#Feels good to color Skulk again

[deep-spacediver577]

[eomayas]

cream soda • bbh [req]

pairing: idol!baekhyun x MUA!reader

genre: smut 18+ MINORS DNI!!!! fluff

synopsis: reader is a makeup artist for exo and likes baekhyun in eyeshadow, and he notices

warnings: p in v, pwp (slow burn), teasing, fingering, pet names (baby & good girl), baekhyun being sexy in eyeshadow

a/n: i got 3 different smut requests for cream soda teaser #1 baekhyun 😭 so here you go i hope you all like it! thank you for the requests and support 🩷

his eyeshadow smudges easily due to your hands being shaky. you hope he doesn’t notice, but doubt that he does because he’s busy tapping away at his phone. you swallow and keep working the brush over his eye, blending out the dark colors to create a smoky eye.

you allow yourself to sneak glances at him while he’s preoccupied with his phone. every so often, you’ll glance at him through the mirror, pretending you’re fixing your own appearance but really you’re looking at him.

“okay,” you say, setting the brush down and leaning back from him. “i think i’m done.” you say. he looks up from his phone and gives you a smile. your stomach flips and you swallow thickly, glancing away from him for a brief moment.

“you think? how do i look?” he ask, leaning around you to examine himself in the mirror before settling back with his gaze on you. he looks sexy, edible, and if you had a different relationship, maybe you’d tell him so.

“you look nice, baekhyun,” you say, keeping your true thoughts and feelings to yourself. he smiles quizzically up at you, running a hand through his hair.

“just nice?” he’s playing with you now, you can see it in his features and hear it in his tone. your pulse quickens—he’s figured you out. was it that obvious? you don’t know—you feel caught, cornered. “cause i think i look good.” he adds, the emphasis on the word “good” making you let out a breath. so maybe he hadn’t caught you and figured you out. maybe your thoughts weren’t written across your forehead.

you nod curtly and step away from him, turning around to fix your station. “you do,” you say quietly. you hear baekhyun shift behind you, his presence looming over you. again, your stomach flips and you make the mistake of looking up into the mirror where he’s already looking at you, a smirk on his face.

“what was that?” baekhyun asks, a knowing look on his face. your cheeks burn and you snap the makeup box closed and sidestep away from him, putting a healthy gap of distance between the two of you.

“they’re waiting on you,” you say, not meeting his eye. luckily his name is shouted and he actually has to leave, so you’re able to slump against the counter and catch your breath. you’re always paired up with baekhyun for styling, and recently your interactions have gotten more and more…tense.

you don’t know if you should call it a crush because you’re both professionals, and your job would be on the line. but you’ve always had a thing for him and his silly, flirty ways. he’s always kind to you, asking how you’re doing and seeming truly interested. he’s been like this since you first started working as a makeup artist for exo, teasing and joking with you while you worked on his face. you were bound to catch feelings for him with the way you saw him constantly and the interactions you had.

after cleaning up your station, you assist anybody else who needs their makeup done. the rest of exo has always been kind as well, but you don’t have a similar relationship with them like you do with baekhyun. they’re all polite and professional, and don’t teeter too close to the edge of flirting under the guise of a joke with you.

when you finish helping out, you decide to walk around the set to busy yourself. baekhyun is still getting his photos taken, and you bite the inside of your cheek as you look over at him from afar. baekhyun is attractive, simply put. he’s confident and playful, but right now he’s flat out sexy.

you find yourself skulking over close to the shoot, standing a few feet behind the photographer. you watch baekhyun, unable to take your eyes off of him as he smizes at the camera. he captures the attention of everybody, the other staff members oohing and aahing him as he poses for the camera. if you had half a brain, you’d probably join in, but, professionalism.

you’re snapped out of your baekhyun daze when your name is yelled with authority. “y/n! we need touch ups!” you blink yourself back to reality, looking up and finding everybody looking at you, including baekhyun. he has a smirk on his face, and you feel heat creeping up your neck and face. you part your lips, ready to apologize, but nothing comes out. instead, you rush over to your station to retrieve your brushes.

sidling up to baekhyun, you examine his face, forcing your brain to be in work mode. he talks above your head to one of his members, twisting his head everywhere you don’t need him to be. “baekhyun, could you…” you trail off, biting your bottom lip. “baekhyun.” you say louder and as he turns to you, you catch his chin in your hand to steady his face to do your work.

baekhyuns eyes stay laser-focused on you. you swallow nervously and gently dab at his face, fixing whatever smudges he’s accrued ever since he started shooting. “your hands are shaking,” he murmurs, and you quickly let go of his chin, your grip on the powder press tightening between your fingers. “are you nervous?” he asks, leaning down a bit closer—too close. but legend has it that it makes it easier for you reach him.

“no,” you lie, gently tilting his head to the other side. you go to remove your hand from his jaw, but captures your wrist and keeps it there. your breath hitches in your throat, and you glance around the set to see if anybody is watching. “baekhyun, wh-what are you d-doing?” you stammer, frozen in place.

“helping you. this makes it easier, right? if i move?” he makes a dramatic example of pulling his face away from your hand and moving his head around wildly, before placing it back in your hold, and trying to move to show the differences.

he smiles at you, his cheek resting nicely in your palm. under different circumstances, you feel he might kiss. hell, you feel like he might still, with his close proximity and the way you catch his eyes flick down to your lips quickly.

you blink away your feelings and his gaze, and quickly finish up his face. “done,” you say, letting go of his face and taking a step back.

“do i still look nice?” he jokes, straightening and look down at you. you blush and glance away from him, nodding your head.

“yes, baekhyun, you do,” you say. he chuckles and shuffles away, going back to pose for the camera. you take one last look at him and sigh, your heart slamming against your ribcage.

you’re afforded a break, but before you leave to go out, you pick up your station again. you move slowly so you’ll have more time to yourself, organizing your brushes and foundations by color. you wipe up the counter with disinfecting wipes, even the chair, just to kill time.

picking up the box you keep your supplies in, you walk it over to the storage closet and take your time in there too. it doesn’t need to be organized by any means; any open space on the shelves will work, but you decide to arrange it next to the other staff members items, alphabetizing it properly.

a knock at the door makes you jump and you freeze for a second, praying it’s not your boss or one of the managers coming to yell at you for taking too long to go on your break. you gulp and gingerly step away from the shelf, grabbing the knob to open the door. to your relief, it’s not your boss. but to your surprise, it is baekhyun.

“yes?” you say, gripping onto the door for dear life. you look up at him with wide eyes, shock written all over your face. he smirks at you and you wish he would stop, because all day it’s made you feel things and now that he’s here, in a tiny closet with you and nobody else, you feel exposed.

“i just need some makeup wipes,” he says, leaning forward on his toes. you look up at him, slightly dumbfounded. he could have asked any other person on the set for those—they’re everywhere.

“oh, okay,” you say, turning around and grabbing your box. baekhyun steps inside the closet behind you and you glance at him over your shoulder when the door closes. you two lock eyes and you start to feel hot, chest and face burning now that you’re completely alone.

you clumsily open your makeup box and a few things spill out. “i got it,” he says when you start to bend down. you squeak out a ‘thanks’ and dig pull out the makeup wipes.

when you turn around, you’re met with his exposed chest and the necklaces that rest nicely on it. your feet stay rooted to the floor and eyes stuck on his clavicle, unable to move with how close he is. your chest moves up and down faster than you’d like, nearly touching his with the pace you’re breathing.

“here you go,” he says, his voice low and deeper than before. your eyes drag up his neck, up his jaw to his lip and nose, and finally to his eyes. your breath gets taken away with how he looks, especially with his dark eye makeup.

baekhyun wiggles the fallen brush in his hand, like he’s teasing you. you pluck it from his fingers, the brush shaking between your thumb and forefinger. you offer him the pack of makeup wipes in return, and place the brush back in it’s proper place.

your heartbeat rings in your ears. the tension is thick in the room, and you can’t turn back around to face him. you can barely handle him in public, and now that here’s here with you, alone, you’re not sure you’re going to last.

“y/n,” you feel him behind you, mere centimeters away. if you turn, you’ll bump into him—that’s how small this room is and how close he is to you. you audibly suck in a breath and wring your fingers together in front of you.

turning around, your shoulder comes in contact with his hard chest. he’s closer than ever, looming over you. his makeup is still on, but he holds a wipe in his hand. he extends it to you and you look down at it before meeting his eyes. “you want me to do it?” you ask. you’ve done it countless times before, but it’s different now, because he sought you out. and, again, you’re alone.

he nods. “yes,” he says. you take the makeup wipe and clutch it in your hand. you expect him to lean forward, but he doesn’t so you grab his face like you did before, your eyes roaming everywhere but his. “am i making you uncomfortable?” he asks as you start wiping one side of his face, saving the eyeshadow for last so you can bask in his sexiness for awhile longer.

“no,” you reply honestly.

“are you sure?” he asks.

you nod. “it’s not the word i would use to describe how i feel right now,” your voice is quiet, but he hears you perfectly. you feel him smirk underneath your palm and your stomach flips.

“no?” you shake your head. “what word would you use to describe how you’re feeling, then?” he asks. you slide your eyes to his, your hand stilling against the side of his face. his eyes urge you to respond, to tell him how you feel and you want to, you really do.

baekhyun drags his eyes down to your mouth and let’s them stay there for a moment, making it so obvious compared to earlier when you caught him. “baekhyun…” you say, your voice hoarse.

“that’s my name,” he mumbles, eyes back on yours. your lips part, unsure of what to say, or what’s really going on between the two of you. his face is mostly done, sans for his nose and his eye makeup. you close your mouth and get back to work, ignoring the storm happening in your head.

you let out a small sigh as you get to his eyes, barely rubbing off the makeup. “you like it,” he says matter-of-factly. you only nod and keep gently wiping away at his eyes.

“it looks nice,” you compliment. baekhyun softly grabs onto your elbow, halting your movements.

“then leave it on,” he says. you press your lips together and let your arm fall to your side, the other hand still resting on his cheek. he looks into your eyes deeply, and you manage to keep your eyes on him for the first time today. his eyes go back down to your mouth and he lets out a breath. “can i kiss you?” he asks and the question catches you so off guard that you take a step backwards, dropping your hand from his face.

“w-what?” you stutter. baekhyun sobers immediately straightening up and putting some distance between the two of you.

“y/n, im sorry. i didnt mean to make you uncomfortable—shit, fuck—i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to overstep,” he reaches for the handle and you panic. you didn’t step away from him because he made you uncomfortable, you were just shocked at his forwardness. he doesn’t know how badly you want him to kiss you.

“baekhyun, wait,” you say, grabbing his hand. the doorknob stills in his hand as he looks at you, at your hand holding onto his. “i’m not uncomfortable.” you say, looking into his eyes to emphasize that this really is okay. “i… you can kiss me. i want you to.” you say, swallowing the lump on your throat.

baekhyuns shoulders relax, rolling back. “are you sure?” he asks.

“yes.”

he closes the distance between you, taking your face between his hands. he looks down at you with an intense stare that has your knees getting weak. baekhyun strokes your cheek softly with his thumb before dipping his head down and pressing his sweet lips to yours.

you’re breathless again, your hands finding purchase on his forearms to hold yourself steady. he kisses you slowly, like he’s waiting for you to pull back at any second. you want more, so you skip your tongue into his mouth, baekhyun catching on quickly and letting go of your face to grab you by the waist and pull you closer.

your arms are around his neck, pulling him down closer to you. you can’t really believe that you’re kissing him—it feels surreal.

but you know it’s not when he groans against your lips. “you don’t know how long i’ve wanted to do this,” he says, biting your bottom lip, holding it between his teeth for a moment before letting it go and looking at you with dark eyes.

you’re unsure of how to respond; if you should be honest and tell him the same or play it cool. you decide to just kiss him, hoping he understands that you feel the same if you weren’t doing a good job at conveying it earlier.

you and baekhyun get caught in a weird space, his hands sliding up and down your body, groping your ass but never trying to do anything more than that. he keeps his lips on you, never trying to kiss your neck and you do the same. baekhyun is playing everything safe, offering you an out at every chance. a part of you wants to just tell him that he can do whatever he wants with you, to you, but the other wants to keep it in this space, to not complicate it. but you really can’t help yourself, not when you have him like this.

you move your lips from his mouth to his jaw and down his neck, kissing every inch of exposed skin that his open shirt gives you. you silently thank his stylists and whoever created this outfit.

you kiss down his chest, your hands moving to unbuckle the belt that holds his flimsy shirt together. you fumble with it for a moment before you manage to get it off, and baekhyun makes no move to help you. he likes seeing you eager and desperate for him, because he feels the exact same way.

his shirt falls open and you drag your hands down his chest, tracing your fingertips over the ridges of his abs. you drag your hands down lower, stopping at the waistband of his pants that rest an inch below his belly button. “what do you want to do, y/n?” he asks you, pulling your closer to him by your ass.

you only shrug. you’ll do anything. “whatever you want,” you say, meaning it. baekhyun pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and shakes his head slightly. he can’t believe this moment, you. and he doesn’t know what he wants more, you on your knees or him buried deep inside of you, watching you fall apart on him.

baekhyun reconnects your lips, this time kissing you with more want. his fingers work quickly to unbutton your pants and shove his hand down the front of you, pressing his fingers against your clothed core. wetness coats the center and his chest swells with pride when your lips part to let out a gasp when he starts rubbing the material into you.

he kisses on your neck and pushes your pants down farther so he can have more access to you. pushing your panties to the side, baekhyun slips two fingers between your folds and you widen your stance, desperate for his touch. a quiet groan leaves your lips when he slides his fingers into your soaking core, your gummy walls inviting him in easily.

you pant as he works his fingers into you. your hands hold onto his shoulders and you lurch forward when he adds another finger into the mix, his thumb rubbing on your clit as hell. “baek- shh,” he says lowly, kissing your lips to keep your quiet. your clench around his fingers and moan against his mouth. “keep quiet, baby. don’t want to get caught, do you?” the use of the pet name makes you whimper and baekhyun narrows his eyes at you.

“s-sorry,” you squeak, putting one of your own hands against your mouth to quiet yourself. your strain, but it’s muffled enough for baekhyuns satisfaction and he keeps working his fingers in and out of you. he rubs at your clit and that familiar knot in the pit of your stomach tightens. your grab onto his shoulder tighter, hoping he understands that you’re close to reaching your climax.

you squeeze his fingers and baekhyun nips at your neck. “you’re close, aren’t you, baby? are you gonna cum for me? all over my fingers?” he mumbles in your ear, gently biting your earlobe. his voice and his words, and the fact that he keeps calling you baby are enough to send you over the edge, squeezing your eyes shut as you release all over his fingers. “that’s right, just like that. good girl.” you don’t like to imagine how pathetic you look when you throw yourself around him, resting your face in his shoulder and gently biting him to quiet yourself.

baekhyun pulls his fingers out of you and you sigh at the loss of contact. you manage to stand up on your shaky legs, holding onto one of the shelves for support. he starts to unbutton his pants but sops himself to look up at you. “i’m on birth control. and i’m clean,” you say quickly and he gives you a small smile.

“good to know, and so am i,” he says, pulling down his pants. you can’t help but gawk at the bulge in his underwear, your mouth falling open at the sheer size. you hastily step out of your pants and panties, kicking them over to the side when he’s undressed as well.

baekhyun pushes you into the wall at the back of the closet and hikes one of your legs around his hip. he lines himself himself up with you and pushes himself in, your arousal working as a lubricant and easily letting him slip inside.

you mewl out his name and he clamps a hand over your mouth. “i need you to be quiet for me,” he says, starting to thrust into you. “can you do that for me, baby? fuck.” baekhyun drives his hips into you and buried his face into the crook of your neck to muffle his own moans. unlike you, he’s more successful at keeping quiet.

all to be heard is deep breathing and skin on skin. you pray it’s not loud enough to be heard through the door, for somebody could walk in on baekhyun balls deep inside of you.

you bite down on baekhyuns palm and he pulls his hand back to shove his fingers into your mouth instead, forcing you to suck on them while he slams into you. you look at him with wide eyes and he curses, tossing his head back and hiking your leg up higher to get a slightly different angle.

his fucks into you relentlessly, chasing his own release and trying to get you to your second. you’re losing it on top of him, spit all around his fingers and some on your chin. his dark eyes look down at you and you keen at him, wanting so badly to have his lips on you again. but he can’t risk you being loud, and you can’t hold it back.

“shit, baby, i’m close. are you?” you nod and he grunts as he speeds up his thrusts. you bring a hand down to your messy core and rub at your sensitive clit, more spit leaking out of your mouth as you moan at the overwhelming feeling. “fuckfuckfuckfuck-“ baekhyun clenches his jaw as he releases into you.

he fills you up, ropes of his cum coating your insides as he stays buried in you. “fuck, you took me so well, baby,” you cum shortly after him, your arousal mixed with his own dripping down your legs. baekhyun pants and drops your leg from around his hip and you stumble, catching yourself on a shelf. “shit, you alright? can you walk?” he asks, pulling his fingers out of your mouth and then removing himself from inside of you.

“i dont know,” you whine, wanting more of him. but you both know it’s time to go back out. your break is probably almost up anyway, and you still need to eat.

baekhyun finds paper towels and cleans you up. you keep your eyes on him as he wipes in between your thighs. you almost sigh at the beautiful sight before you; his soft brown eyes a dark contrast to the dark eye makeup that’s still mainly intact. his hands and gentle beneath you and you wonder if this will last, or if after this moment you two will go back to what you had before, before this moment. or worse, if it’ll be like nothing ever happened; not this moment, or anything that came before it.

as if he can hear your thoughts, he looks up at you and gives you a small smile. he places a soft kiss on your lips and you hold him close for an extra beat. “that was fun,” he says, and just like that he’s back to being himself, not the same man that just stuck his fingers in your mouth and fucked you silly.

you nod, a small smile on your face to match his own. “we should do it again,” he says, picking up your clothes and handing them to you. it’s a silly thing to smile about, but you can’t help it. if this is how you see him again, outside of work, then fine. you’ll take what you can get.

“okay,” you say, stepping into your underwear and pants. baekhyun quickly redresses and waits for you by the door. you look up and see him holding the belt that goes around his shirt, in his hands. it’s not your job, but you take it from him and help him anyway because you would if you were out on the set right now.

“what are you doing later?” he asks as you fasten the belt around his torso. you, i hope, you think. but you just shrug and look up at him. he smiles and places a hand on your cheek. “i’ll pick you up at seven, then.”

and that’s how you get your first date with byun baekhyun.

[biillyhargroves]

It’s months post-Starcourt, but the “fire” is still a mainstay on every local station. Newscasters pluck experts out of the woodwork, investigators and fire marshals, even a conspiracy theorist or two, and every stupid interview fades into the background as the mundanity of Hawkins, Indiana settles across the town like a well-worn blanket. It has become a part of the local color, rolled out at events, when cameras spotlight the new mayor, the new police chief, the high school sports teams trotting out in thinner numbers than before.

Steve skulks away from all the pomp and circumstance of the pep rally, the echoes in the gym sealed inside as the heavy metal doors slam shut behind him. He shoves his hands in his pockets, glances right and then left, over his shoulder and back again. Why is he nervous? He shouldn’t be nervous. He checks his watch, taps it as though the hands are lying to him, as if he needs to shake them awake. Time is moving too slow. He decides to trek out early.

This is for Billy. Steve repeats this in his head over and over again, a reminder, because Billy is healing but the healing is slow, and he’s in so much pain all the time, and nothing is touching it, — nothing is helping him. Steve’s pretty sure that Neil’s restricting his medications, that he’s not giving Billy the best chance at getting better, and the mere thought of it makes his blood boil. His heart breaks at every wince, every sharp inhale, every coiled muscle. Steve has held Billy, sobbing, in agony, for too many nights. He can’t just do nothing. He feels useless and he hates it. He has to do something. He has to help somehow.

The thought entered his brain sometime in the last week, on one of the many sleepness nights he’d spent hunkered in the dark of Forest Hills Trailer Park, the trailer empty save for Max dozing on the couch in the living room, Billy curled miserably in Steve’s lap in the bedroom.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered, stroking Billy’s tear-stained cheek. “I’m sorry, baby. I know it hurts.”

He’d already shaken every last orange bottle cluttering the nightstand, all of them empty. Max had scrounged in the bathroom but only came up with a few Tylenol capsules and some kind of muscle cream, neither of which would do Billy much good. Neil was supposed to refill Billy’s prescriptions, had snatched them from Susan’s hands when she’d offered to do it, but so far he’d only come home with brown bags of bourbon and the occasional six pack.

Steve had been holding Billy, rocking him, trying desperately to comfort him, when the arc of Eddie Munson’s headlights across the way caught his attention. An idea formed, and now Steve is sitting at a rickety picnic table in the middle of the woods staring at the black lunch box Eddie had slammed onto the wooden slats.

“It’s not for me,” Steve says, leaning over to peer into the box, reaching in and frowning at the little baggies of weed. He plucks one up, sniffs it, is surprised to find that it’s not some knock-off. He’d almost expected oregano. Such disappointment would align with his mood.

“You don’t have to lie, Stevie,” Eddie says, coy, teasing, as if he thinks that Steve is trying to keep whatever reputation has clung to him since high school.

Steve shakes his head, admits the truth, “It’s for a friend.” Well, a half truth. He eyes Eddie, wondering how much he can trust this boy he’d barely looked twice at since elementary school.

“Sure, man,” Eddie shrugs, still not believing him. “As long as your friend can pay.”

Steve resumes his shopping, sifting through Eddie’s supply. “You got anything stronger than this?” he asks, pinching a baggie between two fingers.

Eddie whistles. “Harrington still likes to party.”

“Listen,” Steve says, harsher than he means to, and Eddie stills. “It’s— I’m…” He sighs heavily, flings the weed back into the metal box and scrubs his hands over his face. Eventually he says, “It’s for Billy.”

“Oh.” Eddie’s features soften.

“I know his family moved out by you,” Steve says, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know how much you’ve seen of him.”

“Not much,” Eddie admits. “I know he was in the fire,” he says. “That he got hurt.”

Steve can’t help but snort — derision, disgust, annoyance all bubbling to the surface. “The fire,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Then he remembers himself, recalls the purpose of this particular mission. He composes himself, says, “He got really hurt. It’s bad. I’m…worried about him.”

Steve isn’t sure he likes the way that Eddie looks at him when he says, sincerely, “Yeah. Sure.” He looks like he knows something. Hell, he probably does. Steve gets sloppy when he’s nervous, and visiting Billy sets every nerve-ending ablaze. He doesn’t doubt that he’s parked too close to the trailer once or twice, that Eddie may have seen the Beamer cut through the back entrance of the park.

“I just want to help him,” Steve says.

Eddie looks down. He digs a bitten-down nail against the knotted wood of the table, bites his lip, scuffs the heel of his sneaker against the dirt beneath him. “I like Billy,” he says after a while, and when he looks up Steve can tell that he means it. “I mean, I don’t know him well. Not like you do.” Again, that look, that wisdom, that knowledge. “But I like him. We smoked together a couple times. He’s a good guy, underneath it all.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “He is.”

Eddie is quiet for a moment, and then for two. Steve finds himself anxious, worried that Eddie might decide that he doesn’t like Billy enough to help him. Then Eddie takes a deep breath and asks, “How bad’s the pain?”

“Really bad,” Steve answers quickly. “If it’s a scale of one to ten, he’s off the chart. He’s supposed to be on— I…I don’t remember the name of it. But, his family…” This isn’t Steve’s business, not his story to tell. He bites his tongue, keeps it simple. “Money’s tight. He can’t always get his meds. But he can’t survive on baby aspirin and ibuprofen, you know? He’s not in good shape.”

Eddie takes this all in and then he asks, “Will you be with him tonight?” When Steve fumbles, Eddie clarifies, “All my stronger stuff’s back home. I don’t carry it around — too expensive, not worth the risk. But for Billy…” He opens his palms. “I’ll stop in. He can take what he wants. But someone should probably stay with him. I’ve got prescriptions. Safe enough. But, new meds and all, and if he’s as fucked up as you say…”

“I’ll be with him,” Steve says. Eddie smiles and Steve thinks that he’s got him, that he’s got them, all figured out.

For his part, Eddie keeps his promise. He arrives at the trailer under the cover of night. Max is gone for the night, a much-needed sleepover with El granting a brief reprieve. Steve is on the couch with Billy lounging against him pretending not to be uncomfortable. The pain gets worse at night, and Steve can feel in setting in, can tell by the way Billy’s muscles spasm and tense, by the soft little whines that escape when Billy shifts in his spot.

Steve is relieved when Eddie knocks on the door, a feeling that is only half-tempered by Billy’s lack of reaction to Eddie seeing them together, so close, so exposed. Billy’s shirt is off, the fabric too scratchy and painful to bear. Only a thin veil of gauze hides the worst of his still-healing injuries, red, angry scars snaking out from beneath them. Billy barely moves away from Steve, even grabs onto him to help ease himself upright, as Eddie lets himself inside.

The transaction is swift, easy. Eddie presents pill bottles like offerings and Billy turns them over in his hands, selecting a drug with a name he recognizes. Eddie is casual, friendly; he charges a nominal fee that Billy scoffs at even as he downs the pills, dry-swallowing in one gulp.

Eddie lingers after the exchange, settling at the far end of the couch, watching music videos with Steve and Billy as the night stretches on.

It’s not long before Billy begins to slump against Steve, body uncoiling as he snuggles close, his head tucked beneath Steve’s chin, resting on Steve’s chest. Steve holds him there, cards a hand through Billy’s hair, wants to cry because Billy isn’t and he’s so damn grateful for that.

As Billy drifts off, Steve looks to Eddie, opens his mouth to thank him, but stops when he sees Eddie’s furrowed brow, his frown. “What’s wrong?” Steve asks.

Eddie blinks, tries to look away from the roadmap of scars cross-crossing Billy’s back but can’t. “It wasn’t a fire,” he says plainly, eyes flicking to Steve’s, “was it?”

Steve is quiet for a long while. He holds Billy closer, as though afraid that confessing the truth will somehow take him away. He’s spent so many nights dwelling on the look of him, small and bleeding, gasping for breath, on the floor of the mall. He’s spent so much time scared of losing him.

“No,” Steve says eventually. “It wasn’t a fire.”

Eddie slides closer. He places his hand on top of Steve’s, which is holding Billy’s. He looks like he might say something, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, squeezing Steve’s hand, which squeezes Billy’s. Steve finds he likes the feeling, the warm weight of Eddie’s quiet understanding, his gentle support.

[thewitchandtheassassin]

Fates Divine: Where it All Begins (Yennefer of Vengerberg x Reader)

Summary: What if Yennefer’s destiny wasn’t entwined with Geralt’s? What if another fate awaited her? And where does Princess Cirilla play into all this?

Words: 1183

Warnings: Witcher violence, AU (kinda?), language

A/N: This is the start of a new series I’m working on. The prologue of it, if you will. It will get longer from here but I thought a set up was in order.

If you want to be on this taglist, lemme know.

Series Masterlist

-X-

Gold eyes.

Unnerving, glistening, narrowed eyes were the first things Yennefer saw as she awoke with a start, clutching her aching breast with nimble, scab-ridden fingers. Tucked onto a hillside, shaded by the coloring leaves and away from the harsh view of both man and animal, there was nothing but stillness surrounding her.

“Witch,” you greeted gruffly, gaze flickering to her heaving, barely-covered chest before lifting upward again. “Glad to see you lived. That katakan nearly made you his next meal. Maybe don’t travel Oxenfurt or its roads at night for a while. Could still be plenty of the bastards roaming about.”

Yennefer blinked in surprise, back straightening as she finally took in the full sight of you. Bearing the obvious signs of a Witcher – stark white hair and cat-like eyes that sent most mortals reeling backwards – and the scars that tended to adorn your people, you weren’t quite what she’d imagined after hearing of a Witcher skulking about. The cocky twist of your smirk and the way your golden gaze lightened as she gaped left you almost youthful in appearance.

As though you hadn’t battled a thousand monsters; hadn’t saved a thousand souls (for coin, of course).

“Do you speak, witch?” you teased, biting the apple in your hand playfully. “Or did those fancy mages steal your manners in that big ole tower of yours?”

Yennefer glared, offended at such an implication, and it sent you into a fit of laughter. The apple in your grasp shifted, nearly crushed beneath the weight of your grip, so you simply tossed it to your lazing mare while you tried to calm your mirth.

“That is quite a rude assumption, you white-haired brute,” she scolded, though it held little fire as your amusement bled into her. “I was simply surprised to awake to such an…”

“Freak of nature? Mutant? Monster?”

She winced as your merriment drifted away with the flicker of flames, leaving behind what she’d come to expect from Witcher tales. The broody, cold demeanor and stoic expression – the face of a monster slayer bought entirely by the gold tucked in someone’s breeches.

“Well, you’re welcome. Consider this my one good deed for the year,” you huffed. “You can stay until daybreak. Wouldn’t want to have to save your ass twice in one night. Plus the blood from your oozing wound will only attract more trouble than its worth. Might even bring me the monster I was paid to vanquish.”

Yennefer’s brow furrowed. “I was not going to call you any of those names, Witcher. You are just an unfamiliar face to me. Though I can see why you would assume such hatefulness. I doubt the kind people of Oxenfurt have shown you much hospitality.”

“Humans,” you grunted disdainfully, gaze meeting the witch’s. “They fear the things they cannot possibly match up with.”

“I am Yennefer of Vengerberg. I believe I should thank you for saving my life.” She smiled softly at you, staring deep into your soul as thoughts swirled about your convoluted mind. She could see the obvious attraction, feel it buzzing across her skin the way it skirted about your own. Flashes of your rescue and subsequent healing flickered into view, the way your diligent fingers caressed her mangled flesh as you helped bind the weeping gashes.

You were certainly an interesting creature.

“(Y/N)… of Vizima.”

The hesitation was not missed but she did not dare to voice it.

“Well, it is lucky to have such a dashing savior,” Yennefer smiled shyly, deceptively innocent despite the things she’d been a part of, but you could see through it with ease. This woman was dangerous but you didn’t mind. Not really. “Though, I wonder. Could you help me with another task? With coin, of course.”

You thrived in danger.

“What do you need?” you murmured, the protective clothes you bore becoming uncomfortably sticky from perspiration, nerves alight from whatever this woman was doing to your sensibilities.

It was strange, to be so intimidated by someone so lithe and beautiful. You’d bedded plenty of elven women and humans alike, but this one witch…

“I’m in need of werewolf saliva. For a talisman. But few merchants stock such a rare item and who better to help me find it than a Witcher?”

Batting her eyes, she watched as your resolve crumbled slightly. The promise of coin was temptation enough but knowing this capable but injured witch would be searching for werewolves left you conflicted. If you were dumb enough to say no, then she could easily die.

And the world would be far uglier without her.

“You are planning to search for them whether I agree or not, aren’t you?” you inquired knowingly, chuckling at the mischievous uptick painting Yennefer’s lips.

“Is my coin good enough?” she asked in response, brushing past your question as though it’d never been spoken.

Smirking, you nodded. “All coin is good coin. We will begin our hunt at dawn. I’ve heard whispers of a town being plagued by the hairy beasts. We may start there.” Your gaze dropped to her bandaged chest, brows furrowing thoughtfully. “May need to clean your chest again. All types of nasty illnesses cling to vampires and the like.”

She ran her slender fingers along the parted neck of her dress, garnering your intense attention to the unmarked flesh glistening in the firelight, the tips of her digits grazing the pinking cloth.

“I have a few potions in my bag for such occasions. I am mostly aghast and embarrassed a vampire got the upper hand. You must think me a novice to earn such grave injuries.”

Leaning forward slightly, you caught her eye and shook your head. “I’ve been to every corner of this continent. Met creatures that nearly took my head from its place on my shoulders. I’ve seen novices and masters both killed without a thought. But you, Yennefer of Vengerberg, feel… powerful. As though I dare not underestimate what you could do in a moment’s time. I don’t know you, but I… feel you.”

Yennefer blinked slowly, taken aback by your confession and truthfully, you had no idea why those words befell your lips but there was no taking them back. You would not make yourself a liar.

“Let us sleep,” she whispered breathlessly. “I doubt this will be an easy task and at least one of us should be fully rested and healthy.”

Nodding, you glanced at your bedroll before peering behind Yennefer with a frown.

“Take my roll,” you offered as you stood, though it sounded more of a command. “You do not wish to agitate your wounds more than they already are.”

Lips parting, prepared to argue, Yennefer paused at the stern determination staring back at her. Handing her the blanket sitting atop your haphazardly crafted bed, you gestured at the bedroll before settling against the toppled log near the top of the roll. Arms crossed, your eyes closed and head lolled backwards as you listened.

“Damn Witcher,” she mumbled, crawling into the bedroll and tucking the warm, albeit worn, blanket around her shivering form. “Happy now?”

“Thrilled.”

[distant-velleity]

Brotherhood

Regis backstory snippet (≧▽≦) Please enjoy this quick story!!

~

The worn-down, empty apartment wasn’t so empty anymore. 

Aki went from appliance to appliance, fixing up a cup of tea. As he slowly stirred it, he glanced back over his shoulder. 

The outworld teen sat at the roughed-up island counter, silently nursing her injuries. Her torn skin was already beginning to mend itself. She didn’t look back at him, and instead looked blankly at the marble countertop. Her Mirror of Transcendence laid there, covered by a sterile rag.

She seemed… lonely and downcast. Aki supposed anyone who had just been stranded on a different planet would be.

“So,” he said, leaning over and sliding the cup to her. “What’s your name, kid?”

“R…” The teen hesitated. “...Regis.”

Aki got the feeling that wasn’t her real name. It didn’t matter; it wasn’t as if ‘Aki’ was his birth name either.

“I’m Aki, though you prolly already figured that out.” He rested his arms on the counter. “Where ya from?”

He didn’t mention that he asked because of the rose-like markings on her skin.

Silence filled the dusty kitchen. Regis eyed her Mirror of Transcendence. 

It was a long time before she finally said, “▮▮▮▮▮.”

In other words, the Garden Star of Beauty.

Aki grimaced internally, his hunch confirmed. Being from a neighboring star system, he had heard all sorts of things about that place, and none of it was good.

A vicious long-lived species with an average lifespan even exceeding that of the Xianzhou people. Political and religious hell. Underlying conflict between worshippers of Yaoshi and those of Idrila. He’d even come across a rumor that when the people of the native species inevitably succumbed to insanity, their bodies would transform into monstrous, mutated plants.

No wonder ‘home’ was such a touchy subject for Regis.

“Gotcha,” Aki replied. He gave her a quick once-over: the gash on her face had already mended itself in the time they were speaking, leaving only scarred tissue behind. “And you’re a Mirror Holder, huh?”

Regis nodded without saying anything.

Outside, ▮▮▮’s only star began to set. The entire city was suddenly awash in vivid colors, colors that would soon give way to darkness and artificial light.

Aki cursed under his breath and closed the blackout curtains over the kitchen window. Then, in the brief moment of pitch blackness, he relied on habit to find the lightswitch again.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he told Regis, who only tilted her head.

“Why do you need to…” 

She didn’t finish her sentence, but Aki got the gist of what she was asking.

“Let’s just say I’ve made a lot of enemies.” His bad ankle throbbed. “And I’ve got no intention of letting those rats get a peek at my apartment when they’re the most active.”

“Are your enemies the same people who stole the Providence?” Regis asked. 

So that was the name of her spacecraft.

“Yeah. You were really unlucky—they normally don’t have guys skulking about during the daytime.” 

Regis’ mouth set in a serious line. “Well, I’m not going to just let them take it,” she muttered, sounding the most angry Aki had seen her so far. “It’s mine. And more importantly… I can’t stand the way they laughed as they took it apart.”

The bitter venom that laced her words reminded Aki of himself a few years prior—a broken little boy who took the bloodstained hand that reached out from the shadows, building up a brotherhood of outcasts because the rest of the world rejected him.

To put it simply, Regis had potential.

“Then,” he started, “let me and my guys help out. No one knows those bastards better than us.”

He meant it as an honest proposal, but Regis stared at him like he had abruptly grown a second head.

“Help… me,” she echoed disbelievingly.

Aki crossed his arms and gave her a wry but genuine smile.

“Defend our own, protect the innocent, avenge the wronged. That’s what our creed boils down to.” He held up two fingers. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re innocent ‘cause you had nothing to do with our business at first, but you’ve been wronged anyway. That’s two reasons to help you out.”

Regis still didn’t seem to believe him. For a follower of Idrila, she was unique in her skepticism.

“Mirror Holder or not, I know an outcast when I see one,” continued Aki. “Me and my brothers—we’re all people like you. Maybe you’ll be leaving this planet behind a week, a month from now, but there ain’t a reason for us to not lend a hand now.”

“...For now,” Regis conceded, standing up from her stool. “If you can help me get my ship back, then that’s all that matters.”

Well, it was good enough. Some people needed to see actions more than words. Aki understood.

“Glad to have you with us, then.”

He extended his hand to her like his own “sister” did for him so many years ago.

Regis took it.

[jenerousjenocide]

Familiar Face

And now we are officially up to date and I have more chapters to write. Please be patient with me as I am not as creative as I once was and often have brain fog or I'm working lmao.

Comments are always welcome! Prologue - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - A03 Mirror Taglist: @skittleabyss

The first time he saw her eyes was when he finally let her go after dragging her to the ground and holding a knife to her throat.

She had been dumb enough to accept his excuse of some brain creature skulking in the bushes and he took the opportunity to hold a knife to her throat and demand answers. Granted, he was mistaken to assume she had anything to do with his kidnapping, but everything was all too new to him and she was the first person he came across after escaping his pod. The new mental connection they shared due to the parasite helped settle the matter between them, and when they stood he finally got a good look at the woman he aimed to attack.

A simple human girl, standing at 5'2" and her hair disheveled from the crash landing. She was obviously looked to be no threat to anyone, her face was once that you could trust, she was cute, to say the least. 

But her eyes. 

Astarion had spent centuries bringing back the most beautiful souls throughout the city for his master, spending so many nights staring into a strangers eyes and whispering the sweetest lies his tongue can manage. He was a master at seduction, easily taking each and every one of them to bed in his master's palace before sending them off to their doom at the hands of the man who gave him the gift and curse of immortality. He's seen every color of eyes a person could think of. However there was something about her gaze that shifted something within him.

Over time he found himself looking at them more with every conversation they had. Obviously to hold proper conversation, it's only polite to look someone in the eyes during the discussion, but as time went on he would ponder if she would come speak to him while she made her nightly rounds at camp, even just for a moment so he could look into those eyes of her and get lost in them for just a brief period of time. 

They held so much warmth, like they were just inviting anyone who met her gaze in.

As much as the young woman looked to be cute and innocent, she could double wield daggers like no one he's ever seen before. The moment a battle is afoot, her warm, inviting eyes shifting into something darker. She would only have one thing on her mind and that would be taking down each and every enemy that stood in her way. Once the fight was over, it was like she was a completely different person, the comforting orbs gone as she'd pickpocket the corpses and once Astarion thought he was finally seeing the real Tav, she'd shift back to normal with a bright smile while raving about all the cool stuff her found and would definitely hoard in her tent as though it was going to serve any purpose to her.

Perhaps it was because it was so easy to read her emotions just from a look, admiring the way she can so easily slip from a blood thirsty assassin to a confidant you can spill all your secrets to and know they will be kept forever. 

That is probably why when he finally saw her face after ascending and gaining his newfound freedom and seeing how absolutely distraught she was from his actions, he secretly wished he hated her eyes and the way she looked at him from then on to avoid feeling any sense of guilt that came bubbling up from under the surface. 

It did only last a moment, the guilt subsiding as the powers flowed through and clouded his mind, he was able to finally basking in the light after spending it so long in the darkness. Regardless of what she thought of his decision, she did help him by showing him what the contact on his back looked like. For that he figured she would get over it, and he'd once again be welcomed in with her warm gaze and bright smile. 

Asking her to join him in immortality was their breaking point. He could see how pained she was over the request, even as he tried to convince her this was the choice to make, it further cemented the fact they would not last. She had become adamant she was no pet or spawn. She was her own person, and in a way Astarion respected her for the decision, knowing she was too smart to allow herself to be degraded further just for his approval. She was right, she would have likely ended up a puppet for him to control had he turned her- And there would be no doubt those beautiful eyes he once adored so much would vanish into the blood red ones of an immortal being.

When the battle with the Netherbrain was over and the dust began to settle among the city, it was a matter of time before the heroes of Baldur's Gate split up and go their separate ways. The first of which being Tav and Gale.

Astarion should have figured Gale would leech off of his leftovers, this entire adventure he wasn't blind to the way he looked at her as they spoke. Somehow she had won the heart of her companions one by one, likely because of those damn eyes of hers. It's not as though it was up to Astarion to say anything or judge her for her decisions. He ignored the voice in the back of his head stating he needed to convince her to stay by his side instead of retreating to Waterdeep with the Wizard, but he had no use for her anymore. She made her choice and if she wasn't willing to spend eternity in each other's arms, that was her loss. Gale can have his fun with her, Astarion had a city to build up and rule with an iron fist.

So why did it cause something to stir deep inside himself the last time he looked into her eyes? Was it because he knew it would be the last time he'd ever see them again- See her again?

She had already bargained with him to keep his plans in the city, stating it was big enough to rule and fill with as many spawn as he deems fit. Her gaze stern and full of passion as she threatened to come back and end his reign if she were to get wind of any straying vampires that had been sired by Lord Astarion himself. It was cute the way she thought she could defeat him, but he allowed her to ramble on just so he can revel in her presence one last time. The world was different to him, yes, but she hadn't changed and it definitely struck something familiar within him that made him want her around all the time. 

Saying their goodbyes, he would never admit out loud how awful it was to watch the sadness return to her eyes as she dismissed herself to travel alongside Gale. Their eyes had been locked together for perhaps a moment too long and he watched her mask crack, all that joy she once carried as they spoke about their victory vanishing for a moment as though her feelings towards him bubbled up to the surface and she was ready to explode. 

Reminding himself he did not need her any longer, he watched her turn away and begin her new journey towards a new life. She didn't look back, much to his annoyance, but he had work to do. 

Years of pushing his feelings down, fighting back the urge to send out spawn to other areas just to see if it would summon her to him so she could keep him all to him, it had taken him a while to set everything aside and focus entirely on gaining popularity among the citizens of the city and using his powers to his advantage. It was easy to slip into a new routine, create his own army of obedient spawn and gain the Lordish he so desired. He may have lost those eyes forever, but he had a new life of his own to live.

Which is why he was so taken back staring into yours. 

The mask had been discarded on the bed, pulling him from his thoughts of checking in on you and realizing you were no longer shielding your identity. Your presence was still in the room, but it was possible you had hidden yourself out of fear of what could happen next, although he intended no harm by putting you in a secluded room away from any wandering mouths looking for a neck to feed from.

He was a fool to get lost in his thoughts, the moment his fingertips brushed against the mask in his hands, he could feel you moving behind him. You were on his back before he could grab you, your hand gripped his hair to yank his head back, the other hand bringing your blade to his throat and he couldn't stop the amused smile to cross his face. Your efforts to gain the upper hand were cute, but it was obvious he was too naive to simply do a kind thing for a stranger without having them attack him after learning what he was. He needed to kill you.

He hands were on you before you could blink, one grabbing the knife that pressed against his throat to pull you off his back and in front of him, the other clasped around your throat as he shoved you into the wall and pressed his body against yours. He could still have his fun with you before he drank you dry, knowing for a fact nobody in this city would come looking for her. He slammed her wrist against the wall, causing her grip on the blade to loosen and the knife fell to the floor with a clatter. 

Astarion pulled back his head to look down at him, drink in the fear on your face and relish in the sound of you begging for your life.

But when you opened your eyes to meet his stare, his entire body froze and his thoughts were completely clouded with memories of her.

You were frightened, that much was obvious, but you held the same warmth he hadn't been able to see for half a decade. He could stare into your eyes and revel in it's beauty as he once did long ago, and although it wasn't obvious to you, it caused something pushed deep down within himself to stir. 

His mouth came crashing down onto yours the moment he saw you part your lips to speak. He didn't need the illusion to be broken just yet, he needed you to be his long lost love- If even just for a moment. His grip remained on her to keep her in place, but it was no longer to be taken as a threat on her life. 

You were lost in a mess of lips, tongue and teeth. His kisses were painful and likely bruising your lips as he pushed for something deeper. You couldn't even gather your thoughts, your other hand gripping onto his unbuttoned shirt as the hand around your neck slid down your chest, feeling the skin exposed from your blunging neckline. His touch was freezing, fingertips just barely grazing your skin but causing a shiver to run down your entire body. It was intoxicating, you can feel yourself getting lost with every movement of his lips against his. It felt way too good, more intense than anything you had ever experienced before.

But it was wrong, you barely knew him, and his reaction to having a knife held to his throat was to kiss you?

You push your hand against his chest, an effort to shove him off of you but he was strong. His grip on your wrist seemingly tightened as the kiss deepened, he quietly moaned against your lips, drinking you in as if you were his first meal in days. 

When he pulled his mouth away, you could see his disheveled he looked from his actions. His eyes seemed to glow in the darkness, boring into you as if silently commanding you to remain still. He ducked his head to press kisses against the skin of your neck, causing the warmth to pool in your lower abdomen, the area always being a weakness for you as you feel his lips part and his tongue sweep across your delicate skin.| "St-" You gasp, trying to form any sense in your own mind in order to command him to stop. "Yes, little love?" He purred, nuzzling his nose against your pulse and relishing in how quickly it was beating for him. 

"Get off me." You finally manage, your voice betraying you as you tried to remain stern, "Please, I just want to go home."

Astarion paused, his breath lingering on your neck for a moment before he pulled back to look into your eyes once more. The desire and lust subsiding from his expression as he seemed to peer into your very soul and read your every thought. With him this close it was hard to gather yourself, hard to breath. 

"Tell me, pet, where is home to you?" He asked curiously, tilting his head in question while keeping you where you stood, his breathing heavier as he came down from the rush of your kiss. "Have you finally returned to me?"

"I have never met you before in my entire life." You spit back, wiggling yourself beneath his grasp in a poor effort to create more distance between you both. "Waterdeep, I'm from Waterdeep, please. I mean no trouble." "Says the one who held a dagger to my throat the first chance she got." He muttered, narrowing his eyes at you to try and understand your intentions. His grip on your wrist did loosen, allowing it to drop back down to your side limply as you wait for him to release you from your spot between his body and the wall. 

"And you kissed me in response, ask me who was more out of line here." You whisper back, noticing how the reality of the situation cross his features and he finally steps back to give you the space you were looking for. "Or who has more questionable intentions."

Astarion ran a hand through his hair, seemingly frustrated from not thinking his actions through. He hadn't acted like this in years, the way he got so lost in his own delusions of a past long gone- It was foolish of him to kiss you like you were his lost love.

"My apologies, you simply reminded me of someone I once knew." He replied, a touch more quiet than his usual tone.

"Seemed like quite the person if you were willing to shove your tongue down my throat." You chided, a subtle laugh bubbling up in your throat at the thought. "For a moment there I thought that was just how vampires greet their guests."

"That's a completely different event, my dear." 

A pause lingered in the air, you stared at him with wide eyes before he snapped back into reality and a smirk crossed his lips.

"A joke. Are you always this serious?" He laughed, watching the way the tension left your shoulders at the reveal of his own joke.

"It's not every day you end up passing out at a party full of vampires, I thought Baldur's Gate was abandoned for the most part. Forgive me for being a little on edge, my lord." You reply in a mocking tone, rolling your eyes as he easily slips into a nonchalant role, obviously trying to move away from the fact he was ready to devour you- And the fact you had half a mind to let him. "But then again, I'm not too sure how many of you are actually still alive."

"Many of them, darling, I'm not a monster." He bit back, crossing his arms and cocking his hip to the side. "Had you not jumped on me like a damned goblin and tried to slit my throat, perhaps we could have had a more appropriate conversation. Were you raised by animals?"

"No, actually. I was just always taught to attack first. I didn't know what you had planned, I panicked." You snap back, bending down to retrieve your dagger before moving your skirt to place it back in it's holster on your thigh.

Astarion's hand was on your wrist again before you can secure the blade in place, you look up expecting to see his eyes looking into yours again, but instead he raises your wrist to get a better look of the dagger in your hand. His eyes narrow intently, observing the intricate designs carved into the wood of the handle, it's steel jagged and the edge sharp enough to slice through anything that came across it's path. It was well used, obviously having gone through it's own story before ending up in your hands.

"Look, I'm sorry for trying to slice your thro-"

"Where did you get this?"

What.

You blink, expression twisting into pure confusion. His eyes are looking into your own again, waiting silently for you to answer him. 

"M-My mother?" It sounded like a question more than a response, although it didn't make your answer any less true. "It's been in my family for generations."

He remained silent, staring at you before decided you were being honest with him. His grasp on your wrist faltered and you quickly strapped it back to your thigh to ensure he knew you weren't going to attack him any longer. If you wanted to get out of here alive, you had to make sure he knew you weren't a threat.

If he had anything to say to that, he didn't bring it up. Remaining completely silent as he looked you over. It was like time itself stood still, he could have traveled back in time and he doesn't even know if he would complain. Before him stood an exact copy of the woman who freed him from his chains of servitude, aided his ascension and ultimately broke his heart when she decided he was no longer worth the trouble of remaining by his side to watch his plot unfold. The dagger now in your possession all too familiar as memories of watching it raised high in the air before striking down the enemy it aimed to gut through with practiced ease.

"Why are you really here?" He suddenly pressed again, the confusion he felt bubbling into anger as he gritted his teeth at you. "Are you a shape shifter? Are you here to torment me after all these years? Who followed you here?"

You shake your head, stepping back as he looms over you, clearly getting himself lost in a million thoughts per second.

"I'm alone, I just attended the party out of curiosity, honest. I mean no harm, I just want to leave now and I won't tell a single soul about what I learned- I promise."

"You'll dine with me tonight, then."

Once again this man really knows how to catch you off guard, your mouthing gaping open as your brows furrow high on your forehead. 

"I really can't st-"

"I insist." He cuts you off, his expression as serious as it could be. You could only nod in agreement before he relaxes and finally walks past you.

"You will remain here, I will have some of my servants fetch you a gown for the evening." He reached for the door knob, glancing back over at you to find you staring at him in surprise.

Without another word, the door is pulled open and he leaves the room, closing it behind him. 

The sound of the lock clicking echoed into the silence that surrounded you, you finally drop to your knees and try to process what the fuck just happened.

[nihils-trolls]

10

Mayara Khepar, Allaik Tentau | Bay #6, Abandoned Shipping Harbor --------------------- RETURN: 0 --------------------- Google Doc | Previous Drabble (As a warning with many of the drabbles in this series, reader's discretion advised for brief scene(s) of violence.)

“We can get in through this side door. Main entrance is way too risky, even with no one watching-” Allaik whispered. “If you wanted to back out, this’d be your chance to do it.”

The duo finds themselves on the outside of town this evening, skulking around a more secluded entrance to a large, two-story building. From the outside, it looks abandoned- most of the windows are boarded up, and the main shutter bay is rusted shut.

Al looks back at Mayara again, tilting his head slightly. “W- what exactly do you even have there? The whole time, you’ve just had that and it looks suspicious as hell.”

“A sledgehammer. Never did get my hands on a pick.” She returns his puzzled look with a sly grin, shuffling the weight to her other shoulder. The ‘suspicious’ part he’s talking about lies not really with the hammer itself, but the weird paper bag strapped to the head of it. “Anyway, don’t worry about it. Let’s get this over with already, I’m sick of waitin’.”

“Worryin’ about it,” he replies. Instead of questioning her further though, he opens the door to let them inside. 

Sliding past Allaik, Maya pokes her head into the newly-opened corridor, looking both ways before entering all the way. It’s eerily quiet, the only noise being the hum of fluorescent lights flickering now and then. She turns left and continues sneaking inside, her partner following close behind.

“Al.” she says in a hushed tone, “I know you said there’d be like, no one here tonight- but what the fuck. Where is everyone?”

He thinks for a moment before answering back. “Well, gone. After Mar went and claimed the lead seat for himself, it threw everyone into a tizzy. Splintered the group up, and he could barely keep a hold of ‘em. What with the stunts you’ve been pulling, most of ‘em saw him as weak. Thought they’d be better off doing their own thing.”

Mayara stops, looking back at Al blankly. “Yeah, probably right about that.”

“Probably,” he shrugs.

Down the hall and to the right with no one to stop them, the duo enter into a modified storage room. It’s a mess, various crates and boxes stacked around like tables and chairs. But like the rest of the place, it’s empty otherwise. Immediately, Maya feels the need to comment- not bothering to quiet herself any this time.

“Damn, you just got rid of all of my shit, huh?”

“Like you wouldn’t’ve in the same situation?” Allaik rolls his eyes, still keeping a hushed tone. 

“No, no. If I were pissed, I’d’ve done the same thing.” 

She ambles around the room, kicking crates around while looking down at the floor. In particular, she’s looking for an off-colored section of concrete- a clear sign of where she buried the stash of goods. “Ah. There we are,” she coos.

Maya steps back from the square, planting herself while she shifts the sledgehammer down. “Get ready, and y’ might wanna take a bit of cover. Psi can’t protect both you and me from this.” 

“Protect- from what??”

Al panics, diving behind a particularly large crate as Mayara hefts the hammer over her head- swinging it back down full force. As soon as it makes contact with the ground, an explosion rings out from the point of impact. Dust and debris flies into the air from the force, and so does Maya. She’s just thankful she has a psionic barrier to absorb the impact from that and her fall.

As the cloud starts settling, she hops back to her feet to inspect the newly formed crater. Sure enough, it was enough to crack the concrete. A slightly dented (but intact) metal box sits just underneath the rubble as she shoves it away. Allaik rises out from his hiding spot, looking like he just saw a ghost.

“What the fuck! You could’ve told me that’s what you were carrying!” He’s yelling now, no real point in keeping quiet after a fucking explosion. “Don’t worry about it, you said. I had every right t’ be worried!”

Mayara just rolls her eyes as she reaches a hand into her sweater pocket. “Puh-lease, Al. You’ve seen me do worse-”

“Maybe I have, but carrying something like that around like it was nothing?”

“- It’s not even like it was that bad!”

“A warning would’ve been nice instead of being coy about it, asshole!”

She digs in her pocket again, searching for an item but unable to find it. “I ‘unno, I thought it was pretty damn obvious as to what I was doing. ‘Specially when I told you the plan ahead of time.”

“Maya,” Al’s tone shifts from livid to concerned.

“What!-” She finally takes a moment to look up at him, and realizes why the sudden change in attitude. …Fuck. Yeah, probably should’ve seen that one coming.

“Stay right where you are, Khepar.” a voice hissed out from behind Allaik. He didn’t dare move, unless he wanted a bullet in his back. The figure behind him must have snuck right up while they were arguing. If it weren’t for getting distracted, he might have noticed sooner.

Mayara forces a smile, still hunched over on her knees where she’s at. “Heeeey, Mar,” she calls out nervously. “Long time no see. Ya’ look good.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up. There’s no talking your way out of this one.” 

Marote Meccay, the man himself. Five feet and eight inches of malicious authority. A shame he has such a baby face; it would be way easier to take him seriously otherwise. He also wasn’t supposed to be in tonight, but that obviously isn’t the case. There’s only one thing that Mayara really fears he’ll do- and of course, he starts doing it.

“Did you really think you could just sneak in here and do whatever you wanted? That I would just leave this place completely vacant? I knew you were after something here. I just needed to know what.”

He starts monologuing.

“I’m not stupid, Maya. Ghost problem, my ass. You’re the damn one that’s causing problems. You’ve always caused problems, ever since the beginning. I thought, maybe I’ll be nice. Maybe I can just keep you at your job here once I take over. But then that stupid fuck had to go and break your contract.

And since then? You’ve been offering to competitors, fucking with my own supply lines. So I- … what do you have there.” Marote’s speech is cut short by the realization that Maya’s other hand was reaching for the holster on her hip. “Don’t you fucking dare. Hands where I can see them.”

She obliges, a giddish smile starting to tug at the corners of her mouth. “Sure thing, boss.”

Pulling her other hand out of her pocket and raising both into the air, she holds a small device in one- a large button on the face of it depressed. It’s a dead man’s switch for the explosives they had set up. Technically, there were two of them- one for this building, and one for everything else. Unfortunately for her, Maya forgot which one was which. Call it a moment of panic.

“Oh messiahs, you did not just-” Al started, before being cut off by Marote.

“The fuck is that supposed to be?”

She giggles before answering. “Oh, just a lil’ switch. I wouldn’t worry about it too much-”

“I’m not buying that for a second. What’s it for?” he barks, interrupting her.

Maya is silent for a moment, that same smile on her face that she just can’t contain. “Since you wanna know so badly, it’s for this building. I let go, and the whole place goes up with everything else left in it.”

Allaik has a look of panic again, not able to tell whether his partner is dead serious or not. It’s not an empty threat, and he wouldn’t put something like this past her. Unfortunately doesn’t have much of a speaking position right now.

“... You wouldn’t.” Marote tries to call her bluff.

“Oh, but I would! You should know that by now, dipshit! If I’m going down for this, I’m sure as hell taking you with me,” she laughs. This is no bluff- besides the fact of not being sure which button she pressed.

“Did you think I was just here to steal? This was always part of the plan, I just hoped I’d be outside before this part! So put the gun down, Mar-mot- unless you wanna see what shrapnel in your good eye looks like-”

“-Wait! wait,” he interjects again- an attempt to de-escalate the situation at hand. He pulls the revolver he held away from Al’s back, making a vague gesture with that hand. “Surely we can talk a little about this, right?”

Mayara feigns a frown, pouting. “Didn’t you just say there was no talking out of this just a second ago? For shame, for shame.”

“I didn’t realize you had a fucking bomb! Maybe you should’ve led with that on the table?!”

“You have a point,” she agrees. “But it’s more fun this way, don't cha think? The fear? That little rush you’re feelin’ right now? No?”

“No, not really!” he wheezes, pointing the gun this time at Mayara.

“What’re you gonna do with that?” She questions, continuing her prodding at him. “Shoot me? Better not miss. Even if you don’t, it means I let go. There’s no way you’re surviving that. There’s enough explosives lying around here to make sure nothing’s left after the fire.”

“You would go through that much trouble just to see me burn? Is it worth that much to you?”

“It’s worth everything!” Mayara finally snaps. “You must’ve forgot that this whole operation kinda fucked over my life, right? Well I didn’t! I was even content to let it lie and pretend it never happened. But ya’ couldn’t let go, could you?”

Marote backs off, shoving Al away from him and to the ground as he backpedals for the exit. His last mistake. “You’re insane, you’re actually insane,” he repeats.

The only sort of response he gets back is a smile at first. “Duh! You just figuring that out now?”

But she’s not about to just let him get away. Mayara wants absolutely no chance of him coming back to haunt her again, and is well beyond giving any second chances. Her free hand snaps back down to her holster, drawing her own firearm. It takes less than a moment for her to find her mark. With one swift shot, the once-was leader falls to the ground, dead.

Maya stares ahead for a brief pause before snapping back to the present. “I can’t believe this dumbass was giving me so much trouble before. Not bringing any sort of back up to this thing, was he even thinking?” She continues mumbling to herself as she stands up, holsters her gun and hops over to check on Allaik before doing anything else. 

“How’s the pusher doing there, bud?”

Al lets out an uneasy breath- “You had it stopped there for a minute, not gonna lie.”

“Eh, you look fine to me.” she beams. “But uh, hey. Let’s hurry the fuck up with this box, before this place actually does explode.”

Her thumb still has the button depressed, but she knows for a fact that it’s also on a timer just in case- in her own words- ‘some bullshit happened.’ She helps pull him to his feet before rifling through her pocket again, pulling out a key to the cache. 

Inside the box is a medium-sized duffel bag, which she pulls out and slings across her body in a swift motion. Underneath it were various folders and smaller bags- none of which she bothers to grab. There just isn’t enough time to. Instead, she grabs hold of her partner’s hand and makes a break for the exit.

Upon clearing a bit of distance from the building, Mayara finally releases the tight hold she has on the switch. The abandoned store behind them combusts, further explosions sending shards of hot metal and burning wood into the surrounding area. With the flick of another switch and pressing of a button, it should set off the remainder of things they had set up.

There’s no signature of hers on this mess; it’s likely obvious enough who it was that pulled this off. She doesn’t stop to look back, continuing to drag Allaik along with her into the night. The further they get away from here, the better.

[cricketnationrise]

Fragment Friday (actually on a friday!)

So @indomitable-love tagged me last week and I was insanely busy and then @cha-melodius tagged me this week and I am less busy so here we go! The first three are from active wips, and the last two are eventually going to get worked on, so get pumped to see some of these relatively soon!

i'm tagging @weneedtotalkaboutfic @parvuls @the-lincyclopedia @clottedcreamfudge and @everwitch-magiks because i'm nosy 💜

RWRB Mummy AU:

“Face it old bean, if we don’t find someone in the next ten minutes, I’m going back to the hotel. There was an angel masquerading as a bartender and I’ll be damned if I miss my shot because you were skulking around looking for a guide to Hamunaptra.”

“Would you keep your voice down? We don’t need everyone in the nearest square kilometer to know what we’re up to.”

“Absolutely not. My voice is the perfect volume for every situation!” Pez booms, ignoring the dirty looks of the market vendors he had drowned out. 

“I’m deadly serious, Percy,”

“—oooh, full name—”

“—we need to find a guide to the City of the Dead, today, or this whole expedition—”

“You’re looking for the City of the Dead? Why on earth would you want a guide to a fucking myth?”

2. OMGCP March/April snowed in prompt:

She reads the email canceling classes and makes the decision to ignore her inbox for the day, and goes back to sleep for another hour.

Well, she tries to.

“APRIL WE HAVE A SNOW DAY APRIL SNOW DAY!” March’s yells are loud enough to wake the dead, not to mention the rest of the volleyball house. Giving up on the extra sleep, April heaves herself out of bed and yanks the door open.

“Oh good you’re up!” chirps March. “Get dressed, I have a whole plan for us today.”

“It couldn’t have waited an hour?”

March just grins. “Absolutely not, I’ve been planning this since the season ended.”

3. RWRB sentient brownstone AU:

It’s a very odd sensation, having half of It’s occupants not present half the time. Sometimes it’s like part of The Brownstone is missing – original flooring pulled up during a renovation. Sometimes it’s like part of It is numb – a nursery closed up before witnessing new life.

When Alex is here, The Brownstone feels like It’s foundations have just been poured, like the bricks just got repointed, like a fresh coat of paint in every room. Henry and Alex fill It’s rooms with laughter and kisses and piano music and Mexican aromas and sex and comfortable bickering and celebrations and comfort and books and just – love.

But inevitably, Alex has to leave and It and Henry are left alone again. When Alex is gone, The Brownstone feels every one of It’s one hundred and fifty-two years pressing down. His absence feels like warped floorboards, like crumbling grout, like peeling wallpaper.

4. Tortall/Emelan Kel/Daja Tattoo AU:

As she pushed open the door, Kel was greeted by a welcome rush of cool air and soft tones from a wind chime just inside the door frame. The lobby was vastly different from what she had expected from a tattoo parlor. It had honey-colored wood floors, seating covered with cozy looking blankets, a huge tapestry of a thunderstorm behind the counter, and plants on every available surface. The counter itself was a piece of art: at least two different kinds of metal that had been painstakingly worked and twisted to look like the roots of a giant tree, and a dark walnut wood top, polish gleaming under the lights. In any other space it would dominate the room, but somehow everything seemed in harmony. Kel instantly felt at home, lingering nerves about getting a tattoo leaving her as she moved further into the space. 

“Hi there! Welcome to Winding Circle Tattoos, how can I help you?” asked the blonde girl behind the counter. 

“I’ve got a consult with Daja Kisubo? I’m Keladry Mindelan.”

5. OMGCP offseason 🍑 🍆 series zimbits (Explicit):

“Crisse, Bits,” Jack pants, “I think I’m dead now.”

Bitty giggles helplessly and hides his face in the crook of Jack’s neck. “That would be a shame, sweetheart, we haven’t even started on your wish list yet.”

Jack groans and Bitty can feel Jack’s dick twitch in interest, still inside him. “If I hadn’t just come, that would have done it.”

Bitty snickers and carefully lifts himself off Jack’s cock, cringing a bit at the empty feeling. He grabs a few wipes from the nightstand and starts cleaning both of them up. He knows he’s the one who brought it up, but Bitty’s definitely going to need something to do with his hands to get through this conversation.

“Lord knows you gave me that list and I sort of just pounced on you once I got to the end, but we should probably have a real conversation about it.”

“And you picked now?” Jack asks, incredulous.

“Well, I guess we can at least shower and get dressed before gettin’ into the gritty details of the highly kinky off-season sex you want to have.”

“That’s the least you can do.”

[asongoftearsandfandoms]

What just happened?

It first happened after the bombing.

Crowley was so smugly proud of himself for the work he'd done. When Hell would ask about the demonic miracle, he'd lazily reply that he simply wanted to wreck a church. How delightfully sacrilegious! The truth was far more devious:

He'd done it to save the Angel.

His standing relationship with Aziraphale had gone back thousands of years. It had taken time to cultivate, but it did develop into more than just acquaintanceship. It started with confiding in each other. Aziraphale telling the truth only to Crawly about his sword, something he even lied to The Almighty about. Quietly divulging the plans about the Great Flood. Crowley briefly recounting his time spent traveling with Jesus, and his innocent intentions in doing so.

But then they shared their own plans for blessings and temptations. Which is how the Arrangement was born. Crowley tempted his angel friend to sow bad deeds. Aziraphale persuaded Crowley to bestow blessings and miracles.

It was a careful balancing act, this beautiful Arrangement. It required a social dance, gentle persuasion and mutual respect. It required a friendship.

So when Crowley learned that his friend was running around town during the second Great War, he knew the angel was probably doing whatever was in his power to thwart evil. He'd always kept close tabs on him throughout history, at first as an asset and later out of friendship. In his recent covert followings, Crowley had caught glimpses of him speaking with plain clothes military, and had heard from sources that he was "going undercover" to help the allies. And unlike Aziraphale, who was so over-the-top pleased with himself for being able to help and "pull a fast one" on the nazis and therefore completely oblivious to the world, Crowley caught the fact that the Germans weren't the ones who were about to be played.

He had considered letting it go. It would be a good lesson for the angel to learn on his own, that he shouldn't trust humans so blindly. But that didn't sit well with him. He told himself it was because, what if Aziraphale learned to not trust him as well? Then the Arrangement would go out the window! But his stomach churned for more reason than that.

Crowley found himself skulking in a dark alley across the street from a church later that month. Didn't like churches, Crowley. They radiated a hum of something good. Even from across the street, it was like feeling heat pulse from directly next to a rancid landfill on a hot summer day during a heatwave after a rainstorm. He wanted to throw up.

The sensation caught in his throat when he saw someone decked in light, neutral colors tiptoe towards the church entrance with an arm full of books. He couldn't help but smile. Aziraphale had always had that effect on him.

The smile faded as his friend disappeared inside. He would follow him, but he'd be next to useless in a church. Aziraphale probably would be strengthened in there, better equipped to deal with the two losers he'd seen go inside over an hour before. Surely the angel could take on two spies?

But then she appeared. Aziraphale's British military intelligence contact. The German triple agent. He watched her slip into the church, quiet as a cat, gun drawn.

Crowley scowled. It was 3 to 1 against his unsuspecting associate. He groaned. The unease crashed down over him again, and he shifted from foot to foot.

"Well, I suppose I could just redirect one of those incoming bombers to fly this way and destroy the church. Church goes boom, nazis go splat, everyone loses. Perfect scheme."

He snapped his fingers. Miles away, a German bomber plane veered off course. Some strange malfunction made the pilot confused as to his surroundings. Straying far away from the group out of formation must have been the correct way to go. The plane zigzagged across the area, trying to reclaim its spot, but the thick cloud cover confused the pilot more, sending him out, further and further away from the East End. It would take less than five minutes for the plane to release a bomb right here above this church.

Crowley's stomach flipped again. Aziraphale would still be discorporated, unless he escaped the church on time. The demon threw his head back scowling in frustration, almost losing the wide brimmed hat off his head.

"Damn it, Angel!"

Maybe he could send a signal? No, the Church would block his attempts. Call out? Scream?

Every idea but the obvious was ridiculous, and he knew it. The demon geared himself up, rubbed his hands together, and hustled across the dark street in after them. Luckily, she had left the door open so he didn't have to touch the door handle.

The ground burned. He could feel the grace emanating from the ground, holy blisters forming on his soles (and soul) as he walked. Burn, burn, burn. It would take years to heal. His walk quickly turned from tiptoeing to hot-potatoing his feet off the ground.

By the time he hopped into the chapel, there were two guns drawn and pointing at his friend. All four of them stopped to stare at him incredulously.

"Sorry, consecrated ground,"

Aziraphale's face went from concerned to concerned.

"Oh! It's like being at the beach in bare feet!"

No need to worry him unnecessarily. He didn't want Aziraphale to think he was going out of his way to force the angel to be indebted to him.

But still, the bottoms of his feet were undoubtedly blistered and burnt and cracked and bleeding by now. He gently hopped from foot to foot, trying not to make noises.

"What are you doing here?" The angel hissed at him.

"Stopping you from getting into trouble." Wasn't it obvious? Was Aziraphale really upset because he had wanted to help without help?

"I should have known. Of course. These people are working for you!"

Oh. Ohhh. Well, Crowley could take credit for it, he supposed. After all, he'd implied to home office that much of the unrest topside was a direct result of his work.

He didn't even consider lying to the angel for a second.

"Noo. They're a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies, running around London blackmailing and murdering people. I just didn't want to see you embarrassed."

Well, that was more than he intended to share, but the cat was out of the bag now. Ah well. He tried to lean on a pew in a nonchalant way to take some of the weight from his pained feet, but the wooden bench was also consecrated. He almost buckled into it.

"Mr. Anthony J. Crowley, your fame precedes you."

Ah. Well, he'd forgotten about some antics he'd gotten into in Germany after the first Great War. He had gained a little notoriety amongst certain groups of humans. He hoped it didn't make Aziraphale distrust what he had said.

The angel looked to him with confused, innocent eyes.

"Anthony?"

"You don't like it?"

"No, no, I didn't say that. I'll get used to it."

"The famous Mr. Crowley?" The Nazi woman chimed in. Crowley had almost forgotten about her. "Such a pity you must both die." He tipped his hat to her, more as a casual acknowledgement of her recognition than out of respect for what she promised would come next.

Aziraphale, no longer interested in the Germans, looked to Crowley again.

"What does the J stand for?"

Crowley had never considered the answer to that. Well, he had, but then disregarded having to think up something. The humans had begun having third names, right between their first and second names (why not after the second made him roll his eyes), but never one to miss a human fad, he had inserted the letter neatly between his adopted human name and his true name. He had figured if any human asked him about it, he could not only distract them from pressing the issue, but also give a plethora of fake names that started with J just to throw people off. He could lie now, give Aziraphale one of his favorite J names? Really set him spinning, tell him it stood for Jehovah?

"It's just a J really," he stammered, slightly embarrassed. Desperate for a change of subject, he glanced to the side. "Look at that! A whole fontful of holy water! It doesn't even have guards!"

He continued to hop from foot to foot. The nerves started sizzling, but demons are cursed to never unfeel divine pain inflicted upon them. He almost couldn't think straight any more, flashes of pain continuing to shoot across his essence. This bloody church, I hate it, I hope it gets dest...

Crowley spun, remembering why he came here in the first place: to warn Aziraphale. A quick mental check said that the plane was less than a minute away.

"In about a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will land right here." He didn't care if they questioned how he would know. He just wanted to hurry up and be done. Demons can't perform miracles in holy places. Most of the scope of his power was limited here.

Aziraphale fidgeted with his hat, a slight frown on his face. Crowley internally groaned. "If you all run away very, very fast, you might not die. You won't enjoy dying. Definitely wont enjoy what comes after." There. That should satisfy him. Even if he was rambling again.

Crowley looked pointedly at Aziraphale, hoping he'd get the hint. The angel simply looked distraught.

One of the German men scoffed.

"You expect us to believe that? The bombs tonight will fall on the East End."

"Yes, it would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw them off course, yes."

He didn't care any more. The nazis would choose to die here, he knew that. It didn't matter what they knew now. He looked at those big, blue, wide eyes staring at him and was on the verge of screaming internally. Why did he always feel inspired to do good in his presence??

"You're all wasting your valuable running-away time!" As a matter of fact, HE had wasted all their valuable running away time as well. "And if, in 30 seconds a bomb does land here, it would take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it." There Aziraphale, obvious enough for you?

"A- a real miracle?" Now he understood. Great, awesome, excellent, just a couple more seconds then. He bounced his weight back and forth a little. The leader dismissively asked for his cronies to shoot them.

The plane released the bomb.

Crowley directed their attention to the distinct whistling of incoming death. As they all turned their faces upward, he took stock.

Demons (and angels) can choose to experience time differently than humans, as they were not bound to it. The moment the bomb smashed through the wood and stone, the human-inspired violence destroying the sanctity of the chapel, Crowley removed himself from the standard time stream to take the scene in.

He could potentially steal some holy water now. Eh, there was nothing decent to store it in, and he was just now feeling the relief of blessing-been-broken. He'd settle for making sure the fonts didn't splash anywhere near him, though he was sure Aziraphale would also make sure of that, knowing the angel's stance on the matter.

He checked the Germans. It did only seem to be the three of them. Idiots. His lot were already having lots of fun with the droves of nazis being plunked into Hell the moment they died. And he did try to warn them. None of them seemed to have any additional explosives on them. One had a briefcase. Aziraphale's books. His favorite books.

He couldn't look at Aziraphale presently. The angel had stepped out of sync with time as well, separately, to perform a life-saving miracle. Attempting to look at him now would scramble his head a bit. But he knew his holy acquaintance; he would be entirely preoccupied with saving their lives properly.

Right before stepping back into time, he cast protection onto the briefcase. Fire nor debris nor violence would touch it. It was the most he could manage with residual holiness mucking the area up.

He surveyed the damage around him. Satan it felt good now. He cracked his neck a bit. He took his glasses off and wiped the churchdust off them.

"That was very kind of you."

"Shut up."

"Well, it was. No paperwork, for a start."

He watched the split second his angel's face went from thinking of all the other ways this was beneficial to him, to realizing he'd forgotten something in the excitement of the moment.

"Oh, the books! Oh, I forgot all the books!"

The distress made Crowley want to smirk and laugh haughtily and console him. Confused by his own internal reaction, he settled for pursed lips as he looked to where the briefcase stuck out of the rubble. His protection must have accidentally extended to the nazi's hand and wrist as well, because they also were untouched. Stuck out of the debris like a sore thumb. Or a sore hand. A dead hand. A cold, dead hand.

Crowley pried the briefcase from the stiff fingers and held it out towards Aziraphale. An offering.

"A little demonic miracle of my own."

Then it happened.

As Aziraphale reached to take the briefcase, the Angel's fingers lightly brushed Crowley's.

It sucked the breath out of him, sent pink lightning speeding through his whole existence. All of time since the Fall stood still, all of time happened instantaneously. He could feel Heaven again, could taste the walls of Hell, felt every force in the universe stop and turn their millions of burning eyes upon his small crawling form as though he'd rung Life's doorbell. Time was immaterial, aeons burned across him. It wasn't even just pain, it was every conceivable moment, every possible emotion, every extreme of sensation, all at once blazing forth from the spark of his finger. He saw God, and she looked back.

It hurt.

The angel stared disbelievingly between the briefcase and the demon. As quickly as it had come, so it stopped. Had Aziraphale experienced the same thing? He looked shocked. Maybe he had. Crowley was almost at a loss for words.

"Lift home?"

It was all he managed to get out. He dumbly strode to his waiting car, safely down a few blocks.

What just happened?

~~~

Another little piece I've had sitting in my drafts since 2019? But hey, now you all get to read it. Especially with Good Omens 2 right around the corner.

[ribcage-rodents]

Chapter Two: A Banshee’s Song

Persephone struggled to sleep the rest of the night but when the sun had finally risen clean pressed uniforms were laid out on their beds. A white turtleneck with a dark green skirt and suspenders, tights and matching green shoes. There was also a large green cloak with arm pockets hanging on the door. Persephone slipped it on excited to have new clothes for once, these ones weren’t even donated by the local youth ranch.

Breakfast was spent with excitable chatter, Persephone scanned the first years’ table for Andromeda and found her wedged between a pale girl with black hair and Alfred. Persephone continued to eat annoyed that the school colors were the perfect shade of green to compliment Andromeda’s lilac hair while she was stuck with unappealing burgundy brown. “I think she’s up to something,” She commented, interrupting her roommate's conversation. “Who is?” Hera asked, taking a sip of her juice. “Andromeda, I saw her lurking around the school last night,” Her roommates shared a look. “I don’t think that means she’s up to something,” Persephone turned to Hera, “You said she was a volatile person you didn’t want to cross,” “That doesn’t mean she’s evil,” Carmine made a grab for some more toast, “What were you doing up wandering around the school when you saw her?” Persephone blinked, affronted by the accusation. “I had a nightmare,” As a group they headed off to their first class. “What would she even be doing?” Persephone thought for a moment but came up with nothing, her friends laughed, she pouted.

Although her traitorous friends were quickly forgotten at the start of class. As the entire first year they were led out to the woods surrounding the school. The three professors escorted them. The uptight woman spoke, “Hello students we are Professor Annis,” She motioned to the old haggard woman. “Professor Iniquitous,” She waved her hand to the skulking other teacher, “And I am Professor Cybele, today is the start of classes but before you can study we must collect all your tools and we will start with one of the most important, wands. Now remember you must feel a connection to your wand so choose carefully.” “And remember to thank the earth for each twig!” Professor Annis chirped.

The students began to wander into the woods looking for the perfect branch to sharpen and polish. She wandered deeper into the woods, a witch hazel tree catching her eye. She was unsure why but it was as if it pulled her magnetically. Carefully with the small knife provided by the school she cut off a thick long twig. A nassely laugh echoed through the woods, it was that dark haired girl with Andromeda again. Suddenly the twig in her hand burst into flame, Persephone screamed, dropping it to the damp forest floor. “Dear Fionn, give me strength!” Someone called from behind her. Soon the green-haired boy was before her stomping on the dying flame.

“How’d you do that?!” He asked breathlessly. “I didn't, I swear!” Persephone swore hoping to avoid suspension before the year could even start. “That was amazing! I’ve never seen someone so young perform such powerful magic, especially without a wand!” He exclaimed, Persephone shushed him. “Keep quiet.” She said hoping to avoid drawing any more attention. “I’m Humphrey by the way!” She eyed him cautiously. “Persephone.” He smiled brightly. That nasselly laugh echoed through the woods again. “Ugh Niamh is so annoying,” She looked at him. “The girl with the black hair, I’ve known her since I was little, she's always been the worst.” “Maybe Humphrey would be a good person to know, he could provide invaluable information on Andromeda and her friends.” Persephone eyed him carefully. “What do you know about Andromeda Von Etoile?” Humphrey snorted. “I know she’s stuck up. She’s not as bad as Niamh but they are a package deal. Plus her family is a part of the unseelie court, always a bad sign.” Persephone watched him toy with a nearby branch. “What do you know about the unseelie court?” He made a face. “Not much, my mother’s side is a part of it but my father’s side is fully seelie. They are evil, they want to take over the world, they want unlimited power. It’s disgusting really.” Persephone nodded thoughtfully. “Any more information about Andromeda? You grew up with her right, you must have dirt on her?” Humphrey gave her a curious look. “Not really, Andromeda is pretty mild and quiet as long as you stay on her good side. I like to call her Andro-mink-a though, because she has the face of a rat but is so high-class and snobby she couldn’t be anything other than a mink.”

The two spent the rest of class discussing the faerie world and whittling wands from witch hazel. “So the more colorful the hair and the pointier the ears the more likely they are a full faerie. But if they have round ears like me and normal hair they are a changeling… So that means I’m a changeling.” Persephone clarified, struggling to smooth out a bump in her wand. Humphrey hummed thoughtfully. “Your hair has some unnatural red in the brown, I’d say there's a good chance you are a halfling.” She nodded thoughtfully at his words.

“Why is there a math class in a magic school?” Persephone complained as they walked to the large meadow on the edge of the lake. “Just because we are fae doesn't mean we don’t need worldly skills.” Humphrey said, nodding sagely. “According to A tale of magic and mystery; Cleasaíocht agus Draíocht, it’s a pretty recent change about a decade ago, changeling parents complained so more modern classes were implemented.” Hera added.

As the glamour class came to an end each student was given a handout with the audition times for the school sports. “Do you wanna try-out for bàs with me?” Camine asked, smiling like a shark. “What is it?” “It’s the most popular sport, I wanna beat those stuck up garish uncuts.” “You wish you could beat us, changeling scum,” It was the dark-haired girl who sat next to Andromeda. “I do want to beat you Niamh,” Humphrey bit back. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to try out for a sport you know nothing about?” Hera questioned. “I have to, those garish kids think they are so much better than everyone else,” Hera gave a frustrated sigh, “I’m just trying to watch out for you,” Persephone sat down heavily, “Just because my mom is dead doesn't mean I need you to coddle me!” “I- oh.” Hera turned sharply heading out of the hall, Humphrey said nothing.

Late that night Persephone woke up to a drop on her face. She blinked open her eyes expecting a leaky ceiling instead she was met with the horrid mask of the man. He breathed heavily, turning his head slowly from side to side. Persephone gasped pushing up against the wall. She tried to slip away but the house was consumed with green flames. He perched on his feet slamming his fists into the ground screaming. It was so animal-like, yet the screaming was undoubtedly human.

Persephone sat up sweating in her own bed. She took a moment to calm her breath down before slipping on the dark green school cloak and her shoes. “If I can’t sleep I can hopefully find proof that Andromeda is up to something,” She slipped out of the dorm room heading back towards the hag statue, “Or at least I can calm down.”

For a long time there was no sign of other life, but eventually she saw movement in the shadow of the archway leading to the second year dorms. As she neared the figures stilled, “I know you are there,” There was no answer. Cold hands slid up Persephone’s spine as thoughts of the devil-faced-man came to mind. Swallowing hard, she raised her voice, “Andromeda.” It came out shaky and the lack of mocking from the shadows proved further fear of a stranger. Taking another breath Persephone decided it must be another student and continued her search for the purple-haired menace.

It didn’t take long before Persephone found another person, it definitely wasn’t Andromeda, she was far older with long silvery hair. She was crying softly laying crumpled on a stone bench overlooking the mountain side. “Uh, hello? Are you ok?” Persephone asked awkwardly, approaching the woman. She neared slowly, the woman didn’t reply. Persephone laid a hand delicately on her shoulder, she whipped around. Instead of an aged face of an older woman Persephone was met with the horribly disfigured face of a monster, black eyes, no nose, and a large mouth full of needle-like teeth. Her mouth stretched to an inhumane size as the most ear-piercing screech echoed through the halls. Persephone ran back to her dorms, she was surprised that the noise hadn’t woken anyone else up.

As she slipped back into bed she felt an uneasiness expecting to wake up at any moment. But as it was she didn’t awake for several troubled hours filled with tossing and turning and eventually watching the sky lighten. She relayed the experience to Humphrey over breakfast, he voiced his concern. “It sounds like you met with a banshee.” “A banshee?” Persephone echoed. “Yeah, they are monstrous women who can predict the dead with their funeral songs.” Persephone frowned, Humphrey continued “Maybe we ought to head to the library after classes today.”

The two collected several book but spent most of the time tossing notes at one another. Finally after two hours they returned each book to its rightful place “I was right, they are well known for predicting deaths, you didn’t see a black coach led by headless horses did you?” Humphrey asked, Persephone shook her head bumping into someone.

Looking at the scattered books at the ground Persephone wasn’t surprised at her bad luck to see a tan hand rubbing a lavender head. Andromeda glared at her as her two goonies helped pick up the books. “What’s wrong? Did your parents die before they could teach you to walk properly?” She bit out moving past the two. Humphrey placed a hand on her shoulder trying to placate her but to no avail, Persephone whipped out her freshly whittled wand brandishing it at the other girl. Rage blinded her senses making her act rashly. She sprung towards Andromeda “Well maybe if your parents weren’t cousins you wouldn’t look so much like an inbred rat, Mink!” Andromeda’s pretty face soured. “Miss Thysia detention.” It was that sallow looking Professor. Professor Cybele cleared her throat and the man didn’t say anything. “Miss Etoile, detention for you Friday night as well.” Persephone made contact with her wand hitting Andromeda under the right eye, Persephone fell forward grabbing onto the long purple hair for support. Suddenly bright flame flickered to light, Andromeda screamed, hands clutching at her face as the gathered students stood petrified. Professor Iniquitous rushed forward casting a water spell to put out Andromeda's hair. She stood up slowly still pressing her hand against the bloody wound at her right eye and rushed away presumably to the sick wing her friends hurriedly picked up her books and followed.

The week continued without horrid nightmares or screaming women. The day of try-outs came with Hera still urging Persephone to not try to play a sport she knows nothing about. “Fine if you insist on trying out I’m not going,” “Ok,” Persephone said easily.

The two made their way to the pitch. “Sometimes I wonder why you’re even friends with Hera,” Persephone nodded, her own annoyance with the other girl rearing its head. “I’m not she just happens to share a room with me. She’s so bossy, and has that ‘I’m better than you’ attitude.” “She's so judgemental! She can't stand the thought that we aren’t listening to her,” Humphrey exclaimed.

From the pitch they were led up to a large ledge in the cliff face, there were several ramps, slides, and obstacles carved into the rock. Each student was given a bat and a pair of combat boots. Persephone watched with mounting anxiety as each student switched between running and gliding through the course using the bat to hit red and indigo balls at each other. “Hey!” Persephone looked behind her seeing Hera in the stands, there were few other students yet she sat in the bottom row. “What are you doing here?” Persephone asked once she was close enough, “I did some research on ban. You can switch between the regular grip of your boots to wheels by tapping your heels together, use this to either slide or run. You are going to try to catch and throw the blue or indigo ball into one of the three enemy goal posts, the biggest one is the least amount of points, the smaller the more points you win. Try to get the red ball away from your goal posts, you can also be a defense player where you mostly try to get the ball away from the posts and hit opposing players.” Persephone stood shocked for a moment, the cold uneasy feeling in her gut heightened with the sudden guilt of talking bad about Hera now that she dedicated her time to help Persephone. “Uh, ok thank you,” Coach Rattler called the first years to the course.

With the combat boots on Persephone practiced switching between the grip of regular soles and the wheels. As the students moved onto the course she slid and fell, several students snickered, a wicked smile spread across Niahm’s face.

Coach Rattler called out each student and the position they would be playing, unsurprisingly Niahm was placed on defense. Persephone was offense, she stood at the top of a long ramp, the uneasy feeling flared up into her chest and suffocated her. Suddenly aware of the banshee’s warning Persephone could see herself dying on this ramp wishing dearly she heeded Hera’s advice. Coach Rattler blew a sweet tune on a pan flute and the other players were off, Persephone clicked her heels together and set off down the ramp, blearily she saw the red ball, she managed to catch it holding it tight to her chest.

The game sped by in a blur, Persephone threw the red ball towards Humphrey, he caught it briefly before Niahm came speeding behind him knocking the backs of his knees with her bat. Persephone ran over to her friend, “You ok man?” Humphrey grunted in response, slowly getting to his feet. “Let’s beat these guys, especially Niahm.” They shared a smile.

They lined up in front of the man breathing heavily. “I hope you make the team,” Humphrey said. “We are both gonna make it.” She replied, he looked downcast. “Usually only one first year makes the team,” “Oh, well I hope you make the team then.” But secretly Persephone wished to make the team, she was never very athletic, always picked last at the orphanage and the thought of beating Niahm was too sweet.

As Coach Rattler read off the each elemental team, he named the team captain of the fire, the subsequent players from each year until finally the first years. “Humphrey Basil, offense 07,” The two friends shared an excited look despite Persephone’s disappointment. “And finally, Persephone Thysia, 08” They smiled even wider. After tryouts Hera even celebrated with them by sharing her notes from classes. But even in the thrill of getting on the team the worry of the banshee’s song crept into her mind.

“Who do you think the banshee’s warning was for?” Persephone frowned at her cards. “It could be for anyone, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Humphrey said, placing a card on the growing stack. “Still it’s a death omen don’t you think we should tell someone?” Persephone persisted pulling a new card from a separate pile. Humphrey hummed, “That would be a good idea, I can talk to Professor Cybele,” The two agreed this was the best course of action continuing their card game.

An hour later Persephone left her friend. “Good luck in detention Peri!” It took a second for Humphrey’s warm greeting to sink in, “Peri, I‘ve never had a nickname before, no one’s ever liked me enough to give me a nickname.” Despite heading to the dusty old history classroom for mindless tasks she couldn’t help a big smile on her lips, even seeing Mink didn’t spoil her mood. And a sight she was, her previously long lavender hair was shorn short and unevenly around her shoulders and chin, long bangs hung down to her nose hiding the majority of her face, Persephone had to stifle a laugh.

A man in his late thirties was standing at the front of the room, he wore a long cloak similar to the students with two pockets for the arms in the deep forest color of the school. “I am professor Westle, I want both of you to write fifty lines then we can get to shelving.” He smiled brightly, motioning to the sentence on the board. ‘I mustn't call others names for it’s unbecoming of the school.’ Persephone went to work still warmed by her new nickname. As she worked she noticed the Professor’s eyes on her, she stared back annoyed. “Sorry dear, you just remind me of your father,” Persephone blinked in surprise, she’s never met someone who knew her parents. “My father?” Professor Westle nodded, “I knew your father in school, we didn’t spend much time together other than the rowing team that is,” “My father was on the rowing team?” He smiled nodding again. “One of the best,” Persephone felt a sudden regret for not trying-out for the rowing team. “Was my mother on a school team?” Professor Westle looked surprised at the sudden change of topic. “I do believe she was an amazing ban player.” Pride swelled in her chest.

Detention moved slowly as she finished up her lines, sneaking glances and shy smiles at the professor hoping he would tell her more stories of her father. Mink finished quickly shelving with vigor, as the hours drew on Persephone joined her and eventually Professor Westle called the detention to a close. She panicked quietly as Mink moved towards the door. “I haven’t learned anything about my parents!” “What are these!?” Persephone yelled motioning towards a case filled with old coins. “Maybe it's some magic club my father was in with Professor Westle.” He walked over quickly, “Oh yes, it is very interesting really. Here Persephone and uh-""Mink” Persephone supplied. “Ah yes Miss Mink” She whipped around outraged, “It’s Andromeda Von Etoile.” she enunciated each syllable clearly. “Oh well I understand why they call you Mink,” She glared viciously at Professor Westle. “These coins are actually lockets that were used in the goblin wars millenia ago. The sun, moon, and stars representing commanders, soldiers, and espionage, it’s unclear which represents what but they are very rare. I was lucky enough-” Mink headed out leaving Persephone to listen to Professor Westle’s stories.

She went to bed with thoughts of her parents, she awoke in that same rotting shack. Her heart was already beating uncontrollably and her breath came fast and shallow. She felt different, taller somehow, less stable. Rather than waking up on the hard dirt packed floor like usual Persephone stood on the rickety stairs that climbed the walls. The devil-faced man screamed from the bottom of the stairs bounded on his hands and feet towards her. Persephone ran up the stairs looking for any sign of an exit.

The fire crawled up the walls filling the air with thick smoke. He grabbed her dress in dirty hands. As if someone else was in her head making decisions she used a jagged long wand to frantically try and cut him. The beast screamed chasing after her with renewed fury. A stair creaked beneath her foot breaking away.

She hit the floor with a thud. Persephone groaned in pain, the devil-faced man lumbered down the stairs looking curiously like an innocent animal rather than a monster. As he stood over her he raised both fists over his head and brought them down. He continued to beat her face and chest until Persephone blacked out. White hot pain seared into her right and brought her back. She yelped as the devil-faced man shrunk back, using all her strength a primal force broke out of her in screams. The beast snarled, kneeling on her neck he brought a spindly wand, a flaming eye bursting from its tip, to her left palm. The smell of burning flesh was putrid, reminding Persephone of when the older kids at the orphanage would burn garbage.

When Persephone woke up this time it was to the concerned faces of her roommates. “What’s wrong?” They shared a concerned look, “You were screaming, we couldn’t wake you up.” Carmen supplied while Etain worried over her. “Are you ok?” Persephone looked at her stinging hands free of eye-shaped marks and took a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m ok. It was just a nightmare.” Her roommates shared another look before wandering back to their own beds. She laid awake for hours waiting on the sun, too shaken to fall back asleep.

[thedancingkajira]

C37

It's over. My life as a slave is over. But nothing is really over, is it?

Certainly the questions remain. Their messy cousin, Regret, skulks after them in their shadow. Was I a good slave with a bad master? Was I a bad slave to a good master? Do these things even matter, or were we just people? And do people matter at all?

I have my entire life left to live. Yet not a single minute of it is promised. Each is earned and given by grace. Each is, therefore, precious. I gave years of it to slavery. Have those years given me knowledge in return, or just lingering pain, like a gladiatrix's bad knees, aching when the rains are about to come?

Certainly, they linger. I linger, in public houses, traffic hubs, and docks, for purpose to seize me. I wait like a slave, even though I stand on two feet, wearing gowns. No color is perfect for those gowns. They feel best in black, much like my mind does, but even that isn't quite right. 

Every hour of life is precious, yet I spend my hours waiting, waiting, waiting in places of congregation for someone else, for something new, for the right look, the guiding hand, the spark of inspiration that lives on the edge of a smile. Slaves wait for such things. And in this sense, my slavery lingers.

It lives on through my children. I had many children through my Master. Many, he freed. Ultimately, my freedom didn't come from him. My freedom came when I no longer felt like I had a place under his command, and roamed. I'd waited long for him.

I wait still, but I do so behind a veil, with my knees straight, as a free woman. It was simplicity itself to gain my freedom. I was biding my time in the hub when Hawker, a voice, spoke to me after almost a year. He said there could be a place for me in Genesian Port. I felt no bond to hold me back. I went.

And in going, I arrived back where I was at the very beginning of my time in the cities. Genesian may as well be Brunidisum. I was given from one free, to another, to the kennels. I was told to get an exam. I was told by the physician that nobody could help me. And after a few days of that, I left.

It's a common story for any slave. That's because almost every destination is the same. They say 'you can never go home again', but the opposite is true for slaves. For slaves, you go to the same place no matter where you go.

I stepped out of the cycle by joining a house for wayward slaves and, within a day, asking for my manumission. I was granted it with almost no second thought. The only words of protest came from a fellow slave. A slave's worst enemy is another slave.

Who can blame us? We are all expected to fight over the slightest attention and are told we are worthless. Certainly, some might whisper to us that we are precious, special, valuable. But that is usually in the afterglow, and if a price is actually asked for us, even a slight sacrifice, we are reminded that we are nothing. Small wonder that we treat one another the same way.

I am free of that now. At least, these papers say that I am. The gowns suggest it. The dialog I receive from men confuses the issue. I am often reminded that I would be more appealing without my clothes. I am always expected to conform with their desires, even if that involves telling them what to do.

Yet, I wait. As I waited for my Master, I wait. I wait because slaves wait. Slaves do not take the time away to think what their dreams are, plan to achieve them, and go do so. Slaves have no time for that. Slaves' time belongs to Master.

Now my time belongs to me. Every hour is precious. It isn't worthless. At least, that's what I'm supposed to think. So why do I wait? What do I wait for? Another Master? Surely not. No, I wait for what a Master represents; what a Master always represented. 

I wait for purpose to move me. 

And sometimes, amid all the talk, all the words that move in lieu of my feet, I wonder on that. I wonder if purpose, like the fleeting hours and days of my life, belongs to me and me alone.

The slave in me fears that is so. 

When will her life end and mine begin? The answer is mine and it is whatever I wish it to be. 

Yet. This girl. Waits.

And the woman that girl should become waits until she can find the courage to let that girl go.

[duskydestra]

Falling, Fallen

Fandom: Fionna and Cake Pairing: Vampire World Princess Bubblegum/The Star | Vampire World Marceline Rating: Explicit Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Attempted Murder, Denial of Feelings, Rough Sex

Summary: Just how did Bonnibel decide on that haircut? It's a rather shameful tale, centered on the best night of her life with the worst person she knew.

If you'd rather read on AO3, click here.

~~

Timing was essential for this plan, so Bonnibel mulled it over in sections. While the sun was at what's supposed to be its height, she'd take out the guards. They stood watch in two-hour shifts. The reserves were likely skulking the castle's halls, but she'd be ready for them. The Vampire King had left to terrorize the locals, but The Star didn't always tag along.

After tearing gaps in their defenses, there'd be no one around to save The Star. 

She fastened bandoliers of stakes over her shoulders, eager to bear the weight. She felt incomplete without it. Bonnibel slid the hunting knife into her thigh holster. She'd found it in the wasteland, cleaned it, and sharpened it, all the while imagining how nice a rug The Star would make.

It would take time and an expert hand, but Bonnibel had nothing if not time and expertise.

~~~

Inside the castle, she handled each guard as she ventured down one floor after another. They left no bodies, blood, or viscera. Only when she was certain they'd all been cleared out did she catch the sound of muffled hums.

Bonnibel crept up to the door and grabbed one of her last stakes. Instead of giving up her position, she crouched lightly, listening for an opening. Between each line, there was the light scratch of a pen. She took that as her cue.

The next time the vampire stopped to write, Bonnibel dove into the room. She gathered The Star in a headlock, keeping her head at an angle and her fangs out of reach.

“Hello to you too, Bonnie. Can't you see I'm working?”

She tossed Bonnibel over her shoulder. Bonnibel rolled with it, stopping with just enough room to deliver a kick with both feet to the face.

The Star let out a shriek so loud, Bonnibel's hair stood on end. She lunged forward. Bonnibel locked her knees around The Star's shoulders. Not the most expedient move, but it did grant her some distance.

“Is this for me?” The Star had turned her attention to the knife strapped to Bonnibel's thigh. She winked at her reflection in the blade. “I'll forgive you for not wrapping it.”

When she moved to unsheathe it, Bonnibel seized her wrist.

The Star pouted.

“Now, now. It's only fair I get to have it. A first-time visitor should always bring a gift.” With eyes like coal, it was impossible to mistake the glint of playfulness. “If you ever sneak in here again, maybe I'll let you stick me with it. Wouldn't that be fun?”

Bonnibel refused to get caught up in imagining next time. This time shouldn't even be happening. The Star was supposed to be dead, and Bonnibel should be trekking back to base.

“That's not yours,” said Bonnibel.

The Star snatched her wrist from Bonnibel, who dodged the blade by a hair's breadth, and tossed the knife into the ceiling. Dust and pebbles rained down on them. The vampire raised a brow, too smug for her own good, and Bonnibel's fury boiled over.

She tackled The Star onto her back. Eyes wide, she wrapped both hands around her neck. Vampires have stolen everything—the sun, the world's color, and even her knife. It was too much. She squeezed, feeling for a bone to break or a joint to pop. The Star's pathetic hiss only made her twist her grip.

“You think everything belongs to you,” Bonnibel grit out. “That's your problem.”

The Star reached behind Bonnibel and yanked her away by the braid. A groan, deep and wanting, escaped Bonnibel's mouth. Too late, she turned it into a growl, but The Star was already in her face.

“I fucking knew it,” the vampire snarled. “You wanna hide it so bad, but I know what you want. You wanna talk about problems? You have the biggest one here.”

Bonnibel clenched her teeth as The Star leaned in. Silky hair brushed her cheek. The Star drew in a breath an inch from Bonnibel's neck.

“I've smelled it on you for months. That rage, you have for all vampires. But under that, there's something thick and tasty and just for me. It tears you apart and drives me wild.”

Bonnibel's jaw ached. Her nostrils flared. She thrust the final stake upward, ripping into The Star's dress, before her arm was knocked away and pinned to the ground.

The Star's fingers dug into her hip, anchoring her as though she might disappear. Bonnibel felt so exposed, she wished she could. She'd trained to throw off any enemy and regain the advantage. The perfect moves played out in her mind, yet she couldn't bring herself to interrupt what was happening.

The Star leveled her gaze. There was no glamour at work, but Bonnibel felt compelled to look up. The Star's lips widened with a smile, parted by a pair of fangs.

“I won't make you say it. That's not our style. So scream for no, and draw blood for yes.”

She grabbed The Star's forearm, hand shaky, and remembered. If you want to flay someone, you start with the first layer. Bonnibel sank her nails into the vampire's skin. With a slow drag, blood trickled over her fingers and down her wrist.

The Star's face twisted up, losing some of its familiarity in the pleasure. The shudder broke her voice into two tones, one high and one low.

Bonnibel gripped one of The Star's fangs, the tooth smooth as porcelain and tough as steel.

“If you try to turn me, I'll rip these out of your head.”

“Ooh, don't make a girl a promise.”

Bonnibel huffed.

As she pulled her hand back, The Star sharpened all her teeth to fine points, spreading the venom thin enough to be ineffective. When the ring of fangs claimed her neck, Bonnibel's legs scrambled against the carpet. In addition to sucking out the color, The Star's mouth threatened to drain her of all resistance.

That was the worst part. 

Years of discipline, of cutting off the excess, had whittled her body into perfect vampire-killing form. She freed her other hand—molded to tear into any weak spot—to pull The Star closer. Bonnibel was no stranger to pain, so her reward was a stronger bite.

The Star pulled back with a sigh, one voice horrid and the other pleasant. “How often have you thought about this? My claws, my teeth, this tongue?”

Bonnibel swiped The Star across the face, leaving streaks of red in her wake. That bit of defiance was worth a discordant cackle.

“Hit a nerve, did I? Must've been too many to count.”

Nothing infuriated Bonnibel more than the truth.

The Star closed in on all sides, emitting a hypnotic gravity all her own.

“Nothing you give yourself will ever feel as good as what I'm about to do to you. The best you can do is come close to it, and even then you'll be thinking of me.”

Her words carried a malicious energy. It would be unwise to ignore how they grazed her skin. Foolishly, Bonnibel took it as a challenge. Every deal, no matter how bad, has a way out.

The Star reached as if to undo the button on Bonnibel's pants, then raked her claws down the legs. Cool air washed over her lower body as the fabric was torn away.

Bonnibel glared.

The Star shifted on her lap. “Don't get mad, Bonnie. Get even.”

Bonnibel plunged her hands into the rip from the stake. Her fingers curled around the sides and she pulled with all her strength. This was merely practice for the gutting. She watched hungrily as the seams came undone, baring more and more skin.

The Star arched into her grasp. Bonnibel kneaded all that fit into her hands, digging her nails in each time. There was no need to be gentle. The Star didn't deserve or even seem to want it, with the way her face struggled to maintain form.

In a flash, Bonnibel was supine. Claws slid into her hair, scraping against her scalp. The ensuing moan was muffled by The Star planting herself on Bonnibel's mouth.

When presented with any task, Bonnibel was no slouch. For pride's sake, she wished she could be a tease. But the truth was she had to taste all of The Star’s essence, and she needed it now. She worked her mouth according to shudders and sounds. A haunting chorus of moans guided her. She earned every twist of her hair.

Before long, she yanked The Star over the peak, indulging in the grip around her tongue.

Wings of leather sprouted from The Star's back, dripping ink onto Bonnibel's calves. The Star flew them up, carrying Bonnibel by the waist.

Her body protested the sudden shift, a primal unease at the loss of stability. Bonnibel's hair slipped free of its braid, unraveling toward the floor.

A trail of bites, each harsher than the last, turned her focus where it belonged. Regarding comfort, The Star had obviously come to the same conclusion as Bonnibel. Mercifully, the fangs receded before The Star returned the favor.

As far as she knew, The Star couldn't read minds. There existed no journal, no drawing, no physical evidence of this life-ruining desire. Only in her thoughts would Bonnibel acknowledge the deep relief of sating this traitorous part of herself.

It didn't take much time. Tearing into The Star, and seeing her pleasure deepen for it, had gotten Bonnibel most of the way there. The sheer force of her orgasm neared violence. It shot through her veins, locked itself in her muscles. Syrup coated The Star's tongue, who lapped it up as though it were her purpose.

She extended her tongue, wringing every last drop of pleasure from her enemy. The Star pressed a kiss to Bonnibel's clit. Bonnibel clamped her knees around the vampire's ears. Said vampire ignored the reproach, looking all too pleased with herself.

“You're way louder than I'd hoped, you know that?” She gazed down at Bonnibel, eyelids low. “I figured it'd be easier to fight an army than get some feedback outta you.”

Bonnibel ignored the jab. It wouldn't matter soon, anyway. She extended her arms, then swung back and forth. As soon as she gained enough momentum, she reached for the ceiling and grabbed the knife's handle. Finally on the same level, The Star's glare seared her face—her only warning—before she was dropped to the ground.

She stuck the landing, knife in hand. It'd be more impressive if she had on pants, but that was only a temporary hindrance.

In her pocket, she dug around for the tiny sewing machine. High quality, durable clothing was hard to find and even harder to make. Just shy of a minute later, she was able to slip back into uniform.

The Star floated into Bonnibel's line of sight. “I expected no less. Spare a thread for the princess?”

“Fix it yourself.”

“Come on. Unless you want everyone to know what you did to my dress.”

“You wouldn't.” Bonnibel replaced her missing stakes. “And it'd be more trouble for you than me.”

The Star crossed her arms. “You don't know what I'd do.”

That much would always be true. Before The Star really called her bluff, there was room for one more deal.

“We will never speak of this,” Bonnibel decided.

The Star grinned. “We won't have to.”

“I mean it.”

“Fine, fine. Whatever.”

Bonnibel took a moment to admire the tattered mess she'd made of such a rare garment. Seeing it made whole again left her hollow.

~~~

A couple hours later, she'd scrubbed away the evidence.

Ink, blood, and dried slick all swirled down the drain. Steam rose from the hard shower water, hot enough to make her malleable. Bonnibel ripped off each bite mark and took her time reforming the skin. It was fresh, smooth, and indistinguishable from the rest.

If The Star was to be believed—and Bonnibel was inclined to take this threat at face value—Bonnibel had signed up for a silent but devastating game of psychological warfare.

The Star had seen the worst of her tonight. If only she could reach inside herself and flush that away too.

Bonnibel dried off and wiped the mirror clear. Insults, she could take. No barbs could cut deeper than falling short of her own standards.

But she could ensure it never happened again.

With one hand, she unsheathed the knife. With the other, she gathered her hair at the nape. Bonnibel had never cut her hair before. Keeping it out of her way had always been sufficient. After a few fruitless attempts, she gave up on finding the right angle and simply hacked at what she could see.

She sculpted what remained into a buzz cut. It was light, easier on her neck. Along with the eye, she imagined The Star claiming it was yet another thing she'd taken from her. To the best of her abilities, Bonnibel would pretend otherwise.

[strawberryhierophant]

Teddy Revamped (again)

He was glad it was nearly Christmas. The foot traffic was always lighter in Downtown Turning just a few days before, and Teddy wasn't in the mood for company.

Still, he had expected at least a few shops to be open, maybe some last minute shoppers rushing in and out of them. But this.

As usual, the businessmen had all shoved off an hour early, leaving their offices empty, more than likely for the entire weekend, until day after Christmas. But today, even the smaller shops, typically desperate for last-minute customers, faced the sidewalks with dark windows where "Closed" signs pressed up against the glass, distinct against the greater gloom within. The abandoned streets lay gray and silent. All around, the rising stained-brick of the bank and the courthouse and the hotel loomed. These were the only company Teddy had. No prying human eyes to watch him skulk up the sidewalk. He looked up at the stained-brick facades of the buildings surrounding him. Somehow, they made Teddy feel more observed. He felt exposed all by himself out here, and imagined a pair of eyes peering out from a dark window somewhere.

Confirming, with several glances over his shoulder and up the road, that he was indeed the only pedestrian out at this hour, Teddy continued along his way. Nobody watched him. Only the dark faces of the buildings bore down upon him silently, listening blindly to Teddy's footsteps as the old prize fighter made his trek through the heart of Turning, bound for the bridge, where Fate awaited him.

All dressed up for the season, the city seemed apologetic to Teddy. It failed to brighten his thoughts. Here and there, his eye spotted a wreath drooping upon the brick facade of a bank or hotel, its green needles twinkling like the soiled whiskers of a sick old man. Lamp posts stood rigid, adorned in lights that sagged feebly round their dark bodies. The little colors blinked meekly, like children holding back tears. The sight was almost too much for Teddy, and he looked away from the streets and from the city. Beside him, "closed" signs hung in dark shop windows, which looked out at him like long, gloomy faces as he went limping by.

Only the pub, on the far side of the rotunda in the heart of downtown, gave the place any sense of festivity and life. Through its large glowing windows, Teddy could see the flash of pints raised like torches, the swaying of men and women in green and red coats. He could hear their bright voices leaking out into the dull cold. They were singing.

Watching them, Teddy's hands plunged into his empty pockets His fingers scraped at the loose lint inside while his eyes beheld the scene, and cursed himself for his hasty purchase of last night's liquor, and thought how one last pint would do him good.

In the midst of these thoughts, a clatter, as sharp and sudden as a gunshot, rang out to Teddy's right. The old man whirled around immediately, his bad knee nearly giving out. Instinctively, his fists drew themselves up to protect his chin as his frantic eyes searched the deserted city. His vision, still murky from the previous night's booze, swam and blurred and spun and closed and —

— and his eyes opened, blinking away the sweat and the harsh glare of the lights. It was 1989.

Eyes swollen. Blood and sweat streaming down his bruised face. The feel of the hard stool beneath his haunches, in the corner where Teddy sat beaten, or nearly so. All around him, a greasy blur of bright lights: the nauseating wave of flash photography. Shouts and jeers clamoring about his ears, the roar of the stadium. And Pat, old Pat, growling hoarsely in Teddy's face, "You watch those big jabs, Teddy," he said. "He's killin' ya out there!"

Teddy looked all around, the smell of blood in his nostrils. The musk of sweat floating on the heat rising off the canvas, making him dizzy. He leaned his head back against the cushion of the corner post, believing he must be dreaming while Pat's face, twisted with his growls, leaned into Teddy's. His muscles felt as dry and stiff as beef jerky. The fatigue was crushing him like a vise.

But more than that, beneath the weight of his exhaustion, a more ominous feeling. A terror.

Terror at the thought that tonight would be the night. That the next round would be the round when Big Sullivan's crushing right fist would finally find Teddy's jaw.

Beneath the weight of this fear and knowledge, even Pat's commands faded into oblivion. The roar of the stadium sunk to a hush. The world became a white, soundless place of dread. He had entered the inner sanctum of a deathly silent temple, where he now found himself kneeling before the altar of a terrible God, afraid, afraid...

And then the clamor of that murderous bell. CLANG! The roar of the crowd renewed itself instantly, each spectator pleading for blood. Pat hauling Teddy to his feet, shoving him back out into the hurricane of Big Sullivan's fists.

Round 3. The fight was on.

[vicious-vixxxen]

Hi, first of all ur work is amazing and awesome, especially the Kiri fics they make me feel so warm inside :)) ANYWAYS I have a drabble idea: Katsuki with a flirty male reader from 1-B that likes to tease him and make him flustered and fired up as much as possible (kinda like Monoma but not as aggressive) and finally Katsuki decides that it’s reader’s turn to get all flustered and blushing and all that hehe :)

AH I absolutely LOVE this idea! Sorry it took me so long to get to it babes, but I hope you enjoy it :3 <3 Bakugou Katsuki X Flirty Male!Reader

“You think /you’re/ tired? I heard class A had to go through ten times the beasts we did yesterday, /and/ they didn’t get to camp until five.” TetsuTetsu huffed, rolling his eyes as he continued to rub at his sore biceps- falling behind as the class walked to their first official day of training. “They’re probably still struggling to work as an actual unit, how disappointing,” Monoma drawled, flinching as Kendo raised a hand at him in warning- her gaze cutting back to you with an apologetic smile, but you shrugged her off. “I’m just saying, if they were half as good as everyone assumes they are, then we wouldn’t have had to make dinner for everyone /alone/ yesterday. A bunch of unimpressive slackers, the fame is definitely getting to them.” “Oh give it a rest, Monoma! I swear if I have to keep listening to your incessant whining i’m going to roundhouse you so hard you slip into an alternate dimension,” You teased, though the sharpness of your tone, and the look you fixed the other boy with managed to reduce him to nothing more than some bitter grumbling, as you jogged ahead to follow directly behind Vlad-Sensei.

“Young Y/N is right! No use in comparing yourself to a separately tiered class, what you all should be doing is preparing yourselves for a day full of grueling training!” Vlad called out to the class behind him, as they came to their final stop. Looking out across the vast fields of the camp, where class 1A was already deep in training. All of them spread out to various areas of the site, some farther out than others, you assumed due to the volatile nature of their quirks. Some out of site all together, given the specificity needed to train their quirks. “The Wild Wild Pussycats have strict regimens for you all to follow, and I as well have critiques for you all regarding your fighting style, and quirk application. Check in with them across the field first, and regroup back to me so we can begin!” “Yes Sensei!” You all chanted back, before hurrying off across the field to do as you were told. Though once you caught sight of- and really, it was more his blood curdling death screams that you noticed first, music to your ears honestly- unruly blonde spikes off in the distance, you reasoned you had at least a few minutes to spare. Giving your classmates time to get their schedules and regimes before you could swoop in for yours last minute. The heat from Bakugou’s blasts was intense- your hair blowing back each time the other boy extended his palms to the sky, screamed, and released an explosion. The air felt thick, the scent of sweaty flesh, and deep, rich caramel wafting against your face, heady, and thick, with each blast. It was intoxicating. The closer you got, the more your cheeks flushed- though it had nothing to do with the heat anymore. Up close, or as close as you could get without being blown back entirely, that is- the more handsome Bakugou became. Pinched, angry expression and all. His front fringe of hair hanging low on his forehead, dripping sweat down onto his cheeks, and then onto the exposed upper half of his chest, bared due to his low rising tank top. When was Bakugou not absolutely breathtaking, you wondered idly, as you reached into your backpack for a bottle of water, and whistled loudly between blasts to catch the blonde's attention. Though the glare he fixed you with as your eyes met almost, almost deterred you from closing the distance between you both, it didn’t quite reach the innermost parts of your brain, meant for rational thought. “What the hell do you want!? Can’t you see i’m busy? Take your ass back to your class, extra!” Bakugou shouted, gaze falling to the bottle of water in your hand, before he focused back in on his task, baring his teeth in pain as the boiling water engulfed his hands. But you were too close now, it was too risky, and before you could think to back away on your own, Bakugou was crowding up against you. Spinning around on his heels and blasting in the opposite direction, back to you now. Shoving you backwards so hard with his own body you fell to the ground. Hissing as you landed on a particularly sharp rock. “See what you did?! I could’ve accidentally taken someone else out because of you! Fucking...gimme that,” Bakugou growled, shaking his hands of the smoke from his blast, before bending down to snatch the chilled bottle of water from your hand with one of his- his other reaching down to take hold of the front of your shirt, and tug you back up to stand next to him. “Always in my way!” Bakugou hissed, before throwing his head back and chugging down the entire bottle in a matter of seconds. Wiping at his mouth roughly, he turned to you slightly, noting the mischievous smile on your face, and the dirt on your shorts. “Tch...what?” He asked, knowing he was walking himself right into a trap. “Just admiring the view,” You sing-songed, skirting around his sudden extended fist easily, and dancing around the boy to get a good look at his training clothes. “It’s not everyday I get to see UA’s own Bakugou Katsuki in the midst of an intense training session. All sweaty, and bulking- muscles just….grr,” You laughed, holding your hands up in front of your face as you growled and made pawing motions at the other boy- bursting into a fit of laughter ass he reeled back, blush high on his cheeks, fingers twitching with the urge to blas your fucking face off. “You’re an insufferable piece of!-” “What I can’t seem to wrap my head around, is how you have such a big chest, such defined shoulders, and such a teeny, tiny waist,” You sighed, cutting Bakugou off with your hands on your hips, tilting your head to the side curiously as you scanned him up and down. “Your tits are bigger than most of the girls in your class, ya know,” You added, as if an afterthought, waving a hand passively at the thought, though you couldn’t help but grin as Bakugou charged you- dragging you up by the front of your shirt again, and pinning you to the barrel of boiling water. One hand holding your head down near the bubbling surface, and one right next to your ear, sparking with unlit nitroglycerin. “I. Don’t. Have. Tits. You. Shitty. Extra.” Each word was laced with venom, husky and full of rage right next to your ear, and god. Was it fucked up you were kind of turned on? Probably. About as fucked up as it was to be genuinely attracted to Bakugou in the first place, you supposed. Oh well. Not much to be done about it now. “Say that to the mounds pressing up against my back right now, babe,” You teased, turning your head to face Bakugou, your noses barely brushing as you leaned in as best you could, given the hand in your hair- mouth curling into a knowing smirk as Bakugou’s face twisted back and forth- confusion, rage, annoyance, misunderstanding...want. “I’m sure your teacher would be thrilled to see you over here keeping one of my students from his training, instead of focusing on your own abilities,” Someone sighed from your right, and both you and Bakugou’s head whipped up to see Aizawa leaning against a tree, staring at the both of you with the most bored expression you could imagine someone having. “Tried to get the loser away from me, but he’s as persistent as the rest of his annoying class,” Bakugou huffed, letting you go, but not before pushing you in the direction of his teacher roughly- crackling his knuckles out in front of himself, and shaking his hands out. Prepared to continue his training. Though thoughts of your stupid face, so close to his- scent of your shampoo, and minty breath still searing his nose made him a trillion times more annoyed then he’d already been. The color of your eyes stuck with him the most though. So clear. So shiny. Full of authority, of mirth, and something so...gut wrenchingly /cute/, he couldn’t stand it. “Sorry, EraserHead. Didn’t mean to disturb your student. Was just being friendly is all,” You assured the older Hero, hands up in surrender as you walked alongside side him, and back to regroup with your class- smiling smugly to yourself when you noticed the barest hint of a smirk on Eraserheads face, just before he turned away and skulked off to whatever dark, cozy corner he had been observing his students from.

Training felt like it had lasted forever, and then some. The following days were no easier. Your bodies were pushed to their limits, and then thrown off the metaphorical cliff afterwards. Every day, class A and B were sore, tired, irritable. But even then, once lunch, and dinner came around, it offered you all a chance to get to know one another more intimately. You talked, and mingled with class 1A- flirting with Todoroki for fun, and picking Midoriya’s brain about his hero notebook- unaware of the red eyes following your every move amongst the classmates. Your flirting with Bakugou was at an all time high- given you could usually spare a handful of minutes each day teasing the young man, whether it be with words during training, lingering touches, or brushes of hands, and legs during dinner, or with outright winks, and kisses blown to the blonde as you all departed to your cabins for the night. It infuriated Bakugou to no end. Your presence. The way he acted out against you...his mother would suggest he needed an attitude adjustment, and that he should allow the fun part of camp to take precedent over his ultimate number one hero goal. As if he’d ever. But still, her frustrated words of encouragement never ceased to ease up as the days went by, and you became bolder with your flirting. Bakugou felt on edge constantly, like someone was going to crack a whip at him at any moment. Say something about it, say something about /him/, but no one ever did. Probably because they were scared. His only saving grace, he supposed. Being intimidating. Though he didn’t intimidate /you/, which was the part he hated the most. ...He’d just have to switch up his tactics, then. His mother would be proud. God, he hated that. After a particularly grueling day of training, everyone was running on fumes, more or less, as they shuffled around the outdoor kitchen, prepping dinner lazily. Monoma picking stupid fights with whoever he came across first, as though he were too tired to even do that. You’d been chatting quietly to Mina and Jirou about some of your favorite albums, when a whistle from across the counters had all three of you lifting your heads. Curiosity piqued to the fullest extent, as your gaze landed on Bakugou- pointing at you with a hard expression, before gesturing to the spot next to him at the cutting board station. His eyes downcast again before you could even register what was going on, before hurrying to head over before whatever demon that had possessed Bakugou, decided to get the fuck out of such a toxic human host. Beaming, you came to stand at Bakugou’s side, arms brushing against each other as you glanced down at the finely minced veggies the boy was working on. “You rang?” Brows raised in question, you ducked your head to try and catch the boy’s eyes again- stopping dead in your tracks as he grabbed a hold of your wrist tightly, and slid a knife between your fingers. Tugging you impossibly closer to his side, and reaching an arm around you to grab a stray carrot. Boxing you into the bench, and maneuvering your fingers carefully as he began to force you to chop the carrot below. His front was flush with your back, and suddenly you couldn’t breath. Breath hitched in your throat, flush high on your cheeks, as Bakugou bent down, face right next to yours, as he forced you to chop, knife always skirting a little /too/ close to your fingertips, but fuck it all if you weren’t willing to lose them for this encounter to continue. “All this time and you haven’t even learned to chop properly. Make yourself more useful, you shitty extra,” He grunted, right into your ear. A sharp shock of arousal shooting down your spine as he spoke, looking away suddenly as Bakugou turned to try and meet your gaze. “Eh? What’s the problem, extra? Cat got your fucking tongue?’ He teased, harshly, though his grasp on your hands lessened, and fuck you were gonna pass out if you didn’t start breathing soon. “Oh,” He huffed suddenly, snickering under his breath, as he crowded you in up against the bench entirely, completely flush with your back, before his lips ghosted the shelf of your ear, and he whispered “-probably because of my big tits, huh? Tch.” And then he was gone. Gone from your back, gone from the shell of your ear, gone from giving you a religious fucking experience, and thankfully gone from nearly making you jizz your jeans in front of the entireety of class A and B. Your hands shook where they now held the knife solo, and you glanced over your shoulder- watching Bakugou stuff his hands in his pockets, arch his shoulders, and stalk off to the cabins. Though not before you also caught the sharp, devilish smirk that twisted up on his face. What a fucking DICK. But a dick who was handsome as fuck, and knew exactly what he was doing. “Alright, Bakugou, you wanna play, big boy?” You whispered to yourself, voice shaky as you continued chopping vegetables. “I’ll bite. Show you how it’s done...right after I pass out, Jesus fucking Chri-” 

[tennessoui]

for obikin, maybe pretending to hate each other au? (sth where their ages are a little closer, perhaps, so obi-wan can be intensely petty and not feel the need to Set an Example)

45. (Pretending To) Hate Each Other (raised as Sith!Anakin, salty!Padawan Obi-Wan)(1.6k)

Obi-Wan turns away from the training stalles with a barely suppressed sneer. Anakin, as he is to be called, has defeated his opponents. His fellow Padawans. Darth Vader has become a Padawan and everyone is just fine with it.

Obi-Wan marches out into the halls, not knowing where he’s going, but knowing he must get away from the smirk on Anakin’s face as he had lowered his training saber to his opponent’s neck. Does no one but Obi-Wan remember how just months ago Vader’s saber had been pressed against his neck and it hadn’t been a training exercise? Does no one remember the atrocities Anakin had committed, the sentients Anakin had killed?

And yet Obi-Wan’s master seems infinitely fascinated by the boy. And yet Obi-Wan, it seems, cannot step out of his own room without finding this Anakin underfoot, either taking tea with his Master, or dolefully skulking around the doorway of Obi-Wan’s quarters. What draws the boy, he has no lasting idea.

They’re approximately the same age, he supposes, although Obi-Wan has a few years at least on Anakin--it’s clearer to see now that Anakin has stopped wearing his helmet and armor into battle, now that the lines of his face are not hardened by scowls and snarls. Really, he’s a boy. His medical chart puts him at eighteen, making him four years Obi-Wan’s junior.

And, he supposes, Qui-Gon was the one to find Anakin wounded on the battlefield, the one to insist they treat the Sith, heal him, and give him shelter. But Obi-Wan was the one who had found the slave chip embedded between his ribcage, the one who had alerted the Council to its presence, so it could be used to find the boy’s master, to capture him or kill him, to end the war.

But surely, whatever small part Obi-Wan had played in the war’s conclusion, the Force should have known better than to repay him by gifting him with the care and keeping of a Sith Lord, Chosen One or not.

Although Obi-Wan can admit, even if only to himself, that it’s worse when Vader latches onto anyone else in the Temple. His master is too starry-eyed by his ideas of Vader’s midichlorians, his destiny as the Chosen One, to see the boy in front of him now.

And anyone younger than Vader is too easily swayed by his looks, his charm, his disgustingly transparent eagerness to know about the Temple, about the Jedi way of life.

Obi-Wan knows this. He’s fought a Sith at 20, fended it off after it dealt a nearly fatal blow to his Master. They cannot be reasoned with. Vader cannot be reasoned with.

Anakin exists only as a figment of their imaginations, their desire to have the Chosen One fly under the Jedi colors. He is not real, not anymore.

Gradually, Obi-Wan finds himself making his way up the stairs of the Jedi Temple. Of all the spots to hide--to sulk, as his Master would say--the rooftop is the one least likely to be checked. It is one of Obi-Wan’s favorite areas in the entire building.

But he had not thought to check for stragglers before arriving at his destination, had thought the thunderstorms of his own Force presence would keep others at bay. He hadn’t yet figured Vader into his calculations, hadn’t remembered the propensity Vader had for showing up right when Obi-Wan least wanted him to.

“You left,” Vader--Anakin--whoever accuses, as Obi-Wan sits down on the rooftop. The wind howls around them. Obi-Wan has the distinct thought that they’ve lived through this before, that last time Vader had cornered him on a rooftop, he had threatened to take a piece of his body home to his Master. Now, Vader is standing in his home.

Obi-Wan takes a very deep breath and banishes those sorts of thoughts. Anakin, he reminds himself. Anakin.

And just as importantly, the chip. There had been a chip. Not controlling Va--Anakin’s thoughts, but certainly controlling his actions. What he would do to survive is no different from what Obi-Wan had done to survive; they had just been on opposite sides of the war.

Is Obi-Wan weak for not being able to move past that? For not being able to greet the boy--the man--Anakin with open arms into the folds of his family?

“I did,” Obi-Wan replies, keeping his eyes on what he can see of the city skyline.

Anakin steps closer. “Why?”

He turns to face him, takes in his sweaty appearance and messy tunics. He must have been looking for Obi-Wan’s reaction. He must have seen the exact moment Obi-Wan had turned, must have scrambled to cloth himself as he followed after.

“Why does it matter?” He asks instead of answering, always instead of answering.

“Because I wanted you to watch,” Vader says.

“I’ve seen you kill Padawans before,” Obi-Wan turns away and stands up until he can lean against the high protective walls of the roof. “I wasn’t impressed.”

Vader feels frustrated in the Force. No. Anakin.

Anakin. “It was a training exercise.”

“Now,” Obi-Wan points out. “Or do you mean then?”

“Would you hate me if I said both?” “I hate you now, Vader.” The other boy’s Force signature withdraws, flinching away from Obi-Wan’s ire. He hears him sit down. He’d rather throw him off the roof.

But: “Don’t call me that,” the boy pleads quietly. “I know I can’t--that I don’t--” he cuts himself off and grows quiet.

Obi-Wan would say something to break the silence, but he doesn’t want to engage the boy if he doesn’t have to. If he closes his eyes, he can feel and see the Force raging around them, violently buffering them as it demands some sort of denouement.

The boy inhales and stands again, stepping forward hesitantly until he’s a scant foot away from Obi-Wan. “My mom always told me she thought for ages about my name. That it had come to her in a dream after I was already a month old, that it was bad luck to have waited for so long to name me because infants on Tatooine can die as quickly as their mothers.

“And then I...I couldn’t use it or hear it or speak it for so long that I think I almost forgot it, almost lost it to Sidious and...and Vader. So even if you hate me, and I know you should hate me, I know I’ve never done anything to you that cancels out the bad I’ve done to you, but. Please don’t call me that. I think it would have made her sad."

Obi-Wan works his jaw as he stares off into the city. He doesn’t think V--Anakin has ever said so many words to him. If he gives in now, he’d be just as bad as the other padawans who had welcomed Anakin in amongst them because of his big eyes and soft lips and earnest enthusiasm.

Anakin seems to take his silence as permission to continue, which it isn’t. “And I know I’m not. That I can’t be--won’t ever be a Padawan, or a Jedi Knight, that. That I’ll never wear a braid or anything. I’m not--I don’t want another Master. I never want another Master.”

Obi-Wan turns his head just enough to look at Anakin. He’s spent an awfully long amount of time hanging around Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan’s quarters if he doesn’t want a Master. But...what he’s saying makes sense, and, more importantly than that, soothes the furious emotions in Obi-Wan’s chest enough that he can speak. “Then I can’t understand why.” Why you’re here, why you won’t leave me alone, why you chose to follow me if you’re not trying to dispose of me and take my Master for yours.

Anakin sighs, leaning his head on his hands as he looks out at the city. Obi-Wan finds himself annoyed with that as well, even though he’d just been doing the same thing. Now he can’t tear his eyes away from Anakin’s profile.

“You’re warm in the Force,” Anakin says eventually. “I think maybe I spent too long in space, because I’m always cold. Except when I’m around you. You burn. You always have. I used to think that maybe--it was hatred or disgust at me, when I met you in battle, and you were an inferno. But you burn when you’re on creche duty too. A different kind of fire, but still so warm. It’s just your soul. It’s just who you are.”

Obi-Wan blinks open-mouthed at him. He’s never considered the thought that Vader--Anakin--had been trailing after him for anything other than easy access to his Master. Now he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do or say.

There’s a part of him that still doesn’t understand what Anakin wants to get out of his tenancy at the Temple, a part that whispers that the Sith can’t be trusted, no matter how blue they can make their eyes look. But the Jedi part of Obi-Wan is bigger.

The Jedi part of Obi-Wan tells him to extend his hand just enough to brush against Anakin’s exposed wrist. It’s a point of vulnerability the boy doesn’t shy away from.

“Would you…” he asks slowly, forcing the words out of his tight throat. “Like to meditate with me?”

Anakin looks astonished, then hopeful, then disappointed, then dejected. “I’m no good at meditating,” he says, scuffing the point of his shoe on the ground. “It wasn’t a huge part of my...former Master’s curriculum, and the Force is just so loud in my head that it’s hard to do anything but react.”

He looks up at Obi-Wan through his eyelashes, biting his lip as if he’s afraid that he’ll be turned away for this.

Instead, Obi-Wan turns fully to face him and latches onto his flesh hand. “There are some things, I’ve found,” he murmurs, leading them away from the edge of the roof before pulling Anakin down to sit cross-legged in front of him, “that are much easier done with someone else. Done together.”

[deniigi]

Please take this section from a piece about Baby Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon bonding post Bandomeer.

I’m sure that this isn’t how their master-apprentice relationship was formed but I refuse to read so this is it for me 🙃🙂

Title: platelets

Summary: After the smoke clears on Bandomeer, the Agricorps gathers 12yo Obi-Wan into their ranks and prepares to train him to become one of their own. Qui-Gon thinks they should wait a damn minute here. He’s had a change of heart.

---

Obi-Wan was no longer in the med bay. It took Qui-Gon two hours to find him and two years off his life trying to look casual under the irritated gaze of so many suspicious Agricorps members.

The foreman (forewoman) was the first to crack under Qui-Gon’s very charming smile—and she didn’t so much as crack as tell him that his attempts to be subtle disgusted her to the core.

Obi-Wan had been given over to a young lab manager. A friendly man in need of his first supervisee. He was soft at heart and, according to the foreman, very good with kids.

Qui-Gon understood implicitly and rapidly that this was his new competitor.

He asked the foreman what the knights had done to incur the corps’ ire and she told him to search his fucking feelings.

She closed the door behind him, effectively locking him into one of the Agricorps terrarium-lab bubbles.

 --

Qui didn’t like to snoop. He loved to snoop.

Nothing was more satisfying then having a poke through the lines upon lines of glasses and test pockets that covered the tables. He had a sniff around the experimental cuttings taking root in their glasses and then took cover when he heard a voice break out into a laugh.

He peered over the edge of the counter and spotted the familiar green smock-tunic of the corps. Its owner had tan skin and narrow eyes and his back stooped into an arc. Qui-Gon craned his neck and found that the arc came over the tuft-y red hair of his future apprentice (because there was no real question here, regardless of the corps’ agitation; the knights would always get first choice over the initiates).

The lab manager, however, gave no sign of trepidation. He held in front of Obi-Wan a handful of seeds that sprouted and curled under his smile. Obi-Wan watched them with wide eyes. The manager turned his gentle face down towards Obi-Wan and nudged his hands until Obi-Wan was holding the mass as it grew.

“Look, you’re a natural,” the man said.

Obi-Wan sucked in a lip and focused hard. One of the plants’ first adult leaves began to unfurl.

“Well done. Fantastic,” the manager said. “Look at you already. Great job and for that, a reward.”

“A reward?” Obi-Wan asked, handing the tangle of roots off as the manager held out his hands for them.

“A reward,” the manager agreed, plucking one of the fat stems from the bunch and holding it out to Obi-Wan, “A snack.”

Damn. This guy was good.

 --

 The foreman was smug as a dungbeetle in shit when Qui-Gon skulked out of the lab. She asked him how his proposal had gone. He scowled at her and made off back to his quarters.

Normally, he would call someone to lament the traitorous actions of these supposed-allies, but no one was going to be sympathetic right now—not even Tahl. She was going to say what everyone else was going to say which was “Man, you had how many chances to get this right?”

He smashed his face into the pillow of his bunk, then flung it off and flattened his cheek against the mattress.

There had to be some way to turn these tides back in his favor. He wasn’t losing to the Agricorps. Master Dooku would have a heart attack. Qui’s failure in this—more than Xanatos—would kill him and then he’d have to live with that guilt for the rest of his life.

UGH.

Alright, Jinn. Think.

 --

 He had a brilliant plan. It involved a lightsaber. Obi-Wan loved lightsabers. Qui-Gon had witnessed him loving them many a time.

He scrounged up some tools and squeaked past the Agricorps security for a quick bounce off to acquire a crystal. A blue one. Obi-Wan looked like a blue saber sort of kid. It took a while to find one because everyone, everywhere, was conspiring against Qui-Gon on this. Even the Force seemed to be telling him that he was too late.

But for once, he didn’t care. There were only so many times you could fuck up before you started fucking up at least in the right direction.

He got the crystal. He brought it back to the corps headquarters and went on the hunt yet again for his (his damnit) future apprentice.

  This time, Obi-Wan was in the dormitories. Qui-Gon almost gasped in horror to find him outfitted in an over-large green smock-tunic. He flapped the too-long sleeves with a goofy smile while his lab manager reached around him and tightened the belt at his waist as far as it would go.

“You’re so scrawny,” the lab manager told him. “We’ll fix that.”

Obi-Wan beamed up at him and held up his sleeve-covered hands.

“I like green,” he said.

A small piece of Qui-Gon screamed internally.

“I think you’re more of a blue, actually,” the lab manager said. “But this is what we’ve got for now. When you get bigger, we can see if there’s a blue that fits you.”

“There are so many colors,” Obi-Wan said as the manager trapped his arm and started rolling up one of the sleeves. He tried to do the same with the other on his own, which just made the manager’s job harder.

“There are,” the manager said.

“Do you get to pick?”

“You sure do.”

“How do you pick?”

The manager patted Obi-Wan’s head and turned around to hunt down something else from the spare clothing supply.

“It comes to you,” he said, muffled.

There was a long silence. Qui-Gon had just decided to step out of hiding, when Obi-Wan, looking at the rolled edges of his sleeves said,

“I think I want to leave.”

Qui-Gon’s heart stopped. The manager’s rummaging did, too. He pulled himself carefully out of the cupboard.

“Leave?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Obi-Wan said to his sleeves. “I think I want to leave.”

No.

“You’re a little young to leave, aren’t you?” the manager said awkwardly.

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan said. “But I’ll figure it out. If I can survive those people in the mines, then I can figure it out, can’t I? And then I can pick my colors out there. You get to pick, right? Maybe I’ll do blue after all.”

Fuck. No. Qui-Gon was gonna—

“Hey, why don’t we do this?” the manager said, setting aside a set of gaiters to kneel down in front of Obi-Wan. “Let’s give us a trial run, huh? Two months, max. I know we didn’t make the best first impression, but give us two months—eight weeks—and after that, if you don’t like it, we’ll make sure you’ve got somewhere to go when you’re ready to leave. Does that sound okay?”

Qui-Gon held his breath. Obi-Wan studied the knuckles of the hands holding his. He rubbed his split lips together.

“Eight weeks?” he asked.

“That’s all, no more and if you really, really can’t stand it, then even less,” the manager said.

“And you’ll help me? Even if I say I don’t want to stay?”

“Even if you don’t want to stay.”

Maybe Qui was operating on another, less child-friendly level here, but why in kark’s name you’d even give the boy the illusion of choice was beyond him. The answer was, truly, that the second Obi-Wan set foot away from the jedi, he’d be signing his own death sentence.

Xanatos wouldn’t care if he wasn’t Qui-Gon’s true apprentice. He wouldn’t ask those kinds of questions. He’d just seize the opportunity the moment Obi-Wan no longer had someone standing behind him, and when he was through, he’d bring the body to the Temple and lay it out cold and open-eyed on the front steps.

There were no other options for the child now. Qui-Gon was being kind with this process of trust-building. In reality, if he really needed to, he could contact Yoda and acquiesce to his previous wisdom and arguments for Qui-Gon to take the kid on. Yoda would then change the boy’s assignment and orders; he would return to the temple and thereafter again go through the selection process. But this time, Qui-Gon would select him without hesitation.

That wasn’t how Qui-Gon wanted to do this, but if the boy thought that he was going to leave, to step out into the cold of space, then to spare him a cruel, meaningless death, Qui-Gon would.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said quietly to the manager.

“Anytime, hon,” the manager said. “Who knows, anyways. You might even like it here.”

 --

  The trouble with the damn Agricorps was that they were phenomenal talkers. They talked to people about their problems and all these insecurities and they gave them food and drinks and told jokes and laughed and hefted their littlest supervisees up onto their shoulders and all that served to make their members loyal to each other to a fault.

In short, Obi-Wan’s lab manager was winning this battle more every day.

This was not helped at all by the fact that Qui-Gon had discovered through a surprise meeting that Obi-Wan was afraid of him.

They’d bumped into each other in the hallway as Obi-Wan came from the mess hall and Qui-Gon went to drop off some documents, and the kid scrambled away from him and flattened himself against the corridor’s wall.

Some serious meditation (and agitating Mace, great tower of sleep-deprived wisdom) had brought Qui-Gon to the conclusion that yeah, a month in forced labor, being banished to a mine, food deprivation, physical assault, and so on really did a number on a twelve-year-old’s trust in people and their associates.

Further, Mace pointed out that Qui-Gon was approximately ‘half a mile tall and covered in overgrowth.’

He did not appear to be a soothing presence to children. Mace said that if he’d deigned to join him and the other masters in chatting and cuddling the younglings in the crèche, this wouldn’t have been a problem, but alas, Qui, you stuck-up nerfherder. You reap what you sow.

Mace’s hind and foresight was, as per usual, invaluable.

Qui-Gon decided that he was going to be the nice version of himself. He was going to smile at Obi-Wan. That would do it.

 --

 It didn’t do it.

The foreman came to Qui-Gon’s quarters to gleefully tell him not to approach the corps’ young supervisees unprompted. He was giving the children hives.

He explained to her outright that he intended to take Obi-Wan on as his apprentice.

She told him good luck. Obi-Wan, she claimed, was already settling in with the others. He was making friends. And Qui-Gon wasn’t so cruel as to separate such a traumatized boy from such comfort, now was he?

But there, she was mistaken.

He definitely was that cruel.

The foreman told him to die miserable and slammed his door.

 --

 It took another two tries, but eventually, he managed to find Obi-Wan tucked away on one of his breaks from his training in the lab. He appeared to be at a loss for what to do with himself. He’d settled against a window and had splayed both hands on it as he stared out into the cracked soil of Bandomeer.

Qui-Gon watched him for a little while and then cleared his throat.

Obi-Wan jumped. His eyes came up for the briefest second and then his head went down.

“Master,” he greeted.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon replied. “You seem bored.”

Guilt colored the boy’s cheeks in a flush.

“I’m not bored, Master,” he said, fidgeting with his rolled sleeves.

“May I sit?” Qui-Gon asked, gesturing next to where Obi-Wan knelt. He nodded and arranged himself in a more dignified posture. Qui-Gon let him; he sat down next to him, grumbling and creaking and popping.

His bones weren’t what they used to be.

Once he was finally more or less comfortable, he turned to notice Obi-Wan staring at him with eyes like a cat’s.

“What? You never seen an old man sit?” he asked.

“What happened to your hair?” Obi-Wan asked.

Oh.

“It’s in a bun,” Qui-Gon explained, reaching up to release the mane. It tumbled down over his shoulders and cheered for fresh air.

Obi-Wan’s gaze became even more cat-like. Qui-Gon fought off a smirk.

“You want to touch it?” he asked.

The kid looked away abruptly.

“It’s okay. You can touch it,” Qui told him. “It looks better than it feels, I must say. Needs a trim—look at these ends, little one. I ought to be arrested for crimes against decency.”

Aha. Gotcha. Look at that wobble in those lips. Trying not to smile. They’d see how long that worked, now wouldn’t they?

He badgered Obi-Wan until he finally broke and reached up to brush his fingers against the hair Qui-Gon put within his reach. His attention snapped into place.

“It’s soft,” he said, amazed.

His fingers started combing without permission. Qui-Gon let it happen.

“Very useful for cold climates—have you ever felt a snow-yak, Obi-Wan?” he asked.

The boy shook his head. Of course, he hadn’t.

“Do you know what they look like?”

Another shake.

“Well, perhaps one day, you will see them,” Qui-Gon said indulgently. “When I was a boy, my master told me not to try to pet them—he told me at every step of the way, he knew me well. But you know what I did?”

There was that smile now.

“You pet them?” Obi-Wan asked.

“I sure did,” Qui-Gon told him. “And you know that they did?”

“Kicked you?”

“Me? No. I was too small a target. They charged my master—Master Dooku; you may have heard of him.”

Obi-Wan shoved his giggles into his palms.

“I want to pet one,” he said.

“Yes, you do look like the type,” Qui-Gon said. “Tell me, Obi-Wan, what are your feelings on pathetic lifeforms?”

“What’s that?”

“You tell me. What’s a pathetic lifeform to you?”

Obi-Wan settled in and thought about it as he gazed out the window’s thick glass.

“Me,” he decided.

Bless him.

“You?” Qui-Gon said incredulously. “No, no. You saved a jedi master. I said ‘pathetic.’”

“Me,” Obi-Wan insisted again.

Qui-Gon held a finger out between them.

“If you are a pathetic life form, then I am in grave danger,” he said.

The giggle this time wasn’t hidden. It make Qui-Gon’s own grin grow.

“I was thinking a lothcat,” he admitted. “Or a dragon—love a dragon. Of course, the yak—perhaps not pathetic to my master, but to others yes. They’re not smart, Obi-Wan, poor things.”

“You like animals,” Obi-Wan said.

Qui-Gon weighed this statement with his head.

“’Animals’ isn’t quite broad enough, but yes, they fall into the category,” he said. “I’m also a big fan of rescuing the plants that no one can keep alive.”

Obi-Wan brought up his knees and wrapped his arms around them. He settled a soft cheek onto the top of the right one.

“That’s what I’ll be doing here,” he said.

“Indeed,” Qui-Gon said.

There was a long pause. The boy sniffed softly.

“You will be happy here,” Qui-Gon told him gently. “They will take care of you.”

Another sniff. An eye scrubbed with a too-long sleeve.

“I’m sorry I’m not good enough,” Obi-Wan whispered.

Well, this was a conversation Qui-Gon hadn’t wanted to walk into. There were, from his vantage point, a few ways out of it, but at the end of each of those paths was a set of brown eyes framed by intense, wispy green brows.

“You are good enough,” Qui-Gon said. “I am just a foolish master. You deserve someone better than me, Obi-Wan.”

“There is no one else,” Obi-Wan said.

“There will be,” Qui-Gon said.

“No, there won’t. I’m out of time. All that’s left for me is...this,” Obi-Wan said, gesturing to the landscape beyond the window.

Qui-Gon studied it; the cracks in the soil, the piles of broken stones.

“It is a little bleak,” he admitted.

“What is it like for non-jedi people?” Obi-Wan asked. “Do they go to school? How do they find somewhere to sleep?”

“You will not be a non-jedi person,” Qui-Gon said.

There was a long pause.

“What?”

Qui-Gon sucked in a breath and let his shoulders fall.

“Unless you really want to be one,” he added. “Apologies, I spoke without thinking.”

Those blue eyes were the same color as the crystal in Qui-Gon’s pocket. He put his hand inside of it and pulled the carefully wrapped parcel out so that Obi-Wan could see it. He rolled it slowly until only the crystal sat in his palm.

“There is greatness in you, Obi-Wan,” he said. “And I am not a good enough Master, but you are more than a deserving padawan.”

The eyes flicked from the crystal to Qui-Gon’s face once, then twice.

“Do you mean it?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Are you okay with having a silly master?” Qui-Gon asked. “I will not sugar-coat it—one of my students has already fallen. I am the type of person who Master Windu has been dreaming of the unfortunate demise for since we were children.”

“Why?” Obi-Wan asked with eyes only for the crystal.

“Excellent question. I am told that my brain is fundamentally ill-suited for human interaction,” Qui-Gon said with a smile.

Obi-Wan huffed.

“Does Master Windu really dislike you so much?” he asked.

“He speaks to me in such ways only out of love. My other friends say that I am dedicated intensely to the flight of fancy.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Obi-Wan said.

“You know, funny thing,” Qui-Gon told him, reaching over to take his hand and press the crystal into it, “Neither do I.”