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sugarstickery · 3 years

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An Allegory Within the Dark

This is an unofficial fan translation of chapter 3 of Jujutsu Kaisen’s first light novel, Departing Summer and Returning Autumn by Gege Akutami and Ballad Kitaguni.

Summary: Mahito stumbles across an unusual human in his search for a place to call ‘home’.

Featured characters: Primarily Mahito, with brief appearances from Hanami and Jogo, along with an unnamed novel-only character

Timeline: An undefined time prior to the events of the Vs. Mahito arc

An Allegory Within the Dark

If you want to hide a tree, you go to the middle of a forest.

So if you’re looking to hide a person, you should go to the middle of a city.

Following that logic, it makes sense for curses worthy of being the true humans to set up their hideout in the city center.

Cursed spirits would actually have it much easier if they spent their time in places crammed with fear where humans and the like can’t live: deep in the mountains or in densely wooded areas, for example.

But for a group of curses plotting to overturn the current era, a base in the heart of the city is crucial for invasion and seeking refuge. That being the case, it’s also better to try aiming for a location with a high concentration of negativity.

Anyway, that’s how some employees from a scam business ended up massacred.

“This really is the simplest way to handle it. All of them nest together up here away from the public eye, so clean-up is a cinch.”

Jogo laughed while trampling the burning remains of a corpse underfoot.

Roughly two minutes ago, there were about six humans in the office.

The curses considered a few ways to handle dispatching them but ultimately decided that burning was the fastest, so Jogo quickly turned them to ash.

“But humans used this building, didn’t they? Won’t it be a problem if there’s property management or something?” Mahito asked, poking at an ostentatious vase displayed on a shelf.

Apparently the concern was unnecessary. Jogo tried to answer with a grin, but a nonsensical language cut into their conversation.

“⏁⊑⟒⟟⍀ ⎎⍜⋏⏁ ⟟⌇ ☊⎍⌇⏁⍜⋔”

“Oi, bastard—! Stop talking, Hanami! It makes my head itch!”

Though Hanami spoke in nothing but meaningless sounds, the intention behind it was somehow transmitted directly into the minds of others. This was usually unpleasant and it irritated Jogo.

When he noticed Mahito still looking his way, Jogo continued to explain despite his frustration.

“Hmph... What? There’s no need to worry. I asked Geto what his aim was, and it looks like these were the kind of underhanded humans who got involved in plenty of unethical things.”

“Hm. So basically, other humans won’t actually come close if they get that curse stuff happens here.”

“Exactly. Any respectable, straight-laced human would never come near this place under normal circumstances. It’s the perfect city-center hideout.”

“Is it really?”

“...What is it, Mahito? You don’t seem satisfied. What’s there to worry about? It would put us in a great position to start preparing our plans for the city, and it’s great for a quick escape if we need one.”

“Mm... No, you’re right, but...”

“But what? Spit it out.”

“It’s just... This room is really tacky.”

“Huh?”

With a pop, a small eruption burst forth from Jogo’s head. His narrowed eye looked like a painting of a gently sloping mountain.

“It’s tasteless, isn’t it? Stuff like that gaudy gold lion in the sparkly jar or this cheap-looking sideboard.”

“What are you even saying?! I have no idea what’s gotten into you lately, but you’ve been so annoying!”

“Movies.”

“Movies? Are those overly-embellished portrayals of humans really that interesting?”

“They’re references for my studies on the structure of a soul,” Mahito replied with an ambiguous smile.

If humans could see him, they might be reminded of a proud elementary schooler discussing the knowledge they gained from a book report.

“If I’m being honest, I don’t find the stories that interesting either, but I don’t hate the sense of visual aesthetics that humans have. That said, this room has too many useless colors and really hurts the eyes.”

“Such bratty, selfish complaints... We can just burn or toss anything that’s an eyesore.”

“No need, I’m going to look for a place to settle down on my own.”

“What? Ah, hey— Where are you going?”

Not waiting for Jogo’s response, Mahito waved over his shoulder and vanished like smoke or a gentle breeze, off to who-knows-where.

“Geez… Maybe it’s because he was born from human fear, but even knowing he’s a curse, he tends to be way too frivolous. Watching movies and all…”

While grumbling out his complaints, Jogo took a pipe from his shirt pocket to put in his mouth.

Unlike human cigarettes, this wooden pipe somehow imitated a screaming face when smoked.

“But that Mahito...”

Jogo spun around to survey the room with his one eye.

“...He says that, but it doesn’t seem tacky to me.”

“⊑⏃⋏⏃⋔⟟”

“I already said shut up!!”

You can only find a hideaway that suits you by looking for it on your own.

Mahito wandered through the city with this in mind. He alternated left and right turns on a whim any time he happened across a traffic light, walked alongside stray cats, or sometimes simply went in the direction of clouds that he liked the shape of.

While traveling along his chosen path like this, he keenly felt just how laughable humans were.

Though the city belongs to them, no one walking in and out of it was more free than Mahito.

Everyone seemed constrained. They were captured by ties of obligation and vanity, living in a wide, deep, big city with such narrow outlooks.

Unaffected by the enormous sky sprawling out endlessly overhead, they box themselves into their concrete city with their own hands and limited perception of souls, passing the time by whittling their lives down further and further.

Mahito even learned the words for some of these human concepts to study later.

For example, they call it “morals”. They call it “common sense”. They call it “emotion”.

But a human soul isn’t anything more than the resulting mechanical movement that comes from external stimuli.

And so they let go of freedom and live tightly controlled lives, fearing the judgmental stares of others, stooping to flattery for society’s approval.

“...What a waste.”

Everyone is bound by ostentatious shackles of their own making.

That’s why these curses know there has to be a change, as far as humans go. Those who cannot do anything but crawl in such an unsightly way under the magnificent sky must hand over the world.

Mahito thinks. He ponders over any topic his soul turns toward. He walks wherever the wind blows him.

Before long, the time had come for the sun to descend in the western sky. He could hear the burbling of a river.

“Not bad.”

The hideaway Mahito found was under a bridge, across the river.

It was a tunnel, vacant and huge like a temple.

Pipes ran along the inside, clear water flowing from them and into the river. It looked like wastewater was drained here after being purified, so there wasn’t much discomfort.

Apart from the humid air and the moss that emitted a peculiar grassy smell, it seemed wide enough to splash and jump around in, and the concrete’s cool texture provided a refreshing welcome.

There’s a season that curses are partial to.

Negative human emotions accumulate from the end of winter to spring, and it could be said that the rainy season served as the so-called peak of their ripening.

The inside of the damp tunnel held the same atmosphere. There was a gloominess there in the dim lighting that could easily nurture fear. It gently moistened Mahito’s skin; he felt cozy.

“Yeah, let’s stay here.”

When choosing a place to live, it’s best to trust your instincts.

Perhaps humans should do the same, but what they can’t readily do, Mahito can decide without hesitation. If he’s free when he wanders, then he’s free when he settles down, too.

Mahito stepped into the tunnel in good spirits, knocking solidly on the concrete floor.

The soul’s metabolism smooths out in comforting spaces. But…

“Huh?”

After walking a short distance, Mahito discovered “that”.

He initially thought it was some garbage or something that a human illegally dumped. But before long, it became clear that it was a sack-like silhouette leaning against a wall.

At first glance, it perhaps looked like a mere collection of rags.

But the shape of a soul was there.

—Ah, it’s alive.

Yes, just as Mahito had realized, it was a human.

The tattered clothing and wildly overgrown hair and beard hid his shape, but it was undoubtedly a human.

His exact age wasn’t clear from his outward appearance, but whether he was 60 or over 80, he looked elderly.

Mahito thought it was a bit of a pain.

There was already a visitor living in his precious hideaway.

Of course, taking care of this issue would be an easy matter for him. But he felt the same discomfort as a homeowner finding a stain on the wall of their new house.

‘Anyway, if I’m gonna deal with this, let’s get it done,’ Mahito thought, reaching out toward the old man with a little sigh.

Whereupon, unexpectedly, the old man spoke.

“...I’m sorry if you’re displeased.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know what you came here to do, but... I’m sure your mood has soured after stumbling across the home of an old fool. But I have nowhere to go, either.”

Mahito was a little taken aback.

The old man was clearly aware of Mahito and turned toward him to speak. This wouldn’t be surprising at all if he was talking to a fellow human.

But Mahito is a curse.

The eyes of a mere human can’t clearly perceive cursed spirits.

It isn’t impossible, though. If humans are born with cursed energy, it isn’t unusual for them to be aware of the existence of curses.

What caught Mahito’s attention was this old man’s lack of ‘eyes’.

As in, he had no eyes in the physical sense. Instead, in the empty sockets that once held them, there was a burn scar that was painful just to look at.

Even sorcerers rely on their eyes to view the world.

They depend on their field of vision to spot cursed spirits. That’s why so many of them use sunglasses and the like to conceal their line of sight, as it helps them remain unaffected. It also helps them maintain a balanced mind when their daily life overflows with curses.

However, that was not the case for this old man.

“Can you see me?”

When Mahito asked, the old man answered with a gentle nod.

“At the very least, I can feel you.”

“But you can’t see the world?”

“Naturally. That includes the scenery, what you look like, what color your skin is, and even your gender. Even so... I know you’re there.”

“...Are you a sorcerer?”

“Most likely not.”

“You’re being pretty vague, even though you’re talking about yourself.”

“For a long time, that’s what I’ve been the most vague about.”

Mahito began to notice something strange.

He can feel the shape of a human’s soul.

He knows the movement of a soul’s metabolism, whether it takes on a harsh form, withers weakly, or flickers with liveliness.

However, this old man’s soul was hardly metabolizing.

It was like a meadow with no wind, or a still sea, or the blue sky on a cloudless day.

No, it would be most appropriate to compare it to a stone.

His soul was like a stone on the side of the road.

No fancy ornamentation, no polishing. Unmoving, unwavering.

Calmly passing the time while growing moss.

That was the shape this old man’s soul had.

No matter how calm or how old a person is, the human soul always flickers.

As the years stack up, common sense doesn’t disappear, selfishness isn’t eliminated, and fear isn’t conquered.

But this old man was different.

The old man’s soul was at peace. He had sincerely accepted that everything would decay with time, but that didn’t mean he would throw his life away. It was truly similar to the way in which nature existed.

It was Mahito’s first time meeting anyone like this.

For a while, the tunnel became something of a den for Mahito.

He had gotten a hammock from somewhere, which he hung up between the pipes. He lounged in it and read, passing the time in comfort.

In a movie about life on a deserted island, a human who was desperate to survive made a hammock. Through it, he was able to regain a little peace of mind.

Since it looked surprisingly comfortable, Mahito gave it a try and it worked out nicely.

The arguments and fights of the outside world didn’t reach the inside of the tunnel, where only the burble of the small stream could be heard.

It provided a good environment for soothing the soul.

While leisurely absorbing new knowledge from his books, Mahito would sometimes absentmindedly gaze up toward the ceiling, or glance down at the corner where the old man squatted, looking as he always did.

“How do you live like this? It’s pretty mysterious...”

In the end, Mahito didn’t kill the old man.

It’s important to note that the old man wasn’t much of a hindrance for him. If it would make no difference whether he was there or gone, then Mahito figured getting rid of him would be more of a hassle.

The old man was just there, even quieter and more carefree than a stray cat.

Mahito knew the phrase: ‘man is only a reed, but he is a thinking reed’.

He found it hilarious and also genuinely liked it. It simultaneously boasted about being trapped in thoughts of the soul, while also showing that humans were frail as weeds.

It could be said that the old man was an unthinking reed, then.

No – he was even quieter than that; more like grass or some type of moss. In any case, the old man said nothing and simply carried on living.

Every now and then, the old man would suddenly shuffle off elsewhere, but he would be back to sleep before Mahito knew it. He was surely getting food from somewhere, but he never seemed to gain weight. If he lost any while in the tunnel, he would eat just enough to gain it back when he left, and no more.

It was a style of living so close to nature that it seemed more like a phenomenon than a life.

“That’s why I seriously wonder if you can see me.”

The suspicion was uttered suddenly.

Mahito wasn’t exactly speaking to the old man. Rather, his tone was that of someone talking to themselves.

But when he noticed that the old man’s soul didn’t waver even after hearing him speak, Mahito finally addressed him directly.

“How long have you been here?”

“Let’s see… I think a few winters have passed, but I’m not sure,” the old man muttered, his reply quiet.

Since they were two beings with souls who were aware of each other’s existence, Mahito felt it would be more natural to chat every now and then.

“Don’t you get bored?”

When spoken to in a soft tone, the old man also responded softly.

“I’ve forgotten how to be bored.”

“How do you usually pass the time here?”

“I don’t do anything, really. I just listen to the sounds.”

“The sounds?”

“The sounds of the water flowing.”

“...Is it fun?”

“It’s not. But I forgot how to have fun a long time ago, too, so it’s not an issue.”

So it was like that. Mahito nodded.

If this old man could no longer even feel the pain of boredom, perhaps his soul was worn down.

Humans of the city gasp and struggle through the hurt of not having enough, yet always wish for more even when they get what they wanted. Their souls grew fat and tattered through the rich accumulation of these negative feelings.

So in that regard, from Mahito’s point of view, the old man had a thin soul – but it could be said that was clever of him.

A fat and full human soul leads to a fear of losing the gratifying present moment, which in turn gives birth to curses.

“It’s hard to get your attention. What’s your name?”

When Mahito asked, the old man looked into the air for just a second.

“I left that behind. You can call me whatever you like.”

“There are humans without names? Even curses have them.”

“If you don’t meet other people, you don’t need a name.”

“Isn’t it a problem if you don’t have one?”

“When is it a problem?”

“When it’s time to be buried.”

“I don’t need a gravestone with a name. I can just be stuffed into a common grave, or maybe I’ll rot undiscovered and return to the earth that way.”

“Can’t you take a joke?”

“…Was that a joke?”

The old man didn’t laugh. Neither did Mahito.

But Mahito had the feeling that this old man was childish, contrary to his appearance. His lack of attachments created an unsullied disposition that might make him younger than he looked.

His interest in the old man simmered and surged.

It was his first time seeing this type of human, his first time feeling a soul with this form. For Mahito, this was a rare specimen.

What kind of path must life take to make this kind of human? What would be the most intriguing shape to make with a soul like that? What uses could one plan for such a person?

And what kind of curse would be born from them?

With these questions fueling his curiosity, Mahito started to chat with the old man.

“Why are you here?”

“…Why?”

The old man looked up toward the ceiling through his unruly bangs.

His eye sockets were empty, but it seems like even without sight, humans tended to stare into nothing when they were thinking. One curiosity of Mahito’s was satisfied.

“You weren’t born and raised in this tunnel, right? As a human, you must have been in that noisy city.”

“Ah, that. I lived a fairly busy life a long time ago. I inherited the house, worked, made money and supported my family.”

“So you were a human in a pretty good position.”

“In human society, yes. Looking back on it now, it was all meaningless.”

“So... what, you basically started living in a hole like a mouse, then?”

“I did that because I lost everything that I needed up to then. I lost my social status, my money, and a place where I belonged.”

“You lost it all?”

“I was tricked. That’s when my eyes were burned, so I lost my sight then, too.”

Mahito incidentally recalled the company Jogo attacked.

“You got tricked, huh? You seem pretty good-natured about it.”

“That’s because I didn’t care much about being tricked.”

“You’re a weird old man. Is this some kind of hobby where you get your kicks when people deceive you or something?”

“I’m just saying, that’s the kind of person I was back then. The ones who tricked me were my old friend and my wife. My eyes were burned in that so-called “accident”¹; they claimed I wasn’t of sound mind and body after that, and under the guise of caring for me, they stole everything I worked for before I knew it.”

“That’s a pretty flashy way to trick someone, isn’t it? You’re talking like it’s someone else’s problem.”

“Those two loved each other, and I was loved by no one. Knowing that was more monumental to me than being tricked.”

It was hard for Mahito to interpret what the old man said.

Love. Is it really such an important word?

It’s said that curses born from love exist in the world. It seems there are tremendously powerful ones among them, too. But Mahito doesn’t understand how the mechanism by which people love each other is any different from a cat’s attachment to a blanket.

Still, Mahito knows for a fact that people are obsessed with it.

“Didn’t you curse them? The ones who tricked you.”

“Not really.”

“’Not really’, huh. You know, normally a human in that situation would get angry and hold grudges, and it would make the shape of their soul deteriorate.”

“It’s true, though. I don’t think I had the energy to even consider seeking revenge or hurting them.”

“...I get it.”

Mahito nodded, filling in the blanks.

Regardless of whether or not he can guess the trends in human emotion, Mahito has studied many movies, novels and poetry so far.

Then there were the humans he tinkered with. Mahito could put together the pieces he gleaned from those things and use them to break down the old man’s story.

“So basically, you were in despair. So much despair that it was like your soul was about to die. That’s how you broke through the creation of grudges and curses and ended up like this.”

The old man slowly shook his head.

“I may have been disappointed, but I don’t believe I felt the intense despair you’re thinking of.”

“Are ‘disappointment’ and ‘despair’ different?”

“They are; this is just my personal experience.”

The old man raised his face, following the memories.

“There was no burning resentment or turbulent sorrow. It’s just... I was tired, I guess. Between work, assets, reputation, my life situation and duties, dealing with others, caring about the family name... I think I was probably just tired and worn out because of it all.”

“And that’s why you didn’t get mad even after being tricked?”

“I was at peace. They say the soul gets lighter after going through disappointments.”

The old man’s voice was calm.

It had a cool quality to it, like muddy water that had been filtered clean.

“I couldn’t see, I had no money, I had no love... But as I was walking through the city with nothing to my name, it all suddenly became inconsequential. And then, as I looked around, I saw the city in a new light.”

“Even though you can’t see?”

“Yes. When you can’t see anything, it’s just sound and wind that goes on forever anywhere you are. I couldn’t even see the walls blocking the city in. It was just endless darkness spreading out forever, like a starless night. For the first time, I understood how wide the world was. And I thought to myself... ah, I’m free, aren’t I?”

Mahito blinked rapidly.

This old man’s thinking didn’t fit any other case he had gathered so far.

Even hearing about his past, he couldn’t understand the old man’s thoughts.

But even from Mahito’s point of view, the old man was certainly free.

Without so much as leaving the middle of this tunnel, he knew that the sky was vast.

Perhaps he knew it better than any member of high society walking around freely in the city. He knew the wide spread of the sky, the soft caress of the wind, the gentle sounds of the water.

This old man, who looked like a simple rakugoka², had no property or social standing. He even lost his connection to other humans... And maybe that’s precisely why he could uncover the elusive meaning of the word ‘freedom’.

He was just existing, just being alive, without attachments, grudges or curses.

“So basically ‘not all those who wander are lost’?”

“Yes, though quoting Tolkien’s works might be a little tedious.”

Mahito smiled when the man immediately caught the reference to a book he just happened to read.

“Were you a bookworm?”

“All I did was cram a lot of information in.”

“It’s good to be well-read.”

If curses are born from the fear that humans feel, could this old man even be considered human?

As Mahito is, he struggles with the expression of human emotions.

But he was calm.

For the first time since coming into contact with humans, he had a feeling of peace.

“I think if everyone in the world was like you, I wouldn’t have been born.”

Mahito looked back at his book.

The old man, staring into nothing as always, fell silent again.

Curses are born from humans, but they also kill humans. There is no way for the two to coexist.

But in this tunnel, a curse and a human were doing exactly that.

Though distorted, this peaceful period of time flowed by gently.

It’s only natural for humans to hate and fear other humans.

Since they can’t see souls, they can only make guesses about the feelings of others, and they’re swayed by their own emotions.

They don’t understand that these things are just a reflection of the soul’s metabolism. They don’t even know where their soul is.

Mahito investigated the matter.

This blind man lost his sight and his connection to others, so his soul received less stimulation.

And so, no longer influenced by unnecessary things in the physical world, he spent a lot of time facing his inner world and reflecting.

“It’s kind of like a monk’s training. Through strong introversion, a person looks at their soul more often.”

Mahito walked around the city, skimming through a beaten-up copy of the Heart Sutra.

It was a sutra handbook that focused on controlling the soul. It looked like humans of the past did their own research into freeing the soul from the material world.

The old man’s life ended up in a similar state without him setting out to do it on purpose.

That was likely how he learned to feel other souls through the darkness he lived in. Mahito concluded this was the reason he was aware of curses.

“I think he was already predisposed, but... seems like it’s easier for introverted humans to show promise.”

If he gave the old man’s situation even deeper consideration, he could probably make a lot of guesses about a sorcerer’s training. There’s even a way to encourage the first manifestation of cursed energy.

In that case, it should also be possible to take a talented person and ‘make’ them into a sorcerer or curse-user.

Unleashing a curse-user made by a curse onto a sorcerer...

That might be a fun experiment. It’s easier to shake up a human’s soul by having them fight other humans, rather than just exorcising curses. Sukuna’s vessel should be no exception.

Although...

—Maybe it’s fine to do that a little later?

Yes, Mahito thought it over at his leisure.

He is free. When it’s time to move, he moves. When it’s time to rest, he rests.

And he was not in the mood to launch that plan into action.

Rather, for the time being, he just wanted to gather knowledge and indulge in thought. He also got some new books and wanted to read fantasy novels while basking in the quiet comfort of the tunnel.

Mahito’s gait became lighter. While walking alongside the throng of people, he even began to hum.

Suddenly, a loud voice rang out from between two buildings.

“—so damn annoying, yeah?”

Looking over that way, he saw two young humans: a man with long, thin hair, and a muscular skinhead. They were undoubtedly people who looked like trouble.

The long-haired man listened as the skinhead rambled on with his complaints, seemingly in some kind of sullen mood.

“Damn, it’s seriously freezing. Anyway, every last one of ‘em just puts on shitty airs, but it’s all just talk. Nothin’ but excuses. Ah, I wanna kill ‘em all...”

“You say that, but come on. You talk big about wanting to beat these guys to death when you’re pissed, but could you actually kill someone?”

“Sure. Ain’t like killing’s hard.”

“Seriously?”

Mahito squinted and listened, the conversation going in one ear and out the other.

It’s not that he disliked the way they acted or how they spoke bluntly about their heart’s desires. But Mahito knew people like this were all talk.

“Yeah– seriously, anyone’s fine, I just wanna kill someone.”

Then maybe you should do it without saying anything.

Better yet, he thought about practicing some killing methods on them. But Mahito felt the light weight of the book in his hand as he reached out, and he stopped.

Rather than sparing any consideration for this, he just wanted to go back to the comfort of the tunnel and read.

“I’ll kill ‘em.”

The skinhead’s grumbling voice sounded like a spell.

But the words would find no power or heart to shelter in. Shut away between these buildings, the most a person can do is talk to themselves. It’s best for humans like this to stick to the narrow back alleys, foolishly thinking they’re enjoying a wide world.

Mahito averted his gaze and made his way back home.

“Why did Gregor become a bug?”

Mahito suddenly asked the old man, not taking his eyes off the novel.

It was a famous book by Franz Kafka.

A story in which a human unexpectedly turns into a poisonous insect.

“The most popular theory is that the bug is a metaphor.”

“Metaphor?”

“It means he was a person who was hated and oppressed within society, treated the same way a human would treat a bug. Kind of like an old man who was suddenly blinded and tricked one day.”

“Is that a joke?”

“Not exactly.”

It was detached and dispassionate, but an answer would come back any time Mahito said something. When conversing with the old man, it felt like talking to a dictionary. He had a lot of information.

He knew about things like the inner workings of the mind and human culture, and he was smart enough to explain it simply in discussions.

For Mahito, who analyzed human souls through books and movies, this old man’s knowledge and conversation helped in its own way.

When do humans get angry? Why do they grieve?

How do they trust and in what ways are they betrayed?

Mahito lived with a different sense of ethics when compared to humans, so there were many things he struggled to interpret. The old man explained them and helped him understand.

He had a strong interest in the experiences of the old man, who had once lived among humans but didn’t act like them.

“After becoming a bug, Gregor eventually hid away like he was told to, but he still ended up being spotted and it led to his death. Jii-san³, why do you think that is?”

“You cannot find peace by avoiding life.”

“That’s a quote from Virginia Woolf, right?”

When Mahito immediately and correctly guessed the source, the old man raised a brow slightly.

“You’re a pretty avid reader, too. Conversations with you are really stress-free.”

“Do you have to go back to living with other humans, then?”

“If you don’t have any attachment to the human world, there’s no need to run from it or stand against it⁴.”

“I see,” Mahito murmured to let the other know he was listening, eyes still on the book.

Even if he wasn’t looking at it, the old man’s perpetually calm soul was aglow in the dark like always.

Mahito read his book in the dim room lit by the brilliance of that soul instead of a candle.

Time quietly flowed through the darkness.

Outside of the tunnel, signs indicating the end of summer crept up.

The end came abruptly.

One day, when Mahito was heading back to the tunnel with an abandoned poetry anthology that he picked up on an aimless walk through the city, he felt a noisiness that shouldn’t have been there.

There were one, two, three swaying souls.

One had a very familiar shape, but it was terribly frail. It was like the dying flame of a candle weakened by the wind.

With the same unchanging gait as always, Mahito stepped into the tunnel.

As expected, the old man was there.

But the unusual thing was the crumpled, strange position that he was in.

He was also sandwiched between two younger men who were looking down at him.

“Oooi, isn’t this bad? Did this guy seriously die?”

A man with long, thin hair spoke in a tone that was not particularly anxious.

“Didn’t I say it? I said I could kill,” a muscular skinhead replied, his voice casual.

“But ain’t this just impulsive?”

“Yeah, well, the old man had some real cheek, looking down on us when he’s this weak. So why not just kick him?”

The skinhead likely played sports, given that his legs were as thick around as logs. Kicking an old man to death would be easier than crushing a can.

The two didn’t seem to have a single scrap of interest in the old man, his life or his soul.

There was no reason, no grudge, no clear murderous intent.

It seemed like they simply arrived at the tunnel somehow. They took the opportunity to do as much violence as they wanted. They beat him on a whim.

It could be said that this way of being is freedom for humans.

Mahito crouched down, peeking at the old man’s face.

The beaten visage of the man with burned eyes came into view. But even at a time like this, his expression was as calm as always.

“Are you going to die?”

Mahito searched for even a mumbled word or two in response.

“...Seems so...”

The old man answered in a hoarse voice. He likely barely had the power left to speak now. It appeared as though the two men didn’t hear him over their loud conversation.

He intently inspected the old man’s soul.

The peaceful soul was not flickering, nor did it hold anger or grief; it was simply coming to an unhurried end.

Mahito was impressed.

This old man had found the true meaning of freedom. He really was released from every tie of obligation in this world. Even on the verge of death, that didn’t change.

Being able to make sure of that with his own two eyes, Mahito felt considerably relieved. In the same way he would watch a flower wither and fall, he observed the old man’s death.

Nevertheless...

“Jii-san?”

He had a feeling.

It’s like seeing a plot twist you don’t want to see if you keep turning the pages of a book.

Or like knowing the contents of a present before you open it.

That kind of buzz spread through Mahito’s chest.

While he puzzled over the instinctive alarm bells screaming at him to stop watching, everything was heading toward its end.

“...I thought I would die alone.”

The old man’s soul dimly flickered.

A smile was on his swollen face.

“...To have someone... here to witness this old fool’s last moments...”

The flicker might have been insignificant, like a single drop breaking the water’s surface. Even so, for an instant near death, at the end of it all...

The old man’s soul ‘metabolized’.

“...Tha...nk... y...”

The old man died smiling.

“. . .”

Mahito’s eyes opened wide, and for a moment, he was frozen.

He thought the old man was different when compared to other humans. To Mahito, he seemed unfettered.

Mahito thought the unique philosophical views stemming from such an extraordinary state of mind had freed him from all the shackles of this world.

But despite all of that, the old man was still captured right in his last moments.

On the brink of death, he clung to someone else so he could avoid a lonely end.

The old man was only human.

For a human, it was likely satisfying enough. Perhaps it was even the proper way for one to die.

“. . .”

Mahito said nothing.

But what felt like a dry wind blew through his chest, leaving him cold.

He didn’t know the name humans gave that emotion. But his consciousness was like yarn tangling in on itself, wriggling around like a worm—

And suddenly, it all cut off at once.

The only thing left behind was the sensation of standing in a dry and barren wasteland.

“—So basically,” the skinhead’s voice echoed. “Police probably won’t do a proper investigation. Not for this old nobody.”

“Hey, hey, hey; that’s still a person,” the long haired man answered lightly.

“Yeah, well, that guy started it.”

“He shoulda looked at who he was talking to before he picked a fight.”

“Anyway, my pants are dirty from all that kicking... That’s a problem.”

“So fussy. That’s what you’re worried about when you just killed a guy? How funny.”

“That ain’t a person. Anyway, don’t you know I like being clean? Ahh, the blood won’t come off... Water doesn’t do any good, right?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t – but more importantly, if you’ve settled down, I’m hungry. Let’s stop by a convenience store.”

“I dunno. If you’re gonna look, buy a bento and let’s get outta here.”

Mahito quickly stood up in the same way one would when they finished looking for something in a store.

A sense of fatigue was deeply ingrained in his body.

Their incoherent voices persisted, reverberating through the tunnel, smeared with excuses and attempts to escape reality. He couldn’t hear the soft burble of the stream.

With deep-seated listlessness, Mahito approached the skinhead as one would move to pick up fallen trash.

Idle Transfiguration. The technique spreads quickly.

And thus, the moment he tapped the man’s back, its shape was no longer human.

“Ee—!!”

If he just killed them, it would create a nuisance in the form of a corpse, so he simply folded it up into something palm-sized and kept it alive.

Then, with a careless sweep⁵ of his hand, he folded up the other man as well.

“Begh—”

It fell silent.

Mahito gathered up the two, now no bigger than chess pieces, and turned his attention down toward the remaining corpse of the old man.

It was now just a bag of meat full of bones. Not even the soul remained, so he couldn’t use Idle Transfiguration to fiddle with it.

He was briefly troubled by its disposal, which served as the biggest inconvenience.

In the tunnel, there nothing but the sound of running water.

It was a day where the sky seemed farther away than usual.

Clouds peeked out from around the buildings and a good feeling was carried in on the wind.

Mahito aimlessly walked about the city.

“Maybe I’ll catch a movie. It’s been ages.”

He picked a tiny, somewhat old-looking theater and snuck in.

He’s had high motivation lately, and it seemed like some unnecessary things had peeled away from his soul, leaving him more carefree than ever.

Thanks to that, he had also begun to toy with humans more often.

If he can fold a person up and make them small, he wanted to test out inflating one instead, but he slept on the idea overnight. It was pretty fun, but he knew that he was getting too absorbed. He also felt that carrying on with too much persistence wasn’t a good thing.

A change of pace every now and then was fine, too.

He hadn’t closely checked to see what was being screened. It was mostly just plain and obscure movies, but if one went in with no expectations, they might come across a surprisingly interesting tale.

Curiously, he had that kind of a feeling.

While walking through the hall of the theater, he casually felt through his pocket, which had grown bulky with the ‘small humans’ that he had touched.

—Speaking of which, he thought that was a nuisance.

He carelessly tossed some of them away.

Opening the door, he stepped into the theater.

Perhaps because it was a weekday, there weren’t many customers. The silhouettes of what appeared to be students filled out a few seats here and there.

From where Mahito stood in the corner, he had a good view of the screen.

Soon, instead of a curtain raising, the theater was engulfed in darkness.

T/N: [1] In this sentence, the implication is that the “accident” was very much orchestrated by the old man’s friend and wife, who burned his eyes somehow and then merely made it look like an accident [2] The rakugoka is the storyteller in rakugo, a form of (often) comedic theater that relies solely on spoken word from the rakugoka, who only uses a fan and hand towel as props [3] A way of referring to old men in general, basically like “gramps/grandpa”; Mahito never calls him by an actual name [4] Essentially, the old man’s saying that he (or anyone) can exist parallel to human society without interacting if they have no attachments to it and can still find peace, contrary to the Woolf quote [5] Kanji reads sweep, furigana reads cleanse (the same word for exorcism that sorcerers use)

Thanks as well to Pixi for help with editing and tl checks! If an officially translated version of the novel becomes available in your country, please consider purchasing it, or consider buying a copy of the original novel in Japanese if possible!

#jujutsu kaisen #mahito #mahito jujutsu kaisen #mahito jjk #jogo jjk #hanami jjk #jujutsu kaisen light novel #translation #departing summer and returning autumn

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mightymorphingayagenda · 4 years

Note

cant wait for lethal combination chapter 5! and loved the holiday nessian fic you wrote!

then you shan’t have to wait! and thank you so much, nonnie. the fic they’re talking about and all previous chapters of lethal combo can be found here, x

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.”

Nesta kept her gaze on the wall of oak opposite her.

“Is this the part where I tell you to get on your knees for me?” She asked.

Humourless.

And she could practically feel the feral rage radiating from him. Bleeding through the grate to her left like he were trying to smoke her out.

“This is the part where you-“

“Shhh.”

A lean shadow, a head of auburn hair, muted in the darkness like the decayed verdure of autumn, barely distinguishable through the latticed window no bigger than her hand.

She’d made Eris wait almost a day.

In Nesta’s experience teenage girls understood psychological warfare better than any CIA types she’d met. And rule one in the handbook was never call him back right away.

Eris might as well have been a cute boy from home room, the advice stood fast.

She’d also chosen the time and place for their meeting, giving no concessions in authority. Picking the church as unlike her he’d inherited both the egregious wealth of his family and their faith. Irish Catholic. Meaning he’d find himself here every Sunday evening regardless, and providing not only the guise of normality, but the cosy anonymity of a confessional.

The only people who did secrecy better than assassins, were the Catholics.

It was perfect really, the perfect plan. Undistracted Nesta had been able to work it out pretty quickly after Cassian had left. Leaving her all those hours between four in the morning and her meeting the following evening with nothing to do but hate him.

Avoiding returning to the bed he’d screwed her in. Glaring at his jacket which still hung beside her front door over a bottle of vodka.

It was a blow to her pride to be sure. The closest thing to rejection she’d ever received from a man. Whatsmore, some gooey part of her she’d pushed down had been upset.

Too worked up to sleep she’d spent hours tucked into her armchair and entertaining plucking his teeth from his mouth like the petals of a rose. He loves me, he loves me not. Because worse than revealing himself to be a complete ass as most men did, Cassian had done so subsequent to fucking her better than she could have dreamed. And she’d had that dream. Multiple times.

Wet dreams that couldn’t hold a candle to the way he’d had her dripping down to her knees, begging for his cock, trembling on legs he’d thrown over his shoulder to lick out her cunt like it was the reason he got out of bed in the morning. The man had spoilt her rotten.

Nesta knew she probably shouldn’t have been thinking about sex in a church. Her mother was likely burning with a fury hotter than the flames that surrounded her down below, but she couldn’t help it. Because while she hated the sinner- ever bronze buffed, tattooed inch of him - god did she love the sin.

“The adult is going to talk,” she said quietly. “If you want to throw a tantrum you can do it on your own time because as of this moment, I’m officially off the clock.”

Eris’ silence said he knew better than to interrupt her. Perhaps he was smarter than she was about to give him credit for.

“In fact I stopped working for you as of the moment you chose to question my methods and profess concerns that I may have jeopardised our venture because I lack the professionalism to keep my legs shut,” she said.

“So if you want Helion Day neutralised, you’re going to have to find someone else to do the job. Though I seriously doubt you’ll be able to.”

Cue phase two of the plan.

Because she may have hated Cassian, but she wanted the monopoly on causing him emotional anguish.

Like hell some other pro was going to put a bullet between Helion’s eyes and devastate his bodyguard. Making that man cry was Nesta’s prerogative.

“I have made it clear to anyone in my field you might attempt to solicit that you are a impertinent, trust fund brat, who insists on micromanaging the work of other’s despite your incompetence in an attempt to feel important beyond the breeding mummy lied and told you made you special.”

“I wasn’t aware you also specialised in character assassination.”

Eris’ voice was charred with a sweetness like wealth; earthy and rich it reminded Nesta of muscovado sugar.

He was right. She was being unprofessional. But she was tired and hungover and out of a gorgeous lay so fuck him.

“My specialities are no longer any of your business, Mr Vanserra,” she replied. “My displeasure however, should be of great concern to you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I wouldn’t do you the courtesy of warning you if I intended to kill you.”

Eris said nothing.

“You can consider it incentive if it helps you sleep at night though,” Nesta continued. “To do as you’re told.”

She gave him strict instructions. Wait five minutes then leave. Never contact me. Forget we were ever in correspondence in the first place.

“Murder is cheap, Mr Vanserra. You don’t want to learn the cost of disobeying me. It’s not the kind of thing daddy’s wallet can cover.”

She emerged from the confessional, slim shades obscuring her eyes and the deep bruises beneath. Her heels clipping against the stone floor as she made her way toward the station of votive candles at the back of the church.

Each glowing stick a prayer for a lost loved one. Matches and and a few unlit offerings still available.

She lit herself a cigarette on a flame.

And Nesta couldn’t have missed the fresco above those colossal doors of oak and rustic gold flake even through the plumes of smoke that curled upwards as she stalked lazily down the isle: a depiction of the Heavenly Father himself.

She didn’t bother flicking a glance behind her to the confessional.

Who’s your daddy, now?

She’d collapsed face down into already rumpled sheets.

They’d smelled like sex and heaven and she’d smelt like cigarettes and a church and that was all she knew before the exhaustion caught up with her, the world went black, and she was waking up in exactly the same position . Vex’s fluffy tail swishing against her ear. The tickling sensation plucking her from the bliss of pure nothingness.

Nesta groaned a little as she rolled over and pulled herself to sit up. Pleased to find she’d had the energy to take off her clothes. Unlike her makeup.

“Damn it,” she hissed as she saw the smudged mascara on the pillow.

Not that the sheets didn’t need washing anyway…

“Ugh,” she huffed, dropping flat onto her back again.

She’d been awake less then seven seconds and a man had already ruined her day. Just thinking about him…

“Ugh,” she said again, louder. Like she was angry with the ceiling for not acknowledging her the first time.

Vex meowed, his little head nudging at her bare arm. As though he were trying to coax her bra strap back up to a respectable position on her shoulder.

“Hi, baby,” she grumbled, picking him up for a cuddle. “You hungry?”

He meowed again.

Padding down to the kitchen she’d made them both breakfast (technically lunch, she’d slept in till almost one) and carrying her plate of fruit back upstairs to draw a bubble bath he winded between her ankles, catching her attention as he hissed at something in the living room.

“What?” she inquired, looking down at him before tilting her head to follow his own.

Cassian’s jacket.

Uhg.

Now she was thinking about him again.

Childish, dumb, insecure little prick. How he’d had the fucking nerve to call her a coward was truly a mystery.

He was so crippled by that fear of not being good enough he’d immediately presumed she wanted rid of him. Lashing out defensively- God he was infuriating.

She looked back to Vex who was now staring up at her. “If that thing somehow ends up on the floor,” she said, “you have permission to piss on it”.

He purred.

Vex truly was the only boy worth his salt. Something he proved yet again in hopping atop her bathroom counter and guarding her like a fluffy little gargoyle as she sank into the bath. Opening m the window to let out the smoke of her cigarette so as not to bother him. The sound of rain slipping something comforting through the January chill, twirls of smoke and steam visible in fatigued plumes.

Another lethal habit she’d picked up from Aunt Ripleigh.

The thought gave her an unpleasant feeling in her heart. Like a worm writhing in the rotted meat of an apple.

Ripleigh wasn’t actually her aunt. But Nesta avoided her much like she did the rest of her family and that was what really counted. Besides, spilling blood together arguably made for a closer bond than just sharing it.

Like Nesta said, not really her aunt.

Aunt Ripleigh – initials AR, an homage to the assassin’s preferred weapon the AR-47, American hybrid of the Russian Автома́т Кала́шников, A.K.A the AK-47.

Some mothers left their little girls pearls, or scrapbooks packed with baby pictures and the lingering scent of their perfume. Angelina Archeron had left her’s a Mafia assassin’s cell number.

Of course Nesta hadn’t known that.

Not until she’d found herself with her hands caked in something dark and sticky, her boyfriend’s skin stuffed beneath the lip of her nails and a taste in her mouth like hot rust.

She’d been seventeen the first time she’d killed a man.

Not a man. A boy.

A few months her senior, Thomas been a child just like her.

Her first crush. Her first boyfriend, her first love, and her first.

Nesta had known Thomas was using her for sex. Just as she’d been using him for his money, and wasn’t that what love was? Finding the gratification of your needs in someone else? In Thomas’s case he’d needed to get his dick wet. In Nesta’s…it was more than embarrassing but half the time all she’d needed was a hot meal.

She couldn’t count the number of times she’d called him in the dead of the night to hook up in his Porsche so she could sleep there instead of at home, where the windows screamed freezing air from their shattered mouths and the electricity bill was rarely paid.

But one night Nesta hadn’t felt like earning his kindness. And so he hadn’t offered it.

Instead he’d held her wrists, ripped at her shirt, forced his hands into her jeans. Pushed up against the bonnet of that Porsche by a lake in woods she’d torn through his face, her nails splitting through the waterline beneath his eyes as she’d kicked and screamed, blood pouring, his hand on her neck, throwing her head against the wing mirror. Heat spilling heavy down her jaw and neck from somewhere which had smelt like lose change.

She remembers blood in her eyes and the taste of soft, smooth skin and a kind of rubbery strength between her teeth as she’d bit down hard until something had popped or burst or split with a squirt or a tear. She remembers spitting out whatever of Thomas’s ear she’d torn off between her teeth and something swinging into her lower ribs so hard one broke. She remembers the sounds that had been both of them and then at some point just her.

Her screaming.

Her sticky, disgusting face, stinging with every horribly wet sob and shriek. The shrieks that hadn’t choked to shaky breaths until she’d pulled herself to sit back against the wheel of the car. Clutching at her ribs which had only hurt so much worse when she’d thrown up right next to her boyfriend’s body. What looked like a pint of blood glowing in the dust. His face…his head.

It’d looked like a Halloween prop. Like dark jam. Like a brutalised seventeen year old dead in the dirt.

And sometime after noticing one of his teeth in the dust, Nesta had realised how fucked she was.

It wasn’t much of an achievement when you considered Grafton, Vermont had a population short of seven-hundred: but the Mandrays had been quite possibly the most well connected and well off people in its less than seven-hundred square miles. And despite keeping Nesta’s name out of their sneering mouths through referring to her almost exclusively as “that white-trash bitch”, that population short of seven hundred didn’t give a shit about her.

Didn’t give a shit she’d been top of her class with a place at Georgetown. Because Nesta could never have afforded to accept it.

And it certainly didn’t matter she was a pageant queen when everyone knew the petty cash prizes were the only thing that paid the rent on their shitty one bedroom. Especially with things barely breaking even. In spite of Feyre’s making use of their father’s rifle and sourcing for the butcher any chance she could.

A too skinny child in the woods with a gun and blood in her braids.

Nesta’s efforts to keep food on the table had always seemed to pale in comparison to that. But she’d never felt bad about it. Wouldn’t bother hating herself when everybody else was already doing that for her.

Nesta Archeron was the cheap fuck that nice Mandray boy was messing around with. The gold digger with the dead commie mom and daddy issues.

No one would have ever believed he’d tried to rape her.

And she’d had no money for a decent lawyer- she hadn’t even had anyone to call. Not her dad, not a fourteen-year old Feyre nor Elain, sixteen and the last person she’d ever want wrapped up in something like this.

Nesta had been desperate and vulnerable and jaded for as long as she could remember but she’d never felt as terrified and broken as she had in that moment. Crying alone and hugging herself tightly, she’d just wanted her mom. As cold and neglectful and dead as the woman was.

“три три два пять семь девять пять шесть три восемь”

Her mother’s last words.

Ten numbers.

Nesta had somehow gotten to her feet, only realising Thomas had broken a few of her fingers when she’d tried opening the car door. All but collapsing inside once she’d managed as she’d fumbled for her phone.

“три три два пять семь девять пять шесть три восемь” she’d repeated to herself, voice hoarse and wet and cracking as she’d dialled.

Ten numbers. Ten numbers. Ten numbers.

Like a phone number.

No doubt concussed Nesta had deemed it logical enough. Her mother’s dying breath a kind of atonement for leaving her children with nothing in the whole word but a father that could watch his girls starve and go into the woods with his hunting rifle and whore themselves out like they meant nothing.

A life-line in the deep waters opaque with clouds of blood.

“Здравствуйте.”

Those three syllables had been like a punch to the gut.

Nesta had made a noise that might have sounded like “mom?” or the creaking of a damn as it ached under duress. She’d obviously known it wasn’t her mother, but she hadn’t heard a woman speak Russia since- hadn’t heard Russian at all in years.

“Who is this?”

Trying to pull herself together Nesta had taken a breath that had rattled, dripping wet and slightly wheezing. Everything was going to be okay. She’d been right. It couldn’t have been a coincidence. Of all the phone numbers in the world what was the likelihood that the voice on the end of this one spoke her mother’s native tongue?

“I’m- I’m Angelina Archeron daughter. She gave me this number I don’t know what to do I-”

The specifics aren’t as clear after that. Like a jigsaw left out in the rain or soaked in fresh hot blood, the pieces, the details, they’d melted to mush.

A mess she’d held in her hands and wondered what the fuck to do with.

What do you do with a dead body and the knew found knowledge your mother was a boyevik for the Russian Mafia? What do you do with her retirement package which contained nothing but the contact for an assassin working for the New York arm.

Nesta had only known what she wasn’t going to do.

Go down for murder.

Aunt Ripleigh had told her what to do over the phone, instructing her on how to deal with her injuries and Thomas’ pulp of a body. How to explain the state of her face and ribs and fingers and head. What to do with his car and how to speak and sit and and react when then police came asking questions about Thomas’ disappearance. How to get away with it.

Nesta had followed each direction flawlessly. Consoled in finally having a definitive plan. Even a plan that started with “buy meat cleaver, trash bag, battery powered blender and bucket, with cash from dead boyfriend’s wallet.” Even a plan that got progressively worse from that point on.

Filleting chunks of a body that had once been inside her. Hauling a trash bag of boyfriend smoothie to the river with broken fingers. The thick slop sinking almost immediately just as Aunt Ripleigh had said it would. Before she’d told Nesta to burn the bones and roast marshmallows over them.

“If it had not been you it would have been next girl,” Ripleigh had said. “And she might not have had your fight.”

“You mean she might not have been disturbed enough to kill her boyfriend?”

“Killer instincts, Anastasia. Is not disturbed, is talent,” Aunt Ripleigh had said. “Cannot be taught but what can be taught you learn quick. No whining. Like very good puppy with very sharp teeth.”

“Woof,” Nesta had said dryly.

“Stray puppy though, no? Is why you have no manners.”

“You offering to adopt me?”

“I have pet already. And my husband is funnier than you.”

Nesta’s compromised rib had punished her for finding that funny.

“But you ever want job, you call me.”

Needless to say that was not the last time she’d called Aunt Ripleigh.

Three weeks later and four months shy of getting her high school diploma Nesta had turned eighteen and moved to New York in order to “pursue modelling”.

In reality she was doing coffee runs with a dash more arsenic than normal and luring prosecutors to hotel rooms they’d never leave. A personal assistant of sorts to Aunt Ripleigh.

She had kept the mafia, the Bratva, at an arms length whenever she’d been able. Paying off the shitty house she’d left her sisters in with one less mouth to feed and not wanting their address in any files accessible to people with skill sets like her’s.

And while working with Ripleigh had been a mortiferous riot, two gals shattering the glass ceiling in their industry and slitting throats with the shards; Nesta had developed expensive taste from the fringes of high criminal society. She’d cared less about the art of killing than she had about the art she could hang up in a penthouse apartment if she were in private practice. Her lust for comfort winning out after two years or so at which point she’d gone freelance. Assisting in a few heists before getting in with a crowd of Nazi hunters for a bit, all the while keeping in touch with her mentor.

Until Feyre had moved to the city.

Then she’d given up on the more dangerous antics, selling out for safer and even more lucrative bets like CEOs and cutting ties with Aunt Ripleigh. Terrified if not a little paranoid of something happening to her sister. Which had been shit. Because Nesta hadn’t had any other friends. Like, at all.

At eighteen Feyre was still as bitter and proud as she’d been when Nesta had left. As Nesta herself still was.

Elain had tried bridging her sisters’ relationship once she’d moved to New York but she’d had better success career-wise. Working at a florists before eventually graduating to a self employed wedding planner.

Nesta had kept her thoughts on the psychological tells of a girl jilted at the alter becoming a wedding planner to herself. Mostly because Elain was always brining her cake samples she’d stolen and Nesta wasn’t going to sabotage her supply of free cake.

Feyre on the other hand had gone about far less conventional means of making a living. The child was a force to be reckoned with if for nothing but her resourcefulness and almost objectionable will to survive. Fiercely independent and clumsily capable she’d taken a crack at everything while selling her art on the side. It was a piece she’d modelled for that had delivered her to true economic grandeur however.

Well, “modelled” maybe wasn’t the word. Her sister had essentially been used as a human stamp. Her naked body detailed with intricately painted swirls then pressed to canvas.

The work had been showcased somewhere high brow and had caught the eye of one Mr Rhysand Velaris, thirty-one and the sole inheritor of his late father’s worldly possessions. Among which were several millions of dollars.

Half of which now belonged to her sister thanks to a very reckless prenup on his part.

Though Nesta had briefly wondered if he’d spent at least that on the engagement ring. A glittering iceberg that seemed to only glare brighter next to the stark black band tattooed just beneath it, a matching tattoo on Rhysand’s own ring finger. Because of course they’d eloped in Paris and gotten tattoos instead of wedding rings.

If Nesta had been closer to her baby sister she imagined she might have felt betrayed on some level. But as things were, Nesta wasn’t entirely sure she would have received an invite even if they’d had a traditional wedding, planned to perfection by Elain.

It was probably the worst part of her job. The distance she had to put between herself and everyone she had the potential to care about. A distance she could never close even if she decided to retire right this minute because the damage had already been done. Nesta had become a liability to their safety the minute she’d moved here and started in this line of work.

She took another chocolate from the box she’d snatched from downstairs on second thought. Her supply already dwindling thanks to the rather depression freight train of thought she’d embarked on.

That and the fact they were really very good.

Cassian may have been a prick, but she couldn’t deny he had great taste.

In chocolate, and women, she thought smugly. Sinking deeper into the basin.

A heat flushed up her neck that had nothing to do with the bath as she unwillingly remembered how he’d softly coaxed one of these lovely little parcels between her full lips. The drunk hunger in his deep brown eyes and what he’d done next, snapping her lace thong between his teeth-

Her music stopped. Only to be replaced by a buzzing thrum of her phone.

Leaning forward Nesta checked the caller ID before swiping across the screen to accept the call and sinking back to her earlier position.

“I’m not in the mood,” she hummed dismissively, head tipped back against the lip of the tub and eyes closing. She’d known this was coming, better to get it over with.

“When I supply you with handsome, rich, and eligible men, I do not expect you to break them!” Feyre castigated through the phone, and anyone might guess she were the elder sibling.

Feyre indeed thought herself wiser and more worldly than both Nesta and Elain, and getting married hadn’t helped diminish her false sense of maturity. Thrusting her character into some weird sarcastic seriousness that mirrored her husband’s demeanour perfectly. It made Nesta cringe so thoroughly she was mildly concerned about getting wrinkles.

“And I thought we’d grown out of sharing toys, but it seems both our expectations were thwarted.”

“Humans aren’t toys!” Feyre reminded her. Not that Nesta didn’t already know that. No vibrator had never made her cum as hard as Cassian had.

“And if you resented me setting you up with Cassian then why did you fuck him ?” Feyre asked. And she said fuck as though it were synonymous to stab or poison.

“Was it to punish me? Because if so you did a spectacular job. He’s crazier about you than ever and won’t stop moping. The second-hand embarrassment is painful enough without the added agony of how annoying it is.”

If he likes me so much why was he so eager to assume the worst of me? Nesta thought spitefully.

It didn’t matter that she technically was lying to him. He didn’t know that.

“You told me to give him a chance.”

“And you couldn’t have decided you didn’t like him before having sex with him?”

Nesta wasn’t surprised Feyre had taken Cassian’s version of things at face value.

Her husband’s family were unimpeachably wonderful in her eyes. Meanwhile Nesta remained just another reminder of a time Feyre couldn’t have afforded the plane ticket to get to New York, let alone a town house on the upper east side. A cold bitch who hadn’t begged to join the weird cult that was the Velaris family and their innermost circle when Feyre had married Rhysand last year.

“Oh I’d already worked out he was an ass by that point but I thought he could at least make up for putting me through the date. Not much going on in that head but he quite clearly had it all going on-

“Ew ew ew!” Feyre interrupted. “One, I need this conversation to steer clear of anything anatomical, and two, do you have to be so horrible?”

“You’re the one pimping out your friends, I just took you up on the offer.”

“Ever heard of the third date rule?”

“Didn’t you marry Rhysand on the third date?”

Feyre sighed.

“Cassian’s a good guy, Nes. It takes a lot to come out the other side of what he’s been through a good man and he deserves the world so-”

“So why did you send him my way?”

Nesta knew what Feyre thought of her. And if she hadn’t then this conversation would have made it very clear.

“Because Nesta! You’re twenty-four and already a crazy cat lady! I’m sorry I tried to save you from dying alone and having Vex eat your corpse.”

Nesta rolled her eyes.

“Have you ever considered I choose to be alone because I like it?” She asked.

Feyre sighed again, but it was softer this time, sad more than exasperated.

“You’re not alone, Nesta,” she said. “You’re lonely.”

It was annoying enough that she was right, she didn’t have to be so pretentious about it aswell.

“I’m fine,” Nesta said.

“You sound just like Cassian,” Feyre grumbled.

“Well I’ve been smoking.”

“I’ll be sure to put how funny you were on your headstone when those things kill you.”

“I’m racing Rhysand to the grave, he has more cigars than I do shoes.”

“He only smokes them on special occasions.”

“And how do you know this isn’t a celebratory cigarette on account of you calling me?”

“Because instead of saying hi you said I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh so you did hear me?”

“I hear you, Nesta,” Feyre conceded, disappointment weighing on her words. “Loud and clear. Have a good week.”

She hung up.

“You too,” Nesta said into the silence.

When the silence replied she sank beneath the water. As though she hoped it might act as the cushioned walls of a padded cell meant to protect those who posed a danger to themselves.

It didn’t. And that unpleasant ache didn’t go away. It never did.

Worse than the dull pounding in her ears and tightness in her chest as she held her breath.

But it would be nothing compared to the devastation of seeing Feyre or Elain hurt. The tender ache of keeping them at arms length, knowing they were at least there to brush her fingers against, was worth avoiding spending the rest of her life reaching for someone taken from her.

Perhaps that was also why she’d wanted so fiercely to dislike Cassian.

Nesta re-emerged with a gasp, her chest on fire.

What an unpleasant notion, she thought, running her fingers through her wet hair and sinking back as she took a slower breath. That she’d been looking for a reason to dislike him even after overcoming the minor detail she was going to kill his friend and client. An excuse to throw in the towel as soon as she could. Because it was just easier.

Easier than accepting she was fundamentally terrified of keeping him around.

Easier than keeping him around and seeing him get hurt.

Fuck.

Her being mad at him had been a cop out.

Because yes he’d been a petty, insecure idiot; but hadn’t she told him she was going to fuck and chuck him? Hadn’t she been at typically fast to get in a fight with him? Substantiating his insecurities.

Nesta might have been furious at his calling her a coward, but he hadn’t actually been wrong.

She’d let some subliminal fear convince her to sabotage things.

A subliminal and blissfully irrational fear she realised because, Cassian, a monument of pure muscle, could definitely look after himself. He’d been marine corps for Christ’s sake. Not to mention she’d seen him take down Helion enough times in the ring while still working for Eris and the fact the man literally specialised in keeping people safe for a living!

Nesta felt a weird and almost unfamiliar lightness in her shoulders. It felt a little like hope. Which was also terrifying.

But she wasn’t going to the let the fear control her this time.

—

Cassian had ignored her calls.

All three.

Which was fine because she’d been stalking him for the past month. She knew exactly where he’d be that evening and doing things in person meant she could kill him if he kept up the asshole routine.

Nesta’s platform stiletto boots clipped against the laminate flooring as she emerged from the elevator. Stalking lazily through the top floor of the Illyria building.

Even if she killed Cassian he was going to die happy. She looked good enough to eat. Thick hair fastened back into a high ponytail, the details of her face were subject to full attention. Her eyes appearing almost wider and lashes lavished with a black like her jet thigh-highs and tied coat. Plump lips softly lined and shaded, she looked drop dead fucking gorgeous.

Though it was what she was wearing under her fastened coat that was the real killer.

Nesta didn’t uncross her ankles from where they’d flicked over one another as she let herself lean against the doorframe of Cassian’s office.

It was wide open. No privacy needed when everyone else had gone home around four hours ago. The night detail on Helion allowing Cassian time to catch up on work as he had every night and well into the morning for the past month.

“All work and no play?”

Cassian looked up from his desk.

“I can fix that,” she said.

He’d never looked more handsome.

Hair bundled into a dark band, his shirt cuffed at his forearms and a bit of scruff marring his chiselled jaw. A pair of slim reading glasses were pushed up his slightly imperfect nose and it was such a turn on Nesta was glad she was leaning against something.

He looked a little exhausted in a kind of brooding and adorable way.

It gave her this awful pining to massage those sculpted shoulders as he let loose a deep, tired sigh, arms folding across that powerful chest causing his white shirt to hiss as he leaned back into his chair. It was a fucking massive bit of furniture. But then it had to be to accommodate him.

“What are you doing here?”

Rude.

Nesta pushed off the doorframe and into his office.

“You ignored my calls,” she said by way of explanation. Making her way to the bookcase and running her fingers across a row of spines. It was mostly files, but she noticed a few novels as well.

“You kicked me out of your bed at three in the morning.”

She turned to find him watching her.

His words were dismissive and effortlessly confrontational as usual. But there was an edge to his voice. And it wasn’t arousal. Even if his gaze caught on her boots and lingering there for longer than he’d probably care to admit.

Nesta leaned back against the bookshelf, inspecting her manicure with an eye roll.

“You’re still upset about that?”

“Not at all,” he said with a smirk. Reclining back against the chair a little further, hips rolling and arms casually folding. Too casually. The dangerous grace of it speaking to the emotion that no doubt roiled beneath his bronze skin. Belied by that bullshit cockiness which grated her to the bone. “It seems I dodged a bullet.”

“Oh really?”

“The whole hot but mean cliché is one thing, but crazy hookup who stalks me-“

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she sneered.

She’d seen hints of this before. The rugged and crude act meant to cover up the insecurity she’d also been treated to.

“Oh I’m sorry. I forgot you can’t ever admit what it is you want.”

“You don’t have a clue what I want.”

“I have several, Nesta.” He looked her up and down pointedly.

The way he said her name. Even like this it made her weak in the knees while her fingers itched to choke him.

It was all very conflicting.

“Oddly confident in your last performance for someone so insecure,” she quipped lazily.

Cassian rose his brows with a mean a laugh.

“What do I have to be insecure about?” He said. “I didn’t hide behind a half-ass lie to throw someone out of my bed. And I’m pretty sure even your neighbours can attest to how good of a time I gave you,” he smirked again. “You’re not a good enough liar for the way you moaned my name to have been an act.”

The white hot fist in her stomach folded in on itself as it melted to a stickiness despite the misguided insult. She certainly hadn’t been putting it on Saturday. Every sound he’d drawn from her dripping with sincerity. Every moan and whimper well deserved.

“You’re right,” she said.

Cassian blinked.

Nesta prowled toward him and hummed, “those, four, orgasms, were about as fake as my emergency.”

The sultry softness to her voice thickened to something less affected at those last words.

Cassian scoffed. Though there was something withdrawn and careful to him that hadn’t been there a second ago. Like a snake recoiling in case it needed to strike. “Your emergency, of course. Which was?”

“Nothing to do with you.”

He shook his head, laughing bitterly.

“Seriously, Nesta? You’ve had two days to come up with something now.”

“You’re not listening to me,” Nesta slipped atop the corner of the desk, perching there with her long legs crossed over one another. The blade of a stiletto heel close enough to brush up his calf if she wanted to make him shiver.

But she didn’t. She just wanted him to listen. To understand what she was saying so she didn’t have to say anything more because for fucks sake he was the one who’d acted up and yet she was here putting her pride on the line again.

“It had nothing, to do with you,” she said slowly.

A weighted silence settled like snow between them.

Until Cassian took a blow torch to it.

“Shit.”

His head fell into those large hands.

“Shiiiiiiiit,” he cursed again. “Oh god, how badly have I fucked up?” He groaned, looking up. So humbled and distraught it was almost comical.

“Irredeemably.” Her eyes flirted with the notion of a little smile even if her mouth remained unquirked as she propped her hands against the desk behind her and leaned into them to more comfortably watch him suffer.

“I’d beg you not to tease me but honestly I think it’s the least I deserve- fuck.”

“Like me teasing you isn’t the highlight of your day.” She rolled her eyes.

Cassian laughed, pained and almost sheepish, which shouldn’t have been hot but god it made her blush.

Keep your cool goddamn it. She wanted a little more bang for her buck where grovelling was concerned before she let on how eager she was for things to get back on track.

“Want to flat out abuse me and make it the highlight of my year?”

She was struggling to keep the smile off her face even as she said, “I’m not in the habit of rewarding bad behaviour. You’re a man, you get enough of that already.”

“Nesta,” he took his glasses off, setting them down on the desk beside her thigh. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “I’m, really, really fucking sorry I’m an idiot.”

Nesta slid of the desk.

“Go on,” she instructed.

“A moron a fool a stupid, stupid son of a bitch.”

Taking a step forward she was stood between his thighs. Picking up his glasses and pushing them back on his nose. Missing the sight of this hulking, powerhouse of a man in spectacles.

“I’m sorry.” Cassian was looking up at her with those big brown eyes, and the bastard actually leaned into her palm.

“Oh for fucks sake how did anyone discipline you as a child with those damn puppy-dog eyes?” She growled softly, furious.

“They didn’t to be honest,” he admitted with a breathy laugh.

“I can tell.”

She slid her hands to his shoulders, fingers curling soft and possessive over the stacked muscle and palms pressed to his upper chest, stepping tighter into him.

“I guess I’ll just have to do it.”

Cassian swallowed.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetheart,” he tried. Intoxicatingly deep, trying to maintain that arrogant and playful edge in a way that made his words all the hotter. The simmering ache he attempted to push down all but throbbing in his voice.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she returned, brows arched. Battling a smirk off her face.

“Can I ask you to do something for me, then?”

“If you say please.”

“Please don’t screw around with me.”

Nesta faltered.

Those warm hands came to rest on her lower back, long fingers curling slightly into the fabric and coaxing her that last bit closer so that her thighs brushed against the edge of his chair and her stomach was brushing up against his.

“I’m really into you,” he admitted. “You’re smart and you’re beautiful, and at first I thought the whole hard to get thing was an act but woman you are genuinely hard to get and it is, so sexy. But whatever it is that’s holding you back, that made you wait a week to call me, that made you claim all you wanted was a hook up; I’m clearly not cut out to compete,” he confessed. “It got in my head, and that’s on me and me lashing out at you the other night that’s on me too and I’m so, so sorry Nesta. I need to know where I stand with you though. I need to know if you’re actually interested in me. Because I like you. But I’m too old for games.”

The silence was so thick she could have cut through it with a knife.

Nesta’s hands fell from his chest slowly.

“That’s good,” she assured him at last. “Because I’m not a toy.”

She brought her fingers to the belt of her coat and pulled slow and deliberate.

Black glazed her figure with a gorgeous intimacy. The dress hugging at what little it concealed with perfection enough to make up for its lake of mercy. Long legs sheathed in those thigh-high boots, the item was short enough that a decent length of her thighs could be seen. Interrupted at the last possible moment by sleek jet as though she’d been dipped in oil of purest night.

Cassian’s eyes blew out to sticky treacle behind those glasses.

“I’m human, Cass,” she hummed, tossing her coat onto the desk behind her as she spoke. “Which means I make mistakes.” He swallowed as she sighed softly, her cleavage swelling a little with the motion. “And that I have needs. Needs you can be the one to fulfill or not.”

She slipped into his lap, straddling him, knees bent either side of his thighs. The corded strength of which pressed painfully and exhilaratingly apparent against the soft seam of her inner thighs and she was genuinely suffering from some kind of contact high. Every inch of him seizing up subtly, deliciously taught at her touch in an effort not to respond and yet it only revealed just how much she affected him.

“Nesta-“

“Shhhhhh,” she interrupted. Hands cupping that ruggedly handsome face and titling it back to tuck her’s against him slowly. “But I want it to be you,” she purred against his jaw, tracing her nose up the stubbled curve. “Let me show you how bad.”

“Someone could come back-“

“I don’t care,” Nesta murmured against his mouth. “I want you.”

His eyes fluttered shut. And she felt his cock stir in those immaculately tailored slacks.

“Nesta-”

She could feel every muscle that licked up his stomach tremble with a drawn out contraction as she said it again, her hands slipping down to his broad shoulders.

“I want you,” she purred again.

He might have tried to breath. And it might have rubbed up something uncomfortably nice in her lower tummy.

“Say it,” she whispered, tilting her face so that the tip of her nose brushed up the side of his. Her breath hot on his stubbled Cupid’s bow and hands running down the solid power of his upper body, burning up through his shirt. “Say it, Cassian.”

His brown eyes like cognac and magnolia were hooded behind his glasses as he conceded.

“You want me,” he breathed.

She grazed her mouth against his. Lips parted suggestively and an almost silent, utterly cruel noise escaping her.

The length of his thick cock pressed up against the seam of her plush sex as he grew to full, hard attention in his slacks. Warm and thrilling even through her panties and their open mouths melted into one another hot and heavy, tongues caressing as his large hands came to her knees and smoothed up her bare thighs covetously.

“Fuck,” he groaned lazily as her hips began rolling deeply into him, and her hands slid under his shirt. Fingers splayed, she snaked up the cobbled muscle of his stomach, the flesh burnished and warm beneath her touch. His shirt riding up to reveal the gutter of his hips, gruesomely toned and dusted with hair.

“This is…such a…” he breathed, between the perfect and yearning motions of their jaws, a hand smoothing up her waist in a way that made her shiver.

“Dream come true?” She hummed, kissing him wanton and unhurried. Dangerously close to becoming a brainless mess with the way his cock rubbed up her core.

His groan melted to a laugh or maybe it was the other way round.

“Yes,” he admitted breathlessly. “And a bad, bad…idea.”

“Well you’ve been a bad, bad boy, Cassian,” she whispered filthily against his ear, before capturing the lobe between her teeth softly.

She sucked and nibbled oh so gently and he expelled a breath so gravelly and masculine it twisted the hungry knot in her core tighter.

“Nesta…we-fuck you’re good at that…” he groaned lethargically . “Sweetheart, we can’t…”

“Why not,” she coed quietly, the sound airy and affectedly filthy.

“We’re…” he choked as he took in the sight of her cleavage, pushed intimately to his chest and escaping the neckline of her dress like a plume of toothpaste squeezed from the tube. “Fucking hell Nesta we’re in my office.”

“And I’m saying you could be in me.”

She rocked her hips against him with a particularly cruel slant.

The groan that escaped him made something flip in her stomach, tossing about whatever sweet, impossible to describe feeling rushed there at the same time at the way his head fell back against the chair as she worked him over. The hot friction that rubbed against her sensitive core the cherry on top of the sweet, creamy, decadent sundae.

“Besides,” she moaned, breathless and sultry. Teeth plunging softly into her plump bottom lip as she continued rolling her hips. Hands rubbing over his shoulders and providing her leverage. “You’re the boss.”

“I think we both know…that I’m not the boss…right now…” he groaned. Almost pained.

“Your cock a little much for those slacks?” She hummed, faux sympathy dripping through her mocking pout.

“I thought you liked a tight fit,” she teased, still pouting but eyes smokey. Her toes curling in her boots as her fingers began work on pulling his shirt apart.

The buttons popped undone with a sensual and pining tempo and she was moaning quietly into his mouth as she explored the panes and ripples of that powerful upper body. More than thorough in her hands-on assessment.

Cassian’s own hands were keeping just as busy, massaging and kneading her ass indulgently before smoothing over her rolling hips and eventually coming to her lower back. His thumbs pressing to the small of her back either side of her spine and it made something tight inside her swoon. The touch so hot and the memory it conjured so good. His big hands on her as he fucked her from behind.

“Nesta,” Cassian groaned deeply, as she began rocking into him tighter, hotter. The impression of his cock lined up just right with her aching core.

“Hey, baby,” She purred, drunk on the friction that made her whole body throb and hum with pleasure and the tip of her nose brushing the side of his. Hands snaking from his exposed chest to either side of his face and capturing his bruised mouth with her own. Chewing on his bottom lip obscenely, the friction beginning to push her over edge.

“Fuck you’re incredible,” he groaned huskily once she let up. Kissing back decadently. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed almost mindlessly. “I’m so fucking sorry, Nesta.”

“You wanna show me how sorry you are?” she purred, sultry and low, mouth parting, forehead still pressed to his and eyes fluttering open to hold his own.

Cassian nodded, dumb and silent and eager and Jesus it turned her on.

“Yeah? You wanna make me cum?” She hummed.

“Yes, yes, please.”

“Touch me, Cassian,” she whispered against his open mouth. “Make it up to me, make me feel good.”

Cassian’s hands slid back to her ass and she moaned into the kiss he captured her lips in as he lifted her with a sensual squeeze, wrapping her long legs tightly round the tapered cut of his waist as he stood.

The surface of the desk was beneath her before she could work out which way was up and his touch smoothed down her legs to her knees before she could take a a breath in reprieve from kissing him. Her legs splitting either side of his broad hips and his erection, tucked to the side in his slacks and thick and heavy and hard, pushed against the inner seam of her thigh as he pulled that band from her hair.

“I’m gonna make these gorgeous legs tremble for me,” he pledged against the her jaw, kissing and nipping his way down to where her pulse throbbed for him as he a hand through the loose locks.

And he began suckling at that sensitive spot just as a calloused hand slipped between her thighs.

“Mmmmm,” Nesta moaned smugly, gripping at his biceps still sheathed in the sleeves of his shirt as Cassian’s thumb ran up the seam of her dripping cunt through her panties. The lace a flimsy veil between her swollen clit and his hot touch.

“Fuck I’ve missed you,” he moaned into her neck, her head rolling back as he snapped her panties and began stroking his fingers through her soft folds possessively. “Missed those little sounds and your mouth and this pretty neck and perfect pussy.”

“Then cut out the all bark no bite bullshit and prove it,” she breathed.

“Yes ma’am,” he murmured thickly, the pad of his thumb coming to her clit and she moaned as he circled the sensitive bundle of nerves expertly. Her nails pressing into his shoulders, a few through the hiss of his shirt but the others carving crescents into the bronze muscle and tattoos like the meat of an apple.

His forefinger began teasing at her tight entrance and Nesta’s breath caught.

“Tease me and you’ll fucking regret it,” she warned thickly, and he pushed the digit inside.

The intrusion was far from the thick, eight inches she craved, but when he curled his finger against a sensitive, swollen spot deep inside her Nesta keened aloud.

“You look so fucking good like this,” Cassian breathed, husky and bestial as he crooked his finger inside her over and over.

“More,” she demanded.

It probably wasn’t clear if she was demanding more dirty praise or physical attention but Cassian was a good boy and covered all his bases. A second finger pushing inside her that second.

She gasped as the snug walls of her cunt stretched to accommodate the two of them as he waxed lyrical about how hard her moaning got him. Their foreheads level and those deep brown eyes lathering her with his earnest attention.

“You’re dripping down my knuckles like a fucking peach,” Cassian told her as he thrust inside her over and over, the only thing more obscene than her facial expression and the breathless sounds she was making being the quite, wet noises his fingers illicited.

He hadn’t let up on her clit, and at the exact moment he decided to start curling those two fingers together, he increased the speed and pressure with which he rubbed at her most responsive spot with his thumb.

“Cassian,” Nesta moaned, her fingers running up the nape of his neck and delving into his hair, still pulled into that bun.

“That’s it, that’s so fucking hot, baby, I want your cum dripping down my wrist,” he growled softly. Her nails sliding down his scalp.

“You’re so fucking needy,” she got out, which only served to utterly delight him. His thumb working at her from an oh so subtly more intense angle that had a familiar buzzing low inside her threatening to pluck her apart at the seams.

“Oh my god fuck,” she moaned. “Uhhu, that’s it, just like that oh my god.”

“You gonna cum, Nesta? You gonna cum on my desk- Jesus I’m gonna be thinking about you moaning, long legs spread for me while you moan so fucking dirty for my fingers every time I’m sat at this fucking desk now, you know that?”

His words sent her over the edge.

Silently she threw her head back as her orgasm licked up every frayed nerve in her body. It was hard. And Cassian kept on working those thick fingers inside her and over her sensitive clit throughout.

Fucking her dirty and skilled. Prolonging her twitching and bone melting pleasure.

Until she was snaking her hands from where they’d wound through his fastened hair, and pushing him off her at the shoulders. Falling back on her forearms with a shaky exhale, thighs still trembling subtly.

Cassian smirked. And brought his fingers to his mouth. Licking up the length of the calloused, sticky digits. Eyes on her’s from behind those obnoxiously sexy reading glasses she had half a mind to slap off his face.

“You taste even better than I remember,” he purred.

“Then get on your knees.”

Her voice was shaky but he didn’t even throw her another of those antagonistic and gorgeous smirks, just sank down. All six foot whatever, two hundred and something ridiculous pounds of muscle. Knelt on the floor between her legs.

“Is initiative encouraged of am I to be strictly obedient?” There was that smirk.

“You can use your brain,” she permitted. Still out of it. But still dying for him to touch her again. “If only because I need to be convinced you have one.”

His chuckle felt like fucking heaven between her thighs. His stubbled jaw rubbing up against her aching cunt as he kissed her like he meant it. Open mouthed and his tongue then slipping out to lavish her dripping slit before he began playing with her clit with the tip.

Nesta moaned, chewing down on her lip once she located the dignity to quieten down so she could keep it that way.

Her previous orgasm should have taken the edge off, but it had only reminded her already whetted appetite what there was to gorge on. Leaving her pining for more and disastrously sensitive.

“Mmmm,” Cassian moaned deeply- though honestly it was closer to a growl which was hot- and brought those large hands to her thighs. Holding her open for him stoking the bruise-blue flame that writhed in her core and allowing him better access to her pussy.

“Oh god right there,” Nesta keened. His nose brushing up against her clit as he licked up her snug entrance, teasing his tongue inside.

He threw her legs over his stacked shoulders and obeyed, working his tongue inside her with shameful enthusiasm only emphasised by the noises he was making. Seriously he was putting her to shame.

In fact if she hadn’t been rapidly approaching another orgasm she might have thought he was have more fun than her.

Hands no longer occupied with gripping her black-clad thighs they came to her hips and waist. Coaxing her to slant forward at an angle that granted him an even more advantageous angle from which to eat her out.

She moaned, manicured nails almost clawing into his desk behind her. “Mhmm mhmm uh,” she gasped sharply at the sudden relocation of his tongue. Cassian capturing her clit in his mouth and sucking on the sensitive bud as he flicked his tongue up and down.

“Fuck, yes yes yes yes,” she was utterly breathless. “Oh god, oh fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum,” she whined.

Cassian fucking groaned and it was like he’d pulled at the knot in her stomach with his teeth.

The muscles in her lower stomach twitching as she came, the cushiony walls of her cunt pulsing tight and the only thing grounding her to reality.

Though she was just lucid enough to know Cassian was lapping up the nectar between her legs with audible and pleased snarls of pure, masculine satisfaction.

Nesta couldn’t say how long it took her to stop seizing, just that she was completely drunk on pleasure by the time her body allowed her to at least try and think. She failed completely. Wasted on her orgasm, on Cassian.

“Come ‘ere,” she said, breathless and doped up. Eyes barely fluttering open, heavy lidded and probably glazing over with unabashed appreciation as Cassian did as he was told. Rising to stand before her, thick arms winding round her waist snuggly and pulling her to him tight.

His sheathed erection pushed to her sticky inner thigh and his powerful upper body, chiselled and broad and comforting, warm and hard and dusted with dark hair, pushed to her’s.

His sharp jaw, like her thighs, was slightly sticky, and his mouth looked even more abused than it from the attention of her teeth. But the best part- better than his mid-sex blush or the way he was breathing all deep and powerful and hungry for her, were his glasses. They were slightly fogged up at the edges.

“Apology accepted?” He asked huskily, like he was already sure of the answer. Like he didn’t care because no matter what she said he was going to have her screaming for him till they were both sick of each other.

“Apology accepted,” Nesta confirmed. Splayed hands smoothing up his broad chest as she captured his lips in a wanton kiss.

“That still leaves your punishment though,” she whispered.

Cassian’s dark brows had barely risen before she’d pushed him back and he was falling into the chair again. Breathing deep and thrumming with a desire that destabilised him as he watched her slip a stiletto heel beneath her panties on the floor and flick them up into her hand. Prowling toward him and climbing into his lap. Hoping it wasn’t obvious that her legs felt like liquid.

“Hold these,” she demanded, feeding the bundle of lace into his mouth, his groan muffled by the fabric and her hands making quick and embarrassingly eager work of removing his unfastened shirt. All but tearing it off his sculpted arms that must have been as thick as her thighs- his body was ridiculous.

She griped his wrists before he could start doing something like feeling her up and brought them behind his head. Elbows out and biceps flexed, his hands meeting in the middle at the nape of his neck.

Cassian kissed and nipped at her fingers as she plucked her panties from his mouth with one hand, holding his wrists with the other.

He licked at his lips as though chasing the taste of her lingerie, eyes on her’s from behind his glasses.

She wasn’t gentle knotting the lace round his wrists.

“Oh,” he grinned, trying to move his arms.

He couldn’t of course, the physics working against him and rendering it so his only way out would be pulling until the lace snapped for a second time this evening. Still, it was a fucking gorgeous sight watching him try. Biceps and broad chest flexing.

Tied up and at her mercy she was dripping wet for him and slipped her tongue into his mouth as a little reward for how fucking hot he looked like this. Kissing him obscene and wet.

“Safe word?” She murmured into his mouth.

“Harder,” Cassian grinned. No doubt referencing her answer to the very same question the other night.

Nesta bit his bottom lip, puncturing the bruised cushion subtly and she tasted blood on her teeth and his tongue.

“Safe word,” she insisted once more against his lips, fingers winding through his hair with a drawn out and yearning pull.

“Amren,” he groaned`. Then added, “don’t ask.”

“Yeah we’re done talking,” she informed him dismissively. Unbuckling his belt and pulling it through the loops of his slacks with a swift tug.

Cassian’s hips jumped beneath her and she unfastened the button slung low on his hips, pulling the zip of his fly down. Parted lips close to brushing.

“Down boy,” she purred.

“Bit late for that,” he breathed raggedly, jaw feathering as she slid her hand into his boxers.

“God you’re adorable,” Nesta pouted, freeing his thick cock. Obnoxiously engorged and a dribble of pearlescence spilling from the uncut tip.

“Now be a good boy and don’t you dare cum until I say,” she warned.

And sank down on thick inch after inch of his hot, rigid shaft.

Nesta couldn’t help the arch that slipped through her spine as he filled her up, the stretch so acute it had her eyes rolling back with a flutter of her thick lashes.

“Oh my god,” she moaned breathlessly, hands splayed against his powerful chest. Thighs straddling his, her walls hugged him vice like and- Jesus, he rubbed up that deep spot inside her perfectly.

“Nesta,” Cassian groaned beneath her. “You’re so… fucking tight.”

Nesta rolled her head to the side in tandem with her hips, growing accustomed to the sheer size of him and eliciting a raw sound from the man before she removed his reading glasses. Fitting them over the bridge of her own petite nose.

“No backseat driving now, sweetheart,” she purred a little shakily.

She rose onto her knees only to sink back down again with a filthy twist of her hips. Repeating the motion again and again. Gliding up and down his cock with a tight and slippery friction that had her stomach flexing and his gaze heavy lidded. Encouraging, low noises escaping from deep in his chest that she wanted to bottle up and get drunk on.

“Uhh,” she keened, dirty and blissful, hands on his stacked shoulders. “Uhhu.”

“Oh fuck,” Cassian breathed huskily. “Mmhhm…that’s it…fucking ride me baby”

Nesta felt a familiar heat fan at her core as she drank him up. Every perfect, delicious inch there for her to use.

“Cassian,” she moaned. The sound tasting like sex in her mouth.

She fluttered around him again on an upwards twist of her hips, his cock pushing in and out of her snug cherry with a delicious wet sound. Just audible above her filthy moans.

Riding him was like sucking on a hard candy, that intense sweetness at the centre burning ever closer. And he kept running that damn mouth. Gravelly and deep, lavishing her body with sickly sweet and dirty compliments.

“Fuck that’s it gorgeous, just like that sweet thing fucking hell you’re fucking perfect.”

Powerful and dripping with raw fucking desire his body rolled upwards into her, slick with sweat and chiselled sinew. His cock burying deeper inside her. The sounds he was making just to top it off causing a tight fuzziness to tremble in her upper thighs.

“Oh my god,” Nesta moaned, hands coming to his face and lips brushing his as so she moaned a hot, “I’m gonna cum,” into his mouth.

Cassian groaned. Kissing her hard and deep.

“Cassian,” she keened.

She began bouncing deeper in his lap. Up and down up and down. His cock thrusting inside her hard and rubbing at her g spot just right while her clit grazed the coarse hair at his rugged hips. There was a bead of sweat gliding down the chiselled muscle that carved his broad torso, washboard abs flexing as he resisted release and Nesta felt the pressure between her thighs reach a fever pitch.

Grunting he bucked violently beneath her once, twice, and she was undone.

Nesta might have made a noise this time. Airy and hot and open mouthed against his neck as she buried her hands into his hair.

He was so tense beneath her, like pure marble soaked in the heat of the sun. Trying not spill inside her as her walls flexed with every hot wave of pleasure.

And once it passed his breathing was as ragged as her own.

“You did so good,” Nesta whispered at last against his ear. Voice wrecked like she were experiencing a sugar crash. Nibbling at the lobe. Tasting salt on her lips and eyes fluttering shut at the heady scent of his aftershave.

“Does that mean I get a reward?” he managed.

“Something like that,” she hummed, repositioning herself so that her back was to his chest.

“Nesta please. Just untie me, sweetheart,” Cassian whispered against her ear. Voice trembling like he’d shot up something good.

Nesta only chuckled, head knocked back so she could hold his eyes as she rolled her hips. Teasing, tormenting.

“The second you get your hands on these,” she brought her hands to her tits, giving them a soft squeeze and biting her lip, “you’ll be cumming and out of commission.”

Cassian growled, watching her feel herself up as she rolled her hips in leisurely circles. Sensual and dirty. The length of his hard shaft, thick and velvet smooth beneath her.

“Fuck,” he moaned huskily. Nose buried at her throat and lips working against her pulse point with the assistance of his tongue and teeth. Just as slow and through as her hips.

She gasped softly, grinding deeper.

“You know how good I can make it for you,” he purred.

“Mmmm,” she moaned quietly in agreement.

“Let me take care of you.”

“Cassian.”

“You make my name sound so sexy,” he grazed his stubbled jaw against the bruise he’d worked into her throat, the sensitive skin blushing warm at the contact as he moved his mouth to another location and started kissing and nibbling there. “Untie me, baby, and I’ll give you everything you want.”

Nesta smiled.

“Or I could keep you tied up and just take it.”

Cassian growled against her neck as she tilted her hips forward allowing his cock to spring up, and sank down on him again.

She moaned, loud and keening. Hands snaking through his hair behind her as she rocked herself up and down slowly. There wasn’t a lot of friction, but for now it was enough just to revel in how good Cassian’s cock felt. That last orgasm having finally takes the edge off.

“Fuck that’s it grind for me,” he moaned. His breath was hot against her neck and she could feel his heart beat. Feel every deep sound reverberate through his chest as she moved.

His cock rubbed up against her g spot, colours and stars bleeding behind her eyes like fireworks.

“Cassian,” she whimpered lowly.

It was so good.

Hands fumbling distractedly she brought her fingers to untie him. And he deemed it all the permission he needed. Tearing himself free with a growl. Capturing her mouth in a slow and wanton kiss as those big hands came to rove her body, taking his time to pull her apart.

His touch hot and calloused, Nesta moaned into his mouth as he ran up her stomach, her hips, her thighs, her tits. Massaging and glazing every inch of her with a rough heat that made her feel like she was going to explode. Her body a champagne flute dangerously close to shattering at the frequency of his hot groans and growls.

“Right there, oh right fucking there baby,” She moaned quietly against his lips, one of his hands rubbing her hip and guiding her motions while the other palmed at her breast.

“Yeah? You like that?” He dipped his head to pull down the straps of her bra and dress down with his teeth until her cleavage spilt from the cups. Pebbled nipples tight and rosy in the dim light, peaking over the balcony of her bra.

“Mmmmm,” he murmured against her throat, exploiting the sensitive spot as he made his way back up to her face and watched her plump tits sway. A hand running from her hip down her thigh and back up again to slip between her legs to stroke her clit.

Nesta whined softly.

“Cassian…more…”

She kissed him sluggish and distracted. The two of them humming and moaning every so often until he started caressing her clit tighter and her sounds grew more frantic.

“Fuck uhhu, uhhu just like that,” she panted quietly into his mouth. “Oh god uhh, uhhh more…more…more more Cassian fuck me.”

She was on her feet before she could complain that his hands were no longer between her thighs. Pushed up against the edge of his desk, hands falling splayed against the surface to stop herself falling across the wood and legs split apart.

“Oh!”

“Good girl,” he grunted deeply. “Moan for me.”

His calloused fingers came to her clit, coaxing her closer to the edge as the other gripped her hip.

“That’s it, that’s my girl such a good girl baby.”

Mouth caught open as though on a fish hook Nesta started seeing black splodges, the puddles flaring in her vision on every one of his thrusts. Deep and dirty and filling her till she was so impossibly full she spilt over.

“Fuck fuck just like that oh my god you’re so fucking tight, cum on my cock, cum on my cock, uh, uh, uh.”

Cassian finished inside her with a guttural sound as she came. Pumping her full one last time with a brutal snap of his hips.

She was vaguely aware of his ragged breathing against her ear. Somewhat sure her forearms had fallen flat against his desk and her head hung forward. Hair falling over her face and back arched as her tight sex twitched and fluttered around him.

Coming back to her senses took longer than she’d ever admit.

“Is that cctv?” Nesta asked eventually, head tipped back and resting on his shoulder. Eyes flicking in gesture to the tiny little camera in the opposite corner of the ceiling.

“Don’t worry,” Cassian breathed. “It’s switched off.”

She turned her gaze to him.

“Shame.”

He let out an exhausted and reverent sound that might have been a laugh. And just as exhausted, once he’d pulled out, he fell back into the chair behind him. Trousers pulled back up but unbuttoned.

Nesta followed in fatigued suit, working her dress back down over her hips and sinking to the floor, back against the desk. She probably shouldn’t have worn black… but the impending bill and judgement from her dry cleaner would be worth it.

“Friday night. Pick me up at eight,” she breathed.

Cassian grinned.

“You like Italian?”

Nesta rolled her eyes from behind the reading glasses askew on her nose, but nodded none the less. She was sort of screwed if she didn’t. Cassian’s adopted family were Italian on his father’s side. The cuisine was going to be pretty commonplace if they kept seeing each other she imagined.

“What are you thinking about?” He hummed, watching her.

Nesta smiled. Then crawled toward him across the floor. “How I still have that table cloth you call a dinner jacket at my place.”

“Was that plan b?” He laughed, snaking an arm round her waist as she climbed into his lap. “Hold my jacket hostage till I agreed to go out with you again?”

“No,” she glared at him softly, nestling into the crease of his shoulder. “Though I had thought about wearing it tonight. Just your jacket and a pair of heels.”

Cassian licked his lips as though contemplating the sight and liking what he imagined very much. “Next time,” he hummed distractedly. Less promise more pleading. “This was…,” his free hand roved down her side, the black fabric glued to her figure. “And these…,” his touch made her melt as he ran down her thigh and platform boot, her legs flicked over one another.

“Lethal,” he whispered.

Nesta scoffed. “You’re telling me. My toes are killing me.”

Cassian hummed sympathetically, fitting a heel in his hand and guiding the shoe off her foot. Nesta groaned softly and he did the same with the other boot.

“That bad?” He chuckled, starting to massage her.

“Worth it though,” she sighed, nuzzling into his shoulder.

Cassian held the door open for Nesta to emerge out onto the street first. The cool night air whipping lazily at her hair.

Their second date had been incredible.

He’d taken her to Gnocco in the East Village. Proper Italian food, fairy lights, and intimate little corners perfect for flirting over too many glasses of wine and playing footsie beneath the table. Not to mention casual enough to see Nesta Archeron fitted out in heels, a snug black top, and a jaw dropping pair of jeans.

Tactically quiet and effortlessly biting as ever, she’d been armed with passionate reviews on the podcasts she’d listened to or books she’d read that week. Asking him about his own week and listening thoughtfully in a way that had probably made him blush.

If it hadn’t, then the way she’d licked at the creamy vanilla gelato on her dessert spoon definitely had.

Cassian was far too tempted to slip his hand into the back pocket of her dark skinny jeans as he emerged after her, but he felt Nesta probably wasn’t one for PDA. Or more accurately, public groping. And he was determined to be on his best behaviour this evening. Determined to make her forget all about how shit-awfully he’d handled last Saturday.

Not that he hadn’t given her a thorough apology.

Consistency was key however, and there would be no lapse in his conduct any time soon when it came to Nesta. He’d lucked out so fucking hard in getting a second chance when he hadn’t even deserved the first with a woman like her. Clever and beautiful and passionate and god he had it bad.

Had been thinking about her all week. Their date the only thing getting him through the late nights that were pretty much killing him at this point and the days spent arguing with Helion.

Cassian had worked out who’d put a hit on his friend. And why.

The contracts Helion was in the midst of signing were of a more personal nature that he’d originally let on. His will to be precise. In which it was detailed that upon his death, the pharmaceutical powerhouse that was Day Inc. should be handed over to Saoirse Vanserra.

The married woman Helion had gone and fallen in love with twenty odd years ago. The mother of his child.

Not that Helion had been aware of the that little detail until recently. Terminally ill, Saoirse hadn’t wanted the secret buried with her, and had gotten in touch with her old flame to tell him her youngest was his.

Despite being well into his fifties, Helion behaved like a twenty-something at the best of times. But learning he had a son that actually was twenty-something had thrust him into a panicked play at accountability. Saoirse was going to die, and soon, but Helion would still have a piece of her, a piece of the both of them despite the estrangement that had haunted their relationship since the start. A piece he’d do every and anything in his power to do right by.

Which meant Lucien would inherit his father’s company when the time came.

But removing Saoirse from his will…it felt like signing her death warrant. At least that’s what he’d told Cassian. That it it felt like he was giving up on her.

Cassian wished Helion could process everything in as much time as it took him. But time was a luxury not even the multi-millionaire could afford. Not with Saoirse’s eldest, Eris, trying to take him out before the will could be changed.

As things stood, Eris was set to inherit anything of his mother’s- a compromise reached between Saoirse and her cunt of a husband who’d wanted everything in his name. The Vanserra court its own savage little patriarchy of snakes and vipers, meaning as long as Beron was around, what belonged to his sons, belonged to him.

Still, Eris was the undisputed second in command and Beron wasn’t getting any younger. If he could take Helion out before any changes were made to the CEOs will, and if Saoirse’s doctors were to be believed, Day would practically be his by the end of the year.

Maybe sooner. If Beron beat his cancer ridden wife to death upon learning she’d been left Helion Day’s company and why.

He doubted anyone would put it past the bastard.

“Hey,” Nesta’s voice tugged at his attention as they turned off tenth. “Where’d you go?”

Cassian snaked his arm around her small waist, pulling her against him. “Just thinking,” he said. And as hard as he tried to push those thoughts away, something of them lingered in his voice.

She raised a neat eyebrow. That little beauty spot above the arch lifting with it and the one beneath the corner of her plump bottom lip quirking just barely.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. Tucking her tighter to his side as he looked down at her. “That’s because the only thing I ever think about is you. And when I’m with you, I don’t have to do that, do I?”

Her blush was so utterly adorable it made him want to kiss her senseless.

“How do you do that?” Those eyes like the smoke of ice narrowed in sincere curiosity. It was a little terrifying. Which off course only made him like her more.

“What? Make you blush like a-”

“No,” she interrupted him with an embarrassed and chiding laugh, pushing at his chest slightly. “Say things, just say them- like the only thing that matters is that you mean them?”

Cassian smiled. “Not everything has to be done strategically, Nesta.”

“Says the military man.”

“And wouldn’t you say that makes me qualified to- okay fine, roll your eyes at me. Jokes on you because it’s actually very sexy when you do that so.”

Nesta laughed, her head falling to rest below his chest as they walked.

“Fortunate you say something to make me roll my eyes every five seconds then,” she hummed.

“And that I know just how to make those eyes roll back,” he purred lowly in response with a roguish grin, rubbing his thumb against where her coat lay over her stomach.

“Oh and you’re telling me this whole conversation wasn’t strategically constructed so you could use that line?” Nesta looked up at him.

“Sweetheart, when are you going to accept that I’m just incredibly smooth?” He grinned. “Besides, that wasn’t a line.”

“That was so a line!”

“You’d know if I was giving you a line.”

“Go on then. Give me your best line,” she challenged. Stopping dead and turning on him with her arms folded. Cassian didn’t let his arm slip from around her waist though. Kept it right where it was as he brought his free hand to tuck a lock of chocolatey hair behind her ear. Inspiration striking him.

“Are you a box of chocolates?” he asked, gravelly and suggestive. “Because I’d love to take your top off.”

Nesta really had the loveliest laugh in the world.

“That’s awful!” She put her hands firm against his chest. “How did you ever get laid before I took pity on you?”

“Um I’m gorgeous and rich,” he reminded her, both arms now caging her in.

“What a coincidence,” Nesta purred, their noses tucked against one another just barely thanks to his date’s shoes. No doubt expensive as they were tall.

“No coincidences here, sweetheart. This is all fate.”

“I’m deliberately not rolling my eyes just to spite you for saying something so cliché and dumb,” she murmured.

“Fine then. Fate and your meddling sister,” he admitted.

“Let’s not talk about my little sister right now,” Nesta’s hands snaked up to toy with the lapels of his coat.

“What would you rather we talk about?”

“I don’t want to talk at all,” she whispered. And pulled him down lazily to meet her mouth.

Cassian moulded his lips to the perfect pressure of her own. Hard and soft, her mouth like velvet and her body pressing into his tight and loose in all the right places.

Kissing Nesta was like brushing you fingers against the glacial softness of snow like flakes of glass. Irresistible and inevitable. Burning so soft at first before the sensation grew unbearably tender and acute. It reminded you that you were alive.

The movements of their mouths grew hotter, no less lethargic, but simply heavier. Like they had all the time in the world and planned to exploit every second.

So much for not into PDA, Cassian thought, as she coaxed his mouth open further with her tongue, his own slowly swiping to meet it. And he did slip his hand into her back pocket then, giving her a fond and pining squeeze which pulled her tighter into him.

The pads of her thumbs brushed at either side of his jaw as she arched a little, those perfect tits pushed against his upper body and he dug his fingers a little more possessively into the fabric of her coat. Bunching at her waist beneath his calloused touch.

Nesta sighed sweetly into him-

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Cassian swore. Tame Impala playing from his pocket.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who likes your attention,” Nesta laughed quietly, hands smoothing back to her sides politely. The little menace. Her effortless composure all the more devastating with her mouth kissed cherry-red and pupils blown wide as saucers.

He fished out his phone, and declined the call.

“Well you’re the only one getting it.”

She rose her brows as though she were impressed, winding her arms back around his neck.

“For a man who hates games you have game, Velaris.”

“Would you feel less wooed if I told it you was just Rhysand?” He admitted. Rejecting his busybody brother’s phone call a far less bold gesture than if it had been work.

Nesta’s little smile was like molten satin.

“That makes it even better,” she kissed him again.

Cassian kissed her back through his laugh, dipping her back slightly for a more indulgent angle, her arms lacing tighter around him to hold herself up. Like he’d let her fall.

Nesta was the one laughing now and it tasted like gelato and champagne and sunrises. He nipped at her lip as he pulled her back up with him snuggly, and she brought her hand to cup the side of his face, the other at his tapered waist.

“I should get going,” she hummed distractedly, hand gliding up his body like she didn’t even realise.

Her tongue caressed his slowly before he was muttering against her, “probably”, chasing the plush heat of her mouth.

They didn’t stop. Not even as Nesta was murmuring a disjointed, “heighten the…suspense…keep you…wanting and all that.”

“I’m already losing interest,” he purred gruffly, their jaws knocking intimately as the kiss became hotter and fitful, short breaths and hungry mouths. Her nails scraping softly up the nape of his neck and through his hair.

“And you’re looking for it in my back pocket, is that it?” She whispered, and Cassian gave her ass a firm squeeze as either confirmation or reprimand.

She bit his bottom lip, the nip of her pearly teeth giving way to a sensual sort of chewing that made his eyes roll back behind closed lids and his large hands wound through her hair to guid her head back so he could take charge. Kissing her slow once again but dirtier, thorough and wanton and Nesta keened almost silently.

“Found it,” Cassian said thickly into her mouth.

“Want your prize?” She whispered breathlessly.

“Yes please.”

Nesta slid her hand between them. Fingers brushing his belt, then lower-

Cassian couldn’t tell if he was relieved or devastated when she slipped her way inside his pocket and plucked free his phone.

She withdrew just barely from the kiss, switched it on and turned the screen to him. The device unlocked as both his hands tucked into her pockets and her manicured thumbs were tapping away.

Cassian brushed at the curved beam of her high cheekbone with his nose, trying to see what she was up to.

“What are you doing?”

“Callander says you’re free Friday. Or it did. Now it says you have a date.” She nestled herself back into him tightly, tucking the device back into his pocket, exploiting that teasing proximity to something else entirely and driving him crazy as she grazed his mouth with her own.

“Congratulations.”

Cassian grinned.

“Tha- wait just to be clear the date is with you, right?”

“Yes, Cassian, the date is with me,” she chuckled. “And I can’t wait,” her humming melted to something wordless and heavy as he kissed her again.

Slow and explicit he stroked his tongue inside and he swore he felt the flutter of her lashes against his cheek.

“Cassian,” she breathed almost silently and it burnt his lungs like freezing air.

“Can I take you home?” Cassian whispered.

“May I take you home,” Nesta corrected between the sinful caress of their lips.

“Please do.”

She was kissing the smirk off his face like she could taste how snug he was and wanted a piece of it for herself. Like she were working at a marshmallow or strawberry lathered with thick chocolate from a hot fountain of the stuff.

“Maybe you are smooth,” she whispered and it only inflated Cassian’s self satisfaction. “But we both know I like it rough.” Ouch. “Just like we both know you’re way too exhausted to have your way with me.”

He pulled back abruptly.

But his mouth had barely opened to argue when she gave him a definitive “don’t”. It was little bit arousing. “You said yourself how late you’ve been working. Have you slept at all this week?”

For all her icy glares and hellish attitude, at her core, Nesta was kind. She cared despite her pretences to the contrary and it meant she noticed things. Like how despite his lively grins, Cassian was out for the fucking count.

“That’s what I thought. You can screw me when I know you won’t pass out before making it to third base.”

“The only one who’d be passing out is you once I’m through fu-”

“Save that thought for a night you have the energy to see it through,” she said.

“But I-”

A quirk of her neat brows shut him up.

He growled a bitter but accepting sound. She was right, of course she was right, because she was Nesta and a Nesta was always right.

“Friday,” he promised. “I’m gonna cook for you, something fucking romantic.”

“More romantic than that sentence?”

“Look I may not be Keats but I know my way round a stove, so hold all sarcastic comments until I’ve fed you.”

“I’ll try, but I know for a fact you’re going to make that very hard.”

“How have you already failed?”

“Shut up,” Nesta laughed.

“You have the sexiest fucking laugh.”

“So you’ve said,” she blushed.

“And I’ll keep saying it if every time I do you blush like that.”

“Like I’m embarrassed for you?” she countered with an arched brow and a cruel twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“You’re so mean,” he grinned.

They made their way to the curb and hailed down a car on twelf.

“Want me to ride with you back to your apartment?” he said, opening the back door of a yellow cab that had pulled up for her.

“That’s sweet, but trust me, I can take care of myself,” she promised.

“Text me when you get home safe and sound just to spite me then,” he said from the opposite side of the door.

“I will. But you better not be awake to read it,” She gave him a lingering kiss before gracefully tucking herself inside. ��

“Night, gorgeous,” he winked, and shut the door.

Her ride had just turned onto fourteenth when Cassian decided against hailing his own despite the cold. It was only fifteen or so minutes on foot, and he could probably do with cooling down.

Though even if he had to trek through tundra to get home he suspected he’d still find himself burning up under a cold shower in an attempt not to jack off to the thought of Nesta like a fourteen year old.

Stuffing his already slightly numb hands into his pockets he began walking, his fingers brushing against his phone. He should probably call Rhys back.

The phone rang for a moment before his brother picked up.

“Did you decline my call?”

“Yup.”

“Bastard.”

“I’m sure Feyre will kiss your bruised ego better,” Cassian grinned as he walked. “Along with something else so long as she doesn’t hear you’ve been calling me names,” he added slyly.

“Are you threatening to tell on me to my wife?” Rhysand asked, a little wound up by the allusion to Feyre’s kissing certain places even if he hid it behind an unimpressed drawl.

“Are you pretending the thought doesn’t have you quaking in your givenchy loafers?”

“On the topic of not upsetting Feyre, she’s demanding a family dinner.”

He laughed deeply at Rhysand’s avoiding the question.

“That why you’re calling?”

“Partly,” Rhys said. “Work’s been…She wants to be around family right now,” he said with an all too familiar casualness. “You free?”

“For Feyre?” Cassian said without hesitation. “Yeah, I’m free.”

He would just have to pull an all nighter on the Monday.

“Thank you. And also fuck you for implying if it was for me you wouldn’t be,” his brother said.

“Well you called me just as Nesta was about to slip her tongue down my throat so-”

“Nesta?” Rhys interrupted. “I thought that was over?”

Shit.

In all the carnage that had been the last week he hadn’t bothered letting his family know he and Nesta were back on. The woman was a touchy subject and he hadn’t had the energy or balls to get into it.

While Rhys had been able to excuse Elain’s inactivity when the Archerons had been at their financial lowest, he’d never managed to extend that same courtesy to Nesta. Maybe it was because the first time they’d met she’d called him a cradle snatching whore. Regardless, Rhysand pretty much hated the woman’s guts, meanwhile his wife was desperately trying to lure her into the inner circle of the Velaris family.

Cassian may have been able to bench a number higher than his IQ but he wasn’t dumb. He’d clocked on to the fact his sister-in-law was using him as Nesta bait. In all honesty he was loving it. Nothing made him happier than helping out his family, and if that meant taking out an intelligent, passionate, stunning young woman, then really it was a double-win.

Taking a second to grind his jaw softly he was reminded to tread carefully. Not something he generally excelled at, but for the sake of his brother he could try.

“I know you’re not her biggest fan,” he said. “But Feyre forgave her years ago for bailing-”

“Well Feyre’s a better person than I am.”

“I’ll say. She set me up with a smoking hot model, meanwhile you’re trynna cock block me,” he tried.

“You can put your dick wherever you want, doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I guess not,” he ground out. Itching to hit something at the implication Nesta was just “somewhere to put his dick”.

“Cassian if you want to date a biblical plague in human form knock yourself out, seriously, god knows Feyre will be thrilled. And Azriel, your moping-”

“I don’t mope,” Cassian interjected.

“Fine, your stropping-”

“Fuck off.”

Rhys’ laugh was about smug as the bastard’s crooning voice.

“Mor’s gonna kill you by the way. You put a two grand dent in her wine collection over a woman you took back the next week.”

Cassian groaned, wiping a hand over his face. The only thing worse than the hangover he’d had Monday morning would be Morrigan’s laying into him on this.

“Don’t you dare tell her,” he warned.

“Fine but you’ll have to do it before next Sunday, you’re bringing Nesta.”

“Hang on a minute-”

“Feyre wants a family dinner and if you and Nesta are back on that means she’s coming,” Rhys said.

“Boy you are asking a lot of me here,” Cassian sighed dramatically. “I mean I can think of a few ways to persuade her but most of them are illegal in a lot of countries,” he grinned.

“I don’t care if you have to roofie her and strap her to the hood of your car, just make sure she’s there.”

“Alright, alright Don.”

“Don’t call me that,” Rhys growled irritably to Cassian’s delight.

“What else were you calling about then?” He smirked. “You said dinner was only part of it.”

“I wanted to ask how things were going with Helion,” his brother said. “Any update?”

Cassian sighed heavily.

“This a secure line?”

“Always”.

“The hit’s Eris,” he said. “Apparently Saoirse does pretty well for herself if Helion kicks it and it’s looking like she won’t last the year. When she goes Eris takes the lot so he’s trying to take Helion out before he can change his will.”

“That little bitch,” Rhys interrupted.

“I’m not done. Guess who Helion might be transferring that inheritance to?”

“Is Azriel going to finally have the funds to build that sex dungeon?”

“Not quite,” Cassian said. “The money’s going to Lucien.”

“Lucien?”

“Turns out the kid’s his.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Seems obvious in hindsight to be honest.”

Rhys was silent on the other end for a moment as he evidently thought through matter.

“You said might, is he waiting on a paternity test or something?”

Cassian winced. “No. No he’s dragging his feet about changing the will altogether.”

“Why the fuck is he doing that there’s a bullet with his name on it!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Cassian hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “I’m the one whose gonna have to jump in front of that bullet if he doesn’t get his ass in gear. But he…he’s losing the love of his life, Rhys. I’m trynna cut him a little slack-”

“Slack Eris is going to have someone strangle him with.”

“I’m handling it,” Cassian promised.

Rhys went silent again.

“We could always just kill Eris.”

Cassian would have laughed at the unrestrained glee in his brother’s voice if the suggestion hadn’t been so tempting.

“No you can’t,” he reminded him, ascending the steps to his front door.

“Sorry, sorry, you probably want plausible deniability and all that- which is a shitty reason to leave a family business-”

“What are you talking about? I left because I don’t like any of you.”

“Dick.”

“See it’s that kind of thing that made for a hostile work environment I really couldn’t foresee a future working under,” he grinned, unlocking the door.

“You taught me words far more creative than that growing up, monte de merda-”

“Desenmerda-te, and don’t cuss at me in Portuguese carcamano.”

“I’m fucking Persian!”

“Tell that to your pale ass like unbaked garlic bread, minchia,” Cassian retorted in Italian as he tossed his keys onto the skirting board and shrugged off his coat.

“A fanabla!”

“Love you too, tell Feyre I said hi.”

“See you and Nesta on Sunday, I’ll text you timings.”

“No shop talk okay, she still doesn’t know anything about-”

“I know, I know, it’s not me you have to worry about. Feyre keeps asking me to hire her.”

“As what? Has Cosa Nostra began dabbling in the modelling industry under your direction, baby brother?”

“If I said yes would you come back to us?”

“I’m a one woman man, Rhys.”

“Jesus, it’s been less than a month.”

“At which point you and Feyre were engaged.”

“Nesta’s no Feyre.”

Yeah, Nesta has enough wit about her to know you can’t go round offering Mafia jobs like candy, he thought to himself.

“Whatever man, I’ll see you then.”

“See you then.”

TAG LIST

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the-slasher-files · 3 years

Text

MOONLIGHT

INCLUDES ANDREI KULOKOVA

People have been asking for more Andrei stuff and I am happy to write for him. This is basically if you are his ‘plaything’ that has gotten the privilege of having your own bedroom in his house and he is just teasing the shit of you because it’s Andrei... Hope you enjoy 🔪💕

MASTERLIST

"Myyyyshkaaa."

Your eyes snapped open the in the dark night trying to collect your surroundings. His voice is smooth and sharp like the blade you're sure he is holding in the shadows. You don't dare move in your bed, the wolf had a split personality and you never knew which one you would get; Andrei, the man who bared the teeth of dogs or The Wolf, the beast within the man, hungry for your soul.

The slightly ajar door was smoothly opened with a small metal whine from the old homes rusted hinges. Warm yellow light spills into the room from the hallway, a shape of the wolf marked dark and sharp within the soft light behind him, then suddenly your room has gone dark with just the moonlight once again.

It is a deadly silence. The calm before the storm. All you can hear is your heart pounding against your ribcage, surly he could hear it from wherever he stalked within the shadows. You try to control your breathing, the lamb doesn't dare spark the chase within the malignant wolf.

Squeezing your eyes shut you lay trying to listen. You hear the stalking steps of the leather, blood-stained combat boots on the aged and scratched hardwood, scratched from the ones before you. His footsteps match the rhythm your heartbeat like a perfect machine that you second guess yourself even if he is in the room. Maybe he had left you alone for the night, the wolf had a habit of playing games with your body and mind, that was until there was the unmistakable sound of the metal lighter. The fresh smell of the Siberian wind from the agape window was instantly replaced with the toxic addicting sweetness of his cheap Russian cigarettes. Your stomach twisted with the smell yet you caught yourself yearning for it, the wolf had trained you to learn that with the cigarette smell will come his other smells of earl grey, amber, cedarwood and his unique musk.

The man was addicting like his clear poison and tobacco, toxic and sick but sweet and sultry. You had turned into his servant, but most days he never made it feel that way. You had become happy to bring him his tea or be under his rough hands just for the intoxicating euphoria only he could bring you tangled within the bloody sheets.

Slowly opening your eyes, the warm glow of the burning ash behind your back somehow was comforting like a cozy fire on the winter nights until the wolf covered your body in the sinister smoke he blew on your naked shoulders that had slipped from the sheets. A shiver ran down your body just by his breath, you knew what he could do to you, it was just a waiting game, his game.

Not moving, you counted his slow breaths as he took a few drags of the cigarette. Every one he took you wished it would be his last until the wolf would leave or do whatever he wanted with you just to get it over with. Unbeknownst to you, he was also counting your breath and waiting for you to do something, to slip up in his game but you stayed put like a good little lamb.

Quietly the glow faded into the night and it was completely silent once more as the wolf took his time picking you apart, slowly and methodically, messing with your head to second guess yourself if it was a dream or a sick hallucination, but the oh familiar sensation of his icy blue predatory eyes were upon your body, like he was eating your senses alive and taking away any guard you had put up.

You do not know how long he waited but there was finally a gradual dip in the bed behind you, the small creaks of the mattress resisting against his large powerful frame as it settled. The wolf did not touch you as you laid quiet and unmoving, your breath was steady but fast as your skin prickled, aching and waiting for his venomous touch and the teeth behind his lips.

The optimistic part of your brain tried to convince you that all he wanted was just your body close to his but the realistic side screamed and kept you awake, tense and with nerves ready to break as he silently stayed put. A stubborn man he would wait for what he wanted.

The seconds turned to minutes as you heard them tick away from the dusty clock on the wall as it hung against cracked wallpaper. With the lack of movement and the sound of the winter winds your eyelids began to droop, fading back into sleep, maybe it was just a dream that he was behind you, the dark room had held you and pulled you into half consciousness.

Soothingly the wolf placed 2 skilled fingers upon the skin of your arm and it made you jolt awake, any sleep from your eyes was gone by one quick touch that left goosebumps behind his fingers. You were going to move until the hot, damp breath was on your neck making the hairs stand on end.

"Don't move." The wolf simply whispered as his rough lips grazed the tense muscles in your neck.

You didn't dare disobey him, laying still, waiting. There was a sudden glint of shinning steel in the low moonlight and it made you squirm in the sheets trying to stay calm despite the Russian blade that had now disappeared from your sight lingered in the shadows. Screwing your eyes shut again every breath seemed to be in vain, like he was stealing your oxygen.

Shattering the nerve-breaking silence was his knife tearing through the wrinkled sheets around your still body, it sounded as if he had broken your ear drums compared to the lull the room held for so long and it made you whimper, trying so hard to be good.

Biting your rosy bottom lip the tip of the cool blade trailed up your naked thigh, goosebumps superseded the path of the wolf's favorite weapon. The shimmering steel you were taught more so to be good, pleasurable and even enjoyable instead of the real intended purpose, the purpose only his enemies knew well. As your skin tingled at the feeling, wetness began to pool in your panties, it was pathetic that only small touches, hot breaths and the drag of a knife could put you in this state; trying not to whimper, your pussy clenching on nothing and your lower lips soaked.

The wolf’s breath was still hot and damp on the back of your neck as the cold knife made it’s way up your body, along the middle of your torso and up between the valley of your breasts, so fluid it looked like a glowing, dangerous serpent controlled skillfully by only one man. Closing your eyes as the Russian steel came closer to your neck, you didn’t know even if being departed of sight would work to settle your nerves but you tried, so needy to just lay still or be ravished, you had no clue.

His free hand, the one inked in the words “no gods” to hold him accountable for all he has done, ironic for all the pain he continued to cause without care, for selfish acts or needs of pure desire he couldn’t live without, no one would know for sure, it smoothed along the soft skin of your hip and trailing along the waist band of your soaked panties. Walking his thick and scarred fingers on the delicate fabric you shifted a little beside him and the wolf let out a growl in warning, his sharp inhuman teeth grazing on the soft skin of your shoulder.

Turning up his teasing, the wolf put the flat of the ice cold blade on your hardening nipple making you whimper as the fingers on your clothed heat began to rub in slow circles over your throbbing clit. Pathetically with only a few touches you were trembling and the warmth had spread from between your legs to throughout your core. Burning and aching for a release already.

“Such a needy thing” The wolf cooed in your ear, his teeth aching for blood but that wasn’t tonight’s game.

Pressing his erection firmly against the small of your back it instilled hope in you that tonight he wasn’t going to toy with you but fulfill your every need. The wolf pushed his two fingers against your dripping cunt, the wet fabric slightly meeting your quivering walls, pink and swollen, it was all for him.

Another growl left the wolf, deep and menacing, but this one was of appreciation, how needy and responsive your shivering body could for him. Whining and trying to stay as calm as possible it was becoming a fruitless task against the way he played you like an instrument.

Adding a third finger to apply delicious friction on your pussy and his inked palm rubbed beautifully against your clit, the warmth in your core was becoming unbearable as he worked. Scrapping your teeth along your bottom lip, hot tears stung in the corner of your eyes, begging the wolf silently but suddenly all the motions stopped and his hot hand and the cold blade left your body, the breath on your neck was still even and you desperately tried to not let a needy whine out.

“You are mine.” The wolf snared deeply and dark before he gave you a sweet kiss to the cheek, the duality of rough and soft he had perfected drove you mad.

All of a sudden, you felt the mattress conform back around your body as his left and the footsteps the wolf created as he was leaving the room almost made you beg him to come back and finish what he started but, you knew well that the wolf would be back in the night again.

The slightly ajar door was smoothly opened with a small metal whine from the old homes rusted hinges. Warm yellow light spills into the room from the hallway, a shape of the wolf marked dark and sharp within the soft light in front of him, then suddenly your room has gone dark with just the moonlight once again.

It was back to the eerie silence, the sheets torn around you, used and aching for more. He owned you. He always would.

#andrei kulokova #my writing #slasher #horror #oc #slashers #x you #x reader #the wolf

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mirrerover · 4 years

Text

Big Plans

“You know shit’s never gonna fucking change, right?” Jason makes to grab for his Zippo. Remembering Dick will happily remove his nuts from his waxed sack for even contemplating smoking inside Dick’s apartment, he stops. His fingers twitch with irritation, nothing like a little nicotine deprivation to start the day. “Gotham’s a gothic nightmare where corruption runs thicker than blood and Blüdhaven’s worse, somehow. Like looking in a funhouse mirror. Uglier. More warped.”

“I really do enjoy our little morning pep talks,” Dick replies, closing the last two buttons on his dress shirt before tucking the fabric into the waistline of his pants. In general, Jason would say he prefers the Kevlar-enhanced, ass-hugging suit Dick prowls the night in—but there’s something to be said for a crisp, white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, forearm veins on display. He doesn’t know how the Blüdhaven criminals are faring but, personally, he wouldn’t mind letting Detective Richard Grayson slap some cuffs on him. Let Dick work him over hard in a surveilled box until Jason cracks, raw and bloody under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“These fucking places,” Jason grumbles, tired and cranky from watching Dick getting ready to leave, all that warm, gold skin about to slip right out the door. “It’s not something anyone can fix. Nothing short of dropping a bomb on the damn place and razing it to the ground.”

Dick sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s getting longer, strands brushing the bone of his jaw. He’s no stranger to this; Jason and the trash he talks. Words pouring out of him sharp as knives, the blades full of blood. Just endlessly spewing shit.

“No point to it all, huh?” Dick leans a hip against the dresser, arms folded, eyebrow raised. There’s an ease to him that’s inherent; the way he owns his body, his space, every room he’s in. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to lure me back to bed.”

Jason thinks it over. Admits, “not originally,” and lets his legs fall apart slowly. Nude body lounging against cheap, synthetic pillows, he’s got Dick’s low-rent sheets strategically draped across his crotch, all tasteful and shit. Just like the Renaissance paintings cluttering the hallways of the Wayne Manor. None of the shameless, naked peacocking Dick gets up to after sex. No, Jason’s classy. Artful. The signature Jason Todd brand. “But are you feelin’ down to fuck?” he asks.

Dick throws his head back and laughs. Really fucking laughs. Eyes scrunched up and shoulders shaking, all charisma and beauty and warmth. Laughing like that, it’s suddenly easy to see how a group of metahumans chose Dick as their leader despite his lack of superpowers or how the Blüdhaven Police Corps would accept him as their own despite him being the ward of Gotham’s favourite billionaire asshole. There’s something about Dick like there’s something about Bruce. Something captivating and inescapable that would make you launch a thousand ships for them. Burn down entire worlds for them. Jason’s not sure Dick’s aware of that. And in a way, Jason thinks he understands the Joker better than Bruce ever could.

Dick’s laughter fades too slowly, and Jason would be annoyed but there’s a tightness to Dick’s pants that wasn’t there two minutes ago, and Dick’s always laughing. Joyful and happy. Like those are easy feelings to conjure and easy feelings to have. As if getting out of bed isn’t like crawling out of a dark pit every morning and as if life isn't like taking a suckerpunch to the gut, over and over.

“Wish I could,” Dicks says, and Jason swears he sounds like he means it. “But I got big plans today. Gotta save a city.”

“‘Save a city.’ Jesus Christ. More like go get shanked in the gut.”

Dick shrugs and slips on a watch. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

The other bats all have their day jobs. The Police Detective, the Socialite, the rising Tech Wunderkind, and Jason’s personal favourite: the Student. Jason derives no small amount of pleasure from knowing that Bruce and the Demon Spawn get to suffer through the worst of it. Like an ill-fitted suit, Jason hopes it pulls and itches every time they’ve got to slip their disguises on. It shows how removed they are from the rot and the grit and the filth of what is Gotham. The gore at the core of it all.

That’s where Jason lives, at its epicentre.

He’d fallen into it naturally, being a crime lord. It had been a logical first step when he’d come home, head full of green fumes and rage. He’s proud to say, he puts the organized in organized crime. Outshines even the worst of them in calculated vicious violence. The crime part of the job, Jason can admit he’s gotten more discerning about. There’s no peddling drugs to kids or bleeding junkies dry, no people traded like cattle, and he doesn’t like selling guns to the lowlifes clogging Gotham’s streets. So, he’s become a parasite instead. Infiltrates a crime organisation and eats it from the inside out till it finally collapses. Scraps the dead beast for parts and money.

It’s not something Jason talks about with this version of Dick. His shady deals, his underground moonlighting. Never with a cop like the one making his way to the bed right now, uniform tight over thick thighs and a sway in his hips that’s nothing less than sexual warfare.

“Try smoking in my bed again, Todd,” Dick warns, looming over him. He stops whatever threat he was going to utter, disrupted by Jason grousing at him to fucking let that go already. Perfectly pleasant, Dick does exactly that. Just stares at Jason with a face far too naked and utterly too fond. Something’s creeping under Jason’s skin at the sight of it—an itch he doesn’t know how to scratch, unable to decide whether he wants to kiss the prick or break his perfect face instead.

A little lower, there’s a bruise peeking out of Dick’s collar that looks like a handprint. Jason had put that there last night. Violently. Not even the fun kind of violent but the messy kind. The kind where something hunts Jason through nightmares and his body acts before his sleeping brain has had the chance to catch up—that kind of violence. Maybe a better person would wallow in the guilt and remove themselves from the situation. Not Dick and Jason. They just get better at hiding the batarangs and guns. The 200 pounds of well-trained muscle and murderous reflexes are a little harder to counteract but Dick’s no babe in the woods. Besides, Jason’s not exactly the first lethal bitch between Dick’s bedsheets.

Dick smiles. A teasing thing full of soft edges. “Mornings are hard. Aren’t they, Sugarplum?”

“Fuck you to hell.” Jason groans with feeling, hating the hard lumps of Dick’s mattress when he sinks back into them. “Just get lost already, Birdbrain. There’s no fucking point to you with your clothes on.”

“Nice to know I’m not completely useless.”

Jason wants to fight that far too favourable self-assessment. Would fight it, were he not half a pack of Lucky Strikes and three cups of coffee short of mustering the energy. Which is also the only reason he’s letting Dick press an off-centre kiss to his forehead. A shitty place for a shitty kiss from a shitty person, if you ask Jason. Very much Dick Grayson’s style.

“Try and behave, Little Wing.” Dick’s already moving away from the bed and shrugging on a jacket. “I really like this place. Got three South facing windows and none of the neighbours run a meth lab.”

“Prime Blüdhaven real estate,” Jason mutters darkly.

“Glad we’re on the same page.” Dick takes one last look at himself at the mirror, shoots Jason a tacky wink because his existence is a curse, and promises under his breath something that sounds suspiciously like I’ll be back or I’ll miss you. Another twenty seconds later and Jason hears the front door lock click back into place.

His day is wide open now.

There are things to do but there are always things to do. At any time, Jason’s got about forty things in various stages of motion. Always working on something. Someone. Bigger games than the one he’s running on Dick right now, lighting one up in his bed.

Blowing smoke up into the air, Jason decides that today he’s going to crack the safe Dick keeps behind the panel in his closet. Perfectly harmless, really. Just him fishing through some of Dick’s case files—maybe even solving a few, if he’s feeling charitable. And for tonight, there’s that Malaysian place three blocks over that does a better Rendang than anything he’s found in Gotham. Dick never shuts up about it. Like he’s never going to shut up about the cigarette smell seeping into the wallpaper.

Jason smirks. Solid options. He still has last night’s terrors painted on the back of his eyelids and the feeling of Dick’s neck under his hand but they’re slowly fading. And Dick’s got him covered, said he’d take care of the big plans, so Jason doesn’t have to. And next time, when Jason’s Dick and Dick’s Jason, he’ll have Dick covered too. Jason will tackle the big plans while Dick raids Jason’s fridge and leaves wet towels all over his apartment. Jason knows it’ll happen. It has happened. Just not today.

Maybe tomorrow.

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

@wethatake thanks for being the beta and basically a co-writer. You suck but I love you. <3 Here’s to hoping that your sad little sack of a co-worker doesn’t kill you. XD

#jaydick #jaydick-flashfic #jaydick-flashfic: big plans #jason todd #dick grayson #mirre writes

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shealwaysreads · 4 years

Text

Face to the sun: a drarry fanfic

A birthday gift for the lovely @maesterchill - inspired by THIS gorgeousness she created! ❤️

Drarry | 1k | E | summer holiday, EWE, dirty talk, soft and dirty feelings

Read on ao3

Draco blinked awake to bright sunlight glinting through the sheer curtains at the windows. Ridiculous. The hotel clearly didn’t want its clientele sleeping in on their holiday. But his ire settled as he stretched and rolled towards the glass doors leading to the balcony. Harry was out there, a hazy silhouette against a stark blue sky through the gauzy window-dressing, wearing only the green swimming trunks Draco had brought for himself. The sheets smelled of them, of their shared shampoo, and sweat, and sex. So Draco watched Harry and luxuriated in it, lazy and content in the knowledge that when they came back from dinner tonight the bed would be fresh and neat—ready for them to ruin it all over again.

It wasn’t their first holiday together, but whenever Draco took Harry abroad it felt special. An adventure without fear or danger, full of time and space and the excitement of the unknown, and even now Draco still felt like gloating that he was the one who got to show Harry the world in all of its sunlit splendour—to share these trips with him and carve gentler memories into the bedrock of their lives.

When they first got together, Draco found out that Harry had never been out of the country before; it was one of many galling facts that Draco excavated from the dust and stone of Harry’s admissions and silences during those early months of working each other out. During that time, Harry’s childhood had been revealed to be a study in lack, in not-having, in exclusion and isolation. They didn’t talk about it much, usually only when Harry got drunk and maudlin—red wine and cheap Firewhisky, inevitably—and Draco would sit quietly as Harry talked around the subject in circles, uncharacteristically indirect. Thankfully, Draco was adept in the language of avoidance, he could read between the lines. Harry would speak quietly, until he was whispering in the guttering candlelight. And then he would fall silent, and Draco would manoeuvre him out of his chair and up the stairs to their bedroom, and hold him.

Their first holiday had been catastrophic. They had been together for three months—three months of sex that left bruises, that felt like fighting played out with a fresh set of soft spots; of slowly untangling their history from their present (from their tentative thoughts of the future), of learning where their jagged edges met with tenderness, of sitting across a table of tea and toast and bitter-silver curls of smoke and smiles that made something inside of Draco ache and flutter.

Draco had chosen a ridiculously extravagant hotel in the tiny wizarding district of Venice—still wanting to impress, falling back on old habits that didn’t fit quite as well as they used to. It was August, the heat had been stifling, and the crowds spilling from gigantic Muggle cruise ships turned the plazas and tiny alleys into a heaving mass of sweaty flesh and flashing cameras. Draco had had an anxiety attack on the first morning (Harry had sat with him silently for hours when he got him back to their room, a heavy Nox around them, his shoulder steady), Harry had eaten something bad and vomited for the duration of their second night (Draco had stroked his hair away from his clammy forehead, flushed the toilet, conjured cool water for him to sip). Neither of them had been comfortable in the plush hotel suite; Harry simultaneously overawed and uncomfortable, Draco strangely ashamed of the excess he had been raised to expect. They had come back to London three days early.

But they had gotten better at their breaks, just like they had gotten better at everything else. They were both nothing if not determined, in all aspects of their life, and once they had decided that this—that they—were something worth fighting for, Draco had settled into the surety of Harry keeping up with him (keeping him).

The line of Harry’s jaw eventually became a more pressing concern than the residual twinge in Draco’s thighs, so he slipped out of bed and stepped into soft cotton to cover his nakedness. He walked past the crisp boundary of their room’s Cooling Charms, and rolled his shoulders when he was hit with a wall of warmth and light as he stepped into the bright mid-morning sunshine.

There was a breeze off the ocean, brine and ozone. But it was insufficient to offset the heat of the sun, or of Harry’s sweat-shining back as he leaned against the balcony and watched the sea and the sky mingle in blues and greens and the white-kissed curls of waves and clouds. Draco moved closer, watched as Harry cocked his head, listening to Dracos footsteps, as he came to stand behind him quietly. Draco could smell the salt on him—sweat and sea-water—and the dark curls behind Harry’s ears, at his nape, were shining with moisture. Draco wanted to taste them.

Instead, he hooked his chin over Harry’s shoulder. “Morning, nice swim?”

Harry hummed in the affirmative and leaned back—trusting, always so trusting—into Draco’s chest, a satisfied sigh gusting out of him when Draco wrapped him in his arms.

“Nicer if you came down with me later though.”

Draco kissed at his neck, savouring the sting of salt against his mouth, and looked over Harry’s shoulder to where his own pale hands stroked at Harry’s abdomen, darkly tanned already after just a couple of days in the sun. Bastard. All Draco had to show for his lounging on the beach was scattered freckles and the tingle of heat in his bones when he was in bed at night—though maybe, on reflection, that was just Harry being next to him.

“I could be convinced, if we’ve got time,” he murmured against Harry’s skin.

Harry raised his cigarette and inhaled deeply, his back pressing against Draco’s chest as his lungs filled, the faintest crackle of burning embers audible over the breeze. “Didn’t think we had anything planned for today.”

Draco slipped his hands lower, knocking aside Harry’s hand where he’d lazily wedged it in his trunks, and slipped his own fingers under the waistband to replace it. Harry’s exhalation was shuddering and smoky, and the scent of cloves on the air was so like home. Draco breathed it in as he ran his nose along the curve of Harry’s neck and licked delicately at the sweet softness of his earlobe.

“We hadn’t planned anything. But when I woke up and you were gone I may have formulated a small...ambition for the day.” He stroked, feather-light at the cut of Harry’s hip, and hid his smug grin in Harry’s hair at the resulting twitch.

Harry vanished his cigarette with a twist of his fingers and a delicious spark of magic—bright, and deep, and sparkling along Draco’s awareness—and turned in Draco’s arms, with his own smile dimpling at his cheeks. He nudged his hips against Draco’s, and huffed a laugh at the involuntary whine it drew. “Only one ambition for the day? You really are relaxing.”

He was losing ground; the way Harry dragged their bodies together, his hands firm at Draco’s waist, and the arrogant tilt of his head as he watched the rising flush Draco could feel heating his throat all combined with the heady knowledge that here on their balcony they were easily visible by anyone on the beach.

“Just one,” he managed to answer, in a voice that would have sounded steady to anyone but Harry (who knew Draco’s tells better than anyone, now). “I’m a simple man to please, my goals aren’t lofty.”

Harry snorted with laughter, and tucked his face down into Draco’s neck to bite, and suck, and urge him to elaborate with a questioning hum that buzzed against his skin. Safe from knowing green eyes, Draco grinned and tilted his head back to bask in the sunlight and Harry’s mouth. He slid his hands up Harry’s arms—radial, bicep, deltoid all firm and strong and tensile under his fingertips—and settled them at his nape, tangling in those sea-kissed curls to hold him close. Draco had the winning hand, and wanted a firm grip before Harry yielded to it.

“Mmm,” Draco hummed, casual and unaffected. “I woke up and before I even opened my eyes, I thought about the ache you’d left me with.” Harry stiffened against him. “An empty bed and an empty hole.”

“Draco,” Harry groaned against him, his tone of voice as good as a red rag to a bull.

“I can still feel it now,” Draco continued, breathing deeply to maintain his composure when Harry pushed his hands past the low-hanging waist of the joggers (Harry’s, of course—Draco always wore bespoke tailoring, but sometimes only the worn-soft cotton of Harry’s favourite clothes would satisfy him) and groped at his arse, broad palms and strong fingers and just the right side of painful. Draco ducked his head, and whispered into Harry’s ear, deliberately breathy and deep. “I can feel your come, trickling out of me as we speak. I’m wet.” He paused for effect, then dropped his well-crafted bomb. “You probably wouldn’t even need lube to stretch me out right now.”

Harry, action over words as ever, immediately palmed Draco’s cheeks apart and then one blunt fingertip was circling his hole—as wet and slick as promised—then pushing in with intent, only stopping when his knuckle nudged at Draco’s tender rim.

“Fuck.” Harry’s voice was ragged already, and Draco clenched around his finger in victory and helpless response to his touch.

“My plan exactly, Harry.”

❤️ to @tackytigerfic and @bonesliketambourines for keeping me in check!

#drarry #happy birthday maesterchill #hpdm #drarry squad #drarry fanfic #things to read #mine #isobel writes #hp

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a-gorgeous-george · 3 years

Photo

Basic Questions

First name? Georgette

Surname? Foxworth

Middle names? Luciana

Nicknames? Gigi (by her mother)

Date of birth? August 7th

Age? 22

Physical / Appearance

Type of clothes?

Georgette’s style is all about femineity and luxury. She wears a lot of dresses, a lot of skirts, but even her workout clothes are designer. She swears “cheap” clothes give her a rash – and who would want to mar her perfect skin like that.

How do they wear their clothes? Tight and tailored.

What are their feet like? (type of shoes, state of shoes, socks, feet, pristine, dirty, worn, etc)

Georgette is rarely seen without heels on, and thanks to regular pedicures and lack of abuse, her feet are soft and pretty always.

Race / Ethnicity? Spanish and Indonesian

Are they in good health? Oh yes, she has a strict workout schedule and diet she sticks to… well, actually, perhaps not, because alongside that she also lives a life of high stress and nicotine.

Personality

Are they more optimistic or pessimistic?

It really depends on the source of power in a situation. If it is something she has control over, she is optimistic, can’t see how something would ever not work out, but if someone else is in control, her view changes considerably and she is usually fairly certain it will fail.

Do they ever put on airs?

When is she not putting on airs?

What bad habits do they have? She has a serious nicotine problem.

What makes them laugh out loud?

She isn’t really a laugh out loud type of person. She might chuckle or smile in amusement, but laughing out loud indicates a level of ease that she just does not feel around people. Also Al.

How do they display affection?

She is very physically affectionate… I think. She has never been in a position where she felt comfortable being affectionate with a person in that way. Besides that, she shares her wealth in ways that benefit that people she cares about, shares her privilege with them. She is happy to be her friends’ sugar mama.

How do they want to be seen by others? Beautiful and in control.

How do they see themselves?

She very much sees herself as a lone wolf. She knows she’s beautiful, smart, capable, hardworking, but she’s alone and absolutely terrified someone will recognize it. She is also very much aware of her inner rage.

· How are they seen by others?

Because of her past with her family and the lack of ties it provided her, Georgette was left defending herself. Her arrogance and obsessive need to believe in her own importance is directly tied to the lack of importance anyone else gave her.

Strongest character trait?

For all her bravado and arrogance, Georgette is 100% unafraid of hard work. From her work on her blog and marketing it, her history as a beauty queen, her strict adherence to her diet and exercise routine, every aspect of her life, she has no issue knuckling down and putting in the time and effort to succeed.

Weakest character trait?

She is incapable of asking for help, as if it somehow undermines her own achievements if someone else must assist her.

How competitive are they?

Extremely. If you want to manipulate Georgette into doing something, make it a contest. She’ll probably even know what you’re doing and still be unable to resist.

Do they make snap judgements or take time to consider?

Snap judgements all the way, baby!!

How do they react to praise?

Smug agreement.

How do they react to criticism?

Strong commitment to your character’s delusion that she is anything other than amazing.

What is their greatest fear?

Dying without ever achieving anything of substance.

What are their biggest secrets?

Georgette is crushingly lonely. Her whole life has been spent pushing people away, trying to protect herself and prove herself, full of anger, and it has left her without anyone she can be close to.

What will they stand up for?

Once her blog is up and running and successful, once the magazine starts to take off, she will have real issues with people saying she’s self-made. She is fully aware that even without her father’s money, her name alone carries a certain currency most people do not have. She is well aware of her own privilege in that area and will stand up against anyone who compares her achievements against someone who didn’t have that head start.

Who do they quote?

She’s a closet book nerd and might not quote directly but will frequently make allusions to literature.

Are they indoorsy or outdoorsy? Indoorsy.

What is their sinful little habit? Cigarettes.

What sense do they most rely on?

Sight – how someone/something looks dictates more of her life than it should.

How do they treat people better than them?

What people better than them?

How do they treat people worse than them?

That seems like an unfair question when everyone is worse than them.

What quality do they most value in a friend? She wouldn’t know.

What do they consider an overrated virtue? Niceness.

If they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be?

She would have people who cared about her.

What is their obsession? Herself?

Friends and Family

Is their family big or small? Who does it consist of?

Her mother and stepfather, father and stepmother, Jenny and Oliver (Yes, she considers Oliver as part of her family)

What is their perception of family?

When she was barely cognizant of life, her father had an affair, had a baby, split up her family, quickly destroying the idea in her head. It is an outdated concept made to make people feel like belong to a group, no loyalty or love.

Describe their best friend.

………. Let me get her just a friend first.

Ideal best friend?

Someone who understands her hustle. Someone she can see the inherent importance in. Someone that can still pull her out of her head and get her to have fun.

Describe their acquaintances.

She is jealous of the closeness of Dodger’s gang, watching as an outsider and wishing desperately to be a part of it all.

Do they have any pets?

She is a massive dog person! (Get it?) But yes, she has a little doggo, Valentina.

Past and Future

What was your character like as a baby? As a child?

Awful? Spoiled? She was raised spoiled, but after her father’s betrayal, she sought to teach him a lesson. Even as a child, she would blackmail and torture him, threatening to reveal his dirty secret to the world. She was worse to Jenny even, more easily able to take out her anger over the affair and her birth on the younger girl than the truly guilty adults.

Did they grow up nurtured or neglected?

Neglected – but that is partly her own fault. She is as much at fault due to her reaction and actively hurting her family and her father. She lashed out and did truly awful things and crushed what bond there might have possibly been.

What is the most offensive thing they ever said?

Oh, I don’t know… in my head, I feel like she can be a very problematic person. Add that in with her natural meanness, I am sure she has said some awful stuff.

What was their first kiss like?

It was awful. Some other 7th grader when she was in 7th grade. Too wet. Thought he was trying to drown her.

What is the worst thing they did to someone they loved?

Repeatedly blackmailing her father for her own benefit.

What are their ambitions?

She wants to outshine her father, claim their last name as her own and not the sullied version her father left in the wake of his controversy. That is why her blog and future magazine is named after her.

What advice would they give their younger self? It’s not Jenny’s fault.

What smells remind them of their childhood? Perfume and peppermints.

What was their childhood ambition?

Growing up, her mind stayed on the pageant world. Her ambitions usually stayed just one pageant ahead of her.

What is their best childhood memory?

She doesn’t know if it’s real or not, just this soft memory of her father grinning and spinning around the living room with her, dressed in his coat and tails.

What is their worst childhood memory?

Listening in from the hall as his father confessed everything to her mother, hearing her mother sobbing as he threw clothes into a suitcase.

When was the last time they were crushed with disappointment?

The last one? She still hasn’t got over her first one.

Love

Do they believe in love at first sight?

She only barely believes in love in any form.

· How do they behave in a relationship?

Georgette really doesn’t do relationships, thanks to that whole “love isn’t real” thing. They usually last a month or so, but she gets bored and has no issue telling him to get lost after that point.

When did you character last have sex? Perhaps a couple weeks ago.

What sort of sex do they have?

She is looking for something hot, passionate, and with someone she doesn’t have to worry about calling back.

Conflict

How do they respond to a threat?

Georgette doesn’t back down from a threat, though her means for fighting usually involves $$$ instead of doing any sort of fighting herself.

Are they most likely to fight with their fists or their tongue? Tongue.

What is your character’s kryptonite? Point out her lack of backup.

If your character could only save one thing from their burning house, what would it be? Say it with me… diamonds.

How do they perceive strangers?

Her trust or lack of trust in them is based solely on how they look.

What do they love to hate? Oh, that is way too long a list to put here.

What are their phobias? Bugs of any sort.

What is their choice of weapon? Poison.

What living person do they most despise? Her father.

Have they ever been bullied or teased? That would not go well for that person.

Where do they go when they’re angry? Home, to seethe and plot.

Work, Education and Hobbies

What is their current job? Blogger.

What do they think about their current job?

She has dreams of something bigger, more substantial, but she’s thankful for the success the gossip blog has had and excited to grow it.

What are their hobbies? Painting, reading, dancing.

Educational background? Some college.

Intelligence level?

I believe she is fairly smart, but her work ethic covers a lot of distance for her.

Favorites

What is their favorite animal? Doggies.

What is the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen? Her face in the mirror.

What is their favorite song? Ego by Beyonce

Music, art, reading preferred? Ooooooh… probably reading

What is their favorite color? Gold

What is their password?

Honestly it is probably a secure combination of letters put together by a professional.

Favorite food: Lasagna

What is their favorite work of art? Judith and the Head of Holofornes

Who is their favorite artist? Gustav Klimt

What is their favorite day of the week? Saturday

Possessions

What is in their fridge? A lot of water, veggies, meal prepped chicken

What is on their bedside table? The current book she is reading, a bouquet of pink and white roses, a gold lamp, a rose gold silk eye mask

Spirituality

Who or what is your character’s guardian angel?

If she has a guardian angel, she would really like a word with it.

Do they believe in the afterlife? I mean, she now knows Hades, so yeah

What are their religious views?

Once you meet a god, you kinda realize which system of beliefs is the right one

· How would they like to die? Painless and pretty

What is their zodiac sign? Leo

Values

What do they think is the worst thing that can be done to a person? Abandonment

What is their view of ‘freedom’?

Able to make your way through life on your own two feet without having to rely on anyone else to support you.

When did they last lie? Probably an hour ago

What’s their view of lying? It definitely can make things easier.

When did they last make a promise?

She doesn’t really bother. You either do things or you don’t. The rest is just extra words.

Daily life

What are their eating habits? Healthy food prepared by a chef.

Describe their home.

Luxurious home in a gated community bought by her father.

Are they minimalist or a clutter hoarder? Minimalist.

What do they do first thing on a weekday morning? Drink a glass of cold water.

What do they do on a Sunday afternoon?

She can be found putting the finishing touches on her blog post for the week.

What do they do on a Friday night?

She can just as easily be found out dancing as home alone working.

What is the soft drink of choice? She doesn’t drink soda.

What is their alcoholic drink of choice? Merlot.

Miscellaneous

What or who would your character dress up as for Halloween? Anything sexy.

Are they comfortable with technology? She can do basic things.

If they could save one person, who would it be? Jenny.

If they could call one person for help, who would it be? Over her dead body.

What is their greatest extravagance? Jewelry

What is their perception of redemption? She hopes it’s real.

What would they do if they won the lottery? It would change her life 0%.

What is their favourite fairytale?

She isn’t really big on fairytales, but definitely prefers the darker original versions. So much more realistic than that happily ever after in love bullshit.

Do they believe in happy endings?

She believes in the ability of a person to make their own damn happy ending.

What is their idea of perfect happiness?

Surrounded by a family that loves her

If your character could travel through time, where would they go?

She has it on good authority that life gets more uncivilized the farther back you go, so she’s good, thanks.

If they could have a superpower, what would they choose?

Full on mind control. She’ll make you do what she wants and feel no guilt.

#watasks #{beauty for the beholder}

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kirk-garden · 3 years

Text

Victims of the Internet and Tobacco Products. Living for today and not knowing what will happen to them tomorrow. They have no future, they have broken it.

We are teenagers of the 21st century.

If in the 20th century they were afraid of serial killers, then in the 21st century everyone is afraid of us. We have our world, where there is no money, no intercom, we are all used to knocking the iron door off our feet.

…insomnia

We surf the Internet

Internet addiction, a romantic word, it lacks a mouthpiece and a long cigarette.

Silly.

We drink energy drinks, cheap low-alcohol cocktails, beer at the age of 14 (huh, what the fuck is beer, vodka from the throat in one gulp without a snack small 12 years old in my eyes). And everyone says they eat pills, even though I've only tried LSD once. We're all so badass that we vomit in the toilet for our birthday.

In the 40s Sex, Beer and Rock'n'Roll

In the 90s Sex, Drugs and Rock'n'Roll

What will we come up with?

Dastardly creatures, we envy Lisa from the 11th grade because she has a personal driver, a private house and beautiful clothes. And we are children of the dungeon, we go by metro there, back, there, back ...

On a subconscious level, we are all Rock stars, we are all so pretentious, we smell so deliciously of perfume, we love smart phrases and smart books.

Bastards and bastards.

The phrase "one for all and all for one" will not work with us, every man for himself.

At 15 we fuck with everything that moves, and even then not in all cases with that which moves. Never wondered what our parents were doing at 15? They played with dolls, and then one doll accounted for one out of a hundred.

Snotty morons.

Came up with EMO. It's so cool, now they are not just teenagers, now they are EMOs: they cry, whine, wear black and pink clothes and they are no longer called crybies, they are called EMOs.

We love INDUSTRIAL and INDIA, and we ourselves would love to listen to Him and Britney. But you have to somehow show off and say such beautiful extraordinary words: "I listen to INDUSTRIAL"

We are teenagers of the 21st century.

Girls in love with thin-legged anorexic boys; boys in love with boys; boys looking like girls. When an old grandmother confused us with the opposite sex, we are so proud to tell our friends about it!

Lovers in the reflection in the mirror and in the boy in the photograph from the Internet. In their hearts, everyone dreams of plastic, but they never dare to take this step. We are so dependent on independence. And we love London because it sounds beautiful, rainy and musical. We are propaganda of originality and individuality, such strong fakes.

In the shower we are weak, in need of someone, in the shower for hours and for some reason we do not masturbate. Closed in ourselves, because if we open up, no one will understand us, no one pities us, they hate us and do not put us as an example for our younger sister.

We are so strange and beautiful, brooding, smart, stupid and sometimes naive, we fly in dreams and in life. We are the teens of the 21st century, we are pain, fragility and false confidence.

#21 century #teenagers #emo #alcohol #cigarettes #energy drink #rocknroll #text post

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buckyscrystalqueen · 5 years

Text

The Resistant Omega: Part 1

Pairings: Omega!Mickey Milkovich x Male Alpha!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Smut.

Word Count: 2,513

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was no way in hell that anyone that didn’t live there could describe life in the South-Side of Chicago. Sheer chaos, destruction, and the inability to care from anyone that should except in situations where they shouldn’t. The system was ass backwards and rigged from the jump- but you made due, just like everyone else did. You just happened to do it a hell of a lot better than some; clawing and killing to become top Alpha in the dirty streets, leaving bullets and body parts in your wake without batting an eye.

The day you officially met Mickey Milkovich, you weren’t actually expecting to have a good day. Your electric had been cut off for ‘lack of payment’ in the middle of a damn heat wave, even though you had personally paid it in cash a week before it was due like you always did. Once they realized it was their (purposeful) mistake, the power company refused to come back out until the following week due to ‘lack of personnel in your neighborhood’. Which is why you found yourself, sitting on your porch, chain smoking cigarettes, when Mickey came tearing around the corner.

You could instantly smell the fear pouring out of your Omega; a classification he had obviously been hiding since he presented by the God awful stench of the suppressants that didn’t mask anything to you. Your head tilted to the side for a moment because you did recognize the man from the neighborhood, but not his scent; a mix of some kind of woods mixed with something else you couldn’t put your finger on. You whistled through your teeth and gestured behind you with a single bob of your head before grabbing your pack of cigarettes and pulling another one out. Mickey quickly vaulted over your fence and ran up the stairs past you and you couldn’t miss the way he stumbled across the threshold when he was enveloped by your scent as the door closed behind you.

“Hey… oh, shit.” One of the Alpha guys that had been chasing the Omega shouted as he rounded the corner and realized who he was talking to. “Hey guy, you seen which way that fucker went?” Without a word, you lifted your left hand and swept two fingers to the right, telling them that their target had continued on. “Thanks man.” With a single bob of your eyebrows, you took a long drag of your cigarette and picked up the ever present hand gun that was beside you.

“They’re gone.” You growled as you ashed your cigarette on the partially rotted wood steps. Your front door creeped open behind you, but you didn’t hear anyone moving to leave.

“I can’t…” He almost choked as strange waves of pheromones poured from your home. With a heavy sigh, you grabbed your smokes, and headed into the hot house.

“How long you been on those fucking suppressants, kid?” Mickey looked up at you as you shut, and locked your front door.

“Wha… what fucking suppressants?”

“The fucking suppressants that have you dropping to your Goddamn knees because you’re in your Alpha’s house, but instead of giving off the heavenly scent of pine, and cedar, which is what I fucking expect you to smell like, you smell like a chemical waste plant… here. Take these.”

“Fuck you!” He barked as he hit the bottle of stabilizer pills in the air, sending them flying across your living room. “I ain’t no fucking faggot!”

“Never fucking said you were.” You said, dismissively as you sat down on your couch, and adjusted your swelling length in your jeans. “Just trying to fucking help.”

“Yea, well I don’t need your fucking help.” You exhaled your breath and nodded as you laid your head back on the back of the couch because it was way to hot for you to do much more than that.

“Good to know.” You rolled your head and looked over at the wrecked Omega on your floor, who was desperately fighting his natural instincts as his heat started to burn out the cheap suppressants he had to have been picking up off the streets from someone other than your guys. “You can get the fuck outta my fucking house then.” Mickey almost instantly whined and balled up his jeans in his fists, but he didn’t stand up or move from the spot he was kneeling on the wood floor. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, whether from your lack of AC, or his genetics, you weren’t sure, but what you did know, was this little Alpha wannabe was going to fight his true nature.

“Omega!” You barked, making his head whip toward you. “Come here or leave.” He shook his head and started to rock in place as he knuckles turned white. With a roll of your eye, you butt out your cigarette and got up to remove him from your home before you did something you couldn’t come back from. “Let’s go.” You growled as you grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to his feet because while he was only a couple inches shorter than you height, you had at least sixty pounds of solid muscle on him. “Move your fucking feet Milkovich, I don’t have the time or the fucking patience for this bullshit today.” He put the breaks on instantly and shook his head when you pulled your front door open the slightest bit. You could smell a slightly chemical tainted slick start to drip down his legs, so you paused for a moment to see what your next step was going to be.

“Just…” He growled as he looked down in shame. You cocked your eyebrow, and waited for him to continue as he looked up at you through his lashes. “Don’t… make me fucking say it.”

“You can either fucking say it, or you can get the fuck out at the start of your first heat in who the fuck knows how long. I don’t fucking care either way. But one fucking way or another, you need to fucking accept the fact that you’re a Goddamn Omega and accept the fact that whether you fucking think you are or not, you’re gay or you can get thrown to the fucking wolves. I’m not fucking here for the fucking games…”

“Can you just…” He shouted as he ripped away from you but pushed your front door closed. He searched your eyes for a moment before he looked down at your nearly throbbing length. “Fuck… I need that…”

“Good choice.” You said with a smirk as you turned the lock once more and pushed him up against the wall. You gave him zero option to fight it and simply captured his lips with yours. He let out a small whine as you slid your hands down his sides to his ass. He became putty in your palms as you lifted him up, and headed up the stairs toward your second story bedroom. Mickey clawed at your back, which was currently only covered by a single wife beater, and leaned down to lick the sweat off your throat across your scent gland.

“Look at you.” You cooed as you kneeled down on the bed and laid him down on the pile of blankets you typically just pushed off you in the mornings. “Just opening up like a good little Omega.”

“Don’t…” He tried as he turned to look away. You growled and nipped his throat harshly before you, too, licked across his scent gland, purposely marking him as your own.

“You don’t make the rules here.” You growled as you sat back between his thighs and pulled off your shirt. “You’re in my fucking bed, you want my fucking knot, you play by my fucking rules, you understand me?” You could see the look of defiance on his face as you ripped open his sleeveless dress shirt, and an almost evil smirk spread across your face. “I know who you think you are, Milkovich; some hard ass, punk.” He looked up at you angrily as you undid his belt and popped the button on his jeans. “But I will promise you one thing…” You yanked his pants down and slid down the bed to his hips. “You abso-fucking-lutely will come back here again.”

“Unfffffuuuucckk….” He groaned as you easily took his length down your throat. His hips arched up for more as you pulled his jeans and boxers the rest of the way off, but you weren’t even close to ready to give him what he wanted. Your calloused hands slid up his legs until you hit his knees, which you used as leverage to bend him to prop him up for better access. You could almost hear his brain short circuit as you licked through his slick and across his puckered hole, something you could tell he had never had done before just by the way he tried desperately to reach your head to keep you there.

“You ever been taken care of like this before, Omega?” You asked as you looked up at him from between his legs. You hummed and pointed your tongue to get even deeper before replacing it with your middle finger.

“Holy fuck… oh, holy fuck.”

“Oh, I know.” You said before adding your tongue to open him up for you. Your own cock grew painfully tight in your jeans with every little whimper he made, and you reached down to remove your clothes with your non dominant hand.

“Holy shit.” Mickey gasped when he watched your length fall free of its confines. He tightened around your finger in fear, and you quickly sat up and shook your head.

“Look at me.” You cooed as gently as you could as you continued to thrust your finger in his ass at a steady pace. “Just relax. Breathe, little Omega. Let me in. It’ll be painless, I swear, but you can’t tense up.” You wrapped your hand around his cock and brushed your thumb across the tip, which made a wave of slick seep out onto your fingers. You pulled out your middle finger and carefully switched it for your pinkie and your ring finger at the same time you bent down to lick a long stripe across his balls and up his length.

“Alpha…” He panted as you sucked him down your throat. You hummed and nodded your head as his breathing got more and more shallow and his body started to tense and quake. “Alpha, fuck! I uhnnnnn…” You hummed again and took him all the way down your throat as he came. You swallowed every drop, which was not a new concept to you since you didn’t give a shit who was in your bed at the end of the day, and sat up to look down at the wrecked man in your bed. “Fuck… me…” You smirked and started to separate your fingers to stretch him out.

“Don’t worry, baby boy. I’m not even remotely fucking close to being done with you.”

——

You were quite surprised how much stamina Mickey had, but by three AM, he was finally fucked into a coma and spread out across the bed beside you. You left him in bed and headed down stairs to roll yourself a joint, when someone started to pound on your front door. You grabbed your gun off the coffee table and cocked it before opening the front door that was thankfully lit by the streetlight on the corner.

“You better have a good fucking reason why you’re banging on my fucking door at this hour.” You glared at the thug who took a step back and jut his chin out at you.

“Sup. Heard you were the man to see about some bars?”

“Fucking heard wrong, mother fucker.” You snapped back quickly. “Suggest you fuck off now for I let the damn dogs out.”

“Hey man, it’s cool.” He said as he held up his hands. “I got the cash. I ain’t lookin’ to…” Before he could even finish, you grabbed him by the throat, and slammed him into your door frame as your mind skipped right past you getting busted by a possible rat to the Omega upstairs getting tossed in the hole by a possible rat.

“I don’t know who you fucking think you are but I don’t have any fucking idea what the fucking fuck you are going on about. You wanna give me free fucking cash, go right on ahead. But I don’t have fucking shit for you to buy unless you want some day fucking old banana bread. Now, you show up on my fucking block again and I will put a mother fucking bullet in your thick fucking skull and maybe that will get my fucking point across. Have I made myself crystal fucking clear?” He tried to choke out an answer but no sound came out. You startled when you heard the cock of your rifle behind you before the barrel appeared over your shoulder.

“He asked you a fucking question, mother fucker.” Mickey growled. “Fucking answer him.”

“Yes!” The guy choked before bursting into a fit of coughs when he fell to your porch. Mickey took a step around you, and kicked the guy down the stairs before closing the door and heading into the living room.

“Smokes?”

“Well look who’s still capable of walking.” You teased as you picked up a half full pack from the table and tossed it at him.

“Fuck you.”

“I did.” You reminded him as you grabbed a hollowed out Bible off your book shelf and flipped on a battery powered lantern.

“Yea, one desperate time.”

“Why do you fucking hate yourself so damn much?” You glanced over at him as he shook his head and scoffed. “Fucking Christ, someone did a real fucking number on you.”

“No one did a fucking number on me…”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” You reacted without thinking and pinned him down to the couch before he could even register you moved. He naturally arched into you and let out a barely audible whine, and you nodded your head.

“Yea.” You said with a nod as you sat up again and went back to rolling a joint. “Front doors unlocked. You wanna keep acting like a mother fucking homophobe, you can get the fuck out. Good luck on dealing with your mixed identity crisis and double up on your shit suppressants to kill your heat.” He managed to catch you off guard when he punched you in the jaw, but he quickly backed away from you when you pointed your hand gun at his cock. “Wanna try that again?”

“Fuck you!” He snapped as he turned and stormed out of your house. You sighed and shook your head as you set your gun back down and finished rolling your joint. Once you had sparked it up, you got up with a heavy sigh, locked up, and headed up to bed for the night.

Part 2

#Omega!Mickey Milkovich x Male Alpha!Reader #Mickey Milkovich x Male Reader #Mickey Milkovich x Reader #Omega!Mickey x Alpha!Reader #The Resistant Omega

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imaginetheending · 4 years

Text

Vacant Chapter 1 Preview

Here is a preview of Vacant chapter 1. To read the rest go to: https://www.wattpad.com/story/254655449-vacant-the-devil%27s-son

Chapter 1

It's hot outside.

Blood and dead bodies occupy the only decent shade. A trail of blood leads to the forest. It's created by Scouts dragging soldiers away by the straps of their boots. Grains of sand are crushed under Rapture's feet as they shift in the sand. He's been acting off since that morning, thinking of something else.

"Where did the furniture come from?" I ask.

In front of us, under the second floor of a three hundred year old building, sits worn down, used dressers, cabinets, and beds against broken and crumbled down walls.

"Probably from one of the traders" he responds.

One of the traders…

I'm impressed. All I own is a rusty mattress and a romance novel I kept when I was captured. These people managed to sneak in an entire dining room set with a working kitchen and chairs. Whoever did this has to work for Imports.

"I want you to come with me," Rapture says suddenly, dragging his fingers over the sides of his mouth.

Rapture is quite scary when you first meet him. His head is shaped like a human skull with hard features extruding from the back. His eyeballs are black just like mine, but he has golden lizard-like irises. After you get to know him, tough, he has a charm. A very sarcastic charm.

Without another word, he starts walking off. Adjusting my gun, I follow him. Angel does, too. The gear makes it hard to tell the difference between us. The only way to identify a Scout is by our bodies. Each species has a different body structure. Especially the legs. Since Angel is the same species as me, we have very similar forms. We both have thick female legs with no feet and big Canals. Compared to humans, our torsos are quite masculine.

Apparently, my big identifier is hips. I have thick thighs. It's true. I can crush a man's head between them, but the observation still feels somewhat perverse. Soldiers make similar comments towards Angel.

Lieutenant Bade, Angel, and I are Rapture's bodyguards. We follow the General around while he does his duties. It's not the most exciting job in the world, but Rapture is the best swordsman on the planet. No one messes with him. It is a safe, cushion position compared to the conditions other soldiers lived in.

"Angel, could you leave us? I want to talk to Siren alone," Rapture says.

We both look at each other. Angel steps back, not sure what to do. It takes a second for him to join the other Scouts.

I follow Rapture into the forest. After a while, it becomes grey. The pale, thin trees cover the bright sky. We walk for hours back to a part of camp I have never seen before. This is dangerous, I thought, for the two of us to be out here alone. However, whatever part of the forest this is, no one visited.

In the distance I see a small wooden cabin between an assortment of tree trunks. It has to belong to a General. No one else is allowed housing. The lights are off for the dusty building, though. We keep walking for another ten minutes, and arrive at an even bigger house -- a small, one bedroom home. Just like the rest of the planet, the exterior looks like old, American human architecture. On RubenDies, you can probably find a house like this for super cheap in a bad part of town, but here -- well, I have never seen anything like it.

Rapture grabs the door handle and yanks it open. The door stutters releasing dust and plant pores into the air. I am careful to breathe it in. He enters.

Dark inside, I can barely see the living room from the front door. Cautiously, I step inside. A thick smell overwhelms me. It's not a bad smell, but it's potent. Like someone lived here for a long time.

Both the living room and kitchen are small. Sun seeps through the closed blinds onto a rusty, old pale, orange refrigerator. The cabinets are dirty -- crusted. A small wooden dining table sits in front of it. There are more than one chair. Multiple people live here. Lived here -- I should say.

"Where are we?" I ask.

Rapture doesn't respond. He just walks between the dining room and living room towards a bedroom in the back. It's the only thing that lit up the hallway. My footsteps are unbelievably heavy on the wooden floors. I don't think Scouts are intended to be in here. The bedroom itself feels frozen in time. Nothing has been touched in years. There are still dirty clothes laying on a white bed sitting in the center of the room. Dust has collected on all of the wooden furniture. There's a couple nightstands and a dresser.

I'm scared to touch anything.

This doesn't bother Rapture at all. He grabs one of the drawers and opens it. After rummaging around, Rapture pulls out a stack of thick, white, plastic paper. He gives them to me, and I realize they're photos. Very small, rectangle photos. Each one is stained with dirt and muck. It's hard to tell what they consist of. The helmet makes it even harder. Rapture talks to me as I look through them, my eyes trying to make out vague shapes and sizes.

Each one shows a very attractive, young man that's the same species as me.

Most of the species outside of the Milky Way don't have names. We found no reason. It wasn't until the Human Reformation that it changed. Humans got confused by our lack of categorization, and decided to introduce a naming system. So, for clarity sake, I'll call our species BSBE.

The young man sits on a hotel bed, arched forward. A gaudy, geometric tattoo covers his sickly, gray, toned back. There are dog tags hanging from his neck. In each photo he is wearing different tank tops. In this one, it's white.

"Zerethus had a son. He escaped ten years ago," Rapture explains.

Oh, I see. I know who Zerethus's son is. Who didn't? The female camp whispered daily about him after his escape. By the time I made it to the male camp, the rumors had died down, however. All I know is that Cain isn't liked very much, and that he is permanent with most of the female camp.

In the second photo, he sits in a swimming pool, shirtless. It's at a wealthy establishment. The orange walls of the fancy hotel reflect off the blue, crystal water. It gave some color to Cain's dull skin.

"Zerethus has been looking for him ever since," Raptures continues as I shift to the next photo.

Cain is smoking a cigarette. He is maybe twelve or thirteen years old. A train of smoke trails to the sky. His expression is calm. Happy.

"I want you to find him before Zerethus does," he says.

My hand freezes. I heard his words clearly, but stammer.

"You want me to find Cain," I ask confused.

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

When the soldiers brought me to Edeon, they asked me for my gender. Stupidly, I said female, and was thrown into the female camp. From that day on, my life was shit until I got kicked out. Edeon doesn't like women. They never did, and my presence in female housing left a mark. Everyone knows I lived there. Everyone remembers.

I want to object. Ask him questions.

"No, sir," I respond instead, cowardly.

I would send anyone on this mission but me. The Generals are some of the best fighters in the galaxy. They're trained to search and find targets. As a Scout, I am also trained to do this as well, but I am nowhere near as talented. Finding Cain would be a high profile mission. Only the best of the best would be put on it. I am not the best.

Send Dante. Or Felix. Or Moon. Angel. Reaper. Hades. Pain. Cerberus. Vnux. Serpen. Dalen. Gabriel. Michael. Archer. Rion. Tarli Nobi. Th'Aman. Brani. Xani. Kreniea. A'Zule. Feri/ Q'Urlid. Achan. Meni.

Literally anyone but me.

"Who is my lieutenant?" I ask.

Every soldier gets a lieutenant when sent off the planet. They watch over the group. Make sure everything goes according to plan. If he picked anyone to go with me, he would pick Bade. Bade is pretty good. He'd make up for my lack of skill.

"You are," he obviously lies.

My mouth falls open, "What?"

No, I wasn't. This is the biggest bullshit I have ever heard. First of all, there hasn't been a new lieutenant in over ten years. Second, the only women of power on Edeon are Lieutenant Reaper and General Mourning. No one even knows how they got promoted. Third, if I was promoted, I would be promoted by Zerethus himself. So, something is very fishy.

Rapture cups his hands, and smiles.

"The mission is simple. Give Cain a message. The Devil is looking for his son. He wants to cut off his wings. He'll know what that means."

"Where is he?" I ask.

I remember that I still have the photos dangling in my hands. While he continues, I look at the next one. Now, Cain has his arm draped over Angel's opal, white shoulders. Huh. That's weird. In our species' culture we don't touch each other, but they seem chummy. Either Cain is straight as fuck or they were in a relationship. Bold for him to have this photo as a part of his collection. All homosexuals get killed on this planet. There isn't a warning. It happens suddenly, and mercilessly.

"The Luminary. He works for an agency called The Eye. Goes by Hayze Redborn. Was put on a mission recently to find an Alex Hall. Code name Aex. He's a super hacker."

Cain is butt naked in the next photo. It's in the same room as we are standing in now. He's maybe eighteen. Every detail of his muscles subtly defined, his body is gorgeous. Due to the pose, and moody lighting, this is definitely a selfie. Luckily, the photo cuts off at his penis, but you can still see the top of the shaft. I laugh. Why would you take a photo like this on Edeon? We don't have Be-book. There are no dating profiles or blog posts.

"If you catch Aex, Hayze may follow," Rapture says.

The last photo is the worst. It's just his dick.

This guy took a dick pic.

I roll my eyes. How many women did he try to show this to? Knowing his reputation, he probably sent this to multiple. It's girthy. Long. Blood rushes under his skin creating purple. His skin is smooth. There are only a few faint veins. The top is round and soft. There is no color difference between the tip of his penis and the base, outside of some discoloration. He has a pretty penis. I have to give him that.

"Siren," Rapture scolds venomously and grabs the photo from my hand. He rips it in pieces and then slams it into the dresser.

Oh, shit.

I don't think he knew that was in there.

My hand hangs loosely from where the photo once was. Scared, eyes fixating on him, he's mad. After a moment, he brings his hand to his face and makes a loud sigh. He takes out another sheet of paper from his pocket. This one looked like it was printed off an old printer. It's very faded. It is a much more recent picture of Cain. Cain is much older, and worn down. In the old photos, he is vibrant and active. Here he is dead inside.

His skin is a very healthy baby blue. The black that consumed his eyeballs is clear, and not glossy. A couple other things are off about his appearance, but otherwise Hayze and Cain are identical. Over his shoulders he wore a deep, aqua blue coat. It had a very nice, faintly, shiny, textured material. Under it, he wore a black shirt similar to the ones he wore when he was younger. His dog tags could be seen through his fabric.

Behind him, a short, gray-ish brown overweight being stands at a podium wearing a nice, trim suit. His species is a cousin of Rapture's. They look very similar, but this species has more than two eyes. The overweight being has the appearance of a government official. A banner hangs behind him. It's a symbol I feel like I should recognize.

"What happens after I tell him the message?" I ask.

"Protect Cain with your life," he remarks. To continue reading go to: https://www.wattpad.com/story/254655449-vacant-the-devil%27s-son

#vacant #writing #writeblr #scifi #science fiction

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spencapenca · 4 years

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The Misfits Chapter Three!

Trigger Warning: Internalized homophobia and religious trauma, neglect, mention of death of a parent(s), alcohol addiction, swearing, use of marijuana, and a panic attack. Word Count: 3,350 Feel free to review, and leave a comment or criticism! Update: I am thinking I will update weekly or bi-weekly on Thursdays! I am trying to get in the grove of a posting schedule.

The time had come, midterms. With the group stressing through the AP Psych midterms Dave offered his house to study despite being conscious of the size. It just made sense, his parents weren’t home and they always had food. The agreed time was 4:00 that afternoon, they would study for a few, grab dinner, and study until later. The group figured if they combined their knowledge, they would be able to finish their study guide-- in which it was made clear that completing it would almost guarantee a passing score. The group also knew that with Spencer there it would be easier, and they may get done sooner. They really should have started to study sooner, seeing as how the exam was in three days. Spencer walked through his household in the dark, as his mother had forgotten to pay the bill again this month. The young boy tried to figure it out, he tried to figure out how to make his mom better-- it started with pleases and finished with her cold, long fingers backhanding him in the cheek, resulting in a purple bruise he passed off as hitting his face on a doorknob, or getting elbowed by one of the bigger kids. He noticed his mom was in a trance, staring out of the window and muttering to herself. He then saw her pacing nervously over the worn carpet with cheap liquor in her hand, a cigarette with a long cherry burning down the stick. He tried to step in and stop her, so it hadn’t become uncommon for Spencer to go to bed with a small bruise forming from where she would slap him, accusing him of spying on her only for her to forget it the next day. He tried to convince her to drive him, but she accused him of spying for them again, and he realized that it there was no way that she was gonna drive him. So he set out to walk, peering at the angry sky through the window. He used the little data that he had on his phone, of which his deadbeat father still paid despite his absence to find the way to Dave’s house. He rarely used it, not liking the technology because of the fear his mother instilled in him. About a block into his journey he paused and looked up into the dark sky, seeing the furious clouds, and felt a few raindrops fall onto his thin face. His long-sleeved shirt that was much too thin for a rainy October day became increasingly wet. He started to shiver, walking faster now to make his body warmer. The rain started to come down harder and he brushed the too-long hair out of his eyes that were now becoming soaked. He jumped as thunder clapped and thought to himself ‘this is going to be a long walk’ Sandy stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame as a dark pungent liquid sloshed around in a dirty cup. JJ stormed out of the house, infuriated. Her mother’s drinking had gotten unbearable, she kept finding empty liquor bottles in the garbage, tabs on the floor, and the freezer was more stocked with vodka and tequila than it was food. Quite frankly, she couldn’t do it anymore. She needed the escape. She needed freedom from the suffocating sadness in her house. So naturally, she called Emily and of course, she came for her. They sit in awkward silence until they arrive at Emily’s house and sit on her bed. The smell of the alcohol burned into her nostrils, as she tries to cleanse her senses with the calming lavender sents of Emily. “Ugh! I fucking hate living there! There’s too much shit” JJ rants, her voice quiet but venomous as the stress pulsates off of her. She looked miserable in the clothes she was wearing. Tight and form-fitting-- though it looked great, it was most definitely not something that she should be in when she was this upset. So the first thing Emily did was go to her closet and find a pair of black sweats followed by a dark yellow hoodie that just about swallowed JJ. “You look miserable. Go change and we’ll talk.” Emily said softly, trying to lighten the mood but failing. JJ nodded with a small huff and went into her bathroom, changing quickly into the clothes that smelled like Emily, her senses calmed as a small smile spread across her face. The blonde came back out and plopped onto the bed next to Emily, tension thick in her chest. As if Emily can feel it, she hands her a medium-sized joint burning slowly as smoke comes from its end. “It will make you feel less… well just less. Just trust me.” Emily watched her expression as she sat up and took a small slow drag from the burning paper. JJ did what felt natural and inhaled only to cough. “That’s okay, try again.” And so she did. A couple of times until she felt an unfamiliar calm wash over her senses. Not necessarily high, but definitely calmer. She passes the joint to Emily before flopping back down, “I hate living there. All she does is drink. All. Day. She works from home and drinks. She cooks… well orders shit food, and drinks. She is turning into my grandmother and it is terrible. Everything changed when… when she died… Nothing is the same! Is it too much to fucking ask?!” She rants as small affirming nods and hums come from Emily, “I mean, is it TOO much to ask for your mother to be sober enough to realize you’re not even home!? Or that she’s driving in the car still?! Is that really too fucking much?” “No… no it’s not. I’m sorry... Is there a way you can talk to your dad?” “No. Fucking asshole left. Left me in this shithole.” “I’m sorry JJ... I truly am. Let’s just focus on something else.” And so they did, they smoked and laid close, relaxing while watching a movie or two until it was time to go to the study group. Aaron had been preparing for this day, books scattered along his bedroom floor soft music in the background. He puts everything aside for his brother Sean, who seems to be having school issues of his own, Aaron reminds himself of the man he has to become. His father had left, thankfully-- so he had to become the man, the father figure. To raise his brother when his mother couldn’t. He tried his best to be a good brother, a good son, a good student. These tests were important to that. Crucial. After this, he could relax a bit, let loose as he let Dave take the ropes. Sean LOVED going over to Dave’s, he got to experience the childhood that every kid could ever want over there. Not only that, but it gave Aaron the opportunity to relax and let go, letting himself be a teenager. He would get to hang out with his friend and let go of the responsibility. When he took Sean over to Dave’s with his, he would allow his brother to play with the games that the wealthy teen’s house was stocked with, Sean was able to be a kid too. It was really just healthy for the both of them. Derek and Penelope had been driving for a while, drinking sugary drinks from Starbucks, and holding hands. They decided to have a date day before the study group since they didn’t have much time alone anymore. Though this time was slowly coming to a halt, “Derek… is that Spencer?” She asked, seeing a small figure, shivering in the rainy weather. “I’m sure it…. It is, isn’t it?” He responded, slowing down to the drenched figure Spencer looks over nervously and sees Penelope and calms down, seeing Derek’s window roll down, “Hey kid… why are you in the rain? It’s freezing out there!” “I uhm… I was walkin to Dave’s… for the study group tonight.” Derek looks over at Penelope with a worried glance. Why couldn’t the kid's mom drive him, and how the hell was he getting to school every day? He takes in a breath and nods to his back seat, “Get in Spence, you can just stay with us until the study group. Okay? We were about to grab lunch, are you hungry?” Spencer contemplates for a second before nodding “ ‘M sorry… Your car is gonna get all wet” He mumbled, climbing into the backseat as a crack of lightning, followed by a roar of thunder sounded overhead. He jumped and closed the door as Derek reassured him it was perfectly fine. Penelope looks back and sucks her teeth “Der, you have a hoodie right?” She asked, smiling to herself as he nodded. “Here Sug, take off that wet shirt, put this on, it will keep you warm.” She told the young boy, his hair flush against his forehead as it dripped with small droplets. “Okay…” He responded, pulling the wet shirt off and quickly reveling in the dry comfort of the hoodie that was much, much too big for him. The group went to lunch and then to an arcade, and then--just for Spencer, they went to the big library, allowing him to check out a few books. Derek and Penelope were worried for him, worried for his condition because they noticed something else, a purplish, yellow bruise forming on his cheek that was an obvious handprint. Something was going on and they were going to figure it out. They weren’t going to leave this alone, not this time. Not after the clues that they have seen. Not after the lack of food, dirty clothes, and unkempt hair. Not to mention the ripped shoes and broken pencils.

The groups started to flow in, Aaron and Sean first, then JJ and Emily-- who were still a little buzzed, and finally Derek, Penelope, and Spencer. The first plan of action was the homework packet in which they had due for the midterm. It was a prep packet that was every bit of fifteen pages long, covering everything they had gone over or talked about in the past nine weeks. Little bits from previous exams, of which they had weekly, and questions over the 5 chapters of the textbook they have started to read, front to back. After a while Spencer looked over at Emily and scooted closer to her, a small sniffle forming. He was already starting to get a cold from the rain. He was so nervous to go home, what if his mom came out of the episode and realized he wasn’t there? What if they wouldn’t take him home? How would he get the cold that he caused to go away… how would he clean his clothes? The water bill hadn’t been paid… he had run out of water. His train of thought was broke when Emily naturally rubbed his back with her free hand and smiled softly, not that she would let anyone see it; however, despite her attempts to hide it, JJ noticed and blushed. God, that smile was like crack to her. Addicting. After quite a few hours and rumbling stomach noises, Dave had decided it was time for a break, and for pizza. Though, choosing what kind was not easy. There were many raised voices, and each time Spencer tried to speak up, he was spoken over, making him shrink down. It was too loud. A hand flew up-- innocent of course, just Derek patting someone on the back but it caused him to flench and yelp. Suddenly, all eyes were on him, he was quivering like a wounded puppy, covering his face with small tears forming. His chest felt tight, his breath hitched, but then sped up rapidly, his lungs heaving with each breath. The sight made the noise stop immediately. Emily spoke softly, kneeling beside him “Hey bub, what’s wrong?” He shook his head and sat on the floor slumping against the wall as he shook. Fear taking over his responses, and his fight or flight making him freeze instead. Soon enough he muttered two words “I’m okay.” Two words he muttered way too often, his personal mantra. Emily took into account the noise, knowing how he felt about loud sounds, and how to fix that. She nodded and pulled him into her lap, holding him close, and covering his ears with her hands to muffle the sound around them. With the silenced sound and the comforting scent sent around him he curled up in her lap, his messy curls fanned against her pale chest as he breathed with her, his eyes fluttering closed. The group looks at each other worriedly. Normally Spencer wasn’t like this. He was sensitive, jumpy sure, but he never reacted like this. He never flinched. They sat silently before being jumped out of their thoughts with a ring of the doorbell. Pizza. No one moves for a moment, looking around in before Rossi scrambles up, clumsy but quiet. He tips the delivery man more than he would like to admit and sits the boxes in the middle. “Eat, but be quiet. Don’t wake the kid.” He warns Spencer's head perks up with the smell of the pizza, looking around sleepily “ ‘za” he says, a small sleepy grin on his face. Emily smiles and rubs his back, cutting a glare at Derek who was almost gushing at them, “Yeah kid, pizza. Eat some, then I think Derek over there is gonna get you home to your mama.” She says softly, not expecting him to tense at those words. “I don’t wanna go home…” he mumbled, his voice going stoic, the fear was more than he wanted to deal with. He wanted to stay here with Emily. He wanted to feel safe. Emily glanced at Aaron worriedly, then at Rossi when the silent observer of the room spoke up “Bub, can Spencer stay with us? He’s a good friend, even if he’s younger than me.” Sean speaks up from the back of the room. Aaron nods and glances at Spencer, looking for his word of approval. “Whadyou think kiddo?” “Uhm… Can I please?” He asked quietly, nuzzling into Emily’s chest. “Well, are you sure your mom-” “She doesn’t care. You sure you don’t mind?” He interrupts Aaron quickly, not wanting to explain. Aaron is taken aback at how quickly he responded and he nods, “Sure Spencer. Of course, you’re welcome always.”

Everyone trickled out of Dave’s home group by group, Aaron leaving last. He stayed around because Spencer had fallen asleep again on the couch and he wasn’t about to wake that kid up. It was obvious he never slept with the dark purple rings around his eyes, leaving him puffy. Emily drives back to her house with JJ in her passenger seat. She could feel the tension in between them, the discomfort from JJ’s side. Though it was nothing Emily had done. The suppressed voice in the back of her head ‘don’t do it. Evil. abomination. Wrong.’ A list of the pastors' sermons. The words that he spewed at the conjugation, spewed at her. They cut deep. Every time she looked into the mirror she saw disgust. She sees failure. An imperfection. A giant stamp of hellfire and brimstone. A bubbling in her chest as she felt the impending doom of Sunday morning service. The one day her mom was sober enough to be around other people, but not enough not to be an absolute asshole. JJ was snapped out of her thoughts when Emily tapped her knee “And we’re back to the house. Common up to my room, and we can talk about whatever has been on your beautiful mind.” She says, trying to butter her up and flirts a bit-- it was hard not to at this point. Hard not to let herself fall. Though it did cause an obvious burst of tension between them. “I’m not too sure that you want to know what’s going through my mind right now.” She mumbles, making her way up to Emily’s room and plopping on her bed face down. “Oh, I’m sure I do. I love to hear all of your thoughts. Don’t worry about scaring me off.” JJ let in a shaky inhale “Abomination. Dirty. Disgusting. Evil. Hell bound sinner.” “Woah! Hey! What the hell blondie, what’s happening there.” Emily stutters out, sitting closer to the younger female. JJ looks up with tears in her eyes, “I’m dirty, I can’t help it, but I’m dirty. M-my pastor said and I t-tried to pray it away. I t-tried to be perfect. I thought that if I made myself fall for a Christian boy I would be okay. But I’m not! I’m not okay because girls are pretty and guys are okay. All Christian boys are gross, and I’m TIRED of HATING myself. Leviticus 18:22, For man, shall not lay with a man as he lays with woman for it is an abomination.” She starts to sob out, her cheeks getting heated from the wet tears stinging her cheeks as she sobbed into the fleece blankets. Emily looked over and placed a hand on her back rubbing it softly “You’re okay Jennifer, you’re okay. I promise. You’re not dirty, you’re gorgeous, you’re not disgusting, you’re so amazing and I am so sorry that some man-caused you to feel that. That you have to feel that at all. God… I don’t know him or anything but…. But he loves you blondie. He does, so just fuck the pastors. Love who the fuck ever because you were born that way. You hear me?” She nods and sniffles “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sobbing in your bed. I’m sorry. You’re pretty too. God, you’re gorgeous.” She says too quickly, blushing as she realizes her confession “You’re gorgeous too JJ. Let's get some rest, we can talk about this in the morning, don’t worry about whatever you said that made you get all quiet and we can talk later.” Emily says softly, a smile playing on her features. JJ nods with a small smile, turning so her back is to Emily. She pulls the blanket up to her chin and almost allows herself to relax into Emily’s touch, but she doesn’t and she keep herself close to the wall. Penelope and Derek decided just to stay at Penelope’s house, her aunt wasn’t home and they just wanted to be with each other. They lay in her bed and she rests her head on his chest, grounding herself with the rise and fall of his breaths. Derek carts his hand through her hair silently as he notices her tensity. After a few moments, he finally speaks up “Baby girl, what’s wrong?” He asked softly She takes in a shaky breath, “I just… I just miss my mom… and my dad.” She admits softly, her voice barely above a whisper as if she was afraid of the confession. She had been pondering over the thoughts. She wanted to tell her mom about EVERYTHING, have a girl talk. Just be her daughter again. He nods and kisses her forehead, “I’m sorry baby, I know it’s hard but when I start missing my pops a lot I talk to him. I talk to him about you, school, football… everything really. I know he can hear me, and I can feel him with me. Sometimes it’s a dream, but sometimes it’s just a calm that washes over me.” Penelope nods and sniffles, “I know… I’m sorry for crying all over you. You’re such a good boyfriend, thank you for understanding me and my issues. Thank you” She whispers into his chest Derek nods and kisses her head again “It is my greatest pleasure Penny. You’re so strong my love” and with those words, the couple cuddled and fell asleep arm in arm, limbs tangled in a comforting way as they breathe each other's oxygen, the stress of the world away while they’re in each other's arms.

#themisfits #kala writes

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bookburnt · 4 years

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× WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE SMELL LIKE?

cheap cigarette smoke. leather. lavender-scented deodorant. depending on how recently he’s showered, either fruity shampoo or general unwashed human.

× HOW OFTEN DOES YOUR MUSE BATHE/SHOWER? ANY HABITS?

gonna be real, gerry doesn’t always keep up with grooming as much as he should. especially during his teen years and his years with undead Mary, he’s just... kind of a mess. part of it’s dysphoria and part of it’s a lack of executive function / inability to channel energy into basic self-care, but the bottom line is that it’s not uncommon for him to go up to a week between showers. he usually at least manages to shave his face every day, but there are times when that goes in the garbage too. when he’s traveling with Gertrude, his hygiene routine is a little better (he finds it easier to function when he’s working towards a purpose, and that affects how well he takes care of himself) but the travel itself, on top of his pre-existing issues, can sometimes make it difficult to keep a routine. still, it’s never quite as bad as it had been when he was living with Mary. prior to getting burnt to fuck, he would shave all his body hair in the shower as well. post getting burnt to fuck, he doesn’t really need to bother, given that he’s mostly scar tissue and the hair never really grows back. (a very slim silver lining.) post-burning, he usually takes very short, very cold showers, as prolonged exposure to warm water makes his scars dry up to a painful extent. still, sometimes after a particularly long or trying day, he’ll just simmer himself in the shower until the hot water runs out and then deal with the consequences when they arise.

× DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE ANY TATTOOS OR PIERCINGS?

yep! numerous facial + ear piercings, plus nipples. he prefers titanium jewelry or sometimes safety pins. he has simple line-art eyes tattooed over each joint. he used to have a lot more.

× ANY BODY MOVEMENT QUIRKS? ( E.G. KNEE SHAKES? )

gerry tends to slouch when standing and walking. if he’s in Go Mode, that changes: he stands taller, and his actions are quick and purposeful to the point where it’s kinda frightening to be in his way. but the rest of the time, he moves at kind of an awkward lope, though he’s still a fast walker just by virtue of leg length.

× WHAT DO THEY SLEEP IN? UNDERWEAR OR PJS?

he often just falls asleep in whatever he’d been wearing the day before, like an animal. if he puts in the effort to get dressed for bed, though, he usually just wears an old, oversized t-shirt and boxers.

× WHAT’S THEIR FAVOURITE PIECE OF CLOTHING?

his long black leather coat! it’s been with him through a lot, and he personally stitched it back up after it got cut off him in the hospital. (if you look closely at the seam down the center back, you can definitely tell it wasn’t professionally done, but hey, it’s not falling apart.)

× HOW DO THEY SLEEP? POSITION?

very poorly, lmao. it’s hard for him to fall asleep and when he does, he wakes up again very easily. even assuming he does actually manage to get a semi-respectable quantity of sleep, you can bet it will contain at least one nightmare. he’s gotten good at letting the dreams fade from his mind upon waking, but they still leave behind a lingering sort of ick, and occasionally a particularly vivid one will stick around all day. he doesn’t have a set sleeping position - he moves around in his sleep a lot, and when he’s having trouble sleeping, he’ll often abandon his bed entirely in favor of trying to sleep on the floor / the couch / the roof / the bathtub / anywhere he can lay down for like 45 seconds. this sometimes works. if he’s co-sleeping with someone he trusts, he’ll often end up barnacled to them.

× WHAT DO THEIR HANDS FEEL LIKE?

he has large hands: broad palms and long fingers. the skin is scarred but surprisingly soft? it’s not smooth, all unevenly raised and puckered as it is, but it’s not as rough as you would expect it to be from sight. moisturizer is the one part of his hygiene routine he actually keeps up with (almost always) bc again, the scars tend to get uncomfortable when dry.

tagged by: @dirtchoked, ty! tagging: @sniperwithasmoke, @ofvast, @oculim (for agnes!), @notephelia, @ungratefuldead, @ anyone who wants this

#//wow apparently i have a lot to say about gerry's showering habits.#//idk i just feel like a lot of the time even when ppl are talking about their muse's mental health there's a tendency to... like...#//brush past the symptoms that can't be romanticized? but sometimes depression smells bad man.#and in my honest observation | HEADCANON ⚿#we'll carry on | QUEUE ⚿

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screensirenfic · 5 years

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Black Leather - Chapter 8

I’d had to wait an additional twenty minutes at Steve’s house, because despite his near fanatical dedication to Farah Faucett; his hair had continued to fall flat.

Lucky for him, Nancy was there, otherwise I would’ve broken down the damn bathroom door and shaved the birds nest off myself.

Eventually; he’d managed to get his hair to a reasonable level of poofiness, and we’d gotten to Tina’s just an hour after the start time on the flyer; fashionably late without it being too busy to make an entrance.

Sitting in the backseat of Steve’s thankfully spacious BMW gave me front row seats to the newfound awkwardness between Hawkins most beloved royal couple.

Despite Steve’s insistence that everything was fine between the pair and that Nancy was just still upset about Barb; I couldn’t help but feel there was a bigger void between them than that. One that was gradually getting bigger by the day, judging by the near complete lack of conversation for the entire car ride over.

He wouldn’t even let me talk to her for him; insisting he could handle it himself, but Steve really didn’t know girls like I did.

There was something big on Nancy’s mind; something that parties and corny jokes alone wasn’t gonna fix.

“That is a lot of carnage...” Steve remarked, drawing my eyes from the world’s slowest relationship train wreck, to the much more literal train wreck outside my window.

The word “carnage” was putting it lightly.

The party had already spilled out onto the street; bodies in varying stages on unconsciousness littering the front lawn like the vast amount of beer cans and bottles surrounding them. Those that were conscious were reveling in a variety of vices, from cigarettes to cheap booze to near all out sex on the AstroTurf. High school partying at its finest.

“Half the school must be here!” Remarked Nancy; eyes wide at the near renaissance painting of absolute debauchery outside.

“You got that right...” Agreed Steve as he slowed his car to park; and if Hawkins High’s keg king said that it was a rager, then she must be right.

Steve eventually found a space just outside Tina’s house; surprising considering the sheer amount of people present, however I guess most people considered a night in Hawkins PD’s cells too steep a price to pay for one night of drinking and dancing.

We got out of the car, and already the music hit our ears at full blast; someone’s parents were gonna get a lot of noise complaints in the morning.

“We Don’t Have To Take Our Clothes Off” was the song of choice, but clearly the song’s message fell on deaf ears, as most of the boys were down to shorts and skins, and the girls in even less.

Steve led the way through the highway to hell, ringing the doorbell to Tina’s, which chimed out in an almost comedic rendition of “Messiah” considering the situation.

Moments later, the door swung open to a smiling Tina, dressed in a skimpy leotard and fishnets, in what must’ve been a cat costume considering the black velvet ears in her perm.

“Steve! Nancy! Love the costumes!” She exclaimed with such enthusiasm; it must’ve been partially forced.

“Risky Business; right?” She asked, taking note on the pair’s cute matching black and white combo.

“And Lola! You’re..?” Her ever expanding smile faltered as she struggled to work out what exactly a tartan miniskirt and a Bon Jovi tank top had to do with Halloween.

“A vampire.” I replied with a fake smile, showing off the plastic fangs glued to my canines. She wasn’t the only one who could feign enthusiasm.

“Well; you all look so great...” She spieled; that plastic smile returning even quicker than it fell.

“Why don’t you come on in and get a drink...” She beckoned us in as she led us further into her temporary den of teenage rebellion.

Costume party could be used very loosely to describe what Tina’s Halloween party was.

People wore costumes alright; ones that made them look sexier, less restrained, more depraved. Anything from a pair of sunglasses, to an oversized bedsheet counted here; and trust me, someone had tried them all. My outfit honestly looked like a nun’s in comparison to some of the other girls.

Since when did lingerie count as a Halloween costume?

“Looks like a good party.” Steve remarked, though I wondered if it was only for our host’s sake.

“Yeah. If you like cheap liquor and herpes...” I muttered, earning myself a chuckle from him; so we were on the same page.

I glanced around the room, unable to believe people had managed to get this fucked up in an hour. There had to be some pregaming, or a high amount of class C drugs involved; definitely drugs, judging by the smoke in the air.

I was definitely gonna have to do the laundry before dad got home.

My eyes glanced over to the living room where some jock was spread out on the coffee table, whilst a line of cheerleaders did body shots off his chest.

I was definitely gonna need a drink to get through tonight.

“I’m gonna go grab a drink...” I told Steve, not waiting for a response as I slipped through the crowd towards the kitchen and what would hopefully be semi drinkable booze.

—————————————————

The liquor was shitty; the punch wasn’t much better, but still better to suffer the taste and be drunk, than suffer the company sober.

God knew there was nothing worse than being the only sober one in a crowd of drunks.

Steve had long abandoned me for his princess, in yet another attempt to drown an underlying uneasiness with cheap alcohol and fake happiness. Jonathan was a no show, but there was no surprises there, and I was kinda wishing I’d done the same, even if it’d cost me my left ear to Steve’s nagging.

The only consolation was that Billy Hargrove hadn’t spoken to me once. It was quite possible he hadn’t even noticed me; he was so sucked into the superficial cloud of party popularity that seemed to circle him like a storm.

Every girl in their fake leather biker boots and discount rack leather jackets was hanging off him, in a poor attempt to act as my replacement; as if being the resident basket case was as simple as smudging on a bit of eyeliner and smoking more Camels than usual.

I don’t think Billy was convinced; his mind so preoccupied with stealing Steve’s crown that he didn’t have time to think about getting laid.

No doubt when he came back down to earth; I’d be the first person he’d have in mind to help with that little problem.

But for now; my night looked relatively sleaze free. No one had tried to hit on me since Billy had taken an interest; probably valued their molars too much for that.

It’s strange to think that despite my total disdain for Billy and the clear message that I’d rather eat my own fingernails than date him; people still acted like he had some sort of “reservation” over me, as if I was unofficially “his girl”.

Right now, the man in question was challenging the royal reign of keg king; a position previously held by Steve, before Nancy had him saddled and bridled.

Even I had to admit; Billy Hargrove made quite the Lancelot to Steve’s Arthur. Billy had Steve in term of upper body strength; his keg stand lasting twice as long as Steve’s had, without any of the signature unsteadiness.

The keg court already loved him, counting down with unrivalled enthusiasm and chanting Billy’s name as if he’d just won a championship belt.

He’d even managed to steal Steve’s right hand man; Tommy H naturally taking his place behind the new alpha male, reminding me of a snappy hyena at his heels.

Billy’s keg stand finished on a impressive count of forty two; him touching ground soon after and spraying the crowd with lukewarm beer.

“That’s how you do it; Hawkins! That’s how you do it!” He yelled triumphantly, in that moment seeming more of a celebrity than the cocky asshole with a Camaro.

Even I had to admit that Billy seemed different tonight.

Maybe it was the punch talking, or the overall excitement of the crowd as they practically worshipped him like a god, but he just seemed larger than life.

He’d styled his hair different; his curls actually holding shape, rather than just falling into a dirty blonde mess. He also followed the crowd in terms of forgoing a shirt; just a leather jacket draped over his impressively built torso.

I could see why the other girls went crazy over him. Everything about him screamed dominance and raw testosterone.

Now Billy was walking my direction and I was running low on punch and confidence.

Yes; originally I’d planned to play the role of tease tonight, and drive Billy crazy with what he could see, but couldn’t touch. But he was forty two seconds of beer down and pumped up on the adoration of half the school, so I was having second thoughts.

Sober Billy was fun to tease, if not a little over persistent; drunk Billy was an unfamiliar entity that could turn out to be downright dangerous.

So I made my exit, slipping back into the crowd and relative anonymity.

—————————————

The kitchen looked like it had become the first fatality of what was sure to be a deadly night of binge drinking and bad decisions.

The tile floor now closely resembled a a swimming pool, complete with indeterminate objects that I had no intention of inspecting swimming on the surface.

The kitchen counters looked like the world’s largest game of beer pong, cups of various colours and fullness on every available inch of clear space. I didn’t even want to know what was in some of them; the smell of them strong enough to hit you from across the room.

I’d managed to find Steve and Nancy again earlier, though it was clear Nancy was well in her cups, and Steve was trying desperately to stop her from becoming any deeper.

I’d managed to convince her into trying something that didn’t have enough of an alcohol content to sedate a horse, but it seemed Tina had stockpiled just as many mixers as booze; though the former seemed vastly less popular.

I made my way back through the thick of the crowd, wanting to make sure I got Nancy something that’d actually stay down, rather than end up painted across the front of her sweater. I could already see the top of Steve’s hair, rising high above the crowd like a homing beacon; at least it wasn’t completely useless.

“Hey Nance; do you want soda or...” I began, threading through the crowd towards them, when I suddenly realised they weren’t alone.

I felt like I’d walked on set in the middle of one of those Wild West movies my dad liked to watch; the sheriff facing off against the stranger in black.

Billy stood nearly chest to chest with Steve, looking as if he was moments away from flooring him, but at the sound of my voice his focus shifted; his demeanour no less predatory.

“Lola...” He purred, with a smirk that made me feel like he was undressing me with words alone. Up close I could see the evidence of his keg stand running down his tanned chest; slick trails threading between his taught abs.

Still; I kept stony, not trusting Billy in the slightest.

“Hargrove.” I spat; arms crossed over my chest in a way hoped said back off, but may have came across as nervous.

His smirk spread across his face; eyes falling to trail over my body, stopping at all the strategic points along the way.

”Like the costume...” He commented, wetting his lips as if I was desert on a platter. “Just like I imagined.”

I could already figure out exactly what he’d imagined, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t include clothes.

“Thanks.” I forced a smile faker than Tina’s attitude; dry and bitter just like half the booze on offer at this shithole of a party.

Still; Steve wasn’t gonna just stand around whilst Billy stared at me as if I was something from his private Playboy collection; the usurped king was instead experiencing a serious case of white knight syndrome.

“Hey; why don’t you back the hell off...” Steve warned, stepping forwards between me and Billy, so Billy could no longer blatantly leer at me.

It didn’t put his successor off in the slightest; Billy stepping past Steve as if he was an inanimate object to continue to proposition me.

“Why don’t you come and have a dance with me?” He asked with one of those smiles that made Tina turn into a shivering puddle of hormones.

“I’ll pass.” I replied with another dry smile, then turned to make a swift exit before he could come up with another bullshit reason to waste my time and my patience.

“Come on; sweetheart...” He purred, and I felt his hand lock around my wrist; not painfully so, but just firm enough to tell me that I’d leave when he let me, and not a moment sooner.

I gave him a dark look, because really? He was gonna try this with me?

But before I could give him the verbal lashing of a lifetime; Steve beat me to it, ripping Billy’s hand from my wrist with more force than I thought was possible for the doe eyed brunette.

“Dude; she said no!” Steve said, and despite his gentle chastisement; his face and tone told him that he wasn’t messing around.

But neither was Billy. He turned to Steve; his former aggression returning as quickly as it left.

“I’m sorry; I wasn’t aware you were her boyfriend...” Spat Billy; already ready to open an entire new can of worms and with it, let out a whole lot of alcohol infused testosterone.

Steve wasn’t gonna take it; though sometimes I really wish he would.

I really didn’t need saving; I’m goddamn Lola Hopper. Boys like Billy Hargrove should shit themselves when I approached.

But Steve; always the hero, came at him with all the verbal reasoning that Billy had no patience for.

“Just because she’s not my girlfriend; doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you drag her around like-“

But Billy truly didn’t have the patience or the mental capacity. He was half a keg in and looking for a fight.

Steve never got to finish his argument; Billy slamming him hard against the wall like some freshman, and not the previous reigning keg king.

“Excuse me?” Billy growled; his voice low and threatening, and really doing more for me than his sleazy flirting, but I had more important things to worry about than how Billy’s temper was a turn on!

My best friend was about to become an interestingly shaped stain on Tina’s parents’ wallpaper.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Harrington?” Billy’s voice dropped another octave; his body inches away from Steve’s and although he didn’t touch him,

I knew he was seconds away from knocking the noble idiot unconscious.

Even then, Steve couldn’t take a hint. Always honourable; he was prepared to go down fighting, but I wasn’t ready to see him become a martyr.

“Billy; I’ve changed my mind...” I quickly thought on my feet, slipping between the two of them in the vain hope that the possibility of physical contact on the table was enough to shake Billy out of his rage.

“I think I want that dance...” I forced a pretty smile, grabbing his wrist softly in the hope he might unclench his fists in favour of touching me again.

It wasn’t working. Billy was far too worked up; it was if I was invisible. So I moved a bit closer; letting my body brush up against his as I slipped my hand down to grab his.

“Come on; Billy. He’s not worth it...” I whispered; my voice just husky enough to hold a little promise.

“But I might be...” I gave him an impish smile; all raw sexuality and desire, one that I’d of previously thrown up at the prospect of exchanging with Billy Hargrove.

To my great relief; he relaxed, his shoulders lowering and his jaw unclenching. His hand wrapped around my own, squeezing with just a little bit of pressure; a reluctant retreat on the condition that I upheld my end of the bargain.

I took him by the hand and pulled him away from Steve, heading towards the dance floor and hopefully putting as much distance between the two alphas as possible.

But even now; Steve wouldn’t relent, stepping forward ready to defend my honour.

“Lola; you don’t have to...” He petitioned, as if I wasn’t doing this to protect him.

“It’s fine, Steve.” I reassured him, making the words more forceful than necessary in case his dumb overprotective brain continued to reject self preservation.

But of course; my pushy prospective dance partner couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Yeah, Steve; it’s fine.” He mimicked; his smirk so full of venom, I’m surprised it didn’t melt his pretty face off.

At last, Steve relented, letting me lead my volatile pretty boy onto the dance floor without blood on his knuckles.

————————————

Surprisingly; Billy was actually a semi decent dance partner. He kept rhythm well enough and gave me enough room that I didn’t feel he was trying to hump me in front of the whole school.

We were two songs down; “Dancing With Myself” pumping through the overdriven sound system, and I hadn’t once accidentally-on-purpose tried to step on Billy’s toes.

If I was to be painfully honest, and believe me; admitting this was painful, I was actually enjoying dancing with Billy.

When he wasn’t so heavily focused on appearing the bad boy, he was actually pretty cool. He smiled more often; a genuine warm smile that was nothing like that sleazy grin he used on me all the time. He was actually cute.

“Are you feeling alright?” He asked after spinning me under his arm for the third time tonight; and I’m not sure if it was the dizziness or the alcohol, but I was actually beginning to feel giddy.

“Yeah; why?” I replied with a smile; my gaze getting lost in those bright baby blues that were staring at me with something other than lust.

“It’s just; it’s been half an hour and you haven’t threatened to shiv me with a beer bottle...” He joked; yeah, actually joked, with a wide smile on his face.

And God! His face just lit up when he was being genuinely funny and not an ass; and for a split second I was hit with the almost uncontrollable urge to kiss him.

Almost uncontrollable. I reigned it in at the last minute; not trusting my tipsy brain to have that much control, at least not when it came to Billy Hargrove.

I bit my lip instead; feeling an honest to God blush spread across my cheeks.

“Shut up once in a while and it might happen more often...” I retorted, lowering my voice just enough that he could tell his joke hit right.

He just smiled, and my pulse just skipped another beat as he swept me into another spin; happy just to keep his body close to mine for the remainder of the night.

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