#and did not until tonight realize that I could have AO3 send me copies of my own comments

[teaandinanity]

GAAAAH

So like. I know I read a fic. I know I subscribed to that fic. I know I commented on that fic.

I want to reread it.

I CANNOT FUCKING FIND IT.

I have 15 pages of subscriptions. My history is 584 pages. And AO3 HAS NO NATIVE WAY FOR ME TO BROWSE MY OWN COMMENTS EVEN THOUGH I KNOW ROUGHLY WHAT I SAID unless the author responded and this one didn't and now I'm left with the itchy feeling of knowing EXACTLY what I want to read but not being able to do so.

May just lie down and cry like an overstimulated toddler instead.

[kakashiswilloffire]

Friend Killer Kakashi

ao3

words: 2.2k

warnings: angst, mention of gore, mention of vomit, no comfort

He was ready to crawl out of his own skin. His whole body flushed with waves of heat, prickling uncomfortably in his chest, like thousands of pins jabbing both inside and outside of himself. He stopped, gripping the counter to hold himself steady while he dragged shallow breaths into his lungs. He knew he needed to take a deep breath, he was telling himself to take a deep fucking breath, even just one, why can’t he just even breathe correctly, how the fuck was he supposed—

The sound of his fist interrupted him before he’d even realized he had struck out. Knowing it would be several minutes before the pain really set in, he smacked his hand against the counter again and shook his head viciously. Silver strands, oilier than he usually let them get, stung as they met skin while the weight of his hair shifted.

He sucked air thickly into his nostrils then pawed at his nose, grimacing at the spices that overwhelmed the air around him. He tossed the pan into the sink, not caring that it still sizzled or that the oil splashed onto the cold tiles beneath him. He was trying to make pan fried eggplant to go with the premade miso soup he’d picked up last week. It had been a shitty week and he just wanted to make his favorite meal to make everything hurt a little bit less. There was no way it’d be as good as what Gai made, or whatever Dai had done when he first made it for him, but Kakashi figured it would do, and since it would be the first thing he had cooked himself all week, there should be some sense of achievement and dopamine to relish in when it was done. Unfortunately, it had gone terribly.

He couldn’t remember exactly what spices went on the eggplant. Salt, pepper, minced garlic, and then Gai would riff from there. Kakashi hated that—he was fine as long as he could follow a recipe. Gai, however, could just pour a splash of soy, or a squeeze of lemon, or even a drizzle of honey on anything and it was phenomenal, and also, unrepeatable. He could remember what the version he wanted tonight should taste like, and it didn’t matter what bottles he shook out into the pan, it never smelled right. The oil just kept popping onto his arms and hands, and the eggplant got slimier, and everything started to smell way too strong.

Kakashi Hatake, master of a thousand jutsu, and fucking garbage at cooking.

Whatever.

Running his hand along his forehead, he tried to find a single thought to focus on rather than the swirling mess in his head. Rin’s death a few months ago had hit him hard, much like he had hit her. He knew Gai hated to hear him think like that, but she would be alive if he hadn’t been there. If his hand hadn’t crushed through her chest, her ribs scraping along—

He lurched forward, the smell of the kitchen and the visceral memories getting to him at last. His shoulders jerked erratically as he retched into the tiny sink then sunk to his knees. The cold of the floor helped ground him while he wrapped his muscled arms around his stomach, leaning his head against the cabinet until the room stopped spinning.

Pathetic.

Obito would be absolutely pissed to know this was what he died for.

Gai wouldn’t be back from his mission for at least four more days. Kakashi was on a temporary leave pending the results of the investigation into Rin’s death. Ibiki had tried to reassure him the other day that unofficially it was looking good, and should turn out in his favor soon. He was almost certain to be found not at fault. Kakashi had scoffed—even if that was the official ruling, her murder was entirely his fault.

While they weren’t living together, Gai had taken it upon himself years ago to have a spare key, or maybe several spare keys, to his apartment copied and he kept one in a pocket in that garish green spandex at all times. With everything going on, Gai had been by every other day or so that he was in the village. The couch still had a crumpled blanket at one end he had used the last time he stayed overnight, and the one throw pillow with the Hatake crest that Gai wouldn’t let him get rid of. He tossed it out of his way as he flopped down on his back, letting his legs kick up and rest over the top of the dingy couch.

Why did anyone bother with him? Why would Ibiki go to the effort of leaking confidential information about his investigation to him? Why would Asuma invite him out for drinks every Friday night? Why would Kurenai and Genma leave bottles of sake in his mailbox with notes that everything would be fine? Why would Gai.. anything relating to him?

He couldn’t even hold the memories back long enough to successfully make dinner. He hadn’t even reheated the miso soup, and that was only two steps. He couldn’t save Obito, he couldn’t save Rin, he couldn’t convince Gai to leave well enough alone.

What if Gai was next?

Fuck.

He couldn’t let Gai be next. There were a lot of things he had failed at, but damned if he wouldn’t succeed in this. He could not, under any circumstances, let Gai any closer, any further into his life. The further away he could get the overly-enthusiastic shinobi, the better.

He nodded, swinging his legs around to the edge of the couch and letting that propel him into a seated position from which he sprang up. He walked over to the tiny end table and wrenched open the single overstuffed drawer, digging through for a pad of paper and the first writing instrument he could find, a blue pen with the academy’s logo printed on it.

Gai—

I don’t know how to tell you this, but you have to stay away from me. It’s for your own good. No one close to me is safe, even from me.

Sorry. Please understand.

—Kakashi

He read over the messily scrawled note, then tore the sheet off the pad and crumbled it in a fist. There’s no way Gai could read that and not have about a billion questions. Especially with how they had relied on each other through the years, from Dai’s death to Rin’s, this wouldn’t be remotely good enough to get Gai to stay away.

He sat down on the couch again, tapping the pen absentmindedly against the faded lined paper. What do you say to someone to convince them to be done with you completely?

When the key scraped into the lock, he froze.

The door swung wide open, Gai slumping into the apartment. His jumpsuit was nicked and torn and his hair didn’t have its usual luster. He was clearly exhausted, though not chakra exhausted. Kakashi felt the familiar pangs of panic begin to hit—how was he back so soon?

“Hey, ‘Kashi. The client blew the mission terms totally out of proportion—he made it seem like it’d be almost an A rank, and instead it was like a grueling C rank. We’re still not sure if the pay will be adjusted accordingly, but Ebisu is arguing it shouldn’t be because we did still run into trouble—Stone ninja near the border tried to take Chouza out. Recognized him somehow, but no worries, Konoha’s magnificent Green Beast was on the scene and we handled them without any major issues.” He grinned and flexed, posing for a moment before relaxing now that he had reached his destination and sliding his vest off and onto the hook by the door.

“How have you been? You eaten yet? Yakiniku is running a special according to Chouza—he asked me to join him for a post-mission meal and I told him I’d have to swing by here and see if you wanted to tag along. You like their short rib, right? Or are you still on the vegetarian kick?”

It never failed to impress Kakashi how Gai could fill a space, whether it be with his words, his personality, or his posing. No matter how he did it, though, it always was genuine and warm, and it was nearly impossible to maintain the solemn composure he frequently fronted. They made a nice contrast as a pair. Shame they would never have the chance to explore the friendship further.

He looked down at the crumpled paper on the ground and kicked it under the couch, setting the pad and pen aside. Unfortunately, he was going to have to explain in person.

He walked past Gai without making eye contact, the other man stepping out of his way without resistance. He lifted the vest off the hook next to his own vest, brought it briefly to his own chest, and immediately regretted it when the scent of his rival slammed into him. Once again, he shook his head vigorously, then shoved the vest back at Gai.

“Get out.”

He laughed, taking the vest back and slipping it on without understanding. “Want yours as well?” he asked, reaching for the door.

Kakashi felt flushed again, realizing that Gai meant for them to get dinner together. He walked back into the small living room, keeping his back to the door.

“Don’t need it. Get out.”

Gai’s laugh died in his chest, questions rising to the surface. “I… You okay? Did something happen while I was gone? Your investigation results? I told Ibiki to send word if they made the announcement, that asshole—”

“No, Gai. Nothing happened. I just…” Kakashi swallowed and felt his heart frost over. “Just did some thinking. Realized I’m better off without you.”

He scoffed. “Very funny, Kakashi. Come on, grab a jacket or something, Chouza said he’d wait on me to get back.”

“I mean it, Gai. You’re holding me back. The stupid challenges, do you think I actually care? I’ve always been stronger than you, and now that I’ve got the Sharingan, it’s comical, competing against you. I can see all your moves from miles away. You broadcast like a bull. You’re loud, annoying, and a useless ninja. I want you out of my life.”

There was silence for more than a full minute. It might have been as long as the two of them had gone without speaking, ever. Then Gai crossed to Kakashi in two steps, grabbing his left shoulder and spinning him around to face him.

“I know you’re not saying all that ‘cause you mean it, Kakashi. Look me in the eyes and think about this.”

Kakashi steeled himself, making full eye contact with the single grey eye. “Why don’t you think about it, Gai? Honestly? What kind of a ninja can’t even use ninjutsu? Everyone’s just humoring you and letting you make a fool of yourself. You’re a walking lesson in how to not be a shinobi.”

Gai blinked hard, his eyes beginning to shimmer. He cocked his head to the side, his grip on his rival’s shoulder only strengthening.

“’Kashi, I know things are hard for you. I know your brain lies to you sometimes. It’s okay. Listen, we’ll stay here tonight, I’ll cook, we can watch a movie or something, I’ll keep watch so you can sleep and we’ll talk more in the morning. There’s no pressure. I care about you, Kakashi. Let me help you.”

His eyes were swimming now, the passion making tears roll slowly down his face. The silver-haired man refused to move or answer. Swallowing, he made one last effort to persuade him. “Kakashi… please. Don’t do this. I love you.”

Kakashi’s heart, freeze dried, now shattered, crumbling into a powder and blowing away on a light breeze. Of course Gai loved him, and he loved Gai, but could Gai really mean that he… could he love him the way?—

Impossible.

No. Of course not. And even if he did, that just put him in all the more danger.

His resolve strengthened, he scowled back. “Fuck off, Gai. A ninja that only uses taijutsu is useless in battle. Don’t you remember how your dad died? Couldn’t save himself, could barely save you. What did you even do to try and help him?”

He was grateful for the fist that slammed into his jaw, shutting him up and knocking him into the wall.

“Fuck off, Hatake.”

He only dimly registered the door slamming, and possibly coming off its’ hinges. After a beat, a glint of silver flew through the air and lodged into the wall directly opposite the door. Slowly, he gathered himself up and limped over to it, realizing with a sharp ache that it was the key to his apartment. Turning to the mirror propped near the door, he stared down the version of him with grey circles under his eyes, thumbing at the blood growing at the corner of his mouth.

Friend-Killer Kakashi was starting to sound more like him by the moment.

[frogjutsu]

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi x Maito Gai

Word Count: 2088

Warnings: slight angst, lots of tomfoolery

A/N: written as part of the KKG server gift exchange! Feel free to read here or on Ao3

The sun filtering through the branches felt like a lover's caress. It was almost enough to make Kakashi forget how lonely he was. With a sigh he settled further against the tree. The bark scratched against his back and the grass felt cold against his thighs but the scent was comforting. The scent was home. 

Kakashi turned a page in whatever copy of Icha Icha he'd brought with him today. He'd read them so many times he could probably quote them from memory, but he had appearances to keep up. Anyone who saw him would simply assume he was reading his pervy books again and leave him alone. Well, almost anyone. 

"Ah, there you are, rival," Gai's voice boomed as he jogged up to Kakashi. He was surprised Gai wasn't running on his hands this time. "I've been looking for you."

"And you've found me," Kakashi said, not looking up from his book. It would be too much like looking into the sun. 

"I've devised a new challenge for us. One that will truly test our limits as shinobi. Are you interested?"

Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes, Kakashi thought, but what came out of his mouth was: "I suppose" coupled with a shrug. 

Gai laughed and it echoed through Kakashi's heart. It might've been the most beautiful sound he ever heard. "Cool as ever, dear rival. In that case, you'll need this." Gai whipped out a small booklet - from where in that skintight suit Kakashi couldn't tell. If Kakashi's eyes lingered too long, Gai didn't mention it. 

Finally, Kakashi set his copy of Icha Icha to the side and reached for Gai's hand. Their fingers brushed as he took the booklet and Kakashi wondered if all of Konoha could hear his heart pounding. Before he could ask what the book was, Gai interrupted: “Meet us at the theatre tomorrow night.” 

“Us,” Kakashi asked as he opened the book. His eyes trailed across a hand-written script. The character “Damsel” was highlighted. 

“Yes! Team Gai is going to put on the ultimate display of youth and you are to be our damsel in distress. Then the audience shall decide who embodied their emotions better: the infamous Copy Ninja or the Green Beast of Konoha.” Gai planted his fists on his hips, striking a pose as Kakashi stared at the pages before him. What had he gotten himself into? 

It was not the only time Kakashi asked himself that question. In fact, it seemed to be the only thought he could form as he memorized the few lines he had and showed up to the theater, only to be rushed into what was clearly a storage closet someone had hurriedly turned into a changing room. Sakura and Ino had been roped into helping Team Gai with makeup and wardrobe, though, as they forced him into a rather skimpy pink dress and braided wig, Kakashi doubted they really needed any convincing. At least Sakura was thoughtful enough to include a matching pink mask. 

As he was ushered onto the stage and the curtains lifted to reveal most of the village gathered around to watch this farce - play, Kakashi corrected himself - Kakashi tried to pinpoint exactly which decisions in his life had led him to this point: dressed in pink and lace surrounded by a trio of children with plastic swords and too-big costumes pretending to be pirates. Perhaps if he’d never joined the ANBU or if his father had never died. Maybe it was just an inevitability. Perhaps Kakashi Hatake was always doomed to give more of himself than he would ever receive. 

He was broken out of his gloomy reverie when Gai burst forth from the wings, dressed in a loose flowing white shirt and pants that seemed even tighter than his green jumpsuit. His hair was held back with a leather band and - Did he oil his chest? Kakashi thought, noting how Gai’s skin glistened under the stage lights. 

Lee elbowed Kakashi in the hip. “It’s your line, Kakashi sensei.” 

“Oh,” he replied, forcing his thoughts back to script. He cleared his throat and began: 

“Blessed be the gods for sending the Green Beast. Save me from these scoundrels and then we shall feast.” 

Gai stalked across the stage, pulling his own plastic sword out of its sheath. “My dear Princess, it would be my pleasure / for rescuing you would be life’s greatest treasure. / Avast, ye pirates. Stand and fight! / Draw your swords and face my might!” 

Now it was Lee’s turn to jump forward into the spotlight. “First you must pay the princess’s ransom! / I don’t care if you are devilishly handsome. / 10,000 yen is what we agreed. / If you can’t pay she’ll be tossed to the sea.”

Silence fell over the stage for a moment as Lee and Gai stared each other down. Then, Lee coughed and looked at Neji out of the corner of his eye. Kakashi thought he heard Neji mutter something about wishing the swords were real so Gai could kill him, but he stepped forward nonetheless. 

His voice was blank as he spoke, brandishing his sword as if he wished he were anywhere else. “Captain, please. Don’t be a fool. / There’s no way you could beat the Beast in a duel.” 

TenTen took a step toward Kakashi. She was definitely the most comfortable of the three of them, and, as she pressed the sword under Kakashi’s chin he honestly had to remind himself that this was just a play. “Take another step and I’ll end her life,” TenTen said. “And then you’ll never take her as your wife.” 

Wife. Kakashi let his mind turn the word around in his head, wringing it out until he could pull a drop of meaning from it. He’d never been one for domesticity. Never really given a thought to marriage, having spent so much time alone already, but Kakashi had to admit the thought of being whisked off his feet by a local folk hero and devoting himself so wholly to them held some appeal. Then again, as Gai leapt forward and began his choreographed fight with his teammates, Kakashi realized he was already devoted to someone. 

The fight was beautiful, really. Kakashi was sure Gai choreographed it himself. He could see the fluidity in the movements, the way each step was tailored to each character. Kakashi found himself distracted by the sheen of sweat dripping down Gai’s chest, trailing down and out of sight past a tear that appeared where one of the kids got too excited by their role as villains. The clash of plastic swords could barely be heard over the cheering of the audience as Gai gave one final blow to Lee and he died dramatically, dropping to the stage floor next to Neji and TenTen. 

Kakashi walked forward, hands still bound behind his back. “You truly are a hero, my dearest Gai. / Stuck with those pirates I was afraid I would die.” 

Gai closed the distance between them, reaching around Kakashi to pull at the rope around his wrists. It fell free with little effort, but the action brought their chests together and Kakashi swore he could feel the rumble of the next words Gai said in his ribs. “I will always save you, my dear Princess. / No matter the challenge. No matter the test.” Gai brushed his knuckles against the underside of Kakashi’s jaw, pulling his mask down just past his lips, and wrapped his left arm around his waist. “You’re free now to do what you like. / Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” 

“The honor is mine,” Kakashi said, more breathless than he’d intended. He hoped Gai would just write it off as good acting. “After such a brave feat. / No better man could I hope to meet. / So ask me again. I’ll respond with a sigh. / There’s no greater honor than becoming Mrs. Maito Gai.”

The audience cheered as Gai pressed his forehead against Kakashi’s, but neither of them heard it. There could have been a stampede of elephants running across the stage or a surprise ambush from a neighbouring village and it wouldn’t have mattered. All Kakashi could think about was how warm Gai’s skin felt against his and how Gai’s hand felt like it belonged on the small of his back and how easy it would be to just lean forward and claim his lips and argue that it was an acting choice later, but that would require spine and Kakashi may have been reckless at times but he’d never been brave and - 

And then Gai did something unscripted. He pressed his lips against Kakashi’s and his knees buckled. Kakashi was sure he would’ve fainted if Gai’s arm hadn’t been there to hold him up. Gai was always there to hold him up. 

The audience erupted into cheers again, but Kakashi only cared about the taste of Gai’s lips. Salty and sweet, tasting vaguely of sweat and matcha and the dango they’d all had backstage before the show started. Kakashi let his tongue brush against Gai’s lips, but he broke away with a laugh. 

“Eager, I see, my dear Princess. / But after such an ordeal, I’m sure you must rest. / After all this concludes our heroic tale. / So now I must bid you all farewell.” Gai stepped away from Kakashi and took a deep bow. It wasn’t until Lee, Neji, and TenTen returned to the stage that he realized he was supposed to do the same. Gai’s hand felt like a hot coal in Kakashi’s. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to toss it to the ground or cling to it until it became a diamond in his grip. 

After what felt like an eternity of bowing and clapping and greeting the audience, Kakashi finally escaped back to his changing room. He quickly peeled the dress off and yanked on his uniform pants. He wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to simply use a teleportation jutsu to get home. Otherwise, he might have to face Naruto in the audience, and Kakashi wasn’t sure his nerves could handle that right now. 

A knock interrupted his plans. Before Kakashi could say anything, the door opened as quickly as it shut and Gai stood before him, still in his costume. The closet changing room didn’t offer much space and, with Gai blocking the exit, Kakashi knew there was little chance for escape. 

“You were wonderful out there tonight, rival,” Gai said. His voice seemed even louder in the small space. Kakashi didn’t think he’d ever get tired of it. 

“Thank you, but I think you’ve bested me this time.” 

“Almost certainly,” Gai laughed. “But I must say, pink is your color.” He stepped forward and brushed his knuckles against Kakashi’s jaw again. In the dim light of the closet, far from the scrutiny of his peers, Kakashi let himself enjoy the moment. He closed his eyes and leaned against Gai’s touch, let himself be led as Gai pulled Kakashi closer by the hips. “What do you say to rehearsing for our next performance?” 

Kakashi might’ve said something in response, but it was lost as Gai claimed his lips with his own. It quickly became clear that the kiss on stage was an act, a buildup to this beautiful crescendo. Gai was more insistent now, pushing his own tongue between Kakashi’s lips as one hand slid up Kakashi’s bare back to tangle in the short hair at the nape of his neck and the other held so tightly to Kakashi’s hip he knew it would bruise in the morning. He couldn’t bring himself to care as he cradled Gai’s face close to his, unwilling to let go. Unwilling to admit that this was probably just a dream or an act or something unreal because good things simply didn’t happen to him and there was nothing more good than Maito Gai. 

Finally, Kakashi’s brain caught up with him, though, and he jerked away. “Wait. What do you mean next performance?”

Gai only smiled, reaching behind to pull another booklet out of his back pocket. “A chance to regain your honor and prove who’s the better thespian when we perform the sequel.” 

Kakashi hummed in response as he took the booklet. Gai’s hands settled on Kakashi’s waist, stroking the skin over his hips and sending fire coursing through Kakashi’s body. He flipped through the booklet and pretended to read the words as Gai began to kiss the skin of his shoulders. There was a single character highlighted: Damsel. 

[weakzen]

No Take Backs

Her offer affords him some fun advantages, Mason supposes.

pairing: female detective/mason rating: m series: part 1 of 7

AO3 version

also submitted for @otomefandomevents​ wayhaven week 2020 ♥ day 1 – dawn/dusk

Mason leans over the walkway railing and takes a long drag from his third cigarette.

He closes his eyes and focuses on the familiar and all-too-brief sting that burns down his throat and explodes across his lungs. Smoke chokes him with overpowering and comforting acridness, blanketing his face in soft heat when he finally exhales.

But it's still not enough to cover the sickly sweetness of fresh-cut grass blasting through the air to coat his tongue.

Or to shield him from the scorching light melting his clothes into his skin. Or muffle the unrelenting, jumbled blare of air conditioners, lawnmowers, TVs, radios, and every other goddamned electronic object in the vicinity.

A piercing shriek from one of the kids playing nearby stabs into his ear and he flinches slightly.

Or that too.

Mason groans as a headache begins to rumble at his temples. He sucks down another long, deep drag and steadies himself against it the best he can. The fatigue makes it difficult. Annoyingly more difficult. Exhaustion weighs on him, subtle yet heavy, trapping his mind and his every little movement beneath a sense of sluggishness.

Though—at least it's starting to lessen somewhat, now that the sun is finally fucking setting.

He ashes his cigarette over the balcony with a flick of his thumb.

And at least it's not as boiling hot as it was earlier, he supposes. And summer's almost over, too.

Thank fuck.

But it'd be better if that storm would finally roll in to cool everything off.

He squints up at the cloudless and faintly hazy sky. Far above the town, the wind continues to whip in from the west. And every time it shifts to slice closer to the ground, he catches the scent of rain.

Sure is taking its fucking time getting here, though.

With a final drag, Mason pushes off the railing to crush his cigarette into the ashtray she'd placed on the windowsill by her door. The one she insisted he use if he 'absolutely had to smoke here.' The one that she grinned over, then told him he needed to stop being a butthead, right before she snorted herself into a cackle at her own stupid pun while he stared at her and wondered why exactly he found her so attractive.

Shaking his head at the memory, Mason lights another cigarette and resumes his perch.

As he waits, the sun slinks closer to the trees. The kids scream endlessly. His headache builds and his cigarette burns shorter.

Obnoxious cawing bursts from somewhere behind the apartments too, joining the rest of the noise crushing in around him. Probably those birds she's always feeding.

Mason rolls his eyes and huffs out another cloud of smoke.

His eyes scan over to the parking lot, to that gleaming silver shitheap of hers, the low sun highlighting every scratch and painting every pockmarked dent in deep shadow.

Where the hell was she, anyway?

Frowning slightly, he glances back at her building, to the grassy courtyard below, the cracked sidewalk, the concrete stairs leading up to the second story, the chipped white railings that bend along the exterior walkways in front of a wall of red brick and a row of doors and windows. His gaze slows as it passes one window in particular.

That nosy fucker is watching him again through a slit in the blinds. He glares hard and directly into the eyes widening behind the glass.

The gap immediately snaps shut.

Mason chuckles a little as the fucker's heartbeat spikes.

Then his chuckle breaks into a loud laugh when he hears the panicked sound of a body crashing into a table.

He takes another drag on his cigarette, smirking as he shakes his head.

But… his amusement doesn't last. And when it finally fades, it just leaves him with a scowl and even more irritation than he felt before.

Where the fuck was she?

…And why was he even waiting for her?

If she couldn't be bothered to show up on time, then fuck it. Her loss. He isn't sticking around. Mason grabs his jacket from the railing, whips it over his shoulder, and strides toward the stairs.

He makes it halfway down them before the realization slams into him that something might have happened to her.

That could explain why she's late today.

His hand snaps out to catch the railing, jerking his movement to a sudden halt at the bottom of the steps. Annoyance twists uncomfortably in his chest, drawing his brow into a furrow when it briefly claws up into his throat.

And if something did happen to her, then it would be entirely on him.

Adam would never let him hear the end of it, just stern glares and disappointed frowns forever—and Mason doesn't even want to think about what Agent Black would do.

And… he doesn't want anything to happen to her, either.

She is one of them after all.

Annoyance still coiling inside him, Mason exhales deeply and almost flicks his cigarette away into the grass.

Then he groans even more deeply and runs back up the stairs to smash it into the ashtray before he takes off.

–o–

He traces her usual route home back to the station, but only finds the night shift volunteer at their desk and Officer Bobblehead in front of the copy machine, singing to herself while she dances to the rhythm of spewing paper.

Scoffing in disgust, he tries the Square next, staying only long enough to guarantee she isn't there before he immediately veers away from the nauseating confection, greasy food, and overwhelming wave of people. He lands at her boxing club after, where there's nothing but stale sweat, grunts, and the echoing cracks of fists hitting bags.

And when he sends her a text to ask where the hell she is, he receives no response.

Mason frowns heavily, annoyance clawing at his throat again as he runs his hand through his hair.

Then he pushes out of town, into the woods, up to the trail that she likes to run by the lake.

Branches whip by him in a blur of green. His feet trample ferns and bounce off moss-covered logs. The rich aroma of damp earth and organic decay invades his lungs as he opens his senses fully to the rustle of every leaf, animal, and insect. The forest howls with life, tearing into him with such a vicious, primal resonance that his body trembles beneath the sheer force of it.

But he pushes on. He cuts through the roar with focus sharpened for one thing only.

Until he finally catches it at the very edge of his hearing, soft and quiet beneath the screaming.

A familiar heartbeat that makes his own jolt in recognition.

Immediately, he turns and streaks toward it. It's calmer than its usual tense tempo, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything good.

He spurs on faster.

Blazing through gaps in the timber and sunken banks of mist.

Over tangled deadfall, slick boulders, and the wide creek he clears easily in a single bound.

Light begins to flicker between the trees. And Mason bursts through the edge of the forest, his momentum carrying him forward—but something even stronger slamming him back, forcing him to skid to a halt, one hand scraping a long trail through the dirt behind him.

Sunset bathes the lake in brilliant red as thousands of sparkles glitter across the water. A felled tree rests on the shore, its trunk worn smooth by time. And in the middle of it, she sits with her back to him, her arms spread out to her sides while her hair ignites like a flame in the light.

Something catches in his throat then.

Smoke, maybe. From that fire up north.

He clears it away and pushes himself up, wiping his hand on his pants. Then he folds his arms, a slow smile spreading across his face.

If there's one good thing about summer at-fucking-all, it's the sleeveless shirts and cropped tops.

His eyes draw over the muscled slope of her bare shoulders and arms, down the curve of her side, briefly dipping into the band of exposed skin above her jeans before sliding back out and around the swell of her ass, only to repeat the journey up the other side. Her hat ruins the effect somewhat, a big black circle silhouetted atop her head that blocks part of his view.

But, all in all…

Mason bites his lip. The image is almost enough to make him forget about how goddamn annoyed she's made him.

Almost.

He kicks a branch out of his way and strides towards her.

“Finally,” he barks out as he nears. “Could've let me know you were gonna be late tonight. Or texted me back.”

She gives him a lazy glance from over her shoulder, followed by an even lazier smile. Oversized sunglasses conceal her eyes.

“Turned my phone off,” she replies, then shrugs slightly. “And I didn't realize we were meeting, sunshine.”

Mason scoffs and stalks across the shifting jumble of rocks and splintered wood that pass for a beach. He tosses his jacket down and plops onto the log beside her, facing the other direction.

“Yeah, not like I don't come over every night to tuck you in when it's my turn to babysit,” he says, glaring at her from over his shoulder. “Some of us have a schedule to keep, sweetheart. Try to be a little more considerate.”

She only laughs, her head falling back with the motion while her tits bounce enticingly. Mason presses his lips together as he watches, his irritation crumbling away.

Just a bit.

“Oh, of course. I'm so sorry,” she says a moment later, her voice even huskier than normal with amusement. She rolls her head to the side to glance at him again, her smile broadening as she tugs her sunglasses down slightly, just enough to meet his eye. “I completely forgot all that smoking and brooding aren't gonna take care of themselves. Next time, I'll be sure to send a text.”

He rolls his eyes and scoffs again, turning away as his own smile pulls at the corner of his lips. “Apology accepted.”

She chuckles and bumps her shoulder into his.

As she pulls away, he follows, spreading his arms out behind himself too, until their shoulders press faintly together and his hand nearly touches her thigh. Heat rolls off her body—and excitement too, a skittering little thrill that prickles electrically across his skin to bury itself in his stomach. She gives no outward indication of it though, other than the smallest hitch in her breath and the gentle sigh that escapes her lips.

Mason smirks slowly, temptation urging him to lean even closer and draw his finger up her leg to put a deeper crack in that facade, but…

He finds himself more content to just leave her undisturbed, to let her keep relaxing into the moment.

…And to enjoy it himself.

Cool moisture drifts off the water behind him, but it flows over his back pleasantly, softened by the sunlight and her warmth. A lazy breeze presses through the air, brushing against his cheeks and ruffling his hair. He briefly catches the tang of rain on it again, before it disappears beneath her scent and the pines and the distant smoke of wildfires.

The forest rustles around them, and his gaze passes over it appreciatively before ambling up the mountains that cradle the lake. The craggy, purple behemoths tower into the sky above, their snow-capped peaks bathed molten orange in the sunset.

He closes his eyes to a vision of their afterimage.

Waves lap against the shore. Birdsong slows in the trees. Her heart beats in a steady, soothing rhythm with her breath.

And that's all he hears.

Even at the very edge of his senses, he can't detect any other people.

He sags slightly as tension he hadn't even realized he was carrying uncoils from around him.

For a long moment, there's just… peace.

And the world isn't scraping him raw.

–o–

He doesn't open his eyes again until some time later.

When she shivers against him and the pink glow of twilight surrounds them both, the first smattering of stars visible overhead.

Mason leans over to let his breath tickle hot along her neck. “Need me to warm you up?” he asks, teasing his lips against her ear.

Another shiver ripples across her body, and she turns to smirk at him.

“Eventually.”

She looks at him for a moment longer, her smirk softening into a quiet little smile, but he can't see anything more of it behind the sunglasses.

“Should probably get home before it gets too dark,” she adds, pushing up from the log.

He grunts in reluctant agreement.

As she stands, she raises her arms above her head to stretch, her joints cracking from the effort. His eyes follow her movement, roaming appreciatively once more along the lean lines of her body, slowly tracing around her familiar curves as he bites his lip. She picks up her ratty denim jacket from where she was sitting on it, shakes it out a few times, and slips it on.

Mason almost groans.

Then she slings her backpack over her shoulder and glances down at him. With a sigh, he pushes himself up to put on his own jacket and join her.

They walk alongside each other in silence, rocks crunching beneath their feet as they follow the dusty, packed trail that hugs the curve of the lake. Frogs croak from the water, joined by the chirp of crickets and the sharp chittering of bats overhead. A sliver of moon hangs in the darkening sky with them, while the air rapidly begins to cool below.

She pulls her jacket tighter and folds her arms.

Without looking, he lazily throws his arm over her shoulder and tugs her closer. A moment later, her arm circles around his waist, her hand slipping beneath his jacket to curl hot against his side.

His lips quirk in a faint smile as she shifts into him, her body heat bleeding through his clothes and into his skin. Her touch always pleases him, of course, but right now he's more grateful for the shared warmth.

Already, the cold slices him deeper. Sounds grow louder. His vision stretches further, into even sharper detail, while his limbs glide with powerful fluidity. And within it all, he feels far more alert and awake than he has all day, his body thrumming as nightfall gradually returns his strength and draws his senses to a heightened pitch.

…Which only makes it even worse when they finally reach the fork in the trail that breaks away towards the trees.

The little wooded path that cuts back into town.

A frown catches on Mason's lips. At least her apartment isn't far from there.

They turn to take it, eventually emerging onto an empty, dead end street.

The springy dirt of the forest floor blends into a blanket of windblown pine needles before yielding to crumbling asphalt that makes their footsteps snap echoes against the buildings. Electricity crackles in the power lines above, surging down to spool in the streetlights with a shrill whine, readying them to spill their ugly orange light everywhere. In the distance, dogs bark, children shriek, sprinklers sputter and hiss, and the din of heartbeats pound against each other, rising in volume, tangling around the tinny blare of electronics, fragmented conversations, grating laughter, shouting, arguments, screeching music and more abrasive noise than he can clearly identify until it all becomes a jagged and overwhelming roar that tears into him painfully.

Mason inhales and tenses against it reflexively, his jaw tightening—

But then Alex shifts closer into him, stroking his side with her hand briefly before giving him a soft squeeze, and all of it just… fades away.

Disappears beneath her touch and her quiet presence and her calming heartbeat.

His brow furrows deeply as something swells in his chest. Something strange and light and somewhat uncomfortable, if only because of its sudden appearance and unfamiliarity, but... it's not entirely unpleasant.

It's not unpleasant at all.

Frowning, Mason drags his hand back through his hair and exhales a quiet sigh.

The weird sensation lingers for a while, floating gently inside him as he uneasily enjoys it—until she suddenly turns sharply, and he nearly stumbles to keep in step with her. Annoyance jolts through him, a reprimand snapping hot and immediate to his tongue, but… then he realizes they've only arrived at her building.

And all she's done is lead them up the walkway toward it.

He frowns, his irritation fading as he blows out a breath.

Then his frown pulls even harder as she disentangles from him.

She shifts her backpack around to unzip the front pouch. And as she does, a black shape swoops down from the trees to land on the wire that stretches between the apartment and the utility poles.

The crow caws down at her.

She chuckles and holds her hands up, fingers extended and empty. “Don't have anything for you right now, bud.”

It caws obnoxiously a few more times, seeming to understand. Then it flies away with a piercing screech and an annoyed flap of wings.

Chuckling again, she shakes her head and pulls out her key ring. “Yeah, you're welcome, you little bastard.”

“Why the hell do you feed those things anyway?” he asks, glancing at her from the corner of his eye as they continue up the sidewalk.

She shrugs. “Because they're smart and a little ridiculous? I dunno, they're fun to watch. I like them,” she says, then purses her lips. “Except for when they're cawing right outside my bedroom window at five in the morning, but… well, even that's a little funny too.”

His lip curls. “Ugh, if you say so.”

They head up the stairs to her door. She stops outside of it for a moment, then turns around to face him.

“You know… I do have something for you, though.”

Mason immediately smirks.

“Yeah? I have something for you too, sweetheart.” He slides his hands over her hips, thumbs brushing over her bare skin, before he hooks his fingers into her belt loops and tugs her closer. “You want it in there—” he asks, his voice rumbling low as he skims his lips along the length of her neck to press a few quick kisses to her mouth “—or out here?”

Her heart beats faster as her lips move to keep kissing him, but then she just smiles against his mouth and breathes out a quiet little chuckle. “Probably in there,” she says, resting her hand on his arm, “but… let's take care of my thing first.”

He shrugs and gives her a parting kiss before he leans away, letting his fingers flick free of her belt loops. “If that's what you want.”

She glances at him for a moment longer, then inhales deeply and shifts her bag around to unzip the front pouch again. Her hand slips inside and returns with an unexpected object that she holds up between two fingers.

He raises an eyebrow.

“A key?”

“Yep.”

“To what?”

“My apartment.”

Mason tenses slightly, shifting his weight.

“Why the hell would I want that?”

“So you can let yourself in.”

He scoffs and glances away, running his hand back through his hair. “I don't need a key to do that, sweetheart.”

“Probably not,” she agrees, and he can hear the faint grin in her tone, “but it would help me out if you did. You're scaring the shit out of the neighbors with all of your skulking and your scowling and your glaring and your general… you-ness.”

A laugh bursts from him and he glances back to her. “I don't see how that's a problem.”

“Well, maybe not for you, but some of us still have to live here.” She huffs a stray hair out of her face and leans against the door, resting her foot against it too as she lets her bag slide to the ground. Then she folds her arms. “You know, I still can't believe no one has complained to the landlady about all of the smoking… and the noise.”

He smirks and chuckles again. “Sounds like I should keep scaring them so they don't.”

She cocks her head and fixes him with a look that not even her sunglasses can hide. His smirk widens.

“I like this building. I don't want to move. And I'm tired of you banging on the door every time it's locked until I come and answer.”

Mason angles himself towards her, licking his lips as he brings his arm up to rest on the door above her head. “Yet you still let me in every, single, time,” he drawls, his voice low and teasing as he grins at her.

She stares up at him. “Do it again and I won't.”

The telltale combination of reactions ping loudly and immediately against him—the nearly imperceptible crack in her voice, the subtle shift of tension in her stance, the faint and brief spike of her pulse.

He leans down toward her, his grin sharpening. She inhales slightly as he approaches, but holds her ground and his gaze. Pressing his face in close, he teases his lips up her neck again, to her ear, her head tilting to the side to allow it.

“You should know better than to lie to me of all people, sweetheart,” he whispers against her, his words brushing hot across her skin.

She inhales again, more sharply this time, as a shiver ripples down her body. Heat prickles across her face quickly after, and he lingers for a moment to savor it before pulling away to enjoy the view of her flushed cheeks.

“Yeah, well…” she begins, then huffs in that usual way she does whenever she rolls her eyes. “If I didn't answer, then you'd probably just creep around behind the building and start pounding on my bedroom window instead.”

“Probably,” he agrees. “That does sound like more fun, now that you mention it. Less of a walk for both of us, too.”

She groans a loud noise of exasperation, but the smile playing at the corner of her mouth undercuts it slightly.

Then, with a shake of her head, she pushes away from the door and holds the key up to him by the tip.  

“Well—do you want it or not, sunshine?”

They stare at each other for a moment. But even with his vision, the only thing Mason can see clearly on her face is the faint movement of her eyelashes brushing against the twin reflections of him and the hand she's extending towards him.

He glances down at the key, and back up to her face.

“I don't need it.”

Her breathing stills for a moment and her lips press together slightly. Something rolls quietly through her chest to bump something uncomfortable into his.

But she inhales deeply and it's gone.

Then she simply shrugs.

“Okay,” she says, her voice unusually flat. And she slips the key into the front pocket of her jeans.

Alex turns away from him—

But his hands snap out to spin her back toward him.

Then they're pushing her hat from her head and her sunglasses up into her hair and curling around the back of her neck and her waist as he leans in to kiss her hard.

His mouth muffles the sound of her surprise, but not the way it reverberates against his skin—and not the heated rush of arousal that quickly follows as she kisses him back.

A moment later, her arms loop around his neck and he yanks her tighter against himself in response. He deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth while his fingers tangle into the soft hair at the nape of her neck. Her arms circle him tighter, squeezing, as she presses into him fully, standing up on the tips of her toes to reach him better, and he slides his palm across her lower back and down to her ass, where he squeezes too, lifting her slightly in encouragement.

She moans into his mouth—and he can't help but do the same in return as her desire crashes into his electrically and bursts pleasure across his body.

Fuck, he wants her.

Mason pushes her against the door, her tits crushing to his chest, his cock grinding into her hips, and he presses his thigh between hers, dragging it upward to the sound of her gasping moan. He captures her lips again immediately, unrelenting, and kisses her deeply while he glides his hand over her bare stomach, across the hot and silky expanse of her skin, before he teases his fingers down the front of her pants.

He slides them in past her jeans, past the band of her underwear, until his fingertips and knuckles brush into soft, warm hair and press on a little further still. She sucks in a breath, her stomach rolling exquisitely beneath his touch as her hips rock forward to match it, grinding pleasure from his leg. He smiles against her mouth briefly before kissing her again, rolling his hips in time with her movement while his thumb dances circles around the button on her jeans. He lets her anticipation spiral with it, winding it tighter inside of her until she's ready to spring.

And when she is, he clutches the front of her jeans and pulls them up into her instead.

She arches against him, a moan tearing from her lips, her pleasure crackling white-hot between them and surging straight into his cock.

He inhales deeply in excitement, breathing hard against her lips, anticipation making his own limbs tremble faintly—but despite it, despite the alluring scent of her arousal on his tongue and how much he wants to stay, how much he fucking wants to push his fingers down even further and slide them back up inside of her, he forces them out of her pants instead, to leave her even more wanting. He teases them away across her waistband as she shakes with breathy, groaning laughter against him.

And then he clenches them hard around her hip when she catches his lip between her teeth and nips down

Pain and pleasure singe fire across his body, burning free a guttural snarl that rips past his own teeth. He smirks sharply against her.

Then goes for the throat.

To that spot of hers they both enjoy so much.

As he moves his mouth mercilessly against her, as she moans and shudders beneath his teeth, as they grind together, her pleasure arcing into him on waves that amplify his own throbbing need, his fingers play against her stomach, teasing along her waistband once more.

Then he carefully slides two of them into her pocket.

And pulls out the key.

Mason doesn't understand why.

But he knows immediately what to do next.

He glides his hand down from her hair, his palm pressed flat and wide, fingers trailing over the bumps of her spine, past her thrumming heartbeat, dipping in to the curve of her back before finally settling on her ass. Once there, he grabs her again, groaning as he squeezes a firm handful of her, partially for pleasure, but mostly to shift her weight as he urges her hips forward. Chills ripple across her body as he continues kissing her neck, grazing her with his teeth, dragging his tongue across her pounding pulse and the intoxicating taste of her skin, until her nipples harden and dig into his chest wonderfully, and her fingers claw into his shoulders, and her thighs clench around his, and she moans so deeply into his ear that he knows she's focusing on nothing but him and the pleasure he's giving her in the moment.

Then—in one quick motion—he slips the key into the lock, turns it, and throws the door open.

A gasp tears from her lips as she falls backwards.

Her pulse spikes, surprise flashing with it as her hands scramble at his shoulders to keep hold. Her foot kicks up off the ground as she plummets, her body almost parallel to the floor before he snaps forward in a flash and whips his arms around her to catch her.

She stares up into his eyes as she jerks to a halt, gaze wide, cheeks flushed, arms clinging to him desperation while she breathes heavily and her heartbeat thunders against his chest.

He just smiles.

And holds her there for a long, enjoyable moment, taking in the stunning view of her knocked off balance in more than one way.

Then he pulls her back upright and against him.

She takes a deep, steadying breath, her hands sliding downward from around his neck to rest on his chest—right before her eyes suddenly snap to the door. He chuckles slightly, and reaches around her to tug the key from the lock, her gaze following his movement closely as he holds it up in front of her between two fingers.

“I guess it could come in handy for some things,” he says, smirking.

She raises an eyebrow and huffs a loose hair out of her face. “Guess so.”

Mason slips the key into the front pocket of his jeans.

Her eyebrow shoots up even further.

Still smirking, he bends to grab her things from the ground, then flings that hat of hers over the top of her head into the living room like a frisbee. She watches it fly by and immediately gives him a look that only makes him chuckle in response.

When he swings her backpack behind himself like he's about to do the same, she sighs deeply.

Then she grabs him by the front of his pants and yanks him inside.

Mason slams the door shut behind them, grinning widely as he tosses her bag away with a heavy thunk and presses himself against her again. Her jacket quickly follows the bag, and he groans appreciatively as he runs his hands over the soft and bare skin of her arms and sides. He grabs her waist, squeezing her slightly as he leans down to start kissing her again—but she only lets their lips brush together before she weaves her head away to fix him with another look, raising a pointed finger between them.

“One rule,” she says, pushing her fingertip firmly up against the bottom of his chin. “You better not smoke in here.”

He smirks and pulls her finger away.

“Can't make any promises, sweetheart.”

Her eyes narrow with dangerous intent—but a gleam of playfulness flickers in them too.

“Then give it back, asshole.”

“Make me,” he replies, his smirk slowly widening. “If you think you can.”

They stare at each other for a moment, amusement twitching at the corner of her mouth as tension builds between them.

“But I have some doubts about your capability,” he adds.

Her heartbeat spikes as her eyes flash wonderfully.

Then her hand whips toward his pocket, but he catches it and spins her around instead. He pins her wrists together against her stomach with one hand as he hooks his chin over her shoulder and holds her body tightly against his.

“Nope,” he growls into her ear, bending them both forward so he can grind his cock against her ass. “It's mine now.”

A frustrated noise rumbles low from her chest, vibrating into his. He chuckles deeply and starts kissing down her neck.

“Fuck you, sunshine,” she says, hissing her words through a laugh as she tilts her head to encourage him. “Give it back.”

“No,” he replies, smiling briefly against her before continuing his kisses. As he does, he roams his free hand down the front of her body, stopping along the way to grope her tits before moving onward to pry her fingers from around her keys. He tosses them away with a jangling clink. “And don't worry—” he murmurs, his voice dipping into a low and rich tone as he slides his hand down to cup the heat between her legs “—you'll be fucking me soon enough.”

Mason rolls his palm against her firmly, excitement swelling between them both as she sucks in a breath through her teeth.

“I promise,” he adds, then nips down sharply on her neck.

She yelps out a surprised moan and arches into him, her thrill of pleasure crackling hot across his skin to buzz euphorically inside of him. He inhales deeply and groans, her scent filling him too, as anticipation and sheer, overwhelming want for her jolt straight into his cock.

He quickly scrambles his hand downward to tear at the laces tying their boots. Another one of her rules. Shoes off by the door.

The last fucking things keeping them here.

As he rips the knots free, as he reaches to peel his boots off and kick them away, she laughs quietly against him, shaking his body with her own while she squirms beneath him in less of less of a struggle and more of a sly, calculated grind. Her movement stokes pleasure as much as it puts him on guard—but not nearly as much as it pulls a broad smile across his face.

For a brief moment, that strange sensation returns, spreading softly across his chest.

And distracting him just enough for her to twist free from his grasp.

She bolts upright and her hand races toward his pocket again—but he recovers faster, swerving his hips so she lands somewhere much better. In a flash, he grabs her by the ass and crushes her against him, trapping her hand between them both directly on top of his cock.

Mason smirks deeply.

“Find what you're looking for?”

Cheeks flushed, she flashes him an answering smirk before giving him a good, long, and very generous squeeze.

“Maybe.”

He can't help the groan that rumbles low in his throat, or the way his eyes shutter closed and his hips roll forward into the heat of her touch.

He also can't wait until his jeans are finally fucking gone and there's no goddamn awful barrier between them.

She takes in his reaction through half-lidded eyes, a smile growing slowly on her lips. “I'll get it back eventually, you know.”

“I wouldn't count on it, sweetheart.”

And with enough said, he curls his hands under her ass and picks her up.

Her arms and legs wrap around him immediately, her lips finding his just as quickly too. She barely manages to pull her boots off with her feet, kicking them away to clatter down the hallway before they're both at the bed and he's leaning over to drop her onto the edge of the mattress. He takes only the time to rip free of his jacket before he presses himself against her again, kissing her deeply as her arms and legs lock around him once more. He remains halfway on the floor as their mouths move together, her tongue gliding hot against his, and his hands sliding across every part of her body he can reach, completely unwilling to move or break away from her at all, even as she fumbles at the hem of his shirt and tries to pull it off him.

Eventually, she succeeds.

And eventually, he moves away from her lips to kiss down her neck, down her chest, her stomach, groping his way along the entire time, until he guides his fingers to finally unfasten the button on her jeans. When he tugs her zipper down after, an idle question rolls across his mind.

One that asks if he can keep her waiting on the edge for as long as he waited outside her door earlier.

Mason smirks into her skin—and yanks her pants and underwear down in one smooth motion.

Then he skims his mouth up her inner thigh, determined to find out.

–o–

Mason returns to the Warehouse around dawn the next morning, his patrol complete.

Shoulders hunched, he swipes his key card at the hidden door before he jams his hand back into his jeans and stalks inside. His other hand remains curled in his pocket, absently fiddling with the key nestled in his palm, spinning it slowly as his fingertips trace idle laps along the bumpy ridges and smooth metal warmed by his touch.

As he passes by the living room on his way to bed, he makes the mistake of glancing inside.

Felix catches his eye and immediately flips backwards off the sofa from his upside down perch. In a flash, he appears in the doorway, swaying off the frame under his own halted momentum.

“What exactly are you so pleased about?” he asks, grinning.

Mason pauses by the door, then shoots him a smirk.

“It was my turn to babysit. What do you think?”

Felix's eyes narrow as a wide and sly smile unfurls across his face. “I think there's more to it than just that.”

Mason rolls his eyes. “Think whatever you want.”

“Oh, I absolutely will,” he replies, his amber eyes gleaming.

Shaking his head, Mason continues down the hallway toward his room while Felix's gaze drills a hole in his back.

“Night,” he calls over his shoulder without looking, raising a hand to wave.

But not the one holding the key.

[letsperaltiago]

don't blame me, love made me crazy

Written upon request for #58 from the 101 fluffy prompts-list:

"We’ve become the clingy newlyweds you always complained about. "

Read on ao3 

Every like and reblog is appreciated <3

Also, tried to just... slowly approach smut and idk I’m so scared!! Send help or inspo! 😅🤧

“What was that all about?” Amy complained to her husband as she closed their front door behind them and kicked off her shoes prior to neatly lining them up by the door. Behind her trailed Jake who automatically copied his wife’s actions looking at her with an equal amount of wonder as he didn’t hold the answer for her question. “We didn’t do anything out of the ordinary?” she threw him another question meanwhile her jacket was removed as well, hung on its designated crook to reveal the flowy, burgundy, flower-patterned dress she’d been wearing for the evening at their friend’s house.

“I don’t know, Ames,” he tried to calm her down, which was always easiest if he didn’t make a big deal out of it – when he was calm he had a better chance of rubbing off on her. But alas it had been very clear from the moment the subject had been brought up at the dinner table that Amy was not going to let go of it until resolved: a stubbornness, a will to succeed that Jake deeply admired and loved but also, at times and in some certain contexts, had his apprehensions about.

“Are we that horrible to be around as a couple?” from where Jake had his back turned on the living room as he took off his leather jacket, he could hear Amy slump down onto the couch loudly flaunting her disappointment in what they’d been told tonight.

It, of course, had occurred to them both that they were married. Very much so: everything from all the meticulous planning of the big day to it being completely butchered by a bomb threat to then still getting married in front of the precinct? Oh yes, they were definitely so very married. And they both adored this new take on their love to the moon, probably even further, and back. But at tonight’s monthly Nine-Nine family-dinner, the first since their wedding in May, they’d suddenly been made aware of the fact that the newly attained degree of their relationship had reached a whole new, very specific kind of vibe: They were told that it made their “already borderline sickly affectionate affinity even more intolerable” (quote Rosa) and made them “professionally and personally challenging to be around when together” (Holt’s addition to the matter at hand).

“I’m sure they didn’t mean it like that,” he slumped down, joining Amy on their couch before instinctively slinging an arm around her shoulders both as to comfort her but also by sheer selfishness, because not touching Amy Santiago at all times was a crime. She, just as him not being able to resist her spouse’s touch, leaned into it placing her head in his shoulder. “You know Holt and Rosa. They have their ways of handling emotional subjects, but they never truly mean to hurt or upset anyone.”

“Maybe…” she huffed but her husband’s attempt at convincing and comforting her didn’t seem to be quite enough. She needed the thrill  and satisfaction of a solve, which meant she needed to treat the matter at hand like an open case – an investigation. She abruptly sat up straight automatically causing Jake’s arm to slide off of her “… but I’m pretty sure we didn’t go overboard with anything?” Amy turned her head to look behind her expecting an answer, but her still leaned back, somewhat disturbingly unaffected husband, looked at her with raised eyebrows and discreetly amused eyes. You’d think he’d worry more than he appeared to do, Amy couldn’t help but think…

“Honey, I know you have this need to control everything, which 99% of the time is both admirable and adorable, but right now you’re just riling yourself up about something that isn’t that deep. They all love us and in the end they just want us to be happy. Even if we get a bit lovey-dovey at times,” he confirmed his little explanation with a warm smile.

“I don’t give a hoot, Jake!” Amy exclaimed totally disregarding Jake’s actually pretty reasonable words. “We’re going to run through every second of that dinner and pinpoint every couple-y interaction we’ve had!” She got up and ran towards her little library/office-room.

“We?” Jake questioned mid-yawn, trying to follow her with his eyes until she disappeared into the other room, left behind surprised by his wife’s sudden initiative. A initiative which he appeared to be have been dragged into.

“Yes,” Amy yelled from the other room. “We’re going to write down every single couple-y thing we did at dinner tonight, from the second we walked into Terry’s place to the time we left, and prove that we aren’t that bad!”

Mostly just wanting to give into the tiredness and desire to just go to bed and cuddlee with his wife, but also knowing he wanted to stick to Amy’s side for this, hopefully keeping her tendency spiraling a bay, Jake tiredly rubbed his eyes trying to push aside the incoming feeling of exhaustion. And as if on cue, the second he lied down stretching out on the soft material of their couch, Amy marched back into the living room with notebook and pen in hand. When she sat down on the floor abreast Jake’s head, between the couch and the coffee table placing her appliance on the surface before her, Jake then noticed how she’d pulled her before lose, casual waves into a high pony tail – she nor the magnitude of Amy’s mission was to be messed with.

“Okay, so…”

From his admittedly relaxed and not as intensely engaged position Jake could, by an inch over her shoulder, catch a glimpse of the now open notebook where Amy’s elegant handwriting was preparing a neat list to be filled, appropriately titled List of reasons why we’ve been  “too much”.  Jake chuckled to himself allowing his eyes to rest just a bit, sneak closed, as he of course would stay awake with Amy but physically couldn’t fight his body’s tiredness entirely. Being there physically would surely be good enough.

“Okay, so we arrived at Terry’s house, separately, very important to note…” she scribbled down before continuing, “…since you worked a bit later, thus came directly from work with Charles so we couldn’t have possibly done anything there…” Amy started scribbling down until Jake chimed, or rather muttered, in himself.

“But since I’d missed you for those few hours after you left work, I walked directly over to you and kissed you in front of everyone before saying-“

“Hi, beautiful wife…” Amy finished his sentence quoting the moment from earlier by memory with a defeated voice upon realizing this wouldn’t be a moment in her favor. She quietly wrote it down not feeling like further commenting. “Okay, but that isn’t uncommon for us… or just any couple in general!”

“I know, babe,” Jake yawned.

“So no reason for them to be upset about that… Anyways, then we stood in the kitchen while Terry and Charles finished cooking dinner, had a glass of wine… Pretty innocent if you ask me-“

“Until we touched glasses and toasted to our 23 days as husband and wife before sharing another kiss,” Jake added sheepishly earning himself another discontent grunt prompting the sound of scribbling.  

“Whatever… Let’s move on…”

And thus they did indeed manage to run through every moment, every second, every turning point of the night while Amy dutifully and neatly as always took notes and, internally, realized that she hadn’t really been aware of a lot of the amorous moments between her and Jake - they sort of just happened, naturally, like a consistent love-pattern. Taking up multiple pages of the notebook, the list clearly reflected this, but Amy still seemed somewhat in denial. Or at least right up until she added the final period to wind-up her final bullet point: J jokingly grabbed A’s butt while yelling “Wifey-butt!” when walking to the car after dinner.

“Oh my god…” Amy complained as her body hopelessly slumped back against the couch where Jake was still resting while also being very much dedicated to his wife’s project dismay, since he was the one who 9 times out of 10 would remind her of forgotten moments, stolen kisses and loving gazes she’d forgotten about.

“I can’t believe it,” she twisted her torso as to look at her husband behind her genuinely expecting a horrified expression matching hers alas instead being met by tired, adoring eyes and a grin that was impossible to hide when his wife’s despair upon realization was this cute.

“Why are you smiling?” she frowned mostly frustrated by the situation but also confused by her husband’s lack of shared sentiment.

“We’ve become the clingy newlyweds you always complained about,” he mumbled the side of his face pressed against one of their throw pillows. “It’s cute. That’s all.”

Amy immediately felt defensive about the accusation, mostly because she knew he was right but that wasn’t exactly the expected outcome when she’d set up this little private investigation of her. “I have not complained about-“

“Oh, you’re so cute when you try to disguise the truth, babe,” he kept grinning. If there was one thing Jake loved it was teasing. Something he loved even more? Teasing Amy Santiago. And something he loved even more? Teasing Amy Santiago when she was in a miffy mood.

“I’m serious! When have I ever complained about a bit of PDA ever? People can do whatever they want,” she had now fully switched, made a 180 turn, in her seat on the floor and looked directly at her husband with a challenging demeanor. Jake was not about to let an opportunity of this greatness like this slip away that easily: he was definitely going to get the most out of it.

“I know it’s hard to face the truth,” he said nonchalantly, definitely playing her, meanwhile he switched to lie on his back as he let out an exaggerated yawn and laced his fingers together behind his head as extra support – and also to look that more pleased with himself and the situation.  “But the Jake Peralta boyfriend gone husband-experience can do these sort of… crazy things to a woman. It’s totally cool, honey, if you’ve just been unconsciously swept away by the rush of having me as your husband. It’s out of your control and that’s okay.”

As well as Jake knew he could push her buttons Amy knew just as well, if not even better, that there were many ways to knock Jake off his cocky perch. This, suddenly, was much more important than what anyone thought of them, or her trying to solve the matter, because them being those clingy newlyweds she always complained about meant she always had her husband wrapped around her little finger. Perhaps, she had to admit, it was hypocritical of her to think like this, when she’d been the one whinnying about random couples’ #twomonthsofmarriage-posts on Instagram (Like, who cares about your two months of marriage, Karen?), and the one to roll her eyes upon overhearing some random woman mention her husband 23 times during a 5-minute conversation at their local coffee shop: she was now that annoying Instagram-couple and coffee shop-woman, all in one… A supreme-annoyingly clingy-wife.

But coming to the realization that, perhaps, she was a hypocrite was her learning from her mistakes, right? That was a good thing.

Either way she didn’t really care because, from where she was still planted on the floor before him, Amy could physically feel her brain have a change of attitude as it shut out any previous doubts and anxieties about what other thought of their marriage, their way of loving each other, and instead replacing it with the sudden brutish need to, first of all, shut Jake up, and second of all, rebel against exterior opinions about them.

She was definitely turning to her annoying newlywed-ways to make her husband shut up.

“I guess,” her before frantic tone was now suddenly completely gone and replaced by a sultry, confident tone matching the new-sprung darkness in her eyes. “But then this…”

Jake’s before tired demeanor was swallowed along with his pride the second his always beautiful, and also incredibly hot wife, pushed herself off the floor and mounted the couch to straddle his hips, more precisely the exact area where he knew she knew there would be no opposing her, with the sleek movements of a lioness sneaking up on its prey. It especially threw him off even further when she repositioned herself, innocently pretending to ‘just get comfortable’, thus applying just the right sultry movement and amount of pressure to this most vulnerable area.

“I guess this…” she made sure the ‘s’ was clearly hissed directly into his ear as she, leaned down over him, slowly bit by bit, started to build him up by allowing her hips another grinding motion thus sending electricity through his entire body, before rounding off her pending taunt, “… is not in my control either then.”

There were no to make it past Jake’s gaping lips, all caught up in tangles in his suddenly very dry throat, although the hitch in his breath in reaction to the movement of her hips couldn’t’ve escaped her in a million years. She had him right where she wanted him.

“Is it?” she taunted again unbending her torso back up to sit up straight.

His hands which had before been resting carefree behind his head escaped its spot finding a new home on her waist, gently tracing up and down its curves like a potter shaping soft clay into artwork.

“Ames,” he whimpered upon the sensation of feeling her hands being placed on top of his to guide them downwards, past the narrowest part of her curvature, and fixed on the fullest part of her hips – where she wanted them to be. For now, that is. By instinct, being very familiar with his favorite kind of handful, Jake’s fingers dug into the fabric-clad flesh not caring whether or not he’d leave marks: her uniform would surely cover it in the morning.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t think I can control it when you’re around me, husband,” she definitely felt his body quiver at his still somewhat new title and, God, how sinful of a meaning that simple word had suddenly gained in the moment. Having fulfilled their duty of guiding him to where she wanted his touch, Amy’s hands made their way off of his before torturously sliding up his torso to play with the first, top button of his dark green flannel – one of her favorites on him… and, of course, off. Meeting her secret expectations his hands reacted to her undressing him by sliding his hands down further behind her to then, instead of her waist, grab the curve of her ass, additionally allowing himself to pull her abdomen into a soft motion against him in the desperate need of the friction she’d already given him a foretaste of. Pride was not a thing he contained much of around Amy Santiago-Peralta: was he going to let her make him unravel at the seams so easily? Absolutely. Would he be down for whatever direction she planned on taking this in? Without a doubt, even if it meant just making out followed by some cuddling, although he was currently rock hard and internally praying that she wouldn’t stop the course of things any time soon.

Her fingers popped the last button of his flannel, and with a simple look, she wordlessly ordered him to sit up straight, which he dutifully did, thus allowing her to push the fabric off of his broad shoulders before proceeding to abandon it on the floor. It might’ve been her favorite flannel on him but she liked it even more on the surface of their carpet. Thinking that she had full control of the situation, Amy was definitely startled at the sensation of Jake’s teeth taking a bite into the sensitive skin of her neck, the extra tender area right beneath where her jaw met the side of her throat and whether it was what he’d set out to do or not, he surely extracted a long, deep sigh from her now, between the fondling and the bites, much more agitated body. Seemed as if Jake Santiago-Peralta was back on track after being knocked off his feet for a moment, and though she did immensely enjoy having the upper hand, there was something about Jake fighting his way back to dominance that undeniably had her body feel some kind of way.

She obviously couldn’t, it being physically impossible, see it for herself but oh how she could feel the way her husband’s teeth and lips were painting colorful love-bruises on her more than usual tan and crisp skin (Thank you very much, 2 week honeymoon in Mexico). Although, before her mind could wander off to create a mental top 5-list of most effective ways to hide said up and coming hickeys, her awareness shifted to the feeling of her husband’s purposive hands grabbing the skirt of her dress, pulling it up to bundle droopily around her waist, and earning him a tiny hitch in her throat to be felt where his teeth were still attached to her.

All the teasing, the control she’d gained in counter to his cockiness, had with the snap of the fingers dissolved into the shameless abandoning of herself, giving in to the fervor he so powerfully incited within her.

“Stop worrying,” he slowly ran his hands up under the bundled material before redirecting his hands back to hold onto the soft pulp of her ass, this time the only barrier being the fabric of her panties, earning him a tiny squirm telling him she slowly began to unravel at the seams – just for him. His lips targeted a new area: hers. “You’re my wife. I’m your husband. No one gets to decide what can and can’t do.”  

As if to enhance his point, making sure she wouldn’t forget anytime soon, there was a brief moment where he drew back just a few inches to look directly into her eyes with passion still burning in his. Meanwhile one hand had left her behind and instead purposefully grabbed her jaw, making sure to keep the grip somewhat soft as to not hurt her but still firm enough to make sure she would look back.  If he hadn’t had a certain agenda in mind he would’ve let the image before him bring him to his knees: Amy, messy hair, swollen lips, dark eyes, ruffled and barely holding on dress. But he had to stay firm and focused. His hand didn’t let go of her jaw and she dutifully complied deeply turned on by the discourse of the events and this persona Jake had chosen to bring out. Usually she loved having the upper hand during sexy timez, but somehow, seeing how Jake was handling her when her mind was spinning out of control, his sudden craving for dominance came like a blessing in disguise.

His lips crashed with hers, and being distracted like she was by his mesmerising dominant persona, it took her by both storm and surprise thus not being able to hold back a pure, honest moan holding so much pleasure. Only the way his fingers teasingly traced the lace on the edge of her panties could come near taking her attention away from what, in the moment, felt like her life’s hottest kiss.

“Understood?” he breathed into her lips barely able to with the lack of air in his lungs. She nodded grasping desperately at the soft white fabric of his undershirt.

“Good,” he growled, pleased by the newfound wet fabric between his wife’s legs meaning he was certainly doing something right: he had her exactly where he wanted her, both physically and mentally, and he had his now slick fingers as proof.

“Now,” he continuously toyed with the fabric, feeling up her heat before slowly edging the pantie as far down as her bent legs straddling him would allow. “You’re going to rip that list out of your notebook… ” his lips slid away from hers redirecting to nibble on her ear lobe. “Then you’re going to throw it out… ” a kiss to the shell of her ear followed behind, setting up his final act of persuasion. She was so far gone under the influence of his touch that she didn’t even care to disagree with having to throw out 20 minutes dedicated research, ink from her favorite pen and quality paper from one of her best notebooks.

“… and then your husband is going to take you to your bedroom and fuck you so hard you’ll forget the others even said anything at all. I’ll make sure you never complain about being newlyweds ever again.”

[calligraphist-artemisia]

Soul of a Lion (chapter 3)

Sequel to The Smallest Blade.

Summary: After the Red Lion steals them away from the Marmora base and takes them through a wormhole, Shiro, Keith, Katla, and Lance find themselves in front of a majestic castle with nowhere to go but inside. The events that unfold while they’re there will change the fate of the universe.

Also posted on AO3 under the username “kishirokitsune”.

☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆

3 | Communication

The dim lighting of the castle's nighttime cycle made everything feel far more ominous than it needed to be, with the way it cast long shadows across the floor and highlighted any curvature in the architecture around them. Katla stayed close to the wall as she and Lance snuck towards the security panel she spotted during their tour. With luck, she would be able to hack into it without setting off any alarms.

Neither of them dared speak for fear of getting caught.

Katla gestured for Lance to stop as they reached the end of the hall. She waited a moment and then, with more caution than necessary, peered around the bend. When she saw that the coast was clear, she nodded to him and waved him forward so they could continue towards their task, which was all the way down at the end of the hall on their left.

“This is it,” Katla whispered to him. She held up her right arm and pressed on a slightly raised plate on the underside of her bracer. It clicked and released a tiny cable, which she pulled out and, after taking a deep breath, connected it to the control panel on the wall. The screen flickered in and out for a moment and then turned from blue to a pale violet, signaling that she was successfully wired into the system.

Both of them let go of the breath they were holding.

“Is that it?” Lance asked.

“Almost,” Katla responded, turning her wrist so her hand faced palm down. She double-tapped the top of her bracer, which activated a small, holographic display. “Keep an eye out, would you? Hopefully, this thing will give me a map to an engineering room or something. It's bound to have parts I can use.”

Lance nodded sharply and stood up straight. Though he didn't move away from the wall, he listened as hard as he could for any sound that wasn't the tiny beeps from Katla scouring the system for anything useful.

After a few tense doboshes, Katla cried out in triumph, and although she managed to do it quietly, it still made Lance visibly jump.

“Sorry,” she apologized as she disconnected from the control panel. “There's a spare parts room two halls over and I disconnected the security cameras and put them on loop. It'll last us one varga, so we'll have to be quick.”

“Can you build your-” (Lance vaguely waved his hand) “-whatever-it-is in that short amount of time?”

“Who do you think you're talking to? Of course I can,” Katla said confidently.

Lance snorted in amusement. “Lead on, team captain. I'd like to get some beauty rest at some point tonight and the sooner you do your thing, the sooner I can curl up in bed.”

Katla grinned at him and then set off down the hallway at a much faster pace, more at ease with the knowledge that there was no one around to catch them. According to the system, there was one person three floors above them and there were two other people up in the topmost spire of the castle. (And of course, she checked in to find Shiro and Keith, who were steadily making their way to the front door when she spotted their dots. Or at least, she assumed it was them.)

When they got to the correct door, Katla didn't even have to hack into it, it simply slid open with a simple press to the keypad.

“You know, I'd say I should talk to them about upping their security around here but it's really benefiting me right now, so I won't,” Katla said in a light-hearted tone. “Oh, look at this!”

Lance looked around, but all he saw were heaps of junk and scrap metal. “Uh, yeah, it's really something. Very... metal-y.”

Katla wasn't paying him any attention as she eagerly delved into the piles and began pulling things out, cooing and humming over what she could use and what may be useful for future things. As Lance watched, the pile in front of her grew, and while he didn't see how any of it was meant to fit together, Katla was clearly delighted by her mess of wires and metal pieces, so he didn't say anything until she tried to scoop it all up and carry it to one of the mostly empty tables.

“Here, let me help,” Lance said, stooping down to help pick up some of the stray pieces.

Together the pair got all of the parts over to a desk, where Katla began to assemble them and occasionally looked up to ask Lance to fetch some kind of tool or computer chip or another cable or wire.

Lance did his best to help while also listening for anyone's approach, but by the time Katla had her little machine buzzing to life, he'd forgotten the whole reason he was there. And because both of them were so focused on the communication device, neither noticed there was someone else in the room with them until that person loudly cleared their throat to get their attention.

Lance gasped and back up into the desk so hard that he winced.

Katla's hand flew to her side and grasped the hilt of her dagger as she turned to face the potential threat. She froze when she saw Hunk standing there with his hands held up in front of him to show he didn't mean any harm.

For a moment, there was only silence.

“What do you want?” Lance asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You guys set off a sensor when you left your rooms, so I came to make sure everything is alright,” Hunk said, slowly lowering his hands back to his sides.

“You bugged our rooms?” Pidge asked incredulously.

“Well, yeah. I mean, wouldn't you if you were in my shoes?” Hunk asked in response. “What are you two doing in here anyway?”

Lance watched as Katla tried to move over in front of her device before Hunk could get a better look at it. He copied her and closed in as well, though he could tell from the expression on Hunk's face that he'd already seen that they were building something. Maybe if they were lucky, he wouldn't be able to figure out what it was?

A few ticks passed and then Hunk sighed. “I know we don't have any reason to trust each other, but can we try and get along? At least until we figure all of this out with the Red Lion.”

Katla puffed herself up in anger, her tail lashing as she very slowly stepped aside. “We need to send a message back to our families and let them know we're alright.”

Hunk took a single step closer and both of them tensed up, but that was as far as he went. “You could have just asked. Though, uh, I guess the real issue would be convincing Allura and Coran.” He paused for a moment to look at the machine. “Wait, is that a sub-frequency radio? Are you sure you don't want to use something a little faster? I could try and sneak you up on the bridge once they leave and you could send a message that way.”

Katla shook her head. “This is more reliable. And since no one uses it anymore, no one is looking or broadcasts through it anymore. Well, except for Keith's dad and my family.”

There was something about Hunk that made Lance feel more at ease, despite his determination to dislike all three Alteans found in the castle. He figured Katla must have been feeling the same way. She wouldn't reveal so much if she wasn't.

“And you built it using pieces you found around here?” Hunk asked. “What are you using to power it?”

Katla hesitated to respond, but after another few ticks of silence and Hunk patiently waiting for her to decide whether or not to tell him, she finally did. “I was going to make a double coil generator so it keeps recycling the energy and gathers displaced electrical currents from the air, but it needs a jump start so I don't have to wait for that to build up. I figured something around here would have enough power to do that, but...”

“Maybe I can find something,” Hunk suggested.

Lance stayed close to Katla as the Altean began to walk around, opening drawers in search of what they needed. He didn't know why Hunk was so willing to help them. Was it a trap? A way of luring them into a false sense of security, prying their secrets from them, and then finding a way to betray them?

His panicked thoughts didn't have time to gain any momentum or spiral off into a more ridiculous scenario. A wave of calm washed over him, soothing his fraying nerves and forcing him to relax. And all at once, Lance realized why he felt so at ease with Hunk.

It took everything in his power not to blurt it out right then and there.

Later. He would tell Katla and the others later. If he brought it up right at that moment, then he would have to explain how he knew so much about Altean secrets and that was a wormhole he had no plans on opening up.

Hunk made a triumphant exclamation as he lifted a tray of shiny rocks from one of the drawers and carried it over to them. “These are power crystals,” he explained, picking up one shaped like an obelisk with a broken base and passing it to Lance. “We'll have to dig through and find one that still has some power left.”

Lance rolled the opaque white gem around his palm, watching with slight alarm as a faint glow began to build up in the center. He quickly passed it off to Katla before anyone could notice what was happening.

“How do you know which ones have power?” Katla asked, curiously eyeing the box before looking at the stone she was just handed. “Because it looks like the one you gave us might work.”

Hunk shook his head. “They'll glow if they have any power left. That one was... oh!” his voice stuttered in surprise as he took a second look. “You're right! That one should work. That's odd...”

Katla didn't question their good fortune and busied herself with installing the crystal in the communication device, practically bouncing in delight as it immediately began to work.

Lance's heart was pounding in his chest. He could feel Hunk's eyes on him. 'Please don't figure it out,' Lance prayed, turning his back towards the Altean and pretending to focus solely on the coils within Katla's device which were steadily directing the energy through the wires and looping back around into itself, glowing brighter with each pass.

If Hunk learned anything from the exchange, he didn't say anything and instead went to put the tray away before returning to watch Katla begin to input her message. It became apparent after a moment that he, like Lance, couldn't make heads or tails of the series of numbers Katla was typing out.

“A coded message?” he guessed.

“My brother and I made our own secret code when we were kids, so we could write to each other without anyone else knowing what we were saying,” Katla explained. “Kol – Keith's dad will pick up on the broadcast, but only Matt will be able to translate.”

“That seems a little excessive.”

Katla gave a humorless laugh. “Maybe you hadn't picked up on this, but we're not exactly friends of the Empire. All of that caution is how we stay alive. We haven't had the luxury of hiding away and sleeping for all these years.”

Hunk flinched, but when he spoke again it was without anger in his voice. “You're right. We hid the Lions and ourselves because we were afraid of what would happen if Zarkon found us. I didn't like it. Allura argued that we should keep fighting. But we listened to our King because he thought it was the right choice. Maybe it was or maybe it wasn't, but we're here now and ready to stand up and fight. The Red Lion brought the four of you here for a reason and I know it's because you've been chosen as the new paladins. Well, four of them. Because there should be five of you.”

“Wait, there are five Lions?” Katla asked.

Hunk looked taken aback by the question. “Yeah. You didn't know?”

“How would we?” Katla asked in response. She took another moment to read over her message and then send it before picking up the device. “So, where are these other four Lions? Are they as well hidden as Red?”

“They should be. We know that the Black Lion is safe since it's here in the castle, but we won't know about the others until we go looking. Allura should be able to tell us where they are,” Hunk said.

“Which means we'll never find them,” Lance stated, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I wouldn't say that. The princess will come around, she just needs a little time,” Hunk said defensively. “I should get you back to your room. It definitely won't help things if she or Coran learn that you're out here sending messages and that I helped you.”

Neither Katla nor Lance protested as Hunk gestured for them to follow him out of the room and back through the halls. None of them spoke; Lance didn't even blurt out the storm of questions left to thunder around in his mind.

When they got back to their rooms, Katla didn't give Lance a chance to go into the room he'd been given and instead grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into Shiro's without giving him a chance to protest. While she looked around for the best place to hide her device, just in case they needed it again, Lance sat down on the edge of the bed and mulled over everything he'd learned, slotting it into place with what he'd known before.

Most of it boiled down to one fact: as much as he didn't want to like him, Hunk was someone they could trust.

It wasn't just the fact that he helped them send their message.

It wasn't even that he kept his patience even when Katla verbally attacked him.

It had everything to do with his Aspect.

They didn't have a lot of records from the time when Altea still hung whole in the sky. All that they knew of their heritage was what had been verbally passed down from parent to child and there were scarce few books and items that remained. Their knowledge of Altean Aspects – the special abilities that their quintessence granted them – was a limited one born of experience.

Body.

Mind.

Spirit.

Heart.

Lance had been born graced with the power to change his form at will. He began far earlier than most babies, changing the color of his skin for his own amusement, as well as the amusement of the other children he grew up with. By the time he was a tween, he could hold color and form for days if he needed to, even through sleep.

His mother said he was extraordinarily blessed.

Lance didn't always see it that way. Not when there was Leifsina, whose sharp mind was leagues above everyone else. Or Rykin, who was gifted with tremendous strength and just enough spirit to power the lamps around their village when needed. And then there was Curtis, who wore his Aspect of Heart like a shield, able to soothe those in need of it and calm tempers when they began to flare.

And all Lance could do was shift his appearance. That was nothing special. Most Alteans carried that ability.

Hunk was one of those special Alteans – like Curtis – who was born with the rarest ability of all. There were no others in their village who boasted the Aspect of Heart and even their records of it were scarce; there was perhaps one born with that Aspect every one-hundred decaphoebs. Still, if there was one thing they knew for certain it was that those with Heart were incapable of lying. There was always some kind of tell when they tried and no amount of practice or emotional control was enough to fix that.

Lance still didn't like him.

But if he had to pick one of the three who he trusted, it would be Hunk.

Shiro and Keith returned with little fanfare and news that the Red Lion hadn't responded to any of Keith's pleading, which meant they were officially stuck on Arus until she changed her mind. After hearing that, Lance was reluctant to tell them about their run-in with Hunk, but Katla had no such fears about telling them all about it.

At least they had gotten a message sent. It was only a question of Kolivan recognizing it as coming from them and getting Matt to translate.

“We should get some rest,” Shiro said once they were all caught up. “The three of you are welcome to stay here for the night. The bed's a little small, but I think we could manage.”

Katla perked up. “Do you mean it?”

“I wouldn't have offered if I didn't,” Shiro responded, sounding amused.

Lance thought for sure Keith would scoff and say he was going to sleep in his own room, but to his amazement, Keith yawned and claimed the middle before climbing over the bed to settle in his chosen spot. Katla grinned as she joined him, rolling over him to settle between Keith and the wall.

“Lance?” Shiro questioned. “Do you want to stay too?”

Lance agreed with only a little embarrassment.

☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆

Allura sat in front of her vanity, slowly running a brush through her hair as she reflected on the events of the evening before. After a night of proper sleep, she was ashamed by the way she reacted to their guests and the obstinacy she displayed in refusing to believe that the Red Lion had accepted one of them as her paladin.

She set her brush down with deliberate delicacy and closed her eyes.

Her father's Lion had chosen a Galra and it hurt as surely as if she were in physical pain. And while she couldn't fully blame that pain for her actions, it certainly added to the helpless rage that she felt from the very moment she awoke in the cryo-pod, the betrayal of the people she once called allies still a freshly bleeding wound.

Regardless of her reasons, she had acted disgracefully and her guests deserved an apology.

Allura opened her eyes and stared at her reflection. “I will apologize, but this doesn't mean I trust them.”

There was a quiet scratching sound followed by several squeaks that seemed to overlap one another and Allura blinked in surprise as she watched four mice of different sizes climb up onto her vanity and begin to tumble around. There was a tickling in the back of her mind as though four voices were trying to speak and gain her attention, though it wasn't in words but feeling and a quick flash of images.

“Can you... understand me?” Allura murmured, tilting her head to the side as she regarded the mice.

There were more excited squeaks and a starburst of delight.

As she learned that a connection between them existed thanks to their 10,000 years spent in the same cryo-pod, Allura began to consider how she could use it to her benefit. They were small and inconspicuous. No one would even think that she could understand what they were saying.

They would be the perfect little spies.

“Perhaps you'd like to help me with something,” Allura said with a growing smile. “And in return, I'll find whatever food you like to eat.”

[wayward-mikaelson]

Centuries--Two

Word Count: 2207

Pairing: Dean X Reader

Characters: Dean, Sam, Cas (Mentioned), Jack (Mentioned), Reader, Michael (Mentioned), Hezekiah (Mentioned)

About: The Reader has some dirty memories from her dream sex with Michael.  The Reader and Dean share a passionate reunion after sharing feelings of being scared that this was dream. The Reader then learns how long she has been back for and gets a name from the time she can’t seem to remember. 

Warnings: Language, Fluff, Angst, Smut, Oral Female Receiving, Fingering, Rough Sex (Protected), Fantasizing, Nipple Play, Drinking, 

A/N: Requests are open until 7.11.2020 until 11.59pm USA Central time. Send your GIFS or pictures with what you want!!

A/N 2: Want to notified first on the next part and or on future fanfics? COMMENT BELOW YOUR FAVORITE DEAN GIF.

Forever Tag List: @hobby27​ @donnaintx​ @myinconnelly1​ @elansaidaris​ @magssteenkamp​ @pinktree84 

Dean/Jensen Tag List: @akshi8278​ @sandlee44​ 

*18+ CONTENT. YOUNGER THAN 18 MOVE ALONG

**DO NOT COPY AND PASTE MY WORK ANYWHERE WITHOUT ASKING ME FIRST AND WITHOUT GIVING ME CREDIT. I WORK WAY TOO HARD ON MY STORIES TO HAVE MY WORK STOLEN.

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I shower until the water runs ice cold. Reluctantly, I turn the water off and grab hold of a and dry off. Before I wrap up in it, I stare at the mark that was left by Michael over a year ago. You would think that maybe, just maybe that it wouldn't show up when I came back. I hesitate to touch it and when I do, nothing happens. I'm not sure weather to be happy or sad as I think back to that dream. Well, it wasn't a dream according to Cas, It was the real deal.

I think about how Michael had me pushed up on the wall as his lips were pressed to mine. I think of how at the snap of his fingers, I was naked sitting on top of him. I think how he pushed me down on the couch and ripped his pants off and was inside of me in seconds. I close my eyes as I remember the rough thrusts of Michaels hips and the digging of my nails into his back. Almost identical to the way Dean had thrust into me but there had been inhuman force.

I snap out of day dream and wrap up in the towel and walk out of the bathroom. I make my way to my old room. A room that I barely remember. I enter the room to find that it's been left the same way I remember leaving it. I go to the wardrobe and pull out a tshirt and pants and throw them on. This isn't the time to day dream, I need to figure out how the hell I am even alive and how long I've been alive for.

Walking down the hallway, I pass Dean room. I see him sitting on his bed just staring into space. He looks like hell and I know he blames himself for it all. Saying yes to Michael lead to me killing myself. But we needed that win that day and it backfired in true Winchester form. Dean notices me and smiles. I walk in and sit on the bed next to him. I take his hand in mine and hold it tight.

"I haven't had decent sleep in the last few days and I am tired as hell," Dean lifts my hand up and kisses it. "But, I am scared as fuck to fall asleep and wake up and know that all of this could be a dream."

I smile at him knowing that I feel the very same way. "If this were a dream, Dean Winchester," I use my free hand to cup his face. "Nightmare or not, it's the best dream to have." I lean in and softly kiss him. Dean takes his free arm and wraps it around me and lays us down on the bed. I wiggle my way up. Dean gets a confused look on his face. "The door silly," I close the door and come back and straddle. "Don't need to go scarring your baby brother or Cas or Jack do we now?"

Dean is leaning back just staring at me. I slowly take my shirt off and watch as his eyes rake over what bare skin there is. He slowly lifts his hands to my skin and feels every inch of my stomach and back. He unclasps the bra and removes it and looks at my bare breasts. He takes his hands and squeezes them, making my head roll to the sound. I give a small hum and hang my head back when I feel him take one in his mouth. I smile as Dean sucks and licks my nipple making it hard under his grip.

Deans arms are around me the moment I sigh his name. He lays me down on the bed and I can see his dick pressed hard up on his jeans. I need it inside of me. I need to feel him thrusting inside of me again. It's been so fucking long since I've felt it. Instead of taking his pants off, Dean undoes my pants and slowly pulls them off along with my underwear. I am very aware of how wet I am with the air blowing around the room from the ceiling fan. Dean notices and gives a lustful smirk.

"I love to see that I still have this affect on you," He kneels down and kisses my leg from the knee to my thigh. When he gets to my thigh, I am aching so bad for him my legs shake. "Now let's test the waters, shall we?" Deans hand touches my folds and he begins to rub slow but firm. I grab my breasts and give them a squeeze. Then he slips in one finger making me sigh again.

"Oh so wet for me," Deans is soft and rough. He teases a second and third finger as he wiggles the one finger inside me around. It's making me squirm.

"Please," I whisper as my hands squeeze my breast again. "Dean, please."

"Please what?" His firm voice asks.

"Fuck me with your fingers." I gasps as his one finger starts toying around with my g-spot. "Make me cum all over your hand." Fuck, I missed this. I missed the feeling of being wanted. I missed the feel of being had by someone that loves me. I missed this part of being alive. As if reading my mind, Dean inserts two more fingers and begins to push and pull in and out. I sigh and let our a soft moan.

It doesn't take long before I am clawing at the sheets and arching my back. I whimper softly, pleading to cum but, Dean doesn't let me. Instead he teases me by getting me as close as I can and then stopping. I sigh dramatically each time only to hear him chuckle. "You're impossible," I tell him. Then I fell him go down on me and I squeak.

I reach down and hold his face in place as he fucks me with his tongue and sucks on my clit. My hips begin to rise up and down as I feel myself start tightening up. I wrap my legs around Deans neck to keep him place and to press him deeper into me. I grip his hair tight as my soft moans become louder.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I yelp loudly as he inserts two fingers. Now, I am being fucked by both his tongue and fingers. It can't get better than that. My breathing is started to become ragged and I'm practically yelling for Dean to not stop. To keep going. Then I cum.

"Oh my fucking God, Dean," I scream as he continues to thrust his fingers in me and lick up the results of my orgasm. I let my head fall back as I come off my high. I close my eyes when I feel Dean start to kiss up my body and reach my lips. I wrap my arms around his neck and smirk against his lips. "Your turn." I push him over and rip open his pants and pull both pants and under down. His dick springing up to life.

Dean rolls over and I hear him rummaging in a side drawer. He sits up and I see the condom package in his hands. I take it from him and rip it open and slowly roll it over his length. He groans as I do. Feeling myself get wet all over again, I stand up and sit over him and slowly lower myself on his length until he was balls deep inside of me.

I slowly start to move my hips up and down while making eye contact with him. He throws his head on the bed. "Fuck," he groans. His hands grabbing my hips and slamming me down on him. Making me yelp. I have no time to react to what happens next.

Dean pulls me down and wraps his arms around me. He rolls us over to where he's on tops of me. He sits up and pulls my hands from my chest and pins them above me. With a wicked grin and a sexy raised eyebrow, he slowly pulls out and teases the both of us with just the tip. Then he slams himself back in making me moan and scream at the same time.

Dean continues this until he raises my leg up onto his shoulder. Be both make eye contact at the sudden change in angle and position. He start to thrust deep, hard, and fast. Fucking me right into the mattress. We both are mess of moans, groans, screams, grunts, the whole bit. Then a few deep thrusts later, Dean yells out my name and I scream out his.

We lay there on the bed. Dean has his arms around me. "I'm convinced that this is my own personal heaven now," Dean says into my hair. His voice is soft and I know he's about to crash soon. I chuckle and roll over and give him a light kiss on the lips. His eyes are closed but I see him smile a bit before he starts to breath deeply.

I roll out of the bed and realize my legs feel like jello. Dean will be proud to know that he fucked me to the point that my legs were shaking afterwards. I look around the room for my clothes and get dressed. I smooth out my hair and make my way out of the room to the kitchen to make me some food.

"Wow," I hear Sams voice enter the kitchen after me. "I'm surprised you can still walk after all of that. Where's Dean?" I'm surprised too, I think. I am even sore down there too. But, it's a good sore. The one that makes getting fucked hard worth it.

"Sleeping," I say pulling out stuff to make a sandwich. "Do you know where Cas is? I need to look at my side again. I still have the mark Michael gave me for some reason."

Sam nods. "Cas and Jack dipped out when they started to hear you and Dean. Not sure if they will be back tonight. What did Dean say about it?"

"I don't think he saw it," I say putting the finishing touches on my sandwich. "If he saw it then he chose not to say anything." I take a bite and just marvel at the taste of the food. Almost better than the sex I just had. I reach back into the fridge and pull out two bottles of beer. I crack one open and I also marvel at the taste of it. It felt like forever since I had real food and a good beer.

"So," Sam says pulling out the phone I gave him. "I got a hit off the phone. The person you were talking to, their name doesn't exist so it's a total fake but, you kept calling them Hezekiah."

I sudden get this sharp pain in my head when he says that name. I grab my head and close my eyes. I start to see a figure with dreads and dark skin. As fast as the pain came it left. I realize I am sitting on the ground with my head in between my knees. Sam is by me.

"Are you okay?" He asks worried. "You just collapsed out of no where."

I rub my head a bit to make sure the pain is really gone. "I think so," Sam helps me up. "I know that name for some reason." I think back on that name. Its really familiar. Then I remember that moment I'm grabbed in the field trying to get Dean back from Michael. The angel that grabbed me was the same Hezekiah that Michael called out.

"Do you remember the name of that angel that Michael yelled at to get through the gate?" I ask Sam.

"No not really. Why?"

"It's the same damn fucking angel," I take a drink of my beer again. "Anything else?"

Sam slides the phone over to me. "Just that it's hard to track the number you had been texting or calling for the past year. So I hard reset it and made it even harder to track. Oh and new number too."

"What?" I ask staring at Sam and I pick up the phone. I want to make sure I heard him right before freaking out.

"I said it's harder to track now and you have a new number."  Sam says looking back at me before he tries to leave the kitchen.

"No," I say walking around the island. "What you said before that. For how long I'd been in contact with this bitch."

It finally clicks in Sam's head. "You've been back for a year."

That right there. I've been back that long. No memory but a name. A name when it was said, caused my head to hurt like I was being tortured. I hold the phone up and know that some of the answers that I needed were erased but maybe for a good reason. If this phone had been its original state who knew if I was already being tracked here. Cas needs to get back here so that he can try and dig deep into my brain.

[sunflowerbi]

Hey! I absolutely love your blog and your work. Idk if you take request but idk who to ask lol. Would you be open to writing something about how Villanelle learnt to cook? If you can make it sappy and with Eve in it obv, even better!

This is so nice!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! oh my god. anyway i absolutely take requests, and this was lovely to write. hopefully it’s in the realm of what you wanted? It’s on ao3 too (link’s in my pinned post) hope you like it!!

           Villanelle had a sorted history with food. As a young child it was only a resource, something she needed to survive and never had enough of. She still remembered digging through the kitchen when her mother wasn’t home, desperately looking for anything she might not notice disappearing. It was something to be guarded, occasionally stolen, never shared. She hated food, hated her reliance on it, the way it controlled her. She’d spent plenty of nights unable to sleep for the gnawing pain in her stomach. She couldn’t do much with food then, at most she’d been able to heat things that needed it and pour salt on it to cover the taste. She never cooked anything, not really. She had fleeting memories of watching her father cook, but they were blurred, made her feel a mixture of sadness and comfort she mostly avoided. Between her mother and the orphanage, she spent most of her time trying to ignore her way she dizzied when she stood, her body demanding food she couldn’t provide.

In prison she worried less about where her food came from, sure, but she hated it just as much. Food kept her alive, and it always tasted like shit. She wasn’t fighting for enough food to live, but still would have rather not bothered with it at all. She was eventually assigned to the kitchen, which was better than scrubbing toilets, but peeling potatoes did very little to improve her opinion of food. It was a dirty kitchen where they made shitty food, and nothing ever changed. She peeled potatoes, then she cooked meat, then she mashed potatoes. She wasn’t allowed to cut anything, something about violent tendencies.

It wasn’t until much later that Villanelle learned to love food. When she got paid by the twelve for the first time, she went to the most expensive restaurant she could find and ordered the most expensive meal. She went to the cheapest place too, ordered food for a dollar and ate it. Food was a luxury she refused to deny herself, now. If she saw food she wanted, she’d buy it. More importantly, she taught herself to cook. She decided she wouldn’t rely on anyone else to provide food for her, she would fill her own stomach. She slept with a few chefs, dug through their things while they were asleep. She copied recipes, stole fancy tools they left lying around, found out what spices they used, ordered them from around the world.

She found independence in cooking, being able to make something solid for herself. She would spend free days picking out the most complicated recipes and perfecting them, hours just figuring out the perfect balance of spices. It staved off the overwhelming boredom she so often found herself drowning in, gave her something to focus on. Cooking created a moment where nothing else was happening in her own universe, she moved around the kitchen with frenzied grace, entirely wrapped in her movements.

The first time she cooked for someone else, she cooked for Konstantin, made him one of his favorite meals. He told her it was fine, but she didn’t miss the way he smiled as he ate, didn’t even try to reject her offer to send some home with him. (She saw him eat it in his car.) She cooked for him occasionally, after making him admit that her food was wonderful. She demanded places to stay with kitchens she could at least cook in a little everywhere she went, something to busy her mind while she waited for her next assignment.

The first time she cooked for Eve broke her open. Spaghetti, a nod to dreams from times past. As she dropped fresh pasta into the pot, she felt tears begin to form. She was overwhelmed by the sudden softness of it all, something she knew she didn’t deserve but was far too selfish to ever give away. Here was Eve, eagerly awaiting food she was cooking. Cooking was, in the end, a way to give yourself to someone, and she had never wanted so desperately to give someone all of herself.

“Villanelle? What’s wrong?” Eve was suddenly wrapped around her, dropping her chin onto Villanelle’s shoulder.

“Nothing. I do not think I deserve you, darling Eve, but I get to give you this spaghetti, and I want to give you everything. I want to give you all of me and all of the world. You deserve it.” It was a quiet confession, Eve was surprised she could even hear it, but she relished in it just the same.

“Maybe you don’t deserve me, maybe I don’t deserve you. I’m not sure I give a damn what we deserve, honestly. I love you, sweetheart, more than I ever thought I could love a person. So, if you don’t deserve me, that’s a problem for the universe. I want you, and hell if I’m going to let anything change that.”

Villanelle turned, pressing a gentle kiss against Eve’s lips. “You are my everything. Now find some plates, you’re going to make me overcook the pasta.” This time, a smack on the ass as Eve walked away.

“That was the best spaghetti I’ve ever eaten, babe.” Eve smiled, leaning back in her chair.

“It’s because I am the best, obviously.” Villanelle stood up, reaching her hand out for Eve to take. “Let’s dance, then, my love.”

“I can’t believe you tried to convince me you didn’t like to dance.”

“I had never danced with you; I did not realize how wonderful it could be.”

“Thank you for cooking tonight, I loved watching you make your way around the kitchen. You looked like you’d been cooking in there forever.”

“I hope I will be.”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

[beca-mitchell]

Swiped Right (Hey, We Got a Good Thing) (1/1)

Summary: There has to be a rule about mixing Tinder with business. Rated M/E for sex.

A/N: For a donor to my birthday fundraiser. You didn’t send a prompt, but there wasn’t any way I was going to let you off the hook for this. There were rules! I know how much you love your AUs! Sooo, here’s a 3.1k smutty mess of coworkers and Tinder.

Thank you to my beta @cptkrieger.

The title (and maybe a bit of the premise) is inspired by "Digital Love" by Digital Farm Animals, feat. Hailee Steinfeld.

Word count: 3,159

Read on AO3 or below.

– – – – –

Beca wakes up in her bed, cold and alone. It was extremely tempting to take Chloe up on her offer – a very generous offer – to stay over again. She had promised that Beca wouldn’t be late for her first day of work, but Beca had thought of how beautiful Chloe’s apartment had been, compared to the clanging pipes and shoddy handiwork of her own charming little apartment. Nothing like the clean white walls and glass windows of Chloe’s high-rise in midtown.

She never did figure out what Chloe did for a job. There was not really a lot of room for talking. Thank you, Tinder, Beca thinks.

In any case, if she took Chloe up on her offer, it was likely that Beca would have been very late to work, to say the least. So she settled on declining, but promising to call Chloe again – probably over the weekend – so they could schedule another date. Hopefully with more eating food and getting to know each other and less–

Well. It wasn’t like she didn’t get to know Chloe. She vividly recalls the way Chloe’s skin felt beneath her hands, as inch-by-inch, Chloe slowly revealed more and more skin, right down to the gorgeous and likely expensive black lace lingerie set. Beca had fun peeling that off Chloe’s body. She had even more fun figuring out what sounds Chloe could make with Beca’s tongue buried as far as it could go in Chloe’s wet cunt.

Fuck.

Beca jolts, not realizing she had nodded off. She attempts to rid herself of the last vestiges of Chloe’s moans from her brain and fumbles for her phone on the bedside table. Peering at the time, she is relieved to see that she is still “early” by her standards and there is more than enough time to make herself presentable.

Upon catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she is horrified to see the fading hickey on her neck like a reminder of two nights ago. She had hoped it would fade in time, but as persistently as Chloe had been in bringing Beca to orgasm not once, not twice, but three times in one go, her hickeys appear to be equally persistent.

“Damn it,” Beca mutters. She prods at the bruised skin, relieved to note it isn’t particularly tender. She would prefer not to have to waste time on extra make-up, but she figures it wouldn’t be professional if her new boss had to stare at the evidence of Beca’s fun weekend all day. Beca doesn’t really know who her boss is as of yet, just that she is a woman who apparently would prefer if Beca referred to her as “Miss Beale” on the job. The other assistant and HR manager who interviewed Beca all those weeks ago had seemed fairly terrified yet completely in awe of their tyrant boss. Beca enjoys imagining what this woman will be like. On some days, she has slicked back hair and black suits for days. On others, she’s elderly and stern, with glasses persistently perched on the bridge of her nose. Most other days, she’s faceless and Beca resigns herself to her own curiosity. 

This is a job, like any other. Enough to placate her father while she works on her music. The extra money will help even if Beca thinks her YouTube money is more than enough for the moment. Alas, New York is expensive.

Holding up her concealer, she sighs and begins to get ready for her first day of work.

 – – – – – – – – – –

 Chloe Beale is having a Bad Monday Morning. Typically her New York mornings are far from pleasant, especially considering she works in midtown. The short walk from her apartment to the office means that she has to interact with at least ten people. ‘Interact’ is a little loose. Depending on the day, she passes at least four catcallers, at least two people trying to sell her on some cause or another, and at least twenty tourists. For whatever reason, today is even worse.

It likely might be that she had to get herself off the previous night because she had sorely missed her last bedmate. She is not typically one to resign herself to lusting over bed-warmers and Tinder dates, but Beca had been something different. Somebody special, she’s sure of it. Even while she had been steadily fucking Beca from behind, firmly rocking her fingers deeper through Beca’s folds and Beca had been an incoherent sobbing mess, Chloe had somehow wanted nothing more than to curl up with this woman and learn more about her life. Beca had been remarkably interesting over drinks – bright eyed and passionate in a way that sparked something new and something old in Chloe.

She missed passion.

It also didn’t help that Beca had been amenable to sleepy morning sex the next day. As the sunlight peeked through Chloe’s automatic curtains and she had tangled her fingers into Beca’s hair, it had felt like the most stability in a long time. Like warmth that had nothing to do with the way the sunlight began to stream in.

“I’ll see you again, right?” Chloe had asked, trying not to sound desperate. “I...had fun, honestly.”

Beca had softened and pulled her scarf around herself – a beautiful vintage scarf, passed down from her mother – before nodding. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Tonight?” Chloe had tried hopefully. “We can...we can get dinner this time,” she said. She had blushed a little at the way Beca’s eyes track down her barely clothed body. She had tossed on an old t-shirt and tiny shorts to whip up a quick mug of coffee for Beca before she left. “You can uh,” she cleared her throat. “Totally stay over again, if that’s what you want.”

Beca’s face had fallen. “Maybe not tonight. I have work tomorrow.” She wrinkled her nose. “I heard you should be...early for your first day of work at a new job. Something like that anyway.”

Chloe sighs at the memory and tries not to think about the slow heat building in her chest and between her legs. Beca had kissed her goodbye – one of the sweetest and most tender kisses Chloe had ever experienced in her life.

“Good morning to you too,” Aubrey greets when Chloe brushes past her on the way out of the elevator. “We have that big quarterly report due at the end of this week. Don’t forget, Chloe.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Chloe calls back. She makes a beeline for her office, hoping against hope that Gabrielle has remembered to at least get her coffee early today. 

“Here you go, Ms. Beale,” Gabrielle chimes in from her left suddenly, nearly making Chloe drop her handbag. “Soy latte?”

“Thank you,” Chloe murmurs gratefully. She accepts the cup, pleased by the warmth in her hand. “Agenda?”

“Nothing too heavy until around eleven. Harris wants to see you about the campaign we’re going to start up soon for the Superbowl. Oh, and your new assistant starts today.”

Chloe blinks. “Aren’t you my new assistant?”

“Well...another new assistant?” Gabrielle tries. “We need more talented hands on board, I guess.”

Talented hands.

Chloe is thrown into another memory, unbidden. She sighs heavily and settles into her chair. “Okay, just...give me a moment. Can you print out copies of the contract?”

“Sure thing.”

On that ridiculously-chipper-for-a-Monday note, Chloe rests her chin on her palm and slips into her memory more fully, wondering if this is bordering on desperation. Or if she is so past the desperate line that it doesn’t really even matter.

 – – – – – – – – – –

  Beca's hands are everywhere. “Talented hands,” Chloe had joked earlier in the evening over drinks, when Beca had explained that she was a musician and struggling producer.

She is decidedly not laughing now as Beca’s hands slide down her shoulder blades, like determined little caresses. Hands on her hips, her ass, grabbing her thighs. Everywhere all at once, like Beca can’t quite decide which part of Chloe she wants to hold on to, so she pays every inch of skin equal attention.

The sensation makes Chloe’s head spin. She has to gasp for air and pull away from their kiss so she can just take a moment to take in Beca. Beca, lying beneath her, chest heaving. Chloe bites her lip, sitting up more fully astride Beca’s narrow hips. Boldly, she rests her palms on Beca’s nipples, shivering a little when they press back insistently against her hand. Beca whimpers, the sound escaping past kiss-swollen lips.

“Touch me,” Beca rasps. “Please.”

Chloe pouts. “I want you to touch me.”

There is something in the way Beca succumbs to obedience. The way she draws her lower lip between her teeth and runs her hands up Chloe’s thighs in a faux-soothing manner. Her thumbs begin to dip further down, nearing the place where Chloe aches for her. Where she is wet and smearing traces of her own arousal across Beca’s lower belly.

And all because Beca touched her when asked.

Talented hands, indeed. 

– – – – – – – – – –

“Your new assistant is here.”

“Send them in,” Chloe says distractedly. She sighs when the door creaks open again and stands from her desk. Gabrielle moves to sit in the corner of her office while–

Beca ?

Chloe barely stops herself from saying Beca’s name aloud.

Because she’s there. She is literally standing there, wearing a cute scarf and jacket. Her hair is up, which is different, but not unpleasant.

Oh crap, Chloe thinks, as her Monday spirals to new depths.

“Hi,” Beca says, more timid than Chloe remembers her.

(It has nothing to do with how Beca had rigorously chanted her name, back arched and head tilted back.)

“Who are you?” Chloe blurts before her brain can really reconnect with her mouth.

A million images must pass through both their minds. She can see it on Beca’s face.

Beca glances quickly at Gabrielle. “I’m your...new assistant.” She blinks. “Beca. Beca Mitchell.”

Each step Chloe takes towards Beca is another step closer to the person who has been on her mind for the last forty-eight hours at least. Though the blazer isn’t quite the leather jacket Beca had sported over her pretty red dress, this look is equally appealing.

“Nice to meet you, Beca,” Chloe says as steadily as she can. Beca reaches out to shake her hand, her eyes darting around Chloe’s face with a kind of nervous energy. “I can tell we’re going to work so well together.”

 – – – – – – – – – –

 “So,” Chloe says once she has collected herself. She moves to stand by Beca at the counter in the thankfully empty kitchenette area. She watches Beca fumble with the Keurig cup she had been holding and gives her a moment to compose herself. When Beca turns to face her, Chloe is struck by how beautifully blue Beca’s eyes are. “Am I going to see you again?”

“I’ll text you,” Beca replies, but it is light and playful. “Uh, why didn’t you tell me you worked here? I could have asked for a transfer or something if we had, I don’t know. Figured this out earlier.” Her eyes flit everywhere across Chloe’s face, lingering on her eyes, then her lips.

Chloe’s heart races. “Is there a reason why...you would need to transfer?”

Beca’s brow furrows like she is attempting to figure Chloe out. “Uh, because...isn’t this a conflict of interest? Or like. Is there a rule about having fucked your boss?”

“Who was doing the fucking?” Chloe asks before she can help herself.

Beca’s eyes widen almost comically, then she seems to relax. The tiniest of smirks spreads across her lips. “I think it was pretty even.”

Beca looks so smug. Chloe kind of just wants to kiss that smug expression right off her face.

Beca takes her staring as something else. “Oh shit,” she says quickly. “Am I going to be fired? Like, actually fired?”

Chloe shakes her head quickly. “No, just. We’ll figure something out.” She glances down at Beca’s hand and reaches out to graze the back of her hand with her fingers. “I...do want to see you again. And we probably shouldn’t be working so closely together. But I’ll figure it out, I promise.”

Beca relaxes at that. Her entire body softens and sags. It is completely adorable. She adjusts her scarf nervously – the same one she wore on their date, Chloe notes with delight – and nods. “Okay, I trust you. And I do want to have another date. WIth more talking and stuff. But I wouldn’t be opposed to...staying over again,” she mumbles. “If that’s appropriate for me to say, Ms. Beale.”

Chloe’s eyes flash. “Meet me at the bathroom on the fifteenth floor. The one at the end of the West hallway.” She checks her watch. “At around two-thirty.” 

Beca swallows. “Uh, sure.” She tries not to nod too eagerly. “Sure, two-thirty. You got it, boss.”

Chloe straightens and part of her professional mask slips back across her face. “Meanwhile, I’ve got some work for you to do.”

 – – – – – – – – – –

 It ends up being very difficult for Beca to focus on anything, really. Not while Chloe leans over her shoulder. Despite the appropriate distance, Beca still catches a whiff of Chloe’s perfume. She can still feel her body heat radiating against her shoulder.

Chloe’s slender fingers pointing out specific folders and charts on the company server.

A quick glance at the way Chloe’s lips twitch into somewhat of a smirk – an impressive smirk, Beca would know – and Beca knows Chloe is playing with her.

 – – – – – – – – – –

  Beca thinks that Chloe’s laugh – her giggle – is the prettiest sound she’s ever heard. She watches in awe as Chloe slumps against her pillows. Absentmindedly, Beca swipes at the trace of wetness along her chin and climbs up Chloe’s body slowly and surely so that they are pressed together intimately once more.

“Aren’t you tired?” Chloe asks softly. Her fingers run through Beca’s hair. She doesn’t stop smiling.

Beca steals a quick kiss from Chloe’s lips. Quick so she can retreat and look at Chloe’s smile again.

God, she’s cheesy. It’s weird though, Beca doesn’t feel any urge to retreat or run away. She just wants more of it.

She wants to know if it is normal to feel such an intense connection to somebody, despite their seemingly limited communication. The whole premise of matching with each other just to hook up. The whole idea of never seeing Chloe again.

The idea of that makes her heart pound uncomfortably, so she kisses Chloe again, well into the night.

 – – – – – – – – – –

 The good news is, Aubrey finally agrees to take Beca off her hands after an inquisition that lasted at least twenty-five minutes. Maybe thirty.

The bad news is, that means Beca will be working exactly one floor above Chloe and she won’t get to see her often.

The fantastic news is, Chloe won’t feel so guilty about wanting to date Beca because she’s no longer Chloe’s subordinate. And they’re barely considered co-workers – at least not so strictly – because Aubrey runs her team like a tight ship.

There might be additional bad news in that Beca has no idea what’s in for her, when she starts working for Aubrey.

But Aubrey promised a mild pay increase.

 – – – – – – – – – –

 Two-thirty can’t come fast enough. But when it does–

“Fuck,” Beca rasps. “Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this all day.” 

Chloe lifts her head from Beca’s neck, stilling her hand. “You have?” she asks, trying not to sound too hopeful. She had shared the Great News with Beca earlier, though Beca had been confused as to why Gabrielle and another intern had given her sympathetic looks.

But that’s all for another day (tomorrow).

Now, Beca looks like she might start to cry. “Y-yeah. Yeah,” she grits out. Her hips shift restlessly with some difficulty with how Chloe has her pinned against the wall. “God, don’t stop, Beale.”

Beca hadn’t known her last name before – two nights ago. She hadn’t known anything except “Chloe” or “Chlo” or various, stuttered iterations of Chloe’s name.

So it sends a bolt of arousal straight to Chloe’s core when Beca moans her last name like it’s the last thing she will ever do.

Chloe curls her fingers in a beckoning motion. Beca’s head thumps back against the wall, exposing her neck for Chloe to nibble at playfully. 

“Harder?” she asks innocently, like she’s asking Beca whether she finished her photocopying task. Not like she’s asking if Beca needs her to fuck her into oblivion in the middle of the day in a private bathroom.

“God yes,” Beca moans out. It echoes nicely around the room. Chloe is so grateful that past two-thirty, this floor is basically empty.

“Tell me how much harder,” Chloe orders.

“Chloe,” Beca whimpers.

“Beca,” she responds, leaning in to brush her nose against Beca’s jaw. “Tell me.” A muffled scream sounds from Beca’s throat. Slowly pushing Beca back against the ledge so she is more firmly stabilized, Chloe lifts her now-free hand to Beca’s mouth without really pressing down on her lips. “I want to hear you,” she murmurs.

Instead of responding again, Beca takes her fingers into her mouth and sucks. It makes Chloe jolt hard against Beca’s body and she becomes more cognizant of her growing need between her legs – how her clit seems to ache and pulse with each shift of her fingers inside Beca. Beca, for her part, finally releases Chloe’s fingers from her mouth and gasps out a series of short, steady breaths.

Chloe twists her wrist and thrusts hard, once more. 

Beca falls apart in her arms breathlessly. 

Chloe trails kisses up and down Beca’s neck and jaw. She had been amused to see Beca examining her hickey in the mirror earlier. She doesn’t intend to leave another one, but the fact that she left one at all (“Oops, I really didn’t mean to,” she had said apologetically without any real apology in her voice.) had sent the hottest streak of possession through her body. Now, she just wants to coax Beca down from her orgasm and linger in the moment as long as possible.

“Was that congrats-on-getting-the-job sex?” is the first thing Beca asks when she catches her breath.

“I mean, who’s to say?” Chloe says, backing away so Beca can push herself from the counter ledge. “There should probably be some thank-you-for-getting-me-the-job sex. Maybe.” She raises an eyebrow, waiting to see what Beca will do or say.

Beca raises an eyebrow back – Chloe was always going to lose this battle – and slowly sinks to her knees.

“You know,” Chloe says in a matter-of-fact tone. “This is the cleanest bathroom in our company. Maybe the building.” Words keep spilling out of her as Beca’s hands begin pulling her underwear down. “Don’t ask me why. It just–” her breath hitches. “It just is,” she whispers, the moment Beca’s lips start trailing up her thigh.

Beca, as it turns out, is very grateful for the job.

fin.

[youcancallmecirce]

Haste & Leisure Ch 9: Fallout

We learn a bit more about what had Felix's knickers in such a twist last chapter, find out what he plans to do about it, and what the girls think of those plans.

@cheshiremadd and @emzurl I got another chapter done!

Read it on AO3 here.

“What did you find?” Felix asked, because he knew that Nathalie had found something.  She wouldn’t have pulled him aside if she hadn't.

“You were right,” she said flatly.

Behind him, Adrien cursed and there was a soft shushing sound as he dropped into one of the chairs.  Felix said nothing.  

He wasn’t surprised.

“Security footage shows that he spent approximately fifteen minutes in your office, and it’s clear from the video that he managed to get into your computer.  He covered his tracks well, though.  We’re having a hard time figuring out what, exactly, he accessed.”

“He used a USB drive?”  Nathalie nodded grimly, and Felix sighed and dropped into his own chair.  “Then we can assume that he copied everything on the drive.”

“Yes.”

“The police?”

“En route.  They are sending only a pair of detectives, and they know to be discreet.”

“Good.  Please bring them here when they arrive.”

“Yes, sir.” Nathalie strode from the room.

“You should go back to the party,” Felix said into the quiet.

Adrien shook his head.  “I said goodnight to Bri before I followed you up.”

Felix only grunted.

“Is this why you accosted Marinette downstairs?” 

He glared at Adrien.  “I didn’t accost her.”

“But you thought that she was part of this,” he insisted.

Felix hesitated.  He had thought she was a part of it, and the sense of betrayal had cut him in ways he hadn’t realized were possible. “I wondered,” was all he said.

“And now?”

“I know that she didn’t.”  Her confusion had been genuine.  “She probably thinks that I’ve lost my mind.”

“Well,” Adren said slowly.  “You did go from glaring daggers to foreplay on the dance floor rather quickly.”

“Foreplay?” Felix scoffed.

“Hyperbole.”

“Fuck off.”

Adrien regarded him levelly.  “What are you going to do?”

Felix sighed again.  “I have to go back to New York, and try to clean up whatever mess Barbot is about to make.”

“Obviously.  I meant about Marinette.”

“What about her?  She hates me.”

“That’s not what it looked like to me, Fe.”

“What are you going to do about Bridgette?”

Adrien lowered his eyes, and he seemed to wilt into the chair.  “I don’t know.”

“Don’t think that you have to come with me, Adrien.  If you want to stay, get to know her better, then do it.”  Adrien looked up, and Felix paused to choose  his next words carefully.  “Just--be careful.”

Adrien’s frown deepened.  “You still think she will hurt me?”

“Not on purpose, no.”  Felix hesitated again.  He wasn’t good at being tactful.

“Just spit it out, Fe.”

“I’m not sure that she cares for you as much as you care for her.  It’s obvious that she likes you, likes your company, but I don’t think that her emotions are engaged.”

“I see,” he said softly, speaking to the carpet.   

“Perhaps you should speak with her?”

“And perhaps you should speak with Marinette.”

The two men glared at each other for a moment, then each retreated into his own thoughts until a knock at the door heralded the arrival of the police inspectors.

Nathalie ushered two plainclothes officers into the library.  The first, a short stocky man “These are Captains Raincomprix and D'Argencourt, respectively.  They will be handling this investigation.”

“To be clear,” Felix interjected, “I do not wish to pursue an investigation or press charges at this time.  I simply want to document tonight’s incident.”

The two detectives shared a frown.  “Very well,” said Raincomprix.

Felix waited patiently while Nathalie briefed the men on the night’s robbery. Both men listened avidly as she went through the sequence of events, interrupting to ask questions here and there and apparently taking detailed notes in the little notepads they’d produced from their coats.  When she was done, they closely questioned Adrien regarding his brief interaction with Barbot earlier in the evening, then questioned Felix regarding his history with Barbot.

“I can see why you want to hold off on pressing charges against the man,” D'Argencourt said at last.  “It looks as though we could get him on this easily enough, but he’s only committed misdemeanors so far.  If we can find out what he intentends without tipping our hands, we can build a better case against him.”

“That is certainly part of it,” Felix agreed. “But to be honest, I haven’t yet decided how, exactly, I want to proceed.  I will need to consult with my legal team back in New York as well as our attorneys here.”

“Very well,” said Raincomprix.  “In the meantime, will begin to discreetly question the other witnesses.  Ms. Sancoeur, do you know if the DuPain-Cheng girls are still--”

“No!” Felix said firmly, standing.  “I do not want you to question any other witnesses.”

Both detectives blinked, then frowned.  “Excuse me?” Raincomprix asked.  “We need to question all the witnesses, and take statements.”

“Waiting to see what his next move will be is smart,” D'Argencourt added, “but we still need to gather as much information now as we can.  If we wait to ask our questions, the witnesses may forget pertinent details.”

“I don’t care,” Felix said.  “I don’t want Ma--either of them to know about any of this.”

“Why?”  Raincomprix narrowed his eyes.  “Even if we didn’t need their statements, and we do, shouldn’t they be informed of his true character?”

“Ideally, yes.” Felix narrowed his own gaze and pointedly ignored Adrien’s knowing look. “But because they have befriended Barbot, and been taken in by his lies, I don’t trust her--them--not to go running right to him.”

“Hmm,” said Raincomprix.  “Are you suggesting, then, that the DuPain-Chengs might be accomplices?”

“NO!” Adrien and Felix said together, all but shouting.  “Fe is half in love with Marinette but his pride won’t let him admit that when she seems to have chosen Barbot,” Adrien went on.

“Adrien!” Felix snapped.  “That’s enough!”

Adrien went right on as if he hadn’t heard.  “And for whatever reason, he seems to think that telling her about Barbot’s duplicity is somehow cheating.”

The detectives shared another look.  “So you, Mr. Bourgeois, are interested in Ms. Bridgette DuPain-Cheng, and Mr. Agreste is interested in Ms. Marinette DuPain-Cheng.”

Adrien looked uncertain, as if confused by the question.  “Yes,” he said.

“And Ms. Marinette is dating Barbot?” D'Argencourt pressed.

“Yes,” Adrien said again.

“So, if your assessment of Barbot’s intentions is accurate, then it is possible--even likely--that Barbot is using Marinette as a further means of hurting you.”

Felix gave a grudging nod.  The thought had occurred to him as well.  That sort of emotional manipulation was completely in character for Theo Barbot.  “He’s using her,” he agreed.

“What I want to know,” said Raincomprix, “is whether she is an unwitting dupe or an active participant in his plans, and whether she has involved her sister.”

Adrien paled visibly.  “No,” he said.  “Neither of them are involved in this.”

“With all due respect, sir, you are clearly biased in her favor,” said D'Argencourt.  He looked from Adrien back to Felix.  “You’re both biased.”

This is all the more reason to question her now,” agreed Raincomprix.  “If she is innocent, then she herself might be in danger and needs to be warned of his character.  If she is a co-conspirator, she needs to be arrested with Barbot.  Either way, I want her in for questioning and I want her investigated.”

Felix stood, and the detectives copied him.  “I only want this incident documented,” he said.  “You will not harass either of the Dupain-Chengs.  They’re in no danger from Barbot, and could tell you nothing of value.”  Then, when both detectives opened their mouths to argue, “I am afraid that I will not bend on this.”

Adrien moved to stand at Felix’s shoulder and spoke quietly but firmly, surprising Felix with his words.  “You know the influence our families can bring to bear, if necessary.”

“Are you threatening us?” D'Argencourt asked darkly, while Raincomprix scowled. 

“No,” Felix lied.  Everyone in that room was aware that Mayor Bourgeois had few scruples about leveraging his position in the city, and the powerfully wealthy Gabriel Agreste had none.  Felix had never used his family’s reputation in this way and it ill fit him, like a badly made shirt.  Still… “We are suggesting that perhaps it would be more beneficial to everyone involved if you were to put a discreet security detail on the girls in addition to the tail we already know you’re going to put on Barbot, rather than tipping our hand prematurely.”

Raincomprix hmm-ed.  He still looked unhappy with this turn of events, but his expression had turned calculating.  It was obvious that of the two, he was the more willing to play this game.  

“It could work.”  He looked at D'Argencourt, who clearly wanted to balk. “Protect them and keep an eye on their movements at the same time.  We can always bring them in later if we need to.”

“Fine.”  D'Argencourt tucked his notebook and pen back into the pocket of his coat as he strode for the door, glowering now at his partner rather than Felix.  “But we’re going to surveill them as well.”

Felix shrugged.  “If you can get a warrant.”

“Don’t push it,” Raincomprix muttered, pausing for a moment by Felix.  “You’re not your father.”

Felix pressed his lips together angrily--of course he wasn’t his father, the very suggestion was insulting--but held his silence until Nathalie had led them from the room and closed the door quietly behind them.  After all, he had just behaved like his father.

Felix felt suddenly ill.

“It would be better if they know,” Adrien said, his voice no longer even.  “If anything happens--”

Felix turned to his friend in surprise, and saw that he had his fingers buried in his hair and anxiety writ clearly on his face. “Why did you back me up, if you don’t agree with me?  That ploy was repugnant to you as it was to me.”

Adrien grimaced and dropped his hands.  “Because I do agree with you, damnit.  Who knows what lies that bastard has told them? Marinette probably would run straight to him, thinking that she was doing the right thing.”

Felix flinched.  It wasn’t anything he didn’t already know, but it still hurt to be reminded that the woman he had come to esteem deeply believed him to be a villain.

“I’m sorry Fe,--”

“Don’t be,” Felix said, waving away Adrien’s wincing apology.  “It’s the truth.  I just hope that we’re right about Barbot not being a danger to them.”

“He’s not been violent before.”

Felix met his eyes, and let his worry show.  “Not that we’re aware of.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Bridgette said into her phone, her shoulders sagging.   “When will you be back?”

Marinette looked up from painting her toenails and frowned at her sister.  She’d been in a great mood all morning, and had been happy when she answered Adrien’s call.  If he’d been planning to leave, wouldn’t he have mentioned it last night?  Or did this have something to do with the mysterious “issue” that had drawn first Felix, and then Adrien from their own party?  She’d been annoyed at the time--seriously, who abandons his own party?--but if it had prompted a sudden trip, then perhaps there had been a good reason for it. 

“Oh.”  Bridgette said, reclaiming Marinette’s full attention. All of the color had drained from her face, and she sank slowly onto the chaise.  “I--I see.”  

There was another pause as Adrien spoke on the other end of the line.  “Will we see you before you go?”  

Another pause, and a tear slipped down Bridgette’s cheek.  Marinette capped the nail polish.  “Bridgette?”  

“Yes, I--sure.”  She wiped her cheek and looked up as she tried to blink away more tears.  “I will.”

Marinette slipped from the room to grab a roll of toilet paper.  Bridgette ended the call just as she returned, and dropped the phone next to her on the chaise.  Marinette moved it to their desk, and sat in its place so she could wrap an arm around her sister.  She held up the toilet paper with the other. “He’s leaving?”

She nodded miserably, and tore a few squares from the roll.  “Back to New York.”

“When?  For how long?”

“Indefinitely.”  The tears welled in her eyes again, and she impatiently wiped them away.  “They leave tomorrow.”

“They--” Marinette blinked.   Felix was leaving too?  She felt a strange pang at that, though she ought to be rejoicing.  She was rejoicing; she was just upset on her sister’s behalf.   “But--the semester just started,” she said, as if that made it impossible for him to leave.  Bridgette shrugged, but didn’t bother answering.  She pulled more tissue from the roll and blew her nose. “Why is he going back?”

“Felix has to go; there’s some kind of crisis at Agreste, I think? And I guess Adrien decided to go with him.” 

“But why?” Marinette demanded, starting to feel angry. “Aside from modeling in a few of their ad campaigns, Adrien has nothing to do with the Agreste Fashions!”

Bridgette sniffled and shrugged again.  “He said he wants to be there for his best friend.”

“In other words, Felix is dragging him back without a thought to what Adrien wants because he wants moral support.”  Marinette scoffed indignantly.  “What an asshole.”

But Bridgette shook her head in denial.  “That’s not fair, Nettie, and you know it.  You’d do the exact same thing for me if I was in some kind of trouble, and you’d probably do it whether I wanted you to or not.”

“That’s different.  We’re sisters.”

“Felix is more his sibling than either of his sisters are.”  Marinette scoffed again, dropping her arm from Bridgette’s shoulder, and Bridgette sighed.  “I know what you think of Felix, Marinette, and I don’t blame you.  But do you really think so little of Adrien?”

“No,” Marinette allowed.  She bumped their shoulders together.  “But I can’t like him for choosing that ass over my sister.”

Bridgette’s laugh was watery, but it was a laugh.  “I admire him for it.  He’s a good man.”

“Ugh, Bridgette, you are far too generous.  You always assume that everyone else has the same pure motives that you do.”  She squeezed her sister in a hug, and leaned their heads together.  “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.” She sniffled again, and forced a smile.  “We can keep in touch, after all, and it’s not like this was some great romance.  I mean, I’ve only known him for a few weeks.”

“Bri,” Marinette chided gently, and her sister blew out a breath in defeat.

“It hurts, Nettie. You know it does.  But I’ll be fine. I just--I just need some time.”

Marinette watched sadly as her sister climbed out of their skylight, toilet paper in hand.

[lady-divine-writes]

The Deadly Doubts of Aziraphale: Chapter 3 (Rated NC17)

Summary:

After they survive the Holy Water and Hellfire, Aziraphale and Crowley find it hard to be away from one another, constantly plagued by the paranoia that they'll lose each other again. But now, at this new stage in their existence, mostly free, something has started to trouble Aziraphale, something that manages to unearth every single one of his fears, driving him down paths that make him question everything he believes about him and his relationship with his demon.

Warning for this chapter: some horror imagery and violence.

Read on AO3.

“About a week had passed, and the position had begun to grow more complicated.”

“Hmm, what …? What was that you said?”

“I may mention in passing that I suffered a great deal during that unhappy week …”

“Aziraphale? Mmph … who are you talking to …?”

“… as I scarcely left the side of my affianced friend, in the capacity of his most intimate confidant.”

“Aziraphale? What in the Devil …?”

“What weighed upon him most was the feeling of shame, though we saw no one all that week, and sat indoors alone. But he was even ashamed before me, and so much so that the more he confided to me the more vexed he was with me for it.”

“Aziraphale.”

“He was so morbidly apprehensive that he expected that every one knew about it already, the whole town, and was afraid to show himself, not only at the club, but even in his circle of friends.”

“Jesus Christmas …”

“He positively would not go out to take his constitutional till well after dusk, when it was quite dark.”

“Please, no …”

“A week passed and he …”

“Aziraphale!?” A hand sneaks over the top of Aziraphale’s book and covers the page he’s reading. “What are you doing!?”

Aziraphale sighs dramatically, sliding the book out from under the offending hand. “You were asleep, so I decided to read.”

“You should be asleep, too. That’s why we came back here, remember? To sleep?”

“Technically, angels don’t need sleep.”

“Demons don’t need sleep, either, technically, and yet, here we are … in bed.”

Aziraphale assesses the disheveled demon – hair stuck up all over like chaotic licks of flame, the bulk a disastrous mess atop his head; creases from the pillowcase carving a map on his left cheek; his eyes, golden in this light, half-lidded and bleary from exhaustion. Aziraphale shakes his head, his eyes returning to his book. “I think you might be sleeping enough for the both of us, my dear. Why did you wake up, anyway?”

“You mumble when you read. Loudly. Plus the light you read by has gone from subtle glow to Death Valley in August. My eyeballs are charring through my eyelids. Not a very good look, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale glances around and notices, as Crowley had, that instead of a warm radiance focused mainly on the pages of his book, his holy aura had dialed up about seventeen notches, making the room look like they were trapped inside a gigantic tanning bed. “Oops. Sorry about that. I’ll turn it down.”

“What are you reading?” Crowley snatches the book out his angel’s hands and squints at the spine. “Demons?” He snorts. “I suppose I should be flattered but Dostoyevsky? Darling, it’s only Thursday.”

“It was either this or Crime and Punishment.”

“Stellar choices. Remind me never to ask you to read me a bedtime story.”

“That’s fine. I’m not sure I have a copy of The Little Engine That Could readily available anyhow.”

“Nice. Just so you know, since you’re taking pot shots at me, that one in particular did not land because The Little Engine That Could happens to be one of my favorite books. A remarkable work of literature, if you ask me. Brimming with nuance and symbolism,” Crowley grumbles, pulling the comforter over his head and burrowing underneath like … well, like a snake, if Aziraphale is being honest.

Aziraphale looks at the long lump of demon lying beside him and smiles. Even when he’s grumpy, he’s too adorable for words.

And Aziraphale loves him.

He snaps his fingers and the light that surrounds him blinks out.

“I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from sleeping,” he says in a voice Crowley feels more than he hears. It’s melodic, slipping through Crowley’s ears like a whisper of wind in Aziraphale’s attempt to not disturb him too much more. “I know how much you enjoy it. I’m sorry to say that I haven’t as of late.”

“Is it me?” Crowley asks, voice muffled by the thick blanket he refuses to climb out from under to continue this conversation. “Do I snore?”

“No.” Aziraphale gives his lower lip a nibble. “Well, you do snore a little, but that doesn’t keep me from sleeping.”

Crowley finally does peek out. He’s eyes, nose, and a mouth with the blanket still wrapped around him because that’s all he’s willing to expose. “Then what is it?”

“I …” Aziraphale’s last two nightmares scroll through his head like a reel to reel film set on fast forward. From the scenes that stand out, he sees Gabriel’s face grimacing at him, the rage that filled his eyes as he grabbed hold of Aziraphale’s wing and tore it off; he sees Michael and Uriel wedging him between them on that park bench, mocking him with thoughts of Crowley using lust to tempt humans … and all that that would entail; he sees that book with no words, just bugs and marks and scratches with no meaning, cradled in his arms. He wants to talk to Crowley about it. He desperately wants to talk with him. But how does he do that without sounding off his rocker? “I’d rather not discuss it. Not just yet, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It is all the same to me. I care about you. I want you happy. Happy here with me. We’ve spent thousands of years apart. I don’t want to be apart anymore.”

“Neither do I,” Aziraphale returns softly. “But I just … can’t.”

Crowley looks at his angel dressed in his two piece pajamas, sitting ram-rod straight with a book in his hands. He’s basically the same as bookshop Aziraphale, but here in his flat, distinguishable as relaxed only by virtue of his clothing choices.

“If you want, I can move to another room,” Aziraphale offers, “that way you can sleep in darkness. I know you prefer it.”

“That’s not what I want,” Crowley says. “Not at all. I want you here with me, light or no. But I think I can help you out, if you’d let me.”

“How’s that?”

“First of all, let’s close the book and put it away, shall we?” Crowley slides out of the comforter and puts out a hand for Aziraphale’s book. Aziraphale stares at the beckoning hand, reluctant to give it up, but only because he doesn’t want to sleep. He doesn’t even want to try. But there’s more going on here than just sleeping. They’re weaving their lives together. Normally, lying in bed with Crowley is something Aziraphale would enjoy. He knows Crowley enjoys it, too. Looks forward to it even.

They’re never going to get back to enjoying it together if Aziraphale doesn’t work things out.

He hands the book over. Crowley sets it carefully on the table beside him. Then, on second thought, he sticks it in a drawer and snaps his fingers to lock it.

Aziraphale tuts at the absurdity of that gesture since he could simply snap and unlock it again. Counteracting Crowley’s magic is as easy to Aziraphale as eating. Crowley knows that.

Crowley is sending Aziraphale a message.

If he wants his book back, he’s going to have to climb over Crowley to get it.

Crowley rolls back on his side facing his angel. “May I touch you?” he asks, the words catching in his throat,

Aziraphale’s right eyebrow shoots up. “That depends on how you intend on touching me, I suppose.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. Aziraphale is stalling. He just wishes he knew why. “Do you trust me?”

“Against my better judgement,” Aziraphale teases.

“You’re full of zingers tonight, aren’t ya, angel?” Crowley tugs on the hem of Aziraphale’s shirt till he slides down the headboard and joins Crowley beneath the comforter. He positions Aziraphale on his side facing away from him, then wraps his arms around him and holds him tight. He adjusts, then readjusts until they both lay comfortably, Crowley’s nose buried in Aziraphale’s hair, breathing softly against his scalp. “There. How does that suit you?”

“It … it suits me just fine,” Aziraphale replies, overwhelmed by a dark but powerful sensation of love bleeding through his back where Crowley’s chest touches.

Aziraphale was flabbergasted the moment he realized Crowley loved him, when he realized how long Crowley had loved him. Lately, it’s how much Crowley loves him that leaves him speechless. He feels it now, filling his body with its warmth, pooling inside his stomach like a cup of rich cocoa.

“Good. Now try to get some sleep, will ya? Leave the heavy political dramas till sun up.”

***

“Hello, Azzziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s brow crinkles as an oppressive buzzing assaults his ears, encapsulated within a voice of indeterminate species. But he’s heard that voice before. It brings with it memories of Evil and destruction.

Satan and end-of-the-world level matters.

Crowley threatening several times to run away from Earth and leave Aziraphale to face annihilation alone.

It travels down his spine like a Bentley ablaze, held together only by a demon’s imagination, much in the same way that demon should be holding Aziraphale together now.

“Beelzebub?” Aziraphale turns, utterly perplexed. He’s not in Hell. He’s outdoors. But he’s not at the park this time. He’d suspected that if he managed to fall asleep, which he obviously has, he’d end up some place. He’d hoped for no place – a void of solitude behind his eyes he could slip swiftly into, hide himself inside of. He knew that was farfetched. He hasn’t been searching for these dreams; they’ve been coming to him, holding a mirror to his eyes, forcing him to confront his fears. The park as a setting makes sense because it means something to him.

It means something to them – him and Crowley.

This is plain confusing.

He’s at Tadfield Air Base, the book he’d been carrying in his last two dreams replaced by his unlit sword. He has to admit both are a pleasant change, but he doesn’t understand. Why would he come here? Their mission in Tadfield finished after Adam thwarted the Apocalypse. He’d never even heard of the place before then, definitely never had an occasion to come here. And after, it became but a small denominator in his conscious.

He breathes in through his nose. The air smells damp, pungent, bitterly sweet, like freshly cut grass mixed with steer manure. The realism of it shocks him. The park hadn’t smelt like this. It hadn’t felt like this either. It had felt real, yes, but he chalks that up to how often he’s been there. This feels hyper-real, beyond three-dimensional.

So real that logic dictates it can’t be.

He knows he isn’t in Tadfield. He’s lying in bed with Crowley. As he drifted away, he could have sworn he felt Crowley kiss the back of his neck. He’d held on to that feeing, made it his anchor in the hopes that it would keep him from wandering too far. That is reality, not this. Aziraphale doesn’t have lovely dreams when he sleeps. He doesn’t need lovely dreams. He has a lovely life, a lovely future.

Or is he wrong? Is it the other way around?

He doesn’t know and that frightens him. It had been so clear before, so solid.

How does he decide?

Trying to sort it out is causing a pain between his eyes and in his chest.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, figuring that getting to the bottom of one mystery might help him unravel the other.

“I’ve come to make you an offer, Angel of the Easzzztern Gate,” Beelzebub purrs with false sincerity. “An offer you’d be ridiculouszzz to refuszzze.”

Aziraphale stands defiant, his sword lowered but ready to draw if needed. “Try me.”

Beelzebub starts slowly, metering their words, the way one would when speaking to someone inferior to them. “I would very much like for you to come work for uszzz.”

Aziraphale’s eyes pop like overheated kernels of corn. “Work for you where?”

“Why, downstairszzz, of course. In Hell.”

Aziraphale chuckles but it’s not born of humor. It’s a nervous, incredulous sputter. “Are you … are you serious? What makes you think I would ever agree to such a preposterous thing?”

“Think about it, Azzziraphale.” Beelzebub takes a casual step toward him, not minding at all the large blade in the angel’s hand. They don’t even spare it a glance, and that makes Aziraphale wary. “You do realizzze you’ve been working for our szzzide all along.”

“I …” Aziraphale’s voice trembles, Beelzebub’s statement hitting at the root of his deepest fear “… n-no, I haven’t.”

“Yeszzz, you have. I know it, Satan knowszzz it, and Gabriel knowszzz it, so the Almighty must know it by now. That’szzz why I’m here. To invite you to take the next step. Make it official.”

“O … official?”

“Fall, Azzziraphale,” Beelzebub says, the closest thing to a smile Aziraphale has ever seen on their face nudging up the corners of their mouth, “and become one of uszzz.”

Aziraphale’s head twists on his neck. “What? No! I … I can’t do that! I’m an angel! I was put on Earth to do good!”

“But you also tempt. You’ve been doing it for Crowley. You do szzzome tempting, and he doeszzz some blessing. You know …” They lift a finger to the side of their nose and wink “Your Arrangement?”

Aziraphale’s hands shake, the sword he’s clutching vibrating in his grasp. “How … how do you know about that?”

“Demonszzz are a hive mind. For the most part, what Crowley knowszzz, we know aszzz well.”

Aziraphale feels a sudden unsinkable cold pass through him as 6000 years of secrets he thought they’d been hiding expertly cross the demon’s eyes and settle in the cruel twist of their smile.

“And in regardszzz to you, angel …” Beelzebub lowers their voice along with their eyes, looking at Aziraphale through stunted lashes “… I know quite a lot.”

“What … what do you know?”

“Join uszzz and I’ll tell you.”

“I … I can’t.”

“Yeszzz, you can,” they press, annoyed the way they had been with Adam. Adam had stared them down with collected calm, the wisdom of ages by his side. But Aziraphale doesn’t have Adam’s calm, and he doesn’t have backup. “Think of it. You’d have power, Azzziraphale. More power than they grant you upstairszzz. And reszzzpect. You and the traitor …” Beelzebub pinches their lips together and recovers “… I mean, the demon Crowley, could work in concert. You could still do …” They stop again, swallow hard, skewered by the next words they speak “… good deedszzz, just with an evil twiszzzt. The way you have been already. No need to make too large a change. That should szzzuit your needszzz.”

“Not too large a change?” Aziraphale chokes. “You want me to become a demon! A … a Fallen angel! That sounds like a rather large change to me!”

“Crowley must have told you about hiszzz Fall, hmm?” Beelzebub nods knowingly, theorizing the reason behind Aziraphale’s hesitation. “How devastating it waszzz for him? Fell szzztraight from Heaven, he did. He waszzz one of the Almighty’s favoriteszzz, too.”

“Sauntered vaguely downward is how he puts it,” Aziraphale corrects. He feels the need. He doesn’t like Beelzebub talking on Crowley’s behalf.

“You’re already on your way though, aren’t you? You’ve been inching down gradually over the centurieszzz. For you, it’d be more like a skip than a Fall.”

“Why are you making me this offer? What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” they say, but behind their dead eyes, something shrewd lurks. Calculating. To put it bluntly … Evil. “Hell needszzz numberszzz. Face it, you’re a mediocre angel at beszzzt, Azzziraphale. But you’d be a Duke in Hell. Higher in rank than Crowley. He’d answer to you.”

“What makes you think he’d listen to me?” Aziraphale says with an honest to God laugh this time. “He barely listened to you.”

“I can make certain of it. I’ll keep him under constant szzzurveillance. In chainszzz, if you prefer.” That thought, the image they’re building in their head of Crowley under lock and key, makes them grin so wide it splits their face in two. “Think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it! What you’re proposing is literally unthinkable!” Aziraphale lifts his sword threateningly but it doesn’t ignite. Because Aziraphale isn’t being entirely honest. The thought of Falling isn’t as abhorrent to him as it once was. He’s thought about Falling once or twice.

So he can be with Crowley with no complications.

Beelzebub drops all pretense of pleasantry the second those words pass Aziraphale’s lips. “We will have him back, angel. We will have the traitor in our rankszzz once more, and then you’ll never szzzee him again. Never, ever, ever szzzeee him again. But if you Fall, the two of you can be together forever. Beszzzt to decide quickly. I’m not a patient demon.”

“No! I won’t join you!” Aziraphale yells, his sword finally bursting into a pillar of orange flame. “And neither will he! He won’t serve under Hell’s thumb again!”

Beelzebub shakes their head, the expression in their eyes murderous. “You have made the wrong decision, Azzziraphale. And now, you will suffer the consequenceszzz.”

Beelzebub snaps their fingers. Aziraphale anticipates, snaps his fingers to counter, but it’s not as easy deflecting a Prince of Hell, he discovers, as it is Crowley. Beelzebub doesn’t budge but Aziraphale flies backward, hitting the rust-infected wall of a munition’s paddock some hundred feet behind him.

“If you refuszzze to Fall on your own …” He hears Beelzebub’s voice follow him as he soars up and gets flung, hitting the same wall a second time and leaving a dent “… then I will make you Fall!”

He flies up again, climbing higher and higher. He balls his fists, braces his form, and tries to stop himself. He’s powerful enough to slow down but not to stop. He soars up above the clouds then stops short, hovering miles in the air. There he floats, trapped inside some other entity’s power, praying that another angel, or maybe even God, has intervened. But a second later, he free falls, the air underneath him battering his back, causing it to bend like a bow. When he lands, instead of impacting the metal shed, he hits the asphalt with a dizzying thud, skidding across the ground like a stone on the water.

“You could have had everything, Azzziraphale!” Beelzebub bellows. “Everything you’ve ever wanted! Power! Reszzzpect! That diszzzhonored, traitorous demon for your own! But now, you’re going to Hell a priszzzoner! No! A szzzlave!”

“Over … my … discorporated … body …” Aziraphale groans, wondering briefly (when his mind stops reeling and everything makes sense again) how in the world his body hasn’t given out on him already.

He’s tossed across the tarmac and lands on his stomach, the rebound forcing his face to hit after. He can’t see himself, but he knows he’s bruised badly. One eye socket and his nose might be broken. He may be missing some teeth. Nothing he can’t fix but still. His sword, knocked from his grasp, bounces away, then shatters into a hundred pieces, its fire going out in each one as it separates from the whole. Aziraphale could miracle it back together in a snap, but what good would it do? Beelzebub is too fast for him, too powerful. Aziraphale rises to his knees, determined to get to his feet, but a pair of black derbies and fishnet socks comes up on him and kicks him to the ground.

“Over your diszzzcorporated body, you say?” Beelzebub snorts. “Aszzz you wish.”

Aziraphale peers up at his tormentor. Through swelling lids he sees Beelzebub transform, confronting Aziraphale in their true demon form – boil-ridden flesh dripping from their face as shimmery black skin pushes to the surface; liquid eyes, round and black, soulless to their depths, grow and segment, becoming a brilliant blood red; spindly arms sprout from their sides, thin translucent wings from their back. Their lips purse and stretch forming a long proboscis, which emits a dreadful slurping when they breathe in. The buzzing that surrounds them increases ten-fold when they beat those wings. Aziraphale throws his hands over his ears to keep his mortal eardrums from bursting.

“Aszzz the humanszzz szzzay …” Beelzebub buzzes, their voice ringing with a high-pitched whine that makes Aziraphale’s head pulse “… szzzeee you in Hell!”

They put a foot to the small of his back and shove down, forcing him through the cement quicker than he can react. Through layers and layers of rock he’s driven. A violent, air-sucking heat forms around him, creating a vacuum that pulls him through the Earth, straight to its core. The churning, broiling magma blinds him. His hair sizzles, his skin burns, his clothes disintegrate. His screams, his prayers, his calls to God and the angels for help, his pleas to Crowley, go unheard. Unanswered.

Deep inside his soul, he seethes with anger, a hatred to rival the molten iron that’s begun to envelope him. He feels his human form meld with the metal in a vulgar flesh and blood soup, but he has yet to discorporate, yet to return to Earth, or to Heaven. His bones and muscles render down to molecules and float away, but his consciousness remains, confused as to his fate until he realizes this is it. This is where he’ll be remanded - the core of the Earth his prison.

One place Crowley might never think to look for him, and where God, apparently, is content to see him rot.

***

When Aziraphale wakes, he’s no longer lying on the mattress, but sprawled on the marble floor. He scrambles to his feet before he even registers that he has a corporeal form again. His heel hits a wet spot and he nearly falls backward, but he stops himself before his feet catch air.

“Wha---what … what’s happening? Where am I?” he mutters, his brain taking longer to catch on before his body, which finds the edge of the mattress and sits. Shivering with cold after having been a primordial stew for the past who knows how long, Aziraphale takes a moment to reset and rewind, starting with the simple and working up from there.

“Where … where am I?” he mumbles, staring at his reflection in the polished floor, his eyes burning blue. “I’m at Crowley’s flat,” he answers himself. “In his bedroom.” He swallows, relaxing after that correct response. “What am I doing? Well, I’m supposed to be getting some sleep.” He looks up at the ceiling and chuckles. “Good job I’m doing with that one, huh?” He says it louder than necessary, hoping Crowley will answer, ask him if he’s had a nightmare. This time, he’ll say yes. He’ll climb into his demon’s arms and tell him everything. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back – Aziraphale sees it. This is where his other dreams were leading him. It’s one thing to have doubts about his relationship with Crowley. Those are easily fixable. All he need do is look at Crowley, catch him staring at him over his morning coffee, go out of his way to hold Aziraphale’s door open for him, drive him to the latest estate auction in search of his fifteenth copy of the same first edition, take him to lunch at his favorite restaurant.

All he has to do is tell Crowley he loves him, and hear Crowley tell him he loves him back like a reflex, no thought required, and those doubts will go away.

But doubts about his purpose on this planet, about who he is, who he’s been all along – for that he needs guidance. He’d kneel down and pray about it, but if these past few nights have proved anything it’s that the Almighty doesn’t seem too concerned with his nightmares or his doubts.

But Crowley doesn’t answer, doesn’t chuff, doesn’t snore, and Aziraphale sighs. Let the poor boy sleep, he scolds himself. The nightmare is over. Aziraphale has no wish to go back to sleep so it won’t be returning tonight. No need to wake him up. They have all day ahead of them. He can talk to him then.

Aziraphale climbs underneath the comforter, shimmying back in search of Crowley’s body. He doesn’t get too far when his frazzled brain comes up with a masterful idea. He’ll sneak over his wily serpent and retrieve his book. Won’t it ruffle Crowley’s scales to wake up and find Aziraphale has stolen his book back? But Aziraphale won’t let the boy seethe for long. He’ll cross the divide, offer up his nightmare in apology for defying his fiend’s wishes.

Then they’ll go from there.

He slides back out of the bed, deciding the best course of action would be to tiptoe around the end instead of climbing over Crowley and risk waking him up. He peeks over his shoulder to make sure he’s still asleep.

But the demon lump that should be snoozing by his side isn’t there.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale pats Crowley’s side of the bed, checking to see if he didn’t become a snake unintentionally while snatching a few z’s. It’s rare, but it has been known to happen.

He feels nothing but bunched blanket and the mattress.

“Crowley?” He hops out of bed and searches the flat, leading with his mind, his powers extending to every wall, every room, every conceivable crevice. But the angel can’t detect him – not a thought, not a hair of him, not the signature his power leaves behind, not his smell.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale races from the bedroom to the bathroom, then down the hall to the office, his aura a blinding beam guiding him. “Crowley … Crowley … Crowley!!”

Aziraphale checks every closet, which he admits is asinine, but then he checks them twice. He looks out the window and spots Crowley’s Bentley parked by the curb, waiting patiently for its owner. As a last, desperate resort, Aziraphale tries summoning him, reciting the demonic spell Crowley taught him that should only be used in case of an emergency. It’ll bring me back from anywhere in this plane, Crowley had told him. But be careful. It will attract demon attention so only use it when you have no other choice.

Aziraphale never has till now.

Aziraphale recites it repetitively, playing Russian Roulette each time he does, but it doesn’t bring Crowley back.

Which means his demon isn’t simply gone from the flat, or Earth.

He’s gone from their dimension entirely.

[fight-surrender]

Howlin’ Forever Chapter 3: Into the Woods

Rating: Teen and Up

Word count: 2583

Read on AO3

Summary: “Dog-Simon must catch my scent because he’s instantly awake and on his feet. His head is down, hackles are up and the snarl that ensues from his mouth is most certainly lupine. His eyes are Simon’s blue, but there is no humanity or recognition in them. Only malice.”

Time for Baz to find a werewolf. 

(I did put a readmore cut in here on my desktop, I’m terribly sorry to clog your feed if it doesn’t transfer to mobile.) Thanks as always to my amazing friends, @carryonsimoncarryonbaz​, @vkelleyart​ @penpanoply​ for their unwavering support and encouragement and beta reading and omg @penpanoply​ made me this cover art which is fucking gorgeous and brilliant and perfect. <3 <3

        _________________________________________________

                                       Ch 3: Into the Woods

                                   You and me have a disease,                                   You affect me, you infect me,                                   I'm afflicted, you're addicted,                                      You and me, you and me

                                  - “Infected” by Bad Religion

 Baz:

Panting, I scramble to the window. The night seems to be holding its breath, silently waiting as a quiet splash draws my eyes to the moat. The merwolves are eerily calm, almost reverent, as they bear witness to the hulking bronze figure that cuts through the water. The creature emerges from the moat, shaking off moonlit water droplets. He howls again, sending my heart into a renewed frenzy. The wolf then turns and runs into the forest.

I wipe my hands across my face, then rake them through my hair.

What should I do? What should I do?

Should I go after him? Leave him be? Where is he going? Does he even know?

The drawbridge is closed. I’m too frazzled to manage a spell to get around it. Sleep isn’t an option tonight. My eye catches on the pile of books Malfoy sent over. At least Hogwarts still has a fully stocked library, not the Children’s Garden of Verses we have here at Watford. I take a copy of “Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them,” a bag of salt and vinegar crisps and settle onto my bed to try and focus on the pages.

***

  Sunrise turns the room pink as I realize I’ve been reading the same paragraph for half an hour. I have no idea what it says. The only information I’ve retained from this exercise is that the full moon phase can last up to about four days. The transformation seems to last longer in the newly Turned. Also, there is a potion called Wolfsbane that helps lessen the effects of the Lycanthropy.

A heavy thunk, followed by the clatter of gears indicates the drawbridge is coming down.

I snap the book shut with one hand and stand up.

Time to find a werewolf.

 ***

 It’s a good thing it’s the weekend. I certainly wouldn’t miss class to hike through the woods after this imbecile. Branches slap my face as I stomp along, following Snow’s tracks. He’s left an obvious trail of broken limbs, scratched soil and huge footprints. My vampire senses come in handy as well. His scent is different in this form. He still smells like smoke, but now there’s a wildness, a smell of petrichor and moss with hints of musk.

My mind is a swirl of thoughts, but I can’t settle on any single one. Simon, the Chosen One, Watford’s golden boy is now a monster. Technically, he’s not allowed to exist. Neither am I, for that matter, I’m well versed in keeping my secret. The question is what’s Simon going to do with this information? He’s so damned good, he could very well just turn himself in to the mage as soon as he resumes his human form. I’ll be damned to hell twice over before I let him throw his life away like that. I will stop him, even if I have to put a collar on him and chain him to the bed. (That actually sounds appealing, regardless of his reaction to his new condition.)

Simon’s scent gets stronger as I approach a dried creek bed. I slow down, treading lightly across scattered stones and debris, trying not to make a sound. An angry squirrel chitters at me from a branch above my head. If I had the time or inclination, I’d drain him out of spite. At least squirrel blood tastes better than rat.

I stop short as I come around a boulder, on the other side is the hulking form of Simon Snow. Rather, the were version of him. His breath is till heaving, but he seems to be asleep. During the frenzied events of last night, I hadn’t a chance to really get a look at him.  He’s huge, probably the size of a Shetland pony. He doesn’t exactly look wolfish, his muzzle is not so pointed, his ears flop down. He looks like, well he looks like an overgrown, shaggy, bronze-furred Golden Retriever. For snakes sake, of course Simon Snow would turn into a Golden; cheerful, loyal, lovely dogs that they are. He’s too good to even be a proper monster. Crowley. I roll my eyes and shake my head in wonder.

Dog-Simon must catch my scent because he’s instantly awake and on his feet. His head is down, hackles are up and the snarl that ensues from his mouth is most certainly lupine. His eyes are Simon’s blue, but there is no humanity or recognition in them. Only malice. Not quite so Golden-esque then.

Before I can pull my wand from my sleeve, he lunges at me, but immediately falls to the ground. He growls again and turns to bite at something behind him. I step back to a safer distance and see that the beast’s foot is caught in some kind of debris. Snow flails and thrashes, but eventually collapses, exhausted, panting.

I try to approach him, now that he’s tired, and am met once again with that malevolent, dead stare and a mouth full of giant teeth. And, I might add, horrific dog breath.  I back away into the forest to think. That thing, it is Simon. I can’t exactly leave him out here for the next three days, but how can I spell him free and somewhere safe until he goes back to human form? There are dog training spells, but what would “atta boy” do to the human part of his brain? I suppose I could spell him to sleep, but how do I get him back to our room? I don’t have the magic to transport him.

What if I could get him to trust me? Physically, he’s a giant pet dog. What’s the best way to train a dog? Positive reinforcement: Food. What’s the way to Simon Snow’s heart? Food.  

I turn and run back to Watford. It’s time to call in a favor with Cook Pritchard.

 ***

 Thank magic no one is around when I haul the giant wicker picnic basket Cook Pritchard loaded up for me across the great lawn. She gave me enough food for an army. The woman was well chuffed that I was having a picnic with “friends.” She acted as if I hadn’t any friends.  “Well that’s lovely, Basilton, so nice to see you coming out of your shell.” Cook even tucked a small bottle of dandelion wine into the basket, “to help break the ice.” She actually winked at me. I wanted to implode.

I have friends. Sure, half of them are family, but still. You only need one or two friends, anything more isn’t worth the effort.

I carry the basket through the wood. I feel like I’m on my way to a goth Victorian picnic. I stop periodically to drain a few squirrels, just for spite.  The resident dryad side eyes me as I pass her thicket. I ignore her.

“What do you seek, blood eater?” She hisses. Twirling her ridiculous umbrella. Butterflies swirl lazily around her mossy hair.

“None of your business.” I reply.

“Your pistil is a wolf.” She remarks.

“He’s not my anything.” I snarl, “And he’s not a wolf, he’s a Golden Retriever.”

“The Chosen One is an abomination,” she presses. “The children of the moon must die.”

I light a fire in my palm. “Is that so?” I drop my voice to a menace, “maybe I should take out this whole forest in the process.”

“Do what you must. The forest will regrow. He cannot live.” She calls my bluff.

“You know what? You can fuck off.” I say, frustrated.

She opens her mouth to speak, but I raise my hand. “Enough. We’re done here.” I sling the giant basket over my shoulder and stomp away.

I’ll be staked before I take advice from a woodland creature holding a parasol. Snow has as much of a right to live as I do. More so, he’s not dead. Fuck the dryad.

I finally make it back to the creek bed. Dog-Simon looks vaguely defeated, laying on his side, his back leg stretched behind him. I can see a length of rusty wire wrapped around his foot. He’s awake, wary eyes never leaving mine, a low growl rumbles in his chest.

I settle myself on the ground a safe distance away. I’m wearing my school-issue green Watford football trackie bottoms and sweatshirt. Coach Mac will probably not appreciate werewolf damage to the practice uniform. My trainers are caked with mud. I sigh. The things I do for love.

The basket creaks as I open it. The sound makes Snow get up and retreat as far as the wire around his leg will let him. His tail is down, ears back; he’s panting lightly.

I pull out the bottle of dandelion wine and take a swig, to calm my nerves. It’s bitter, with a faint floral overtone, and just enough bite to warm my chest. I take a deep breath and survey the contents of my picnic. The basket is overflowing with roast beef sandwiches, sour cherry scones, roast chicken, bacon butties, jellies, and inexplicably a layered trifle. She must have magicked it all in there.

It’s just me and the dog, and I missed breakfast, so I help myself to a roast beef sandwich. Snow’s ears tip forward and he sits down. Sniffing the air.

I toss a bit of my sandwich at him, he scrambles away with a surprised bark. Almost immediately, he cautiously noses forward, sniffing at the roast beef. He sits down again, without eating it and resumes watching me, panting. His teeth are huge.

“For fucks sake, Simon, it’s not like it’s poisoned.”

The dog’s ears perk up and he cocks his head at me. His mouth is closed, brows almost furrowed in concentration.

“Go on then lad,” I press, “roast beef is your favorite.” I remind myself to breathe.

Snow resumes panting, but lowers his nose again at the food. He nudges it, then takes an experimental bite. Apparently satisfied that the offering wasn’t going to kill him, the great dog swallows the rest. Licking his lips, he retreats to his original position, as far away from Baz as he can get.

I toss half a sandwich into his orbit.

“There you go Snow, I know you can’t walk away from half a sandwich.”

Once again Dog-Simon sits, cocks his head and looks at me. I’m probably imagining it, but his eyelids almost seem to squeeze a bit, in concentration. He cautiously walks my way, never taking his eyes off me, and eats the sandwich half in one bite. This time he doesn’t shy away, he sits, panting again and watches me.

I toss him the other half of the sandwich, which he catches in the air and eats with more gusto. He’s watching me again, this time I get a weak tail wag.

I unwrap the roast chicken and throw the whole thing at him. It lands with an unceremonious plop, a leg breaking free. Simon stands and practically inhales the whole thing. His tail is wagging faster now.

We go on like this for the duration of the afternoon. I’m slowly inching closer, I can almost touch his muzzle now. He seems more relaxed, the panting has stopped. His ears are forward, tail wagging freely. His eyes have gone softer, from ice to sky.

I reach into the basket for a sour cherry scone, I’ve been saving these for this moment. I scoot even closer, holding it in my hand this time. He’s so close, he could easily rip my throat out. It’s not often I have to worry about someone ripping out my throat. It’s refreshing, really. I suppose there are worse ways to die.

“Simon, we’re going to have to work together to figure this mess out. If there is any part of you that can hear me, let me help you. I mean, I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but…” My voice tapers off. Why would he trust me? Crowley, I’ve done nothing but torment him for the last 6 years.

A gentle breeze ruffles the golden leaves above me. “We be of one blood, ye and I.” I murmur. A warm rush of surprise washes over me. Where the fuck did that even come from? Kipling was a powerful magician, but is that even a spell? Leave it to me to channel my favorite childhood book in times of duress.

I take a breath and hold out the scone. Simon noses forward, sniffs, and carefully takes the scone from my hand. He doesn’t move away. I keep my eyes on him as I slowly reach for the basket and remove another scone. I hold it in my hand, when he takes it, I reach out with my other hand and run it behind his ear, rubbing along his jaw. He stiffens, but continues to eat the scone. “These are your favourite,” I whisper, scratching behind his ear, rubbing slowly along his neck and shoulder. Eventually, I find myself out of scones and scratching his stomach, while his tongue lolls and he scratches his back leg lazily.

I take a break because my hands are cramping from all the petting. I really hope he doesn’t remember any of this. I shake my hands and look at the grime under my nails. I’m going to need a manicure.

Simon stands and gives a mighty shake from his nose to his feathered, rudder-like tail. He utters a sharp bark, like he’s decided something, then proceeds to try and climb into my lap, his huge pink tongue lapping my face.

“Merlin and Morgana, you giant thumping git, get off. I push him away, but not too far. He knocks me to the ground and licks my whole face. For snakes sake, you’re disgusting, I get to my feet wiping saliva off my chin and trying not to smile. Simon’s tail is wagging so hard his whole body is wiggling and he’s rubbing along my side, trying to get me to scratch his back. I oblige for a moment.

“Snow, stop, let’s get your leg untangled.”  He stands so quietly as I extricate his leg from the wire, that I can’t help but wonder if he understood me.

Once freed, Simon plants his giant paws on my shoulders and smears the side of my face with his tongue once more. “Blimey, Snow.” I step back and the great dog’s feet once more hit the ground. He zooms away, coming to a skidding stop, returns to my side and bows his front legs down, rear up, tail wagging madly.

I lean down and take his huge face in my hands, scratching gently below his jaw. “Come along, you delightful moron, let’s go home.”

I turn and make my way through the forest. The late afternoon sun dappling the trail with rich golden light. Dust motes dancing in the beams. Simon scampers ahead, darting back every few minutes to make sure I’m still following.

I breathe in the rich loamy scent of these ancient woods and let it out slowly. For once, my mind is quiet. Simon is back at my side, nosing at my hand. I absentmindedly rub his velvet ear. I stop and let this foreign emotion wash over me. I let myself relax, for just this moment, I am content.

[amazingmitchell]

something to play for

genre: fluff, smut/nsfw

word count: 4435

available on: ao3

summary: “the world doesn’t revolve around basketball, lester.”

a basketball!au where phil is the school's star player and dan is his best friend, watching from the sidelines. everything changes when the team makes it to state championships for the first time in ten years and dan and phil realize they want something more than friendship.

author’s note: it's finally here! after months of waiting i can proudly say it's polished and beautiful. eternal thanks to @existentialhouseplant for beta reading it! (UPDATE: i accidentally deleted this whole thing while trying to edit it and i’m frustrated with myself and tumblr and the universe, so the italics aren’t copied over and if you really want them, give it a read on the ol’ ao3).

the bell rings, sending students flying from their desks and out the door. dan shoves his unfinished history assignment into the depths of his backpack and follows his classmates as they pour into the hallway. unlike the rest of them, dan walks to the gym, rather than through the school gates. he gets sour looks from a group of girls standing by the lockers who know all too well where he’s going and who he’s hanging out with.

when he enters the gym, dan doesn’t have to look up to know phil’s on the court shooting baskets. the sound of the basketball slicing through the net and phil’s shoe squeaks echo across the building.

“don’t tell me you have homework again today,” phil calls once he notices dan setting his bag down by the bleachers. 

“i have homework every day,” dan says back, pulling the now wrinkled assignment sheet out of his backpack. “if you have a problem with it, you can take it up with mrs. shelley.”

phil makes a lazy attempt at a three, letting the ball bounce a few times until it hits the wall. “you have to help me practice, though. what’s more important, state championships or some small assignment?”

“the world doesn’t revolve around basketball, lester.”

except it does, and not just for phil. their high school hasn’t had a good basketball team in ten years, but since phil joined the team in september, they’ve won nearly every game. the coach tells all the players it’s a combined effort, not that he’s fooling anyone. phil’s the most talented player in the state and carries the team. for as popular as phil is on the court, he’s pretty quiet in class. he doesn’t let his talent get to his head and only has one real friend: dan. all the popular boys at school tried to become phil’s friend as soon as the team started winning games, but it became pretty evident dan wasn’t sharing. still, there are girls who occasionally go up to phil and ask for his number, to no avail. it explains why dan gets so many dirty looks: everyone wants to see phil lester’s personal side. 

at first, dan expected the basketball hype to die down after the first home game. after their third win in a row, though, it started to sink in that maybe this season is the one. winning twenty of their twenty two games has earned them a spot in the state championship, and now anything anyone can think about is winning the last game of the season. 

dan has supported phil every step of the way, but the problem with the championship game is that it takes place the weekend before finals. earlier in the semester, dan was willing to forget his homework in favor of helping phil practice. today, though, dan puts his foot down.

“this ‘assignment’ is worth fifteen percent of my grade, phil,” dan frowns. “i can’t just not do it.”

phil rolls his eyes, “fine. but if i accidentally hit you from over here, that’s a sign you should be helping me instead.” he picks up the ball again and tries to pump fake dan, but he’s already looking back down at his history project and doesn’t notice. 

dan feels like he’s been working for hours when he looks at the gym clock and finds it’s only been twenty minutes. he groans, setting his papers aside and rolling up his sleeves.

“you certainly look productive,” phil comments with a smirk. “maybe you could use a break.” dan stares at phil blankly. “i could use some help with my defense.” 

sighing, dan stands up and walks across the court to phil. “what do you want me to do?”

“just dribble around and try to make a shot,” phil says, emphasizing the word try as he passes the basketball to dan. dan doesn’t catch it gracefully and it slips out of his grasp. as dan tries to chase after it, phil steals it from him and scores a basket like it’s nothing.

dan throws his hands up. “i don’t know what you expect from me, but you’re definitely not making this easy.”

“that’s the point, howell.” phil tosses the ball back to dan, placing his hands on his hips to take a breath. “just try your best. i promise i won’t go too hard on you.”

dan takes a minute to steady the ball in his hands, then starts dribbling from side to side. he takes a cautious step forward, then another, and another until phil swipes at the ball and dan retreats to the half court line. he tries not to look at phil’s eyes, because he knows he’ll get distracted. phil’s just captivating like that. he’s such a nice person that you don’t even realize when he’s taken the ball from you and scored; it’s completely disarming. even the best players fall victim to his charm, or at least dan hopes that’s the case. 

he breathes in deeply before stepping forward again, this time avoiding phil. he moves around phil and definitely gets away with a double dribble, but finds himself only feet away from the basket. dan puts the ball up and it hits the side of the rim, bouncing into phil’s open arms.

“i’m surprised,” phil smiles. “you’re not actually that bad. your shooting form needs improvement, though.”

“well, since you’re the expert here, why don’t you show me how you’d do it?”

phil walks over to where dan is standing and hands him the ball, this time keeping a hand on the ball and the other on dan’s shoulder. “use your right hand to support the bottom of it,” he says, moving dan’s hand. “put your left hand on the top of it and push the ball up as you jump.”

dan makes a sore attempt to follow phil’s instructions and the ball comes no closer to the basket than before. phil laughs in the background and runs to grab the ball. “it’s not funny,” dan grumbles, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. “you know i don’t know how to aim.”

“sorry. i guess i should be resting up for saturday’s game, anyway,” phil says, holding the ball at his hip. “i didn’t hurt your feelings, did i?”

dan shakes his head quickly, “of course you didn’t. some people just aren’t born to play basketball.”

smiling, phil walks over to the utility closet and puts the basketball back on the rack with the others the team uses for practice as dan slings his backpack over his shoulder. “do you want to come over for dinner?” phil asks as he grabs his own bag. “mom’s making a big dinner in celebration of state championships since they’ll be out of state for the game.”

they exit the gym and make their way through the halls. “that’s a family thing, phil, i don’t want to intervene,” dan says. “besides, i still have that history thing to do.”

“okay,” phil says, not wanting to push dan, knowing that he already took away from dan’s study time. “speaking of the championship game, since my parents can’t go, do you think you’d like to go with me?”

“like, go with you on the bus and share your hotel room?” dan asks. “you don’t have to do that for me-”

“well, i want to,” phil presses. “there’s no one i’d want to be with me more.”

dan grins, “i’d love that.” he waves goodbye to phil as they walk past the school gates and head in opposite directions. as dan walks home, he can’t help but notice the strange feeling bubbling in his stomach at the idea of going to state with phil.

—

instead of resting like phil said he was going to, he hits the courts every day for the rest of the week. phil makes free throw after free throw, basket after basket. dan sits on the sidelines and supports phil as much as he can while he does his homework. both dan and phil’s most productive day that week is when the team has their final practice before the game. phil is occupied with the rest of the team, so he doesn’t distract dan from his work. it wasn’t like phil was actually getting much practice in with just dan around, anyway. 

phil’s coach gives the team a long, inspiring speech and credits their success to team effort, but looks directly at phil as he says it. dan notices some of the team members becoming uncomfortable when the coach gets to that part of the speech, so he shoots phil a reassuring smile. dan hates the way he and phil are treated sometimes. phil just doesn’t deserve it.

phil walks out of practice that day with a lump of stress caught in his throat. “you will rest tonight, right?” dan asks as they stand at the front of the school before saying their goodbyes. “you have to get up early to meet the bus in time.”

phil doesn’t say anything.

“are you okay? i know you’re stressed and all but you’re really quiet,” dan says. “at least that means you won’t get t’d up.” that puts a smile on phil’s face, but it fades as quickly as it comes. he stares at dan like he’s worried about something, and dan’s known phil long enough that he knows it’s not just pre-game jitters. “you better figure this out, lester. i’m not sleeping in the same room as someone who’s going to wet the bed,” dan jokes. he punches phil in the arm (softly, of course) and turns to walk home.

—

dan sits on the curb in the school parking lot on his phone as he waits for phil to show up. he checks his texts over and over, but the school’s wifi never was any good. it isn’t until he hears a suitcase being set down behind him that he realizes phil’s here.

“sorry,” phil says, helping dan up. “dropped my straightener on the counter and burnt a hole in my towel.” 

dan frowns, because either phil didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, or he’s still stressed out. “still nervous?” dan asks. 

phil doesn’t have a chance to respond before his coach whistles and waves them over to the bus. they step inside and find that most of the team is already settled in, but thankfully there’s two open seats next to each other near the back of the bus. phil puts their suitcases above their seats, then sits next to dan. 

“i have homework i need to do,” dan says as he takes his laptop out of his backpack. “do you want to pick out a playlist? i always work better with music, and i think it would help you de-stress.”

nodding, phil takes dan’s phone and scrolls through his music for a minute before deciding on 148 by c418. he plugs a pair of earbuds into the phone and offers one side to dan. 

“odd choice, but i’m down for this,” dan says, placing the earbud in his ear and logging into his laptop. while it loads, dan watches as phil leans back in his seat and stares out the window. he would ask phil if he needs anything, but phil looks more relaxed than he’s been all week, and dan smiles. 

—

it takes a few hours to drive to the state capital, but soon enough they’re there and everyone’s anxious to get up and move around. they stop by the hotel to drop off their bags then they’re on the road again, this time to an arcade. it’s the coach’s surprise to the team for making it this far, and to take pressure off the big game tomorrow. 

they start with laser tag, pitting the players and trainers against each other. dan opts to join the team phil isn’t on to make things more fun, even though he knows he’s probably going to lose. when the game begins, dan runs into one of the towers and peeks out the window, searching for phil in the darkness. he shoots the basketball players that are brave enough to cross the large, open field, but there’s still no sign of phil. eventually, all dan’s teammates have been picked off and dan’s pretty sure he and phil are the last ones still in the game. he decides that waiting around for phil isn’t going to work, so he stands up from his hiding spot and turns around.

within half a second, the sound of a laser gun goes off and dan’s own gun turns dark before he can even realize what’s happened. phil had been waiting behind dan the whole game. “you cruel bastard,” dan groans, ripping his vest off. 

phil just laughs, his tongue poking out from his teeth. dan rolls his eyes; that’s phil’s happy laugh. he’s glad phil’s enjoying himself, but this is just unfair. “i’m sorry,” phil says with no sincerity once he takes time to catch his breath. “i got you so good.” 

“yeah,” dan grumbles. he walks out of the tower and phil follows him out of the arena, leaving their guns behind. “i hate you.”

“here, we can play a round of air hockey and i’ll let you win,” phil says. 

dan shakes his head, “there’s no fun in that.”

“do you really think you can beat me otherwise?”

dan inserts a token into the table and picks up a striker. “game on, lester.” 

—

later that night, after the team orders in pizza, dan and phil make their way to their hotel room, exhausted from the day’s events. the first thing they do is collapse on the bed, not bothering to take their shoes off or get comfortable. dan thinks it’s a bit counteractive to exhaust players before the most important game they’ve ever played. either way, it’s the most fun he’s had in a while, even though phil beat him at every game they played. they stare up at the ceiling until the air conditioning turns on and dan has to get up and turn it off before they freeze to death.

“i know i said i hate you, but i’m proud of you, you know that?” dan says as he sits back down on the bed.

phil sits up to reply to him, “what am i supposed to say to that? thanks?”

“you’ve come so far. i remember when you first made the team. i wonder if anyone thought we’d ever be here.”

“you convinced me to try out,” phil defends. “i wouldn’t have made it here without you.”

“you’re such a sap,” dan smiles. he and phil sit like this for a few seconds that feel like slow motion. dan suddenly feels warm under phil’s gaze and he can hear the stillness in the air, the slight ringing in his ears. “do you think we could,” dan trails off and bites his lip. a shiver runs down dan’s spine as phil takes his hand and cups dan’s cheek, tilting his head upwards so he can finally break the tension between the two of them and kiss dan. it’s a kiss so long and deep that it’s dizzying; a warm, fuzzy feeling growing in his stomach and his mouth and everywhere. 

dan pulls away to rest his forehead against phil’s, taking slow breaths and closing his eyes because phil’s blue-green eyes are so intense. he drapes his arms over phil’s shoulders and laughs airily, “shit, phil.”

phil responds by closing the gap and kissing dan again, this time taking dan’s bottom lip in between his teeth. catching dan by surprise, he gasps softly and grabs a handful of phil’s shirt. phil smirks, aware of the mess he and dan are now in. he kisses dan so firmly that he pushes dan’s back against the bed, straddling dan’s legs and placing his hands next to either side of dan to hold himself up as they kiss. it’s the most heavenly thing he’s ever felt, dan thinks. phil’s body above his, their breath hot on each other’s faces. as phil drags dan’s bottom lip through his teeth once more, dan’s sighs become a low-pitched whine. he places his lips along dan’s jawline and kisses lower and lower until he reaches the soft skin on dan’s neck. 

“not there,” dan pants. “‘m sensiti-” he cuts himself off with a load moan as phil bites down gently. phil raises his eyebrows, and dan’s ashamed of how pathetic it seemed. “i warned you,” he grumbles.

“oh my god, dan,” phil breathes, sending a wave of fervor through dan. “you sound so beautiful.”

dan almost moans again at the heaviness of phil’s voice, but he stops himself. “how far do you want to go?” dan asks, and he knows it’s a mood killer, but this is important to him. to both of them. it’s new and tempting and needs boundaries. “i don’t think either of us brought anything, so…” he trails off.

phil pulls away and looks at dan, taking a minute to brush the hair out of his eyes. “maybe we can just get each other off?”

“fuck yes,” dan nods, tilting his head back to allow phil to continue kissing his neck. he lets his hands run up and down phil’s body. dan brushes over phil’s nipples, making him gasp against dan’s skin. tentatively, dan does it again, and this time he elicits a moan from phil. it’s when dan presses down harder that phil can’t take it anymore.

“help me get your pants off,” phil says, not as composed as he was a few minutes ago. phil easily takes his jeans off, but dan has to lift himself up once phil can’t tug dan’s down any further. phil throws them to the other side of the bed once they’re off. he then carefully pulls dan’s underwear down, then his own. they were both clearly straining against the fabric, and dan now shivers in the cold hotel room air. 

dan feels like he should say something, but he’s so tongue-tied with desire that he makes a helpless sound. it’s enough for phil to get the message, and his hand finally wraps around the head of dan’s cock. slick with precum, phil uses it to help pump the rest of dan’s cock. 

it’s absolutely euphoric, and soon dan’s bucking up into phil’s hand and whispering his name with every movement. it sends waves of pleasure through him, and he would be content doing this for hours on end. but somehow, in all the mania, dan reaches his hand out in return, taking phil’s cock in his hand and pumping in time with phil. 

phil bites his lip, trying not to let out the string of curses dan knows is stuck in his throat. dan leans forward to kiss phil and the moans he’s holding back become vibrations that go straight to dan’s cock. phil’s hips involuntarily slide forward, and their cocks rub against each other. phil pulls back, but dan guides phil’s cock next to his again and takes them both in his hand. the added friction brings them both infinitely closer to release.

“phil,” dan cries, rolling his hips as need steadily builds up and courses through his body. “i’m- i-”

phil pumps him over the edge, and anything dan was saying becomes an incoherent mess. phil follows soon after, coming on dan’s stomach like dan had done with him. breathing heavily, he falls on the sheets beside dan. 

once they’ve both calmed down to the point where words seem possible again, phil turns his head to look at dan. “hi,” he says, and dan laughs breathlessly.

“hi,” dan smiles. “we should go wash up.”

—

dan wakes up before phil does, a pair of arms wrapped around him and soft breathing against his neck. it’s the most comforting thing he’s ever felt, the feeling of being safe and warm in phil’s embrace. dan looks over at the clock and it’s well past eight, but the team doesn’t need to be at the arena until later, so dan sighs and closes his eyes to fall asleep again. 

until he realizes that the game—the biggest game the team’s played yet—is today, and dan just slept with the star player. it’s a feat almost everyone at school should be jealous of, but it sends dan’s mind racing. not only did he tire phil out more than he already was, what if he gets distracted during the game? dan knows phil’s always calm and collected on the court, but what if? what if dan lost the game for phil before it even started? phil was already nervous on the bus ride up. did dan make it worse? or would phil get mad at him for causing this mess?

the warm feeling of being next to phil is replaced by a sickness to his stomach. he pries away from phil, biting his lip with a frown as he hears phil mumble something in protest beside him. “good morning,” phil says, stretching. his heart leaps at the sound of phil’s voice, but his thoughts shut his feelings down again.

“morning,” dan mutters without looking back. he gets up and takes a change of clothes out of his bag, heading into the bathroom to change while avoiding phil’s slightly confused stare as much as possible. turning on the faucet, he splashes his face with water, but he knows nothing can hide the bruise on his neck and the plumpness of his lips. 

when he comes out of the bathroom, and for the rest of the morning, for that matter, dan shuts his mouth and tries not to look at or think about phil. if i’m not distracted by him, maybe he won’t get distracted by me. they pile onto the bus after a long and silent breakfast (from all the team, who were clearly nervous about playing such an important game), and dan slides into the window seat. out of the corner of his eye, dan sees phil try to hold his hand, but he pulls away before they touch. 

“are you okay, dan?” phil asks in a quiet voice. 

“just tired,” dan says back, and he can tell phil doesn’t buy it. and dan isn’t entirely wrong; he’d have loved to stay in bed with phil for another hour, but today is phil’s day. today is about basketball.

at the arena, phil and the team stop by the locker room to drop their bags off and talk strategy for the game, something dan isn’t invited to. he and the other friends and family that went along for the trip find seats in the arena itself, bustling about game predictions and final scores. dan finds a seat further up in the stands and scrolls mindlessly through his phone for what feels like hours before both teams come out for warmups. when dan glances up, there’s now a lot more people than there were before, and he meets phil’s searching eyes on the court and he can’t bear to stare at phil anymore. the look phil gives dan once he realizes dan isn’t in his usual courtside seat makes dan want to run down and let him know he’s okay. 

dan tries to pay attention to the other team warming up, and the fact that they’re making most of their shots doesn’t put dan’s mind at ease. this is going to be a tough game for phil, but he can handle it, right? he hopes phil can, because soon enough, warmups are over and the teams go to their benches for their final pep talk. dan looks to their team’s huddle, but he doesn’t see phil’s jersey number, and it’s not because he’s sitting further away. he looks for any sign of phil in the sidelines before he notices a familiar jersey jogging up the steps. 

“i saved you a seat by the bench,” phil says, resting his hands on his hips. “better view up here?”

“not really,” dan hesitates, struggling to find something to say that isn’t going to make him seem like a terrible friend. 

“did i do something wrong?” phil asks, and dan doesn’t think he’s ever seen phil more heartbroken in his life. “is this about last night? because i really liked it, and if you didn’t-”

“i shouldn’t have kissed you,” dan says. phil takes dan’s hands into his and pulls dan up until he’s standing. “what if i distract you during the game? what if i make you lose? you were exhausted last night and i probably pushed you too far, and i know you’ve been nervous since before we left.”

phil laughs and rolls his eyes, “i was nervous about sharing a room with you, silly, not about the game. i’ve been mad about you for years, and i finally had my chance to tell you. when i found out you felt the same way, i didn’t have anything to be nervous about anymore. but i freaked out again when you were acting differently. i thought wow, maybe you don’t really like me the way i like you. i would have been thinking more about if you hated me or not than what’s happening in the game.”

“really?” dan asks. 

“i like seeing you cheer me on in the sidelines,” phil smiles, swinging their arms back and forth. “it gives me something to play for.” phil draws him into a hug, rubbing dan’s back.

“god, i’m sorry,” dan whispers, and he tries to put words to his feelings, but if he says anything else, he’ll probably cry. he can’t believe he’s made things so much worse than they were, but all he wants to do is focus on being in phil’s arms again. 

“come on, you’ll make me late.” phil, with dan in tow, walks back down the stairs and around to the other side of the court to the bench. he gives dan a quick kiss, leaving dan just as blushy as he was the last time the kissed, before apologizing to the coach and joining the huddle. 

—

phil wins. the team wins, really, but it’s all phil at the end. it’s the best game of his career and at the final buzzer, everyone in the building knows it. dan rushes onto the court with the rest of the players on the bench, wrapping his arms around phil once the two meet.

“you are so sweaty,” dan shouts over the cheering. 

“shut up,” phil says, and in front of thousands of people, to be replayed on the news that night, phil kisses dan. 

[vernonfielding]

Life Writes Its Own Stories

Chapter 7 (AO3!)

AN: The next update won't be for another week. I'm going to be off in the wilderness for a few days with no access to internet. Assuming I don't fall off a cliff, Chapter 8 should be up next Sunday. 

Jake found out the story had published when he was woken up far too early on Sunday by an explosion of text messages. There were a dozen from Gina alone, mostly demanding to know why he had gone on the record with Amy when Gina was his lifelong best friend, damnit. There were two texts from Rosa; the first read “what the hell, Jake” and the second “WHAT THE HELL.” The Vulture had also texted but Jake didn’t bother opening that one.

There was nothing from Amy.

Jake let that particular gut-punch sink in. He hadn’t heard from her since he’d lost his damned mind and kissed her, and he thought it was possible he’d never hear from her again.

When his phone dinged again, he picked it up to find another text from Gina (“srsly man wtf”) and wrote back with a shrug emoji and a heart-kiss emoji and three fruit emojis. He ignored the Vulture. He took a deep breath and called Rosa.

“What the hell, man?”

“On a scale from no-one-reads-the-Bulletin-anyway to maybe-the-FBI-is-hiring, how much trouble do you think I’m in?” Jake said.

“A lot.”

Jake pressed his hand to his eyes and groaned.

On the other end of the line he could hear Rosa rustling around, doing god knew whatever she did on her weekends, but she didn’t speak for a long time and the silence was unnerving. Finally, she said, “Did you know?”

“About the story? Or about my name being in it?” Jake said.

“Either. Both.”

“Yes.”

More dead air, and then Rosa said, “You’re a moron, you know that.”

“Yep.”.

Rosa sighed, said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, dummy,” and ended the call.

Jake stared at the dark screen for a while, then he stuffed the phone under his pillow, rolled over, pulled his blanket up over his head and went back to sleep.

+++

The professional fallout wasn’t as bad as he expected. The Vulture was furious, of course. When Jake finally called him Pembroke screamed for a while and told him his pasty white ass would be glued to his desk chair for the foreseeable future but he didn’t actually make any formal threats. The Vulture did demand to know why Amy had contacted Jake of all possible detectives in the NYPD – something that Jake realized he should have anticipated and prepared an answer for – and he panicked and said Gina must have offered him up. That set off a whole new round of yelling about Jake having friends in the media, but he mostly zoned out on that part.

Around noon, Scully called to tell Jake that officially, the brass did not approve of him talking to a reporter without permission. But unofficially, they were pleased that Jake’s quote gave the NYPD some protection from a story that was destroying the corrections department.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” Scully said, “but you got us more positive press with that quote than I have all year.”

Scully giggled then and asked if Jake wanted to join him for chicken wings.

+++

The personal fallout was far worse.

Jake had been swinging widely between shame and confusion in the immediate aftermath of being soundly rejected by Amy. He couldn’t figure out how he’d misread the situation so badly, to have thought that she might be interested.

But he realized after the story came out that the mood swings were really just denial, because as soon as he saw her name in cold, black print on top of her article, a depression washed over him. The sadness came in waves, at times so dense he felt like he couldn’t breathe, and others like a gray mist that muted the world around him. He stayed in bed for most of the day and only left the apartment to pad down to the corner bodega – in pajama pants and a T-shirt and slippers – so he could buy an actual copy of the Bulletin and further torture himself.

He couldn’t decide if it made things better or so much worse that he hadn’t even noticed that he was falling for Amy. The past few weeks, as he’d felt them becoming close, he’d been intrigued and bemused by the friendship developing between them. He’d certainly noticed that Amy was beautiful, and that she was smart and funny and kind. But it was only standing with her in front of her apartment, her eyes reflecting the light of the streetlamp, the stress and the excitement about her story practically making her glow from within, that he’d realized he wanted to kiss her.

Or maybe his feelings had started to boil over a little before that, when he was walking her home in the dark and the idea had come to him, out of nowhere, that he wanted to hold her hand. Or maybe it had started at the diner, when Amy had said she liked typing his name and Jake hadn’t actually thought she was a big nerd – he’d thought about her fingers tapping out the letters of his name, and he’d felt chills on the back of his neck.

Or maybe it had been a dozen times before that one night, moments like droplets collecting over the past several weeks until he was drowning in them.

Jake wondered if he should call Amy – ask her to reconsider, or even to explain to him how this could have happened. She was smart. She would probably have some ideas. But then he remembered the guilt and the horror on her face at having committed an ethical crime, and he knew he couldn’t call. Her moral code was something he’d admired in her from the first time he’d read a story of hers, when he’d given her the tip about the cop who killed his ex-girlfriend. He wasn’t going to be the one to compromise that, not any more than he already had. And even if he did call, nothing could happen between them, not anymore. He would never ask her to put her professional ethics aside for him. Not for some cop.

He still hoped she might call or text. Just to let him know.

+++

It was getting close to midnight and he was already back in bed with the lights out when he couldn’t take it anymore and wrote a text. It said: “Congrats.” He added an explosion emoji, deleted the emoji, then hit send.

He was sliding the phone under his pillow when it vibrated in his hand.

The text from Eldora Senegal said: “Can we meet?”

+++

Jake sat on a swing in the playground, wishing he hadn’t forgotten his jacket before ducking out to meet her. He was sure the only reason he’d gotten there first was because he lived nearby, but he still couldn’t help the nerves in his stomach – the worry that she was going to text him any minute to say she’d changed her mind. Or maybe she just wouldn’t show up.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting from her. He just knew he wanted to see her.

He kicked his feet in the sand, pushing himself back a few inches, and buried his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. The swing seat was damp and the chill of it was soaking into his jeans, making him shiver. He startled when he caught movement in his peripheral vision, and planted his feet to stop the swing. Amy stood at the edge of sand, almost entirely in shadow, but he knew her profile, recognized the curve of her cheek. She walked over silently and sat in the swing beside his.

They drifted a little in their swings, not talking. Then Amy said, not much louder than a whisper, “Did you get in any trouble?”

“Not really,” Jake said, eyes on the ground. “The Vulture yelled a bunch, but that’s kind of his thing. Honestly? I think you made a lot of people in the NYPD pretty happy today.”

“But not you.”

“No,” Jake said, carefully. “Proud. Impressed. But no, not happy.”

Amy dug the toes of her shoes into the sand, rocking on her swing. He felt bad telling her the truth, but he would have felt worse if he’d lied.

“Today was amazing,” Amy said, after a few minutes of silence. Jake glanced at her, but she was staring at her feet, and her voice hadn’t actually reflected her words. “All of these politicians were on Twitter condemning the corrections department. The mayor himself said he’s going to open an investigation. The New York Times actually had a story online today quoting my article. And tomorrow I’m going on NPR to talk about it. The Brian Lehrer Show, Jake!”

She took a deep breath, and when she glanced up, Jake could see that her eyes were too bright. “A bunch of my coworkers took me out tonight to celebrate, and even Holt came out with us, and I was so proud of myself. But all I could think about was how much it sucked that I couldn’t talk to you.”

Jake felt dizzy with uncertainty and relief and longing, and a dozen other emotions he couldn’t pin down. He opened his mouth but had no idea what to say.

Amy said, “So from there I sort of spiraled and just kept thinking, what if I never talk to you again, or never see you again? And I know that’s dumb because I’d probably see you around even if I was trying to avoid you, but what if you didn’t ever want to see me, because of- what happened. I would hate that. I don’t want that.”

“Amy, if you want to be friends-”

“No,” Amy said. “I don’t want that.”

“Then-” Jake stopped, swallowing his words, suddenly afraid of the hope swelling in his chest.

But Amy was getting up from her swing, and she stood in front of him, so his knees bumped against her legs. She grabbed the chains of his swing in her fists and held him steady. He looked up at her face, his heart hammering, his palms sweaty.

“I like you, Jake,” Amy said. “And I don’t want you to be my source, and I don’t want us to be professional or- transactional. I just want you.”

She pulled his swing toward her and dipped her head down to his and kissed him. There was no doubt in her kiss, no hesitation, and he kissed her back fiercely, planting his hands on her hips to hold her closer. She moved her hands to cup his face and her fingers were freezing from holding the cold chains, and the feeling against his flushed cheeks was electric. He groaned into her mouth and she kissed him harder, tongue diving between his lips. She kissed like she couldn’t get enough, like she needed something from him, something only he had.

But eventually they did slow down, kisses evolving into nips and tastes. By then they were both shivering from the cold. Jake kissed her closed mouth and pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, and she smiled coyly at him. She stood over him, her cheeks pink and her lips swollen,  her hair falling out of its ponytail in wisps all around her face, and she was breathtaking.

He kissed her again, felt her lips curl into another smile against his, then stood up and wrapped his arms around her, tucking her in close.

“What do we do now?” he said, pressing his face into her hair.

“Your place?” Amy said. “It’s closer.”

Jake laughed and squeezed her tight, then stepped back and took her hand, and led her across the sand and out of the park. It had to be getting close to 1 a.m., and they both had work in the morning, and apparently Amy had an important radio thing, but he couldn’t imagine sleeping any time soon – not when she was here with him, when she’d come back to him, and there was so much to talk about and he just wanted to make out with her all night.

He was the one spiraling now, in the best way. The relief and euphoria were almost overwhelming. He let go of her hand and looped his arm around her shoulders instead, drawing her into his side, and she slipped an arm around his waist.

“Are you sure about this?” he said, after they’d walked a bit in silence. He wasn’t sure what he meant by ‘this’ – the kissing and holding, or that they were going back to his apartment possibly to have sex, or that they were maybe dating, if not now sometime very soon.

“Yes,” Amy said, the certainty in her voice reassuring. “I actually did some research.”

“Research on what?” Jake said, smiling at her profile.

“Journalism ethics,” Amy said. “There are a ton of thought pieces on dating sources – which is never appropriate, by the way. But the consensus seems to be that sometimes you can’t help who you fall for, and there are best practices for transitioning from a professional reporter-source relationship to a personal one.”

“Best practices, huh? Sounds romantic,” Jake said. He paused at an intersection and nuzzled her ear.

Amy laughed and pulled her head away. “First, I meant what I said – you can’t be my source anymore.”

“That’s okay, I’ll just find someone else to tell all my secrets to,” Jake said, pulling her along as they started walking again.

Amy slapped his arm. “You will not!” He shot her a look, surprised by the intensity of her response, and she just shrugged. “I know, ‘democracy dies in darkness,’ the Fourth Estate, freedom of speech, whatever – if I don’t get your secrets, no one does.”

“Okay, honestly, your possessive side is pretty hot,” Jake said.

She shot him a smile with a bit of an edge to it, and Jake felt a chill run up his spine. Then she said, “But seriously, no more tips, no more leads, no more quoting you.”

“All right,” Jake said, but he slowed down as they approached his building, and he thought over what her words meant. “Except, this is sounding a lot like my Gina arrangement, and I don’t think I can do that with you. Are you saying I can’t talk about my job at all?”

“No, of course not.” Amy stopped them and turned to face him, wrapping both arms loosely around his shoulders. “You can tell me anything, it’s just all off the record. If you say something that I think is newsworthy then I might ask you if I can pass it on to another reporter, but I won’t ever write about it myself.”

Jake considered that and nodded. “And you think that’ll work?”

“Sure,” Amy said with a grin. “It’s not like most of what you say is very interesting anyway.”

“Hurtful.”

“Interesting as in newsworthy,” Amy said, chuckling. “Like, when you talk about the Vulture – that’s great gossip. And you know I want to hear all about whatever’s going on in the cold war between Rosa and the IT guy.”

“Heidi,” Jake said.

“Right, Heidi from IT who is a man who is either in love with Rosa or wants to murder her with the internet,” Amy said. “See? That’s great stuff. But not anything I’d ever write about. So you keep that coming.”

Jake nodded along, and he thought they could do this – they could be together and maybe both of their careers could survive and neither of them would have to do anything horribly unethical that would be a betrayal to their very soul.

“You’re really sure,” Jake said anyway.

“I am,” Amy said. “Now please, can we go upstairs and get in your bed? It’s stupid cold out here.”

He kissed her, hard and fast on the lips, and grabbed her hand and tugged her inside.

And they had sex, and it was incredible.

CHAPTER 8

[thetreeshavenotongues]

Gajevy Week ‘19 Prompt: You’re Beautiful

So,I haven’t really kept up with the prompts, and I have a half-written fic for each one that I just haven’t gotten around to finishing, whenever that does happen it’ll probably go on my AO3 account though - no offense to Tumblr, i just actually know how to maneuver Archive and every time I post a fic here I feel like I’m doing something wrong. 

Anywho, this is inspired by one of Rboz’s works, my story is very different, but I love her council Gajevy stuff so, any council works I do for them is heavily inspired by her comics.

Beautiful

They were everywhere. Around every corner and down every hall. Tittering behind their hands and gnawing at her sanity.

It was an infestation, and God how Levy wished she could just swat them with a newspaper.  

“So, Levy-san, what was it like? You know… working with him.” The words were a conspiratorial hiss over the stacks of files on her desk, and, unsurprisingly, did little to help Levy’s mood.

Honestly, she wanted to throw her hands up, roll her eyes to the heavens and possibly light the end of the annoying chit’s uniform on fire; instead Levy only sighed and kept her eyes on the mountain of paperwork in front of her.

“It was fine.” She grumbled, hoping the curt words would be enough to shoo away her annoying assistant and her even more annoying questions.

Over the few months that she had been at The Council, Levy had grown all too used to this vein of conversation, and her day to day mood had suffered dramatically for it. She had been accosted in hallways by dithering coworkers, they had swarmed around her in the cafeteria, and one obsessive soul had even waited for her outside the bathroom door to ask if Gajeel wore boxers or briefs.

It was as if none of the women at The Council had seen a man until the iron dragon-slayer had shown up, practically oozing the type of masculinity that sent them all into a mating frenzy the likes of which Levy had assumed were limited only to nature documentaries.

Of course, Gajeel’s blasé attitude, new rank and the fact that he looked positively sinful in The Council’s uniform didn’t help matters much either.

“Oh, come on Levy-san, you’ve got to tell me more than that,” her assistant pressed, plopping her bottom on the desk and disturbing the organized stacks that had just been placed there – Levy scowled and felt her pen poke a hole clean through the paper she had been working on. “He barely talks to anyone but you and Lily-san. He’s just so mysterious and broody… and have you seen those arms! I mean, he just so….so….” the woman pulled in a deep breath and released a strangled sigh, “ya know what I mean?”

Yeah, Levy knew. She knew all too damn well. When he would stomp down the halls, wearing those shirts that looked like they were painted on, with his jacket held onto his shoulders by some sort of magic she couldn’t quite comprehend and acting for all the world like he owned the place, even she found herself dry mouthed and weak-kneed. Still, she wasn’t about to stoop to the point of agreeing with the woman nor would she offer her two-cents regarding Gajeel’s appearance.

Not that it would matter much anyway.

When they had first arrived at The Council and Gajeel had claimed his spot as a favorite obsession of the fairer sex, she had been subjected to an onslaught of questions – “are you dating?” “Have you slept together?” “Do you like him?” “Does he like you?”- and, in a move that she would forever regret, she had vehemently denied them all and stupidly claimed they were “just friends.” Unfortunately, this had only served to make her the go-to person for all questions relating to and requests for the dark-haired man.

What she wouldn’t give now, to be able to go back in time and tell them all “yes! He’s mine!” Even if it was a bald-faced lie.

She sighed again and pulled herself out of her thoughts, only to realize that the woman on her desk had yet to stop talking. “- each other in the hall yesterday and I swear he checked me out.” It was all Levy could do to keep from rolling her eyes. “So, do you think, that maybe,” Levy groaned, “well, could you ask him if he’d-“

“Sara-san,” Levy cut her off, finally pulling her eyes from her papers to level the woman with a hard stare, “if  you’re interested in Gajeel, then go tell him, but right now, we have a report due by Friday for Jura-san and you were sent here to help me. So, can we please get this done?” A pointed look at her backside currently resting on some treaty copies had the girl blushing crimson and sliding off the desk. 

“Oh,” she mumbled, looking properly contrite, “sorry.” For a moment Levy was relieved – forgiving, even – but the next words out of the other woman’s mouth had her seriously contemplating how quickly she could send a small fire spell at the end of her coat. “So, you really think he’s interested in me too?”

Levy groaned, it seemed like it was just going to be one of those days.

The sun was already setting when Levy finally left her office. Normal business hours had ended, and while she could hear the echoed shuffle of distant feet down the wide marble hallway, she was relieved to find The Council, more or less, empty.

All she wanted to do was make it to her little apartment and take a long, hot bath, read a book and forget all about her day. But even as she made her plans in her head - ticking off everything from the type of tea she would have in the bath to the name of the book she wanted to read - her shoulder ached under the weight of her work bag, a nagging reminder of what really awaited her once she got home.

“I guess there’ll be time for that after I get this done,” she mumbled to herself as she readjusted her bag and rounded a corner, her mind heavy with drafts of reports that had yet to be written. When her nose crashed into a familiar wall of iron muscle however, she knew that even those plans were about to be shot to hell.

“Took ya long enough, Shrimp.” Gajeel’s gruff words were offset by the two hands that reached out to steady her and the almost playful smirk that pulled at his lips.

She took a step back and rubbed her nose, using the time to discreetly look over the man. He was outfitted in his usual sleeveless forest green  shirt and wide legged white pants tucked into a pair of black boots, his Council jacket, however, was nowhere to be found, so she could only assume that he had already gone to his apartment and came back to fetch her.  “C’mon, Lil’s outta town and I’m cookin’ yer favorite.”

 “Gajeel,” she sighed “not tonight. I’m heading home.”

Gajeel’s arms folded over his chest and he gave her the kind of look that told her this would be an uphill battle. “Ya couldn’t feed a mouse with what you’ve got at yer place, Shorty.”

“I’ll pick up something on the way,” Levy replied, side stepping him to continue on her way. She was unsurprised when his heavy footfalls fell in step behind her, she sighed. “I’ve got a ton of work to finish up for Jura-san and after that all I want to do is sink into a warm bath and go to bed.”

“Last I checked there’s a bath and a bed at my place. Not to mention all that damn clothes you made me clean out a draw-“ The little mage spun around and slapped her hand across his lips so quickly that Gajeel barely saw it coming.

“Gajeel!” She hissed, her cheeks a fierce red as her eyes darted around the empty hall. “Shush!”

His fingers wrapped around her wrist, and when he gently pulled her hand away his mouth was already twisted up in a predatory smile. “What’s the matter, Shrimp?” His words were practically a purr as he stepped closer, still holding her wrist to ensure that she stay put – not that he thought his little Shrimp would ever back down from a challenge. “Scared someone’ll think we’re shackin’ up?”

Her eyes narrowed in a glare that was almost threatening, were it not for the red that clung to her cheeks in the cutest way.

“Gajeel-!”

“- Gee hee,” he backed off and released her hand. He knew she would take it as some tactless joke - as she always did when he put forward these clumsy attempts at flirtation – and, for now, that was best. “C’mon, I’ve got work to do too. Let’s have a quick dinner, finish this shit and go to bed, yeah?”

Levy sighed, and shamelessly let her eyes run over his frame. He looked tired – not just from his work and ladder climbing at the Council – but from all of this. And, dammit, so was she - from her aching head to her sore feet to the emptiness that had wrapped itself around her soul for nearly half a year now. An emptiness that was slightly less intolerable in the presence of this emotionally stunted, red-eyed man who did live 10 minutes closer to The Council than she did.

“Fine,” she breathed out, “but if I find out that you’ve just collected scrap metal instead of real food, I’m going home.”

He grinned, “why would I do that when I have you and yer amazing iron around?” Something about the words had Levy’s stomach doing flips and she was all too happy when he sauntered ahead of her, oblivious to the renewed flare of red on her cheeks.

She shook her head and quickened her steps - honestly, the man was turning her into Juvia.

They had just made it out of the winding, cavernous halls of The Council’s main branch when she became aware of his eyes on her. The look was hard and calculating, complete with furrowed brows and pursed lips, and just when she was about to ask “what” he shoved his hand towards her and said “hand it over.”

“Huh?”

He wiggled his fingers and frowned. “The bag, Shrimp. Give me the bag. It’s too heavy for ya.”

She scoffed and pulled the strap a little higher on her shoulder. “It is not.”

“Yer steps are off, I can hear it.” He knew she could be stubborn, more so than him sometimes, and from the hands she had just crossed over her chest and the pout she was sporting, he knew this was going to be one of those times. He dropped his hand and sighed, “you can glare at me all ya want, Lev, but ya look like you’re about to break in half carrying that thing. So,” he stopped walking and turned to face her fully, he bent at the waist and brought them almost nose to nose, meeting her defiant glare with an insidious smirk, “you can either give me the bag, or I’ll take it. Yer choice.”

Her obstinate gaze didn’t so much as flicker and his smirk only widened. “Fine,” he leaned back and shrugged, “you asked for it.”

He bent low, wrapped an arm around her legs, and before Levy could fully register what was happening, he had her slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“What the hell, Gajeel?!” Her small fists pounded on his back, but she received little more than a “Gee hee” from the man in response.

When he started walking again, showing little sign of putting her down anytime soon, she relented on her abuse and settled into a more comfortable position.

“So,” Gajeel was the first to break the silence, “gonna tell me what’s got yer panties in a twist today?”

Levy huffed, “my panties are not in a twist.”

Gajeel scoffed, “Gimme some credit, Lev,” his words came with a gentle squeeze on her thigh and she couldn’t help but sigh.

“It’s nothing serious,” she mumbled, doing her best to ignore the warmth of his large hand on her leg, “just a bit annoyed. I wanted to finish these reports today. I mean, I don’t mind the work or anything, but I haven’t had a night where I didn’t have to take something home with me in so long.” Gajeel grunted, he knew all too well what she meant. Levy had become a fixture in his life over the years, and when they joined The Council, she quickly became a fixture in his home as well, so he had been there on countless occasions, watching her scribbling away at his desk until the wee hours of the morning.  

“Maybe if ya didn’t keep sending yer assistants to be reassigned, yer workload would be a little more bearable.”

Levy stifled a groan “I though Lily was out of town, how did you hear about that already?”

Her answer came in the form of his trademark laugh. She didn’t have a response, so she settled for pouting as she rest her cheek against his shoulder blade.

From her place on his back, she had little else to look at besides his boots and the floor, so when the pavement started to change from the pristine white of the area surrounding the Council, to the dark grey of the city proper, she noticed immediately. Half of the reason she hadn’t put up much of a fight when Gajeel had picked her up was because she knew that at this time the streets around the Council would be deserted – security had been tripled when they rebuilt after the Tartaros incident and the whole surrounding area was off limits to all non-members – the streets of the city, however, were a different story entirely, and there was no way she would allow herself to be carted through the bustling streets ass first.

She sighed, “Gajeel, if I give you my bag, will you put me down?”

He stopped and hummed thoughtfully, “I dunno…I’m kinda enjoying the view.” He squeezed her thigh again and laughed when she released a surprised squeak.

“Gajeel!”

“Yeah, yeah.” He lifted her easily and placed her down.

His hands lingered a moment too long on her waist, and she found herself missing the warmth of his palm on her thigh.

She cleared her throat and he stepped back. “Here,” she offered the bag and muttered an almost shy “thank you” when he took the bag.

“Jeez Shrimp,” he feigned a show of weighing the bag in his hand before easily tossing it over his shoulder, “what’d yer assistant do that made bringing half the library home a better idea than having her help you?”  

Levy scowled and dragged the toe of her boot along the pavement before she grumbled out a response, “she was a little too focused on a Department Head to get any actual work done.”

Gajeel’s brows drew together and his nose scrunched in that way that Levy knew meant he was really trying to figure out who she was talking about. Not for the first time, she wondered if this level of obliviousness was some sort of dragon-slayer specific trait. “That frog guy?”

She rolled her eyes, “you, you dummy.”

For a moment Gajeel looked genuinely confused - his eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline before descending back into a frown  - but his confusion was brief, and before Levy could blink his features had rearranged into an expression of such smugness that it had her groaning before he even spoke. “So, you were jealous?”

“I was not!” Levy sputtered, “It’s just unprofessional is all.” She sniffed indignantly and folded her arms across her chest. “Besides, I told her if she was so interested, she should talk to you herself.”

She threw a glance his way trying to see if the words would garner any reaction, but aside from the disappearance of his grin he was impassive. Two seconds ticked by before he offered a grunt and started walking forward. An awkward silence settled between them.

Levy frowned - after all this time, she still found that she had difficulty reading the man and it irked her to no end. There were moments when he was an open book and they could practically share a conversation with a glance, but then there were still times like this, when he would close himself off completely and even she had no idea what was going on in his head. Was he just intent on getting home? Was he mulling over the possibility of a date with that woman? Or was he upset that she had told Sara to approach him?

She was more than a little ashamed to admit that she hoped it was the latter. She’d hate for him to be upset with her, but at least then she would have a better idea as to where he stood with their…whatever it was they had. But those thoughts were selfish, and she wanted to kick herself for entertaining them at all.

Even with all they’d been through and how close they were, she knew it didn’t make them a couple, at least, not really. Yes, they spent a lot of time together, but aside from the time he had almost drowned, they had never really kissed, they didn’t whisper sweet nothings to one another, they hadn’t so much as held hands in public. But, whatever they had, labeling it as “friendship” also just didn’t seem right – she had lots of male friends, and never did she ever feel for any of them what she felt for Gajeel. It was a little before Tenrou Island that they began to grow unexpectedly close, then the feelings just kind of snowballed from there until they had landed themselves in that strange “not quite a couple” but “more than just friends” grey area.

It was this undefinable something between them that kept them together after the guild was disbanded. Yes, they couldn’t put a name to their relationship, but neither of them had even entertained the thought of going separate ways; so they traveled together, and somehow along the way whatever it was only grew.They ate together, trained together, depended on each other, and when she woke up panicked and crying from the shock of losing her family, he was there, pulling her into his arms and stroking her hair until she fell asleep next to him – a habit which stuck even after the nightmares had stopped coming.

When they found themselves settling down at The Council, propriety dictated separate apartments, but the transition had been a strange and wholly unwelcome one for her. A week after their arrival he had slid her a key to his place over breakfast, and while the gesture wasn’t grand – it was Gajeel after all, the key had been sent her way with little more than a “here, this is yours, Lily’s making Stroganoff tonight,” – it still warmed her heart to know that maybe he missed her constant company as much as she missed his. It wasn’t long before she would have a toothbrush in the bathroom and a drawer in his bedroom and her favorite blanket decorating his bed, and almost overnight her apartment became a place she visited more than lived in.

Still, a conversation about what everything meant eluded them. The topic had never come up even once, and beyond her presence at his apartment nearly every night, they had never actually done anything even remotely coupley, and Lord knew there were plenty of opportunities – they did sleep in the same bed after all. But, aside from the occasional innuendo and the heavy, pierced arm slung over her waist every morning, he had never made an actual move.

On more than one occasion she had attempted to screw up the courage to just bring it up and see things through once and for all; but then, something would happen, he’d make some crack about her height or one of the girls at work - one of those taller, prettier, chestier girls - would come to her for advice about how to get his attention – and whatever resolve she had mustered up would just fade away. It was beyond frustrating and it was probably one of the reasons she was in such a funk after today.

Levy was so lost in thought over the matter that it took a moment for her to realize that Gajeel’s heavy footsteps no longer accompanied the light tap tap of hers on the cobblestone street. When she looked around, she found he was standing some feet behind with a light frown pulling down the edges of his lips.

She closed the distance in a few quick steps and met his hard, red eyes with her curious brown ones. Before she could ask the question that was on the tip of her tongue he asked one of his own. “Why?”

“Why?” She repeated, her brows drawing down in confusion.

“Why’d ya tell her that?” The words were curt, but lacked any actual malice, nonetheless, Levy was not a fan of this avenue of conversation and shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

“Well, you are, you know,” she hesitated for a moment, as if the next word was some sort of curse, “single.” She fidgeted again, “And I just assumed – well - she has a thing for you, and I’m sure you’ve noticed all the girls following you around, I mean, she is pretty and –“

Gajeel’s hand landed on her head lightly, startling her into a blessed pause from her ramblings. At some point she had dropped her eyes to the floor, but the surprise of his touch brought them back up again. He was staring at her intently, his expression was a jumble of emotions, but at the forefront was confusion and a tinge of disbelief. Then, in a move she would never have expected, Gajeel actually threw his head back and laughed.

“Jeez, Lev,” his shoulders shook lightly, but his laughter had almost completely subsided by the time he spoke again, “and ya say I’m oblivious.”

Levy puffed up, ready to deliver a scathing remark, when the hand atop her head moved. His fingers tangled gently into her blue locks before sliding down to cup her cheek with a tenderness that had her at a loss for words.

He bent down and brought his forehead to rest against hers before closing his eyes and breathing in deeply, “Why the hell would I want “pretty” when I already have the most beautiful girl in the world followin’ me around?”

He opened his eyes and moved back, taking the warmth of his hand from her cheek, then he stepped around her and continued on his way home.

She was left dumbstruck for a moment, her mind reeling and her jaw slack. Gradually his words sunk in, and when they did, she knew she wouldn’t have been able to stop the grin that pulled at her lips even if she wanted to.  

It wasn’t a love confession, it wasn’t even a kiss, but it meant more to her than she had ever expected such simple words ever would. She turned to look at his retreating back and felt her grin grow even wider. He didn’t care about those other girls, because he thought she was beautiful and–

Wait… she replayed his words in her head one more time and her smile dropped like a lead weight.  

“Gajeel!” She yelled at his back, “I do not follow you around!”

He was already smirking when he turned to look at her stomping her way up the street towards him. “I dunno, Shrimp. Looks like yer following me right now.” He threw a laugh over his shoulder before speeding up into a run.  “Gee hee.”

She faltered for half a step, blushed and sputtered before picking up her pace, yelling at his back as she went. “I- you- ugh! Gajeel, you dummy!”

As she raced to catch up with him, she couldn’t completely hold back the smile that pulled at the corners of her mouth. They still weren’t a couple and she had no idea when they would ever figure that out, but it was fine. He thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world, and right now, that was all she needed to know.

[princesweetpea]

I Found | Sweet Pea x Aurora Jones (oc)

All Chapters Here

Chapter: Four

Warnings: Language, angst, very light smut

READ IT ON AO3

A/N: I'm literally on a roll, third chapter within a three day period? Wow I'm so proud of myself lmfao. Thank you so much for reading!

           “Rory, hey. What are you doing here?” Archie beamed, taking out an earphone as he approached his porch. He was sweaty and carrying a gym bag with a boxing glove hanging out of it.

           “Hey Red,” Rory smiled. “I came to see Jughead next door, but he and FP are out chasing a lead for laced Fizzle Rocks, or something. I would have hung out with JB, but she’s out with a new friend, so it’s just Gladys at home…” She chuckled awkwardly.

           “No roller skates today?” He winked playfully. She simply shook her head no, and her smile faltered slightly. She hadn’t roller skated since Midge died. The memories of their time spent at the Riverdale Roller Rink plagued her conscience every time she even looked at a pair.

           “It’s a long walk back. I didn’t know where else to go.”

           “Oh, no sweat. You can hang out here until he gets back,” he grinned and held out a hand to pull her up from the front steps. She mumbled her appreciation and took his hand. He didn’t let go as he led her into the house. She waved to Mr. Andrews, who was in the living room on a business call. “Here, we can go hang out in my room. Is that okay?” He asked carefully. She nodded with a small smile before he led her up the stairs. Archie could be an idiot sometimes, but he had always been a gentleman. It truly separated him from the other jocks in Riverdale. He closed the door behind them once they stepped into his room. “Is it cool if I take a quick shower? I’m kind of gross right now.”

           “You don’t need to ask my permission, it’s your house. Go on.” Rory raised a brow before grabbing a book from his bookshelf and taking a seat on his bed. He grabbed a pair of sweats before trotting into the bathroom and closing the door behind him, and she heard the shower start shortly after. After sending a quick text to Jughead to let him know her whereabouts, she opened up Archie’s copy of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Rory sighed in contentment. At least he has good taste. Why couldn’t Reggie be more like Archie? She didn’t even feel any time pass before Archie cleared his throat.

           “Find a good one?” Archie asked. He leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom with his sweatpants hanging low on his hips and his towel around his neck. Water from his hair dripped onto his scarred chest. He looked kind of beautiful.

           “I did.” Rory caught herself staring, plastering a grin onto her face. He pushed his shoulder off the doorframe and walked to sit next to her and leaned over to look at the page she was on. Water dripped onto her shoulder, which made her jump ever so slightly, but he didn’t notice. His breath was hot near her neck.

           “You’re either a fast reader, or I was in there a lot longer than I thought,” he joked before getting serious. “Can I ask you something?”

           “Uh, yeah, sure. You trying to give me a panic attack, Andrews?” She joked nervously. He grinned.

           “I was just going to ask how things were with Reggie.” Ugh.

           “Ancient history.” She rolled her eyes.

           “Oh? Because that’s what you said last time. You know, before we –,” He stopped, glancing down at the bed beneath them. Rory’s cheeks flushed and she bit her lip to hide her laughter. He raised his eyebrows at her as he held back laughter of his own. “And then you guys kind of… reconnected.”

           “That was a mistake and a half.” She sighed.

           “Wait, Reggie or us?” He asked quizzically.

           “Reggie,” Rory clarified. “Why do you ask?”

           “He’s avoiding any talk about girls lately. I didn’t know if he and Ronnie were back together or if you two were…” He shrugged and trailed off, seeming to not be saying something.

           “Or with Josie?” She suggested cautiously.

           “That obvious?” He sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair. She gave him a weak smile. “I don’t know. We’re on the rocks. I don’t know if we’re even an official couple or not. She tells me one thing and then acts a completely different way, totally standoffish and avoids the question when I ask her. But then she got pissed when Veronica came by yesterday to give me something to wear at my match tonight? Maybe I should tell her not to even bother coming.” He exhaled put his head in his hands. Rory placed her hand gently onto his bare back, rubbing small circles in an attempt to comfort him and put her head on his shoulder. His skin was hot to the touch. She wasn’t sure what to say to make him feel better.

           Archie seemed to freeze before slowly looking up at her. She carefully removed her head and met his eyes. The unresolved tension in the air was thick. Rory swallowed hard. They didn’t say anything, just stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. And suddenly, he was leaning into her. His lips lightly brushed hers, and they both hesitated before locking lips. He instantly relaxed as she sighed into the kiss. This definitely wasn’t her intention coming here. He ran his tongue over her bottom lip, and she obliged to his silent plea and let him in. As their lips moved against each other, he took the book from her lap and tossed it onto the floor before guiding her to move to lay back on his bed. He tasted like spearmint, and it was obvious that he’d brushed his teeth before leaving the bathroom. He settled between her legs and he pulled them to wrap around his waist. He supported himself over her on one forearm, his other hand firmly held her hip. Rory’s hands moved up to tug at the wet hair at the nape of his neck, which elicited a low groan from the back of his throat. The pair became more feverish as the heat started to rise. He moved his lips to kiss along her jaw and down her neck before sucking at the spot that he remembered she liked as he squeezed her hip. She moaned softly, involuntarily bucking her hips up to grind against his. He groaned again and pulled away from kissing her with his eyes closed, and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. She attached her lips to his collarbone and ran a hand down his toned chest to gently palm his erection through his sweats.

           “Jesus,” he sighed, barely audible. He flipped them over so she was straddling him as he sat up, and he ran a hand up her leg to squeeze her ass. Before the situation could progress further, the door swung open, and Archie practically jumped ten feet as he scrambled off of her to lay beside her. He grabbed a pillow and placed it over his groin.

           “God, seriously? A warning would have been nice in your text, Rory.” Jughead groaned, shielding his eyes before heading back downstairs. They knew he was absolutely livid. Rory and Archie lay there panting, absolutely mortified, before stifling laughter.

           “I think you should talk to Josie.” Rory said between heavy breaths. He nodded to himself with his eyes closed with a heavy concentration in attempts to diffuse his… situation. There was a brief silence.

           “At least Sweet Pea wasn’t the last person to kiss me, now.” She let out a sigh of relief and scrunched her nose up in disgust. Archie’s eyes snapped open.

           “Wait, what?”

           Rory pushed herself up from his bed and leaned back down to give him a quick peck on the cheek before heading toward his bedroom door.

           “Have a good match tonight, Andrews.” She winked before trotting down the stairs. He laid in his bed, his chest still heaving from their activity, with the thought of Sweet Pea and Rory kissing. He frowned.

           Not wanting to deal with his mother, Jughead suggested that they go back to Rory’s camper to work on their history homework. After they finished, Betty met up with them to help assess the damage the car took from the hotwiring incident.

           “What’s the verdict? How bad?” Rory asked with a slight grimace on her face, prepared for the worst. Betty wiped the little grease from her hands with a rag that Jughead handed her before he said something about going inside for a minute.

           “Surprisingly not that bad. Sweet Pea knew what he was doing. Otherwise, this could have cost hundreds.” She shrugged with an impressed grin.

           “At least he knows how to do something.” Rory grumbled. It was silent for a few moments. Ever since the party a couple weeks prior, she avoided Sweet Pea as much as she possibly could. If she saw him anywhere, she either hid or walked the other direction to keep herself from letting him have it in the middle of the hallway at school.

           “So, that kiss.” Betty smiled coyly.

           “Ours?” Rory winked playfully, though she knew that wasn’t what she was talking about. Betty raised her eyebrow. “Don’t remind me, please,” Rory exaggerated a gag. “I’m just glad that I kissed someone else to get that memory further away from me.”

           “Wait, who did you kiss? When?” Betty gushed excitedly. “Was it Reggie?”

           “Ugh, no, it was not Reggie. But I don’t kiss and tell.” Rory winked.

           “Apparently not, if it’s Archie Andrews we’re talking about.” Betty pouted jokingly. Was she just testing her and she knew already? Surely Archie hadn’t said anything… Rory’s mouth fell open before realization hit.

           “Jughead, can you never keep anything to your goddamn self?” She yelled loud enough for him to hear inside, but didn’t get a response. She took a breath before turning back to Betty, who had a sly grin on her face. “I’ve been avoiding him even more than usual, lately. Detention for decking someone in the middle of the hallway isn’t a good look. Plus, Cheryl’s looking for literally any reason to kick me off the squad.”

           “Would you even care?” Betty asked before quickly catching herself. “I mean, it’s not like you enjoy it anymore. What’s making you stay?” Rory thought for a moment. Betty was right. She hated cheerleading now. Maybe she always had. She shrugged, kicking the pebbles underneath her feet. Before they could continue their discussion, sounds of a motorcycle started getting louder before coming into view.

           “Fuck’s sake,” Rory cursed under her breath as Sweet Pea pulled up and slowed to a stop before kicking the stand down to steady the bike. “What are you doing here?” She groaned.

           “Looking for Jughead. He told me he was here.” He replied, tightening his jaw and avoiding her annoyed expression before finally meeting her eyes. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air for several minutes. Betty kept fidgeting, but the two others ignored it, holding each other’s hard glare.

           “I’m… going to go check on Jug,” Betty broke the silence. “Behave.” She hissed at Sweet Pea, who scoffed in return. He seemed to relax his shoulders, but barely. Once it was just the two of them, Rory couldn’t hold their staring contest any longer. She grabbed the rag that Betty had left and turned her back to him, pretending to be tending to smudges.

           “Convertible… nice,” Sweet Pea tried to make small talk after a while longer. It was obvious that he did not want to be trying. “What is that, a ’66 Chevy Camaro?” He honestly hadn’t gotten a good look at the vehicle when he helped steal it in the middle of the night.

           “’69,” Rory corrected him monotonously, finishing wiping the car down and stretching the cover back over it. “But at least you know your cars… for the most part.” She added passive-aggressively and shrugged.

           “Still can’t drive?” He smirked mockingly. She pressed her lips in a tight line and inhaled slowly. Everything is fine. You are fine. He’s just trying to get you to react. “I mean, I can teach you… If you want. If that’s something you’d be interested in, or whatever.” He fumbled, looking off into the distance. She cocked her head and spun on her heel to face him.

           “Oh, so you’re trying to be nice to me all of the sudden?” Rory asked flatly, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. “I hope you don’t think that kiss meant something. It was part of a game, and against my will, after all.”

           “Oh please,” he sneered. “I’m not – I mean I guess I am but look. You are kind of my leader’s cousin, so I can’t just disrespect him by always getting into it with you.” Sweet Pea shrugged. It was incredibly obvious that he was put up to this.

           “So it isn’t about just respecting me.” She scoffed sarcastically as she leaned back against the covered car, crossing her arms over her chest. He stared at her blankly for a moment before rubbing his face with both of his hands as he let out a frustrated groan.

           “You make me so angry so quickly, it’s remarkable.” He spat.

           “I’m not even the one that said something!” She retorted defensively.

           “Yet here I am, boiling with hate.”

           “No one asked you to come here, so get your sorry ass back on your bike and –” She gritted her teeth. As he opened his mouth to fire back, Jughead’s voice boomed over them.

           “Sweet Pea, we’re leaving. Now.”

           “Leaving so soon?” She feigned sorrow.

           “You should probably come too, come to think of it.” He sighed.

           “Why?” Rory groaned.

           “My dad just called. One of his guys just picked up Mambo, and apparently, it isn’t pretty.” Rory felt the color leave her face. “When did he even get back?” He asked her.

           “He… What?” Before she knew it, she was on the back of Sweet Pea’s motorcycle, speeding toward the northside. In the moment, she didn’t even care about how she was clinging onto him. Her thoughts ran wild and her heart felt like it was going to explode as Jughead’s words ran through her head: One of his guys just picked up Mambo. When did he even get back? When she regained focus, anxiety immediately took over her body. They were at her and her mother’s old house. The windows were boarded up, but other than that, the only thing that was out of place that she directly noticed were three words across the brick in black spray paint:

           THIS WAS HOME

           Her eyes scanned the scene before landing on a hunched over, handcuffed figure sitting on the front stoop. Mambo Hale.

            “Nicky?” Rory breathed inaudibly, climbing off of Sweet Pea’s bike and darting toward her younger brother. She crouched in front of him and grabbed his face with both of her hands. His green eyes seemed cold as they bore into hers at first, but they almost instantly softened and began to water. He looked so different since she had last seen him. He looked so much older, though only two years had passed. “Mambo?” He choked out a sob, leaning forward into her shoulder to shield himself from the audience around them.

            “Please, take the cuffs off of him!” Rory pleaded. The deputy stared back at her, unimpressed. Sweet Pea narrowed his eyes at him before the deputy gulped and took out his keys to remove the handcuffs from Mambo’s bound hands. Once freed, his arms flew around Rory, gripping the fabric of her shirt in his fists as he shook violently from his quiet sobs. Her eyes stared straight ahead, breath hitching in her throat at the sight of the front door, a chilling message that her brother must have etched into the wood.

            THE WORLD’S NOT SAFE ANYMORE.

            What could he possibly mean by that? Her trembling hands ran through his hair and rubbed his back in attempts of soothing him.

            “I’m here… I’m here.”