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bittercoldbrew · 3 years

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Okay, so technically To Build Something New is complete and finished and I’m totally not even supposed to be working on it anymore, but this has been a shitty week and I decided to write a little something sweet and then I sort of got....carried away........ So yeah anyway, here’s a little over 4k of Ezra x f!OC, a sorta kinda epilogue to Build Something but I tried to leave things vague so it could also just be read as a standalone. No warnings, just an embarrassing amount of fluff. Enjoy! (pssst, also, I ended up writing a follow-up to this, which you can find here)

Sleep has never come easily to him. Even as a child, Ezra remembers being plagued with nightmares so often and for so long that he wouldn’t even bother waking his worn and weary parents, would simply fetch himself a cup of water from the kitchen and flip through his favorite books, gazing at the pictures and tracing fingers over words he couldn’t yet read, until sleep finally returned to him.

The woman in bed beside him is no stranger to such restlessness, and certainly is no distant, frightful parent best left unbothered. If he were to reach out a hand to her shoulder, if he were to call her name, he knows that she would wake willingly, eager to help him talk his way out of whatever trouble his overactive mind has conjured, or to simply sit with him in silence until the tension passed; she would give him whatever he needs, even if he himself doesn't know what that is just yet. It is no lack of love, given or received, that stills his hand and shuts his mouth, but rather an abundance.

Her thoughts are scarcely any kinder to her sleep schedule than his, and these past few months since her parents came and tried to upend the life she's built have not been easy ones. She certainly owes as profound a debt to the god of sleep as he does, and he simply cannot bring himself to disturb her now that she's begun to repay it.

With a sigh, he eases himself out from under her arm and up from the bed, moving slow and careful, as quiet as he can manage, trying not to feel too guilty at the sad, soft noise she makes and the way she curls her arm back into herself with the loss. Some nights, he’s more than content to lay awake beside her even if sleep never decides to make another appearance, grateful for her presence, trying and failing, always, to twist and turn his thoughts into a shape that will allow him to believe this luck that has brought him to her side. But tonight he just needs...to stretch his legs, to move his body, to remind himself that it is, still, somehow, his body, despite all that it has lost. Despite all that it has found.

He moves to the bathroom, passes through it out into the hall, hoping the added distance will prevent the sound of the door from waking the woman asleep in the bed they share. In the darkness, in the quiet, he runs a hand over his face, grounding himself with the familiar sensation of the planes and slopes of his own features. Still his face. Still his hand, even if he only has the one of them, now.

It seems instinctual, the way his feet carry him to the door across the hall, the way his ear finds itself pressed to the cool wood. He won’t bother her, won’t risk disturbing the sleep of the teenager inside, but the low whisper of the white noise machine that he can hear is enough of a comfort. Cee adjusted to planet life far faster and more completely than he has yet to manage; but even though the members of this little family all came from such disparate backgrounds, they are bound together by the act of having chosen one another, as well as by their shared insomnolent tendencies. The teenager needs this facsimile of the rumble of a ship’s engines to be able to achieve anything like sleep. Ezra himself has attempted the same, but found the noise only gave his brain something to latch onto, a reason to stay wakeful and wary, a stark contrast to its intended purpose.

Hearing hers, though, is reassurance enough that the girl is having a better night’s rest than he is, and he is grateful for that small blessing as he leans away from the door and sidles down the hallway on quiet, bare feet, mindful of all the places that creak, mapped out in his muscle memory over the course of many such nights. He crosses the front room, passes through the kitchen, until finally he steps out onto the back porch and into the cold, clear night.

The sky out here, so far from the city center, is resplendent in its beauty, a breathtaking array of stars and galaxies. Despite his many far-flung travels, there are still so many worlds to visit, still so much to see, and he will never grow weary of the sight.

It's a little too cold for stargazing, especially dressed as he is in nothing more than a patched and faded pair of boxers; but the way the air prickles against his skin and in his lungs feels almost refreshing, for now at least. It makes his racing thoughts feel sluggish, and that is certainly worth a little chill.

Sighing, he steps forward and leans against the railing, letting his eyes trace out distant constellations and star systems, scrolling through his mental catalogue of those he's visited and those he has yet to. He's picking out the faint whorl of the Ephrate when he hears the door slide open, and a sweet and sleepy voice asks, "Ezra..?"

He should have known his absence would be enough to wake her. The woman he loves is the galaxy’s most notorious blanket thief, after all; even now, the evidence of her crimes is wrapped around her like a cloak, the excess fabric bunched in her hands and clutched against her collar. Often, it’s only the warmth of his body in the bed beside her that keeps her from descending into wanton lawlessness—or, at the very least, a sleeplessness of her own. It is a rare night indeed that he can leave her side for much longer than it takes to visit the bathroom and return, before the chill is enough to wake her.

She steps forward, head down, eyes scarcely open and only to keep herself from tripping over the blanket as she draws near and leans her body heavily against his. He wraps his arm around her back and does his best to hug her close with only the one, trying not to feel so profoundly guilty at the thought of how difficult it must be for her to sleep when he’s gone so long for work.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into her hair—an apology for tonight, and also for all those nights she spends without him.

But she only shakes her head, resting her cheek against his bare chest, just below his collarbone. She stands so tall and imperious in his mind’s eye that he forgets, sometimes, how little she is, and he is grateful for moments like these to remind him.

Her voice is thick with sleep, her breath warm against his skin, as she asks, simply, “Chocolate?”

He sighs and holds her closer, wondering if he knows a single word that might be able to encapsulate how it feels to be loved by her. Beloved feels too pedestrian, too obvious. Cherished, maybe. Harbored.

He needs to consider the possibilities more carefully, but later. For now, he merely shakes his head, begrudgingly declining her generous offer. “No, I’m alright. Just needed a minute, clear my head.”

She hums softly, and the gentle vibration of it against his chest feels planet-shaking in this quiet night. “Already put it on,” she admits slowly, sounding only marginally more awake than a moment ago. “Drink some anyway?”

Sustained? Is that the word? “With you? Of course.”

The wordless noise she makes in response is pleased, contented, and for several long, precious moments she merely rests against him and lets him hold her in the dark, unhurried and unafraid in his presence.

She’s so still for so long that he notices the slight movement of her cheek, the twitch that means she’s had to blink away a notification from her optical implant, the timer she must have set for the milk warming on the stove.

“I’ll get it—” he starts to offer, eager for some way to repay her kindness, but she moves quicker than he imagined she’d be capable of right now, pulling away and whirling the blanket off her shoulders and around his with a flourish.

“No,” she declares, in that tone of voice that always makes his brain go silent and his body stand to attention, willing to do whatever she requires of him without question. But the only order she gives is, “Keep this warm for me,” passing the corners of the fabric into his grasp, and he is certain to obey as she turns and heads back inside to the kitchen.

With a sigh, Ezra takes a step back and rests against the wall of the house, hiking the blanket up a little higher as he waits for her return. He finds himself wishing Aphelia had a moon, something to make the nights a little brighter than this; the lack gives them such a clear, glorious view of all the stars and a few of the other planets in this system, so he supposes he shouldn’t complain. But it would be nice to be able to see the garden from here, to make out what birds those are calling such sweet songs among the trees at the edge of the property, to better decipher the nuance of his partner’s expression when she steps back outside a few minutes later with two mugs of cocoa in her hands.

It requires a good deal of shuffling and muttered apologies, but eventually they find themselves sitting together on the floor of the porch, propped against the wall, the blanket drawn across them both, sheltering them from the chill of metal sheeting at their backs. She is nestled at his side beneath what remains of his right arm, and she rests her head on his shoulder as they both lift mugs to their lips.

He makes an indisputably better cup of coffee—mainly because she is too impatient in the morning, content to throw a packet of bland, dehydrated nonsense into hot water if it means she can be caffeinated quicker, only willing to wait for something better if it’s Ezra who does the brewing. But her hot chocolate is a wonder, a marvel, worthy of all possible veneration, and even though he’s watched her make it time and time again, he has never managed to determine what it is she does to make it so spectacular. The beverage in his hand tonight is perfectly warm, nutty and aromatic, decadent and sweet without being cloying, with just a hint of spice. One sip, and he can feel whatever this restlessness is that’s been holding him in its vice begin to ebb away into a gentle sleepiness.

“Thank you, starlight,” he sighs, and he hopes she knows that he means all of it—not just for the chocolate, but for the blanket and the company and the understanding, for her willingness to love him with this love that encompasses all of his very many faults rather than existing in spite of them.

She doesn’t say anything in response, simply turns her head and presses a feather-light kiss to the side of his neck, and he feels certain that she does know. Especially when she turns back, and gestures with her mug in the direction of the sky. “It’s a hell of a view. Thanks for not letting me miss it.”

His breath leaves him in a rush, and he rests his cheek against the top of her head, feeling bowled over by his affection for her. That hadn’t remotely been his intention, and even if he had merely wanted her to see the stars, she could get just as lovely a view from bed, through the skylight, without having to shiver out here on the cold floor with him. But he loves that she would offer this pretense, that she would look at something he’d done to stave off his idiotic insomnia and turn it into an experience for the two of them to share.

Transformed, perhaps, is what her love makes him. Because he isn’t entirely sure who this man is that he’s become, or where all this sappiness came from. He certainly had no need for it on the Green, nor in any part of his life before he first answered the siren song of aurelac.

If he’s honest with himself, though, he’d begun to see the first signs of it before he even met her, before he endured the loss of his dominant arm and thus found himself needing to rely, from time to time, upon the kindness of others. He’d noticed it in his unwillingness to leave Number Two behind after the rest of the crew split and ran; and then again when he’d first met Cee, when she’d used up the single capacitor of that old Boscelot rifle and he, who had killed so very many times before, had been wholly unable to throw a shot her way.

His lover had seen right through him from the first, had detected those loose threads in his psyche, those barest hints of a gentleness he’d long stifled. She had tugged and pulled them loose, had unraveled the cold and unfeeling shell that he constructed around himself, until all that was left was just...him. Minus an arm, and a good portion of his dignity, and any belief he’d once had in his ability to command his own fate.

And she had looked at whatever was leftover after all that loss, and had chosen to love him anyway.

“Oh, look,” she gasps, and he straightens up and follows her gaze, finding the trail of light streaking up from the horizon, a distant ship clearing the atmosphere.

“Leaving from the 12th Sector docks, I reckon,” he tells her absently, his brain automatically calculating the distance and direction for him while he simply takes a long draught of his quickly-cooling cocoa. “Where d’you think they’re headed?”

She hums thoughtfully, brow creasing in thought, her eyes tracing the arc of their ascent and extending upward. He’s been trying to teach her and the kid—trying to not be a pedantic asshole about it—how to find landmarks in the night sky, how to navigate by constellations and planets and stations. Mostly, he’s just trying to teach them how to keep themselves safe if, Kevva forbid, he ever isn’t around to do the job. Not that he thinks them lacking in competence—each of his girls is cleverer than him by half, he knows that, and together they leave him in the dust. But this, at least, is a skill of his that they do not share, and he hopes to impart a little something of it, just in case they ever need it.

“From 12, at that angle, this late in the year...” she says slowly, thinking aloud. “I bet they’re headed for the Pug.”

“I bet you’re right,” he agrees, grinning. “Do you see it?”

She narrows her eyes, an adorable little pout to her lips as she looks for it; her natural eye’s a little farsighted, but her implant is designed for close work and magnification, and he knows that discrepancy means this sort of thing doesn’t come easy for her. But that just makes it all the sweeter, when she gasps and smiles and points and says, “There it is.”

He just sits there, staring at her and the way the starlight dances in her eyes and highlights the lines of her face, for so long that she turns to him with a curious—and then bashful—look on her face.

“Hey,” she scolds, nudging him with her elbow. “Tell me I’m right.”

“You’re right,” he says automatically, and she scoffs and elbows him again. With a laugh, he tears his gaze from her and turns to look. “Sorry, sorry. Show me again?”

She does so, and he leans in close, following the line of her arm and her outstretched finger to the familiar, pulsing glow of Puggart’s Bench. “There?”

He dips his head, presses a kiss to the skin of her arm, just past the end of the short sleeve of her sleep shirt (one of his shirts, initially, though at this point she doesn’t sleep in anything else and he’d be offended if she did). “Perfect,” he tells her—because she’s correct, yes, but also because she is perfect, in his estimation.

She smiles in a way that makes him think she understands his double meaning, and says, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he says, and kisses her, and her mouth tastes like chocolate, and he doesn’t imagine there’s anything better in all the universe.

But then she lifts a hand to curl along his jaw and the tips of her fingers are like ice, and he pulls back in surprise and sets his mug carefully aside so he can grab her hand and hold it in front of his mouth and breathe a little heat against her fingers.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were freezing, baby?”

"I'm not," she argues, even as she curls closer into the warmth of his body and tugs the blanket tighter around her shoulders, because she is, at her core, a woman of unmitigated stubbornness. "My hands are just always cold."

"Not this cold," he huffs, clenching the offending fingers in his own. "We should get you inside."

She shakes her head sternly. "I can stay out here as long as you want me to."

She has told him this before, way back when they scarcely even knew each other. Then, as now, she had been struggling to keep her eyes open. Then, as now, he had known she meant every word.

"What I want," he tells her, turning to kiss her temple, speaking the words into her skin, "is to hold you in bed for a while."

If he's honest, that's all he ever seems to want these days.

She smiles, and nods toward his mug, reaching for her own. "Finish your cocoa, first," she says, as though that is the entire reason they're out here.

And he does—because it's delicious and he doesn't want to waste it; because it's what she told him to do.

He would give her his left arm, the only one he has remaining, if she told him to.

They sit there, quiet and close, while he finishes his drink and waits patiently as she finishes hers. Then, leaning on each other for support, they make their way to their feet and back inside the house. He keeps the blanket around his body as she rinses their empty mugs and leaves them in the sink, then trails along behind her as she leads him back to their room.

Together they spread the blanket back overtop of the bed, tucking it in at the foot even though they both know she’ll have managed to drag it to her side by morning. Smiling at the thought, Ezra pulls up the covers and gets in, instinctively turning over on his right to reach for her—but she isn’t there yet, still standing next to the bed, watching him. It’s too dark to really make out her expression, but he can feel her eyes on him. “Baby?”

She doesn’t speak, just goes and walks around the bed. He turns, twisting at the waist to watch her as she lifts up the covers and...slips in behind him. She puts her arm around his chest, twines her legs with his, moves her free hand up to bury her fingers in his hair and scritch lightly against his scalp, and he groans out her name and all but melts back into her soft body.

“Is this okay?” she asks after a moment, her breath fanning against the back of his neck. He wants to answer, to tell her this is so, so much better than merely okay, but his chest has gone so tight that all the air in his lungs seems to have lodged in his throat instead. He settles for a nod, the drag of her short fingernails on the back of his head just delicious with the movement, and he knows she must be tired and will need to be asleep soon but he wishes she never had to stop.

“I know you said you wanted to hold me,” she murmurs, her voice so soft and sweet, “but I thought this might be...nice.”

“I...” he starts—or tries to, but his voice falters, and all the words he typically can rely on appear to have fled him. “Yes,” he sighs simply. “It’s very nice.”

“Good.” Her lips press a delicate kiss to his shoulder, and his breath leaves him with more of a shudder than he’d intended. “You gonna be able to sleep?”

He covers her hand with his and draws it up higher along his chest, where her fingers gently trace the line of scar tissue just below his sternum. “I hope so,” is the best answer he can offer, because even though he feels so fucking good being held by her like this and even though he can feel the exhaustion tugging him even deeper into the mattress, he knows better than to count on his mind to be cooperative.

She hums softly, and he can feel the bridge of her nose and the curve of her forehead against the skin of his back as she presses her face against him, settling in. “Okay,” she breathes, and he can tell she’s nearly asleep again already, can merely hope he’ll join her shortly. “Wake me if you get up again, okay?”

“You have work in the morning,” he reminds her, squeezing her hand, already feeling guilty for disrupting her rest as much as he has. His schedule isn’t nearly so demanding—he could stay in bed all day if he needs to, could make up the hours some other time—but she has people who rely on her, people who aren’t him.

But she just clicks her tongue against her teeth dismissively, shakes her head. Her fingers leave his hair for a dreadful moment, but only so she can reach down and tug the covers up higher (already beginning her nightly larceny, though she’s pressed so close to him that Ezra, too, may get to benefit from it tonight). “I’d rather be tired at work than not know where you are.”

It’s a simple thing to say, but he knows how much she means by it. He’s well aware of the anxieties that plague her, of the way she worries when he’s gone, of how his job and its need to drag him far away from her for long stretches of time wears at her until he’s with her again. As much as he wishes he could make all of that go away, wishes he could offer her a gentler life than this one, he knows such a thing isn’t really possible out here in the Fringe, knows they’ve come much closer than most. Still, at least he can offer her this.

He picks up her hand and lifts it to his lips, presses kisses to her smooth, soft skin. “Go to sleep, starlight. I’m not going anywhere.”

“‘Kay,” she murmurs sleepily, and he can feel her smile against his back as she shifts around, tightening her arm around him, hugging him close. “Love you, Ez.”

“Love you too, sweet girl.”

In the morning, when she wakes, he is going to make her the best goddamn cup of coffee she’s ever tasted. He will swaddle her in blankets, will weight her down with so many of them she can’t ever leave their bed, she’ll have to just stay in it with him forever. He wonders how inappropriate it would be for him to ask Cee if she would spend the night at a friend’s tomorrow, because when this woman gets home from work he’s going to need to lavish every inch of her body with affection, to prove to her again and again and again how desperately he loves her, how thoroughly he needs her, and he doesn’t imagine he’ll be able to be quiet about it even with the kid home.

It’s in these last lucid moments before sleep finally pulls him under that he realizes this night, this moment, this blissful press of her body along the length of his own with her arm curled possessively around his torso is exactly the word he's been looking for. Maybe it really is as simple as that: she makes him feel held.

#listen you will have to pry little spoon ezra from my cold dead hands #someone please give this man a hug #ezra prospect x oc #ezra prospect x reader #oc tess stone #ezra why are you so fucking difficult to write bby #to build something new #my writing

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makaylajadewrites · 3 years

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What a Woman

Summary: JJ and Emily seemed to be paying extra special attention to Spencer, and it was hard to hide his discomfort and obvious surprise when they dragged him out of the conference room to have a “talk” as they both put it. But the idea they had in mind was something he would never consider, not even for a millisecond, and to even think of such a situation made his skin crawl.

“Will you at least consider it?” Emily asked desperately, both girls following after him as he searched for an escape in the precinct break room, gravitating towards the coffee maker instantly to pour himself a cup of the black sludge they called coffee in Philadelphia.

“Not even for a second."

Potential tws: hate speech/crimes, homophobia, transphobia, not so nice Rossi, smut

Word count: 7757

Traipsing through his routine in the morning was simultaneously painful and difficult. Every morning was the same; he would wake up at five thirty on the dot and complain and curse for ten minutes about getting up early, then he would drag his willowy frame through his apartment like a wandering specter. Once his Keurig was on, he would vanish into the bathroom where he spent nearly fifteen minutes showering, attempting to tame his wild hair, brushing his teeth, and, much to Derek’s admitted surprise, applying makeup.

Spencer didn’t wear a lot of makeup to work, and in fact it was hardly even noticeable. His under eye bags were dark, almost purple, and it seemed that his perpetual lack of sleep and constant stress from the job was what kept them permanent. But with the concealer and powder he liked to use, it diminished them somewhat, and at least made him feel a bit better about his appearance. It wasn’t socially acceptable for men to wear full faces of makeup just yet, and with Reid’s subtle nature, he would have to deal with it as quietly as he could.

But today, something was different

Derek looked up and greeted him with a fond, “Good morning, baby,” but his eyes quickly flicked downwards to take in the pink sheen over his diamond-shaped lips. Reid smiled shyly, leaning in to kiss him and when he pulled back, Derek looked somewhat dazed and surprised. But he said nothing, and Spencer was grateful for that. He turned away and proceeded to collect the coffee mug that Morgan had prepared for him while he was in the bathroom. Once Derek took his own shower and readied himself for the day, they set off to work

Now that they were a couple, Derek seemed to be having a difficult time in keeping his eyes off of Spencer, at home, at work, on dates… All the time, really. Spencer had questioned him about this with a bit of humor in tone, and Morgan explained that it was because he realized just how pretty Spencer was, from his fluid movements to his somehow graceful composure. But Reid was quick to shut that down, since he found it difficult to accept compliments regarding his physical appearance - especially his normal, every day appearance. He was too awkward, too stiff. He didn’t know what to do with his hands sometimes and his autistic tendencies would often appear in the expression of silent stimming, rather it be in the form of flapping hands or wiggling fingers. He was a freak, but Derek was appalled by that word and assured him that he was, honestly, quite precious. Derek always had an incredible protective streak, but Spencer never expected to be on the receiving end of that, especially not in such an intimate way.

It must have been his lipgloss today, because Derek was practically undressing with his clothes the second they stepped into the bullpen. Reid had a habit of wrapping his lips around almost anything he got his hands on, but even as frequently as he mentioned how unhygienic as it was, he still had a tendency of biting on a pen cap or keeping one of the little black coffee straws in his mouth - That probably wasn’t helping Morgan’s vivid imagination.

Prentiss had taken a keen interest in the couple, commenting briefly on the shared glances between them over the past month or so and often encouraging them to ‘get a room’ without actually understanding that they were in fact involved with one another. Spencer knew that they needed to be careful, hence his disparity towards PDA and any form of more-than-friendly interactions. They couldn’t afford to be figured out, not unless they both wanted to lose their jobs or be reassigned within the Bureau. But today, she just seemed desperate to point out the obvious change in Reid’s appearance, particularly his new addition to his usually bare face.

“Lipgloss today, Reid?” Prentiss asked, not unkindly and mainly more curious than anything. Reid’s head popped up from where it was bowed down over his desk, a pen fitting between his parted, shimmering lips. He smiled around the cap, nodding his head shyly.

“O-Oh, yeah… I was feeling a little bold, today, I guess,” he said in a bashful murmur, his chestnut curls falling around his pretty face. He looked over towards Morgan, thick lashes batting innocently against his high cheekbones while he offered him a hesitant smile.

“I like it! It’s pretty. Brings out the color in your cheeks,” Emily observed fondly, and Spencer seemed to brighten up considerably. That was a considerable compliment, especially since he had the complexion of a zombie on his good days. He popped the pen out from between his lips, sitting up a bit straighter and crossing his slim legs effortlessly under his desk.

“You think so? I still think I look a bit washed out on normal days,” Reid said. Morgan looked a bit incredulous, but JJ happened to be walking by in that very moment with case files in hand.

“Reid, you know much I like to prove you wrong, but today we don’t have time. We have a case,” she said, patting the stack of files in her arm with one hand and clicking off up the stairs and towards Hotch’s office. The trio shared a look before getting up and heading towards the roundtable room in a group. They took their seats, side by side, but Reid wandered off towards the break room to fix himself another coffee before they had to get into the nitty gritty and bloody details. Because who could stand looking at mutilated bodies without overly sweet coffee? Certainly not Reid.

When he returned, everyone was inside and waiting for him, and he muttered a sheepish apologize while scurrying to his seat beside Derek who just acknowledged him with a fond smile. Rossi looked at him a bit strangely but said nothing, most likely noticing the lipgloss on his lips but ultimately diverting his attention to the case instead.

“Alright everyone, we have a case involving three murdered individuals in Philadelphia. They were all found in alleys with their clothing removed,” Garcia said, her full lips pursed. Some pictures showed up on the screen, revealing their nude and beaten bodies, with several stab wounds littering two out of the three. She left out a rather important detail though in her introduction, and almost immediately, Rossi seemed to catch on.

“Whoa,” Emily offered quite lamely, her brows furrowing together.

“They were completely castrated…” JJ muttered, feeling uncomfortable and knowing her male colleagues had to feel worse.

“Is that…” he started, only for Morgan to intervene before he said something potentially insulting.

“Are they transgender?” Morgan asked instead, and Garcia tilted her head slightly, indication of a mixed answer.

“Local law enforcement is saying yes,” Hotch responded with a firm nod.

“Maybe even drag queens,” Reid spoke up, his chin perched in his hand as he overlooked the file with a clinical expression on his face. “Do we know for certain if they were transgender or is local police just assuming they are? Because that makeup is… quite adventurous,” he said honestly,

“At this point, I believe it is just speculation. We’ll find out for sure when we arrive. Wheels up in thirty,” Hotch concluded, standing up with file in hand and leaving the conference room to organize their flight. Everyone else lingered, and Rossi just had to ask the question that everyone seemed to be dreading.

“You know a lot about makeup, Reid?” He asked a bit standoffishly, looking up and down Reid as if sizing him up. Spencer blinked, suddenly growing incredibly aware of the light makeup on his own face. God, this was uncomfortable, and even though he was a grown man, he felt like he had just been caught by his father, digging into his mother’s makeup bag. Subconsciously, he licked his lips in an attempt to destroy the evidence of gloss.

“Um… Just basic stuff, I guess.” Christ, it was like coming out as gay all over again. I sort of like guys… Maybe just a little. He swallowed and looked towards Morgan who was glaring holes into an unassuming Rossi. But Dave just frowned and narrowed his eyes a bit. “Uh huh,” He hummed, looking over Reid once more before leaving the room after Hotch. The girls looked after him incredulously and Spencer felt exposed, certainly uncomfortable, and definitely awkward.

“If he says another word to you, just let me know,” Morgan said, squeezing his shoulder in a way that didn’t suggest anything more than a protective, brotherly relationship. Spencer smiled slightly at him, and the girls agreed with similar statements. But he couldn’t get too caught up in his own feelings. They had a killer to catch, and if getting his feelings hurt along the way meant putting him away, it was a worthy sacrifice.

Right?

“I’m SSA Morgan and this is Dr. Spencer Reid. We’re with agents Hotchner and Jareau.”

Even though Philadelphia was only three hours, they couldn’t afford to waste time. They had landed in Philadelphia after an hour jet ride and almost immediately split up, Rossi and Emily visiting the most recent crime scene while Morgan and Reid tackled the M.E. Hotch and JJ had already set up at the precinct and were busy in the conference room, but as Morgan and Reid arrived, they were instantly approached by a deputy who questioned them, and he looked over Reid incredulously, and it was enough to make the young doctor uncomfortable. He probably had trouble believing that scrawny Reid was actually an FBI agent. But the deputy just hummed and directed the m towards the conference room where they could see their colleagues at work. It seemed that Rossi and Emily had beaten them back to the precinct.

“M.E. was able to tell us that all of our victims were biologically male, which we already knew,” Morgan informed the other four agents, and Reid was quick to jump in.

“All of the victims were wearing makeup, as we already stated, as well as colored wigs. Now, what’s interesting about that is that they were all wearing wig caps with glue or tape applied as well, which is a common trick that drag queens use to keep their wigs on while performing,” he supplied knowingly, his hands locking together in front of his chest. He knew that feeling this nervous was probably a bit dramatic, but it was almost like a personal attack on him - especially since he was beginning to believe that these victims were in fact drag queens, and not transgender or crossdressing individuals. The universe sure had a sick mind, and Rossi’s constant staring wasn’t helping.

“We can confirm this with Garcia,” Hotch said, and quickly took out his phone to dial their beloved technical analyst.

“Sir, yes, sir!” Garcia’s bubbly voice sounded from the phone, but the mood was far too somber for any of them to even think of responding to her quirkiness.

“Garcia, can you look into our victims and see if they were involved in the gay community, specifically as drag queens? Look into local gay bars as well as any other significant venues.”

“Ah, drag queens and gay bars, two of my favorite things in one sentence,” she cooed while her fingers flew across the keys.

“You know, it’s also possible some of them were involved in non-profits geared towards LGBTQ people. We—I mean, sometimes drag queens will get involved as role models for the kids who get rejected by their friends and families,” Reid said, cursing himself for his little stumble. Again, Rossi looked at him hard, but Garcia was quick to respond.

“Alright, my queens, all three victims were regular performers at a local gay bar known as Syndicate. And our second victim, Collin Knicks, took several trips a month to volunteer at a nonprofit in the Big Apple focused on preventing LGBTQ suicides and helping at-risk individuals.”

“There’s our connection,” Emily said with a nod of her head. “So it’s a hate crime.”

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the local detective, Jim Stewart, said, his arms crossed over his chest. He frowned, looking over one of the crime scene pictures. “It’s possible he was interested in them sexually and when he discovered they were actually men, he became enraged.”

“I’m willing to bet that it’s a hate crime,” Morgan said confidently, and Reid instantly nodded in agreement, standing up a bit straighter in front of the map he had been glancing over.

“As am I. Twenty point four percent of all hate crimes are focused on an individual’s sexual orientation, and out of those 20.4, 56.7% were homosexual males. I don’t think it’s coincidence that all of these men were drag queens, and besides, not all of them were the overly feminine drag queens that can be mistaken for biological females. For example, our first victim was in a style commonly called camp, and in the drag community, that means overdramatizing feminine aspects of beauty. A lot of camp drag queens draw their inspiration from typical clown getups, especially in their makeup, but they also perform with clown values like comedy and satire.”

That left a few baffled individuals, in particular, Hotch, Rossi, and Stewart. Damn, he knew it was foolish to spout out information like that, especially since it implied intimate knowledge of the drag community. And again, it wasn’t a secret, but the less people who knew, the better, and the last thing he needed was his two superiors knowing of his pastime activity. He knew they most likely wouldn’t do anything about it, but he would rather Hotch and Rossi not know that he flounced around in women’s clothing and makeup in his free time.

Someone cleared their throat in a hope to dispel the awkward air that took over the room, and Hotch eventually, thankfully, decided to speak up.

“Alright, Reid. If this is a hate crime, how do you think the unsub targeted them? Through the clubs?” He questioned. Reid instantly nodded his head, pointing at the one bar on the map where all of the victims frequented for performances.

“Has to be. Syndicate, the bar, is at the center of all of the dump sites. They were all left in different alleys no more than two miles away from the bar, so I think it would only make sense to assume that this is where he is picking up his victims,” Reid said, his intelligence hardly surprising the rest of his team, “And since he’s been there before, I’m betting that he’s either a regular or he blends in.”

“Perfect… So how are we going to find a single fag in a bar full of ‘em?” The detective spat out, and his hate was pretty clear. If Reid wasn’t sure, he’d think that the detective could be their unsub.

“Watch your mouth,” Derek hissed dangerously, and Hotch was quick to cast him a sharp glare insinuating that he would get this under control, and if Reid knew Hotch well enough, he knew he would follow through with that.

“Do not refer to these victims as such slurs. Regardless of their sexual orientation or preferred gender identity, they were human and deserve respect,” He said both respectfully yet sternly, and the detective just shook his head with a huff.

“I just don’t understand what the world’s coming to. But fine, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. They were human.” Well, that problem was solved, for now at least. Reid feared that the detective’s clear disdain for these people - people like him - would rise to the surface again, but they would deal with that issue when it presented itself. They came to do their job, and regardless of how hateful some people could be, they couldn’t let that interfere.

Speculation wasn’t getting them anywhere, but over time, they were able to develop a profile, or at least a partial one; The unsub was a white male in his mid twenties to early thirties with homophobic ideologies that could possibly stem from religious beliefs. It was possible he was feeling homosexual tendencies and in an effort to dispel them, he killed the objects of his desire. Due to his ability to go to the same club on three different occasions without incident meant he blended into the crowd and was potentially a regular at the club. With nothing more to go off of, JJ and Emily seemed to be paying extra special attention to Spencer, and it was hard to hide his discomfort and obvious surprise when they dragged him out of the conference room to have a “talk” as they both put it. But the idea they had in mind was something he would never consider, not even for a millisecond, and to even think of such a situation made his skin crawl.

“Not even for a second,” he dismissed easily, pouring sugar into his coffee which he was beginning to suspect was actually really mud.

“Spence, please? This could be our only chance of catching the unsub,” JJ tried, looking both exasperated and equally as desperate as Prentiss. He frowned and shook his head, reaching a hand up to brush his messy curls away from his face with fingers he now realized were shaking just slightly.

“Guys, please… I can’t. Do you realize the impact that could have on my career? My reputation,” he said, his voice raising just slightly in pitch out of frustration.

“Spence…”

“I said no,” he said more firmly with a sharp frown set on his lips. It was too much of a risk for him to take. If word got around at the Bureau that the Dr. Spencer Reid was actually a drag queen, he would be devastated and ruined. He knew they couldn’t legally fire him over it, but the Bureau wasn’t the most liberal place in the world, so they would most likely search for an excuse to get rid of him. And in all honesty, every single member of his team had done something that would deem firing - and he was not exception to that.

The day continued on as was expected, and when evening came around and they had no leads, Hotch gave instructions for them to retire to the hotel. They all stopped at a local Thai restaurant for dinner though, and despite Rossi’s occasional hard glances, he was feeling a little less exposed than he had been before. When they finally made it to the hotel, it was simply common knowledge that he and Derek would be rooming together. Nobody really knew for certain that they were in a relationship, and although speculation would continue to circle the unlikely duo, they would neither confirm nor deny it. So it was simple to make the assumption that Reid and Morgan would share a room, but not as simple to assume they would be sharing the same bed.

“JJ and Emily made the suggestion that I go undercover in drag,” he said softly, wrapped in his lover’s warm embrace with nothing more than a pair of boxers on. He needed this… A sense of relaxation and a stress free environment where he could just wind down for a little, at least until the morning when he and Derek would both have to snap back into work-mode.

“Not such a bad idea, actually,” Derek said thoughtfully, and Spencer only proceeded to smack his muscular bicep. Derek only chuckled in respond, his arms squeezing slightly around his lithe lover in a form of comfort and reassurance. “But I won’t pressure you. We can catch the unsub without that, but I won’t say it wouldn’t be a helpful way to get him on our radar.”

“Derek… You know I can’t,” he murmured with a frown in place. Derek leaned in close and kissed his pouting lips, and somehow that was enough for Spencer to believe that anything was a good idea, at least until he sobered up from the sweet moment. “You know what that would do to me… I can’t.”

“And like I said, I’m not going to pressure you. But I will ask that you think about it, for the sake of our victims and their families.” Derek was obviously pressuring him, just not in a direct manner like the girls had done. At least Penelope wasn’t in on their little idea…

“Don’t try and guilt-trip me,” Spencer lectured weakly, pushing away from Derek’s embrace and rolling over, his back to the other man. He didn’t know what he was going to do. It would definitely help them, but was it worth it to put his own self at risk? It was in his job description, to put his life on the line to save others. But he was beginning to question the flexibility of those rules. Morgan followed him as he turned away, curling behind him and holding him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his shoulder.

“I’m not. I’ll respect whatever decision you make,” Morgan mumbled into his skin. Spencer sighed, hugging a spare pillow close while his lover’s hands laid over his stomach, feeling the concavity of his thin frame.

“Rossi’s been looking at me weirdly all day, and I don’t think my knowledge of makeup and drag queens and my ramblings of gay hate crimes really helped,” he admitted, and Derek just chuckled, the light stubble on his chin scruffy against his shoulder.

“Rossi is a conservative middle aged man with a Catholic-Italian upbringing. Are you surprised?” He asked and Reid just hummed a sound of amusement.

“You’re right… Doesn’t make me feel any better though. He seems both intrigued and suspicious, and almost disgusted in a way. I don’t know if he really feels that way or if he’s just surprised.”

“It’s probably a mixture of both,” Derek said honestly, his hand now moving up and down Spencer’s bare torso. “But you shouldn’t worry about it… I know you look up to him, but if he really does feel that way towards gay men, I don’t think you should torture yourself like that. It’ll only hurt in the end.”

“You’re right… Maybe I’m just overthinking it too,” he murmured, and Derek tilted his head slightly to nip at the shell of his ear, a sharp gasp responding to his ministrations.

“Want me to help you stop thinking for a bit?” Derek whispered, his breath hot against his neck. And Reid could only shiver in response, nodding his head immediately. Those hands traced along the expanse of his torso, thick fingers brushing over his sensitive nipples and over the contours of his ribcage. He could feel himself getting aroused, his boxers getting tighter around his growing erection.

“Oh, god…” Spencer breathed as Derek’s hand dipped down to squeeze the bulge through his boxers, his thighs quivering out of pure instinct. Derek always had the ability to make him shake, and even light touches could send him over the edge. But not tonight - he wanted this to drag out for as long as possible, so slow was good. His partner kissed his shoulder and neck, his tongue dragging a line from the base of his neck and up the length of his jugular to the underside of his jaw.

“You’re so pretty, Spence…” he murmured, his hand dancing across the fabric of his Dr. Who boxers, the TARDIS overlapping prints of itself in a spiral of blues. He stifled a groan as Derek’s hand finally delved beneath the waistband, grasping his cock at the base and squeezing before moving upwards. And just to be a tease, the bastard completely avoided the tip.

“Derek, please,” Reid whined, his legs kicking out childishly. Derek chuckled, kissing his jaw and on the next upward stroke, his thumb slid over his head, teasing the slit delicately before he went back to just fondling him. Spencer let his head tilt back and turn, his own lips seeking Morgan’s. Derek was quick to fulfill that wish, their lips meeting in a sloppy but still passionate kiss. Derek purposely set up a quickened pace of stroking then, and Spencer moaned into the kiss.

“Don’t make me gag you, Pretty Boy. You know how much I love those lips,” Derek chastised gently, his free hand connected to the arm underneath of Spencer slid across his chest, teasing his nipples. “By the way, I really like the lipgloss today… Couldn’t stop thinking about your mouth wrapped around my cock.”

Spencer choked on a moan, his hips jerking forward. Derek sure had a way with words.

“You don’t realize how gorgeous you are sometimes… You’re absolutely stunning, Spencer.”

“Derek,” he moaned softly, one of his hands raising to muffle the noises passing his lips. “‘M close…”

“Come for me, baby boy…” Derek encouraged, kissing up his neck and suckling on the skin near the junction of his neck and shoulder, but not hard enough to leave a mark. Spencer did just moments later, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, as he released in Derek’s palm, legs spasming and toes curling. He panted heavily, and in the afterglow, he hardly noticed Derek leaning away to wipe his hand on a tissue from the bedside table. He gathered Spencer in his arms and held him close, nuzzling his neck.

“You’re too good to me,” Spencer murmured softly, beginning to move to face him. “Your turn?” He asked, looking a bit confused when Derek shook his head.

“No, baby, that was all for you. Just relax, okay? We both need it,” he said, turning Spencer’s head to kiss him just one more time before they got comfortable in their spooning position. It was one of Spencer’s favorite positions to sleep in, mainly because it made him feel safe and warm. And god, was Derek good at it.

“Alright… Goodnight, Derek,” he said softly, “I love you.”

“I love you too, pretty boy,” he responded, “Get some sleep.”

The next day came, and JJ and Emily were relentless, as Spencer had expected them to be. He was beginning to get a bit frustrated with them, but that night when another victim turned up, a confirmed drag queen still in her performance outfit, he began to feel inclined to help in any way he could. He talked to Morgan in private throughout the day, and as he had previously stated, he would support Reid no matter what he chose to do.

God, this was so difficult. The pain these victims must have felt; the fear, the horror, the fact that they were alone… He had been through experiences where such emotions presented themselves in his own life, with Hankel, the bullying he suffered throughout high school, yet none of it could even compare to having his life snuffed out simply for being himself. That was enough for him to finally cave and let them know he was willing to do it - for the victims. They deserved that, in the very least.

“Hey Hotch, we were thinking, what if we sent someone in undercover?” Prentiss started, skirting around and avoiding targeting Reid immediately. It would probably be best to mention the idea delicately, since Hotch and Rossi had no idea of his pastime activities. They were both bound to be surprised and maybe even a little offset, but Spencer was willing to suffer a bit if that meant getting justice for the victims and their families.

“Who did you have in mind? Neither you or JJ could do it, since our unsub is targeting gay men dressed as women,” he said, looking a bit confused and glancing back and forth between the two women before his eyes fell on the lithe man partially behind him who raised his hand like he were swearing his oath in court.

“M-Me, sir, I’m offering,” Reid said, and oh, how comical Hotch’s face would have been in any other situation. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head, his lips parting just slightly in shock and his overall demeanor simply befalling his previous state of serious to shock. Rossi looked on with a mirrored expression, but his was less drastic, most likely because, and Reid assumed, that he had his suspicions already. “It’s… something I do in my free time anyway. Drag, I mean.”

Hotch cleared his throat quite awkwardly, proving to be even more awkward than Dr. Spencer Reid himself, and Rossi simply nodded mutely. Stewart looked shocked, and the deputy who had regarded Reid oddly before glanced back and forth between the doctor and the detective. “W-Well… I’m certainly shocked,” he admitted, shaking his head and frowning at the doctor, clearly having some suppressed judgement for the younger man.

“At this point, it wouldn’t hurt,” Morgan tried to offer, and Hotch nodded slowly as if contemplating this idea. He looked to Reid, still recovering from the shock but regarding him with a serious expression. “Could you do it tonight?”

“Absolutely,” Reid said with a firm nod, “I don’t have any of my… equipment, but a quick trip to a drugstore can solve that. I can just fix my real hair, since it’s long enough,” he said.

“No, call Garcia immediately. We need this to be as smooth and genuine as possible if we want to catch the unsub,” Hotch instructed. He supposed it would be easier with his own supplies, and definitely more convincing since drugstore makeup didn’t always cut it in drag. He stepped out of the conference to let his revelation settle with his two unknowing team members and the local detective and deputy. He dialed Garcia.

“Hi, baby boy, what do you need?” Garcia asked, her bubbly voice as happy and unassuming as usual. He sighed and felt his cheeks flushing pink already.

“H-Hi, Garcia. Is there anyway you can go to my apartment and, um, pick up my… supplies? I need them,” he said, hoping she understood what he meant since the idea of asking for makeup in the middle of a police precinct was not at all flattering. She giggled through the speaker.

“You mean your makeup? Are they sending you under?” She asked him curiously, another giggle following.

“Um… Yeah, yeah they are. I mean, I agreed to it, but I don’t really want to. Look, I just need this to be as easy as possible. Could you bring them? Please?” He asked desperately, and she responded in the affirmative. He lowered his voice to a near whisper for his next request, looking around frantically. “Also grab my curly brown wig. A dress will probably be best and a pair of heels, but not too tall. Okay?”

“Gotcha, Bria. I’ll be there in a few hours,” she promised him before they both said their goodbyes and hung up. Reid sighed and dragged a hand down his face, feeling a rise in his stubble and knowing he would need to shave before tonight. He would get there eventually, but he had to face his team again. He entered into the conference room and instantly, he felt how thick the tension was. He shivered, knowing that he had probably caused it and frowning at the looks on Rossi’s and the detective’s faces. The deputy looked a bit conflicted, and overall, emotions were pretty ranged among the group. Hotch maintained that serious expression, but it looked somewhat angered. JJ and Emily looked angry too, but with more distress than pure rage.

But Derek Morgan? Now that was rage.

He looked murderous, his hands balled into fists at his side, clenched so tightly his hands were shaking just slightly. His brows were furrowed, mouth set in a heavy frown. His dark eyes were narrowed into dangerous slits, and the tension in his jaw was scary.

“What’s going on, guys?” Reid asked meekly upon his entrance, and Derek instantly looked at him with a slightly softened expression before looking back to the detective and Rossi.

“Nothing. We’re leaving, to scout the bar before we send you in tonight,” he said, and Hotch was quick to join them in their departure. Reid cast a glance back towards the conference room as they fled from the precinct, and he wondered he would have the power to fix this, particularly with Rossi, when this case was done and over with. He sure hoped so, because he didn’t think he could work with a man who acknowledged him with nothing but disgust in his eyes.

By the time they were finished with the scouting, Garcia called Morgan and let him know that she was about an hour out. Reid immediately asked to be taken to the hotel so he could get ready, and fortunately, Hotch didn’t question this request. He was actually very good at not mentioning the whole thing, most likely because Hotch didn’t do well with his team members’ personal lives, especially not with confidential information like Reid had so willingly shared with him and Rossi for the sake of the case. Reid only hoped that in the end, it would bump him up a bit on Hotch’s respect totem pole to counteract against the criticism and negativity he was sure to receive in the aftermath.

“Do you need help with anything?” Morgan asked when they were in the hotel room together, and instantly, Reid shook his head and smiled, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

“I’ll be fine. Just make sure that Garcia is… discrete when bringing my stuff in. I’d rather the city of Philadelphia not know that an FBI agent is about to go undercover as a drag queen,” he said softly, and Morgan smiled softly, approaching the slightly frazzled doctor.

“I will…” he said, raising a hand and rubbing it along Spencer’s now-bare bicep. Morgan’s touch sent electricity sparking along his skin, and he shivered slightly, a frown marring his features.

“Hey…” Derek started, choosing his words carefully to avoid upsetting Reid, who was quite sensitive when it came to the approval of others. He had been searching for it all his life, so of course he was sensitive. "Rossi and Stewart are just bigots. They’ll see, after we catch the unsub how valuable your input was. And if they threaten you in anyway, you can see to it that I’ll take care of it.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Reid dismissed as he shrugged the shirt off completely, halted in his undressing with the conversation at hand.

“Yeah, I do. Because you’re my man, and it’s my responsibility to keep you safe,” he said tenderly, and Reid just smiled and shook his head, turning away from Morgan and heading towards the bathroom. He was about to close the door only for Derek to block it with his foot, peaking in at his lover. “I love you, Spencer.”

“I love you,” Spencer said in response, leaning into the doorway and pressing their lips together before pulling back and meeting his eyes. “Now get out so I can get ready.”

Morgan didn’t question and immediately, Spencer set to work. He let the shower water warm up while he shaved his face, skillfully avoiding leaving any nicks or razor burn in his wake, and that was because he had done this a thousand times for this very reason. He rinsed his face off, reveling in his boyish appearance for a few seconds before undressing entirely and hopping under the steady stream of water. He washed himself up as usual but the majority of time was spent shaving his legs and underarms. It had been a couple weeks since his last performance so quite a bit had grown in that small time frame (primarily since he was a man, of course). Fortunately, he didn’t have chest hair or incredibly dark arm hair, so he never had to worry about that.

By the time he was finished, he could hear Garcia’s voice through the bathroom door. Wrapping himself in a provided bathrobe, he emerged and saw Morgan, Garcia, JJ, and Emily all sitting around the room, talking amongst themselves mainly. When Derek noticed him though, he smiled that show-stopping grin and approached the young doctor, slinging an arm around his shoulders and leaning in close, too close to be platonic, and instantly Reid tensed at the feel of his lover’s lips against his cheek. “Secret’s out, baby boy,” he hummed in his ear, and instantly his cheeks flushed and he looked down in embarrassment. The girls all squealed though, clapping their hands excitedly as if watching a rom-com.

“Congrats, guys,” Emily said happily.

“I knew it, I just knew it,” Garcia hissed at them. “You didn’t even have to tell me.”

“You guys aren’t as subtle as you think, that’s for sure,” JJ added in humorously.

“What about… Hotch and Rossi?” Reid dared to ask, and JJ immediately shook her head.

“They don’t know.”

“Figured we’d leave the hardest for last,” Derek said softly, kissing his lover’s cheek. A chorus of ‘aw’s’ met the action and Spencer playfully shoved Morgan away, his cheeks pink but a smile lingering on his lips. He tightened the robe around himself, sitting down on the bed beside Garcia. JJ and Emily took up the other bed, and Derek stood at the foot of both. He was worried about the repercussions of this little undercover mission, and as crucial as it was bound to be, he was still afraid of what could come from it. Because no matter how successful a person was, if they made one wrong move, their entire career could crumble. Reid didn’t want to fall into that category.

This wasn’t about to get any easier though. He had to do this. Spencer had work to do, and with a firm nod of his head and a newfound look of determination on his face, he began to gather his makeup.

He would become Bria soon enough, all it took was a lot of makeup and a little added confidence.

“Bria’s here, babies,” Reid’s voice sang out as he erupted from the bathroom in a flurry of long brown curls and strawberry body spray. He spun around in three inch heels, black in color with a strap around the ankle. The edges were scalloped over the closed toes and the heel of his foot. He wore a black body con dress with mesh sleeves and mesh over the chest, dipping down in between his breastbone. But since he obviously didn’t have breasts, he put his silicone breasts in place in the dress to further blur the truth of his masculinity. In truth, it wasn’t apparent that he was actually a drag queen at first, because in truth, he looked like a woman ready to hit the town. Damn, he felt like he could conquer the world like this.

“Yes, baby!” Garcia cheered, the other girls looking just as excited. Derek just looked slightly baffled yet enamored, as he always did when Spencer dressed in drag. But Reid had a job to do, and he couldn’t let anything distract him. Emily approached him and fixed a microphone to the front of his dress, the black apparatus blending in with the dress (which was partially why he asked for a black dress). As well as that, he wore a little earpiece as well, and fortunately his wig was able to cover that without issue. JJ and Emily were dressed up in typical club outfits too, and Morgan was dressed a bit nicer in a maroon button down and black slacks which really accentuated his muscular thighs… Reid looked away almost as soon as he noticed his eyes lingering, clearing his throat a bit.

“You guys are going in too?” He asked them, the three of them nodding simultaneously.

“Just in case anything goes wrong,” Emily said in her businesslike voice, all of them knowing that, despite the somewhat ridiculousness of the situation, this was a serious mission at hand, and lives could be at stake.

“I can’t wait to see Rossi’s face,” JJ admitted sheepishly, and Garcia giggled beside her as they all flooded out of Derek and Spencer’s hotel room to head to the bar together. But before they left the hotel, Derek pulled Spencer aside and grasped his biceps in his hands, scanning his lover’s face worriedly.

“If anything goes wrong, just say my name, pretty boy, okay?” Morgan said, and Spencer swallowed nervously before bobbing his head instantly.

“I will.”

Rossi and Hotch were already there by the time the group arrived, set up in a van outside for reconnaissance. With Garcia’s help, they had access to the cameras located in and outside of the bar, and with four of them on the inside, there would be no blindspots. When they arrived, Garcia departed from their group to slip into the van, and like she never left, the group of four sauntered into the bar in increments like they belonged.

All of their victims had been alone or had just performed at Syndicate, so they all had themselves placed strategically around the bar with all eyes on Reid as he stood alone at the bar, nursing a drink which appeared to be a daiquiri, but was in fact a virgin one. He still needed to fit in, but he couldn’t let alcohol distort his senses. He needed to be alert and focused, else they risked losing the unsub or a life - or both.

After about twenty minutes of standing alone at the bar, occasionally faking texting on his phone, a man began to approach Reid, albeit slowly, and through his earpiece, he could hear Hotch’s voice filter through to the rest of his team, “Heads up, someone’s taking an interest in Reid.”

The man in question was tall, about the same height as Spencer in heels, and he was broad shouldered. He wasn’t muscular per se, just bigger in size but not overweight by any means. He sidled up to Spencer’s side, laying his hand over top of his on the bar top and smirking at him. “Hey, baby. What’s a pretty little thing like you doing all by yourself here?” He asked.

Now, in any other situation, a single Reid would have been flattered, because in truth, nothing about this man screamed unsub. He was charming, not overbearing in anyway, and frankly, his cologne smelled nice. Spencer’s lashes fluttered in mock surprise, his pretty pink lips turning up into a seductive smile. “Nothin’… Looking for a man like you to whisk me away for the night,” Bria purred in response, and he swore he heard the sound of someone choking on a drink in his ear.

“I think I might be able to help you with that. But first, what’s your name, princess?” The man asked. Bria giggled, walking her fingers up the man’s forearm and meeting his eyes.

“You can call me anything you want,” she whispered, “But Bria will do.”

“Bria… A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. I’m Stephen.”

“Well, Stephen… What do you say we get out of here?” Bria asked softly, her hand now resting on the back of his neck. Internally, Spencer wanted to shiver and crawl out of his skin, but he kept telling himself he had to do this. He wasn’t entirely sure if this was the unsub just yet, but something deep in his gut was telling him to run, and Spencer trusted his fight or flight response more than anything. But keeping up the act, he sauntered away from the bar and led Stephen into the ally behind the bar.

Almost instantly, he was slammed into the brick wall, a solid oomph sounding upon his impact. Before he had a chance to catch his breath, he was thrown down to the ground and kick after kick was delivered to his torso and face. He knew that his team was most likely unable to decipher what exactly was going on, so in a panic, he cried out, “Derek!”

It take long for them to react to that, fortunately, because the back door of the bar swung open and his colleagues emerged from within the bar, guns drawn. At the opening of the dead end alley, Hotch and Rossi stood with their guns out as well. Reid, blood dripping from his nose, crawled away from the seething unsub and in Derek’s direction. Morgan immediately holstered his gun and approached Reid, helping him to his feet. Hotch apprehended Stephen, forcing his hands behind his back and cuffing him while reading his rights. Spencer looked to Derek with wide eyes, a smile growing on his lips as the realization caught up with him, and without him alone, they risked the lives of more people. He threw his arms around Derek’s neck and laughed his joy into his neck.

On the flight home, now dressed in his usual style, Spencer wandered down the aisle with a mug of coffee in hand and a tissue stuffed up in his bleeding nose. He hadn’t broken it, fortunately, he had just been kicked hard enough that it felt like he had. He joined the group at the table, Derek at his side and the Emily and JJ across. Hotch and Rossi were near the back of the jet, talking quietly amongst themselves while Hotch did paperwork as he usually did.

“Props to Dr. Reid for catching the unsub with some feminine mystique,” Emily said with a cute bow in Spencer’s direction. The doctor just smiled, leaning into Derek just slightly and exhaling a soft sigh of contentment.

“I’m just happy I was able to help, even if it was a… unique situation,” he said, happy that he had been able to catch a monster and take away his ability to hurt anybody else. Derek chuckled and held his hand under the table, squeezing slightly. He felt accomplished. After years of hiding himself and being ashamed of who he was in his professional life, he felt like he had defeated his own demons. He raised his eyes up and connected gazes with Rossi for a millisecond before the older man looked away.

It looked like he still had one demon to face.

<-Part 7: Origin | Part 9: Demons->

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid #derek morgan #moreid #moreid smut #smut #drag queen Spencer Reid #a disaster if I ever wrote one

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loveafterthefact · 3 years

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Love After the Fact Chapter 80: Pulled From Orbit

As two empires threaten to fall, Lance and Keith part ways

Hot Take: the paladin armor actually kinda sucks and my children deserve better

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Despite his insistence that Keith act like, well, like someone who is pregnant, Lance is not at all surprised when the Galra pulls a Marmoran suit of armor out of the bottom of his old chest from Daibazaal. He doesn’t even protest. He’ll take anything at this point.

“Listen to me.” Lance comes up behind him as he finishes dressing, gently draws the gold and amber comb from Keith’s hair, replacing it with a set of black pins. BleepBloop watches from the ladder to the loft. “Whatever happens next, I love you, and I love your people, too.”

“What happens if we must choose between your people and mine?”

Lance inhales sharply, gripping Keith’s shoulders tight. “Raze the current rule to the ground and start our own allied regime?”

Keith works up a smile. “Yes, let’s. You can rule by my side. I’ll allow it.”

Lance doesn't manage a smile, but his eyes soften for a moment, that warrior's gaze faltering in a surge of fondness.

Keith eyes their profile in the mirror, watches Lance’s hands travel down to his fingertips, up to his waist as he lays his scaled cheek on his shoulder. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other in armor, the first time their sharpest edges are in bold.

Lance’s armor is as fine as anything, white metal inlaid with his token deep, bright blue. A breastplate, greaves and boots, bracers, all made of metal plates. Instead of a plackart, cuisses, and other minor plates, Lance has scale and fine mail, and Keith notices that the pauldrons are made of many small, reinforced plates to allow more flexibility in the shoulders. More than suitable for someone with a mixed fighting style. And, of course, beneath all that is a flight suit, air tight and climate controlled the moment Lance’ helmet locks into place.

The contrast, the incongruity between them has never been more apparent, Keith’s dark, minimalist armor casting a shadow over his mate's starbright form. Lance is armed like a hero, and Keith looks like a thief in the night. He’s okay with that, happy to be underestimated. A small man with a knife and a secret skillset is far more dangerous than a big man with a large sword. The growing wolf at his side only adds to their disparity.

He is Lance’s thorn, his last resort.

“Your Majesties.” Adam steps into the room, face grim. “King Alfor has summoned you to the Situation Room.”

Keith nods, clasps Lance’s hand, laces their fingers together. He will have to let go far too soon for his liking. The Altean prince snatches up his helmet, rushing after Adam, wolf at their heels.

The situation room is dark, lit only by a large, round holotable and the pale blue accent lights on peoples' armor. There are screens hovering over the table, lit up with interfaces, statistics, and control panels. Alfor is waiting for them. All of the lines in his face are chasms, his eyes glowing a dim, pale blue. It strikes Keith suddenly how washed out Alfor’s quintessence is, how little person is in the man. He wonders who the king might have been, had he been allowed.

“Boys. I know you expect to be sent away, lives preserved. But I offer you the option to stay, and act as leaders in my stead. Of all the things I have prepared for, I am not prepared for this.”

“Neither are we,” Lance confesses. Keith grips his hand tighter, trying to regulate himself. He can’t afford to lose it now. “But I will stay, and do what I can.”

Silence, only for a moment, before Keith realizes that they’re waiting for him. “My place is here, with our peoples. It always has been.”

Alfor nods. “Tell us what you know.”

Keith’s eyes finally register other faces, Iverson, glaring at him. Griffin, surprisingly not glaring at him. “We received a message from my mother. She says that the Imperial Compound is under attack, and that rebel forces are heading for Altea.”

“You don’t seem very surprised.” Iverson’s tone is more than a little accusing. Some of the other high-ranking military members seem to share his disposition. Keith ignored them. He's used to the prejudice by now, and there are more pressing concerns.

“We’ve been aware of unrest on Daibazaal for some time. Weight discrepancies in shipping containers, people going missing, a sudden increase in deserters. Emperor Zarkon dismissed said deserters, saying that it was to be expected following the unwelcome alliance with Altea. It’s unclear if he knows anything about the shipping containers.”

“So the emperor’s allegiances are unclear?” Griffin asks.

“Yes,” Lance sighs. “As are Honerva’s.”

Pidge’s face appears on screen. “Hey, I have something to contribute to that. Not that I’ve been eavesdropping or anything.”

“What do you have for us, Pidge?” Alfor leans on the holotable, gaze severe.

“So remember how Lotor helped me hack into his medical records for reasons?”

“Yeeees?” Lance frowns, not sure he wants to have this conversation with everyone else in the room. But it’s hardly the time for tiptoeing. “Why? What did you find?”

“Turns out Honerva’s been experimenting on Lotor his entire life. See, as a result of his hybrid status -at least, that’s what I’m assuming- Lotor can only absorb quintessence, not redistribute it. It looks like Honerva was trying to artificially recreate that power. She keeps referencing this… thing. The Komar Experiment-”

“Oh, that’s not good,” Keith mutters. Under everyone’s gaze, Keith takes a steadying breath. He’s starting to feel queasy, like adrenaline or simply time has cut through the antinausea medication. He strokes Wolf's head with his free hand. “The word ‘Komar’ doesn’t directly translate into Common or Altean, but it means, ‘large breath that takes’. It um, it’s like the first breath a baby takes, or like after you break the surface of water after near drowning. It’s Galran folklore that-” He swallows saliva, skin feeling hot. “-that when someone takes a lifegiving breath, another life ends.”

Adam slips something into his palm: a small pill. He dry swallows quickly, in the wake of what he’s just suggested.

“Are you implying,” Iverson growls. “That Honerva experimented on her son in order to invent some device that absorbs quintessence?”

Alfor falls into a chair, eyes glassy. “Honerva is perhaps the greatest inventor I have ever known. Lotor is thirty-two years old. She’s had more than enough time if this is what she’s been up to.”

"Her notes are... specific. Lotor has been surprisingly unattached to his parents, despite his Galra blood," Pidge murmurs. "I would not be surprised if it's a result of the invasive procedures he was subjected to in infancy. Trauma he doesn't even remember. Honerva would put him in situations with the intention to cause distress in order to activate him limited alchemical abilities so she could study him. She would neglect, frighten, and even harm him in order to get the desired reaction."

“And that's horrible. Truly. But we don’t know that’s what she’s up to right now,” Lance cuts in. “What we do know, is that the Imperial Compound is under attack, meaning that these attackers staging a coup. If they succeed, they’ll come for us next. According to our sources, ships are already on their way here.”

“So we have a planet to defend, a coup to stop, a prince, princess, and consort to rescue, and possibly a horrifying weapon of unknown size to find and destroy. One that could, for all we know, be capable of draining our entire planet and others,” Griffin summarized. “How the quiznak do we do this?”

Silence. Keith takes in a deep, slightly-less-nauseous breath. “We split up. Lance will go to Daibazaal, rally the citizens, and take Daibazaal back from the rebels. I will stay here, and lead the defense.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” Griffin mutters.

“No, he’s right. Lance will go to Daibazaal, and I will go with him. We will determine who is in the right, and join their side. He and I will rally the civilians, form a small team, and find a way to infiltrate the Compound.” Alfor gets to his feet. “Keith, rally your men. Defend this planet, and its people. But if we should fall, you are to escape by any means necessary. Do you understand?”

Keith can feel the eyes of everyone in the room, soldiers, analysts, Adam, Lance. Waiting for his answer, putting two and two together, realizing exactly what’s at stake.

“I understand. My life, by any means necessary.”

“I will stay with him, and watch his back,” Adam declares.

Keith nods, turns to Griffin. “The battalion will meet in the courtyard. They have three dobashes to form up.”

“They already are,” the aubergine-scaled Altean says, dark blue eyes hard. “We are ready, and await your orders.”

Keith nods. “Have someone ready a ship. We’re putting King Alfor and Crown Prince Lancel on the ground in Daibazaal, just outside the Compound. Lance, rally the people, follow their lead. Trust them to know which side to be on. They want peace, just as we do.”

“I know, beloved.” Lance squeezes his hand. Keith hadn’t realized he was still holding it. The Altean heaves in a great breath, forces a smile. “Will you come see me off?”

“Nothing short of death would stop me,” Keith promises.

The royals and their entourage sprint through the halls toward the courtyard where a small craft shaped like an arrowhead is already waiting. Alfor climbs right in, datapad in hand. Lance lets go of Keith’s hand, ready to board. He pulls Adam into a brief, strong hug. “Take care of yourself, and him.”

“Always, your Majesty.”

Keith notices a dangerous shine in the attendant’s eye, a kind of terror he himself is feeling. He says nothing, not even as he watches Adam’s body tremble. Adam is fearful, but ready. No matter what lies ahead.

Keith is not ready. He snatches at Lance’s arm, fingers pressing into the armor of his suit. Those blue and pink eyes he loves so much find his immediately, strangely open, ready to see anything and everything all at once.

Lance’s face is not without fear, body humming with quintessence, red and blue hovering over his form, shimmering in his eyes. The prince smiles, paper-thin. He removes his circlet, hands it to Keith. “I won’t need this where I’m going.”

Keith tosses the circlet aside, where it skitters over the ground. He pulls Lance to him, kisses him soundly, fingers in white hair, sliding over the scale at Lance’s waist. A single twist of their tongues, all they have time for, and he pulls away, noses touching.

“No matter what, I am so, so proud of you. I am proud to be your mate… Please-” He gulps. “Please come home to me, if you can.”

“Beloved…” Lance presses their foreheads together, brushes thumbs over Keith’s cheekbones. “Not even death could keep me away.”

Keith takes in one last deep breath, rubs his cheek into the gloved palm of Lance’s hand, a very subtle way of letting the other Galra know this man is his. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Lance pulls away, eyes not leaving Keith’s face for a long moment. Then he leans up, whispers in Keith’s ear, “You, and little one. With all my heart.”

And maybe Keith knows that’s not true, that if it came down to him or Atlea, Lance would choose Altea. But Keith would make him, agree with him, even though he knows it would break Lance to do it.

The prince puts on a crooked smile, kisses Keith’s cheek one last time before he puts on his helmet and turns away, following his father into the craft.

Keith watches as they lift off, just until they’re out of sight, before he turns to Griffin. “You’re going to follow my orders, and you’re going to like it, or you’re going to get the fuck out of my way, understood?”

Griffin nods, letting his visor drop down over his face. Iverson just sighs. “What’s our move then?”

“Order the civilians to go into lockdown. Any former or current soldiers who have a weapon should stand by in case of attack. Send a runner into the lowlands. Then we assign pilots to the MFE crafts. I want a squadron, broken into four flights of six. Initiate land defense and mobilize drones-”

A screeching flare of light, and a tower at the corner of the courtyard explodes.

“Brace yourselves.” Keith’s eyes find a pinprick in the swath of blue sky. He pulls his hood up, mask sliding down to cover his face, sealing his suit. “This will not be an easy fight.”

“We stand with you,” Adam murmurs, taking a polearm from a passing soldier. Each end is armed with a wicked, barbed glaive.

Keith draws his knife, feeling the blade shift in his hand. He doesn’t know who these people are -hopefully- but he will rip apart every last one of them.

Whatever it takes.

Lance stares out the front window, despairing at the sight before him. An armada of Galra ships, painted with strange symbols.

“Can you read that?” Alfor murmurs, clearly putting a lot of faith in their cloaking technology.

“It says, ‘The Fire of Purification’.”

“Oh, wonderful. We’re dealing with elitist thugs. My absolute favorite,” the king growls. Lance licks his lips, apprehensive. “Here, I want you to have this.”

Lance stares at the strange weapon his father is offering him. White, black, and his own special shade of blue, the weapon seems like two halves of a hand guard with a handle in between. “What is it?”

“I call it a bayard. It will shift into whatever you need it to, whenever you need it, and is absorbed and stored in your armor just like your shield.” Alfor inhales, holds his breath until they’ve slipped past the armada. “It will serve you well. You won’t waste time juggling weapons.”

A stretch of silence, and Alfor murmurs, "I wanted to wish you happy birthday earlier. I have an actual gift for you, if we ever get the chance."

Lance nods, drops his sword, bow and quiver, knowing he might never see any of them again. “Did you- Have you called Dad?”

“I sent him a message… He sends his love.”

“Just a message?” Lance asks. “That’s- That’s all you need? That’s all you’re giving him?”

The king takes a deep breath. “Your dad… He’s been prepared for anything for a very long time. Whatever happens this quintant, he is ready for it.”

Lance finds himself a bit envious of that, that his parents have had centaphoebs together to reconcile with what it means to be part of a colonialist empire. Of what it means to be a warring planet. Even if they’d started the day they met, he and Keith would not have been prepared. They haven't even been married haven't known each other a full decaphoeb.

Down on the ground, Lance can see fire, people running, rubble in the streets. Whoever the aggressor is, it’s clear that they are his enemy. He gives his bayard blade a good swing, flips the blade in his hand, only for it to morph into a bow in his hand, and arrow made of light already knocked.

“Father? Are you ready for this?”

“I’m about to go to Daibazaal to rescue them from an apparently elitist regime and possibly kill my only surviving friend. I am not at all ready for this.” The ship enters the atmosphere in a blaze of heat, effectively giving them away as they look for a place to land. “Are you ready?”

Lance gulps. “No. I know these people. I broke bread with these people. I defended them from a monster, I’ve watched their children, cooked them food. And now, I might be about to kill them.”

“And somewhere down there,” Alfor murmurs, searching for a place to land, “is a Galra thinking the same thing about their kin, and possibly about you.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“It wasn’t meant to.” Their craft begins losing altitude. “It doesn’t matter what happens next, son. We all lose today.”

That much, Lance thinks as the craft settles just outside of town, is very true.

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #Voltron legendary defender #vld

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yandere-wishes · 4 years

Text

Genie and the Savanclaw boys

So this was someting I wrote to get me out of my sour mood. Latly I haven’t been feeling to great. So I decided to wrote some platonic scenarios between my persona Genie and Jack, Ruggie and Leona, please let me know what you thought of this, I spent roughly six hours on it.

A quick recap of Genie's powers

Vision-- Genie can see small glimpses of a person's past. "Past Vision 2/4" occurs when Genie comes into direct contact with a person's possession (it could be inanimate or their darlings), this allows her to see a quick "video" of their past which can last up to 2 minutes. "Past Vision 4/4" is a longer version of the previous power. For her to be able to view an in detailed vision of a person's past, she must first have experienced a "Past Vision 2/4" of them and this power can only be unlocked while she's in her lamp. Think of it as downloading a video and only being able to watch the first two minutes until you're in "a room with a sort of significance to you." Due to this power also affecting her, Genie is sometimes forced to relive traumatizing events that have occurred to her in the past one thousand years.

Maniacal File-- Note that all of Genie's powers are based on manipulating the "yandere side" of people and or events. Maniacal file lets Genie create multiple scenarios or events for how a person under a yandere influence may act. Think of this as someone having a multitude of one-shots or stories about one particular "character". Now, these "files" allow her to do two different things. One being able to manipulate the person to commit various acts, such as murder, kidnapping amongst other macabre deeds. Two, she's able to mimic almost anything a that a person who's file she "owns" can do. Of course for this to work, the files first have to be shrunk to the size of a USB and inserted into her encephalon manually (or with the use of a bit of magic). The more files she has on someone the better she understands them and the better she can help them with their "wishes", there is also a sentimental viewpoint to these "files". Since Genie is very anti-social and withdrawn these fils are sorta like her "friends". For her to obtain a person "files" she will need to either see them perform a sort of "yandere like" act, stalk them to better understand them or/and have a very in-depth and detailed conversation with them.

Bloody Background-- Certain environments (like the entirety of the Savanclaw dormitory) trigger "bloody background" which always Genie to see multiple "escape routs" or "attack routs". These routes can be used for hiding, stalking and multiple other things.

Jack Howl

Genie’s eyes landed on the warn out beat up door. Scratch marks ranging in size, were left on the wooden entrance, each one a declaration of war. The purple-haired Jinn traced her long slender fingers over a random set of claw marks, debating whether or not to enter the Jackel’s den. For a split second her vision flashed, the ground morphed from marble to rough rock, bones of wild animals littered the ground, the door had disappeared and in its place was the mouth of a pitch-black cave. Screams of terror scorched the air followed by maniacal laughter… She'd seen this place before, stood on the very same flooring and heard the same disparate cries o despair. “Ten more seconds and then the roar” she whispered. But the visions never last that long, it shattered into a thousand tiny shards and scattered away. Genie once again stood in front of the battered door. Inside she could hear the low grunts and huffed breaths of the ill-tempered first year that resided within. There was no reason for her to enter, she had no need nor business to invaded his privacy like this, her intentions boarded on plain rude…but the curiosity of the matter was eating her alive. She had to know!

Jack Howl first year Savanclaw student with a knack for getting into fights. He had no friends, never showed interest in a darling and the only words he ever spoke where curses and threats. Due to his harsh and brutish manner, Genie had never been able to receive a type three profile on him. Sure she knew all his attack moves and strategies by heart and could predict any action he would partake before he even knew it himself. But that left the biggest question unanswered...what kind of darling did he desire?

Based on pure analysis she could take an educated guess and say a darling whose temper was even shorter than his and who would beat up a defenseless person for kicks. But there were so many "what ifs.." maybe he liked a girl who was the opposite of him. Or maybe someone brave enough to stand in his way and tell him to stop his meaningless fits of rage. All these questions made the young girl's mind race with potential suiter for the boy.

Hesitantly the Jinn pushed on the door, it creaked as it was shoved out of her path. "Um...J-Jack", she counted her heartbeats a thing most Genii tend to do to pass the time. One heartbeat, two--

"GET OUT!" A water bottle flew in her direction, hitting the left side of her face. Ok so maybe she didn't know every move as confidentially as she had thought. "Ow!!" a court whine came after, followed by a stream of tears. Before Genie knew it she had fallen to the floor legs splayed to either side of her and loud sobs escaping from her mouth. The bruise on her head where to waterbottle had hit her pulsed with pain each time her heart beated. She frantically tried to dry the tears with her wrists to no avail. This was not what was suppose to happen, but then again had she expected anything better?

"Hey cut that out" Jack kneeled next to her frame, roughly grabbing both her wrists in one large callused hand. She tried to wiggle out of his grasp for a second debating wheater to kick or headbutt him. Slowly her white hair aggressor lifted his other hand to her face and wiped away her tears. "hey hey no more crying ok? You're going to be alright got it?" His voice was rough and demanding but it held a gentle undertone.

It took a while but eventually, Genie's tears stopped and her sobs died down. When the room had fallen into a semi-comfortable silence jack spoke again. "What the hell was up with barging into my room? Are you trying to get beat up?"

Genie casted her gaze downwards and took in a shack breath. 1 heartbeat, 2 heartbeats, 3 heartbeats...

"I wanted to...to-to talk to you..." Her voice shook with uncertainty and cracked from the strain the crying fit had left on her vocal cords.

"What for?" Jack glared at her, a snarl spread across his lips and his grip on her wrists tightened. "Don't tell me a useless pipsqueak like you want to pick a fight with me?"

In that second a strategy started to map out in her brain, Millian old gears turning and formulating words, tailoring them together to generate sentences. She swiftly lifted her eyes and locked her blood-red orbs with his golden ones.

"I-I've seen you fight, multiple times actually and I...I um came up with some strategies and suggestions for how you can improve...not that you're not tremendous I mean sorta good, already but...but um I can help you improve...if if you want that um that is."

Jack's eyes bore into her soul for a solid moment, he tossed her hands aside savagely. Getting up he stomped in the opposite direction, his bushy snow-white tail smacked her beauty in the face. He paused for when he reached his punch bag, grabbing the role of hand wrap, reapplying it to his bloody bruised knuckles. Finally, he barked out an answer "Meet me by the elephant skull at twelve am sharp, got it!"

feebly Genie stood up, using the wall as a support. "S-sure thing" she replied, surprise evident in her tone "You g-got" a large triumph smile graced her tanned face.

"Oh and bitch?"

Too happy to register the insult Genie cheerfully responded with a chirpy "yes".

"GET THE HELL OUT OF MY ROOM!"

Ruggie Bucchi

Booted feet pounded on the rough uneven ground. Heavy breathing filled the air. Behind her, Genie could hear footsteps chasing after her. Panic crawled into her mind, stretching its self thinly over her mind. It's ok she mumbled to herself, just realize you've done this a billion of times before.

"Bloody Background" she whispered under her breath. Genie blinked, hundreds of tiny blue circles appeared in her red orbs. A full layout of the land before he appeared in the far left side of her sight, multiple little notes flashed in bright shades of blue and red. navigating through the notes and maps, Genie finally made heads and tails of the situation. Quickly mapping out the most deceitful rout.

--Run 10 meters then take a left, lean to the right there is a 16 cm deep pothole in the middle of the path.--

Accelerating her pace she took a sharp turn, behind her she heard the squeaky raw sound of shows scrapping rock. followed by a few curses. She kept running, watching as a blue circle highlighted the promised pothole. She aimed right, hissing as the rock wall bite into her skin. when she was a good few feet away she heard a scream and 'thump', her pursuer had hit the fallen that should give her a head start of approximately three minutes.

--with a three-minute head start run straight ahead, you'll come to a cliff jump and role down. The current calculations do not predict any major damages to be inflicted, fractures and momentary body shutdowns are not guaranteed to be avoidable.--

Her body was feeling numb, blood rushing to her fingertips. A warm dusty wind hit her face, small bits of sand sticking in her eyeballs. "Thank you Arabian desserts" she mumbled, there really were some benefits of being born in the 8th-century middle east. In front of her the earth seemed to disappear, she braced her self for the jump. Leaping into the air she curled her body into a semi-oval like shape. Upon impact, with the rugged ground, she curls her self further. She finally used the tip of her boot to dig a slow her down. Getting up again she started to run trying her best to ignore the immense pain in her right arms and the various bruises and blooding scratches over her body.

--The skull on an elephant in approaching, hid in the inside of its hollow cranium.--

No, no hiding Genie thought to herself. This whole chase -although exhilarating- was starting to get boring. She scanned the ground, reading the comments trying to find something that might help. The blue comments kept highlighting potentially useful objects and hideouts. Swiftly Genie picked up two rock shards. Holding them tight she switched her path and dashed for the elephant skull in the far right.

She entering through the mouth, quickly taking in her surroundings. Using the jagged bone matter, Genie pulled her self up climbing until she reached the window of the empty eye socket. Looking out she could see Jamil, so he'd been her mysterious stalker. Racking her brain for a second Genie tried to find a reason why Jamil of all people would be after her. Did he need something? Was he having trouble with his darling? Or did he need her for something else?

The second-year Scarabia student was only a few meters away from the skull, his back turned eyes darting every which way trying to find the Jinn girl. Swiftly Genie positioned her self, one foot resting on the opening of the eye, the other ready to push her forward. One arm held her still while the other gripped one of the shards.

One heartbeat, two heartbeats, three heartbeats...

She leaped forward, crashing into Jamil's back. The third dorm's vice president landed face first in the dirt, Genie straddling his back. She raised her hand with the rock, balling it into a fist and slamming it down on Jamil's head.

"Ouch, cut that out you rouge Jinn!"

Genie didn't respond she struck him again and again. A sickly smile spreading on her face.

"Aw look at you little bunny, trying to beat a man to death."

Turning her head Genie glared at the source of the voice. Her eyes immediately widened. They're on top of an elephant spin sat the savage gluten of savanclaw Ruggi Buchi the vice dorm leader.

He leaned his head onto his hand and smirked down at the two. At that moment Genie noticed just how dark the sky had gotten and how many glowing eyes were watching her. She gulped and rolled off of the boy. Landing on the ground in a w sitting position. Jamil also got up, he placed a hand on the back of his head covering the bleeding wound. With his free hand, he grabbed Genie's wrist. "Listen here you useless genie.." Before he could finish Ruggie had landed next to him, claws leaving deep scratches in his arm. With a painful hiss, Jamil retracted his injured arm. Ruggie walked behind Genie placing a protective hand over her shoulder. "Get off our territory before Leona arrives."

Jamile sent one last glare towards the duo before returning from which he came.

"thanks" Genie mumbles

"Don't mention it, that's what a pack is for" Ruggie flashes her a predatory smirk

Leona Kingschalor

Genie leans over Leona's shoulder, arms loosely wrapped around his shoulders. A few centimeters in front of them a blue port screen is floating in the air. pictures of multiple girls rotating with their bios on the side.

"We really need to find you a darling big brother" Genie mutters as she nuzzles the crook of his neck. Leona simply takes another bite of the beef jerky in his hands, he chews slowly, relishing the feeling of his beloved "sister's" warm breath over his exposed skin. "Why are you in such a rush? Despreat to have me occupied with someone else so you're all alone and abandoned again?" He could feel her body tense, her breath hitch, and the nervous tick as she dug her long nails into his shoulder.

"N-no you're just getting older and we need to find the future king his queen. That-that's all"

Leona huffed and glared at the screen, there was something rather monotonous about these girls, they all lacked a certain "spunk" to them. Plus how did she expect him to concentrate when she was right there.

Leona didn't know when the entirety of Nightraven had decided that the naive little psycho jinn would become his "little sister" or even why for that matter. If it had been up to him he'd declare her as his darling the moment her lamp had been tossed through that magic mirror in the director's office. But something had happended, some choices, something! What that something was he did not know...only that it kept them apart.

Genie straightened and walked over to Leona plumping down on his lap and grabbing the screen, scrolling through some names and articles mindlessly. Automatically Leona's hands when to her head patting her softs then braiding a section of their hair to match his own. It was the brotherly thing to do, but when had it become so natural? "Look big brother.." Genie turned the screen and showed Leona the "file" of a round-faced hyena girl. She looked cute, maybe even try worthy...just not right now. "She's cute," he mutters turning his emerald eyes to Genie's face. No, he though her Genie's cheeks where come how rounder and puffier.

"I could set up a date if you--"

"NO!" Leona flinched he hadn't meant for it to come out so harsh. He cleared his throat and gently caressed the "young" girl's face, started pulling both her cheeks. "Why don't you give me her number and I'll give her a call after my nap...how's that?" The purple-haired girl tried to nod despite her flesh being pulled in opposite directions. "Good" Leona let go of her face and got up, lifting Genie up in the process. He walked over to the door of his room kicking it open and letting her fall on the bed, not a second later he plumped down on top of her. Genie let out a giggle and squirmed under him until she had some breathing room. "Get some rest Ruggi tells me you haven't slept in a week." This was concern, it was how an "older brother was supposed to feel for his "little sister". "But I'm not sleepy-" she tried to protest. "Don't care, do that counting thing you do sometimes maybe that'll bore you enough to drift off."

She obeyed like the good little sister she was supposed to be. As sleep took over his sense Leona heard her tiny voice barely above a whisper.

one heartbeat, two heartbeats, three heartbeats, four heart--

#twisted wonderland #leona kingscholar #twisted wonderland leona kingscholar #disney twisted wonderland #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #twisted wonderland jack howl #jack howl #Ruggie Bucchi #twisted wonderland ruggie bucchi #yancore #twisted wonderland count down

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clairenchanted · 4 years

Text

man / monster.

maybe the creature was the monster anyway.

that’s the line, the frankenstein’s not the monster, he’s the doctor! and then the well meaning pause, the he’s still the monster, isn’t he? to make someone and leave them? to revile them? to hurt them? a little laughter, the kind you find in polite, intellectual conversations. honestly, you say to your grad school friends, he’s still the monster.

my mother and i have spent our lives fluent in anger. english is our second language. i remember getting off the bus at the stop before the bridge where i’d meet her after school. i remember the car was silver that would camouflage itself against the watery afternoon light, and the thing that took up most of the space in the interior was the anticipation of what would come. do you know how long i’ve been waiting she would say, or. what did you forget to do today. or, i bet you didn’t start your homework yet. or, i can’t today i can’t do this with you today. i would breathe, i would start my words, and they would all fall against the knife edge of her anger; i learned that mine needed to be sharper and harder if they were ever going to stand a chance.

whenever i hung out with the girl down the block, or the only cousin my age, my mother would sigh. she would say you talk just like her when you get back. like it’s a bad thing. i searched in her tone and in her eyes and in my own words circling me in my empty bedroom, trying to find the part where it went wrong.

the thing was, the creature was beautiful. canonically, specifically. his limbs were in proportion, and i had selected his features as beautiful. beautiful! the creature is eight feet tall and does not fit the beautiful features the doctor -- (he’s not a doctor, your grad school friend whispers to you with the delight of knowing these kinds of things. he dropped out of college! where’s your degree, buddy? where’s your student loan debt? and he calls himself a doctor.) misery became me in college. that was our currency -- money secondary. we traded in sleepless nights and how many pages we had to write and how many classes we took. i started to fall from where i had been (a star of a student, an apple of an eye, a requisite on the honor roll) and i learned how to make failure my home. it was what i heard, it was what i saw. so, necessarily, it was what i lived.

they would drink, so i would drink. they would beset their sentences militantly with as many syllables as they could mange -- i learned how to breathe around longer and longer words, lost in my own verbosity. (read: wordiness.)

anyway, the creature does not fit the beautiful features frankenstein selected for him; he stretches his skin and makes it sallow. all of the parts of him, beautiful on their own, are disparate together. they show their differences, their points of origin. they do not hide. they do not make one seamless whole. so frankenstein, in revulsion of what he has done, leaves. and the creature, who does not know that he is a creature, does not know why, because he does not know that he is a creature.

i am used for my intelligence, so i start to use others for what they can give me. i structure my world in varying degrees of usefulness. i curl around the empty parts inside of me and tell myself that they are unnecessary; what can emotions do for me? how can loneliness harm me?

but then i am met with understanding, and something in me surges up and out, trying to copy what i have just seen.

we learned about mirror neurons in a cognitive neuroscience class i didn’t do very well in. but i remember those; i remember thinking about looking at someone else and letting myself feel the urge to mimic them. i remember wondering if it would happen if i looked in the mirror; if i could ever want to mimic myself. if there was an answer at the bottom of that endless philosophical cycle the very question would create.

in the story, the monster doesn’t eat meat. he is well spoken; he asks things like: isn’t he meant to be adam (biblically, literally)? who is he, where did he come from, why is he alone? was he made to be alone?

what the creature also doesn’t know is that frankenstein (the man who is not a doctor) did not ask any of these of the creature he made, because it was never about the life that would be made. what he loves are the questions: how much blood, how much flesh, how much air makes a corpse a living thing? what he hates is: how can one live now that they are alive?

the man hates the monster, and the monster learns how to hate.

(all men hate the wretched, says the creature who becomes a monster, how, then, must i be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things!)

(this is not a justification for murder, of course. but this is a story, and the monster is making a point here.)

my best friend’s laughter -- rare and quiet -- is infectious. we sit on my couch in my apartment and start howling with laughter until we forget what we were laughing about in the first place. but her red face, streaked with joy and tears, fills my chest with an electric warmth and her euphoria becomes my own and we laugh again and again. i cry with her, too, when the hour grows late and she opens the shell around her fragile heart; we are connected with a thin live wire and when she feels, i feel.

they (a special they) approach me with gentle hands and words unmasked and unbeguiling. they come without wants except for the fact that that’s not true; we all have wants that live deep within us, tender and lacking bite. wants that don’t hurt, that fill us with a softness that wraps around our jagged edges and soothes the ache in our throats. they come with understanding and honesty and everything in me rushes to meet them with the same: twin waves kissing at the crest.

i have learned things in the intervening years and my slow crawl into adulthood. i have learned that my anger is sparked by its twin, brought to life with the same electric shock that raises the creature in every film iteration. i have learned, sometimes, to swallow it back. i have learned to want things that are not shown or given to me: i have learned to want to be soft and open, to want to hollow out my chest and make space for the things and people i find around me. i have learned the things i like and dislike about my disparate, stitched together parts. i have learned to find the seams bound in tight, black thread.

i have learned my creature-ness.

the argument inherent in monster versus man is what makes each. inevitably, though, you can only find the similarities: both are made; both are made of what they see of others like so many fingerprints left behind on glass. both desire; both desire to understand who they are (doctor, philosopher, loving, loved). both are who they make of each other: monster, man. murderer, meddler.

there is something relieving in monstrosity, as if i can breathe fully around the idea in a way that humanity denies. there are many ways the story could have ended: in understanding, in acceptance, in dignity and knowledge and perseverance. and there is only one way it could have ended (tragedy) because the question sits like a knot in the deepest part of the story’s heart: what is the difference between monster and man?

as if it’s important.

i am not un-dangerous. but i can reach out my hands, palms up, fingers without claws, and know that i, the monster, will be gentle and loving. and in that moment, it and i become only a word to keep track of things, at home in our sewn together body.

#frankenstein #halloween #horror #poetry #writeblr #lesbian

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writerbyaccident · 5 years

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Snared: Part Five (Yandere Tomura ShigarakixReader)

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Six Part Seven

You tried your best not to look at Shigaraki, still not wanting to acknowledge the reason behind the suffocating atmosphere of your bedroom. Instead you stared straight ahead, wishing that you had real blinders in your arsenal as opposed to purely metaphorical ones. From what you could see out of the corner of your eye, he was playing some sort of handheld game on your bed, hunched over it in an attempt to get as close to the screen as possible. You did your best to stay quiet, simply thankful that his attention wasn’t on you at the moment and wanting it to stay that way. Each time you heard him huff out a frustrated breath or heard your bed creak as he shifted his weight, you froze instinctually, trying to keep him from remembering that you were even there.

There was no chance of Shigaraki forgetting such a thing though. He might have been playing with his handheld, but he was only doing so to provide him with some sort of distraction. His whole body felt like it was buzzing, the fact that you were finally with him after so much time spent waiting nearly overwhelming him. Not only that, but he was positively surrounded by you: by keepsakes of your room, by the scent of warm spring rain that he knew belonged to you, by the image of you standing before him that Shigaraki knew belonged to him. His previous hunger for you seemed almost petty compared to now, his need to claim you raking through every inch of his skin.

Meanwhile, everything felt so utterly surreal to you, the sheer absurdity of your situation serving to make you feel as though you were dreaming, with blurred vision and all of the other trappings. But there was a different part of you that acknowledged the reality of what was happening, and that was the part trying to keep the rest of you calm. It felt as though there was a degree of separation between those disparate sides of you, as if you were receiving instructions from a far away source. Shigaraki had told you to unpack and as much as you didn’t want to, as much as you wanted to grab your bag and run to the police, the sensible part of kept you from making that mistake. There was no chance in hell that an escape attempt right now would go well, so instead you robotically took out the clothes from your duffle bag and put them back in your dresser.

Suddenly, another creak resounded throughout the room, this one long enough and loud enough to tell you that Shigaraki had gotten off your bed without needing to risk looking. Clenching your teeth, you paused for a moment, waiting to see what he was about to say or do. But even though you could hear him moving around your bedroom, Shigaraki neither approached nor spoke to you, leading you to resume unpacking. Several minutes passed this way, with you pretending to ignore him and him doing who knew what. As time went by though, the tension in the room thickened and solidified, pressing down on you until it was all you could feel. While you still didn’t want to acknowledge the villain who was making his way around your bedroom, not knowing what exactly it was that he was doing was even more frightening than just looking at him was. And so, after taking a deep but desperate breath, you turned around to face him.

If Shigaraki noticed your change in position, he didn’t show it, instead just continuing what he had already been doing. To your confusion, you saw that he was not using his quirk to destroy your belongings as a part of you had suspected. Rather, Shigaraki was simply inspecting each and every item that caught his interest. He took note of each piece of your room and what it revealed about you, cataloging in the back of his mind for later. From the pictures of you with your friends and family to the shoes in your closet to the books collected on your shelf, Shigaraki memorized it all. It was a necessity to him, and an obvious one at that. After all, you belonged to him, and that meant that each piece of you and each piece of your life did as well. This hunger to know each and every part of you had been eating away at Shigaraki from the night he first saw you, only worsening as the days had gone by without a way for him to satisfy his craving. So now that he was in your home, now that he was finally with you, he was determined to glut himself with even the smallest fixtures in your life. Besides, Shigaraki knew that you needed to be taught that your place was at his side, dutifully obeying his every command and reverently heeding his every word as though they were something holy. And if he was going to educate you properly, he needed to know everything there was to know about you.

“It’s not very nice to stare at someone,” Shigaraki said abruptly, sending a jolt through your nerves. Afraid to speak yet more afraid to stay silent, you searched for something to say.

“I—”

“Who is he?” Shigaraki interrupted you, nodding at one of the pictures hung up on your wall. Moving closer to see it, you stilled when you realized it was the picture you had of you and one of your friends at the park, you leaning against your friend as he had his arm around you. You had loved that picture, the memories attached to it always happy ones to think back on, but now you cursed yourself for being so sentimental. Shigaraki didn’t belong anywhere near your friends, not even near their picture. The anger rising within you at his presumption to even look at the picture threatened to escape, only held back by your fear for how he might retaliate.

Shigaraki, meanwhile, was growing angry as well, though for different reasons than you were. The image of you with your friends incensed him, the mere thought of you wasting your time with other people setting his temper ablaze. It didn’t matter to him that the picture had been taken before the two of you even met, before he even knew that he wanted you. No, none of that mattered when all Shigaraki could see before him was the image of you being touched by some worthless NPC. Just barely containing his fury, he prompted you to answer his question.

“Well?”

“That—that’s my friend.” Eyes still on the photograph, Shigaraki sneered.

“Just a friend, huh? You two seem a bit cozy for just friends,” he snarled tightly.

“So what?” you replied without thinking, simply set off by the entitled tone of Shigaraki’s voice.

“Excuse me?”

“I—I mean, he only did that for the picture, it didn’t mean anything.”

“Hmmm…I’m not sure if I believe you. Maybe I should ask him,” Shigaraki threatened.

“I swear, we’re just friends!” you repeated pleadingly, hoping that he would believe you. “We’ve just known each other for a while, that’s all!”

“So you two must be close then.”

“N—no, not really,” you stammered, realizing your mistake.

“Really?” Shigaraki wheezed mockingly. “Cause you just said that you’ve known him for a while, and I can clearly see him touching you in this picture. However close you two are, it’s clearly too close.”

“So I won’t see him again, I promise!”

“But even if you don’t go see him, how do I know he won’t come to see you? I don’t like the thought of us to keep having to deal these constant interruptions,” he mused. “I mean, we’re just at the start of our relationship here, and we’ve already had to deal with the police. How’s our relationship supposed to grow if other people keep trying to mess things up?”

“He—he won’t mess things up,” you vowed, doing your best to fill your words with as much conviction as you could muster.

“And how are you going to make sure he doesn’t?”

“I’ll fight with him, tell him I never want to see him again, whatever the hell you want me to do.”

“I don’t know,” Shigaraki spat back at you. “If you two are so close, he might not bother listening to you. It’d probably just be easier for me to take care of this for you.”

“Please,” you said, voice shaking, “you promised that if I did what you said you wouldn’t hurt the people I care about.” Reflexively, you stressed your plea by placing your hand cautiously on Shigaraki’s shoulder, willing to try anything to keep him from going after your friend. The villain tensed at the contact, not prepared and certainly not expecting such a gesture from you. For a moment he simply stared down at your hand with wide eyes, hardly believing that you had just touched him of your own volition. Once he had a minute to adjust though, he was able to let himself enjoy the lustful burn that spread over his skin and through his bones.

“Alright,” he smirked down at you. “I guess I’ll let you try first. But you know what I’ll have to do if it doesn’t work.” And just in case there was any sliver of doubt in your mind, Shigaraki placed his hand over yours, entwining some of your fingers with his own. Then, moving both his and your hand towards the wall, he rested all five of his fingers against the picture, letting you feel the way it crumbled into nothingness.

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smitten-miqitten · 4 years

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So, idk if you all remember my Butterflies chapter where Era had a spot of intimacy nervousness, but thanks to a certain delightfully enabling Discord server, it now has a much saucier lemon flavored followup. This is obviously not safe for workplace consumption (But I’m not the boss of you. Live your best life).

Ao3 Link

Butterflies Scattered

"I've made you wait so long, I think it's only fair you get to decide how we start."

"You've done nothing of the sort. You just needed time; I was never in any rush."

"You've still been waiting though, haven't you? Is there nothing you've been wanting to do? Nothing in particular, I mean? Any fantasies… or, or… you know." Era stammered, gesturing vaguely as if the action would account for words she wouldn't utter. "I'd like to do that first, really I would."

So she said, but Cid was of the opinion that bending her over the railing of the Excelsior and having his way might be just a tad bit too rough for Era's first time. So he went with his second favorite fantasy, one of the first he'd ever allowed himself of her, in fact.

"Well then, if you insist", he laughed, scooping her up and plopping her down on one of the ship's benches. She landed with an "eep!"; her eyes growing wide to see him kneel at her knees. "You want to do that?" She asked nervously, face flushing as he kissed his way up her thigh, his hands gently parting her hastily squeezed together legs.

"Very, very much... but it can wait, if you're not comfortable…" Cid noted her furrowed brow and worrying lips.

"No, no, it's not... I want to try, I do… it's just… I can't return the favor." Era sighed, pointing to her teeth, specifically her canines, in response to his puzzled look. "I've been practicing, on...on fruit and the like, but I can't seem to avoid damaging them with my teeth."

She what?

Cid struggled really, really hard not to laugh. She had been practicing? He was flattered beyond words that she would bother with such a thing for him, truly. But the idea of her doing that to various foods was far too comical an image. Giggling lightly despite his best efforts, he said "My darling, I appreciate the concern but I assure you I'm rather more substantial than fruit."

She flushed to think of his substantiality. "Well, sure, I mean... you're certain I won't hurt you?"

"Short of outright biting me, no, I don't think you will."

"That's… genuinely a relief. I don't like this disparity between us, I really don't. I want to be able to make you happy, Cid. So no matter how silly or undignified it is, I wanted to at least make an effort."

"Era.." Damnit, how could he keep up his suave act in the face of something that genuine? Cid knew he was like putty in her hands, turning to mush at her heartfelt admissions. He leaned up to kiss her, hoping she could feel the love he bore for her as keenly as he did. "We could always try for a practical lesson later", he murmured against her lips. "Without the fruit."

"Cid~…" Heat radiated off her skin, his flirtations never failing to get a rise.

At least I’m not the only one turning to mush, he thought. "Only teasing. Though the offer stands..."

She met his lips again to shut him up, clever tongue seeking entrance and being wholeheartedly welcomed. She had grown very adept at this of late, a quick study, kissing him senseless. For a few short moments their roles were reversed, Era holding all the cards, his heart in her hands. But that wouldn't do. Not for what Cid had planned. Her breath caught as his hands wandered back downwards, slipping underneath her skirt, fingertips coming to rest at the edge of her undergarments. Giving her a quick peck on the tip of her nose and a cheeky little grin, he followed his hands to his prize. He would leave the majority of her clothes on for now, while they were on the deck at least; the chill in the Sea of Clouds was fairly biting. He was pleasantly surprised to find she had not worn her customary undershorts, his only obstacle a pair of lovely blue lace pantalettes (clearly worn with him in mind), already quite damp.

He smoothed his thumb back and forth across her waistband, savoring the feel of warm, soft lace on skin, smile only growing. She had no way of knowing this, of course, and he'd never admit to it, but the skirt she currently wore was the very one that originally inspired this fantasy. It had been the first time he'd seen her wear such a thing, her toned thighs the most glorious display.

"Ready?"

She nodded, hands coming to rest on his shoulders, eyes shut tight and face crimson. Cid, perhaps knowing her too well, mercifully did not leave her much time to stew in her shyness, deftly removing her undergarments and setting to work.

Oh! Ohhhh gods...

His tongue was on her now, moving slowly across her folds, every lap culminating in a little flick at her clit, each one sending what felt like sparks throughout her skin. Era tensed at these new sensations, fingers digging into his shoulders and legs attempting to squeeze shut, ultimately thwarted by his firm hold on her thighs. She could feel…. something building in her lower belly. Something warm, each spark further igniting it, her veins filled with fire. She knew what, of course, but never imagined it to feel... anything quite like this.

Seven hells…oh Cid...

Her breath came out in small, stuttered gasps, uttering a muted moan as he found his pace, quickening as if in time with her racing heartbeat. It was so quiet she thought he might not have heard, thought (stupidly) that she might escape the sheer embarrassment of it. That is, until she felt him smile.

A hand flew to her mouth to stifle the noise, but her attempts at modesty were fruitless. Without looking up from his task, Cid merely raised one of his own hands in response. Holding it out as if requesting something, fingers waving in a "give it here" motion, he didn't need words to say what he wanted. Hesitantly, begrudgingly, Era placed her offending hand in his, the cacophony of quiet gasps and moans that escaped her now undampened.

Heavens above and hells below, if this was him out of practice she couldn't begin to imagine what she was in for in the future.

Her hand grasped his tightly, the other fisting in his hair as she neared her peak. At least, she thought she must be, the tension in her belly growing stronger and stronger. Cid gave her thigh a little squeeze, a wordless "stay put, please". His touch left her for a moment, only to reappear at the entrance of her core. Gently he inserted a finger, crooking it juuuust so, making her back arch in pleasure.

He's... trying to loosen it, right? I read about that..I read..ohhhh, I can't! She could feel herself teetering on the edge, an odd image of balancing on a brick wall coming to her mind. She was going to fall. Needed to fall. But it was too soon, he needed to add more for it to work, didn't he? She had to hold on, to be patient, she had… "Cid, I'm sorry, please, I can't...I need...ah!!" Era came with a shudder, body curling around what of him she could reach, clinging to him.

Huh. Her sudden release had caught him off guard, her cry and sharp tug of his hair startling him out of his reverie. So caught up in the act, he hadn't spotted the signs: how firmly she gripped his hand, the rising pitch of her voice, the thrashing of her tail. He hadn't expected Era to be quite so quiet, and assumed he had more time. Not that it matters, he thought, admiring the worn out, blissful woman before him, her glow more than achievement enough.

She relinquished her hold on his hair, a couple strands staying with her, his scalp stinging a bit with the loss. As Cid kissed the inside of her thigh, Era dimly registered how...damp his beard felt. That's strange...wait...oh seven hells. Cid issued a disappointed "tisk" as she buried her face in her hands.

"There's so much, isn't there?" She cringed at the feel of the cool air on her damp skin. Damp. Urgh….

"Era, no, darling, it's fine." Cid hastily wiped at his mouth and beard, giving her a quick peck on the lips. "See?"

The flavor on his lips was odd, not at all like him. "Oh...do I really taste like that? It's... salty, sort of."

"You taste fine, better than fine." He chuckled as she peeked out at him through her fingers, a little smile unmistakable.

"I ruined your master plan, Cid. Finished too soon, you only managed one finger before I…"

"My plan, my overly self-conscious sweetheart, was to get you off. Having achieved that -- spectacularly, I might add -- I count nothing as ruined."

Oh you silly, awful, wonderful man, she thought, pulling him into a languid kiss, tongue dancing with his, her taste mingled with his own. "Thank you."

"'Thank you'? For what?" Cid pulled a dumb face utterly ill befitting his genius.

"What? You know what!" She stuck her tongue out at him, his clueless, teasing facade cracking into an easy smile. "Oh no… Cid, the bench is such a mess", Era groaned, sitting up, again hiding her face in her hands. They hadn't thought to lay down a towel or anything.

"Ah, I wouldn't worry about it. Ever since her upgrade, the Excelsior's been overdue for a rechristening", he laughed. "This should serve".

"I'm not a bottle of wine!" Era chided, bapping him on the shoulder in embarrassment.

"Could have fooled me." Cid countered, waggling his eyebrows. "Now, the chill on deck does make what I have planned next rather difficult, what do you say we head below? While I must admit I'm very keen to get you out of those clothes, I'll not have you freeze in the process."

Era stood, wobbling slightly, steadying herself against his arm. Cid triggered the hatch release, and the pair descended from the chilly deck into the bowels of the Excelsior. Unlatching a portion of the wall, Cid revealed a small foldout cot. He kicked a number of crates and containers underneath it to aid the rather spindly supports, claiming the bed’s legs would not be up to the task. “Not the most comfortable thing in the world I suppose, but you’re the one that picked the Excelsior rather than a proper bed.” Not that Cid would want it any other way.

They set to removing their clothing, or the rest of it, in Era’s case, smalls long since cast aside. Era saw little point in retaining any articles, modesty all but tossed out the window given he’d already become so well acquainted with her most intimate parts, but Cid continued to wear his smalls, perhaps in a gesture to calm her nerves. He also wore his goggles still, which Era proceeded to yank off his head. Damned goofy, to wear goggles during sex, she thought.

Cid was hardly restrained in his appreciation of her form, eyes wandering, drinking in each and every glorious curve. Era too, was guilty, though she tried to be rather more discreet in her admirations, eyes bashfully roaming his glorious musculature. Era adored in particular the fine, silver trail of hair that grew starting at Cid's navel, travelling downwards and downwards. She couldn't help it, it was fascinating. Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of it, her own body hair, where there was any, being fine and sparse, the vast majority being on her head and tail. Or perhaps it was simply the implication; the thought of where the trail led, and the heat that arose in her loins in the thinking, that had her so enamored with this particular patch of hair.

He scooped her up, laying her on the cot with care, drawing her into an impassioned kiss, stealing her breath and leaving her woozy before moving to nibble at her ears. Okay, this is a good place to start. They had done this before, albeit with more clothing. This was familiar, comfortable: passionate kisses, bodies pressed together, hands roaming faces and shoulders and hips and...oh. Cid’s fingers caressed the swell of her breast, Era letting out a little gasp of surprise.

Of anticipation.

Sensing no opposition, Cid continued, his palm enveloping it, massaging as his thumb began to stroke her now pebbled nipple.

How heavenly, how...oooh. A familiar want grew, stronger and stronger as he rolled her nipple between his fingers, ever more so as he took its companion in his mouth, his beard soft and smooth and ticklish on her skin.

More, please…

As if he were suddenly a mind reader, Cid obliged, free hand finding her clit, small circles driving her wild. He was cognizant of her tells now, working her far more steadily as he dipped a finger inside. First only one, Era still too tense, still too tight, but so very wet. A second soon followed, crooking, hitting a spot that made her squirm, stars erupting behind her eyelids. He quite liked that reaction; Era could feel him grin against her chest as he repeated the move.

She tried to reach for him, barely thinking through her pleasure, fingers tentatively following the path of silver that led to him, wanting to do something, anything more than take. Cid groaned as she grasped him through his smalls, voice heady and deep, losing pace for a moment. Growing bolder, her hand slipped underneath his waistband, stroking the hardness she found there. Era hadn't the faintest idea what the hell she was doing, but surely it had to be something right, if his heavy breaths and muttered oaths were any indication. She hooked a finger underneath his chin, luring him to her, nibbling at his bottom lip.

She was close again, the pressure mounting, the tell-tale teetering feeling returning with force. Pleasure driving her to distraction, her hold on his manhood faltered, Era losing herself in his ministrations as Cid took her hand. But this, this wasn't how she wanted it. She wanted...

Era started to giggle, covering her mouth in an ill attempt to quell her sudden outburst. Cid looked up, his smile one part amused, one part confused, and one part a bit hurt.

"Era, dear, if you're going to laugh, I do hope you'll tell me what about." He sounded a touch concerned. She patted at his arm reassuringly, wiping the corners of her eyes.

"It's nothing, I just….hahaha...I just had the most idiotic thought. As lovely as this is, I can't bear for you to stop. And at the same time, I need for you to stop. Isn't that mad? It is, isn't it?"

"I think that depends on what you mean by ‘stop’. Have I done something? Are you uncomfortable?"

"No, no, no. I just...I want to move on. I need... I think I'm ready for the next bit."

Cid grinned deviously with understanding. "Oh? I'm not quite sure what you mean, love. 'Next bit?' I'm afraid you'll need to be a touch more specific."

"Must I? Cid…. I would like to...no, that's too crass, I won't say that. I want…"

"Go on…" Cid was kissing a highly distracting path up her neck to the underside of her jaw, lavishing attention there with teeth and tongue. He shouldn't tease her so, but she really did make it all too easy.

"I want you to...to make love to me." She muttered, shyly leaning away from his fervent affections, breathing heavy.

"Didn't catch that. A little louder, perhaps?" He was going to be in so much trouble later.

"Make love to me, dammit!" She griped, huffy and frustrated. Why must he bully her now?

Cid didn't mind in the slightest, enveloping her in his warm embrace. "As my lady commands", he laughed cheekily. "Perhaps it will be easier for you", he said, sitting up against the curved wall of the ship as best he could, "like this." Cid motioned her forward, pulling her onto his lap. "To give you more control of the pace. Then again, she's not exactly got the roomiest hull. You might bump your head…hmmm."

"If I'm careful", she murmured, leaning in close to kiss him just below his third eye, "it...it should be fine, probably. But I... I think I'd rather you be on top. If you're alright with that."

"Of course." Cid lay her gently down on the cot, hands making their way down her sides to rest at her hips, pulling them flush to his. He bit back a moan at the feel of her against him, wet and ready.

"It's just... I'm a bit nervous, is all." Her heart was racing, pulse pounding at the feel of his length against her core, small rolls of his hips sending heat throughout, shivers following the path of his lips down her neck. "I...ah!...I can't...mhmph!"

Whatever it was she thought she couldn't do was lost as Cid claimed her lips, intent on drowning out her worries. If she wanted him to take care of her, he'd gladly do so; it was no failing on her part. Afterall, isn't that what she'd asked him to do?

Shy fingers trailed their way to the waistband of his smalls, pausing then tugging lightly. Cid broke their kiss, searching her eyes. "You're sure?" His voice was heavy with lust, undeniably eager to continue. But he had to be certain.

Era nodded, flushed but unashamed. "Please."

Removing them with haste, Cid lined himself up, Era bashfully looking anywhere but down at where they were joining. He kissed her once more, the ferocity easing her nervous mind as he entered.

He was much too large, surely. Or she was much too small. Era couldn't be sure which, and she couldn't bring herself to care with him kissing her so. There was no pain, thankfully his earnest preparations had seen to that, but Cid took her slowly all the same, giving her body a much needed moment to adjust to him. The stretch was the cause of some discomfort, unaccustomed as she was, but soon gave way to the oddest feeling. Fullness, warmth. With every ilm the feeling grew, and grew more pleasant for it.

"Cid…" she panted, eyes half shut from the overflow of sensation. "Hmmm?" He had hilted, exercising as much restraint as he could muster waiting for her body to relax, his fingers digging into her hips from the effort. "I love you." She took his face in her hands, thumb caressing his lips. "So very much." "Era..." Words failed him. To be here, with her like this after all this time, he wasn't sure if he was more liable to sing or cry. Instead, he decided to show her. Love her in this way, that the depth of his feeling be undeniable. "I love you."

A tentative roll of Era's hips ushered him onward, starting with slow, intentional thrusts, mapping out her pleasure. Though she had little in the way of leverage in this position, Era rose to meet his every thrust admirably, greedy for the contact, savoring the feeling of renewed fullness with each stroke. She wanted so badly to kiss him, to be lost in him, but found it immeasurably difficult to take her eyes off of his beautiful face. He was a sight to behold, her beloved, awash with joy, powerful muscles flexing and glistening with the sheen of their mutual exertion. A curtain of silver shielded them from all the world as Cid rested his forehead on hers, third eye cooler to the touch than his searing skin.

Cid slipped his hand onto the small of her back, arching her ever closer into him, Era's breath catching as his touch grazed the base of her tail, said limb lashing about in answer. Stroking it, Cid found he could coax from her the most delightful whimpers, tenderly caressing the fine silken hairs to call forth even more of her lovely song.

Era, blessedly, was nearing her peak, hands fisting in his hair and clamoring at this back. Cid too, was struggling to hold on. It had been far too long since he had last done this, and she felt far too perfect around him, squeezing tighter and tighter as she neared release. He refused to be first, reaching between them to work her most sensitive spot, leaving her gasping for air. By his touch she was undone, unraveling around him with a soft cry. He followed after her, oaths muttered into the crook of her neck, having resisted longer than he could bear, spilling over into his love.

Spilling.

And spilling.

… on second thought, he probably should have warned her...

Spent, they separated, fighting for air, basking in the afterglow. Their hands met, holding fast as they came down together. Looking over at Cid, Era thought he looked strangely... sheepish. "Era", he panted, "don't look down. It's nothing bad, there's just, there's a lot of… just let me get you cleaned up."

A lot of what? She wondered, a odd trickling sensation answering her. Oh…

Cid rose from the cot wearily, utterly exhausted, rummaging through a nearby storage crate for a couple clean cloths and towels.

"No, I can do it myself, really, just hand me the towel!" She squeaked. She hadn't braved a look, but it was beginning to cool and she could feel it. They cleaned up in an abashed silence, Cid helpfully passing her another cloth when one proved insufficient.

"Cid?"

"Yes?"

"Is it always like this?"

"What? Ah... yes. Usually. Unless I've been.....Yes." His cheeks and ears were rather pink now. He nearly... there were some activities he'd prefer to keep to himself for the moment.

"Then I don't mind the mess."

"Oh?"

"It felt nice, frankly. It's a part of you. Also you're blushing."

"Am not." He was.

"Are." A mischievous grin spread across her face, as if it hadn't been she who was the blushing, stuttering mess not moments ago. "Do you think Vanu or Bismark or Sky Pirates will find us in the next bell or so?"

"I shouldn't think so, why?"

"I'd quite like a nap, if you'll join me." She patted at the cot beneath her, a towel laid over the worst of the wet spots.

"Good gods, a nap would be heavenly." He flopped down heavily beside her with a huff, pulling her onto his chest, promptly falling asleep. Era laughed, soon to follow.

#lemon #cidera #I don't know exactly how to tag this #It's Era's first time ever and Cid's first time with her #She's a bit shy #I hc Garleans as fairly...productive #these two are dorks and I hope I did their first time together justice #idk what I'm doing ever tbh

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zerot0all · 5 years

Text

She Devil | M

GODDESS SERIES

.SF9 Supernatural.

Chani X Fem Reader X Jaeyoon

M- Mature ( Smut, violence, gore, crude humor, etc...)

_____________________________

.01.

Screams took over the hallways as you tried to gather your thoughts. Blood smeared the walls and limbs hung loosely around doorknobs, the scene would turn any humans stomach inside out.

But ... you’re not normal.

And you’re not human.

Born out of Satan’s own spit and blood , he created monsters like you. Demons who roamed the earth for eternity doing his biddings.

To drink as many souls as one can without any repercussions.

You were made to bring havoc, cause turmoil and ruin as many lives as you could.

You were his favorite.

Made in the vision of the creator... you were almost perfect.

Almost ... him being a fallen angel , he worried you would bring the sudden light he seemed to hide for so many centuries.

He feared ... you would be his destruction.

He feared ... you were the one.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

You opened the door to your room, exhausted from a days work. The mansion was supposed to be your escape from the outside world. The place where you could ignore the thought of death and souls. You were fed well, being one of the best hunters known to Demons.

It was during your shower when you felt your chest constrict. Causing you to grip the shower curtain , pulling it towards your falling frame. Your lungs seemed to collapse , your body met the wet shower floor before you were able to realize what had happened.

“Y/N!” You heard in a distance. Your vision went hazy and a loud ringing sounded off in your ears. A piercing pain shot through your spine causing you to wither in pain.

You blacked out completely, being woken up hours later to soft kisses and long licks at your folds. The warmth and length of the tongue was one you surely remember, having the feeling engraved into your very own being.

“J-Jaeyoon,” you moaned softly , letting him continue with his assault. Your back arched , the sensations climbing the moment his mouth attached to your cunt. His deep groan of approval gave you the sign that you were indeed soaked for him. With each lick and suck, the heated feeling that clouded your vision and bubbled in your chest was coming to a sudden simmer. Letting you willfully take a sudden breath , your lips trembled with pleasure.

“I’m here baby.” He spoke into your cunt, his mouth quickly attaching to your clit sucking it roughly making you scream in euphoria . Your eyes shot open and were immediately met with his bright red eyes as he consumed your pussy. Lapping up your juices like as if he’s been starving.

“Please, please. I’m so close.” You begged on a whimper , Jaeyoon went to grab your thighs and held them open. The fierceness behind his actions made you throw your head back in bliss. Your climax took over as Jaeyoon drank your release , his tongue lightly flicking your nub to calm you down.

Your chest rose with deep breaths as he crawled up your body, peppering kisses all over your abdomen, chest, neck and finally your mouth. You hummed as you tasted yourself on his lips, enjoying the way his tongue played with you. Jaeyoon deepened the kiss, his hands cupping your face in a fragile way, it made you gasp. He was being passionate, and you weren’t sure why.

“My little devil, you need to be more careful who you drink. I tasted a bright soul in your blood ... you know what Youngbin thinks about those.” Jaeyoon caressed your face as he settled next to you. His naked body on full view , having him seconds ago between your legs , you couldn’t help but want him more. Something in the way he nipped at your thigh and tasted your blood , had you riding out on a high so pure , you were still able to taste the ecstasy on your lips.

“Ah yes ... those disgusting brights. It must have slipped my mind , I don’t know. It won’t happen again.” You confess. Realizing your mistake.

A bright soul- one who has been forgiven from all their sins. What one would call a ‘saint’. A good-doer.

Funny thing about those is ... they’re rare. You don’t find one of those ... EVER. So a simple mistake could have costed you your life.

A bright soul could be as powerful as to end a demons life easily.

A bright soul in the demon world ... was an Angel.

And angels in the demon world, are deadly.

“You’re lucky I found you and not the other guys ... they would have easily threw you under the bus knowing you’ve found and devoured a bright soul. Where did you find it anyways ... I haven’t seen one in years.” Jaeyoon questioned. But all you could muster up was a shrug.

You couldn’t remember... that’s the thing about brights, they could mess with your whole being. Kinda like the flu on steroids . But just like the flu.. you needed to recover.

“The last thing I remember was walking by the park...and ... and that’s it.” Your words made no sense as they came out. You blinked back your astonishment since this was the first time that it has ever happened to you.

You’ve only ever heard stories of demons drinking bright souls and dying soon after. Thankfully Jaeyoon found you and helped you out, or else who knew what would have happened to you.

“What did I tell you about going out alone?” Jaeyoon shoots you a daring glare, reminding you of the number one rule Youngbin set in the home.

A buddy system works best with two or more demons when hunting.

“I needed ... I just needed to be alone.” You went on, getting off the bed and going for your robe. The conversation was beginning to annoy you and you already knew Jaeyoon would bug you some more.

“Alone? Since when? Growing up I couldn’t get you off of me with you being so fucking clingy and now you wish to be alone?” His eyes enlarged , almost seeming to be insulted with your words. It was true , growing up you were obsessed with him.

He is the most powerful demon and is said to be your eternal partner ... when you were young , that truly thrilled you. But now ... now it just seemed bothersome. What once was a wish come true , seemed more like a job well done. and you couldn’t seem to shake the feeling of wanting ... more.

“Yes, yes Jaeyoon... I wish to be alone. And what ? Are you not going to grant me that privacy ? Are you going to bitch to Youngbin too?” You snarled back, aware that everyone in the mansion had a secret agenda to be Satans number one demon.

You were all hunters and at times , hunters hunted eachother.

Jaeyoon shook his head but said nothing as he crawled out of your bed and proceeded to clothed himself.

“I... I never wished to keep you caged. You’re too beastly for that, little devil. I only want to protect you... but , I need to realize that you’re not the little girl I once knew.” His voice had dropped down to a soft sorrow pit , feeling hopeless around you.

It may seem the tables have turned and now he was the clingy one.

“I haven’t been that little girl for centuries, Jaeyoon,” Your voice was stern but something behind it still held a softness to it. No matter how much he gets on your nerves, he would always be your first.

Jaeyoon was an important entity in your life ... so no matter what , he was meant to be with you.

No. Matter. What.

“Yeah , yeah ... I know. Look, Ima go before you rip my throat out. Sleep well, little devil.” He winked and shyly smiled as he exited your room. Leaving you once again in the empty mind set you were craving.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

It had been days of you feeling weak. You were unable to leave your bed and when you did, you almost became the monster all should fear. Your temperature was hotter than usual , your skin boiled with a fever you’ve never felt in your entire existence but yet .. you needed air. You wanted to go out and find ... something.

Something was calling for you. An unknown entity which had been nibbling at your mind. The taste was on your tongue , so vivid to see and to devour, it was driving you mad.

Luckily, you convinced Jaeyoon to join you on a hunt. Leaving the others back at the mansion.

It was nearing two am when you suddenly stood frozen. Your body ran cold then heated up within seconds as your eyes zeroed in on a strange figure.

A young man , sat slouched on a bench near the park. The same park in which you last remembered from that horrible night. Jaeyoon watched as your eyes blinked from red, in your beast form back to your light hazel eyes.

“He seems weak ,little devil. He doesn’t even look like he would taste any good.” Jaeyoon tried to side step you but you didn’t budge. You remained standing , watching as the young man breathed deeply and hunched over some more. Almost seeming in a painful dispare.

“I want,” you spoke suddenly.

“You’re kidding, right?” Jaeyoon questions mid laugh , watching you as you admire the young man who sat all alone.

“Y/n? Snap out of it ... he’s just a human boy. You can’t possibly want to drain him. Come on .. let’s go to the bar around the corner , I’ll find you a delicious old fuck who wouldn’t mind ending his life tonight.” Jaeyoon went on, trying his best to convince you. But the more he spoke the more you ignored him. Something about the human boy seemed to make your insides boil , in a good manner. Your skin came alive but also ... something deep within your chest began to hum.

“Run along Jaeyoon, I wish to stay.” You reply softly , your legs wanting to guide you to the weeping human. But a firm grip around your arm made you stop. Glaring at the hand which tightened around you, in hopes for him to understand... but Jaeyoon wasn’t level headed. No demon ever was. And since you two have been ... a thing , he can’t seem to leave you alone.

“Either you let me go or I’ll rip your arm off ... I’m sure Youngbin would have a great time healing you this time.” You said as calmly as ever. He knew the way you spoke , the way you walked and the way you managed to keep yourself was as unaware of others feelings or emotions. You were cold ... but all demons were.

But something about you was different.

Jaeyoon felt the ice in your tone and released you , taking a step back to breath. The aura around you was life threatening at the moment , and Jaeyoon feared for his life. At times , he wondered why he was so obsessed with you but nothing ever made sense.

“Aish, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. But enjoy your little human boy... I’ll be back at the mansion, if you need me.” He sneered , taking one last look at the boy with fluffy hair and a gloomy face.

You watched Jaeyoon disappear into the shadows, his broad back becoming the dark night in which you both were made out of. Taking a deep breath, your body heated once more as you turned back to the one who called for you.

You were gravitating towards this poor human. You didn’t know how or why he was so powerful but you let your body react. Slowly approaching the human who was hunched over. A soft sigh seemed to be coming from him the closer you got , till you were standing right in front of him. The humans heart began to race, picking up with fear lingering behind it. The aroma coming off of him was ...intoxicating.

You could feel the purr of your growl bubbling in your throat the more you took in his scent. Goosebumps began to appear on your arm, a sensation you haven’t felt in decades. But the more he feared you the hungrier you became. Your mouth salivated for him. This mere human boy who made you crave his soul like the monster you are.

“M-May I help you?” His deep voice was such a contrast to his soft fragile features. Your eyes shot to his , a buzz ringing in your ear the moment you met his dark browns.

“What’s your name?” You questioned suddenly , tilting your head. You were transfixed , something about him was deliciously addicting and yet you haven’t even tasted him. Something about the sorrow that he projected was alluring.

His eyes grew , fully aware of the woman in front of him. He cautiously glanced around the empty park, a need to run away came over him but he made no sudden movement.

“M-My name? Oh, umm... my name is Chani.” His voice was laced with fright , so you drank it in. Savoring the way his tongue spoke his very own name. You took a deep breath, needing his scent deep inside you.

“Yours?” He spoke again, causing you to blink back your suspicion.

You cocked your head , aware of his question but concerned as to why he asked you such thing. No one cares about you ... at least not these mortals.

“Miss... d-do you have a name ?” He spoke again, making your insides burn some more. The feeling itself throwing you off as his voice set into your bones.

“Y/n.” You replied almost too quickly for your liking. Eyeing the human , he was interested but something about him made you take a step back. His fear ... was evaporating.

The longer he watched you , the more he felt brave. The aroma itself made you dizzy once again, making you take a seat right next to him on the bench. He would casually glance at you from the corner of his eyes then go back to the piece of paper in hand. You got curious , wondering what he had.

“What is a young boy like yourself doing out at this hour , all alone?” You asked as natural as possible , leaning over to get a view of the paper which had a picture of an older gentleman. The human named Chani, turned towards you. Making you sit up straight , avoiding the way his lips quirked up in a shy smile.

“Why are you calling me a young boy? Are we not the same age?” He lightly chuckled , his eyes dropping to watch your mouth then back up to your eyes. He was interested or at least he wondered why you were so curious. You cocked your head , bemused.

“Oh no, I’m way older.” You replied simply , making him take a quick glance at your frame. From your steel toe boots , up your black jeans, skimming your black leather jacket and ending on your eyes. You shivered , for some strange reason but you kept your composure. Chani giggled, shaking his head trying to avoid admiring you as you sat next to him. It was in the way he sat back , sitting tall to mimick your posture that you finally saw the piece of paper.

Bold letters spelled-

MISSING

IF ANY INFORMATION PLEASE CALL POLICE. BRING MR KANG HOME.

“Someone is missing?” You suddenly asked , even knowing that you just met this guy, something about him made you want to know more. Chani furrowed his brows then noticed that you were examining his paper.

“Oh yeah, my dad went missing a week ago and no one knows where he went. I’ve been looking for him by myself since my mom...” he paused , dread covering his face and his scent. His aroma tasting sour on your tongue , he was in pain. Something was bothering him. You waited for him to finish his sentence but .. just like the wind , it went quickly in a breath.

“He was a good man , so I’ll do what I can to find him.” Chani finally spoke, going to stand. You can see him ponder his next words as he turned towards you once again.

“It was nice meeting you.. take care y/n.” He smiled. A smile so genuine it made your insides churn. Twisting and constricting, you gasped finally as he made his way away from you. Walking down the park and leaving you in a space of torture. Once he was out of sight, you took a deep breath. Tasting his essence again, something in the way it sizzled on your tongue made you softly moan.

You know that fragrance. You knew it all too well...but before you could piece together your dilemma, Chani’s words came back to haunt you.

“He was a good man,”

A good man? Those don’t exist ... not here at least.

______________

[MS]

I bring to you , the first story in the GODDESS series. A world where good and evil collide , needing one another to survive. Who will make it out alive in the end ... stick around to find out 😈

PART TWO | SF9 Masterlist

#sf9 #sf9 fanfic #sf9 fanfiction #sf9 smut #sf9 angst #sf9 series #sf9 au #sf9 scenarios #sf9 imagines #sf9 jaeyoon #sf9 chani #sf9 jaeyoon smut #sf9 chani angst #sf9 chani smut #sf9 jaeyoon fanfic #sf9 chani fanfic #sf9 fantasy #sf9 youngbin #she devil ms

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nix-needs-coffee · 5 years

Text

Smarter Than That

Prompt: “I thought you were smarter than that.” “Then obviously you’re not very smart either.”

Alcohol and self-pity. Katherine has a rough night.

I didn't expect this to go the way it did. Y'all asked for fluff, but only angst wanted to happen. Sorry?

AO3 Link

Katherine teetered perilously close to the road. She had to clutch at the metal railing next to the crossing to keep herself steady. Her fingers squished in the chewed gum stuck to the underside. Unable to hide her revulsion, her face contorted with disgust, and she shook her hand as if it would free her from the germs she had just stuck her hand directly in. Just one more thing to add to her disastrous night which had started so well.

She and a few of the girls had gone to the pub for a quick drink after the show. A “quick drink” always seems to turn into a few drinks, and on occasions like this night, it had turned into many drinks. She had had enough for her to feel the tension slip away from her shoulders and melt away from her limbs, enough to lean her soothed body into Parr’s side and almost pretend to listen to her as she lamented the socio-economic disparity she had expected time to resolve, enough for her lips to feel tingly and numb as she assured Cleves that she wasn’t falling asleep, she was just resting, but definitely not enough to stop her from having just one more drink.

Katherine had risen from her seat with the self-assured disposition of a person undoubtedly trying to conceal how intoxicated they truly are and made her way toward the bar. After ensuring that Jane was not watching her, she ordered a cheeky tequila shot along with her cocktail and swallowed it as quickly as she could, noting how easily the shot went down. She nearly ordered another, deciding against it when she could feel someone’s eyes on her.

She had just turned to make her way back to the table, a little less poised than she had been on her way to the bar, when she nearly collided with a man that stepped directly into her path.

“S-sorry,” she murmured quietly, not meeting the man’s eyes.

“That’s alright, love. I’ve been waiting all night for a pretty thing like you to throw herself at me,” he laughed and lowered himself down to her eye-level, giving her a wink.

Katherine tried to take a step back, but his hand on her hip kept her from creating any space between them. Her heart leapt to her throat and her lungs refused to expand.

“Watch it, love. You almost went right into the back of that guy there.” A smarmy grin stretched across his face.

She attempted to skirt around him, but his other hand came up to grasp her waist, tightening his hold, not letting her go anywhere.

The drink dropped from her hand. Ice, fruit slices, and shards of glass ricocheting off the floor, sending shrapnel radiating in a wide circle. The man jumped backward, unsuccessfully avoiding the splash, but removing his hands from Katherine in the process. Seeing her opening, she dodged around him and the onlookers toward the nearest door.

She didn’t look back until she had put several streets between herself and the pub.

With the fresh evening air and a little time since she’d downed her last shot, she was feeling the effects of the alcohol coursing through her system. Shaking her arm after touching the gum made her unstable once more, and she wobbled a bit trying to find her balance again.

Distracted, she hadn’t noticed the light change until it started indicating how many seconds she had remaining to cross the road safely. Cursing under her breath, she stepped into the road. The sound of a car horn startled her, making her lurch forward and stagger her way to the other side. She found herself pressed against the cool concrete of a building. She rested her forehead there for a moment, trying to will her body into responding as it normally would, but her inebriation continued to muddle the process.

Knowing she was only going to become more incapable of keeping herself safe, she patted her pockets in search of her phone. All she found was her debit card and receipt from her last two drinks. She had left her phone with Jane at the table.

She was well aware of what she must look like. There was no way a taxi would pull over for her.

Sighing, she slid down the wall, not caring that the uneven surface scraped at her skin. Feeling vulnerable, all alone and way too drunk, she resigned herself to the long wait until she sobered up enough to get herself home and let her tears fall freely before her eyes drifted shut.

It was some time later that Katherine felt herself being jostled about.

“We’ve got you, sweetheart,” Parr whispered.

She struggled to open her eyes and make sense of the situation, only able to work with brief seconds between bouts of nausea. She felt someone rub soothing circles on her back before everything went dark again.

Katherine woke the next morning in her own bed with a bottle of water and painkillers on her side table. Her head was still foggy, and stomach unsettled, but otherwise she felt better than she ought to have. It took her a few minutes to realize that she was not alone in her bed.

Flashes from the previous night made her freeze as panic flooded through her. Her breathing became ragged and she felt as though she was going to be sick again.

The person behind her must have sensed her discomfort and woke from the sound of her strangled breathing.

“Hey, you’re alright,” Katherine knew that voice. Anxiety was keeping her from placing it to a name and face, but the comforting tone served as a palliative and she felt her terror subsiding. After a few moments, she was able to turn and face the other person in her bed.

Parr.

All of the fight in Katherine left her. She eased herself back into her pillows and allowed herself a moment to regain control of her breathing.

“What happened last night? You said you were going to the bar and just disappeared. You scared the absolute life out of all of us,” Parr spoke softly, gently running her hand through Katherine’s hair. “You didn’t even have your phone on you.”

“A man,” Katherine started, feeling her stomach clench again at the thought of his abhorrent hands reaching for her. “He-he stood in my way. He grabbed my waist. Wouldn’t let me go.” She felt the tears dripping down the side of her nose and falling to her pillow. “I had to get out of there.”

“You should have yelled. Let us know what was happening so we could help you. You just left. What if he had followed you? What if someone else had found you instead of us?” Katherine could see the frustration and concern in Parr’s eyes and it only served to make her feel worse. “I thought you were smarter than that.”

“Then obviously you’re not very smart either.” Katherine knew Parr was right, but her words wounded all the same. She shifted over to get away from Parr’s ministrations. She heard Parr sigh before the mattress dipped as she climbed out of the bed.

“I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Katherine heard her bedroom door open, and guilt overwhelmed her. After everything Parr had done for her that night, keeping her safe, looking after her, and making sure she wasn’t alone, she was lashing out at her. Katherine sought solace so desperately, and yet when it was generously offered, she had pushed it away. Incontrovertibly demonstrating that she wasn’t very smart at all.

“Catherine, wait. Please don’t go.” Her voice was so quiet it was barely audible to herself. She heard the door shut. The sound of the latch wrenching the sob from her chest that had only just been contained since she had rebuffed Parr’s comforting touch.

The self-inflicted pain of pushing away her friend and the memories of the night had her in a stranglehold. She buried her face deeper in her pillow to muffle the sound of her crying, not caring that it impeded her ability to breathe even further. She wasn’t sure she wanted to anyways.

Until she heard, “I’m still here.”

#six the musical #six fanfiction

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bodyalive · 5 years

Text

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH DAY 8: MICHAEL BAZZETT

BY RUMPUS ORIGINAL POEMS

April 8th, 2016

How To Become An Effective Poet In 31 Days, Or Less

First, slick back your hair with gasoline and slip an unlit cigarette between your pouting lips.

Now, casually toy with the lighter. Remember: you are working with a snake that eats both its young and its tail.

From time to time, actually touch the flame to your hair. This will encourage a sense of urgency. You may even write as if you really mean it.

For a while.

Persona is everything. Use 4th person whenever possible. Or narrate as a cloud. Drink warm milk & honey if you feel a storm coming on. When in doubt, rain. Use lightning sparingly.

Never mistake a bone necklace for an actual spine.

Keep the through-line of a poem tense. If it goes slack, reel it in to confirm you still have bait. Then, cast it out into deeper water.

Encourage your stanzas to hold hands. This implies friendship, yet also allows them to discretely check for weapons.

Build a small wooden temple. Burn it to the ground. Use the ashes to blacken your ink. Compose haiku praising your enemy. Repeat, as necessary.

Insist that all your verbs take a vow of silence and wear robes of rough linen. Observe them while they harvest lavender outside the monastery. Set up a lawn chair and drink iced gin while you watch them toil, to heighten the disparity.

Have a small door installed above your heart & occasionally reach inside to feel your pulse. It is best to do this discretely, while murmuring: “This door you might not open, and you did.”

Have a key line from your manuscript tattooed on your forearm. Post black & white photos online. Choose a German site that doesn’t actually allow anyone to view content. Then sit back & listen to how the quality of the silence greeting your work has subtly shifted. Write a think-piece about the experience, entitled Integrity.

Bind your wrists with duct tape & type in a closet. This will provide an immediate sense that you are writing from behind the Iron Curtain.

Strive for a tone that is simultaneously whelmed and seemly. Avoid prefixes. Use words like “limned” & “palimpsest” liberally to discourage the half-hearted. True poets have 9 readers at most. Genius, none at all.

Encourage each poem to visualize itself as a bone in the body of a larger animal. Name this animal “Book” – but do not feed it, lest it become domesticated. When the neighbor mentions his cat’s gone missing, murmur vaguely about coyotes.

Replace your pen with a gun. Your images will remain alert; your characters will yearn to be more disarming.

Adjectives are mascara. Verbs are merely muscle and blood.

Adopt a novelist. Tell them what it’s like to be a real writer, how it feels to not make compromises or be a whore to story. Then sleep with one eye open.

Choose your table in the café wisely. Be certain to order only the most cryptic espresso drink. (Ideally, this would be bourbon.)

Re-purpose a utility belt for your ostentatiously old-fashioned writing tools, then clink around the coffee shop muttering about your cantos.

Insist that your next book is going to be big. Construct a mock-up two meters tall, set in 56-point font, with a spine made of elk vertebrae. Strap it into a child-trailer and tow it nonchalantly behind your bicycle.

After wrapping yourself in animals skins, stalk out into the darkness to face the brutal calculus of loss.

When in doubt, smolder. Not like a cigarette. Smolder like Nina Simone.

Go for a long walk & wait for the lines in your head to fall in line with the cadence of your steps. Then persuade Wislawa Szymborska to return from the beyond and copy them down in Polish.

Title every sestina “Pantoum.” Every sonnet “Haiku.” When questioned, smile and say, “Exactly.”

Write on scraps & envelopes using only miniature pencils. Erase nothing. Also, speak the unspeakable in timeless fashion & transcend the fact that the world is utterly unaware of its need to be explained.

Don’t be subtle about insisting on the power of repetition.

In fact, be pretty overt about insisting on the power of repetition.

But it’s the spaces between the words matter most. Opera singers plan their breaths. Words nest in the silence before & after.

Compose in invisible ink to save hours of revision.

Cover the floor and furniture with paper. Dip the paws of the neighbor’s absent cat in ink. Release a coyote into the room. Then, write exactly what you see.

– Michael Bazzett

Michael Bazzett’s poems have appeared in Ploughshares, Massachusetts Review, Pleiades, 32 Poems, Hayden’s Ferry Review and Best New Poets. He is the author of The Imaginary City (OW! Arts) and The Unspoken Jokebook (Burning River Press), as well as the winner of the Bechtel Prize from Teachers & Writers Collaborative. He was a finalist for the 2013 Lindquist & Vennum Prize for Poetry, and is the winner of the 2014 prize with his collection You Must Remember This.

#poem #words and writing #my fovorites #Michael Bazzett

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webcricket · 6 years

Text

Looking Glass

Chapter 10 - Friction Effect

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 1886

Summary: The heat of day breaks as Cas struggles with uncertainty to make a move toward broadening his relationship with the reader. (Warning - in the event this “bothers” you as much as it bothers a certain angel - for a skinny dipping reader.)

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It’s not the ocean – although, the cold water flows refreshing and free around flesh salted by heat and kissed to a polished luster by the sunny exertion of an afternoon amble; nor does the torpid humidity of the Kansas dusk hanging overhead in the guise of a hazy purple, wispy grey-streaked, star-pricked blanket hold the same guileless promise as that long ago unblemished blue sky of a summer day at the beach. There’s something profounder than innocence prevailing here – a charged potential building between atmospheric particles signaling the sort of lightning strike that heralds a heaven-sent bone-drenching downpour of relief after an unrelenting drought. The electrifying thrill pertains to someone you ceased hoping existed as your world burned, funneling you and every other isolated soul surviving in it toward a fiery finale.

When you break upward in an effervescent breathless burst from the pond’s cooling liquid embrace, airy liberated laughter sputtering through rivulets wetting your smiling mien, the unexpected renewal of hope waits for you on the shoreline. With eyes encompassing the eternal blue of a sky unfurling into the depths of forever – even at this distance, the luminosity contained therein shining brilliant in defiance of the enveloping darkness – hope dons the charmingly cut contours of a man shrouded in a trench coat. No, not a man – an angel; though, that’s not how you define him. You understand now an angel is what he is, not who. This distinction in your reasoning, too, arises entirely unforeseen given an accumulation of harrowing experiences involving the mercilessness of his kind up to and including the singular sadism directed at you by his counterpart in your world; the disparity makes all the difference in your heart’s racing reaction to the image of him standing sentinel.

Appearing equally startled under the circumstances, the crinkle of confusion contorting his brow as he peers between you and the collected mass of crumpled clothing cradled in his arms reveals nothing sinister. He’s not like them; and certainly, nothing like the other him – he’s unlike anyone you’ve ever known. It’s not fear exciting your pulse at the sight of him in all his, at present anyway, categorically un-angelic glory – it’s unbounded affection; it’s a yearning for more.

Stone still at the pebbled margin of the rainwater reservoir used in times past for irrigation, in these latter years by Dean as an ersatz fishing hole, in humming perpetuity as a mosquito den of iniquity, and most recently by you as a pool, Castiel stares out, struck speechless, to where you swim in what he personally deems an oversized manmade puddle; your grinning mug bobs above the water amid broadening ripples.

Accounting for the number and intimate nature of the discarded garments he gathered in his advance toward the sound of gleeful splashing – the pleasant scent and residual warmth of you clinging to the fabric clutched in his fingers – he suspects you’ve removed all of your attire to inhibit the effects of friction hindering your impromptu plunge. Judging by the decorum defying response of his vessel to the awareness of your bared flesh concealed beneath the inky surface, it occurs to him you’re not alone in harboring corporal concerns involving the concept of friction – your less begets his desire for more.

More than purely empirical mimicry of a pornographic pizza man. More than the biological satisfaction of momentarily weak submission to a reaper’s lustful lures when overwhelmed by the physically sensational circumstances of the human condition’s reflexive need for connection in a lonely world. This full-fledged and yet totally confounding want of more with you, and what more means, restrains him from making a move toward attaining it. He nurses serious doubts whatever blundering version of more he has to offer you is less than enough to content a soul too special to possibly reciprocate fond feelings for the undeserving likes of a fallen angel.

Interrupting his inner lambasting, limbs wildly whirling to wave whilst staying afloat, you shout, “Come on, get in! The water’s fine!”

“I’ll, uh, watch from here,” he stammers. Self-conscious of the immediate influence of your proposal on further inciting the involuntary flush afflicting his physical form, never more aware than in this moment of the rough rub and restriction of layers of material covering almost every inch of his hide, gulping against the growing constriction of the shirt collar and tie cinched around his throat, he adds in a tone firmer in conviction than necessary, “Watch over your clothes I mean.” He exhales a flustered sigh at the dubious sound of the excuse to his own ears.

You glide deeper into the water in an eddy of giggles.

Ever the pragmatist, his glance drops to your castoff clothes as his thoughts drift to wondering what you’ll wear when you emerge from your drenching dip. Fingering the thin white cotton of your t-shirt, he divines it will surely turn translucent when soaked through and stick to the supple curves of your body – a development that will do nothing to quell other rapidly escalating developments transpiring in his wantonly dissenting vessel. There’s little time for him to dwell on planning a defense against the eventuality of the reversal of your submersion; in the periphery of his vision, he witnesses you rise in a cascade of clear water, bare feet and resplendently wet figure proceeding to pick a graceful path toward him over the rounded rocks.

The heat of his furtive gape steeps into your already saturated skin. His visibly quivering confidence as he tries and fails to redirect his regard captivates you. You’d have thought an angel would be unmoved by nudity. After all, he beheld the creation of humankind, observed Adam and Eve before the venom of modesty tainted the blood rushing through their veins – a shyness sustained still in their descendants; a shyness you increasingly remember in yourself as you close the distance to him. Your exhibition of boldness wavers in the demure crossing of your arms over your breast and sex.

His discomfiture dissipates upon seeing your insecurity. Stooping to place your clothes in a neat pile, he shrugs off his coat, strides forward, and wraps it hurriedly around your shoulders. Knowing full well there is no one save a smattering of lightning bugs engrossed in their own luminescent conversation, he scans the stretch of shore for unwelcome onlookers as he snugs the sagging material taut to shield against exposure and dry you.

“Thank you.” Licking at several stray droplets of water wending over your upper lip, you avoid his gaze by looking straight up at the mushrooming clouds refracting ghostly golden glimmers of distant lightning. Booming echoes muffled through the trees, thunder rumbles somewhere far off. The air, absent the departed breeze of day and stagnant with calm ahead of the oncoming storm, swells oppressively thicker between you. “Is it always like this?” you ask.

Your inquiry, of course, refers to the sultry weather; the angel’s dazed intellect, however, distracts metaphorically to acknowledge in his seemingly endless, and multiply resurrected existence, that no, it’s never been like this for him with anyone else – angel, human, or otherwise. No one before you succeeded in awakening this ache of irrepressible want within him – a longing and desire to not only care for you and protect you, but to ensure your happiness by pleasing you in every way conceivable. It’s a feeling so foreign to celestial custom he has no idea where, in a tidal wave of sentiments ranging from a humble declaration of devotion to an impiously reverent show of passion, to begin.

“Cas?” In the silence, you peer into his pensive features.

His concentration resides somewhere between here and the center of the universe as he endeavors to determine what to do next; if he has the right, considering what you’ve been through because of him, to do anything at all without knowing for certain it’s also what you want. He resolves his attention on your searching eyes, his focus falters to the soft temptation of your questioningly parted lips.

The entranced flicker of his blues does not escape your notice; your tongue darts to dampen your lips in enticement. The subtle strain etched in the lines of his face as if he’s holding back prompts you to prod, “What were you thinking about just now . . . when you got quiet?” What you want to know is why he hasn’t laid siege to your mouth when all signs point to a kiss.

He has several specific answers: The distance of separation he must cross rounded up to the nearest hundredth of a millimeter in order to caress the pink petals of your lips with his pouting ones to feel the swift rise of life surging thereon beneath the delicate tissue. The inopportuneness of the approaching storm, which he calculates will douse you both in rain in 2 minutes and 8 seconds, well before you could make it back to the shelter of the bunker. The radiant warmth of your flesh beneath his fingers where they encircle your upper arms helping to secure his coat from slipping off your frame. How, although the themes of free will and choice continually preoccupy his existence, actually choosing never gets easier. How the brightening cloudbursts of lighting reflected in the beads of water amassed on your brow pale in comparison to the vibrancy of beauty originating within your soul. And whether, like the pearlescent raised scar crowning the bend of your knee that he knew existed based on a memory laid bare to him while healing you days ago and then literally as you rose out of the water tonight, an injury that grieved you for weeks but with which you associate the happy memory of learning to peddle your bike at age 6 without training wheels, you could one day rewrite the painful scars of what he did to you with similar happiness.

He shares none of this rich and poignant introspection with you; instead, formality of his demeanor stiffening, Adams apple undulating beneath the scruff prickling his neck to swallow his conflict of indecisiveness, he defaults in his uncertainty to stating an entirely innocuous and impersonal fact to deflect the pressure mounting in his heart. “Are you aware that the human body is made up of, on average, approximately 60% water? I’ve always thought it’s why humans feel so at ease submerging themselves in a treacherous element powerful enough to have helped hew the very planet.”

“Oh.” You utter the ambiguous, vaguely disappointed, vowel sound aloud – perhaps you read his unspoken cues wrong. “That’s, uh . . . interesting.”

He realizes although he doesn’t know what the right thing to do is, this was definitely the wrong thing to say.

In inclement intervention of the awkwardness, thunder cracks and growls overhead. A single fat cold raindrop splatters your cheek. Innumerable of its drizzling kin follow as the clouds unburden themselves of moisture a solid half minute before the angel anticipated. Bending to pick up your water-logged clothes before they wash away in the deluge, your heel slips.

Atropos, sister of fate, being no friend of the angel’s, he’s a dozen or so seconds too late to alter his choice. Routed, he snakes an arm around your waist for support and steers you toward the canopied cover of the tree line.

Next: Ch. 11 - Under Your Spell

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voyages-extraordinaires · 6 years

Text

C:R ~VE~ Chapter 12

I have mentioned previously that I’m a heavy sleeper.

This was fortunate, as it’s been made obvious by this point that Nemo is not only loud when he is awake, but also when he’s asleep.

I slept through his snores, but I groan as soon as I feel his warmth move away from me.

I feel a soft weight on me, and realize that Nemo has once again let me use his jacket as a replacement companion.

Then, a few soft strands of his hair touch my cheek, and I feel his breath on my ear.

“Sleep well.”

The softness of his voice makes me burn.

He strokes my hair until I relax again, like I was a small child being lulled to sleep.

But this isn’t time for me to sleep.

“It hasn’t been eight hours...” I murmur.

Nemo quickly takes his hand away from my head.

“Polly-chan....” he whines. “The sun is already uuuuuuup. Don’t tell me you’re still feeling feveriiisshhh...”

Not wanting to risk more ‘bed rest’, I sit up and look over at him.

He hasn’t put on his goggles yet, so I can see him in the full sunlight coming in through the window.

He’s agonizingly beautiful, and I feel my chest tighten.

“Bonjooooooour~” though the disparity between his appearance and his booming voice is startling, that wide smile can belong to no one else but Nemo. “Did you sleep well, my friend?”

“I did,” I reply. “How are you feeling, Nemo?”

Nemo’s still smiling, but his eyes look incredibly sad. “Some things will take more than a night of sleep to heal, but it’s remarkable what a soft bed and bosom com~pan~ion can do.”

I return his sad smile and pick up his jacket. When I offer it to him I say, “I know that there will never be anything I can do to truly take away your pain, but... please know that I’m here for you. I always will be.”

Nemo shakes his head. “Thank you, but... please, don’t say ‘always’. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Aronnax. We never know what will greet us with each sunrise...”

He sounded so incredibly sad, so it’s a bit of a shock when he suddenly jumps up and screeches, “EXCEPT FOR SCIENCE!! My COOOOOONSTANT COMPANION! Yes! From the morning birdsong to the rosy huuuuuuuuuue of the clouds, it’s all GLOOOOOOORIOUS SCIENCE!”

He stretches out his arms and happily does a spin before leaning down and facing me. “Well, what do you say? Shall we get staaaaarted?”

“With that enthusiasm, how can I say anything but ‘yes’?” I say. I begin to hand him his jacket when a thought occurs to me. “By the way... have you been wearing lavender oil lately?”

Nemo grins. “Hmmm~ that’s another beautiful product of science, isn’t it?”

I smile and hand the jacket to him. “Thank you for this. I had no idea I was so... clingy in my sleep.”

“Ahahahahahaaa!! We have so little control over ourselves when we sleep that we can’t help but express our innermost desiiiiiires...”

Nemo walks over to my writing desk where he’s folded the clothes he discarded before bed.

“Fuhuhuhuhu... so Polly-chan’s innermost desire is to be su-per cu--te ❤!”

I fling a pillow at him (”WAGHH!”).

“Now you’re just teasing me! Come on, there’s work to be done!” I throw off the bed covers and stand up.

“Mm-hmm, riiiiight right...” Nemo pulls his hair over his shoulder and begins to roll his shirt up.

Ah.

Yes, he’s definitely taking off his shirt.

“W--W-- WHAT ARE YOU DOING---???” my voice echoes through the room before I can stop myself.

“Hrrmm?” Nemo has his shirt around his head now before pulling it off (he even provides the ‘pop’ sound effect when his head reappears).

Society dictates I should look away, and I do, but... the image is already burned in my mind.

He’s so slim, with a beautiful stomach and chest toned by years of tinkering and carrying heavy pieces of metal. His navel is pierced, which shouldn’t surprise me given the heavy modification on his face, and yet I’m surprised all the same.

I’m also surprised to see how low his pants are cut. His hips are slim, but still have a feminine curve that add to his allure.

I know I’ve said it before, but he’s absolutely stunning.

“Polly-chaaan....”

I slowly look back at him, my mouth set even as my cheeks heat up.

His smile is way, way too wide.

“Don’t tell me......... you’re absolutely speeches because of my STUUUUUUUUUUUNNING PHYSIIIIIIQUEEEE???”

He slams one of his feet on the chair and points triumphantly into the sky.

“I... I’m really more curious as to why you’re undressing in my room,” I manage to stutter.

“Ehhhh?” Nemo takes a step back. “I’m going to go freshen up in the showers, of coooooourse!”

“Oh, o-of course...” I look away again. “Um.....”

He leans over so he’s at my height, looking at me with a grin too wide for his face. “Polly-chan has studied anatomy, hasn’t sheeeee....? My, for you to still be so innocent... our bodies are crafted by S-C-I-E-N-C-E--! It’s only naturaaaaaaaaal!”

What happened to our serious conversation earlier?! And what, exactly, is natural about navel piercings?! He has no business looking this attractive while laughing so loudly!

“Yes, I know that,” I finally mumble. “But this situation is different, you know that.”

“Hrrrmmmmm~~”

I swallow nervously when he puts his hand on my chin and lifts my face up.

“Pro~fessor~ we’re going to be sailing deeeeeeeeeep under the waves, just the t-w-o of us...” He’s leaning closer to me now. His skin is beautiful in the rays of light streaking through the window. “Of course, since you’re a biologist... in the pursuit of science.....”

He leans in closer so his lips are brushing my cheek.

“Do~ you~ want~ to~ see~ more~?”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. My ears are ringing. Is he testing me? Teasing me? Trying to distract me from what I learned yesterday? Or is it truly because he thinks it would help my anatomical diagrams?

When I first try to speak, the noise that comes out of my mouth sounds like the singing of a boiling teakettle.

....

Either he didn’t hear it or he’s ignoring it. Which is good, for my sake.

I take a deep breath and answer him as honestly as I can.

“I... don’t think that sort of situation would be in the pursuit of science...”

He quickly stands back up and gives a shrug. “Of coooourse-- on an island with such gorgeous flora and fauna, why limit yourself to human anatomy? Go, make discoveries and walk alongside me in our respective disciplines!”

He gives me a thumbs up before turning around to walk out.

.....

His pants are cut just as low in the back.

I’ll never understand his eccentric fashion, but in that moment I can’t help but thank his tailor.

“Oh! Take your clothes with you!” I grab his boots and run out after him.

Cardia is standing there, watching us silently as I shove his clothes at him.

“GOOOOOOOOOD MOOOOORNING, Cardia-CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN~” The walls vibrate once again with the noise. “It’s a beeeaaauuutiful day for SCIENCE!” He waves with his free hand. “Well, I’ve dilly-dallied long enough! ONWWAAAARRRDDD!”

He practically prances down the stairs towards the mens’ bunks.

“C... Cardia....” I look at her helplessly, willing her, praying for her not to say anything.

“Good morning....” she says. “Hm...”

I feel my head sink at the uncertainty in her voice.

“He... really does remind me of Impey at times,” says Cardia. “Don’t tell him I said that, though.”

I look at her with an expression of gratitude and nod.

Then, she looks at me sympathetically. “Were you able to get any sleep last night? I heard lots of crying, and then....”

She closes her eyes, and I notice that there are dark bags under them.

“Lots of.... snoring..........”

“Oh no, Cardia, I had no idea! Were you able to get any sleep?”

Cardia smiles. “Not as much as usual, but I’ll be all right. When I get back from London, I’ll see if Impey can create an invention that will help me.”

“Right.... London...” I sigh. “I still can’t believe I was so foolish. Now I have to rely on the kindness of you and Finis, I’ll never be able to truly pay this debt.”

Cardia shakes her head. “Pauline, we’re friends. All of us. Friends don’t worry about things like ‘debt’. Besides... I feel like Finis feels somewhat responsible, since he and Aleister worked together.”

She hides her laughter with her hand. “And don’t tell him I told you this, but he’s actually quite worried about Nemo, in his own way.”

My eyebrows rise so quickly that my glasses start to slide off of my face. Cardia quickly moves forward and straightens them before they can fall to the floor.

“He’s worried about Nemo? Really?”

Cardia’s smile falters. “He said that... he said that Nemo and my father, Isaac Beckford... while he could never compare the two of them, they went through similar situations.”

Cardia looks so sad. I want to hold her and take away her pain, too.

“I don’t know about Nemo’s past, but if Finis feels that way, then I’m glad he has someone looking after him. No one... no one deserves to be alone.”

“Cardia... I think Barbicane might be right about you. You really are an angel,” I say.

Cardia shakes her head. “Impey says a lot of things, but he’s never really serious. Sometimes I wonder...”

I tilt my head, but she looks away.

“It’s nothing. I had better go check on my brother. You’ll see us off later, won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I say. “Though I must admit, I’m grateful not to be on that ship myself!”

Cardia is such a good person. The fact that anyone called her a ‘monster’ shows just how backwards the world still is. Even Isaac Beckford...

I can’t help but wonder what similarity Finis was talking about. Hearing such a thing would probably make Nemo very happy, he idolized Beckford so much.

But right now isn’t the time for that.

Now that I have a bit of free time, I want to take a look at the island we’re on. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to go out into nature and sketch all the beautiful things I see!

-----

Not long after Cardia and I spoke, I’m walking along the beach closest to the barracks, journal in hand. I left my boots by the building so I could feel the soft sand in-between my toes.

My goal right now is to see if I can find any tide pools, which are always brimming with fascinating life. Luckily it’s low tide, so these thriving ‘cities’ will be easy for me to spot. I would be exceptionally grateful to find a tide pool in the lower littoral zone, only exposed in exceptionally low tides, but it looks like the ocean is working against me. I’ll be happy, though, if I can just find a bed of the mussels that I saw workers dining on yesterday. Some of my first sketches were of mussels I found by the ocean, so it would be nostalgic for me.

As I walk along the beach, I find myself walking closer to the shoreline so the cool water can run over my feet.

I love the sea.

The extreme diversity churning inside of it is something beautiful, not something to be feared. It’s an entire world, muted in sound but not in color, untouched by man. Pristine and calm, a cradle of life and death passing in liquid space.

To me, that is true serenity.

But my musings are interrupted by splashing, and I see a terrestrial creature I was not expecting. Running fast and eager along the sand, bounding towards its master.

It is a greyhound, lean and blue.

“Top! Over here!”

Cyrene Smith is waving and splashing, happily playing with her four-legged companion. However, she underestimates the greyhound’s strength and falls backwards into the shallow water. She laughs loudly as the greyhound bounces around her, barking and licking her while wagging its tail.

“Top, Top, have mercy! Mercy!” Smith’s laugh is loud and full, brimming with joy.

I walk over towards her, holding my sketchbook close to me in case the dog decides to bounce on me next.

However, the greyhound is devoted to its master, and appears unwilling to stop licking her face.

“Oh-- oh, Professor Aronnax!” the young woman attempts to stand up, but the dog has not yet finished its loving assault. Finally, Smith says, “Top, off!” and the dog obediently jumps aside, wagging its tail.

“Good boy, Top,” says Smith as she stands up and begins to brush sand off of the back of her trousers. “Glad to see you out here, Professor. Taking a mid-morning stroll?”

“Actually, I was on the hunt for tide pools,” I respond. “But it looks like I might be out of luck, the beach around here is so sandy.”

“Yeah, if you want a rocky coast you’d probably have more luck on the other side of the island. It’s a bit of a long walk, but if you want I’ll go with you.”

I shake my head. “Thank you for the offer, but I want to stay close to the warehouse.”

Cyrene crosses her arms and looks at me with a grin.

“In... case they need me.”

Cyrene shifts her weight from one foot to the other, still grinning.

“.... For business.” I finish flatly.

“Right, right, business,” says Smith. Then, her expression perks up when she sees something. She smiles eagerly and waves. “Oh, Professor Nemo, taking a break?”

I quickly turn around, only to hear Smith burst out laughing.

Of course, no one is there.

“You should have seen the look on your face, Professor Aronnax!!” Smith cackles, slapping her knee. “Your face went sooooo red!”

I look back at her and lightly splash her with my foot.

“Oh, it’s a splashing you want, huh?” Smith grins before running towards me.

I quickly hold my journal above my head. “I surrender, I surrender! Don’t get my journal wet!!”

Smith slows down until she’s right in front of me. Then she looks at the journal and pouts. “Oh, darn... that’s not fair, using your research materials as defense.... huh?”

Smith narrows her eyes, looking into the distance.

I’m not falling for it this time, just glaring at her.

“Professor, really...”

The tone in her voice makes me turn around.

It looks small, but that’s definitely... definitely what it appears to be.

“What is a hot air balloon doing all the way out here...?” asks Smith.

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dftgrftgh · 3 years

Text

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worrentigre · 6 years

Text

Rhuli’a’s Trial Epilogue (RP Scene)

((https://youtu.be/2MIPBvddXlI <-- scene BGM))

Outside of the hallway is a small courtyard that overlooks the other side of the mountain from the top. The scenery shows a wide view of the dry hills in the distance, looking out at the peaks. Worren stands there looking outward, and does not turn to face Rhuli'a. "Aren't you going to try it on?" He simply asks.

Rhuli'a frowned. Were his movements and intent that easily readable? Or mayhap it was...

Stripping proved easy enough. The miqo'te had quite a few breakaways for his tunic in case of losing the upper hand in a grappling situation. As his red and black regalia tumbled to the stone, he opened his arms.

A strange sense of calm flew through him, as if the wind atop the mountain held some sort of secret he should give pause and listen to. It crept across his corded muscle, wound tight like a steel trap across his body. Adorning the left side of his torso was a tattoo that started from above his left pectoral and ended just above his waistline.

A giant, purple, screaming griffin was wrought upon his skin. Talons extended, wings tucked behind as it lunged towards some unknown opponent, it was every bit as regal as the crest adopted by the royal family of Ala Mhigo.

A symbol Rhuli'a kept close to his heart.

Unfolding his cyclas, the newly ordained monk hesitated slightly. This was it. The long journey of almost fifteen cycles ended here. And in its place began a new venture.

In a flourish, Rhuli'a adorned what he considered to be his birthright. Worren is glancing over his shoulder, and as Rhuli'a begins to change, he turns around. He admires the man in his new prize for a bit before placing his right fist into his left hand, just like he showed before the trial started. He does not bow, however. He just holds this, and waits.

Rhuli'a starts slightly.

"Thankee. I truly mean this, from the heart of my hearts."

Mimicking his master, he faced him fully, and then dipped his head.

Ever so slightly, as to not take his eyes off of him, hints of -something- behind those mismatched orbs. Worren follows suit, giving a small bow. "Welcome to the Fists of Rhalgr. Know that this is not the start of your journey. It started long ago when this became your goal. Your training began the second time we met. I was not toying with you. And not only was I making sure you would be fit to walk this path, I was already training your mind and thought process."

He then stands up straight. "It is much more than physical." He taps the side of his head. "It has very much to do with this. The body is just the vehicle. Kodaro and I watched you during your trial. Had I put you through that in the state that you were in when we first met, you would not have made it. Those ghosts of our fallen brothers would have seen to that; I have no control over them. But, you are learning. You're not above asking for help. You held your anger and did not strike out at me when I left myself open to you. Even after what I've said, you still had the clarity to see what is in front of you."

His hands then move behind his back, as they usually do when he starts lecturing. "You swallowed your pride. This is good. Our fallen brothers in there, they are right, y'know? Politics, sides, good and bad, all of these rhetorics serve to keep us separate. We are individuals, and will always disagree on something. It is in our nature, separates us from same thinking machines. We cannot let these things break our bond of brotherhood like they did in the past. Light? Shadow? It no longer matters, save for how Rhalgr decides to impart to you his gifts. My need for order is so to keep our bonds strong and avoid the mindless chaos that still has us strewn about the lands. Do not let the actions of the past bind you and dictate your future. You speak of freedom. So, free yourself from this self imposed burden."

He pauses a moment, and then looks at Rhuli'a seriously. "Do you dislike those on the light sect of your own free will, even though you do not know most of them, or do you dislike it because history tells you to?" Rhuli'a narrowed his eyes near the end of Worren's speech. Hands falling from the salute, he coldly crossed them over his chest as he contemplated on how best to answer. His gaze fell to the side as he began to speak, his tone even and guarded.

"I do not like or dislike any within our order for their creed, 'tis not my place to judge. One thing is for certain, I am sure of it."

Rhuli'a pointed at Worren sharply, almost as if in accusation. Though the newly ordained Fist knew well enough that the Highlander was of Shadow, he nonetheless barked out the following,

"Rhalgr turned his back upon our country and order the moment those of the Light fell in with the ruling family. I am sure of it. 'Tis why he punished us so by not coming to our aid when both Ruiner and Garlemald fell upon us. I will -never- let that happen again, no matter how alienated or ostracized I may be for following my convictions. There will never be an imbalance between our philosophies again. I am sworn -- nay, compelled to see harmony. I care not if I am but one against a thousand, for I will lead with a zeal equal to all who oppose. Shadow is my Way, Worren, and so it will remain."

Calming, he stepped back, once again folding his arms, uncomfortable with the situation.

"Destruction and chaos go hand in hand. With no chaos, it becomes too systematic, oppressive even. There is beauty in constant bewilderment."

Looking to the side again, the Keeper fell silent. Not speaking unless spoken to.

Kodaro clucked his tongue as he strolled casually in to the chamber behind Rhuli'a, fingers laced behind his head and speaking in a tone disparately out of sorts with his surroundings. "Hey! Cyclas are a good look on ya, and from what I could see on the cliffs, you did well. A bit lacking in finesse, but it takes all sorts right? Sounds like you haven't grasped all of what you're saying, though, about harmony and whatnot. See, Light and Shadow sects? Neither can exist alone and represent the Path in its entirety. Unlike Brother Worren and most of the folks he's trained up, I started off Light and the difference between us... well, there's really not one." The Seeker continues his pacing to stand alongside Worren, though his posture remains relaxed. "Light can't exist without casting Shadow, and Shadows can't exist without Light. Same goes with destruction, in way; without wisdom to guide it, it's meaningless. The Path can't be fully realized without both aspects." Worren remains stone faced. His voice comes out cool, but sternly. "You'd do well not to confuse confidence and pride with hubris and reckless delusions of grandeur. Rhalgr turned his back on us because we turned our backs on ourselves. You know as well as I that there was no one side being right and wrong back then. One group allowed themselves to be at the beck and call of the monarchy as a way to bring glory to the Fists more openly to the people of Ala Mhigo. The other group would rather bring glory to the Fists by remaining true to Rhalgr and only Rhalgr, not Ala Mhigo or it's ruling body. Both sides have went their separate ways, bickering all the while."

He then brings his arms around and crosses them in front of his chest. "Think about it clearly. Both sides weakened themselves, because they could not find a way to co-exist on what they thought was the right way to represent Rhalgr. Old fashioned and out dated thinking. There is no more monarchy, and I highly doubt there will be a new one in its place. Even so, it has already begun with the new generation of Fists: to protect and support the people of Ala Mhigo. We will not allow ourselves to make the same mistake that was made back then."

He turns and nods to Kodaro, but is still speaking to Rhuli'a. "You'll see what I mean eventually. Viewing destruction as only an instrument of chaos is a bit short sighted."

He turns his attention back to the man. "Destruction also requires balance. Just like we do. Each of our chakra is halved. We need both to realize our full potential." He then smiles. "In any rate, congratulations on passing the trial and surviving. You are one of us. Your new uniform is not mandatory outside of formalities, but I highly suggest wearing it while you train. The threads have special properties that I will explain when next we meet for your first official training session. That is, unless you decide to research for yourself. And remember, hang onto that crystal. It will be important for the training as well." Kodaro adds, "You're strong, no denyin' that. Wouldn't dream of it. But it seems like you're holding yourself back, gettin' in the way of your own potential, whether you're doin' consciously or not. Congratulations on your Trial, but the real hard work starts now." Kodaro grinned and tapped his index finger on his temple "Sometime when you're able, I'd like you to come train with me; more specifically, I'd like you to come meditate with me. Making your body stronger is easy, it's getting your mind working in tandem that's the hard part."

Rhuli'a looked as if he had more to say on his interpretation of their faith, yet held his tongue, for once. Unperturbed by Kodaro's appearance, he didn't even pay the miqo'te any attention until Worren waa finished speaking.

Blinking in surprise at the invitation, he nodded his head in acceptance.

"I'll not shirk the path I've set myself upon. But I must warn you both I have drafted plans on starting a company within Ul'dah. I seek to use my gains from my current work to steer a course of my own. While my dedication to this purpose is among my chief concerns, it would be remiss of me to while away frivolously while there are those who seek to pledge themselves to me."

Recognizing his dismissive tone, he frowned, seemingly upset with himself.

"Apologies, if I seem blunt. 'Twas a trying trial, on top of a trying week. Change stresses the soul, mind and body simultaneously, I've found..."

Clenching his fist, he stared at it. This This was probably the most deadly weapon he could wield. And, it was more than likely going to be clenching quill, rather than hora in the coming weeks.

Snapping out of his trance, he eyed both men, saluting as he did so before, with Worren.

"Thankee both for aiding in my path." Worren nods, then places his fist into his palm, giving a light bow. "Remember these words, but also remember to stay true to yourself. If you truly believe that what you say is your path to your enlightenment, then by all means, walk it. We are simply guides, as everyone must walk their own path. If that means Rhalgr will make you a hero of the Ala Mhigan people, then so be it." He then straightens up. "And one other thing. Get a lot of rest. I highly suggest sleeping in tomorrow and taking the day off. Your aether stores need to recharge and your body needs to heal." Rhuli'a returned the gesture, once again never letting his eyes leave the Highlander.

Giving a satisfied grunt, he spoke.

"Aye. I'll heed your advice. If there's naught else..."

Rhuli'a cast his gaze about for an exit, and, if he found one, would start towards it. Worren simply nods and watches him go. He then turns his attention to Kodaro. "What do are your thoughts on him? Do you think I'm making the right decision in taking in one so volatile?" Kodaro: "Better to take him in to the fold where he can learn and grow, right? M'sure there's some old adage about a fire burning unchecked being more dangerous than one tended or something like that." Worren: "Mm. And we're the lucky ones, heh heh. Yes, we. I'm gonna ask you to help. Maybe some of your unyielding optimism will rub off on him. Then again, I did get you riled up during your own trial." He then moves to leave as well. "Besides. We're all in this together."

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