#I didn’t realize until after I had drawn broken vessel

[hellishgayliath]

Aaaaaaaaaand here’s the finished results! :D I really enjoyed doing this challenge and honestly might do another one sometime soon. Thank y’all for sending me characters :3

I think out of these Wirt and No Face might be my favourites the most :D

[shorkbrian]

Babysitter

Prelude - I do not understand how some people get turned on by spanking, but I still respect that kink. I could never lol I just think back to the days where I got spanked so hard I’d pass out or the wooden spoon would break haha.

Pairing - Bakugou Katsuki X Reader

Prompt - idk I just thought of babysitters being so flipping like “Im in charge here” and stupid and I feel like Bakugou would enjoy babysitting like someone just a few years younger than him cause he’d get such a rush of power. 

Warnings - NSFW, abuse of power, noncon, spanking, degradation, slight misogyny. slight masochism?

Music - https://open.spotify.com/track/5E30LdtzQTGqRvNd7l6kG5?si=IG4WgPeSQf2_UzyLXMWR7g

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Your mom was overbearing.

Here you were, a full-grown adult, and your mom was yelling her thanks to your “babysitter” as she rushed out the door.

You knew she was a bit protective, a bit hyper-vigilant and akin to a helicopter parent. But it was hard to be mad at her for it, not ever since dad had divorced her. She was terrified of something happening to you, of loosing the last thing in her life that she cared about. 

Still, it was hard not to feel a little bubble of irritation in your throat as you watched your “babysitter” wave to her as she climbed in her car. You didn’t need a babysitter, not at your age. And you especially didn’t need the gruff, surly man that had lived in the house across the street as your babysitter. You could take care of yourself, thank you very much.

And how come your mom didn’t trust you by yourself, but somehow trusted this Mr. Grumpypants that you had met a total of zero times. You had seen him once, when your mom’s car had broken down at her job and you had to go pick her up. 

You hadn’t minded, rolling up to the curb to see your mother animatedly talking to some blonde man with a stick shoved up his ass, his handsome face grimacing like he just sucked on a lemon dipped in hot sauce. Apparently she worked with him, the younger man a security guard for the complex her office was located in. You watched as his bored red eyes slid from your mother, over to you through the car window, his brow furrowing. The bored look had disappeared, and he regarded you with… curiosity? Contempt? It was hard to tell what emotion was hidden behind his eyes, underlaid so strongly with irritation and anger.

Mom had gushed about him all the way home, telling you details you didn’t really care about. His name was Bakugou Katsuki, he was single, 27, and wouldn’t you know - he lived right across the street!

Well, if she trusted him, you guess you should too. Didn’t mean you had to like it though.

And you didn’t, huffing as Bakugou closed the door and you turned back to your game, mashing buttons and sitting forward as you tried to beat this level.   It was ridiculous, your mom going over to his house a few days prior with a plate of cookies, asking the man if he wouldn’t mind coming and hanging out while she was away on some business trip. She had expressed her worry about leaving you - what if something happened while she was gone for a week? Someone could kidnap you and she wouldn’t even know until she got back!

Even when you politely reminded her that cell-phones existed, she was adamant; you were going to have someone big and strong stay in the house with you. It not only would keep potential burglars and thieves away, but it’d keep you safe, make sure you weren’t doing anything silly like staying up too late or eating too much junk food. It was embarrassing.

Some small part of you wanted to stomp your foot and whine at her, but that wouldn’t help you in trying to convince her that you were an adult. Once your mom convinced herself of something, nothing would be able to change her mind. Even when you pointed out that Bakugou was a strange man, she didn’t budge. 

“I see him everyday at work!” She had pointed out. “Plus, he’s a security guard sweetie - his literal job involves keeping people safe.”

Bakugou locked the door, before glancing your way. You felt his eyes on you, but you didn’t feel like acknowledging his presence, by gracing him with conversation or any sort of interaction. The man moved on after a second, walking behind you and into the kitchen. You heard him rustle in the cupboards, the clink of glasses, then the sound of water filling a cup.

Right - your mom had kindly showed him where everything was. She had guided him through each room showed him the guest room which she had made up for his stay, even walking him through the kitchen and showing him the contents of each cupboard. 

He came back into the living room with his backpack and cup full of water, settled himself down in one of the armchairs by the couch.  You didn’t spare him a glance as he pulled out his laptop, threw on some glasses, and settled himself in for… well, whatever he was doing. You were just glad that the two of you didn’t have to interact with each other.

You continued playing your game, occasionally getting frustrated enough to mumble under your breath at the TV as your character died yet again. This was going to be a long week.

----

You were taking a gap year after graduating, relaxing before you threw yourself into college and working. Right now, your days were spent playing games, scrolling on your phone and laughing at memes, going to the pool for hours on end, the library, bike rides, hikes… lots of activities that kept your mind and body occupied. But this week? Bakugou threw off every plan you made.

It was the second day, and you had gotten up early to go swim and goof off at the community pool for a few hours. It was fun, you could tan a little, cool off, maybe see some cute boys your age. 

When you got out of the water you had two missed texts from Bakugou. 

Where are you

Tell me where the fuck you went

Instead of answering, you huffed, wrapping your towel around your waist. It took maybe fifteen minutes to walk home - you’d deal with your overprotective babysitter then.

He met you at the door, throwing it open before you could even touch the handle. His face was drawn tight in a scowl, the blonde crossing his arms as soon as you stepped inside and shut the door behind you.

“Your fucking phone die? Or are you just ignoring me?”

You shook your head, irritated with how big of a deal he was making out of this. You went to the pool all the time, you weren’t going to die. “I was at the pool, chill dude.”

“Oh, I thought you just popped out to go fucking parachuting!” He spat, uncrossing his arms to gesture at your body. “I can see that you went to the pool dipshit. Why didn’t you fucking tell me, huh? You normally run off on your mom without a damn word?”

You stared at him, curious to see if he would burst a blood vessel with how worked up he was getting. He didn’t seem like someone that knew what the word “relax” meant. Bakugou probably slept all angrily, arms crossed, lips pulled into a frown, eyebrows drawn low.

“Fucking hey, earth to idiot!” Fingers snapped in front of your face, and you recoiled, glaring up at the man in front of you. Before you could open your mouth, he huffed, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “Don’t fucking go anywhere unless you run it by me, understand? I don’t need you wandering into a fucking alley and getting stabbed or some shit.”

Snorting, you moved past him, not even bothering to answer. He was an asshole. Despite what your mother thought, you weren’t a child. You knew how to take care of yourself, you didn’t need some grumpy old guy bossing you around.  Said man was grinding his teeth as he watched you walk away, headed for your room. It probably annoyed the life out of him that you hadn’t answered, but he didn’t say anything. 

When you finished grabbing clothes for your shower, you came out of your room to see Bakugou leaning against the wall. 

“So you’re being a little spoiled princess, not even talking to me? That’s rich. You know I’m gonna be here for the next fucking week - you better make peace with that.”

“Dude, I don’t know what you want. I’m fine, I do this all the time. Just leave me be, and I’ll do the same for you.”

Bakugou grumbled something under his breath, but your skin was getting dry and tight from chlorine, so you ignored him as you slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you. You could hear his feet stomping away, and almost giggled at the sound. It almost seemed like he was the petulant child that needed a babysitter.

It didn’t take you long to rinse off, get all the chlorine and salt off your skin. Drying off, you quickly realized you forgot a bra when you had grabbed clothes - which was fine, you would just wrap up in your towel and waddle back to your room. Plus, the bathroom was directly opposite your room, and Bakugou wasn’t nearby, you could hear dishes rattling in the kitchen, so that wouldn’t be a problem. 

And it wasn’t, not until you were in your room, door closed, towel on the floor as you rifled through your dresser drawers for the bra you really liked.

“Hey princess, do you want-“

You only heard him as he opened the door, and by that time you were scrambling to snatch your towel up around your naked body. Bakugou choked on his words, face turning a flaming red before he slammed the door shut, giving you your privacy. 

Heart racing, you sat down on the floor, too embarrassed for words. That was awkward. 

“Why the fuck would you grab clothes, only to come back and change in your room!??!” Bakugou yelled from the other side of the door, a decidedly angry “thump” from where he banged his fist against the door.

“I forgot something, geez! Why didn’t you bother knocking?!?” You yelled back, your own face heating up.

“Holy fucking shit, just get some fucking clothes on, asshole. I’m makin’ pancakes and shit.”

Breakfast was an awkward affair, your gaze focused firmly on the perfectly cooked food on your plate. Bakugou was glaring at you between bites, obviously fuming. He was probably just as embarrassed as you were, but at least he wasn’t trying to make small talk.

----

Bakugou doesn’t appreciate how much time you spend playing video games, and it’s only the third day. He’s grumbled about it several times already, but you aren’t hurting anybody, and there’s nothing else for you to do, so.

It seems like the only thing Bakugou is willing to do is sit nearby, glare at you condescendingly, and mutter under his breath about how you spend your time. When you decided to run to the store to get groceries (there was a surplus of food in the house - you just wanted some air and time away from your “babysitter”) Bakugou had suddenly appeared, moving in front of the door and sneering. 

“Are you trying to fuckin’ sneak off again? I won’t let that shit slide twice.”

You huffed, shrugging on your jacket. “Bakugou, I was going to the store. Contrary to what you think, I’m not eight years old, and I can take care of myself. My mom’s just a helicopter parent. You don’t even need to be here, honestly.”

The man scoffed, his face souring. “You’re literally a fucking child. Didn’t you just graduate highschool?”

Stepping closer to him, you squared your shoulders, eyebrows furrowing as you looked up at the blond. “Call me a child all you want - doesn’t change the fact I’m old enough to do stuff by myself. Now-“ you gestured to his body “-please move.”

“No.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “And why not? You can’t just lock me in the house until my mom comes back.”

Bakugou’s head cocked, red eyes burrowing into your head. He grinned. “Why the fuck not? I’m in charge here, I get to make the damn rules. I say your ass stays here, and it’s going to.”

Clenching your jaw, you huffed, spinning on your heel. You weren’t going to be able to talk the bull-headed man into leaving you to your own devices. There was nothing left to do except shuck off your shoes, admitting defeat. It was so irritating - you didn’t need anyone looking after you, you were an adult! You were more than capable of handling yourself! Why didn’t your mom trust you? Did she think that you were too stupid to keep yourself alive and safe?

You left Bakugou at the door, grabbing a soda from the kitchen before flopping onto the couch in front of TV.  

Sure, you could read a book, do a puzzle, browse social media. But right now, you were feeling particularly angry, violent. You wanted to achieve something, finish quests, accomplish tasks. So video games it was.

Of course, that meant Bakugou sauntering back into the living room, groaning as he saw you back in front of the TV. But if he wasn’t going to let you go out, then this is what you were going to spend your time doing. If he wanted to treat you like a child, then you were going to act like one. Show him how much of a brat you really could be.

You turn on your console, select the game you’re going to be playing for the next few hours, and settle further into the couch, making yourself comfortable.  Reaching down to the coffee table, you’re about to grab the soda you had brought in earlier, but Bakugou beat you to it.

“Hey!” You whined, watching the blond pop the tab, take a long, slow drag of the carbonated drink. He smacked his lips and cocked his head, smirking down at you. 

“You shouldn’t drink this sorta shit, ’s bad for you.”

“Why are you drinking it then?!!?”

Bakugou shrugged. “‘Cause I’m in charge here. I get to do whatever I fuckin’ want.”

Huffing, you gave up the argument, starting to push yourself off the couch. Bakugou was one of those people that got off on power trips, liked being the one to call the shots. The best course of action here would be to just ignore him and grab another soda.

“And where the fuck do you think you’re going? I didn’t say you could move.” The blond man was standing in front of you, making it impossible for you to stand. He was so irritating - you couldn’t wait for this week to be over.

“I’m going to get something to drink, since you decided to help yourself to my soda.”

He moved out of your way, clicking his tongue before flopping down into the armchair by the couch. You glared at him for as long as you could, until the kitchen wall hid his face from view. Ugh, he was such a jerk. At first he had seemed somewhat decent, but as he got more comfortable around you, the man was turning into a self-absorbed tyrant. 

Whatever, you were only going to have a stupid “babysitter” for a few more days.

----

“Get off the damn game! Don’t make me haul your ass off that couch.” 

Bakugou threatened. He wasn’t very intimidating, standing there vigorously brushing his teeth like there was something wrong with them. The blond had already asked you two other times, and you had ignored him on both occasions. You were so close to leveling up, just a few more points.

If Bakugou wanted to go to bed when the sun was still up, he was more than welcome to do so. You however, had better things to do with your time.

You saw him stomp away out of the corner of your eye, apparently giving up on trying to tell you what to do in your own house. Good.

If anything, Bakugou should be grateful that all you were interested was playing video games and going to the pool. You could be out getting in trouble, doing drugs, rebelling against the system or something - but you were here, chilling and causing zero trouble. 

The sink in the bathroom ran, then clattering could be heard as Bakugou finished up his bedtime routine, putting his toothbrush away, washing his hands, yada yada.

He appeared back in the living room, arms crossed. His muscles bulged out like that, showcased by the sleeveless black tank top he was wearing. But you weren’t intimidated, it’s not like he was going to hit you or something.

“Alright, last chance. Turn the fucking game off, it’s your majesty’s bedtime now.” He sneered.

You ignored him.

“You seriously wanna do this princess?”

You stayed silent. Just a few more kills….

“Alright, you fuckin’ asked for it.”

The TV turned off, Bakugou yanking the cords out behind it.

“Dude, what the hell! I was so close to leveling up!!” You screeched, sitting up straight. Bakugou’s face was screwed into an angry frown, and he advanced towards you, walking with purpose. You were fuming, rising to your feet so you could get in his face, tell him off. He was acting like he was your dad or something, and he most definitely was not.

When the man got within an arm length of you, you immediately jabbed a finger into his chest, mouth opening to spit nasty words. Those words died when your hand was slapped harshly away, Bakugou still walking forward until he was crowding into your space. You tried to shrink back, but a rough hand latched onto the back of your neck, holding you still as Bakugou closed in on you, bringing your foreheads together.

“You are such a spoiled little princess. Think you can get away with shit, yeah? Never had a man in your life to put you in your goddamn place, that’s why, isn’t it?” 

You blanched, still trying to lean backwards, away from his overwhelming presence. It was kind of scary, how he was all up in your face, how his fingers gripped the back of your neck so tightly, how his face was so close to yours that you could feel his warm, minty breath.

“Bakugou, ple-“

“Nah, shut the fuck up. We’re past any point where you could’ve begged for forgiveness. I am so sick and tired of your bratty little attitude. You keep testing my patience, being a little shit, acting like you own the damn place. You’re gonna show me you’re fuckin’ sorry princess.”

A hand wrapped around your waist, another on your thigh, hefting you up with brute strength and slinging you over his shoulder in the blink of an eye. The swift movement made your head spin for a second, but you quickly adjusted.

“Woah, what the hell man? Put me down!” Bakugou ignored you, spinning on his heel and marching towards the guest bedroom. “Dude, put me down right now, this isn’t funny anymore. C’mon, put me down, I get it. You’re in charge, and I gotta listen. You can let me down now. Please?”

Your pleading went unheard, even as it got more and more desperate the closer to the guest bedroom he walked. When you passed through the doorway, you kicked at the mans stomach, tried to hit his back - you had a faint idea of where this was going, and it was nowhere good.

Without ceremony, you were thrown on the bed, the air getting knocked out of you with the impact, your head bouncing a few times on the mattress.  Bakugou turned, shutting and locking the door before he was back in front of you again, a vicious look on his face.

You scrambled backwards on the bed, holding out one hand as if to ward him off. “Okay, dude, wait, you don’t want to do this. Please don’t do this, you’re a good guy-“

“Shit, do you ever stop running your mouth? Calm the fuck down princess, I’m just gonna spank you ’till you cry, then we’ll be even.”

The idea was humiliating, embarrassing, degrading. But it was better than what you thought was about to happen. Bakugou grabbed your ankle, pulling you back towards him with a quick yank, sitting down beside you on the bed. The man patted his lap expectantly, before getting impatient with your hesitance and grabbing your hair, pulling you across his lap with a pained shriek from you.

“Now, here’s how this is gonna fucking go. You’re gonna sit there and take it, and you’ll be done once I say so. Now shut up.”

Without further ceremony, a broad hand slapped your ass, your shorts providing only the thinnest of barriers. You weren’t ready for the hit, so you lurched forward across the mans lap with a small cry. Another smack landed, and while you still weren’t ready, the sting wasn’t as jarring as the first slap.

SMACK

SMACK

SMACK SMACK SMACK

You tried to not whine, or cry, or make any noise, but it was hard. His hand was coming down with more force on each strike, and it /hurt/.  You could feel your skin throbbing underneath your shorts, red and tender, and you were ready to be done. 

Bakugou however, was not.

He kept going,

SMACK

Each hit harder than the last.

SMACK

You wanted to cry, trying to hold it in, just endure through the mortification of being spanked like a child.

SMACK

SMACK

SMACK

You couldn’t take it anymore, bursting into tears, skin burning, blubbering for Bakugou to stop, please.

The spanking stopped. 

The two of you sat there, you sobbing, Bakugou rubbing the skin of your ass over your shorts. Somehow, that hurt just as much as the spanking did, so you reached a hand back blindly, trying to catch his wrist and push him away. As soon as you grabbed his wrist, Bakugou delivered another savage slap to your behind, making you immediately apologize and drop your hands, let him pet and stroke your ass at his leisure.  It hurt.

You don’t know how long you both stayed there, Bakugou further irritating the burning, raw skin of your butt, you sniffling and calming down from the full-bodied sobs that had wracked your form earlier.  It had been long enough that you barely flinched when Bakugou tentatively fingered the waistband of your shorts, twisting up the fabric, as if he were hesitant to go further, but obviously considering it. You didn’t flinched when a decision was seemingly made, and a hand started slowly pulling your shorts down.

You flinched when the fabric slid over a particularly sore welt on your ass.

“What are you doing??” You panicked, trying to rise up, move away. A hand between your shoulder blades held you down, Bakugou’s gruff voice telling you to stay still.

“I just wanna see how it looks, fuckin’ chill out princess.”

It’s not like you could argue, so off slid your shorts. You tried to protest again when you felt fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, but another swift slap to your rear had you keening in pain, quickly falling silent. You could let him assess the damage, but that was it. If he tried to touch you further, you’d bite a chunk of his skin off, go find your phone and call the police. 

With your lower half bared to the room, you squirmed uncomfortably, immediately stilling when Bakugou’s hand smoothed over the abused skin of your ass. He seemed fascinated by the damage he had caused, and you were sure that there were welts, maybe even bruises already forming. Your skin burned, and not in a pleasant way. God, it was painful.

There was so much pain, your skin somehow felt numb and on fire at the same time. You almost didn’t notice Bakugou’s hand dropping to your thigh, slowly beginning to wiggle it’s way upward, headed towards the little pink slit nestled between your legs. 

When his hand made contact with your pussy, you flipped out.

Almost literally - you rocketed off the man’s lap so fast that you almost flipped over onto the ground, just barely catching yourself at the last second. 

And then you were standing in front of the man, lower half completely bared, him staring at the space between your thighs, before slowly dragging his eyes upward to find your own. 

You turned tail and ran for the door.

A problem with your aforementioned plan of calling the police, was forgetting that Bakugou was a security guard. His job was literally chasing people down, subduing them.

He had you pinned to the door in a matter of seconds, chuckling in your ear. 

“Damn, I really was just only gonna spank your ass raw. You look goddamn delicious though, and it seems like you just haven’t learned your fucking lesson.”

You were hauled backward, a hand pulling your hair, the other wrapped around your waist. For the second time that day, you were tossed onto the bed, but this time you barely stayed for a second, already trying to scramble off the other side.  But Bakugou was faster, his hand around your calf and dragging you back to him with an iron grip. 

A scream tore out of your throat, and you kicked at the man with all your strength as you got closer, catching him square in the jaw. His head snapped back, but his grip never loosened, keeping you stationary while you tried to wiggle away. 

His other hand came up to massage his jaw while he slowly rolled his head down to fix you with the most intense, hungry look you’d ever seen a human wear.

“Ohhh, shit. You don’t even know what you just did, do you princess?”

You gasped at his breathy laugh, the way his eyes seemed to light up. Within a second, he was on top of you, face inches away from your own. You could feel his dick, hard against your thigh.

“Wait, you don’t have to do this-think of the consequences! Please, I won’t tell anyone, just let me go, right now. You don’t want to do this Bakugou, please, it’s not gonna be good for either of us-“

He ignored your reasoning, instead focusing on ripping off your shirt, doing the same to your bra. You tried to stop him, hitting and punching, trying to sink your nails into his back, claw at his eyes. You even resorted to snapping your teeth at his nose when his face got too close, turning your head to sink your teeth into his forearm.

Bakugou just groaned throatily, his eyes fluttering shut. Immediately, you let go, not expecting that response. That was supposed to hurt, why wasn’t he yelling in pain? The man lifted his forearm, watching blood start to drip from where your blunt teeth had punctured his skin. He was breathing heavily, straddling your legs, hunched over you like a dog.

The next seconds were a blur, clothes coming off, his hands manhandling you onto your side, his deranged laughter and low, excited swearing filling your ears.

You found yourself on your side, Bakugou straddling one thigh, holding the other up with his arm. He was lining himself up with your opening, rough hand guiding his dick to nudge against your entrance. You screamed.

“Stop it! Stop it, please! You can’t do this! Oh god, stop, stop, stop, don’t-“

“I can do whatever the hell I want, princess.” The man spat, seemingly unaffected by the way you thrashed your body. You tried kicking the leg under him, but his weight anchored it firmly to the bed. You tried kicking the leg he was holding in the arm, but his tight grip just became painful, squeezing you into place. You tried to sit up, to reach out and grab him by the neck and squeeze, but the position you were in was impossible. He knew what he was doing.

You screamed again, a sound of pained, fearful anger crawling out of your throat. Bakugou just laughed.

“This wouldn’t be happening if you had just been good and listened to me. We could’ve gotten along.” He gathered the spit in his mouth, before crudely spitting onto his fingers. “I would’ve left you alone for now, I mean, I’m not a bad guy. “ Bakugou slapped his spit-slicked fingers down over your pussy, smearing his saliva along your folds, messily rubbing it in.

“I’m an upstanding citizen, I keep little crooks and stupid brats from running things their way, that’s all I’m doing.”

You yelled as a finger entered you, probing at your walls. “That hurts! Take it out, take it out! You’re disgusting, get off of me! Stop-!”

Bakugou kept talking, pointedly ignoring your panicked whining. 

“Yeah, I’ve seen you before, and you’ve got a nice little body. But it’s not like I was just gonna up and hold you down. Good thing you’ve been giving me reasons all week though, being an absolute spoiled-ass princess, you’re so fucking annoying.”

Another finger joined the first, roughly jamming into your cunt, your juices beginning to flow and smooth the way. It was so stupid that your body was responding to this.

“I woulda never touched you, no matter how much I fucking wanted to, if you had just been good. I guess it works for me that you’ve been shit, huh?”

The man laughed again, leaning down towards your face to smile at you in a jeer, adding another finger to your aching pussy. The stretch hurt, it was too soon, but it felt good nonetheless. It’d been a while since you’d last messed around with someone.

When his fingers retracted, you gasped, face quickly blushing red. Another glob of spit was ejected onto Bakugou’s hand, and he quickly slicked up his cock with his own saliva, hissing as he first touched it.

As he lined himself up, you tried begging one more time. “Bakugou, Bakugou, please. Please don’t, you don’t want to do this. You can’t! Just let me up, please? Oh god, please, just let me go, I won’t tell anyone.”

He shoved the entirety of his cock inside with one, jarring thrust.

You screamed, voice cracking in the middle. The stinging pain of your ass was forgotten in the face of the jabbing, spiky pain in your lower abdomen. Bakugou hissed, eyes closed in bliss.

“God, you’re fuckin’ tight. You a virgin?”

Tears in your eyes from the unexpected pain of being filled so suddenly, you shook your head no. Bakugou clicked his tongue.

“Ah, I kinda figured. Slut like you probably can’t go a few days without a cock stuffing your cunt.” A thought seemed to cross his mind, and Bakugou’s eyes opened, peering down at you inquisitively, a slight twinkle in his eye.

“Is that why you’ve been such a demanding little princess?” You shook your head no vehemently, the pain slowly fading the longer Bakugou remained still inside you. “Holy fuck, that’s why you’ve been like this all week! You just needed a cock!” The man laughed before reaching a hand down to pat your face condescendingly. “Don’t you worry princess,  I’ll give you what you need.”

No further words were spoken, despite how much you wanted to scream and yell and curse at the man above you. He immediately drew his cock back, before thrusting into you again, quickly finding a mind-numbing pace that didn’t allow you any time to think.

His thrusts were smooth, steady, fast - it was hard, no, impossible to stop yourself from moaning at how good everything was starting to feel, despite how much you didn’t want it to. It was even worse when Bakugou’s hand found it’s way to your clit, beginning to furiously rub the little button as he fucked you stupid.

“Yeah, you fuckin’ like that?”

You ignored him completely, turning your face against the covers of the guest bed. Bakugou just huffed, increasing his pace ever so slightly.

It wasn’t long before you were gasping, moaning on every other breath, trying to hold yourself back from begging the man to let you cum. You writhed underneath him, trying to arch your hips back to meet every one of his thrusts, ride the hand that was rubbing at your clit so nicely.

Your orgasm hit you out of nowhere. 

It fizzed in your stomach, pleasure racing through you so quickly that you lost your breath, muscles locking up. It felt so good, you couldn’t breath, couldn’t move. Bakugou fucked you through it, smirking down as you obviously rode out your orgasm, his finger falling away from your clit before you could get overstimulated. 

A few more thrusts, and Bakugou pulled out, quickly moving to straddle your chest as he quickly jerked himself off. His hand made the most lewd sound, squelching up and down his length that was drenched in your juices. 

You were so blissed out from your orgasm, you almost didn’t mind when cum started splattering over your face.

You did mind, however, when Bakugou tried to rub it into your skin after he finished.  A quick snap of your jaws towards his fingers made your point clear, and Bakugou backed off.

“We have plenty of time to work on you, seems like you still need to be put in your place by the man of the house. Spoiled little princess.”

——

When your mom got home, you barely kept yourself from sobbing in her arms as she hugged you. You wanted to tell her everything that had happened, what Bakugou had done to you - but that would just make her more paranoid, fearful.

She would lock you in the house and never let you leave. Plus it was embarrassing. “Hey mom, by the way, the babysitter you hired for me, your adult child, raped me after spanking me so hard I bruised, and I couldn’t stop him!” Wasn’t a sentence you wanted to utter. You were weak, and stupid.

Bakugou watched in the background, his backpack slung over his shoulder, ready to head across the street and back to his own house. Your mom kissed your hair, finally disentangling herself from your arms, moving to talk to the gruff blond. You stayed by the door, watching Bakugou with narrow eyes.

“We were fine - although, you were right in having someone come over. She’s irresponsible as hell, I don’t know what could’ve happened if I wasn’t here to stop her from doing stupid shit.”

Your mom threw you a disapproving glance, quickly turning to thank Bakugou for helping the two of you out. She pressed money into his hand, but he told her not to worry about it - he got to eat good food, sleep in a nice bed, and the wifi was better here than at his house. Your mom gave him a quick hug, and you watched his face sour, before he quickly moved away from her grasp.

“Just let me know if you ever need me to come hangout with her again - I think it’s good for her to have a strong male figure in her life. And my wifi sucks, so it’s a win-win for everyone.”

Except you.

Your mom clapped her hands together excitedly. “Oh, that’d be perfect! What a nice young man you are, I knew you were trustworthy.”

Your stomach soured. 

Bakugou said his goodbyes, obviously trying to get out of the house and away from your touchy mother as quickly as possible. Your mother thanked him again, welcoming him over “at any time!” To use the faster wifi, as long as he wouldn’t mind hanging out with you.

Bakugou gave a gruff laugh, brushing past you on his way out the door. He turned, looking at your mother, then at you.

“I’ll be here to help out, don’t you worry princess.”

You slammed the door in his face.

He was never stepping foot in your house again, not if you could help it.

[myaimistrue]

here, have a uriel and castiel conversation with a side of deancas! set at the beginning of 4x07 it’s the great pumpkin, sam winchester

read this on ao3 here and check out my other angel related works here

“They will be here soon,” Castiel said.

Uriel didn’t need to look over at his brother’s vessel to sense his anticipation; he could feel Castiel’s grace, restricted as it was on this plane of reality, and that sufficed. “I should hope so. I have no desire to stay in this hovel any longer than absolutely necessary.”

“The Winchesters are comfortable in places like this,” Castiel said. Uriel didn’t miss the way his vessel’s voice changed when he spoke, and though he was unsure of how precisely to define it, he knew he didn’t like it. “As I said, it’ll be better to speak with them here. They’ll be more likely to listen.”

Uriel scoffed, and stood up from the bed—it creaked as his vessel’s weight shifted off of it. Castiel remained seated on the opposite bed, flipping through a small Bible he’d found tucked into the end table when they had arrived at the motel. The two of them had shared a laugh when they found it—human Bibles were rarely accurate, a fact that had been the source of extensive amusement for Uriel and Castiel’s garrison over the years. It was strange, to share a moment like that with Castiel. They had grown further and further apart over the years, a process that began with Anna’s fall and only accelerated as Uriel felt himself drawn to Lucifer. The things about his brother he had once enjoyed—his spirit, his tenacity, his strength—had long since become things he viewed as potential threats. So to share laughter, even in these false bodies, was an almost welcome feeling. It was a moment of levity in this time of strategy and deception—there was relief in it.

But still, Uriel was angry. He didn’t bother to keep the emotion of it out of his vessel’s voice. “It doesn’t matter if the Winchesters listen to us or not. They’ll do what they’re told, or they’ll die.”

Castiel flipped a page in the Bible. “We aren’t going to kill them, Uriel. Don’t be ridiculous.”

He almost seemed bored. It had been long centuries since Castiel was Uriel’s favorite brother, but it wasn’t until this moment that Uriel had actual hate for him. Here, in a disgusting motel room in town doomed for destruction, waiting for two useless creatures who were nothing but tools to be used and then discarded, Uriel briefly considered revealing his true loyalties simply so he could kill Castiel. Uriel would ask him to join Lucifer’s efforts, but it was apparent Castiel would never betray Heaven, if only due to his affection for humanity (more specifically, the Winchester boy). He could kill Castiel before the brothers arrived, then smite the two of them once they’d had a chance to see the hollow vessel lying on the shag carpet. Uriel imagined it all unfolding, imagined how it would feel to end all of their lives in one fell swoop.

But that would be foolish.

Castiel finally looked up from the Bible, suddenly frowning deeply. “Are you alright?” His grace edged toward Uriel, and the sense memory of his brother’s essence overwhelmed him. Despite everything, it was a comfort. “I know you have concerns, Uriel. But I assure you, Dean Winchester will make the right decision here. He’s the Righteous Man.”

“You think he’ll let us destroy this town?” Uriel said incredulously. “I’ve watched him, Castiel, as you have. He will never allow this.”

And just like that, Castiel’s grace was gone, folded within himself again. His vessel’s eyes grew cold. “And who can say if this is the right choice?” Uriel couldn’t answer before Castiel continued. Rarely did Castiel pull rank so obviously; he would allow Uriel much, but apparently, he would not allow him this. He could hear the echoes of Castiel’s true voice beneath his vessel’s as he spoke, and his tone broached no argument. “I pulled Dean Winchester from the Pit. I saw the way his soul shone amidst all the agony and corruption. And then I rebuilt him, cell by cell, atom by atom. Don’t tell me what choices he will make. I know him, and he will not be influenced by either of us.”

For a moment, it was completely silent. Again, Uriel felt the temptation to tell his brother that none of it mattered; the seals would break, and Lucifer would rise, regardless of what Heaven wanted, and his pet human would be destroyed in an instant. But he could not overplay his hand. There were still moves to be made.

“I understand,” Uriel finally said. “I… won’t be so presumptuous.”

“Good.” And then Castiel turned to sit at the table by the door without saying anything further. Uriel watched him, and the resentment was so immense it felt like it was encroaching on his grace—on some level, he recognized that as the danger it was. But the realization wasn’t enough to stop him.

“Castiel.”

He seemed annoyed. “Yes?”

“We all can see it, you know.” Uriel let his vessel’s voice grow casual, as though his every word wasn’t a threat. “The mark you left on his soul.” Cas’s vessel’s head snapped to Uriel, and the satisfaction of gaining the upper hand was sweet. He let his words lilt into mocking concern. “I worry for you, Castiel. You are close to this Winchester boy, but you don’t fully understand the bigger picture yet. None of us do.”

Castiel’s grace was completely unseen to him now, buried deep within his true form. This was the first time Castiel had taken such a precaution around him, and despite his anger, Uriel felt something like heartbreak that he and his brother had come to this. “Do not—”

“Perhaps I’ve been presumptuous,” Uriel cut in, “but so have you.” Before Castiel could formulate a response, if there was one at all, Uriel turned to the motel room window and said, “He does not belong to you, Castiel. You’d better remember that.”

Another long silence. Outside, Uriel could see the backside of a gas station and the main road. The cars drove by, and Uriel felt his vessel sneer. There would be no regret for him when it came time to wipe this place off of the map—after the seal was broken, of course. 

“They’ve arrived,” Castiel eventually said. Uriel didn’t bother to respond, and he heard Castiel’s vessel sigh. “I trust we can put this all aside and focus on the mission?”

Uriel let the moment stretch, then put on his most jovial voice. The time for antagonism had ended, at least for now. “Of course, brother. I look forward to seeing how your Righteous Man handles this decision.”

And again, Uriel could not see Castiel’s vessel, nor could he see his grace any longer. But he still knew his brother’s uneasiness, knew it like he knew any fact of life. He imagined Castiel knew something wasn’t right, but couldn’t place what it was; never would he guess what Uriel was planning.

Uriel allowed himself to imagine how it would feel to watch Castiel’s grace drain slowly away as his existence ended. And slowly, deliberately, as Sam and Dean Winchester burst into the motel room, Uriel felt his vessel smile.

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Book Two: Sapphire (Ignis x Reader) Chapter IV

The next morning, (Y/n) found herself to be the first one up. Carefully and quietly, she flew over to the door and used her small body to open it. Exiting the hotel room, she flew out of the Mother of Pearl and headed to the beach. In her small form, she sat on the white sands and admired the view just like she did the day before.

As the sun slowly rose above the horizon, her attention was drawn to a man who was also enjoying the beach at such an early hour in the morning. Taking a closer look, she realized it was the spiky-haired man who was accompanying the other oddly-dressed stranger yesterday. He was laying on his back, arms folded behind his head with his eyes shut.

Without thinking, she transformed into her human form. She figured he hadn't seen her, but that thought was quickly dismissed when she heard him chuckle. "So that's what you look like." He opened his eyes and pushed himself off the sand, brushing off whatever he could. "You're that guardian with those guys, right?"

(Y/n) remained silent with a stoic expression. She wasn't fond of strangers, especially the ones who kept odd company and were difficult to read. The man noticed her sealed lips and sighed. "Not much of a talker, huh? That'll make this easier then." Her eyes narrowed as he took a few steps towards her. He held up his hands to show he wouldn't hurt her. One of his hands gravitate towards the hem of his shirt, where he lifted it up and revealed the emerald gemstone embedded in the flesh of his abdomen. "I'm a guardian just like yourself."

Now she could no longer remain silent. "Then what's with your eyes?"

"Contacts. My...master insists I wear them due to how dangerous it is to be a guardian."

She crossed her arms, popping a hip out. "What do you mean "dangerous"?"

"Guess you haven't heard," he said. "The empire's been on a massive hunt to kill spirits. Now that Insomnia is destroyed, it'll make their hunt much more easy."

Her eyes widened in horror. "What?"

"Oh, damn. You didn't hear about that either?" The man handed her a newspaper. "This'll be able to tell you more than I could."

She took the newspaper and read the headline.

Insomnia Falls

Her eyes darted back and forth as she skimmed over the details. She couldn't believe what she was reading, especially when it came from a complete stranger. Tossing the newspaper, she transformed and took to the sky.

Flying as fast as she could, she left Galdin Quay and landed in the Longwythe Rest Area. She transformed and searched for the local newspaper. It had the same headline as the paper the man showed her. Still in disbelief, she transformed once again and few in the direction of Insomnia. She tried to convince herself the papers were lying and it was only propaganda, but she couldn't. Flying as high as she could, she hovered in the air.

When coming as close to the city as she possibly could, her sapphire eyes soaked in the image of the burning, smoking remains of Insomnia. Plumes of smoke rose into the air, fogging the sky above. Imperial dreadnoughts flew to and from the city.

Eventually, the sky was overcome with dark clouds. (Y/n) flew down to safety near the city checkpoint, which was occupied by imperial forces. She hid behind a concrete barricade as it began pouring down rain. Looking past the imperial forces, she saw the Regalia turn down a side road. Sneaking past the imperial forces, she followed the car. From a distance, she watched as they made their way up the hill that provided a perfect view of Insomnia. They fought through imperial troopers and magiteks, clearly angered by what the empire had done to their home.

The guardian knew the boys could handle the enemies without her and remained on the sidelines. She stopped briefly when the voice she heard from her dreams echoed around her.

Chosen...vessel...

She transformed in the spot she had been hiding and looked around. "Who are you?"

Creator...

Her brows furrowed together in confusion. The voice was almost like an echo in the distance. It was unclear and she couldn't understand its broken speech pattern. She shook her head, casting the voice aside. "Maybe I really am going crazy." Looking up, she squinted her eyes to prevent the rain from falling into them. Through the storm clouds, she could see the familiar cluster of stars that radiated brilliantly-the Celestial Crescent. It was a grouping of stars only spirits could see. The darkest clouds couldn't obscure its bright brilliance of various hues of colors, not even the sun could wash it away with its warm, bright rays of light.

(Y/n) tore her gaze away from the Celestial Crescent at the sound of the boys walking past her hiding spot. She overheard them talking about her. They were all worried about her, even Gladio. She had taken off without telling them and they feared the worst had happened. Inhaling deeply, she followed after them back to the car. She no longer wished to hide her human form from Prompto, Noctis, and Gladio. The charade ended today.

Just as (Y/n) caught up with the boys, an imperial drop ship found their location. Magiteks poured from the hatch and surrounded the boys. It wasn't something they couldn't handle, but Noctis was being more careless than usual. He was fueled by his anger and wasn't thinking straight, failing to deliver the finishing blow to one of the MTs. It dragged its body off the ground behind the prince and raised its axe to finish him off. Ignis, Prompto, and Gladio were too occupied with being swarmed by other magiteks that they didn't see the single one that resurrected.

The guardian morphed a blade from pure ice and joined the fray. She charged towards the MT and pierced its body from behind before it could hurt Noctis. Sparks emitted from the hole in its back and abdomen as the sword shattered.

Noctis heard the dying shrieks of the MT and turned around. He watched it collapse, eyes widening when he spotted the girl behind it. He recognized her from Galdin Quay and was able to easily piece together the puzzle. "(Y/n)."

She smiled at him, her heart racing as she tried her best to keep her shy nature in check. "Sorry for keeping it a secret for so long." She took a few steps back before looking towards Ignis. "I also want to apologize for running off like I did. The news was overbearing and I wanted to see it for myself."

"I am simply relieved you are safe," the advisor replied, smiling faintly.

Noctis nodded in agreement. "Yeah, especially after what that weirdo told us."

"Weirdo?" (Y/n) mumbled.

"That spiky-haired guy we met yesterday."

She knew exactly who he was talking about. "He's the one who told me about Insomnia, and how the empire's hunting down spirits for some reason."

"We feared the empire had apprehended you," Ignis said.

The guardian's cerulean eyes drifted over to Gladio and Prompto, who had yet to say anything. She saw they were shocked at her appearance and couldn't say anything. She immediately looked away, feeling her shyness break through. "W-Where to now?"

"Hammerhead," the strategist said. "The marshal will be waiting for us. We best make haste."

Back at the Regalia, Ignis was about to hop into the driver's seat when he noticed (Y/n)'s discomfort. He spoke up on her behalf and addressed the photographer in their group. "Prompto, do be a gentleman and relinquish the front seat to (Y/n)."

The marksman nodded with flushed cheeks. "Y-Yeah, sure thing." He quickly climbed into the backseat with Gladio and Noctis. It was a tight squeeze, but the boys were more than happy to give the girl some space.

Their ride to Hammerhead was silent. Not even Ignis or (Y/n) spoke to each other. What happened to their home lingered in their minds and they couldn't think about anything else or what to say to each other.

It wasn't long before they arrived at the outpost and quickly departed again after learning from Cid that Cor was waiting for them at Prairie Outpost. As they drove to their next destination, (Y/n) kept her gaze on the passing scenery. She still hadn't built up the courage to speak to Prompto or Gladio just yet. She folded her arms atop the window sill and rested her chin on her forearms. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed the feeling of the breeze tousling her (h/c) locks. She didn't open her eyes until they arrived at Prairie Outpost.

Exiting the vehicle, the group walked up to a woman. She greeted Noctis, clearly relieved as she spoke. "Your Highness. I'm glad you're safe."

Gladio recognizes the woman before them. "Monica! Where're all the others?"

"Most of the Crownsguard didn't make it. It was all we could do to escort Lady Iris out of the city. Dustin is with her as we speak, seeing her the rest of the way to Lestallum."

"I owe you guys big time."

"Head for the royal tomb. The marshal awaits."

As they headed to the tomb and walked by many hunters, (Y/n) tensed up slightly. She could feel the eyes of many on her as she followed behind Noctis. She had fallen behind without realizing and grabbed the attention of the prince. "You, uh...okay there, (Y/n)?" He also wasn't used to seeing her human form, but at least he was talking to her unlike Prompto and Gladio.

She nodded. "I-I'm fine."

The raven-haired boy tugged at his messy fringe. "Specs did say you were shy."

"I-It's not just that," she said, looking around at the hunters. She caught a few blatantly staring at her while others immediately looked away when she caught their eyes on her. "People are staring. Maybe because my kind are rare to find."

Noctis' eyes raked over the girl's form. Her beauty rivaled that of Lunafreya's and Cindy's. He cleared his throat and immediately looked away. "Yeah, we'll go with that..."

Continuing down the dirt trail, Prompto eventually asked about the woman they recently spoke to. "So who is this Monica person?"

"A servant of the Crownsguard, like Gladio and myself," Ignis replied.

"She's one of my father's best," Gladio added. "Along with Dustin-who's guarding my sister."

"Good to know we still have people we can count on outside the city," Noctis commented.

As the royal retinue continues making their way for the Tomb of the Wise, the boys began talking about Cor. (Y/n) listened to their conversation, remaining silent. She had met the Marshal the day they left Insomnia, but she hasn't properly been introduced to him. She remembered Ignis talking about him from time to time, which made her understand he was a man held in high regards by many.

Once their trek ended, they arrived at the Tomb of the Wise. The entrance was wide open and there was no sign of Cor. Walking into the tomb, they found the marshal waiting for them, standing beside a sarcophagus that bears a sword in its hands.

"Marshal," Ignis addressed the man.

Cor's gaze focused on the prince. "At last, Your Highness."

Noctis was clearly irritated as he spoke. "Yeah, wanna tell me what I'm here for?"

"The power of kings, passed from the old to the new through the bonding of souls. One such soul lies before you. To claim your forebears' power is your birthright and duty as king," the marshal explained.

"My duty as king of what?" Noctis hissed through gritted teeth.

"Now is not the time to question your calling," Cor remarked with a hint of anger. "A king is sworn to protect his people."

"And yet he chose to protect only one prince. Was that his calling? Forsake the masses to spare his own son?"

Cor's eyes narrowed. "How long will you remain the protected? The king entrusted the role of protector to you."

""Entrusted" it to me? Then why didn't he tell me that? Why did he stand there smiling as I left? Why-Why did he lie to me?"

"That day, he didn't want you to remember him as the king. In what time you had left, he wanted to be your father. He always had faith in you, that when the time came, you would ascend for the sake of your people."

"Guess he left me no choice." Noctis holds out his hand over the sarcophagus. The sword embedded in the stone phases through the casket's hands and floats into the air. It then flies into Noctis' body, being absorbed into him and added to his arsenal. He now had the power of his ancestor.

Cor spoke again after witnessing Noctis successfully absorb his ancestor's power. "That's not the only power your forebears left you. Your journey's just begun. Another tomb lies close by. I suggest you head there next. There are tombs scattered across the land. All are on dangerous ground. I'll go with you, for the time being. Not only to help, but to get a measure of your strength."

"So just how many of these "powers" are out there?" Noctis asked.

"There are thirteen known royal arms, each enshrined at a royal tomb, though we know the location of only a few. I've enlisted the Hunters. They comb the land in search of the lost tombs."

"Where's the one nearby you mentioned?"

"Keycatrich Trench. We know there to be a crypt deep inside the tunnels. Before we set out, there's another thing I must tell you."

The prince crossed his arms. "And what's that?"

"The empire's hunting down guardians and killing them to prevent you from obtaining the conduit. Find this spirit and obtain their blessing."

Noctis glanced over at (Y/n) for a split second before looking back at the marshal. "Why do I need this blessing?"

Cor sighed. "That, I'm afraid I don't understand." He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a necklace. The jewel adorning it was black, cracked, and had a silver phoenix wrapped around it. (Y/n)'s eyes widen in shock, which didn't go unnoticed by the marshal.

"What're we looking at, Marshal?" Gladio questioned.

"Seems the guardian amongst you is already aware."

All eyes fell on (Y/n). She couldn't tear her own gaze away from the necklace. "A guardian gemstone. When we pass, the gemstone cracks and turns black." She took a step forward. "Marshal, who does this necklace belong to?"

"Me," Cor replied. "I lost her years ago. She's the one who told me about the conduit, but she never mentioned why the prophesized King would need them. Only that he would require their blessing. You wouldn't happen to know, would you?"

She hung her head. "I'm afraid not. Forgive me, Marshal."

The man put the necklace back into his pocket. "Minor change of plans."

"Yeah? And what's that?" Noctis asked.

"I want to see (Y/n) in action. The rest of you will stand on the sidelines."

"Marshal, I can assure you," Ignis started but was promptly interrupted by Cor.

"It's more to satisfy my curiosity than an evaluation. I'm well aware of the power possessed by guardians. I'm more interested in her unique abilities." The marshal looked over at the (h/c)-haired girl. "Let's depart."

The group left the royal tomb and headed to the next one in Keycatrich Trench. They were all silent until they spotted imperial forces in the distance. Among the soldiers were two mechs, which is what (Y/n) had her sights set on. She snuck off without telling the others and infiltrated enemy ranks.

Prompto was the first to notice her absence when they came to a stop. "Uh, guys? Where did (Y/n) go?"

Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis looked around for her, but couldn't find her. Cor went to make a remark, but he held his tongue when they heard the imperial soldiers screaming and shooting. Looking towards the troopers, they saw the two magitek armors were targeting their fellow imperial soldiers.

When all the soldiers were annihilated, one of magitek armors turned to face the other and fired a single rocket. The second mech exploded into pieces while the first one was suddenly speared with large shards of ice.

The men were in awe and shock at what they had witnessed. Carefully, they approached the remains of the carnage and found an innocent-looking (Y/n) standing among the remains of the exploded magitek armors. She combed her (h/c) locks over her shoulders as the others approached her.

"I don't know what you did, but well done," Cor complimented.

"I only performed a minor lightning incantation on the mechs to manipulate the coding and turn them against their own allies," she explained.

"You made it look like a walk in the park," Noctis commented.

"The way to Keycatrich Trench is clear. We shouldn't linger too long or more imperial forces will show up."

They arrived at the entrance of Keycatrich Trench and Cor took a key out of his pocket and tossed it towards Noctis. "Here's where we go our separate ways. Take this key. It unlocks the doors to the other tombs. Seek them out and lay claim to the power they hold. You'll need it."

Noctis examines the key before meeting the marshal's gaze. "And what will you do?"

"Keep an eye on the Niffs and see if I can dig up more information on this conduit. But you should focus on your own task."

"I will."

Cor turned and left. With the marshal gone, the group proceeded into Keycatrich Trench.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter || Masterlist

[willowbird]

For the prompt thing: Andrew/Neil, trope: sickness/injury, location: violently orange yacht. Have fun! Thanks =)

Ooh definitely!

Since no AU was specified I made it kinda intentionally ambiguous.

Also, so you know, I 100% sat down to write this as a cutesy seasick/comfort w/teasing sorta fic. Then, idk, i got a lil bloodthirsty. Just a little bit, though.

Warning for mentions of blood.

---

"Are you really going to hide down here for the whole time?" Kevin's voice was both tired and annoyed, and just for that Andrew didn't even bother to acknowledge his presence, let alone his words.

Instead, he pointedly turned the page in his book as if there was no one about to bother him at all. They had been out on the water for a whole six hours. Andrew had watched the shoreline get smaller and smaller as they pulled away and when it was just a fine sketch of a line along the horizon he'd gone investigating. Which was how he'd found this hidden little nook in the storage hull or whatever the big room of supplies was in the belly of the boat.

The monstrosity was technically a yacht. Which, by definition, is a pleasure liner - a boat intended for entertainment. This "yacht" was big enough to not only carry but fully house and supply a contingent of college athletes. It was suspiciously fortified and had enough supplies stockpiled away that Andrew was beginning to wonder if he hadn't been kidnapped because it seemed just a little bit excessive for a "weekend away".

Personally, he didn't think his problems were going to go away or even be at all eased by an attempted escape via ugly boat. But he wasn't the only one with those problems. He wasn't the only one hurting. And after almost a year... well, he would grudgingly tag along, but he didn't have to participate.

The damn thing was also the most grotesque shade of claw-your-eyes-out dayglow orange that Andrew had ever seen. Which honestly was one of the reasons he'd already gone inside, as of by hiding in the deepest, darkest corner of the vessel he'd save himself a migraine.

"And Andrew? The Lady Fox has luxury suites for each of us. You can't even hide in your room? You choose to come... here?" Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew saw Kevin give his choice of hideaways a disparaging look.

Without taking his eyes from the page, Andrew lifted one hand and offered Kevin his one-fingered opinion.

The next thing he heard was Kevin's annoyed scoff, followed by his retreating footsteps. Satisfied, Andrew snuggled down a little bit deeper into the conveniently-placed hammock he'd found already strung up when he initially explored the place. The book he was reading had a bit of a slow start, but at least three of the side-characters were interesting enough to carry him through until the plot picked up.

Except, he only got two more pages along when he heard a sudden and quite ominous thump that was accompanied by a muffled groan. The book in his hand was instantly replaced with one of the knives he kept tucked in the armbands he was never without. Some people might call Andrew paranoid for bringing weapons onto a boat where he was surrounded only by close friends and family, with a literal ocean between them and harm. Those people would probably be dead right now, gutted in their sleep by a murderous stowaway. Or maybe that thump was one of his family, being murdered by the murderous stowaway.

Maybe it was Kevin.

That thought put a spike of fear in his heart, but right in its wake came a surge of deep rage.

No. He would not allow it. He had already lost... Enough had happened. He refused to let Kevin be hurt as well.

Andrew got out of the hammock as soundlessly and gracefully as possible, searching the shadows of the only half-lit cavernous space as he inched toward the source of the sound. He kept the blade poised to attack with one hand and pulled out his cell phone with the other. Two thumb-swipes later the had the flashlight enabled.

It wasn't Kevin. Nope. Definitely not Kevin.

Not-Kevin was crumpled in a heap in front of a stack of supply crates that it looked like he'd rolled off of, thus causing the thump Andrew had heard. The groan of pain, however, was clearly not from the fall. Or, well, not just from the fall.

"Who are you?" Andrew demanded, shining the light right on the person's face. They looked like a guy, probably. Short-ish hair and made up of more angles than curves - though it was really hard to tell more than that because the blood-soaked clothes were a little bit distracting.

The injured man(?) on the floor let out a choked, broken sound that Andrew belatedly realized was a laugh. It was so rasped and mangled, he'd almost thought the stowaway was about to launch into their death-throes. Judging by the bloodstains and way the person shook and swayed precariously while trying to push up to their hands and knees, that actually might not have been that far off a guess.

Then the stowaway, the person, the man, said, "Nothing."

Andrew froze. "What did you say?"

"You asked who I was," the man said, and Andrew was sure it was a man now. Moreover, the rough edges around his voice may have been tight with pain and possibly disuse, but even without Andrew's near-perfect memory he would have knows the sharp slashes of that voice anywhere.

The man looked up and in the white glow of Andrew's phone light there was no mistaking how immeasurably blue his eyes were. Like the sky painted from an artist's favorite memory. Like the hint of eternity in a crystal sphere.

Neil smiled. His face was dotted with dried blood and marked with new scars, but the expression still somehow turned the whole world on its head to make it a softer, warmer, safer place.

Andrew wasn't sure what hit the ground first, his phone, his knife, or his knees as he skidded to the floor beside Neil, reaching for him. "Neil... Neil. Fuck. The blood. It's yours? FUCK!" He was babbling, but his own voice was distant to his ears as he touched Neil for the first time in almost a year, as he gathered him close and searched for the source of all that blood.

Shaky hands reached for him and Andrew didn't even think about batting them away. He leaned into their touch even as he turned his face toward the stairs and raised his voice to a shout: "KEVIN! AARON! SOMEONE! NOW!"

"H-hey now, Andrew. Andrew, shh, it's okay. I'm okay, it's okay. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I never meant to be away this long."

"Shut up with your fucking 'sorry's Neil, I don't want your fucking 'sorry' - I want you here and alive and not dying in my goddamn arms I am NOT doing this with you, do you hear me junkie?"

Andrew felt like his entire system was in overdrive, his mind moving too fast and his nerve ending firing off in matching cylinders. They looked for Neil for months. And when they finally got a breakthrough via that fucking miserable twat Jean Moreau, it was only to find out that Neil was likely dead.

Those hands cupped his face, and even though they trembled against his cheeks he still touched Andrew like he was holding something incredibly precious. Something that needed care and protection lest it drop or be crushed.

"I promise, Drew. I did not drag myself halfway back around the world just to die in your arms."

"Do not even attempt to give me that, Neil. That is exactly the kind of dramatic shit you would do."

"Nah," Neil protested with a rough laugh. "Definitely more Aaron's thing. He's such a petty bitch."

"Fuck you," Andrew spat out, but a bubble of what might have bene a laugh caught in his chest. There were running footsteps coming their way, thundering down the steps and into the room.

"Andrew?! Andrew what-- oh my God. Oh my God. AARON GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!" Kevin was still shouting as he came to land beside the two of them, and Andrew almost pulled another knife and stabbed him in the fucking eye as he reached for Neil.

In fact, he didn't even realize he had drawn a knife until Kevin jerked back so suddenly he fell on his ass.

"Jesus! Andrew it's just me. He is covered in blood he needs a hospital!"

"It's mostly not mine," Neil chimed in as Andrew struggled to rein in the half-crazed beast that had taken over the arm not holding Neil. The monster inside him was in fits, and its growl was rumbling in Andrew's throat - kept in check only by the slow stroking of Neil's fingers down his jaw.

"Mostly not yours," Kevin echoed, and even through the haze of Andrew's protective rage, he could hear how dumbfounded the other man was.

"Mhm. And I stitched myself up already."

"Stitched yourself up," said Kevin. Then he looked toward the stairs and bellowed: "AARON!"

Neil sighed and the exasperation in that sound was so fucking familiar that it knocked the beast far enough off its temper for Andrew to take control again. He took a slow breath, then another. When Neil looked up at him again, Andrew asked, "Why? How?"

Neil grimaced. The expression must have been painful, Andrew realized as he watched him - because now that he was really looking he could tell that those new scars on his face were less 'scars' and more 'barely healed torture wounds'.

All Neil said was, "It's a long story."

As Aaron finally came half-falling down the steps on wobbly sea-legs, Andrew decided he would leave it be - for now.

The important thing was that Neil was here, Neil was alive, and nothing - fucking nothing - was going to take him away again.

[sunseteyes]

“mahal kita” — i love you

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ STARRING: café bartender!shinsuke kita; student!gn!reader

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ THEMES: fluff, hints of bullying

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ WORD COUNT: 4.2k words

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ SYNOPSIS: shinsuke kita was your first love, and even if it was unusual of you to do so, you were willing to say it to him, despite the circumstances that you two were in.

ㅤㅤ ↪︎ INTERMISSION: finally!!! i’ve been planning this since december and this actually has a second part! the second part will have kita’s pov mostly so do look forward for that~ it will be posted next week !! also, “mahal kita” is a filipino phrase and it translates to “i love you.” the reader is not filipino but if you want to think if it that way, you could, though the reason why i wanted to incorporate my language here is because i just felt like,,, i had to? hahaha anw, enjoy !! i worked hard for this one :D

the bright light blinds you despite having your eyes closed and as you have an arm covering them. indeed, even the sun was beckoning you to listen to the beaming sound of your alarm that plays on the background like a broken cassette tape, urging you to wake up now or else your schedule would get cut off. you wouldn’t want that, especially during a weekday like today.

groaning as you forced yourself to sit up and rub your hand over your eyes to make the world seem a little bit clearer. you then welcomed the sight of the room that had the sunlight illuminate its four corners, a familiar sight that you see everyday.

and you were growing tired of it, to be honest.

your daily routine had never been that much different as it has always been; getting up, getting dressed, going to school. really, there was nothing else that seemed to have been enough to make your eyes brighten up in excitement, since everything just happens on repeat.

every. single. day.

bringing your hand up to cover your eyes from the blazing sun, you wished you hadn’t forgotten to bring your sunglasses from your dorm as you crossed down the road, cautious with the cars that passed by the street. your gaze drops down to your wristwatch, your feet fastening its pace as you catch sight of your university literally only a few blocks away.

there’s nothing really special with your life; just a normal graduating college student hoping to establish a normal working life with a normal family in the future. the latter seemed quite impossible these days, especially with the constant repeat of your relationships throughout the years. still, there’s nothing wrong in expecting you’d have a good future, right?

maybe, maybe not.

“you’re late again.” you panted as you turned to the person sitting beside you, fixing your things and yourself in the process.

“what did i miss?”

“not much, but the professor is strict with attendance.” tobio eyes you before glancing back to the front of the room, feigning his focus upon the topic the professor was talking about.

“yeah, yeah i know.” you whisper back, doing the same thing as you forced yourself to digest the information that was being spoken of, even if you’re not particularly interested in any of it.

“oi,” your senses came about and it was tobio’s face whom you’d seen first, already standing upright in front of your seat, his bag slung to his shoulders-

“huh?” you look around and see everyone doing the same, looking tired just from one discussion. and it seems you have dozed off while awake all throughout the entire time.

“are you just going to sit here all day or not?”

you then gathered your things and followed suit, heading to the cafeteria but not before stopping by the vending machine to get your regular coffee and tobio’s dairy.

“you sure do like milk a lot, tobio.” you’d tease all the time, and he’d respond with,

“for someone who has trouble sleeping, you still haven’t quite enough of coffee, idiot.”

your friendship with tobio started ever since you were kindergarten, and you believe you two were simply drawn to each other because of how silent you two could be, only leaning into a conversation when it is needed. despite having met each other for so long, you two only began to stick to each other when high school came, after being reunited and seeing a familiar face after such a long time. it was that time that you and him realized how far alike to each other you were, deciding to have a bond that neither expected. plus, he likes watching volleyball matches just as you do. simply put, you found someone who was not much different from you, and you realized how comfortable you were with that—the usual things.

the fear of change and difference was what kept you stuck in the same town, at the same school, at the same status, and at the same way of living. people kept on emphasizing how important it is to look outside the box, but no matter how much you wanted to take a peek outside, you couldn’t, didn’t want to. you were fully convinced that if you dream big, there are just bigger consequences to life than how it usually gives.

“who’s that?”

the whispers and murmurs ripped you from your mind, your attention turning to your classmates who were talking about a certain person, making you involuntarily glance at where they were looking. it was a man—an unfamiliar man inside the university premises. who was he, perhaps? it was the same question as what your peers kept on inquiring to each other.

“you must be the new guidance counsellor!” now came a familiar voice, beaming like a sunshine as how he usually is, his hand extending to the said man with the new face, a certain kind of change that you never expected.

“guidance counsellor? where’s takeda-san?” a series of murmurs emerged again until one eventually said that the previous counsellor had taken a break since his wife had finally given birth to their child. you were never close to him but the casual greetings you and tobio received from the man was enough to call him as a kind person. you will surely miss that now that he’s gone temporarily. just from looking over and observing the new counsellor, you were quite sure that this one is far different from takeda.

you sooner found it out when you were called by one of your professors, specifically one that you knew so well that you were close to saying you had been fed-up in seeing his face all over again.

“(y/n), could you pass this to ojiro-san, you know him, right? the new guidance counsellor.” professor koushi sugawara hands you over an unlabeled folder, about two of them, barely glancing your way as he continues to type with his keyboard, eyes trained over the computer screen in such an intense focus. you often see him like this, but you were too irritated to want to even follow his orders as soon as possible, the frown on your face deepening the more you stare at the man’s figure.

“i’m not your maid here, by the way.” you say to him lowly, and it was a good thing that no one else was near him or you two would be embarrassing yourselves for causing such a scene in a school faculty.

this time, you met koushi’s eyes and you felt yourself bite your own tongue when you saw the familiar bags under his eyes, the rim of his glasses barely covering them and the exhausted look on the way he was gazing at you. you knew how tired he often gets because of his work and you do try to help him out, but he just called you out of a class—the only class that you were enjoying and he just wanted you to deliver a couple of papers to the new guy? you’re not someone he can call for errands that easily, not without some words that needed to be discussed.

“yes, you’re right. sorry about that, my pretty younger sibling.” he still teased you, and you only let out a huff before turning away and heading towards the guidance, not without telling your brother to eat his lunch or else you’ll stop making bento for him—it’s not as if you will but the threat always works because he hates waking up earlier than he should to prepare food.

having a professor as your sibling is kind of weird, especially the first few days of when people have found out about it, but the feeling eventually fades away for it’s very much like when you two were still going to the same school during elementary and high school, and like everything else, you’ve gotten used to it.

“oh, this is from sugawara-san?” ojiro, the new guidance counsellor, looked kind and welcoming, very much like the previous one, takeda. you’re not that much fun of change, but if adjustment is needed, then you have no choice but to abide by it. something about this new counsellor makes you somewhat comfortable with him, and it’s in a good way, you hope.

“thank you, uh-” he drops his gaze to your identification card and like any other who suddenly notices your surname, his eyes widen by a little bit, a wave of realization hitting them in his mind.

then he smiles, warm and friendly. “thank you, (y/n)-san. is it alright to call you by your first name?”

“i don’t mind.” you shrug, inwardly smiling, “thank you, ojiro-san.”

“you met the new counsellor already?” tobio questioned by the time you two were walking home, or rather to the cafe you two usually drop by at before really going home. it was one of the things that you and tobio bond on still, apparently. milk and coffee really are the things that tobio and you love—despite its difference, there was a certain middle ground where both the likes meet.

“yeah, he seems nice.” you say, not paying much attention to what tobio was saying for your eyes were set at the counter of the cafe almost immediately as you both entered the transparent doors, the same head of silver hair with darkened tips standing there, beholding an apron that matched any other worker in the room.

you must have forgot to mention earlier; there are times when excitement runs through you like a battery, powering up every vessel and cell inside of you.

there he is. shinsuke, the most beautiful man you’d ever seen your whole life. and yes, you only knew of his name because it’s on his name badge.

you could hear tobio scoff beside you but you merely brushed him off as per usual, heading straight to the lane of the man that still serves a customer by asking their own orders. tobio, on the other hand, walks to the other line where there were basically no other customers.

“good afternoon,” he greeted by the time it was your turn, and in an instant, there came a smile by your lips, one that you rarely ever give to anybody, to any other time, really. this man just gives you a rush of serotonin in your system that it was difficult for you to not react that way.

“chocolate-chip frappe, like usual?” he offered his own kind smile, and your heart combusted again, like it does whenever he looks at you like that, talks to you like that. you knew it was technically his job to build rapport to customers, but it seems as if there’s no escaping for you to escape this kind of fate.

you like him. if you were given a chance to get to know him more, that might even develop into something more.

“yes, please.” you responded, sounding ever so pleased and joyful than how you’ve acted for the rest of the day early on.

“perhaps you would like to purchase our new year’s special drink?” he says as he points at the small poster from beside him, the image of the drink catching your attention, and if you were asked, even if the poster was that colorful, you doubt that it would tear away your focus from the man on the opposite of you.

“uh-”

“it comes with green tea,” he cuts you off, if he knew you were about to respond. “but i admit you don't seem like the type to order a drink like that, do correct me if i’m wrong.”

“how did you know?”

“you only ever ordered the same drink most of the time,” he says with a straight face, as if calculating in the inside of his mind while looking you in the eye “and whenever i offered you our specials, you only like those that taste sweet or those that fit well with coffee.”

it took you a couple of seconds to reply, and it’s with how you were amazed by his observational skills, a soft and short chuckle leaving your system. “you’re really good. yeah, i actually don’t enjoy my tea when it’s cold.”

he types in your order with a small smirk on his face, and you had to control yourself from not getting flustered by how you were getting to have the chance to see this side of him—one that is far from his formalities as a worker to a customer. it gives you the opportunity to witness and to feel how close he was as a person, like you, sort of like a middle ground. like how milk and coffees are to tobio and you.

“you look like you just won a billion yen.”

you giggled as you sat down in front of tobio, not even trying to hide the giddy, fuzzy feeling you were feeling on the inside now that you were quite far away from the subject of affection.

“maybe i just did.” you say, the scenes of earlier playing by your mind.

this change, this sort of change; you didn’t mind it. him talking to you, you convinced yourself it was a good kind of change that you would gladly adjust upon.

once again, the day passes by in a blur, and tomorrow comes again.

“(y/n)-san!”

your name being called early in the morning by a voice is one thing that you did not expect when you went out of your shared apartment with your brother, and are now walking your way to school.

“ojiro-san,” you acknowledged the call, “good morning.”

“ah, yeah good morning as well.” he greets, finally catching up on your form while slightly panting from jogging towards your way.

“uhm,” you interjected, brows furrowed together as you twiddled upon the earbud that you had to unplug from your ear the moment you heard the counsellor’s call. “-is there something you needed to tell me?” it took a whole lot from you not to act irritated than you usually do whenever you are enjoying a peaceful walk to class, but it’s not as if you expected to have an early conversation with someone as well. it’s not like there’s a lot of people who like having your company other than tobio—you’re not even sure if he enjoys being with you. you’re not really the talkative type either so it’s a win-win situation for everyone. the only times you’d actually like having to initiate a conversation is with the barista at your current favorite cafe.

“ah, nothing much, but could you give this to your brother and tell him that i already found someone for him? oh wait, do you know about it?” he says as he hands you over the same folders that you handed to him early on yesterday. at first, it took you awhile to process his vague question until it finally hit you.

oh right, the very big change coming up for your life.

you nod, tucking the folders by your side. and just when you were about to speak, the sound of the bell rang over your heads that you had to exchange a quick goodbye or else you’re going to be late on your first subject again.

“thanks, (y/n).” koushi smiles brightly at you, despite his quite opposite state, as per usual. apparently, your brother thinks he’s such a great pretender, especially towards you. although you understand his intentions as well and that’s to be positive in front of you to not burden you with his own problems. how did you know? well, he is your brother, you not only knew him because you had been together ever since, but you have some of his bad habits as well, including this.

when you handed him the folders, you watched as he opened them, but you already knew what’s its contents, that's why you didn’t bother to look. leaving the faculty room, you never knew there would come a day where you’d miss going there often.

though before you could even go back peacefully to your classroom and grab both your bag and tobio, the moment you turned to a corner and there, you bumped into someone.

“watch where you’re going, fatass.”

“hey, ain’t you the kid from elementary? wow, you never changed, have ya?”

your whole body ran cold that you froze there, in the middle of the now-empty hallway, unable to breathe properly than you should. scenarios of the past then came like a film at the back of your mind, playing ever so carelessly as they indulge such negative emotions that now rushes through your veins.

a touch was all it took to bring you back to reality, and you heard a familiar voice that probably kept calling you all this time.

brown eyes—the person in front of you had such as his voice chants your name like a prayer, a plea to make you stay sane.

“are you alright? (y/n)-san?” wait… you know that voice.

you just know you had to save yourself from drowning—or was he the one who’s pulling you out?

“shinsuke?” you stuttered; hesitant, unsure. after all, how could someone like him come here at your school? is he delivering orders now?

“are you doing okay? you look pale… do you want me to take you to the clinic? just guide me where and i’ll help you, do you want me to carry you? he barged you with so many questions that your still-hazed mind failed to cope up with most of them. the only thing in your mind is him and how he seemed to have come at such a perfect timing.

“uh-no, it’s alright, i’m alright.” you tried to convince him, but it’s not like you were lying anyway. the moment you saw him, everything else have faded away—at least you tried them to be.

“maybe i should take you outside. come on, you look like you’re in need of some fresh air.” he didn’t ask you furthermore and took you gently by the wrist, ushering you to follow his lead, as if he was the one who had been on these school grounds for years and not you. you doubt he even knew his way around and was just trying to calm you down in some way.

you liked it though. you liked how his warm hand touches your skin, how his mere presence drowns away every other negative thought as if they were dust, too miniscule to even worry about. you liked his soft eyes and how they expressed his concern for you in his own way of doing so. and you liked how his comforting voice soothed over your tensed muscles, as if they massaged their way through just to ease up the bundles of tension in them.

perhaps what you feel towards this man, shinsuke, is more than just a simple admiration that lasted for months. you haven’t given much thought over it in fear that you might not be able to move on and get over, but they were growing day by day, little by little, and now you’re beginning to scold yourself for only realizing it now when it’s too late,

“shinsuke-san,”

you urged the both of you to halt, the murmurs and whispers that you passed by dissipated into faded echoes now that he is looking at you by his ever-so-soft stare, gazing at you with one that you could never fathom what he’s thinking about as he does so. he’s just mysterious, but it’s what makes him too exciting and thrilling to unfold; to see the layers that lay underneath that shell of his, like a crab, protecting its delicious contents, or a pearl inside a seashell. you were sure he’s beautiful inside and out.

that’s why you can’t just shut your mouth about it. you just have to get it out, it’s now or never.

because you’ve never felt like this to anyone, and you sure doubt you’d ever again.

“i love you.” you say, the words slipping out smoothly, rolling by your tongue easier than you ever thought it would. and the moment you realized you were able to let them out, a wave of relief washes over you, it was like your own body and mind was telling you to go and say it, beckoning you to open your heart, no matter what change may come your way.

the look he gave you showed a reaction you’ve never seen from him; furrowed brows, halted expression, it was clear that he was baffled with your sudden confession and that in no way would you have a chance of getting a happy ending today--not that it mattered much. your intention was merely to get it out of your chest.

and you’ve got no regret about that.

“what are-you’re supposed to prioritize yourself first. come on, let me take you to the clinic.” he continued to pull you away, as if that was what he intends to do with your feelings and supposedly-hidden desires for him that are now out in the open. it’s not as if that was what he was doing, but for you, it probably was what he’d do if he took your confession seriously.

“have you eaten your lunch yet, sugawara-san? i mean, (y/n), would you prefer to be called that way instead?” the nurse inquires as she tries to see if there was anything wrong with you aside from the claim of shinsuke’s description of you being pale and quite unresponsive since he apparently spent about a minute or two trying to bring you back to reality. you think he’s just over exaggerating, but you wouldn’t be surprised if that was hailed as the truth by the heavens. after all, there is a very good reason for that to happen anyway.

“uhm, i think i ate a piece of brea, or two.” you say, pondering over it for a moment, trying to recall the happenings before you suddenly remembered to deliver to your brother the folders that the counsellor asked you to do so. “and i don’t mind either way, but i do think it would be best to call my by (y/n) instead.”

by the end, the nurse only gave you an advice to eat more and drink water whilst also giving you some vitamin that you forgot what’s it’s called because you were too busy admiring shinsuke who’s from the side, trying to discuss with the nurse with regards to what could have possibly happened to you.

“thank you, by the way.” you say as you and him walk side by side, on the way towards the exit of the premises since you insisted that you take him there in return to accompanying you at the clinic earlier. “you shouldn’t have done it, but you still did. i’m grateful for that.”

shinsuke looks at you in the eye and your heart starts to beat faster again without your permission.

“there’s no need to thank me, but you should take care of yourself. you can never be full with just a loaf of bread.”

you nervously chuckled, your fingers twiddling as you averted your gaze to the ground. “i had to do something so i got up and abandoned my food, sorry about that.”

“don’t say sorry to me, you should apologize to yourself.”

now you didn’t know he was this naggy, but it surprisingly doesn’t irritate you more than how it should be for most people. it might have been because of your own feelings, but it doesn’t matter, it shouldn’t, anyway.

“still, thank you.” you say, a cheeky smile on your face, one you think you’ve never shown to just anyone, a look that even your brother or tobio would be surprised at because you rarely display it for them either. for shinsuke, it seems that all your insecurities are thrown away, as if your breathing is not withheld and you’re not drowning anymore. no matter how you’ve looked at it, the way shinsuke’s presence makes you more comfortable than you would to anyone else is unusual for you, but you’re on the borderline of being comfortable and not in the situation. if you were asked, you’re kind of.. calm.

“are you coming by at the cafe later? i’d treat you to a cinnamon bun if you’d lie. that’s your favorite, right?”

if you looked flustered, you didn’t have much time to hide them for you were already beaming like the sun from his words, the combination of his offer and your feelings mixing well together to form how you’d react to such a question.

“are you asking me for a date?” a sudden burst of confidence, one might say, but you’re having fun with it, in spite of the newness of the situation and circumstance, urging you to come out of your comfort zone, and shinsuke’s indulging you a bit more.

“as long as you eat, then you may call it that way.”

oh how you’d want to repeat that moment over and over, never changing until the end of time, even if it’s obviously not going to happen.

not when your future is about to change.

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 51- Fallen Angel

(Sorry this is late! i got my vaccine and it mcfucking knocked me out lol)

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

The hermits return to Eremita from a restocking trip, to discover they have been raided. And one hermit has been taken. 

Warning: Capture, slight torture scene

_________________________________

Eremita has become their safe haven, the last bastion for the guild. Even when the arcane guard chased them all the way to the water’s edge, no sane person would dare follow the hermits into the Ashioll sea. Which is exactly why they lived in its mysterious, misty embrace. 

They could no longer simply fly off upon the backs of sky turtles, or even teleport into the towns they frequented. Now, when the hermits absolutely had to go into public for supplies they couldn’t make or grow themselves, they sailed in on Cleo’s pirate ship. And when they had to leave, they made sure that if anyone was following them, they took a roundabout direction back to their home. It adds time, weaving between the islands and through the mists, but ensures no one can guess where they live. 

Cleo’s pirate ship beaches up onto the sand, nestling back into place as a wrecked vessel once more. The dream magic fades, revealing broken oak boards, seagrass growing through seams, and splintered masts of the ghost ship Cleo commands. Hypno blinks free from his sleep, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Already? Man, my dream was just starting to get interesting.” 

With the help of rattling skeletons, their bones held together by magical muscle and sinew, the hermits unload food, meats, fabrics, and more. Enough for months, as if they were preparing to be snowed in after a massive blizzard. Almost all the hermits were a part of the flow of supplies. 

Almost. Only three hermits stayed behind. Zedaph had an accident with his two explosive friends, and while it wasn’t the first time, Grian wanted to keep an eye on the burns in case the magic lingered. Mumbo stayed behind as well, but for very different reasons. One, he was easily recognizable. Everyone knows the multimage that Dolios wants captured alive. Him and Grian are the only two who Dolios demands be captured alive. He also was in the middle of inventing some new contraption, and was not about to leave it behind and lose all his progress. Last Cleo saw of him, he was extinguishing burning locks of hair. She wonders if he’s made any progress, or if he’s burned all his hair away at this point.

Once Impulse and Tango have unloaded their share of the shipment, they go in search of their friend. Both still feel bad for burning Zed, even if it was by accident. And they’ve all been burned at this point in all their years together. But it doesn’t mean they don’t feel bad, especially leaving Zed behind. At least they brought back a caramel apple from his favorite stall in the market, as well as fresh hay for his barn and animal friends. 

“Zed? We have a surprise for you!” Tango calls, his voice twinged with mischief, as if they plan to prank their friend rather than give him a gift. No response comes from the flat roofed barn, except the distant bleat of a sheep. Tango looks at Impulse, fiery hair remaining vertical even as his head tips to the side. “Could he be taking a nap?” 

“You know Zed and his sleep schedule, he wouldn’t interrupt it, even when he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed.” Impulse waves it off. “He probably just isn’t listening, or maybe pulling a prank of his own. Let’s go in.” 

Impulse waves Tango through the gate, careful to keep the sheep, goats, and other farm animals from getting between Tango’s feet and causing his hair to ignite the dry hay in his arms. A horse nips at the bale, but Tango keeps it well away from catching fire. He’s relieved to lighten the load he’s carrying as soon as they're inside the barn. Both mages look to the bed tucked in the corner, but no Zedaph. Tango tosses the haybale aside. “He should be resting.” 

They clamber over the piles of hay, searching every nook and cranny for Zedaph. Even his cookie stash, which they let him believe is still a secret. But Zed is nowhere within the barn he chooses to live in. 

Concern pales both Impulse and Tango’s face, and Tango’s hair reacts in kind to the revelation. “Perhaps he’s being treated by Grian?” 

Tango doesn’t answer, already following the path across the width of the island, from one shore to another. Grian’s floating cloud, the quartz tower with large archways and a glass domed roof. Perfectly built for a sky angel, his wings and speed. Not so perfect for his roommate, and all of Mumbo’s redstone machinery, his own lanky body climbing up onto the solid cloud and stairs to sleeping quarters.

The redstone workshop at the base of the building has been cleaned up, though a few vials seem to have rolled away, as if they were grabbed then subsequently dropped. But, just like the barn, no sign of Mumbo. 

But there is a sound. Echoing from the glass dome, a sniffling, stifling cry escapes from above, followed by a gasping, shuddering breath. Impulse runs up the steps as fast as possible, each bounce from stair to stair accentuated with a tiny explosion to give him more speed. Tango blazes behind, fire burning bright as the sun as energy courses through him. He notices on the way up grey streaks against the pure white quartz. 

“Zedaph?” Impulse breathes, screeching to a full stop. In the center of the room, Mumbo and Zed are huddled close, holding on tight. Their eyes wild with fear, and in Zed’s eyes he can see a shared memory. A shared trauma him, Impulse, and Tango all share. Two hermits, holding onto each other like its their last hope. 

Only two. “Where’s Grian?” 

Mumbo opens his mouth, but a strangled cry only escapes. Tears fall from both their faces, shaking like leaves. Something bad has happened to their friend. Tango slides across the floor, grabbing Zedaph and Mumbo. “What happened? Where’s Grian? Are you hurt?” 

They both shake their heads, but finally Mumbo gathers enough of his voice to speak. It’s weak, broken apart like glass shattering. “He took him.” 

__________________________________________________

A cold, wet air fills Grian’s lungs, biting into his skin like ice on a cold morning. When he tries to open his eyes, the dull ache of his skull becomes sharp, forcing the angel to screw them closed again. Grian grimaces, trying to figure out why he has such a terrible headache. Did he hit his head in training? No, he wouldn’t have been allowed to sleep with the hermits hovering over him. Perhaps he drank too much. Once again, impossible. Grian knows what his hangover is like, and it’s not this. 

He realizes he’s definitely hanging, but not from drinking. Cold, hard metal presses flat against his wrists, suspended over his head. The iron bites into his skin, all his weight rubbing his wrists raw. 

“Good, you’re awake. I was starting to get bored waiting, though I do quite enjoy relishing in finally having my prize thirty years in the making.” The snide, even tempo of Magistrate Dolios’s voice hurts worse than any headache or wrist, and Grian finally manages to open his eyes. The cavern he finds himself in is foreign, not even remotely similar to the brick and iron dungeons where he last woke up in Dolios’s clutches. So long ago, it feels like. The Championship. At the time, he felt like he was at the top of the world. Now? Now he feels like the world was crushing him. 

Grian resists his bindings, but even when he kicks outward, his feet don’t even scrape the dank floor. He tips his head back, until the crown of his head collides with a smooth, hard material. Just at the touch, he can feel the oppressive energy of the crystal. In his vision, he sees the sharp tip of the massive gem. Each wrist is locked tight against the crystal, the nails buried deep in the crystal lattice. 

He looks around, searching for other hermits. For Mumbo, the last face he remembers before…

The memories flood in, cascading alongside the fear and panic. He remembers everything, every terrifying second. Leaving Zedaph to meet with Mumbo, he remembers the scent of marigolds on his hands, just after crushing the petals to make a paste for Zedaph’s burns. The quiet island, most of the other hermits gone. He remembers patting his pocket, the note from his best friend telling him to meet at Iskall’s place. 

But when he arrived, Mumbo was nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t unusual, Mumbo tended to get distracted and be late. So he waited, plucking orange petals from his clothes, hair, and hands. He should’ve noticed the way the wind shifted, becoming cold and stale, before disappearing completely. 

He should’ve realized something was very wrong when the grey stormcloud appeared. But he didn’t. He was so focused on waiting for Mumbo, then on getting rid of the flowers in his feathers, that he didn’t see the husks crawl their way free of the ocean. At least, not until the husk of a soldier came barreling for him, empty glowing white eyes and ashen, flaky form charging with halberd drawn.  

Grian squeaked, dodging the attack. Stumbled over the writhing form of a cactus cat, the fading spines still quite sharp, he was saved by a pair of not-grey arms. 

Not grey arms draped in wine red fabric, the hems decorated in gold thread. He realized who it was immediately, and scrambled to try and get away. But Dolios’s magic kept a strong grip, vines of black twisting and tying Grian’s wings to his back, while a hazy fog had grown around them. 

He remembers the feeling of Dolios’s hands in his hair, pulling him to his feet as he struggled and fought against the vines and the fog that filled his mind. Hands clawing at his binds, even biting the magistrate at one point. He remembers the taste of blood, iron on his tongue and Dolios swearing, blasting Grian with magic. 

And the last thing he remembers, before being knocked out and torn away from his home, was Mumbo’s face. Rounding the corner, completely oblivious to the fight occurring. It was at that moment that Grian realized, when his eyes locked with Mumbo’s that it wasn’t him that sent the letter. The confusion, of seeing Grian, the surprise on his face. He was walking towards the infirmary, dropping the box  in his hand upon seeing the sight before him. 

The fear on Mumbo’s face matched Grian’s own, as he was dragged into the sea. A second later, a swift burst of sonic energy knocked him out. 

And now he’s here. Dolios saunters across the room, gathering ingredients and writing down notes. Grian swings his legs, and summons his wings to try and be free. But as soon as the blue and white feathers appear, they crumble into ash. Crushing weight sets in on his head, his shoulders, his lungs, and his magic, and the crystal he’s trapped against hums with power. “You’re quite different from the last angel I hunted. At least you fought back, but in the end they left me without the gift of their magic. This time, I’m not letting anything go to chance.” 

The magistrate sets his bowl of guts aside, approaching the crystal and Grian. His hands are clasped behind his back, shoulders straight and head held high. The weight of the oppressive dark magic doesn’t bother him. Grian’s not ready to give up just yet. He attempts to kick Dolios, but the dark mage stands mere centimeters out of reach. So Grian decides to use his words. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?” 

“I’ve been told that once or twice before, yes. But the rest of Lairyon loves me. And why wouldn’t they? I’ve brought prosperity to this kingdom, done more than that stupid rainbow king could ever do, and all of this because of my power.” Dolios sweeps his hands, vapors of dark magic swirling from his fingers as his fingers clench to fists

“Stolen magic. If the citizens knew, they’d hate you just as much as I do.” Grian reels back his head, and does the best he can to annoy Dolios. He spits on him. The glob of spit lands on Dolios’s cheek, the magistrate flinching, then reaching up and wiping it away. A fresh anger in his eyes. 

“And who would believe you? An outcast mercenary orphan? The last of your kind?” Dolios stoops low, plucking a husked feather from the floor. He walks back to the table, mixing the components and ingredients from his jars of death with Grian’s feather. “Your power is rare. Angelic mages are always powerful, a power I crave. You will be a wonderful addition to my collection of magic. The last of the angels to complete my set!” 

A fearful shiver ricochets down Grian’s spine. “You’re going to turn me into a husk?” 

“Oh, gods no!” Dolios laughs, so loud that it echoes off the cavern walls as he throws his head back, brown curls dancing across rich fabric. “I wouldn’t dare waste such magic to become simple energy for me and my beast. No, no. Do not fret, little bird, you will become so much more. I don’t plan to drain your energy. I plan to steal it.” 

The hunger in Dolios’s eyes as he turns, the concoction in his hand, Grian realizes what he's seen all this time in Dolios’s eyes. Hunger. A madman hellbent on taking what he sees as rightfully his.. A predator stalking his prey. And Grian was cornered, pinned. Unable to fight back, unable to fly away. Fear is replaced by terror, a sensation Grian struggles to fight back. He needs to think clearly if he hopes to survive. 

“The last angel died before my powers were…” Grian pauses, seeing the coy smile on Dolios’s face. 

“I always had a-” Dolios pauses, waving his hand nonchalantly before marking the ground around the crystal spires with dark seal. “-fascination with angelic wizards. A dear friend of mine in my youth was one. Ever since then, I knew I had to have that kind of magic in my collection. So strong, each and every one of you. With magic even the ancient ones revered. And now?” 

Dolios steps back, casting his magic circle. Rather than emitting color and light, it absorbs all color to make the pattern of his magic. He raises his hands, and two satellite crystals awaken. Darkness swirls in the lattice of the gems, mist eeking out through pores and filling the cavern with darkness. When the mist reaches the seal surrounding the crystal Grian’s chained to, the spire behind him, pressed against his back, activates. The pressure on his body, his magic becomes unbearable, breaking into pain. Like a harpoon through his chest, the dark magic takes hold. Biting down, biting in. 

And slowly, agonizingly stealing his magic. So intrinsically tied to his soul, hsi lifeforce, it feels as if his very being is being dragged from every inch of his body in contact with the crystal. He writhes to escape the painful magic, but the bonds hold firm and he struggles to catch his breath. Dolios steps back, basking with ravished delight at the scene before him. Enjoying the pain that tears at Grian’s skin, soul, and spell. “Now the magic will soon be mine.”

[swtorramblings]

The Many in the One

For Day 3 of Mace Windu Appreciation Week.

Crossover: There are plenty of interesting works of fiction and fictional characters out there, let’s see Mace interacting with one, or more! Is it someone from another sci-fi series? Or another Samuel L. Jackson character? The sky’s the limit for who he might meet.

Sorry, but romance? Ships? I’d need a much longer run up for anything like that, if I could make it work at all. I should have started earlier in the month, I guess. Well, unless it was set to Disney music. Hmm… So, I went with the alternative. As such, it is quite a bit more far-fetched than the previous stories. Hopefully still all right, though. It’s also longer.

“Unlimited power!” As the last words Mace was ever going to hear, those were especially stupid. And horribly frustrating. He’d protected the Republic all his life. Dying now to this tyrant that had installed himself as its ruler, with the approval of so many, crushed his hopes long before it was going to crush his body. It was almost a relief when he was flung out the broken window. He fell, his final thoughts devoted to trying to find a solution, something that could have been done differently, tormenting him with answers that no one could have known until it was much too late. Then, he had a vision. Wolves, racing in a circle. A way to make another chance, a portal opened in the past, but reaching out to him now, and echoing into the future and the past. He reached for it with his remaining hand, closed his eyes, and pulled. He landed on a path, floating strangely in space. He had expected to be crushed by the fall, still, but looking around, his survival in this strange place was probably the least surprising thing about it. He could sense them out there, all of those that had ever been able to access this place, this world between worlds. In this place, there was only this one moment, so they were all here. Thousands of them, perhaps. Along with several other Mace Windus. He tended to his injury first. The wrist was cauterized, so he was in no danger of bleeding to death, but he wanted to be sure it wouldn’t cause him any further issues, other than having to adjust his fighting techniques. Then he remembered that he had lost his lightsaber along with the hand. He realized also that he was still in shock, from the fight, from the failure. No point in dwelling on it. He set off, exploring this strange place. He found several portals back to the galaxy, but recognized them for the past. He was tempted, to go through one, to warn them, perhaps even to warn himself. As he explored, though, he realized that he would unravel reality if he did so. What had happened was tragic, but he couldn’t risk making it even worse. Then, strangely, he found himself, but not as he had ever been. It wasn’t his past, and he had no future, so who was this? He was certain that it wasn’t just a random resemblance, but truly himself, and yet not. This portal, he could feel, was safe. More, it was necessary. He stepped through. The other him was startled, of coursed, but calmed himself quickly and echoed Mace’s own thoughts from earlier. “Well, you’re not the strangest thing I’ve seen lately.” “No, neither are you. Where am I? Who are you?” “It’s hard to explain. We’re inside a vessel from the far future, where a horrible accident flung it here. I’m Dr. Harry Adams.” “Ah, that does make sense. Mace Windu.” “That’s an odd name.” “I could say the same. Anyway, I’m dealing with time travel right now myself.” “Because of course you are. The problem is, this machine is twisting our own thoughts against us. I’m trying to be dispassionate, but my own fears will add to the others eventually if we can’t get them under control.” He felt it, pulling at him as well. Power to make his thoughts real, if he let it, if he could remain focused, but horribly destructive if he lost control. He smiled at his latest apprentice. “That, at least, I think I can help you with.”

The training took some time, but their unique situation made it possible, still. He didn’t have to train Harry in all the nuances of the Force, or lightsaber combat, strategy, or any of the myriad things a Jedi might need. Only the technique of self-control, awareness, and letting go. Still, it probably took years. Harry was normally too old to have accepted this teaching, but they had the time. Eventually, he shook hands with his teacher, and left the sphere. Mace knew he would eventually have to return to the path. He also realized that he had already done what he was about to do. He was beginning to hate time travel. He returned to the world between worlds, allowing himself to be drawn back. He looked at his new hand, a robotic one similar to the one Skywalker sported, created with the Sphere’s power. It made him uncomfortable, but something had told him that he would need it soon. The other item he’d created while in the Sphere he drew from his belt. As he pressed the switch, the purple light made him smile.

He came to another portal, seeing himself once again, an older man who had endured a great deal, and was using that experience to save others, to force them to act together to save themselves. Moments later, he died, horribly. Mace waited for the scene to start over again. He could appreciate irony, and knew he probably shouldn’t interfere, but this went too far. He was speaking his last words now. “But first, we’re going to seal off this…” Mace jumped through the portal and struck just as the massive aquatic beast emerged from the water, slashing through it with his lightsaber, driving it, badly wounded, back into the water. Then he raised his hand, strained for a moment, and brought down the heavy steel door slamming down to seal this entryway. His counterpart backed away, gaping at him in fear. He tried to smile reassuringly for a moment, but it wasn’t working, so he turned to the others. “All of you, are you going to listen to this man?” They just stared. “I said…” Uncharacteristically, he raised his voice. He preferred calm persuasion, but it seemed like what they would respond to. “ARE YOU GOING TO LISTEN TO THIS MAN?” They all started nodding vigorously. One of them said, “Yes, anything he says.” “Good. Maybe you’ll get out of here alive.” Two journeys, both underwater. He wondered if Master Fisto should have been on this journey, but the job had fallen to him. Still, he liked the idea that he was honoring his old friend here. He hoped he would approve, even if he had to hurt the sea creature. He nodded to himself, who nodded back, and stepped back onto the path.

He saved a brutal man, a version of himself that was a paid killer, with a simple telekinetic trick to divert the projectiles that would have killed him. This also saved this version’s friend, but only for the moment. The other him, though, decided to do better. As a small reward, Mace got a glimpse of something in a case his other self carried, and was comforted for a moment by its golden light. Really, the snakes were no trouble at all. His fragile but brilliant self Mace attempted to persuade from his path, but he was too enamored of his own theories about the way the world worked to be changed. A shame. The leader, the manipulator, the organizer, he also couldn’t save, gunned down in his apartment. Mace eventually replaced him, knowing that his work wasn’t done, learning enough of this strange world to be able to explain how he had lived through the attack that his allies found plausible. It was a good life for a time, though the eyepatch sometimes itched. Eventually, though, after having seen himself in many lives and many circumstances, his own hair grown and gray, he knew his time was nearly over. Through one last portal, before he returned to that moment on Coruscant, he heard his own voice, impossibly helping a young woman, a young Jedi, long after his own death. He knew he had to return to be there when she would need them all, so he went back to that first portal, finally, and fulfilled his fate and his duty with no regrets. Mace Windu became one with the Force, like all before and after him, but had touched the multiverse. How could he have regrets?

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 7: Forget Everything You Know]

Hi y’all! I just wanted to take a moment to thank you all so much for reading and for showing me and my fics some love. You better believe that I see EVERY. SINGLE. reblog, comment, tag, and message, and they mean the absolute world to me! I know that a lot of content creators are frustrated and taking breaks right now, but rest assured you will not be able to get rid of me if even a SINGLE person looks forward to something I write. I’ll finish this fic (eventually), and I’ll finish the next one too (it already has a name!), and I won’t disappear or leave the Queen/BoRhap fandom at any point in the foreseeable future. Lots of love to you all, stay safe, and I hope you enjoy! 💜 💜 💜

Chapter summary: Y/N brings home some friends; Brian attempts an intervention; John draws a line; Roger gets an answer.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

“Smile, everyone!” Your dad peeks through the viewfinder of the Canon F-1 and beams. “One...two...three...say Queen!”

“Queen!” you all shout gleefully. The flash illuminates the dining room, and you blink away momentary blindness. The table materializes back into vision: lobsters, clams, haddock chowder, sourdough bread, fried oysters, pierogis with Vermont cheddar cheese, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes...and, of course, Boston cream pie for dessert.

“Ah, perfection,” your dad sighs contently. “Please continue, Mr. Mercury.”

“Mr. Mercury!” Brian whines, incredulous. “Like he’s got a bloody PhD or something!”

Freddie cracks a lobster claw. He hasn’t taken his sunglasses or wrist-full of clanging bangles off all afternoon. Your parents are profoundly confused by him, but welcoming nonetheless. “I’m a professor of lusciousness. Pay attention and you could learn something.”

Brian rolls his eyes and dunks a hunk of sourdough bread into his chowder.

“So,” Freddie tells your mother between bites of lobster dripping with drawn butter. “Our darling damsel in distress was in the clutches of that horrid, dodgy wanker when none other than our very own Roger Meddows Taylor—”

“You weren’t even there!” Brian protests. “I wasn’t even there! This is, what, a third-hand account?!”

“Eat your soup, peasant. Thank you. Anyway, our beloved Roger comes raging out of nowhere, red-faced, nostrils flaring, a terrifying sight to behold, grabs this guy by his hair and slams his despicable face directly into a marble column. Broken nose, cracked orbital socket, blood everywhere! It was magnificent. I’ve never been more proud.”

“Good for you!” your mother cheers, patting the back of Roger’s hand encouragingly. He smiles at her, warmly, radiantly, like the wildfire he’s always reminded you of. And you marvel at how every human on this earth is made of the same fundamental components—blood and muscles and vessels and nerves, hearts and enigmatic brain matter and ribs, vulnerable parts, armored parts, all webbed together like nature’s own organic circuit board—and yet the marks they leave on you can feel so different: burns, scars, bruises, shadows, imprints that are deep enough to brush bone and never fade.

“Mom, the guy could have died!”

“Did he?” she asks innocently.

“Nope,” Roger says.

“Well then, Mr. Taylor here is a hero in my book.”

“Mr. Taylor!” Brian groans.

“I was petrified he would turn out to be the son of an executive or producer or something and the band would be ruined,” you say. “Fortunately he was just someone’s annoying frat brother from college who already had a reputation for being a sleazebag. So, we were in luck.”

“You were in luck that Mr. Taylor was there,” your mother points out, gazing at him dreamily. This delightful English boy is going to be my son-in-law and give me gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says.

“Yes, a literal superhero,” John says ruefully, sipping a Manhattan. Your dad has a passionate love for mixing cocktails, especially for guests who also happen to be rock stars.

“Mom. Don’t make his ego any bigger, please. I’m begging you.”

Roger snarls around a mouthful of Boston cream pie, sending your mom into a fit of giggles.

“I’m just glad you’re okay, dear.” She smooths your hair. “And that you have people to keep you safe all the way over there across the ocean, and that you’re happy.”

“Yes, your work environment is much improved, isn’t it?” Brian says. “That supervisor you had at the hospital was an absolute bear!”

Your dad strokes his short grey beard. “Well...” he admits. “That may have been my fault.”

Brian’s brow crinkles. “Really?”

Your mom turns to you. “You didn’t tell them?!”

“Oh, is there a scandalous backstory?” Freddie inquires, elated. “Do tell, darling!”  

“Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away—just kidding, it was here in Boston—my archnemesis Patricia and my dad dated.”

Roger drops his fork, appalled. “No!”

Freddie’s nose wrinkles in revulsion. “Why?!”

Your dad rocks back in his chair and laughs loudly, heartily. “She wasn’t always so cantankerous, if you can believe it. She was a sweet girl, wonderful even. But then I met my future wife, and...” He smirks guiltily. “What can I say? The heart wants what it wants!”

You nod along. “And I got the illustrious honor of being an outlet for the frustration stemming from Patricia’s lifelong unrequited love.”

“You saucy minx!” Freddie playfully lashes your mom’s shoulder with a cloth napkin. “Homewrecker!”

She chuckles, not the least bit offended. “People get together under all sorts of strange circumstances, and you know what? You can’t wreck a home if the home wasn’t already half-wrecked before you got there, that’s what I think.”

Roger raises his Patriot’s Punch. “I’ll drink to that.”

Brian clutches his New England Express, bewildered. “Are we...toasting to infidelity?”

“Oh, does that horrify you?” Rog asks sarcastically. Brian grimaces, but dutifully raises his glass.

“We’re toasting to love,” your dad clarifies. “However it comes, as long as it’s true.”

John holds his Manhattan aloft. “To love.”

Freddie clinks his Flying Elvis against the other beverages, including your parents’ wine glasses and your Cranberry Crush. “Cheers!” Then Fred glances at the clock and swiftly polishes off his slice of Boston cream pie.

“Can’t you all stay a little longer?” your mom pleads, collecting plates and gazing longingly at Roger. “This has been so much fun...”

“They have soundcheck at seven, Mom. We have to leave for the stadium soon.”

“Well, before you jet off to your next adventure, can I treat anyone to a long distance call?” your dad asks.

Brian perks up. “Really?!” You know there’s a ring in the future for Chrissie; not an expensive or extravagant ring (not that Chris would want that anyway), but a ring nonetheless. You know because Brian has taken you shopping to help him choose one.

“Of course! You can use the phone in my office. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all. I’m sure there are some lovely ladies back in jolly old England who would be over the moon to hear from you.”

“That would be very much appreciated!” Brian says. “And thank you so much, this has been such a treat, you have no idea how long it’s been since we had a proper homemade meal.”

“I had to rehabilitate the reputation of us Yankees, didn’t I? Now come on, Mr. May, I’ll show you to the office...”

“Mr. May...I like the sound of that!”

“Ten minutes, Bri!” Freddie calls, following them down the hallway. “Then it’s my turn...!”

You begin gathering up the empty glasses, but Roger promptly snatches them away. “No way, Boston babe. You go relax. I’ll help your mom.”

“I think she’s in love with you.”

He grins. “Do you have a secret stepdaddy fetish I could exploit?”

“Oh my god. Roger.”

He snickers and sweeps off into the kitchen. It’s only then that you realize John has disappeared. You check the kitchen, the living room, the hallway, the study, and finally the front porch; John is standing outside in the cold, smoking and watching the setting sun. The sky is threaded with cerulean, rust orange, lavender, indigo. You pull on your coat and go out to join him.

“We’ll make it to Florence one of these days,” you promise John, resting your arms on the wooden, white-painted porch railing. Your mother hung baskets of fresh flowers for the band’s visit, which swing lazily in the breeze. “Crank out a few more hits and we’ll get the record company to add it to the tour itinerary.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice.”

“Are you going to call Veronica?”

He shrugs, frowns, exhales a lungful of smoke into frigid New England air. “I don’t know if I should.”

“You don’t think she’d like that?” you ask, confounded.

“I think she might like it too much.”

“Ohhhhh.” You read his soft greyish eyes, which are faraway and somber, sad even. “I’m sorry, John. You know she’s wild about you.”

“I know it.” He takes a drag off his cigarette. “She’s the first person who ever was, actually. The first person who ever noticed me. Came up to me out of the blue at a disco and asked me to dance, me! So I said yes, like you do when you’re the guy nobody notices. And then I said yes again, and again, and again, until one day I realized...oh, this girl thinks we’re getting married. When the hell did that happen?”

“I noticed you,” you contest.  

John chuckles and nods. “You did,” he agrees. “Right away. Tried to win me over when I was too nervous to finish a sentence around you. But that was long after I’d met Veronica.”

“Well, you can’t break up with her tonight. On Valentine’s Day?! That would be traumatic.”

“Agreed.”

“We’ll have a few days in London between the American and Asian legs of the tour. You can think it over and decide what to do then. I’m happy to arrange the getaway taxi if that’s something that interests you.”

“Yeah.” Again, he peers out into the Western horizon, into rising stars.

“John?”

Now he looks to you. He’s a little too thoughtful, too low. There’s something you’re not seeing.

“...Is there somebody else?”

He doesn’t speak; he just stares at you with those velvety azure-grey eyes, drums his fingers against the railing, lets the ash from his cigarette crumble into the snow-dusted Blue Pacific Junipers.

Roger barrels through the front door and out onto the porch. “There you are, Deaks! I thought we were going to have to find a new bassist. Enlist Nurse Nightingale’s mum or something.”

John smirks and crushes the rest of his cigarette in your father’s ashtray. “I suspect you’d do just fine without me.”

“Oh no. No way. Not happening.”

“That’s kind of you,” John says, unconvinced.

“Here, I’ll prove it.” Rog holds out his calloused hand. “If you ever leave, I leave too. Come on, Deaks, shake on it. It’s official. It’s a pact. There’s no Queen without John Deacon.”

Reluctantly, trying not to show how pleased he is, John shakes. “Alright.”

Roger grins triumphantly. “Signed, sealed, delivered. You’re ours for life, baby.”

“Deaky, do you want the phone?!” Freddie yells from inside the house.

John sighs and exchanges a knowing glance with you. “I guess I should say hi.”

“Okay, but quickly!” Rog presses. “We gotta go!”

“So bossy...” John ducks inside; and Roger, though he’s not wearing anything over his pale pink button-up shirt—sufficiently sophisticated to impress your parents—comes to the porch railing to join you.

“You’re not staying out here, are you?” You eye his thin shirt worriedly, the goosebumps rising over his collarbones, his bare forearms where he rolled up his sleeves to help your mom wash the dishes.

He tosses you a mischievous wink. “I’ve got no one to call.”

Roger looks up at the hanging baskets of flowers, plucks out a cerise carnation, and offers it to you. You mean to say something witty, something sardonic, something that will make him laugh; but all your words vanish into cold February air. You take the carnation, smiling helplessly.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Roger whispers.

You just let me know if you ever change your mind, okay?

Okay.

He turns to go back inside the house.

I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him.

Then Roger pauses in the doorway. “You coming, Boston babe? I can’t have you catching pneumonia or something. I won’t know how to fix you.”

Oh, you realize, with horror and yet relief, all those grueling lies stripped away. It’s too late.

~~~~~~~~~~

You knock on the frame of the dressing room door. “Hi Bri!”

He glances over from where he sits in front of the mirror, rimming his eyes with inky liner. Soundcheck went swimmingly, and now Queen has thirty minutes until they need to be onstage. You can hear the disembodied reverberation of voices from the waiting crowd through the walls. “Hello, love. Come in.”

“Freddie said you needed to see me. Did you rip a sleeve or something? I brought my kit—”

“No, it’s not that.” He pats the chair beside him. The boys practically always get ready together before a show, but you suspect profoundly introverted Brian is experiencing one of his post-socialization crashes after dinner with your parents. Something about him is tired, very tired, almost drained to empty. “Join me.”

“Sure,” you say cautiously. You shove your medical kit onto the countertop and then reach to feel his forehead. “Are you feeling alright...?”

“I’m fine, love. I just have a favor to ask.”

“Anything.”

Brian sighs deeply, sets down the eyeliner, swivels his chair towards you. “I need you to promise me that you’re not going to start seeing Roger.”

You titter, deflecting, brushing Brian’s hair away from his troubled, angular face. “Well, as the official Queen touring nurse, I see him quite a lot.”

Brian catches your wrist. “I’m being serious.”

Now your brow knits into tight agitated lines. “I’m curious as to why you think that’s something you have a say in.”

“Bloody hell, I’m not trying to offend you—”

“Job well done.”

“Dear, please, listen to me—”

“Eight months,” you hiss through your teeth as you tear away from him. “For eight months I’ve listened and avoided and resisted and ignored and it’s not going away.”

“Oh, fuck,” Brian breathes in despair. “You love him.”

There are tears biting in the periphery of your vision; you don’t want them to be there, but they are. Your voice is hoarse and trembling. “Bri, please don’t.”

Brian shakes his head and motions with his hands frenetically, desperately, trying to make you understand. “Look, sometimes...sometimes the people we love, the people who own us, the people who fucking set us on fire...they’re not the people we end up with. And that’s not always a bad thing. It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.”

You gape at him, furious, stunned. “That’s just fantastic, Brian. You’re a true romantic. Jesus christ, does Chrissie know about this? Is that why you’re with her, because she’s, what...safe?!”

“No, that’s not fair, Chrissie’s great, she’s steady and supportive and she’ll make a wonderful mother one day, and my parents adore her—”

“Those aren’t reasons to marry someone, Brian!”

“They are!” He leaps to his feet. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! You have to think about these things, you have to be rational, you have to protect yourself—”

“Why the fuck do you care?” you flare bitterly.

“Because you saved my life.”

“Stop it, I didn’t.”

“You did, I truly believe that. And I want you to stay with the band. And I want you to be happy. But, dear, please, I’m begging you...this is not the way to do it.”

“I’m not going to go out to some pub and drag home a random guy who’s suitably passionless and predictable enough to be Brian-May-approved.”

“That’s not what I’m asking you to do—”

“Because you’re such an expert on relationships!” you shout, exasperated. “Planning to propose to Chris while you’re still secretly pining over some fling from New Orleans, fucking groupies and then having the nerve to mope around guilt-ridden the next morning as if anyone but you was responsible for that decision, and do I say anything about it?! Do I ever say a single fucking word about it to you, or Fred, or Roger, or your future wife, or anybody?! No, because it’s not my life!”

The dressing room door flies open and John storms inside. “What’s going on?!”

You cross your arms and stare at the floor. Brian’s wide green eyes flick to John, to you, back to John. If it was Freddie, Brian would tell him in a second, would try to enlist him in the effort, and it would probably work; but John is a different story. John won’t side with Brian over you, everybody knows that. And John has a talent for sharpening words into blades. “Um. Nothing.”  

“I could hear you in the hallway,” John says flatly. “Obviously it wasn’t nothing.”

Brian points to you. “Have you tried to talk her out of this? Maybe you should, maybe she’d listen.”

“It’s not my choice to make, just like it isn’t yours. Worry about your own body count. It seems to be growing exponentially these days.”

Brian scoffs. “Because you’d be so thrilled if she ended up with him, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” you demand.

Brian and John glare at each other from across the room. John raises his eyebrows, daring Bri to answer. Brian gnaws his lower lip, but doesn’t elaborate. The air is heavy, tense, electrified.  

“Don’t upset her again,” John says darkly.

Brian shows the white palms of his hands in surrender. “Fine.”

John waves for you to follow him. “Come on.” And he slams the door behind you as you both escape into the hallway.

“I’m sorry.” You chase away stray tears with the back of your hands. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to get anyone worked up right before the show...”

“Don’t worry about it. I treasure any excuse to harass Brian.”

You study him, seeking answers, seeking more than you know how to put into words. “Do you think I’m being stupid? If you do, you can tell me.”

“No,” John responds carefully. “I think you’re being hopeful. And I’d like to believe that stupidity and hopefulness are two very different things.”

You smile. “I don’t deserve you.”

“That’s very inaccurate.” He fluffs his hair with his fingertips. “Do you want to touch it before we go on stage?”

You feign demureness. “Hmm...”

“Oh come on. You know you want to. It’s extra voluminous right now, Roger shared some of his magical mousse or whatever. Something way too expensive. You should thoroughly berate him for it.”

You laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.” You comb your hands through his brunette hair, and John’s right; it’s extraordinarily full and soft, and smells like honeysuckles. “You always know how to get me smiling, don’t you?”

“You do insist that I have game. Though I remain skeptical.”

“Good luck tonight. Not that you need it.”

John’s rough thumb lifts your chin, then whisks away a tear you missed. “You’ll be watching, right?”

“I always am.” And that’s the truth; you haven’t missed a Queen show since you met them.

He beams, those gentle grey eyes incandescent. “Then we’ll have an ocean of luck.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Exactly twenty-four hours later, Queen is in New York City.

The thunderous bassline of the opening act shudders through the concrete walls. You’re staring yourself down in the bathroom mirror under harsh florescent lights, your palms gripping the cold rim of a white sink, your eyes shimmering with black and gold shadow, your lip gloss slick and crimson. There’s not a single thing left to do. You’re running out of time.

You breathe in, breathe out, snatch your purse off the floor, breeze out into the hallway.

You can hear the boys’ laughter even before you open the dressing room door. Inside, Brian is tuning his Red Special with his mantis-like legs propped up on the countertop, John is attempting to teach Freddie how to make popcorn in a microwave without setting anything on fire, Roger is scrutinizing his hair in the mirror and frowning as he rearranges it with a comb.  

“Hello, darling!” Freddie warbles. “Can I interest you in some delicious and expertly-prepared popcorn?” He opens the microwave, and smoke pours out. “Oh, you bitch!”

“I’ll pass, Freddie.” You glide to where Roger is sitting, knot your fingers through his blond hair, and tug his head back so you can kiss him. He tastes like mint gum and the ghost of smoke and reckless intemperance; he tastes like everything you’ve ever wanted. There are gasps, and surely dropped jaws as well; but you don’t have eyes for them. “Okay,” you tell Roger.

He stares up at you with huge, starry eyes, a dazed grin slowly lighting up his face. “You changed your mind.”

“Come find me after the show.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You move to wipe your blood-red gloss from his lips, but Roger stops you, knits his hand through yours, stands to meet you.

“Leave it,” he murmurs. “I want them to know.”  

“Want them to know...?”

His lips touch yours again, smiling and scorching and ravenous. “That I’m yours.”

[new-endings]

fic idea # 735 - Parasite AU 

or But it was all just a metaphor

((in the good omens universe, some demons including beelzebub, hastur, and ligur have animals on their heads, and it's popularly postulated that these are their true forms. but what if these creatures are the "demon"— sinister, insidious things—that have taken over the empty vessel of a fallen angel?

the "demon" itself is a parasite. it latches onto these fallen angels, no longer protected and shielded by Her and it feeds off the remains of their divinity, their souls, until what's left is an empty husk.

when the first angels fell, their transformation to demons didn't happen simultaneously. the fall, yes, the pain, the loss of Her Grace, Her love—ripped open and left to fall at different speeds, that was within an instant—

but not the transformation.

not quite.

but crowley...crowley’s a bit different. he has a mark of a snake. he can transform into a snake. this can mean that sometimes— sometimes, the parasite can fully take over. but not always.))

the being known as crowley has been staving off a complete transformation for millennia. he doesn't quite know how he's managed for so long—maybe because he'd always been different from the other fallen. maybe different enough to see the creature and instead offer it a deal.

after all, who would want to fully animate a celestial vessel full-time?

or maybe it's because of the strange little angel by his side, the brightest, warmest Light he'd known since the vaguest memories of Heaven—that when the parasite first saw him, there upon the garden's wall—even it was drawn instantaneously and slithered up by pure instinct.

crawley, as he was called at the time, didn't know why. all he knew was that he had to make painfully, awkward conversation with the strange angel up there as the parasite suddenly receded back into the crevices of his soul, leaving the fallen to quietly basked in the strange angel's Grace.

it happened again and again as time marched forward and the humans populated the earth. always, always, the parasite would find the angel but always retreated leaving—now crowley— to deal with him and now…

crowley grew accustomed. crowley grew comfortable. and crowley grew to look forward to these meetings.

yet the more he saw him, the bolder the parasite would be. what was stretches of epochs between meetings became once every few centuries—and then Rome happened.

crowley had been miserable. and then this angel— his angel, something purred at the back of his mind— invited him for lunch, a little "temptation" of his own making.

there was a thunderstrike of realization and crowley understood then what this parasite wanted.

it wanted this angel to fall.

crowley thinks for thousands of years that the parasite wants aziraphle to fall so it can take over the principality as its host instead of crowley. after all, to crowley, aziraphale is pure light, unlike anything crowley's ever seen. of course he’d attract it like a beacon, finding him far more appetizing than the charred remains of crowely’s own dwindling light he has to offer.

and it's no secret that aziraphale...doesn't...always excel at his job. the poor dear tries but… he’s the living example of “the road to hell is paved with good intentions.” he tried to rent out the entire inn for mary and joseph— he ends up forgetting to tell the innkeeper who the rooms are for, forcing the son of God to be born in a manger. he tried to avert the whole "Nero disaster” by turning the boy's aspirations to music for God's sake. that’s not to say that aziraphale was incompetent—but every flaw cataloged by heaven made crowley more and more nervous.

so the arrangement was born. crowley could take over his jobs for him—and so aziraphale can bungle up his jobs in turn. that way aziraphale can get a double commendation for doing his work properly— and for inadvertently messing things up with the other side.

((doesn't work. aziraphale absolutely excels at being a demon. he carries out temptations flawlessly. this is a great source of stress on crowley for centuries))

in the 1800s, crowley and aziraphale have a massive fight. crowley asked aziraphale to get him some holy water. a single drop is enough to kill a demon. crowley asked this for protection, in case the agents of hell found out about their arrangement.

and aziraphale denied him because it would be too dangerous, but what's interesting-- what's really interesting--

is that aziraphale's immediate reaction was to call the holy water "a suicide pill!" in this iteration, the context can have a very, very different meaning in that aziaphale is right: crowley would intend to use it on himself. aziraphale knows crowley by now. has known him for millennia. and he's right. it's a last resort if crowley ever feels that his control slips, that the parasite takes over, he has to have a way to take care of the problem before aziraphale becomes targeted by the creature lurking inside him.

and crowley does slip.

when crowley runs into the burning bookshop, reaches out and pleads to the parasite's senses to comb through the fire and ash in the air, and screams out that he can't feel aziraphale anywhere—that's when his control crumbles.

he's given up.

he's lost his angel.

there was nothing left in this world now. nothing left to do but to let the wars rage.

so he gives in. this vessel is his.

-

((from there, it’s a canon divergence from when aziraphale comes to the bar, seconds too late as the creature takes over. notice how hastur was scared of crowley during his drive through the wall of flames? he could likely smell exactly what crowley had become now.

canon events still occur with crowley acting...acting just a smidge off. a little less dramatic. a little ...darker.

but he's there at the airbase, willing to stand by his angel's side. this demon's been waiting for millennia to have that angel for himself. so he stands his ground. he won't waste the golden opportunity.

the meddling fallen...

maybe a fragment of him still exists in there.

maybe he's there when he sees their angel, their sweet, clever, wicked thing propose the switch

maybe he's there at the crevices of his mind when he spits hellfire at the archangels and rejoices with him as they burn.

maybe he's there when he takes their angel—his angel, has always been his angel— to bed, marking him, branding him, inside and out.

maybe he's there when aziraphale sighs in the quiet dark and says "I love you, Crowley..."

and maybe he's there when the demon smiles, sharper than before, and with a glow in his eyes more triumphant than the angel had ever seen.

"I've always loved you, Aziraphale."

-

in the events following the botched armageddon, its mask is slipping. for a while, it tries to uphold its persona as "crowley" but of course, it's not crowley. not completely. both crowley AND the parasite coexist to form the entity that aziraphale knows and loves.

he's…crueler. more dangerous. protective. possessive. he always knows where aziraphale is and of course a part of it is because he obviously is concerned for the angel's safety. the ruse won't be kept hidden forever, after all.

but it's more than that.

the fallen known as crowley thought that maybe being around aziraphale has kept the parasite at bay—but no, no he was wrong.

the only thing that kept the creature at bay had been crowley himself. when the parasite saw the angel for the first time, it slithered its way to the wall and crowley's immediate instinct was to take back the reins.

and the creature let it.

the deal they made was that crowley gets free reign to do as he pleases, but the demon can take control to have its fun in its own time. a bit like clocking in and out of work: many of the horrors humankind had made were indeed makings of their own.

but some were not without a bit of demonic influence when crowley wasn't around.

((there's a reason why crowley's so fond of sleep))

so when he tells aziraphale that he's been "asleep" it may or may not mean mean that the parasite has been taking his skin out for a spin.

so why didn't the parasite simply take aziraphale during these times?

well for one, crowley would most likely take control again. the creature may sense the angel's whereabouts, but crowley has his own special sense to know when aziraphale is in danger.

the other reason...is that he needs this fallen to court him.

win the angel over with his company, effortless banter, and teasing words all while the creature watched and learned, mimicked and mocked. it's a parasite— it doesn't know much about romancing and sweet-worded affections

but it knows quite a bit about getting what it wants.

-

((or maybe this was all just a metaphor of crowley's more demonic nature. he doesn't embrace "evil" and "sin" the way other demons do. and a large part of that is because he retains who he was before the fall. he didn't "fall" as much as he "vaguely sauntered downwards.” he was afraid of hell. he wanted to be here, on earth, with his angel and the humans he'd found equal parts amusing and equal parts frustrating. he didn't want to embrace what he'd become.

but the moment aziraphale turned him away for the last time, the moment he'd lost his angel--  something in him might have broken. it's no longer a sense of keeping propriety, it's now a matter of survival

yes, he's scared of hell. but now, he's more scared of losing aziraphale.

maybe the parasite was all in his head.

maybe he created it as a way to dissociate himself from the reality of his fall. maybe he and the parasite are one in the same.

and it's only now— now, after the very frightening reality of having lost aziraphale once— that he's willing to use whatever means he has to make sure aziraphale stays with him—

by his side.

like he's meant to be. like he was always supposed to be.

or maybe that's just what the parasite wanted him to believe))

[imalwaysintune]

A Distortionate Tale

Yes the title is a pun and probably not a good one but it’s fINE

I don’t think this is a rarepair, but I definitely don’t see it a whole lot. All I know is that everyone misses Michael and everyone loves Jon and their dynamic. So this was born.

Hope y’all enjoy! Story below cut

-------------------------------

Jon was sat at his desk that resided in his study. It was cozy, though he was rarely in it these days. He was rarely in his own home, for that matter.

Jon lived in a small flat. It had a living room, one bathroom, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. He didn’t need the other bedroom, so he turned it into a work-away-from-work study, complete with desk, book shelves, and mood lighting.

Rising tension in his life had forced him to stay at the Archives more and more, and it was chipping away at his mental health more than usual. 

Jon put down the file he was holding and buried his head in his hands. He pushed the base of his palms into his eye sockets, fighting against the familiar burn of tears rising up behind his eyes. Everything would be fine, he told himself, not that he really believed it.

He sighed deeply and got up from his chair, wiping away the few tears that had managed to escape. He was barely paying attention, and walked towards a door that hadn’t been there when he’d walked in

When Jon opened the door, he didn’t have enough energy to be shocked at what he saw. It was Michael, in all his distorted glory. Jon looked right into Michael’s smile and suddenly he felt light. Before he knew it, he was falling forward into Michael’s waiting arms.

When Jon came to, his head was pounding. He opened his eyes and was met with the ceiling he’d woken up to hundreds, if not thousands, of times. He quickly sat up, a mistake he realized immediately when a jolt of pain went directly through his spine to his head.

He felt a weight on the bed shift, and looked over to where Michael was sitting on the opposite side of the bed. He seemed to have been reaching for Jon, but was now frozen in place. 

He slowly lowered his distorted hand, and Jon had to look away. The way his fingers bent and twisted would’ve been comedic if he was staring at a fun-house mirror. But he wasn’t staring at a mirror, only a being of chaos who only followed his own whims. So why had they brought him here?

“Why are you here?” Jon asked what he had been thinking, figuring that there was no point in fighting it. He, it, did what it wanted. It was useless trying to control Michael in any way, unless Jon wanted to end up dead. Well...

“I am here, Archivist, because I started to think about you. I figured there was no reason I should not come, so here I am,” He said. His voice sounded like butter, the way he spoke slowly and precision, as if he wasn’t quite used to having a human mouth yet.

Jon shivered at the thought of Michael pre-distortion, and he felt the tears coming back. He rubbed at his eyes harshly, wondering why his body was betraying him so much tonight.

“Well, you came at a very bad time. I’d prefer it if you would leave me alone,” Jon said, his voice not nearly as steady as he’d hoped. He flopped back onto his pillows and pulled the covers over his head, blocking out the ever shifting form of Michael.

It was a few minutes of him sitting in the darkness under the covers until he felt the weight on the bed shift. Jon thought that Michael had gotten off the bed, but much to his surprise, the weight settled itself next to him. Jon’s breath stilled as he waited for it to make a move.

He breathed out heavily when he felt a single limb wrap around him. Michael was spooning Jon from behind, and he had no idea how to react. Luckily, Michael speaking saved him from having to.

“I’m lonely, Archivist, I’ll tell you,” Michael spoke with a sad inflection, and Jon couldn’t help removing the covers and looking at him. His headache persisted, but it didn’t matter when he looked at the beings face.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that,” Jon whispered, his eyes locked on the figure in front of him.

Michael’s arm fell away from Jon’s waist, and he found himself missing the warmth that came from the gangling limb. It used it’s hand to brush away a piece of hair that had fallen over it’s face. The being flipped so they were facing the ceiling, a long sigh being drawn out of it’s mouth.

“Nothing, I suppose,” It laughed that haunting laugh before continuing. “You always have a way of making my day, little Archivist.”

“I have a name, you know. Unlike you, my name means something,” Jon all but spat, but he wasn’t angry. He was too tired. He was always too tired.

“You know we’re not really different, Archivist. The Eye has it’s hold on you just as the Spiral with me. It’s all-” He was cut off as Jon glared at him, but with no real malice. "Sorry, Ar- Jon, I’m just not used to interacting with other beings. I mainly lure and capture. There’s no emotional connection in that. It’s purely a business interaction.”

“Do you not feel any emotions?” Jon asked, fully flipping his body so he was facing Michael.

“No, I don’t think so. Do you?”

“I do. At least, I think I do. Recently, they’ve been more muted, though I don’t know if that’s the clinical depression or The Eye,” Jon joked, looking back up at the being. It wasn’t laughing, and instead looked mildly disinterested. “Christ.”

“Have you ever kissed anyone before, Archivist?” Michael asked, and Jon was too worn out to correct him on the name. Instead, Jon’s brows furrowed and he sat up slowly on the bed.

“Why would you ask me that?” He asked, scooting his body towards the headboard. 

“I think... Michael, human Michael, always wanted to kiss someone. But he got so caught up with work and Gertrude that his dating life never went that far,” Michael drawled, and Jon looked at him in shock.

“How do you know this? Do you have his memories?” Jon asked, and realized too late his powers were in play.

Michael grunted as the Beholding tried to squeeze the answer out of him. “Not his memories, per say. But I still, I don’t know, feel what he does. What he did,” Michael let out a breath of relief after he got the answer out.

“I thought you said you didn’t feel.”

“I don’t know Archivist! I just do whatever needs to be done. I go on my whims, I don’t know if they’re feelings or instincts or some outside force. I just do whatever I feel compelled to. And right now, I feel compelled to kiss you,” The being spoke quickly, and his words were almost lost with the way his voice twisted and bent. 

“You want... to kiss me?” Jon sat baffled. 

Michael sat up on the bed and turned to face towards Jon. “I want to see what kissing you will do,” He said. 

He was out of his mind, surely, Jon thought. However, he felt the pressure of waves behind his eyes, and knew that the eye was just as curious, if not more, than Michael. Seems almost fitting that the Eye would use Jon as an information vessel, even when it was just about being intimate with other Avatars. 

“Why not,” He said as he swung his leg over Michael’s lap, coming to rest with his legs on either side of the being. It felt odd, being this close to the figure’s face. It was constantly shifting as Jon’s eyes roamed it’s face, but he wouldn’t say it was ugly. it was quite attractive actually, considering.

Michael didn’t wait long though and brought it’s lips against Jon’s. And he hadn’t been prepared for the feeling that would follow him.

Jon had been tired, so incredibly tired, yet when Michael kissed him, he felt invigorated. His heart started being faster and his brain was going overtime, and he could feel it. But most of all, Jon felt static. It wasn’t unpleasant, though. The static spread from his where Michael kissed him down to his feet, and it brought Jon’s body to life.

He used his scarred and callous hands to cup Michael’s face, and it was the softest thing he had ever felt. He didn’t know if Michael needed to shave, but if he did, he did a damn good job.

Meanwhile, Jon’s face was scruffy and scratchy, but that didn’t seem to bother Michael as he began to kiss down Jon’s chin. His lips traveled from Jon’s mouth to the bottom of his neck as Jon moved his hands down Michael and rested them on his shoulders. 

As Michael kissed along Jon’s neck, he noticed the static in his hands felt stronger. Any exposed skin that was touching the being buzzed, as if Michael himself were vibrating.

He didn’t have too long to think about it though, as Michael bit Jon’s neck and brought him back to the moment. He let out a breathy laugh and leaned back, looking at Michael’s face.

“Will you... stay with me tonight?” Jon asked, curling a strand of Michael’s hair around his finger. It was so golden and bright it almost hurt his eyes.

“You’re not afraid I’ll try and kill you?”

“You know, at this point, I don’t think that would be the worst thing.”

And so the two Avatars lay there. Michael held Jon against him and comforted the broken man. Even as Jon slept, the nightmares would shake him awake, and Michael would whisper words of comfort until he fell back asleep. 

Two monsters, comforting and understanding each other more than anyone else could.

- The End!

----------------------------------------

I’m not super duper proud of this one, but it was fun to write! Honestly I love their dynamic, and as much as I love Helen, I definitely miss Michael. So I brought him back in my own little way.

Don’t forget to hit up my ao3! I post my nsfw content there as well as these sfw stories. My ask box is also open! Request away cause I’m running out of ideas lol

Words: 1639

[ill-skillsgard]

Blue and Yellow - Part 1 - Axel Cluney

Title: Blue and Yellow

Characters: Axel Cluney x female OC

Warning: 18+ sex/mature themes/medical themes/mentions of blood+injuries/hospitals/violence/drug and alcohol use

Description: A new nurse finds herself entangled in the complicated life of an underground boxer with a slew of problems she cannot fix.

Note: I've wanted to write Axel as a boxer for a while now and finally came up with a storyline I could put him into. I hope you enjoy it and please consider leaving a comment and/or reblogging! Patreon subscribers got to read this last week as part of the early access benefit.

+

A nurse stood outside room 2817, reading over the tattooed man’s chart. He had come in—unconscious—and woke up in a bloody daze. She remembered seeing his swollen head and thinking there wasn’t a chance he hadn’t sustained a brain injury, but the man was alert and became responsive not long after. That was several hours ago when she began her third shift ever at Featherfall General.

The man with the black and blue face was awake and sitting up in his hospital bed. At the request of others, they pulled over the curtains to shield eyes from prodding at the swollen knot of an eyeball enclosed beneath a grotesque protrusion. His bottom lip had swelled to twice the size, and he couldn’t move any facial muscles without pain shooting up his nostrils. His nose stopped bleeding an hour ago and hadn’t sustained any injury beyond an unsightly bruise.

When she shifted the curtain aside, one squinting eye looked her over while the other remained concealed in a mountain of raw skin and broken blood vessels. She hadn’t seen anyone come in with a face like that yet. It made her stomach flip.

He couldn’t smile, but he wanted to. The nurse stood at the foot of his bed, her large brown eyes landing on every object in the room before taking a skittish scan of his face. The navy blue bubble of his closed eye ballooned to his temple and bled down to his cheekbone like an oil spill. It made the contusions on his shoulders and arms look like faded pinches. The bridge of his nose raised an inch off his face, puffy and tender. 

“You turning me loose, Saberrah?” He rasped, angling a look at the badge on a clip hanging out of her scrubs pocket.

“We will keep you a few more hours, on account of your concussion. The doctor will come to go over your CT scan. Would you like another ice pack?”

“Yes, ma’am, ‘ppreciate it.”

“All right, Mr. Cluney. You hang tight and try not to move around. Lie back and rest.”

“Can’t lie down,” he muttered. “Can’t sit up either.”

“That’d be your cracked rib,” she informed him. “Looks like you took a bad beating.”

He squirmed, wincing from the pain shooting through his lung. “Is it a good time to say ‘you should’ve seen the other guy’?”

She took his humour with a small smile. “I don’t want to know what kind of trouble you found for yourself. I just hope it doesn’t happen again. A concussion is a serious thing, Mr. Cluney.”

“Axel, please. You make me feel old,” he said.

“Says here you’re twenty-nine. Not old yet. But dirty thirty is coming up. You might not heal up as quick as you used to when you were a younger trouble-maker.”

Axel grimaced through a weak chuckle. “Dirty thirty. I like that.”

“Hopefully, you live to see them.”

“And what makes you say I’m the trouble-maker? Maybe I was minding my own business.”

She acknowledged him with a nod and a muted smirk. “I’m sure you were, Mr. Cluney.”

“Axel,” he corrected her again.

The voice slipping out of swollen lips was warm, but to look at his face still made her heart twinge. By anyone’s assumption, the man with the beaten face, a broken rib and tattoos was a sucker in a deal gone wrong. Featherfall was no cottage town with walking bridges and newly paved streets. Despite the pleasant melody of its name, it was no more a city than it was a village, but something in-between. It was big enough to get lost in, yet everyone seemed to know each other. It had its fair share of drug problems, and Axel Cluney was the fourth guy she saw that raised more than an eyebrow or two.

Her trained eyes fell to his arms, seeking any inflamed injection sights along his arms or puffy purple fingers. She found nothing out of the ordinary but scraped knuckles and tattoos to make a mother mourn.

“Hello, Sabi,” a voice greeted her from behind.

She turned to a man in standard indigo scrubs. It was the doctor charged with the late evening rounds, a man named Rufus Farber. Sabi relinquished the clipboard to the young doctor and stepped back.

“We meet again, Axel,” Dr. Farber spoke through a tight smile. The shadow in his eyes told of little sleep and too many occupied beds for a Wednesday morning. Though he was fresh out of med school, he had the tired look about him of a man twice his age. 

“Good to see you. Well... What I can of you,” the patient’s words flubbed out of fat lips.

Sabi left to find a cold pack and came back to them laughing like old pals. Dr. Farber was wrapping up and taking inch steps away while scribbling on a prescription pad.

“Your rib should heal up fine if you can keep still for a while. I suggest telling Eugene to take you off the night shift for a couple of weeks,” the doctor said with a wink.

“I reckon I’ll take some of that advice,” Axel replied. “I could use a little vacation.”

The injured man swung a slow gaze at Sabi, then saw the cold pack in her hand. She handed it to him, and he nodded a silent thanks.

The doctor signed the bottom of the note with a flourish of his pen. “Get yourself some painkillers, my man. Check-in at the pharmacy across the street.”

“Thanks, Doc. And thank you, Sabi.”

Sabi flinched at the sound of the patient using her nickname, but not so much that he noticed her reaction. “You take care of yourself, Mr. Cluney. We’ll come to get you in a couple more hours. Do you have somebody who can give you a ride home?”

“Sure do,” Axel replied.

“All right. You take care now.”

~*~

Featherfall General wasn’t the most state-of-the-art facility Sabi had ever worked. The rooms—often packed with patients — overflowed into the corridors. There were entire wings lined with beds, and everyone ran around like headless chickens in a crowded coop. It cut her work out for her, and a dull moment never sat right. There was always somebody screaming, children crying, women giving birth, blood to be mopped, and disruptions in the waiting rooms. 

Outside of the hospital—on the sidewalk and no closer—was where Sabi found a minute of rest. She could smoke a cigarette and forget that a patient had vomited blood on her. Sabi wasn’t alone on the sidewalk—far from it. Patients permitted leaving their rooms lined the walkway, smoking as many cigarettes they could fit into a ten-minute window. Some still hooked to their IV stands. One man with cracked red skin and starch white hospital sheets plastered to his arms and legs took puffs from a rancid gold-band cigarette that his companion held up to his chattering lips.

Sabi looked across the street at the pharmacy and the adjoining pediatrician’s offices. The building was a squat, rectangular structure next to a multi-level parking lot, of which she always heard the family members of patients complaining. The most frequent complaint was the seven-dollar parking fee. People who had dying relatives shouldn’t be expected to pay such a steep price to avoid getting a ticket.

New as she was, Sabi didn’t want to get on wrong sides by taking long breaks, and she chose the perfect moment to return as an ambulance flew into the emergency bay. Strapped to a stretcher, they hauled a tiny woman out of the back and rushed her into the hospital, followed by a tall man in blue jeans and a black tank top. Sabi only saw his side profile before he was halfway down the hall, following the EMTs and the female doctor who had intercepted them.

“It’s another overdose.”

“Fourth one tonight.”

“Third time for her. Can you hear me, Mrs. Cluney?”

They disappeared around a corner and left Sabi blinking in the corridor while others tried to catch glimpses. Most of the folks waiting in the lobby had nothing better to do than gawk at the people with real problems; broken legs, failing hearts, deep gashes, bright yellow skin, and when somebody came in with a worse ailment than them, a chorus of scoffs warbled in the room. They drowned out the only television tuned to the local news and grimaced at each other.

“‘Scuse me? When can we see a doctor? My kid’s sick!”

The triage nurse glared through the glass window. 

“I’ve been here for three hours!”

“Do we have to hack our limbs off to get some attention in this place?”

Sabi ducked out of the waiting room and went to where she was needed most, but she couldn’t be in half a dozen places at once. She tried her best.

It was a long, hectic night, and the sickness she saw didn’t end until the early morning. She dragged her feet and tired eyes into the hospital cafeteria and made for the coffee machine for a cup that might get her home. If she had to get into her car and drive, she would need the caffeine to keep her eyelids drawn; otherwise, she’d be another person getting rushed through the doors and into intensive care.

An old couple sat in a corner, and the same tall man that came in at the end of her first cigarette break occupied a table in the centre. She squinted at him and realized that she knew his face from somewhere. He turned, and a faded crescent moon of bruising arced from his brow to his cheekbone. It was the man with the black and blue face, more yellow and green now that the swelling disappeared. Two large hands dwarfed a paper cup of coffee as he stared off into outer space. 

Before he snapped out of his deep thoughts, Sabi made her way to the table and gave her best comforting smile. Without the swollen balloon of a head, she could make out his facial features. He had sharp cheekbones and two eyes that reminded her of the foggy marshes on her grandparents’ land. He looked up at her and his placid face glimmered with a hint of welcome.

“Oh, hi,” he said, lifting the paper cup to his lips.

“Hello again, Axel. How’s the head? And the rib?” She asked.

He knocked on his temple, tossing out an amused laugh. “All’s well.”

“I saw you come in earlier. I hope everything is okay.”

Axel sighed, a hopeless air leaving his broad shoulders deflated. It was odd to see him dressed in civilian clothes with nothing but a faded bruise on his face. His knuckles still bore scrapes, and dark bags of exhaustion hung beneath his marshy eyes, but he looked healthy. Sabi’s eyes coasted up and down his tattooed arms, habitually looking for signs of drug use and found nothing but vulgar symbols.

“It’s my ma. She’s in a coma, I guess.”

“Oh, jeez. That’s terrible. I’m sorry. I hope she comes out of it soon.”

He shrugged and sipped his coffee again. “Might be the best thing for her. She did it to herself.”

“Oh?”

“I guess that’s what happens when you mix Percs and alcohol for three days straight.”

Sabi gave an understanding nod. It no longer surprised her to learn the extent of drug abuse inside the walls of Featherfall General. Axel looked off into the unknown again, absently drinking his coffee until the cup was empty.

“Are you doing okay?” Sabi asked, unsure if the stranger would take offence to her questions.

“I’ll be all right. My hopes are that she’s okay.”

“I hope so, too.”

Axel raised his empty cup, slid his chair out, and stood up. Sabi’s eyes followed his, and soon she was looking up. He seemed much taller than when he had been a crumpled thing lying in a hospital bed. 

“Well, I should head out. I’m done for the night. Or morning, I guess. Sorry to hear about your mom, and I hope I won’t be seeing you in here again soon.”

“I know, I’m a sight for sore eyes.” Axel pointed at the cloudy bruising around his eye.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Sabi, shaking her head with a smile. “I mean... I hope you don’t find another reason to come back here.”

“If I don’t, how will I ever see you again, Saberrah?”

[lsbaird]

The Devil’s Luck - Chapter Three Preview!

I’m a day late, it’s true, but hopefully you’ll forgive me. Today Etienne rallies to give it the old college try one more time, but he’s beginning to realize his target may not be quite so murderable as he appears...

It was the D'Grassa, in fact, that proved to be the next opportunity for dispatching Frey.  In the morning Etienne dined alone, again, as Frey was tied up over his breakfast meetings, where he held court with his tenants and resolved grievances between them.  There was a sticky situation involving a sheepdog and some geese, Frey had told him, and it would be quite boring for Elsa.  Etienne heartily agreed.  Not to mention, of course, that Elsa's presence at Chancelion was supposed to be something of a secret for a week, unofficial until her aunt had time to accept her niece's elopement, and the engagement was fixed.  Or, in terms of the Order, when Frey was dead and the Lady Elsa vanished into thin air.  

So Etienne made his way though another round of oatmeal and bland tea, and then retreated back to the library.  Maybe he couldn't steal the D'Grassa yet, but at the very least he could read the damn thing.  

But once he had settled in the window seat, Etienne opened the tome to its first illuminated page and stared at it without comprehension.  His mind was not on the Binding of the Archdemon, centuries past.  It was on the prevention of that same Archdemon's return. His easiest opportunity to do his sworn duty had ended in failure, but there were numerous other methods to be tried. After all, it was only the second full day of his stay.  

He had no idea how long he was there, lost in thought, staring out the window.  The rain had let up, but it had stripped all the autumn glory from the trees, and Chancelion's forests were skeletal frames with flecks of red and peach clinging to them. The timber hills, whose evergreen wombs birthed the hulls of Verlia's merchant vessels, were a dark-green smudge in the distance under a brilliant sky.  In the stone courtyard below, past the lacy ironwork points under the windows, tatty leaves chased each other back and forth like schoolchildren let off their studies, whirling into circles and then breaking apart.  The sudden sound of Frey’s voice scattered Etienne’s thoughts in a much less poetic fashion.

"I would have said my library lacked for nothing, but I see now what it most needed is here at last."  

Etienne started.  Frey was standing in the doorway, his eyes only for his betrothed, love lending him an added appeal that his already fine figure did not need.  

"Frey!"  Etienne said, even as he scolded himself for letting someone—a target, even!— sneak up on him.  He hurried to rescue the book that was falling out of his lap before its fragile binding could crash to the parquet floor.  "I didn't even hear you come in."  

"I could not bear to disturb you, in whatever thoughts you were having."  Frey smiled. "Dare I hope that I was in some small part of them?"  

Etienne liked nothing better than when Elsa could be honest and full of lies all at the same time.  It was so gratifying.  "Why, yes, I do confess that you did feature rather prominently," he said, and neglected to elaborate.  It wouldn't do to tell Frey that those lush, private fantasies had all involved Frey's murder.  "Did you think I would be thinking about the lawns, or the sparrows on the roof?"

"The mystery was so much of the appeal," Frey sighed, happily.  "I should have you painted just like that, tilted away from the frame, so I could always watch you daydreaming."  

Etienne put the book to his mouth to hide his expression.  He breathed deep the reassuring smells of old leather and parchment and felt calmer at once. "Really, my lord," he said, pleased with the teasing note he'd managed, "one would think your thoughts might be ungentlemanly."  

"They are," Frey said, with a dark little smile that made him look far too much like his Great-Uncle, "entirely ungentlemanly.  And if my lady insists on calling me lord, and thinking me so chivalrous, I might have to remind her that I was born a bastard, in a cattle barn, to a tavern wench."  

"So long as your elusive father was not one of the cows, I'm hardly concerned," Etienne said, lightly.  "After all, you are Lord Reichwyn now, are you not?"

"So everyone insists on telling me," Frey said.  "And he has come to ask his betrothed if she would like to go out for a ride."

Horse-trampling, being thrown from the saddle, neck-breaking, falling down a gully, drowning in a creek, impaled on a broken branch, oh yes.  All the things Etienne's dreams were made of. "I would adore the chance for some fresh air."  

Frey held out both his hands.  "As I hope you adore me?"  

Etienne had to rush up then, and take his hands, and be scooped up into another kiss.  It was an easier lie than saying yes, Etienne supposed, but he disliked how it set his lips buzzing and made his heart so loud.  A dull thump from the window put Frey off his affections, but not enough to release his lady.  "What was that?"  

"Ah, damn!"  Etienne said, with feeling.  "It’s the D'Grassa.  If I've broken the binding I'll never forgive myself."  The book, left teetering on the edge of the window seat in Etienne's wake, had toppled over onto the floor with its pages splayed.  

"Not to worry," Frey said, bending to pick it up.  "It's been all right for centuries, it looks like it can take a knock or two."

"Still, I hate to abuse a book—oh!"  Etienne broke off, because Frey, kneeling there over the book and looking so wonderfully vulnerable, had just given him an idea.  

"Something else wrong?"  Frey asked, looking at his lady in confusion.  

Belatedly, Etienne clapped a hand to his ear.  "Yes!  Ah, I've lost one of my earrings.  It was one of the pearls you had in my wardrobe for me. I hope it's not gone for good!"  

Frey put the D'Grassa safely on the window seat, and as Etienne hoped, went back down on his knees.  "Not to worry, it must be around here somewhere, as I saw you had it when I came in..."  

Etienne hastily took out one of his earrings and chucked it away in the direction of a distant bookshelf, while Frey flipped up the edge of the carpet by the window seat, peering at the floorboards beneath.  "This library eats things, I believe.  Just the other day I lost one of my pen nibs, and I was rather fond of how that one laid down ink...  Oh look!  Here it is."  

Etienne's hands froze on his collar, but Frey had only found the pen nib, not the earring.  "I hope then my pearl will turn up," he said, and as Frey went back to searching, Etienne yanked a length of fine, deadly wire from the net of stiffened black lace that rose up from his collar.  The handles were gilt toggles that looked like common decorations, and the wire whispered a high, thin note in Etienne's hands.  What would one more red line be, among the many already lacing Frey's body?  

Frey sat back a little to look under the cushions of the window seat, and then, Etienne sprung.  

It was beautifully simple.  The invisible wire looped around Frey's throat, drawn tight in Etienne's hands as the assassin used his entire body to leverage his force.  It was quick, elegant, bloodless.  With Frey's windpipe blocked, there was only a moment's silent struggle, like a fish dangling at the end of a line.  Frey's grasping hands reached out blindly for aid and knocked over the ink-pot on the writing desk, upsetting a candelabra and igniting the desk papers with a breathy roar.  The heat of the rising flames licked Etienne's face, relaxing the false curls of his wig.  Soon the conflagration would take the entire room, and Freyton Reichwyn Landry with it, along with all the Archdemon's desires.  It was a shame about the books, but it was a mission, Etienne's mission, and it must be accomplished at any cost.  

...except that it wasn't.  

Etienne did not, in fact, get much further than looping the wire around Frey's neck.  The rest happened with glorious brevity in his imagination, until Etienne pulled the wire taut, and it snapped. The unexpected lack of murder sent him staggering backwards a step, bewildered. The finest garroting wire in Ivanis City, specially made for him by a master craftsman in the tools of death, broken in two as though it were no more than a cobweb!  

Frey fell back on his heels with a surprised cough, and Etienne stuffed the broken garroting wire down into his bodice.  

"My lord?"  he asked, shoving his own annoyance aside to radiate mild concern instead, wondering if Frey had chanced to see the wire flickering in front of his eyes.  Perhaps he'd thought it only a stray hair, one of the ones that so often escaped from his queue.  "Are you all right?"  

"Ah—yes, I think so," Frey said, patting his cravat in some confusion.  "For a moment I thought...  It must have only been this pulling tight, though."  

"This?"  Etienne said thinly, bracing for accusations.  But Frey only pulled an object free of his waistcoat.  Twirling on the end of a silk ribbon was a miniature painting of Etienne dressed as Elsa, the one that had been sent along with his letters. Ephaseus had painted it himself for the ruse.

"I put it round my neck this morning, you see, and wound it twice as the ribbon was a bit long.  It must have just pulled tight when I bent over.  The locket's gold, so it's quite heavy."  Frey rubbed his throat, laughing ruefully.  "For a moment there I thought you were trying to strangle me!"  

"Aha ha ha heh!"  Etienne's laugh lacked any humor at all, at least to his own ears.  Surely Frey must know it was false?  "But why would I do that!  I haven't even gotten my ride with you yet."  By the time he got to the end of his protest, Etienne had managed a decent grasp on his facade again.  Still, the word ride came out in far more of a provocative tone than he planned. Frey looked startled and pleased and a little bit breathless at it, though the last was probably more from the near-strangling more than from his lady's advances.  "I mean," Etienne fumbled, and looked around in desperation.  "I, er—oh, look, there's my pearl!"  He hurried over to retrieve the earring, and to do what he could to repair his disguise. "Would you put it back in for me? I'm afraid you startled me so that my hands are shaking.  I wouldn't want it to be lost again."  

"Your least wish is my highest command," Frey said, and with a deftness that belonged to the card-player more than to the manor lord, Frey slipped the gold earring wire back through Etienne's ear, and admired it there a moment.  "I'm so pleased you like them, and your dresses.  This is another you're wearing today, is it not?  From the ones I had here for you?"  

"Ah, yes," Etienne said, trying not to squirm away from the things Frey was doing to his ear.  He detested being tickled.  "They really are lovely.  And the jewels...  You are too generous."  

"I'm nothing of the sort.  Chancelion's fortune is your fortune, and they are yours by right.  I've worked hard to bring the family wealth back here, and to provide things suitable for the lady of the house."  Frey's hand slipped down to Etienne's jaw, and suddenly it was worth the pain Etienne had gone through to have his beard yanked out with hot sugar tallow before the mission.  The least roughness would have been unfortunate, so close.  Damn the man for being such a warm-hearted suitor.  "It pleases me to see you in them."  

Etienne felt a flicker of surprise. "You chose my jewels and things?"  

"I did, though Tobias saw to the fitting of your rooms.  He said you would be more used to extravagance, coming from the southlands."

"Ah."  Gracious adoration, Elsa my girl, he told himself.  You are a woman in love with a rich, handsome man, remember. "It's… so kind of him," he finished, and for once was grateful to be kissed, because it meant not having to talk.  I am going to throw that accursed cherub in the duck pond when I go.

"I would give you all that and more," Frey said, when they parted again.  "But first, I think it best if you try that riding habit on for fit, and meet me down in the courtyard?  Say, a quarter of an hour?  I'll see to some hawks for us, and mounts."  

"I can think of nothing finer," Etienne breathed, kohl-darkened lashes fluttering.  

"Good."  Frey ran his thumb under Etienne's lower lip.  "Till then, my love."  He kissed Etienne's knuckles and then was out the door, whistling again, a besotted and happy man.  

Etienne sprawled back in a spindly chair not meant for sprawling in, his legs splayed wide and his skirts in disarray as he allowed himself one moment of utter and complete disgust with the world.  

"...Fuck."  

[contrivedcoincidences6]

The Transformation of Dana Scully- Pt. 2

Pt. 1 

**

Mulder's hand is warm and it envelops my own. I stroke the top of his hand with my thumb. I want him to hold me but I resist. My own feelings have become too strong toward him. Memories of rejection keep me at bay as we walk still holding hands. When he leads me into a more private area he invades my space, not unusual for him but his face is intent upon mine. His expression strikes fear and butterflies in my stomach at the same time.

It’s the same one he wore before he nearly kissed me outside his apartment.

And oh I want him to kiss me so bad but when he moves in to do so I turn my head so his lips meet my cheek.

My face is hot and I retreat quickly giving him a peck on the cheek and leaving swiftly with no further explanation.

I know he takes a few steps toward me as I retreat but his own confusion holds him to the spot and I am grateful for it because I’m not sure I can handle discussing what just happened.

We’d moved past our last near kiss and we will move past this one, just like we moved past our brief make-out session years ago.

The same deep pain I’d felt that night makes its way back into my chest and I struggle to breathe for a moment. When I am back in my car I do what I’ve been doing for years when that memory comes up.

I use it. I take all the hurt and anger and use it as a reminder of what happens when I give into my feelings for Mulder.

It’s not that I doubt that he cares for me.

I know he does.

But his shows of romantic affection always comes out during times of extreme emotion and I don’t doubt that he would run away just like he’d done years before and I’m not sure my heart can handle such rejection again.

So I’ve decided to be the rejecter.

When I get home I examine the broken capillaries in my face as the bath fills with water that is nearly too hot. Sighing I resign myself to the fact that my face will look like this for the next couple weeks.

Maybe it will be useful in keeping Mulder at bay until whatever has taken over him has passed.

When I hear his knock at the door I sigh, pull on my robe, and turn off the faucet before heading to the door, unsurprised.

I plaster on a carefully neutral expression before opening it up.

Mulder’s face is unreadable but my practiced eye sees the frustration and confusion in his hazel eyes.

I want to kiss his brow and comfort him. It has been a hard last few weeks. But I keep myself at a safe distance.

He closes the door and turns to look at me.

“What was that about at the park?” Mulder’s voice is strained. I notice a faint odor of alcohol on him but he doesn’t appear drunk.

“Which part?” I ask in feigned confusion.

“Come on Scully, Jesus Christ, can you open up just this one time?” He takes a dangerous step forward and I move back. Mulder looks like he’s been slapped.

“Why are you acting this way?” He looks away and then at his feet, “ I thought- I was beginning to feel like we were moving in… a new direction.”

I don’t trust myself and so I don’t respond.

He waits a beat and then continues, “I just want to know why.”

Suddenly I’m angry. Years of hurt bubble up and fall out of my mouth before I can hold back the tide.

“Why what Mulder? Why I don’t want to go through that again? Do you have any idea how much you hurt me last time? God, I can’t do it, Mulder. I can’t take that kind of rejection again.”

I take a breath and don’t look at him before continuing, “It’s fucked up that you would rebuff me one moment and then try to kiss me the next and I can’t take it.”

I take a peek at his face and he’s baffled.

Resigned I go to the door, “I would like for you to leave.”

“Scully I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

With that the anger flares back up, “How dare you.”

He searches my face and I see the moment he realizes what I’m talking about. The fact that it meant so little to him is just another stab in my already wounded heart and I fight back the tears that come.

“After your abduction…”

I nod, close my eyes, and open the door, “This is humiliating enough Mulder, please leave.”

Naturally, he doesn’t.

“Why do you think I left that night?”

I’m aghast and silent.

It dawns on him, “You thought I was rejecting you.” He moves toward me and yet again I dodge him, “Jesus, Scully I wanted you so bad that night. I still think about it at least every other day. Leaving was so difficult, almost impossible but-“

I cut him off with a raise of my hand, “Please don’t patronize me, Mulder.”

The tears fill my eyes but I just don’t care anymore.

“I’m not.” When he moves toward me this time I’m too weak to move away. His hands-on my shoulders burn through my robe.

He cups my cheek and looks at me deeply as if he could communicate every unspoken word from the last few years through one look.

“I love you, Scully. God, I’ve been in love with you for so long. It’s why I had to leave that night. You’d just been through serious trauma and the thought of you regretting sleeping with me was too much to bear. I felt like I was taking advantage of you, I had to walk away.”

A tear slips down my face and over his thumb and he wipes the next tear out of the way.

“I’m so sorry you thought I didn’t want you because God Scully I want you so bad, constantly, I need you. I should have told you that, you deserve better.”

Cautiously, he pulls me against him and cradles my head to his chest.

The information is difficult to process and so I silently wrap my arms around his middle and listen to the steady beat of his heart as I ponder his words.

My heart lightens as I realize how vulnerable he’s just made himself and my arms tighten around him.

“I love you too.” I whisper into his chest but I can tell he hears me because he kisses the top of my head.

I gather the courage to look up at him painfully aware of the burst blood vessels, chapped lips, tears, and probably snot on my face but he just stares at me as if I were the most precious thing in the world.

I unattractively use my sleeve to rub under my nose and his eyes fill with mirth before I kiss the playful smile off his lips.

Mulder responds as if he truly has been waiting years to kiss me again. He runs his tongue over my chapped lips as I stroke my fingers through his hair, mindful of his head wound.

The scorching want I’ve tried to hide away for years returns like a geyser and I press my body against. I’m so desperate that with anyone else I’d be embarrassed, but with Mulder I can tell he’s just as desperate. I feel him hard against my stomach and my hand trails down his body before I run a solitary finger down his erection. Unbidden he thrusts into my hand and I smile into his mouth.

But my feet are getting tired from standing on tiptoes and he can tell so he sweeps me up like some kind of romantic hero. His lips move to my chin and neck and he asks in a husky voice, “Couch or bedroom?”

I can tell he’s on edge waiting for an answer. I pull out of his arms and his devastation is evident until I grin and take his hand, leading him toward the bedroom. He follows far too close but I don’t mind. It takes us too long to get to the bed because of Mulder's hands, which wouldn’t let go of my hips and his lips that wouldn’t let go of my neck.

“Mulder….” I complain without any real annoyance. When we draw close to the bed I spin him around and push him down. His shocked grinning face looks up at me and he takes my hips as I kneel over him.

Slowly I undo my robe and slip it off my shoulders. He has laser intensity as he looks at me. When his eyes roam over my body I feel a tickle of anticipation between my legs. I want to take him right there but I let him look and then feel, he’s so tactile. His thumbs run gently over my nipples for a minute before traveling down my waist and my hips before finally grabbing my thighs. With incremental, and far too slow, movements he draws both hands to my inner thigh and finally between my legs where he carefully pulls my lips apart and strokes me. My legs shake with the effort of staying up but I don’t struggle for long. With an almost desperate air, Mulder begins to try to pull me forward. When I realize his intentions I gladly comply and move over his face where he immediately gets to work.

It’s the single most erotic moment of my life while also being the most romantic. For a moment I’m caught up in the emotion of it all, this is Mulder, and then his thumbnail grazes my clit and I am drawn back into the pleasurable haze.

Mulder sucks and licks away as if I’m some kind of exotic fruit driving me nearly to the brink. After an unknown amount of time, the thought that I’d like to come with him crosses my mind but I feel the orgasm begin to build and can’t hold back. I lose control and deprived of anything else to use to steady myself I grab onto Mulder’s head for dear life.

After a few spasms, I come down a fuzzy halo of pleasure still clouding my vision. It takes me a minute to come back to reality as I fall sideways. When Mulder catches me I see the wet smile on his face and cup his cheek.

“Sorry about almost suffocating you.”

He licks his grinning lips, “Trust me I didn’t mind.”

That’s when I notice he is still clothed.

I get to work right away on his belt and run myself against his erection and he hisses. When I pull away to take them off I’m pleased to see the wet spot I’d left on his pants.

Marking him as mine.

When he’s pulled his penis out he moves as if ready to go right then but I need to see the rest of him.

Unsure how to express this between kisses I just mutter, “Off. Skin to skin.” While pulling at his clothes.

It feels like hours until he’s finally as naked as me and it was worth the trouble. He lets me look him over as he did me.

I’ve seen him before but this is so new. Aroused Mulder post cunnilingus pre-sex is a glorious sight. Painting of a god in repose.

Well, not full repose because after a few moments I can tell he is getting impatient.

“How do you wanna do it, Scully? I’m up for anything.” Even in his desperate state Mulder wiggles his eyebrows and I can’t help but giggle.

I don’t giggle much these days, I missed it.

Lying on my back I pull him over me, locking my ankles above his ass.

I snake my hands between us and position us but he pauses and just looks at me with the most tender of expressions.

I give him a quick Eskimo kiss and push down my with legs until he moves inside me. His exhale is hot against my neck as he loses all ability to hold up his head. Mulder is still for a few moments too long so I pull his face up to look at me.

Mulder’s eyes, always as elusive as he is, stare back at me hazel and watery. When I run my thumb over his lips he smiles and begins to move.

And it’s earth-shattering. Of course, it is.

I’m still sensitive and the sensations are almost too much. Mulder tries to keep his eyes open but fails and I enjoy the way his lashes splay across his cheeks as his mouth drops open.

He’s beautiful and I take it in while stroking his face and murmuring to him.

The memory of our first kisses are far from my mind when I watch him come.

When we part Mulder pulls me to him and lays his head in the crook of my neck. He falls asleep uncharacteristically fast but I watch him for a few minutes before finally closing my eyes.

For the first time in so long, I feel completely at ease.

[misstinfoilhat]

for the drabbl thing, how about Edward with "take me instead"

Woop! First one! It became waaay too long, but I just can’t with this “drabble” thing. I hope it meets your expectation! I got a little off track. --- Truth was standing before him; that infuriating toothy grin beaming boastfully. ‘W-why am I back here?’ Edward thought, peering over his shoulder as if he expected to be back in his room. There was just an infinite amount of void as far as he could see. White endlessness of absolutely nothing.   Behind Truth, was the gate. The large murals hovering over him, and Ed felt a surge through his stomach by the memory of being pulled by black ethereal hands and rushed through the dimension of overwhelming knowledge.  “Hello, Edward,” the sharp voice called out, demanding the teen’s attention. Edward took a few aggressive steps forward with a raised fist and paused.  His arm was back, he realized numbly. He blinked at it, wondering if it was real. Then he relaxed his stance and felt his left leg move effortlessly. No pain from a long-needed tune-up, no joints groaning from misuse, or irritation to the skin where metal met flesh.  “How did..?” Edward drawled, looking awestruck as he flexed his fingers. “Do you like them?” Truth chortled with excitement, shifting to stand up. “I don’t understand,” Edward answered as he tugged at his pant leg to confirm that there actually was a real leg under there. Sure enough, there it was. All though, the limb felt strange. Foreign. But he reasoned it was because he had been wearing those heavy metal limbs for the past four years.  “I figured you might like them,” Truth chirped as it strolled mundanely towards him. “Besides, their real owner won’t need them much longer.” A cold chill ran down Ed’s spine and he felt his pallor change. “W-what? What do you mean?” “What I just said.” Truth shrugged its shoulders, glancing towards the wary boy, its smirk growing steadily. “What’s the matter? I thought you’d be happy! Maybe it’s not your own limbs, but at least they will be kept in the family,” it laughed diabolically.   Ed couldn’t move. Understanding crept up on him slowly. Piece by piece falling into place, forming into a picture in his mind. Again, he raised his arm, closely examining the paperlike skin and its suddenly emaciated appearance. He was sure it hadn’t looked like that at first… Golden eyes widened in terror. “Al!” he realized out loud and took a step back. The weak leg crumbled under his weight, his knee (no no no not his, Al’s! Al’s knee---) buckled and he toppled over. Edward landed painfully on his hip, scrambling on the ground and started crawling away from the sound of the enigmatic being’s low giggles. What was going on? What did Truth mean by Al not needing his arm and leg anymore? They were going to get his body back, and he absolutely would need his limbs!  Edward had already taken so much away from his little brother, he would rather have no arms or legs at all than for Alphonse to miss a single strand of hair from his body when they got it back! Edward would not take those away from him, even if he had to sacrifice his heart to get them back to him!  The thought of his little brother’s arm and leg substituting for his own made him sick to his core. This was wrong! Determined, Edward steadied himself to a sitting position, using his healthy left arm. But, he couldn’t see Truth anywhere. In the featureless creature’s place, sat a gaunt figure, crossed-legged and sickly. Long golden hair cascaded beneath fatigue shoulders, ribs protruding from his chest, and a solemn smile on thin lips. Missing from the boy, was a right arm and left leg.  In a moment’s confusion, Edward thought it was himself that sat there. Him from some alternate reality. The Gate had changed too. Only for a moment, Edward lingered in uncertainty. The emaciated boy tilted his head and looked directly at him, and Edward felt his breath hitch. Never in his life would he mistake those hazel orbs.  “Al!” Edward shrieked as he fought to move, crawling towards his younger brother. It felt like something was pulling him back, like an invisible rubber line wanting to pull him back. The more he struggled forward, the distance between then only increased. “Alphonse, I’m so sorry! I’m so, so sorry! You will get them back, I swear!” Ed wailed, struggling forward on hands and knees. “Okay? Please say something!”  Alphonse didn’t respond. He just sat there with the same patient smile, eyes tired and so, so thin. It was like he was staring right through him, lost in the void. “Your brother’s presence in your world is weakening,” Truth’s voice rang through the empty space. Edward looked up, searching for the Godlike creature while frantically reaching for his younger brother. A rumble was heard and the ground shook. A blinding white light emitted from the slit doors that protected Alphonse’s Gate.  “No,” Ed cried distraughtly and forced himself to his feet and tried to run. “There is no use, Edward. Your brother’s soul wants to join its original vessel soon.”  Again, Edward yelled his brother’s name, ignoring the chilling voice and refusing to believe that they were already running out of time. He limped as fast as he could while stretching both of his arms (not his!) out for his brother.  The black arms wormed their way from the dizzying universe inside the Gate, starting to pull on Alphonse’s body. “No! No, please!” Edward wept and picked up his pace. “Please, don’t take him! Take me instead! I’ll do anything!” For the first time, it seemed like Alphonse really noticed him- his eyes were fixed on Ed and Ed alone. He didn’t look scared, just resolute. Like he had accepted his faith and was ready to be taken away. As dark arms tangled around his body, his smile broadened and he gave his older brother a crescent-eyed smile. “Wait! Don’t take him! Take me instead! I did it, not him! You- you can have anything--- just, please bring him back-” Ed was broken off by a heartwrenching wail of intense agony. Alphonse was screaming as the Gate tore his body apart, limbs turning black and vanishing into the surge of distorted pictures and eye shattering light. “No!” Edward collapsed to the ground, sobbing as his brother was devoured by his sin, clawing at the ground, pulling his hair out and choking on his own tears. The Gate was gone. His brother was gone. Everything had been taken away and there was nothing left. Like the space around him. Consuming everything, containing nothing. Images of Alphonse as a plump and healthy ten-year-old flickered through his thoughts, being eaten alive by those cursed arms. The panic, grief, and desperation he had felt back then were pouring through him once again and he wondered what there was left to give. What would he have to give up to get all of Alphonse back? A sudden twinge of pain seared through his abdomen. Edward startled and looked ahead stiffly. ‘What the hell?’ Again. The pain in his midsection grew until he was unable to restrain himself from screaming. He gasped for his next breath, almost vomiting while his body shook and pulsated. Downcasting his head, he finally realized what was causing the pain, all though, it did little to relieve his confusion of the situation. One of the Gates’s arms had lodged itself in his stomach, penetrating it through and through. There was something strangely familiar with it, but Ed’s mind was too clouded to think, to process. All his muddled brain could do, was to wonder what the arm was reaching for.  Then, it yanked back, painstakingly slowly and Ed cried out again. His vision faded in and out, white turning black and back to white, as the foreign object was drawn out of him. A faint flashback of a pair of large, strong hands holding his shoulders still, and the musky smell of gun powder mixed with wet clothing and blood. Edward also remembered the cold, biting at his fingers and toes, but brushing pleasantly against his feverish cheeks. The only other sensation than pain at the moment. “Edward?” ‘Not you again,’ Edward thought furiously. ‘Have you not taken enough from me?’ But his lips wouldn’t move. Now that he thought about it, neither could he. “Edward, can you open your eyes?” It didn’t sound like Truth- Truth’s voice was shrieking, almost feminine, and violently unpleasant. This voice was deep and grumbly, like a large man’s. Almost like Armstrong’s (oh god please don’t be Armstrong). Little by little, whatever that had taken toll of his body let go, and Edward stirred. Flickering eyelashes tickled his cheeks as his eyes fluttered open (he didn’t remember when he had closed them). He awoke in a small room. The bed he had been put it was hard, but at this point, his throbbing body was appreciative of anything that didn’t involve moving. Narrow, black eyes peered down on him, as an enormous hand scratched at brown, bushy sideburns. A little behind him stood another man, approximately the same size as the first one, with a yellow mustache that rivaled Armstrong’s own. The past day’s events rushed back to him. About Alphonse leaving to meet Winry and Scar’s group, the confrontation with Kimblee and the chimeras, the mineshaft, and the alchemy that had taken years off his lifespan to seal his wound. Looking down, he saw that his midsection had been heavily bandaged, and he rested a hand over where the two chimeras had pulled the bar out after he helped them and sighed. It had just been a bad dream. There was nothing to worry about…right?

[d-conde-art]

Mandelbrot in Revolt

Possible triggers: brief mention of possible suicidal thoughts, mild eye trauma (blood vessel pop), syringes/injections/IVs, violence, broken bones, suffocation, mention of mild non consensual drugging for medical purposes (mild iv sedation on an unconscious person), brief flesh eating insect mention, brief spider mention, existential dread

Moira scanned the dossier on her mobile holopad for the third time that day, clinically worded phrases such as "highly volatile mental state", "multiple security personnel incapacitated" and "mechanics of gravitational anomaly not fully understood" keeping the cogs in her mind turning as she and her escort made their way down the unfamiliar halls of the containment facility. The doctor was Talon's ace in the sleeve when it came to sensitive, difficult cases like these, ones that held astronomical potential but couldn't be resolved by simply throwing money or bullets at the problem. Perhaps she wasn't the most tactful or diplomatic employee on Talon's payroll, however she possessed a deadly combination of tenacity, brilliance and patience that made her uniquely suited for certain challenges that others simply couldn't tackle. Subject Sigma, once internationally lauded astrophysicist Seibren De Kuiper, now dead to the world after what was reported as a tragic and disastrous malfunction in the life support systems aboard the Kuiper space station, was a challenge she had quickly become voraciously intrigued by.

She was brought to the processing bay for the holding cell, where she swiped her identification under the attendant's scanner, silently noting the armored uniform they wore and the electric pistol in their holster. She had been warned that extra precautions were being taken with regards to the anomalous man and his mysterious abilities.

"You have a weapon on your person, yes?" The processing attendant questioned, at which Moira indicated her own small, hip-holstered electroshock gun, as well as the small syringe of luminous biotic fluid she had stowed in her breast pocket.

"Don't let the subject take that gun from you. Keep it holstered until absolutely necessary."

"Until? Not unless?" Moira asked with a chuckle, oddly spirited for all the danger and mystery that seemed to hang in the atmosphere, the smile on her face betraying a hint of her anticipation. The attendant only nodded soberly at the doctor and unsealed the door, revealing a dimly lit, concrete hallway guarded by more heavily armed personnel, stationed in small recesses in the wall roughly 15 feet up, watching silently as the doctor stalked down the hall in long, echoing strides. She paused at the end of the hall, one door sealing behind her, and another slowly hissing open before her.

The room she entered was divided into holding cell and observation bay by a massive wall of reinforced metallic glass through which the doctor could observe the subject. Two armed guards stood, stoic and gargoyle-like, on either side of a glass door, making her frown with irritation.

"I was promised a private consultation with Subject Sigma."

"It will be plenty private when you enter, Doctor. Reinforced two way glass." A guard knocked the glass with a gloved knuckle for emphasis.

"We received specific instructions to remain on the observation bay to prevent security breach and casualties." The other guard elaborated. Moira didn't answer, gazing past the guards and into the cell, realizing with unspoken delight that Subject Sigma was nowhere on the floor of his holding cell. Instead, immediately, she witnessed the proof of the outlandish contents of his dossier she had been hoping for. He was suspended there, curled into himself as tightly as a fetus in the amniotic medium, nearly 15 feet in the air, rotating slowly as though he possessed his own skewed magnetic axis.

"How fascinating..." She murmured as she stepped close to the glass door, gazing at the man that defied the laws of physics, hovering like a dormant creature in an invisible sea. "You will have no reason to interrupt me." She addressed the guards curtly after a long moment, stepping back, allowing them to share a final tentative look before one of them unlocked the door and the other went to the intercom to address the subject.

"Subject Sigma, the doctor is here to see you." The sound roused the subject slightly, and he twitched, his neck bending at an odd angle, like an anxious animal. Moira strode over the threshold the moment the door was opened, and as it was sealed behind her with a mechanical hiss, a glance over her shoulder confirmed what the guard had said, the wall was an opaque mirror from this side. The air in the room felt thin, and she had to pause only a few feet from the mirrored door, the effects of the gravitational anomaly already affecting her body, making her feel oddly light and giddy as she called out to him in her loud, clear voice.

"Subject Sigma, my name is Doctor O'Deorain. I've been sent to evaluate your health and personally manage your long-term recovery from the effects of your incarceration. Now, kindly come down from there."

---

Noise. Endless noise. Static that reverberates through the consciousness like a swarm of insects, devouring self identity, razing humanity, liquifying perception. If perception were a pane of frosted glass through which a human could observe a hazy, easily digestible semblance of true reality, not only would his pane of glass be melted into bubbling silica, it's frame would be in splinters, and the wall it was set in would be bulldozed to rubble, exposing a scope of reality to him that was never meant to be witnessed by any human being, living or dead.

He should be dead. Part of him thought that would be easier. But through it all, a melody called to him. A haunting song that snaked around the essence of his being, coagulating his existence just enough to keep him from dissipating into stardust and the echo of a terrific scream. The universe would not let him die. It cradled him in the throes of it's song like a child, a wordless symphony that revealed to him the story of reality and unreality alike. It was simply too much, too much noise, too much knowledge, too much perception, too much to hold together, yet he was drawn to it, he followed it's call everywhere it led him. Endless existential spaghettification, coiling his consciousness in impossibly long loops, threading him inexorably through the tapestry of the universe, even as he frayed and came undone at the ends. He saw infinite possibilities, infinite timelines, infinite lives and deaths. He had wept at first, wept for people he knew, for people he had never met, and for himself. But he rarely felt anything as tangible as grief anymore. The life he had lead before all this was just one thread in this universal fabric, one among an incomprehensible number, a single drop in a sea the size of infinity.

Somewhere, far away from his mind and soul, where his physical body floated, another noise struggled to cut through the melody. A human voice, tinny, filtered through electrical components. His body seized as his focus oscillated, struggling to break away from the melody and zero in on the sound. What would be done to his body now? More restraints? More electricity? He wasn't even sure where he was. The space station, languidly orbiting the supermassive black hole at the center of the galaxy? The asylum, tranquilized like livestock and strapped to a slab? Or the place that came after that, after the men in dark suits and the struggle and the sirens and the black helicopter they had transported him in?

Another voice called to him now, clearer and louder. Ah, yes, the doctor. He was told to expect a doctor. He had grown very sick of doctors in the asylum, he found them tiresome and invasive, like insects that burrowed into the flesh for their own selfish purposes, spiders that cocooned him in industrial strength straps and chemically induced comas until they were ready to sink their fangs in and suck out more information they couldn't possibly hope to understand. She wanted him to come down. Always asking for something. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? He wasn't of this world anymore, he had nothing for them except agony. He forced his eyes open, stretching his neck to gaze over his shoulder at the doctor, his expression wide-eyed and unreadable. The two way glass hid nothing from him, they had no idea how much he could perceive, how he could see the armed guards on the other side of the glass without needing to see them, them and their heavy duty electric weapons. He saw the weapon on her own hip, and he snarled, slowly unfurling himself and turning to face her, the fact that he didn't touch the ground only exaggerating his imposing height.

"... My imprisonment?" He said incredulously, an amused smile stretching across his face as he regarded the doctor. She was familiar to him in the ethereal way that everything was, to someone for whom time was a tangled knot of a trillion threads that branched off into endless possibilities, in endless directions. He knew her without having to know her. He knew endless iterations of her. And he very well knew he could kill her before she could ever get a clear shot at him.

"Oh, my ignorant, foolish doctor." He laughed at the look sprouting on her face, narrow-eyed and indignant. "Freedom, imprisonment... it's all an illusion." A twitch of his hand was all it took to take her body into his grasp. Raising her up effortlessly, hovering her closer to him until her face was inches from his, the doctor's limbs convulsed as she struggled against the effects of the gravitational anomaly, her face going red, then purple as he slowly squeezed the air from her lungs, as easily as a child might squeeze an insect between two fingers. "Do you feel free right now, doctor? I know what you desire. You crave an understanding of me. Of what I know. I will provide you no such thing." He could feel her ribs bend against the force of his gravity, her organs compressing under her bones, so fragile, so breakable. "The only thing I can provide you, intrepid doctor, is a new understanding of violence." His grasp tightened, and his grin widened as a blood vessel burst in Moira's eye, coloring the sclera a visceral red to match the stark, heterochromatic crimson of her iris.

Seconds, a mere heartbeat before the life was crushed out of the seizing doctor, the melody called out to him again. Wordless and all-encompassing, it spoke to him in reverberations, in gentle tones that softened his grip on her lungs and made him contemplate the horror of what he was inflicting on her. Let her live, it seemed to compel, and he trembled, her body shivering along with his hand, the sound of her gasping greedily for the air she was now allowed to breath melding with the ephemeral song. Let her live. Let her live. Let her live. Dear Lord, what is that melody...

The last thing he did before losing consciousness was a simple gesture, a broad sweep of his hand. The last thing he saw was Doctor O'Deorain's body crashing violently into the two-way glass of the holding cell in it's wake, before she fell several feet and crumpled on the floor. The last thing he felt was his own body hitting the floor heavily, and his eyes drifting closed, as the melody danced approvingly through his mind.

---

Of all the things she expected from the subject during their first consultation, being called an ignorant fool was low on the list. Her stature remained tall, her hands clasped behind her back as he slowly, dramatically rotated to face her, eyes narrowing at his words as a sneer tugged at his sharp, sallow features. "I assure you, I am, and will continue to be, the only person both willing and capable of managing and implementing the type of recovery regiment you requi-" Before she could finish her sentence, she was cut off by a feeling like a giant's fist clenching around her ribcage, fire blooming in her chest as her lungs and bones protested the crushing pressure. Her fingers twitched towards her electroshock pistol, but her limbs were no longer her own, the gravitational anomaly coiling around her in relentless bondage, like an invisible serpent constricting it's prey.

She glowered wildly into his emotionless eyes as he spoke, choking and flashing teeth, hovering ever closer to the tall, thin man that was exerting his suffocating power on her. Her heart pounded, and her vision erupted with stars as something popped painfully in her eye. He was tightening. He pressed on her bones like he wanted to kill her.

Hold on, hold on, don't die, don't die, fuck, fuck, fuck.

She struggled to keep her mind from dimming as it agonized for the oxygen he was depriving her of. If she could just force her hand to travel to the holster on her hip, one quick whip and a pull of the trigger is all it would take...

For a brief moment, it looked like a sudden realization dawned on him, and the force lessened enough for her to suck a deep, ragged breath into her lungs. Then, all at once, her body was flung against the glass with a power that made blackness engulf her vision and lighting shoot through her chest. She felt herself hit the floor with a dull thud, and gasped there for a moment, coughing and clutching broken ribs through her shirt. Shaken and snarling, she clenched her jaw through the fiery pain and clawed her way up the side of the glass, coming to stand on unsteady legs just in time to see the door of the holding cell fly open and the armed guards enter, taking aim at the now prostrate subject with electric rifles. She seethed, and summoned all her strength to lunge at the nearest intrepid guard, grasping the length of a rifle with her shaking hands and growling at the armored pair in a ragged voice.

"STOP. You have no idea how much you're jeopardizing, how- how important this is." Still seething from the broken ribs in her chest, she ripped a syringe of luminescent yellow biotic fluid from her shirt pocket, jamming it into her own arm and pressing down on the plunger with a pained twitch of her snarl, before exhaling with deep relief as the fluid spread through her veins, expediting the reparations of her bones and muscles to an exceptional rate. The doctor straightened to her full height, her body a barrier between the guards and the subject, the angry red blotch in her sclera being the last injury to dissipate as she loomed over the two guards, her hand still gripping one of their rifles as her eyes burned into them. "Listen closely. There is a reason I was assigned to this subject, and I will not have my work undermined by ignorant, trigger-happy expendables like yourselves. You will get the hell away from my subject, or you two will become today's only 'casualties'. Do we have an understanding?" The guards lingered for a long moment, sharing a knowing look, as if considering Moira's long-held place in Talon's inner circle, and her not-so-veiled threat. The pair cast one last cautionary glance at the now unconscious form of Subject Sigma, before retreating complacently from the holding cell.

Moira turned as the door sealed behind them, eyes falling to the crumpled body laying unconscious in a heap on the floor. She sighed heavily and rubbed her temple, tongue tutting against her teeth as she shook her head at his splayed out body. She just couldn't help it, it was illogical, it was unbelievable, and a sudden, long, hard laugh erupted from between her lips and rang through the cavernous holding cell. The deep, rich sound bubbled up from low in her belly and rocked her to her core until she doubled over and gasped for air, a wide, hyena-like grin still plastered on her face when she finally straightened up once more. The subject had already proved himself to be infinitely more difficult, more dangerous, and more revolutionary than she had ever anticipated, and it only made her want to seize control of this inexplicable power all the more. She kneeled beside his body, checking the pulse on his throat, and heaved a disbelieving breath as she noted his heart rate was now sitting steadily at a borderline comatose 15 beats per minute. "My, my, what am I going to do with you, Sigma?"

---

When Sigma awoke, he was laying in his cot in the holding cell, an optical heartbeat monitor strapped to one arm, an intravenous drip of what felt like a mixture of saline and mild sedative hooked into the other, and a thin sheet pulled over his body, up to his chest. No straps, no chemical coma. He blinked blearily and attempted to sit up, but only managed to prop himself up on his elbows, far enough to take note of the fiery haired doctor who seemed to be typing something out on a mobile holopad at a small writing desk. The quickening of the heart rate monitor caught her attention, and she looked over her shoulder, an easy smile gracing her mouth as she rose and walked over to his bedside with her holopad in hand.

"Ah, hello Sigma. How wonderful to see you're awake. Your vital signs were becoming extremely concerning there for a moment, and that's not even mentioning your severe dehydration and malnutrition, or the obvious distress our initial introduction placed on your already strained psychological state. I do apologize for that. This was far from my first choice of locale for our initial consultation, so much tension in the air here." He stared at her blankly, it had been so long since he had been conversed with so flippantly, months, possibly years, though it often felt like multiple eternities. The static still throbbed in his head, the melody that wafted through him a soft undercurrent, while the medication she had him hooked up to was like a bubble making the whole symphony sound like it came from underwater. "These living conditions are deplorable." She continued with a glance around the cell, when it became apparent he was sorely unaccustomed to friendly conversation.

"Do you have any idea where you are?" He responded only with silence, and a slow shake of his head. "You're in a holding facility in the middle of a Soviet wilderness, about a mile underground. This facility is owned by Talon, the organization that arranged your... transfer, from the institution where you were being illegally detained." Conveniently, she made no mention of the legal status of the facility they were currently inhabiting. "Essentially, you're currently in the middle of fuck-all nowhere." Still wearing that sage smile, she pulled up a chair, sitting close to his bedside. He remembered the image of her body colliding against the mirrored wall of the cell and crumpling like a doll, how the white of her eye exploded with crimson as he tightened his hold on her, the sound her bones made when they cracked on impact. Yet here she was, intact and spirited, with a conspiratorial look in her mismatched eyes. What was she? Was she even real?

"The way Talon sees it, you have two options. You can stay here," She gestured around the spacious yet stark holding cell, most of the room taken up by medical equipment she had requested be set up before her arrival, otherwise only inhabited by a few basic amenities. "-Doing whatever it is you've been doing so far." She paused, the corners of her smile curling up as she leaned in a notch closer. "Or, you can return with me to Talon headquarters in Rome, and assist me in developing a long-term recovery regiment for you, implemented under my personal supervision. You'll be provided with higher quality living arrangements, personal amenities, and the finest psychological and medical care Talon can buy, curated by yours truly." She sat back in her chair, flitting her eyes back down to her holopad, finishing the last of her report for the consultation. "All I ask in return is your cooperation during the rehabilitation process, of course." Glancing up from her pad, she hovered the stylus over it, locking eyes with Sigma, pausing before she checked off the last box on the report. "So, what do you say, Sigma? Would you like to leave here with me?"

He stared at her for a long moment, the oscillations in his mind not disappearing, but dissipating enough that he understood the offer that was being made. He could stay here and flounder through fractals and visions until the glass finally cracks, and they either shove him down into an even deeper hole in the ground, or worse, put him back in induced stasis and let him drown in the melody, alone and lost, falling forever. Conversely, he could take the doctor's offer, and face whatever plans she had for him. The choice was his. It felt like the first choice he'd had in a long time. And it was an easy one.

"Yes, doctor. I would like that."

She smiled, and with a flick of her stylus, checked off that final box. "In that case, you may feel free to call me Moira."

———

OP: This will become shippy eventually. I don’t know exactly where I’m going with this but expect more chapters forthcoming :3c