you continue to rub your knuckles against his sternum, fully intent on delivering the worst possible pain to the current bane of your existence. It brings a sort of sadistic satisfaction to hear the ever prideful Baji’s screams of pain, and while it doesn’t completely undo the damage done, it does help soothe your wounded self-esteem.

“You want me stop? Beg for it.”

“Pissing, roleplay, choking, and begging? Goddam- OW!”

Your reign of terror comes to its untimely end when you’re lifted up into the air by the armpits, and through the haze of your power trip, you realize that Baji’s saving grace is Draken, who proceeds to carry you out of the parlor with ease.

“People are staring,” he coolly explains when you protest to having unfinished business.

Pouting, you cross your arms over your chest. “It’s his fault.”

Once outside, Draken doesn’t immediately put you back on your feet, until Mikey strolls out of the parlor. Only when the gang leader has his arms outstretched to you are you promptly deposited on the ground and taken into his embrace.

“Are you done letting off some steam?” is the first thing he asks you. Even though you can’t see his expression, the way he holds you and the way he cradles the back of your head, handling you with the utmost care, is indication enough that there will be no reprimand for, essentially, assaulting your division commander. (You would argue that it was an act of self defense against verbal harassment, but whatever.)

There’s just an overwhelming amount of love. So, so, so much love for each other.

“Yeah, I am,” you eventually answer, followed by a content sigh.

“Good.”

Naturally, that’s the perfect time for the tinkling of the bells above the parlor door to pilfer your attention. Baji’s appearance causes your face to morph into a scowl.

You cling tighter to Mikey, peeking over his shoulder to flip the ravenet off and mouth, ‘Go to Hell.’

As always, Baji answers your attempt to appear opposing with an obnoxious smirk.

‘See you there.’

~~~

“Boku no Pico, huh?”

“Draken, don’t laugh! Baji forced me to watch it!”

“All 3 episodes?”

“Twice.”

“...”

“Favorite scene...?”

“As if I’d have one.”

"Actually-"

“Ahh! Shut up! Why are you here, stupid Baji?! You live in the other direction!”

~~~

“Hey, (Y/n). Want to try doing the same thing with me?”

You look up, perplexed. Mikey literally just walked into the room, and that was the first thing he said to you.

“Do wha-?”

Your breath catches in your throat when you turn your head, only for you to come centimeters from bumping noses with him. And because he can, he lovingly knocks your foreheads together, too.

“It’s okay. I promise it’ll definitely be fun.”

You should feel ashamed for recognizing the same sequence of lines from Boku no Pico so quickly, though any coherent words are overtaken by an incomprehensible, high-pitched screech, a feat achieved solely by a teenage boy going through puberty.

A combination of shock and amusement crosses over Mikey’s features then. He’s never heard you make that sound before.

It’s cute. Strains the ears quite a bit, but cute.

While Draken lurks beside him, questioning Mikey’s standards of what constitutes as ‘cute,’ you’re sprinting across the room, red-faced, to Baji, who’s already grinning from ear-to-ear.

“Stop tainting my boyfriend, you piece of shit! Give him back his innocence!”

(Unbeknownst to you, whilst immersed in your fit of hysterics, your use of the word ‘boyfriend’ has a certain blond beaming.

“Did you hear that, Ken-chin? He called me his boyfriend.”

“Wow, congrats.”

Mikey either doesn’t give a shit or is simply too smitten to acknowledge Draken’s apathetic response.)

Baji blinks, unable to believe what you’re trying to insinuate. “Innocent? That little gremlin motherfucker?”

Both of you look in Mikey’s direction. When he sees you staring, he breaks out in a smile and throws a wave.

Your heart involuntarily skips a beat at the sight, and, okay, you’re convinced. Mikey deserves better than knowing of that cursed series’ existence.

Clearly, you’re down bad for Toman’s leader, and as such, Baji figures he can use that to quench his boredom for the day.

“Ooh, if only you knew what he gets off to.”

The tone in his voice instantly rouses suspicion. You narrow your eyes at him. “I don’t care what kind of porn he gets off to.”

“Porn? Nah, ya silly goose-”

“Don’t call me that.”

Baji ignores your comment as he moves to sling one arm around your shoulders, the other raising up to mimic an obscene tugging motion that no teenage boy is a stranger to.

“He jerks it to yo-”

BAM!

One second, Baji is lazily hanging off of your person, the next, he’s sprawled out on the floor, face down, and groaning in pain. You expect nothing less after witnessing him receive a rather impressive flying kick to the chest from Mikey.

Before you can assess the full damage, your view gets obscured by a pair of keys.

“Wanna take my bike out for a spin?”

Yes, you know Mikey is trying to divert your attention from whatever Baji was going to say, and, yes, you probably should check on the figure that has yet to get up.

But do you really care?

You take one glance at Baji’s concerningly unmoving body and quickly come to a conclusion.

You do not.

That being said, you quite literally drag Mikey and, by extension, Draken out of there, chanting an excited, “Let’s go!” on your way, abandoning Baji to wither on the ground.

Baji?

Baji feels betrayed.

~~~

"Chifuyu?”

“Hm?”

“Y’know, I was joking.” Baji flips onto his back with a grunt. “Man, who knew Mikey was all grown up?”

The vice captain of the first division hums, seemingly uninterested in his commander’s musings.

It goes quiet for a few minutes, the sole instigator of noise being Chifuyu flipping the pages of his manga.

Unpredictable is Baji, and the same goes for his train of thought.

“I should punch Mikey for kicking me.”

“No, you’d get beat up.”

“...”

“I should punch (Y/n) for Mikey kicking me.”

Truly, unpredictable and senseless.

“You’d still get beat up.”

Baji opens his mouth to argue.

“By Mikey.”

He promptly closes it.

“Fuck it. I’ll keep spicing up their relationship as payback.”

Sighing, Chifuyu closes his book to crouch down next to him. “Baji-san, with all due respect, you’re an asshole.”

Baji Keisuke has experienced betrayal twice today.

And he deserved it both times.

#mikey x male reader #sano manjiro x male reader #sano manjirou x male reader #mikey x reader #tokyo revengers x y/n #tokyo revengers x male reader #tokyo revengers x reader #Tokyo Revengers #Sano Manjirou #sano manjiro #manjiro sano #manjirou sano #i tried #im so sorry #pls dont cancel me #PSA: don't masturbate in the same room as baji

639 notes · View notes

ellsbclls · 3 years

Text

White Winged Dove

warnings ➛ COUNTRY!TOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MY BELOVED!!!!!!!! smut, baby! (PLEASE do not interact if you are a minor), hurt/comfort, minor angst, happy ending: guaranteed!, a handful of swear words, and y/n has no choice but to have a country accent, i don’t make the rules here. extended warnings will be under the cut!

word count ➛ 9.5K

authors note ➛ i saw that gifset of tom taking a shower in cherry and my brain short circuited, so here! have a cupcake!

synopsis ➛ Tom feels like his world is falling apart, so he turns to you, the only person that reminds him of home.

extended warnings ➛ nsfw, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, multiple orgasms, unprotected f/m intercourse (please practice safe sex, kiddos! wrap it before you whack it!), a tiny tiny tiny sliver of blood!play if you squint with one eye closed.

You remember the night in waves, docile, fleeting waves that tease the rim of your consciousness before reeling back. Golden whiskey licks at the seam of your lips with each pass of the bottle, and the pond is glittering beneath the blinking trails of all the lightning bugs — tens of hundreds of fireflies, dancing in the night’s misty skyglow, rivaling the pale moonlight.

You remember the night in waves, but he is a mighty current.

You can’t scrub the memory of him from your mind, that bleak, hopeless expression that hollowed out his features. You remember how your heart split into a million little shards the second it appeared, and just when you thought there was nothing left to break, his fragile voice pleaded for you to take him somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was far.

By the time the sun spilled past your window pane, you were nothing but a drowsy amalgamation of lithe limbs, coated in morning glow as it spilled through the glass.

But behind your eyelids lives an imprint of the night before — a shimmering reflection of the night sky, and the moments that unraveled beneath its sweeping gaze.

9:17PM — You’re belting into your hairbrush, not a care in the world, and pouring your heart and soul out to a crowd of none. Somewhere between all of your clumsy twirls and impromptu choreography, you stumble over the shoebox that was poking out from under your bed, and a flurry of damp tresses and musical giggles fan across your comforter.

The walls in your house have always been notoriously thin, but what could you possibly expect from the weathered planks of wood paneling that lined your bedroom? You could hear your father’s creaky footsteps whenever he ransacked the fridge for leftovers in the dead of night, and the heavy thump of laundry that your mother would throw down to the basement, but once your radio crackles to life, and Stevie’s enchanting croon permeates the air, all those subtle nuances fades to a dull, lifeless roar.

With each passing note, the white winged dove becomes you, and you soar above endless miles of Mississippi wood. There’s not a soul that can drag you back to the outskirts of town, force you to confront what may become of you when you land, there’s no room for trepidation where you go. There, in your own little corner of the woods, it’s just you, Stevie Nicks, and the moon.

And, technically, Thomas.

Minutes have gone by, you still can’t find the strength, nor the energy, to lift yourself up, and as your downy blankets hug your tired frame, you remain blissfully ignorant of your peeping tom.

Thomas, affectionately penned Tommy, has been your best friend, your confidante, since the very first day of kindergarten. You had pulled a pack of scented markers from your tiny, pink barbie backpack during free time, and he had pulled out the empty seat beside you, plucking, sniffing, and ultimately discarding each and every pen until the box was empty. When you asked him which one was his favorite, he asked you the very same in response, just so you’d “coincidentally” have a shared affinity for coconuts. He was oddly endearing, which is a trait that’s always stuck with him. So, even at a young age, you never wondered if he was just using you for your nice possessions, or trying to take advantage of your courtesy — he always offered himself to you at face value, and you never stopped taking as much of him as you could get.

Had you been aware that your childhood friend was waiting expectantly at your window, you may have handled your alone time with a tad more discretion — but you weren’t, and each act of your private concert forces him into an even harder position. To what extent does he let you embarrass yourself before he makes his presence known, and for how long will you bury your head in the sand before the embarrassment mulls over? He sees your stage dive as a golden opportunity, and seizes it before you begin to stir.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three short, mild raps, uttered in quick succession, jostle you from your lavish daydreams like a bucket of ice water, and you have to squint just to make out his fair features amidst all the darkness shrouding them.

“Tommy?” A flash of his soft, earthy hues tame the wild drum of your heart, confirming your suspicions, and you fight the urge to chuckle when he innocently waves at you.

“Well don’t get all shy on me now. Come in.” You open the window just enough for him to slip through its frame, allowing your eyes to graze the sculpted plains of his back, and admire, albeit shamelessly, how his muscles ripple beneath his fitted t-shirt.

Yet, there’s something about him being in your room, towering over fixtures that once towered over him, that makes you feel uneasy. A part of you adores the way he instantly makes himself at home, but the remainder is doused in fear, fretting over his wandering hands and what they may discover, surveying little trinkets and souvenirs that decorate your desk.

“Hasn’t changed much since the last time I was in here, has it?” He notes, absentmindedly shaking the contents of a snowglobe your grandma brought you from New York, a miniature skyline of Manhattan continuously buried in a flurry of snow. Most of your playdates took place in his house, so as your friendship flourished past elementary school, and the time that spanned between your meetings grew shorter and shorter, you’d found yourselves frequenting his home for all of your endeavors. It was just easier that way.

That’s the sole reason you rarely visited your room. It surely wasn’t the suffocating atmosphere that plagued your home, or your hormonal, angst ridden brain convincing you that you’d scare him to the high heavens if he caught a glimpse of your relationship with your family — how dismal it is. How you build entire worlds, cycle through dozens of bountiful lives, in the luxury of your mind in hopes of retreating.

You’d be lying if you said the poster of Zac Efron, now lurking precariously behind his shoulder, wasn’t a glaring reason as well.

“Yeah, couple things here and there, but it’s pretty much the same.” You try to be discreet as you wander around your own room, Destination: Tiger Beat. Once you reach it, you rise up on your tiptoes to cover as much of the poster as humanly possible, but scramble for an excuse once you notice him turning. “You actually left something the last time you were here. It’s on the top shelf.”

RIP! The poster is crumpled in your grasp no sooner than his back turns to you. You’d have to give a formal apology to your wildcat once you were left to your own devices, but until then, he was banished to the most unsuspecting corner of your room.

“Jesus Christ Y/N,” His thumb fondly strokes a small, yellowed testament to your friendship, a weathered page of loose leaf etched in awry plumes of ink that perfectly encapsulate his very essence — egregiously passionate, regardless of the outcome. He had written it when he was about seven, intending to give it to the “girl of his dreams” once he met her. You can still hear his sweet, little voice echo between your ears, endearingly mistaking his r’s for w’s. “You kept this?”

“Of course I did.“ Candor coats your tongue before you catch yourself, the tail end of your answer turning to dust as soon as it hits the air. You can’t bring yourself to admit just how many restless nights you’ve allowed yourself to clamber up that oak dresser, just to read that letter over, and over, and over again, praying that if you had stared at it for long enough, his messy scrawl would transform into the words you yearned for most — that it was meant for you, that he’s loved you from the very start. “Wasn’t sure if you were planning to repurpose it for some other lucky gal.”

You lock eyes with him for the first time since he appeared at your window, and stowed beneath his reservation are faint embers of warmth, kindling behind ebony curtains as you indulge in the hearth of his gaze. Lifetimes seemingly pass before his eyes are flickering back down to his hands, and it prompts you to offer him the note. “You can have it back.”

“No, you keep it.” Your brows pinch together, and a thousand questions collect on the tip of your tongue. You wonder if he recalls the same memory you do, if he remembers the significance buried in that little scrap of paper, but ultimately choose not to dwell on it. He knows just how much you love to collect memorabilia — keep cherished memories stowed away for safekeeping — he’s just being thoughtful. “Consider it undeniable proof that I know how to read and write.”

“Ain’t nothin’ in here about knowing how to read.” You tease, catching your tongue between your canines as a smirk conquers your lips.

“Ya got me,” He chuckles, smile reaching for, but never quite meeting, his faraway stare. You are so accustomed to his teasing quips, his usual flair for the dramatics, that this half-hearted attempt at replicating it fills you with discomfort. He tries to punctuate his words by tossing his arms to the sky, but they don’t reach high enough to convince you that he’s okay. Something is plaguing him, and you won’t settle for anything less than the truth.

“Tommy,” His name is sweet on your tongue, all honeyed vowels and soft, descant consonants that command his attention. “What’s wrong?”

“No, nothin’, I just-“ he’s avoiding your eyes, which is a clever strategy on his part. If eyes are the windows to the soul, then his are a stained glass mosaic, a vibrant display of all his emotions, and you — you are but an avid observer.

“Hey, look at me,” Two slender digits underline the curve of his jaw, and with a firm grasp of his chin, leave him no choice but to meet your gaze, tender and resolute all the same. “ You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not ready, but I can tell when someone’s been rode hard and put away wet.”

“I just, I need to get out of here, and I thought I’d ask my favorite distraction to accompany me.” He stumbles over his words, faltering over his messy façade, but you’d rather this over nothing at all.

“And where might we be goin’?” You query. You can tell that this is going to be a long night, but luckily for him, you don’t have any plans that can’t be rescheduled. Your adoring fans will just have to wait another night.

“Somewhere… Anywhere,” He murmurs hopefully, and your heart nearly sinks to the floor. You’ve never seen such a chasm of joy, not in those bright, amber orbs you study so adamantly. You’d almost deem it pain, whatever’s tugging at the frame of his optics, whatever’s depriving them of that usual, warm glow. “as long as it’s far from here.”

9:39PM — “Watch your step.”

“Can you help me?” You whine — one hand reaching out for his assistance, the other firmly clasped around a bottle of Jack Daniels. There is an awkward incline just below you, only a few inches off the ground, but tall enough to make you stumble, and he could already see you bumping your knees on the way down, so he offers his elbow as a point of leverage.

“Atta girl, you’ve got it.” He coos, reluctantly abandoning your grip once you’re safely on the ground.

Mystical, and buzzing with life, you introduce him to the farthest corner of the woodlands. Whenever the walls of your room become suffocating, your legs always give out right about here.

Your secret hideaway.

Where you let your most worrisome thoughts roam free, and when those thoughts seemingly wander into nothingness, you chalk it up to wishful thinking, and fail to realize that they haven’t disappeared, they just don’t belong to you anymore. They belong to the babbling brook, constantly replenishing itself and its inhabitants with fresh, spring water, belong to the frogs and crickets as they fill the night with their moonlit ballad, they belong to the night, and it’s reflection, as it wades across the face of the creek; dotted with lightning bugs or the cosmos themself, you weren’t sure. All you know is that you always returned, as if a piece of you was tethered to the very spot.

“Where are we?” He wonders aloud, raking his fingers through his downy, chestnut locks as he explores his surroundings.

“I don’t exactly know.” You confess, making yourself comfortable on the ground. Most nights, you slip off your shoes and sink your feet into the brook, but you know Tom like the back of your hand, know what kind of ideas might venture through that rascally mind of his when he spots you near the water. So, you play it safe, pulling your knees up to your chest as you peer up at him from a safe distance. “It’s nice, though. Quiet. Good place to let your thoughts wander.”

“You ever take a dip in here?” Predictable. You stifle the urge to laugh at his query, sinking ivory veneers into your pillowy bottom lip, and shake your head in response. “Hell, if I were you, with my own nature-made swimmin’ pool, I’d bring all the boys around.”

“You know I don’t waste my time with no silly boys.” You sigh, sending him a wistful glare.

“You sure about that?” He counters, mimicking your perked brow with eerie precision.

“Oh, I’m sure.” You huff. God doesn’t build boys the same way he built him, he took his time crafting that statuesque frame, implemented hawk-eyed precision for each and every beguiling detail you’ve come to adore. He is a man, tried and true, from his sharp, angular structure to the neverending bounds of his heart, but rather than inflate his ego moreso, you let him assume the worst. “You can take a dip if you want, though. I wouldn’t mind.”

You wonder if he can tell just how little you’d mind as a mischievous glint highlights his amber hues, but before he can even open his mouth, you’ve already pinpointed the source of his glower, already voicing your adamant refusal. “No, absolutely not. Not a chance, Tommy.”

“But why not?” He whines, bellowing over your feeble chant, conjuring the most convincing set of pleading eyes he can muster. “It’s dark, it’s humid, and ain’t no one around to tell us not to.”

“Sounds like all the more reason to not do that.” You scoff, scooting further away from him and the strength of his hopeful gaze.

“I hate to pull out the big guns, but... what if I told you that it’d make me feel so much better if you accompanied me?” You’re left to wonder what the big guns are supposed to be, if they aren’t the way he is encroaching on your personal space, crawling up the length of your legs until there is only a sliver of space between you.

“I’d remind you that there are much drier ways to make you feel better.” You could feel your warm breath fanning across his lips, distracting you with the scent of minty toothpaste and your vanilla chapstick, ultimately failing to notice his hands, and how they’re positioned just below your waist.

It would only take one swift move to reach the small of your back, two to scoop you up in his arms, and about six more to drag you into the pond — kicking and screaming, but successfully so.

And he doesn’t chance it.

SPLASH! You’re no sooner submerged in the brooks’ murky depths, reaching out for lily pads and cattails that fail to provide you leverage, and your screams bubble into thick, smothered embers of a once irate flame. He better pray you never emerge from usunder, because he’s merely a howl away from being swept up in the tide — the tide being your arms as they force him to the bottom of the crick.

“Y/N,” your name scrambles between the slosh of the water and the pounding in your ears, but you manage to break the surface and blink spare drops of water from your eyes.

“I was drowning!’ You gasp, struggling to keep your head above water as you kick, and splash, and writhe around in the stygian abyss.

“In two feet of water? I beg to differ.” You can barely make out his comeback over his fit of giggles, but a part of you would rather this bright, teasing version of himself that what you’ve been dreading beforehand. Taking his outstretched hand, you stumble to your feet and, much to your dismay, find yourself standing in about two feet of water (which, in your defense, is a far more daunting threat to someone your size as opposed to his). You cool his inflating ego with a cold splash of water, dispersing tiny droplets from your fingers as they wave in front of his face.

You splash around in the water for what feels like forever, transforming stray lily pads into makeshift hats, dressing to the nines in the latest collection of aquatic couture, and as the moon casts a pale spotlight on the babbling brook, you occupy it’s centre, huddled in one another’s embrace, swaying back and forth amidst the shallow pools.

10:02 — You're still wet.

Drenched, really.

You’ve resorted to wringing out your hair with your bare hands, twisting the dampened locks between your fists until water pours from the follicles. You’d never once pondered the benefits of freshwater landings, but you were about to find out. A glare threatened to slice through the air, but immediately wavered at the sight of him — desolate, void, so lost in his thoughts that you’d wondered if he were even there.

God, you’re worried sick. You’ve dealt with bouts of sadness, sprinkles of melancholy, but this was downright depressing. You wouldn’t even know what to do if you tried, and that’s what worried you the most.

Thomas, your best friend, your crush, your light — the best parts of you all wrapped up in a clumsy little package while the best parts of him threaten to snatch up your heart, as if it wasn’t already his.

“Tommy?” You break him out of his reverie, but press on, scooching closer to his form, dangerously standoffish, like an uncaged animal winding up to attack, until you cross the threshold into his personal space. With a sturdy hold on his bicep, he melts into the palm of your hand, practically leaning all of his weight into you, stealing a reprieve you didn’t know he needed. “You can talk to me, y’know. It’s just us.”

“She left, Y/N.” The evening air seems still, in perfect tandem with your breath as you fear what might come out once you finally exhale. You know he’d shove all of his feelings down if he caught you shedding a single tear, and this isn’t about you, it never has been. So you hold your breath, latching onto the heavy silence that follows his confession, and pray that your chest is strong enough to smother the sob bubbling beneath its surface.

Fortunately, he takes your silence as a cue to continue. “The closet was empty, and all her cookbooks were gone. I looked downstairs and there was nothin’ there.” You don’t know if he’s finished, watching as he toys with a loose string on his jeans, but he breaks his own silence with a newfound waver in his voice. “I had a feelin’ she was ‘bout to leave, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon. I thought I had a lil’ bit more time to say goodbye.”

Edie was a good mother, the best of mothers, and never had she drawn a line when it came to who she nurtured. When you were little kids, you’d race each other to his house once the school bell rang, tiny little bodies weaving through the stalks of corn that prefaced the farm. She would follow the shuffling crops with a heavy eye, leading you to the porch with her raspy, whimsical chime, and crouch down to envelop the both of you in a tight hug when you emerged. She was the best of mothers.

But she wasn’t the best of wives. You were both far too young to notice the signs — the nights where you found her sound asleep on the sofa by her own volition, the packed suitcase that hid underneath the stairwell to the basement, the hesitance that laced her tone when she said I love you to his father — and something tells you she wanted to keep it that way.

Her son didn’t need to worry about his parents, and how fast they were falling out of love, and whether they really loved each other in the first place. Her son just needed to be a kid, and that is a belief she devoted the best years of her life to.

But he isn’t a kid anymore.

That’s why she fled in the middle of night, leaving nothing but a ruby encrusted ring on his dresser — her class ring. The same one he’d snatch from her jewelry box whenever she wasn’t looking. The same one he used to propose to you at the wee age of four, promising you as much of the world as a toddler could imagine.

Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as he recounts every detail, and every fiber of your being yearns to just schoop him up in your arms, hold all his broken pieces together with the strongest embrace you can muster. He doesn’t deserve that type of pain, shouldn’t have to relive it, and yet he takes it upon himself to tell you everything, to relive it for your own selfish gain.

You grow envious of the way the moon trails kisses down the slope of his nose, across the high rise of his cheeks, and over the swell of his bottom lip. There were times where you’d find traces of his mother in Tom’s features, lining the curve of his warm smile or, when the sun hit them just right, speckling his earthy hues with tiny rods of gold. Tonight, he is shrouded in a celestial spotlight, mesmerized by its waning body, and if you squint just enough, you’ll find her longing stare hidden beneath his own.

“And the worst part is that I ain’t even mad at her. Not even a lil’ bit.” He concludes, talking more to the sky than to you. “Not even at all.” When his gaze falls back to you, you can only try to cover up the betrayal, wipe the back of your arm across your tear-stained cheeks before he notices they’re even misty.

You inevitably fail, expelling a wistful sigh as he pulls you into his side, comfortingly running his hand over your bicep as he murmurs sweet nothings into the night.

“I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t want you to find out like this,” You furrow your brows, and wonder just how he would want to break the news to you. Would he let you find out for yourself, or would he bring you out to the plantation, and let you sink into the soil until the news began to blossom in the fields? Would they be cornstalks? And would they reach for the sky just like her? “I didn’t wanna make you cry, but... I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay.” Your voice is a wash of dulcet tones, fingers soothingly raking through his damp tendrils in a silent bid to comfort him. “It’s okay, I’m a big girl. I can take it.” You’re quick to clamber to your knees, wrapping him up in an airtight embrace, keeping him from wallowing into a puddle of tears. “I’m right here, Tommy.”

“I know,” he sputters, with an edge of sorrow to his tone.

“I’m right here, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” You promise.

“Don’t say that” He whispers, and shatters any trace of consolation looming over the encounter. Your brow furrows, your heart pounds against your chest, and for a fleeting second, you feel like you're caught in a lie. What if he knows? What if he can tell just how much you’d surrender to be with him? What if he doesn’t want it?

“Why not?” You’re near hysterics, praying that the intensity in your eyes makes up for the tremor in your voice. “Why not? I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean.”

“I just don’t want you to make a promise you can’t keep, Y/N.” That sullen gaze resurfaces, chills the air with it’s haunting presence — that hollow stare which fosters the remnants of a bright, contagious joy, and carves a pit, just as empty, in the well of your stomach, one that aches to be satiated. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, but his palm lingers against your cheek, trying to smooth out the heavy creases in your expression with the gentle stroke of his thumb. “Hell, I don’t want you to promise that in the first place. You deserve more than all this, you deserve the best this life has to offer you, and I’m not gonna keep you from all o’ that.”

You’ve lost track of your heart long ago, it’s dizzying tempo rivaling a hummingbird, nearly undetectable as it flitted uncontrollably, knocking against your ribs until its ultimate descent to the pit of your stomach.

You pray that he can one day see everything that you see in him, that loving himself is as easy for him as it is for you; you hope that there is a life where he never has to feel as small, or inconvenient, as he confessed, and you wish that this would eventually be that life.

You decide that it’s time to put an end to wishful thinking.

“Let me make something clear to you, Thomas.” You cup his jaw, firmly, and utter each word without a trace of uncertainty. “I’m not sure exactly what I want from life yet. I don’t know if I wanna spend the rest of it in this little ol’ town, or just pack my things and go as far as the wind will take me. I couldn’t tell you if I tried, but… that’s okay.” Slowly but surely, your lips give way to a sheepish grin, feeling lighter, freer, the further into your declaration. “It’s okay, because there’s one thing that’s for certain, and it’s that I’m all yours. It don’t matter how far I go, I’m always gonna come home to you.”

The silence is deafening.

All your emotions hang in the air, crippling your air supply with insurmountable regret. But his gaze is what terrifies you the most; just as suffocating, but in a way that sweeps the air from your lungs. You knew that there would always come a time where all the unrequited feelings you’ve harbored would finally boil to the surface, fueled by the hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t as one sided as you thought; but under the void of his empty gaze, you wonder if you’d made a huge mistake.

Or maybe there really is nothing — nothing to reciprocate, nothing to subdue you, nothing to salvage what little remained of your friendship after such a loaded confession — and so you scramble to assemble an apology convincing enough to overshadow your lapse in judgement.

But he doesn’t even spare you the chance, swallowing your half-hearted excuses with the firm press of his lips, pouring a lifetime of ardent desire, of longing, into the hollow of your mouth. It’s crystal clear that you’re his, the realization comes borderline cathartic. There has never been a day where your heart has not beat for him, and only him, forever threatening to spring from your chest and return to its rightful owner. The days, the months, the years of back and forth felt like a cruel jest from the fates, but now you were here, bundled in the warmth of his strong embrace, tongues curling against one another in an endless battle for dominance, and you would endure it all over again if this was where it lead

He searches for some sign of absolution, paws up and down your back in hopes of grounding himself, and you reverently provide, mustering what little strength you have left to crawl into his lap, brushing against the growing bulge in his jeans without a trace of subtlety, offering him the most sacred parts of you in hopes of bringing him home.

“Y/N,” he sighs raggedly, a half hearted attempt to gain your attention, one that proves unsuccessful as his pleas whittle into a frail, insipid shadow of what they could be. You’re too busy acquainting yourself with the plains of his body, embedding a trail of deep red marks into the column of his neck as your hands slip beneath the hem of his t-shirt. He’s built like a greek statue, you don’t even need to discard his shirt to indulge in the taut muscles tensing beneath your fingertips. “Y/N, darlin’, wait.” He interrupts your greedy ministrations by fastening his digits around your wrists. This is the point of no return, you can feel the fragile divide between friends and lovers, splintering beneath the weight of your heart, and yet you fail to concern yourself.

His digits are free to roam the high plains of your cheeks, pioneering the flushed expanse with beacons of soft, arching butterfly kisses until there’s no skin to cover, ultimately pressing his forehead against yours. ”You don’t- I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wanna do.” Seems almost redundant, you muse, to wonder if you want him when you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’d follow him to the ends of the earth. You are a pillar of salt, and as he showers you in a knee buckling torrent of kisses, you melt into the palm of his hands. If the way you’re draped against his form isn’t evidence enough, then the wetness pooling between your thighs most certainly will be, he’ll come across that confirmation once he tends to the spot you need him most.

You trace the cleft of his chin in delicate pursuit, whining as he tears his lips from their languid path, and peer through your inky lashes to meet his gaze once more. “I want this, Tom. I want you.”

“You have me. I’m all yours.” He echoes your words back to you, reverently, delivering a sacred vow from the hearth of your soul, ove you have, and will continue to, dedicate your humble living to, and you seal that promise with a bruising kiss.

The weight of his palm melts into the small of your back, pulling your chest flush against his own as it sweeps up your spine, and you moan against his lips when your nipples press up against his sturdy chest, aching to be freed as they strain against their gossamer confines.

You’ve only had the pleasure of making out with Tom for less than five minutes, but you can already tell that it ranks high on your list of favorite pastimes. Soft, pink petals brush against your own like they’re a flourishing canvas, and he’s trying to even out the brushstrokes, but all he leaves is a scorching flush in his wake, and your clothing, despite being bathed in pond water, do little to ease the blistering heat. It’s suffocating you, and you begrudgingly tear yourself away so that you can rid yourself of the article.

Besides, the less fabric separating you from his anchoring, toned embrace, the better.

“I’m all dirty,” Your meek voice collapses into a fit of giggles, and your feeble attempt to wring out your clothes is thwarted by his hands, venturing up, up, up, and under the hem of your skirt at a teasing pace, savoring the feeling of your warm, silky skin beneath his fingertips. You can tell he’s as desperate as you are, confronted with acres of new terrain to explore, and only so little of his patience to spare.

“I know, I’m sorry angel.” His voice is soft, and soothing, and riddled with mischief. Even if there is even an ounce of truth in his apology, you can still make out the devilish grin that toys at the corner of his mouth. “May I, m’lady?” He croons teasingly, flashing those whiskey glazed hues in a way that you could never refuse.

“Proceed, good sir.” You counter in the most refined timbre you can dictate, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he bunches the hem of your dress in his palms, hoisting it over your head to expose the breathtaking contours and curves of your body. You can’t remember what compelled you to forego your bra, but the thought is soon pushed to the corner of your mind, making room for the warm, fuzzy feeling that conquers your insides when Tom lays his eyes on you, bared to him and only him. His gaze alone makes you feel like you are a spectacle to behold, the most enchanting vision to ever cross his line of sight. If there was even a speck of insecurity buried deep in the back of your mind, the sight of Tom’s eyes, blown wide with adoration as they worship every sinful inch of your skin, instantly quells those fears.

He struggles to find his words, to occupy this infinite silence with anything, everything, as his calloused palms caress the sides of your waist, but all he can manage is a husky growl. One that prefaces the reappearance of his tongue, and its feverish descent from the column of your neck to the tops of your breasts, bathing your skin with gluttonous, broad strokes, and coaxing pretty, little whines from the back of your throat.

There is something so unhinged in his actions, so carnal, it summons another wave of arousal to pool against your soiled panties, knowing you have such a strong clutch on his resolve. Though, another branch of your mind races at a mile a minute, consumed by the endless possibilities that come equipped with Tom’s skill.

You try not to dwell on the little flings that came before you, especially now, in the afterglow of your confession. The taunting, pitious gazes you shared with his hookups in the hallowed halls of your alma mater, toting a reminder that they could indulge in everything you yearned for, scorched you more than the thought of the act itself — but the rumors were just plain inescapable. If even a fraction of them hold a candle to the truth, then you are in for one hell of a night.

“You’re just as sweet as I imagined, angel.” Angel. The nickname sends sparks flying in the well of your stomach. “Can’t wait to taste that perfect little pussy. Just know it’s gonna be even sweeter when you cum all over my fingers.”

You whine softly at his words, but clench hard around nothing, aching to be filled by those unbearably long, slender digits. Nothing could have prepared you for the scene unraveling below you — his lips latched around the stiff peak of your nipple, a husky groan reverberating around the pebbled surface, and head slightly moving against the palm of your hand as your fingers tug at his chestnut locks. The long, covetous laps of his tongue mingling with the vibrations of his contented little hums make you desperate for more, arching, writhing, trembling against him in hopes of finding a semblance of relief for the ache between your thighs.

“Tommy, please.” You plead in the most convincing, fucked out tone you can muster, but he doesn’t budge, showering your other bud with a flurry of quick, relentless kitten licks. Even mother nature joins in his relentless teasing, making you squirm as the gentle breeze blows cool, summer air against the glistening bud.

This is torture, a blissful, euphoric form of torture that, despite your irritability, you would surrender to time and time again. But you fail to notice just how hard your canines puncture the swell of your bottom lip, too immersed in the stroke of his tongue, in the ghost of pleasure that stirs in the pit of your stomach each time you rut against his clothed cock. A sharp, metallic tang seeps into your mouth, hitting the tip of your tongue and forcing a trembling whimper to the front of your mouth.

The pitiful sound piques Tom’s interest, and before you can wipe the blood from your lip, your face is already cradled between his palms. “Fuck, Y/N, look at you,” His eye were wide with concern, and your heart sputters over the blistering scorch of need his compassion arises in you. “C’mere.” Dropping his forehead against your own, his tongue tentatively brushes the curve of your lips, lapping up every last drop of blood that is smeared against it. He applies pressure to the wound, cauterizes it with a searing dance of bloodstained brims, as his one hand weaves into your damp locks. You barely know how to respond, but your body compensates with an untapped sense of hunger, scraping your teeth against his lower lip as you desperately claw at the toned valley of his back.

“Please, Tommy, please. I’m dripping.” You mewl, teetering over the perilous edge of delusion, foraging between your stomachs in search of his free hand. Yet another wave of arousal pools between your thighs at the sight of him, with his puffy, saliva stained lips slightly parted, and his eyes blown wide with the insatiable need to indulge himself, to spoil you. Once your fingers circle around his wrist, you guide his hand to the apex of your thighs and urge him to feel for himself, applying the lightest of pressure against his fingers, urging him to caress your tender lips through the sodden barrier of your panties. To feel what he’s done to you. “You feel that? It’s all for you.”

“All for me,” he echoes back, mesmerized, cognac hues fading into obsidian orbs as he rubs deliberately teasing circles over your covered clit. “And you ask oh so pretty. Let me take care of you, my pretty girl.” Before you even get the chance to reply, he’s pushing your panties to the side, dipping the pad of his middle finger between your silky folds — feeling, exploring, acquainting himself with the tight ring of muscle that he plans on stretching open.

His hesitation is nothing more than a plight at this point, you are more than willing to take anything he has to offer, and he can gather that much from the wild gleam in your eyes, so he slowly works one finger into your snug, velvety walls and curses under his breath at how heavenly you feel. You’re unlike anything he’s had before, far exceeding the lengths of his imagination as you softly clench around his digit, and it only takes a few seconds to adjust to the lithe intrusion, your walls already twitching against his shallow, testing thrusts, before he adds another.

“So fuckin’ perfect, darlin’. Love the way your pretty little cunt takes me.” A thin sheen of sweat coats your forehead as he rocks his digits at a leisurely pace. Tom is obsessed with the tiny frown forming between your brows, almost like you’re confused by the amount of pleasure building between your legs, struggling to keep your eyes open, your juices spilling past your opening to trickle down the palm of his hand. To say your experience is limited is a bit of an understatement — the whopping two men you’ve slept with prior were merely amateurs in comparison to your lover. Even if there was enough air in your lungs to articulate it, you don’t have the heart to tell him that you’ve never been fingerfucked. Period. The embarrassment almost swallows you whole.

But even without anything to compare it to, you’re convinced that you’re receiving the upper echelon of experiences.

As his pace quickens, prodding against your pulsing walls with an onslaught of keen, ravaging thrusts, you’re too busy gasping for air to notice how he’s switched his angle. Now the heel of his hand is rubbing against your bundle of nerves with each stroke, applying just enough pressure to light a spark without ever setting you off, and as the pads of his fingers pound against your sweet spot, you are reduced to a limbless puddle in his hands, doused in an ethereal glow that only he could surface. “God, Y/N, you look like an angel. My pretty little angel— ‘bout to cum all over my fingers.” he panted, voice biting the air with a wolfish gleam, canines peaking past his thin lips.

“Tommy, I’m so close.” You aren’t sure if you can hold on for much longer, dangling on the coattails of insurmountable bliss, finding a new reason to fall apart with each lewd kiss or sharp thrust. Your orgasm is already creeping up, threatening to crash over you each time he plunges into your slick heat, but you know that you want to feel him — all of him — stretching you to unimaginable lengths as he sinks into your tight little hole for the first time. “I wanna feel you. I wanna- I need to cum on your cock.”

Tom’s brows meet in the middle, and you wonder if you’ve strewn too far, surrendered the remainder of your common sense to lust and her shameless palms. “Such a filthy little mouth for such a good girl.” He whispers, wondering aloud, his free hand abandoning the nape of your neck to cup your jaw as his thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, applying just enough pressure to drag it down before letting it spring back to its pouty default. “You will, angel, you will, but I gotta get you ready first.” He reassures you, and you remember just how prominent his length is, straining against the denim cage of his jeans, and attribute his wavering tone to the sheer restraint he’s been exhibiting. But you have to admit — if his fingers are only a fraction of his length, then you are not sure just how much of him you’ll be able to handle. The thought sends you barrelling toward your climax, but not without the help of his thumb, pressing up to rub fervent, clumsy circles against your clit, his husky tenor cooing sweet words of encouragement into the space just below your ear. “I can feel you, angel, let go for me. I’ve got you.”

With one final thrust, he buries his fingers to the hilt, caressing your g-spot with a tentative come hither motion, until you are ridden with overwhelming waves of pleasure. All you can feel are your tender walls tightening around his fingers, and your thighs starting to tremble under the weight of your high. But he is spellbound, mesmerized by the swirling vision of you at your most content, eyelids hanging low over your blown out hues, your hips absentmindedly grinding against his hand, meeting his timid rhythm as he tries to work you through your aftershocks.

Emptiness soon replaces the stretch of his fingers once he slips them out, but a twitch of excitement follows the path of his slick hand, and you can’t stop from outright moaning at his shameless display.

“Just what I thought,” he murmurs. You are too captivated by the sight of his lips — pink, and kiss-weathered, and frankly obscene — opening wide to welcome his slick fingers, gracing his taste buds with your juices, and humming around them as they coat his tongue in an intoxicating elixir . “Open up, pretty girl,” You‘re torn from your trance by the pressure of his digits, knocking against your bottom lip, begging for entry. “Come taste how sweet you are.”

Hollowing your cheeks, you graciously welcome his fingers, putting on a show as you swirl your tongue between the two digits, moaning softly as the bittersweet taste that hits your tastebuds. You aren’t prepared for the shallow, tentative thrust of his digits, or how he starts up a slow, steady rhythm against the back of your tongue — but god do you welcome it, softly gagging with each steady downstroke, spit already dribbling down your chin as you try to keep up with his quickening pace.

“Atta girl, that’s it.” He offers you a ginger smile, one that makes the tears pooling in your eyes worth gagging for. “Good girl. Good, good girl. I wish you could see how pretty you look.”

You try to reply over his digits, but your words are muffled and faint as they thud against the wall of your lips. Luckily, he’s coherent enough to notice that you’d like to speak — and who is he to stifle that sweet little voice of yours? “Thank you,” you pant, fluttering your tear-stained lashes up at him as you clamber to fill your lungs, disputing your feverish pleas as you wriggle away from the outline of his cock. The sensation of his waterlogged jeans rubbing against your sensitive bundle of nerves has you keening over him, pushing you further from his crotch, and closer to his embrace, back arched with a near-feline agility.

“Can I?” you ask, kneading your palms over his thighs, feigning innocence as you inch closer and closer to his zipper with each upstroke, and he nods, granting you permission to free him from his denim confines. In one fluid motion, your one hand unzips his fly as the other helps him kick off the remainder of his offending items, and you have to resist the urge to drool at the sight of his cock springing from his boxers, let alone his sinfully perfect, exposed form.

He’s a little bit larger than you expected — what he lacks in length, he makes up in girth, but there isn’t much to make up for in the first place. His shaft is decorated with pretty, ivory veins, ones that would no doubt twitch beneath the hot, heavy weight of your tongue, and the crown of his cock is flushed, glistening with a thin sheen of precum that makes your mouth feel conveniently dry. Your walls twitch at the disheartening reminder of your emptiness, but all out spasm as his fingers eclipse the circumference of his cock, using your juices to leisurely pump himself.

“You’re so pretty.” You sigh, a flurry of giggles floating beneath your words as you reach out to touch him, hovering just above the tip in order to send him a cautionary glance — one he hurriedly accepts, nodding his head fervently as he stutters into his grasp. A rosy hue blooms across the valley of your cheekbones as you encircle him, covering whatever he can’t as he all but bucks into your palm. His heart strains against his chest upon the realization that his hand easily dwarfs your own, watches your smaller fingers barely curl around his engorged shaft and fights the urge to cum right then and there.

No, he needs to feel you.

“Are you sure?” He asks once more, granting you a final chance to salvage what little scraps remain of your childhood friendship, but you are already committed, determined to devour every last, glorious piece of him, to prove that he is the rightful owner of you, all of you, every shimmering shade of you.The sentiment would be almost derisive if not so loving, so noble, and yet you dismiss it with three, chaste kisses upon the outline of his profile — against his forehead, the notch on the bridge of his nose, and finally his lips, warm and inviting.

“I’m certain.” You promise, merely a breaths width away from his lips.

You have never been more certain of a decision in your life, desperate to feel him nestled deep inside you, to blur the line where he begins and you end. Your fingers curl around the base of his cock, their pressure neither here nor there as they coax a hiss out of him, and you line him up with your entrance, tossing your head back as you waste no time breaching your needy hole with the bulbous head of his cock.

It’s blindingly clear that you have been given the reins, what with Tom’s finger’s seeking refuge in the soil beneath him, a low groan rumbling beneath his chest, his eyes rapt with an unspoken urgency as they survey the spot where you connect, and you relish in your paramount. Your knees dig deeper into the ground as you lower yourself onto him, and with little resistance, your walls steadily welcome inch after inch with a searing embrace, etching every delicious ridge and vein of his length to memory until he bottoms out, and you’re left with an overwhelming sense of fullness. There is a dull pain laced in the stretch of your opening, intermingling with the remnants of your last orgasm, and as you twitch and pulse around his girth, he appears like an dream before you, sifting through a thick haze of desire, wispy curls clinging to the thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead, and eyes blown wide with ripples of pleasure, of lust, that long to be indulged.

Once you’ve adjusted to him, you test a few shallow, tentative rolls of your hips, lifting yourself off the tiniest bit before filling yourself up again. He just feels so perfect, like god spent a little extra time molding him just for you, rubbing against parts of you that have never known such ecstasy until now, and you struggle to find a rhythm amidst all these new, dizzying sensations. “Poor little thing, you’re so worked up, you barely know how to take my cock.” It’s funny, how he can make such degrading words sound so sympathetic, and regardless, your body responds long before your brain can register, wildly spasming around his cock. It doesn’t take long for his fingers to return, digging into the curve of your hips to assist you, working you over his length in long, plundering strokes that steal the air from your lungs. “That feel better, angel?”

“Mhmm,” you shakily nod your head, fingers finding purchase in the broad expanse of his shoulders as you dig your nails into the freckled expanse, flooding his senses with the weak little uh, uh, uh’s tumbling from your lips each time you’re impaled on his cock. If he could lap up every hitch of your breath, every wayward sigh, he’d be drunk off the height of your unbridled joy. Hell, he can barely sustain himself as is, ravenously lapping up the beads of sweat clinging to your temple, swirling his tongue around your earlobe in its descent. Yes, yes, he’s swept up in sultry waves of you, and as your pelvis kisses his, as the air is filled with the sounds of your hips snapping against his own, he’s less and less concerned about emerging from your enchanting depths. “You got another one for me, angel? I can feel you squeezing my cock, baby, I know you got another one.” He’s delirious, clawing at the altar of your hips, and nowhere near as close to finishing as you are, but god is he eager to tear another orgasm out of you.

You, on the other hand, are a furnace, taunting flames of embarrassment licking up your insides, pooling in the small of your back, racing up your cheeks, at such arduous lengths as to mix with the coil of pleasure tightening in your core. Tom seizes the opportunity to find some leverage, pulling his knees up to rest on either side of you, planting his feet on the ground so that he can thrust up into your sopping cunt at a punishing pace, and you both can already feel the tell-tale signs of your building pleasure. “It’s okay, Y/N, you can let go.” Nothing more than a faint whisper, you indulge in the way his cock massages your inner walls, how your name sounds so filthy, yet beguiling, as it slips from his slightly ajar lips, how it blends so well with the weak little moans of his own name rolling off your tongue. “Let go for me. I wanna feel that perfect little pussy cum all over me.” His hand dips between your sweat slick forms, firmly swiping his fingers over your hypersensitive bundle of nerves, turning circles into your favorite shape, and his change in position makes the crown of his cock curve into your g-spot each time he pounds into you — so your helpless to the crescendo of pleasure that washes over you.

A broken, startled shriek tears through your lungs, and you topple over his thighs, digging crescent shaped indents into his knees as you surrender to your climax, walls fluttering and contracting over his length as he works you over the edge.

“Oh, what a good girl.” He coos encouragingly, reaching his hand out to cup the weight of your breast, swiping his thumb over your peaked bud as his pace eases up, and it isn’t until now that you realize he’s leaning back, holding himself up by his forearms while he drinks in your pleasure-ridden form. “My sweet, sweet girl.” You can tell he’s holding back by the way his hips still stutter up into your overstimulated heat, how his cheeks, his forehead, all of his features are set with a heavy flush, how you aren’t filled to the brim with his cum — and you simply won’t allow that.

“It’s okay, Tommy.” You whisper, carefully lowering yourself until your chest is aligned with his own, sharply exhaling as you feel him push up against your tender core. Your eyes are soft, and dazed, and oh so pretty, glittering beneath a thin layer of unshed tears, but this is about him, it’s always been about him, and as his cock twitches amidst your spasming walls, you firmly believe that you can handle another orgasm if he can coax it from you. “Keep goin’, it’s okay. I want you to fill me up. I wanna feel all of you.”

“Y/N—” His voice is stern, but your lips are fierce, stealing whatever argument may have been building in the cavern of his mouth as you weakly tilt your hips downward, offering yourself to him once more. When he muscles up enough strength to tear himself away, he only finds a bounty of understanding, of devotion, of love, teeming at the brim of your eyes, and he needs no words to indulge himself, to yield to a mesmerising whirlpool of you, you, shimmering you.

Tom wraps one arm around your back, holding you close to his chest while you scatter soft, lingering kisses to his shoulder, smoothing his palm over your damp tresses as he hoists one leg over his hip, prying your legs even further apart so he can fuck up into you — impossibly tighter, and tormentingly more responsive as he slams into your overstimulated cunt. You can feel every square inch of him now, every long sweeping vein, the tiny sliver of skin hidden beneath his tip, it’s all crystal clear as he plunges into your weepy core, and you’re so cockdrunk, so fucked out of your mind, that you don’t even notice your hips slanting down to meet his thrusts. You’re just that greedy for another orgasm, hellbent on tumbling over yet again as he fills you to the brim.

It doesn’t take long for him to work himself to that precipice once again, the coil in his stomach pulled taut with your whimpered chant of his name, with each strong pulse of your cunt tightening over him. He buries himself to the hilt one last time, stuttering into your hips with a loud, frenzied groan, and finally teeters off the edge, dragging you down with him as you sink your teeth into his shoulder blade, pumping his hot seed into you, coating your walls with hot spurts of cum as you milk him for every last drop, the crude sound of your arousal mixing with his own making you shudder.

You both lay there for a second, safe in each other’s warm embrace, basking in the aftermath of your fortuned affair, and you cowered beneath the sky and it’s constellation clad ceiling, feeling infinitesimal, but oh so contented, beneath its glorious gaze. There, wrapped up in one another, two splintered halves mending, healing, into the whole they were destined to become — the sky was but a star in comparison to your light, your bright, everlasting light.

How did we get here? You wonder. How, oh, how is he finally mine?

You follow the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way the moon lounges across his curly lashes in a silver chaise — you survey him at his most vulnerable — and determine that you have more than enough time to find the answer. As long as he’s here, by your side, you don’t plan to wander too far.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! PLEASE LIKE, OR LEAVE A COMMENT, IF YOU ENJOYED!

TAGLIST: @devotion @reawritesthings

#tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland smut #tom holland blurb #tom holland oneshot #I CAN NOT BELIEVE I ACTUALLY FUCKING FINISHED THIS #the way this magically climbed from 4.7 to 9.5k in one day will never cease to amaze me #and i hope that this spawns a new love and excitement for country boy tom because i love arvin but #BOY does that man scare me a lil bit #this is more like a . . hart of dixie type of country #more apple pie! less homicide!#I ALSO DONT KNOW WHA THAPPENED TO THE SMUT THIS IS LIKE 40% SMUT #anyway i really do hope yall enjoy #mine*

216 notes · View notes

babydarkstar · 3 years

Text

cacoethes

part two: bring your sweet loving

rating: E (18+ ONLY) || pairing: ezra x f!reader || word count: 10.5k

chapter summary: as the night winds down and tensions simmer, we learn more about you, pieces of your past, and your relationship with ezra.

warnings: ezra’s gigantic mouth that won’t shut up (suggestive language) and two criminals not knowing how to act; caretaking, i guess? reader cleans ezra but it’s nothing erotic; SMUT; handjob and graphic depictions of a glorious dick; dirty talk; dubcon maybe bc painkillers but he’s enthusiastic abt it; praise kink; switches having a great time; ezra’s subby in this but i promise he’s a dom too just not tonight; mentions of death, killing, tattoos, scars; mention of past drug use, bad coping mechanisms; mm i hc that ezra is a tiny tattoo guy so there’s that; fluff bc im sweet; author is a southern peach, forgive her if it gets a little slow and twangy up in here

a/n: un-beta’d bc mistakes are sexy. i’ll go back later and fix whatever i find but for now. enjoy. i’m literally just making shit up about this universe as we go but it’s working out for the best so bear with me. lmk if u want me to add u to be tagged here. tagging: @pedros-mustache @jk7789

crossposted to ao3 :) || playlist || one || two || three

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

“Here, Cee,” you said, adjusting the threadbare blanket over your cot and splaying a hand over it while she eyed you from across the tent, still standing amongst the carnage of a violent field surgery, “I’ll sleep on the floor tonight.”

The poor girl was scared. Well—not scared, not anymore.

Vengeful, for certain, though it seemed to dwindle with every minute she watched you interact.

Definitely wary of the two of you.

Which was appropriate, given that Ezra had killed her father and left her alone on an uninhabitable moon, only to be scooped up by his partner and deceived into thinking she was safe, and then forced to perform impromptu surgery to hack off an arm. But she appeared more wary to accept help from you than wary of you.

And honestly, if Ezra hadn’t just lost a limb and you didn’t want to hover beside him after not seeing him for a month to make sure he didn’t slip the veil in his sleep or disappear beneath your fingertips—and if you weren’t trying to earn her trust, you’d have made her take the floor.

But things were different now, they might always be. She had saved his life. You owed her your cot to sleep on.

“Wait,” Ezra said, swallowing thickly as he blinked, seeming to just process the words you had spoken, “You think so little of me that I’d let you sleep on the dirt after the day you’ve had? Now, I agree that our guest should find comfort in a cot of her own, but I will not deny you the simple respite of sleep. That would prove me an unworthy companion.”

“Ezra,” you said, giving him a look of incredulity that seeped into your tone, “You can’t be serious.”

He eyed you and clenched his jaw, still stomaching the fact that he had one less limb to worry about, and a bunch more problems to deal with. It was a look that told you he was not arguing with you, you were going to sleep on the cot. He would not be coddled like a child just because he lost an arm.

Which was, in itself, ridiculous. You didn’t plan to coddle him—you weren’t the type, not really. But. He’d lost a fucking arm. But he was also still delirious from the anesthetic, so that didn’t help his desire to prove something to the universe.

“You’re taking the cot, I’m not having this conversation,” you said, wiping his sweaty brow with your sleeve, “Tap into the ruthless outlaw inside of you and take it without regret. You know I hardly sleep anyways, I’ll live without a bed for the night.”

“Then I must insist you share it with me, precious angel,” he sighed, and you could almost see the cogs in his head turning as his distant gaze darkened into something hungry, “I’ve longed to feel your body pressed against mine since I left with Number Two. The divinity of your skin.” He hummed, eyes fluttering shut, “More…more precious than the ore we risk our lives for. Sweeter than fruit. Fresher than a rainstorm.”

“Ez,” you warned, snapping a glare at him.

“Your body…so tender, warm,” he continued, entranced in his own fantasy, not even hearing you when you warned him yet again, “All soft and pliant beneath my touch. It has been far too long since we partook in a pleasure as indulgent as one another—before our partnership with Two, if I can recall. Grant me heaven tonight. I deserve the satisfaction of watching you drip honey for me—”

“Hey! None of that,” you snapped, cocking an eyebrow—and fighting the flutter in your chest and the heat tingling down your core, “There are young ears present, Shakespeare Erotica. Not to mention young eyes.”

You would do no such thing with him as long as this teenager remained in close quarters and under your care. He turned to look at Cee, as if he’d forgotten all about her for a moment. Or maybe it was that he didn’t care. Bastard.

“I’m okay as long as you guys don’t fuck in front of me,” Cee sighed, resigned to have dealt with too much in her past to be worried about flirting—no, verbal-fucking.

“We won’t be doing any of that,” you assured her, giving Ezra another pointed look before slinging his arm around your shoulders and helping him to the cot. He grumbled incoherently, moaning and groaning the few steps it took to ease him down into the squeaky frame.

When you finally got him down—forced him to lay down—he let out another soft whimper of pain, followed by your name. “Don’t go.”

Brushing the hair off his sweaty forehead, you bent down to press a kiss there, “M’right here, Ez. Rest. I’m gonna clean you up, okay?”

It was the least you could do—and that way you could take inventory of every inch of him to ensure he didn’t have any other wounds hiding and festering and threatening his life. Just as this wouldn’t be your first time tending to him while he laid incapacitated, he’d done the same for you plenty of times. There was very little, if anything at all, the two of you hadn’t seen of each other. Vulnerability had another name here: normalcy.

“After—” he rasped up at you, coughing and then righting himself, “After we find our way off this Kevva-damned moon—which we will—I understand if you no longer deem me…worthy of your affections. It’s the only explanation I can find for your denial of my offer to dote on you. I only pray you make good on your long-standing promise to drop me where I stand should I ever disappoint you, dear heart of mine.”

Okay, you didn’t know where all the insecurity and sentiment was coming from, especially hearing it from the mouth of your dear old confident mean-streak Ezra, but he couldn’t possibly be serious. It made you ache to think that he didn’t trust you to stay with him, that he viewed himself as lesser because he lost his arm. Well, he was lesser, but only by mass.

Also, really? The only explanation he could find for you not wanting to sleep with him was that you hated him and didn’t want him because of his injury? He couldn’t think of any more glaringly obvious reasons, those of which had just been pointed out to him?

With a sigh, you brushed your thumb across the silvery scar on his cheek, “Rest now, chatterbox. I’ll be here when you wake up—and every morning after, for as long as I can. Only death could pry you from me, and me from you. You’ve got me, forever….I still see you as you are—a hundred percent you, a hundred percent mine.”

The words felt foreign on your lips, but he was bound to forget them the moment he fell asleep, so you didn’t feel as weird waxing poetic right back at him. The man had rubbed off on you in more ways than one. You normally didn’t speak to one another so frankly—at least, you didn’t, given the nature of what it meant to care out here and how you’d already unofficially established that you two were something more—but tonight you couldn’t fucking help it.

Ezra leaned into your touch, pawing at it with his hand, grabbing onto your fingers and kissing into your palm. A dull smile poked at his mouth and he let it engulf him. “Quite the charmer you are, siren.”

You didn’t respond, only half-smiled and wriggled—reluctantly—from his grasp to grab a few clean cloths and fill a bucket with water. After squirting the sanitizing solution in the water, you simmered the lights down to the lowest setting, to where your eyes had to adjust for a moment before you could make your way across the tent. His gaze bore into you—no, both Ezra and Cee watched every move you made; one in lazy admiration and the other in curiosity.

“Do you need me to put a drape over the post? I’m strippin’ him,” you asked Cee as you slung Ezra’s clean shirt from off the drying line onto your shoulder—you smiled at the floor, thanking yourself from hours ago for deciding not to burn it. You grabbed the bucket and tottered over to him, nodding at him to scoot. He obliged, giving you room to sit by his hip so you could ease his clothes off.

Cee shook her head when you looked to her for a response, opting to sit on your cot facing away from you with her nose in her book, so you shrugged and tugged the fabric off of Ezra in slow, deliberate motions, wincing every time he grunted.

As you took the time to clean off the grime and dirt and sweat of the Green, he told you about running into Cee and her father Damon; how he tried to take his entire harvest from the few cycles he’d spent with Two; about Two’s untimely, irrational outburst that cost them their life. About the Queen’s Lair and the mercs, and the plan to ravage and plunder and take it all for themselves. You thought the Queen’s Lair was a rumor. Not even a rumor—a myth, a legend, something fabricated by desperate fools with hazy minds of dust and their eyes set on fortune. But Ezra told you he’d seen part of it marked on Cee’s map, that her father was contracted to help extract the deposit. Cee even pulled her map out to point to the marked areas, albeit with clinical movements and short words.

So you made a plan to head out at first light, with the trip taking most of the daylight, and they’d be cutting it close but there was no way you’d let Ezra hike so many klicks in his state—not without a few hours’ rest first.

After you’d managed to clean his legs, his hips, his feet and get him into something more comfortable than compression pants, you moved to his torso and traced over each scar marring his skin, each jagged edge where something hadn’t healed right or wasn’t stitched properly. He’d lost some weight under the harsh conditions of the Green—you both had. But he still held onto muscle from the toil that came with survival on such harsh terrain; and he was naturally broad, he always would be, which made him sturdy.

Your fingers ghosted over a few microtattoos he’d gotten; one beneath his ribcage, one on his hipbone, and the one you’d given him yourself on his lower sternum. That one, as you brushed over it with a wet cloth, never failed to make you smile. A sad smile, but a smile nonetheless.

A tiny, unfilled heart, a mere outline, barely a centimeter in size. It was messy, simple, done in minutes. But it meant something, meant exactly what you’d never quite been able to voice.

My heart is yours. Take it.

You’d done it one night when the two of you had gone on a two spin bender, which happened more towards the end of your glory days, when the drugs came easy and heavy and the illusion of time slipped by like sand on the wind.

Any time someone hired your services as cleaners, it took a toll. They didn’t do it often because of that, but the payout was worth the work. No matter how many times you swore you would never do it again, you went back. Because it was hard to ignore the way it felt to flood a deserving someone’s mouth with the taste of their own blood, or to slip a knife in between their ribs and let it slide like butter and watch the light die. It was hard to ignore that you liked it, especially when it was so violent—one of the worst sins to commit, and you enjoyed it.

The act of killing had become cathartic for you. It made you feel more alive, reminded you that you had a beating, bloody heart, and a brain, and veins that pumped blood, and muscles that tore apart and rebuilt themselves stronger. Killing came easy when you didn’t know the target. It felt like a game.

Ezra didn’t enjoy it as much as you did—not to say he didn’t enjoy it at all, for he most certainly did. But he didn’t process it the same way you did. He saw killing as a means to survive and a means to get where he needed to go. He enjoyed turning it into a game, making fun out of whatever circumstance presented itself.

But that one—the last one—it had gone wrong. Messy, slow, noisy, choppy. There was only supposed to be one person in the house: typical target, a man who owed the wrong people a whole lot of money and refused to pay up.

One man.

One man was all you’d expected.

One man was all you’d been instructed would be in the condo.

He went down easy enough, quiet enough—Ezra snuffed him and stuffed him and you’d made to transfer his points into the right pockets.

And that was that.

They had tossed the bodybag over the high-rise balcony and into the pits of the bottomless highway next to the building, with a blinker-bomb inside just in case.

That was that.

Except it wasn’t, it was so fucking far from it.

Ezra, being himself, had wanted so bad to sneak in a quickie before heading back—an unholy, immoral ritual you two had initiated, to fuck where you killed—and who were you to protest? Who were you to say no to pretty words and soft eyes glittering with an untamed wild? To say no to the hands that already ripped at gear and pushed beneath underwear just to get a taste—you couldn’t, it was impossible.

Fresh off a high of adrenaline, pulsing with nervous energy—he was always so good, he always got you right where you needed and then that much further.

And Ezra—being himself—could not keep his fucking mouth shut. The stereotype about men holding in their moans, about them never whimpering or whining or groaning or grunting—yeah, that was a load of Bearkie-shit.

Maybe it held true for some men, but.

Not your Ezra. Not even a little bit.

He talked like heaven’s mouthpiece—or maybe the devil, given all the sinful things he’d whisper to you in the crux of any given night. He let loose whatever noise he deemed necessary to make.

They’d only just made it to the dried, bloody stain on the carpet (a bed on which to copulate), knocking over a floating hilolamp and pulling a chuckle from your paramour, when a shout rang through the apartment and shattered your moment into a thousand pieces.

It was only supposed to be one. One man.

Instead, you were met with another man who you’d later learn to be his brother, the target’s mother, and his pregnant wife.

The man held onto some type of curved sports bat, keeping it up threateningly as if warning you of something imposing. Ezra didn’t hesitate to shoot him in the head, not even bothering to get up from where he’d pressed his hips between your legs. But then you’d had to go and check the other rooms, effectively killing any mood the two of you had shared.

Because fuck, where the men had no fight in them, the women wouldn’t go down without a struggle. Or maybe it was that you pitied them, and it distracted you. They’d already peeked their heads out from behind the door of the master bedroom, worried and doe-eyed and determined.

Maybe if they hadn’t seen your faces—if they’d still been asleep while you swept for warm bodies after the first assailant—maybe they’d have gotten out with their lives. But who were you kidding? You killed without thought. You’d likely have put a pillow over their heads before aiming your thrower and firing twice for good measure, had you been sharp and not distracted by a tongue in your mouth.

Instead, Ezra had the audacity to try to bargain with them. Something about having a soft spot for mothers—his own having been a beacon in his life until she left him orphaned as a young boy. He made it a point not to kill women and children. It was one thing in which he remained unwavering. (He’d kill a grown woman if she gave him reason to, like he had on Exon-5, but that was another story for another time, and a different circumstance which called for such measures, namely that of protecting you.) But he should have known better, he should have known not to try something like that. He should’ve known that he’d have to let go of the final shred of morality he held onto.

So Ezra took down the old woman in a way you still have yet to ask about and don’t care to know; and you’d ended with the pregnant woman choking on her own blood when you twisted your knife into the dip of her throat—and you felt awful about it after watching her crumble beneath you, but she’d hit you upside the head with a thick textbook of outdated skimmer-craft modules and it made you see red among pinpricks of stars.

And that night, after all was said and done they’d spent a fortune on getting high—just to forget, just to be okay.

That night they’d locked themselves in a self-imposed prison of satin sheets and destructive tendencies. Two days buzzing with no food, little water, just him and you and needles and spoons and eyedroppers and blades and pills. Like you couldn’t breathe if he didn’t fill you with all of him, you wouldn’t be able to stand upright if he took his hands off you and stopped letting you flood your veins with a chemical glow. Heavy eyelids, messy sex, raw arms and red eyes.

It felt fucking awful, coping that way, but it felt too fucking good and it made you forget about the lives you’d taken in (somewhat) cold blood.

So after sprawling beside him on the gigantic plush bed with his hand ghosting over your spine, you’d found a part of yourself snagged at the corner of this wild-eyed man’s tar-black soul, and you had thought about what could have happened in an alternate universe.

A moment when he was the target, you were (somehow) the pregnant wife, and you watched him die before succumbing to the dark of your own soul escaping you. And it made you desperate to cling to him as he was in the moment, desperate to know that he was yours and you were his. It was then that you’d asked him if you could mark him. Claim him, to know that he wouldn’t leave you like that, and if he did, he’d have a piece of you everywhere. He’d go down with a piece of you.

Ezra had been delighted, of course, as he was always one for symbolism and deeper meaning even if he didn’t quite understand the rhetoric. And it wasn’t the first time you’d marked each other, just a different time with a different meaning. So he let you dip a sterile needle in ink and plunge it into the tender skin of his chest.

You had one too, a heart on your sternum. Nestled between your breasts, just close enough to your heart to feel like it mattered, like it meant that he felt the same. But you didn’t even let yourself go that far—you two were doped up and delirious and he enjoyed marking you in any way he could, so an opportunity to stick and poke his way further into your skin than he already had was an opportunity he could not pass up. At least, that was how you saw it. Nevertheless, it made you happy to see it there on his chest, and to have one that matched.

Ezra’s soft voice snapped you from the memory.

“What’s crossed your mind to make you so delicate in your touch, so solemn in your stare?”

You realized you had stopped your ministrations and had planted your palm on his chest, staring just over his shoulder and onto the canvas beside him. With a careful hand, you resumed gentle motion over his pecs, up his clavicle, his throat.

“Thinking about Beta-Mobilia,” you whispered, unable to meet his eye, “And after.”

“Mm,” he grunted in recognition, the vibration tickling your fingertips, “Regrettable night. Unavoidable, necessary. But I dwell in shame identical to yours.”

“I don’t deserve to be here after that. I didn’t deserve to live after the Exons, The Grime. Why am I still alive?”

“We’ve discussed this in great length by now, siren. Don’t doubt your existence. It’s beyond sense, beyond comprehension.”

You nodded, still unable to look at him. But then he latched onto your wrist, brushing his calloused thumb over the delicate skin there, and this time you couldn’t keep your gaze away from the soft smile that begged to form on his lips.

“And I appreciate your tender care, wildfire,” he hummed, eyes glittering up at you like two dark pools of amber, “Where would I be without it? Mmm…mhm. Dead, likely. Or bitter. Wicked with taciturn rage. No meaning could come from that.”

“You, bitter and unspeaking? Unthinkable, I’d sooner pronounce you dead,” you drawled, thankful for his kindness to grant distraction, and he granted you an eye-roll. But his expression softened when you sat him upright and maneuvered behind him, wiping down his back in gentle strokes. You folded the cloth over once the side turned brown with grime, and moved up to his neck, scrubbing over his shoulders and giving short strokes down his nape and behind his ears.

“So you planned to go ravage the Queen without me, huh?” you asked quietly, irked that he hadn’t even come to find you before setting out on that venture, “Planned to leave me to rot on the Green, take the money for yourself and steal away with the girl.”

Ezra sighed, and you could see from behind his shoulder how he worked his jaw, formulating what to say.

“Understand that I do nothing without you willingly. Birdie over there’s about as fleeting as a real one. But trust that I planned to come get you—I’d never leave you stranded. I just couldn’t introduce another person into the threadbare alliance I had forged until the time was right.”

“She likes me,” you countered, smiling over at Cee, who now laid with her back facing you as her ribs contracted with the first breaths of sleep. A sign of trust. You didn’t know when exactly you’d earned it, but you’d accept it nonetheless. She had also taken both of your throwers (something you protested and Ezra waved off), so maybe that helped.

“No doubt—there’s plenty to like about you.”

Ever the flatterer, even when delirious with pain.

With a coy smile, you scrubbed over his head and then his face, careful to avoid his snapping mouth that reached out ever so often to nip at your hand—there was that playfulness, the natural effervescence of his presence. When you decided your work was done, you eased him back down on the cot and he allowed it with no protest.

You fluffed his pillow and moved the book you’d stashed beside it. He turned his head and pressed his nose to the pillow, grunting in mild appreciation.

“Smells like you down here,” he remarked with a half-smile, eyes drooping, “You sleep on my cot while I was away?”

“I missed you,” you whispered, nodding, just now aware of how much his presence affected you. To think that you had resolved to try to move on without him—it seemed ridiculous now.

“I missed you,” he returned, “You haven’t the slightest idea how much I wanted you beside me. Number Two was a fond ally but not a companion. Nothing like the banter we exchange, nor the secrets we share.”

“They never talked. I imagine your time away was just as lonely as mine.”

“Absolutely. I regret agreeing to leave with Two. But you know we couldn’t have trusted them to stay at camp while we went off—not absolutely. Not when they’d never spoken a word,” he chuckled and then coughed, a quiet rumble you felt against your leg as it zigzagged through his chest.

Thank Kevva you had a plan to leave now. The spent filter had taken a toll on Ezra—and it wasn’t even his to begin with. He insisted on giving you his when the one your new suit came with was almost completely used up.

Fuck the man for caring about you; he’d gone soft during your time on the Green, and you hated how much you loved it. Hated it because he needed to focus on himself, needed to stop putting you before him. Hated it because every day it made you feel like somehow, he loved you back. That somehow, he thought of you as more than just a constant in his life, more than a body to fuck and a brain to pick.

You’d grown used to each other. But his unpredictability oozed into every aspect of himself, every nook and cranny of his life, and you were too worried about fucking up a good thing over a simple conversation. All it took was one sensitive topic breached and you’d surely find yourself shit out of luck. He was all you had left of the scraps of a fucked up life. Without him, you’d make do but not without a struggle and not without reluctance. Some part of you knew he’d be the same even if he initiated a split.

The thought had you hurrying to tug his shirt on before gathering the cloths and scurrying to place the bucket near the front of the tent.

And you shouldn’t have been so scared to be honest with him—the two of you rarely kept things to yourselves. But to love someone so fully within your heart, to never want to be away from them, to never grow tired of their presence no matter how tedious they may be or frustrating they could get, it scared you.

“A kiss for the wounded?” Ezra asked, brown eyes wide and mouth pouty enough to break you from your racing mind. You softened then, padding back over to him on tiptoe and settling back at his side for a brief moment.

With a gentle smile, you leaned down to grant him a kiss to his lips—the first one you’d shared with him in fuck knows how long. Too long, that was for sure, because when your lips notched with his chapped ones you melted, every worry and every qualm simply washed away in a swirl of pink pleasure.

You couldn’t help yourself—an indulgent, quiet moan pooled in your chest and slipped from your throat before you could stop it, and he hummed right back when his tongue pushed between your lips and you let him devour you. Always the ravager, ever a greedy bastard when it came to his pleasure, he licked up into your mouth and tangled his tongue with yours. It took very little for you to melt right into his chest, pressing your own against him and whimpering when he sneaked his hand up the hem of your shirt to rub circles over the skin of your back. You remained sloppy and almost lazy but intentional as you held either side of his nape and toyed with the strands of his still-damp hair, pouring yourself into this kiss like you’d never kiss him again.

Fuck. Fuck, you wanted him so bad. You missed this man with every vibrating inch of you. You missed his body, you missed his voice calling to you from the very depths of himself, you missed everything about him, and you needed him as close as possible. Closer than close, you needed him.

But fuck. You couldn’t. When you pulled back for air, it didn’t surprise you when he pressed his palm flat on your back to keep you from moving too far.

“Mm, baby—you’re divine. I ache for you,” he all but whimpered into your mouth, breath brutally hot and heavy as he fed you his soul, “Come sit down on me—come take what’s yours. I want to feel you strangle me, show me just how much you—”

“No, Ez,” you cut him off in a biting whisper, lips kiss-swollen, hating how, if there had been literally any other person in the tent beside you, you might’ve taken him up on the offer, “I want to, I promise you that. But she’s a kid and I have limits—one of those limits is fucking in the same room as one.” You glared at him with half a heart, then leaned down to run the tip of your nose along the curve of his ear, smiling when he shivered, “I swear, once we get out of here I’ll make it up to you so many times you’ll forget your own name. You get first choice—however you want me, I’m yours to take.”

“Fuck—alright, I apologize for my eagerness,” he smiled, tilting his head to kiss your forehead.

“But,” you whispered, your heart racing as you glanced over to be sure Cee had fallen asleep before inching up to look back into his eyes. Fuck it, he deserved it. “If you stay quiet, I’ll take care of you right now.”

His eyebrows raised in deft interest at your offer.

“Will you let me take care of you, Sailor?”

Ezra would never admit it, and you’d never tease him about it because it made you feel some kind of way—but he fucking adored when you used his callsign. You were his siren, after all. Only made sense for him to draw to you like a dying man at sea when you called for him. You used it rarely aside from in the field, opting for your preferred chatterbox—because he was more that than anything else—so it came as a treat when you decided to pull it from your bag of tricks.

“I can hardly refuse such a tempting offer.”

“Quiet, though,” you reminded him, tiptoeing your fingers across his chest and tugging the waistband of his pants and his underwear down. Just enough to spring his cock free, which was already hard and leaking for you.

Fuck, he was such a gorgeous sight, and you couldn’t help the urge to cup his balls and nudge them free too, to admire every glorious inch of him.

Spreading your fingers out over his groin through the coarse curls gone wild with mistreatment, you paid extra attention to the white patch of hair ghosting over the base of his cock and spreading out near his abdomen before stopping abruptly on the left and diverging back down into dark brown. You remember when you’d first noticed it and had all but squealed in delight.

Every bit of him was a pleasant surprise, just as you’d found yourself more than eager to let him ruin you for anybody else with the sheer size of him.

Nobody fucked you like they were dying and you were salvation; nobody but him. And shit, did he tear you open. As if he’d carved a space inside of you just for him, each time he’d leave you with a hollow ache that only he could sate.

“Baby,” you purred in a whisper, kissing his hipbone and then leaning up to wrap your hand around the girth of him, rubbing your thumb over the weeping red of the head, “You’re so pretty for me like this.” Forever a glutton for compliments, he whimpered his soft appreciation and you hushed him accordingly. He was so thick, so big that you struggled to touch the tip of your middle finger to your thumb, so long that if you had planned to swallow him down tonight, you would’ve been needing your hand to help. But tonight you could not risk the absolutely filthy noise of you gagging on him; he’d likely cum faster and in less time to worry about waking up a certain tentmate, but you wanted to watch every muscle in his face twitch, wanted to see him take his pleasure unobstructed by your tears. This way was quieter.

So with that thought in mind, you shifted to straddle one of his thighs so you could watch him without tiring your hand in an awkward position. Then you let a string of spit drool down and over him and you gave him a twist and then more, sharp and sudden and fast in your movements as opposed to the slow, appreciative way you’d unsheathed him.

Ezra hissed out a curse, bucking up into your hand, “Shit, darlin’—“

Arching an eyebrow, you halted your work on him immediately. His pulse beat through the throbbing vein jutting out

“What did I tell you?” you snapped. With your free hand you reached up and wrapped your fingers around his neck, feeling the column of his throat contracting as he swallowed. Wide brown eyes looked up at you, a tinge of amusement in their stare.

“Are you gonna be good for me?” you asked in a low rasp, tightening your grip on his neck and giving him a little shake before going slack again, “I don’t wanna hear a single word come outta that pretty-boy mouth. If I do, I’m blue-balling you. Fair?”

Ezra nodded, his gorgeous fat mouth blessedly shut for once.

“Good boy,” you cooed, kissing him before forcing his jaw open and spitting in his mouth. It would’ve been cruel but you meant it so affectionately, and his gentle moan told you he was more than willing to accept it.

You felt his cock twitch beneath your fingers and you simpered, giving a little shimmy of your shoulders in appreciation.

Controlling this stubborn man, resorting him to silence made you feel powerful. It made you feel respected, worshipped; if the man who never shut up and always called the shots would gladly take the backseat and grant you the power to take charge, that meant more than you could wish for.

So you resumed pumping his cock, working him with both hands and then switching to hold onto his throat again before going back to two hands. The act still made quite some noise—filthy and wet and sloppy—but at this point you were less concerned about it than you had been prior. When you decided, despite his tip dripping precum, to spit down onto him again for the fun of it and twist him with a gentle tug, he couldn’t stop the whine that left him even with his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. It had you darting to clamp over his mouth, shooting daggers down at him as he stared up with a silent apology in his eyes, one you might have taken as genuine if not for the way the brown of his irises had disappeared into black, blown out with lust and glassy with pleasure.

“If you’re gonna cum, let me know so you can do it in my mouth. I just cleaned you up and I’m not doing it again.”

The last bit came out harsher than you meant but he took it all the same, biting back a grunt in the form of a sharp exhale as he twitched violently in your hand. Yeah, he didn’t really need to let you know when he was about to blow; you knew him too well. At that, you took it upon yourself to remove your hand from his mouth in favor of scooting to lean down and put your mouth over his angry, swollen tip, flinching at the way the frame creaked but ignoring it and opting to swirl your tongue over him instead.

“There it is,” you whispered with an arguably evil smile—quickly, before pulling him back into the heat of your mouth, resuming your work and grunting when he bucked up into your mouth, chasing the high you were drawing out of him.

Ezra came with a muffled, broken sob, his face buried in his arm as he bit down on his bicep, flexing and squeezing his fingers. A thick stream of his cum hit the roof of your mouth and you indulged him, taking him in further so you could swallow everything he gave you. Ropes and ropes and ropes of cum, like he hadn’t let himself get off in so long, like he’d been saving all of it for you. The thought made you whine around him, and you pulled off when he finished, flashing him your dripping tongue with his spend still on it and drawing it back in before any of it could spill.

“Holy fuck, baby,” he sighed, letting out a quiet, breathy laugh as he tugged on the front of your shirt to kiss you, tasting himself on your tongue.

This time when you pulled back and smiled, you granted him a toothy grin, goofy and knowing. It took you a minute not to giggle like a little kid as you carded your fingers through his hair. He grinned right back, still catching his breath. To you, he was gorgeous, inside and out, flaws and all. You wanted to fuck him right then. You wanted to make love to him, to let him fill you entirely and to sob into his mouth, showing him everything you couldn’t tell him.

“Get some sleep,” you settled on instead, slipping off the cot with little grace after replacing the waistband of his pants, “We head out early tomorrow.”

“Hey now, what about you?” Ezra asked, brows drawn together in concern that you wouldn’t find the same enjoyment he did.

“You’ll just owe me.” You winked then, and gave him one last kiss, which he hummed into with a great appreciative rumble.

Then you pressed your forehead into his, “Mine—you’re mine. Never leave me again or I’ll hunt you down and kill you myself. You’re everything.”

Because he was.

“Nothing without you.”

That was his response, always always always. To hear it again pricked tears in your eyes, so much so you squeezed them shut.

And once again, you caught yourself wanting to say it. This time it had ghosted in your throat, almost making it into the curve of your mouth for you to hold its shape and give voice to a thought. But you stopped it before it could get far. Those three words, the same ones that now haunted you since you’d decided to indulge in every reminiscence involving them. Somehow he had come back to you, a feat which could not be commended enough, but now you ached for him—yearned for him even stronger than if he had well and truly died.

As you settled down onto the floor beside him, those three torturous words surfaced into a memory. The one that, among other fears, made you ever so hesitant to admit just how much you loved him.

————————————

“—In that vein, I don’t find myself in particular need of a great, star-shattering love story. If love is all-encompassing, I can do without the obstacle. Romanticizing my life and its quarrels is satisfaction enough.”

You didn’t know why you were still listening. You just knew that if Ezra kept it up, you’d find a way out of this cell just to break into his and strangle him. Anything to get him to shut the hell up. Banging your head methodically against the wall that separated the two of you, you didn’t even try to hold back your groan of displeasure as he rambled on.

“Now, don’t doubt my skill in worship. I have plenty of practice in the art of copulation”—you could hear the shit-eating grin on his face—“To say I haven’t affixed my interests on one soul or another at some point in time would ordain me a liar. I simply prefer to remain lovers in action…and not in name nor feeling. Companionship…yes, it’s something we all yearn for. It can’t be helped. A warm body, a brain to pick. All wonderful facets to enjoy for the sake of one’s own baser desiderata. But—“

“Shut up,” you bit out through gritted teeth, tugging at the roots of your hair when he kept going and you had to repeat yourself, “Shut up, you goddamned chatterbox. I don’t give a fuck about your love life. Why are you even talking about this?”

A brief silence occupied the space, as if he was thoroughly perplexed by your outburst. Then he let out a huffed laugh, amused.

“You inquired about the specifics of my occupation, little thorn.”

Every time he used that nickname for you—the thorn in my side—it made you bristle. Especially when he used it almost affectionately, soothingly, full of calm and charm that had you balling your fists and pricking the skin of your palms with your fingernails. You despised him, and he treated your existence as a joke, or as a little pet he would grab from its cage and admire before tossing it back and neglecting it until he deemed its presence acceptable again. Everything was funny. Everything could be laughed at. Sometimes you didn’t mind when the guards came to beat him bloody; it made him shut up, whether from pain or because he had passed out.

“Prospecting has nothing to do with love,” you snapped, shoulders tense despite the ache in your body. If these fuckers holding you captive didn’t kill you, the stress of surviving next to this fucker surely would.

“No, it doesn’t,” he agreed, suddenly serious, “Love for others, at least. Love for the dig, love for the hunt and the adventure—that’s a different narrative altogether. Which is why I deemed it appropriate to explain such measures. The lifestyle I settled for is no small undertaking. It comes with sacrifice.”

His condescension was unintentional but still stabbed and poked at you like keepers at a circus.

————————————

It comes with sacrifice. That it did.

That long-ago night haunted you to this day.

But Ezra had his mind focused on softer dreams as he broke you from your self-destruction once more.

“Nights like these make me keen to hear you sing for me again,” he lilted out through the dark, a reminiscent simper pulling at his mouth and crinkling his eyes as he shifted to look down at you, “The melody of your voice haunts the halls of my midnight reveries. But it is such a sweet possession—as though I willed a ghost to enchant me with her gift. A siren indeed. Lure me into the sea of your deception, try to pull me under like the rest of them. But not me. No…not me—I float like driftwood in the breeze…follow the tides of your affection. Somehow I remain unscathed, and you lap at me in gentle waves.”

“Such powerful words from a man who should be asleep,” you chuckled quietly, pressing your lips to the back of his hand where you held onto it now, fingers laced.

“I am but a vendor of poetry. And you, a weaver of melody. Sing for me, siren,” he murmured, his voice thick with the drowsy pull of lassitude. He hadn’t asked that of you in so long you had almost forgotten what it felt like to hear it. Almost. And you would have agreed to it, but—

“No, the girl, she—“

“I don’t mind,” Cee interrupted, quiet and soft. It surprised you; you thought she had fallen asleep—you didn’t want to wake her with your singing. And then you were—

Shit. You sincerely hoped she had just woken up due to Ezra’s long-winded soliloquy about your singing, and hadn’t heard anything else beyond that. Mm, no. You think she would’ve said something about how fucking gross it was. Or pulled a thrower on you.

“As well you shouldn’t,” Ezra chuckled, turning his head to grin at the girl where she had turned to face him on the opposite cot, “She sings like Kevva strung her throat with gold. Or the very strings of a harp.”

You blushed and ducked your head into your shoulder, embarrassed by his flattery. Looked to him and found his honey-dark eyes drinking you in from above, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he flattened his palm over your chest and rubbed it affectionately. “What would you like to hear?” you asked, running a hand over your hair and shifting on the floor to calm your nerves.

It was just Ez.

…and a girl who harbored a teen angst bigger than ten moons; fuck if you wanted her to judge you.

“Whatever tickles your fancy,” he replied, his grin wider now that you’d agreed, “You know I’m not particular to any one hymn—I find myself enraptured by it all.”

“Okay.” You pondered for a moment before settling on one of your favorites.

Then you sang.

Quietly, nervously at first in an unpracticed rasp, then growing more steady and mellow and soft.

Some swirling folk melody from your childhood in your native tongue, one you’d never forget even if someday you lost your memory. A lullaby for village children; a lilting work song for the women to hum when laundering clothes at the stream, soothing the babies strapped to their backs or their chests or both.

It told the story of a curious young girl who loved the stillness of the ocean, found peace in its silky depths. She liked the silence so much that she would spend hours beneath the water, training to hold her breath and exploring the creatures of the reef and listening to the wavering silence.

Until one humming summer night she swam so deep the water turned black. She was scared she wouldn’t be able find her way back home but she reveled in the quiet—the quiet that not even the nighttime forest could provide, nor the village when the hunters and scavengers left for work. It was then that she saw a light shining from the deep, and decided to chase it.

Down, down, down.

And down. Until the light became so bright it surrounded her, seeped into her until she did not know where she began and it ended. No pain, no fear surrounded her. Just a sense of calm, and peace.

And she became the moon, the biggest one in the sky. The silence up there was incomparable.

The song was meant as a warning to the village children not to wander too far from the town and somehow find themselves in the cove breaching the outer mountain range. A warning to stay away, else you’d become one of the many moons in the sky, never to return to your family and the life you loved.

But you’d always found it more compelling than that, more meaningful, because the story originated from a similar legend of the moon goddess your village worshipped, the deity of the biggest satellite in your skies. The minor difference came in the detail that she chose to become the Great Moon after divine conversation instead of chasing a light down into the deep on a whim. And there was a ceremony held to initiate her transition into a celestial body.

When you’d wrapped up the lullaby you found yourself more at peace than you’d felt in a long time. You didn’t like to think about your planet, nor your village, nor the tragedies that occurred there. But this memory was a happy one, filled with sleepy eyes and chubby fingers grabbing onto mothers’ cloaks, and getting tucked into warm soft blankets by a fireplace.

“Sweet siren,” Ezra whispered in a drowsy slur, giving your hand a gentle squeeze as he turned to rest on his back, “Never fail to soothe me even when ’m in utmost anguish.”

And with that, he left you in silence, and you knew he wasn’t far from sleep.

By the time his breath evened out, you felt your eyes drooping.

Fuck, you were exhausted.

This spin had been arguably more eventful than any you’d had in a long while, and it didn’t occur to you that you could be tired when you’d hardly done much until the action rolled in.

The floor was actually not half bad, given that you laid on the tarp that absorbed heat but quickly cooled when you moved. The nights here got cold, surprisingly. But Ezra’s hand hanging down and resting across your chest felt so good. The weight of him, the heat of him, it grounded you. You circled patterns into his upturned palm until you became too sleepy for that, settling on threading your fingers with his and feeling his pulse beneath your fingertips.

How dare he think you’d care for him less with only one arm? If anything, it showed his perseverance, his will to move forward and make hard decisions. Only something a man with determination could do.

He felt so warm and sure—steady. He was safe now that he had come back. You felt the inky black of sleep begin to wash over you as organized thought became jumbled feeling.

You didn’t have to worry anymore, not about his whereabouts. Everything was alright. It was as good as it had been in quite a while.

Everything would be alright, you could just…

Just…

“I wish my parents had loved each other like that,” Cee murmured in the quiet dark of the tent, rendering you wide awake with a jolt, as if someone had plunged a shot of adrenaline into your chest.

“They separate?” you managed, knowing it came out strange but not wanting to confirm or deny anything about you and Ezra. The silence that greeted you implied that she had had no intention of you hearing it. But she spoke regardless.

“No,” she scoffed, then went quiet for a moment, “My mom died when I was little. And I can’t remember what they were like together. We were always working so there wasn’t a lot of time for love between them.”

Oh. An orphan. It softened you a little more for her, made you more sympathetic to the fact that Ezra had killed her last living parent. You were an orphan too. So was he.

“We’re all missing parts of our family in some way or another. People with worldly attachments don’t usually sign up for this level of intensity. Not the strays, anyhow.”

“But you have each other,” she insisted.

“By chance alone. We didn’t start off liking each other. And we’re not…married, or anything.”

The last bit came out strangled—you’d never…said something like that aloud.

You and Ezra, married? It was odd, to say the least. You never thought of yourself as one to desire marriage in any respect—ceremonial, legal, the like. It just didn’t sit well with you. Too many complications, a lot of governing body involvement that you didn’t care for.

And Ezra…he wasn’t too fond of it either. But not because he didn’t want it, that much he’d admitted to you one night after admitting the complications of his feelings on his love life, ones that somewhat contradicted the first time he told you about it all; he couldn’t have it, he’d never let himself believe even a fraction of him deserved it. The life of a floater—and sure, just as Cee’s parents had prospected and been married (you assumed) and had a kid, many others did the same. But then you supposed it ended with kids like Cee, and she was lucky to not lay dead next to her idiot father, or trapped and sold as a body in the Dark-Spawn Trades. Lucky Ezra wasn’t filthy and depraved, lucky you were once young and scared like her and so took it upon yourself to keep her in your sights for now.

“How’d you meet?”

A chuckle bubbled out of you as you sat up and ran your fingers through Ezra’s hair, watching his chest rise and fall in even strokes, thinking back on that night so long ago.

“Stealing supplies from the same drop company. Two feral dogs fighting over who deserved it more. We bickered and threatened so much we lost track of time and made a mess and a ruckus and got caught.” A smile threatened to break your features and you let it, for just a moment. It faded as you recalled your awful encounter, “Captured, tortured for information because they thought we worked for a rival mining company. They wanted the locations of dig-sites we didn’t have, mining techniques we didn’t know. When he brought up the Wastes earlier…that’s what he meant. Surprised we didn’t die, but they really thought we were valuable or something.”

You gave yourself a minute before continuing. In a panic, you rubbed circles over the tattoo on the web of Ezra’s hand between his thumb and forefinger, trying to ground yourself as wicked, blood-specked memories flooded your head.

Deep breath. You’re safe, he’s here. This will be good to get off your chest. You’ve never spelled it out to anyone before. Nobody’s ever asked. Maybe this girl is a gift from the universe, maybe she was sent here to give you space to heal. Deep breath. You’re safe. He’s here.

You eventually pressed the back of his limp hand to your cheek, and found your voice once more. You didn’t need to worry about waking him; once he conked out into REM sleep it took a freight train to wake him up. At least, when he was with you he always slept deeper. He’d told you one night; how it helped to have you there, like you dragged all the bad memories and nightmares away, pulling them so far out of reach he only found thoughtless, worry-free sleep.

“Hearing someone’s screams from the other side of a cell wall makes you more susceptible to care about them. A bonding experience, so to speak. He’d talk to me for hours on the nights they made us sit and anticipate another session. Recited poetry, recalled stories from his time as a prospector as an escape from our reality. I would sing for him, when we knew the guards had left. It was how we got to know each other. It’s—that’s why he calls me his siren. The reason I call him a chatterbox, among other obvious explanation.”

“How’d you get out?” Cee asked, resting her cheek on her hands as she laid on her side, watching you with keen interest.

“Killed them,” you rasped, not wanting to go into the gory details, “Every single one.”

For nights you had laid awake, haunted by memories of blood staining your only pair of clothes, blood splattering into your mouth, chunks of brain matter on Ezra’s gloves as he dragged you through a maze of tents and established buildings, viscera on your recovered suit, the way you’d had to swallow bile back down your esophagus at the sight of all the lives you’d taken. But you had to do it; it’s what you told yourself when the images would replay every time you closed your eyes.

Vengeance, necessity, paired with Ezra’s seemingly insatiable bloodlust—and your own. Your own shameful desire to incite violence, one you bred in the early years of your youth and had stuffed away until needed.

But you hadn’t been able to deny that, when Ezra shot a man who’d pinned you to the ground and then finished him off with a knife spurting blood out his neck, it stirred your blood something wild. Hearing him panting through the transmitter, grunts and curses as he tore through humans and humanoids and alien creatures alike right beside you. Hearing him call out targets, watching your six, taking single-word direction from you when you did the same.

They worked like a well-oiled machine, like you two had never not known the other. And he was sloppy in his technique, grounded more in brute force than strategy—but you made up for that in quick, evasive maneuvers and stealth. Both of you had near-perfect aim and could work around the clunky gear of your suits.

Messy—pools of blood, the sickening crunch of bone and cartilage crushed beneath your hands and your feet and your knife and whatever other weapon you scavenged along the way.

It felt like a ritual. A baptism of carnage that ensured neither one of you could live without the other.

So of course, when it all was over and the last vertebra snapped—

—there had been filthy, unhinged, surely unsanitary, bio-hazardous fucking in a tent surrounded by carnage.

Fucking in way you could only describe as feral.

Unrestrained.

Hot, Kevva’s saints was it brutally hot and so needy—but also so, so tender.

Full of soft emotion. Unspoken, even for Ezra’s standards. Almost loving.

Your aching bodies, exhausted and weak and battered, dragged lazily against one another once both of you had ceased the initial writhing pace of passion and the adrenaline ebbed. It tasted tinny like blood and musky like spit and salty with sweat and tears, and if nothing more, it was real. Whispering about how fuck, they’d made it and god, they were on the same level, we made it, baby—can’t live without you, I need you I need you I need you—

That day was quite possibly your favorite memory as well as one of your darkest. The day that you knew, in the charred, most twisted part of you, that you’d follow this man to the ends of every planet, to the far reaches of the universe—and he’d very well do the same.

Of course, you shared none of that with Cee.

“We took down the main base of the entire company. They were small but well-endowed. Got to transfer points into our accounts and sort through the mining equipment and the food,” you offered instead after a long bout of silence, “And the spoils of their labor. We were rich, could have retired early.”

“Why didn’t you?”

You debated whether to lie or tell her the truth, deciding on the latter. This girl wasn’t a threat, she genuinely wanted to know. “Ezra and I have—had a certain…interest in finding thrill wherever we can.”

Cee quirked an eyebrow, and you elaborated, “It’s not something to romanticize, we certainly weren’t smart about our spending. Gambling, drugs, slingshot scooter racing, smuggled creature ring-fights. The risk makes winning worth it. It was addicting. We earned a lot. Uncountable amounts of money. But we spent it all and then spent more. Pulled stunts that not even the most daring would try. Heists, intel-theft for enemies of certain people. We got caught up in it. Eventually drowned in a swamp of debt and unrequited favors. Got put on watchlists by the head crime syndicate and peace officers alike in the Core Worlds because we got cocky. Sloppy. So many people want our heads on a stake that we’d be better off dying out here. It’d be ironic, given the executions we deserve.”

You shuddered at the thought of Karolclan and their unusual procedures for punishment. They wanted you the most—you owed them the most. Them and Omni-Five. But Karolclan was decidedly worse.

“Why are you still mining? Wouldn’t it be easier to hide somewhere less dangerous?”

“We have debts to pay, bird,” you sighed, fond of the nickname Ezra gave her as it fit her well, “It’s the only honest work we can get without a biotracker recognizing our scans or someone realizing that the burner names and scouting codes we give them are bullshit. We work alone—no drop company, no mining corps. Until we can get our names cleared and our bio-scans off the watchlist, we can’t do shit else.”

If nothing more, Karolclan did allow debt payoff. But only if you could evade their capture, and only if you had the means to satisfy compounded interest. They were brutal, ruthless.

“He said you had a crew…and a ship…before you ended up stranded.”

“We did. A group of people like us. But you can imagine that a group of outlaws don’t always see eye to eye—buncha hotheaded criminals. Fought over aurelac, argued over fair shares, resources, everything.”

That wasn’t the whole story.

It started as a dispute over aurelac, but had quickly turned into a spat against Ezra, why he had so many successful harvests and surely he was stealing or cheating, how it wasn’t fair that you two were attached at the hip and didn’t section off when you split into groups to cover more land. In the heat of argument and the desperation of man, that had morphed into threats against you—Why don’t you fucking share her, Ezra? We all have needs and she’s barely good at the dig-sites. Put her to use somewhere else or we’ll find a use for her, and that devolved into Might take her right from under you if you don’t watch yourself, don’t be surprised if you hear her struggle tonight.

You had gotten used to the crude commentary, the snickers and wolf-whistles when you bent over, and if they had tried to somehow steal you away in the night, they’d have been reminded that you slept fully armed and showed no mercy to anyone who touched you unless they knew just where to start—and only one person did.

But that…that had not gone over well with him. It ended before you even knew what he did, and pretty soon you had a dead crewmate spilling blood over your boots while the familiar sound of throwers charging up rang in your ears, all of them pointed at the man panting beside you. The only one from the group to live and remain on the Green had been Two, and honestly you were never fond of them but weren’t surprised when they helped you and Ezra take the heat off your backs—they always teamed up with you two and they were good at what they did. It was a shame they were gone—despite their silence and threatening demeanor and sometimes uncalculated moves in a plan, they never made a move to harm either of you; they just wanted to harvest and get out like you did. Better them than Ezra, though. You’d have genuinely lost your mind if they had shown up in his stead.

“Did you kill the crew too?”

“Only a few,” you said honestly, “The others left us stranded when they realized we’d kill them next. Number Two was our only ally. Now they’re dead.”

You laid back down and put Ezra’s hand across your chest again, “Get some rest now. We’ve got a long day ahead of us. And if you choose to kill him while we sleep—kill both of us.”

You didn’t know why you’d felt compelled to say that, but revealing such a dark part of yourself to her convinced you that she’d plant a bolt in you or Ezra’s head and run. Ezra was the more likely target, given his history with the girl. It was irrational, for the most part; if she truly wanted him dead she would have let his wound kill him. Or she would have shot him sooner. But you couldn’t be too sure.

And you’d sooner die than wake up to him cold next to you.

#ezra (prospect)#ezra x reader #ezra x f!reader #ezra (prospect) x reader #anya writes #ohhhh boy! a second installment #pedrostories #ezra smut #cacoethes

82 notes · View notes

lightsovermonaco · 3 years

Text

His Good Sweater: Chapter 18

Masterlist

Thanks to @acollectionofficsandshit for being my bestie and beta reading! This would have never happened without her ❤ Make sure you read Roman Profile, set in the same universe!

Word Count: 7.6k

Abu Dhabi holds a special place in Pierre's heart. The food is great, the views are spectacular, and there is always plenty to do to keep him busy. Night races are some of the more exciting races too and Pierre appreciated the variety.

Coming into the final race of the season, Pierre holds on to seventh in the championship by a few points. Perez sensed the usurper creeping up on his seat and had cranked it up to eleven.

Exams had kept you in London for the race in Brazil, where Pierre had finished sixth and Checo DNF'd. You had managed to fly out for the weekend in Saudi Arabia, where Perez had finished fifth and closed the gap to Pierre to only four points behind.

If Pierre didn't finish ahead of Perez this weekend, he was fucked. And he was at the distinct disadvantage of his good luck charm being absent, stuck in London finishing up your final few exams of the semester. Two weeks without seeing you coupled with barely hearing from you had worn on him. It wasn't purposeful on your part but Pierre's stress was already compressed like the suspension on his car. Stray an inch too far over the racing line, hit a curb too hard and it was liable to snap, sending bits and pieces flying.

Pierre checks his phone for the millionth time as he waits to check in to the hotel. Wednesday was late for this many crew members to be arriving. His main concern though was that you hadn't responded to the text he'd sent you upon landing.

"Look lively, will you?" Max claps Pierre on the shoulder and he slides his phone into his pocket. "It's the last race of the season. We get to go balls to the wall and leave it all out in the track. And here you are looking like a kicked puppy."

"Easy for you to say," Pierre starts, grinning at his friend. "You clinched the title weeks ago. You don't even have to race this weekend if you don't want to and you'd still win."

"Doesn't mean I won't be shooting for a podium."

Pierre rolls his eyes. "Yeah well we can't all be so lucky, can we?"

"Next year you'll be playing with the big dogs." Max hands the receptionist his ID, says a few words and turns back to Pierre. "Looking forward to having you as a teammate again. It was fun for those couple races and I'm sure you'll be a challenge now that you've found your groove."

"You're gonna jinx it if you keep talking." Pierre laughs, praying that it covers up the old wound Max's statement picked open. Pierre hated the idea of moving back to Red Bull but he didn't have much choice. He was still contracted to one of four Red Bull branded seats for next season. A promotion, at the very least, would help him showcase his talent and further cement his value. If he had to spend any longer than that with the team, ripping out his hair was a real possibility.

"Wasn't someone supposed to be with you this weekend?" Max quirks a brow. "Where is she?"

"In London." Max bringing you up doesn't help the pit forming in Pierre's stomach. Win or lose, seventh or eighth, Red Bull or Alpha Tauri, come Sunday Pierre wanted you at his side. Interview requests were bound to roll in either way and Pierre would need someone to ground him, a task much easier to accomplish if you were physically at his side.

"Too bad." Max clicks his tongue and takes his room keys from the receptionist. "It's gonna be a fun weekend."

"I don't think-"

Pierre's vision goes dark at the same time someone whispers, "Guess who?"

Pierre sucks in a breath, spins on his heel and wraps you in a hug in one smooth motion. You laugh as he lifts you off your feet and presses kisses to your cheeks.

"What are you doing here?" He grabs both suitcases and tugs you aside. His room can wait.

"Tost asked me to come." Your grin is contagious, its twin appearing on Pierre's own cheeks. "He said that since you were flying out from Milan on your own there was an extra seat on the jet, so if I got myself to Nice I could fly out with the Red Bull boys."

"Seven hours trapped in a tin can with Max, Yuki and Checo?" Pierre rubs his chest. "I've got heartburn just thinking about that."

"It wasn't so bad," you say, finally giving him a proper kiss. "Yuki and I just played games on our phones the whole time. And I beat Max at Scrabble."

"How many Dutch words did he try to use?"

"Mmm, about half the words he tried were definitely not English."

"Yep, sounds about right." Pierre throws an arm around your shoulders and leads you back to the reception desk. He pays for an upgraded room when you aren't looking- though when you're assigned a suite there's not much higher you can go- and slips the woman behind the counter an extra bill for good measure.

"I could use a nap," you note, leaning against Pierre like you'd otherwise fall over. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

Pierre checks his watch. "We've got time for a nap."

"We?" Your raised eyebrow is question enough. Pierre smiles and swipes his key card once you're in the elevator with him. He hadn't looked at the price of the room but he was positive it was more than he'd spent on a single night in his entire career, considering it occupies an entire floor of the swanky hotel.

"It's date night," Pierre says simply. Initially his plan had been to invite Charles over for a game of Fifa but the Monegasque wouldn’t fault him for cancelling at the last minute. "We're in one of the most luxurious cities in the world and I'm going to show you off every chance I get. The restaurant down stairs is to die for."

Your attempt at nodding along with what he says is thwarted by a yawn. "Sleep first, eat later." Seeing as it was impossible to deny you, Pierre simply drops a kiss to the crown of your head.

"Wait until you see our room." The way your eyes light up when he says our room makes him want to say it again and again just to see you sparkle.

"I know you upgraded it, Mr. I-think-I'm-sneaky." You uncurl yourself from against his arm when the elevator chimes. "How much did it cost?"

"A few extra pennies."

The stainless steel doors open directly into the suite. The living space is dominated by a curving crescent of full length windows overlooking the cerulean harbor and the jagged steel of the city skyline beyond. Suitcase forgotten, your jaw drags along the floor as you toe off your shoes in favor of sinking onto one of the half moon couches situated around a low coffee table.

"Did you get some sort of bonus you didn't tell me about?" Pierre sees your inner engineer cataloging the chandelier dripping crystals over the carved dining table and the pattern of the black veined marble flooring. "This cost more than a few pennies."

"I didn't really look at the price so it's possible," he admits. In the end it was worth it to see you like this, happy as a pig in mud. Pierre was in his element at the track you were in yours in beautiful buildings. For all Pierre cared you could be sharing a dingy room at a motel; it would still be five star worthy with you there.

Every once in a while though, you deserve a bit of pampering for all you put up with. Late nights and months apart wasn’t easy on either of you, but you stuck by him. And when the day comes that Pierre retires or loses his seat, you would be the one there to comfort him. Spending frivolous amounts of money to see you smile was nothing in the grand scheme of things.

In Pierre’s world, money is temporary, you are forever.

"Well I have half a mind to tear into you for spending so much on a room we won't spend all that much time in," you start, your star-speckled gaze landing on Pierre, "the view is too pretty to be upset about."

"Mine isn't half bad either." You laugh, tucking an errant hair behind your ear. You both know he isn’t referring to the glittering bay or the expensive furnishings.

"Up," Pierre demands softly, holding out his hand. Your hand is warm and dwarfed by his long fingers but you barely seem to notice. The heart in his chest pounds for no discernable reason as he leads you down the narrow hall past doors leading to what he can only assume are bedrooms and bathrooms, to the one at the end of the hall. Based on his mental floor plan this one has the best view, if he's guessed correctly.

Your breezy oh confirms his hunch. You stutter at the threshold, coming up short behind him to bathe in the beauty of the sea, dotted through with white sails. Sunlight twinkles off the waves and if he breathes deep enough, he can almost smell the salt.

"Come on," Pierre says with a chuckle, urging you to fall into the fluffy down of the bed with him. You follow reluctantly, too enamored by the sights to pay any real attention to how Pierre arranges your limbs to his liking, your head resting on his chest and your joined hands laying atop his stomach.

"How about that nap?" He murmurs, running the fingers of his free hand through your unbound hair.

You sigh and snuggle in closer. It was rare that Pierre had the opportunity to steal moments like this during a race week, when he had nothing better to do than tangle himself in you.

"I'll tell you a story."

Just as he expected, you leap at the offer. "Can you tell me the one about the time you and Charles got in trouble when you were karting?"

Normally he opts for something fictional that allows him to embellish the details to fit his narrative. Pierre loved spinning tales rife with laughter and intrigue but he also didn't mind indulging your curiosity.

"Yeah, I can tell that one. Let me set the scene. It's midnight on a Friday at a little track outside Rouen. Two gangly teenage boys, one French and one definitely, positively not French, have nothing better to do than get themselves in trouble…"

**********

Fans began whispering when Pierre set foot in the lobby. The price of stardom was high and had taken years to get used to. Some days the bombardment of people asking for photos and autographs overwhelmed him to the point he was desperate for an out. Most people respected his boundaries and when they sensed it was too much, they backed off. Other days it was simply too much and he would mumble excuses and book it out the door.

The pressure increases tenfold when he steps into the lobby with you on his arm, the pair of you dressed to the nines. He clocks a group of women- clearly tourists based on their body language- perched on a sofa the minute their low murmurs turn into excited squeals.

Pierre mentally braces for you to stiffen or stop altogether but you do neither. You carry on unaffected, either ignoring them or completely oblivious to the women who do nothing to hide their pointed stares.

"Table for two please." You smile at the restaurant host and then at Pierre. You must not have noticed the fans then. You were getting better at coping with the photos and whispers, although your smile usually became forced the longer it dragged on, the polar opposite of you currently beaming at him.

Pierre's shoulders sag a bit when you're led to a secluded table towards the rear of the dining space. Privacy wasn't a luxury he was often afforded. With his back to a wall of windows, there were fewer angles for people to approach from which was a small comfort.

Apparently you find sitting across from Pierre unacceptable because you shuffle your chair to his side of the table before plopping down in it. Pierre shoots you a questioning look but keeps his mouth shut. Inquiring after your motives didn't tend to end well for him.

Instead he leans over to kiss your cheek, relishing the blush his lips coax to the surface.

“It all sounds good,” you say, scanning the menu. “You’ve been here before, I take it?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah I have. It’s all wonderful.”

The fans from the lobby remain in the blurred fringes of his vision. Pierre does his best to focus on the waitress explaining the specials. He tunes in automatically to the fan’s heavily accented English as they argue with the host, vying for a table as close to Pierre as possible.

Their phones remain out as an annoyed waiter tries and fails to coax the gaggle of girls into ordering something. Pierre drags a hand through his hair.

Being the center of attention usually doesn't bother him. Coping with the spotlight and the scrutiny that accompanies it is second nature; if the press conferences at Spa in 2019 had taught him anything, it was the importance of a solid poker face. Fame is new to you though and interactions with polite fans make you nervous. Having your picture taken without permission and splashed on social media? Forget about it. Pierre didn't care to find out how you'd react.

"Don't be nervous." You lay a hand on Pierre's thigh. The touch is enough to temporarily pause his bouncing leg. "You're going to do amazing this weekend. All you have to do is finish in front of Checo and you're golden."

How you haven't noticed the girls giggling mere yards away is beyond him. The last thing he wants to do is ruin this perfect, beautiful moment of bliss. You look gorgeous with your painted lips and that sinful black dress that he doubts can be comfortable based on how it hugs your curves like water. To top it off, the pride in your gaze is something to behold, making it impossible to doubt himself when you so clearly and openly believe he can conquer the world.

But it's better to tell you now versus you finding out on social media later. "That's not what's bothering me."

"Oh?" You sit straighter and set the menu down. "What is it then? Because if it's Horner, I have no problem marching in there and chewing him out. Birdy will back me up."

Despite himself, Pierre can't hold back his smile. "Where did all this confidence come from, hmm?"

"I'm learning," you insist, nodding your head firmly. "I'm growing as a person and you should be proud."

"I never said I wasn't." Maybe you'd spent the last month at university interacting with racing fans on campus. Perhaps being exposed to endless questions in a setting you controlled was the key. "Did you take a course in confidence at university?"

You scrunch up your nose and laugh in the most adorable way. Pierre's heart lurches at the sight, regardless if it was him you were laughing at.

"No, but I did make a few new friends that have a habit of pestering me about you." You jab a finger in his side for good measure. "It helped, I think. I don't look for cameras as much anymore. You're my focus now, not paps that may or may not be lurking in bushes."

"I knew it." Pierre is slightly impressed that he'd hit the nail squarely on the head. "I figured there had to be someone at uni responsible for helping you out."

You shrug and purse your lips. "I guess we'll have to see how I handle this weekend. I mean, there's bound to be press trying to corner me, what with the stakes and all. But I think I can take them." You raise your fists in front of your face and Pierre has to laugh.

“Throw a punch like that and you’ll break a finger.” He takes one of your clenched fists in his and untucks your thumb from under your fingers. “That’s how you make a proper fist. And you hit with these knuckles here- make sure you distribute the blow across all four, or you’ll be hurting.”

“Regardless,” you say, jabbing the air a few times, “The shock factor of having little old me in their face ought to be enough to earn me an advantage.”

Pierre finishes the lap to circle back to the topic at hand. "How about we test your confidence?”

"Okay," you say, dragging out the 'a' until it hangs in the air between you like a spider's web.

Pierre rakes a hand through his hair and nods to the girls a few tables away. "They've been taking pictures since we sat down. I'm sure they'll be all over Instagram in an hour, if they aren't already."

You steal a glance at the table in question under the guise of grabbing something from your purse. You hum, contemplating how to go about responding. Pierre is almost certain you'll ask to head back upstairs where it's just the two of you, no cameras or outside influence to ruin your night. His wallet is already out under the table, ready to leave a hefty tip for putting up with your drink-and-dash.

“We aren’t doing anything interesting,” you point out, swirling the knuckle’s worth of whiskey in your glass. “Why do they feel the need to document every passing second?”

Pierre lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “It’s just what some people do. If you’re uncomfortable we can go.”

“Who said anything about leaving?” You scoff, the corners of your lips turned up in a teasing smile. “I figure the best course of action is to give them something worth photographing.”

“What do you-”

Pierre’s yelp is decidedly unsexy when you yank him forward by his tie and attach your lips to his. Caught entirely off guard, he flounders for a moment before he catches himself and sinks into you. One hand on your cheek and the other creeping up your thigh, Pierre slides his tongue over the seam of your lips. You don't hesitate to obey the silent command.

He should be embarrassed. He should be contemplating the consequences of this kiss being splashed across tabloids the world over. He can’t bring himself to care, not when you’re the only release he needs and something as simple as a kiss sets his skin alight and causes any sane thoughts to trickle from his head.

Nothing matters. You're kissing him and your hand is a few inches below his hip on his right thigh, burning a brand that he prays leaves a puckered pink scar. Your scent and your mouth and your unmistakable hiss of pleasure saps the worry from his limbs. He's floating up off his chair, lungs filling with helium as you steal every last molecule of oxygen from the room.

Just like that, Pierre is the one that's roaring to leave for an entirely different reason.

Your hand on his jaw keeps your lips a hair's breadth apart as you whisper, "Are they staring?"

A blissed out nod is all he manages. Thoughts evade him and speaking is utterly out of the question when your lips are within striking distance. He surges forward for another kiss, heavier on teeth than on tongue. He makes sure to hold your lower lip between his teeth longer than necessary, putting on a show now that you've given him permission.

"Pierre," you murmur, using the hand splayed on his chest to push him away. The whine that escapes him is wholly unintentional. Thankfully it's low enough that only you hear, pressing a finger to your sinful lips.

"Down, boy." You extricate his hand from the dimpled flesh of your hip and place it chastely in his own lap. "We've accomplished what I wanted to."

Saying you tossing a wink over your shoulder at the intrusive fans isn't the hottest thing he's ever seen would be a lie. Pierre needed to be sure to thank Daniel's girlfriend the next time he saw her for whatever the hell she said to finally bestow you with a healthy serving of self-assurance because this new you is an entirely different entity, one Pierre intends to explore at the next opportunity.

"Problem solved." You brush your hands together and Pierre half expects to see dust clouds in the air like you'd just finished a woodshop project.

Pierre's brain is operating on a ten second delay. So really, normal operating procedure when he was in your vicinity. "I don't think we've accomplished everything I'd like to get done."

"We have a dinner to finish first." You pick up your menu and resume browsing like you hadn't just forcibly ripped his appetite for anything other than you right out of him. "The salmon sounds good, don't you think?"

"You sound good," Pierre mumbles under his breath and picks up his own menu. God, he'd love to let his fingers drift to the apex of your thighs. You’re always cute when you squirm. It was so simple to do too, all you needed was a brush of his knuckle to your center and you'd be gasping.

"Are you ready to order?"

The soft-spoken waitress bursts Pierre's bubble. She brings fresh drinks and jots down an order of two salmon fillets and leaves with a smile.

How Pierre has managed to make it this long without fucking you is beyond him. From the moment you surprised him in the lobby, his limbs have been thrumming with energy. And now your surprise kiss had been the pebble that preceded an avalanche of feverish longing. Those red painted lips would look better wrapped around his-

The pointed toe of your shoe digs into his calf. "Quit staring."

"Either you let me daydream or you let me take you upstairs,” Pierre quips back, licking his lips before he can catch himself.

"Can we get through one date without you mentally undressing me?"

Pierre dips his grin in a vat of lust, his words dripping with waxy promise. "No. Not when I know that as soon as we're alone, you'll let me do what I want."

"And what about what I want?" Your pouted lip does absolutely nothing but push his mind further in the gutter.

"Your wish is my command." His hand floats under the hem of your dress to graze along your core. And there it is, that sound he would swim across oceans to hear, your chastizing gasp of surprise.

The cross way you whisper his name is a thing of dreams. No one else's name sounded like that on your tongue, that honor is reserved solely for Pierre. The two breathless syllables are more exhilarating than standing on the top step. The rush of adrenaline that accompanies them is ten times what he is rewarded with when passing a world champion on track. He'll give it all up to hear you repeat it when you're pissed or lonely or tired- he just wants your voice echoing in his ears like a broken record.

You move his hand a safe distance down your thigh, nearly at your knee. Pierre gives your leg a sharp squeeze. "Can we please get our dinner to go?"

"Not tonight. You can wait, mon amour."

The French rolls off your tongue awkwardly but Pierre will be the last to complain. Your encyclopedic knowledge of which buttons to press when had come back to bite him in the ass.

"That's not fair." His pout is a mirror image of the one you turned on him earlier. "You can't use my own language against me."

You pat your pockets as if searching for something and shrug when you come up empty. "I don't see a rulebook anywhere."

Reminding you what happens when you tease him shoots to the top of his to do list. "I'll play if you wanna play, ma chérie. Don't bite off more than you can chew."

"I think you're forgetting who usually wins off track."

Pierre can't help it. He takes advantage of his superior reflexes and surges forward to claim another searing kiss. You did normally win and it wasn't for lack of trying on his end. No matter the tactic he employed, you generally got the better of him. Not that he minded.

"Why don't you come here?" He purposely grazes his lips to your ear as he speaks and grins when a shiver runs down your spine.

"Because we are in public," you hiss back, though the way your head tips to the side betrays you. Pierre's nose touches the underside of your jaw and you struggle to find your breath.

"We should eat." A self satisfied smile splits his face when he notices your heaving chest and wild eyes.

"When did our food get here?" Pierre did that. He got you so worked up that you blocked out your surroundings so thoroughly that you hadn't heard the clink of plates. Pierre wears that fact like a badge of honor.

"A minute or so ago. Remind me again who's winning?"

"We may be even," you relent, adjusting the skirt of your dress. Yeah, even isn't the word he would pick, considering how flustered you are. It's a good thing Pierre has learned to eat with one hand because he doesn't plan on moving the arm currently slung over the back of your chair anytime soon. His finger traces the letters of his name on the bare skin of your shoulder. Whether you realize what he's writing or not you lean into him as you eat, falling in closer with each lemon-scented bite.

"Excuse me?"

You don't bother to look up but Pierre does. Disappointment washes over him when he is met by one of the fans, apparently deeming now to be the appropriate time to approach him, while clearly on a date, in the middle of a meal.

"I'll be happy to take a photo once I'm done." Sometimes passive aggressiveness works best with people like this, who have no regard for personal space. "Right now I would prefer to be alone, thanks."

"Oh, right." The blonde giggles, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "You two make a… cute couple?" The end of her sentence turns up and your fork falls to your plate.

Pierre tucks you a little closer to his side, both possessive and reassuring. "We know."

Your discomfort is plain, the way you curl in on yourself making his heart hurt. But you surprise him by taking a deep breath and turning to the woman with a smile.

"If you'd let us finish our meal, I would appreciate it. We can stop by on our way out and chat with you." Sylvie would be proud of that answer. Diplomatically phrased and said with a smile that negates any negative connotations.

"Of course." The blonde's smile is sickly sweet. To Pierre she adds, "Good luck on Sunday."

Pierre nods. The woman's rude behavior didn't warrant a verbal response. She mumbles a feeble goodbye before slinking back to her friends. If nothing else at least their whispers died down, put out by his behavior.

Pierre loves his fans. Without them he wouldn't have a sport to compete in, and of course he appreciated their endless support. Stopping for photos or autographs had gotten him in trouble with Marko multiple times for being late to meetings that usually turned out to be pointless anyway. As a whole, their enthusiasm gives him an extra boost on Sundays and lifts his spirits after a bad weekend.

And then sometimes there were people like the blonde woman that had interrupted his dinner. Those people he has far less tolerance for. Basic manners were imperative to Pierre giving someone the light of day, otherwise he saw no need to waste time and energy on them.

"All good, ma chérie?" Pierre rubs your shoulder, hoping it'll stave off any anxiety.

"I'm good," you confirm with a nod of your head. "Let's finish up and go to our room."

Pierre presses a kiss to your temple and scarfs down the remainder of his meal in record time. He flags down the waitress and hands her his card, leaving a substantial tip when she returns with the check.

“Can you distract that table?” Pierre asks, aware of how unusual the request likely is. “I’d like to get out of here without making a scene.”

“Of course,” the waitress says with a warm, sincere smile. Pierre waits until she loudly announces, “Excuse me? Your card has been declined, do you have another method of payment?”

Neither of you can contain your laughter as you stumble through the lobby. In the sanctity of the elevator, Pierre wraps his arms around your middle and molds himself against you. "You look especially gorgeous tonight."

"You're not too bad yourself." One of your hands finds the nape of his neck, guiding his face to the crook of your shoulder. Pierre takes the invitation at face value and nips at the sensitive skin. Your hum goes straight to his cock, twitching against the swell of your ass.

"I win," you purr, tangling your fingers in his hair and tugging.

For once Pierre is glad to be in the world's slowest elevator. Since he's already lost, he might as well lose in style. He spins you to face the mirrored wall. And because he knows it'll make you tremble, he trails his hand lazily over your throat to grip your jaw.

A low moan leaves your parted lips. Pierre studies your reflection, from your hands gripping the railing to the skin dimpling beneath his fingers.

"Fine, you win this time. But I think you and I both know, I'll come out ahead in the end."

**********

Waking up to soft kisses will never get old. Thirty years from now when Pierre was retired and you fell asleep each night with his arms around you, you'd still yearn for the brush of his lips to your cheeks, neck, and shoulders to rouse you from the violet shores of sleep.

"Good morning," you mumble, a sentiment which Pierre echoes with his gruff, sleep tinged voice. "Sleep well?"

"Best sleep I've ever gotten. You tired me out last night." You both grin at the reminder. Fueled by a slight tinge of jealousy after the women at the restaurant made eyes at him, you had refused to let him tumble into bed until well past midnight, when you both were well and truly exhausted. Thursday is press day, nothing strenuous that he couldn't afford to be a little sore for.

Pierre rolls to straddle your hips, lips capturing yours for a proper kiss. The taste of freshly brushed mint makes your skin tingle when he tugs your lip between his teeth.

"It's too early for that." You throw your arms around his neck and urge him to bend his elbows until he falls atop you. It takes him a moment to snuggle in, his head on your chest and his arms sliding under your middle.

You're convinced that ten minutes in this position can cure any ailments, physical or mental. The weight of your soulmate pressing into you, forcing you to focus on breathing instead of whatever might be bothering you. It's easy to forget about the outside world when everything you require to be happy is wrapped around you like a blanket.

You stroke a hand over Pierre's hair until his breathing evens out, only rousing him when the sun peeks over the harbor. Amiable silence fills the space as hues of orange and pink paint Pierre in swaths of color. Suddenly you're seeing him for the first time, completely enamored by the angles of his cheekbones and the sharp cut of his stubbled jaw. The golden hour of dawn shines on it's golden boy, his lashes brushing his cheeks as he turns towards the warmth calling him home.

"Pyry and I are going for a run soon if you'd like to come with us."

You cringe. Running used to be fun when you were in school, but seeing as you hadn't properly trained in years you doubted you could keep up with a pair of professionals. "How about you text me when you're back and I'll come to the gym with you? It looks fancy, if George's snaps are anything to go by."

Pierre trails kisses up your sternum, over your neck and only speaks once he's reached your lips. "Looking at other men, are you?"

"Shut up," you laugh, shoving him off you. "I'll have you know it was a rare shirt on picture, thank you very much. I don't need to see George shirtless ever again."

A satisfied, "Good," rumbles from Pierre's chest and he stands to stretch the lingering sleep from his limbs. Clad in nothing but a pair of white four inch inseam shorts and with his back to you, you grin as an idea forms. You scramble forward before he can process you moving and smack his ass so hard he yelps.

"Gotcha!" You devolve into a fit of giggles as he rubs the spot you hit, whining about you taking advantage of his distraction.

"You like it," you tease, and Pierre remains strictly pouty for two whole seconds before he breaks into a grin and nods. "Now put on a shirt and get downstairs before Pyry calls you and you get reamed for being late again."

Pierre leans down for one last kiss before rushing off to the lobby. Waking up before the sun leaves you plenty of time to laze about if you choose to. Kicking your butt into gear seems like the better option so you drag yourself out of the relative warmth of the sheets and shuffle to the kitchen in search of coffee.

Apparently the suite came fully stocked with a handful of different freshly ground blends, and much to your delight you recognize one of your favorites. You scroll through the room service menu on your phone while it brews. Without a doubt Pyry would rope you in to whatever workout he had planned for Pierre, albeit giving you a watered down version of what he gave the driver. Regardless, it would still be grueling and you needed to fuel up.

A hearty breakfast of fresh fruit and cinnamon sugar oatmeal shows up at your door ten minutes later. You're just finishing up when Pierre's snapchat comes through and you nearly choke.

Come on down baby

The sweaty, shirtless selfie that accompanies the caption is wholly unnecessary. Pierre's stupid tongue sticks out and the fingers of one hand are tangled in his hair. The muscle of his bicep is perfectly flexed, an obvious but appreciated attempt to rile you up. You shamelessly screenshot the photo before it disappears to save it for later.

You change into a simple set of leggings and a loose t-shirt and head to the elevator, curating your music queue on the way down.

The outdoor gym overlooks a pool of the same crystalline blue as the sea not far beyond. A few Alpha Tauri and Red Bull team members you recognize occupy a handful of machines. You wave at the ones you recognize, including Alana- she was a sight for sore eyes. You make a mental note to catch up with her at some point today, as you're sure to cross paths again.

Pyry spots you before Pierre does and waves you over. "Start stretching," the fin orders, "I'm glad you dressed for the occasion this time."

"I've learned my lesson." You plop down next to Pierre and lean into a stretch to stage whisper, "He drives you this hard?"

"Get used to it." Pierre shoots you a grin that sets you on fire. He's got a shirt on now, which means he only took it off earlier to send you that snap. Tease.

Any other time you'd chide him for his behavior but this weekend you let it slide. Tension has been brewing since the moment you spotted him across the lobby; simple things tip you off to the stress winding up in him. If flirting could offer him a small amount of release, then so be it, even if it was torturous for you to see him like this and be unable to do anything about it.

"If you two can't get through this without making heart eyes at each other I'll separate you," Pyry warns, pushing at your shoulders and helping you stretch a few more inches. You hide your wince and laugh, leaning into the slight burn.

"Sorry coach," Pierre chimes in, "I'll keep my hands to myself, don't worry." He accepts Pyry's hand to be pulled to his feet. Bouncing on his toes he throws a few punches at the air and catches your gaze over his trainer's shoulder.

"Definitely not you I'm worried about."

As Pyry says it, you blow Pierre a kiss. You quickly tuck your hands behind your back when Pyry's head whips around. Your cheshire grin gets you off the hook and Pyry just points to the stationary bike in silent command. At least he was going easy on you.

Headphones pumping a Pierre curated playlist, you lose track of time as you cycle mile after mile. Pierre sparring on the fringes of your vision helps distract you from burning muscles. Sweat soaks his black tee and is absorbed by the waistband of his oddly patterned orange and white shorts. No matter how incessantly you tease him for his fashion choices, he never fails to amaze you for how well he pulls it all off.

Lost in the music and the incredible view, it takes you a moment to realize Pierre's lips aren't just moving silently. You yank out an ear bud and blubber, "What did you say?"

Pierre's breathless laugh is accompanied by a shake of his head. He half curls in on himself, hands on his hips and mouth agape as he tries to catch his breath. The image stirs memories of the last night, when he was panting just like that but with nothing obscuring you from drinking in his godlike muscled body.

"I said," Pierre starts, walking over to kiss your cheek, "I need a shower before press. I'm going upstairs. You can stay here and Pyry can take you through some more-"

"No thanks!" Pyry shrugs off your immediate refusal. Training top tier athletes and training you sat at polar opposite ends of the spectrum and often times the Fin pushed you farther than you thought capable. You'd like to be able to function tomorrow, thank you very much.

The elevator ride to the suite is filled with salted kisses and wet touches. A breadcrumb trail of clothing leads from the stainless steel doors to the glass encased shower. There's not enough time to worship Pierre like you'd wanted to but he sighs when you run a soapy cloth over his body. Your lips follow the suds, leaving light kisses to the tender muscles. By the time you pour shampoo in your palm and lightly scratch at his scalp to work it into a lather, he's practically purring.

Media appearances are a necessary part of being a driver. Pierre usually handled them well enough on his own and occasionally with Sylvie's help when she could be bothered to get off her phone for a few minutes, but having you with him is different. You pride yourself on reading him well enough to know exactly what he needs. Some days, when the press isn't a pack of rabid animals, he returns to his driver's room and needs nothing more than a quick kiss to have him righted. On days when the pack of piranhas descend to feast on the bones of a bad session or the whispering of drama, a delicate touch is required.

If your suspicion proves right, today would be the latter. Being ahead of the frenzy might take the edge off when Pierre got in the thick of it.

When the tap cuts off, you step out and wrap Pierre in a fluffy towel. His smile communicates how grateful he is- and that he knows what you're doing.

You hand him a stack of Alpha Tauri branded clothes and sit on the foot of the bed. "Do you want me to come to the paddock with you?"

Pierre pauses with his shirt half on. "If you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind." You pluck a few of his rings from the nightstand and hold out your hand. "You have to complete the look."

"What would I do without you," he murmurs, slipping one on his pinky and one on the thumb of his opposite hand.

"Probably be ridiculed for your lack of fashion sense."

**********

As a driver's girlfriend, you had come to grips with being relegated to a background role when it came to team events. You have to ask Sylvie to repeat herself twice before her words sink in.

"Come with me to the media pen," the woman grits out. Apparently Tost intended to have some fun torturing the woman before he fired her at the end of the season. Hopefully whoever Pierre got stuck with next was a bit more personable than Sylvie.

"Pierre told me to wait here," you say, gesturing to the garage buzzing around you. You were a rock and the mechanics were the stream, parting around you without a care in the world. You were barely a blip on their radar, everyone too honed in on their tasks to pay you any mind.

"And now I'm telling you to come with me. The other wives and girlfriends are in attendance and it'll look odd if you're not there too." Clearly, Sylvie didn't like the idea. And any idea that pissed Sylvie off sounded like a good one.

"I know the way," you say and breeze past her. Your feet follow the familiar path to the cluster of reporters crowded around metal gates, keeping the drivers in like caged animals. It was fitting, considering how often people referred to the sport as a traveling circus.

Pierre is already knee deep in an interview with one of the more popular journalists in the bunch, Will Buxton. Careful to stay out of the lens, you lean against the guardrail to listen in. So far it seems to be going well, Pierre's laugh brings a smile to your face.

"So, Pierre." Will shifts on his feet, pausing to create a sense of drama. "Your seat for next year. We know you'll be in Alpha Tauri or at Red Bull. Only a few points separate you from being demoted right back to eighth in the championship, which would officially relegate you to keep your seat at Alpha for the upcoming season. Are you worried about a mechanical problem or an accident stripping you of your chance to prove yourself and leaving you stuck where you are?"

Your stomach sinks. Buxton knew how to phrase a question, you had to give him that. Each word had been carefully chosen to elicit an emotional response from Pierre. You hate seeing him backed into a corner, forced to answer the same questions again and again, helpless to prevent it.

"Well first of all I'd like to stay that I'm not stuck at Alpha." Pierre shifts his weight and you exhale. Buxton's poisoned dart had missed its mark.

"Given a few years of development I know we could have a really competitive car. But it's more so that I'm ready to move up, fight with the leaders now instead of waiting. I'm in my prime and I don't want to let that pass me by.

"So no, I'm not worried about things that are out of my control. My team has given me an amazing car this year and I'm not concerned about mechanical problems. Things out of my control aren't worth my energy. There's nothing I can do about it so I don't even give it thought. I'll focus on my driving and pushing my limit- if an accident happens, I'm just a passenger."

"Well said." Buxton nods and turns away, effectively dismissing Pierre. As soon as he's out of the camera's view he's reaching for you and you meet him halfway. Sylvie trails after you as Pierre leads you through to the Alpha garage.

"Five minutes until your briefing," Alana says the second you enter. "And hey girl. Don't think I've forgotten about that sweater I loaned you. I still want it back!"

Your friend doesn't leave any room for rebuttal before heading for the conference room, presumably to set up whatever presentation she had created. Sylvie had disappeared too, leaving you as the only one for Pierre to focus on.

"You think I can do it?" He asks quietly, playing with your interlaced fingers.

"I don't think." You tilt his chin up so he's looking at you. "I know. And I'll be right here when you cross that line on Sunday and bring home points. You've got this, baby. Don't doubt yourself now."

"Pierre!"

Your grip on his chin prevents him from following the voice, not that he would if he could. You shoot him a raucous grin, "Red Bull colors would look pretty good on me, huh?"

Pierre's smile is brighter than all the stars in the sky. "Anything with my name on it will do.”

@seasidetom @flashcal @limp-wrist-max @sunshinesewis @lifeofzoemichael @ninuffi @perfectfantasies22 @lamboleglerg @ladyperceval @0forgottenparadise0 @evie-pr @avsensio @ninuffi @lu-morningstar @ggaslyp1 @swiftyhowlz @xeniarocks @teenwaywardasgardian @saintandrea-droidsmuggler

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future updates!

#pierre gasly #pierre gasly fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #formula 1 fantasy #formula 1 #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 rpf #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 fantasy #f1 imagine #f1 rpf #f1 #reader insert #pierre gasly x reader #his good sweater

109 notes · View notes

still-a-morosexual-help · 3 years

Text

OBEY ME! LESSON 60 DETAILED SUMMARY + DISCUSSION/THEORIES

*I wrote this days after the lesson was first posted and never bothered to go back and edit it so meaning there will be me theorizing about the next lesson as well

*I write a small para for each chapter and I write it immediately after finishing that chapter so there’ll be theorizing about the next chapter too

*I swear more than usual here

*Some of the dialogue is heavily plagiarized and a few is lifted directly from the story, the game is to figure which is which.

*Summaries and Discussions/theories for all the other lessons can be found on this blog under #obey me spoilers or #my theories or #my headcanons

Welp this is it… DAMNNNNNN the last two seasons each had a lesson near the beginning of the season dedicated just to a date with Mammon and I’m praying S4 has one as well and though it sucks Mammon & MC’s hellos and goodbyes are always really sweet and ahhh how am I already missing them. I’m desperate for S4 and I haven’t even finished S3 yet… fuck okay.

Post Lesson 60 edit: The last chapter goodbyes are gonna be direct quotes cause I’m an emotional mess.

As MC is about to head outside Mammon calls out to them and tells them to bring him a cake on the way home, they ask him why he’s been so cold and distant with them lately and he frowns at them and says he doesn’t know what they’re talking about and tells them not to forget the cake and then he leaves. Asmo who had being eavesdropping laughs and says that even for Mammon that was oddly bossy and arrogant. He then asks if he can tag along with them partway cause he’s heading to the spa. As they walk past the lake Asmo tells MC not to hold Mammon’s recent attitude against him and that he’s so upset about having to leave MC again that he doesn’t know what to do with himself and since rn all he can think about is MC he’s not sure how to act around them. Asmo says Mammon’s spending too much time dwelling on this. He looks disappointed and shakes his head when he asks himself what he’s gonna do about Mammon and that he’s being a child. (IS2G Asmo is the number #1 Mammon x MC shipper???????? Relatable) MC asks him if he hasn’t been dwelling on leaving. He asks if they wish he was and says they’re always on his mind and that’s why he doesn’t seem any different now. He says the actual reason he’s still so himself and not outwardly upset is cause he has faith (HA!) that they’ll end back together again like all the previous times they had to separate. He says he’s still sad about having to say goodbye but all that makes him want to do is treasure the moments they have rn. They can hold his hand, kiss him or say that’s a really Asmo thing if him to say. He smiles and says positivity is one of his charms (Asmo ily but weren’t you the one who got drunk and cried and needed to have Satan carry you back home the first time MC left…) They eventually part ways. I’m guessing the order of the rest of the ‘goodbyes’ is gonna be Satan, Mammon and then Lucifer cause those two always end up last in that order…

EYYYYY! They run into satan and ask where he’s off to. He says he’s off to the bookstore to stock on some human books before they head home and asks MC if they want to tag along. He hands them a list and tells them to start looking from the top and that he’ll start from the bottom. He says thwy can use magic as long as no human sees them (ME: thinking back to that one human MC, Belphie and Diavolo scared the shit out of…Hmmmm). They agree and he says that knowing they studied under Solomon makes him feel safe to trust that they know what they’re doing. He says he always knows he can count on them when he needs them and that being in the Devildom without them will be troublesome (I said in the fairy dust/angel lesson that Satan & MC are incredibly similar and that their friendship is highly underrated and I still stand by that.) MC uses magic to lift a book from a high shelf and Satan warns them that someone’s coming making them loose their concentration and the book to come falling down, Satan shields them though and gets hit with it instead. They each ask if the other is alright and he says they need to be more careful that no one sees them (ME: INTENSELY THINKING BACK TO THAT TIME WITH DIAVOLO AND BELPHIE WHEN MC WAS WILLING TO BARBEQUE A MAN FOR FIRING A GUN AT BELPHIE) He blushes and tells them he’ll show what he means and he takes them behind a bookshelf where no one can see and wraps his arms around them and pulls them close (Satan what kinda romance novel pickup line was that??? Also all I can imagine is that SNL bookstore skit with John Cena & Aidy Bryant). MC can kiss him, wrap their arms around him or just thank him for shielding them earlier. He says there’s no need to thank him and that he’s just happy they’re not hurt, He then laughs softly and asks if they’ll be okay once he’s gone. They ask him in turn if he’ll be okay. He blushes and says he won’t and that just thinking about life without them was enough to drive him mad.

At dinner levi asks if everyone is there and Beel looks sad and says Mammon isn’t, Belphie sighs and says he always has to make things difficult. Levi says it’s okay and he gets it and that Mammon obviously thinks dinner’s gonna suck since Levi made it and holy shit can we pls take Levi to a therapist pls? Belphie says Levi’s beating himself up for no reason and Levi goes on a rant about how he’s an ultra-negative, depressing otaku and how no one likes being around him ajndsvddjsnk LEVI pls!!? (unrelated but Levi’s actually my third favourite) Belphie asks MC to go get Mammon and Beel tells them to hurry. They knock and enter his room. They ask him what he’s doing and he says he was just watching a shark movie Satan gave him. He asks if they’re here to tell him about dinner and that they should head back and eat and not to worry about him. He looks upset and says he’s not in the mood to eat. They say they’re really gonna miss him and he’s eyes widen for a sec before he looks away and asks if they’re some sorta kid. He then laughs though and says they’re not the only one who feels that way. He blushes and says of course he’s gonna miss them too and that they already knew that. He asks if there isn’t some other way for them to stay together forever. He says that being a sorcerer they have to make something happen. They can say a.) that despite being a sorcerer they’re still pretty green and he laughs and says the one time he needs them they’re no use at all. He blushes and tells them to hurry up and ‘ripen’ and that a green sorcerer won’t cut it. B.) being a demon he should make something happen. He says if there was something he could do he woulda done it a long time ago. Looking aside again he says hanging out with them and talking about dumb stuff is something he takes for granted and he just realized he won’t be able to do it again anytime soon, he says that once he’s back in the devildom life would be dull and that once he used to be happy as long as he had money but after they met that was ruined. And now during his free time he thinks about them and feels all worried and unsettled. He blushes and asks them to stay with him and keep him company since all this is their fault. Belphie texts them asking where the fuck they are they say they’ll have dinner with Mammon later, he then wishes them luck with Mammon.

In the music room Levi’s bemoaning how he understands that any coffee he makes won’t be good enough while a wide eyed Asmo asks him what he’s talking about cause as you can see Asmo is drinking his coffee, Levi says he never admitted it was good though. Asmo smiles and reassures him that it’s actually good and asks Belphie to back him up. Belphie says he wants no part of any of this which immediately crumbles all of Asmo’s hard work and makes Levi depressed. Lucifer pops his head in and once he spots MC asks them to come to his room. They ask what he wants to talk about, he says he’ll tell them when he gets there. To the room as a whole he says that Diavolo wants them all at the hotel the next day. This surprises both Mammon & Beel, and Satan asks if there’s another problem at the hotel, making everyone turn and eye Levi who turns red and protests. In his room Lucifer asks if MC knows why he called them and they say nope. He asks if they really don’t know or if they’re just playing dumb. When they don’t answer he says it’s about why Diavolo called them to the hotel. He says Diavolo hasn’t told him the reason behind it and asks if MC knows, saying that for Diavolo not to tell him it has to be either something that’ll supremely piss off Lucifer or something that Diavolo finds fun and exciting that Lucifer won’t like but will have to endure. They say they don’t know anything about it. He says, “what do you think you can lie to me? Have you forgotten who the fuck I am exactly!?” When they still remain silent he drops the blank faced glare and laughs saying he can take a guess at what’s going on considering they’re not willing to share. He says considering this is them they’re probably gonna do something nice for them and he tells them they’re really sweet, they tell him not to stop and to keep stroking their ego (or they can ask for a reward). He says he may considering how things go tomorrow. He then pauses and says he’s actually in the mood to indulge them today so he’ll sing their praises just for today. (They can ask if he’s sad about saying goodbye, he says yes and then blushes and says obviously that means they’re spending the night in his room – I noped out at this point. Is it weird that Lucifer’s the only brother I can’t see MC platonically sharing a bed with?) They then tease him saying this is very unlike him. He blushes and agrees, saying that when he’s with them he doesn’t have to be the avatar of pride but that’s okay because they love all the different sides of him (I thought this was really sweet, Lucifer needs to know that there’s someone who loves him as a whole even the parts of him that are massive jerks and I love that this interaction can be read as either romantic or platonic. He smiles and says he’s looking forward for tomorrow.

The brothers are all surprised when from the hotel they are taken to the currently most popular club in the human world that has been reserved all for them, with Simeon making all the food and Luke making cakes. Luke tries his best to protect the food from Beel while Satan and Mammon say how surprise they were by Barbatos’s magic making them walk out into the club after walking into the hotel. MC asks if they like it and Lucifer says of course they do and thanks them for doing this. Solomon says he has a present for all of them too, Levi worries that he cooked for them (though he asks it with the sweetest smile cause all these demons are still hanging on to not letting Solomon know his food is toxic waste in case it hurts his feelings) and Lucifer whispers to MC that if so they might all die here. Solomon says he had offered to help cook but Simeon had insisted he had it all handled (he looks awfully disappointed when saying this). Mammon cheers on Simeon and Belphie says “…yeah I never thought I’d owe my life to Simeon but here we are” Their real present is Solomon lighting up the room with what, according to Belphie, looks like a fallen star. Asmo gushes about how beautiful it is. Beel asks if he can eat it. Levi laughs and tells him he better not. Diavolo says they should officially start the party and everyone cheers. In a side lounge area Simeon says seeing the brothers enjoying the party so much makes all the effort feel worth it, Barbatos says he’s just happy seeing Diavolo having so much fun and he thanks MC. They say they could never have done it without their help in the first place. Simeon says it was MC to got them all working together to make this happen in the first place. Levi then arrives to come drag MC towards the karaoke (which Diavolo insisted they have – poor man’s still trying to sing a duet with Lucifer I see)

Satan and Asmo complain about Levi hogging the mic and singing anime songs, he yells at them for not understanding the raw passion and energy of anime songs (which isn’t that true? Anime songs have a unique kinda passion that makes you hyped that I’ve never being able to find in other songs..). Levi tells MC to forget about them and MC asks to sing a duet. Levi says he’ll queue up a bunch of duets and Mammon yells at Levi for hogging the mic and using this as an opportunity to hit on MC. Levi laughs and says that he’s not swooping in and doing anything the way Mammon said and that MC wants to sing with him. Mammon then blushes and demands to sing the next duet with them from MC. Asmo then calls the one after that and Mammon asks Beel & Belphie what they’re doing. They’re mixing drinks. MC says there new drink (demonous with scorpion powder and something else) sounds really good (cause they’re a freak like that) Belphie says the flavours do seem to go surprisingly well together and he asks Mammon to try some. He protests saying they just want to use him as a guinea pig. Lucifer’s drawn to the commotion and says they all seem to be fun, Levi asks if he wants to sing next and he says later, he then thanks MC for planning a fun surprise for them and that they were able to create some nice final memories in the human world before heading home. MC says they’ll share more great times together and Lucifer laughs and agrees saying this won’t be the last time they’re all together and this is just one of many happy memories they’ll share in the future. When they go back to the lounge area Solomon says they could hear them all talking, singing and laughing all the way from over here despite the music, emphasizing that they could hear Levi the most. Diavolo asks them to come sit and pours them another drink and says they were all talking about them and how they helped them enjoy their time in the human realm. He thanks them from the bottom of his heart. Solomon says last time they were all together in the Devildom and this time it was in the human realm and asks where they should be together next. Luke is surprised he’s already thinking about the next time. He laughs and says it’s cause he can barely wait for the next time they are all together. MC can suggest one of the three worlds. (personally I chose the Devildom cause the brothers aren’t allowed in the Celestial Realm and as much as I am completely in love with Mammon’s human world look I miss the aesthetic of the Devildom.) Diavolo laughs and says he’s happy they’ve taken such a liking to the Devildom and that he’d love for them to come back and that the brothers will be thrilled too. From the distance and getting closer they hear Lucifer telling his brothers to quit pushing him. Mammon tells him to just hurry up and go inside. Levi says Lucifer has to be with them or they won’t be taken seriously. Lucifer groans and asks if they’re actually planning on saying “this to him”. “Of course.” Says Satan. Belphie says it’s at least worth asking. Asmo agrees saying anything’s possible if you put your mind to it. They all tumble into the lounge area and Solomon asks what brings them all here. Lucifer looking tired says that his brothers have something to ask Diavolo. Mammon tells Lucifer not to act as if he isn’t part of this and as if it hasn’t been on his mind too. Diavolo chuckles and asks what they want to ask. Beel says they’ve all been thinking about something for a while now and they want to discuss it with him. The brothers all together yell: “We want MC to join the family!” GUUUUUYYYYSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!? Not me softly sobbing at the image this makes in my head ahhhhhhh!??????? AHHHHHH!?????????? MC’s shocked and speechless. Asjvfkjffvuiefhi pls don’t give me hope like this wtf and what do they mean by join the family cause I don’t mind Lucifer more or less adopting them, and like Beel said they already seem to be a part of the family but MC brought up proposals with A LOT of the brothers so is that what they mean? Like marriage??? But they’re all asking and other than Beel & Belphie wanting to share with each other and Asmo being open to threesomes none of them want to share MC so……. Also I do not see my OM! MC getting married at all but at the same time if it was to squirrel their way into a permanent position in the family then…

Diavolo’s wide-eyed and stunned silent, and then he asks “…huh!?” Solomon bursts out laughing. Luke is red faced and tells Solomon this is no time to laugh. Solomon still laughing chokes out that he’s never seen Diavolo so stunned. Luke pauses and then asks what exactly they mean by ‘join the family’ and then he turns red and demands if they mean marrying MC. The brothers obviously haven’t really thought about what ‘join the family’ means and only now realise it can imply marriage. Asmo immediately volunteers. Mammon red faced protests to MC marrying Asmo and then stuttering says that if they’re gonna marry anyone they should marry him (he screams the last part out after struggling through the first part). Levi gets pissed saying if MC marries a scumbag like Mammon they’d have a dark, terrible future (watch me put together a 200 slide presentation refuting this) Belphie tells Asmo and Mammon to back off before they mess things up. Lucifer, looking dead tired, says it’s already a mess. Diavolo goes, “Umm…Lucifer?” and asks him to explain what’s going on. He says the others want MC around on a permanent basis so they don’t have to say goodbye ever and they put their heads together and decided on this. “Marriage!?” goes Luke. Solomon says the demons hadn’t thought how they’d make them part of the family. Lucifer tells Satan that he can look at the others like they’re a band of idiots but to leave him outta it. Solomon asks MC what they think of all this and they say they want to be part of the family too (it’s implied through out the main storyline that generally MC’s someone who’s very calm and collected and who while being incredibly blunt doesn’t express their emotions outwardly much (at the beginning of S2 Lucifer even comments on them being more expressive than before they left) but I’d like to imagine at this moment they are wet eyed and beaming because of these loveable idiots who ARE their family even if it’s not official). Diavolo smiles and says he sees. Luke has problems with humans and demons mixing and being a family (LUKE I THOUGHT WE WERE OVER THIS!?) “Yes, Luke. I know…” says Diavolo. His face then becomes serious and he’s silent and contemplative. Diavolo looks at MC and says that though they aren’t aware of it there’s still bad blood amongst the three worlds and that no matter how much they all want to be a family and stay together it’s not within his power to let that happen. He looks upset and apologizes. Lucifer is silent. He says though that his goal is to one day remove these barriers between the worlds and that he’ll do everything in his power to make that happen, and as the future demon king he promises that one day he’ll make it so that they can marry anyone in this room (I’m screaming just MC – queer as hell and with they/them pronouns waiting in the human world for marriage to get legalized only to fall in love with someone from another world and having to wait AGAIN for marriage to be legalized… I’d have lost my entire shit.) “WELL, isn’t that good for you, you apprentice poaching motherfuckers but guess what I’m a human meaning WE can get married in the meantime… CHECKMATE, BITCHES~” says Solomon. Mammon actually snaps at Solomon and calls him a “son of a –“ before he remembers the child in the room and trails off and snaps at him not to say stuff like that. Belphie asks if Solomon can even be classified as a human given his age. (Can MC even be classified as fully human given the whole Lilith situation? I mean ik Lilith was reincarnated as a human but she still kept and passed on her supernatural magic. Plus there’s a Belphie devilgram that takes places pre S1 that implies MC’s not fully human plus that whole thing about fairy hallucination angel!Lucifer not taking MC’s word for it when they said they were human… it’s very likely though everyone here’s too dumb to realise it). Satan says at this point Solomon might as well be a demon. Asmo tells him not to pretend to be a human when it’s convenient. He laughs and says that even though he can’t grow old or die he still belongs to the human race. Beel says that maybe but Solomon isn’t playing fair, Levi agrees and says Solomon’s also making him jealous. Diavolo says MC sure is popular seeing as they are all fighting over them. Lucifer says he knew this would happen and that’s why he didn’t want them to have this discussion. Luke’s shocked that MC’s got demons and the world’s greatest sorcerer wrapped around their finger, MC asks him if he sees them in a new light now. Luke says he thinks it’s impressive but it also creeps him out.

Back near the dance floor, Satan laughs and says Beel’s eating too much, Beel says Satan’s drinking too much, Satan who actually seems tipsy says he’s nowhere near his limit and challenges Beel to a competition to see who reaches their drink/food limit first, Beel agrees. Given how much beel can eat I can only assume this is the last we see of Satan RIP. Barbatos, looking uncharacteristically extremely worried, tells them to slow down cause neither of them know to stop. Levi, finishing up his song, calls for Luke who booked next but Mammon says Simeon went to put the “little guy” to sleep and asks Levi to come play cards instead. Lucifer, who’s playing with Mammon, asks if he hasn’t lost enough at this point, Mammon turns red and says this time he’s gonna win it all back. Asmo laughs and says Mammon just jinxed himself. Belphie asks why MC’s looking around the room so restlessly and they can say A.) I don’t see Diavolo anywhere B.) where’s Solomon? Either way the answer is he has no idea where Solomon went but he did see Diavolo head out earlier. He says the two of them are probably together talking. MC finds Diavolo and asks what he’s up to. He says he wanted a break and to gaze at the city lights and sober up a little since he won’t be able to see them again for awhile. He asks them to sit next to him and then laughs and says he could barely believe his ears after he heard what the brothers asked. He says he’s known the seven of them for a long time and knows how close they are and that it’s unbelievable that they’d want to include someone new to the family (MY HEART!? ALSO FOUND FAMILY TROPE!) He says it almost makes him jealous. They say that they know for a fact that he’s very important to the brothers too. He’s like “thanks for saying that but rn you’re either playing dumb or you actually are this dumb which makes me question my taste but then again I’m also in love with Lucifer so…” and he says he’s jealous of the brothers not them (Sure, Jan. We know you’re jealous of them both don’t lie). He says he feels the same as them and blushes and says he keeps thinking about how it could be if they were together forever (Sir, pls Lucifer is right there. He’s available. Pls.) He says if their relationship was on that level and if their bond was deep and permanent like those of a family he can’t even imagine how amazing that’d be (he keeps repeating ‘family’ and the brothers weren’t even thinking marriage when they asked for MC to be part of their family and Diavolo was really shocked and he now said specifically it was them asking about being ‘family’ before Luke even first mentioned marriage that made Diavolo jealous. What I’m saying is that considering Diavolo’s lonely, strict childhood the one thing he wants more than anything is a family not marriage specifically). He smiles and says they beat him to the punch and that he asks them to give him time cause he’s gonna do everything he can to mend the bridges between the three worlds for MC and for the brothers…and a little bit for himself. He gives them his word.

Out on the balcony Solomon greets them and asks if they shouldn’t be down with the others, they say they needed a break and wanted to talk to him, he wonders if the others would be pissed if they knew Solomon had MC all to himself. He says he figured he’d stay out of the way today and let MC and the demons spend time together considering he’ll have enough time to hang out with them later. He says he can’t believe they asked MC to join the family and that he didn’t see that coming. He starts laughing again about how serious they looked and how shocked Diavolo looked, and how Lucifer looked like he had a migraine (Ik we all say Lucifer’s the sadist but have we considered…) MC asks if he really thinks it’s that funny (and I’m pretty sure they’re offended on the brothers’ behalf and hurt cause that’s what they want too.) Solomon says for him it’s funny. He says it’s common of a demon to ask for a business arrangement or a pact but he’s never heard of them asking humans to join their family. He smiles and says he’s beginning to think he chose a “truly incredible” human as his apprentice. MC asks what the demons in his life are to him, he gives it serious thought and said these days he sees them as close friends. MC asks if things were different earlier and he says they were but also asks that they not get into things rn cause the story is long and tedious, MC asks if he’s just trying to avoid their question and if he’s gonna tell them the truth or not. He laughs and says nope and that though you can’t tell it by looking at him he’s a little too tipsy. He reminds them that they’re barely a sorcerer rn and that they should leave questions like that for later until they can use “magic like this” without an incantation. He uses magic to teleport the others on to the balcony (what a snake. Imagine instead of going to a crowd to escape a conversation you use your magic to bring the crowd to you to avoid a conversation AND to set a line for MC to reach before they can start poking at his past.) Asmo says he’s being wondering where the two of them went and how naughty it was to sneak off together, Levi complains about being cut halfway through a song, Beel asks MC to judge his eating competition with Satan and Satan says it’s actually a drinking competition. Barbatos looking deeply concerned asks if the two of them intend to empty the hotel’s pantry AND its wine cellar. He asks MC to stop them. Lucifer’s goading Mammon and kicking his ass in a card game and Mammon refuses to give up (HC that Lucifer taught Mammon to play cards up in the Celestial Realm as a way to get him to sit still and NOT set the drapes on fire). Belphie comments on the card game and the party continues. (Pretty sure Solomon saw the demons as pawns or tools to get what he wants/ for more power and that he was much more ruthless with making pacts with them than he is now when he pesters Lucifer (aka getting Asmo drunk while he was upset and making a pact) the question is why? And why did Michael basically sponsor this? We know that the Celestial Realm and Devildom had just called a truce when Michael took an interest in Solomon so could it be that he wanted someone to keep an eye on the demons and the best way to do that was to have a powerful human sorcerer make as many pacts with demons as possible. I mean Solomon made a pact with Asmo mostly because he was Lucifer’s brother and Michael still has a heavy interest in the brothers so it could be possible that he wanted Solomon to make a pact with one of them so that he could see what they were doing?)

LAST ONE GUYS! :) I’m okay really :)))))))) Outside the manor in the morning, Barbatos tells Diavolo it’s time and Diavolo looking really sad agrees. (RIGHT OFF THE BAT HUH!?) Even Solomon seems upset when he realizes it’s time and then that damn song starts playing, that ending song that always chokes me up and this time it doesn’t feel as sad as last season because honestly the “Till we meet again” party really helped while last season all the brothers tried to run away with MC and that shit HURT but it still makes me choked up FUCK I want them back so badly. Diavolo comes up to MC and says they have to return and that though they weren’t here for a long time it was really fun. “So, till we meet again, MC” he ends with. Barbatos thanks them for all they did to make their stay in the human world more comfortable. He says next time they meet he’ll prepare a special tea for them that he’s sure they’ll like. From here we’re going to direct quotes because I am EMOTIONAL:

Mammon says, while not meeting their eyes: …Listen, why’re you sittin’ around twiddling your thumbs, huh? I saw how hard you worked to become a sorcerer, so I know you got it in ya. (He blushes, still not meeting their eyes) Hurry up and learn summoning magic ASAP! You big dummy… (he finally looks up at them and smiles) And once you learn it, you’d better summon ME first! All right? You promise, right? (MC can either hug or kiss him….AND YOU GUYS MUST KNOW ME BY NOW SO MC just kisses him in front of all the brothers just like that????????? – he blushes and looks away again) Dammit, now I wanna take you back to the Devildom with me… (He meets their eyes one more time, face still red)

Levi says, blushing and looking aside: …You know that game we were playing? Final Devil Kingdom… (He looks up at them, still blushing) Well, I’ve decided not to make any more progress in it until I see you next. (He smiles brightly then) So we need to get together and play it again as soon as possible, okay? I mean, I’m dying to move on to the next dungeon… (He looks up at them with a sad expression then and they can either hug or kiss him and look I love Levi but I’ve already made my choice so MC hugs him – he blushes and gets a determined expression on his face) I’m going to be messaging you a lot, okay? So… don’t ignore my texts, or I’ll cry. (He smiles at them one more time)

Satan says, looking confident and meeting their eyes: …There are several cats who come by the manor for food each day. Make sure to take care of them for me. If you’re on the job, I feel like I can rest easy knowing they’ll be okay. (He frowns, blushes and looks away then) But keep in touch. Let me know how the cats are doing every day. Got it? Every day. (They hug him and he laughs and then says with a smile) Knowledge is power. The more you have, the better off you’ll be. So study hard, and learn to stand on your own two feet as a sorcerer as soon as you can.

Asmo says, looking really upset but making eye contact: No matter how I dress myself up or how cute I make my nails and makeup, if I can’t show it to the one I love the most, it won’t be fun at all. (He smiles then) So, I’ve decided to think about it this way… I have to strive to make myself more and more beautiful with each passing day! 🤍 (He smiles even more brightly) So that one day you’ll fall for me completely and then you’ll be all mine! How does that sound? (MC hugs him and he giggles, and says smiling) I’m going to put a little something extra on my hug! 🤍 (he squeezes them closer)

Beel says with a soft smile looking in at them: …It was fun getting to eat together with you every day here human world, MC. (His smile brightens) You know, when you’re with the right person, good food has a way of tasting even better. I want to be able to eat with you all the time, every single day. I want that to be normal. And I’m going to do whatever I can to make it so that someday soon, it really will be like that. (MC hugs him and he blushes and smiles and says) Make sure you eat enough, okay? Take care of yourself.

Belphie says also with a soft smile, making eye contact: I’m glad I got this chance to live here in the human world. Spending each day together with you in your world has been incredibly fun. (He looks sad and looks to the side) …Having to go to sleep every night in a house without you in it from now on is going to be really sad, and really lonely. (MC hugs them and he blushes but his expression is still sad and he doesn’t make eye contact) Take care, MC…

Lucifer’s wearing that fond smile that makes his eyes squint shut and he says: …Never did I imagine that one day, I’d find it this hard to say goodbye to you. I’ve managed to shock even myself. (He looks up at them then) Once I’m back in the Devildom, where I can’t see you anymore, this feeling is probably going to grow even worse. I hope this is every bit as difficult for you as it is for me. (MC hugs him) …Let’s make sure we see each other again sooner rather than later. (He gives that soft fond smile again)

Barbatos opens the portal. Solomon tells them all to take care. There’s a flash of bright light and the opening song starts playing. “MC!” Yells Mammon with a bright smile before he jumps in. “Toodles!” Says a beaming, waving Asmo. “Till next time!” says Levi with a small smile. “Take care of yourself!” Says a brightly smiling Belphie. “Bye…” Says Beel with a smile. “See you around.” Says Satan with a smile. “See you next time.” Says Lucifer with a nod of his head and a smile. “Goodybe, MC.” Says Diavolo with a bright smile. There’s another flash and the portal’s closed and they’re all gone. The credits play thanking all the main and side character VAs over human world backgrounds and YOU! Back in front of the manor Solomon says it suddenly got so quiet that he feels lonely. MC’s silent and doesn’t answer him. “Hey,” he says after a bit, “didn’t they officially hire you as their “babysitter” because you came here looking for a job, you know that thing you need to be able to survive independent adult life in the human world… Did they ever pay you for that?” “…SON OF A B–” At the angel’s halo Simeon tells a sad, silent Luke that the others must have gone back home by now, Luke quietly agrees. Simeon laughs and asks if that bothers Luke. Luke blushes, stutters and denies it. Luke tries to change the topic by telling Simeon to hurry up and grind some coffee cause they’re about to open. Simeon says they still have enough time and Luke says he’s gonna take out the trash and runs out back to avoid his feelings and this conversation. Simeon laughs. The door opens and Simeon turns to tell them they’re not opened yet but trails off. ??? says, “I can see that, yes…” Simeon’s eyes widen and his mouth turns down, he’s too shocked to say anything. ??? says, “Well, look at you. I could almost believe you really are a human, brother…” Simeon’s entire face goes blank and settles on a cold emotionless expression though he still doesn’t reply before he slowly smiles, “…Welcome. So glad you could stop by, Raphael.” And the chapter, the lesson and the season is over. So…SO…you know I don’t even have words really. I’m not, we really are getting new characters aren’t we. I mean I said in some of the earlier summaries that at this point with the way they were hyping up the angels in this season that it only makes sense to bring them in BUT I never 100% believed they would and now I’m just???? They really are gonna do it holy fuck GUYS!? I need S4 badly like rn immediately but given that the break between S2 and S3 was really small AND that they maybe introducing at least 2 new characters the break between S3 and S4 might be longer AND I get it y’know but still I desperately need this now. Holy shit. And Simeon’s facial expressions! How he looked surprised and upset and then how his face just shut down (something we rarely or never? See from him) and then how it smoothed out into a smile ajsdvbkdwhskcjksk Raphael’s way of speaking fit exactly with what I imagined after what Asmo, Lucifer and Belphie said about him. This kinda formal, authoritative, cold, distant way. And the tension between him and Simeon!? “BROTHER!????” Does he mean brother in the same way as the Sins do or is it more brother in arms the way I see Lucifer and Simeon being in the Celestial Realm? It felt cold compared to them. Pls give me a heavily dysfunctional, distant and cold angel family to contrast with the dysfunctional but close and loving demon family I WILL SCREAM. I’ve screamed all my angel and celestial realm theories in the previous summaries (there are a lot) so I’m not gonna go into detail about them here but I will say I’m keeping my fingers crossed for morally dubious/grey angels who believe they are completely in the right at all times and I’m deeply scared of getting at least part of S4 without the brothers as we are introduced to the angels – I mean don’t get me wrong I’d love if they took time to introduce us to the angels without the brothers’ dynamics with them being involved and to give us a chance to hear their side of the story before they have the whole reunion between everyone BUT I’ll also feel the heavy withdrawal effects of being deprived of the brothers so yeah. Overall the goodbye to the brothers felt far more uplifting than last season’s one given that they ended with the upbeat opening song and not the melancholic sounding ending song. WOW okay. I’m gonna try and get through the hard lessons and unlock the chapters I couldn’t since S2. SEE YOU NEXT SEASON! LOVE AK 🤍

67 notes · View notes