#they opened donations an hour ago and already got to reveal team two and are close to team 3 <3

[wall-e-gorl]

BRENNAN LEE MULLIGAN ON THE UNPREPARED CASTERS TRANS RIGHTS LIVESTREAM?!?!?

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @padxleckiss donated $50, and requested always-a-girl!Deanna/Sam, lingerie, comeplay. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

In the week after they get back from St. Louis, dealing with James and the witches and the familiars and everything that got dragged up along with them, Deanna throws herself into the bunker. Sam thought she was nesting before; turns out he didn't really know what that looked like, from his sister.

There's cleaning. There's rearranging. She turns the kitchen upside down and finds another farmer's market over in Smith Center that even in late February Kansas weather has produce that she fairly squeals over, when she's dumping her egg-crate of loot out onto the island. "How are you getting tomatoes this time of year?" Sam asks, and she makes a raspberry noise and says, "What? Greenhouses, or something, Sammy, don't bitch when I'm bringing home gold." While Sam's still digging out in the library, still trying to make sense of the diamond-mine of lore and records and history that they've fallen face-first into, Deanna makes mysterious trips to Wichita, to Topeka, to department stores, to—who knows where else, because Sam isn't invited, because he, apparently, "doesn't know how to shop." Sam didn't know Deanna did, considering that their whole lives she's lived on thrift-store finds and leftovers same as him, but apparently his sister has yet more depths Sam didn't realize he wasn't privy to until they were suddenly revealed.

She comes home late after another trip—swinging past Kevin on the houseboat, but clearly an excuse from the shopping bag swinging on the end of her finger—and Sam's tired from a long day sitting in the library and trying to manage this nagging cough without worrying about it, but she bounces up the steps and there's a shine to her that hasn't been there since—since Sam doesn't remember, how long—and he smiles at her, despite everything. "Good drive?" he says.

"Update, Kevin has advanced in his diet enough to alternate between hot dogs and Hot Pockets," Deanna says, and wraps an arm over his chest from behind and kisses his cheek, easily affectionate like they also haven't been in too long. He swallows, tasting iron, and catches her wrist to keep her there. She hmms, reading his laptop over his shoulder like she always does. Her hair swings down, too, falling over her shoulder, smelling like road and like the faintest trace of her crappy strawberry conditioner. More absently: "Not even the good kind. He's getting, like, off-brand meatball and four cheese."

"Did you cook?" Sam says, and she goes pff against his cheek—tickles, and he flinches away, grinning despite himself—and she says, standing, "I am not Kevin's mommy, Sam, what do you take me for?" When he cranes his head back to give her a face she presses her lips together, rolling her eyes, and says, "I mean, yes, I made lasagna, okay? Kid can't live on weird mystery meat alone. It's got tomato sauce, that counts as a vegetable." She snorts then, tugging her wrist out of his loose grip, and Sam flattens his hand against his chest instead, wanting her back already. "You shoulda heard the noise he made when he got the first bite, too. If he never lost his virginity before, that thing blasted his cherry."

"Dee," Sam groans—Kevin's been through shit but he's still a kid, as far as Sam's concerned—and she says ha, unrepentant.

"You eaten?" she says. Bag on the other table, the one she's staked out as hers, which he isn't allowed to spread 'moldy records' on, apparently. She squats at the brand new mini-fridge, rummaging, though when Sam's silent she gives him a sidelong look. "Samwise? Dinner? Supper?"

"That would make you Frodo," he says, and she rolls her eyes again, coming up with two beers. She cracks them on the edge of the fridge—there's already a scraped-spot coming up—and comes up to him holding his just out of reach, her eyebrows high. Sam sighs. "Yes. Like, two hours ago. The mothering routine is weird, you know."

"Oh, something about us is weird, huh?" Deanna says, smile pulling at her mouth, and when she holds out the beer for him to take she keeps her fingers on the bottle and pulls herself in when he takes it, sliding inside the v of his legs, pressing her thigh against his. He tips his head back and she leans in, making a fake sweet moue of concern. "Tell me about it, baby."

"Dude," he says, protesting only vaguely, and she grins outright, pushing his shoulder and turning away.

"Yeah, whatever," she says. She scoops her bag off the other table and half-salutes with her beer. "I've got a date with the shower room and some new sheets. You going to come to bed tonight, or is this whole lore fetish permanent?"

Asked casual, her eyes on her shopping bag as she presumably admires whatever purchases. Sam swallows down a cough. "Give me a few hours," he says.

Deanna glances at him, not smiling at all for a moment, before that little exasperated dimple peeks up in her cheek. "Fe-tish," she coos, half-singing, and he rolls his eyes for her to see so she'll grin, brief, before she disappears again, her boots clomping loud down the concrete hall, so he still knows where she is even if he can't see her. Sam holds the beer in both hands, running his thumb along the edge of the label, listening. The bunker feels different, when she's in it. The world feels different, when she's in it.

It's been… how has it been. Complicated. That's the best way, maybe, to describe it in brief and still be truthful. His sister is one of the most complicated people on the planet, though she'd protest that description. Sam's personal opinion is that she's one of the most complicated people in history, and considering their relative position in history it's probably not a stretch to figure that, on an objective scale, she's at least ranked.

The last eight months or so—that was complicated, too, although in some ways it was very, very simple. Sam had been with another woman for almost a year and Deanna had been with another man and regardless of extenuating circumstances—death, or presumed death, or loneliness so complete that it gave Sam nightmares, even now, these bleak dreams of an empty world where he calls out and his voice doesn't echo, a deaf-and-mute misery where all he sees is absence—that was it, pretty much. Since then, they've forgiven each other. They broke off other concerns and when Sam walked back into that cabin in Whitefish Deanna was standing at the window with her arms wrapped over her stomach, looking out at something Sam couldn't see. She cut her eyes over when Sam closed the door and Sam shrugged and her lips folded between her teeth and, for a second Sam's always going to remember, she closed her eyes very tight, the faint crow's feet beside them going white with tension. Then she went to the cupboard and got down two cans of chili, and Sam found the can opener, and she uncapped the beers. They ate silently, watching a rerun of a wrestling match with six inches of space between them on the couch, but they were together, and that was more, almost, that night, than Sam could handle. It wasn't until the ridiculous adventure with Charlie—until after—when he woke up in the middle of the night already reaching for his gun with her hand small on his wrist and red-and-white makeup still smeared at her temples, her hair still caught up in the ridiculous Viking braids Charlie had given her—with her leaning in, in the too-big t-shirt she'd stolen from him to sleep in when she first came back from Purgatory and, he quickly realized, nothing else—when she said, soft in the dark, Sammy, asking—and he touched the bare shine of her knee gleaming in the moonlight and saw how her eyes closed again, very tight again, and he sat up and put his thumb to the clenched tense skin beside her eye and put his lips to her cheekbone, on the opposite side, and felt all the way through his body the breath she let out, like a tension she'd held close for a year or more was unraveling, all at once.

His sister. He knows what that means, about them. It's worse, of course, because she's his sister who raised him, who taught him how to shoot and bandaged his skinned knees and who beat the shit out of the first girl who ever stood him up for a school dance, when he was fourteen, and Sam had tried to intervene but Deanna had whirled on him, furious, and said no one gets to treat you like that, you get me? No one. Sam remembered that moment on the Greyhound, pressing his forehead against the window and watching the pale grey Arizona desert go past in the moonlight, California beckoning and Deanna's face, turned away while Dad shouted, pinned miserably behind his eyes. His sister, rowdy and caring and bullish and sweet. The town whore, boys had claimed when Sam was a teenager, and he'd gotten in his own fights, for that, fights that had led to Deanna pressing wadded TP against his lip and holding frozen peas against his eye, shaking her head, saying, Sammy, I know I taught you to box better than this. You fixing matches and making bank on the side, or what? His sister, who stood smirking in his kitchen in Palo Alto, her eyes not cutting to the girl at Sam's side even once—who said to him, voice sore, we made a good team, back there—who said to him, when Sam was out of his skin with worry after moving matter with his mind when the vision of her dead had filled it, nothing bad's gonna happen to you, not as long as I'm around, and smiled at him with her eyes clear, like it was nothing but true—who wept, cracked-open miserable, when she was sure that their dad had sold his soul for her—when she said to Sam that she wasn't worth it, and she didn't know why he had—that she was sorry, that she'd lost their father for both of them—his sister, who he folded into his chest, cupping his hand around the wavy-thick weight of her hair, noticing in a way for the first time how small she was, compared to him, and how she quivered, shaking in agony, caught against him, and how when he tipped her chin up on that mountain pull-out in the late afternoon sunshine the tears gleamed on her cheeks and her face was wrecked, her eyes red and her nose shined with snot and her mouth screwed up, bitten red and chapped, but full when Sam dipped and kissed her—plush, and startled-open, when Sam kissed her—giving, and tasting of salt, and desperate, and furious, and yielding, and precious-sweet, delicate, shocked, when Sam kissed her. She blinked, when he pulled away, stunned silent. Her eyelashes clumped and dark, and her eyeliner smeary, and her mouth red, red, red. Sam touched her lower lip with his thumb and she took in a huge deep breath that stuttered on its way in, staring at him big-eyed, and then she gripped his hair in both fists and tugged him back down and kissed him again, vicious, and that—well, that was it. His sister, and him. All the years between then and now, and that's still what it boils down to. Sam and Deanna. No matter what, the and is still the most important word.

He comes to bed. Midnight. A little after. They have separate rooms but Deanna's is nicer, despite the guns racked on the walls, and the weird obsidian axe that Sam doesn't ask about in pride of place, above the headboard. She's made the room her own—girly, sort of, despite the weaponry, although Sam doesn't describe it that way out loud—a new-built rack of her FBI-pretext suits and her few dresses on the other side of the wardrobe, and a throw blanket and fluffy pillow she has completely failed to explain or acknowledge on the uncomfortable loveseat, and candles on the shelf above the bed that she clearly had burning for a while before she went to sleep, because the room smells faintly of orange blossom when Sam's pulling off his boots, leaving his jeans on the chair in the corner. When he slides into bed behind her into the apparently-new sheets she makes a faint questioning sound, her head turning. He shushes her very quietly, sliding his hand over the wide curve of her hip, over the blanket. The memory foam sinks beneath him, too soft, but the bed already smells like her and so it's comfortable, anyway. He presses his lips against her bare neck, the soft baby-hairs there silky, her hair pulled messily up for bedtime as always, and she sighs, in her sleep, and curls in closer to her pillow. Sam smiles at the back of her head, wishing—well, whatever he wishes doesn't matter. He tucks in, knees pulling up into the curve of her knees so that he'll fit in the bed, and closes his eyes, and figures that, whatever he dreams, at least when he wakes up he'll be here, in what passes for home, with his sister.

*

As a matter of course Sam wakes up first. Unless there's a job-related deadline or nightmares dragging her awake, Deanna would happily sleep straight through the morning, and with no check-out times nagging at them in the bunker she's often wandered out into the library wrapped in one of those too-big robes at ten a.m., her hair wrecked and her slept-in makeup smudged and her mouth surly, demanding to know if Sam's made coffee. He has always made coffee.

This morning, though. Sam's alarm goes off at seven as usual, and he groans and smacks his phone, as usual, barely awake but knowing that he doesn't want to hear Deanna's bitching if it wakes her up, too—but there's no too-warm plush weight plastered up against him, and no murmured threats of shooting the phone if he doesn't change his alarm sound, and when he drags his hand through his hair and sits up and his brain actually comes online—the bed's empty, and the room's quiet, and he sits there blinking, surprised, not really knowing what to make of it.

Smell of coffee, when he opens the door, and bacon-smell snaking underneath it. When he gets to the kitchen, still trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes, Deanna's in her sleep-shirt (still Sam's, the shoulders way too big and the v-neck gaping), and tugged-on shorts, and bare feet, and her hair in a honey-brown messy pile on top of her head, and she's in a whirl of breakfast, pancakes on the griddle and a pan of bacon going and something being whisked with extreme prejudice in one of the big steel bowls, more suited to feeding thirty than just the two of them. She jerks when she notices him, like she's been caught at something, but then her eyes go to his hair and she starts to smile, wide mouth pulling into what Sam thinks of as her Joker grin. "Don't start," he says, and she says, too innocent, "Start what? I think it's very brave that you're joining a Flock of Seagulls cover band," and he drops his head back and sighs and ignores her snort-laugh, but he also drags his hands through his hair a little more strenuously while she says, "Whatever, Pigpen, take a seat. Grub's up in five."

He gets coffee, first. Strong, but good—like, really, really good, for some reason that he doesn't quite get—it's the same machine, same crappy tub of pre-ground stuff they get from the little market in town—but then Deanna's always been better at this kind of thing than she let on, and he savors the first few sips, breathing caffeine. She ignores him, moving confidently around—the whisking it turns out was eggs, which she pours onto the griddle too and starts working like she's a line cook—and he watches her, content for a second to let that be the only thing he's thinking about. She was a line cook, once, he remembers. When he was in high school, and she'd quit school by then, and the credit cards hadn't come through. She got a job for a few weeks at that diner, in Joplin. "What was that place you worked?" Sam says, while she's flipping pancakes. She frowns at him over her shoulder. "They gave me free grilled cheese for dinner, that month."

The frown clears. "The Show Me Diner," she says, turning back to the griddle. "Manager always joked I should show him my tits." Sam pauses, cup halfway to his mouth. He never heard that part. Deanna laughs, scraping at the griddle with the metal spatula. "Man, that kitchen was gross. Great fries, though."

"The grilled cheese was good," Sam says, after a second, and she says, "Damn right it was, I was the one making it," and then she's ducking under the island and grabbing plates, and then in the next second there's breakfast—fresh and hot and delivered with a fork clattering down into his eggs and his sister plopping down on the other side of the table, tucking her foot under her other knee and gesturing with the other fork: "Eat, drink, be merry. Happy birthday, Sammy."

Sam frowns. "Uh," he says, and makes a show of looking at his watch. "Unless I slept way too late—"

She rolls her eyes, cramming pancake into her mouth. "Shut up," she advises, garbled, and he wrinkles his nose at the chewing but looks down at his plate. It does look good. Bacon's burned, exactly the way they both like it. He picks up a piece, lets it shatter on his tongue, but he gives her a look, too, and she rolls her eyes again—a little too obvious, playacted, which makes him pay more attention—and makes a show of swallowing. "I know, duh. But, hell. I wasn't here for the last one. And, you know, I didn't really get a chance to make it up to you. Before."

She cuts another bite of pancake, studiously piling it and syrup and egg and bacon-shards into one monstrous bite, while Sam's processing that. "We didn't do anything for yours, either," Sam says, after a few seconds. Jesus, his birthday? He was in Kermit, then, only barely coming to terms with how he was going to have a hole in his chest for the rest of his life. On Deanna's birthday—god, that was only last month—they were moving into the bunker, he thinks, and they were okay but that hole in his chest somehow still smarted, and Sam doesn't even remember if they did the bare minimum of pizza and beer.

"We can do a Seagal marathon sometime," she says, shrugging one shoulder, and smiling at her plate when he groans. "I'm taking the opportunity, dude. We've got a house, we've got steady cash, the world isn't currently ending, so. I'm in charge. Birthday queen. You've gotta do what I say."

"How is this my birthday, again?" Sam says, and she says, "Shut up," lightly, and then taps his plate with her fork and says, "Eat up, beanpole," and so he shuts up, and eats. Why not. It's good. Of course it is; she made it.

There isn't, it turns out, all that much of a plan. He washes their plates but then she shoos him out of the kitchen again, tells him to run a marathon or bench press a car or something, and so he goes for a jog, as ordered. Not much of one—full stomach, and the cough, which forces him to stop and lean against a fence-post and spit, laced with red. He licks his lips, swallows, and keeps running, and when he's back Deanna's still in her pjs, doing something in the library, and she gives him unimpressed eyebrows and says, "You look like you reek, Lance. Shower time." So, fine, shower time.

When he's done, he finds clothes in his room laid out for him. Basically pajamas: soft loungey sweatpants in a dark grey that are clearly brand new, and a thin soft black shirt to go with them. "Merry un-birthday," he hears, and when he turns Deanna's leaning in his doorway, clearly enjoying him in his towel. "You like?"

"Uh, I guess," Sam says, fingering the material. Their birthday presents to each other are usually along the line of a six-pack or embarrassing porn or, memorably, twenty-nine boxes of Ho-Hos when he turned twenty-nine. Three guesses who ate more of them. He picks up the sweatpants, giving her a quizzical look, but she only lifts one shoulder and raises her eyebrows, waiting, and he huffs and then, fine, drops the towel. It is sort of—something—how immediately her eyes drop to his dick, and he bites back a smile and tugs on the sweatpants with a minimum of show. They are soft, thin but warm in the bunker's cool air, and the shirt stretches only a little over his shoulders. He pushes the sleeves up to his elbows and turns, modeling. "You like?" he repeats.

"You'd still get thrown out of bed for eating crackers," Deanna says, eyes tracing his body. "But you'll do."

He comes to her, sliding a hand over her waist, and she doesn't move except to tip her head back, eyes steady on his. Watchful and more still, now, like she wasn't before Purgatory. The kiss is unhurried. He parts her lips with gentle pressure and she sighs, letting him in, her head tilting back. Her mouth, perfect. He slips his hand down to her hip, squeezing the wide curve of it through the t-shirt and the ancient denim cut-offs, and she unfolds her arms and wraps a hand around his wrist, stopping him from going further. When he pulls back her cheeks are a little flushed but she blinks at him, shakes her head. "Not yet," she says, and he frowns, confused. Like they haven't messed around in the middle of the day before? She bites her bottom lip, attempting to look coy. "I mean. There's… stuff to do, first."

Sam narrows his eyes and she switches from attempted coy to attempted innocence. "Dee," he says, and her eyes go round, guileless as a cartoon princess. He drags his thumb over the soft of her belly, his hand still trapped by her light grip but enough room for him to find the waistband of the shorts through the t-shirt, rub there. Her eyelashes flicker, but she remains steadfast. "Stuff to do," he says, finally. "Like what?"

"Oh," she says, waving her other hand. "You know. Important stuff."

Okay, so she's clearly got some plan. He glances down at himself, dressed for… nothing, as far as he can tell. If it's going to be an elaborate and terrible roleplay fantasy, as least she isn't making him be a cop or a doctor or something. "And what am I supposed to do?" he asks, conceding. "While you do important stuff."

She starts to grin but bites it back, in that way where her dimple peeks out. "I think you should hang out in the library," she says, half serious.

"The library," Sam says.

Deanna nods, the dimple deepening. "For like… an hour, probably." She tips her head, eyes cutting to the side. "Um, maybe longer. But I'm sure there's a book in there that'll entertain you, gigantic nerd that you are."

"Thoughtful," Sam says, and her grin blooms wide, her eyes crinkling in that way they do when she's really happy, and it catches in Sam's chest, like it always does. He dips and kisses her again, quick, just because he needs to, and she puts a hand to his jaw and lifts into it, eager, before she dips away, licks her lips, lifts a finger. Sam sighs. "An hour."

"Ish," she corrects, but she slides a hand down his chest to his stomach, presses in. "It'll be worth the wait," she says, warm and promising, in that way she has where she can flip from just the biggest dork in the world to the sexiest woman he's ever known, even in ratty pajamas and still all mussed from sleep, and he doesn't need more than just—her, just her, ever, and she should know that, but—he nods, and her eyes drop to his mouth and she looks tempted, but then she nods too, and disappears down the hall, bare feet noiseless on the concrete, and he closes his eyes and tells the warm wanting feeling in his gut that it has to wait, unfortunately, and he goes to the library, and he finds a book.

He doesn't actually know how long passes. He stands over the archiving work that he still needs to do but—god, he's not going to be able to concentrate on that, with this tugging in his belly that says he's got something better coming down the pipe. He goes over to one of the alcoves, instead, picks one of the leather armchairs, picks a book off the shelf. History—the Spanish incursion into Tenochtitlan—and it's dry and old-fashioned and he scans page after page, half-focused, barely taking in details about the supernatural elements of Aztec ritual when he's thinking about…

It took him until he left to realize that he judged all women against his sister. His first official college hookup, after a freshman mixer, was a perfectly nice girl whose name he can't quite remember, but he remembers to this day how he thought: shorter than Deanna. Blonder than Deanna. No freckles, not like Deanna. When she tugged him into her dorm room, both of them more than tipsy on jello shots and cheap beer, she tugged off her tank top and dragged his hands up to her breasts and he'd thought, in a way he didn't examine at all until much later, that they were bigger than Deanna's, and her ass filling his hands was—was probably smaller, although Sam didn't have the evidence then to know it, and when he rolled off of her afterward she curled up against his arm and promptly fell asleep and he looked at her muzzily confused and thought, distantly, that Deanna didn't do that, with guys, that the few times she'd brought someone home to their motel room when she thought Sam was either out or sleeping she'd fucked the guy and gotten whatever satisfaction she got and then showed him the door, and they were done, except for how sometimes Sam would squint carefully through shut eyes at how she stood with her back to the door for a few minutes, her eyes closed and her head tipped back and her body barely hidden in a big t-shirt or a towel, and he didn't know what she was thinking, then. She certainly didn't just roll over and drool on the guy's shoulder, until he had to awkwardly extricate himself, and fret over leaving a number, and then ultimately decide to just go. Bethany, Sam remembers, suddenly. It was Bethany, who was not Deanna.

He's stretched out in the chair, book open but mostly-abandoned on the arm of it, staring unseeing out at the library. Deanna, five foot seven in her bare feet, her lips a plush pretty curve and her tits a good handful and her ass, god, her ass, that she fretted over when they were younger and made him say that it wasn't fat—but it is, god, this fat perfect swell, impossibly hot along with her wide hips and her thighs gorgeous below and her body just—made for his, he thinks, sometimes. Even if of course that's impossible because they shouldn't be—it shouldn't be how it is, between them. Impossible or not, though—

"Ahem," he hears. He looks up.

Deanna's standing there, one hand on his research table, the other holding closed her grey dead man's robe. Sam blinks, taking her in. Her hair's up but she's clearly taken some time to style it—not quite the FBI-agent bun she's perfected, but looser, and the layers near her face tucked faux-messily behind her ears. Make-up, her eyes framed with liner and thickly sooty, but nothing on to hide the freckles, and her lips shining like they're freshly licked with that clearish-pink gloss she likes. Nothing too odd, or different. She takes another step, that clicks, and he glances down to find that she's wearing heels—not ones he recognizes, very high and impractical and shiny black, not her usual at all—and above the heels—

"I'm in charge, remember?" Deanna says, dragging his eyes back up to her face. "You've got to do what I say." He nods, feeling his face already getting hot, and he sits forward but she holds up a hand. "Stay sitting," she says, firm, "and don't touch, okay, not until you're told," and with that, she unclasps her other hand from the front of the robe, and lets it slide off her shoulders, and Sam takes in a breath and doesn't know if he ever lets it out.

The heels are the least of it. It's hard to take in all at once. His eyes leap from detail to detail. Deep maroon, in the silky material of the bustier, the bra-cups curved in and arrowing down to satiny buttons that close it at the front. It covers her ribs, surprisingly modest. Modest, too, the matching maroon panties done in a full cut, except that they're also sheer lace, and he can see the shadow of her trimmed hair through them, barely visible through the pattern. What's making his mouth dry, though, beyond the fact of her presented like this, is: a wide black garter belt, sitting high on her hips, leaving just an inch or two of bare white belly below the bustier—the arch of it high enough that the soft dimple of her navel's visible, above the waist of the panties—thick ribbons, for the garter, that curve sweet over her hips and down her pale thighs—and half-sheer thigh-high stockings, black lace thick at the tops, going all the way down her long legs to the heels, shining in the puddle of the discarded robe.

One heel turns in, her knee bending a little. Sam's dick pulses, caught in the sweatpants. This isn't—she doesn't bother, never has, and he never even thought to ask—in his life, he wouldn't have asked—

"Surprise," she says, spreading her hands to the side like a dancer, and Sam says, "Holy shit, Deanna."

Her tongue flicks to wet the center of her top lip. Nervous, almost, but what in god's name would she have to be nervous about? "Figured I could dress up," she says, shrugging—god, the way that makes her tits move—"and you know, it's your birthday, or uh—your unbirthday, right? So—"

"Are you sure I can't get up?" Sam interrupts. She blinks at him. "I really want to get up."

"So—" she says, fingers curling, and Sam says, "God, come here," with his voice rough in this way he didn't intend it to be, but she blinks again and then smiles, slow, her tongue pressing against the back of her teeth, and she steps forward, hips swaying, coming close enough to touch. He starts to reach but she puts her fingers to his collarbone and stops him, pressing him to the back of the armchair, and then she stands between his spread knees, leaning over him a little, so he can smell—the chemical peach of her bodywash, and the faint vanilla of the lotion she prefers, and beneath that—christ—he can smell her, her body clearly ready from whatever she was thinking as she put all this on, and he has to grip the arms of the chair very tightly not to get his hand on her pussy and find out just how ready she is.

Deanna trails a finger down his sternum, looking down at him with her lower lip caught in her teeth. "Didn't think this was going to be this much of a hit," she says, quiet, and Sam huffs. He's still looking all over. God. Her soft belly, lightly dented by the garter belt. The way the buttons of the bustier strain over her tits. "Hey, Sammy? Tell me something." He makes some sound. The stockings, christ, the stockings—that's doing something to him he didn't even know—"If you could do anything right now what would you do?"

His brain doesn't engage with the answer; it comes straight from his balls. "I'd eat your pussy," he says, and Deanna's hand spreads on his chest like a star, her chest heaving under the breath she takes. "Can I?" he says, belatedly, looking up finally at her face, because he wants to suddenly very badly, can practically taste the wet split of her, and she's pink over her cheekbones and ears, her lips wet and flushed, already, but she says: "No," and climbs into the armchair with him, instead, straddling him, her ass settling down on his knees, her hands in his hair, pulling his head back, making him keep eye contact. She dips her head, lips brushing his, and he opens his mouth for her but she doesn't quite kiss him. A tendril of hair swings forward, brushing his cheek, and she follows it, her lips faintly wet and a little sticky from the gloss, trailing over his cheekbone, breathing warmly damp against his ear. Her thighs clench around his and his hands flex, on the chair-arms, and his dick—god, he hasn't hardened up like this with no contact at all in years, didn't even know he could, but any second now it feels like he's going to start leaking, ruin the new pajama pants she gave him.

"If I asked you to hold on," she says, low and private against his ear—like anyone else could hear, like they're in a strip club and she's offering a private show. "You think you could? Hold on, not go until I said?"

"What, because I'm on such a hair trigger the rest of the time?" he says, attempting lightness, but honestly—christ, it feels like that could be a danger, right now, with her in his lap like this, with her smell, with her fingers dragging out of his hair and down his chest again, trailing down his abs through the sleep shirt. "God, Dee—you're so—" He's interrupted, when her fingers brush against the shape of his dick, through the sweatpants. She leans back, looking between them, her lips barely parted and her eyes dark. His dick flexes, against her hand, and her eyes flick up to meet his. "I can hold on," he promises, recklessly, and she flattens her palm and presses him thick against his own thigh where he's caught awkward in the soft material, but her chest heaves again on a deep breath, clearly as turned on as he is, and he says, then, "Kiss me," and she leans down immediately and does.

No touching rules or no, he's not going to just sit here, inert. He lifts up into the kiss right away, knocking her mouth open and licking inside, and she grips his hair again, fucks her tongue against his, squirms. "Scoot forward—come here—" she mumbles against him, half-coherent, and he hikes his hips forward between her legs so he's right on the edge of the seat and that, fuck, that tucks his hips warm between her thighs where he belongs, and his dick swells up against her pussy, the heat of it intense even through the layers of sweatpants and lace.

She doesn't tease, not exactly. She grinds down against him but then slips her hand right back to his dick, cupping the bulge of it firmly through the soft cotton and then sliding her hand inside. God—soft, warm. She rubs her thumb at the base, scratching her nail through his pubes, and then says, "Get it out," and he lifts, squirms, drags the waistband of the new pants down below the urgent heave of himself. Christ, he's hard. She presses right up close against him, thighs closing around his hips and his dick crammed tight up between his stomach and the scratchy lace of her panties, and she fists him capably, knowing, her cheek pressed against his and looking down between them, her breath heaving. She presses his cockhead up against herself, smearing it in the window of bare skin between the waist of the panties and the line of the garter belt—the sensitive ridge catching against her navel—and rubs her thumb hard under the crown—and fuck, fuck. Sam's balls ache. "Jeez," she says, low but light. "Happy to see me, huh? Wish I could suck it but I think I'd tear my tights if I went on my knees."

Sam groans. "You could try," he says, and she snorts, smears her lips against his jaw, kisses him brief and hot. She's as turned on as he is, which isn't helping him cool down at all. "Fuck, Dee. Let me—can I—"

"You can touch my ass," she offers, and he grabs her there immediately, squeezing, tugging her in so the spine of his dick crushes in against her pussy, grinding where her clit's got to be swelling, all trapped in the lace. She hitches air, back arching, and presses his dick firmer there with the hand caught between them, riding the pole of him. It feels outstanding but he's half-distracted because her ass, her ass. Fat and hot and so soft, denting under how hard he's gripping her. He slides his thumbs under the garter straps, tugging, and then sliding down, daring, finding the clips where they attach to the stockings. She squeezes his dick and he pulls, there, slipping his fingers under where the top of the stocking rides high and sweet and tight, and groans again, and says thoughtless Deanna, and she lifts her head up, looks down at him, eyes bright and her face flushed and her lips wet and her expression half-thoughtful, half-delighted. "Sammy," she says, and he squeezes the fat sweet swell where her ass rises up out of her thighs, the garters slipping silky against his palms. "That doing it for you? My stockings?"

He can hardly say, just lifts up and kisses under her jaw, sliding down to suckle at her throat—pulling—but she finds his hands, arrests them. He wants to knock them away but his brain's not completely offline yet and he stills, lets her pull his wrists away—lets her stand, fuck, up, wriggling backwards off his lap and getting her heels on the floor again, standing. "Hm, let's see," she says, low, and turns around, and that's when he gets to know that the stockings ride just a little higher in the back, the straps pulling with how the belt's fastened high at her waist, and they've got a thick seam that arrows down the line of her legs, ending in a little triangle of lace at the heel, just barely visible above the patent leather. The panties are practically sheer in the back—the lace finer, showing the crack of her ass—and the bustier dents in at the sides of her waist, making the tiniest roll there between the edge of it and the top of the garter that makes him want to fucking bite her, there, feel the soft flesh, taste her salt.

She's kicked the fallen robe out of the way and found the research table, her table, the one that's clear of books and mess. She bites her lip like a coquette and beckons, and he's up in a second, crowding in close, hands on the table on either side of her hips because she said, she said—

"If you want," she says, looking up at him, flushed, "you can eat me out, now."

He goes to his knees so fast it hurts and his mouth's between her thighs in the same second. He opens wide, breathes hot, sucks through the lace—her taste, right there, the fabric soaked at the little knot of the seams coming together—and she groans, bracing her heels on the floor, her ass barely perched on the edge of the table. He knows her cunt in every single way but like this it feels new, wrapped and pretty and served up for him, and he takes it slower, savoring. Drags his teeth over the unfamiliar scratch of the lace, kisses the pale-plump inside of her thigh above the edge of the stocking and suckles there, pulling tighter and tighter until she's squirming and gripping his hair and saying Sam breathless, and then switching to the other side and doing the same. Fuck, her smell. Salt-ocean, the queer unmistakable tang of pussy. He sucks at her clit through the fabric, not hard but in slow pulsing drags of his mouth that work her plump lips even fatter with hot blood, and her hips lift against him, a low pleased noise making his dick pulse. "Take them off," she says, somewhere, and he lifts up and kisses the little half-moon of skin above the waistband, fucks his tongue into her belly-button, and when he tugs—he pulls—dragging the panties down under the constriction of the belt and its straps—and he doesn't know how to get them out without ruining her whole costume—but christ, these are his present, aren't they?—and so he pulls harder, tears, and she gasps up above, "Holy shit, you lunatic," but then the lace is in two pieces and her thighs are pulling wide and he gets to dip his head and lick wide up the whole glossy slit of her, burying his nose in the slick-wet gingery patch of her hair, getting the salt without any stupid fabric in between. She grabs his head, pulling him closer, and he hooks his fingers into the straps of the garter belt and works, deep sloppy licks that smear slick all over, her clit swollen and aching just like he likes it. He spreads her wide with the edge of his thumbs, not touching, and licks the entrance to her vagina without dipping inside in the way he knows drives her absolutely nuts—and, yes, her thighs close around his shoulders and she arches with this surprised stupid sound that makes him grin against her cunt and she says, "Fuck, fine, fuck, get up here, come here—" and he stands slow, kissing her belly and her sternum and breathing against trapped satin swell of her breasts before she grabs his face and kisses him, eating her own taste out of his mouth.

"If you don't get your dick in me," she says, panting, "in about two seconds—" and so he grabs her ass and tips her backwards on the table and feeds his dick inside, pressing in bare, the scraps of lace tickling a little at his skin but the overwhelming feeling just the, fuck, the tight slippery grip of her, the close-grasping heat, the way she arches and makes this little hurt sound when he gets deep because he's thick, and he didn't even finger her to warn her, but she's so sloppy-wet he's not sure it makes much of a difference. He tips his hips in and presses his pelvis against her clit and leans in deep and kisses her, just staying still for a minute, feeling—christ. All of her. She slides a hand down between them and feels where he's splitting her wide, and he rocks back a little so she can hold his dick and then feel it slot right back in where it belongs. Fuck. "Fuck," she says, breathless, her hand flattened between their hips, and then Sam realizes she's massaging her mound with heavy, slow pressure. "Come on," she says, low and tight against his cheek, and he grips her hips and works her with a deep rocking, hardly pulling out, just grinding up and up and up inside while she works herself from the outside, and it's no surprise at all when she comes, fast, rippling inside and clenching so hard that he can barely move for fear of getting pushed entirely out. He drops his forehead to her collarbone, pushing deep, letting her clench and pulse. His dick feels so fat and swollen he could imagine all the blood in his body's there. It certainly doesn't feel like he's brain's involved.

Deanna sighs, after a second. "Holy crap," she says, like relief. "Mm. Lift up, 'kay?" He lifts up, keeping his hips right in place—his back cracking as he stands all the way straight—and she's flushed and pleased, spread out below him. "Shirt off?" she says, and so he strips it off, tossing it to the other end of the table. She reaches out and trails cold fingertips over his pecs, his abs, licking her lips. "Hm," she says, and smiles at him, wide and unexpected. She kicks her heels off, each one clattering to the floor, and lifts her legs against his sides, the stockings slick and smooth against his skin. He grabs her thighs immediately, savoring the long clench of muscle under the satin. She unbuttons the top two tiny buttons on the bustier—the top three—her tits spilling a little, the creamy swell of them loosened, and when she arches he can see the dark shadow of areola, peeking from below the maroon cups. She laughs a little at whatever his expression is, and then reaches down and grasps his hips, the sweatpants still barely caught around his ass. "Okay, birthday boy. Your turn. You can do whatever you want, but—" and her nails dig in, making his ass clench. "You make sure you come inside."

"Jesus christ, Dee," Sam groans, and she grins, eyebrows popping high like she's made a joke she's letting him in on, but it's not a joke, christ, it's not at all, and he hooks his fingers into the garter again and jolts his dick inside, deep as he can where he knows it knocks her cervix, and her eyes fly wide and she grasps his biceps instead, thighs clamping around his waist in shock, and that's—yeah, yeah, that's what he wants, and so he nails her again, and then one more time to make her gasp in a deep choked way and say shocked oh, that's—oh, and then he leans down and mouths her tit away from the soft cup of the loosened bustier and slip a sweet dark nipple into his mouth and then he just—fucks her, gripping her thighs and suckling her tit and slotting in and in and in to the perfect wet of her, making her gasp, making her clench and cry out, her heels dragging against his ass in harsh drags, scratching because of the lace, the seams of these perfect fucking stockings, pulling at him. She's soaked, her pubes a sticky mess when he drags his thumb over her clit, and he drags that wet up over her quivering belly to the garter belt, smearing there, rolling his dick in these demanding dragging slides that are making Dee arch her back, lift up one elbow, her other arm hooked around the back of his neck, her hips working back against his, her lips wet and helpless against his temple as he works her, her pussy grasping and clenching and knocked-open for him. He pulls out just because he can—feels the load of wet that spills out with him—looks down between them, at her tits spilling flushed out of her lingerie and her garter twisting and her stockings, fuck, still neat and tight in place even with her all red-sloppy and fucked-open between them—and when he pushes back in, her pussy parting immediately and welcoming, tight, perfect—she groans in this deep shocked way that connects directly to his nuts, a molten tight thing taking over where his brain ought to be, and he hooks a hand into the split of the bustier and grips a thigh tight against his side and fucks her hard, fast, his orgasm screaming up his back. If he weren't feeling so insane he'd wait for her, make sure she came again good, but it's—this is for him, she said, she wanted this, she wanted him to have her wrapped up like a present, to use like she told him to use her—and he dips down and finds her nipple again and bites there, sinking his teeth into the swell of her tit, and she squirms and clenches and says hot and quick, "Sammy, Sammy—harder—" and he unloads inside, just like she asked him to, his wad pulsing out of him hard enough that his thighs shudder, struggling to keep him up. He slams a hand on the table by her head and she flinches and moans at the same time, feeling it maybe—his dick twitching and pulsing so urgent that surely, she can feel it, even if she's so wet she can't tell her slick from his load—and he lifts off her tit with his jaw loose and his mind strange as an animal fresh off a kill, and she clutches her legs around his hips to keep him tight inside and grabs his head in both hands and presses her mouth open against his. Not kissing. Just their lips brushing, and their air shared and hot, and her forehead tipped against his, bone to bone.

His dick throbs, satisfied. His balls clutch, unload another wet pulse. He slides his hands down her sides, catching on the bustier, and then up again to frame her tits in the soft cups. The left one's out, the bitemarks obvious. He tugs down the little maroon-silk shield on the right and finds that breast full and pale, faintest freckles dusting the top, and kisses it softly, tender. Licks over the half-swollen bud of the nipple and feels it tighten, and suckles it gently when it does. Deanna's fingers comb through his hair, her chest rising against his mouth, and below her pussy clenches around his still-hard dick, needing. Wanting him.

He lifts his head and she's watching him, very close. Her eyeliner's smeared with the sweat of their fucking, the lip gloss long-gone. He fucks his dick in and out, carefully, and watches her eyelashes waver, and then slides out all the way and feeds three fingers in right after, squishing in on the mess he left, his thumb riding over her clit. Deanna's hand flashes down, fingers covering his thumb, and he lets her take over, watching not her hand but her face as he helps her chase it. She's close, has to be with how swollen and hot she is around his fingers. He kisses the pale inside curve of her tit where the bustier buttons are split wide, and the sweet peek of her belly, and then crouches and spreads his mouth wide on the thin skin of her hip, where the garter strap's still hanging on, fucking his fingers in again and again in steady pulses while Deanna arches and tightens and clutches around him and then ripples so hard he can't move, for a second. He looks up and she's silent, her mouth split and dark on a heaved breath, her head tipped back. He rubs his thumb over her wet fingers and she shudders, and he's pushed out of her pussy that way, the muscle clenching deep. His fingers are smeared white. She grabs his hand, quick, and pulls, and he stands up between her legs again and his dick presses against her pussy and he watches while she wraps her lips around his fingers and sucks, her eyes closing in concentration, her tongue slick against his knuckles, getting every last drop of come, until he's clean. He tugs his fingers out and she blinks at him, looking almost dazed, and he holds her eyes while he slots inside again and scoops out another gob of come—christ, it's slipping down against her thigh, staining her stocking—and he collects that too, and presents it to her, and she takes his wrist in both hands and sucks it all in, taking it, wanting all of him.

It's—quiet, after. Sam's tugged his sweatpants up. They're folded into the armchair but she's in his lap, this time, tucked in with her head on his shoulder, her legs slung over the arm. Deanna's torn panties are discarded on the floor and he keeps looking at them. "Do my hair?" she murmurs, finally, and he shifts them a little so he can reach and then does, searching careful for the bobby pins and pulling them out one at a time, setting them on the side table with little clicks, mussing her hair to looseness as he goes. Long time, since she asked for this. Not since… god, it was when Sam's mind was still trapped behind a wall, and he'd had a few bad flashes of memories he didn't understand. When they'd screwed madly, after that terrible job with the mannequins, and she'd held him inside in the same desperate, needing way, and she'd…

Her hair falls to mid-back, when all the pins are out. He combs his fingers through it, thick and soft. "Thanks," he says, quiet.

"Thank you," she says back, snuggling her head against his chest. "Now I'm not gonna stab myself in the middle of the night. Hallelujah."

Quiet, dumb. He sweeps her hair over her shoulder and runs a finger down her spine instead, finding the edge of the bustier and rubbing there in a soothing, repetitive line. "Dee," he says, asking, and she sighs, and doesn't say anything.

That time, that last time, when she'd been so desperate and clinging, when she'd wanted him inside. Held her hand against herself when he pulled out and felt the load he'd left, and of course it couldn't do anything, she'd been on birth control since she was fifteen, but it had made something go queerly hot in his gut to see it. Like some instinct she was operating on, trying to absorb him every way she could. Greedy, his sister. At least she used to be. He wonders if that's true, now, and doesn't know if he can ask. She's nesting, she's content, but between them—things are good, but…

Sam kisses the top of her head and she makes a small content noise, turning her face against his throat, her lips soft. He runs a hand over her knee, the stockings slick, and finds the lacy top, plucking lightly where it bites into her skin. He pulls at the garter strap and she smiles against his skin. "Never thought you'd be such a horndog about this," Deanna says, and it's sleepy-smug enough that he pinches her, on the soft plumpness of her thigh, barely hard enough that she'll feel it. She completely ignores that and crosses one knee over the other, bumping her leg up into his palm. "Should I get more? Pantyhose under the FBI suit?"

"I thought you said pantyhose was the patriarchy trying to suffocate women to death, or something," Sam says, and Deanna leans back so he can see her face, grinning, and says, "Yeah, but if it gets your dick that crazy then I'll deal with suffocation, doofus."

Honest, and nothing but content. Sam slides his hand over her belly where the garter's still digging in and slips two fingers between the clutch of her thighs where her pubes are still damp, incredibly hot, and she blinks at him surprised and then her smile changes, her thighs pulling open just like that. Easy for him, just like always. Sam puts aside any other worries and nods, thoughtful. "I guess I wouldn't mind seeing you use a garter belt to strangle a vamp," he says, and she barks out a quick delighted ha! and then lifts her mouth to his, opens her body to his, and he takes what's on offer instead of wondering about what's not.

[pinky-the-elephant-room]

Auctum

AN: I swear my blog isn’t an All Might blog, I just love him a lot ok?

Warning: Explicit smut between All Might and Fem reader. Oral sex. Mutual pining and jealousy.

Prompt: Pro hero are auctioned off to lucky bidders for a date.

☆☆☆☆------------

              Y/N nervously chewed and picked at the skin on her lips. She watched as the excited crescendo of crowd noises riveted in the festive atmosphere. Were they really about to do this? She spared a hesitant glance at the muscular hero besides her. All Might looked majestic, cool, and collected, everything that the symbol of peace represented. But Y/N knew better. She worked with him for decades, she could spot the beads of sweats and the way his fingers shook from sheer nerves.  

“We can do this. This is for a good cause. Cheer up, All Might!” she weakly croaked. Well, that was just pathetic. All Might seemed to visibly shrink into himself. “Besides, this is for the underprivileged kids! They need your help.” Now that did the job because All Might stood up taller and clenched his fist.

“You’re right just like any villain. I can defeat any obstacles thrown my way.” he wholeheartedly cheered. Suddenly high-pitched screams erupted in the auditorium as swarming women noticed All Might standing there. “Except for maybe this.” He gulped.

Y/N felt bad, she really did. When the local youth charities asked for All Might’s participation, she thought that they would ask All Might to come in, sign a few autographs, and pose a few times as he donated a generous amount of yen. But NO.That wasn’t what they had in mind. What they had in mind was to auction All Might out for a date. So, here he was donating time to become an eligible bachelor and accompany a lovely lady on a date.

Y/N couldn’t help but joke. “Hey, maybe now you will have the time to finally date just like everyone else.”

However, it completely backfired on her as Y/N felt the fit of jealousy bubble in her. She waited years for All Might to notice her, year after year, day by day until all the hope had seeped out and left nothing but bitterness. Still her stubbornness couldn’t leave the one person who needed her support more than ever. Especially after her brother separated himself from All Might after delivering the grim foresight of his death. Yes, she was Sir Nighteye’s sister. Only a year younger with a quirk of psychometry, the ability to know the past and present of an individual by touch. Truly they were the two prodigy sidekicks that helped All Might create the dynasty and legacy he had today. Her nii-san would support All Might with strategies on the battlefield, while she did the heavy duty of managing Might tower and creating a trustworthy support system for All Might. Her duties even now were more managerial than battlefield related.

Even as her relationship with her nii-san deteriorated due to Y/N refusing to come work for him, she still continued to do her best in supporting All Might. All the while hoping and praying that the flame for All Might would finally breathe its’ last breath.

Y/N clenched her fist and forced herself to chuckle at her joke.

“Maybe I’ll participate too just so I can get the day for you to finish your paperwork.”

All Might sheepishly agreed and rubbed his neck. “I’ll do anything to escape this.”

An auction manager approached the two and directed All Might towards the auditorium as it was about to begin. Y/N watched as All Might walked away and made her way to the seating area like all other spectators. She hesitated when a volunteer handed her a number paddle but took it and sat near the corner of the stage. Y/N watched as dozens of pro heroes were auctioned away at hefty donations. Hell, even a wild wild pussycat member participated. Finally, the main event was revealed as everyone erupted into pandemonium when All Might stepped onto center stage in his hero garb. The auctioneer banged their gavel and requested everyone to settle down. Y/N watched in stupefied confusion as the fast rate of donations built from 100,000 yen to 340,000 yen. She even tried to raise her paddle a few times to be drowned out by the massive amount of people outbidding her.

“The bid to beat now is 450,000 yen. Anyone else? Going once- “the auctioneer called out before Y/N interrupted.

“500,000 yen!” Y/N yelled out as she stood up.

All Might swiveled his head towards the familiar voice and was stunned to see Y/N in her dignified pencil skirt and suit waving around her paddle.

Y/N felt her heart thud when she made eye contact with All Might, seeing the shock in his face she gave him a small smile. It took a minute, but he returned it before facing back to the audience.

However, just as she made the bid, she lost it quickly as others steadily started outbidding her. Y/N could only watch in a panic as the money started climbing higher and higher more than whatever was lying around in her bank account.

She watched in devastation as the final bid that won was “106,080,000.00 yen” from a pudgy older housewife who excitedly jumped up and down in celebration of her win. The auctioneer thanked everyone for their generous donations and stated the Pro heroes would shortly make their way to their intended dates.

Y/N got up from her seat and returned her paddle to go find All Might before he went on his date. He stood around in the back of the auditorium, talking to fellow pro heroes. 

She apologized for the interruption with a bow and said, “sorry All Might I couldn’t rescue you but, in my defense, you don’t pay me enough.”

All Might waved his hands around frantically. “It’s fine I’m just happy that you even bothered to help. It probably won’t be that bad. She seems like a nice enough lady. Besides I heard she’s already married so she’s just a fan who wanted the opportunity to meet me.”

Y/N’s jealousy was replaced with amusement as she watched the mentioned boisterous older lady interrupt their conversation and whisk All Might away for their date.

“Right now?” All Might said as his gigantic self was dragged away by a woman half his size.

“No time like the present, All Might-sama.” the lady giggled.

She watched All Might be dragged out until she could no longer see them. Y/N sighed and checked the time. It was barely 6 PM, plenty of time for her to head back to Might tower and finish up any lingering work so she wouldn’t have to work during the weekends. Nobody spared her a glance as she left the auction and hailed a taxi back to Might tower.

Y/N stretched as her sore neck got the respite, she needed from hours of bending and pouring over mundane paperwork. She checked the time on her smartphone, and it displayed 11 PM in neon lights. She cracked her knuckles, getting immense satisfaction from the loud cracks. Just as she was about to get up and photocopy a case file, a knock on her office door interrupted.

“Come in!” she called out.

In came the emaciated form of All Might in a baggy shirt and jeans.

Y/N just stared at him in surprise not expecting him to visit Might Tower at this time especially after the no doubt exhausting date.

“Hey, I didn’t know you were coming here.” Toshinori gave a weak chuckle and a small bow of his head.

“Forgive me. I had to leave my date because I was running out of time. I left saying that I had a heroic emergency, but I can’t do any hero work in this form so I thought I would finally help you catch up on that paperwork.”

Y/N shook her head. “Any company helping with paperwork is welcome in my office. No need to apologize.”

She looked him over, examining him for exhaustion. “But are you sure you should be here? Maybe you should get some rest.”

“Iie, I’m fine just mentally exhausted from listening about different luxury brands of shoes.”

Y/N giggled, the mental image of All Might carrying shopping bags while the older woman shopped was mind boggling.

Y/N brought out the immediate files she needed his signature on and offered him a chair at her desk. The two of them continued their work in comfortable silence, talking occasionally about routine topics.

“Y/N, can I ask you a question?” Y/N hummed an affirmative under her breathe as she skimmed through files.

“W-why.. Why didn’t you leave with Sir Nighteye when you had the chance all those years ago?”

Y/N stunned out of her mind as she wasn’t expecting that question, put her file down and faced Toshinori.

Looking him straight in his cerulean, blue eyes she said, “because you were at the brink of death with no hope. I couldn’t leave you when you clearly needed support. Besides the argument was between you and nii-san, it didn’t involve me, so I wasn’t going to leave you behind.”

“Thank you for your support. These past years with my injury have taken a toll, but I’ve only made it this far because of your help. I really appreciate it Y/N-chan.”

Toshinori opened his mouth to say something more but hesitated and then continued to fuss with the paperwork in front of him. Y/N looked at him in confusion and waited for him to say more, but he continued to sign the various files in front of him.

“It’s not a problem. It’s my job as a sidekick.”

She shrugged, letting it go and figured if he had more to say then he would do so on his own time.  The two of them tag teamed for a while, shifting around various paperwork getting more done in 2 hours than she had in weeks. Finally seeing the clock hit 1 AM, she decided to have mercy on All Might.

“I think this is a good dent on the pile of paperwork Might tower has. I’ll have to kidnap you one of these days and make you do this again,” Y/N said as she packed away the files in the cabinet. Just as she was getting ready to close for the night, Toshinori asked, “why did you really bid for me today?”

Y/N was lost for words, not expecting another question to leave her speechless. “O-oh, you know for fun? It’s not like I was expecting an actual date out of it.”

Toshinori sent her a small smile that gave her heart palpitations. “I wouldn’t have minded going on a date with you.”

Y/N stepped back hesitatingly. “Don’t say that to me. Don’t give me hope.”

“Hope for what?” He stepped closer towards her.

“I’ve wanted for so long and you’ve never…” Y/N couldn’t finish that sentence as she looked everywhere but at Toshinori.

“I have to go. I have an early morning tomorrow…. And I have to go- “she stepped around him in a hurry to be anywhere in this room, to be talking to anyone about anything except for this.  Just as she was about to pass, an arm grabbed her and pulled Y/N back.

She almost stopped breathing due to the close proximity of her and Toshinori’s face. She could see the gauntness of his gentle face and the brilliant shine of his blue eyes. He brought a hand to softly brush against her cheek before pulling her in. Her breath hitched as finally their lips connected. They stood there just lip locking; eyes open not knowing what to do. Y/N finally getting over her shock, grabbed Toshinori by his shoulders and pulled him in closer. She closed her eyes as she slowly responded and savored the taste of him. Getting the reaction he sought, Toshinori grabbed her hips and tilted his head sideways to get the perfect angle. She granted him entry to her mouth and groaned in appreciation as he took his time to explore every inch. The two kissed for what seemed like hours, Y/N slowly moving backwards as she responded to his dance of licks and swirls with her tongue.

She eventually collided with the desk as Toshinori trapped her against it.

“All this time I thought there couldn’t be anything. But if I don’t try, then it’ll be a missed opportunity I regret for the rest of my life,” he said as he kissed her again.

Caging her body with his thin but tall frame, he grabbed her neck as he continued to plunge into her mouth and devouring her harder and faster.   A need for oxygen left her lightheaded and she pulled away, that didn’t deter him from moving to her neck and leaving a trail of hot kisses. Finding a spot, he liked, he bit it gently before sucking deeply and leaving a mark on her body. Y/N panting harshly, couldn’t keep from squirming in place as the ministrations sent tingles straight down to her pussy. She could feel the wetness in between her thighs that was building up, and a particular harsh bite to her neck caused her walls to twitch. Y/N couldn’t stand it anymore, so she grabbed his hands and placed it on her center. She watched as his eyes widened knowing that he could feel the effect he had on her.  Grabbing her thighs and hips he made her sit back on the table. Slowly, he rolled up her gray pencil skirt until he flipped it over on her stomach. Toshinori always wondered what she had under that skirt and now he was going to find out. She had on a plain, cream panty that he quickly discarded on the floor. He slowly circled her lips, feeling the moisture gush out of her. He groaned feeling her so turned on by him in a matter of minutes was doing wonders for his insecurities. Toshinori slowly inserted his pointer finger, letting her get used to its size before giving short thrusts. He added a second finger that he thrusted in tandem together. Y/N could barely keep herself together as she couldn’t believe what they were doing on her desk. Toshinori removed his fingers and tasted the fluids covering his fingers. The salty, tangy taste instead changed his mind to getting his appetite sated by her only.  

Maneuvering her by grabbing her hips to his eye level, he laid his tongue flat as he caressed her pussy with it. Letting out a moan and feeling his eyes roll back, he held her tight as he made a meal out of her. Y/N underneath thrashed helplessly as she felt his warm tongue imitate what his dick could do. Sucking lightly at her clit, he inserted his finger back in as he set a languid pace. Y/N decided that she needed a just a bit more to reach her pleasure, hurriedly unbuttoning her blouse so that she could push her bra cups down. Feeling her vaginal walls constrict around his finger, she circled her nipples till they stood at attention before she rolled them in her hands. Toshinori licking up the last of moisture near her opening, lightly bit her clit which overwhelmed her as Y/N arched off the table. He continued to thrust helping her prolong her pleasure, he waited till she calmed before removing his fingers and holding her down tightly. Y/N looked at him in confusion in the haze of her pleasure as to why he was holding her down when she came already. She finally realized why when he dove his face back into her center and resumed eating her newly released fluids like a starving man. Y/N twitched uncontrollably as her vagina reacted to the extra stimulus, she tried to push him off, but he held her steady.

“Oh god, Toshi please stop. I’m begging,” she sobbed as her eyes watered from the intense pleasure. Nothing she did deterred him; her second orgasm engulfed the remnants of her first one as she spiraled out of control.

Y/N started seeing visions of a young Toshinori being introduced to an even younger Y/N. She saw him being enamored by her. She saw him watch her as she grew up, year after year, pining for a girl who was his sidekick’s sister. She saw how he had convinced himself to let her go to keep her safe, even more determined after his injury. But the older he got, the less convinced he was of his convictions. Y/N couldn’t help the tears as they came pouring down her face. She sobbed out the relief, knowing that he really did love her just like she did him.

Toshinori finished up, giving her final kitten licks before letting go of her hips. He straightened up to find Y/N just sobbing her heart out. Giving her kisses on her head, he tried to frantically calm her down.

“I’m sorry my quirk it activated while I was..-“

Toshinori shushed her with a quick kiss to her lips.

He asked as he interlocked their fingers together and pressed a kissed to it. “It’s ok what did you find out?”

“That we were both idiots yearning for each other,” she said as she hiccupped while trying to calm down.

“I guess I have a lot to make up for, don’t I?”

Y/N chuckled and agreed.

“Yes, but do you think you can start at my apartment? This desk isn’t that comfortable.”

Toshinori hopped off of her and they straightened their disheveled selves to look presentable before continuing their enjoyable night till the break of dawn in the comfort of Y/N’s bed.

[vampiregirl1797]

Vampire in the Modern World

BBC Dracula x Female Reader

 Gif Not Mine.

 For My Masterlist Click Here.

 Working at the Jonathan Harker foundation isn’t the career you’d envisioned yourself having as a child. I’d first been enrolled in the programme during my third year of studying biochemistry at Oxford University. The life of a student was stressful by way of work and lack of funds, and so Dr. Van Helsing suggested the blood donation procedure to me. I mean, at first it was a dream come true—come in once a week, donate a pint of blood, earn a thousand pounds a month. At the beginning, I hadn’t been fully informed as to what exactly the blood was being used for, and with Dr Helsing recommending the programme to me, and me finally being able to afford to live modestly in London, I hadn’t thought to question it.

 However, when I left University and was offered a better-paid position (three times my original wage packet) for a few more hours of work a week, I was told the full extent of what the Jonathan Harker foundation actually represented. It was dedicated to the analysis and evaluation of vampires, something that I had believed to be mythical until that point. That meant their behaviours, reactions to blood, and even the extent of their self-control was studied meticulously. Now, my position wouldn’t involve studying. I, along with a handful of other people, were all being assigned to a particular vampire. This was all decided on our blood types, lifestyles and our personalities.

We were expected to donate a pint of blood a day—due to the high amounts we’d have to take red blood cell renewals that the lab had created specifically for this purpose. As well as this, we’d be spending a minimum of an hour with the vampire we were assigned to, which would be recorded for the scientists observing the interaction to evaluate. It had taken about four weeks to get to this point, which was the point of being assigned to our own vampire. First, we had one last presentation involving the dangers we would be facing, along with the discovery the foundation had recently made. Which was how I found myself sitting in a dimly lit lecture hall, with Professor Bloxham stood at the front and waiting to start the presentation.

 I sighed softly and glanced around me, not paying too much attention to the several other people in the room. It wasn’t uncommon for us not to chat amongst one another—we knew the dangers of the job and so getting attached wasn’t a smart move. Some may have considered that to be heartless, I viewed it as a necessary precaution, and evidently so did everyone else as they followed the same behaviour. This was something we did to earn a living, and so our lives started outside of these walls, the people whom we became within them was a far cry from the person our loved ones knew.

 My eyes flickered back to Professor Bloxham as she started to speak, most of it details I’d already heard before, at least until she got to the part of the Demeter. It had been known as the ship Count Dracula had boarded over 100 years ago in order to gain passage to England. However, the passengers had discovered what he was with the help of Agatha Van Helsing who Dracula had bought to snack on during the journey. It was rumoured by the few passengers that escaped that the ship was blown up by the Captain and Van Helsing herself in order to prevent the curse of vampirism from reaching English soil. But apparently, it had been discovered very recently.

 I felt myself lean forward in my seat as the projector presented the scuba diver footage of the Demeter at the bottom of the sea. It looked so old, and yet quite untouched. The golden writing carved into the side of the mahogany wood seemed to glitter on the screen.

 ‘So this is the main part of the ship. Basically undisturbed for a hundred years.’ She said, looking around and smiling slightly at what was probably several expressions of wonder, ‘the original teams were looking in the wrong place, no one realised quite how close Count Dracula’s ship got to the British mainland.’ She glanced behind her as she continued, ‘we searched the wreck for three days, but what we were looking for was approximately two hundred yards south of there.’

 I felt my heart beat faster in my chest at the sight of a coffin shaped wooden box appearing on the screen. It was as if my body knew what it was, but my mind was refusing to accept the logical direction that Professor Bloxham’s findings were almost certainly heading in.

 ‘Now, a box this old, you’d expect at least a few barnacles.’ We could all clearly see there were no such things, in fact the box looked untouched, ‘but look at it. Untouched by any living thing.’

 I held my breath as I watched hands pry the box open, revealing what appeared to be a perfectly preserved Count Dracula. He almost looked like he was leisurely floating at the bottom of the sea, rather than being essentially impeccably well maintained in death. His eyes were even open, which seemed to highlight the relaxed expression on his face.

 ‘As you can see, even after 123 years, the body was perfectly preserved.’ Someone’s hands inspected Dracula’s face, lifting his lip to reveal his pearl white teeth that even a fool could identify as weapons. I felt a shiver slither down my spine and goose bumps rise on my arms.

 Professor Bloxham turned to face us, her brow quirked, ‘or so we thought.’

 I frowned in confusion until I saw the person’s fingers move into Count Dracula’s mouth, before I could wonder if the worst would happen, crimson coloured the screen as the vampire bit down on the diver’s fingers, evidentially taking in some of their blood. The whole class reacted together as we watched the diver struggle to retrieve their fingers from his mouth, some releasing startled gasps, others groaning in discomfort, however I was too shocked to move. If he hadn’t been dead before, that meant he’d been comatose, but what did it mean now that he was fed? My eyes fell to the Professor as she explained, the dread in my gut growing with each word.

 ‘The body was not preserved. Dracula, was in fact alive. Though dormant.’ She sighed, shifting on her feet and leaning to rest on the desk behind her, ‘apparently in some kind of restorative coma, in which he would have remained, if I hadn’t been stupid enough to feed him. So in case you’re wondering, yeah, vampire’s bite.’ She held up her bandaged hand, identifying herself as the diver who had been masticated.

 She lowered her arm and looked around each and every one of us as her voice took on a grave tone, ‘you need to know what you’re signing up for. We will keep you safe, but this isn’t just about giving blood, it’s not just another student drug trial. There is a reason it is better paid. You will all have controlled exposure to a vampire. Are we clear?’

 She let that sink in for a moment, and I felt the fear and severity of the situation churn in my gut. What if I ended up dead? Mauled by a vampire who saw me as nothing other than his or her next meal provided in order to satiate their hunger? I took a deep breath and reminded myself that there were precautions in place in order to protect me should it be necessary.

 ‘Obviously, at this point, having triggered his revification, we opted for tactical retreat.’ Professor Bloxham’s voice broke me out of my self-reassurance, ‘we resealed the box so nothing could interfere with the process, and we monitored from the shore. It took Dracula another ten hours to fully revive. And of course, we were waiting for him on the beach.’

 Her inability to maintain eye contact at the end of her presentation made me wonder if that was all of the information, but I wasn’t able to dwell for too long as the projector switched off and the lights turned on. I found myself blinking in discomfort at the sudden brightness as my eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness.

 ‘Now, before yesterday all of you were assigned to a specific vampire.’ She revealed, and I found myself frowning when her eyes seemed to settle on me for a second longer than everyone else.

 ‘However, due to our capture of Dracula yesterday evening we had to re-evaluate our submissions due to his known and very specific dietary requirements. Of course, you will all be informed of your assignment shortly, but I’d like you to be pre-warned that one of you,’ she took a breath, seeming to steel herself for what she was about to say, ‘will be assigned to Count Dracula.’

 I felt my heart drop into my stomach. Count Dracula was one of the most famous vampires for a reason. He took time to decide upon whom he would like to feed from, and when he reached his verdict he relished in the feed, often taking his time as he gorged on his victim’s blood. He was known to have no self-control when it came to feeding, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the person he was assigned to didn’t last a week. I took another deep breath—what were the chances that it would be me, right? I mean he had “specific” dietary requirements and I was positive that I was nothing special when it came to blood flavour. I felt the knot of dread in my stomach relax as I leaned back in my chair, relaxing at the realisation—I was nothing special, of that I was positive, and I would most certainly not live up to Count Dracula’s exclusive blood cravings.

 ‘Y/L/N?’ I looked up to see one of the scientists calling my name from the door at the back of the room. I stood up, surprised to see I was the last one to be called—I must have been freaking out so much that I had tuned out my surroundings.

 I bit my lip as I followed the Dr who had come to fetch me, when I asked her where I was going she informed me she was taking me to my assigned vampire. I just about had a heart attack. Before I could question it, she explained that Dr Helsing had specifically asked for me to be bought directly to her, so that she could introduce me to whomever I was assigned to. I should have paid more attention to the several winding corridors I was led down, but I was too lost in my thoughts and in trying to control my heartbeat that was rising in panic.

 ‘Ah, Y/N.’ Dr Helsing’s soft voice garnered my attention and I looked up from the floor to see her waiting for me beside a metallic door, ‘thank you for coming so quickly. We wish to make the introduction now while the sun is still up, as we can use that for our main point of defence.’

 I nodded before I asked, ‘who am I assigned to?’ I wished my voice had sounded stronger than it did, but that was the least of my worries.

 Dr Helsing smiled tightly, ‘Count Dracula.’ She was blunt, and I appreciated that because I don’t think my heart could have taken any fumbling.

 The Dr that had led me there scurried away, and so I had no choice but to follow the leader of the foundation through the metallic door.

 ‘Why me? I thought he had specific requirements? I am positively certain there is nothing special or even flavoursome about my blood.’ I crossed my arms over my chest defensively, so concentrated on talking to the Dr, that I hadn’t taken notice of the giant triangular glass prison cell in the centre of the room.

 ‘You are correct, his requirements are specific and looking back on his past victims,’ she paused, taking a key and turning it into the wall beside the door, ‘well at least those that we know of, you carry the same characteristics as well as a few new ones of your own. We believe you will be a suitable donor. If not, you will be re-assigned.’

 I sighed, moving my neck around in a circular motion as I tried to loosen up the muscles—they always got tight when I was stressed. My eyes followed Dr Helsing as she walked over to a table that rested along the back wall, I found myself watching what she was collecting with expressed interest. I swallowed when I realised she was gathering the necessary instruments for drawing blood. Noticing my nerves, she began to speak.

 ‘I have already taken a blood sample from Count Dracula, now I will take a pint of your blood inside his chamber.’ She lifted a metal tray, satisfied she had all she needed, ‘we will remain in the sunlight to stop his attack should he be unable to control himself in the presence of your blood. You will remain with him as he drinks and another sample will be collected after he has feasted.’

 ‘Wonderful.’ I mumbled, pulling the sleeves of the pale blue jumper I was wearing over my hands.

 ‘Well, well, I can’t say I’ve ever had a meal sound so disgruntled at the prospect of my company.’ His voice washed over me like a soothing balm, my body seeming to involuntarily relax for a moment, until my head caught up with my heart and I realised what he’d just said.

 My eyes met his for the first time and my heart skipped a beat at the charm, mirth and hunger that lingered behind his irises. My cheeks flushed, and my gaze fell to his mouth, which in that moment was smirking at my reaction of him, but I found myself briefly enamoured with the plumpness of his lips before I forced my gaze to move on. He was at least six feet tall, his dark hair and eyes adding to the tall, dark and handsome cliché. I bit my lip, the thought of him being attractive under different circumstances crossing my mind, but I reminded myself what was happening here: I was his meal and his company for the next hour. If I wanted to stay longer, I could, but honestly I didn’t see that happening.

 ‘It’s not your company that is the problem, Count Dracula, rather your lack of control when in the presence of freshly spilled blood.’ I murmured, once I was satisfied that I’d taken his appearance in completely. My voice was calm, and surprisingly firm.

 He blinked, seemingly also surprised by my comeback, though before he could respond Dr Helsing opened the door to his cell and led me inside. We were both careful to remain standing in the rectangle of sunlight while he slinked in the corners. I drew up my sleeve and felt myself shiver as the cool cotton swab was swiped over my skin, the needle quickly following suit. My eyes fell shut as I tried to transport myself somewhere else, preferably somewhere where I wasn’t being stabbed with a needle in front of a bloodthirsty vampire. Unfortunately, the animalistic growls coming from Count Dracula rendered my attempts futile. My eyes fluttered over to him to see his irises were now a crimson red that seemed to glow from his place in the shadows, along with his teeth that appeared to have sharpened as his hunger grew.

 ‘How long since he’s been fed?’ I wondered aloud.

 ‘Aside from the small deposit he had from Professor Bloxham that awoke him, he has had nothing for one hundred and twenty three years.’ Dr Helsing answered, not looking away from the blood bag that was slowly filling up.

My eyes moved back over to the Count, a pang of sympathy shooting through me—he must have been starving, perhaps even malnourished. Did vampires even get malnourished? His eyes fell on mine, I was surprised as his ability to look away from his food source when he was so hungry, and I felt my heart skip a beat when I realised his eyes had melted back to their usual chocolate brown.

 I startled when I felt Dr Helsing swab my skin again. I placed my hand over the cotton, holding it in place while the bleeding subsided.

 ‘That’s all you will be donating today.’ She assured me, placing the used utensils in a biohazard bag and handing me my donation. I took it in my free hand, somehow grossed out by how warm it felt.

 ‘I’ll have some food sent in for you, along with the pills you’ll need to take to boost your red blood cell growth.’ She offered me a tight smile that I assumed was supposed to be comforting, and left shutting the glass door behind her, followed by the metallic one that made a much louder thud.

 ‘I don’t know how long you’re planning to stare after the esteemed doctor, but is there any way you could hand me my breakfast?’ My heart rate picked up at the sound of his voice, ‘I’m famished.’

 I took a breath and removed the cotton swab from my arm, when I’d deduced that the bleeding had stopped, I slipped the material into my pocket and slid my jumper sleeve back down my arm.

 ‘How do you want me to give it to you?’ I asked, not particularly wanting to move from the rectangle of sunlight I was stood in.

 ‘Well, I’d appreciate if you handed it to me, that would be the polite thing to do.’ He said, mirth colouring his tone.

 I took a breath; trying to find the courage to take a mere two steps forward to join him in the shadows. It would only have to be for a brief moment after all, and vampire or not, he deserved to have his meal handed to him. My eyes met his again, and I was surprised to see that his eyes had softened, almost as if he were sympathetic to my plight. A surge of courage seemed to ripple through me, and I found myself speaking before my mind could catch up with my impulsiveness.

 ‘Close the ceiling.’ My voice wasn’t loud but it rang with a formality that echoed through the glass pane that built his cell. The man who was standing outside with his gun followed my instruction a lot easier than I thought he would, and before I knew it my heart was racing as the sunlight withdrew from the room, shrouding us both in the artificial lights in the room.

 I stepped forward and placed the blood bag on the table, sliding it over to the other side where he was standing. He observed me for a moment, seemingly impressed by my courage and if I wasn’t mistaken his eyes glittered with interest. I took the seat opposite his, curling my knees up to my chest in an attempt to suppress my shiver. My head rested on my knees as I observed him, my eyebrow cocking in silent question: was he going to stare all day, or was he going to eat the meal he was probably dying for? I got my answer a second later when he moved at an inhuman pace and snatched the blood bag from the table. The Count took his seat across from me and to my surprise, began sipping on the blood. Quite impressive restraint for someone who hadn’t eaten in over a century, but I figured it would be smart not to question it.

 ‘Hmm.’ He moaned, the sound affecting me more than I cared to admit. Not a drop fell from his mouth as he drank, leisurely savouring every drop. His noises of pleasure continued and I found myself stupefied and aghast by the spark of arousal that seemed to shoot through my body every time the different noises fell from his mouth.

 ‘Y/N,’ he murmured, his voice wrapping around my name like velvet, ‘British born, dead parents and hmmm… a virgin.’

 My cheeks coloured in embarrassment—I hadn’t been made aware of the information he’s be able to gather from a few sips of my blood. It should have been intrusive, violating… but it wasn’t.

 ‘Don’t be embarrassed, Y/N,’ his eyes darkened as he gazed at me, it felt like he was caressing me with his voice, ‘you taste positively exquisite. Remind me to thank Dr Helsing for finding you for me, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to achieve such a feat on my own with the world being as advanced as it is now.’

 ‘I’m surprised you’re taking your time with that. After a hundred years of starving, I’m not sure I could be quite as reserved.’ I pulled my jumper sleeves down over my hands again, the feeling of being exposed making me want to cover as much as possible.

 ‘Yes, well, I’m not quite sure why the good doctor lied about that. See, while they did corner me on the beach I managed to escape and find myself a meal a fair distance from the city.’ He informed me, his casual mention of murder should have repulsed me, but it didn’t. I had no idea what that said about me.

 ‘Somehow, Dr Helsing’s little foundation found me and here I am, able to enjoy your life’s essence slowly, which is excellent as that is exactly how this blood should be consumed.’ He held up his blood bag in an ironic salute before taking another sip.

 ‘That sucks. That you escaped and still ended up being captured, I mean.’ I said before I could stop myself. Logically I knew he was dangerous, and the safest option would probably be to keep him locked up somewhere like this. But I just couldn’t help the pang of sympathy and injustice that flared in my gut at the thought.

 ‘Indeed,’ Dracula grinned, his eyes seemed unable to stray away from me as he drank, as if he were matching up what he tasted to what he saw. I wondered if he found himself disappointed, if he thought the meek girl sitting in front of him didn’t measure up to the supposedly exquisite blood he was drinking.

 A few moments later, a guard bought me some food—beef chow mien with a glass of water and a small paper cup containing three tablets. I swallowed the pills one at a time before digging into my own food, relishing the flavours that exploded in my mouth. I didn’t know if it was the blood loss, or the influence of Dracula enjoying his own food, but Chinese had never tasted so good. When I was finished, I pushed my tray an inch from me, a habit I’d picked up whenever I was finished with a meal.

 ‘So, Y/N, tell me about yourself.’ He murmured, now leaning back in his chair, right ankle resting on his left knee, while his right hand served as a rest for his head.

 ‘I’m sure you know more about me than anyone else ever has,’ I told him honestly—if he’d been able to pick up a few things from a mere few mouthfuls then I was sure he knew me better than anyone now he’d finished the entire pint.

 ‘Perhaps.’ He chuckled, the sound was dark, yet warm, ‘but I’d still like to hear it from your lips.’

 I frowned and subconsciously bit my lower lip, unaware that his eyes followed the movement. Honestly, there was nothing interesting about me that sprang to mind in that moment, so I decided to offer him some mundane facts.

 ‘I graduated from the University of Oxford a few months ago with a first class honours in biomedical science.’ I started, my voice reeling off the information without much thought, ‘I started the programme about a year ago, but then I was only giving a pint of blood a week, I decided to take on this… promotion, if that’s what you want to call it… after graduation as a way to earn an income while I looked for a job related to my degree.’

 ‘Why science?’ he wondered, the leg that had been propped on his knee fell to the floor, allowing him to lean forward and rest his elbows on the table. I couldn’t help but blush at the genuine interest in his eyes; it was an emotion that no one had ever before regarded me with.

 ‘It was a subject that always fascinated me in school,’ I shrugged, clutching my legs tighter as his eyes narrowed.

 ‘No.’

 ‘No?’ I frowned.

 ‘No.’ he repeated simply, ‘you’re lying, Y/N. So I’ll ask again, why science?’

 I sighed, my shoulders slumping in defeat, but I should have known that lying wouldn’t work when he’d already tasted the truth in my blood.

 ‘I took science because I found it interesting, that wasn’t a lie, but the main reason was because… my mum was a scientist and I wanted to make her proud.’ My tone was hollow, not expecting him to understand the sentimentality behind my decision.

 ‘You miss your parents greatly.’ He said, his voice surprisingly gentle and I felt my eyes close in response as I nodded, ‘I can taste it. Your loss flows in your blood, but it is only a faint passing flavour. I’m sure your parents would be proud of your ability to move forward with your life, without completely forgetting about them.’

 My eyes fluttered open and I took a deep breath in an attempt to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over.

 ‘Thank you, I needed to hear that.’ My voice was quiet, probably too low for any human to hear, but the slight nod the Count aimed in my direction assured me he’d picked up my softly spoken words.

 ‘It’s been an hour.’ Dr Helsing’s voice startled me from my reverie, and I realised that I’d been staring into Dracula’s eyes, lost in the apparent warmth and uncharacteristic softness.

 ‘Why is the ceiling closed?’ Dr Helsing asked, her voice sounding a mixture of disapproving and curious.

 ‘I told them to close it.’ I said, standing from my chair, suddenly feeling very self-aware now that Dr Helsing had disrupted the calm little bubble that we had been immersed in. It was something I hadn’t realised existed until she had disrupted it, and I was surprised by the lack of concern over my internal revelation.

 ‘That was very stupid.’ She remarked with pursed lips as she approached the Count, who was now stood finding solace in the corner he’d been confined to when I’d first entered his cell.

 I didn’t respond to her comment, instead I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the glass wall across from the door. I stared blankly at the floor, wondering what I could do tonight; the few friends I had either had work, plans or were away on holiday. So going out wasn’t an option, but that was fine, honestly a quiet night in sounded absolutely perfect. Although a small part of me was yearning to stay in the Count’s company a little longer, I decided that leaving and giving myself some distance from the vampire was probably the best idea.

 ‘Well, I’ll be leaving then.’ I announced suddenly, unintentionally cutting off the conversation they’d been having.

 ‘So soon?’ Dracula asked. I wondered if I imagined the tremor of despair in his tone, but I shook it off.

 ‘Yes, I-I uh should be getting home. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I offered him a small but genuine smile. Despite my earlier trepidation, meeting him had actually been rather pleasant and I’d found myself relaxed in his company—which was quite rare.

 ‘I’ll be seeing you soon, Y/N.’ His voice wrapped around me like a warm blanket and I found my eyes fluttering shut for a moment as I made my way to the door, as if to savour the feeling.

 If I hadn’t been so lost in that sensation and focused on making my way to the door without walking into something, I might’ve picked up on the dark promise that coated his words.

[professional-benaddict]

♥️ Red Heart, White Box ⬜️ lll

A collab between myself and @questionablewritings xx

Mafia AU, boss Tony, pet/plaything +18 Peter, bodyguard Steve, bodyguard Bucky, underground doctor Stephen, gun violence, shootings, GSW, body modification, non con organ donation, threats and use of violence, 2k

Or Peter starts his recovery and Bucky tells Steve what he has seen in the supply closet.

part one - part two - part four

Part lll - The Red That You See

Peter ate way more than he wanted to. The ice cream that he usually could eat a whole pint of in one sitting, was now making him more nauseous than ever, even after just a few spoonfuls. Besides, he could barely focus on swallowing the ice cream when he was overwhelmed with the feeling of his body not feeling like his anymore. The extreme fatigue and exhaustion was new and strange to him. He had not felt this weak in over 6 years. 

But, Peter ate, for Tony’s sake. He could see that his much older boyfriend looked heartbroken. His eyes were sunken, and lacked that edge and fire that made him the best in his field. Usually, Tony also held his head high, like a proud lion would. Now, he looked like a kicked puppy, which was mostly Peter’s look. Tony had had a similar look when Peter had threatened with leaving him a few years ago. 

“Why don’t you have some?” Peter suggested kindly, to try and cheer Tony up, but also to spare his stomach. He hardly dared to imagine the pain vomiting would cause him, so perhaps now was the time to refuse more food from Tony. The boy gently pushed the pint of ice cream closer to Tony’s torso while he held it in his hand. In the other, the boss held a plastic spoon with some brownie ice cream on it still where Peter had not lapped up all of it. 

“Baby, you need energy. Even if that is just sugar.” Tony chuckled, but there was a teary and sad hint to it. Like he was begging Peter to get better, and fast, and he scooped up some more ice cream onto the spoon before offering Peter. Steve, who had been observing for a while from across the ward, decided to step in. 

“Boss, I think you’ve fed him well already.” Steve said, hoping that his boss would take praise easier than criticism. “Why don’t we let Peter rest? I can bring you back to the mansion so you can shower, sir.” 

But, still Tony took offence to Steve’s motherly-ness. 

“Is there something you want to say, Rogers?” Tony snapped and turned on his chair next to Peter’s bed to face his bodyguard. More than used to this, Steve kept his head up and blinked calmly at his boss. Sensing the tension in the room and like the sweetheart he is, Peter tried to stop the two men before guns where pulled out. That had happened before, and Peter would rather not have to deal with that now.

“Daddy…” Peter pleaded, but it still took a few seconds and for the boy to actually reach out take his boyfriend’s hand. Only then, did Tony shift his focus back to Peter and away from Steve. 

“I’m sorry, baby, shit- I’m sorry.” Tony apologised right away, looking pained with his brows furrowed. But, if it was genuine, that was debatable. “This is all about you. Rogers should just fuck off and leave us alone, yeah?” The boss said kindly to Peter, but the stab in his tone towards the bodyguard was not subtle in the slightest. 

Deciding not to pick a fight, Steve stood up and straightened his work suit while clearing his throat. He was used to being told to ‘fuck off’, so he was not fazed. Instead, he was worried about leaving Peter alone with Tony. The older man was clearly unstable, and Steve had his doubts about whether Tony was sympathising or empathising with Peter. Either way, Steve and Bucky work for Tony, so they must obey him, even if he is unreasonable at times. At least Peter was here to keep Tony in a good mood, so he better recover quickly for all their sakes. 

To still keep an eye on Peter and Tony, Steve went to stand outside of the makeshift ward. In the quiet hallway, Steve’s mind began wandering to when Peter had first joined their little family. On one long and hot summer night, Tony had found him wandering the streets aimlessly. The boss had told that Peter had clearly run away from home, since his duffel bag had a sports team’s logo that belonged to a town hours away. Tony had followed Peter with his car for a while until the boy confronted him. He refused Tony twice when the older man asked him to hop in, but he gave in on the third try. According to Tony, Peter had hopped in because Tony had laid out a gun for him for Peter to hold Tony at gunpoint with while they drove. That way, the boy would feel safer. And it seemed to work, if you believed Tony, since here Peter was, by his side, 6 years later. 

Peter, on the other hand, recalled the events differently and had told Steve that Tony had found him at a gas station and had gotten into his Audi when Tony offered a ride. There was no mention of a gun. But, back then, Peter was still new to the whole mafia lifestyle. It took him a while to get used to Tony, Steve and Bucky being armed constantly. But, that did not stop Peter from being shot, which made Steve re-think the Glock under his suit jacket. But, when the blonde heard a sudden noise, his reflexes got the better of him and his hand reached for the gun before he could process that it was just Bucky exiting a room. Was that a supply closet he came from?

“Buck, the fuck are you-“ Steve started, but then Bucky crossed the hall to shush him. 

“Keep your voice down!” The dark-haired bodyguard whispered harshly, looking up and down the tunnel hallway. Steve kept his mouth shut, but his confusion remained. 

“What’s-“

“Some shady shit, that’s what. We have to get out of here. And don’t give me that shit about Peter needing to stay here, because then we’ll all be some cold fucking corpses!” 

“Bucky, Jesus- what are you talking about?” Steve asked, trying to keep his voice down, but the realisation that there might be something serious, and urgent, going on was making his instincts kick into high gear. 

“I found organs! Human organs, Steve! In boxes, ready to be sold. Strange is not who he says he is.” Bucky revealed. Actually saying those words made the bile climb back up his throat. “I think- I think he stole something from Peter.” 

Bucky does not need to specify what. Steve has already figured it out. Based on the additional surgical wound on Peter’s side, Steve guessed that the doctor had taken a kidney. Humans can manage with one kidney, but still, this is more offensive than words can describe. Jesus, they have to tell Tony. But, before that they need proof. 

“Did you see that it was Peter’s?” Steve asked. 

“God, I-“ Bucky stuttered out and rubbed the side of his face. “I looked at all six boxes, but there were multiple kidneys, and- and other shit. Man, I think I saw a heart!” 

“Buck, for fuck’s sake pull yourself together. You’ve seen way worse.” 

“You didn’t fucking see it…” Bucky muttered back, but quickly shut his mouth when he heard footsteps coming down from the hall. Steve had obviously heard too, and he fell into old habits and took a parade rest position, as did Bucky. The footsteps belonged to Mordo who came down from the main clinic and did not spare either of the bodyguards a look before entering the supply closet. 

Wordlessly, Steve and Bucky stepped into action and moved to either side of the door to the supply closet. Like two lone wolves teaming up for a hunt, the two bodyguards continued to communicate wordlessly and pulled their Glocks out and cocked them quietly. With bated breath, they waited for Mordo to exit again, and once he did, Steve expertly twisted his left arm behind his back while Bucky pointed his gun at his forehead. The anaesthesiologist yelped in frightened surprise, but quickly shut his mouth when Bucky lifted a finger to his lips. In his right hand, Mordo held a white box with a red handle. 

“Who’s is that?” Bucky asked, gesturing down to the organ transport box with his eyes. Mordo grinned wickedly, then groaned out in pain when Steve twisted his arm harder behind his back. 

“I’m not talking.” Mordo said, which earned him a swat across his cheek from Bucky’s gun. “Jesus! What’s that for?” 

“Where’s Strange?” 

It turned out that Stephen was actually out, and so Steve and Bucky got themselves comfortable in some chairs in the main clinic. While they waited for the doctor to return, like Mordo had promised, the bodyguards twiddled with their guns. After tying up Mordo on the floor and gagging him, Wong had shown up as well and the mafia guards had no trouble catching him too and giving him the same treatment as his coworker. Now, they were sat next to each other, hands tied behind their backs and gags in their mouths. As if they were going to talk either way. Bucky had to give them something, they were at least loyal to their boss. But, so was he and Steve to their own boss. 

After tying up the surgical nurse and anaesthesiologist, Steve and Bucky had the situation under control. They just hoped Tony wouldn’t walk out anytime soon to see all this. Due to the boss’ current unstable mindset, the bodyguards decided to keep him out of this. At least until they had proof. But, God, the more they thought of it, the more certain they were that Stephen and his employees had stolen Peter’s kidney to sell it. 

All four in the main clinic perked up a bit at the sound of a heavy metal door opening and closing with a thud. While footsteps echoed from the staircase leading up to the surface, Bucky and Steve exchanged a quick look and Steve got up with his gun still cocked. Hiding behind by the wall to the entrance, Steve waited for Stephen to enter. The doctor barely got to mutter out a confused ‘what the hell’ before he shut his mouth at the feeling of a cold gun barrel being pressed to the back of his neck. Mordo and Wong looked defeated, but not surprised at seeing Steve holding their coworker at gunpoint too. 

“You got some explaining to do.” Steve started from behind the doctor. 

“I think you do, actually. Why do you have my coworkers tied up?” 

“What’s in the box?” Steve barked and used the gun to push Stephen’s attention to the white box with the red handle on the floor. 

“Why don’t you ask your boss about that?” Stephen chuckled out, standing up straight again. He even dared to turn around to face Steve, as if there was no gun being pointed at him. Bucky was almost impressed at the doctor’s confidence. 

“I’m asking the questions, asshole! What’s in the box? And all the other boxes in the fridges?” Steve continued interrogating. 

“You must be awfully confused, Rogers.” Stephen purred, but did take a step back when the blonde guard pushed the gun in between his eyes. 

“You better wipe off that shit eating grin right now and start answering my questions, or I’ll paint these hideous walls with the insides of your head.” Steve threatened, and based on experience, Bucky knew that he was not kidding. 

“I’m telling you, Rogers. You should ask Stark about this.” Stephen continued to speak calmly, but with a bit more edge now. In his fury, Steve did not seem to catch not the hint, and growled at the doctor before punching him square in the face. But, Bucky had realised, and looked up at his partner. 

“Steve…” 

While the doctor groaned and bled on the floor, Steve turned to Bucky. At first, Steve shook his head, refusing to believe what the doctor was hinting at and how Bucky seemed to be believing him. This could not be true, there was no way. Did Tony… 

“No.” 

“Steve…!”

“Keep ‘em in check!” Steve barked and gestured to the three hostages before running down to the ward. But, his heart didn’t pound at the adrenaline of this whole hostage thing, nor the running, but rather at the awful idea of Tony being behind all this. There was no way. No way. 

Tag list: @buckettbarnes​​ @prettyboy-parker​​ @starkerplusstrange​​ @sugar-and-spice-parker​​ @xsmallplum​ @starkerdreams​​ @mynerdrage​​ @kyattogaaru​ @im-a-slut-for-alucards-belt​​ @sxdnxy-jxhnsxn​ @suddenlyhotimsuddenlycool​ @everyonelovespetey​​ @ironspiidey​​ @gipumar @the-secret-avenger​

[secretlynestaarcheron]

COLD AS ICE

Figure skating x hockey player

TWO: Cassian and The Bet

Cassian ran a hand through his wet hair as he makes his way back out towards the locker room, he throws his towel over his shoulder as he unlocks his locker. “Hey Cas, are you coming to the party tonight?” I heard a rumor that Tamlin might be there,” Rhysnd says from where he was sitting on the bench slipping on his shoes.

Cassian rolls his head, he was already feeling the tension in his shoulders from the stress semester, “I don’t know man, I’ve got a ton of homework and I don’t really feel like getting involved with Tamlin before the game this weekend.”

“Never thought I’d hear the day that Cassian Monte would say no to brawl, who are you becoming?” Tomas cheers from the other side where he changes despite not doing much throughout practice besides sitting on the bench. He was only on the team because his father donated the new bleachers.

Cassian looks over at Rhysand with a deadpan expression, growing up in foster care made Cassian a fighter but once he joined the hockey team in highschool where he met Rhysand and Azriel he had a new reason to fight. The only reason he was at this school working towards a degree in engineering was because of hockey.

He wouldn’t let his scholarship be taken away because of some fight off the ice or a bad grade in an easy class, Rhysand understood it but unfortunately not a lot of the rich kids on the team did. “I got an eight am tomorrow, why don’t you come have a few drinks and then we can head back to the apartment together?” Azriel chimes in, being the voice of reason as always.

Cassian frowns, rubbing his chin, “Okay, but text me when you’re heading over and if I haven’t gotten a load of my homework done its a no from me,” he retorts, slipping on his jacket and leaving the locker room.

As he makes his way towards the exit, he stops short when he sees Nesta sitting down on the bench in front of the rink, ear muffs and scarf pulled tightly around her neck. She had her knees to her chest as she clutched a book in front of her face.

He stepped forward, grabbing his keys from his pocket, he felt the need to go out there and talk to her. To pick on her, or maybe to offer her a ride home. He shakes his head at the thought, she was probably waiting for Mor or possibly her own personal driver.

He steps out in the cold making his way towards the parking lot where his beat up jeep was, it was a typical cliche but it was cheap and he needed transportation to take his gear all over the place. He jumps into the front seat, quickly sticking his key into the ignition before blasting the heat.

Once his mirrors are set and he can feel his hands, he pulls out of the driveway, looking over the bench in front of the rink where Nesta was gathering her stuff and moving towards the bus. He furrowed his brow, watching as she smiled at the bus driver chatting as she handed him her card. She had a transportation card. He curses himself for assuming that she was waiting on a personal driver.

There was more to her than he thought, he figured the blonde hair and figure skating made her the prime stereotype for rich white girls. There’s a beep and he looks in his rearview to see Rhysand sticking his hands up in confusion.

He waves apologetically before turning towards campus, where he was going to seat himself in the library and knock out the rest of his homework. His phone chimes after a couple hours and he looks up as someone shushes him, smiling apologetically, he grabs his backpack and answers the phone as he exits the library.

“Yeah, I know, I am heading home now,” Cassian retorts before the person even said hello.

“I am glad you just now remembered,” Azriel says on the other side but he was chuckling, “Where are you? I’ll just pick you up from there.”

“He’s probably still in his loungewear from after practice he is not going to a party in his joggers and teeshirt,” Rhysand calls out from the passenger seat, “He’ll come home and change, I don’t care if you’re late.”

Cassian rolls his eyes, “I am at the library,” he says.

“Cool, I’ll see you there,” Azriel retorts earning a groan from Rhysand. He leans against the wall, flipping mindlessly through Instagram while he waits for the slick black car to pull up. He finds himself pulling up Nesta Archerons page, he was trying to know more about her.

There were pictures of her with Mor, dressed up for parties or hanging in the quad, as well as a few of her competing, she looked angelic on the ice. He scrolls far enough down that he stumbles upon a picture of Nesta laying down on a hospital bed her head against an older lady who looks just like her. The lady is talking with a bright smile and Nesta looks over at her with sparkling eyes.

Cassian was familiar with the bright blue cap on the ladies head and all the IV’s, he was there when his own mother had passed away from cancer, he scrolled down her captain only a yellow heart, the comments full of condolences. Her mother had passed away as well. He takes note of the date it was posted, six years ago today.

He felt weird, he honestly kind of felt like that guy Joe from that stalker show. She posted on her instagram for all of her followers to see but he still felt like he was invading her personal space, as if he wasn’t welcomed.

“Stop spacing out and get in the car, it’s already six!” Rhysand yells. Cassian looks up to see him halfway out the window, waving wildly at his friend. Azriel shrugs in the driver seat as Cassian jumps into the back. “What were you so deep in thought about?”

Cassian runs a hand through his hair, “All the organic chem homework I am going to have to do when I get home at eight,” he says.

Rhysand laughs, “Like you're actually going to get home by eight,” he chuckles, reaching forward to turn up the music before Cassian has any objections.

Rhysand grabs his shoulder before moving past him into the house, it was already bumping full of intoxicated college (and probably some highschool) students and bland techno music. “Nesta! Nesta! Nesta!” a group of college kids in the back chanted catching the attention of Cassian as he moved his way through the crowd.

She sat on the kitchen island, taking shot after shot of some unknown liquid that happened to be neon blue. She took the last one, punching her hands into the air as she turns to the crowd letting out a loud cheer. The crowd cheers along with her but quickly makes their way deeper into the party aside from a few college guys who linger around her.

“People don’t know it but you’re such a crackhead,” Mor says as Nesta moves off the island, stumbling into Mor’s shoulder as she regains her balance. She looks up, her bright green eyes catching his, she pushes herself up keeping contact with him. “What? What are you looking at-Oh, Cassian,” Mor says, turning to face him, moving a hand around Nesta’s waist. “This is the last time I DD for her.”

Nesta rest her head against Mor shoulder, he wonders if she’s always been like this at parties or if it had anything to do with her mom. He had seen her at parties before, finding a dark corner and pulling a book from her bag to read. He had never seen her like this but he never really gets out much either.

“Amren!” Mor yells, groaning loudly, “God, why are both of them such bad drunks? Could you watch her while I grab Amren? I really hope I am not this bad when I am drunk.”

She pushes Nesta towards him, as she pushes through the crowd to find Amren, another figure skater on the team. He holds her up, looking around the room deciding what he should do next. His eyes fixate on a girl across the room talking with Rhysand, she had the same dirty blonde hair as Nesta as well as the same facial expressions.

Rhysand looks over at her, gaining the attention of the girl as well, her eyes widen and she bolts away from Rhysand who looks after sadly. “Cassian?” Nesta murmurs, looking up at him, blinking to regain focus in her eyes, she pushes his arm around her. “What are you doing here?”

“Babysitting you, apparently,” he says with a roughness that’s a little too sharp. She blinks up at him, her arms dropping to her side, “Wanna go outside?”

She looks up at him before nodding, she follows behind him towards the back door, Cassian didn’t know whose house this was but they would have a giant mess to clean up tomorrow morning for sure. He lead her over to a porch swing, she fell into it putting a hand against her forehead.

“My 9:30 class tomorrow is going to suck,” she murmurs, her head moving to the side, as she closed her eyes. He pushed off his foot, moving the swing lightly back and forth, “Who’s idea was it to have a party on a thursday?”

“Probably those kids from Autumn Court, their parents paid for their degrees so they don’t need to worry about class,” he hums, leaning back and looking up at the dark sky, “You know, I am still mad about your post.”

She groans, turning to look at him, “Seriously? If your team could have scheduled another practice anytime that day, but you chose to pick the two hours we were in there,” she says, pushing herself into an upright position staring down at him. “I want to see you do what I can do, you couldn’t even if I trained you.”

He raises an eyebrow, “Okay, deal.”

She frowns at him, running a hand through her tangled hair, “What do you mean? Deal? I didn’t make a deal with you?” she says, her speech quickly sobering up. “I don’t want to make a deal with you.”

He rubs his chin, “The game against Spring Court is this Sunday and so is your conpetition, you teach me to figure skate and I’ll teach you how to play hockey, first one to quit loses,” he retorts, “This way we’ll both learn how to appreciate each other's sports.”

She looks down at his extended hand, before grabbing it, “Deal, I hope you like losing. Balancing on one leg while wearing a revealing costume is a lot harder than hitting a puck with a stick.”

He rolls his eyes, turning as the door opens, he frowns standing up quickly, “Tamlin, what are you doing here?” he says, squaring up and blocking Nesta from his view. He looks down at the small frame beside him, the familiar girl that Rhysand was talking to earlier.

“Cassian,” Tamlin says, his lip curling into a smile, “Haven’t seen you in a long while, I am sure you’ll go back into hiding when we beat you this weekend.”

Cassian feels a shove and Nesta is standing in front of him, her eyebrows furrowed, “Feyre Archeron, what the hell are you doing here,” she growls, her eyes on fire as she looks at Tamlin, “Do you realize that she’s seventeen?”

Feyre frowns as Tamlins arm falls from where it was around her shoulder, “Way to kill my vibe, Nes, some sister you are,” she snaps, turning on her heel angrily and running into the house.

“Don’t you run away from me, we are having words, just because dad doesn’t care anymore doesn’t mean you can do something stupid like that!” she yells after her, following her through the open door, disappearing into the crowd of people.

“That’s pretty sick, man,” Cassian says turning back towards Tamlin who shrugged in response, “It’s not like we did anything, besides she’ll be eighteen soon enough. Her sister is pretty firey, maybe I’ll have her entertain me until Freyes birthday,”

Cassian gripped his fist, his nails piercing the hard skin in his palms, “I’ll see you on Sunday,” he says calmly, before pushing past him and back into the house looking around for Rhysand or Azriel. He had wasted enough time here.

Comment to be tagged!

Tagged: @awesomelena555 @catwomancabello @sannelovesreading @candid-confetti @gendryaforthemasses @musicmaam @skychild29 @empress-ofbloodshed  @8emmy @overgrown-bat

[nevergiveupneverrun]

Bodyguard - Chapter Fifty-Eight “Just for a smile”

Hello everybody, how are you? Here is chapter Fifty-eight of my Story Bodyguard, yay!! I hope you will like this chapter. Sorry for not posting yesterday... I didn’t have time.

I’m sorry in advance for the mistakes… English isn’t my first language and I do my best. Here is the link to the previous chapter: Click Here.

I hope you will enjoy this chapter :) 💛

              –––––––––––––––––––––––

- Yes, Owen Hunt.

Posted in the corridor of the set, in front of the door of Amelia’s green room, I pick up my phone on the second ring.

After rehearsals with Andrew for Amelia’s performance during the ceremony and a briefing on the running of the show for the nominees, the third meeting on the busy agenda concocted by Meredith was an interview.

I take the call with a slight touch of apprehension.

A call that I had been waiting for several hours when I had passed a very specific instruction to my interlocutor. 

He informs me in a few sentences about the positive outcome of my request.

A piece of news that brings me a slight smile.

- Thank you, Aaron. I will quickly confirm if I follow up on these offers.

- You’re welcome, Mr. Hunt, I am at your disposal. I await your decision. See you soon.

I end the conversation and put my phone back in the inside of my jacket. My hand grazing my holster and the gun firmly hung in this leather accessory. Since our arrival in Los Angeles, I had opted for great means and I was no longer satisfied with a gun hidden at my ankle… 

I look at my watch. 40 minutes have passed since I left the green room to leave it to Amelia to calmly prepare. The makeup artist went out, already more than twenty minutes ago…

I knock gently on the door.

- Amelia, it’s me, can I come in?

A weak "yes" hardly reaches my ears.

I’m peeking around. The corridor is empty and I open the door delicately, closing it carefully behind me.

I find the confined environment of the green room I had left. 

I had taken care to scrutinize it up and down before allowing Amelia to settle there. I see the singer a few steps in front of me, slightly to the side, in an attitude almost similar to the one in which I had left her.

The major difference is her outfit. She gave up her casual jeans look and little embroidered top for a long dress, pastel blue, decorated with two metal hooks at the shoulders. 

She turns a little more, perceiving my steps echoing on the floor and I fully discover the front of her dress which has a V-neck… and the whole gives her the appearance of a Greek princess, her hair loose, simple and freely against her shoulders accentuating the comparison. My gaze captures her face and y attitude of contemplation flies away instantly to give way to deep concern.

- Amelia, what is happening? I asked immediately, discerning her face a little better, slightly lowered, her features closed.

A movement of her head reveals her gaze to me, which I discover brilliant, bathed in nascent tears. I position myself by her side in two large strides, a hand immediately finding her arm, an unconscious connection that I need to reassure her… and reassure me.

- Tell me what’s up… did you get a message, a call? I added, already dreading a new manifestation of this mysterious threat that still hangs over us.

- No, none of that… she finally answers in a weak voice.

I nod and catch her gaze silently communicate my listening and my support. After a minute she ends up speaking again.

- It’s… I just got a call… the bank’s answer…

I immediately understand what puts her in this state.

- They refused my file for the loan… I will have to call Bernard and abandon the project… when I think of all these children who are waiting for this additional reception structure, it makes me…

She doesn’t finish her sentence, lowering her eyes again, overwhelmed by emotion, but struggling with all her strength to contain her tears.

- Bernard can start work in 10 days…

She immediately raises er face and observes me with a wide and incredulous look.

- What are you talking about? I had Bernard the day before yesterday, he explained to me that if he did not have a million-dollar guarantee, he could not hire his teams on the side… it was the minimum… he could give me more time for the total amount of the site but without this start guarantee, he could not carry out the project… and the other professionals I contacted ask me much more… Bernard was adamant, I don’t see how he could have changed his mind, given the current economic circumstances…

- He hasn’t changed his mind… but if we confirm this million dollars, he will be able to start in a week…

- Owen, I just told you that I have no alternatives… the bank was my last resort… I don’t see how to find 500,000 dollars in a few minutes.

- Your penultimate resort visibly. You will have the million dollars needed.

I detach my fingers from her arm and take my cell phone out of my inside pocket: I hasten to write a quick text.

- What are you doing? She asks in a slightly louder voice, drying the corner of her eyes with a tissue.

- I concretize the 500,000 dollars that you need.

She immediately puts her hand against my phone, stopping me as I was about to send this message that would solve all her problems.

- Can you explain it to me? What are you kidding from me?

- You need 500,000 dollars… I happen to be able to help you find them… I just need to send a text and it’s done.

- I don’t want you to be in trouble because of me… how can you find this sum in such a short time? I don’t remember that you came from a family of billionaires…

- Don’t worry, I didn’t do anything illegal, I say, smiling slightly at what she implies…

She stares at me intently, with a myriad of questions in the back of her eyes, an image that makes me smile even more broadly.

- As you know, I have had the opportunity to protect many people during my bodyguard career. I worked in particular for an American politician some time ago… a very high-ranking man…

I let a break settle down not wishing to reveal to her who it is.

- I saved his life during a trip where he was the target of an attack… which allowed us to arrest those who threatened him. Suddenly, I put an end to my contract quickly after… not feeling more useful… and wishing not to spend too much time on a mission, as usual…

I catch Amelia’s gaze to be a little more piercing following this remark, but she does not interrupt me so far.

- He is a great lover of art… so, when I left, he wanted to offer me things that were dear to him… he wanted to make a strong gesture in return for this life that I… anyway, I tried to reason with him but he is a very stubborn man and I ended up having to accept… a collection of ten painting masterpieces… works that I have safe and sound kept in the strongbox of my bank…

- Do you plan to part with it to help me finance my project? She questions, the surprise not hidden in her voice.

- Don’t worry, not all… considering the value of these paintings… I just surveyed potential buyers for a painting by Miro and another by Degas… I had confirmation a few minutes ago that some buyers have devoured themselves and are offering 300,000 dollars for each work… enough to solve your problem… I send this message and things clear up immediately…

I redirect my attention to my phone in my hand, but Amelia still keeps her fingers against mine, preventing me from pressing this famous "send" button.

I look up again to plunge into hers.

- Amelia… 

- Owen, I can’t let you do that… she announces determined.

- Listen, I resume gently, I know what you’re thinking. But these works anyway, I do not take advantage of them today, I have a life that leads me to change places constantly, I do not have a real home where I could give them a case for their value…

- You have your parents’ house…

- They have no place there… they do not belong to this place, to the memories that fill this house…if the works can be useful, I will not miss this opportunity. I know that this project is very close to your heart… I have the power to concretize it and prevent it from collapsing, for lack of money…

She remains motionless, indecisive for a few seconds, then I perceive her fingers delicately leaving mine.

- Are you sure what you’re doing? She asks again as if to make me change my mind one last time.

- I have rarely been as sure of doing anything useful as I do now, I confirm with a slight smile. Reassure me, you always need this money, otherwise, I know two art lovers who may be disappointed? I ask in a joking tone to relax her… I felt that she was forcing herself to accept my help.

She just nods with a thin smile on her lips.

I press "send" and a furtive sound signal informed us that the message is sent… and that the sum necessary for starting work is acquired.

- Thank you, Owen…truly… I am truly touched by the sacrifice you make… I’m not used to being helped spontaneously and without a hidden interest… she continues, taking care to avoid my gaze and moving away from me slightly.

- Consider it as a donation to your foundation and don’t think for a minute that you owe me anything…

- But… I intend well…

- It’s a donation, Amelia… I assume you are not having fun repaying all those who give to finance your cause?

She lowers her face, a little embarrassed by my spread.

- On the other hand, I intend to follow the works. I’m your partner in this, so no way they can build a cabin for us, I say, laughing.

She finds my gaze and smiles spontaneously, even letting furtive laughter win her: a soft melody then invades the room and releases the tension and anxiety that assailed her a few minutes before. Her features light up, and I’m struck by the natural beauty that radiates from her.

- You can get involved as much as you want in the works. On the other hand, for the continuation of the financing, I intend to deal with it alone… I have a little more time to organize myself, she specifies.

.

Two knocks on the door interrupted us at this moment.

- Miss Shepherd, air for you in five minutes! A voice informs us behind the door.

- Ok, I’m coming right now, thanks.

Amelia leaves my gaze and places it on the table of the green room, directed on a very specific object, resting in a case.

- Do you want to help me? I did not manage to put this jewel alone, and Meredith advised me to have something to accompany the dress, she asks, grabbing a silver necklace, set with bluish stones, matching the color of her dress.

I grab the jewel with my fingertips while she turns her back on me, clearing her hair to the side to uncover her neck. I notice with surprise that the back of her dress is a perfect copy of the front and that the skin of her back is largely exposed.

I put my hands a little awkwardly in front of her to put the necklace around her neck.

She raises her hair above then release it while keeping it on the side.

My fingers meet behind her neck and my gaze is lost on the image of her skin which radiates a few millimeters from my fingers. I focus on the clasp of the necklace and I have some difficulties in attaching the jewel, my hands being too large for this kind of exercise.

After a few tens of seconds, I finally get there and rest the tie of the jewel against her neck. My fingers then inadvertently find the warm and soft contact of her skin. My fingers linger there for long seconds and slide along her exposed spine…

But this sweetness and her skin suddenly escape me, Amelia had taken a step before her and having thus detached herself from me.

- Thank you, I think we should go… she announces to break the electric silence that had taken place in the room.

I spontaneously smile at her watching her quickly arrange her hair against her shoulders. My uncontrolled gesture made her uncomfortable… and I blame myself for being carried away in this way, if only for a few seconds.

The rules were clear since my return as a bodyguard and she was committed to respecting the boundaries drawn between us.

She keeps my gaze briefly then advances with a determined step. I follower her closely, a hand against her hair behind her, as we leave the green room in the direction of the set.

.

- Delighted to welcome you, Amelia, the presenter announces as the singer settles down at the table.

I’m in the backstage, on one side behind the curtains, Amelia in front of me in focus, as well as the technical teams turning the sequence. It is a set that will pass the next morning as a preamble to the ceremony: a "backstage" program before the show, shot without an audience, where each nominee is received for a few minutes.

- It’s a pleasure to be there, Jo, Amelia responds politely with a smile.

- Two nominations for you for the ceremony, best female artist and best album… it’s a sensational entrance for your latest opus…

- Yes, I’m delighted, I did not expect this recognition. Just being named is already a great gift…

- But winning both awards would be even better, right? Retorts the presenter with a teasing smile.

- Yes, of course… but the other artists named by my side are extremely talented and I do not pretend to believe that these awards have been acquired.

- We will know in a few hours, but I sincerely believe that you have all your chance… to return to your album, it is very personal, a lot of songs that deal with absence, loneliness, and complex or impossible love… I know that you compose and write your songs, should we read a reflection of the real Amelia, the one hiding behind the spotlights?

The singer pauses, before speaking again in a slightly lower tone than before.

- I wrote this album a while ago… and since then, a lot has happened in my life… and if this album is inspired by what I lived at the time when I wrote it, it is strangely even more symbolic of what I live for some time.

- What can we wish you then? A future album with more positive songs, with less tortured love notes?

- Something like that…

- For the ceremony, did you already decide what you were going to sing?

- Yes, I’m going to sing a song that inspires me right now…

- A song that you sing for something… or someone in particular?

Amelia’s gaze is lost in the void for a few moments before suddenly settling in mine.

She stares at me, focused on me for a few seconds, then quickly redirects her attention to the presenter and is content with a slight smile for an answer.

- Well, we can’t wait to hear from you sing…

- I will have an important message to convey to my fans… I count on them…

- There are more and more of them, and there will be thousands of them I gave no doubt in the hope of seeing you win these awards. Before leaving us, could you give us a little pleasure and interpret us for a few seconds of an a cappella song?

- Yes, of course…

After a short pause, Amelia’s voice resounds on the set, the notes melodiously escaping from her mouth and creating a minute of sweetness and delicacy, almost timeless.

She holds the last note a few moments before finishing with this taste of her incomparable talent.

- Thank you, Amelia, it was superb. I wish you good luck for the ceremony.

- Thanks to you, Jo.

-Ok, cut, that’s a wrap! Exclaims the director behind the camera.

I keep my attention fixed on Amelia, who gets up quickly and talks for a few minutes with the presenter.

I advance discreetly while remaining a few steps from the two young women so as not to interrupt them.

I note however that the presenter has spotted my presence and throws two glances pressed in my direction which do not escape the singer.

- You can approach Owen, ends up proposing Amelia.

- I don’t want to disturb, I’m waiting for you to finish…

- You do not disturb, hastened to specify the host.

I take a few shy steps towards the two young women and place myself next to Amelia.

- Jo is a friend… we almost started our careers at the same time… me as a singer and she as a host… and this year is the consecration with the presentation of the Music Awards ceremony, explains Amelia.

- I hope to have the chance to call your name… but tell me, I did not know that you came accompanied…

- Uh, not as you imagine, Jo. Owen is my bodyguard.

Jo takes an incredulous look at Amelia, before redirecting her attention to me.

- Bodyguard? Rather unusual profile, I must say… nice to meet you, Owen, she said, holding out her hand to me.

I squeeze it quickly, a little uncomfortable under her piercing gaze.

- Nice to meet you too, I say. You know you don’t have to look like Rambo to be effective.

Amelia laughs slightly at our side, surprised by my comment.

- I want to believe you. Besides, you have a contract for what duration with Amelia? Because it turns out that with my increasing visibility in the media, I need to find someone I trust… and you seem to me indeed quite competent…

Amelia’s laughter suddenly goes out and I discern her attention focused on my response at the edge of my field of vision.

- There is no defined duration for my mission with Amelia…

I perceive the look of the singer observing me intensely as if she was trying to read an answer through my face rather than through my words.

- If you want to guarantee a contract quickly in the process, I invite you to contact me, continues the presenter while handing me a business card. I’ll go to the nominee party tonight, maybe we could talk more about it… and if not I’m at the Four Seasons hotel, room 325…

I remain dazed, a few seconds, following her offer and her more than direct advances. In front of my lack of reaction, she takes the lead: she discovers my jacket and slips her card into my inside pocket.

- Uh… well equipped… she says with a smile, seeing my holster and my gun.

- Jo, you have to change to the next sequence! The director specifies with a hint of impatience in his voice.

- Well, duty calls me, but I hope to see you again for the ceremony both… or before, she concludes in a wink at me.

She swiftly disappears in the backstage and quickly disappears from our field of vision.

- It was unexpected… I whisper.

- Not for me… it’s a real tornado… always very sure of herself… and ready to do anything to get what she wants… Amelia specifies absently.

- Anyway… are you ready, can we go?

- Yes, let’s get out of here, she replies energetically. A stage still awaits us in this endless day…

- You are the first artist I know who is not looking forward to an evening in a luxury hotel to celebrate her nomination for an award!

- I have to stay a little special, don’t I? How else do you want the public to prefer me over others? She continues with a look of a little girl, irresistible. 

- Indeed, I don’t know what he could crack otherwise… I whisper in a teasing smile.

She meets my gaze, while a magnificent smile welcomes my remark… one of the frankest and spontaneous since our marathon in Los Angeles started… and I forget the tiredness and this anguish which is always visible imperceptibly in me since we arrived…

I simply enjoy the moment and one of the most beautiful shows of the evening… contemplate her smile.

                 –––––––––––––––––––––––

Thank you for reading. Stay safe and have a great week 💛

[anonthenullifier]

Do you think Tommy and Billy would ever given a tour of Stark Industries? I mean their Dad did technically help run it in a previous life.

Thanks for the ask!  I don’t think this is what you were looking for, but it is the first thing that came to my mind after reading your ask. I do apologize if the characterization is off at all, I don’t usually write from either of the twin’s perspectives but it was the only way to do this story . Hope you enjoy!

“And now we move into what many consider the true heart of the tour,” a peppy smile goes with a peppy wave of her arms and the impressively uniformed pep in the tour guide’s step, “the hall of heroes.”

“Kill me now,” Tommy groans next to him, mood perpetually spiraling downward for the last hour, “please just blink me out of this reality.”

The field trip isn’t that bad. Well, it’s not great, but it could be worse, like the time they went to the wastewater plant and there was a leak. “This is the last room.” It is also, admittedly, the worst room to be in as children of Avengers. Being in a shrine devoted to worshipping your parents and family while surrounded by peers that already view you differently kind of sucks.

“We’re at Stark Industries,” Billy waits for his brother to make some sort of point, shrugging off the aggravation in his voice and inspecting the first generation uniforms of their parents. The plaque has an asterisk that leads the eye down to a note stating all uniforms on display are originals, graciously donated by the heroes except for The Vision’s (Billy frowns at the unneeded The) which is a replica due to the still unexplained power he has to shift molecules.

Tommy begrudgingly joins in staring at the uniforms, “This crap is not what we should be seeing. We’re not fucking tourists.”

“Language.”  

Dad has been trying, and failing miserably, to curb impolite language, so when he is not around, Billy takes joy in turn-coating his allegiance and policing it. “Oh bugger off, traitor.” They both laugh at the loophole they discovered early on. If dad doesn’t realize they’re cussing, then they can do it freely, until mom stares them down, anyway. “I’m serious, I want to see the top secret stuff, not,” he flings his hands out at the post-Thanos uniforms, “this.”

They’ve listened to their grandpa wax poetically about his innovations, sat dumbfounded at the technical questions from both their dad and their other science minded relatives. There is so much more than old Iron Man uniforms and the ten different shields good ole Captain America has used to protect freedom. “Mom and dad are meeting us at the end, we could just ask-“

Tommy recoils at the comment, side-eying him the same way you would a person espousing mind control through frozen corn kernels on the street corner (though that actually ended up partially correct and led to a few months without corn in the house and deep, empty looks on their parents’ faces). “You trying to steal the funkiller crown from dad?” Hands turn Billy toward a small, gray door with a white and red sign stating Authorized Personnel Only. “You know the good stuff is back there.”

“No,” even if they can easily distract the chaperones and slip away from their classmates, it’s not worth it. “In less than a day, I get to go with Teddy on a houseboat.”

Tommy’s unempathetic stare is typical when matters of his relationship come up, “And…?”

“And I’m not risking it.”

Billy moves on to the current day display (all replicas), fingers tapping through the buttons on a screen introducing him to the training rooms and the Stark tech that is changing not just the world but universes too. Unfortunately the twin devil on his shoulder follows. “We won’t get caught.”

“We get caught 91.35% of the time,” a stat so graciously computed by dad three weeks ago when Tommy ran (literally) out and got them Taco Bell for lunch and then proceeded to proudly eat his chalupa in front of the teacher monitoring the lunchroom.

A scoff signals this fight is nowhere near done, “One, even dad admits his computation is flawed,” a margin of error assumed of plus or minus five percent for instances of misconduct that went fully undetected, “and two, that means we have a ten percent shot at success.” This is said as if ten percent is equatable to seventy five.

“Or we don’t and I have a hundred percent shot at a weekend without mom and dad.”

“Traitor.” Tommy shoves him out of the way, taking over control of the interactive display. “Yo display lady.”

A pleasant, lightly accented voice streams from the luminescent screen, “How may I help you?”

“Where are these rooms?”

A three second lag exists between the question and response, “Official training rooms are located at the Avengers compound, while beta-testing and highly complex simulations are housed here at Stark industries.”

Tommy stares at him, assuming this is somehow convincing. “No.”

“How many records are held by Vision?”

More silence and then the screen displays a table of dates and times, “Vision,” no The this time, likely because it was programmed by grandpa, “has eight time trial records across the two facilities.”

Another look from his brother implies this is all they need to know. Billy shakes his head. “And Scarlet Witch?”

The screen dissolves before providing new information. “Scarlet Witch has five records for time and three for amount of damage caused.”

“Go, mom!” Tommy is always more impressed by damage than time, something Steve has issues handling in their own training with the Young Avenger Initiative. “What about as a team?”

It’s to the credit of Tony’s programming that the AI understands the request in relation to the prior two questions. “Scarlet Witch and Vision, as a team, hold ten time records and eight damage records, including a combined record on training course Twenty Three, level of difficulty Wish You Were Never Born that has gone unchallenged for over eleven years.”

“Unchallenged.”

A smarmy confidence rests in Tommy’s eyes and finally the logic of his questioning clicks.  “No way.”

Tommy glares at him before returning to the screen, “Where’s that course?”

“Course Twenty Three is located here at Stark Industries.”

There’s something infuriatingly infectious about his brother’s need to rebel as a means of satisfying his drive to surpass others. It’s so tempting to say yes, but Billy digs his heels in, refusing to go along yet again with one of Tommy’s plans that, though always fun, never have fun consequences and dammit, he wants to spend the weekend with Teddy. “Not a chance.”

Exasperation fills every inch of Tommy’s flail. They move on and the silence is nice, if not a bit unsettling. “Question.”

Billy makes sure his annoyance is firmly on display. “What?”

“Would you rather try and break their record or,” a lightning fast push spins Billy around, “watch Cody manhandle mom?” Mortification gnaws at his resolve, their classmate groping the mannequin from the brief time the Scarlet Witch wore a leotard and tights. It’s when Cody makes direct eye contact with them and starts pantomiming his intentions that Billy’s hands snap shut, blue energy tingling under his skin. “You take him down, guarantee that houseboat is gone.” An arm loops amicably around his shoulder, pivoting him towards the authorized access door. “We go see the good stuff and you have slightly better odds.” Billy is turned back to Cody, who has only grown more vigorous in his lewd gesticulating, “No houseboat,” and then back to the door as if there are only two options, “or a shit ton of fun and possibly a houseboat.”

Billy sighs and Tommy’s mouth tips into a beaming smile. “Fine.” Immediately his mind starts justifying the decision, an 8.65% chance not the worst odds in the world, plus, if they aren’t in the room when the prototype of the next-gen Iron Man happens to fall on Cody, then no one can point at him as the culprit.

Wordlessly they carry out the escape, Billy always taking on the role of distraction through subtle manipulations of perceived reality and Tommy gleefully vibrating his molecules to slip through the wall and open the door. “Let’s go.”

For some reason, he had assumed walking through the door would be like that one movie they watched, with the oompa-loompas, a door opening and a world beyond imagination appearing before them -flying suits, disappearing materials, explosions, scientists in white coats and blue gloves. Instead it’s just a hallway with beige walls and linoleum floors and doors lining the way. “So, what’s the plan?”

A thrilled, unconcerned lift of his brother’s shoulders drops their chances of success at least a percent, “Walk like we own the place and see what we find.” It’s sadly not his worst plan.

And walk they do, Tommy’s chest puffed out and arms swinging in casual authority. Technically, they sort of own some of the place, via dad’s stake in the company, so it’s not like they are being overly deceptive. Each hallway looks the same, making it difficult to track exactly where they are going, until they find another door stating Credentials Required and a face scanner affixed to the wall. Tommy doesn’t even hesitate in shimmying through the wall, so Billy follows, hands parting the space in front of him so he can walk through, closing reality behind him with some hesitation, certain there have to be cameras somewhere tracking them.

That concern is tossed aside because now they find the cinematic reveal, an open hangar in front of them with some sort of alien-esque ship on the ground and four floors of glass doored, luminescent laboratories spanning the reach of their eyes. “The good stuff.” This is far better than replica uniforms. “Let’s go find the simulation.”

“But look at this stuff!”

The self-confidence he had admired earlier also goes hand-in-hand with a tendency for fixation. “Yeah, I see it.”

Billy does his best to keep pace with his twin, who has a habit of speeding up his walk when excited while forgetting other people can’t move nearly as fast. That combined with Billy’s desire to peer into every lab space and marvel at the work, makes their trip stream by incomprehensibly. He thinks he saw a phasing suit, maybe a new particle generator, some sort of extraterrestrial looking staff, a portal to a mountain side, what he thinks might be a baby raptor, and also their grandma, who he usually loves seeing but pulled Tommy out of view before she could spot them. “Do you have any idea where you’re going?”

“Nope.”

“Fantastic.”

“Where are you going?”

The voice is instantly recognizable, one they’ve grown up hearing and it’s a little judgmental and a little bit amused. Tommy swings around and puts on the fakest innocent smile the world has ever seen. “Hey, Grandpa!”

Tony smirks, unconvinced by the tone of the greeting, but he isn’t angry, which is a good start. “How are my favorite rebels doing?”

“Great, on a field trip.” Billy is in awe of people like Tommy and Tony who can act so natural, can just ooze bravado and a sense of entitlement on a whim.

There is a nod and a contemplative droop of his goatee. “Seems you got lost.”

Tommy nods along, “Yeah, been trying to find our classmates, have you seen them?”

Now Tony chuckles, slapping his hands together, giddy at the lie but still showing no signs of annoyance or reprimand. “I have not, but I imagine they can’t phase through walls like you two can.” Billy, personally, wilts at the calling out, while Tommy shrugs again, matching Tony’s stance and attitude. “What do you two want to see?”

“What?” It comes out before Billy can catch it, surprised at the quick approval of their misdeeds.

“I asked what you wanted to see,” Tony stares at them, concerned he has somehow slipped into another language, “There has to be a reason you barged through my walls.” Learning to function in both the superhero world and just being a teenager with parents who have rules you don’t agree with, requires an ability to spot entrapment, certain phrases purposely worded as openings for waltzing right into admonishment. When neither of them take the bait, Tony acts hurt, a shake of his head and a pained, expertly acted, clutched chest. “I thought I was the cool, eccentric grandfather,” a smile threatens to wash away Billy’s anxiety as Tony continues in pantomimed betrayal. “Is it Thor? Would you tell Thor what you want? I mean, I don’t blame you, those gorgeous, puppy dog eyes are a killer.” A snigger from Tommy and all apprehension leaves the atmosphere, Tony’s toothy grin absolving all guilt of their sneaking around. “Seriously, what do you want to see? I’ve got a brand spanking new interdimensional travel lab, some Skrull-based camouflage trials, there’s a spaceship downstairs, Helen has an updated, palm-sized cradle.”

All of it, every last one is what Billy wants to see, but Tommy beats him to the request, “We want to do simulation twenty three, Wish You Were Never Born.”

Understanding dawns on Tony’s face, “Want to show the parental units up, huh?”

“Yep.” Tommy is close to vibrating through the floor.

“It’s really dangerous,” the mood darkens until Tony presents them a masterclass, uncaring shrug they’ve seen numerous times in his press conferences and Senate hearings, “but I’m not your parents and so it is my duty to aid and abet your delinquency.”

An ecstatic arm closes around Billy’s shoulder as they follow their grandpa down four different hallways and three staircases, emerging into a vast, utterly empty warehouse. “You all have suits?” Tommy whips off his sweatshirt to reveal the Stark crafted, green and white suit he always wears under his clothes, yanking his goggles from his back pocket and pulling them down over his face. Since this seems to actually be happening, Billy waves his hands, materializing his own caped suit in place of his jeans and t-shirt. “All right then, let me go upstairs real fast.”

The climb into the observation booth is agonizing under Tommy’s uncontainable excitement, his feet a blur as he warms up, running in place. “Quick disclaimer, boys,” they look up at Stark’s face through the window, “there are numerous things that can seriously maim you in this course, kind of why your parents hold the record, the whole made of vibranium slant your dad’s got going makes him uniquely qualified to handle a lot of this and your mom is terrifying as well, so together, magic.” A seed of doubt sprouts in Billy’s mind, yet it is not given time to be nurtured a, “Anyway, best of luck!” and then the room comes alive around them.

To say the difficulty level name is apt is a bit of an understatement. At any given time there are over a dozen different foes, and for each type of challenge, there are at least a dozen individuals within it. It ranges from laser guns, incendiary robots that look an awful lot like Ultron, replicas of the Black Order, phasing, flame wielding alien things, and Billy’s least favorite right now, microscopic, swarming jellyfish that blister the skin on contact. In amongst the chaos of fighting, he can hear Tommy cycle between “Shit, shit, shit,” “Oh my God!”, “What the fuck is that,” and maniacal glee. Slowly, and painfully, they take down the threats, sometimes combining forces to remove a particularly difficult foe, and sometimes splitting up to decimate the weaker challenges.  

Looming over them is a very large clock, ticking away at their time and next to it, is the record of their parents. Their own clock continues, the numbers growing more similar to the goal and Billy assesses the surroundings, only taser faced bear-like creatures and giant bouncing orbs made of some sort of sticky, burning compound left. “Tommy!” His brother skids into view, mouth in a perennial smile and lungs heaving as he waits for the next strategy. “We have ten seconds, I say we vaporize.”

What seemed impossible is proven wrong, Tommy’s lips curving even higher as he fiddles with his goggles. “You hold them steady.”

“Will do.”

It’s a technique they birthed from their mistakes, the possibilities of their powers unknown and often discovered in embarrassing and unintentional ways. Like vaporizing soccer fields during gym class. Billy winds his powers around the last group of adversaries, wincing at the weight of their resistance as he adds more and more force to his hold. While he does this, Tommy runs a large circle around the bound creatures, legs pumping faster and faster with each lap until even Billy can’t track his position. That’s when it happens, a sonic boom that spreads through the warehouse, shoving Billy to the ground, puffs of smoke making the air murky, and then there is a “Hell yeah!” and the telltale sound of the buzzer their own training uses to signal success.

Tommy collapses on the ground next to Billy, “That was amazing.” All Billy can manage is a nod, lungs and body aching. “Do you think we did it?”

“Though impressive, unfortunately you were 8.65 seconds over.” Disappointing, but not bad. Far more worrisome is the unmistakably even English accent informing them of their failure.

Billy strains to sit up, glancing over his shoulder at the deep scowls of disappointment on his parents’ faces, next to the apologetic wince of Tony. “Fuck.”

“Language, William.” Tommy snorts and is met with a jab of blue to his chest. 

Two strikes in less than three seconds and the houseboat is most definitely floating away, “Sorry, dad.”

“What are you two doing here?” This time it’s their mom, her accent thicker when she’s angry and currently it sounds like she just moved here from Sokovia.

A hand pats Billy’s arm, a reassurance that really isn’t helping. “The field trip was just so boring.” Nor is Tommy’s attempt at defending their choice providing any hope of bringing the boat back. “We just wanted to see stuff.”

The intercom clicks and they are presented with a predictably logical alternative, “You could have asked us after the field trip. You had shown interest in a more detailed tour the other night, hence the reason why your mother and I were meeting you here instead of at home.”

Billy flops his head to stare deep into his twin’s goggled eyes, “I suggested that.”

“Shut up.”

Another click and mom is back on the microphone, “We’ve been speaking with the Altman’s,” any last, clinging hope withers away, “they were really looking forward to having you with them this weekend,” the feeling is mutual, “they suggested a nice compromise.” He waits to learn what this is, worried if he asks it will harm any goodwill left. “They invited all of us along on the trip.” 

Despair is far heavier than the physical toll of the course, and isn’t helped at all by the thumbs up next to him and the out-of-breath, “Yes, I love houseboats!”

[that-buckley-gal]

Powerless - Chapter Fifteen

January 19, 1945

I’ve been slowly learning to handle my powers during the past six months. The big reveal came when a fire broke out in Howard’s lab and I somehow managed to keep it contained until everyone else could put it out with fire extinguishers. Steve, Bucky, and Peggy got the full history – with my father’s letters backing me up – while everyone else got a simple “My dad had powers too”.

I wasn’t allowed out on missions with the Commandos, not that I minded, as I wasn’t sure how long it would take for my still-incoming powers to develop and for me to learn to control it. Instead, Howard elevated me to be a full-time assistant for him and I loved it as mundane as it sounded.

 My schedule was pretty flexible as things were constantly changing around base. One day I could be filling out orders for things that Howard needed, and the next I’ll be making observations of his experiments. Other days I’d be with Peggy, who taught me more fighting styles and how to shoot a gun as well as sneak around in case the occasion ever called for it. Bless her. Steve and Bucky also weren’t strangers to my growing skill set either. Once, as a joke, Bucky tried to scare me, and he ended up on the floor with my elbow digging into his side. Howard witnessed the whole thing and was proud for “hiring” me as his assistant because I could also double as a bodyguard if the occasion ever called for it. Of course, when he’d start to joke around about me protecting him, I’d shut him up by flinging my shield at him, and would always grin when it came back to me after bouncing off the wall. At the end of those days though, I would usually go home to Bucky, if the Commandos weren’t on a mission, and would cuddle up to him. Nights in were spent in the kitchen, Bucky trying to learn how to cook from me, even though I wasn’t a master chef myself. Cleaning up after dinner has become something we do together as well though sometimes I’d kick him out after he gets water and suds everywhere trying to have a “water fight”. Some nights we’d go out and watch a movie, or even dancing at the local club. Occasionally we’ll both go drinking in the pub, and Bucky will end up carrying me home after about an hour. It’s really sweet how he takes care of me.

I can’t hold my liquor very well. And instead of nursing my hangover one morning, I stumbled down to meet Peggy for our morning run. Not even thirty feet into it, did I have to stop and get sick in a bush. Peggy immediately cornered me and hinted at me being pregnant, which led to a conversation between Bucky and I that I surprisingly didn’t mind. The conclusion was that we were going to wait until after the war ended before even thinking about trying to have a baby. If we had one now, when times were so uncertain and the base always being in a hustle and bustle, well, it would be extremely hard to keep him or her safe. And even if I went home, what would Bucky do? He’d still be here with his team. So we were going to wait, and I didn’t mind. Throughout the year, as I grew to be more physically and mentally stronger, Bucky began to confide in me about his time as a P.O.W. for Hydra and the work that they had to do in the factories. At first, I was horrified and wished he hadn’t spoke a word about it, but when I could actually see that the weight he seemed to be carrying was lifted, I began to listen more closely. There was nothing I could say, the damage had already been done, so I listened and empathized. I squeezed his hands and allowed him to shed silent tears of his frustration and hated for Hydra. I let him know he was okay and safe now. For our wedding anniversary, we took the weekend off and went back to the United States where I got my name legally changed from Rogers to Barnes. - Thursday night in the Barnes apartment was pasta night – something Peggy and Steve frequently popped in for, for dinner. And since Bucky and I usually overdid it when it came to these nights, we would be crashed out until 8:30-9:00 or so instead of our usual 7:00-7:30 wake up. Nobody bothered us either. “Hey! Guys – I’m sorry to intrude, but you have to get up now! Phillips wants to see us, immediately!” Steve loudly spoke, though I barely heard it in my sleepy daze. Peeking my eyes open, I could see he turned on the light and groaned while Bucky didn’t even move next to me. I rolled over to face the clock to see it 6:18 in the morning. “Steve!” I groan. “What are you doing here? Don’t you know what time it is?” “Yes! I – come on! You guys! Wake up!” Steve said and pulled the covers off. The brisk morning air immediately froze my exposed legs and I curled into the fetal position to try and preserve my warmth. Bucky stirred slightly but then snored loudly. That man could sleep through anything. “Bucky!” He said pinching his friend’s ankle, which made Bucky kick at him before shooting up and glaring at him. “What is it?” Bucky grumbled. Steve only smirked at his tired friend before giving me his eagle-eye stare. I grudgingly sit up as well. Steve cleared his throat. “Colonel Philips wants to see us at once. He called for a meeting that will start at 6:45, sharp. It’s important.” I roll my eyes and wave my hand at my brother. “We’re up and will be there. Now go.” Steve saluted and walked out of the room without picking up our blankets or even turning off the light. “That guy is such a punk,” Bucky grumbled once more before getting up. He grabbed the blankets and tossed them on me before walking out of the room. Laughing quietly, I yawn and lay back down. Instead of letting myself fall back asleep, I stretch out, imaging myself as a starfish and that my limbs were moving freely in the water before finally getting out of bed. I throw on a pair of green trousers that Peggy got me along with a matching shirt. I didn’t have to dress up in front of the Commandos or Steve. I pull on my winter coat and gloves before going to meet Bucky in the door way as he got ready in the bathroom. Doe-eyed, the two of us walk hand in hand down to a car that Bucky drove. Ten minutes later, we found ourselves the last ones to arrive at the meeting, Bucky taking a seat whilst I went for some coffee. The colonel then began to explain the mission. Without having to ask, I make a cup for Howard and give it to him silently before doing the same for the Colonel, who nodded his head in thanks as he continued on. I carefully hand out coffee to the Commandos and Peggy before finally taking a seat to my husband’s left. I always admired how the Commandos and co. always managed to draw out these elaborate, detailed plans of how they were going to get the job done. Towards the end of his briefing, the Colonel announced the Commandos were to leave at 0800 hours and, if effective, be back by nightfall. He then dismissed everyone, and Steve said they’d rendezvous at 0745 at the base entrance. Bucky and I go back home where he gets ready for his mission while I fix a quick but filling breakfast for him. As we eat, I slowly let my fingers dance around his hand before I finally remove his wedding band and attach it to my necklace – which was really his chain and dog tags. After his first mission, he said one of the enemies commented on his being married and threatened to kill me, even though they had no idea who I was, and that, as much as he wanted to, he shouldn’t wear his ring on missions anymore. “Not only that, but what if I get shot at, and the bullet hits the ring instead?” He said. “Well, then, you’d have a really angry wife. And a messed up hand,” I replied. We go downstairs at 7:30, and before he can leave, I pull him in for a kiss. It was similar to way I kissed him before he was shipping out to England. Full of love, and sorrow, and words unsaid out loud. A thousand promises wrapped into one. “I love you,” I whisper as his head rested on top of mine. “Be safe. Come home.” “I love you, Madison Nicole,” he whispered back, lips grazing my forehead. “And don’t worry, I will.” As he’s going out the door, I stop him once more. “Hey…um. When you come home, I really need to talk to you about something.” “Of course,” Bucky smiled. “Let’s see…I’ll be home by nightfall? Let’s talk over dinner. Ooh, make something with pasta.” I smile. “You know I will. Just be there, okay?” Bucky frowned at me. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just…messing around with you,” I said weakly. Bucky didn’t look convinced, and from his expression, I knew he was thinking about my dark place even though I haven’t been there in over a year. “You should go now, babe. I am fine, okay? Whatever I have to say can wait until tonight. I promise.” Bucky smiled finally and nodded his head. “Okay. I love you.” I watched him leave the building and run into the car that Steve and Peggy were already in. I wave at the car and watch it disappear in the snowy distance.

 Since Peggy was being Agent Carter today, I decided I would do Howard’s paperwork in his lab. Both of us there would drastically slow down my progress since Howard constantly asked for food or coffee or my opinion on his thoughts, but neither of us minded. Howard was my best friend after Peggy. It was nearing 6:42 now and still there was no word from Peggy on when the boys were headed home. Since pasta took only 8 or so minutes to cook, I asked Peggy to give me a heads up so I can go home and cook before Bucky got there. “So… Howard,” I start as I start to skim through another order request from Colonel Philips. “What’s up?” He asked. He looked up from the papers I needed him to sign. I grinned at the ink stain on his lip caused by his chewing on the pen before looking towards his file cabinet. “How’s your progress going on the whole super-soldier serum?” I asked. “Uh. Not so good,” Howard admitted. “Huh? Why’s that?” “I don’t have anymore of Steve’s blood to observe, remember? I asked you two weeks ago if you could ask Steve to donate another vial or two for my research.” “Did you?” I ask and think back to two weeks ago. “I’m sorry, Howard. But I can’t seem to recall this situation.” “Hey – don’t get too down, kid. It’s not that important. You can always ask when they come home tonight, yeah?”

 I wouldn’t have to if I just fessed up to having my own large vial of the original serum back in Brooklyn. But something tells me now is not the time to bring it up. And instead I simply smile at my boss and say I could and would ask Steve later tonight. We get back to work. Sometime later, there was a knock on the door before Steve came in. I didn’t pay him much attention because I was finishing my last order for the night, and instead called out “Hey Steve!” As I finish scribbling a few numbers down, I glance up to see Steve staring at me with a blankly sorry look on his face. I look at Howard to see him looking between Steve and I. “Steve? What is it?” I ask. His eyes soften and he looks down abruptly causing me to stand up. “Where’s Bucky?” I glace back at Howard to see he seemed to realize something I didn’t as he excused himself and fled the room. “Madi…” Steve started. He cleared his throat. “You should take a seat.” Suddenly afraid, I take a seat and watch as Steve paces before he comes and takes a seat in front of me. He doesn’t look me in the eye as we sit in this tense, awkward silence, and I just say his name again. “Steve?” “We were on the train,” he started and I could feel my heart thundering in my chest. Something bad happened, that much I knew. But what was it? “Gabe was making his way to the control car from the top while Bucky and I went down below. “There wasn’t anybody down where we were, so… We continued on and Bucky crept forward into another car while I stayed behind as cover, but then this door shut and then three soldiers popped out of nowhere on Bucky’s side while a machine came to life in mine. Well, I fought it, and when I checked back in on Buck, I saw that he had no more ammo left. I opened the door and tossed him another one and we took out the last soldier. “However, before we could catch our breath, the robot-thing I was fighting powered back up and shot at us. I pushed him out of the way and held up the shield to block it, you know? It did nothing but create this big hole in the side of the train and throw me off balance. “It was getting ready to fire again, but I wasn’t quick enough getting up. So, Bucky grabbed the shield and shot at the robot with his gun, and the robot shot at him. He wasn’t strong enough to take the blow. He flew back and out the side of the train. “I threw my shield at the thing and it fell down so I ran over to see if Bucky was okay and he was holding on to the train. When I realized I could save him, I climbed onto it and tried to reach out and grab him, but…the handrail he was holding on broke off and he fell down. He’s gone, Mads.” The tears that had started halfway through the story began to come out like rain. My heart hurt so bad; I think it hurt just a little more than it did when my mom died. Why? It was so unexpected. I curl into myself as the tears continue. Ugly sobs make themselves known, and I can’t find the will to make myself stop. “I am so sorry, Madison,” Steve says. I can hear the pain in his voice, but I don’t – can’t – bring myself to look at him. I just shake my head and I can hear his chair scrape against the ground and his footsteps approach me. “Don’t,” I sob as I look at the ground. “Steve – please. I just – I can’t even look at you right now…” “I’m sorry, Madison,” he said softly this time before I heard him leave. With him gone, I push my neat piles of paper to the floor and rest my arms on the table, burying my face into them. A million and one thoughts rang through my mind, to just this morning when we were talking about pasta and my important talk. Ugh! I wish I’d told him sooner; maybe he wouldn’t have gone. After a while, I begin to pick up the mess I made during a mini freak out I’d had where I’d strewn papers in random directions, only the papers on my desk. Even in my grief-stricken rage, I knew messing up Howard’s papers and projects would be an awful thing to do. Once the papers are all organized, I take a seat at the table once more. My eyes read over the last paper I signed, wondering how I could be so carefree then and then have my world turned upside down in another moment. It just did not make sense. A soft knock on the door broke me from my thoughts, and I stared at the door wondering who it could be, but making no other move to find out. The door opened after a second knock and I see Peggy standing there. She attempts to smile, but I avert my eyes. “Oh, Madison,” she sighs. I hear her heels clicking against the floor as she approaches me. I can’t seem to get myself together quickly enough to tell her to just leave me alone. She wraps her arms around me in a tight hug on her end and I feel myself starting to get choked up again. I rest my head on her, feeling more tears. “I am truly sorry for your loss, my girl,” she whispered into my hair. “But you are strong, and I know that you can get through this.” I nod my head, and let Peggy hold me for another few minutes. “I just…I wish he knew,” I choke out. “He does now,” Peggy said. She knew what it was I needed to talk to Bucky about. She was the one who came with me to get my pregnancy test done. “I suppose,” I mumble. Peggy relaxes her grip slightly and I know that Steve needs her more that I do. I might’ve lost my husband, but Steve lost his best friend as well. “Have you seen Steve yet?” “Not yet, I wanted to see how you were first.” “Thank you, Peg. He probably needs you more though…they were friends since before I was even born.” “Are you sure?” “I’m sure, go. It’s okay,” I assure my friend. She gives me another quick squeeze before taking her leave. Another however-long-it-is passes by before I can get up and walk around the room. I go to the bathroom and wipe away the tearstains and smeared makeup. I splash several handfuls of cool water on my face to help the redness in my face go away. “I am okay,” I tell myself. “I will be fine.” I write out a few notes for Howard for what he does with the papers, as well as apologizing because I don’t think I would be in for a few days and that I hoped he understands. I finish up what I’m doing, and pack up my bag and slip on my coat and get a ride home, where I don’t even feel the urge to put together something to eat. I find my way to the room where I peel off almost all my clothes and use one of the ones on the floor as a PJ shirt. Crawling into bed, I lay on Bucky’s side praying that this was all some twisted dream and that Bucky would come home in the middle of the night and wake me up.

[ilovedeadlypremonition]

Deadly Premonition director, Hidetaka “Swery” Suehiro, officially announced his upcoming “Debt Repayment Life Simulation RPG (with Cats)” The Good Life at his PAX West Panel this afternoon!

We already got a short teaser trailer a week or so ago after the”cat was let out of the bag” but now with Swery’s official announcement we have a brand new trailer, tons of concept art, the game’s crowdfund details, and thanks to the official press release a more detailed plot outline.

THE STORY

Based in an RPG-style town filled with fun activities and fascinating people, THE GOOD LIFE offers a thrilling, twisting murder mystery. At first glance, Rainy Woods looks like a normal country town in Northern England comprised of stone houses built in the Middle Ages, nestled in abundant nature and surrounded by forest. Looking deeper, however, Rainy Woods is home to a bizarre and deadly mystery. Throughout the day, the townsfolk work hard, look out for one another, love their families, and enjoy nightly drinks at the local pubs. Each character has a unique personality and lifestyle. Events change depending on the time of day, weather, and season. Even though some may argue that they live in a video game world, the townsfolk of Rainy Woods still worry, suffer, love, hate, and have fun as any real person would. Rainy Woods and its small English aesthetic exudes a unique sense of charm, fully realized when, in the dark of night, its villagers transform into cats.

Players star as Naomi, a photographer straddled with debt who moves from New York City to Rainy Woods. As an étrangère, players feel both alienated yet strangely comfortable as they must make friends, solve mysteries, and become emotionally invested in Naomi’s quest to make a life for herself in the happiest and most bizarre town in the world. To pay off her debt, she sends reports and photographs on villagers and their town as she uncovers its deadly secret.

THE GOOD LIFE is a mystery tale in the vain of Raymond Chandler or Conan Doyle. Players make a tragic discovery in the town’s river—the brutally murdered body of a young girl, her heart pierced by an ancient, medieval sword. Having first arrived in Rainy Woods to uncover the secrets of the happiest town in the world and payoff her debt, Naomi is thrusted into a bizarre mystery, setting her journalist heart ablaze as she sets her sights on revealing the truth behind the young girl’s murder.

THE GAME

Genre: Debt Repayment Life Simulation RPG Platforms: PC + TBD Console(s) Release Date: Q3 2019 Target Developer: White Owls

So we got a murder mystery/life sim, with cute cats, a cast of bizarre characters with their own 24 hours schedules, AND events that will change depending on the time of day, weather and season?

[More details, pictures and my thoughts under the cut!]

The Campaign

If you are as hyped as I am you can help make Swery’s new game a reality by contributing to The Good Life’s Fig campaign. The development team is hoping to raise at least $1.5M USD to bring a digital version game to both PC and consoles. Fans can lend support via traditional reward based backing or by investing in Fig game shares of the game. There’s a number or different tiers and rewards available for The Good Life ranging from simply receiving a digital copy of the game when it is released for $29 to actually becoming a character within the game as a reward for donating a whopping $35K! Though if any rich fans out there are considering the $35k tier please note that there’s a chance you might end up being brutally murdered in the game. (Yikes!)

Looking at all the tiers though I must say I’m a bit disappointed by the lack of any sort of physical rewards being offered. I mean a real signed message card from Swery is a lot more tempting than a digital one… But there seems to be some hope that this may change looking at the responses to some of the early “backstage” backers. It seems Swery and the campaign team are looking into the possibility of including some physical rewards in the future and are even asking for suggestions!

Personally I would love to see a physical copy of the game or an art/guide book myself! Heck a stuffed kitty Naomi or even a sheep would be pretty awesome additions too!

[Update!]  A physical award tier has been added and for $269+shipping you can get a package with some cool game swag! Now if you picked another tier don’t worry you can update your pledge and pick choose to add a number of DLC and physical items!

The Idea

Even though Swery’s announcement of a new game so soon after returning from retirement and opening his studio, White Owls, was kind of a surprise (or maybe it was just me?) it turns out Swery’s been developing the idea for The Good Life for quite awhile now.

According to the “SWERY’S Voice” video on The Good Life’s fig campaign page that describes the game’s inspiration, vision, and story the idea behind the game was sparked after Deadly Premonition’s producer (I assume Tomio Kanazawa) was suddenly transferred to London, England while Swery continued work on Deadly Premonition in Osaka, Japan. Swery was sad to be left behind but the long distance communication between the two ended up inspiring the idea of being sent to a rural English town and being unable to leave.

Swery’s initial idea continued to refine and expand in the back of his mind over the years even while developing, the now sadly incomplete, D4 – Dark Dreams Don’t Die.

Back in 2015 Swery took a brief retirement from game development to focus on recovering from reactive hypoglycemia and during this hiatus he finished the first draft of a murder mystery novel set in a British countryside town from the perspective of a cat.

I've been eager to hear more about his mystery book for while but now with the The Good Life's announcement I'm beginning to think Swery's novel may have inspired the whole investigating a murder mystery while as a cat angle of The Good Life game.

Now this connection between the game and novel it is pure speculation on my part at this point but given that both are revolve around a strange premise of cat investigating a murder in a rural England just seems way too coincidental.  Plus the novel's working title of " I Am Not a Cat " really makes me believe that the main character may have been a human at some point which is very similar to Naomi's situation in The Good Life as she only temporarily turns into a cat during the night while living Rainy Woods!

By the way the characters listed on the campaign page are kind of amazing…and here I thought the residents of Greenvale were a bit strange. I like how Swery seems to be continuing the tradition of a single black male among a caucasian population (who is also named the “totally normal cat” btw lol) and an insomniac who works with the dead. I wonder if the “person name Kaysen” that has occurred in Swery’s last three games (Spy Fiction, Deadly Premonition, and D4) will also continue in The Good Life?  It is also kind of amusing that the “Handsome Nurse” is known just as “Gay Cat” I’m guessing this means Naomi won’t be able to make any love connections with that bloke?

Game Mechanics

In The Good Life the story mission  focuses on three core points: paying off a huge debt, uncovering the town’s secret, and solving a murder of Elizabeth, the lone daughter of the village pastor.

Photography

Since Naomi is a professional photographer from New York it is no surprise that taking photos is a major gameplay mechanic featured in the game. The monetary rewards for Naomi’s daily reports will heavily factor around the quality and rarity of the photos players take during the day.

Capturing the perfect photo may prove to be a little difficult at first. You won’t actually know how any of your photos will turn out until they are developed them back at Naomi’s house and ranked as either a “success” or “failure” and only successful photos will be sent over to the client for rewards. As players progress through the game there will be opportunities to upgrade and even purchase special cameras that will help the players take better pictures.

Part- time Jobs

But taking photos and sending daily reports isn’t the only way Naomi can cut down her debt. The game also allows players to take a number of part time jobs around town including bartending at the local pub, delivering milk, shearing sheep and other rural tasks.

Some of these part time jobs will give the players opportunities to make a fortune but they can also be exhausting and some can even be dangerous so you have to choose your side jobs wisely!

Any money earned in these ventures can be put towards paying off the ever looming unpaid debt or spent on fun things for Naomi.

Customization

The Good Life is a RPG after all so it’s no surprise that as players progress through the game Naomi stats will improve and fun customizations for Naomi in both her human and cat forms can also be acquired. Naomi’s range of daily activity will expand based on her stamina and movement speed so the more points you earn or temporarily acquire via clothing will allow for more photo taking and fun activities during the day.

Life Maintenance and Stamina

…and speaking of stamina just like in Deadly Premonition and D4  it is important to keep Naomi well fed and rested during her stay in Rainy Woods. I’m pretty excited to see all the English dishes that will be available for consumption… There were a few dishes listed over on the campaign page including one of my favorites, Fish and Chips, which I have a feeling Naomi will end up eat a lot of during my own play through unless there happens to be a lot of smoked salmon…

But eating and sleeping isn’t the only thing players need to keep an eye on during Naomi’s stay they also must balance Naomi’s income so while she’s paying back her debt she will still have enough money left over to not only take care of her daily needs, but also have enough for the upkeep of her camera, the development of photos, and her daily shipments of reports back to New York.

The most surprising examples of one of her special expenses that’s listed over on the campaign page is the need to buy sanitary goods for Naomi once a month. It’s a normal expense in my own life but it’s something I’ve never seen mentioned let alone forced on a player to even consider while in control of a female protagonist before. It’s pretty amazing that sort of detail was even included!

I also thought that way alcohol consumption in the game is handled is really interesting as well. Giving Naomi alcohol will provide some high rewards in the short term as it will alleviate both her hunger and her thirst in one shot but if she continues to overindulge in drink throughout her stay she will develop a dependency for it. It’s pretty neat to see the real life consequence of addiction in a video game... I hope Rainy Woods also has a good 12-step program!

Special Events

The Good Life also features several seasonal events that offer special rewards. The game’s campaign didn’t go into a lot of details but in Spring there will be cherry blossom dance festival,  there’s a Tea Harvest in Summer, while during the Fall Naomi can harvest nuts and catch fat river fish, and in Winter  find minerals and maybe earn a present from Santa Claus(?)

Being a Cat

During the night while Naomi is in cat form players have the opportunity to investigate places you may not have access to while in human form and a chance to get closer to different villagers while they are in their cat forms by bringing them various trash…er I mean “kitty themed” presents…Some items you find while as a cat may even fetch a high price during the day and unlock some more special story events.

A few of the possible treasures a player can find are seen above...Hmm, I wonder if those “suspicious seeds” are anything like the ones you can find in Greenvale…

Graphics

As for graphics The Good Life’s campaign page describe them as being both “Nostalgic and Modern” using low polygon models with simple textures but also making use of CG-esque atmospheric lighting, fog, shadows, and glare elements well.

The game does look rather simple but it still has a very distinct and unique look. I’ve always prefered a great story over great graphics so I don’t mind the game’s simple design in the slightest :) I do think the sheep are really adorable in this art style though!

Atmosphere

If all of the features above hasn’t already peaked your interest maybe the Fig campaign description of The Good Life’s atmosphere will do the trick:

“THE GOOD LIFE has intriguing elements inspired by Twin Peaks. It will also feature the old-timey British traditions seen in classic shows such as Downtown Abbey and Poirot.  This is a Swery Game, so expect a healthy dosage of horror, mystery, humor and taboo topics that helped make Deadly Premonition such a cult hit.  Our humor will reflect some of the elements from Hot Fuzz and other classic British comedies.”

Man it was already a give-in that I would be excited for The Good Life since I’m such a big fan of Deadly Premonition (and Twin Peaks) but I can also expect some Hot Fuzz style humor too?!

Guys, Hot Fuzz is one of my all-time favorite films ever so this comparison has me even more excited to play the game!

Hmm… Rainy Woods is described as the “Happiest Town in the World” with the “happiest people on the planet” which is pretty similar to the situation of Sandford always winning “Village of the Year” in Hot Fuzz…I wonder does Rainy Woods have an equivalent of the Neighborhood Watch Alliance?

Hey Naomi, if the townsfolk start chanting about things being “all for the greater good” I would make run for it!

The Developers

The Good Life will be the  joint effort between three developers: Swery’s studio, White Owls, along with G-rounding and Camouflaj. Swery and his team will provide the creative and artistic direction for the game while G-rounding will manage the production and game creation and Camouflaj will provide both production support and supervision.

I really hope The Good Life’s Fig campaign is successful as it looks like a whole lot of fun. I’m eager to see how the game will come together and “enjoy my best life” in 2019

[techcrunchappcom]

New Post has been published on https://techcrunchapp.com/migrants-trying-to-reach-europe-pushed-to-deadly-atlantic-world-news/

Migrants trying to reach Europe pushed to deadly Atlantic | World News

CANARY ISLANDS, Spain (AP) — CANARY ISLANDS, SPAIN— The only person who wasn’t crying on the boat was 2-year-old Noura.

Noura’s mother, Hawa Diabaté, was fleeing her native Ivory Coast to what she believed was continental Europe. Unlike the 60 adults on board, only Noura was oblivious to the risks of crossing the open waters of the Atlantic Ocean in an overcrowded rubber dinghy.

As the waves quickly got bigger and people more nervous, Noura told her mother, “Be quiet, mama! Boza, mama! Boza!”, Diabaté recalled. The expression is used by sub-Saharan migrants to celebrate a successful crossing.

After several hours in the ocean, it was finally “Boza.” Spain’s Maritime Rescue Service brought them to safety on one of the Canary Islands.

Migrants and asylum-seekers are increasingly crossing a treacherous part of the Atlantic Ocean to reach the Canary Islands, a Spanish archipelago near West Africa, in what has become one of the most dangerous routes to European territory. Noura and her mother are among about 4,000 people to have survived the perilous journey this year.

But many never make it. More than 250 people are known to have died or gone missing so far this year according to the International Organization for Migration. That’s already more than the number of people who perished trying to cross the Western Mediterranean in all of last year. In the week that The Associated Press spent in the Canary Islands to report this story, at least 20 bodies were recovered.

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This story was funded in part by the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting.

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The increase in traffic to the Canaries comes after the European Union funded Morocco in 2019 to stop migrants from reaching southern Spain via the Mediterranean Sea. While arrivals to mainland Spain decreased by 50% compared to the same period last year, landings in the Canary Islands have increased by 550%. In August alone there were more than 850 arrivals by sea to the Canaries, according to an AP tally of numbers released by Spain’s Interior Ministry and reports by local media and NGOs.

Arrivals this year are still low compared to the 30,000 migrants who reached the islands in 2006. But they are at their highest in over a decade since Spain stemmed the flow of sea arrivals to just a few hundred a year through deals with West African countries.

The striking shift in migration back to the Canaries has raised alarms at the highest levels of the Spanish government. Spain’s Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez’s first trip abroad following the pandemic lockdown was to Mauritania, one of the main departure points. Most recently, the interior ministry announced a donation of 1.5 million euros in border surveillance equipment to six West African countries.

But human rights organizations say those arriving to Spanish shores are only a fraction of those departing.

“We are only seeing the tip of the iceberg,” said Sophie Muller, the United Nations High Commissioners for Refugees’ representative in Spain, who recently visited the archipelago. “They are taking impossible routes.”

It can take one to 10 days to reach the Spanish islands, with the closest departure point being in Tarfaya, Morocco (100 km, 62 miles) and the furthest recorded this year in Barra, in The Gambia (more than 1,600km, 1,000 miles). It is common for migrants to run out of food, water and fuel after only a few days.

On August 19, 15 lifeless Malians were spotted inside a wooden boat by a Spanish plane 148km, 92 miles from the island of Gran Canaria and towed back to port. At nightfall, workers pulled the bloated corpses, one by one, out of the boat with a crane. The next day, police collected what was left behind as evidence: a wallet, a dozen cell phones, windbreakers and waterproof boots.

Less than 24 hours later, another migrant boat was rescued and brought to the island with 12 people and four dead, as the AP watched. The survivors had witnessed their comrades die along the way.

“They almost didn’t speak,” said Jose Antonio Rodríguez, who heads the regional Red Cross immediate response teams. “They were in a state of shock.”

One of the 12 rescued died before he could reach a hospital.

Human rights organizations aren’t just concerned with the high number of deaths.

“There’s been a change in profile,” said Muller, the UNHCR representative in Spain. “We see more arrivals from the Sahel, from the Ivory Coast, more women, more children, more profiles that would be in need of international protection.”

The Interior Ministry of Spain denied requests by the Associated Press to share nationalities of recent arrivals to the Canary Islands, claiming the information could impact international relations with the countries of origin. But UNHCR estimates that around 35% of those arriving by boat come from Mali – the nation at war with Islamic extremists where a coup d’état recently toppled president Ibrahim Boubacar Keita. Around 20% of arrivals are women and 12% under 18, Muller said.

Kassim Diallo fled Mali after his father was killed in an extremist attack targeting an army base near his village in Sokolo in late January.

On Feb. 29, the 21-year-old got aboard a rubber boat in Laayoune in the Western Sahara with 35 other men, women and children. After nearly 20 hours in the water, his group was rescued and brought to the island of Fuerteventura.

“It is not normal. A human being shouldn’t do this. But how else can we do it?” said Diallo.

Like most of those who crossed by boat to the archipelago this year, Diallo has been stuck on the islands for months. Although forced return flights to Mauritania have been halted by the pandemic, the Spanish government has also forbidden newly arrived migrants from going to the mainland, even after travel restrictions were lifted for nationals and tourists. Only a few groups, mainly women and children, have been transferred on an ad-hoc basis via the Red Cross.

“Blocking people from leaving the Canaries has turned the islands into an open-air prison,” said Txema Santana, who represents the local office of the Spanish Commission to Help Refugees.

Until Diallo is granted asylum, which he has yet to apply for, he cannot work. He would love to learn Spanish, but there aren’t classes available to him.

The Canary Islands were meant to be just a stepping-stone to reach “The Big Spain” or continue to France where he can at least understand the language. But for now, he remains closer to Africa than to continental Europe.

“On a European level, it should be like managing a land border,” said Ángel Manuel Hernández, an evangelical pastor whose church is the main shelter for rescued migrants on Fuerteventura. “Borders are meant to be areas of transit, not areas to stay.”

Hernández’s church, the Modern Christian Mission, went from hosting 30 migrants two years ago to 300 this summer.

“We don’t have the resources or the capacity to care for all these people with the dignity and the respect that these human beings deserve,” he said.

As shelters fill up, recently arrived migrants sometimes have nowhere to sleep. More than 100 people, including women and children are currently sleeping on the floor in makeshift tents on the docks of Arguineguin, on the island of Gran Canaria, following disembarkation. The coronavirus only adds another layer of difficulty as passengers on migrant boats must be tested and quarantined as a group if any of them are found to be positive.

In response to questions emailed by the AP, Spain’s government delegate in the Canary Islands Anselmo Pestana wrote: “Our effort has to focus not so much on thinking “how we distribute” immigrants, but on working at origin, so that we can prevent anyone from risking their life.”

Spain’s government has yet to reveal where it will place hundreds of migrants now housed in local schools when classes resume in September.

Ironically, half of the islands’ hotels and resorts are closed due to the effects of the pandemic. Across the island, tourists sunbathe in the largely empty resorts as exhausted Spanish maritime rescuers continue their every-day search in the Atlantic for migrant boats in distress, hoping to reach survivors before it’s too late.

Diabaté, the Ivorian mother, hopes one of them will be her eight-year-old son Moussa. They got separated back in Morocco as smugglers rushed them to the beach and onto the rubber boat that would take them to the Canary Islands.

Moussa stayed behind.

“I’ve been crying every day from the moment I got on that boat,” she said.