#The unbetaed edition of my life

[pipariperho]

New year new me! Gonna start a reverse nanowrimo where I'll spend 1000 days writing 50 words per day. I might even go wild and make it 1001 days like a proper storyteller.

[nebulousbrainsoup]

EVOLVE

PAIRING: biker!kang yeosang x fem!reader GENRE: romance, strangers to lovers, fluff, smut, lil bit of angst, teeny bit of comedy SUMMARY: more often than not, a life lived in Night City is carefully crafted, slotted firmly between preapproved lines—or it is if you value keeping it. whispers of freedom float just beyond the city's neon lights, and it's only through a chance encounter with the most unlikely of characters that you finally start to hear them. TAGS/WARNINGS: explicit content, minors do not interact!, biker!yeosang, biker!seonghwa, misuse of lore terms, extensive control of emotions, artificial intelligence, food, shady government tampering, mysterious disappearance/implied death of unnamed bg character, near-death experiences, mild motorcycle wreck, injury, language, discussions of government corruption, alcohol consumption, discussions of being unhappy with life, unbetaed & barely edited, pov shifts, inspired by outlaw teasers/posters & @hwaightme's This World (Bai is well aware of my shenanigans); tell me if i missed anything pls! WORD COUNT: 12.6k PLAYLIST: Don't Stop - ATEEZ ; Control - Halsey ; Paranoia on Main Street - Demi the Daredevil ; ERROR - The Warning ; Ghost - Halsey ; Virtual Reality - rey ; Aqua Regia - Sleep Token ; AMOUR - The Warning ; BURN IT DOWN - Linkin Park ; Z - The Warning ; mercy - KiNG MALA ; EVOLVE - The Warning A/N: it's finally here, and with a playlist too!!! (yes it's a lot of The Warning, but this whole fic is ERROR-coded i had to) this fic has taken me close to a month to write, it is my baby, so pls treat it with care <3 i have to give world's biggest shout out to Bai for inspiring this absolute beast and for giving me the privilege of tipping my hat to it and her in my first full-length ateez fic. i hope it lives up to expectations. much love, ash tagging the homies: @jaehunnyy & @justhere4kpop

nsfw tags under the cut ; masterlist | join my taglist | buy me a coffee?

this work is 18+. this is a friendly reminder that if i catch a minor interacting with this work, they will be blocked. so don't :)

A/N 2: y'all remember the opening to the Kingdom performance of Rhythm Ta? "The disease is human emotion"?? well, that was echoing in my head on a very obnoxious repeat, and this fic (and its smut scene) absolutely reflects that. you've been warned. NSFW TAGS/WARNINGS: explicit consent included, protected sex, yeosang keeps a condom in his wallet (don't do that!), they're both switches p.2, outdoor sex, pet/nicknames (doll, angel, Sangie), hair pulling, lil bit of marking, yeosang's voice, oral (fem receiving), handjob, decently fast-paced, also emotionally charged; lmk if i missed anything!

It was always unnerving, delivering in this Sector. He'd done so countless times without incident, but even so, Yeosang could feel the infinite eyes of the Guardians upon him. His first trip to this particular building had left him shaken, turning down any more legitimate, above-board deliveries for the rest of the night and hightailing it back to the rest of the Blue Birds as soon as his duty was done. Mars had been less than pleased, scowling at him as he scolded, “As far as they can tell, you’re a delivery boy. There will be no reason for suspicion until you run.” A valid point, certainly, but one Yeosang had trouble reminding himself of while trapped in that neon maze. 

The next night, he dutifully shoved down the nausea that crept up his throat and the shudder that threatened to rip down his spine as he stared up at the looming steel pillar in front of him. Plastic bag in hand, he took a deep breath and pressed the building's buzzer, trying to find comfort in the shadows and the familiar blue of the lights.

The intercom crackling to life startled him, nausea welling up inside him again as he spoke, “Blue Bird Delivery with an order for Y/N.”

“Come in, I’ll meet you down in the lobby!”

It took a moment, that first night, to recover from hearing a human voice rather than the monotone, robotic rasp of a Guardian coming from a government building. He hadn’t expected life or warmth to greet him amidst the blinding lights of the lobby, but both did as you stepped out of the elevator, still in your lab coat and gloves, smiling softly and subtly at him as you patted your pockets. “Shit, I forgot what I owe you.”

Something about the way he looked as he tilted his head in confusion, helmet still on and bandana still pulled up around his nose, had you focusing all your remaining willpower on not doubling over in laughter. “You paid online. You don’t owe me anything.”

His turn to bite back laughter came then, standing there with his arms folded and his lower lip between his teeth as he watched the gears in your head turn.

“Long day, hm?” The words left his mouth before he even registered them, and as your eyes snapped back to his visor, his heart jumped into his throat. 

To his surprise and relief, you laughed, and the tension in both of your bodies drained simultaneously. “It’s two in the morning and I’m having my dinner delivered to work,” you countered, “you tell me.”

Behind his mask, Yeosang smiled. “Have a good evening.”

Nothing about the anonymous man on the moped should have piqued your interest. But that same night, as you settled in the empty employee cafeteria, the stranger seemed unwilling to vacate your mind. Sure, he’d joked around with you; that was unusual in this Sector with the plethora of Guardians milling about at all hours, but not unheard of; and it was a little odd he hadn’t taken his helmet off. Neither of those things, you thought, were good enough justifications for the thought that circled your mind on repeat until sleep finally began to take you; when can I see him again?

As luck would have it, the answer turned out to be “soon” and “frequently.” You and your team were already a week behind the requested lead time on your current build, and as the days dragged on, the microchip’s flaws only seemed to multiply exponentially—much to your annoyance; you’d warned the design team, after all. Of course, the longer it took, the worse the hours got. By the time you made it home after twelve or more hours locked in the clean room, being leered at by eyeless creatures and pulled into at least one far-too-heated debate over a fix or adjustment every two hours, it was all you could do to make it into bed. Cooking was not an option; you lived on delivery.

It wasn’t always Blue Bird—they seemed to reserve themselves for the late night and early morning; but when it was, it was always him. The same jacket, same jeans, same fingerless gloves and bandana obscuring his features, and the same warm, silky baritone greeting you from underneath it all. He rarely joked with you again, seeming to become skittish as more of your team members stayed later and the late-night Guardian presence increased, but you continued to exchange basic pleasantries. Your manners wouldn’t leave you in the face of tighter security. Still, you couldn’t blame him in the slightest—you yourself wanted to have a word with whatever psychopath had designed their ‘faces’—but you couldn’t help missing the teasing lilt his voice held that first night. 

Around a month after your late nights became mandatory, you had trudged into work as usual, with four hours of sleep and the largest coffee cup in your arsenal the only things keeping you upright, and the chaos you were met with nearly made you walk back out. Your production manager was nowhere to be found, leaving you and the rest of your coworkers to scramble to find something, anything that could direct your workflow for the day. It was you who, in sorting through the papers in and on the desk in his office, figured out why. Every ounce of your self-control went toward keeping your eyes from shifting to meet the cameras as you shoved the incriminating papers back where you had found them, rising to your feet to sift through the mess on the desktop once again. Somehow, even with your shaking hands and unfocused gaze, you managed to find what you were looking for, pulling the newest revision of the drawing from a stack you were positive you’d already searched. Hidden, maybe, you thought. 

Returning to the clean room and pinging your team melded hazily into going over the drawing, which faded into you handing out tasks on autopilot until, finally, you were left alone at the work table you had claimed as your own. Falling back into your chair, you finally let yourself acknowledge what you had seen—drawings. Dozens of them, tucked—no, pointedly hidden away between the various books and manuals stored in the bottom drawer that, until this point, you could have sworn was always locked. They weren't unusual for your production manager to have in the slightest, under normal circumstances—their desk was usually covered in white sheets.

But between the loyal employee’s unannounced “sick day” and the amount of White-Out painted across months of drawings for new tech you and your team had been having unprecedented trouble with… These weren’t normal circumstances, and you figured they wouldn’t be coming back to work any time soon. Before you could lose yourself wondering what exactly this development would mean for you and your team, the whirring of a camera lens zooming snapped you out of your thoughts, and you quickly buried yourself in your work once more. Prying would only get you in trouble.

The morning passed in a blur, you spent your lunch hour staring at the stark white wall behind your newest, least jaded coworker’s head as they prattled on, and before you knew it, those still intent on keeping eight hour shifts were beginning to filter out of the building. The ever-present hum of machines and voices slowly dwindled until you were alone with the buzzing lights overhead and the sound of your own breathing. Most days, this was when you got your best work done. No one else was here to bother you, fewer people meant fewer Guardians breathing down your neck, and you could make any snide comments or use any language you wished without offending the sensibilities of anyone nearby. But tonight, once your last coworker had waved goodbye and the click of the door shutting behind them had finished echoing ominously behind them, the usually comforting silence that enveloped you brought with it a sense of unshakable dread. Shifting uncomfortably, you let your eyes wander over the empty clean room, lifting your head nearly imperceptibly. 

You wanted to leave. Every hair on your body was standing on edge, and every fiber of your being was screaming at you to run, to get as far away from this Sector as you could. Something was going on here, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that the crosshairs were zeroing in on you next. But running—leaving, you corrected yourself; you have nothing to run from—early would only arouse suspicion, wouldn’t it? You’d lived your life slotted neatly between the lines the government had drawn, but that hadn’t kept you from hearing the horror stories of those who toed those lines or, heaven forbid, stepped across them. There was no reason to feel this way. 

Until.

For as large as the Guardians were, the things were nearly silent in their movement. If you hadn’t tinkered time and again with their abilities yourself, you’d believe the stories that they could teleport. It was in front of you in the time it took you to blink, and you nearly jumped out of your skin as your eyes met the chrome monstrosity that was its ‘face.’ Gingerly setting down the delicate tools and microchip in your shaking hands, you set carefully practiced neutrality on your face and suppressed a shudder as its message began to play.

“L/N Y/N. Requested by Upper Management. Follow.”

In seconds, ice filled your veins. If anyone had asked, you’d tell them, truthfully, that it was survival instinct alone which carried you to your destination. When you finally came back into yourself, you were staring at the imposing wooden doors you knew belonged to your location’s operational manager. Steeling yourself with a deep breath, you knocked, and were immediately met with your manager’s voice ushering you in.

“Hello, sir,” you greeted, bowing lowly as you shuffled over the threshold.

“To you as well, Miss L/N,” he offered in return from behind his desk, snapping shut the file in his hands. “Please, have a seat. We have much to discuss.”

“So what’s our next move, then?” Yeosang chewed on the inside of his lip thoughtfully, listening to the silence on the other end of his comms grow ever louder. “Seonghwa?”

“If I had an answer, I’d tell you,” his companion spat back, leaning further down over his handlebars and pulling ahead of him. It didn’t matter that they needed a new game plan within the next few hours, he was done talking. With a sigh, Yeosang sat back, rolling his own throttle forward to keep pace as he fell in behind his friend. 

Night City sped by in a blur as they rode in silence, eyes and ears trained to the streets they were patrolling. Small houses gave way to apartment buildings and local shops with no movement on the streets, but still the tension in Yeosang’s shoulders rose with each passing minute. Finally, as they passed into the city center and neon skyscrapers began to loom over their heads, he could stand it no longer. He felt like he was suffocating, and they were miles off-course for their patrol anyway. 

“Mars. Something feels off,” he called, pulling off his throttle and sitting up straighter.

There was silence for a beat as the other man pulled further ahead, and Yeosang watched his helmet turn. “What are you seeing that I’m not?”

“Nothing, I just have this feeling—”

“Well, keep an eye and an ear out, and we’ll deal with it when we have to.”

He sighed, tossing a narrowed side-eye Seonghwa’s way before turning his gaze back to the streets and leaving him with his thoughts. Maybe it was just this Sector, he reasoned. The artificial gaze of the cameras, drones, and Guardians was enough to put anyone on edge. Couple that with the time he’d been spending here, making deliveries of all kinds, and of course he was feeling on edge. It was nothing.

It took another block for the itching anxiety to come back full-force. “Mars.”

A sigh crackled over his comms. “I don’t see or hear anything, Hermes. It’s probably just the surveillance systems getting to your head.”

Yeosang sighed, nearly resigning his edginess to paranoia again. Until, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. “On your left, look.”

A person was quickly making their way out of the government building he brought most of Blue Bird’s above-board deliveries to, oblivious to the two motorcycles sailing in their direction. He saw the moment Seonghwa made his decision, weight settling further over his handlebars as he shifted into a higher gear. In moments like this, he thought—moments where his desperate search for adrenaline dragged someone else a little too close to the line they delivered others across; the moniker of the ancient god of war fit his friend a little too well. 

He knew the drill by now; fall back, open mid-distance communication with whatever unit was patrolling here for clean-up—just in case he cut a little too close to you—and meet back—wait.

His head snapped up from his watch, abandoning his redirect halfway through in favor of surging forward to catch up with Seonghwa. “Mars, don’t!”

The shout had Seonghwa’s helmet snapping up in alarm, his weight shifting back and throwing both him and his precious Suzuki Hayabusa off-balance. For a moment, he tried desperately to downshift and tame the beast under him, a cause that quickly became lost between his own speed and the downhill slope of the street. You had frozen in your tracks at the sight of the two machines barreling toward you, one now out of control, and Yeosang’s heart skipped a beat or two as the events in front of him began to unfold in slow motion.

You had been sent home early—well, early for you, anyway; the weight of your new position heavy on your shoulders. Production manager. It was everything you should have wanted—everything you had wanted at one point; but the thought of coming in to work tomorrow morning, moving your meager belongings out of your locker and into your former boss’ office to pretend everything was fine had bile rising in your throat. Your meeting with upper management had shed no light on the mysterious disappearance of the last person in charge, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that a target had been painted on your back now, too. Maybe that was just paranoia, though—you had no plans to sabotage any products, after all. What reason would anyone have to make you disappear?

Lost in your thoughts as you began the trek home, you failed to drag your eyes from your feet, only noticing the two headlights careening toward you when the rumble of their engines was close enough to feel in the ground below you. You froze, stunned as your heart jumped into your throat. Was this the dread you had been feeling? Was this the curse of your new position? There was little you could do about it now, you supposed, staring down what you were sure was certain death. It was silly, but you couldn’t help wondering whether your new delivery boy friend would miss you.

“Shit!” Seonghwa hissed, the curse crackling in Yeosang’s earpiece. 

Your shoulders tensed and you took a step back and raised your hands, clearly bracing for the oncoming disaster. Mere seconds before your fate would have been sealed, he watched the unimaginable unfold in front of his eyes; Seonghwa, heeding his words of caution, threw his weight to the right, sending his bike skidding away from the both of you. The grunt he let out as he hit the pavement weaved together with the screech of metal on asphalt, a discordant symphony echoing through his helmet. You added no harmony of your own to it, only flinching as the man who would’ve been your doom rolled to a halt at your feet, visor reflecting familiar blue neon as he stared at the sky. He saw rather than heard the breath you let out, watching your shoulders drop from your ears as you stumbled away from Seonghwa’s prone form.

“What the fuck,” you gasped out, one hand splaying out over your chest as you caught your breath. Adrenaline was coursing through you, leaving your heart pounding and hands shaking as the other biker sidled up next to you.

“I’ll say,” the man below you grumbled, slowly climbing back to his feet. He winced as he settled his weight on his right leg, limping heavily as he made his way back to his friend and leaned against their bike. “You should probably look before you cross the street next time.”

“I was halfway into the road, you ass!” You fumed, snarling at the man before you in stark contrast to the last time you’d met a masked stranger. “You could’ve gone around me—it’s not like you were driving a car!”

Yeosang couldn’t help the giggle he let out at the sight of you—mild-mannered, eternally frazzled you—standing toe-to-toe with the infamous Mars, masked vigilante leader of the Blue Bird biker gang. He bit his lip quickly, hoping his mic hadn’t picked up the quiet noise. 

No such luck, it seemed, as the other man whipped around to face him. Somehow, the visor was more intimidating than the scathing glare he knew lay behind it. “Something funny?” 

He shook his head, the action dizzying him just slightly when coupled with the weight of his helmet and the adrenaline cooling in his veins, and raised his hands in surrender. “Nope,” he hummed, nodding over to the wrecked Hayabusa. “You think you can get that thing to the shop, or do I need to do it for you?”

Seonghwa shifted his weight, testing his injuries lightly. “Help me get her up and I’ll take it from there,” he muttered.

Something about the man with the cruiser was familiar, you decided, as you watched the pair cross to the bike and set it back upright. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but between his voice and the way he carried himself, he reminded you of someone. You’d never seen either of their bikes before, though, and both of these individuals struck you as the type who were connected to their respective machines. You were still racking your brain for the answer as his friend pulled away, sparing you no apology, and it wasn’t until he reached up, tugging at the chains around his neck with familiar, skeleton-gloved hands, that it hit you.

“You’re the Blue Bird Delivery guy.”

Yeosang froze in his tracks, blinking and stunned as he scrambled for an excuse. “I, uh…”

“Your friend just almost killed me. The least you could do is be honest,” you prodded, crossing your arms over your chest.

The way he looked down told you there was a sheepish smile on his face, and you wanted nothing more than for him to finally remove his visor so you could bask in it. “Yeah, I am.”

“Does my near-death experience mean I get free delivery next time?” you quipped. The laugh that left him this time was full-bodied, heard even through the thick padding and metal of his helmet. You decided then and there that you would stop at nothing to hear that sound again. 

The grin you gave him in exchange was sunny, another mark of your warmth in the midst of Night City’s eternal chill. “I might be able to arrange something for you, sure,” he hummed, his smile evident in his tone. “But that might end up being my paycheck you’re cutting into.”

You shrugged. “I’ll tip the difference.”

“Then there’s no point!” Another cheery laugh bubbled up from him, and you found yourself leaning closer to the delivery boy-turned-biker as you shared in his joy. For all the leather and mystery, he didn’t seem all that intimidating; he was nothing like his counterpart had been. He seemed shy and maybe even friendly behind the facade, and the interactions you’d had with him before seemed to corroborate your guess. Again, that familiar feeling of longing that had struck the first night came back to you as he took a step back toward his bike.

Luckily for you, your mouth worked faster than your brain. “Would you want to maybe go get coffee with me?”

Your inability to read his expression meant the silence you were met with had you wanting to pull your words back into your mouth; to rewind time so you’d never spoken; so you’d looked up and seen Delivery Boy’s idiot friend speeding at you; so you’d never ordered from Blue Bird in the first place—

“I can’t, tonight,” he muttered. If he removed his helmet, you would be able to see the tips of his ears turning red. “But maybe another time?”

Your heart sank. When would you ever have time again? “Um, maybe. We could exchange information?”

He tensed, shaking his head gently. “I know where to find you.”

Again, you felt yourself deflate. “Can I… Could you at least tell me your name? So I know who to contact if your friend ever tries to kill me again?” Your attempt to lighten the darkening mood was half-hearted at best, but you tried for a weak smile.

For the third time that night, Yeosang froze. It felt like every camera and Guardian in the vicinity had their lenses trained on him as you asked what was, to anyone other than Yeosang and the rest of his friends, the simplest question in the world. This time, he recovered quickly, unwilling to draw more suspicion to himself than Seonghwa already had with his stunt. “Hermes.”

Your brow furrowed, and he found himself wanting to swipe the crease between them away. “Just Hermes?”

He nodded, stepping back to his bike and tossing his leg over the body, feeling suddenly like a rat in a trap again. “Just Hermes, for now. You can find out the rest later.” He sent you a wink as his bike roared to life under him, only to hang his head when he realized you couldn’t see it. 

You tilted your head at him as his shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Hermes?”

“Yeah, I, uh… I shouldn’t try to flirt. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

Staring after him, still in the middle of the street, that longing feeling pulled at you again, following his dimming taillight over the horizon.

He was flirting?

“You did what?!”

Yeosang flinched. He was very rarely on the receiving end of Seonghwa’s wrath, but between the wreck and his… slip up with you earlier, he found himself squarely in the sights of Mars. 

“What was I supposed to do, give her my full legal name?” he argued, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning, trying to at least somewhat match the energy in the warehouse. “That would’ve been a death wish.” 

“So you gave her your callsign instead?” Yeosang shrugged, earning a scoff in return. If he were being honest with himself, he didn’t know why he’d done what he’d done either. “What you should have done was hopped on your bike and come straight back here, like we always do.” 

His eyes turned to the floor, and for a moment, everything was silent. “She recognized me,” he muttered, quiet voice still managing to echo like a whipcrack between them.

“You took your helmet off in the middle of the city?!” Seonghwa was on his feet now, yelling, and Yeo might have been scared, if not for the panic flashing behind his friend’s eyes. 

“No, no, I’m not that stupid.” The older man settled, leaning back against the beam beside him once more, arms crossing over his chest. “My voice, and the gloves, I think. She didn’t say, but she pinned me, and I panicked. I couldn’t just turn tail and run; that would’ve looked worse.” 

Finally, a smile cracked the cold demeanor Yeosang had been facing down, and the tension between the two men split as Seonghwa shook his head in exasperation. “If you make me wreck my baby again, I’m making you pay to fix it.”

The comment earned a hearty eye roll as he shifted his attention back to the bike he’d been outfitting upon Seonghwa’s arrival. “As if Yunho makes you pay.” The other man hummed dismissively, and he chuckled quietly. “Could’ve gone a lot worse, anyway. She could’ve had the Guardians on us in seconds for you running her down.” 

Seonghwa frowned, staring thoughtfully at his freshly patched bike for a moment. “She could have. Why didn’t she?” He murmured, eyes flickering back up to Yeosang.

“I… hadn’t considered it.” The younger blinked, matching the elder’s frown and sitting back on the ground. Why wouldn’t you call the authorities on them? They were at your beck and call, hiding just beyond the gates of the building you’d been in front of at the time. Most people in your Sector would have quickly taken advantage of the convenience, leaving the two outlaws to flee for their lives. It wouldn’t have been the first time, nor did Yeosang think it would have been the last. 

“Do you know what she does there?” He blinked out of his thoughts, shaking his head. “You might consider finding out, since you’re friendly enough to be recognized. She’s clearly not as far up the government’s ass as some of the rest of them; she could be a good in, since we just lost our last one.”

His frown deepened at the suggestion, stomach turning at the thought. “She might just do grunt work. I deliver to her a lot—she’s always there.”

“Worth a shot, though. I’ll take anything we can get at this point.”

“Maybe,” he hummed, chewing on the inside of his lip. 

It was an excuse to see you, at least.

After your little run-in with Hermes and his friend, Blue Bird Delivery was out of service in your Sector. You couldn’t help the pang of disappointment that echoed in your chest every time you checked their app; you’d been hoping that your lack of a report would have kept the authorities off their trail. No such luck, it seemed. The longer time dragged on with no Blue Bird and no word from your faceless friend, the more your worry grew, and after a week and a half of radio silence, you were beginning to lose hope that he was just lying low somewhere. Until, two weeks after you had nearly been run over, their delivery started up again. You couldn’t help but smile as you clicked through your usual order from your favorite restaurant and watched as it was confirmed.

Fourty-five minutes later, your phone pinged to signal its arrival and you made your way to the lobby with a spring in your step. You barely bit back the smile that threatened to take over your face—keenly aware of the Guardian stationed outside of the elevators—as your phone buzzed again, this time to signal the ringing of the building’s doorbell. Forgoing the usual pleasantries, you quickly made your way to the door, this time stepping outside and letting it shut behind you. 

It was unbelievable, really, that you’d managed to peg the edgy biker from two weeks ago as this same moped-riding, unassuming delivery driver. You thanked whatever being was listening for your attention to detail.

He offered you a small wave, fingers twitching in the air, and if there had been a doubt left in your mind that they were the same person, it would have left then. You bit the inside of your lip as you stepped forward and took ahold of the takeout bag in his hand, bowing to and thanking him.

“So, about that coffee,” he murmured quickly, his words overlapping with your own pleasantries as you both stood upright again. You blinked, head tilting in mild surprise as he continued. “When are you off work?”

“I, uh… I could be off in like an hour and a half?” You offered, smiling subtly at his visor.

“I’ll be waiting. I hope you’re okay with motorcycles.” 

You could hear the little smile behind his many masks, and your heart fluttered. “I’ll see you then.” 

“Will I get to see your face?” He stopped in his tracks at your bold question, and you clapped a hand over your mouth. “Sorry, I— If you’re not comfortable—”

“If you don’t mind a little bit of a drive, then maybe.” 

You looked at the ground, taking your lower lip between your teeth to force back your grin. “I’ll see you soon, then.”

It was a risk, Yeosang knew, revealing his identity. Seonghwa wouldn’t be happy when he found out; but what was another bout of his anger in the grand scheme of things, really? If the risk turned out to be worth the reward, he’d end up back in his friend’s good graces at record speed—and he had a gut feeling that would be the outcome. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of curiosity and wonder he’d experienced when you greeted him that first night, full of bright life and warmth in the middle of a desolate steel tundra. Something about you was different from the others that roamed your Sector—you’d proven that tenfold two weeks ago; and Yeosang was more than happy for the opportunity to figure out exactly what that was. Meeting you, really meeting you, was the first step. 

It was a risk, sure, but a calculated one.

The closer the clock ticked toward your designated meeting time, the antsier Yeosang got. He’d finished the rest of his deliveries in record speed and closed things down for the night, stopping back by the warehouse just long enough to inform Seonghwa of his plans and make the shift from delivery boy to biker. The elder was yelling something after him that Yeosang didn’t quite catch, tossing a wave over his shoulder before the door clanged shut behind him. He was back in your Sector in record speed, anticipation building in his veins the closer the clock ticked to your meeting.

And as it ticked past, he began to feel trapped. More and more as the seconds ticked past into minutes, he found himself glimpsing his watch, glancing warily over his shoulder and at the door of your building, waiting for you to emerge. Five minutes turned to ten, and ten to twenty; he’d nearly considered calling this a lost cause before you finally made your way from the building, eyes darting around the street as you stepped onto the sidewalk. He watched your face fall just slightly as you saw no sign of him, only to brighten in the next moment as he flicked his headlight back on. Stepping out of his hiding place, he pulled one hand out of his coat pocket, giving you the same wave he had earlier in the evening. He looked ridiculous, you thought, halfway between your delivery boy and the biker you’d met briefly—the same long, black and red leather coat, but this time sporting the same helmet and goggles he wore on his moped.

Barely biting back your grin, you nearly skipped over to him, and he beamed behind his bandana. “I wasn’t sure you were still coming,” he hummed.

You looked down and huffed a little sigh, feeling heat rising to the tips of your ears. “I’m sorry, paperwork just took a little longer than I expected tonight. I’m still adjusting.” 

He shook his head. “Don’t worry. I know what your hours can be like.” Again, you heard the smile in his voice, and you wanted nothing more than to see it. “I wouldn’t have blamed you, anyway. If I were going out to an undisclosed location with a mysterious, masked stranger, I’d be wary, too.”

You giggled softly, and Yeosang’s chest got tighter. He wanted to bottle up that sound and wear it around his neck, close enough for him to pull out and listen to any chance he got. “You don’t feel like a stranger.”

The blush that rose to Yeosang’s cheeks was, frankly, embarrassing, and he was more thankful than ever for his need to remain anonymous. “Neither do you,” he murmured in return.

Reaching down to the backpack he’d dropped at his feet, he unlatched the helmet from it, offering it out to you. “When do you have to be back at work?”

You blinked, tilting your head at him and taking the offered helmet. “I have tomorrow off, actually. New position, new hours.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about it when we get where we’re going, then.”

You’d been entirely unprepared for the feeling of riding a motorcycle, much less riding one with Hermes. When the growl of the engine kicked up beneath you, you’d found yourself clinging tighter to his middle, earning a low chuckle that you felt more than heard. The city streets gave you some time to adjust and by the time you reached its outskirts, your heart rate had mostly returned to normal. As he took you past the little rows of houses that marked the beginning of the edge of Night City and into the warehouse district that followed, though, it picked up again. 

What were you doing? 

You hadn’t told anyone where you were going or who you were with; you didn’t even know who you were with, not really, anyway. A few passing interactions didn’t count for “get to know you” material, in your humble opinion. His friend had nearly killed you, or at the very least nearly put you in the hospital. You had no clue what this man looked like and only had one name, which you were nearly certain was, itself, an alias. 

This was easily the stupidest decision you had ever made.

As he pulled to a stop just before the city limit, the desert sprawled out in front of you, and you loosened your hold around his middle. To your surprise, he noticed immediately, turning over his shoulder to glance at you before pulling your hands tighter around him again. 

“Only a few more minutes, I promise. Hold on tight.”

His voice was like magic, washing over you and soothing your nerves. It brought with it the familiarity and warmth you’d come to associate with Hermes; the warmth of the sun in a place where it had been blotted out. Shifting closer to him and squeezing him tighter, you nodded. “Let’s go.”

Riding through the desert was a rush entirely different than puttering through the streets of the city. Hermes had shifted his shoulders forward, picked his feet up, and sent you sailing into the cool night. You shivered as the wind whipped around you, slipping your cold hands under his jacket to seek heat you couldn’t find through the leather. He jolted slightly at the contact, helmet tilting back toward you for a split second, and you thought you felt him laugh again. It was terrifying, cold and dark, save for the strip of road illuminated by the headlight.

But it was also exhilarating. Adrenaline coursed through your veins as his speed climbed, and although you were freezing, the excuse to curl closer to Hermes was not unwelcome. It felt like freedom, being even five minutes outside of Night City, seeing never-ending darkness rather than eternal, artificial light, being here with someone you barely knew, taking the risk of a lifetime. Your initial fear was gone, replaced entirely with childlike wonder, and you let out a quiet giggle, relaxing just slightly as you gazed out at your surroundings. 

You were almost a little disappointed when, as promised, Hermes began to slow a few minutes later, just as you were cresting the top of a bluff. When he had killed the engine and steadied his bike, he carefully pulled your arms from around him, swinging off of it to offer you a hand. You took it readily, leaning heavily on him as you stood on wobbly legs. He let out a quiet laugh as you stumbled into him just slightly, and you found yourself thankful for the helmet you still wore. Once you had gained your footing, he let you go, letting you remove the cumbersome thing before reaching for the pack he’d secured onto your back before your ride. 

“Sorry again about that,” he muttered, “I really didn’t think before I decided to bring things along. It was either you or the storage compartment on the back.”

You shook your head, running a hand through your hair. “Don’t worry about it, I needed it as much as you did. Holding onto my stuff the whole time would’ve been a pain.” Breathing a pleased sigh, you set your loaned helmet on the seat and turned to him.

He’d removed his own helmet and goggles, leaving only the bandana hiding him as he crouched in the sand, digging in his backpack. It was a little hard to tell whether his black hair was purposefully slicked back or simply still stuck in the same state his helmet had put it in, a few strands falling into his eyes. As he tucked them behind his ear, eyes narrowing in annoyance, your attention was drawn to the movement, and your gaze landed on the birthmark beside his left eye. Your jaw dropped open just slightly as you stared, taking a step forward and kneeling in front of him. Even with half of his face still hidden from you, you could tell Hermes was a fitting name for him—he truly did have the beauty of a Greek god.

Steely gray eyes flicked up as they registered the movement, and you felt the wind knocked out of you under their intensity. Just as quickly as they had snapped to you, they softened, and once again, you were left wondering how to reconcile your delivery boy with the vigilante-esque biker in front of you. 

“I brought some blankets, snacks and soju. I figured we could stay for a little while, get to know each other,” he murmured, looking out to the horizon. 

Was the dim light playing tricks on you, or were the tips of his ears turning pink?

You beamed at him, smiling wide with your teeth for the first time since you’d met, and Yeosang felt his heart flutter. It did that more frequently lately, it seemed.

“Sure, yeah. Does food mean I get to see the rest of your face?”

This time, you heard the giggle that left him, the sound wrapping you up like a warm hug. “That depends. You’re not going to drag me back to the Guardians by my hair if I end up being a wanted criminal, are you?”

“If I wanted to do that, I would’ve sent them after you and your friend two weeks ago.”

He sighed, breathing another laugh and looking at the ground, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay, that’s fair. Seriously, though. I might actually be a wanted criminal, and I might actually need you to confirm whether or not you’re going to turn me in.”

You blinked, brow furrowing for a moment. He couldn’t be serious. Sighing, you gave in. “No, I won’t drag you back to the authorities. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he murmured, standing and pulling a blanket from his backpack. “Do you want to face toward or away from the city?” 

You glanced behind you, back in the direction you had come from. The neon lights shone like a beacon in the distance, a slow gradient from electric blues and purples to fiery oranges and yellows as the city spread. Red tinted the edges of the amoebic mass of industry, giving the impression of a spreading fire or trickling blood. You shuddered.

“Away, please,” you murmured, and he nodded, spreading out the blanket to overlook the edge of the bluff, out into the quiet of the desert. Setting his bag at its edge, he gestured to it and moved back to his bike, pointing the headlight out in the direction you would be facing. You settled in, curling in on yourself and rubbing your arms for warmth against the chilly night. 

Before you could dwell on it too much, something warm and heavy dropped onto your shoulders. Glancing up, you found Hermes had shed his coat and settled it over your shoulders, leaving him in a tank top and you blushing. You hadn’t expected a toned body underneath the puffy Blue Bird jacket he always wore, and you could barely tear your eyes away from him as he situated himself next to you. He was a little more than just fit, if his arms were anything to go by.

“So,” he began, leaning back on his hands, eyes fixed with yours on the horizon. “New job, you said? What are you doing now?”

You heaved a sigh, pulling his jacket tighter around your shoulders as your eyes turned to the ground. “Production management,” you murmured dejectedly. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shift to face you. “I got… Promoted, I guess. I don’t know why, because there are other people who’ve been there for years that I’m sure would be better at this than me, but…” you trailed off, sighing again, and when you glanced up, the concern in his eyes made your heart skip a beat. “I didn’t ask for it, but I couldn’t really turn it down.” 

His eyebrows creased for a moment, something like disgust or anger flashing behind his gaze. “Why not?”

You shifted uncomfortably, gnawing at the inside of your lip for a moment. “Well, I would’ve been stupid to, for one. And no isn’t a very well-received word when you work for the government.”

He hummed thoughtfully, looking back out over the horizon. “You didn’t have any sort of warning?” You shook your head, catching him glancing at you from your peripheral. “Don’t people usually give a two-week notice or something?” 

“They do when they don’t disappear without a trace.”

Yeosang shot upright at your words, eyes wide as he turned to you. “They what?”

You startled just slightly, turning to better face him. “He disappeared. No word, no sign. I got promoted the same day.”

“That’s… disturbing.” 

You nodded, shifting to rest your chin on your knees, and he shifted closer, settling one arm behind you. Leaning into his side, you sighed. “It happens, sometimes, when people step a little too far out of line. Par for the course in Night City.” You heard him scoff and felt him nod as he wrapped his arm around you, giving you a quick squeeze that had you relaxing immediately. 

“I’ve been wondering something,” he mused, breaking the silence that had begun stretching between the two of you. “Why didn’t you call the Guardians that night?” 

The question caught you off-guard and you sat up straighter, brows furrowing together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, your building was right there, when you almost got flattened, and I think anyone else in your position would have taken full advantage of that fact. I know others in that Sector have—my friend’s had some pretty close calls before.” 

You frowned, painting careful neutrality back on your features as you stared at the ground. If anything were going yo betray you, it would be your eyes. “I didn’t really… This isn’t a trap, is it? We’ve been over me not ratting you out, but how do I know you’re not trying to trick me into saying the wrong thing? I haven’t even—”

“Seen my face?” he finished, and you nodded. “Look at me, Y/N.”

Slowly, you raised your eyes, your heart skipping a beat or two as you caught sight of his bandana, now resting just above his collar. Excitement surged in your chest as you let your gaze flicker over his features, quickly morphing into confusion and a bit of panic. “You look familiar,” you murmured, shifting away from him. “This has got to be a trap, please don’t—”

“Y/N,” he soothed, his quiet baritone settling your frayed nerves just slightly. “I wouldn’t have anything to do with the government if my life depended on it. Which, I rather prefer the opposite thing I’ve got going on instead.”

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks, memories of his face flashing behind your eyes at lightning speed. Every bulletin, every news story, every poster that had displayed that same silhouette, described the same features you were staring at now, right down to the birthmark you’d been fantasizing about kissing. There were never any photos, but your mind had put together a decent enough replica.

Kang Yeosang was not the monster you had heard described in the media, you didn’t think. If he were, why hadn’t he taken his chance and poisoned your dinner? Why hadn’t he killed you the moment you were outside the city limits? Why hadn’t his friend just run you over? Where, in the slew of calls for his immediate arrest and reminders of how dangerous he and his friends were, was this man; the one who greeted you pleasantly, who made you laugh, and whose own giggles in return could warm you for days? You didn’t know what was real, what to believe anymore.

Despite yourself, you laughed. He tilted his head, an amused and wary expression on his face. “I’m sorry, I don’t— this is just—” you tried, gesturing between the two of you. “My delivery guy is Kang Yeosang, one of the most wanted criminals in Night City. It’s kind of ridiculous.”

The giggle that graced your ears was louder without barriers to cover his pretty little smile, and you beamed back at him, chest tight and warm. 

“Isn’t it dangerous for you to be out and about like that?” you questioned.

He shook his head. “It’s better to hide in plain sight, actually. The Guardians rely so much on facial recognition, anyway, that as long as I stay covered up, I’m not at much risk. The delivery job gives me a good excuse to do just that.”

You nodded thoughtfully, gaze turning back to the desert. “That makes sense, I guess. Are the rest of them doing the same thing?” 

“More or less.” 

“So… your friend from the other night, is he one of your vigilante buddies?”

He was silent for a long moment, and when you glanced back at him, his smile had been replaced with a pensive look. “The less I tell you, the better.” Your heart sank ever so slightly, but you nodded, hoping you hadn’t overstepped too far. “Just… For your own safety, you know?”

“Yeah… That makes sense. Sorry.” 

He turned to you again, tilting his head like a curious puppy, and you bit back a giggle. “Don’t be. I’m sorry for being so mysterious.”

“Don’t be,” you echoed, nudging him with your elbow. “It’s your life on the line, and I rather prefer you right where you are.”

If you could frame a moment, you would choose this one, when Yeosang blushed a shade of pink that was barely noticeable in the dim light, smiling shyly as his eyes turned to the ground. “I’m glad,” he murmured, voice only audible thanks to the complete silence around you, “because I prefer being here, too.”

It was your turn to blush as you reached for his backpack, pulling a bottle of soju from it and cracking it open, tilting the opening toward Yeosang. Cocking his head again, he followed suit, clinking the necks of your bottles together. 

“To being here, then,” you offered, heart fluttering at the return of his sweet smile.

“To being here.” 

With the tension broken, the silence between you two became comfortable, and you unfurled your legs from your chest, shifting to lean against Yeosang. After breaking into the snacks and a few swigs of soju, he finally broke the silence again. “You never answered my question, you know.” 

You thought for a moment, and he found himself holding back a giggle at the sight of the near-pout on your face. When the realization seemed to hit, you perked up quite comically, eyes wide. “Oh! I don’t really trust the authorities anymore. After…” you sighed, chewing on the inside of your lip. “I’ve never really liked them. They’re creepy, I know what they can do, and it’s… I don’t think like what they represent, I guess. I’ve never had the guts to do anything about it, but I’ve always kind of kept my distance. And after my old boss went missing, I didn’t really… I haven’t felt right getting them involved in anything.” 

He listened intently as you rambled for a moment, eyes locked onto your face as he searched for any form of deception. He couldn’t think of a single reason why you would lie to him, of all people, about your dislike for the guardians, and he was relieved when he read you as truthful. Hwa was right, then—you could be a helpful asset.

Nodding as you finished, he turned his gaze back to the horizon and capped the bottle in his hand. “That’s kind of what I thought too, at first, and it built from there pretty quickly. I guess that’s the Captain’s fault, though.” 

“Hongjoong?” You questioned, taking another stiff glug of your drink. 

That was a name that put you on edge to speak, like its utterance would summon its owner. Yeosang only hummed in confirmation.

You tucked yourself further into his side, tucking your legs up again as you picked at the label of your bottle. “I kinda thought you guys were a myth before tonight.” The look he gave you was something adjacent to offense, and you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up from your throat. “I don’t mean it in a bad way! The stories have just always been so much larger than life. I thought you were a legend the rebels of the city cooked up to keep hope or something.”

He laughed at your explanation, securing the arm that rested behind you around your waist and squeezing you into his side. You hid your face in his chest as heat rose to your cheeks, hoping he couldn’t feel your blush through the thin material of his tank top. 

“You did not,” he teased, shaking your shoulder lightly. When you didn’t raise your head and only mumbled something unintelligible in response, he sat up straighter, the hand that had been holding him up coming to lift your chin. “Oh my god, you did,” he teased when you wouldn’t meet his eyes, tongue caught between his teeth. He let out that distinct, adorable giggle, and you couldn’t stop your lips from twitching into a smile. 

“Yeah, I did,” you murmured, still plenty embarrassed. 

You felt him shift more than you saw it, turning your head to figure out what he was up to. Freezing for a moment as you found his face inches from your own, you glanced between his eyes and lips. His fingers shifted from under your chin to splay out over the side of your face, and you saw the ghost of a smirk tug at his lips.

“You’re blushing, Y/N,” he hummed, making you impossibly more aware of the heat in your cheeks and under his palm. 

When you didn’t respond, he hesitated, a small blip of wariness in the confidence on display in front of you. Before he could pull away completely, in a feat of bravery you didn’t know you were capable of, you pulled him in until your lips crashed together.

The little noise of surprise he let out was muffled between you, but he recovered quickly, pulling you tight against him and meeting your kiss with just as much fervor. He was quick to grab at your thigh, pulling it over his hips and tugging you into his lap. Hands settling on his shoulders, you barely noticed his coat falling from your own before his hands left you to catch it. He pulled back with a low hum and a smile as he settled the garment back where it had been, this time wrapping it in his embrace with you.

“Still think I’m just a myth?” He prodded, earning a scoff and an eye roll from you.

You smirked, though, as you looked back at him, eyes flickering over his own flushed face. “I don’t know, let me check again.”

You were almost sorry to swallow the giggle that left him, but any regret quickly melted away with the feeling of his lips on yours. This one was slower, soft and exploratory, a stark contrast to the sudden heat of the last. He dragged your chest flush with his own slowly, one hand splaying out between your shoulder blades while the other slid around to your opposite hip. The movement had goosebumps prickling over your skin and, despite the warmth of his body and the coat around you, you shivered. He hummed against your lips and held you ever so slightly tighter, hands beginning to wander across the expanse of your back.

When you finally broke for air, Yeosang’s hands settled at your waist, doing little more than steadying you as you breathed each other in, foreheads pressed together and eyes closed. It was like time had frozen around you, the silence of the desert night suspending you in an alternate reality, and it felt as though even the slightest movement would send you careening back to the doom that awaited you in Night City. Neither of you spoke, neither of you stirred; for a few short moments you wondered if you had forgotten how to breathe. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Yeosang broke the silence.

“Do you want me the way I want you?”

There was a rasp to his already deep voice that hadn’t been there before, and when you finally opened your eyes, he was already staring up at you, the desire burning low in his gaze making your breath catch in your throat. Swallowing thickly, you nodded, one of your hands slipping into the hair at the base of his skull. He hummed lowly, pleased, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a smirk, and guided your hips to rest more firmly against his own. You let out your own quiet sigh at the evidence of his arousal pressing against your core, quickly sealing your lips again. He met you once again with passion, an undercurrent of desperation and urgency in the way his hands ran up your body, pushing his coat off of your shoulders. Your grip on his hair tightened as he slid them under the hem of your shirt, and you swallowed the moan he let out, matching it with a quiet whine of your own.

His hands settled on your waist again, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your skin as he pulled back from you just long enough to speak, “Tell me.” You huffed, trying to guide his lips back to yours, but he held you fast. “I need to hear you say it, doll.”

The pet name had you whining, nodding eagerly as you squirmed against him. “Yes, Yeosang, I want you. Please.”

Your permission was all it took. In seconds, his lips were back on yours and his hands were exploring every inch of skin they could as his hips rolled up into your own. His explorations left your shirt bunched up, and as the cool night air met your skin to contrast pleasantly with the warmth of his hands, a shudder lit down your spine. His lips parted from your own to pepper open-mouthed kisses and teasing nips down the pillar of your throat, hands dropping back to your hips to drag you more solidly against the bulge in his jeans. You both let out breathy, broken moans and found each other’s eyes, desperation reflected back at the both of you. Your hands fell from his shoulders to slink under his tank top for a moment, fingers wandering over the toned muscles you found for a moment before running over his waistband, tugging at the buckle of his belt.

“Eager,” he murmured, leaning up to nip at your pulse. He ground up into you roughly as he shifted under you, one hand settled firmly on your hip while the other splayed over your shoulders. You barely registered his words, too preoccupied with the need coursing through you, when he spoke again. “Flip with me.”

You complied easily, letting him roll you onto your back and settle between your legs. His gaze was hungry as he ran his hands down your thighs, hesitating when he reached your waistband. A nod seemed to be all he needed to unfasten them and drag them down your legs along with your underwear, leaving you bare to his gaze and the night air, one or both of the sensations sending a shudder lighting down your spine. Feeling exposed, you moved to close your legs, but in a flash, Yeosang was settled firmly between them, fingers kneading at your thighs as he hovered at eye-level with your core. 

He lapped a fat stripe over your folds and it was over for you both. The groan he let out and the hungry way he dove back in had you whimpering in seconds, legs twitching where they rested over his shoulders. His tongue worked over you a little clumsily at first, but the moment he found the things that had you gasping or whimpering, he was zeroing in on them, building you rapidly toward a peak you weren’t quite ready to fall over.

“Sangie,” you gasped, reaching down to tug at his hair and drag him up.

His eyes, closed in reverence of his position and your body, snapped open, and he sucked hard on your clit. You whined, pushing back against the top of his head. “Yeosang,” you tried again, “need you t’... Need you.”

He hummed lowly, pressing a kiss to your folds before pushing himself back up, caging you in with his body. 

“You’ve got me,” he murmured, leaning down to mouth at your neck again.

You whined in protest, hand finding his hair again to pull his lips to yours, earning a low chuckle from the man above you. Reaching for his belt, you ran your nails over the front of his jeans, pulling a hiss of your own from his lips. When fumbling blindly with his belt buckle became a lost cause for both of you, he sat back on his heels, unfastening both his belt and his pants. He paused only to pull his wallet from his pocket and a condom from his wallet before he was shoving his jeans and boxers down. You let out a quiet moan at the sight of his cock, flushed and leaking, propping yourself up on an elbow and reaching for him.

The look of him as you wrapped your fingers around him was a memory you wanted to keep forever. His eyes rolled back in his head and his hips twitched up into your touch, a broken moan falling from his lips. His fingers tightened around the foil packet between them as you slowly pumped his length, his breathing quickly becoming ragged. Within moments, one hand was snapping down to grab at your wrist, halting your movements. 

“You keep at that much longer, angel, and I’m not gonna last.”

You grinned, lip caught between your teeth, thumb swiping over his weeping slit. He heaved an unsteady breath, head rolling back again, before he focused back on you, glaring.

“Fuck me already, then,” you quipped, mouth ticking up in a smirk.

He huffed another laugh, shaking his head as he tore the foil open, reaching for you the moment he had a hand free to pull you in for another kiss. He lowered you to the ground as he rolled the condom over himself, gasping into your mouth at the friction, and you clung hard to his shoulders as he settled back over you. You whined as he parted from you again, tugging at his head to urge him back, but he grabbed your wrist, lacing your fingers and pinning your hand to the ground as he lined himself up with your entrance. 

“You’re sure about this?”

As touched as you were by the check-in, it made your jaw twitch in irritation. 

“Yes, I’m sure, fuck me, Yeosang–!” His name morphed into a long, drawn out moan as he pushed into you in one quick, fluid stroke. His own low sound melded with your own, crafting a harmony that would be echoing in your mind for weeks. 

He paused for a breath, leaning down to kiss you quickly, catching your bottom lip between his teeth. You whined as he shifted within you, breath already coming in short; you were desperate for him, and if he weren’t just as desperate for you, Yeosang would have taken more time to commit the sight to memory. But with the way your walls were hugging him—and the way you had already begged him, the sight of the rapid rise and fall of your chest and the knowledge that he caused that—he couldn’t wait long or this would be over before it had even really started.

The moment you felt him begin to move, really move, within you, you let out a gasp, the hand he didn’t have pinned snapping up to tangle in his hair. You pulled him forward as he fucked into you, pressing your foreheads together, and he followed your lead eagerly, catching your lips in a sloppy kiss. It devolved quickly into little more than you moaning into each other’s mouths, hips rocking together rapidly as you chased bliss together. He was warm, strong and sure above you, and the night around you faded into nothing with the way his body covered yours, leaving both of you once again suspended in a world of your own making. Your cries and whines of pleasure echoed out into the nothingness of the desert, and for once you didn’t bother silencing yourself—out here, there were no repercussions for your pleasure. 

For the second time that night, you mused over how Yeosang—a man you were taught was the enemy, trapped in a prison of his mind’s own making—felt like freedom. The build of the high you were chasing now reminded you of the rush of adrenaline that had coursed through you on the back of his bike such a short time ago, and you pulled him impossibly closer to you, needing to feel his body flush against yours in the same way. A quiet grunt left him as he dropped down to his elbow, stuttering for only a second before picking his pace back up. You settled your feet on the ground, using the leverage to tilt your hips up, and with that small shift, you were seeing stars. His cock was hitting that perfect spot inside of you, his lips were chasing yours every chance he got, and his grip on your hand was tightening; you could tell he was just as close to his peak as you were as he sighed your name against your lips.

He feels like freedom. The thought echoed in your head again, this time louder, and your heart skipped several beats in quick succession. Your chest, throat and core all tightened together, and you pressed your lips against Yeosang’s lips with purpose as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave. You swallowed the drawn-out moan that left him as your walls milked him dry, his hips twitching against your own. He pulled back while you were still lost on cloud nine, wanting to drink in the sight of you, and when his eyes caught the tearstains on your cheeks, his headlight tinging them gold, his stomach dropped. But your eyes blinked open as he wiped them away, a hazy, blissful smile on your face, and he felt himself relax just a bit.

“What’s wrong, angel?” he murmured, and your chest clenched at the concern in his voice. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

You shook your head vehemently. “No, Sangie, you were perfect. I just… It felt really good to let go,” you admitted, turning your gaze away from his own. “I haven’t ever been able to, with the whole…” You gestured back toward Night City, and he raised his head to stare back at it, frowning.

WIth a sigh, Yeosang nodded, slipping out of you to sit up. You whined in protest, grabbing at him, and he placated you with a kiss before shifting around to clean both of you up. Once you were dressed again, the cold quickly having become unbearable without his heat, he tugged you into his lap.

“I’m sorry you’ve never had an experience like this before,” he hummed, pressing a kiss into your hair, “but I’m glad I could provide it, and I hope you’ll let me again.”

You smiled brightly against his chest, nodding. “Any time, Sangie. I’m just sorry so many other people miss out on this.”

“Me too.”

“It felt like freedom,” you murmured after a stretch of silence. “You feel like freedom.”

Another moment you wanted you imprint on your brain; the grin he gave you before he yanked you in for another kiss.

When he returned to the rest of the Blue Birds for patrol the next night, Yeosang was keenly aware of Seonghwa’s eyes boring holes into the back of his skull. No doubt he was curious about the details of the previous night’s escapades and itching to give him an earful for wandering off with a government employee and no backup or contingency plan. Sure enough, when the gang split for their respective patrols, he was the one left with their leader. It wasn’t unusual by any stretch, but since the change to his callsign, Seonghwa had been putting Yeosang with other people more frequently to give everyone a chance to adjust.

As they set out, silence stretched between the two riders, and Yeosang couldn’t shake the discomfort it brought. After only a short fifteen minutes, he had to break it.

“You’re mad at me.”

It was purposeful, he was sure, the way he could hear Seonghwa’s drawn-out sigh over his comms. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

“But I didn’t,” he countered, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“You could have gotten yourself arrested.” 

Yeosang scoffed. “What’s the difference, these days?” The silence that met his ears spoke volumes. “Look, I know you aren’t happy about it, but I did it, and I survived. And I think you might be right—she might be on our side, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

Another sigh. “What does that even mean, Yeosang?”

“I figured out why she didn’t call you in.” Silence, this time, but where he had been pointedly keeping ahead of his companion, Seonghwa sat back just a bit, slowing his pace to ride with him. “She doesn’t trust them.”

“Who does?”

“Like eighty percent of the population. Can you be civil for long enough for me to explain, please?” Silence met Yeosang’s ears, but it was miles better than snark. “She’s worked on the things—she knows their wiring and their programming back to front. She could be a very valuable asset to us.”

“So you’ve said—I fail to see how this is more than grunt work.”

“She just got promoted to the position our guy was in before.”

Seonghwa’s helmet whipped to face him for a split second. “Okay, now that is something. Did you convince her to help us, then?”

Yeosang chewed on his lip. “Not yet, but I think I can.”

The deep breath that echoed through his earpiece set his nerves on edge. “You’d better work fast. She’s good at her job—the things our guy was blocking from release are almost ready to be delivered to the masses, according to my intel. We need her position back as soon as possible, and there are already plans in motion.”

There it was. His stomach dropped and bile rose in his throat. “You’ve already called a hit on her.”

“In my defense, I didn’t know it was this girl you’re head over heels for.”

“Says you,” he spat, uncharacteristically nasty, eyeing the way his companion’s shoulders rose. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.”

Silence once again, heavy and tangible, hung in the road between the two men.

“If we only resort to death and violence, we’re no better than they are.”

Seonghwa’s scoff echoed as he revved his engine, pulling ahead once again. This time, it didn’t seem like he would be falling back. “I can give you a week. Either convince her or get over her. It’s your choice.”

Yeosang scowled, watching with a glare that could kill as his friend faded into the horizon. He didn’t need a whole week.

Two days later, when you were once again working late and in desperate need of a meal, Blue Bird Delivery was out of service once again. Your heart sank and bile rose in your throat at the implication, and you promptly locked your phone, suddenly too sick to eat. You drowned yourself in your work for the next hour or so, blissfully uninterrupted. It wasn’t until your phone pinged in your pocket, signaling the building’s front buzzer, that you were pulled back into reality. Blinking the measurements and notes from your vision, you frowned, clicking the front camera onto your computer and opening the intercom. “Yes?” 

“Blue Bird Delivery with an order for Y/N,” came the quick reply, Yeosang’s voice crackling through the speaker. You rubbed your temples and sighed heavily, feeling like the weight of the world had been taken off of your shoulders as you relaxed. 

“I’ll be down in a minute.” You bit the inside of your lip, holding back your grin as you made your way downstairs and through the front door as fast as possible.

He seemed even more on edge than usual tonight, shoulders tensed up nearly to his ears, you noted when he came into view. This time, it was you who used his greeting to cover your question. 

“Are you alright?”

He hummed quietly, barely loud enough for you to hear, and turned on his heel, leaving you stunned and confused, a million questions running through your mind. Did he regret taking you out? Did he regret the sex? If he wasn’t here to talk, why was Yeosang bringing you food that you hadn’t been able to order in the first place? He had seemed happy for the rest of the night, holding you close, watching from the street as you had made your way into your apartment building and waved to him from the window, pouting just slightly before you’d arrived that he couldn’t kiss you good night. In a slight daze, you made your way back to your office, locking the door behind you before settling in to eat. No matter how bitter the food would taste now, you needed to eat, but you certainly didn’t want anyone disturbing you. 

Pulling the bag open, your eyes immediately zeroed in on an unfamiliar shock of blue tucked down the side of it. You squinted for a brief second in consideration of it, quickly thinking better of pulling it from the bag. Removing the takeout containers resulted in the paper falling down into the bottom of the bag, and as you set it below your desk as you had made a habit of, readying it for the remnants of your dinner, you glimpsed the message scrawled on it.

“1 hr. -H”

You swallowed thickly, anxiety coiling in your gut. What the hell had you gotten yourself into?

He was waiting in the same place he had been before, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall. You hesitated as you approached him, and his heart sank. He wanted so badly to touch you, to kiss you, to pull you to him, but he couldn’t risk that emotional breakdown happening in the center of Night City if this went south. Still, he offered you a half-hearted version of his little finger wave.

“What’s with the passing notes?” You questioned, attempting to laugh off the awkwardness. 

“I need you to make a decision.” If you weren’t nervous before, you certainly were now, heart pounding against your ribcage as you bit back a retort about your relationship being too new for ultimatums. “I can either be here as an opportunity or a warning.”

“Should we go somewhere—” you started, only for him to cut you off with a raised hand.

“We’re safe enough here, and I don’t want to waste gas. This is a blind spot for surveillance.” You nodded, wrapping your arms around yourself for comfort. This didn’t feel good. “The rebellion needs someone in your position. Your previous boss was—”

“I know,” you cut in. “I found the forged documents ages ago, before I even took over.”

He went silent, head tilting to the side. You wished you could see the puppy-like look under his disguise.

“He wasn’t sneaky. He didn’t destroy any of the evidence—I found it all the morning I got promoted. The drawings, the inspection sheets, all of it. Are you here to ask me to take over for him?”

Yeosang hesitated. “Well, I was going to, yes. The issue is, you’re a little too good at your job, and if you keep being good at it, I and my people will start losing our footing. And…” He paused, taking a deep breath, trying to ignore the way you were staring at him with narrowed eyes. “There might already be a hit out on you from some of the higher-ups. So it’s kind of a ‘help us or die’ situation.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach. “There’s no other alternative?”

“Not unless you wanted to end up running and hiding for the rest of your life like we do.”

Your decision, and therefore your reply, was instantaneous. “How do I do that?”

If you could see his face, you probably would have laughed at the stunned look Yeosang was giving you. “What?”

“I don’t want this life anymore. I’ve spent my entire life making absolutely sure I fit the mold, and it’s been absolutely terrifying every step of the way. I’ve lost coworkers, friends, even family members for bullshit or unknown reasons and I—” Your voice broke and you paused, regaining your composure. “I felt free with you the other night. I want to feel that again, as often as I can.”

He was quiet for long enough that dread settled back in your stomach. When he finally broke the silence, you could hear the mask fall away from his voice. “Let’s go for a ride, then. We’ll figure this out together.”

You grinned, waiting impatiently for him to settle over his bike before climbing on behind him, wrapping tightly around him, this time in excitement rather than fear. Like the first night, you felt him laugh. “Hold on tight, doll, you’re in for a bit of a bumpy ride.” 

Despite knowing he was talking about more than poorly paved roads this time, your heart soared. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Hermes.”

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© June 2023 nebulousbrainsoup | all rights reserved. do not copy, repost or translate my work.

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] Old Acquaintance

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling (Hob x Morpheus) Rated: G Word Count: 800-ish Contains: Fluff, romance Notes: Spent all day yesterday writing this in a piqueish fit of self-challenge because I got the idea and then realized New Years was not, in fact, a week away as I'd been thinking. I let it breathe overnight and did a round or two of edits today; it's unpolished and unbetaed but ON TIME so I will count it a success.

Summary: It's New Year's Eve at the New Inn, and Dream and Hob are on the same page.

On AO3

~~~***~~~ It is New Year's Eve at the New Inn and Dream is being offered the hand of one Hob Gadling.

He has been sitting quietly on the sidelines of the party noisily in swing all around him, contemplating humans in general and the joy they can somehow find in all things, and basking in the stolen moments when Hob has come to sit with him. It is Hob's establishment and therefore Hob's party to manage; he has been generous in giving Dream all of his attention in between directing his staff and helping out where needed. They have spoken of the cycles of time and the marking of its passage, the particular celebration of rebirth and renewal; they have spoken of rituals and traditions surrounding such celebrations and the ways they have changed and evolved over decades and centuries.

But now, with the glowing clock above the bar announcing eleven fifty-seven pm, Hob is not sitting down to join him; is instead standing before him, angled back the way he'd come, one hand extended and hopeful invitation in the tilt of his eyebrows.

"There's…one more tradition I'd like to share with you, if I may?"

Dream notes the hesitation as Hob asks, the diffident tilt of his head and the way his other hand toys with his earlobe; he has gleaned some knowledge of current New Year's traditions from the Dreaming prior to tonight’s conversations, countdowns and kisses and champagne, and Hob's demeanor suggests rather openly which of those he intends.

As Dream himself is here, tonight, amongst all this crushing humanity in hopes of receiving such intent—

"You may." He takes hold of the offered hand.

Hob's answering smile is brilliant, if still a touch uncertain around the corners, and he draws Dream to his feet with gentle ease. He leads them just into the fringe of the crowd, not quite to the edge of the dance floor, before turning to face Dream again. He steps close, rests his forearms on Dream's shoulders, holds Dream's eyes with the ghost of a plea in his own.

"I'm not asking you to dance, promise. Just…be here. With me. To ring in the new year."

Dream cannot, he finds, imagine anywhere he would more like to be at this moment; he settles his hands at Hob's waist, where it begins to curve around to his back.

"As you wish."

Hob dimples, swaying gently with the press of people in near proximity, out of time with the up-tempo music on the sound system. "I'm glad you came tonight."

Dream smiles in answer, the tiniest tilting of the corners of his mouth, willing all of the abject fondness swelling in his chest to shine also in his gaze, that Hob might know it. If he happens to sway in the same manner as Hob, to ensure that they remain close and in concert, Hob is kind enough not to remark on it.

The clock above the bar ticks over; the music ceases and someone announces through the speakers that they are just one minute from midnight, and Hob's arms tense where they're draped across Dream's shoulders. His eyes hold fast to Dream's, dark and enchanting and filling with trepidation and determination in equal measure; his lovely smile falters.

"Just…if I'm reading you wrong, please just tell me? Don't storm out of my life again?"

That Hob still holds that as a possibility to be feared—

Dream swallows down the old regret, pushes past his own guardedness to give Hob some small reassurance. "You are not. Reading me wrong."

Hob's smile returns, brilliant, hopeful, and his eyes soften with joy. His chin tips up, ready to close the distance between them.

Dream holds himself steady against the feeling of butterflies spiraling into his stomach. This anticipation is wholly…aggravating; he would have Hob kiss him now.

"Ten! Nine! Eight!"

They understand one another; their intentions are aligned.

There is no reason, no sense, in waiting for the stroke of midnight.

It is arbitrary.

It is tradition.

Dream waits.

"Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!"

Hob's mouth fits to his perfectly.

Dream presses closer, slides his arms around Hob's waist properly. Hob slips a hand up into the back of Dream's hair and breaks the kiss, returns at an altered angle, lips parting; Dream's butterflies burst into flight, soar into his throat and up and out, a soft sigh of pleasure caught tenderly in the warm mesh of Hob's mouth.

They do not take part in the toast. They do not join in singing Auld Lang Syne. They give no heed to the party poppers going off all around. They sway together, still kissing, on the edges of a crowd that pays them no mind, ringing in the new year with the promise of red roses blooming bright and welcome and familiar in the long-standing garden of their friendship.

===== Drafted: 12/30/22 Posted: 12/31/22

[pan-de-queer]

valleys behind your kneecaps (supercorp)

Genre: Fluff, No Powers AU

Summary:

Sam clasps her hands together as she leans almost halfway over the table. “Will you please do this for me?” “Sam—” “I’ll never complain about your restaurant choices ever again, you can keep the modeling payment, and I’ll buy you lunch for two weeks straight.” “I’m an heiress, Sam, I really don’t need the payment or free lunch.” “That last part wasn’t a bribe, it’s a threat.” Lena scoffs, rolling her eyes as she fights a smile. “Fine. I’ll do your little modeling thing.”

Or: Lena's a med student, Kara's an artist, and somehow they still fall in love.

Author's Note: i did a writing test for work and i couldn't get my head to write original blorbos without an outline so i wrote supercorp instead and then changed the names so this is the og of that test (but longer bc i can't shut up about these idiots fr) oh also happy belated(??) valentines i guess! title from Kindling by Caitlyn Siehl and unbetaed for now (knowing me, the fic might get longer when i edit lol)

UPDATE: i edited :))) and added around 500+ words

ao3

valleys behind your kneecaps

Lena rarely ever gets time for herself.

It comes with the territory, she knows that. Being a med student means sacrificing a lot to become the doctor the Luthors have always expected of her.

It probably helps that her social life wasn’t all that affected.

Her grand total of three friends all understood the pressure she was under and the work she constantly has to do to stay on top. Still, that didn’t mean they didn’t force her to take a break every now and then.

Which is how Lena finds herself here, at Noonan’s, enjoying brunch with Sam on a sunny Thursday morning. Or, well, she was enjoying it until Sam gets a call from Ruby’s school and asks for a favor. A weird one.

“You want me to model for you?” Lena laughs, her sides cramping up. She laughs so hard she chokes on her kale and salmon salad. She laughs until she realizes that Sam isn’t laughing along. Until she realizes that Sam is dead serious.

“Oh.” Lena blinks, jaw clamping shut at Sam’s wide, pleading eyes.

“Please, Lena, it’s in half an hour and they wouldn’t be able to find a replacement so last minute and you know how Ruby gets when I make her wait.”

“She gets it from you,” Lena scoffs, dusting nonexistent dirt off the spot next to her coffee. “Besides, shouldn’t I be coming along to check on Ruby’s health?”

“Okay, first of all, rude! Secondly, you’re a medical student training to be a surgeon, not a pedia.”

“It’s not like I don’t know enough of the basics to check on her.”

“No. The school nurse already gave her the all-clear she just needs to go home and rest. Now.” Sam clasps her hands together as she leans almost halfway over the table. “Will you please do this for me?”

“Sam—”

“I’ll never complain about your restaurant choices ever again, you can keep the modeling payment, and I’ll buy you lunch for two weeks straight.”

“I’m an heiress, Sam, I really don’t need the payment or free lunch.”

“That last part wasn’t a bribe, it’s a threat.”

Lena scoffs, rolling her eyes as she fights a smile. “Fine. I’ll do your little modeling thing.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Sam drops a sloppy kiss on Lena’s forehead before she grabs her things, backing away with her purse in one hand and her phone in the other. “The class is in Studio C. Just tell the instructor I sent you! Thank you!”

Sam disappears out the doors before her last thank you even ends and Lena’s left alone with her half-eaten brunch and a sudden appointment to keep.

The things Lena does for her friends.

With a sigh, Lena finishes her salad and coffee before exiting the café that stood right across the cursed art studio. Sam had been modeling part-time for DEO Studio for almost two years now and had even invited Lena and their usual friend group (consisting of Jack and Andrea) to take some beginner’s classes for fun. Lena had never accepted the offer, of course, what with all the studying and hospital rounds she always had to do, but she’d always been supportive of her friend’s varying choice of part-time jobs (she kept trying to convince Sam to just ask for a raise, after all, she’d been the one to convince Lex to hire her, but Sam was too much of a wimp to negotiate with Lillian).

As Lena walks across the cracked, paved street and pushes open clear, glass doors, she wonders if she’s being a little too supportive this time.

The inside of the studio is clean and minimalist, brick walls painted white surrounds the space with a simple, wooden front desk greeting everyone who enters. A small waiting lounge is lined up in front of the studio’s towering glass windows and the walls have fewer paintings and pictures than Lena assumed there’d be in an art studio. A large, sculpted art piece stands off to the side to seemingly make up for the lack of them.

“Hello! Welcome to DEO Studio.” A young woman greets her from behind the desk. “Can I help you with anything?”

Lena shuffles towards the reception desk, the weight of Sam’s favor slowly starting to hit her. “Um, yes. My friend, Samantha Arias, had an emergency to take care of and asked me to sub-in for her modeling work today.”

Truly, the strangest, almost laughable sentence she’s ever said.

Lena?

A model?

Ha!

“Oh! Yes, I’m familiar with Sam. I’m Nia!” Nia stands to offer her a handshake and despite the nerves starting to creep into her chest, Lena takes it with all the poise of an heiress.

“Hi, Nia. Lena. Sam said that the class is in Studio C and that I should tell the instructor she sent me?”

“Yes, alright, let me lead you to the studio and I can explain the situation to the instructor.”

Nia circles around the desk to lead her down the entrance to the left and Lena follows with a soft, “Thank you so much.”

Lena folds her hands behind her back to keep them from twisting, a habit Lillian is still trying to fix. Instead, Lena focuses on the way the studio is laid out, channeling her nerves into taking stock of her surroundings. The hallways are as white and nondescript as the front room, but Lena takes note of the two photography studios and a sculpting studio that they pass before stopping at a nondescript glass door at the end of the hall.

Nia enters first and holds the door open for her to follow. When she enters, the first thing Lena notices is that while the room remains white, paintings and drawings and posters litter two free walls from floor to ceiling. One wall is covered with shelving, closets, cabinets, and a dressing room, neatly labeled with big, printed stickers, while a huge panel of windows cover the wall opposite the door. A small, raised platform stands in the middle of the room, far enough from the door to be difficult to see immediately but right in the middle of the well-lit room.

Seven easels circle the platform with three of the wooden chairs accompanying each easel already occupied by an artist setting up their sketchpad and materials. An eighth easel stands in the far left corner of the room, farthest from the windows and door, and has a tall, tan goddess standing next to it who seems occupied with organizing her own materials.

Lena is frozen at the sight of the woman, but Nia walks straight towards the Adonis of a blonde, exchanging a hushed conversation that includes a few glances her way that Lena uses as an excuse to politely take a look at the woman she assumes she’s working with.

The maybe-instructor is taller than her, looking down at Nia with a furrow between her blonde brows and an adorable tilt to her head. She wears cute, blocky glasses that frame eyes that, without even seeing them, Lena knows are gorgeous. Plump pink lips are twisted into a frown as the woman nods at whatever Nia is telling her. She’s dressed in a comfy-looking plaid button up, the sleeves rolled up tightly on her forearms and her biceps obviously straining under the cotton. Before Lena’s gaze can fall any lower, though, Nia and the maybe-instructor start walking her way and Lena’s breath catches as she finally gets a good look at the woman’s face.

Bright blue eyes crinkle adorably at the corners as a tan nose wrinkles over a welcoming grin. Lena is pretty sure the woman’s smile can stop wars. It was art in itself.

“Hi!” The woman of Lena’s dreams greets with an outstretched hand as they come to a stop in front of her. “Nia told me that you’re subbing in for Sam and I’m really thankful for the assist! I’m Kara, Kara Danvers.”

By some miracle, Lena’s brain manages to react before she can even fully process what’s happening. Her hand slipping into a warm, calloused one as she replies, “Lena. I’m happy to be here.”

“And we’re glad to have you!” Kara beams, her smile somehow brightening even more. “Follow me and I’ll show you what you’ll be doing for today’s class.”

Like a moth to a flame, Lena followed Kara through the studio, barely remembering to thank Nia for the guidance as Kara starts talking a mile a minute.

“So today’s class is an intermediate drawing class, so everyone’s used to working with a model already. We normally start every model-work class with quick line sketching before you have to do the whole sitting still for an hour thing.” Just when Lena thinks Kara’s finished her explanation, her eyes widen and she keeps going. “Oh! Did Sam tell you you’d have to be sitting still for this? It can feel kind of awkward and cramp-y at first but if you need any breaks you can just signal me and I can give you a minute or two to stretch but—”

“Kara.” Lena lays a hand on the art instructor’s strong, broad shoulder, realizing that if she continued to keep quiet then Kara will never stop. “I get it, it’s fine. And I’ve modeled before, kind of.”

Luthor Corp promotionals and Lillian’s constant need to showcase the perfect family image definitely counts as modeling in Lena’s book.

“Oh! Really? That’s so cool!” Kara seems to breathe a little easier at her touch. “Are you, like, a professional model or something?”

Lena laughs, flattered but also mystified. She knew she had some looks, as many of the wealthy creeps and paparazzi liked to remind her, but she was far from model material. Lillian made sure to remind her of that every time she was pictured out in public.

Still, the fact that Kara thinks so is sweet.

“No, I’m definitely not model material,” Lena shakes her head, smile wry and shoulders tight. “I’m a med student.”

Kara hums, lips pursed thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess it wouldn’t be all that fair if you were a model. You’d be too perfect. Beauty and brains? Definitely cheating.”

Heat blooms from Lena’s neck to her cheeks, Kara’s smile widening as blue eyes seem to trace every touch of pink on her face. Hoping to pull the attention away from her flaming cheeks, Lena ducks her head and asks, “So, what do I need to do first?”

The question seems to snap Kara back into work mode, because then, Lena’s being shown the different kinds of poses most class models go for before being offered a floor pillow or a chair to model on. Lena chooses the chair and only has enough time to thank Kara for carrying it to the platform before the class begins.

Introductions are made briefly at the start as Lena’s the only new person amongst the group, and then the actual class and modeling starts. Lena builds a rhythm with the warm up sketches, getting comfortable with quick poses and holding them for a minute before moving on to the next. The room is filled with the sound of pencil scratching paper and Lena feels the most relaxed she’s been in years.

There’s something freeing about being a small class model. She isn’t striking any kind of dramatic pose and yet every movement is art. Every slouch of her shoulders and stretch of her leg is something these people can turn beautiful.

(It also helps that Kara praises her after every pose, a warmth Lena refuses to name surrounding her from the inside out.)

A few minutes later, Kara moves to stand next to Lena on the platform with her sketchpad in hand and starts the actual drawing lessons. Lena finds herself captivated with the way Kara speaks, passionate and excited and bright. She watches sure, strong hands wave in every direction, blue eyes widening and narrowing with every explanation and example Kara gives. Eventually, Kara returns to her easel and calls for everyone to start drawing in detail, and Lena manages to fall into a pose sitting comfortably in the direction of the instructor herself.

She uses the position to give her an excuse to look Kara’s way. Watches blonde brows furrowing as Kara stares at her own sketchpad with a slight pout to her pink lips. Steady fingers make varying strokes on the paper as a slender wrist twists this way and that. It’s only a couple minutes later that Lena notices the constant rhythm of Kara’s pencil strokes suddenly still. Green eyes move from long fingers to broad shoulders to tilted lips and then sparkling blues.

Busted.

Kara seems amused at catching Lena staring, even a little pleased if Lena were to believe her imagination. But Lena was never much of a believer, so she put on her Luthor mask and pushed back her embarrassment at being caught, raising a challenging brow instead.

Kara only responds with a smug smile before diving back into her own drawing.

Lena lets out a shaky breath as the attention (or Kara’s attention, at least) shifts. She tries to return to her previous position and attempts to focus on the art scattering the wall.

She fails.

Green eyes unintentionally stray towards bright blue eyes and perfect blonde hair, and then the cycle repeats.

Lena stares.

She gets caught.

Kara smiles.

Rinse.

Repeat.

Fall.

By the time Kara finally calls for everyone to show their drawings, Lena almost feels as if they were flirting.

But why would a walking goddess flirt with her?

“Alright, class!” Kara claps her hands as Lena leans against one of the art-covered walls, finally free from sitting in the middle of the room. “Great work today! I can see that you’re all getting faster and some of you are even developing your own art styles. Keep practicing and I’ll see you all next week!”

The students all leave, none seemingly interested in staying behind for a chat but all giving Kara and Lena a quick glance as they leave.

(So maybe she threw subtle out the window after Kara caught her staring the first time. Sue her.)

Once the last student makes their way out, Kara steps off the platform and makes her way over, smile tilted on her pretty, pink lips.

“You stayed,” Kara’s voice is soft, breathy.

“Well,” Lena smiles, feels her chest warming at the way Kara says it. “I-” was hoping to ask you out. I think you’re super hot; here’s my number. I am so gay. All excellent and accurate choices, really, and yet the words that come out of Lena’s mouth are: “I wasn’t sure if you paid Sam after every class or every month.”

Kara’s eyes widen before a sheepish smile replaces it and suddenly Lena feels like she’s fucked up. “Oh, I almost forgot. I mean, I didn’t! I never forget to pay Sam. Fair pay! Y’know? Um, just, sorry, the modeling payment’s usually with Nia or J’onn.”

Lena feels the warmth start to fade as Kara takes a noticeable step back. Oh. Fuck.

“Wait!” Lena winces at the volume of her own voice but lets out a breath as she watches Kara freeze. “Sorry, I meant, um, I don’t need the payment right now. Or ever, really.”

Kara’s brows furrow as Lena tries to sort through her thoughts. “Well that doesn’t sound fair, Lena. We make it a practice to pay everyone who works for us. I’m pretty sure it’s both unethical and illegal to not pay your employees and when you model for us, you’re technically like a freelance employee. So we’ll obviously pay you for your time.”

“Kara?” Lena rushes in the second Kara pauses for a breath.

“Yeah?”

“I understand the legal requirements and all, but I did this as a favor for a friend, so what I meant was that you can keep the payment and give it to Sam, instead.” Lena smiles, aiming for reassuring. “I don’t need the money, and, honestly, the payment thing wasn’t what I really wanted to say.”

Kara sucks in a breath at the admission, blue eyes wide as a hopeful look crosses her face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Lena sucks in a breath, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet as she tries to pluck any semblance of courage to ask a ridiculously gorgeous girl out.

“I really liked your lesson,” Lena starts, far from what she was hoping to say but a start nonetheless.

“Thanks,” Kara smiles, earnest but a little confused. “You did great for a non-professional model.”

Lena chuckles in reply, smile crooked as she tries to bite it down. “Thanks. I had some high expectations to meet.”

“Well, consider them met.”

And Kara’s so sincere, so cute as she stuffs her pencil-smudged hands into her pockets, that Lena decides, fuck it. What does she have to lose? She can ask Kara out and get a date or simply avoid the woman for the rest of her life. Easy.

“Kara,” Lena lets out a breath, green eyes glued to the paint splatter stuck on Kara’s faded sneakers. “I was wondering if you’d like to have coffee some time.”

The words on a date are stuck in her throat, but Lena considers it a big enough win that she asked at all. So she waits, lungs frozen and heart drumming in her chest for a rejection she expects and a miracle she hopes for. She’s focusing on keeping her breathing steady when a warm hand envelopes hers. Slowly, she looks up to find Kara beaming, a smile brighter than every single smile Kara’s given her today combined, blonde waves bouncing up and down excitedly.

“I’d love to have coffee with you some time.” Lena feels Kara’s hand squeeze hers gently before blue eyes crinkle further as Kara’s smile widens impossibly brighter. “But only on one condition.”

“Anything.” Lena says. Everything, she thinks.

Kara leans in closer, close enough that Lena can tell each shade of blue in her eyes. “Can coffee be a date?”

And Lena laughs, because yes. Yes. “I’d love nothing more.”

[kiara-ish]

... Birthday

Pairing: None. BTS is mentioned.

Warnings: angst. Just angst. Bad parenting, sad childhood, loneliness, mental breakdowns.

a/n: It is my birthday and I'm very happy to solo celebrate so yay for that. Also, this fic is a little deeper than the surface and I am writing this note here also as a big thanks. I thank @apotatomashedbybts @m-yg93 @temptaetions @back2bluesidex @eoieopda @cowboylikeyoongi many many more for being the rational part of my blog and being the bigger adult to me more than my IRL people. I am also incredibly grateful to @sugarwithtea @oddinary4bts @lonelystudio @lokidows-yooniverse many more I'll probably edit this tagging part later for being absolutely crackheads with me and being my best friends ever. My birthday feels like New Years for me and hence this mini monologue. But once again, to everyone I had the pleasure of encountering and interacting with thank you so so so much for considering me worthy of your company.

Thank you so much if you are reading this! You are loved and appreciated ❤️

This is unbeta-ed and unedited. Just wanted to get this out so sorry for the chaotic mess this might be.

You paused your music in synchronization to Agust D's 'Dream' and breathed a sigh. How long had it been since you started listening to BTS? Long enough to know that even shuffled your next song to be played was Butterfly and you wondered how long it had been that the butterflies in you died down. When was it exactly that you stepped away from where people could see you? Was it when your silly fanfics started turning darker and darker? Maybe it was when you realised that running from it didn't really make you Bulletproof, let alone Eternal.

As a child, you wrote a lot about darkness — dark rooms, dark nights, dark sides of life. The entirety of the year, a whole three hundred and sixty five and sometimes the extended three hundred and sixty six made you restless. How did it work that life and lifetime was so immense but bliss in it was so rare? Or maybe, it was just you, like always maybe it was just you.

Sitting on the desolate terrace of the unfinished construction of a building, a supposed home of many in the future, you ripped a box of candles. The air was humid and everytime the midnight summer breeze stopped whispering in your loneliness, you would feel the tingle of sweat dripping down your neck.

You decorated the candles, letting the sharp end of it pierce through the small, spongy muffin. The muffin was wrapped in a bright, colorful shell and you giggled to yourself; you bought that as your first choice. Lighting the candles up, you smiled and blew them all off before the wind did.

When the candles were lying half burnt and the muffin was gone, you frowned to yourself. It was lame, trying to berate yourself for expecting something life altering the moment you blew the candles. All those years gone by told you that much as the basics. Just because you grew up enough to wish yourself on your own birthday, didn't mean the axis of life would suddenly tilt for better on a summer night. Even the night birds sang slower tunes in the heat.

How old did you turn? Your brain was hazy with so many thoughts, none coherent. So you willed yourself to shut down for the night and admire the skyline in the distance. The bright flickering lights that curved around the big bridge at the distance were fun to watch as they disappeared among the dazzling city lights. Were they going home to their families? Were they going home to cook for themselves, play the television to hide their loneliness and sleep only to get up and repeat? Were their days getting better?

You remembered all your birthdays. You could recall your mother shouting at your father for not being able to buy you a cake, let alone a gift and your father retaliating by blaming your mother for being a meek housewife. You — small, little, lost and confused you — you began to hate your birthday somewhere along the tracks, fueled by a hate towards yourself for being a burden even though your parents – the best you could ask for – never said a word of the likes to you.

There was a tall apartment, a posh residential colony, in your direct line of vision. The big glass windows seemed small from the rooftop and you watched as lights began going off in them. Were they retiring for the night? How was their day? And the ones where the light stayed on even beyond midnight, what were they doing? Was it their birthday too? Were they receiving wishes?

You remembered having a lot of friends growing up. A friendly kid who was a well balanced speaker and a listener, you weren't far from crowds. But your presence there was like their presence in the grand scheme of the world – minute, easily forgettable. So when the notifications stopped getting frequent and the wishes started getting more lifeless, your lights turned off early into the night. But you stayed up, long after zero o'clock, wondering if you repelled people or it was just life. Now to think, young and wild teenage you loved the madness of chaos and wishes but the urge to be the responsible one (responsibility for what, though?) was always stronger.

Dialing up your mother's number, you waited till the last ring when she answered.

"Why are you calling so late? Are you okay?"

You smiled at her words, "It's my birthday, mom."

"Oh? What time is it-" you heard her ask your dad before she came in line again but her words broke off and you waited till you could hear again, "... Birthday! I can't believe you are all grown up now, huh!"

"Mother…"

"Wait, dad wants to wish you-"

Then you heard your dad. Years of cigarettes made him sound like he was croaking out his words. There was again a crackle of the network and you couldn't hear the word you wanted to, yet again.

"... Birthday, daughter! Keep working hard, okay?"

"Dad…"

"Here, talk to your mother now."

You felt a warm sensation spreading around your face and the tickle of a teardrop down your cheek.

"You ate, right?"

"Mother, I don't feel happy."

There was a silence on the other side for a while before you heard her again, "You should go sleep now. It's not the time to act like a child."

"When did I ever act like a child?"

You wondered if she heard your muffled sob. But even if she did, the other side was silent. So you spoke again.

"Did I act like a child even when I was one? Why did I have to be the mediator to your fights? Why did I have to tame myself when everyone around me was throwing tantrums and getting spoiled? Why? Why me? Why did I have to fight my own battles and take on yours too? Why?"

There was radio silence on the other side when you began to wail and thrash your feet on the ground. Why did it have to be this way? Why did your birthday have to make you feel sad? You choked on your spit and coughed at the burn of your nostrils when you sniffled.

It wasn't long before you calmed down, breathing steadier and eyes dry and empty. The silence from the other side made you remove the phone from your ear, arm numb. You stared at your homescreen with a text from your mother a few minutes ago.

"Call disconnected. I'll call tomorrow again. We are tired. Goodnight, daughter!"

Yet another year of hoping that the ones who said, "Save me. I need your love before I fall," will save you again. You will need their love again.

[fromthedeskoftheminister]

Its silent for a moment, and Impulse looks around at the very familiar faces in the circle before someone, hes not entirely sure who, says “Well.... Bye!”and the group scatters into the woods. Each and every one of them, he’s certainly no exception, wandering off to the corners of the Realm that they’ve found themselves in. Or well, allowed themselves to be pulled into, Impulse supposes as he starts to fell a birch tree. He really needs to pay more attention to the things Grian proposes to the group. He’d really only heard “Another small game” before getting distracted with the designs for his base this season and saying “Sure! Sounds like fun!“ and not registering literally any of the details, because... well, it was Grian. Which meant it was a death game. Which meant that he needed to set an Anchor, so that he didn’t have to get Tango, X, and Mumbo to summon him back to their current dimension after the game ended.

Its not the Soulbound thing. No really its not. It would be rather weird for him of all people to have issues with the Soulbound thing. Especially given that he comes from a place where being Soulbound is the norm.

All right, fine! He admits to himself as he watches the magic spread within the boundary and settle, a slight hitch in his breath as it pulls tight. It is the soulbound thing. and the fact that his life is not only his own. As it normally is. The strangeness, he supposes, comes from the fact that for the first time in a very long time, he doesnt know who his soulbound is.

[evilbeanghost]

Writing...

I feel like I want to write but at the same time I... don’t want to write?

[waywardnerd67]

Winchester Studies Chap 8 - Meant to Be

Summary: Five years after leaving UMKC, (Y/N) has finally found her way back to London writing about her whirlwind romance with the Winchester brothers. While walking home, fate steps in showing her that she cannot avoid what is meant to be. Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader Pairing: Dean x Reader Warnings: Fluff/Light Smut Word Count: 1724 A/N: As always this is unbeta so all mistakes are mine. Likes, comments and reblogs are splendid and I will love you doubly for them! Enjoy!

Check Out: Winchester Studies Masterlist

(Y/N) sat at a small table smiling at the young lady in front of her. She was holding her newly released book, The Study of Falling in Love. It was making a rise on best sellers lists in the US and UK, which is why she was in a small bookshop in the heart of London. Reading a chapter from the book to a crowd of fifty or so and signing copies for them.

After leaving UMKC and the Winchesters behind, she was notified that she had indeed earned enough credits to graduate this semester. Her diploma was mailed to her and she had a small ceremony with her parents and Katy that Christmas. When she received her diploma there was a note within it from Cas.

Congratulations on this achievement. It was rightly earned and well deserved. I hope that you are doing well and wish you all the best for the bright future you have ahead of you.

Sincerely, Dr. Cas Novak Dean of Students

PS: They wanted me to pass along their congratulations as well.

(Y/N) decided to build up a freelance editing service while regrouping at home over the next couple of years. Katy had moved to New York in that time and one trip visiting her they mused over (Y/N) writing a book to help work through everything that had happened at UMKC. During the day, she would read and edit for clients while at night she would pour her heart out onto the pages of her manuscript.

Now, five years after her whirlwind love affair with her professors, their story was out there for all to read. Of course, no one knew it was based on her real life experience. Except for her agent and Katy, the only ones who would ever know it was their story would be the Winchesters. As she signed the last book and the shop began to close up, (Y/N) collected her things and made her way out into the warm summer evening of downtown London.

“Excuse me! Miss (Y/L/N)! Could you please sign my book?”

Her body froze as a cold shiver ran down her spine. The familiar deep voice sending goosebumps down her arms. (Y/N) turned to see Sam Winchester standing on the sidewalk holding her book in his hand. A wide smile on his face as he approached her.

“Hey (Y/N).”

“S-Sam, what are you doing here?” She asked, completely taken back by him.

Endless nights of wondering and dreaming about the Winchesters. What happened after Sam had gone back to teaching and Dean resigned from his position. Had they moved on? As she looked at the book in his hand, she noticed at least Sam had in fact moved on.

“You’re married?”

He chuckled, “Yeah. That’s why I’m here, Eileen and I are starting our honeymoon in London. We were walking around here yesterday when I saw your gorgeous face being advertised for a book signing. I knew I had to come here and see you. We should catch up.”

“Yeah, we… uh, definitely should.” He handed her a business card, “You’re still at UMKC and Dean of Students now?”

He chuckled, “A lot has changed. Cas is now Chancellor and I was appointed to his position. I’m staying at The Westminster. Why don’t we meet for lunch at around noon.”

“That sounds great Sam.”

He leaned down kissing her cheek, “See you tomorrow.”

She watched him walk down the street, her mind reeling from seeing him. That night she tossed and turned in her bed as her heart pounded against her chest. A thousand questions bouncing around in her head, but only one screaming at her.

Could Dean be here as well?

The next morning, she went through her daily routine of warm tea, small breakfast and feeding her cat, Chaucer. Distracting herself if only for an hour as she conference called with her agent about the deadlines for a new book. Making sure to give herself plenty of time to get to the hotel restaurant, she left around eleven hailing a taxi.

Arriving twenty minutes early, she texted Sam where she was sitting and told him to take his time. She ordered her favorite tea to calm her nerves and people watched out the window beside her. She had a few story ideas forming in her mind when she heard someone say her name. Her rapid heartbeat filled her ears as her eyes looked up into bright olive ones.

“Dean…” She gasped, blinking a few times to make sure she was not manifesting a delusion from her mind.

“(Y/N), I-I wasn’t… I thought I was meeting Sam? W-What are you doing here?” He looked around at the few people staring at them before sitting across from her.

The waiter came over and Dean ordered coffee before looking back at her. Her mind was blank as her eyes slowly traveled over him. He looked almost the same as the last time she had seen him. A few days worth of stubble covered his sharp jaw and chin. The creases around his eyes seemed deeper which brought a little joy to her heart knowing he still smiled a lot. His shoulders and chest broader while the black leather jacket he wore conformed perfectly around his large biceps.

She watched a small smirk curl over his lips, “You’re staring.”

“I’m s-sorry. I can’t believe you’re in front of me right now.” She tried to lean back into her chair but her body was too tense.

The waiter brought his drink before he spoke, “That makes two of us. I think we’ve been parent trapped.”

She laughed, “I hate to say it but I think you’re right.”

Her laughter faded as his eyes drifted over her. As his eyes came back to hers she could feel her cheeks burning. She cleared her throat and took a sip of her tea, not helping that suddenly her body was uncomfortably warm.

“So, what are you doing in London?” She asked.

“I’m working with some architects on a project for the Tower Bridge. I’ve been living here for about a year now. What about you?”

(Y/N) was trying to process that information. A whole year, he had been living in the same city as her.

“I moved here as well around a year ago. I run a freelance editing business and released my debut novel a few weeks ago.” There was a knowing look in his eyes as she spoke, “You knew all that already, right?”

He nodded, “I did. Sam may have kept up with you after you left. He would let little bits of info slip out if we ever had one too many drinks together. I… uh, I read your book the day it came out.”

A cold shiver spread across her body, “I know you may be upset with me writing it, but I can assure you that no one knows it’s based on my life. I made sure of that to protect you both.”

He chuckled, “I’m not worried about that. I enjoyed reading your book. It gave me a unique point of view of how you felt during all of it. I didn’t like the ending at first.”

She chuckled, “I’m not surprised. That was truly the only fictional part I had to come up with other than changing names of people involved.”

Dean leaned forward, “However, at this moment, I think it may have been fate showing us through you what the ending was always meant to be.”

She sucked in a shaky breath, “Dean, I’m sure… you’ve had plenty of opportunities to move on to bigger and better things.” She averted her eyes from his piercing and soul searching stare.

“Yes, I have and I have always turned them down.” He lifted her chin, “I meant what I said in my letter all those years ago. You, (Y/N) (Y/L/N), are the only woman for me.”

The pounding of her heart only added to the endless deep void that resided within her soul. She fantasized of hearing those words come from his lips, desperate for the steady ache of her broken heart to be mended.

He left some money on the table and held out his hand to her, “I want to show you something.”

Even if she wanted to resist him, she would not be able to. Her heart simply would not allow it and a long forgotten spark ignited as her hand touched his. Walking outside, he led her down the street for a few blocks until coming in front of an office building. They rode the elevator up to the fifteenth floor, the flames of desire building between them.

He opened a large onyx door that led into a beautiful office. It was open and filled with rays of natural light from the wall to ceiling windows. His name was etched onto the nameplate resting on the front of a large wooden desk. A familiar, large wooden desk.

“Oh my god…” She whispered, running her fingers over the edge where her life changed forever, “This is your desk from UMKC.”

“Yes it is. I bought it from the university when I resigned and had it in my home office until moving it here.” He leaned against it leaning towards her, “And there have been many late nights when I replay our first time together in my mind, sitting here, while making myself cum.”

She sucked in a harsh breath before pulling her lip between her teeth, “I was just thinking about that right now.”

The building tension between them finally snapped as their bodies crashed together. Every kiss. Every touch. Every sweet word from his mouth and cry of his name as he buried himself deep inside of her. (Y/N)’s heart began to mend back together. As the last wave of pleasure rushed over her and Dean thrusted deeply inside of her. The world around her became whole and beautiful once more.

“I love you. I have always loved you and I need you by my side.” He whispered beneath her ear.

Wrapped around his body, she pulled him tighter against her, “I’m here and I’m never, ever leaving your side again. I’m right where I’m meant to be.”

If you enjoyed this story then check out my Masterlist!

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[red-talisman]

An unbetaed snippet of post-CQL canon Yunmeng reconciliation, which is mostly extremely morbid and blunt conversation after beating each other hard enough that they’re too tired for their usual conflicting modes of emotional avoidance.

EDIT: now edited and posted on AO3. :D

CW for past suicidal ideation. Part of my “let WWX express some of his cynical humor and creepiness more often” and “let WWX find out about JC’s own sacrifice goddamnit” agendas.

___________________

Jiang Cheng stares blankly into the trees, their trunks slowly disappearing in the deepening darkness of twilight. Wei Wuxian’s back is warm against his and heaving for breath just as heavily. He thinks his ankle might be broken, but Wei Wuxian is probably worse off.

“You’re an asshole,” Wei Wuxian says thickly.

“Hypocrite,” Jiang Cheng mutters without heat, and Wei Wuxian manages a snort between his gasps.

“Yeah.” After a moment, he adds, with an echo of the old Yiling Laozu in his voice, “You know that if you ever do something like that again, I’ll probably find a way to do something worse than I did before.”

“If I do what, save your life by pulling the same fucking sacrificial shit that you do?”

“I swear to every god out there that I will bring you back as a fierce corpse and kill you myself,” Wei Wuxian says in a pleasant, albeit still somewhat breathless, tone. “I will dismember your carcass and make Jin Guangyao look like a fucking amateur.”

“Good thing Mo Xuanyu’s core isn’t worth shit, then,” Jiang Cheng replies. All of his attention is focused on the feeling of his brother’s bones and muscles moving against his own spine.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Somewhere distant Jiang Cheng hears the panicked yells of what’s probably the juniors they left behind a few li back. Then Wei Wuxian sighs. “We’re really fucked up.”

Jiang Cheng takes his time considering and discarding several possible responses. His ankle hurts like a bitch; Mo Xuanyu’s core may not be worth shit, but damn if his asshole genius brother hasn’t figured out how to make the most of it anyway. He finally settles on a tired, “Yeah.”

The silence stretches on long enough that Wei Wuxian goes on, more quietly, “You and Shijie are the only reason I didn’t die in the Burial Mounds. The Wens grabbed me before I knew whether or not you’d even survived the core transfer.”

Jiang Cheng tilts his head just enough to glance briefly over his shoulder. “How did you survive the Burial Mounds?”

“Nope, no, I’m not putting that on you. Not even Lan Zhan knows. I can’t...I can’t do that.”

“Fine. Then tell me, is any of it going to come back and bite us in the ass at the worst possible moment?” he asks dryly.

Wei Wuxian snorts, humorless. “Nah. It’s all mine.”

“Would you tell me if it wasn’t?”

When Wei Wuxian hesitates for a few telling seconds, Jiang Cheng mutters, “You fucking asshole.”

“Yeah.” Wei Wuxian sighs again.

“You left me.”

“You didn’t need me.”

“Who the fuck said that?”

The knobs of Wei Wuxian’s spine are starting to press painfully into Jiang Cheng’s. Wei Wuxian snorts. “I was practically a fierce corpse myself when I dragged myself out of the Burial Mounds. Your position as sect leader was too precarious,” he says bluntly. “You were seventeen years old with no real family, a sister who was getting married off anyway, and an adopted brother who’d been controversial years before the war even happened and who was clearly half-mad and getting worse. And I...my mind never really left the Mounds, honestly.” He coughs, makes a wet sound, and spits. “If I stayed much longer I was going to end up dragging you back into Hell with me. I was a risk you couldn’t afford and I wasn’t going to destroy Yunmeng Jiang a second time.”

"Don’t pull that bullshit, Wei Wuxian.” Jiang Cheng is so, so tired. “Mother was wrong. You know Wen Chao was looking for any excuse. You’re as responsible for that as our shidi was for using a round kite.”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t respond. Jiang Cheng makes a mental note to beat that nonsense out of him in the future, when he can lift his arms again and his ankle isn’t most likely broken.

But Jiang Cheng remembers what it was like to try turning weapons, human and sword alike, into tools of peace. There are still whole weeks of the Sunshot Campaign that are just smears of sense-memory: the cacophony of screams and curses; the reek of mass funeral pyres and the soft ash drifting through the air like black, silent snow; the startling warmth of being suddenly drenched in blood after Sandu sliced open another living human. Half the time he’d come back to himself laughing hysterically, unable to see anything through the tears on his face, and as the war dragged on, the tears eventually dried up. It had taken months afterwards to settle into the mindset of rebuilding for Lotus Pier. (If he’s honest with himself, he never really did settle there. There's always a part of him still dragging itself through mud made by blood spilled on battlefields and churned up by soldiers' boots.)

“Jin Ling’s the only reason I never actually killed myself after you died,” Jiang Cheng says. “...Don’t you ever tell him that.”

“Wait, what?” Wei Wuxian snaps.

“You saying I would’ve died without a core - it was never about not having a core, you idiot, not really.” Not to say that hadn’t hurt, and Jiang Cheng really doesn’t know how he would’ve managed life as a commoner. But there were still worse things to lose than a core, which had also just lost and was about to lose yet again. “I had a few ideas on how to do it, depending on where I was and what was available when I decided I might as well get it over with.” He huffs a brief laugh and idly rubs his thumb over Sandu’s hilt. “I thought poison might be a good option, if a little heavy-handed on the metaphor.”

“I’d be laughing,” Wei Wuxian says flatly, “if you weren’t talking about killing my little brother.”

“Am I?”

“You never stopped.”

The silhouettes of the trees start to blur in Jiang Cheng’s eyes. “You left. You left, and everyone died, and somehow I was responsible for keeping our sister’s baby alive while the wolves tried to eat what remained of our sect from every direction. You left.”

“I never wanted to.”

“But you did.”

“Because I didn’t see any other way to keep you safe.”

“Because you chose strangers over family.”

“Because I didn’t see any other way to keep you safe,” Wei Wuxian hisses. Apparently they’re not so exhausted that they can’t get pissed after all. “I was hardly human anymore, Jiang Cheng. If I was going to die, then at least I’d die actually managing to save innocent people this time around and you would be safe from me.”

“I never wanted you to do that for me!”

“And I never wanted you to do that for me!”

The tension that had them both struggling to sit up straight suddenly breaks, and their backs collide again. Jiang Cheng grits his teeth against the urge to groan over the pain that ricochets through his chest and down his limbs. He hears a muffled yelp from behind him.

“You’re a damned fucking asshole and you’re my fucking brother and I hate you and don’t you ever assume you know what I need again, do you understand me,” snarls Jiang Cheng.

“You’re the damned fucking asshole and if you ever do that again then I will brand a reminder into your flesh right over the scar from the discipline whip,” Wei Wuxian snaps back, because he's never held back from fighting dirty if he thought it necessary.

“Fine!”

“Fine.”

They both stare into the dark forest, in opposite directions. It sounds like the juniors have finally picked up their tracks. Useless, the whole lot - Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian hadn't exactly been subtle in stepping aside for a private conversation that inevitably escalated, how could it take the kids this long?

"Those dumbasses had better not forget that we're on a night-hunt," he says.

"Like we did?" Wei Wuxian replies.

"You started it."

"Did not."

"No, I'm not doing this with you."

"Hey, you started this one."

"Shut the fuck up."

They fall silent again. A cold breeze picks up and Jiang Cheng feels Wei Wuxian shiver, pressing back just a little more firmly against Jiang Cheng for warmth, and he...leans back too. Just a little.

"I'm still fucking pissed at you," says Wei Wuxian.

"And I've got years' worth to pay you back for," says Jiang Cheng.

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Sect Leader Jiang!" they hear. "Senior Wei!"

"If you don't show up for the mid-autumn festival," Jiang Cheng suddenly says, "I'll come drag you out of the Cloud Recesses by the heels."

"But the dogs - "

"Don't be an idiot. Jin Ling's dog is the only one allowed in Lotus Pier, you know that."

Well, come to think of it, Wei Wuxian probably doesn't know that, but whatever, now he does. Wei Wuxian is terrifyingly silent, but before Jiang Cheng can say something that will inevitably bring them back to throwing fists, he hears a quiet, "Yeah, okay."

"Do you think they killed each other?" they hear Lan Jingyi asking loudly. "I mean, Sandu Shengshou versus the Yiling Patriarch - who would win?"

"Don't be an idiot," retorts Jin Ling, and Wei Wuxian's body briefly shakes with a laugh. "My uncle, obviously."

"They're both your uncle, idiot!"

Jiang Cheng just sighs and lets his head fall back against Wei Wuxian’s shoulder.

[pipariperho]

I am still trying to get functional after last night and Käärijä's gig (so goood) but here's photo of the pre-show act that I guess you didn't see: it was dj Windows95man and Clippy

[kayluh1915]

Good Boy

Pairing(s): Javier Peña/Female Reader

Words: 905

Warnings: SMUT(protected) 18+ only, praise kink, hair pulling, and mentions of unhealthy coping mechanisms.

Sometimes, Javi just needs to be reminded that he’s loved too.

I normally don’t write a fic like this on such a whim, but I’m a new-ish follower of @forever-rogue​‘s and I saw them answer @danniburgh‘s “Javi thot” and I went a little crazy...🙃 Whether it’s good or not is questionable.

I tend to not publish my smut, but goddamn it. Javi being soft and melting under someone’s hands is right up my alley and I couldn’t not share. It’s unbetaed but is somewhat edited so hopefully it’s not a complete pile of thirst.

As always, comments are welcomed and encouraged. You can also follow me on Twitter if you'd like. My life is boring, but I might be able to make you laugh if I’m lucky.

Enjoy! 💙💙

Read on AO3

My Masterlist

It was no secret that Javier Peña liked to be in charge. From the way he presents himself down to the very way he walks, he was born to command a room. His tone was always commanding yet clear, listing off everything that needed to be done in a digestible and comprehensive way. He also knew how to authentically present himself, his warm tone and give no fucks attitude intriguing and overall charming to the majority of people he spoke to.

It was only natural that his leadership spilled over into the bedroom as well. He knew exactly how to get you riled up, where to touch, and what to say. He didn’t have any problems with bossing you around like he would someone at work and neither did you. Everything Javier did melted you into a puddle of pleading whimpers and needy moans. He was the only man who ever made you feel this good, bringing you to several clitoral and vaginal orgasms that sent you to the stratosphere every time.

Tonight was different.

He had come home a lot later than he normally did, his eyes laced with sorrow and his posture anything but commanding. You had tried to get him to tell you what was bothering him while he ate leftovers from dinner, but he didn’t want to. You understood, never leaving his side for the rest of the evening.

When you both laid down for the night, you never expected to be laying underneath him as he fucked you hard and with reckless abandon. Sex (and whiskey) was how he coped with pent up anger and frustrations from his job. It just didn’t seem right to you that he was using the same outlet with the exact same ferocity when he was feeling somber.

You could tell he was trying hard to forget whatever was making him upset. His eyes were tightly closed, his teeth bared, and loud growls and groans leaving his throat. Normally, you’d be a mess underneath him. Not to say it didn’t feel good because it did. It’s just you couldn’t enjoy it when you knew that Javi was in so much pain above you.

With a saddened look laced in your brow, you reach up to caress Javi’s face, your thumb gently brushing over his cheek. The touch immediately distracted him, his saddened mocha eyes looking down at you as he stopped moving completely. You both sat there in silence for a moment, Javier’s rapid breathing being the only sound in your darkened bedroom.

Not a word was said between you, the silence and your comfort speaking much louder to him than anything else ever could.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed when he leaned into your palm and finally started to move again. His pace was much slower this time and corsed with a gentle sigh of pleasure. You mewled at the feeling, your hand going from his cheek to the back of his head so you could tangle your fingers in his dark locks and tug on them.

“Yeah…” You groan, laying your other hand on his shoulder. “So good, Javi…”

A quiet puff of air left Javi’s lungs, grabbing you by the waist to lift you up and change positions. His back was propped up against the headboard while you sat in his lap, the change sheathing him deeper inside you with a quiet whimper. You began to ride him almost instantly, not even waiting for him to get comfortable. He felt too good to waste any time.

“God…” You whine. Javi’s hands grip your hips tightly, the pads of his fingertips deliciously pressing into your skin. “J-Just like that... So good for me.”

Javier actually whines. Your big, bad, commanding DEA agent coming apart by the seams.

“Oh, you like that, huh? Does my little boy like being praised?” He whimpered again, nodding his head as he completely submitted below you. You ran your hands through his curls again, speeding up in his lap.

You wished it could last so much longer, but with Javi’s somber mood and how he melted like ice under your praises, there was just no way.

“Good-Good boy, Javi… Such a good boy… M’gonna cu- ohhh, I’m gonna cum.” Javi groaned, moving his hips underneath you the best he could while you chased your own pleasure. Based on his increasing volume, he was just as close as you were.

You hit your climax first, that tingling feeling expanding all throughout your lower half as you collapsed forward onto Javi’s shoulder. He finishes soon after, his groans muffled in your hair as he shot his warm cum into your still throbbing pussy, his cock still pulsing inside you even after you had relaxed.

You caressed Javi’s face with your hands and brought him into a kiss, both of you exhausted from your endeavors. Javier gently pulled out, his cum dripping back down on him as he tilted his head back. You chase after him, gently pressing your lips to his chin as you continued your little caresses.

“Such a sweet boy… my precious little Javi.” He shamelessly whines again, this time out of pure bliss.

For the first time in a long time, he sleeps all through the night, your arms wrapped around him tightly as he peacefully snores.

Yes, Javier liked to be in charge, but even the mighty oak needs rain to grow.

[mo-nighean-rouge]

Daughters

A/N: This fic is actually the first writing I ever fiddled with, even before Where You Lead. Aside from a few minor edits in the last couple of weeks, I’ve been sitting on it for... almost three years? it’s unbetaed, so errors are my own. Thanks for reading!

AO3

Girls become lovers, who turn into mothers. - John Mayer

She took great care to make her footsteps quick, light, and silent, her cloak billowing behind her. The nuns wouldn’t notice one more hooded figure lurking around L'Hôpital. But she knew Madame Fraser, even in a delirious state, to be more than observant. Much like herself. And due to their complex history, the woman would recognize her easily.

She had been the obvious choice for the errand, in any case. The Comte would have no way to pass through the doorway undetected, nor an explanation for his presence if he was caught. Of course, he was also ignorant of the true reasoning that she had suggested this plan. He desired revenge against Claire for reasons purely related to business. The situation was much deeper, more personal than that for her.

It almost gave her pause to see Claire collapsed on the bed and numb with pain. Almost. But she had suffered enough to ease the woman’s hardships, had she not?

Slipping the vial out of her robe, she placed it with nearby tools and other herbs ready for use. She carried the whole tray to the bedside, where Claire was surrounded by nearly the entire staff of the hospital, then opened the freshly concocted ointment and drew her finger across the slick surface.

“Thank you, sister,” one of the nuns muttered as she passed, the former not even glancing in her direction as she devoted her attention to working on the apparently beloved patient in front of her.

She smiled saccharinely in return. At the last moment, she stroked Claire’s cheek carefully under the cover of her billowing sleeve before turning in a whirl of fabric and sweeping out the door and down the stone corridor.

Claire’s dazed eyes had wandered over her face, unseeing. The resignation behind them betrayed what she knew to be true. Her child wouldn’t survive, and she didn’t expect to make it through herself.

She ran home along the back streets of Paris as night fell. It wouldn’t be long now.

________________________________________

More than 24 hours later, she snuck back into the darkened halls of L'Hôpital des Anges. The corridors were silent barring a tremendous, ongoing wail echoing from the chamber she had visited not long ago. She knew the despair behind Claire’s cries. She had felt the same way herself, once. But she had moved on, just as the other woman would have to. She had quickly refocused on her greater aspirations after her life changed in Scotland. And nothing – nothing would stand in her way this time.

She crept into the darkened room and spotted a box so devastatingly small it could have but one purpose. She withdrew the hammer from under her cloak and pried the nails out of the lid, one by one. Sweeping her palm below the surface, she could already feel the warmth returning to the infant’s fragile flesh. The poor wee thing. Still and stone cold for hours as its mother wept over its body.

It was a simple concoction, of course. If Claire had been in her right mind and operating at full capacity, she herself would have recognized the nightshade extract swept across her clammy skin, incapacitating mother and babe long enough for the nuns to reach an inevitable conclusion.

As soon as the Comte had informed her of Fraser’s arrest and Claire’s compromised condition, she had leapt into action. If money and clans wouldn’t be enough to enliven the Jacobite uprising, she had the next phase of the plan in her hands. A child from the Fraser line.

“Faith” had been delicately carved into the wee box she had broken. She settled a sandbag in the center of it and forced the nails back into the wood. No one would be the wiser as to its contents as they carried the box out to the cemetery in the morning.

Melisande Robicheaux tucked the wean into her cape before it could rouse and make a sound to alert anyone. With the future of Scotland under her arm, she crept through the alleyways of Paris once again.

[lux-i-fer]

Believer of Faith and Mortality

Ao3 link

Synopsis: Lucifer and Chloe's victim shouldn't be alive, but the fact that he's currently alive and giving a statement says otherwise. When more and more miracle cases begin popping up, Lucifer believes that their lives aren't being spared out of the goodness of his Father's heart. The knock at the door only proves his theory.

Rating: M

Notes: HAHA HEYYYY! Guess who got the chapter out in under a year?? My most sincere apologies that this fic has been updating so slowly, I am just at that time in my life where everything requires my attention all at once and all the time. Never fear, I have not forgotten about this fic ;) This is unbetaed because in the year of our lord 2021, I have lost all hope in producing properly edited work.

Chapter Number: 6

For a few heavy seconds, the entire world shrank down to fit solely into Lucifer’s palm. The silence was almost suffocating as Amenadiel, Lucifer, and John stared at the silver phlegm dripping from Lucifer’s outstretched hand. Even outside of the harsh California sunlight, it still looked metallic and even glimmered like the chrome finishings on his Corvette. John found it almost blinding to look at directly, but there was a nagging feeling inside of him that demanded that he continue to look. The first time he’d seen it on Lucifer’s handkerchief, he’d only gotten a mere glance before Lucifer had hurriedly tucked it out of sight. Perhaps for him it was also supposed to be out of mind, but not for John. John was transfixed.

Looking at it now, he realized that it wasn’t really silver colored. Even though he never tore his eyes from it, it seemed to shift to a different color at the blink of an eye, changing so fast that it blurred together into one solid gray mass. And he found that it wasn't so much as metallic as it was almost lit by a soft inner light. John leaned forward, curious to see if there truly was something there or if he was imagining it.

A hand caught his shoulder and then the rest of the world seemed to snap back into focus. John blinked and when he opened his eyes, Amenadiel stood between him and Lucifer.

“Did you hear anything I just said to you?” he asked. There was a heavy set of wrinkles above his brow that hadn’t been there at the start of their visit.

John blinked again. He felt a little dazed, and found that he couldn’t quite focus in on the rest of Amenadiel’s face. “No?” His voice came out slow and slurred.

Amenadiel frowned. “Okay, why don’t you--” he walked the both of them backwards out of the kitchen until the backs of John’s legs knocked against the edge of a chair, “sit down.”

John did as he was told and then put his head in his hands. He had a roaring headache.

“So,” he heard Amenadiel say. “As I said before, will someone please tell me what is going on?”

“Apparently zombies,” John muttered, massaging the space between his eyes.

“Well, you’re not actual zombies,” Lucifer corrected. “You’re more...undead than anything. If I didn’t know better I’d say that you lot were resurrected, but our Father does not lower himself to dabble in those sorts of miracles anymore.” Even with his eyes closed, John could practically feel the eye roll in his voice.

“No, I meant how long has this been going on.” John looked up to find Amenadiel gesturing to the silver liquid that Lucifer was trying in vain to mop up with his handkerchief.

Lucifer shook his head. “Not long. Just today. Surely it’s nothing.”

Amenadiel looked to John for confirmation.

John shrugged. “I’ve only been here a day, but I guess it lines up? He coughed some of it up on our way here.”

Amenadiel nodded solemnly, while Lucifer shot him a dirty look, the unspoken accusation of traitor hanging in the air. “It’s not that big a deal,” he sniffed. “Whatever it is, surely it’ll sort itself out. There’s no need to coddle me, Amenadiel, my mortality stint ended ages ago.”

John stilled. “Your what?”

Lucifer waved him off, flicking a few silver droplets in his direction. One managed to hit Amenadiel in the chest and his face crumpled up in disgust. “Luci, do everyone else a favor and wash your hands. For all we know this could be contagious.”

John silently agreed. As if the headache wasn’t already making him nauseous, now he was picturing Lucifer as some sort of supernatural Typhoid Mary. Even though he’d seen some pretty nasty stuff during his time as a beat cop, John had always been a bit of a hypochondriac. Not in any serious sense, but realizing that Lucifer could potentially be hacking up the divine equivalent of a ball of mucus and phlegm definitely made his stomach twist.

Lucifer scoffed, but surprisingly listened to his brother. John sent a silent thanks to God, but stopped halfway through his prayer when he realized that he just may be better off directing it at Amenadiel instead. If Lucifer was to be believed, which John still had a healthy amount of skepticism for, Nietzsche had been right. In all the ways that mattered, God was as good as dead. Between the headache and the whole coming back to life thing, John really didn’t want to unpack that existential crisis right now.

“Is that a thing?” he asked instead. “Can you guys get the celestial flu or something?”

Lucifer sighed. “Don’t be silly, Jonathan. Angels can’t get sick.”

“Well clearly you are, so that can’t be entirely true.”

“John has a point, Luci. Whatever this is, it shouldn’t be happening.” Amenadiel turned to John. “And whatever is going on with souls crossing back over the threshold shouldn’t be happening either. It would be foolish to assume that these two events coinciding is a mere coincidence. I’d like to hear more about how you got back to Earth, John. I have a feeling that Luci has omitted some key details.”

At that, Lucifer tightened his hand around his glass of whiskey. At some point he’d poured himself glass number four, making John certain that he would be DD’ing the Devil himself back to Chloe’s apartment later.

“I don’t think I’m the best one to ask about details.” The image of Lucifer’s wrist covered in “souvenirs” flashed through John’s mind. “If anything, we were coming to you for some answers. All I know is that one second I’m in Limbo with this jackass,” he jerked a thumb in Lucifer’s direction, “and the next my daughter is telling me that I’ve been dead for nearly twenty years.”

“Limbo?” Amenadiel asked incredulously. “What ever were you doing there? Human souls are not supposed to go there.”

“Well I did. Lucifer told me that others go there too.”

Amenadiel looked at Lucifer.

“Times have changed, brother. Humans have more fight in them now, and Azrael has a shorter temper than she used to. Humans still condemn themselves to their respective eternities, but if they are particularly wily and combative when Azrael sees them off, sometimes she doesn’t see the job through. Usually they make it where they need to go without her guidance, but occasionally they do not. Those who don’t end up in Limbo.” Lucifer inclined his head in John’s direction, as if to give an example.

Amenadiel didn’t look convinced. “How could John have been in Limbo if he recalls seeing you? How are you certain that it wasn’t Hell?”

“It wasn’t Hell,” Lucifer said sharply, catching both Amenadiel and John off guard. John wasn’t sure what had just happened, but whatever Amenadiel had implied was obviously a touchy subject.

Lucifer stared at them for a moment, dark eyes unblinking and tracking their reactions like a predator. Then he sighed, and his shoulders relaxed, as if a great weight had dragged them down. His fingers worried his cufflinks again.

“Hell isn’t my only domain. Technically Dad also cursed me with that Dad-forsaken wasteland, but I hardly visited. It was a nice getaway when Hell became too much to bear, but it was just as undesirable in different ways.” Lucifer paused then. His eyes had grown distant, and his jaw was set. His hands flitted back to his glass.

“Do you remember our fallen brethren?” he said, his voice small.

Amenadiel’s brow furrowed at the subject change. “Of course, Luci.”

Lucifer continued to stare into his glass. “I wasn’t the only one who changed after I Fell. Our siblings, the ones that eventually fell too, they burned just as I did. After I had managed to pull myself out of the Lake of Fire, I gave the ones whose minds hadn’t completely shattered during the process positions within my court. They were, after all, family.” He chuckled humorlessly.

“In light of my recent sins, nepotism seemed like the least of my concerns at that point. I was correct, to some degree. Over time, most of the fallen grew twisted and corrupted by sin and they became a new breed of demon--an archduke-- but there were others who never recovered from the Fall. Something within them had broken. They weren’t quite demons and they certainly were not angels, either. They were, for lack of better description, mutilated. Inside and out. Their minds were fractured and their bodies, well--”

Lucifer’s form contorted like a tv glitch. Where his face should have been was replaced with something scarred and horrifying. It vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, but it didn’t matter because John had seen. Lucifer’s regular face was back, but John saw it with new clarity. Even before, he would freely admit that Lucifer was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful person he’d ever seen, but it was a different beauty now. Now the sculpted angles of his face looked cruel and alien.

He didn’t think there were words to describe the primal sense of fear he had felt upon seeing it. It was like an echo of the morning’s conversation, when he’d discovered the name of the angel that had guided him through Limbo. He wanted to bolt like a spooked horse and run and run until he was certain that Lucifer would never find him. John’s heart raced, but his fear kept him rooted in his chair. He knew he should calm down. He had to calm down. His head felt like it was going to explode. John groaned and put his head back in his hands.

“Jonathan.”

John’s head snapped back up, bringing a wave of dizziness along with it. His heart seized when he realized that Lucifer was staring straight at him. The afterimage of his burned face lingered in John’s mind’s eye, and it was almost impossible for him to look at Lucifer at all.

“Do not go breaking on me now. The Detective will be very upset with me if you do.” His tone was blasé, but John saw a glint of uncertainty in his eye. Was Lucifer upset by his reaction? Why would the Devil even feel that way? John searched his shark-eyes for an answer.

Shockingly, Lucifer was the one to look away first. He returned his attention to his glass for a second time before continuing his explanation.

“The other fallen--the ones driven mad by the Fall-- were little more than rabid dogs, and they had developed an insatiable hunger for divine flesh. I suppose in human terms you would say they became cannibals, but such a human concept does not do their transformation justice. They were truly beastly, mere husks of angels and mutated beyond any demon.” John shuddered as he remembered the feeling of claws tracing along his cheek. Beastly indeed.

“So I locked them up,” Lucifer proclaimed. “I had the archdukes assist me in rounding them up and throwing them into Limbo. There they could live freely, on a separate plane away from Heaven and Hell, and out of my hair. I would only visit occasionally, like I said, for peace and quiet and to make sure that they were behaving.”

The room dissolved into silence once again. Amenadiel seemed to still be processing the information, and John was trying his best not to pass out from pain or fear. He still wasn’t sure which would eventually win out. He supposed by the way his skull felt like it was getting a forced lobotomy he would have to say it was going to be the pain.

Amenadiel finally cleared his throat. “So if I understand you correctly, you have been completely aware that these...creatures have been running amuck in Limbo, and yet you continue to let them roam, even though they're torturing innocent souls?”

In an instant, Lucifer slammed his hands onto the counter. John flinched as the sound ricocheted through his head like a massive bell. Amenadiel stood, unflinching, his face contorted into a stony mask. Lucifer’s eyes blazed and his lips curled back into a snarl. In that moment he looked every bit of the razor-sharp angel that had plucked John from the clutches of his cannibalistic siblings.

“Do not twist my words, Amenadiel, and do not criticize that which you do not know. I made the best of a bad hand. I dredged the land for lost souls as often as I could, but there was only so much I could do. And make no mistake, not all of the souls I found were innocent. I spared rapists and murderers from the clutches of our deranged siblings just as often as I pulled out martyred cops and saints. They all got the justice they deserved, and I carried it out like a good little son.”

At that, Lucifer turned on his heel and busied himself with something on the other side of the kitchen. Amenadiel simply watched his brother sulk and sighed heavily. “Luci,” he said to the Devil sulking in the kitchen. “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to pin the blame on you. I jumped to conclusions.”

Lucifer turned back to face them, face drained of any prior anger. “Damn right you did.”

“But,” Amenadiel continued, pointing a finger at Lucifer. “My initial point still stands. It’s obvious that these creatures are dangerous, and yet they roam freely in Limbo. The last interaction you had with John was in the presence of these creatures. Isn’t there a possibility that your illness and John’s return to Earth are linked? They feed on the divine, and you said it yourself that none of the other resurrections occurred more than a day following their initial death.”

“That’s just it,” John chimed in. “Technically, it’s been twenty-or-so years since I saw Lucifer in Limbo. It may have only felt like a couple hours for me, but I imagine for him…” He waved his hand in lieu of finishing his thought.

“Yes, Jonathan is correct. In fact, I forgot about your existence entirely until you started threatening me over breakfast this morning.” Lucifer clapped his hands together. “At any rate, I think we can surmise that whatever this silver nonsense is, it is most certainly a fluke. If these events were truly connected then I would have gotten ill two decades ago. Nothing to do with Johnathan. Nothing to worry about. The resurrections on the other hand...” he shrugged.

“I don’t think we should discount the idea,” John cut in again. “Amenadiel’s right, it’s stupid to overlook the possibility. For now, I suppose we can put a pin in it, but it shouldn’t be off the table completely.”

Lucifer shot him an annoyed look. “Fine, whatever. Gang up on me, then.”

“Luci, we’re trying to help,” Amenadiel chided. Lucifer just rolled his eyes.

“The other bodies reeked of Heaven,” he started again, changing the subject. “I don’t know why or how, but they do, and it’s positively unbearable.”

John didn’t know Heaven even had a smell, but Amenadiel nodded like he understood. “I don’t have an answer or even an idea of how to explain that facet of this mystery. I would have to go to the Silver City to find out any more information.”

Lucifer considered Amenadiel’s proposition for a moment. He finished off the rest of his drink and glanced around the room. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he asked. “We’re in a time crunch, the sooner the better!” Dropping his empty glass into the sink, Lucifer swept out of the kitchen and towards the door. He turned back to face John and Amenadiel, a hand poised on the door handle. “Brother, I’ll be expecting your answer shortly.” Then he gestured to John. “Are you coming?”

John just sighed and hauled himself out of the chair. It took some effort to get his bearings, and when he finally did he stuck out his hand for Amenadiel to shake once more. Amenadiel inclined his head towards John and offered him a genuine smile.

“It was very nice to meet you, John Decker. Chloe speaks very highly of you. I can see now that her stories ring truthfully. You're a good man.”

John returned the smile, wincing as the pain in his head worsened with the movement. “Well I don’t know about that, but thank you. It was nice to meet you too.”

Before John could say anything else, Amenadiel dropped his hand and simply disappeared into thin air. John stared stupidly at the spot the angel had been occupying just a few moments before. He wasn’t sure what just happened, but at this point, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to find out.

Lucifer made an impatient sound from his place at the door. “Jonathan, you’re dallying. Are you going to stare off into space for the entire day?”

John shook himself and started towards the door. “Yeah, yeah, calm down I’m coming.”

When they reached the parking lot, John ignored the pain in his head and made a b-line for the driver’s side door, just barely sliding his body between it and Lucifer’s hand reaching for the handle.

“Give me your keys,” he said, making sure to use his no-bullshit cop voice.

“No.” Lucifer tried to wiggle his way around John, but John stood firm.

“You just drank four glasses of hard alcohol, I’m not letting you drive drunk through downtown LA.” Lucifer only continued to wiggle and try to squirm his way around John. Fuck, did he ever stop moving? John caught Lucifer’s arm as he tried to reach for something in the car. “Seriously, Lucifer, stop. I don’t care that you’re the Devil, you’re not driving.”

As weird as it felt to say that, there was truth in John’s words. His fear over seeing Lucifer’s other face had almost entirely dissipated.

“I’m not intoxicated, I have a supernatural metabolism!” He wiggled his arm out of John’s grasp and leaned around him to grab whatever it was that he had been trying to get from the car. When he found it, Lucifer handed the mystery item to John. It was a breathalyzer. Police issued. Most likely Chloe’s, John thought. When John did nothing with it, Lucifer pushed it and the hand holding it to John’s chest.

“Test me,” he said. “If I blow under the legal limit, I drive. If I blow over, which I won’t, you can drive. Deal?”

John sighed. He knew Lucifer was trying to compromise, but it didn’t change the fact that John’s patience had been steadily declining since Lucifer had decided to drag him all over the city. “Fine,” he said, exasperated and desperately wishing for somewhere to lie down.

He quickly set up the breathalyzer, his muscle memory taking over for him. Through some small miracle, Lucifer took the test without complaint. John had expected the meter to read at least an .09, but he was dumbfounded when he saw the 0.00 staring back at him.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled. He gave the breathalyzer a little shake just to make sure it had gotten the right reading. The numbers remained unchanged.

Lucifer smirked. “Can we get on with things, then?”

On a day when John’s head wasn’t killing him, he would have asked for a retest, just to ensure that Lucifer hadn’t somehow rigged it in his favor. But John was exhausted and it was almost impossible to fake something like a breathalyzer, especially one that he himself had administered, so he decided to just let it slide. After all, it wasn’t like he was in any better condition to drive.

Wordlessly, John stepped out of the way and climbed into the passenger seat. Lucifer gave a victorious whoop and threw himself into the car. Another twinge of pain drilled through John’s skull and he winced away from his companion.

Now that he could take a moment to just breathe, John could finally acknowledge that he didn’t feel like himself. He felt feverish. Or high. He’d never been high to know what that felt like though. His forehead felt like it was about to split open like an egg, and he brought a hand up to touch it, just to make sure that no cracks had started to form. When he felt nothing, he squeezed his eyes shut and flopped back against the seat, wondering why Lucifer hadn’t driven off yet.

“Lucifer, why aren’t we moving?” he muttered, politeness thrown by the wayside.

“Because you’re doing a rather dramatic imitation of a dying raccoon. I don’t know much about humans, but I know enough to recognize that this isn’t normal behavior.” John must be hallucinating because Lucifer’s voice almost sounded caring. He told him as such.

Lucifer scoffed and finally shifted the car into gear. They drove in silence for about ten minutes before he spoke again. “It is possible that your body isn’t as stable as we initially thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s either that or your soul is unstable. Either way, something, besides the obvious, is not right. I have a feeling this headache of yours has been triggered by some imbalance. Whether that imbalance is in your mind, body, soul, or if my Father has decided to restitch the fabric of the universe, I cannot say for certain. The easiest way to solve it would be to return you back to your prior state.”

“My prior state, as in dead, right?”

Lucifer hummed, a nonanswer. That was all John needed to know that he’d been correct.

“Hey, please tell me we’re going back to Chloe’s?” he said, changing the subject. “It would really make her upset if we’re not there when she gets off work.”

“Ah, actually we won’t beat the Detective home.”

John sat straight up, whipping his head towards Lucifer. “What do you mean we’re not making it home before Chloe?”

Lucifer waved his hand absently. “Well you’ve lived in LA, you know how the traffic can be. Plus, we wasted more time than I had anticipated at Amenadiel’s.”

John sputtered and checked his watch. “But it’s like four in the afternoon. Even with traffic it won’t take us that long to get to her apartment, and the LAPD doesn’t usually let cops off until five at the earliest.”

“And you’d be correct; however, we’re not going to the Detective’s apartment straight away.”

“Where could we possibly be going?” John threw his hands up in the air because the alternative was to wrap them around Lucifer’s throat to choke some sense into him.

“I planned on stopping to grab something to eat, since I’m famished and surely you are too, considering we skipped lunch and barely had breakfast. I figured if we aren’t going to beat the Detective home we might as well show up with something to soften the blow. It’s easier to ask forgiveness than it is to get permission, you know.”

Lucifer shrugged. “Besides, it’s likely that she won’t be in a good mood anyways. I missed a call from her around noon, and about an hour ago she texted me saying that she wasn’t feeling well and was thinking about taking off of work early.”

“Did you call her back?” John asked.

“Call who back?”

John stared at him, bewildered. “Chloe. You said she tried to call you. Is she okay?” John’s outrage had been building slowly over the course of the day, but it had skyrocketed more in the last ten minutes than it had in the past few hours. He’d kept himself in check so far, but he wasn’t sure if he could hold it back if Lucifer insisted on being this much of an idiot.

“Oh. No, I didn’t return her call. I’m sure she’s fine, though.”

Something in John’s chest shifted. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he exploded. “First, she tells you not to leave the house, and the first thing you do is immediately go against her wishes. Then, you don’t even have the audacity to return her phone call? You’re acting like such an asshole. I love Chloe and I respect her, but I don’t know what she sees in you. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t deserve her.”

Lucifer stilled. His fingers stopped on the steering wheel mid-drum, and if not for the wind whipping at his clothes, John would have thought that he was made of stone. A drop of fear slid down John’s spine as the weight of his actions settled into his bones. He may have gotten over the initial shock of seeing Lucifer’s true face, but that still didn’t change the fact that he’d just screamed at the Devil. No, not even that, he’d just screamed at Chloe’s boyfriend. Partner. Whatever he was. Someone important to her.

But just because Chloe cares for him didn’t mean that he didn’t deserve it , a voice whispered in the back of his head.

For a moment, John thought Lucifer wasn’t going to respond, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a poisonous smirk.

“You know, the Detective always told me that you were a soft spoken man,” Lucifer said.

John clenched his jaw at the perceived taunt. He turned to fully face Lucifer to give him another piece of his mind, but stopped mid-breath when he saw his face. Lucifer was purposely not looking John’s way, gaze fixed on the road ahead of them. He wasn’t really looking at the road, though, John thought. Even with half of his face obscured, John could tell that he was looking past it and into some distant memory instead, the same soft smile he’d given Chloe the night before playing across his lips. It was an abrupt change from how he’d been just a minute before: flippant, callous, ancient.

John deflated instantly. “I’m under a lot of stress right now,” he replied dumbly. It was all he could think to say.

Lucifer drove on silently. He still did not look John’s way.

“I know being stressed is no excuse for how short I’ve been with you today, but this is a lot for me to take in. I was never the atheist that Chloe turned out to be, but I was never truly a believer either. God, Heaven, you, it’s overwhelming. Not only that but Chloe--” John’s voice broke when he pictured his little girl as the twenty-something he left behind. He cleared his throat, trying to beat down the rising wave of emotion. “I didn’t get to help her move into her first apartment, I didn’t get to give her away at her wedding, I’ve never even gotten to hold my granddaughter,” he said quietly. “She grew up without me and I’m angry with myself for letting it happen. Seeing you with her, you being there for her when I couldn’t, it’s hard.”

That was the ugly feeling that had been sitting in John’s chest all day. That was the thing that couldn’t be packed away into a neat, little mental box to be dealt with at a later date. No matter how many times he’d tried to compartmentalize it, it always came back with full force. He knew it was the reason he was acting so caustically towards Lucifer, but it was as if his time in Limbo had tainted him in some way. It was almost as if simply brushing against those sinful beasts had made him into one too, teeming with new and nasty habits. The very thought left an equally nasty taste in his mouth.

He was used to dealing with jealousy. Penny had groupies and superfans just like any other actress of her day, and it had never bothered him before. He’d always trusted her. Now he found himself unable to bury the jealousy like he had before his death. It was embarrassing to admit. John had never wanted to be one of those overbearing and overprotective fathers.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat there, Lucifer navigating them through the maze of LA highways, and John lost in thought. The car coasted along an exit ramp, and as they entered back into the city, Lucifer broke the silence.

“My Father was not the kind of father that you were--that you are,” he amended. “He wasn’t kind or nurturing or any of those things. In fact, He was quite harsh with my siblings and me at times. The last conversation we had was the shouting match that eventually got me condemned to Hell.”

John wasn’t sure where Lucifer was going with his anecdote, but he remained silent, just as the other man had when he’d vented out his own feelings.

“Even in the midst of my anger, even when I would scream my throat raw yelling obscenities at Him from down below, some part of me still loved Him and wanted Him to love me in return. I hated that part of myself for centuries. He was my punisher and my jailer, and yet, I still couldn’t rid myself of the longing to be recognized as His son.

“You and the Detective don’t have that kind of relationship, obviously, but I say all of this so that you’ll understand and believe me when I say that the Detective loves you very much. There are very few things that you could do as a parent to make her stop caring for you. Not even death could sever her heart from yours. She has made her peace with your passing, and for both her sake and yours, Jonathan, you should too. If you don’t, your guilt will condemn you to Hell. That’s how the system works; humans choose their own fate, no Devilish temptation required.”

Lucifer grimaced at his poor attempt at a joke. Then, he glanced over at John, as if to gauge his reaction to something. “Amenadiel was correct; you’re a good man and a good father,” he said, eyes drifting back to the road. “You don’t deserve the torment that awaits you there.”

His words echoed in John’s mind. You don’t deserve the torment that awaits you there.

“I’m sorry that I said you don’t deserve Chloe. That was wrong of me,” John said. “It’s not up for me to decide.”

Lucifer made some noncommittal noise.

“We got off on the wrong foot, and I genuinely want to try and get to know you properly.” John hesitated. “If you’ll let me,” he added almost too quietly to be heard over the wind.

Lucifer sighed his back-breaking sigh. “I suppose we can start over.”

At his affirmation, the ugly feeling in his chest subsided. “Good,” he nodded. “I’m glad.”

“But,” Lucifer stuck a finger up in the air, as if preparing to give another monologue. “Just because we’re “starting over” doesn’t mean that I’ll completely stop tormenting you, Jonathan. You’re far too entertaining when your brain is on the verge of melting.”

Lucifer’s tone was light and any malice it may have contained before had been replaced by a vibrant playfulness. John couldn’t fight back the smile on his face.

“Well as Chloe’s father, it is my job to give you a hard time, so I’ve got some tormenting of my own to do too.”

Lucifer chuckled. “I’m the Devil, darling. I’d love to see you try to get under my skin.”

“I’ve got a few cards up my sleeve,” John said. “You never know what might happen.”

Lucifer didn’t respond to that, but a sly smile had plastered itself to his face.

He guided the Corvette down a maze of one-ways, and five minutes later, they slowed to a stop and parked on a quiet street. As John took in the sun-bleached storefronts and crumbling fire escapes, he thought nothing of their location. It was only when he caught sight of a beat up dirt green sign boasting Marisol’s Flower Arrangements that John realized where they were.

“I died at a corner store about a block from here,” he said numbly, all traces of playful teasing draining away. They’d parked too far down the block for John to properly see the store, but he didn’t need a visual, the image of it was burned in his memory.

Lucifer got out of the car. “I know. I parked a block away for a reason. The Detective always says that you shouldn’t let victims see their crime scenes unless they specifically ask to. Something to do with shock or trauma.”

“So why bring us here at all?” John asked, though he already knew the answer. He was just surprised that Chloe still came here after everything that had happened with the shooting.

“Like I said, the Detective doesn’t hate you,” Lucifer replied with a knowing look. He tossed John the car keys. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Lucifer was true to his word, returning only ten minutes later with a takeout bag. When he got back in the car, he traded it for his keys. As they drove back through the city, John tried his best to ignore the bag on his lap. The heat from the food radiated through the cheap paper and into his skin like a persistent house cat kneading at his lap. He hated to think what would happen when he opened the bag. These sandwiches hadn’t just been Chloe’s favorite, once they were his favorite too. He feared that when he would eventually unwrap the foil, he wouldn’t be able to stomach them.

Secretly, John was glad that Lucifer hadn’t expected him to walk into that corner store. He was almost certain if he had, he would have ended up on the tile floor retching at the smell of grease and sweat. He’d choked on that scent as he laid with a bullet in his chest. He could only hope that he wouldn’t choke on the food when it came time to eat it.

John thought back to a time when he had gagged on black tar and maggots instead of grease and blood. He swallowed hard; an echo of oil slid down the back of his throat. Or maybe it was crawling back up. Maybe John would wake the next morning and find that whatever horrors he’d tasted in Limbo were festering inside of him like he was John Hurt in Alien . He supposed if that were true, then it was only a matter of time before it tore through his chest. John shuddered. He absentmindedly touched the space over his heart, as if it too was going to burst out of his chest.

The rest of the drive back to Chloe’s apartment was silent, and neither he nor Lucifer seemed to mind. For John, it was even a welcome reprieve from the madness that was his resurrection and a quiet moment before the inevitable emotional explosion waiting for them at the apartment.

His suspicions were only confirmed when the Corvette pulled into the parking lot. Chloe already had the door open and was standing in the doorframe with her arms crossed. He couldn’t completely make out her features from where they were parked, but John was sure when they got close enough her brows would be scrunched up in an exact replica of Penny’s when she was upset.

Lucifer killed the engine and jumped out of the car. His hands immediately flitted to his cufflinks and then on to smoothing invisible lines in his jacket. At least he was smart enough to be a little nervous, John thought.

“Detective!” Lucifer said when they got to the door. “We bought dinner!”

Chloe’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “What happened to not leaving the apartment?” she demanded.

Lucifer snatched the takeout bag from John’s grasp and held it up as if it explained everything. By the way her eye twitched, Chloe was not impressed.

“Is that the only place you went?” she demanded again.

Lucifer thrust the takeout bag back into John’s hands and flashed her a nervous smile.

“No,” John said flatly.

“Lucifer!”

Lucifer only flapped his hands and slipped past Chloe into the apartment. “It was just to see Linda and Amenadiel!” he called over his shoulder.

Chloe took a deep breath. She sagged against the doorframe, her shoulders tight with tension. “Dad, wherever he dragged you to, I’m sorry. It’s my fault for thinking that Lucifer could stay still and listen for more than a half hour.” She said the last bit a little louder, casting her gaze over her shoulder and making sure the man in question had heard them.

“It’s fine, monkey,” John said, drawing her attention back. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I didn’t try harder to keep us here. I shouldn’t have gone along with it.”

Finally, Chloe pushed herself off of the doorframe and allowed him to pass. “You shouldn’t have even had to argue to stay here,” she said as he walked past her. Even with his back to her, John could tell she was staring daggers at Lucifer while he busied himself with setting the table.

Just like he had that morning before Chloe had gone to work, John felt out of his element. It was easier for him to interact with Lucifer and Chloe separately. They represented vastly different periods of his life, or death, in Lucifer’s case. With them separated from each other, John could almost pretend that he was still living a normal life. When he was with Chloe, he could ignore his death. When he was with Lucifer, John could accept it head-on. But when they were together, it was difficult. He felt every inch the man lost in time when he saw them together.

All of these thoughts ran through John’s head in under a few seconds, but the existential discomfort of it all made it feel like an eternity.

“Here, I’ll take that from you, Dad,” Chloe said, appearing at his shoulder.

Mechanically, he handed the takeout bag to her, and then went to hang his borrowed jacket back on the hook. Task complete, John turned back to the table, still unsure what he should be doing. He watched Chloe open the bag, as if ready to divvy up their early dinner, and then stop. Her head snapped up to look across the table where Lucifer was pouring their drinks.

“It’s been a stressful two days, I knew you would like to have them,” he said, not looking up.

Lucifer finished filling the third glass in silence. When Chloe still hadn’t responded, he finally met her gaze. John didn’t know what he found there, her back was still to him, but Lucifer’s shoulders hunched.

“Did I get it wrong?” he asked, seemingly folding in on himself in a way that John didn’t know was possible.

“No. You didn’t. Thank you,” she replied softly. “But did you--?”

“No!” Lucifer waved his hand vehemently. “He stayed in the Corvette.”

Chloe nodded, and it was as if that motion cued all the others back to normal. She began setting their food onto plates, and Lucifer fluttered back into the kitchen as if nothing had happened. Slowly, John walked up to the table.

“Can I help with anything?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Chloe said, balling up the empty takeout bag, “everything’s already done. Just take a seat.”

He reluctantly did as he was told. He stared at his foil-wrapped sandwich until Lucifer and Chloe sat across from him a moment later. The placement reminded him a bit like an interrogation. In some sense, John thought, perhaps it was. He could tell that Chloe had bitten her tongue about them disobeying her orders today. Surely, it wouldn’t be long before she started fishing for details.

“So,” Chloe began, unwrapping her sandwich. “You went to see Linda and Amenadiel.”

Lucifer took a long sip of wine. “Yes, not that they were any help.”

“Lucifer wanted to look for answers,” John put in, trying to be helpful.

Chloe glanced between the two of them. “What kind of answers?”

“Answers that would help us figure out what in Dad’s name is going on, of course,” Lucifer said.

She raised an eyebrow. “And? What did you find out?”

John was thankful when Lucifer launched into a recount of the day's activities. He loved Chloe, but he simply hadn’t been in the mood to talk since they’d picked up dinner. Speaking of dinner, he glanced down at his untouched sandwich. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to eat, it was just that he was afraid of what would happen when he did. He knew he was going to have to eat it eventually, or else Chloe would start to get suspicious. The last thing John wanted to do was cause her any more stress.

He forced himself to unwrap his sandwich. Chloe was busy listening to Lucifer, but her eyes were fixed on John the moment he’d begun to remove the foil. With her watching, there was little he could do besides take a bite. Much to his relief, he did not taste tar or ash. It tasted the same as he remembered--rich, greasy, fattening. Even still, it turned his stomach, John realized with dismay.

Under Chloe’s watchful eye, he fought through the nausea and forced down another bite. The ends of her mouth quirked up in the ghost of a smile. Seemingly satisfied with what she saw, Chloe turned back to Lucifer.

It hit him that for her, this was the first time in roughly two decades that they were sharing these sandwiches. In that moment, it was as if their lives had simply picked up from where they’d left off. Had John never been shot, this was what he would have done that night. Instead of choking on his own blood, he would have been up late at the kitchen table, eating these exact sandwiches with Chloe, and then sending her quietly off to bed afterwards.

John finished his sandwich. His stomach twisted itself into new shapes each time he swallowed, but he refused to ruin this for his daughter. She needed this as much as he’d needed to tell her that bedtime story the previous night.

To fend off the overwhelming nausea, he found himself laser-focused on Lucifer’s tale. That was when he noticed the omissions. Before, he hadn’t paid Lucifer’s storytelling any mind. He had been dealing with his own inner turmoil about Chloe and his untimely demise. Now that he had nothing else to do but pay attention, John began to notice the discrepancies.

Lucifer told Chloe most of what they’d experienced that day, with a few key cut corners. He neglected to tell her about Limbo and his mysterious cough. At first, John thought he was avoiding those topics because Chloe didn’t know the truth about who Lucifer really was, but that theory was quickly derailed when she didn’t blink an eye at Amenadiel searching Heaven for clues about their “resurrection problem.”

John didn’t know why he didn’t correct Lucifer. It would have been so easy to mention a detail he’d left out and watch the fallout unfold. Yet, he sat in silence, only adding in an affirmative sounding hum when Lucifer’s tale required it.

He just wanted to see where Lucifer went with it, he told himself. Lucifer had to have a reason he was leaving out key details, but then again, did he? If John was being entirely honest, even though they were on better terms now, he didn’t really know who Lucifer was at all. There was no telling whether or not he would be completely transparent with Chloe. In fact, if their detour around LA was anything to go by, Lucifer seemed to skirt around the truth and bend the rules quite often.

If Lucifer still refused to tell Chloe about Limbo and the cough by the time the night ended, John resolved that he would tell her himself. Chloe was his top priority, she deserved to know the truth, he finally decided. Plus, was it not John’s story to tell anyways? After all, he’d been the one who died and ended up there in the first place.

As Lucifer’s story drew to a close, John grew more and more convinced that he would have to be the one to tell Chloe about Limbo. But then, Lucifer’s story stopped abruptly. He cleared his throat once. Twice. Then he coughed. It sounded wet and thick like it had at Amenadiel’s, except this time it sounded deeper. It was as if Lucifer was a normal human smoker, and there was tar stuck to the bottom of his lungs.

Lucifer quickly pressed a napkin to his lips, but the coughs continued until he was almost gagging.

Chloe worriedly patted his back. “Are you okay?”

John opened his mouth to confess to Chloe that, no, her partner was not, and that he’d been like this all day, but Lucifer beat him to the punch.

“Fine,” Lucifer muttered between coughs. He coughed a few more times before it finally petered out, leaving Lucifer weepy-eyed and with an undoubtedly sore throat. He strategically wiped his mouth with a clean corner of the napkin before folding it up and out of Chloe’s sight. There wasn’t a speck of silver to be seen.

“What was that all about?” she asked, handing Lucifer his wine to wash down the remaining cough.

He shook his head, taking down the rest of the wine like a shot. “Not a clue.”

John shot a glare in his direction, and Lucifer tactfully ignored it.

Chloe stared at Lucifer for a few more seconds. When she found what she had been searching for, she stood and gathered up her dishes. “Maybe those cigarettes are finally catching up to you,” she chuckled over her shoulder as she headed to the sink.

“Darling, we both know my mortality stint ended ages ago,” Lucifer replied, voice scratchy. It was a pathetic recreation of the exact phrase he’d said to Amenadiel just hours before.

Chloe snorted. “Sure.”

John waited until she turned on the tap before he leaned across the table.

“You have to tell Chloe about everything that’s going on, not just the parts that you like or understand,” he whispered fiercely.

“That will only cause unnecessary worry for the Detective,” Lucifer whispered back. He unfolded the napkin and tilted it enough for the silver liquid inside to catch the light. “This is not something that she needs to worry about right now.”

“Lucifer, come on!” He gestured to the napkin. “You’re literally coughing up some unidentified substance. You said it yourself, you’re immortal. So why is this happening now?”

Lucifer’s jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t care what you think you are, Chloe deserves to know.”

The tap shut off.

John glanced over to make sure that Chloe was still busy at the sink. When she was, he turned back to Lucifer.

“Tell Chloe, or I will, Lucifer.”

Lucifer just stared at the silver splatter on the napkin and said nothing.

[stubbornness-and-spite]

the ink on our skin and the blood in our hearts(are intertwined): Chapter One

I finally wrote the EJ/Nini/Ricky soulmate fic I’ve been craving(the first 5 chapters at least). AO3 link in reblog 

previous chapter | next chapter

Fandom: High School Musical: The Musical: The Series

Genre: slowburn soulmate au with sprinklings of fluff and angst

Notes: I didn’t want to rewrite scenes that were essentially the same as canon just with a little bit of soulmate au mixed in, so I only wrote in the scenes that were either different or we didn’t see them in canon to begin with. Any scenes I left out happened basically the same as canon. 

In this universe, soulmates share any ink or marks on their skin after the youngest soulmate turns 16. Makeup companies design their products to not transmit through soulbonds. 

Let me know if anything(timeline/universe/POV switches/etc) is unclear and if I should edit. I’m open to critisism, but be aware that this is unbetaed and I am writing it for fun. 

Warnings: swearing

Word Count: 1471

Summary: Ricky Bowen and Nini Salazar-Roberts have known they were going to be soulmates since they were in kindergarten. They had is all planned out. Ricky would turn sixteen to blank skin and two months later when Nini turned sixteen, their skin would share ink. Fate cares little for the plans of kindergarteners.

E.J. Caswell doesn't believe in soulmates. Oh, he believes that there are people who share ink, but he doesn't believe that marks on anyone's skin are enough to dictate how people live their lives. He's never seen a mark on his own skin and he never plans to make a mark his soulmate can see. Fate cares as much for the stubbornness of teenagers as she does the plans of kindergarteners.

Reblogs are greatly appreciated! 

~

Ricky POV

When Ricky turned sixteen, his arms were blank, and he called Nini immediately.

“Nini, Nini, Nini!” he shouted into the phone as soon as she answered. “I don’t have any marks!”

“Ricky?” Nini asked groggily, yawning and blinking sleep from her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Just after midnight on my sixteenth birthday!” Ricky exclaimed. “Why are you asleep?”

Nini yawned. “Because it’s also just after midnight during tech week, and I had rehearsal until 11 and again at 6 am tomorrow.”

“Sorry,” Ricky mumbled.

“It’s fine,” Nini replied. She yawned and sat up. “I’m awake now. Tell me what happened!”

“I have no marks!” Ricky exclaimed again.

“Oh?” Nini asked. “ Oh, ” she repeated. “Your soulmate’s younger than you.”

“Or I don’t have one, or they just never bothered to write anything, but what are the odds of that?” Ricky asked through a wide grin. “Now we just have to wait until your birthday!”

“Two months,” Nini said softly. “Two months and we’ll know.”

“Yeah,” Ricky sighed fondly. “Two months.”

“What if-” Nini cut herself off and started again. “What if we don’t match? What if my birthday comes and I don’t have any marks either or I have someone else’s marks?”

“It won’t happen, Nini,” Ricky reassured her. “And if it does, we’ll figure it out.”

(chapter continues under the cut)

Two months went by quickly. Ricky went to see Nini perform in some show he couldn’t remember the name of. He didn’t know enough about theater to compliment her properly, so he told her that she lit up the stage. He also gave her a few compliments that he’d picked from a list online. It was the thought that counted.

They spent most of their free time in Nini’s bedroom or Big Red’s basement, swapping stories that they both already knew.

Ricky begged his dad to let him stay the night at Nini’s on her sixteenth birthday, and they stayed up until midnight to see if anything appeared on her skin. Around 11:30, Nini changed into her shortest pair of shorts and a tube top to show as much of her skin as possible. At 11:45, Ricky considered writing on his hand for the first time but decided not to, wanting to wait until he could see the line appear on Nini’s hand too. At 12:01, a splotch of ink appeared on Nini’s right shoulder. At 12:02, Ricky stopped breathing.

“I didn’t do that,” he whispered. “I didn’t spill ink on my shoulder.” His hand drifted to cover the spot on his shirt that mirrored the mark on Nini’s shoulder.

Nini tugged a sweater on and slid her legs under the blanket. “This doesn’t have to change anything. I love you, Ricky.”

“I-” Ricky’s eyes were wide. “I don’t-” His breathing quickened. “Maybe we should take a pause. You’re going away for the summer and I just-” His breath caught. “I need some time, Nini.”

“Okay,” Nini murmured. “Okay.”

“I’m just going to-” Ricky pointed at Nini’s bedroom door and stumbled towards it, clumsily pulling it open. “I’ll see you?” Nini didn’t respond and Ricky pulled the door shut.

~

Carol had driven him home without asking any questions, which Ricky was grateful for because he didn’t think he could answer without crying. Soulmates were supposed to be the thing that kept people together. He thought he loved Nini, but Ricky knew that wasn’t enough. His parents were proof of that. They’d both gone against the system when they were younger and had thought they were in love with people who weren’t their soulmates, but they had ended up together anyway. Nothing was stronger than soulmates and Nini wasn’t his.

Ricky slipped in his front door without waking his dad and fell asleep in his clothes, on top of his blankets, never noticing the spot of ink on his shoulder that was washed away by morning.

~

The summer went by in a blur. Ricky swore up and down it was the longest summer he’d ever lived, but at the same time, it was over in the blink of an eye and he was seeing Nini again.

He wanted to try again with her. Maybe soulmates weren’t everything because he was miserable without Nini. Maybe even if they did end up with their soulmates eventually, they could share the rest of high school with each other.

“I met someone.”

Ricky’s heart stopped. “You’re kidding, right? It was a break, not a breakup.”

“Well, it’s a breakup now.”

And what the hell was he supposed to do with that?

~

EJ POV

EJ was glad when his sixteenth birthday rolled around and his skin was blank. Maybe he was one of the lucky few without a soulmate. He hated the idea of soulmates. He wanted to control his own life, to decide for himself who he was going to spend it with, not have his life dictated by whose skin shared ink with his.

He went out of his way to make sure he never wrote on himself or let anyone else draw or write on his skin. He carried bandaids and wipes with him everywhere so if he ever got a cut, he could keep the blood from staining his soulmate’s skin. Ashlynn insisted that he was being ridiculous, but EJ was adamant. He was not going to have a soulmate. He was going to love whoever he wanted.

And he did. He dated a lot of different girls and didn’t care at all when they left him for their soulmates, whether they had met them yet or not. He didn’t care at all. He just moved onto the next girl.

He made it until the summer before his eighteenth birthday without incident. The few times he got ink on himself, a few times on his hands, and once on his left shoulder when a pen burst, he washed it off completely before the next day and he never saw a message back.

The summer before he turned eighteen he met Nini. She was the first girl he’d met who had turned sixteen, seen her soulmate marks, and wasn’t searching for her soulmate. He fell a little bit in love with her right then and there. Then he heard her sing and saw her act and he fell for her even more. By the time they actually started talking, EJ was head over heels for the girl and ready to run away from the soulmate system and off into the sunset with her.

“Where are you headed once camp’s over?” EJ asked, as close to Nini as he could be without actually having his arm around her.

“Back to Salt Lake City,” she replied. “We go to the same school, EJ.”

“I’m stupid!” EJ hit his forehead with his palm and grinned. “How have we not talked before now? You’re amazing.”

Nini snorted and rolled her eyes with a smile. “You’re sweet. I’ve been kind of under a rock for the past few years. I’ve been in the ensemble of the last few musicals but I really only talk to Kourtney, Big Red, and…” she trailed off.

“Who else?” EJ prompted.

“Ricky,” Nini said, her voice turning slightly sharp. Her bright smile dimmed. “We’ve been friends since kindergarten and kinda-dating since middle school. We started actually dating at the start of sophomore year. We kind of broke up when summer started.”

“How do you kind of break up with someone?” EJ asked. “How does anyone break up with you?”

Nini laughed. “He’s a few months older than me and we always thought we’d be soulmates, so he was really excited when his skin was blank on his sixteenth birthday, but when my sixteenth birthday rolled around and I had ink on me that he hadn’t drawn, he freaked out. He was supposed to be my soulmate, whatever the ink on our skin said, but when he saw someone else’s ink, he said we should “take a break.” Whatever that means.”

“It means he’s not good enough for you,” EJ said, smiling earnestly.

“And you are?” Nini asked.

EJ sputtered. “I wasn’t saying that, but…” he hesitated. “I’d like to try to be? If that’s something you want too?”

“EJ Caswell, are you asking me out?”

EJ coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Was that not clear?”

Nini pushed her hair out of her face and grinned. “No, it was clear, but I want you to ask me properly anyway.”

EJ pulled away from her and lifted himself up onto one knee. “Nini… I-don’t-know-your-last-name,”

“Salazar-Roberts,” Nini said, her smile practically splitting her face.

“Nini Salazar-Roberts,” EJ continued. “Will you do me the honor of being my girlfriend?”

Nini pretended to think it over. “On one condition.”

“Which is?”

Nini leaned forward and kissed him quickly. “If you be my boyfriend.”

~

Taglist - let me know if you want to be added or removed!

@after-nine-at-the-oasis

[sokkascroptop]

bestie I'M SO SORRY FOR FLOODING YOUR INBOX BUT I MUST ASK,,, how am i supposed to know if my writing is good or not... like ik writers tend to be overly critical of their own work but there's like ONE person in my personal life that watches atla and she doesn't wanna be my editor... so how do i know w/o an editor....

I think everyone has moments where they doubt their talent, it doesn’t mean that it’s true but it’s just a part of human nature 

I don’t personally have anyone edit my works either. I post unbeta-ed with one final read through before it’s posted... I don’t think that you need an editor or a beta to post fanfic or to know that your writing is good. Writers can be self critical and that can be both good and bad. 

I’m not sure if I have an answer when it comes to “how do i know if i’m good without an editor”. That’s going to have to be up to you to forge that confidence into posting. I’m sorry if that’s a frustrating non-answer, but if you want you can always message me too if you need help with something!! 

[narukoibito]

charity work bonus snippet

@the-hinny-shipper

Oh my gosh I love this. Probably not, but is there like a part 2 or something? I know that's meant to be the end, but I need to know what happens next.

Thank you so much for the kind words to charity work, my Muggle AU where Ginny is a famous football player who helps Harry teepee and egg his ex’s house! ♥️

I am actually working on a part 2. Harry and Ginny of this world just couldn’t stop chattering in my head, and there’s about 2.5k words thus far. I know what’s going to happen - I just need to write, edit, and pull the trigger and post it... 

But in the meantime, I am sharing a funny little subplot that I wasn’t sure was ever going to see the light of day. It’s a bit of a prequel that I started but then dropped because it didn’t add much to the story...but today I thought, eh, why not share since we can all use some laughs now more than ever. It’s unbetaed, and I’m still iffy on it, but I hope you this will tide you over until I get part 2 posted.

(Also tagging the lovely @isidar-mithrim​ and @blattgefluester​ in case you are interested since you were both so amazingly kind toward charity work!)

Summary: This wasn’t what Seamus had in mind when he suggested Ginny do more charity work.

*

The Prophet landing on the table with a loud thud.

“What’s this?”

“This, Ginny, is the result of your spectacular interview with Miss Rita Skeeter.”

Ginny lifted her chin, pushing the paper away from her and returning to shoveling her porridge down. “So it’s the usual rubbish.”

Seamus pursed his lips, annoyed that once again she wasn’t taking this seriously. “Rubbish it may be, but rubbish that sells.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “So are you here as my publicist or as a friend?”

“Can’t I be both?” He grinned.

She prodded the offensive article with distaste. “What do they say this time?”

“Well, Miss Skeeter took it upon herself to approach all your exes for an ‘expose.’”

“I like to kick a ball for a living. I don’t understand the obsession with my love life.”

“The all-star player who went pro at your age with your looks?” Seamus winked. Ginny rolled her eyes.

“Don’t let Dean catch you doing that.”

“He knows I’m a hopeless flirt,” he dismissed cheerfully.

She made a strangled, irritated noise. 

“Look, it’s not too bad.” He unfurling the paper with a wince. The headliner, Wonder Girl Weasley Not So Wonderful Girlfriend?, paired with an unflattering photo of Ginny shoving a camera away from her face flashed back at her. “She found some, er, old classmates to go on the record.”

Ginny’s expression darkened. “Record about what?”

“You remember when you stopped people from bullying Luna? And Neville? And when Dean and I got together? Well, somehow Skeeter got in touch with Parkinson, Zabini, Smith... Skeeter may or may not insinuate that you’re…aggressive. Have a bit of a temper.” 

Ginny grabbed the paper and began reading loudly, “Since the early days of her youth, Ginevra Molly Weasley, better known as Ginny, the Wonder Girl Weasley, has been bewitching men to do her bidding. We here at The Prophet have long extolled the many virtues of Miss Weasley, but I, your fearless investigator of truth, uncovered a disturbing pattern in how Miss Weasley wraps men around her little finger. What others thought was wit and charm, I have uncovered may actually be the result of a threatening temper. I dare to ask, should we be concerned with Miss Weasley’s trail of broken hearts and perhaps other broken body parts?”

He bit his tongue as Ginny read the part where Rita expounded on Ginny’s "commoner” country-side upbringing” surrounded by her “rowdy” brothers as the source of her “violent streak.” 

“I only punched Parkinson once, and that was when she poured punch on Luna!” Ginny scrunched up the newspaper and flung it angrily into the bin. “She goes on about some weird sorcery I have with men.” 

“Look, I’ve already called Parvati about getting you on some morning shows, but maybe this time we can agree on some talking points, hmm? And maybe have you do some charity work, show your gentle, caring side. Get some positive press coverage.”

She continued to fume, muttering under her breath, “Skeeter gives witches a bad name.”

“It’ll all pass, Ginny,” Seamus smiled at her sympathetically. “Come back later tonight. Dean’s making roast, and we’ll talk about how to set the narrative straight.”

He sent her on her way, hoping that practice would relieve some of the rage.

*

Seamus’s head emerged from the oven, his face flushed scarlet. “Ginny, you can’t just go meet random fans and help them commit a crime!”

Even after all these years, she never ceased to amaze them. But this - randomly taking an Instagram follower’s request to egg and teepee a house? This was one of Ginny’s more...creative ideas.

“That’s right,” Dean agreed, taking the roast and plating it. “For all you know he could wank to your posters.”

“Well then you’d know he has good taste,” she said, dripping her finger into the cooling gravy.

“Ginny,” they sighed together in exasperation and pushing her away from the kitchen counter. 

“What happened between this morning and now?” 

“You’re always saying I should do more charity,” she said pointedly.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Seamus wagged a finger at her. She folded her arms across her chest, staring them down (which was quite the accomplishment, considering how much taller they were). 

“We can’t let you do this.”

“When has anyone ever let me do anything?” Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

Seamus and Dean shared a long look, no doubt both of them remembering that one time she broke into the headmaster’s office to steal back the replica toy sword Ron was stupid enough wear to school as part of his knight costume for Halloween.

“Look,” Dean said carefully, leading her into the dining room as Seamus followed, plates of food laden in his arms. “We know you’re more than capable to taking care of yourself.”

“Damn straight,” she said, but she let him gently nudge her into her seat. 

“But as your friends — ”

“One of whom would like to stay gainfully employed,” Seamus cut in, playing the food on the table.

“—and who would absolutely be murdered by your brothers if they ever found out, we want to make sure you’re…thinking straight.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, we know,” Seamus said, deadpan. “But I really don’t need another article supporting this theory that you’re aggressive. If you beat the bloke up and the press catches wind of it…”

“I’m going. I put this idea into his head. And look at him,” she said, holding up a picture of H-P-Lightening, smiling sheepishly into the camera.

They examined the photo skeptically as Ginny tucked into dinner. Maybe while they were distracted, she could nick an extra bit of roast.

“He’s cute,” Seamus pointed out.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Not the point.” 

"Doesn’t hurt,” Dean said.

“He and I share a similar goal: to serve some much-needed justice in the world. And since I can’t go about egging Michael’s house without it ending up on the Sunday papers, I can at least help someone else.”

“His hair is an absolute disaster, but it somehow works on him,” Seamus continued, ignoring her.

“Those green eyes,” Dean said appreciatively.

“Plays football too,” Seamus said, clicking through to some videos. “He’s fit.”

Now they were both giving Ginny a look with entirely new context.

“It’s not like that,” she said breezily.

“Maybe she’s hoping he wanks to her poster,” Seamus snickered, not believing her for a second.

“He could wind up in trouble if he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“And you’re an expert?” Dean asked.

“I’m a Weasley.” She smiled wickedly, and they laughed. “Besides, who am I to ignore a gentleman in distress?”

“Okay, fine, if we can’t stop you —”

She snorted.

“—then we’re coming with you.”

“What?”

“We’ll watch from a safe distance,” Seamus assured her, Dean nodding along. “Just to make sure you don’t end up in the papers.”

“We will help you hide the body,” Dean said.

Ginny looked from one to the other. They were grinning at her, half eager and half earnestly. She didn’t need them to come. She was more than capable of taking care of herself. But, suppose this turned out to be something she wasn’t expecting…

“Fine, but —” she added quickly when they started to wiggle their eyebrows at one another “—the moment, and I mean the very moment I give you the signal, you better make yourself scarce.”

Dean and Seamus beamed across the table. “Whatever you want, luv!”

*

“You can’t stay if you’re going to be this obvious.” Ginny growled.

“Obvious? We’re perfectly inconspicuous,” Seamus bristled.

“You brought binoculars,” she said dryly, placed her hands on her hips. “And a bat."

“Told you she wouldn’t like that,” Dean said.

“I won’t use the bat. It’s just in case we need to scare him off.”

Ginny and Dean gave him a look.

“What? This person could be tricking us!”

When Ginny’s glare made his back hair stick on end, Seamus relented.

“Fine, we’ll cross the street,” Seamus said, taking Dean by the arm. When they turned around, Ginny was still scowling, whipping out her phone and texting them furiously.

You are going to have to HIDE.

There’s nothing strange about us being here! Seamus typed back.

You’re two random, loitering blokes, ready to stalk or bean someone. If you’re going to stay, you’re going to hide. Ginny over at them critically. Behind those bushes.

“Ugh,” Seamus groaned, crouching down and behind the bushes with his boyfriend dutifully following. He swatted at a twig that was unpleasantly digging into the side of his bum.

Happy? he texted her back.

Delirious. Remember. You both better leave when I give the signal. Or else.

A shudder went down his spine, knowing very well what Ginny was capable of.

“This isn’t what I imagined our cozy Friday evening being.”

“You don’t really mind,” Dean said, smiling knowingly.

Seamus huffed and peered into the binoculars rather than reply. Yes, he was worried about this blowing up in his face (things often did), but he couldn’t deny he was a bit curious. He had never seen Ginny look that way at a photo before.

“You just want a front row seat,” Dean teased.

“Shut — oh, I think that’s him!”

They watched with anticipation as a lanky, bespectacled bloke with tousled black hair ascended the train station steps. He seemed to be deeply brooding as Ginny approached him. Through the binoculars, Seamus watched as this fellow, Harry something-or-other, looked up, eyes wide, and nearly tripped over the last step.

“They seem to be hitting it off,” Dean said as Ginny and Harry laughed before she handed him a hoodie.

They began walking, and Seamus scrambled to follow. “Come on.”

He kept an eye out for anyone else who might be around, but there didn’t seem to be anyone who recognized or followed Ginny.

“I think we can leave the bat.” Dean chuckled, swiping the binoculars for a closer look himself.

They trailed the other couple from across the street, doing the best they could to be inconspicuous. Ginny and this bloke looked good together. He looked oddly charming with his wild hair and glasses, but it was really the way he looked at Ginny at set Seamus at ease. They kept talking, laughing, smiling at one another. Seamus hadn’t seen her laugh so much since…he couldn’t even remember.

Was that — was Ginny Weasley blushing?

After several minutes, Seamus and Dean stopped and looked at each other.

Ginny had completely forgotten about them. 

“Do you think if we leave now, we can still catch the last half of the game?”

“Yeah,” Seamus said, taking Dean’s hand as they headed home.

Maybe their Friday evening plans could be salvaged after all.