#i want to kick these corporate assholes in the teeth

[loneisland]

SYNOPSIS. At Whitman & Clarke, professionalism is at the heart of all work that leaves its doors. So when paralegals get assigned to ambitious and egoistical associates on high-stakes corporate cases, relationships stay cordial, work gets done, and most of all, the firm's reputation remains untarnished.

CONTENT. Chapter wc 2.6k, law firm AU, senior associate! michael kaiser x fem! paralegal! reader, age gap (kaiser is in his early 30s, reader is in her mid 20s), fem! reader, she/her pronouns used + reader wears makeup, skirts and heels, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, coarse language, legal lingo, kaiser is a reallll asshole and belittles paralegals (if you’re a paralegal ilu and none of the things said by kaiser in this fic are true 🫶)

CHAPTER ONE: ALEA IACTA EST — THE DIE HAS BEEN CAST

masterlist

Your heart sinks as you approach Michael Kaiser’s office with all the dread in the world. The door to his sleek office is ajar, and you can hear his confident voice, smooth and controlled, as he speaks on the phone. You knock lightly despite the entire wall setup being fully in glass, and push the door open. He glances up, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, as he motions for you to enter.

“Ah, there you are,” he says, hanging up the phone with a flourish. “I trust you’re ready to go over the case? ”

You force a smile, but your patience is already wearing thin. “Yeah, absolutely” you reply, taking a seat across from him.

Michael leans back in his chair, regarding you with an air of superiority that sets your teeth on edge. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, his suit tailored to perfection, his hair meticulously styled. You can’t help but notice the way his eyes gleam with a mixture of amusement and disdain, and it makes you want to knock a few teeth out of his mouth. Let’s see how much he’ll be smiling when his two front teeth will be gone, you internally grumble, more than ready to get this shitshow over with.

“The Greenwood Holdings case,” he begins, sliding a thick file across the desk towards you. “Corporate fraud, embezzlement… you know, the works. We need to get to the bottom of it, and fast.”

You nod, opening the file and scanning the contents. It’s a labyrinth of documents, emails, and financial records, each more intricate than the last. Your mouth curls in disdain and anger. ‘We’? He’s certainly not going to be the one to go through this entire thing. You’ll be doing all his dirty work, and get no recognition for it whatsoever. It’s what you’ve been doing, what you’re doing now, and no doubt what you’ll be doing in the future. Your mind races, already formulating a plan of attack. But before you can say anything, Michael interrupts.

“I’ll need you to handle the grunt work,” he says, his tone casual. “Go through the documents, highlight anything that looks suspicious, and compile a report. I’ll handle the big picture.”

“Grunt work? You do know I’m qualified for more than just spell checking, right?”

“If you’re qualified for more than just this, how come you’re still a paralegal, huh? How come you haven’t gone to law school?”

”I—“

“Listen, I don’t want your sob story. You’re not happy with this? Take it up with the managing partners. Take it up with Whitman, and get your ass kicked to the curb.”

You bristle at his condescension but bite back a retort. Stay as cordial as possible for the time being, you tell yourself. Once this case is over, you can tell him to go screw himself. Just not yet. Not yet. All in due time. “Of course,” you say, your voice tight. “Anything else?”

He leans forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Try not to screw it up, alright? This case is important, and I don’t have time to babysit rookies.”

With that, he turns his attention back to his computer, effectively dismissing you. You gather the file and leave his office, your blood boiling. A rookie? What kind of rookie has their own office? A paralegal with an office is unheard of. You are an asset to this firm, they need you and they value you. Who does this guy think he is, calling you a child? You’ve been here for 5 years. You’re no rookie. The audacity of the man, to treat you like an errand girl when you’ve proven yourself time and time again. You grit your teeth, and turn back to your desk. I’m gonna show him what a ‘rookie’ can do.

—

The first day is a blur of frustration and barely-contained anger. You immerse yourself in the mountain of paperwork, sifting through bank statements, emails, internal memos, searching for any inconsistencies or signs of fraud. It’s painstaking work, the kind that requires meticulous attention to detail and a sharp eye for anomalies.

As the hours tick by, Michael saunters in and out of the office, dropping all the more files on your desk with each trip he makes to your office, and a casual disregard for your growing workload. As if that wasn’t enough, Kaiser makes sure to pass on a snide and nasty comment, a thinly-veiled insult to grate on your nerves.

“Try to keep up,” he says with a smirk, tossing a stack of documents onto your already cluttered desk. “I need this by the end of the day.”

You bite back a sharp retort and force a smile. “Of course, Michael. I’ll get right on it.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by your thinly-veiled sarcasm. “Good. I knew you could handle it.”

You watch him walk away, your hands clenched into fists. He’s testing you, pushing your buttons to see how far he can go, but he can rest assured you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you crack. Asshole, you think. Pure-breed, world-class, grade A, asshole.

You take a deep breath, centering yourself before diving back into the mountain of paperwork. The Greenwood Holdings case is complex, with layers upon layers of transactions that need to be meticulously reviewed. Each document you open feels like another brick added to the already heavy load on your shoulders.

The day drags on, your eyes growing tired from staring at spreadsheets and dense legal text. Stretching your upper body as much as you can while trapped in the tight space between your desk and your chair, you decide to take a brief break and step outside for some fresh air. No one would blame you for it, anyway. No one could blame you.

As you step outside the hellish building you’ve been spending an abnormal amount of hours in, the crisp autumn air once again fills your lungs, momentarily clearing your mind. You lean against the building, savoring the quiet moment, and clearing your mind of any legal bullshit that’s been clogging any functional part of your brain for the better part of the day.

Just as you begin to relax, Michael’s voice breaks through your reverie. “Taking a break already? I didn’t realize the work was too much for you.”

You turn to see him standing there, a smug expression on his face. “I’ve been working non-stop all morning, sir. I think I’m entitled to five minutes of fresh air.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “If you say so. I guess rookies do have to take a few breaks once in a while. Not that I would know,” he turns his head to you, analyzing your expression, “We don’t take breaks in law school.”

You roll your eyes and stomp your heel as he walks away, your frustration bubbling to the surface. He’s insufferable, and it’s only the first day.

Back at your desk, you relive the scenario that played out five minutes ago and try to deduce the glorious outcome if you had punched him straight in the face right away. Eventually, you determine it would probably entail a lawsuit, the loss of your job and perhaps community service for a few months, and decide not to dwell on it. So, with a renewed determination, you dive back into the given documents. If Michael thinks he can break you, he’s sorely mistaken. You pore over the records, highlighting transactions that seem out of place, making meticulous notes on everything that stands out. You lose yourself in the work, the hours slipping by in a haze of numbers and legal jargon.

Late in the afternoon, Michael reappears, leaning against your desk with a casual air. “How’s it going? Found anything useful?”

You look up from your work, meeting his gaze with a level stare. “I’ve identified several suspicious transactions. They all seem to trace back to a series of shell companies. I’m compiling a report now.”

“I want it on my desk in 10 minutes. And a coffee.”

“A coffee? Really? Who do you think I am?”

At your retaliation, Kaiser watches you intently, brows furrowed, and mouth corners curled downwards in displeasure. “I think you’re somebody who’s clearly not in my league and who answers to me. I think you’re someone who better get started on my coffee before I get you to pack your shit.”

Startled by his profanity and limbs paralyzed due to the sheer vulgarity he’s just employed to address you, you can’t help but nod, returning to your work as he saunters off. I will kill him. No, scratch that. I’ll report him to the founding partner, and then kill him. And then move to Oklahoma.

As the office begins to empty out, most of your colleagues heading home, their workday done, you decide to remain, determined to make as much progress as possible and show Kaiser just what you’re made of. The silence of the office at night is soothing, the hum of the fluorescent lights a constant background noise, until your friend, Anri, drops her bag near you.

“Lights out. Let’s go get drinks, you’ve had a long day.” she says, placing her hand atop your shoulder in compassion.

“Look I’d love to, ‘ri. I really would, but Kaiser is sucking the life out of me and if I don’t finish this right now, he’s gonna suck the life out of me tomorrow.”, you bury your face in your hands in exasperation, “And I can’t go and get myself out of this because he’ll get me blacklisted in the entirety of New York’s law firms and I just— Ugh. I can’t.”

”This is monstrous work. If he keeps going on like that, he’ll send you to the hospital. Look, if there’s any issue, blame it on me. He doesn’t know me, he can’t blacklist me.”

You look at her with all the hope in the world, but quickly come back to your senses. It doesn’t matter if Kaiser doesn’t know her, he’ll send her to hell regardless.

“I can’t let you do that.”

”Yes, you can, and you will. Come on,” she lifts up your arm in an attempt to pull you out of the chair, and you comply wordlessly. “Let’s go home.”

—

The next day dawns with a sense of grim determination. You’ve slept a daunting 4 hours and 36 minutes, and you’re pretty sure your brain was going into overdrive the entire time regardless. On top of that, despite your prospects of arriving at the office early, determined to get a head start on the mountain of work waiting for you, your resolve was tested almost immediately:

your cat had thrown up all over your new carpet, one of your heels broke on a hole on one of those damn manhole covers, and you missed your usual subway to your work building.

By the time you get to the office, hand in your hair in a desperate last attempt to look more presentable, Michael is already there, lounging in his chair, his feet propped up on the desk. He glances up at your sad appearance as you enter, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “Good morning. A few setbacks, I imagine ?”

You grit your teeth and nod. “Morning. What’s the plan for today?”

He gestures to the piles of documents on your desk. “Same as yesterday. We need to go through all of this and find anything that looks off. I’ll be working on the strategy, so don’t bother me unless it’s urgent.”

You nod curtly and get to work, your focus laser-sharp. You focus on the positive points: no Kaiser belittling you today.

Or at least, that’s what you thought. He drops by your desk every hour, dumping more work on you and making snide comments about your progress.

“Still working on that? I thought you’d be faster.”

“Don’t miss anything important. I’d hate to have to redo your work.”

Each remark is like a needle pricking at your patience, but you force yourself to stay calm. You know he’s trying to get under your skin, and you won’t give him the satisfaction.

But he doesn’t stop there. When he’s not adding onto your gargantuan workload, he passes his time by taking phone calls, right in front of your office.

“I actually, I was thinking more on the Upper East Side. Whaddya think?” He calls out with a wolfish grin in your direction. You don’t know what’s worse. Kaiser being a natural loud talker, or him doing it deliberately to get on your nerves.

Why don’t you check out the corner of 81st and kiss my ass, you grumble to yourself, staring at the pen in your hand. Maybe if you stabbed it deep enough in his neck, you could hit an artery or two and cut off his blood supply.

A few hours later, and you’re running on pure adrenaline and sheer willpower. The late nights and early mornings are taking their toll, despite the significant progress you’ve made uncovering several suspicious transactions and connections that could be key to the case. You’re clearly exhausting yourself to the bone, but Kaiser doesn’t seem to be able to care less. He sauntered over to your desk, glancing at your meticulously organized notes with a look of disdain. “Is that all you’ve got?”

You glare at him, your temper fraying. “These transactions are clearly fraudulent. If we can trace the money back to the source, we’ll have a solid case.”

He smirks, leaning in closer. “If you say so. Just make sure it’s airtight. I don’t want any mistakes.”

You nod, biting back a retort. “Understood.”

You try to settle back into your desk and concentrate again to get mentally prepared for another few hours of relentless work, when you’re summoned to the office of Mr. Whitman, one of the senior partners. Your heart pounds as you make your way down the hall, anxiety gnawing at you.

Mr. Whitman’s office is imposing, with dark wood furniture and shelves lined with legal handbooks. He looks up as you enter, his expression unreadable.

“Sit down,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.

You sit, your nerves on edge. “Is there a problem, sir?”

He studies you for a moment before speaking. “I’ve been hearing good things about the progress you’re making on the Greenwood Holdings case.”

You nod, unsure where this is going. “Thank you. We’ve um,” For a moment, you wonder if you should mention the unbelievable amount of pressure you’ve been under for the past few days, but ultimately decided against it. “We’ve been working hard on it.”. Nevertheless, the mention of a ‘we’, despite the reality showing an urgent lack thereof is gnawing at you as well. Why are you even bothering to cover for him? Oh, right, he could fire you before you could even utter the word ‘trial’.

Mr. Whitman leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly. “How are you finding the arrangement with Michael Kaiser?”

The question catches you off guard, and you hesitate. “It’s... challenging, sir. But we’re making it work.”

He nods slowly, his gaze is piercing. “Challenging. That’s one way to put it. Are you satisfied with the way things are going? Is there anything you feel needs to be addressed?”

Your mind races, unsure how to respond. There’s a subtle undercurrent to his words, a hint that there’s more to this conversation than meets the eye, but you can’t quite decipher his intentions.

“I think we’re making progress,” you say cautiously. “It’s not always easy, but we’re getting the job done.”

Mr. Whitman’s expression remains neutral. “Very well. If there are any issues, don’t hesitate to bring them to my attention.”

You nod, sensing the conversation is coming to an end. “Thank you, sir.”

As you leave his office, you can’t shake the feeling that there was more to his questions than he let on. But for now, you push it aside, focusing on the task at hand. There’s still a long way to go, and you’re determined to see this case through to the end.

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reblogs and comments are most appreciated!

©loneisland 2024

[fantasticallyfruity4]

This is some hallmark bullshit but Single dad! Steve and single dad! Eddie.

Single dad Steve and single dad eddie whose daughters (El and Max, respectively) go to the same school.

Steve’s daughter has always gotten bullied, a fact he’s very unhappy about, but hasn’t been able to do anything about.

Calling teachers, meeting with the principal, these assholes can’t control their kids. And Els only friend from last year isn’t in her class anymore. This year has been rough, on both father and daughter. No one likes to see their kids so unhappy when they cant do anything about it, especially Steve. His little princess is his whole world.

But lately it seems she has a friend, finally. and apparently this girl protects her at school.

The girl is new to the class, new in town he assumes. She sticks up for El, apparently, and sits with her at lunch. Teams up with her in gym. El has a friend. Finally.

And Steve wants to go talk to this kids parent, tell them how much of a great kid they’ve got, thank them, thank the kid.

And the next day at school pickup when el comes out he asks, where’s the girl whose been sticking up for you, your new friend?. And el points at a little red head whose holding the pinky of a intimidating metal head whose signing her out.

He’s really hot, the dad, Atleast that’s what Steve assumes he is to her. And his brain is melting into itself. He’s got these rings and piercing and all this hair and he’s in all black and leather and metal and he’s beautiful and Steve’s having a moment. He was expecting to shake some old housewives hand. Not talk to this guy. He didn’t think he could do it, honestly.

“Pappa?” El asks yanking on Steve’s shirt hem, snapping him back into reality.

The dilf is picking up the girls yellow backpack and getting ready to leave, so Steve realizes he has to do this now or never.

“Hey, scuse me, sorry-“

Before Steve can talk more els friend is smiling and hugging her. “El!” And the man is grinning, eyes flicking between he display and Steve’s eyes. He’s got this grin and look in his eyes like he knows something.

“Maxxie is this that new friend of yours? The one who likes Wonder Woman too?”.

And oh my god, is that why els comics keep disappearing? Because she’s giving them to her friend? Steve thought she was loosing them, or even worse the bullies were taking them. But now Steve can’t be mad. That’s… that’s so sweet. That’s his kid. He’s doing okay too, if his kid is sharing her prized comics with her new friend.

The little red head grins and nods. “She’s my best friend!”.

Steve smiles, watching El blush while she hugs her friend. It’s so cute. It’s too fucking cute.

“Hey, I’m eddie” Eddie introduces. “Steve, nice to meet you man”.

Eddie nodds.

“Wanted to come say thank you, to you and your daughter. Els has it really hard here, and Max has really stood up for her. It means a lot to both of us, you uh, you’ve got a great kid.”

Eddie beams with pride, squeezing max’s shoulders.

“That’s what we do, right? We look out for other people, right?”.

She nods.

And it blooms into a beautiful friendship. Kids and adults alike.

Problem is both men assume the other must be straight.

“I like your rainbow converse max! They’re very cool!” Steve compliments the 7 year old. The girl beams with her missing front teeth on full display. “They match my daddy’s!” She proudly states. Steve chuckled to himself. “Your dad has rainbow converse? Are you sure were talking about the same guy?”.

The little girl runs back to el on the playground giggling, as Eddie approaches Steve.

Sure enough, in rainbow vans. “We’ll I’ll be damned”. Eddie chuckles and shakes his head. “You can say what you want about corporate pride, but giving Nike $80 sure beats getting the shit kicked out of me for liking guys” Eddie winks.

“Oh- you’re gay?”

Eddie nods. But it’s a curt nod. A little defensive. Steve hates it. “That a problem for you, big boy?”.

Steve isn’t sure he’s ever heard eddie so defensive, so hostile. And he hates it.

“No! No way not at all man! It’s cool, it’s all cool. I’m bi”

Eddies jaw drops a little bit. But closes quickly.

“You dress so fucking stupid I figured you were straight this whole time” Eddie teases elbowing Steve’s ribs.

“Ouch, this is coming from the guy in the worlds most gaudy converse?”

[delirious-donna]

Ahem thinking of shuji casually breaking into your workplace and noticing him sitting patiently, leg balanced w his ankle on his opposite knee, lounging so casually directly outside a meeting room you're in. You notice him directly after greeting your bosses. But...you obviously can't chew him out. Can't text him either. You can only try and act casual while your boss presents whatever company data is relevant. Thinking of his devilish smile and little wave when the data presented is sensitive enough that you have to put the blinds down and now you don't have eyes on your trouble maker boyfriend and it's the longest thirty minutes of your life. Thinking of how you end the meeting and check your phone to a "come find me if you can <3" text 😳🥴

Oh my god, the sheer panic! I think I’d pass out if he did this.

No one dares to approach him, would you? His entire demeanour is casual, laidback like he is meant to be here. In your office. Where he did not work.

Eyes impossibly wide as you lock gazes with him over the shoulder of your boss, frozen for a moment in the handshake and his fucking knowing smirk makes you itch all over.

It’s an important meeting, why is he here? How are you meant to focus and get shit done when Shuji offers you that ridiculous little wave, looking around like he’s goddamn bored and waiting to be entertained.

Trouble is, he is waiting to be entertained and by you, of course.

The meeting is the most difficult of your career, trying to retain and engage with the information being presented whilst your eyes continue to flicker to him, now lounging like a King. Thighs spread wide in the leather seat, his cheek resting on his fist whilst the fingers of his other hand drum an impatient beat. Tattoos stark and vivid on the backs of his hands, not a very corporate image.

He eyes you like a predator getting ready for the chase as you approach the window and tug on the blinds. Shuji’s brow arches high to match that devilish grin and you know he is up to something. Up to something but you can no longer keep a watch over him and your throat is so very parched no matter how much water you shakily chug from the pitcher.

It’s over.

You’re the first to fly from the meeting room and come face to face with an empty seat, no sign of him and you hope to god that security hasn’t found him and attempted to escort him out. There are no angry shouts or grunts of pain so that couldn’t be the case. Your phone vibrates against your hip, clutching it desperately to see his name illuminated and a challenge… “come find me if u can <3”.

It’s a race against the clock, you have to find him. Have to sneak your troublesome boyfriend out of here before he is caught or you’re fired. The panic makes your efforts lax, not looking quite closely enough as you peer into stationery cupboards, kitchen areas, cleaning closets and even the mens’ toilets.

The thud of your heart masks his faint snicker, if you weren’t facing away from him the sight of the tall menace looming out of the shadows of the third floor cupboard marked for odds and ends might have made you shriek.

A warm rough hand claps easily over your mouth, his foot kicking the door back shut and you’re hauled against his chest in three easy movements.

“Now then, did you find me or did I catch you, doll?”

His drawl is thick, dripping in syrupy molasses and setting you on fire despite how risky this is. The hand around your middle travels up to grope at your tits through your blouse whilst his knee forces its way between your thighs, the tight fabric of your skirt bunching up to accommodate him.

“Thought you could use a break, and I’ve missed you and those slutty moans that only I get to hear,” he rasps in your ear, tugging on your lobe with his sharp teeth.

Your panting heavily against his palm, fingernails clawing into his wrist. Stuck between wanting to tell him he is a fucking asshole for pulling this shit at your work and wanting to turn in his arms and ride him to the floor.

In the end, he makes the decision for you with seven simple words. Words you could never ignore….

“Be a good girl and bend over.”

[hazbincalifornia]

Grand Entrance

Chapter 66: The baby makes her way into the world.

Warnings: Childbirth. But if you're here, you probably knew that.

Ao3 link

Loona’s ears twitched as she scouted the space, looking for something comfortable to set Blitzo down on. For his part, Blitzo was digging his claws into the (softer and sweatier than usual) flesh of his own upper arms, gritting his teeth.

“Son of a bitch.”

“That’s what she said,” Loona muttered, almost automatically, and he blinked up at her before snickering and raising a hand to ruffle her ear. She made a rumbling growl low in her chest, but didn't smack him away, so he counted it as a success.

“That’s my g-FUCK!” Fire snapped at his stomach- not quite inside and not quite outside, like his skin was melting into him, green-hot but the color of bleached bone inside his eyelids when he blinked for half a second too long. Loona’s arms shook as he curled in on himself, and he could hear her whine even though she tried hard to shove it back down the second it rippled up. “It’s- it’s okay, Loonie, Daddy’ll be okay-”

“Yeah, well, if- if you die, Stolas might kick me out of the apartment. I’ve got that on the line.”

He could see her ears laying flatter, and he swallowed as his tail wound around her waist in an attempt to stabilize himself, familiar fur a comfort blanket against the skin. One arm wrapped around her back, and she didn’t drop him, allowing the half-hug.

“Daddy’ll be fine, sweetie… I promise.” If it was a promise, he couldn’t break it. Right? He couldn’t lie to his first baby.

Millie finished tying up Striker, clapping her hands before turning to Blitzo.

“So, what was he even doing, Blitz?”

“Trying to kill Stolas and the baby, and unfortunately, I come in a two-for-one deal with that,” he replied. Millie’s face screwed up, smacking Striker with her tail’s spade with a crack for good measure as Blitzo continued. “And if I’m right about who hired him to pop us off, then we’ve all got bigger problems than a gaping asshole of a cowboy.”

“Like what?”

“Stolas’s bitch of a w-” The word cut off like a slit throat as a groan rumbled from his throat when another contraction ripped through him. Satan’s taint, he heard it was supposed to hurt but not like this. (He was also pretty sure they weren’t supposed to be that close together already... although time was starting to get a little fuzzy.)

Loona laid him down on the couch just as the door flew open so hard it nearly tore off its hinges and destroyed the ‘home sweet wrath’ wall decoration hanging behind it. Black and red feathers surged forward in a storm that whipped a furious gale around everything that wasn’t tied down, nearly tearing the remaining buttons off his shirt as the atmosphere thickened and his lungs constricted.

Blitzo sputtered out a cough, eyes squeezing shut and tail curling around his belly as the mass of magic swirled into the shape of-

“Blitz!”

“Right here, Stol-” This time, the word was cut off when Stolas’s suddenly-corporeal hands squished in his cheeks like clay, eyes wide enough to burn a hole through the Rings.

“What happened? He came running as the curse was drawing to a close, and- and- oh, you’re all sticky.” His pupils were bone-white and blown bigger than Blitzo had ever seen them.

“Baby decided to say hi right when this prick-” he nodded over to the unconscious Striker- ”-tried to off both you and me at the same time. Someone wanted a hit on us, and I think-”

“That one?” Stolas’s fingers tightened on Blitzo’s cheeks, claws digging in slightly as he turned to glance at Striker.

“Mhm.”

Stolas’s eyes glowed for a moment before a flash lit up the room.

“Gah! Geez, you could warned- me?” Blitzo blinked as, when his vision crept back, Striker had been… frozen into stone. “Well, that- makes me feel a little better, at least.” He glanced over at Millie. “Not that I don’t tru-”

Millie waved a hand. “You’re having a baby, Blitz, I wouldn’t trust the guy to stay down either.”

“The baby is coming right now?” Stolas’s fingers curled into fists before pulling back to open a portal to the bubblegum pink sky of Sloth, and Blitz realized he had the Grimoire tucked under one arm. “We- we need to get him to the hospital immediately!”

Loona tensed slightly at the hospital but gritted her teeth, moving to step through the portal-

-Which led to Blitzo screeching loud enough to rattle the walls as the ivory markings flared with a brilliant glow the second his stomach touched the thin membrane of the portal between Wrath and Sloth. Agony ripped through him as the cuts pried open, skin rending from skin and flesh from flesh. Loona jerked back instinctively and called out “Dad!” in a panicked tone, nearly fumbling and dropping him until Stolas managed to lunge forward quickly enough to brace her arms and help keep Blitzo from landing his ass on the floor for the second time in five minutes.

“He had an angelic weapon!” Moxxie snapped his fingers, rushing closer and almost touching the bloody wounds with his bare hands before seemingly thinking better of it. “The portal magic must be reacting to the blessed injury.”

“Oh, fucking wonderful!” Blitzo snapped out as the glow faded but the stinging remained. Because nothing could ever just be fucking easy, could it?

“So we can’t- we’ll just have to-” Stolas sucked in a breath. “Do any of you have any kind of experience with this sort of thing?”

“I do. We’ll have to do this here,” Millie said, mouth set in a determined line. “Get him up the stairs and into the guest room. Moxxie, grab one of the spotty towels out of the closet over there- one of them should have lots of blood spots on it, we can use that to cover the mattress, and one of the others to clean the baby once they’re out.”

“Yes’m.” Moxxie nodded, hurrying over to do as Millie said before she snapped her fingers at Loona and Stolas.

“Move it, we probably ain’t got long and I gotta grab the first aid kit to deal with those nasty cuts, got it?”

Blitzo swore he could feel the vibrations of a tiny whimper in Loona’s chest as her arms tightened around him before moving for the stairs. Stolas was frozen for a moment before stumbling over to follow them.

“And we’re sure we can’t make it to-”

“Are you going to haul him to the elevator from here?” Loona growled out, frustration bubbling over like an overboiled pot with teeth bared. “It took like two hours to get out here, and he’s not gonna give birth in the van. Fuck knows this isn’t how this should have gone, but-”

Blitzo bit back a whimper of his own, tail tightening around her waist in a feeble attempt to ground himself, and Loona fell quiet. Stolas’s fingertips traced over his cheek as they reached the top of the stairs, beak biting into his lower ‘lip’ as his free arm hugged the Grimoire to his chest like a security blanket.

“I’m so sorry, darling, so, so sorry.”

Blitzo chewed on his lip, tasting sharp metal. "Not like it's your fault that I'm pretty sure your fucking nutso baby mama tried to off the nugget."

"Not my- she what?" Stolas flared red and black, extra eyes popping up on the sides of his face as the walls rumbled.

"The cowboy bitch said it was a chick who wanted the baby dead and you splattered all over like fireworks, so unless you've got some other assassin-calling bitch up your ass who knew about me..."

Stolas's fingers tightened so much around the book that any normal one would have the pages popping out the side like popcorn. "She... she really... a baby..."

"Hey, we can go kill her after the squirt's out, 'kay? If she manages to get a crack in with a rhinestone-studded sawed-off shotgun when I'm squeezing this little lump out and takes you down another six feet under, I'm digging you up to kick your ass."

Stolas stiffened before running a shaking hand through his feather-hair as his eyes darted down to the glowing white cuts still sluggishly oozing black. "Yes, yes of course- later, then. Baby first."

Moxxie darted around Loona to lay the towel down on the bed, and she gingerly set Blitzo down as he felt the weight in his stomach shift, slipping further down by a tiny bit as he gritted his teeth again.

“Considering her timing, she’s gonna be such a fucking drama queen. Moxxie, I blame you.”

“Me?”

“I shouldn’t have let you play that cheesy musical shit in the office, this is your fault.”

“Oh, come on, sir!” Moxxie’s tail snapped irritably, but he glanced over to the sweat dripping down Blitzo’s face and seemingly decided it wasn’t a fight he was going to push on, not when Blitzo was grasping for any last semblance of normalcy. He was bare and open and hurting and everything was upside down and inside out, adrenaline still pumping through his veins and fire dancing on the gouges.

Stolas had shuffled over to the side of the bed, awkwardly crouching to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling.

“Can’t you pull that imp-shapeshifting bit?” Blitzo asked, but Stolas shook his head.

“Performing the curse… it’s somewhat taxing, and I’d rather not risk using up any of my remaining magic unnecessarily, not with you in such a precarious position. Hopefully this will all be over soon.” He reached out a hand, and Blitzo squeezed it. It was warmer than usual, probably from the magic of the moon’s curse still rippling through it.

Millie pushed through the group to watch him, wiping her hands clean with a towel, and Blitzo cleared his throat.

“So, uh, Mills, you ever-”

“I helped Mama deliver my little brothers when I was little... and I’ve helped when the hogs had piglets.”

Blitzo glanced down at the size of his twitching stomach and groaned before nodding. “You know what? Close enough.” There was another hard squirm inside of him and he pushed his way back on the bed. “Alright, Loonie, Moxxie, out of the fucking way.”

“Wait, the baby can’t be already-” Moxxie started, and Blitzo waved a hand to dismiss him as he started shimmying his soaked pants off.

“She’s not coming out yet, but I don’t want either of you looking straight up my pussy right now.”

Both of them stepped back practically in unison. Blitzo would have snickered, except he felt more movement and Millie snapped his legs apart hard enough that Stolas gasped with magic briefly flaring red on instinct.

“Be careful!”

“I am, but he’s gonna wanna have ‘em apart, trust me,” Millie said, fingers tightening as a spike of something rode down Blitzo’s spine. He yelped, back arching as the fresh cuts flickered ivory while there was a faint sucking somewhere inside of him, energy swirling down an inky whirlpool.

Something was definitely fucking wrong.

The room smelled and felt wrong, there were too many people, there wasn’t near enough padding, too much, too much, not enough, not enough, and everything ached.

“Give me all my shit,” he growled. “I got it, and it’s not here, and-”

“Your… oh, the nesting materials!” Stolas pulled the book open and flipped through it, using its magic instead of his own to create a portal to their bed back at the cabin. Loona seemed to immediately understand, grabbing the objects scattered on it and tossing them over, and Blitzo nuzzled down on the blankets and shirts, brain easing ever-so-slightly.

The nest was good. The nest made things a little better, and helped dull the static.

Millie eased his underwear down. “I’m gonna take a peek, alright, Blitz?”

He waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah, go for it. Fuck, this was not how I wanted the first time you were poking around down there to go.”

She gave a weak chuckle at that, and he only barely stopped himself from yelping at her fingers running around the lips.

“Looks like you’re partially open already, shouldn’t be too long now. Maybe we’ll be lucky and she’ll be eager to slide right out.”

“After all this shit, she fucking better be,” Blitzo said, resisting the urge to pull his legs closed, even though Millie’s probing seemed careful and clinical enough.

“Pull up a timer, sweetie,” Millie said, waving a hand in the general area of Moxxie. “So we can try and tell the contractions.”

Moxxie nodded, grabbing his phone and making a few motions with his thumb, just as Blitzo realized that the window was open.

“Can somebody-” He nodded over to it, and Loona got the picture, yanking it shut as he gave her a grateful look. “Thanks, dear.”

After the initial rush, it was quiet for a moment as it seemed to fully sink in what was about to happen.

“We didn’t even pick a fucking name yet,” Blitzo muttered, and Stolas’s eyes widened.

“Oh, we... we haven’t, had we... do you have one in mind?”

“No, but- fuck, she’s gonna be Baby for the first few hours, it’s not the end of the- gggh!” Moxxie’s thumb hit the screen as his back arched again, and his eyelids fluttered. “Fuck, something’s...”

Stolas rested a hand on his middle and winced, upper eyes narrowing as the fingers shifted slightly atop the skin. “Your natural energy, it’s... off.”

Blitzo couldn’t help a flinch at the confirmation that it wasn’t just in his head. “What, more than from giving fucking birth?”

“Yes, more than that, it’s...” He clicked his tongue. “I’ll see if I can gauge it on the next pulse.”

“Of course it couldn’t just be a fuckoff huge little bitch, no, all this shit had to happen,” Blitzo mumbled.

“We’ll- we’ll get through this,” Stolas said, leaning forward to touch foreheads even as he left his hand on Blitzo’s middle, and the softness of his feathers helped Blitzo suck in a breath and let it out.

The room was silent for a moment, before Loona cleared her throat and pointed at the door with her thumb. “I’m gonna-”

“Oh- oh yeah, sweetie, you can go wait outside. Daddy’ll be fine.” He paused. “Probably.”

“We’ll tell you if anything goes awry,” Stolas promised with a nod, and she nodded back at that before crossing the room to leave. Probably smart, honestly. He wouldn’t have wanted to see this shit if it wasn’t him doing it either.

She lingered at the doorframe, fingers curling around it as she bounced her back foot  “…Good luck, Dad.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest. “Thanks, sweetie. I’m sure your little sister is gonna love you.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek before sweeping out at that.

“Moxx, baby, you take care of the cuts. You know more about Angelic stuff than the rest’a us,” Millie said, and Moxxie nodded, darting out of the room, presumably to wash his hands as he returned quickly before Millie offered him a pair of gloves to go with hers.

“You got any painkillers in that kit?” Blitzo asked, and Moxxie held it up. There was a bottle, but when he shook it, it was empty. He lifted a different one and swirled the liquid inside it around, squinting.

“This one looks like a tranquilizer.”

“Oh, we keep it on hand if we need to get any of the livestock down,” Millie said. “Normally we try and just do it by hand, of course, but sometimes if they get real riled up…”

Blitzo considered for a moment. “Alright, stick me.”

Moxxie looked between the bottle and him, one eye twitching, although to his credit Blitzo mostly saw genuine concern in the way that it twitched. Cute how he thought that puny little bottle would do anything serious after the shitshow that was the mansion party when he was 23. (He had been picking gravel out of his skin for a month.) “Sir, I don’t know if this is the best-”

Millie cut him off with a wave of her hand, grabbing the needle and the little bottle. “We can give him a half-dose. He’s gonna need it.”

“I’m just worried about your health, that’s all. Both you and the baby.”

“Trust me, Moxx, I’ve shoved stuff way worse than this up my ass ten years ago. Jab me.” He waved a hand as Millie swiped some disinfectant over his vein before lining up the needle and pressing it in. “Besides, you’re about to fuck with blessed cuts, so Daddy deserves at least some drugs to help with that.”

Moxxie sighed, but probably figured he couldn’t argue with that. Besides, it had already gone in- there wasn’t much he could do that this point. “Alright, this is going to sting some...”

“Can’t be any worse than- oh motherfucker!” Blitzo hissed out when the cleaner touched the cuts, and Moxxie tensed as it started steaming when he made contact.

“It’s hot-”

“No fucking shit it’s hot if it’s blessed!” His hips bucked up, and Moxxie grimaced before holding the antiseptic up again.

“If we don’t want it to get infected-”

“Just fucking do it.” Blitzo growled out. “Unless you want me biting it on your in-law’s guest bed?”

“...On it,” Moxxie said in reply, taking a breath before grabbing the chew toy off the makeshift nest pile with his tail and tossing it over. “You might want this.”

Blitzo considered for a moment before deciding that it had been long enough since Loonie had used it last so she probably wouldn’t care, then braced it between his teeth as Moxxie set about cleaning the wounds.

(He needed it, his back arched off the bed again as he screamed into it, and when Stolas’s hand shifted over to grip his tighter, he wasn’t sure which of them was shaking more.)

Another contraction hit, and their shared hands glowed as Stolas probed wherever his ‘energy’ was. This time, Blitzo could definitely feel movement inside of him going downwards, thank fucking Satan, but Stolas’s thumb rubbing the back of his hand slowed slightly.

“I... believe that she’s drawing from your energy to have enough of her own.”

“She’s- I need that to push you out, missy!” Blitzo protested, panting from the pressure in his hips as she shifted lower. “You do not want to get stuck halfway down if Daddy passes out, and we’re gonna hope the pain juice helps with that.”

“She’s running off instinct...” Stolas murmured, half to himself before straightening up, setting the book down on the bedside table in order to cup Blitzo’s cheek with his free hand. “You can do this, darling. You’ve made it this far, and it will all be worth it. I promise, I’ll be here every step of the-”

Blitzo couldn’t help a whine, feeling sweat drop down his face as the sucking motion reappeared and his claws dug into the towel below him.

“She is so fucking lucky I decided to keep her or I’d fucking strangle you for making me do this shit.”

“Lucky us,” Stolas said, a crooked smile gracing his face as Blitz braced his heels into the bed and sucked in a deep breath.

“Alright. Just gotta get the fucker out. I carried her for six fucking months, I can do this.”

“You’ve got this,” Millie agreed. “Daddy said Sallie May especially was real big, bigger than any of our brothers, and he’s fine!”

“Yeah, well, your sister ain’t a fucking bird, but thank you for the sentiment,” Blitzo said, bracing himself against the bed. His world had burnt to ashes before and he’d survived, and fuck, they had almost gotten axed by an assassin not half an hour ago, he could do this.

___

Blitzo had no idea of how much time had passed. Moxxie had fucked off somewhere to ‘go to the bathroom’ what felt like an eons ago and hadn’t come back, the baby had definitely crawled down a fair bit further but he couldn’t feel her head fully pushing at his entrance quite yet, and Millie looked frustrated from what he could see of her.

“I don’t... it...”

“I’m not, like, purple or some shit down there, am I?”

“No, no, nothing like that!” She reassured him. “I just... hogs’re different from people, and Daddy was helping with Mama since I was little, and I just... wanna make sure you are both okay, that’s all, we’ve gotta do this right.” She bounced a little before nodding to herself, shaking off the nerves to steel herself again and crack her neck.

“Hey, if we didn’t have you we’d be doing this raw and uncut, so- fuck, another one.” Blitzo cut himself off as he gritted his teeth, pushing again and glaring at his middle even as he felt her moving. “You’re going one direction, how fucking hard is it to just crawl out a fucking hole?”

At some point, Stolas had started looking a combination of scared and vaguely queasy, but his hand never left Blitzo’s except to take a cool washcloth from Millie to wipe off the sweaty red forehead. (Which probably made sense, considering from what little he’d glanced at, egg birth was much easier. Unlucky fucking roll of the dice there. He probably would have missed feeling her move, though...)

Get her out. That was all he had to focus on, getting her out. Everything else could come after that, even though his bones were heavy and his muscles were lead and his stomach still stung from the holy blade and the tranqs didn’t help nearly enough with the aches down to his blood and his eyes could barely keep open. Get her out, get her out, get her out.

“Okay, I think I’m starting to see her!” Millie encouraged after another dip down. “She’s definitely a big’un, but you’re close.”

“Thank fuck,” Blitzo said, slumping back on the pillow. He’d lost enough sweat to fill up a keg and drown in it, and the thought that the end might be in sight was all that kept him together at this point. “She’s grounded once she’s out for destroying Daddy’s guts. That’s Stolas’s job.”

Stolas and Millie snorted out similar laughs, and Blitzo would have puffed up at the successful delivery if every muscle in his body wasn’t already stressed to the breaking point.

“Alright, on the next push, just go as hard as you can.” Millie said, patting the inside of his thigh and politely ignoring the splash of scar tissue. “It’s probably gonna hurt, but we need to get the skull out, then it’ll all be right as rain, got it?”

“Got it,” Blitzo said, bracing himself as Stolas gave another squeeze on his hand-

Before he nearly snapped the damn thing in half as the pain when he pushed eclipsed almost anything he’d ever felt by a royal mile. He’d taken plenty of big fucking things in his holes, but this was bone on bone, agony on agony, boiling flames.

“God-fucking christ shit-on-a-stick,” he cursed. She was stuck partway in his entrance, the skull thick and wide, blood or some other warm thick fluid oozing around her, and why the fuck had he agreed to this.

“One more, hopefully!” Millie called out. “I’ll try to help her out, you’re so close!”

Stolas bent his long-ass neck to take a look, eyes flaring with a vivid red glow.

“I- she’s right, you can see the top of the head! Oh, she’s almost here, you’re doing wonderful, dear-”

“I can fucking feel it, you don’t need to tell me what’s getting shoved out of my fucking cave of wonders- fuck!” The urge to push rolled through him again, and it was the only thing that could get her out, so even though every solitary inch of him was pleading for rest, he dug his claws in and pushed and pushed and pushed, and Millie wriggled her fingers in to pry him even wider than he ever thought possible and he grabbed the chew toy again to roar as the head popped out.

“There we go! The head’s out!” Millie cheered, and Blitzo would have pointed out that he just fucking said he could feel it, but the energy in his body for witty retorts had been shoved out along with said head, and now he mostly just wanted to pass out for a month.

“So I’m-”

“You’ve still got the shoulders, but those shouldn’t be near as bad,” Millie said with a click of her tongue. “They’re not as big around as the head was.”

He hissed out another curse but braced himself anyway. Mercifully, Millie seemed to get the hint from how boneless his body had become that he was barely hanging on. On the next twitchy contraction, she helped ease the body out as Blitzo pushed, and he felt it slip from between the lips. As she started wailing, he was empty for the first time in months.

Mostly.

There was still the cord between them, slid out through the entrance and connected to her middle, and as Millie gingerly wiped her off, Blitzo felt another pulse running through it and up to his chest as weights dragged at his eyelids and head.

She was alive. She was... he was...

She was okay. She was okay. He hadn’t fucked it up.

“Blitz? Blitz!” Stolas shook his shoulders, but he couldn’t pry his eyelids back open no matter how hard he tried, and sound was starting to swirl into a riptide as he sunk down, down, down.

She was alive, that was what mattered.

There was a flash of blue, and then, nothing.

___

He gasped back to life with a heavy, slightly sticky whimpering weight in his arms. Stolas stared at him with wide eyes, along with Loona, Millie, and Moxxie watching from behind him. His lower half felt like someone had scooped him clean and injected lava up his pussy before sewing him back up with a smack on the ass for luck.

“Blitz? Oh, Blitz!” Stolas yanked him into a hug, shoulders heaving. “We- I- we-”

“The fuck happened...?” He looked down at the squirming bulk in his arms next to a gentle blue glow half-settled inside of his chest, and his eyes snapped wide at the confirmation of what it was.

Their baby, wrapped in a red blanket with horseshoes on it.

Their baby.

“She was... the angelic steel scratches, they must have sunk through the skin somehow,” Stolas said quietly, holding a cloth dotted with watery blood. His other hand was helping to support her head- from the slightly awkward position, he was probably holding her right up until Blitzo woke up. Blitzo shifted her over to get a better look. She felt huge in his arms (of course she did, what with Stolas being twice his size) but was a bit lighter than he’d expect, especially with the healthy layer of fat on her- airy bones, maybe? Her color was a gentle pinkish off-red, although he suspected she would be a brighter shade once her feathers grew in properly, and her eyes were owl-oversized, bulging out of her skull with tiny black lines decorating below them. She had a beak, as well as a pair of nubby black horns with white spotting on the very tips.

On top of that, though... there was a thin horizontal white line crossing the middle of her face like a mask, with white covering the upper half. There was also a small curved ‘bubble’ underneath the left side that had tiny dribbles of black oozing from the thin skin, and a matching circle on the lower right cheek near the chin. Blitzo tentatively brushed a finger over the face- the top part seemed to be an incomplete facial disk to match Stolas’s, something she would have had anyway, but the little bloody bumps were going to be scar tissue, slightly firmer than the silken-soft skin around them. Stolas leaned over to wipe off the new blood for what must have been the second time, cupping her chubby cheeks as his fingers lingered, and she leaned into the touch, glowing slightly.

She was born a fighter.

Blitzo swallowed. “And she’s… okay?”

“Even after she was born, she was instinctively draining you to try and heal herself,” Stolas said, nodding down at the glow. “I had to lend you both some of my own magic, after figuring out how to dilute it to keep it from being too affected by the infection. I...” He choked. “I almost lost you. But.. she seems to be alright. Both of you are.”

“...Thank you,” Blitzo said, unable to stop staring at the little bird squirming in his grasp. She was real. Really real. And the little tail that had slipped from the blanket was mostly impish, with a pair of tiny black feathers on the end where the spade should have been. She looked up at him with yellow pupils and red sclera, and made a questioning coo before leaning against his chest with another pleading whimper that twisted at his heart.

They’d made it.

[sun-daisies]

fic snippet | stranger things | in the half light we're free chapter 3

since ao3 is down for who knows how long I figured I’d dig through some abandoned wips and post some snippets of fics I love but never got to share. feel free to do this too - we can keep each other going until ao3 is back up and running!

By the time junior year is over and the summer sun is blazing over Hawkins once again, Robin realizes that she doesn’t remember much of high school.

She’s three-quarters of the way done with what she’s always been told are some of the best years of her life, and she doesn’t remember a single noteworthy thing she’s done. She doesn’t have a best friend, she’s never actually kissed anyone (not that anyone she would even want to kiss would have any interest in her), she’s barely done anything worth noticing. Sure, she does band, but other than that she blends into the background, keeps her head down and survives by the skin of her teeth. And that’s a choice she made, because she knows that whoever used to say that high school was the best time clearly peaked in high school, and she knows that she is not meant to peak in high school. The world is huge and there’s so much to see, so many people to meet, so many cultures to learn about and places to explore. And she knows she is not meant for East Bumfuck Indiana, where the men are sexist assholes and the women are God-fearing homophobes, where the most interesting thing you can do is go to the stupid new mall and watch capitalism and corporate greed push poor people further into poverty and rich people higher up in the food chain. 

But maybe somewhere deep in her chest she’s a little sad about it - the whole “dissociating through high school” thing, not the mall thing, though that kinda sucks too - because maybe deep down, she wishes she didn’t have to hide. 

(Maybe deep down, she resents the parts of herself that make it so necessary.)

“Are you doing the paper route again this year?” her mother asks her with a raised eyebrow the second she gets home from her last day of junior year.

“Nice to see you too,” Robin snarks back, dampening her frustration with a tight-lipped smile meant to read as humor. 

Her mother’s upper lip twitches, and Robin knows it didn’t land. “Don’t be a smart ass. What about the movie theater?” 

Robin kicks her shoes off by the door and scoops them back up as she starts up the stairs. “I dunno, I haven’t decided yet.”

“Robin!” Her mother appears at the bottom of the stairs as Robin makes her way to the top. She stops, turning around, swallowing an annoyed groan that rises in the back of her throat. 

“Yeah Mom?” She plasters on a fake smile. 

“I told you to start applying a month ago.”

“Yeah, well, I forgot.” Only half true. Several newspaper clippings of help wanted ads sit on her desk collecting dust for the past month, a daily reminder that she kept pushing aside because her brain couldn’t send the signal to her fingers to dial the damn numbers to call. Benny’s Burgers, the grocery store, Palace Arcade, Family Video, and the community pool (ick) are all hiring - she knows because she bikes past them every day, she sees the help wanted signs in the window. And it would be so easy to just stop in on her way home, smile and introduce herself and ask for an application, but she just couldn’t. She’d do it tomorrow when it felt right. And then tomorrow became tomorrow became tomorrow became the weekend and then suddenly a month passed her by and now she’s jobless for the summer. “I’ve been busy.”

Her mother sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. Disappointment, frustration, thinly veiled anger. “Tomorrow morning, you are getting off your ass and not coming home until you get a goddamn job, you hear me Robin?” 

Robin leans against the wall, crossing her arms, eyes trained on the ceiling. “Yeah Mom. Will do.” 

“Try the new mall. I bet they pay a little more than those Mom and Pop places.” 

“Okay Mom.” 

“And you’re at the age where you need to start putting money away if you want to go to college, so you’re going to want higher paid hours and as many of them as you can get this summer.”

Her stomach churns. “Yeah, I know Mom.” Maybe if her paychecks didn’t go towards the damn bills, she’d have a better shot at college.

As if her mom could read her mind, she says; “It’s just been such a strain since your father passed. He’d want you to help your dear mother out, you know.”

“Dad would want to spend the whole summer reading books on the front lawn,” Robin grumbles to herself before she can stop it. She grimaces, regretting it instantly; it’s not that she doesn’t want a job, she does, she knows she needs one and she had full intentions of getting one, it just… got away from her. And something about her mother’s nagging feels like nails under her skin and suddenly there was no way she could bring herself to even consider it. 

If looks could kill, her mother would have stabbed her right through the chest. “Richard wouldn’t want you becoming a couch-surfing deadbeat,” she fires back. “I don’t know why you insist on spending your entire life with your head in the clouds but the real world is out there, not in your head.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose again like the whole thing’s giving her a migraine. “Of course, he’d spoil you rotten and then leave me to deal with it.” 

“That’s not fair, I was going to-” Robin starts to argue, but she cuts herself off before the words tumble out uncontrollably and dig her grave, rolling her eyes instead. “You know what? Nevermind.” Whatever she says won’t ever be the right answer, the right response, so there’s no point in trying. Especially not when there’s a fire in her chest and a lump in her throat. Her feelings always come out all wrong, and they’re too big and they get in her way and she can’t regulate them, especially not with Melissa Buckley. “I’ll go tomorrow. Okay? Happy?” 

She doesn’t wait for an answer before spinning on her heel and slamming her bedroom door behind her. 

The very first thing she decides when she sets foot in Starcourt Mall the next morning is that she really, really hates the mall. 

The lights are so loud and there’s too many indistinguishable noises all meshing together and scraping every inch of her brain raw. And there’s so many people, so many bodies passing her every second, pushing past as they walk with purpose, knowing exactly where they’re going and hardly even seeing that she’s in their way while she tries to get her bearings. 

Eventually she makes her way to the mall directory, where she starts to mentally cross some stores off her list. Jazzercise, no thank you; Starcourt Cinemas, been there, done that; Herman’s World of Sporting Goods, sounds like the perfect spot to be absolutely ripped apart by entitled men, and quite frankly she’d rather slam her tongue in a car door. Her best bet looks like clothes or food, and the food court seems like it’d be the easiest to knock out a bunch of applications in a row and cross her fingers, so that’s where she heads. 

She leaves the mall hours later with a gaudy sailor outfit and a cone of very berry sorbet. 

And on the very first day, none other than Steve “The Hair” Harrington shows up five minutes late to training and Robin decides that it’s going to be a long summer. 

Except… it isn’t. 

Because this isn’t Steve “King of Hawkins High” Harrington. This isn’t Steve “Bagel Crumbs All Over the Floor” Harrington. This isn’t Steve “Pretentious Asshole Douchebag” Harrington. This is Steve, the shining example of “peaked in high school.”

This… this is pathetic. 

What a dingus. An absolute moron pathetic asshole dingus. She almost feels bad for him. Imagine peaking in high school. At least she’s still at the very bottom of the barrel - nowhere to go but up from here, her life hasn’t even started yet. His life ended at 18 with a grad cap, and he’s still here in the town he grew up in, scooping ice cream for a living with absolutely no upward trajectory. What a loser. 

Except… she’s wrong. Again. 

Steve Harrington has a pretty damn good sense of humor, and he gets hers, too. Steve Harrington is a babysitter for kids too old to need one - and when she realizes that he’s actually friends with the middle schoolers, it makes her absolutely giddy. 

And then for the first time ever, Hawkins Indiana becomes interesting. 

It starts with what sounds like some Russian nursery rhyme a strange child somehow managed to get a hold of, and playing along with the boys’ elaborate game of James Bond because it’s at least somewhat entertaining. 

It turns into evil Russians torturing her and Steve underneath the capitalist central in their boring no-name hometown, a gaggle of badass fighter children (one of which has superpowers, because of course she does), and a massive spider monster composed of the congealed remains of what used to be human beings (ew). 

Somewhere in there, there’s drugs and stars on the ceiling and lying on the bathroom tile. There’s confessions and silence and the thrumming of her racing heart in her chest. There’s Steve Harrington, with somehow still perfect hair that defies all laws of physics and a swollen eye and soft smile curving his bloodied lips when he tells her that Tammy Thompson is a total dud. 

(“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I’m Robin, I work with Steve.”) 

At the end of the longest night of her life there’s ambulances and firetrucks and she signs a handful of legal documents that she doesn’t actually read (maybe she’ll regret that later but her head’s throbbing and the edges of her vision are blurry and she’s pretty sure she’s not even in her own body right now). The redhead girl is quiet and sullen and the Black kid is glued to her side, the superpowered one sitting numbly on her other side. Robin finds herself as far from the others as she can get, sitting on the curb with her knees tucked up to her chest, eyes unfocused as she stares at an arbitrary spot on the ground. 

Steve drives her home. Her mom isn’t even home. She probably didn’t even notice that Robin was gone. 

She stands by her previous statement. She really, really hates the mall.

The following days, Robin dreams in fluorescent technicolor, pyrotechnics and blood and blood and blood; Slavic muttering and shimmering metal blades. When she wakes she swears she smells rotting flesh and peppermint stick ice cream, and it takes several minutes to get her heart to stop racing in her chest, for her brain to convince the rest of her body that it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not. 

The following weeks, the world turns in slow motion, the people of Hawkins shaking their heads and muttering about the mall - what a shame - completely unaware of the actual horrors that went down. With every shift in the ground, every sudden noise, Robin finds herself on edge, her stomach churning and her heart racing. And then there’s guilt eclipsing it all, a weird little tugging in her chest because she didn’t realize this was happening she’s never fought a monster like they have she was once ignorant to it all while they saved the world.

The Russians didn’t beat her the way they bludgeoned Steve. God. Steve. 

Steve “The Hair” Harrington is Robin’s first ever real friend since Barb and the irony is not lost on her. 

Steve’s heart is so much bigger than she ever gave him credit for and he’s so much kinder than she probably deserves. The night it went down he slips his number in the palm of her hand and asks, “keep in touch?” with a look on his face that makes her heart melt, that of a lost puppy. One week later she finds herself slipping through his bedroom window, running on three hours of sleep in four days and desperate for air. 

“We all struggled after the first time,” he tells her gently, tracing little shapes on her arm as she leans into his side, craving the warmth. “I still have sleepless nights.” 

This feels selfish, she almost wants to say, but she’s not quite sure if she means her own Upside-Down induced anxiety or how comfortable she feels with him, how easy they settle together. Like two sides of the same coin, or birds of a feather, or whatever they say. It’s so natural, it’s too good to be true. She thinks of him as “her Platonic-with-a-capital-P soulmate” and she thinks she’s the most selfish person in the world for it. 

“My mom’s up my ass about getting another job,” she says in the darkness one night when neither of them can calm their racing thoughts. “How ‘bout yours?” 

He shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t think she has any idea what happened.”

And it occurs to her that she’s only ever seen his Beemer in the driveway. “Have you applied anywhere yet?” she asks, quickly steering away from the subject.

He shakes his head. “Not yet.” He hesitates. “Maybe… we could find something together?” 

She smiles. “Yeah. I have a list of places we could try.”  

The kids follow him from Scoops Ahoy to Family Video, and soon Robin gets to know all of them too - Dustin she already knew, because he worships the ground Steve stands on, but then Mike and Will and Lucas and Max and El come along soon after.

And she quickly realizes why Steve’s friends with so many children, because she grows attached to them all so much faster than she’d like to admit. She cares about with every piece of her soul, so much it fucking hurts sometimes, because as much as she desperately wants this there’s no way she deserves it, there’s no way they’d ever like her if they knew the real her. But try as she might she can’t shake them off, and she thinks it all might be real this time. The small redhead in particular takes a liking to her, and she thinks she might have her own little Dustin. 

Max lingers in the store from the moment their shifts start until the second they close some days, eyes lost and haunted though she camouflages with a wry smirk and quick witted snark. Monday nights Robin has the closing shift by herself and Max settles into her usual spot at the counter, and sometimes she cracks jokes or complains about the boys and sometimes she’s just quiet. It’s somehow been a month since Starcourt and Max is stone-faced and silent, not even cracking a smile at Robin’s lame jokes. As Robin flips the sign to ‘closed,’ Max quietly gathers her stuff, slinging her backpack on one shoulder as she makes for the door.

“Hey,” Robin says gently. “I’m starving, and ever since… you know… I hate going out by myself. Kinda freaks me out.” It’s not even a lie. Max regards her with guarded curiosity. “Wanna grab some pizza and watch a movie or something?”

“Are horror movies out of the question?” Max asks. 

Robin narrows her eyes. “Which horror movie?” 

“Alien?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Max pouts like a child and Robin almost caves. Almost. 

“You mean that movie with the big freaky alien creature that looks exactly like the one we just faced last month?” Robin shakes her head. “I just started sleeping again.” 

Max frowns. “Poltergeist? Friday the 13th? Nightmare on Elm Street?”

“As long as it doesn’t have creepy monster alien creatures, it’s fair game. Deal?” Robin tilts her head towards the stack of movies on the counter. “Bonus points if you take it from the restock pile so I have less work to do.” 

To her surprise, Max ends up picking The Godfather. “There weren’t a ton of options in the restock pile,” she claims, but Robin reshelves Psycho, The Shining, and The Exorcist so she takes it with a grain of salt.

Robin blinks and suddenly it’s the first day of school, and her mother is shouting at her from the bottom of the stairs to get her ass out of bed and out the door. She blinks again and the summer sun turns golden and the leaves start to crisp around the edges. Again and it’s downpouring and she calls Steve and asks for a ride - and he makes it a daily occurrence. Again and she and Max are in the Mayfield trailer watching movies until 3 am because neither of them could sleep. Again and it’s college application deadlines and she finds herself stuck, her feet refusing to move her forward, doubts creeping in her mind. Again and it’s Thanksgiving and Christmas and suddenly it’s 1986 and when did this happen? When did her last quarter of her high school experience suddenly dwindle to the last eighth - when did it suddenly become her graduating year? 

And then it’s January-February-March and Steve drops her off every day and she lays low in school and meets him at Family Video for the closing shift and entertains whichever of their child friends wanders in. 

And then spring break is right around the corner and Queen of Hawkins Chrissy Cunningham is found dead and Eddie “The Freak” Munson is the prime suspect and suddenly they’re in it again. This time it’s not Russian spies, it’s a string of grotesque, mutilation murders. 

(Maybe she preferred the Russians, after all.)

As it turns out, she was wrong about Nancy Wheeler, too.

Nancy Wheeler is not straight laces and perfect hair and dainty embroidery roses dotting the hem of her skirt. She is not sugar and spice and baked apples in a coffee mug. 

Nancy Wheeler is gunsmoke and leather, gritted teeth and harsh, jagged edges. She’s crimson on crisp white, take-no-shit, quick thinking and survival instinct. (And yeah, Robin kind of already knew that from the Starcourt incident, but she actually knows her now.)

But more than anything, Robin decides that Nancy Wheeler is the ocean. Beautiful and strong, endlessly deep. She is the golden sun dipping below the glimmering horizon. Sea spray and salty air and whitecaps that stretch up, up, up - lapping at your feet, crashing against the rocks, relentless, stubborn, dangerous. 

She is the undertow, pulling Robin down, down, down below the cerulean surface, and Robin fears she might drown.

[pentagonieslut]

revenge quartet

warning!! this story contains mentions of mrder, blood, death, drugs, alcoholism, crime solving, and many other triggering things. read at your own risk. characters are real kpop idols so credits to them for any looks, references to their groups/songs, themselves, etc. storyline belongs to me. cases are based off of real ones.

ALL ORGANIZATIONS, GROUPS, PLACES, AND PEOPLE ARE FAKE AND FOR ENTERTAINMENT. IF THEY ARE REAL IT IS PURE COINCIDENCE.

hitting their alarms and hopping out of bed, the four males ran to the bathroom at top speed. shotaro saw the older three stuck in the door and he smirked to himself as he squished in the small opening they had made and slipped through easily. "once again i'm first. sucks to be you guys." he said as he started brushing his teeth with his green toothbrush.

forcing the rest of his body through, yeonjun glared at shotaro and grabbed the orange toothbrush, starting to brush his own teeth. "ah! that's wooyoung hyung's!" shotaro said as he pointed at the other, standing near the shower as to not lose his life. "ah. you're right." sunwoo said as he grabbed his pink one and stood next to shotaro. wooyoung glared at yeonjun and kicked him in his side, sending him into the towel rack and mini shelf they had between the toilet and sink. "ow..you fucking asshole it was a mistake!" he yelled out as he kicked wooyoung back. the two fought each other while sunwoo and shotaro talked about their schedule for the day peacefully.

all four of them had barely managed to get their clothes on within the two minutes they had left for getting dressed. each grabbing their bag and running with a small snack in their mouths, they each went their separate ways and went to their respective places.

everyone except shotaro who turned around right as he got to the entrance of the school, heading towards a different place where he sighed and made sure he wasn't being followed.

as shotaro made it to a nice building that everyone believed was owned by a big conglomerate corporation- which it was. it just belonged to the family. shotaro entered and handed his backpack to one of the men acting as a security guard who bowed and spoke on the intercom of his in ear, letting everyone know that the boss was entering the building.

shotaro laid on the couch and grabbed one of his mangas, starting to read it as a line formed, people waiting to tell him whatever it was they wanted to say. "boss, they're all lined up and ready." one of his hands said as he looked over with an amused smile as he continued to read.

"the dragon clan wants to be partners, they're looking for protection, alliance, and some blue. 90 million." nazaki said as a grunt came from the younger who allowed it. "kento, go with nazaki and make the deal. also be sure to give them the common pleasantries. on my behalf." the two nodded and left, going to make the deal with the clan immediately.

"two traitors, one undercover, and three killed." another member said as youta, shotaro's main right hand showed the pictures of who did what. putting down his manga, shotaro turned his head looked at the older who only sighed and shook his head. "what torture method have i not tried yet? none left? then kill the ones who killed ours, tell the traitors that i want answers and them here now. youta, can i have another snack? i missed breakfast." as the two traitors were brought in and youta served the younger his snacks, placing a hand on top of his head in disappointment and unsurprised that he had missed breakfast again.

"those are the two who betrayed. sold our stuff illegally to an enemy gang and leaked some of our information to them. that's why we had failed deals the past two days." shotaro looked up at youta, a spicy chip in his hand in shock. "should i kill you first for not telling me?" he questioned the taller as he shuddered and cleared his throat. "chop off a finger. no, al capone 1930s style. no, i don't know. youta and akio can choose. but i want it done right here." they got to work and shortly after there was a large pool of blood on the black marble floor. the members were unsurprised except for a few who didn't realize the brutality they could face.

youta had his jacket on the ground, it being used as a towel for shotaro to wipe his face as he had some blood on it. "sir, the deal needs to be made with lions soon. they're waiting on an answer." looking at the female, shotaro sighed and nodded, waving her away. "the usual contract deal and questions."

the door swung wide open and rei ran in, handing a file to the male who opened it and looked at her, making sure. "akio, meet sunwoo hyung and see if he has anything on it."

"hey how did he become boss?" someone asked as they watched the tv in another room where they could see all the news and happening in the office. youta chuckled and changed the channel, swinging the HDMI cable around. "if you become a higher up, you'll know why a high school kid is the boss. but i'd be careful, don't dip your head where it doesn't belong. he's the spawn of satan himself when he wants."

akio entered the police station and kicked a body in, a blank look on his face as he walked to where the detectives were and stood a bit awkwardly, not expecting the chaos so early in the morning. he was better off listening to the complaints of the new recruits about how they were rejected by shotaro to join his private ranks.

"how can i help you?" one detective said as the male looked over at him quickly. "i'm looking for choi sunwoo? he's a forensic scientist? Mr. brain almost?" he said as the other nodded his head and lead him to where he was at. "sunwoo has a guest." the detective said as sunwoo put down his file folder and waved him in, sitting at his chair and tilting his head to the side. "hyung is out asking questions and whatnot. they runt didn't show up to school?"

akio hung his head with a sigh, making sure everything was soundproof and it was only them. "he executed two of them and has several deals being transacted. i'm also here about the case. he wanted to confirm the stuff you found." "its what it is. i checked at the scene too." akio nodded and prepared to leave, taking a gift bag with some of the evidence to bring back to the young male who was most certainly having fun tormenting.

as he returned with the bag, he handed it to rei where she started making sure and comparing the drugs to what they had and what was found. hearing the young male throw a fit, the older made his way to where the sound was coming from only to sigh. shotaro was whining about a strawberry milk spill, which was one of his favorites. "okay. calm down. here's another one."

walking around with his precious milk, shotaro had akio and youta follow him around as he walked the floors of the company building as he looked to see what everyone was up to. "aki-nii, did you have your department investigate properly?" shotaro asked as he stopped and stared at one of the computer screens, a porn video playing loudly and in the open for everyone who walked past to see. "they're doing so now. so far its no gang relation. just a bad deal went right. not from us." "i'm bored. let's go to the gym. the others are there too?"

yeonjun looked frustrated as he sat at his desk and looked through his student's grades. his eye twitched even more at the note his own brother left him, snapping a pen in the process. "these fuckers.." he mumbled as the other teachers bustled about.

entering his classroom again, he looked around and let out a breath of defeat. shotaro still didn't show up. "no sign of shotaro still?" he asked as the others shook their heads and prepared for class. "the theory of love is-" "i'm here, don't beat me." shotaro said as he closed the door and walked over to his seat, only to be dragged by the older who started beating him up.

as shotaro sat down with a busted lip, silent and completed his work, not wanting to piss him off further. "shit.." he cursed quietly, the pain subsiding slower than usual.

as they all got home about an hour apart from each other except for shotaro who went to the company building again, having a feast of sweets eating dango and bunggeopang. "joonhyung hyung, what did you find? kento too. what did you find from both sides?" shotaro asked as he placed his bunggeopang down with the cutest smile that could kill if the wrong thing was said.

"whoever your brother is after is definitely trying to go on a power trip and needs a good fix to hold him over until he can pay back. we think." joonhyung said as shotaro blinked and tilted his head to the side. "what else?" "he stole a surplus amount from one of our shops and has been bouncing from gang to gang trying to see who would help him. but they're all after his head. he's been selling information about everyone and the big corporations too." kento replied as the sound of glass breaking filled the air.

the large dining hall was silent as nobody dared to breathe the wrong way or even look the wrong way even to their equals, knowing the wrath they'd face against the young boss.

"one of my shops, hm?" he questioned, the venom in the statement dripping out quite obviously. nodding his head silently and looking down, waiting silently. "who was in charge of the shop? hm? one of the lowers? which one?" shotaro asked as he spun the knife around and stared the other in the eyes. "we don't know boss. we suspect it's one of the ones that was killed. he ran it and got caught up in the mess." joonhyung said as shotaro threw his knife, anger filling his veins.

"go back to eating. no talking." youta said as shotaro looked at rei, his drug expert. "it was blue and nafaria." she said as she placed the two on the table and stepping back into line. "thank you rei, you're good now. enjoy a meal with the others. they went to your lounge to eat since they're doing transaction paperwork. make sure the drugs are legit please." shotaro said as the older female bowed her head and walked off to grab her food and leave the tense room that could've murdered masses.

shotaro looked around the room and looked back at his hands who kept their heads down, including youta. "eat and stop looking like pieces of beaten up shits. just put everything in a report like a normal office worker. i'll ask the hyungs myself. carry on with conversation and music. the noise is beautiful." he said as the hands nodded and went to their table to eat. "shotaro, its time for you to go back and eat a real meal. all of them are home and the nosey lady left. i'll take you if you want. their assistants are going to be coming here now." youta said as akio and kento stood up, following behind the male who got in the car with a sigh.

shotaro entered the house and looked at his brothers who were each doing their own thing in the surprisingly quiet house. "i'm back." he announced as he walked into the common area and placed his bag near the steps, plopping down at the table to get ready to eat.

"welcome home, sho." sunwoo said as he ruffled the younger's hair and sat at his spot next to the male. wooyoung sat in front of the Japanese boy and yeonjun across from the other. as they all started eating, yeonjun broke the silence. "how was your day sho?" he asked as the other choked on his food. "it was okay. i had to take a shower like three times because i kept getting blood on me." he said as the others nodded their heads and let the other continue to talk.

"the elders are having a discussion with the other elders from the other gangs in the area about something. a joint program i think. it's also almost time to find out if anyone else will be able to join the higher ranks and become my hands. youta said almost everyone applied. kento and joonhyung are investigating on our part of the case from the papers rei gave me. did i mention i almost executed everyone in the dining hall?" he said as everyone froze in place. someone really must've made him mad if even his closest hands were at risk of death.

"i investigated the body thrice. it's like a clean murder with no traces of evidence from the killer left behind. ran tests, everything." sunwoo said as wooyoung sighed and picked up a mushroom. yeonjun shook his head also, no luck with the other prosecutors he had asked. "none of them had a case with the murder being this clean. it's not a copycat." he said as wooyoung groaned. "how are we going to do this?"

[banannabethchase]

I know it's a cliche but god do I feel like I'm in a new circle of hell while on the phone with a cable/wifi company.

[adhdeancas]

Dean Winchester (and the script leaks last night) possessed me to write this.

Dean happens upon Chuck's latest book: Carry On. Except it ends differently than it really went, and the ending? It's really fucking bad.

tw: suicide mention, transphobia (quickly shut the fuck down) 

Dean doesn’t make a habit of going to bookstores. Not because he hates books, contrary to what Sam might think; he just prefers to buy used books. There’s something comforting about a book that has already been worn and read over and over, that already shows how much the previous owner loved it. Plus, y’know, big corporations are evil and all that. And Dean only allows himself to overlook that when his stomach or his wallet wins over his hatred of the shitty mass-produced products. 

This time it was Jack who won; he’s obsessed with this new fantasy series and the new book just came out, so there’s no way he can hunt it down on Ebay. He makes his way to the fantasy and sci-fi section, eyes roaming over the displays of new releases, and his eye catches on something that turns his blood cold. 

“Supernatural: Carry On, The Final Book of the Winchesters’ Epic Journey” takes up a whole table, the generic and overly serious cover jeering out at him. 

He storms over to the display, anger covering up for the way his body feels light as a feather and like lead all at once, and picks up a book. “Why is Sam always fucking shirtless?” he mutters, the only thought that allows itself from the mess inside his head to his mouth. 

“Book sales.” A voice behind him says. He turns to see a teenager with their arms crossed over their work polo, pierced lip fixed into a customer-unfriendly frown.

“People want to see that?”

They snort, a small grin turning up the corner of their lips. It reminds Dean of Cas. “No. But that’s what advertisers think all ‘women’ want,” They use air quotes. 

He raises an eyebrow and asks. “Women?”

They shrug and uncross their arms, leaning back against the display table behind them. Their nametag says Jadyn. “Supernatural’s biggest block of readers is queer. I’d go out on a limb and say a lot of those the marketers think of as ‘women’ aren’t, or if they are, they aren’t itching to see Sam’s six pack.” Jadyn smirks. 

Dean takes a second to digest that, then grins down at the book, thinking past Sam’s apparently badly-received nudity now. “So how’d they like it?” he asks, waving the book a bit and looking up at Jadyn. Apparently they know a lot about the fans of the books, and for once, he’s proud of the way the story ended. 

Jadyn’s face sets into all hard lines. “Most people fucking hated it.” they say bluntly, then, probably remembering that he’s a customer, correct. “Sorry. I mean, it got some good reviews, mostly from people who like Wincest, but beyond that, it had some problematic plot points.”

Dean winces at the reminder of the ship between him and his brother, then scrunches his whole face together in confusion. “Wait, what? Why?” Why would Wincest fans like it? What was problematic about their end?

Jadyn shifts from foot to foot. “I don’t wanna spoil anything for you-”

“I don’t care about spoilers, just give me the short version.” Dean says quickly. A quiet panic is rising in him, and suddenly he has a horrible feeling that he’s not holding the truth in his hands anymore. 

“Uh, okay… Well, the most obvious thing is the bury-your-gays thing, then there’s the fact that it completely contradicted the rest of the lore. And it was ableist, misogynistic, and messed up, like, every character’s arc.” they take a breath, clearly worked up by it. “Even if they changed any of the details too, it was all built on Dean’s death, and that’s just bullshit. Sorry.” they apologize again, apparently mistaking Dean’s stricken expression to be in reaction to their rant and swearing. 

“No, nah, you’re… you’re okay. Uh, thanks.” he waves a hand and wanders away from them, only remembering Jack’s book when he’s almost to the register. He manages to make his way back and find the damn thing, but he’s still in a fog when he gets to the register. 

“Did anyone help you in the store today?”

“Huh?” he looks up and meets the middle-aged cashier’s gaze for the first time. Brent, from the nametag, looks at him impatiently. “Oh, yeah, uh… Jadyn. Jadyn helped me.” Brent scoffs and starts typing with a shake of the head. “Uh, is there a problem?” Dean asks, a little annoyed at this cashier’s unnecessary attitude. He usually doesn’t care if an employee’s rude, because they have to deal with assholes all the time and honestly Dean isn’t much better, but this one gives him a bad feeling. 

“No, no, sorry. It’s just - “Jadyn’s” got this idea that he’s a girl. Makes everybody call him that name now too. Just-” Brent shakes his head. “I mean, you get it. Their generation, everybody wants to be special.”

Dean glares. “No, I don’t get it, Brent.” He says through gritted teeth. “Seems to me like Jadyn probably deals with enough assholes like you that her asking for a little basic decency is the exact opposite of special. Sounds pretty normal, actually.” He can see the fear creep into Brent’s eyes, and he knows the cashier is reacting to the murderous look in his eyes more than his actual words. 

Brent hands Dean his bag of books with a quiet, “Here you go.”

Dean snatches it away. “Oh, Brent?” he checks over his shoulder to make sure they’re alone and then leans across the counter into Brent’s space. “You should find a new job, one where you don’t have to interact with other people. At least until you learn how to stop being a piece of shit.” He starts to ease away but thinks better about it. “And if you think that’s a suggestion, it’s not. My husband likes this book coming out next month that I’ll need to buy, and if I see you here when I come, well… it would be really embarrassing for you to tell all your little friends that you got your ass beat by a ‘special’ guy, huh?” He pats Brent on the cheek condescendingly and leaves with a huff. 

Damn transphobes. 

He only remembers the book once he’s back in Baby, and he takes the time to drive out of town before he pulls over to read it. It’s an old abandoned church, the cross long since fallen from the roof and the doors hanging off their hinges. He sits on the steps just because being in Baby seems claustrophobic for once in his life, and going back to the bunker to look at this is just… not happening.

Dean only skims the beginning to see that it starts the same. The ground erupting with bodies, hell spitting out its most-conveniently placed nasties, Rowena sacrificing herself, Cas leaving. His throat closes up at that, at Chuck’s description of Cas’s heartbroken expression as he climbs the stairs of the bunker. He clears his throat and skips to the end, right past Cas’s death that he doesn’t have the time to think about right now, past them defeating Chuck and then stops. He goes back a few pages, trying to find the disconnect. 

The story’s different.

After Jack takes on God’s power, in the book, he’s totally fine. Not almost vibrating out of his skin or anything, not crying like the three year old he is because he’s scared. Not like it really happened. He just smiles and leaves him and Sam, and they let him go. 

Dean scoffs, skimming over the story as it just gets more ridiculous. 

In the book, he doesn’t even try to save Cas. They barely even mention him. And they never mention Eileen, either. In fact, Dean notes disbelievingly, practically the only characters in the last few chapters are him and Sam. They’re hunting again.

“What, is Chuck trying to keep the series going?” he whispers to himself, anger flaring through him. They let Chuck live, and he decided to write obnoxious fanfiction about them? He’s gonna kill that shameless little fucker. For real, this time. He deserves it.

In the book, Sam and Dean torture some vampire mime, and they enjoy it. Dean cringes; this is really what Chuck thinks of them. Then they tussle with more vamps in a barn and- 

Dean’s brain stops working. He rereads the scene again and again. 

“There’s something in my… something in my back. It feels like it’s right through me.” 

Dean Winchester dies in a dirty barn, on a piece of freaking rebar. 

More than that, Dean realizes on his fourth read-through. This Dean? He tried to drag out his speech, Dean can tell by the way he pauses for fucking drama. He would never do that. He would never talk to Sam for fifteen hellish minutes when he could be trying. Trying to live, so he can actually get his life back on track, get his family back. No, he made that speech stalling. He made that speech so Sam wouldn’t try to save him. 

“You gotta admit, I had one helluva ride.” He was strangely calm.

Chuck made him kill himself.

Dean reads the rest of the book through blurry eyes, reading an ambiguous and nothing-ending, one where he’s somehow happy to be dead and driving around in heaven alone while Sam raises a kid into hunting and cries about Dean decades after he’s died. Eileen isn’t mentioned. Cas is mentioned once, and Bizzarro-Dean doesn’t even think about seeing him, apparently. The whole book ends with a hug between him and Sam, both dead. Both alone. 

Dean rips the ending up. He tears through the stupid paper covering and keeps ripping the pages up until they’re the size of confetti. His lower lip wobbles. He throws the whole thing against the side of the building, and it tumbles through the broken doorway and drops into a pile of dust and dirt. “That isn’t the fucking ending.” he grounds out, knocking his hand against the flimsy handrail. It gives a little under his fist and he kicks at it. “That isn’t the fucking ending!”

He’s having a panic attack. Again. He tries to take deep breaths, but they’re gulping, too big, they’re making him panic more. He scrambles back to Baby and grabs his phone, presses the first number on his favorites list and waits for him to answer on speaker phone.

“Hey Dean, what’s up?” Sam sounds like he’s been laughing. There are voices in the background, and Dean tries to convince himself one of them is Eileen. 

“Hey Sammy.” he chokes out, trying to sound normal. “You busy?”

There’s a pause, and then the sounds in the background. “Nah, Rowena’s just over.” he says casually. 

“So those voices in the background were-”

“Rowena and Eileen, yeah. They’re trying to convince me we need to go to Mexico. For the beaches.” A smile in his voice. Dean lets out a sigh of relief.  What’s up, Dean? You need something?” The smile drops, and Sam’s worried. 

Sam’s okay. Sam’s okay. “No, nah. Hey, you heard from Donna lately?” Dean just needs to triple-check.

“Uh, no, not since Sunday dinner… Dean, you okay?”

“Yeah, she just- she hasn’t been answering my texts. Just wanted to make sure.” Dean lies quickly. His breathing is still uneven, but his body is settling into uneven shakes. 

Sam sounds skeptical. “Yeah, well, she did tell us it’s been pretty busy at work lately. Y’know, everybody going out for the first time with COVID, getting stupid. Plus, y’know, nowhere’s drowning in EMTs right now.”

“Right. Yeah.” Dean takes a deep breath, a distant memory of Donna talking about that coming back to him.

“Pretty sure you were setting up a D&D session with Charlie while she was talking about that,” Sam laughs. Dean knows he means it as a subtle jab, but there’s too much relief flooding through him to care. Still, a string is pulled taut in him, and Sam can’t fix that completely.

“Gotta go, Sam,” Dean hangs up before Sam can say anything else, and goes to his next contact. It rings for far too long, and Dean’s heartbeat picks back up to thundering.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas,” Dean breathes out. “Cas, you know I love you, right?” He needs to test all the bounds of this, to make sure, just to make sure. Make sure Chuck isn’t still fucking with him. Because apparently, Chuck won’t let him be queer. Not in his story. Not out loud.

He can hear Cas’s eyebrow raise through the phone, and his chest is overcome with stupid fondness. “I would be a little worried if you didn’t.”

Dean grins widely. “Like, romantically. I’m in love with you. Because you’re the love of my life and I’m bisexual.” He says it all like it’s a checklist, like he expects some cosmic being to slap a hand over his mouth before he gets each next phrase out.

“Yes, Dean. We’ve been married almost two months.” Cas is smiling. It happens everytime he talks about their wedding. Dean adores it. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, now it is.” His whole body relaxes, still vibrating with leftover panic, but satisfied. “I got Jack’s book.”

“Oh, good. He’ll be so pleased.” Cas pauses. “Dean, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Dean eases off the ground and sends a last look at the dilapidated church before climbing into Baby. “Just- read a bad book. I’ll tell you about it later. When I get home.”

[adarlingwrites]

Dormouse

Summary:

After playing a game with two of The Beach's most dangerous members, the dormouse gets her tail caught by a tiger's paw.

He’ll make a wildcat out of her.

Author’s note: I kind of regret the song choice due to its association with a certain movie but... it fits the chapter's themes. -shrug-

Edit: Changed the song I associated with this chapter because I think it suits Aguni and Yamaneko's pseudo-paternal relationship, which was highlighted more than the murder mystery on the Beach

go ahead and cry, little boy | you know that your daddy did too, you know what your mama went through | you gotta let it out soon, just let it out

X

As if a spotlight had been shone on her, Yamaneko’s body tenses at everyone’s scrutiny.

“Why does this concern me?” she starts, looking at the faces around her, all of them with varying degrees of wariness, save for her fellow militants. Her eyes flick to her father’s, and resentment blooms in her chest, spreading through her veins like bitter poison.

“She’s your stepmother,” Ann responds, examining the victim’s corpse with the purpose of scrutinizing every detail. Then, her eyes flick to Mr. Yamane, looking at him with an unreadable expression. “Though, she looks more like an older sister.”

“We weren’t close. I haven’t spoken a word to her before we arrived on the Beach.”

Ann tilts the victim’s head with a gloved hand, exposing the wound to view. “I’ve yet to examine the wound, but it’s clear that whoever killed her used a sharp object. You’re one of the few militants who exclusively carry a bladed weapon, along with Last Boss.”

Folding her arms Yamaneko was about to go off on the taller woman, but she mentions something else. ”He’s under suspicion, too,” she mentions as she motioned to Mr. Yamane. “Her body was dumped from their shared room.”

“Me? That’s preposterous! Are you suggesting that I have something to do with my own wife’s death? I’m not even allowed to hold a weapon! It’s those militants you should be looking at.”

“You know what?” Yamaneko interrupts, bringing all the attention back to her when her head whips towards his direction, and her voice drips with venom at every syllable she utters. “If you can beat your first wife and your daughters for years, and lie through your teeth every time the authorities get involved, I believe you have the capacity to be violent with anyone and lie to our faces.”

“You dare accuse me when you’re the one who carries a weapon and holds a criminal record,” Mr. Yamane spits back, pointing at his estranged daughter with a wrinkled finger, spittle flying from his mouth. “I’ve raised you myself. You’re an uncontrollable child. Disobedient. Delinquent! You dirtied the family’s name when your name showed up on the tabloids twice. It’s no wonder even your sister gave up on you.”

It took every fiber of Yamaneko’s self control to stop her from lunging at her father’s provocation. Instead, she hissed through gritted teeth. “Don’t bring Mai into this. You are the reason why I had to resort to stealing! You kicked me out. I couldn’t even find an apartment without a guarantor because I was a minor. Do you think I would resort to that if I wasn’t so desperate without a family’s support? That criminal record means nothing here anyway!”

“My, my, this is a conversation you shouldn’t be having in front of strangers. Are scandals really commonplace in your family?” Niragi interrupts, and aims his rifle at Mr. Yamane’s chest. “Why don’t we just kill the old man?”

“See?! Even the company you keep reflects who you really are,” Mr. Yamane blurts, face red from rage. “No amount of discipline I tried to instill in Minami worked to keep her in check. She's a criminal. It’s why I disowned her.”

Aguni remains stoic throughout the entire ordeal, but the last thing the Yamacorp CEO said stirred something hateful inside him. He towered over Mr. Yamane in a show of intimidation. “I thought I heard you call my underling ‘daughter’ in that confrontation I broke up. So which is it?”

And just like that, Mr. Yamane’s domineering facade crumbles, stammering to answer the militants’ chief.

Hatter holds out an open palm, motioning everyone to quiet down. “These accusations won’t get us anywhere. Regardless of who killed Mrs. Yamane, peace on the Beach has been disturbed,” he mutters, expression grim, and jovial demeanor absent.

“The number of violent cases has been rising, but we have handled them quietly. This one is a public spectacle that might send ripples of fear through the entire Beach. Aguni, tell your men to go harder on their patrols and to keep themselves restrained.”

“You’re not even going to interrogate her?” Mr. Yamane exclaims, pointing at his daughter.

This time, Aguni is openly sneering at him. “Why are you so eager to accuse my underling of a murder, old man?”

The former CEO shrinks before Aguni, and any bravado he had dissipated. Yamaneko couldn’t suppress a satisfied smirk.

“Ah, Mr. Yamane, you were some corporate bigwig before coming to this country, am I right?” Hatter asks him. “As number one,” he nearly growls, voice dropping an octave. “I call the shots here. Your daughter brought back high-value cards from the games. Any member of the Beach like that is a fine asset. Unless she’s proven to be a traitor, murderer or not, no action will be taken against her without the executive board’s say.”

“Then you’re complicit in my wife’s murder. I won’t forget this,” Mr. Yamane spits, turning around to barge out the door.

Niragi scoffs at his dramatic exit. “I really want to put a bullet between his eyes. What a bastard, shitting on the military sect like that.”

“As much as I hate that asshole’s guts, you killing him right after his wife just died would just draw more suspicion to me, and the other militants,” Yamaneko replies, folding her arms and eyebrows creased.

From the corner of her eyes, Mira glances at her with a newfound curiosity.

“I think I should also mention that he begged me for help to get out of this place. The executive board should watch out. He’s known for stabbing business associates in the back to climb the ranks. My father is highly manipulative, and doesn’t stop until he gets the result that he wants,” Yamaneko adds.

“Hmm. He sounds like a potential Heart specialist too. Perhaps it runs in the family?” Mira croons thoughtfully, looking at her with the eyes of a child examining a shiny new bug she had found in the garden. “Ah, but you’re willing to impart information about your own father for the sake of the Beach and the executive board?” she asks.

Yamaneko cringes at the comparison between her and her father. “My loyalty is to the Beach, and to my chief. My chief is part of the executive board, isn’t he?”

Mira regards the CEO’s estranged daughter for a moment, and grins.

“That’s enough. Hopefully this incident is just an isolated case. Ann, if any similar cases show up, you know what to do,” Hatter said, almost with an air of boredom. And with that, Hatter leaves, adjourning the meeting.

“I do think an interrogation is in order, though. If you would allow me to borrow her for a moment, Aguni?” Ann asks, tilting her head towards Yamaneko.

Aguni’s stony expression turns sour, but he nods. The younger militant steps right ahead. “If it helps me prove that I have nothing to do with this, sure.”

The chief backs off, and he turns to the rest of the militants present. “I want to have a word with the two of you. Now.”

As the chief goes off on Niragi and Last Boss, Yamaneko follows Ann to a storage closet for cleaning supplies, and clears her throat.

“Well? We’re clearly not here to play seven minutes in heaven, so if you have a question, shoot.”

Ann rolls her eyes, expression otherwise stoic. “Right. How do you usually execute traitors?”

Yamaneko gulps, looking at her hands. “I usually aim for the carotid, or any other large artery I can target.”

“And why do you choose that method? Are there any advantages to it?” Ann asks, taking out a notepad and starting to jot down on it.

“It puts them out of their misery fast. Plus, the blood spurts in one steady stream without much spraying. It makes cleanup easier.”

Ann nods, and flips a page on the notepad. “What were you doing at around ten thirty in the morning?”

“Grabbing lunch at the lobby,” Yamaneko responds, folding her arms.

“Who were you with? Who did you speak to?”

“Last Boss. Though, I saw my father in the lobby too.”

Nodding and writing, Ann continues. “And what were you doing around two hours before the incident?”

Yamaneko hesitated for a moment, and Ann watched her like a hawk, noting the shift in her body language. Clearing her throat, the militant stammers. “I… I was having sex.”

“With whom?” Ann asks with a completely straight face, pausing from writing on the notepad.

“Is this even necessary to ask? God… I was doing it with Last Boss, obviously. I’m pretty sure some of the people in the rooms nearby heard us too,” Yamaneko says through her teeth, shifting her weight on one foot. “Can I go now?” she asks, face red.

Ann nods, and tucks away her notepad and pen. “You’re free to go.”

The militant leaves. She meets up with the others, who were receiving a tongue-lashing from the chief, and she joins their misery. Afterwards, Aguni motions at his underlings, and they follow. As they walked through the halls of the hotel, Yamaneko felt strength in their numbers.

Then, Aguni halts. “Yamane.” Her head perks up. “How many visa days do you have left?”

She pauses for a moment to think. “More than a week.”

“You’re on patrol duty with me for a few nights.”

“Right. Understood, chief.”

“Meet me tonight at the gate. You’re all free to leave.”

Niragi went ahead and trudged off, mood sour from Aguni’s reminders on the use of violence on the Beach. After checking if no one else is around, Last Boss puts an arm around Yamaneko’s waist, eyes searching hers.

“I’m okay,” she reassures him, before pressing a quick peck on his lips.

“You haven’t been on a patrol yet, haven’t you?” Takatora asked her.

“Mhmm.”

“Stay alert,” he says, voice hinting at some softness.

“Of course.”

Takatora would be lying if he said that he’s nervous about his lover’s first patrol, but as he watches Yamaneko meet up with their leader from a window, he felt some relief knowing that she’s made it far enough to rise to number sixteen and gain some semblance of trust from their chief.

Feeling a little cold from the absence of her jacket, Yamaneko walks towards Aguni, doing the best she can to look focused. She wouldn’t want to disappoint him on her first patrol.

“Yamane, eyes peeled,” Aguni said as he drew his pistol and motioned the younger militant to follow.

“Yes, chief.”

Halfway through their patrol, Yamaneko speaks up. “By the way chief, could you refer to me with my nickname instead?”

This gains her a stern, questioning look. “I don’t want to be associated with my father’s family name anymore.”

The look on Aguni’s face softens ever so slightly, and he grunts in acknowledgment.

“You don’t have to call me chief all the time,” Aguni says to her after some time as he scanned the perimeter for any suspicious activity. His underling looks up to him, a curious look on her face. She hasn’t heard the chief say much outside of games.

“But I find it respectful,” Yamaneko replies, hands hovering near her thighs, where her knives are holstered. Aguni blinks a few times before moving again.

“With proper training, you’d fit in with the SDF. There are more female recruits now, I heard.”

“Nah. I’m too much of a non-conformist for that.”

“And what makes you say that?”

Yamaneko motions to her face with one hand. “Good luck trying to scrub all this makeup off my face, chief.”

The snort he gives her sounds almost amused, but Aguni’s expression remains stern. “That attitude of yours, did it get you in trouble with your father?”

Yamaneko is taken aback from the personal question, but nonetheless, she responds to her leader. “Well, yes. I tried to suppress it and be a good daughter, I promise. Regardless, it’s just an excuse to beat me. Everything I did got me in trouble with him,” Yamaneko says almost too casually, as if her experiences weren’t the damaging, traumatic ones that lingered for years.

Old, painful memories started to stir within Aguni’s psyche upon hearing Yamaneko open up about her own upbringing. In the young woman before him, he saw shards of his past self, the angry young man who wanted to get back at his own father, but was robbed of the opportunity due to his death. His knuckles turn white from the rage simmering in his heart.

They continued walking, looking over the fences for any possible intruders. Every now and then, Aguni would tell the young militant what to watch out for, and what to do in certain scenarios. The patrol ended peacefully, much to Yamaneko’s relief. She leaned against a fence when they got back to the gate. Aguni folds his arms and observes her.

“Is there anything else you need, chief?” Yamaneko asks, a hint of nervousness in her voice.

“Yamaneko, day or night?”

“Uh, night.”

“From now on, you’re training with me every five in the afternoon, sharp.”

Eyebrows rising up her forehead, Yamaneko has a dumbfounded look on her face. “Training? For what?”

“Do you want to gain an edge over your bastard father, or not?”

One look in the chief’s eyes, and she knew he had similar experiences in the past; of feeling small and powerless against someone who should have been one’s shelter from the world. “Yes.”

“Then don’t be late.”

Aguni leaves, while a dumbfounded Yamaneko stays in her spot, still processing the events of the day. Cold fingers trail on her good shoulder and she turns to see her lover’s face. A smile blooms on her painted lips.

“Takatora. You didn’t attend a game?”

“I was patrolling on the upper floors. I can’t leave you here on the Beach alone either.”

“Ah,” she replies, holding his hand as they walk back to their room. “I guess we deserve a little break from all the madness of the games.”

After some time, as they lay on their shared bed, Yamaneko asks her lover a question. “Are you worried about my father being here?”

He nods, and squeezes her small hand.

“Don’t worry too much. Besides, the chief said he’ll be training me every five in the afternoon. I’ll kick the bastard’s ass if he tries anything.”

Takatora tilts his head. “The chief?” he asks almost disbelievingly.

“Yeah. It’s kind of strange.”

“You didn’t do anything to earn his ire, didn’t you?”

Yamaneko raises an eyebrow. “No.”

“Good luck. He’s... strict.”

“I know, I know.”

The first day she trained with Aguni, she expected it to be difficult, but not this severe. The wildcat pants as she ran her second lap around the Beach, sweat dripping from her skin and stinging the healing burns on her left arm. Onlookers were staring, and some militants were chuckling among themselves. Niragi sees her, and yells after her.

“Yamaneko, what the hell are you doing?”

“Chief wanted me to run laps!” she shouts, voice hoarse.

“What did you do?”

“Huh?” Yamaneko asks, irritation growing. “No time to talk, gotta run!”

Hanako, the militant who once accompanied her in the dressing room, watches as Yamaneko jogs past her, raising an eyebrow. “Huh. When the chief asks us to do something like that, it’s usually because we pissed him off,” she mutters.

“She must’ve pissed him off bad, then,” Saiko butts in, passing the other girl a cigarette.

As fast as her legs can take her, Yamaneko sprints at the last few meters when Aguni comes into view. As she runs past him, she collapses and lies on the ground. Her feet ache, and it doesn’t help that her sandals aren’t made for running.

“What the hell are you doing? You need to cool down. Walk!” he barks, and Yamaneko suppresses a pathetic sigh as she forces herself up. She paces around in circles, occasionally stretching her arms and legs. Satisfied, Aguni lets her sit, and he tosses her a bottle of water. She gulps it down.

“I’m gonna hit the showers now, chief,” she pants, and Aguni tilts his head.

“You think you’re done for the day?” he asks.

Yamaneko couldn’t answer, looking at him in disbelief.

“Not yet, you’re not. You still have some grapples and knife techniques to study. Stand up!”

She swore she wanted to cry, but Yamaneko kept her mouth in a tight line, swallowed hard, and got on her feet.

“This is nothing compared to the shit I endured in the past,” she thinks to herself, and carries on.

Two. Three. Five. Ten times, she ended up on her ass, disarmed and beaten by the chief every single time. As she was starting to reconsider what she thought earlier, the chief holds a meaty hand out, and she grabs it. Aguni helps her to her feet, and pats her back, almost making her lurch forward.

Yamaneko freezes at the friendly touch. All the touches she got from authority figures, her father especially, was nothing like this.

“Focus on your footwork.”

Then, he leaves without saying anything else. Tired, bruised, but fulfilled, Yamaneko shouts a spirited “Yes, chief!” as he walks away.

Taking a deep breath, the younger militant finishes what’s left of her water, and heads back to her shared room. Takatora is waiting inside, fresh from a patrol, and upon seeing her sweaty and disheveled form, he lets go of whatever he was reading to check on her.

Yamaneko holds two thumbs up and beams at him, voice failing her.

“Did the chief go too hard on you?”

“No. Well, yes. But, it’s fine. I learned a lot,” she says as she sits next to him. “You know, he’s more of a parental figure to me than my own father.”

Takatora snorts at the idea of Aguni being a father, but the more he thought about it, the more he agreed with her. He’ll never say it out loud, though.

On the tenth day of Yamaneko’s training, in the middle of sparring with the chief, one of Hatter’s men approached them.

“Aguni. Please come with us. Take her with you too,” he says in an urgent manner, brows furrowed in concern.

“You better have a good reason for this interruption,” he growls, picking up a towel and slinging it over his shoulder.

“There’s been another killing. Please take care of it discreetly. Hatter doesn’t like it when things like this goes public.”

A lump forms in Yamaneko’s throat as she follows Aguni to the hotel room holding the victim. When they arrived, Ann was there, assessing the situation, and the victim sprawled on the floor, a diagonal cut on his neck. A few men were setting up a stretcher nearby, and they halted when they saw the leader of the militants enter the room.

“It’s similar to the previous case,” Ann starts, taking off her shades. “The wounds are consistent with the type I found on Mrs. Yamane. A laceration to the neck with a sharp object,” she continues, holding a clean handkerchief and tilting the victim’s head. “And this time, the glass fragments stuck on his skin are more obvious. Whoever committed these murders used a shard of glass as an improvised weapon.”

The taller woman turns to Yamaneko. “I’ve corroborated your statement with the other residents on your floor. They indeed heard you that morning, so you couldn’t have been with your stepmother. Your method of exsanguinating traitors before disposal doesn’t align with the ones used in these murders, either. The odds of you being the killer are low, from this information.”

“Any clue on the killer's identity?” Aguni asks, watching the corpse. The victim died with his eyes wide open, the look of terror etched on his face.

“We have a lead,” says Ann, full of cold confidence. “For now, bring her to the makeshift lab discreetly. I need to do a full autopsy.”

Boots thudding against the floor, Aguni walks towards the corpse, and hooks his arms under his armpits. Instinctively, Yamaneko grabs his feet. As they lay him down on the stretcher, the victim’s mangled arm, riddled with stab wounds due to his attempt of protecting himself from his assailant, slips and dangles off the edge. Looking around, Yamaneko grabs the end of a curtain, and puts it back in place. The victim’s Beach tag, number 28, reflects the moonlight streaming from the window, and Yamaneko’s eyes trail to the glittering mess of broken glass on the floor, which contrasts with the dark blood splatters on the wood.

“Hey, Ann,” she calls her attention. “I think I found the murder weapon.”

The taller woman hands her the handkerchief, and she picks up a large shard of glass, its pointed end jagged and stained with blood. Ann holds it out in the light, making out some fingerprints.

“Good,” she said, then she prompts them to follow.

“That face is going to haunt me,” one of Hatter’s men comments, and Yamaneko gulps.

“Me too,” she adds.

Hatter’s devotee looks at the militant, a question hanging from his open mouth, but he chooses to keep it shut. Sensing his hesitation, Yamaneko rolls her eyes and quietly gets to work.

Glancing at the dead’s face, whose eyes were frozen in an expression of distress, Yamaneko grimaces and closes his eyes with her fingers. She pulls the curtains off the rods, and covers his bloody body. The crimson quickly soaks through the fabric.

That night, the wildcat sat in the bath longer than usual.

Wading over to his lover’s side, Takatora helps Yamaneko settle into his chest as he wraps both arms around her. In silence, she mulls about her day, brows furrowed.

“You’re bothered by something,” Takatora speaks up.

“I had to carry a corpse with the chief earlier. And my father is still living on the Beach. Ugh. Takatora, I just want to get away from all this. I mean, I’m not going to leave and turn traitor. I crave some change of scenery, maybe explore some places outside the Beach.”

Playing with Yamaneko’s hair, Takatora presses his mouth behind her head. “Supply runners leave for food and gasoline at eight in the morning. I help put away the gas when they return in the afternoon.”

Yamaneko looks up to give him a mischievous grin. “Do you think we can scare them into driving for us?”

He nods, and she laughs with a childish giddiness.

“Great! There’s this place I’ve been wanting to visit again.”

[swaps55]

Wait what's the laxative accident, or is that in a fic?

Aahaha, yes, I probably explained that poorly. 

The Myeongnyang, is part of the cruiser Madrid’s wolf pack. At some point, when Shepard’s squad is on board the Madrid, Kaidan has a run in with a Lieutenant who gives him shit about being a biotic.

The Laxative Incident involves Shepard and Kaidan’s squad of well-meaning marines taking things into their own hands, because no one fucks with the Yang Gang and gets away with it.

It’s a story that’s been a rough draft for a long time and needs a rather dramatic overhaul, but I’m still amused by this bit: 

Pendergrass rocks back and forth on her heels a little as they wait for the Myeongnyang’s airlock to cycle. Beaudoin finds a fascinating spot on the wall to stare at. Only Aslany dares to make eye contact. Her arms are folded across her chest, weight perched on one leg with her hip cocked. Shepard’s face looks like the onset of a thunderstorm. Kaidan does his best to remain perfectly neutral.

Captain Oseguera lets them all pass without a word when they board the ship, but one look at her face makes it clear that she’s in the loop. Pendergrass looks like she wants to melt into the floor. Just before the troops can scatter and escape, Shepard clears his throat.

“Briefing room. Now.”

All three of them deflate, but obey orders without protest. Kaidan follows Shepard into the briefing room. This is his fault. He should have seen it coming.

After the door swishes shut, Shepard paces wordlessly before the three marines, only prolonging their agony.

“I have no proof,” he says finally. Relief crosses Beaudoin’s face, though he smooths it away quickly. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know. Who the hell thought that was a good idea?”

Dead silence.

Unfortunately for them, Shepard’s patience, normally nonexistent, has suddenly turned infinite.

Pendergrass breaks first.

“He was threatening the lieutenant,” she says.  “We…diffused the situation without violence.”

Well. That’s one way to spin it.

“You diffused it?” Shepard thunders. “By humiliating him in front of his unit? Corporal Pendergrass, we work together as a team. We do not, under any circumstances, alienate, belittle or humiliate our fellow soldiers.”

“What about assholes, sir?” Aslany says, and Kaidan closes his eyes and suppresses a groan.

Shepard turns that piercing gaze on her. Strangely it’s devoid of anger, but the intensity of it is enough to make her flinch. “Are you his superior officer?” he demands.

“No, sir.”

“That’s who gets to decide if he’s an asshole.”

“But the LT – “

“Lieutenant Alenko is more than capable of handling a jarhead, Sergeant. And should he have needed to handle something, Lieutenant Alenko understands how the chain of command works.”

Silence reigns.

“Who the fuck gave any of you a laxative?” Shepard demands.

Pendergrass shuffles her feet. Aslany’s eyebrow jumps in a desperate attempt to cover up a smirk. Beaudoin runs a hand over his head and mutters something under his breath. None of them answer.

“I’m waiting, marines.”

“We’re not the only ones who think Gasparini’s an asshole, sir,” Beaudoin says finally. “Just the only ones with guts.”

Shepard grinds his teeth. “Get out.”

They do not need to be told twice.

Shepard’s gaze stays on the door until it closes, at which point he leans back against a railing and chuckles. 

Kaidan raises an eyebrow. “Something funny, Commander?” 

“Did you see it happen?” Shepard asks. 

Kaidan nods. “Yeah, we were all in the mess when he kicked over a table trying to make the head in time.” He tries to cover a smile and only half succeeds. Gasparini had been a lot quicker than his bulk suggested, but in the crowded mess he’d had to carve quite a path, spewing gas out his rear end the whole way. It had been…quite the sight. And smell. 

“Who’s your money on?” There’s an amused spark in Shepard’s eye that Kaidan hadn’t been expecting. He’d bought into Shepard’s fury as much as the marines had.

“Pendergrass’s idea,” he says without hesitation. “Should have seen something coming a mile away. My guess is Beaudoin charmed a pissed off noncom to get the laxative and Aslany delivered the package.” 

Shepard nods. “My thoughts exactly.” He laughs. “I bet it was something to see.”

[honibee-arts]

dramatic villain nie huaisang and hero jiang cheng? maybe nie huaisang flirts with the hero while jiang cheng is kinda horny but has a duty to fulfill?

Just a warning this gets a little steamy but its a kind of pan to the window vibe. I will mark this as NSFWish text to be safe though.

"Jie, I don't think I can get all of these people out of here in time.” Jiang Cheng panted into his headset, holding the crumbling ceiling up with one arm, watching the people run out.

He heard his sister sigh, her manicured nails clicking against her keyboard.

“Lightbearer and Moonbeam should be on the scene in the next two minutes.” she replied.

“Jie, I don’t have two minutes. This building is going to collapse in the next thirty fucking seconds.” 

“A-Cheng, language.”

“I’m holding up a building, I don’t even have super strength. I’m gonna die like this. Can’t you tell them to hurry up?” He grit his teeth. He’s going to have a fucking hernia and broken bones after this shit, and he was going to make that stoic asshole Lightbearer pay for his goddamn medical bills. He probably had more than enough money.

“They’re going as fast as they can, A-Cheng.”

“And your boyfriend couldn’t come and help?”

“A-Xuan’s taking A-Ling today so you could patrol, remember?”

“It’s hard to remember when I’m being crushed.”

Jiang Cheng widened his stance, pushing the crumbling ceiling back up with both hands, growling in pain. Black spots began to gather in his vision, his static flickering across his visor from the strain on his suit. 

“We’ll take it from here, thank you, Violet Spider.” Came Moonbeam’s firm yet gentle tone, taking the weight literally off of Jiang Cheng’s shoulders.

“About fucking time.” He wheezed, taking a deep breath as his arms dropped by his sides, wincing in pain.

“Would appreciate some gratitude.” Lightbearer huffed petulantly as he helped his brother carefully lift the falling ceiling back up, holding it there in an eerie white glow.

Jiang Cheng rolled his eyes as the remaining people rushed past them, scrambling to get out of there as quickly as possible. Jiang Cheng didn’t blame them in their haste, not one bit. He didn’t like being the one to hold that shit up.

“Are you alright, A-Cheng?” His sister asked in his earpiece, the display on his visor recalibrating.

“Yeah, yeah. Just. Exhausted...” he stood back and caught his breath.

“I’ll make sure to have some lotus rib soup for you when you get home, A-Cheng. I’ll check over your injuries too.”

“A-Jie, you don’t need to do that.”

“Aiya, hush. It’s nothing. I’ll check what the damages are to your suit too.”

“A-Jie...”

“No buts, A-Cheng.”

He sighed and looked down, his hair falling over his visor as he stared at the rubble beneath his feet.

“I’m going to have the longest goddamn nap in history after this.”

“You deserve it, A-Cheng.” A-Jie hummed. “Thank you, A-Xuan.” she said softly, sipping what Jiang Cheng assumed was a cup of tea handed to her by her boyfriend.

In his visor, purple warning symbols flared up in his periphery.

“A-Cheng-”

“On it.” He said as he spotted a flare of green a few blocks away. Gritting his teeth against the ache in his arms, Jiang Cheng jumped up onto the wall of the nearest building, scaling it as quickly as possible and sprinting across the rooftops.

Sometimes, only sometimes, Jiang Cheng hated this fucking job. Sure, he could have a normal 9-5 job and earn a stable income, but no, he just had to be born the son of Yunmeng’s protector and inherit her powers and mantle, along with a load of fucking pressure. He just had to have been trained intensely by his mother, day in and day out from the second his powers manifested at 11. He just had to have had the heroes instinct and the motto of “Attempt the impossible” drummed into him since he was a child.

As much as he wanted to push back against his instinct to protect in favour of his exhaustion sometimes, he couldn’t stop himself. 

The blasts led him to the Jin Corporation office building in Yunping, only a half mile from the crumbling building he was just almost crushed under.

“A-Jie, the source is coming from the Jin Corp. offices in Yunping.”

“Mm. I saw. The building that you were just in was a Jin owned business too.” She replied thoughtfully.

“Does your boyfriend know anything about someone that might have been slated by his father? Cousin maybe?”

“Nothing. I know Jin Guangyao had a complicated relationship with Red Blade. There were rumours about him having something to do with his retirement.”

‘Retirement’ had been a delicate way of putting what happened to Red Blade. When Jiang Cheng had first come onto the hero scene, Red Blade had taken him under his wing. He had been something of an older brother figure, despite being the protector of Qinghe rather than Yunmeng. 

He had been familiar with Jiang Cheng’s abilities, having also been mentored by Jiang Cheng’s predecessor. Everyone knew and respected Red Blade. His super strength and speed was matched by none, in his prime he could leap a building in a single bound and punch a meteor out of the sky without so much as a single scratch. With all that power however, came a price. Red Blade had been prone to feral rages which were difficult to pull him out of, very few people could. Moonbeam seemed to be the only one beside whoever was in his ear all the time who could do it.

About six months ago, Red Blade had disappeared for three days. Moonbeam had found him snarling and bleeding from his eyes, his right arm severed and his eyes white. How Red Blade had survived, Jiang Cheng had no idea. After a few weeks in a medically induced coma, Red Blade had announced his retirement and hung up his mantle for good. Only Moonbeam was said to know what had happened to him following his retirement. There was sometime unspoken between those two that Jiang Cheng couldn’t quite figure out but stank of probably resolved sexual tension.

“Shit!” Jiang Cheng cursed, narrowly avoiding a blast of green energy, rolling onto the nearest roof and ducking for cover.

“A-Cheng.” A-Jie chided.

“Like you didn’t say worse when you were being shot at.” Jiang Cheng argued, sending a bolt of violet lighting back.

“Back in the day, I didn’t run my mouth like a sailor, A-Cheng.” 

“I bet you don’t miss this part of heroing, huh?”

“There are times I am grateful I took a permanent maternity leave, yes.” She replied. “A-Cheng! On your left! Someone’s coming your way, and its not anyone on the Lotus servers. Be on your guard.”

Jiang Cheng nodded and raised his hackles as a a figure cloaked in blinding green energy floated onto the building, their black heels clicking against the concrete roof. As soon as the figure was close enough, Jiang Cheng shot a bolt of lightning in their direction, yet, to his horror, it was deflected easily.

“Come on out little spider, I won’t hurt you.” The figure said.

Jiang Cheng swallowed thickly and stepped out, hackles still raised.

“Aiya, so defensive. Put your arms down so I can see your pretty face. I won’t try anything.” Jiang Cheng slowly lowered his arms but kept his guard up, stance firm. “So stubborn. That’s better though, hello handsome.” 

The figure was slender, androgynous with long, dark hair that shone in their eerie green glow and flowed behind them in the wind, their eyes afire with the energy that seemed pulse from their entire being, almost drawing Jiang Cheng in like a moth to a particularly deadly yet hard to resist flame. Their body was wrapped in a skin-tight leather-like substance with mesh panels, leaving even less to the imagination, half of their face obscured by a mask that started at the neck and wrapped around his mouth and nose.

Jiang Cheng swallowed thickly, ready to burst into action whenever necessary.

“And what should I call you?” Jiang Cheng said steadily.

“Well, I go by he/him pronouns, but I do quite like it when sexy men like you call me beautiful.” He giggled, bouncing on his heels a little. “Binary terms are horseshit anyway, gender is a social construct.”

“Not what I meant but. I don’t like misgendering people. Even if they’re tearing up half the fucking city. So. Thanks.”

“Well, I haven’t really given myself a name yet.” The man hummed, snapping open one of the fans in his hand and fluttering it lightly. “Kinda just wanted to do one thing and hang up the whole thing I guess.”

“And you wanted to what, not get caught?”

“Well, something of the sort.”

“And you assumed you could do this tearing up half the city looking like a green lava lamp dressed like a hooker?”

“A-Cheng! Be nice!”

“Yes, listen to your sister, A-Cheng.”

“How do you know that!” Jiang Cheng snapped, his hands sparking.

“Whoa, whoa, easy hot stuff, I mean you and your family no harm. You have your headset on way too loud and everyone can hear you saying A-Jie so. Go figure.”

“Alright... I’ll be more mindful in the future.”

“He seems genuine, A-Cheng. I’m going to log off for now, but I’ll keep an eye on your vitals and see if you seem like you need help.”

“Alright...” He heard the line go quiet, her lotus icon in the corner of his visor going totally transparent. 

“Is it just us?” The man asked. 

“Yeah. Just us. So. What the fuck is your deal?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“The Jin corporation have fucked plenty of innocent people over, but there are also innocent people in that tower you’re trying to destroy.”

“They’re collateral. I’ve accepted those losses.” The man said, his demeanour turning cold suddenly.

“Are you fucking crazy?”

“You wouldn’t understand my motivations.” The man turned around and stared ahead at the slowly burning building ahead of them.

“Ugh, what is it with villains and cryptic bullshit? I can’t let you wreck the fucking building, okay?”

“Watch me.”

Jiang Cheng lunged and grabbed his arm, earning a blast of green energy to his solar plexus that sent him staggering. Today was not his day. 

“If you want a fight, then fine.” The man said, rolling his shoulders. “I’m just sorry I’ll have to kick that glorious ass of yours.”

Jiang Cheng felt his cheeks flush. 

“Oh please, the spandex doesn’t hide shit.” The man said before lunging at Jiang Cheng.

Yeah, okay. This was a day Jiang Cheng really hated his fucking job. His muscles screamed with exhaustion as the man tackled him to the roof, straddling him and pinning his arms above his head. Maybe he was tired and his resolve was slipping, or maybe he had been rocking a semi for a fair amount of the fight and could admit this man was fucking hot despite his different side of the law.

The tightly coiled strength in his deceivingly slender limbs forced Jiang Cheng down as he straddled his lap. As he brushed his groin, Jiang Cheng let out a slight groan.

“Hold on,” The man said, sitting back. “Are you hard? Does fighting me turn you on?”

“Sh-Shut up! Are we gonna fight or not?!” He struggled under his grip.

Fuck, okay. The man was right. This was humiliating. Why does he enjoy this?

“I dunno, do you want some help with that?” The man purred, his long, thick lashes fanning over his cheeks as he leaned in closer, shifting his hips ever so slightly and earning another groan from Jiang Cheng.

“Are you crazy? I’m meant to be fighting you!”

“I know but, I kinda like this vibe we have going. Do you?”

Jiang Cheng bit his lip and looked away, nodding.

“I need a verbal yes.”

“You care about that?”

“I’m an anarchist not a monster, damn. Answer me.”

“Y-yes.”

“Yes what?”

“I... I like... this.”

“And is it a yes that you consent to this rooftop encounter?”

“C’mon I already said-”

“Yes or no spider. I won’t take that horseshit for an answer.”

“... Yes. I would like you to. Help me out.”

“Good,” he hummed, hooking a black gloved finger in his mask and tugging it down, revealing soft, pink lips pulled into a suggestive smirk. “I’m glad to be of service.” and he leaned down to press his lips to Jiang Cheng’s.

[arinmelnikov]

WE SURVIVE, BUT IT NEVER ENDS

     When Arin came home that night, the apartment was empty – dark, save the hallway light and one of the lamps in the living room. He slid his finger along the dimmer switch when he passed it, brightening the quiet room a little before he passed through, headed to the bathroom to rinse off the day. He threw his clothes in the washer as he undressed, setting the program to dry them when they were done. There had been something of Queenie’s lying in there, too, but he didn’t check what it was, smacking the door shut and tapping the start button on the screen on the panel before stepping into the shower.

     The night crept on, dragging its small hours along by the teeth, and still the door didn’t open. Restlessness and impatience drowned out the fatigue he was feeling – accompanied by a stab of unease, setting him on edge. Finally, grabbing his phone, he called Queenie’s number, absentmindedly pacing in front of the large frosted windows while he waited for her to pick up.      “Queenie’s phone.” A masculine voice answered him. It wasn’t Julian, nor Jasper, nor anyone else it was likely for her to be around, and yet… there was something familiar about it.    “Who the fuck are you?” Arin demanded, pausing his pacing.      “Who the fuck are you?” The voice shot back, clearly amused. Arin grew irritated.    “I’m who’s gonna turn you inside out if you don’t quit fucking around and tell me where the fuck she is.”      “Don’t worry, Arin, she’s perfectly fine.” He froze. His left hand rose on its own to the side of his neck, rubbing over needle marks and a splotchy bruise that were no longer there. “I’ve got her right here.” Rowan’s pitiful sobbing echoed in his memory, a miserable undertone to the very same voice he was currently hearing over the phone. Nobody’s coming for you. They don’t care. They expect you to give your life for them, but what have they done to deserve it? Listen to me, Rowan; you don’t owe them your allegiance. I know you don’t approve of the horrible things they do. I know you didn’t want to be a part of it – just like I don’t want you to be suffering this pain. All you have to do to make it stop is tell me…

     “It’s Ulrich Falke. Got arrested after–” Queenie’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, a mix of relief and dread washing over him as she let out a huff of laughter. She was alive, but she was with Ulrich fucking Falke, and his hand tightened into a fist when it dropped back to his side, his knuckles turning white. “I lost a fight. Since something tells me he’ll wanna make sure that part is well established. He думаю, что он собирается–” The line went dead quiet. Arin listened closer, his brows furrowing, but there was nothing.    “Я тебя не слышу,” he said, but still there was nothing. Lowering his phone, he glanced at the screen – the call was still connected.      About a minute passed before the call returned, and it wasn’t Queenie speaking anymore.      “Sorry about that. We forgot to practice our script.” Arin felt his blood boil, anger seeping into his voice when he answered.    “What the fuck. Do you want.”      “You have something that belongs to me,” Ulrich explained, as if Arin had stolen his fucking wallet or something equally trivial but ultimately inconvenient. “Bring her here, and I will let Queenie go.”    “Bullshit.” His voice was harsh, a snarl twisting his lips when he spoke. The scenario was clear: as soon as Arin arrived, Rowan in tow, Agent Falke would clap all three of them in irons and haul them off to be executed… or worse. Even if he thought the Government fuck at the other end of the line would prove true to his word, there was no way in hell he’d do it. He wouldn’t drag Rowan into even deeper shit, and he certainly wouldn’t negotiate with a tyrannical bag of dicks for Queenie’s freedom. No. He’d get her back, and he’d make Ulrich Falke regret ever being born. Enough. Enough. Fucking enough. No. Fucking. More. The whole thing was going to end in blood, and it wasn’t going to be his, or hers, or Rowan’s.      “Maybe.” Ulrich was moving around; Arin heard a door opening and closing. “But there’s only one way for you to find out. Are you willing to gamble with her life?”    “You’re never gonna fucking see Rowan again.” She was never even going to find out about this; not from him – her head was fucked enough as it was.      “So you do have her.” More sounds in the background. A car door?    “Yes, you shriveled cunt.” Arin lied, gritting his teeth. Thinking of Garrett and his little fucking house in the desert way out west of absolutely fucking nothing. “Who the fuck else?”      “Well. You have until sunrise. You know where we are?” Arin had Queenie’s location on his phone. All it would take was a couple of taps. He said nothing. “Good. Don’t be late. Queenie and I will wait for you until six – and then we’ll go somewhere you can’t follow.” Into Government custody? He could still hear her voice, the Russian sentence Ulrich had interrupted when he’d muted the call: I think he’s gonna… What? “Do svidaniya, Arin.” Asshole.    “Я собираюсь убить тебя, мать твою.” A growl, a promise, and then – with an infuriating fucking chuckle – Agent Falke hung up, leaving him in the silence of the apartment, emptier now than it had been five minutes ago.

     There was no time to waste. Arin forced his pulse down as he went into the bedroom to change his clothes, dropping his phone on the bed before he headed towards the closet, tugging his t-shirt and sweatpants off along the way and discarding them on the floor. The bag with the Government gear he’d taken from the fake smugglers’ den with that annoying ex-Killjoy asshole was still lying at the bottom, open and half emptied, devoid of the shit they’d come to need for some purpose or other since he’d brought it back. There were clothes in there, he knew, feeling around until his hands touched fabric and he pulled out a black pair of military pants that he put on before returning to the bathroom for the belt he’d been wearing earlier.      Back in the closet, he found an armored, long-sleeved shirt, just as black as the pants, and pulled that on, too, glancing down at his torso when it was covered, turning an arm over in the light. Bulletproof, he wondered, or just padded to lessen a blow? He hadn’t tested it – nor was he planning to get shot tonight, but he supposed if it came down to it, he’d find out, and whatever it was, it was better than nothing.      By the time he was finished dressing, working quickly as he forbade his mind to focus on anything other than what he needed, Arin would’ve set off a metal detector from across a room. He had knives in his boots, strapped to his forearm underneath his sleeve, a bundle of throwable ones in one of the pockets on the pants, flash grenades in another. There was a pistol on the outside of his right thigh, an extra magazine and a silencer fastened to its holster – and a sub, one of the twin pair Queenie had given him, in another holster on his left side, at his ribs. For that, he had two extras. There was no way to know whether she and Ulrich were the only people in whatever building he’d taken her to, or if there’d be a whole fucking squadron waiting for him there; the only thing he was absolutely certain about was that it’d be some kind of trap. He left the bedroom, cracking his neck once on either side as he walked, only stopping in the hallway to pull his boots on – lacing them up tightly – and to grab his keys.

     He drove fast, engine muted, headlights off, down the empty roads that stretched between the industrial buildings that crowded the Electrical District. Most in use, some decommissioned, bought up by a different company, put back in use and then left again to be bought up by somebody else, a pointless cycle of faceless shell corporations that probably were mainly Government-owned, anyway. A chunk were fully abandoned, but even that was untrustworthy, as they had a tendency to end up occupied by people or groups who needed someplace to do whatever the fuck it was they wanted to do that the Government wasn’t supposed to see. The location of Queenie’s phone was displayed on the screen on his dashboard, his route plotted out for him, though he didn’t really need it, and the only reason he’d pulled it up in the first place was so that he wouldn’t have to double-check the building on his phone when he arrived.

     When it came into view, he parked down the street, then made a careful approach, staying hidden as much as the buildings and the shadows that flocked around the illuminated pools the streetlights made on the pavement would allow. Arin circled the structure once, seeing no sign of anyone, no cars outside, nothing – but he still wasn’t about to walk in through the main entrance. His eyes scanned the spacious back area he found himself in after his perimeter search: the loading dock, the metal doors, the padlocked gates… no way to get in quietly, and no way to get up. He went around the side of the building, coming to a narrow passage where it pressed close against the annex that stood beside it, also locked up and sealed tight, but it had a roof access ladder clinging to the wall of its second floor, retracted and locked in place behind a cylindrical cage. There was no way for a random passerby to reach it from the ground, but fortunately for Arin, he was nothing of the sort.      A stack of wooden pallets stood by the door of the annex, their combined height reaching his chin. They looked a little rotted, but he was sure they’d hold his weight, and they did, not budging or making a sound when he hauled himself up to stand on them. One step was all he had room for to give himself some impetus, but one step was all he needed. He jumped, straight across the narrow alley, his boots hitting the wall of the main building where he pushed off again, a powerful kick to propel himself even higher, his body twisting around in midair as he reached for the cage of the access ladder on the annex… then his fingers closed around cold metal and did not let go. Tightening his core and forcing his legs backwards, he lessened the swing his momentum demanded from his limbs, then heaved himself up using his hands, one rung at a time until he was high enough to get a foothold. He scaled the outside of the round cage, not bothering with the ladder, moving to the side of it when he arrived at the top and pushing himself onto the roof. Back on his feet, he retreated a few steps, then ran to the edge again and leapt across to the main building, landing safely on the other side. There was a door up there, padlocked, like the gates on the loading dock below, but the latch that held the mechanism in place was rusted brown, peeling and crumbling. Arin freed his gun from the holster at his thigh and held it by the barrel, raising it over his shoulder and bringing it down hard, clubbing the latch with the grip. The thing broke in half, and he pulled the door open, slipping through.

     Inside was a dark stairwell, the simultaneously heavy and faint scent of dust hanging in the stagnant air. He slipped his pistol back into place as he descended the steps, swapping it for the SMG. At the bottom, marking the end of a short hall, was another door where he stopped for a moment, listening for movement, voices, anything. There was nothing. Everywhere, more fucking nothing. He stepped out, weapon aimed in front of him, into an open space that didn’t look like anyone had set foot in it in years. Every piece of equipment and machinery was draped in cloudy plastic sheeting, and the table he could see through a window into the meeting room had its chairs upended on it, seats resting against the grimy surface, metal legs jutting into the air like bird spikes on the edge of a roof.      To his left, a hallway led to more offices, but – Arin glanced at his phone – Queenie’s was supposed to be somewhere in the center of the building, and his surroundings were empty, so he went off in search of the stairs instead, heading to the ground floor.      Still nothing. The first floor was as desolate as the second, if a little less dusty. There was a light on by the entrance, illuminating the murk and reflecting off the mottled windows beside it, the only sign so far that someone had been here. After a quick and fruitless sweep of the area, he returned to the stairwell, taking the last set of steps down to the basement.

     He was ready to shoot when he stepped into the large, square opening that mouthed into the room, smaller than both floors upstairs – but just like them, it was fucking empty. Unlike them, he knew immediately that this was where they’d been. There was a chair placed against one of the pillars in the center, and a bunch of random shit littered a table that stood near it, most notable of which was a phone leaned up against a yellow can, facing the stairs. Squashing the rage that flared up in him, he entered, lowering the sub as he approached.      Stopping in front of the table, he reached out for the phone, slipping it into his palm and waking the screen. Queenie’s. Fuck. Fuck. Fu– A metallic pop froze him, his gaze searching the table until it landed on a tiny lens – staring unblinkingly back at him from the tab on the opened can – a millisecond before a sharp, prolonged hiss sounded from somewhere underneath the table. Fucking gas. He’d been holding his breath since the first unexpected sound, the tempo of his pulse increasing as he backed away towards the stairs, flipping off Ulrich Falke and his fucking camera. And fuck him for apparently packing Queenie out of there as soon as he’d hung up the phone. Arin fired at the can, drenching the stupid surveillance device in energy drink, then took the stairs two at a time, only drawing in breath when he was at the top. There was no one waiting to ambush him there, but still he kept an alert vigilance as he made his way back the way he’d come, up to the roof.

     The eastern sky was brightening, black fading into blue into orange. After kicking the heavy door shut behind him, he turned his back on it, retrieving Queenie’s phone from his pocket and tapping in the six digit code that unlocked the device. It opened on the camera application, and his attention was drawn immediately to the preview of the last picture taken. He clicked it, and there she was, in the same fucking chair he’d been looking at a minute ago – and there it was, the same indomitable fury he’d felt when he’d heard Ulrich’s voice over the phone. When he’d come down to the basement and found it empty. And this wasn’t the fucking Bentons; this was his fucking Lost Boy fucking shit, and Arin thought that if he could go back in time to that day he’d bumped into Rowan in the city, knowing what he knew now, he’d have plugged her right between the fucking eyes.      Un-fucking-productive. He redirected his attention. Ulrich wanted Rowan. His simplest way to her, in his mind, was Arin – so the gas hadn’t been meant to kill him, which meant the agent was coming back. Him, or others of his ilk, subservient, mindless fucking goons sent to collect him and bring him wherever. He needed to find a place to wait. It couldn’t be long until someone showed.

     But it was. Two and a half fucking hours passed before a car finally pulled up to the building, parking in front of the main entrance. Arin was on the roof of a different building, smoking his fourth cigarette and freezing his ass off in the frigid morning air because he’d forced himself to sit still, knowing that if he moved he’d get restless, get angry, and probably do something rash. If it were just about him, he might have. Fuck waiting, fuck being cautious, and fuck the fucking Government… but Queenie’s life was at stake, and Ulrich, damn him, had been right – he wouldn’t gamble with it.      Like his own, the car that had arrived was black, had no plates, windows tinted into dark mirrors that reflected the sharp rays of sun that were just breaking the horizon, bathing the tops of the buildings in a pale golden haze, even as most of the streets below remained steeped in blue shadow. Arin squinted down at it as the driver’s side door opened and the scumbag of the hour himself stepped out, casting a perfunctory glance over his surroundings before heading for the door. Slipping out from behind the chimney he’d hidden on the far side of when the agent raised his gaze, Arin returned to the northern edge of the roof and descended the metal stairs that zigzagged up the outside wall, getting into the Mustang and soundlessly starting the engine. His right hand curled around the steering wheel, tightening as the muscles in his jaw did, and he plotted his route over, saw himself pressed against the wall next to the door as Ulrich came out, heard the crack of gun against skull, felt the scrape of knife against skin. Smelled the metallic blood pulsing in warm rivulets from an opened throat. He plotted his route… and remained in his seat, drawing slow, controlled breaths while he waited for the agent to reappear.      He wasn’t in there long. Soon, the door opened again; Arin’s eyes trailed him as he returned to his car, started the engine and drove off. He left it a beat before he pulled away from the curb and followed.

     Battery City was waking up. Curfew was lifted, and people and cars were trickling into the streets, slowly filling them with the noise of everyday life. Arin let three in between him and Ulrich, then another at an intersection as he followed him west, towards Downtown. Traffic flooded in, amassing on the three-lane road, and he cursed as he overtook a sedan and some asshole in a white convertible, weaving back into the stream of vehicles in front of them, Agent Asshole in sight once more. They crossed into Zone One, the heart of Government territory – an area he hadn’t set foot in since he’d been arrested and put on death row, a lifetime ago. He felt his skin crawl the closer they got to the Capitol Building, the hairs at the back of his neck rising as if there were eyes on him, even though he knew he was hidden behind his car’s windows. Then, suddenly, Ulrich’s car switched lanes. Arin’s eyes flashed to the sign he was passing.    “Fuck.” Another curse under his breath, because he knew, he knew, where the agent was going, and it wasn’t anywhere he could fucking follow. He stomped on the gas pedal and veered into the far left lane, just catching in his peripheral vision the other black car disappearing onto one of the exits that led towards the Government buildings as he tore past the flow of traffic on his right, heading for the closest zone crossing.

     He didn’t slow down until he was out, digging his phone out of his pocket and unlocking it, his attention split between the road and the screen as he scrolled through his contact list until he found the number he was looking for and dialed it. It rang, once, twice – you better fucking pick up, you fraternizing fucking bastard – thrice.      “Hello?”    “I’m sending you an address. Meet me there. Now.”      “Uh– yeah, okay. I can do that.” Arin hung up and tossed his phone into the passenger seat, fighting the urge to turn around and go back towards Capitol Square as he searched his surroundings for somewhere anonymous to stop.

     Somewhere anonymous was a closed convenience shop sitting behind an empty lot, boarded up and dusty. It was small, but big enough that it hid his car when he parked behind it. The door in front was chained shut, but upon closer inspection he found that there was nothing holding the chain in place – it was just looped around the door handle and the farthest right of the bars on the window next to it a bunch of times, the ends hanging loose. He sent off a text containing his location, then pulled the chain free and dropped it on the cracked asphalt before heading inside and closing the door behind him. He lit a cigarette, hauling himself up to sit on the counter to keep himself from pacing. Writing Julian a text message to keep himself from complete inactivity. Falke has Q. Check cameras 3-4 am find out where they went. He attached the address of the building with the basement and sent it.      It wasn’t long before he heard movement outside – a car parking in the back, then footsteps around the front – and even though he was expecting company, he soundlessly slid his pistol from its holster and aimed it at the entrance as whoever it was came closer. The door opened, and the man coming in was silhouetted in the doorway for a moment by the morning sun behind him, obscuring his features. Arin recognized him all the same, lowering his weapon and putting it away as Agent Matthew Hagen pushed the door shut and approached, concern etched across his sharp features.      “What’s going on?” He asked, green eyes searching Arin’s face.    “Tell me everything you know about Ulrich fucking Falke.”      “If you want relevant information, Arin, I’m gonna need a little more to go off of.” Matt’s brow was furrowed, still, and he tilted his chin up half an inch, his gaze glued to Arin’s as he waited for an answer.    “He has Q. He’s trying to use her to fucking blackmail me into giving up somebody else he fucking wants.” Arin leaned the heels of his palms against the edge of the counter, tattooed fingers curling around the edge.      “Agent Greane…” Matt muttered thoughtfully – more to himself, it seemed – then held up a hand in apology when he saw the flash of anger in Arin’s eyes. “I take it she isn’t really on placement at Red Rock.”      There was a moment of silence in which Arin waited for the dark-haired agent to fucking get on with it, but he was apparently waiting for a response as well; confirmation, or some equally unimportant bullshit.    “You think?” He snapped finally, irate and impatient.      “Well.” Matt grew pensive again. “Agent Falke is not a… patriot, by most people’s standards. Certainly not by the Government’s; but he’s efficient. Extremely dangerous. Not an ounce of morals in him, and from what I know, he has no scruples about what he does for his job. The thing about him that sets him apart from the zealots in his division is that he doesn’t truly serve Avalon.” He watched Arin somberly. “He serves himself.” Arin watched him back, waiting for him to continue – and he did, finishing with a firm set to his lips. “He’s an egotistical megalomaniac on a power trip. Unpredictable.”      That final word. Unpredictable. It was the last fucking thing he needed.    “You know where he lives?”      “Penthouse apartment somewhere in Zone One,” Matt shook his head. Shit. Arin went quiet, thinking for a moment before he spoke up again.    “All you fucks have chips, right?”      “That’s… correct,” Matt responded with a slow nod, probably a little miffed that he’d been included in you fucks, but realizing that now was not the time to bitch about it.    “Can you see where he’s been?”      “No.”      Arin sighed. “Can you fucking find out?”      “No,” Matt repeated. “Only directors have that level of clearance.”    “So?”      “Arin, I can’t. I’m sorry.” He looked it, but being sorry did fuck all for bringing Queenie back.    “Then find out if she’s in fucking lockup.”      “I will. And if there’s anything else of use I can access, you’ll know about it.”    “And Falke – he’s corrupt?”      “To the core. He’s out for his own gain; not whatever the Government thinks is best for the territory.”      Arin hopped off the counter and headed for the exit. If corruption was involved, he knew somebody who’d pay just about any price to lay his hands on her.      “Where are you going?” Matt turned around, calling after him.    “The woods.” The door smacked shut in his wake, drowning out the agent’s reply – if there was any.

* * *

     No more than a few weeks had passed since the last time he’d been there (with her), and yet the landscape was drastically altered, almost unrecognizable. The trees had shed their crowns, leaves that had been yellow, orange, red, now a rotting brown carpet on the forest floor, so deep in places that it reached his ankles, rustling around his strides and crunching under under his boots as he waded through. He didn’t care if anyone heard him, if anyone found him – it’d be a quicker way to the answers he needed if they did, and at least he’d get to fucking shoot somebody.

     In twenty-five minutes, he’d arrived at the first location – a building that was marked RESEARCH STATION on the satellite image. It was fenced in, and he could see cameras mounted along the walls, moving slowly from side to side. Going in would be a fucking hassle, and he didn’t have the time, and the trees weren’t close enough – not to the fence, and definitely not to the building itself. But he had to be sure. So instead of wasting his energy trying to see inside, he’d draw whoever was there out. Or… find out if there was anyone there at all. Arin plucked one of the flash grenades from his pocket, pulled the pin, and threw it over the fence, watching it hurtle towards the building in a graceful arc before he ducked behind an old tree, his back pressed against the trunk.      There was the sharp, flatly echoing crack of the grenade going off, and he held the SMG ready, unmoving as a statue, listening. A slow minute ticked by, the lukewarm Avalon fall breeze filling the silence with the quiet patter of the dead leaves it sent skittering along the ground, and with the toneless whisper of the bare branches it soughed through, stirring them towards the colorless sky. Two minutes. The beginnings of a headache throbbed faintly against his temples. Three minutes. A twig snapped somewhere ahead of him. Four minutes. Five minutes. No one came. Arin marked the building in red and moved on. Six to go.

     The sun was at its zenith when Arin’s phone rang. He was sat on a gnarled root, smoking a cigarette and scrolling over the map on his phone, plotting a route to the next building. The display read MH.    “Yeah?”      “She’s not in Government custody. Officially or unofficially.”    “Kingston there?” He forced himself to use the name, assuming Matt wouldn’t know who he was referring to if he asked after an ass-licking shitbag.      “At work?” The agent paused. “Yeah.”    “And the old cunt?” Arin felt his phone buzz.      “I don’t know. You think they have her?”    “Anything else?” His phone buzzed again. And once more.      “Nothing yet. I’ll be in touch.” Arin hung up, looking at his screen, and the three texts he’d received during the call.

     [ Julian Colden / 12:09 PM ] No cameras      [ Julian Colden / 12:10 PM ] I got this tho

     The third text contained a link that led him to a video: a shot of a cage, bathed in light and placed on a stage that was surrounded by a crowd. It didn’t even take him a second to recognize Queenie – and he already knew who the man hidden behind a mask in front of her was, tension creeping through him as he watched them fight. His pulse had picked up, its pace almost doubled, hatred roaring to life in his chest when Ulrich raised a cuffed Q to her feet and ripped his mask off with a smug grin. Battery City… Arin turned the volume up, fanning the blaze of his bloodthirsty contempt. Nobody has to die here tonight. He was too angry to fully register the remainder of the agent’s speech, and then, suddenly, he was leading her away and the video ended. After crushing his cigarette out on the root next to him, Arin wrote Julian a response: Find Noriko. He stood up and put his phone away.

     Four to go.

* * * 

     Sunset came and went unacknowledged. He walked and walked, crossed a building off his list, then walked further still and crossed off another. Matt called to let him know that there was nothing out of the ordinary going on among the ranks of the Government, that there was no mention of Q, that Ulrich Falke had gone home after work and nowhere else, and that he was keeping an eye on the building. There’d been no word from Julian yet.

     Arin was approaching the final building – the only remaining one with a blue tag on the map, marked with three question marks – when he noticed with a start that it was dark. The whole day gone and he’d found fuck all. There was light coming from the windows of the last place. From the windows, from outside lamps evenly spaced on the walls, and… it was a fucking house. He squinted in disbelief and exasperation at the bits of living room he could see from his spot in the murk between the trees, turning away and leaving when he spotted a figure moving around inside. There was nowhere else to go; there were too many buildings tagged in yellow for him to start going through them without planning, and the dark blue sky was turning black, taking visibility down to practically nothing.      Halfway back to his car, he got a text.

     [ Julian Colden / 8:38 PM ] Got her. Gonna find out if anyone saw them leaving

     There was a map pin attached. He quickened his pace, ignoring the tired protest of his muscles as he demanded more from them than he already had. He hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours, and his stomach was complaining, too, sending hollow stabs of pain through his abdomen.      In the Mustang, he emptied a bottle of water he found in the center console, then ate the candy bar that had been lying in there beside it, trying not to think about the fact that it was Queenie who’d left it there. He missed her, and that feeling was worse than all the current mundane afflictions of his body combined and fucking tripled. He was getting her back. There was no other way he’d allow this to end.

* * *

     Julian’s pin was at another one of Noriko’s establishments – a small gambling den nestled in the first floor of an apartment building, past a hidden door in the stairwell. Arin saw a security guard through the windows near the entrance, hanging around and pretending not to be a security guard. He didn’t want to risk them warning her about his arrival, but he also didn’t think there was another way in. What he did have, though, were more flash bangs. Might as fucking well. He yanked the pin out of one and pitched it down the street as hard as he could, then slipped around the corner nearest to the entrance, out of sight.      Come on, you dumb fuck, impatience set his nerves alight in the wake of the harmless explosion. Come on, come on, come–      The door opened. He waited ten seconds, hearing the guard’s footfalls moving away from him before he peeked out, seeing the other man’s back as he went to investigate the commotion. He left his cover and entered the fluorescent-lit stairwell; the secret door opened with a pull on the fire alarm next to it, and he was inside, keeping his head down and sticking close to the wall as he headed for the back, and the office he knew she’d be sitting in, never one for mingling with her guests. There was more security inside, but he managed to evade their attention, passing behind them when they had their backs turned, or pausing on the other side of groups of drunk people when they looked his way.      When he reached the office, Arin slid the sub from its holster at his rib and switched off the safety, raising it as he went in. It found its target almost immediately, and finally, finally, something was going the way it was supposed to, and he had somewhere tangible to direct his fury.

     “Arin!” Noriko’s voice was tinged with poorly disguised astonishment, and a little more adeptly disguised fear. Clearly, him showing up without warning hadn’t been part of her plan. He reached behind him with his free hand and felt around until he found the lock, turning it. Her hand inched towards one of the drawers on her desk. Adjusting his aim, he squeezed the trigger, and the SMG fired a rapid burst of three, splinters flying from the surface of the desk right above whatever she’d been reaching for. Noriko snatched her hand back, pressing it against her torso.    “Back up.” Arin advanced, returning his aim to the center of her chest. “Don’t get outta the fucking chair.” She obeyed, giving herself a small push so she rolled away from the desk, still facing him. Arin grabbed a different chair and dragged it over to the door, glancing away from her for a moment as he propped it underneath the handle.      “I can explain–”    “Shut up. You let him in. How much did he fucking pay you?”      “He didn’t. He didn’t!” She raised both hands when he took a sudden step closer. “I didn’t know who he was.”    “Uh-huh. And you let any piece of shit just fucking walk in off the street, right? Wearing a fucking mask?”      “No.” Noriko closed her eyes for a moment, dark blue eyeshadow glittering on her lids. “A contact of mine vouched for him. He hasn’t let me down before. I thought the mask was… fun.”      Arin fought the urge to spit. “And where’s your fucking contact?”      “I can’t get ahold of him.” The reluctance in her tone told him she knew what that meant as well as he did.    “I fucking wonder why.” There were shouts outside, seconds before someone started pounding at the door. Arin ignored them. “It doesn’t matter,” he went on, “you let him walk outta there with her.”      “He was threatening to bomb the entire club!” The fear returned to Noriko’s voice.    “I don’t give a shit!”      “Arin, be reasonabl–”    “Shut up. You could’ve had him turned into a lead fucking weight, and instead you were pissing yourself in your fucking office and letting Q take the hit for your fucking stupidity.”      “Listen,” she started bargaining, her eyes boring into his, “I know people. If she’s still alive, I can help you find her.”    “It’s too late for that.”      “No–”      Arin squeezed the trigger again. Noriko slumped in her chair, eyes and mouth wide open, three holes in her chest and a red stain spreading rapidly as it soaked the fabric of her sheer, white blouse.      He’d been wrong about there not being another way in – there was another door on the right side of her office. Pushing through it, he emerged into what looked like a janitor’s closet, continuing without slowing down towards the exit on the opposite wall. It spat him back out into the stairwell, just as the hidden door by the stairs opened. Without checking to see who was there, he raised the sub and held down the trigger, peppering the wall and the door and maybe whoever the fuck was coming after him with bullets as he made his way towards the street. The secret entrance closed, and Arin, his boots hitting blacktop, broke off at a sprint and didn’t stop until he was at his car, getting in and tearing away from the area without looking back.

* * *

     A shower. A change of clothes. He didn’t want to be home, because without her it was just some soulless fucking apartment, but he had to plan what was next; figure out which of the yellow buildings were the most likely to be the Benton facility. He didn’t transfer his weapons from his old clothes, leaving them for now, going into the bedroom to sit on the mattress with his phone without allowing himself to acknowledge that he’d chosen it because it was where her presence was the strongest.

     Exhaustion bled into his bones, there in the dark, his focus drifting as he stared at the satellite picture of the woods, casting cursory looks over the tagged buildings and changing the ones he deemed at first glance to be his options from yellow to blue. He’d go through them more thoroughly once he had a better overview – weed out the less likely ones.

     He tried not to picture her, somewhere, in a white cell like his own, bolted to that fucking metal chair while Gerard smiled magnanimously at her and prattled on about some self-important bullshit. He tried not to picture her shot up with adrenaline and hallucinogens, forced to watch the same type of shit they’d played on a loop for him. He tried not to picture her chained up on the floor of a concrete box of a room in some fucking Government black site somewhere, awaiting her fate. He concentrated his attention on the map, checking building after building after building…

     In the darkness, a voice screamed. His wrists and ankles were encircled in steel, and he couldn’t move, and there was blood in his mouth. Everything around him was pitch black; he couldn’t see an inch in front of his face, until suddenly she was there, his mirror image, in front of him. Slumped in her seat, purple waves tumbling down over her bruised and cut up face. Queenie! His voice didn’t carry. Arin didn’t know if he’d spoken at all, or if she just couldn’t hear him, but she was alive, she had to be – if he could only reach her. Wake up.

     Wake up. This time it was a command, and it wasn’t his voice. A man tilted her chin up with the end of a baton – Gerard, Kingston, Ulrich, a faceless, swarming mass of Government Agent that wasn’t permitted to touch her. But they did. Queenie took every strike without a sound, cold resentment in her pale blue eyes when she raised them to her assailant, and she didn’t see him, but how was that possible when he was right in front of her? Look at me. Arin fought his restraints, but his body felt heavy and weak, and it was no use. Queenie. I’m right fucking here, look at me. She didn’t. Her stare was locked on the figure looming over her, like she recognized him, even when all Arin saw was the indistinct and unfamiliar back of a head.

     The shadows around them vanished in a blink, the walls coming alive, and he heard bombs going off, saw rubble and bodies stretching out in every direction, a crater filled with broken concrete and with most of his gang. He heard Rowan scream and cry, a piercing soundtrack to Queenie’s defiant muteness as the hostile shape circling her chair brought the baton down again and again, and he was helpless to stop any of it, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to–

     Arin shot up in bed with a gasp, his heart slamming against the inside of his ribcage as he tried to catch his breath – to get his bearings. He was alone. He’d fallen asleep. He raised his hands to his face, pressing his fingers against his eyelids, coercing his brain to pull itself out of the nightmare and focus.

   “Fuck’s sake.” His voice was muffled against his palms, and even then it seemed too loud for the room, the words sucked into the vacuum of Queenie’s absence to be swallowed whole by the ravenous silence that filled every place she wasn’t in. He lowered his hands, letting them skim across the twisted sheets until he found his phone, picking it up to check the time. Five a.m. He’d been asleep for almost three hours. Slipping the device into his pocket, he got up, pacing into the bathroom to retrieve his weapons that he’d left on the floor there in a heap. When he was finished, he took it out again, really looking at it now that his head was clearer.

     Matt hadn’t called, which meant he still had jack shit as far as any leads went, and Julian had texted him to let him know that Noriko’s crew was looking for him. Arin texted back to get rid of them, and Julian returned with a single word. Anything? His jaw clenched as he typed out his reply, and he dropped the phone back into his pocket as soon as he had sent it. Because he didn’t fucking have anything.

     Not yet.

[holylulusworld]

The queen of Lebanon - Part 7 – The sex wasn’t that bad

Summary: Your father died years ago, all men in the business believed you are too weak to take over his Empire – they were wrong. Anyone trying to get into your hair will feel your wrath. What happens when a cocky mobster tries not only to steal your empire but your heart too?

Pairing: Mobster!Dean x Mobster!Reader, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Cole Trenton, Charlie Bradbury

Warnings: angst, ‘the family business’, love-hate relationship, hooking up, rivalry, jealousy, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, age gap (reader is 28; Dean 32),  mentions of characters death/torture/murder (nothing graphic) blood, language

The queen of Lebanon Masterlist

Five years ago, …

Dean's eyes darken as he must watch you talk to Sam, sliding your hand over his brother’s chest while you completely ignore his whole presence.

“If you ask me, Dean, let it go.” Benny tries to stop his friend from doing anything stupid.

The heads of all Empires are at the Winchesters mansion tonight and Benny is worried Dean might lose his cool close to you.

“She is almost jumping my brother's bones right under my nose, Benny. Look how she grinds against his crotch. Shameless…”

Cursing Dean clenches his jaw as you grind against Sam, not missing the way Dean watches you and his brother.

“Dean, you let her go or rather tossed her aside for a shady deal with Lisa’s father. That bastard didn’t even keep his word.” Meeting his boss’s eyes Benny shrugs. “You had your chance years ago. Sam deserves a bit…fun…”

While Benny walks away Dean is close to shooting his brother as Sam dares to dance with you. Sam’s hand is at your back, gently caressing your skin and you let him.

“Son, I told you to let it go. There will be no bond between a Winchester and a Singer. Not back then, not now.” John snarls through gritted teeth.

“Why?” Glaring at his father Dean smirks. “As you killed her mother and elder brother back then or as Bobby killed mom and your precious Adam?” Turning on his heels Dean stalks toward you and his brother, barking orders at his men.

“Dean, drop it!” Sam exhales while Dean paces around the room, glaring at you and his brother. “I know you fucked her by the way you touch my future wife!”

“Brother, I swear…” While Sam wants to calm his brother, you smirk at Dean. Your hand grasps Sam’s and you smile wildly.

“Don’t hide it, Sammy. We got caught…” Licking your crimson lips you give Dean a dark grin. “Sam was so good, Dean. It made me forget the laughable first time you gave me. It was worth the wait.” 

Before you go you peck Dean’s check, pressing your lips hard into his skin to leave a red lip print. “You’re such a …”

“Yeah, let it out Dean but nothing you will say will make me agree to an arranged marriage with you, jerk.”

Now…

“Dean! That wasn’t the plan!” Pressed onto his desk, legs kicked apart, one hand pressing your head down Dean grunts on top of you. He’s not letting up, thrusting hard enough to make the desk creak.

“I will use every moment you spend at my house wisely. Look at you, Y/N. All wet for me, already dripping onto me. Can you hear how your sweet pussy sucks me in?” Dean groans, fisting your hair harshly as his hips snap hard against your ass. 

“We wanted to talk about Dick! Can we not act as if we are horny teens?” Panting you push back onto Dean’s dick, cursing as you hear the wet sound of sex fill the room. “We can’t waste more time…”

“I sent my men to bring Jimmy and Cole here to have lunch. We will share our information about Dick Roman, his empire and everything else. Now shut up and let me fuck you…”

Dean grabs the edge of the desk, angling his cock one last time to make you gasp every time he slides back into you.

“Fuck…” While you are busy to lie exhausted onto the desk Dean still works his cock into you. 

“One more, Baby Girl. Give me another one and we can have a shower, breakfast and talk about you becoming my wife.”

Now your head snaps upward and you want to yell at Dean, but your orgasm makes you cry out first.

“I’ll not marry you, Winchester. What makes you believe I would ever consider marrying your old ass.” Grunting Dean slaps your ass, stilling as his cum coats your walls. “Not in a thousand years, Dean…”

“You said the same back then about having sex with me, Sweetheart.” When he pulls out a deep growl leaves his throat. “Now look at you. All filled with my spunk, fucked out and sated.”

“You’re such an asshole, Winchester.” Covering your still shaking body with his tall frame Dean hums into your neck, smirking as you squirm underneath him. 

“Yeah…I am and so much more. Still…” Nipping at your neck Dean ruts against you. “You let me make you cum thrice this morning and I think you enjoyed yourself.”

“That was just a way to relieve the stress and to forget about being trapped with you in a cramped room. This means nothing.” Voice hoarse you wiggle in Dean’s grip, but he won’t budge.

Still pressing his naked body against yours he marks your neck with little love bites. “You liked me inside of you, admit it…”

“Well…” Chuckling you shrug. “The sex wasn’t that bad, Winchester.”

“You know, I could believe you do not like me a bit but…” Biting your shoulder Dean smirks against your flesh. “I will not give up, Sweetheart. You and your cute ass belong with me…”

“Fuck you, idjit. I will not marry you or your pitiful cock. Now get off me. This was the last time for sure…”

“Anything new, Charlie?” All eyes land on your friend, the expert you call if you need to dig out the dirt. “I know Dick Roman is a hard nut to crack but please tell me you found anything.”

“According to my research, Dick Roman’s business seems to be legal.” Charlie hands you a folder full of useless information. “Nothing useful so far. That asshole even wrote a book and wants to become a politician…”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Charlie.” Tossing the folder onto the table your rub your sore eyes. “So, we’ve got a whole lot of nothing.”

“Exactly, Y/N. I dug as deep as possible and found nothing.” The redhead sighs, resting her head onto the table. “He is too clean, boss. Whatever he’s hiding, I’ll find it, but it will take more time and better equipment.”

“Cole, can you make sure Charlie can use our system at Ares? I would feel better knowing she’s safe at my house.” Cole nods, smirking at you as he can see Dean clench his jaw every time you smile at your adopted brother.

“Our turn.” Dean grins, nodding at Benny who opens a file on his laptop. “Let us introduce you to Dick Roman, a billionaire businessman who is one of the fifty most powerful men in America.” Glancing at the monitor you gasp.

“He owns the corporation Richard Roman Enterprises. He is like an invader. That dick is following a ruthless corporate takeover agenda, focusing specifically taking over other kingpins empires.”

“You are telling me this billionaire is after our business? Why?” Rubbing your forehead, you can’t find a reason for a person like Dick Roman to take over a mobster’s empire.

“He has more money than he could ever make with our kind of business. Has a bestseller and even wants to become a politician…”

“I know, Y/N. We only know he killed your father and Jody for a reason. They are not his only victims.” Placing a folder onto the table Dean shoves it toward you. “Ten other families got wiped out.”

Opening the folder, you gasp as the files tell you Dick Roman is killing whole families, including children. “That monster even killed a baby…”

“We need to stop him, but we need to do it right. Everything we know is that no one was able to bring him down so far. Many people tried to kill him, but no one succeed so far.” Sam explains as Charlie checks Dean’s laptop.

“I might need more help. Dick’s website, his company server is encrypted. I know a guy, named Frank. He could help me.”

“Tell me what you need, and Cole will get it for you. You have no limit this time. Whatever it costs, I’ll pay for it. Cole will stay by your side and help you with anything.”

“Frank is a bit…uh…” Shrugging Charlie blinks a few times to find the right words. “Complicated to say the least. I should go alone and ask him for help.”

“No. This is not negotiable, Charlie. Cole will go with you, but he can stay in the car. From now on we play safe.” Laughing Charlie nods, giving you a wink before she hands Cole her friend’s addressee.

“Good thing Frank hates Dick Roman too. He bought his book only to burn it. If only I would’ve known that man is behind your parent’s death, I am sorry, Y/N.” Smirking Charlie walks toward the door, waving at you before she leaves the room.

Cole is not convinced but he follows Charlie outside, still hating the fact you spent the night at Dean Winchesters' house…

“Dean, I am tired so no stupid jokes and no talking about marrying you or shit. Let me have a break from your cockiness for once.” Rubbing your sore eyes, you whine as his rough hands start kneading your knots out.

“Just relax for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll drive you to your house. We should stick together, all of us. If we do not find a way to stop Roman, Lebanon will burn just like every other town Dick Roman took over.” Voice gruff but hands gentle Dean smiles as you nod.

“We should ask Crowley and Rowena for help too. I know you do not like them, but he was always a reliable source. If you want me to do so, let me do the talking…” Yawning you close your eyes for a moment.

“Did you ever imagine how our life would’ve been…” Dean stops talking when you start snoring.

For a moment he slides his fingers over your back, to just enjoy feeling your skin under his fingertips. “We can talk about this later.”

While Dean covers you with a warm blanket you snuggle into his pillow, faking you are already asleep. You know he wanted to ask you how your lives would’ve been without John forcing Dean to marry Lisa.

You press your eyes shut, ignoring the tingling in your body as he moves close enough to kiss your neck softly. 

“Love you, Sweetheart. I wish you would tell me you love me too.” Nuzzling you Dean presses his warm body against your back, wrapping his arms around you. 

“We are too late…” Pressing one hand over her mouth Charlie tries not to scream at the sight of all the blood in Frank’s trailer.

“Whatever happened here, they didn’t do it fast.” Looking around the trailer Cole sees restraints, fingernails on the floor and blood splatters all over the walls, floor, even the ceiling. “They tortured him.”

“Where is he?” Sniffling Charlie wants to walk out of the trailer, wants to escape the horror but Cole holds her back, pointing toward a picture of Frank with his family. “We need to find them…”

“I wasn’t completely honest…” Biting her lower lips Charlie gulps hard. “The reason Frank hated Dick Roman that much was…”

“Roman killed Frank’s family?” Nodding Charlie takes the picture to put it into her bag. “We will get him good, Charlie. For now, we can only check if Frank left anything Dick Roman’s men wouldn’t find…”

The queen of Lebanon

@alyssaforever2671, @xcastielbabyangelface, @bitchwhytho, @rosiehayes

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[perfectharmonyloveschaos]

what if whenever klaus is accidentally doing his telekinesis at first, everyone thinks it's vanya, including him. but when hes by himself or something and things keep happening he doesnt notice it or brushes it off by reasoning it. ben keeps trying to tell him that hes being dumb and it's klaus whos doing all of that

Sorry if you just wanted me to talk about this in bullet points or anything (i still might, god I love making those), this idea was just too good and immediately inspired me to write a small fic about it so hope you’re not mad anon! I wasn’t sure how much to go into, so I tried to keep it to your ask, but goddamn if it wasn’t fun. Klaus being an idiot and not realising that he can move things with his mind is so funny to me for some reason, hope you enjoy it!

The first time there had been anything out of the ordinary, it had been Ben who had noticed it. Field after field of wheat and corn and cotton stretched as far as Klaus could see, squinting his tired eyes against the glare of the sun that sat lazily on the horizon. If not for the aches left from his sudden fall into whatever time period they were in – little Five had said that the equations were a bitch to get exactly right – than Klaus may have paid more attention.

Ben, however, didn’t get sore from falls out of the space-time continuum or hours of blind walking, so it really had been no wonder that his deceased brother had far more focus.

“Great.” Klaus hissed; his brows knitted together tightly as he hugged his arms closer to his chest. A shiver ran through him, the irritable itch of his skin taking no time in setting over his body. “This is just peachy, huh? Fivey couldn’t have dropped us somewhere nice… like Vegas?”

Ben made a face, strolling leisurely by the medium’s side as he watched the cattle stare as they passed. “Fresh air is better for you than booze and slot machines.” Ben reasoned, his lip rising as he watched Klaus’ slug by, his legs dragging off the dirt countryside roads until anything else came into view. “Besides, all these,” He added, gesturing a hand to a black Angus calf ignorant to them as it suckled its mother. “-must belong to someone.”

“Little shit dropped us in the asshole to nowhere…”

“The others could have landed in the nearest town.”

“-and my ribs hurt.”

Ben sighed, leaning his head back as he let his arms flop down to his sizes, focusing on the swaying motion of them as they walked in silence. They’d be okay, they’d find the others – probably Diego in that stupid outfit scowling at Klaus for ‘wandering off’ – and then Klaus would smile and quip and everything would be okay.

The others weren’t in the nearest town.

They could only gather so much from their surroundings, but their deductions seemed sound and clean enough that Ben smiled at his brother as he peered at the newspaper over his shoulder. Klaus’ long, knobby fingers worked on straightening the wrinkles and skimmed over the weather-worn letters – people had thrown looks at the lanky man tearing paper from a nearby trashcan, but none of them said anything, thankfully – only to let out a tired groan.

Ben didn’t need to read through it to understand what his brother meant.

“Nothing.”

Without another word, the newspaper was crumpled up into a ball and dropped at his feet, worn trainers that scuffed off the concrete feebly kicked it aside. He could see the tension in his brother’s shoulders, bare against his torn army vest – Dave, would he have been able to lift Klaus’ hopes better than Ben, did Klaus want Dave there more than him? – as his withdrawal slithered back in to replace the time-travel nausea.

Ben grimaced at the slump of Klaus’s body, hunched meekly on the sidewalk.

A few moments of silence went by.

“What are we gonna do?”

“We should check around for the others, at least we know something.”

“Fine.” Klaus nodded but didn’t budge from the sidewalk as his hands covered his face. The fashion definitely struck them of being around the 1960s, at least giving them a when to base their next action on, the newspaper only confirming it as 1960 to be exact. It was early morning, so fewer people were around to see Klaus – who appeared to be talking to the air, Ben reminded him – but the oncoming morning rush meant a higher chance of standing out.

“The Commission is probably already on our asses.”

Klaus snorted, but didn’t release the tension in his shoulders. Pressing his arms tighter against his side, the skin of his hands pressed white off the sidewalk, pushing all his weight into his limbs and yet failing to move. Short nails clawed at the concrete. Ben stared down at him, brow wrinkled at the heaving breaths that passed through his thin form, shivering with each exhale.

Glancing up to take a look at their surroundings, Ben forced himself to stay put. Withdrawal was a bitch, that much was given at how many times he had seen Klaus go through it before in hospitals and rehab, only to dive back into the intoxication pool without hesitation. But time-travel? That was a whole other game, sensations that he couldn’t understand as he was.

Klaus exhaled a hard breath beside him, the muscles of his arms flexed between them and his teeth clenched down hard into his jaw. Breathe, Ben reminded him, repeating the word over and over until it sounded wrong and then kept going.

"Breathe”.

“I know.”

“We’ll be okay.”

Klaus groaned in reply.

“We’ll find the others, and everything will be-”

The newspaper shot away from them and all the way across to the other side of the street.

Ben blinked.

His mouth opened to speak, to question what had just occurred, only to let his mouth close once more. There had been no wind, no breeze that flapped at Klaus’ clothing or anything else on the street strong enough to do that, so how-

“Alright... I’m alright,” Klaus said slowly, letting out a groan as he shakily rose to his feet. Ben leapt to attention, adrenaline left over alerting him to the scuff of his brother’s foot off the road before he could help him to his feet, his eyes never leaving Klaus. That was… new. “Let’s go.”

                                                         (***)

“Klaus.”

“Ben, for the last time-!”

“It was floating!”

“I must’ve made some other ghost corporal by accident!” Klaus reasoned, waving his brother’s concern away as he shoved his arms back through his jacket sleeves. “Remember when you were able to hold stuff again? You knocked all kinds of shit over-”

“There were no other ghosts, I would’ve seen it.”

Klaus rolled his eyes, picking up the knocked over lamp and replacing it back on the motel bed table.  Blowing a raspberry after flicking the light switch on to make sure the bulb wasn’t damaged; Klaus hoisted his bag over his shoulder and gestured for Ben to follow. “Maybe being corporal makes it harder to see other ghosts, Benny-boy.”

Realising the other was heading out the motel room door rather than listening, Ben pursed his lips with a shake of his head as he followed Klaus. Watching Klaus tie his hair into a high bun – the tangled mess of curls on his head now reaching his chin – in order to help dry the sweat still coating his neck, Ben sighed.

Ghosts can’t knock over lamps, he frowned to himself as Klaus hopped into the driver seat, quickening his pace to slip in the passenger seat before the other had time to start the engine. But idiots who can move stuff without touching them having nightmares can.

                                                        (***)

“Lucky that the guy tripped, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ben sighed, rolling his eyes as Klaus swung his arms leisurely, going on his merry way as if he hadn’t almost been mugged and stabbed by some alley-thug five minutes before. “It’s our lucky day…”

Because men twice the size of Klaus just so happened to become clumsy despite being able to sneak up on a man and a literal ghost.

And that said thug had tripped so hard that he somehow flung himself back down the alleyway far enough that they could escape.

And that the man’s knife just so happened to fly out of his hand and straight into a wooden pallet leaning against a wall more then ten feet away.

Purely, undoubtedly, luck.

Shaking his head, Ben forced himself to only nod when Klaus suggested they get something to eat.

His brother was such an idiot.

                                                        (***)

Their whole family were idiots.

“Our first objective should be stopping the apocalypse─”

“We need to help Vanya─”

“Allison please, we don’t know what she’s capable─”

“She is trying to control them, Luther. Why can’t you─

Any attempt at conversation was muffled out as Luther shouted louder, only angering Allison who had stood in-between him and Vanya once their brother had shown a lack of resolve to control himself. Lingering off to the side of the room, Klaus could only chuckle as chaos erupted between his three siblings, earning a look from the remainder of his family.

Five took no time in trying to dismantle the tension, jumping back and forth between the living room and the kitchen counter in order to move his plans elsewhere. Neither Ben, Klaus or Diego could blame the fifty-year-old-teen for his lack of concern, arguments were as common in their family as game nights for other, more functional homes.

Earning an expectant look from Ben, Klaus sighed as he hoisted himself up from the couch and stepped cautiously over to their siblings. Diego, raising a brow, glanced over to Ben before giving his dead brother a small smile.

Good job.

Ben straightened his posture, lifting his weight from the settee arm and instead balancing it on his opposite hip. He pursed his lips, however, into a glare at the shift of Luther’s stance, using his bulbous shoulders to basically shove Klaus out of the argument without even hearing what the medium had to say.

Lifting his hands before him to show no harm, Klaus tried to draw attention back to Vanya and her own voice, rather than letting her be drowned out like always. Sharing a smile with his shorter sister, Vanya shifted to allow Klaus room, guiding Allison who could only smile at her growth in confidence.

The conversation, however, didn’t calm as Luther continued to protest despite the majority, besides Five who was too busy working out equations in the kitchen and trying to save the world to care, to the point where Diego rushed in at the mention of their childhood numbers.

Klaus groaned, smothering his face with his own hands once Diego unsheathed a knife. Not listening to either Allison or Vanya demanding them to stop, Ben stood back as the argument began to break down into a brawl between the two highest numbers.

That was, until, something pushed them.

Silence fell as a force of some kind knocked into both men, knocking Diego’s knife from his hand and sending both him and Luther further back from one another. Wide-eyed, the group grew silent.

Until Five jumped back into the room, pissed-off and snarling at the group to restrain themselves, rather than making the Commission’s job easier for them.

Ben sighed as the blame shifted to Vanya, furrowing his brows as he caught sight of Klaus stepping back from his sister in shock. None had noticed his hand, clenched tightly into a fist and still slightly glowing blue.

Sharing a look with his startled brother, Ben scowled at his dismissal and the attention on Vanya, ignoring their sister’s certainty that she hadn’t done anything. Klaus shook his hand out, letting the colour fade and acted to be simply stretching once Five and Diego looked at him at the collapse of the argument.

Shrugging of Diego’s concerns, Klaus was quick to console Vanya.

Ben frowned but pushed those thoughts away upon his siblings realising he was corporeal once more, attempting to ease tension within the bunker.

Idiots.

[lady-divine-writes]

12 Days of Blasphemy - Demon Side (Rated NC17)

Summary:

It's Christmas time, and Hastur hates Christmas time. Avoids it like chocolate and candy canes (since he actually enjoyed the plague). But here he is, on Earth in December, to meet with his least favorite demon ever. But his mind changes somewhat when it seems Crowley has started taking his job seriously again ... But, of course, things aren't always what they seem ... (1561 words)

Notes: Written for the '12 Days of Blasphemy' prompt 'kneeling'. Also, I'm going to cling to the idea that this is a Christmas fic the same way 'Die Hard' is a Christmas movie XD NSFW in the suggestive sense. Warning for implied oral and mention of Crowley's demon form. Basically, Aziraphale is a horrible angel to his poor, overworked husband.

Read on AO3.

“Hail Satan.”

A muffled squawk! and ruffle of feathers greet Hastur as he trudges through the muddy field to reach the assigned meeting place. ‘Bloody pigeons,’ he thinks, scanning the ground for a glimpse of the flying rats. ‘They’re everywhere. Been kicking them left and right all day.’

Of course, he’d been doing it on purpose, mostly for fun, but they still got under foot of their own accord far too often.

“Yeah, uh, you know … hail … and all that,” Crowley calls across the field, offering up a stunted wave, just the wiggle of a few fingers from beneath his collar, his voice hitching up in pitch on the word hail. He sounds uncomfortable, like he’d rather be anywhere but here, which is often the case, but more so than usual on this dismally wet (yet still festive) December night.

Hastur growls. He hates Christmas, loathes the good tidings and cheer that come along with it. There’s a farmhouse nearby, dressed to the nines with Christmas lights and puffy inflatable things that move their arms and turn their heads to reveal the manic smiles on their faces. He doesn’t understand their purpose other than they make children laugh.

And he despises the laughter of children most.

Hastur took the liberty of cursing a handful of them in various front yards on his way over – snowmen, Santas, reindeer, a polar bear or two. Even a bouncy castle, set up and waiting to entertain at a holiday party tomorrow afternoon. Some will simply deflate at odd intervals and require replacing, others will attack pets and children. At full capacity, the castle will collapse in on itself. There may be survivors. There may not.

Either way, the outcome should be hilarious.

Hastur does his best to stay below ground through the entirety of December when he can, avoids large cities entirely, but this meeting couldn’t wait.

Hastur stops a few feet from Crowley. On the whole, he tries not to get too close to him, especially since the bastard did set him on fire.

And after what he did to poor Ligur.

Why Beelzebub decided to give him clemency, along with another fucking chance, Hastur will never understand. But Crowley was a favorite in Hell once. Orchestrate a few wars, pull off a few inquisitions, mess with the construction of a highway, and you can get away with anything apparently.

Hastur looks Crowley over, baffled as to what the flashy asshole is wearing. He’s gone native. That’s generally understood. So nothing he does should surprise Hastur anymore. On the off chance Beelzebub doesn’t have anything ulterior planned for Crowley (along the lines of his utter extermination), Hastur should probably start giving Crowley the benefit of the doubt. He’d agreed to this meeting, for one. Showed up early even. That proves he’s making an effort, right? A demon who can withstand Holy Water doesn’t really need to worry about playing by the rules so the fact that he’s toeing the line should account for something.

Maybe Hastur doesn’t care too much about fitting in with the humans, but that doesn’t mean Crowley’s efforts to blend in aren’t, in some way, rooted in Evil. Maybe that coat of his is Evil, made from some critically endangered bird, like a giant ibis or a California condor, and constructed by child slave labor in Indonesia.

But the closer Hastur gets, the more disappointed he becomes because no, it’s not.

What Hastur thought was a coat is Crowley’s wings, wrapped completely around his body, gleaming like black ice in the dark, more than likely the product of thrice a day grooming or something else equally and ridiculously vain.

“What’s with the wings?” Hastur asks, gesturing to Crowley’s body. The feathers shift and adjust upon mention, as if trying to contain the whole of Crowley’s corporal form from escaping.

“I’m chilly,” Crowley replies, his voice tight. “Mmmph. You hate my clothes anyway. What do you care?”

Hastur stares at his colleague. Crowley is using a great deal of strength to remain impassive, indifferent, stoic, but Hastur can see the struggle on his face – a pain simmering beneath his skin like the dormant claws of his demon self shredding a path to the surface, longing to break free.

Crowley breathes in sharply, rolls his shoulders back together, then one at a time as if trying to relieve an itch without scratching it.

He used to be a snake, Hastur reminds himself. Perhaps he’s shedding.

Hastur shrugs.

“I don’t,” he concludes.

“Great. Ngk. Now that we have that settled, can we please continue? I have places I need to be, you know.”

“What do you have to report? And it’d better be good.”

“Well, I … mmph …” Crowley’s feathers shift again, trembling as if they’re deliberating between staying fixed to his body or falling off.

Maybe Hastur was a bit off the mark. Maybe Crowley isn’t shedding. Maybe he’s molting.

The image that brings to Hastur’s head of this preening peacock losing his precious feathers and looking like a plucked chicken almost makes Hastur smile.

“Well you what?”

“I’ve been working in secret. Uh … uh … undercover as it were. It’s not been long since the whole execution thing, has it? You lot still have operatives on Earth who’ve decided there must be a price on my head.”

At that, Hastur does smile. Whether or not that was his doing is entirely irrelevant.

But yeah, he did that.

“Fine. You’ll get more time. And the angel?”

“Wh---what about the angel?” Crowley stutters as if he’s about to sneeze.

“We’ve heard from our informants that the two of you are now … living together?” Hastur grimaces, the taste those words bring to his mouth vile, even by demon standards.

“Yes, I’m living with him!” Crowley snaps, but then relaxes a little, head lolling back on his shoulders, shielded eyes aimed at the sky. “That’s how I gain his trust … get him to put his guard down.”

“And how is that working out for you, eh?”

For the first time during this whole meeting, Crowley grins. “I’ve got him right where I want him.”

Crowley’s wings around the middle bulge out, then up. They shudder violently, then smooth back into place. He swallows hard, a complicated look clouding his expression. He makes an odd sound, like a whimper. Hastur frowns.

“What the Heaven is wrong with you?”

“Like I said … ngk … I’m cold.”

“You’re a demon! You don’t get cold!” Hastur watches, stares intensely at Crowley’s face contorting, his body undulating beneath his cloak of feathers but only subtly as he forces himself to fight it, and suddenly it all becomes clear. “I know what’s going on …”

Crowley’s yellow eyes meet Hastur’s. For a moment, he looks ominously surprised and terrified. “Y-you … you do?”

“Yes,” Hastur hisses with glee. “Your façade is slipping!”

“That’s … uh … mmph … one way of putting it, I guess.”

“Take this as a sign, brother! Forgo your human shell and let your demon side out! Come back to us as the full expression of yourself and take your rightful place in Hell!”

“You make a convincing argument. I … uh … will definitely consider that … ah!” Crowley doubles over, breathing heavily, shaking as if every maggot beneath his flesh has finally had their fill of being trapped and is growing fangs.

“You do that,” Hastur says, so certain of himself, he wants to add this development to his report for the day. But no, he won’t tell Beelzebub about it just yet. He’ll wait until Crowley arrives, strolling down to Hell in his glorious demon form – grey skin, yellow teeth, leather wings, possibly even holding an angel’s head in his grasp. “See you soon, Crawly. Good to have you back.”

“Uh … right …” Crowley pants into the dirt, bowed so low that the sputtering remains of his breath moves the tips of the grass.

Between Crowley’s heaving breaths and Hastur’s footsteps fading in the sod, a soft voice mutters. “Is he gone?”

“Give it a second, love, a’right?” Crowley whispers, his brain melting into a mixture of anxiety and ecstasy, swirling about the rim of a large, cosmic drain. “That was a dirty trick, by the way. Do you know how much power it takes to shield you from their notice, and then you go and pull something like that?”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. You sound it.”

When Crowley feels Hastur leave, burrow through the ground and so far beneath the earth that something like a holy signature materializing in Crowley’s personal space wouldn’t be noticed, he opens his wings so he can give a hard, scolding look to the angel on his knees at his feet.

“Just thought I’d lend a helping hand,” Aziraphale says sweetly, licking his lips. “Or a helping mouth in this case.”

“Help with what?” Crowley reaches down trembling hands to slip his spent cock back into his jeans.

“Letting your demon side out.”

“Yes, well, you keep helping like that and you’re going to get me discorporated.” Crowley takes Aziraphale by the upper arms and helps him to his feet, but for all his fuss and bluster, there’s no mistaking the grin on Crowley’s face.

“Like you’re always saying, my dear - if you’re going to go … go in style!”

[ferryboatpeak]

hey anon about the ceilings, it took me a couple days but i finally realized that your messages were actually a harryverse fic prompt! let’s check in on how all of the harrys are doing in these uncertain times, shall we?

1.5K of harry/harry crackfic, mildly nsfw, also available at ao3

(previously in the harryverse)

The angel awakens with a jolt. “They’re at it again.” He swings his legs over the side of the bed and fumbles for his cross pendants on the bedside table.

“Mmmph?” The demon stirs behind him.

“They’re together, I know it.” He prods his foot around on the floor by the side of the bed, trying to locate his boxers.

“So what?” The demon’s naked body slides over the sheets. He hooks a tattooed arm around the angel’s waist and presses a kiss at the base of his spine.

The angel’s toes curl. The search for his pants stalls. But… “Traveling between universes is not sheltering in place!”

“It could be,” the demon points out, his breath warm on the angel’s skin. “If they’re in the same place.”

Something about that logic doesn’t quite track, but the angel’s having a difficult time figuring it out while the demon’s tongue traces up his back. He lets himself be tugged back into bed.

The next time he wakes up, he’s stretched out against the warm length of the demon, one arm stretched over his chest, ankles hooked together. It takes a few minutes for his orgasm-fogged brain to remember the corporeal Harrys. “I should see what’s going on.”

“Do what you gotta do,” the demon sighs, extracting his arm from underneath the angel. “I’ll meditate.” He slides out of bed and retrieves a yoga mat from the closet. After unrolling it next to the bed, he launches into a series of distracting nude stretches.

The angel sits up and shakes his head to clear it. He squirts some Purell into his palm from the bottle on the bedside table. Once his hands are sanitized, he leans over to grab his laptop, and wipes it down with a bleach wipe before turning it on.

The demon abandons his yoga and kneels on the bed next to him. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m setting up a Zoom.” He finishes the invitation and forwards it to h@hstyles.co.uk.

“Why only one email?” The demon hooks his chin over the angel’s shoulder to see the screen.

“They all check that one, enough of them will see it.” He elbows the demon out of the way before he opens the link for the meeting. “Go meditate, you can’t be on camera.” The angel tilts the screen back and forth, looking for his best angle.

Back on the floor, the demon folds himself over into downward dog. “Better touch up your appearance.”

“Fuck off.” The angel hovers the cursor over the Zoom menus. “What’s that?”

“Touch up your appearance, it’s in video options.”

The angel finds the right menu and selects “touch up your appearance,” admiring how it smooths out the spot on his forehead. “Thanks, asshole.”

A second window opens. Harry in a lace dress sits in front of the webcam in profile, eyes closed, face tilted upwards. “Hold still,” Harry in a pink blouse instructs him. He dabs something from a little pot onto the other Harry’s face.

The angel can see a towel rack, a toilet. Ballerina Harry pliés in the background of the frame, watching himself in the bathroom mirror. A lofty 10-foot ceiling soars above their heads. “You’re in LA, then?” the angel asks.

“Correct.” Harry in pink dips his finger into the pot and adds another layer to the other Harry’s cheekbone. “Just doing some face masks.”

Steam rises from the shower behind them. Water runs in rivulets down the glass door, obscuring the interior. “Who’s in the shower?”

The ballerina scoops up a pile of lace off the bathroom floor and holds it up for the webcam. “The other one in the dress.”

“For fuck’s sake,” the angel says. “Don’t start taking off your clothes, I’ll never be able to tell you apart.”

“You get to have your shirt off,” the ballerina points out, leveling his stare at the webcam. “Why can’t we?”

The angel mutes his microphone just in time. “Pants off, too,” the demon sings out cheerily from his yoga mat.

“Quiet,” the angel hisses at him. “It’s too confusing if you’re here.” The demon rolls his eyes and folds his legs into lotus position.

Another window opens onscreen. It’s Harry in suspenders and blue sparkles, in a fearfully decorated sitting room under a cosy 8-foot ceiling.

“Can I get in with you?” asks a voice off-camera. “Can’t open my laptop with my hands taped.” The webcam shifts slightly and the boxer joins the other Harry on the couch.

The Harrys in LA wave at the camera. “Hello!”

The angel unmutes himself. “Anybody else in London?”

“Just him.” The frame spins as Harry flips his laptop around to show corpse Harry lying on the rug.

“Is he… okay?”

“Sure, just a little savasana.” Harry’s white-socked toes poke at the corpse. “Say hi.” Without opening his eyes, the corpse flashes a peace sign and returns to his repose.

In LA, the shower door opens, and a naked Harry emerges. As everyone else goes silent, he takes what the angel considers to be an excessive amount of time to dry himself off. With the towel wrapped around his waist, he approaches the laptop. “What did I miss?”

“You can’t keep doing this.” The angel looks directly into the webcam with a serious expression. “It’s not good social distancing. You should all be two meters apart.”

“Come down and make us.” Harry in blue folds his arms, challenging.

The Harrys in LA pack into the frame together. “Yeah, what are you gonna do about it?” The ballerina rests his hands on the shoulders of the Harry in the lace dress.

The laptop tips sideways on the angel’s knees. A Harry-shaped molehill forms under the duvet, tunneling toward him. The demon’s feet disappear as he slithers under the sheets from the side of the bed. Apparently he’s done meditating.

“I can come down there.” The angel kicks at the demon’s shoulder and steadies the laptop. “There’s things I can do.”

“Oh-oh,” cautions Harry in pink, wide-eyed. “That wouldn’t be very good social distancing.”

The demon bites lightly at his ankle and scrapes his teeth up the angel’s calf muscle. The angel stifles a gasp, keeping all his features still on camera. The demon’s head bumps the laptop up his thighs.

“I’m a celestial being.” The angel lifts up the laptop and holds his leg perfectly still, trying to ignore the demon sucking a kiss to the inside of his knee. “I can’t get coronavirus.”

The corpse shoulders into the frame next to the two Harrys on the couch. “You could be an asymptomatic carrier.”

“Best not to risk it,” the ballerina adds sagely. He unzips Harry in the dress, who closes his eyes and tips his head to the side, opening his neck to the ballerina’s mouth.

“What are you…” The angel’s not entirely sure if he’s saying it to the Harrys onscreen, or to the demon dragging his lips along the inside of the angel’s thigh. “Stop it!” He fumbles with his laptop to turn off his webcam, and sets it to the side. “I’m working here!”

“You’re doing great,” comes the muffled response from under the bedclothes. “Heckuva job.” He slides his mouth down the angel’s cock in one swift lunge, like a bird of prey diving for the kill.

“Oh, god.” The angel’s fingers grip the sheets. He slumps back against the headboard and whimpers, which is the only possible reaction to whatever the demon’s doing with his inhuman tongue.

There’s a snort of laughter and furious shushing. The angel slowly turns his head toward the laptop. All seven Harrys are packed on camera, avidly watching their screens.

The corpse smirks at him. “You’re not on mute, dumbass.”

“Shit,” the angel says weakly. The demon, undeterred, continues to efficiently destroy him by means of his mouth.

The Harrys all speak at once, jostling for position in front of their webcams. “Turn your camera back on.” “It’s only fair.” “Show us.” “Is it the sex demon? Is the sex demon there?”

“He’s… a sex demon?” the angel asks.

“Duh.” Harry in blue rolls his eyes.

“You didn’t know?” Harry in pink asks sympathetically.

The angel lifts the edge of the duvet and looks down at the demon between his thighs. It doesn’t seem possible to smirk with one’s mouth full, but the demon manages. His hand snakes out from under the covers toward the laptop. With uncanny precision, he taps a finger on the video icon. The camera flickers back to life, and the angel watches onscreen as the demon tongues at the head of his cock with pornographic showmanship. It does look rather splendid. No wonder the Harrys wanted to watch.

Oh, that’s right… the Harrys. The angel tries to focus on the other Zoom windows. There’s a second dress on the floor of the LA bathroom, and the freshly showered Harry’s dropped his towel. A naked Harry – the angel can’t tell which one – is stripping the suspenders off the Harry in pink. There’s too many nipples and swallows to keep straight. One window over, the three Harrys in London are a flurry of hands and dicks, no telling which belongs to who.

“You’ve frozen up,” the angel chokes out. “Talk soon!” He slams the laptop shut as the demon tosses off the covers and crawls up his body, eyes glittering with dark promise.