#under my fingers I must peel and pull and scrape until it is gone and burned and dead

[cassierain]

I'm so exhausted by AI. Stop it. Stop. Just stop.

[peterrparrkerr]

Hit mad falls in love with target - read on ao3

*-*

Peter waved frantically at Tony when he walked into the lab, eyes glued to a computer screen.

"Tony, quick! Look!" He demanded, nearly vibrating in his chair.

Tony made his way over, hands clasped behind his back as he leaned over Peter's shoulder.

"Isn't it awesome?" The young man asked, waving his hands around.

"What am I looking at?" Tony asked.

"Its cancer," Peter said. He points to different colored lines in the graph, all jagged and fluctuating. "This is breast cancer, and this one is pancreatic, skin, lung."

Tony hums as Peter continues to list each colored line as a different form of cancer.

"I was able to isolate the individual cells from everything else, and- look, look!"

Peter snatches Tony by the shirt sleeve and tugs him from one monitor to the one on the other side of the lab. He taps his fingers on the screen, bouncing on his heels.

"These are the cells after being treated with non-radioactive therapy," Peter said, looking up at Tony. "The number of cancer cells is cut in half within a week!"

Peter then drags Tony across the lab again, babbling excitedly as he does so. "Do you know what this means? This means we can start human testing! And we can market the treatment for practically nothing!"

He shows Tony a live feed of the treatment in action from a TV monitor.

"Think about the possibilities," Peter grinned. "Anyone can get treated, no matter their financial standing. And the treatment isn't as harmful as chemo or radiation. It doesn't attack the body as a whole, it isolates the cancer cells and leaves the rest of the body alone.

"No more hair loss or side effects. And we could cut remission in half too," Peter said. "Just think, this time next year, we could start selling to hospitals all over the world."

Tony smiles down at the younger man. He had known within the first day of meeting Peter that he wouldn't be able to follow through. He's glad he hadn't.

"Have you told anybody else?" He asks casually.

"Ned knows," Peter said. "And Bruce, but they were here when it happened."

"Where are they now?"

Peter gives Tony a wry smile, still too excited about his treatment working.

"I sent them home a couple hours ago," he said. "We've all been awake for almost three days, so I'm sure they've gone to bed already."

"You should be in bed too, don't you think?" Tony asked, raising an eyebrow.

Peter waves him off, shaking his head as he goes to his work desk. "I'll sleep later," he said, pulling his lab coat off and draping it over the chair.

He's dressed in his usual outfit; comfortable pants and a button up.

"Plus, I knew you'd make your rounds around this time, and I wanted to tell you," Peter said with a grin, grabbing his personal items.

That was part of Tony's cover. A janitor for the building Peter worked for. Hes wearing a navy blue jump suit, though he's left the cart out in the hallway.

"I'll walk you to your car," Tony hums, leading the way out. When he'd first started this, he'd offered his company to get closer to Peter -to find his vulnerabilities.

Now though, he does it because he's protecting the young scientist.

He'd skipped out with 45 thousand dollars paid to kill the boy, but as the days had gone on, and Peter had grown comfortable with him, Tony realized he couldn't steal him from the world.

Peter was incredible. He worked tirelessly to find a cure for cancer. He's already created a new insulin for diabetes that he's made available to everyone for only $10 a month -something not many other medical professionals liked.

Peter was making enemies left and right, and Tony decided to make it his job to keep him breathing. If not for the rest of his life, then for as long as it takes for the young scientist to see an end to cancer.

The boy wasn't getting much in terms of money for his creations. In fact, from what Tony's come to learn, the boy doesn't own a car, and rents an apartment with his aunt. 

He sees enough to live paycheck to paycheck and this new treatment won't do much to better his life, but he's not concerned with money. He wants to make Healthcare more effective and affordable.

Tony's got morals. Enough of them to know when a hit is a bad investment. That didn't stop him from taking his payment anyway.

The two make it to the car park. Its dark, the overhead lights buzzing annoyingly. Its empty, save for a couple cars belonging to a few of the security guards, and the car Peter shares with his aunt.

It's an older model, grey paint chipping and metal beneath rusting near the wheels. Peter talks animatedly beside him, lands flailing in front of him.

Tony glances around them, scowling as he takes in the familiar cement structure.

"Wait," Tony says, just as Peter's pulling the keys from his pocket. They're a couple feet away from the car, and the hairs on Tony's arms and neck stand on end.

"What is it?" Peter asked curiously, reaching for the door handle.

It's just as Peter grips the handle that Tony sees the wire connected to the metal lock on the other side of the glass.

Tony is quick to react, grabbing Peter by the arms and wrenching him away from the door.

Peter yelps in surprise, but its cut out by the sound of a small explosion. Tony braces for the blast of air that knocks the two off their feet, and grits his teeth at the heat that follows.

Peter's pressed against the cement, Tony weighing down on him. His ears ring, but he quickly gets to his feet, unzipping his jumpsuit and grabbing the .9 mm from the waistband of his jeans.

The car is ablaze, crackle-popping and sizzling. Its just the cab thats on fire, but Tony knows its only a matter of seconds before the flames reach the engine and the fuel line.

Tony looks around him, trying to find the culprit -though he knows from experience that the man won't be here.

He grabs Peter by the armpits and pulls him to his feet. Blood smears against his forehead and jaw. His hands and arms are scraped up and Tony can tell his knees are busted too, but it doesn't look like anything damaging.

"We gotta go," Tony urges, already half dragging the younger back towards the building.

"You-you have a gun," Peter gapes, stumbling after Tony, arm in the older's hard grip. "Why do you have a gun?"

Tony reaches the door for the stairwell.

"I'm a hired gun," Tony said, glancing up, then down, gun following his eyeline before pushing Peter towards the stairs going up.

"I thought you were a janitor," Peter gasped, climbing the stairs and swaying. Tony places his free hand on Peter's lower back.

"Thats just a front," Tony confessed. "We got to get you out of here."

"Someone blew up my car," Peter said, panting as they continue up to the first floor. "Aunt May is gonna kill me."

"Not if Buck doesn't kill you first," Tony grunted, pulling Peter out of the stairwell and into the main lobby.

Tony's car is around the side of the building, but its open to attack. Tony can't keep Peter trapped inside the building though, so he risks it.

Their feet slap loudly on the asphalt as they run for the nondescript black SUV Tony had taken to driving.

He checks around the vehicle, under and inside before issuing Peter into the back seat.

Tires screech as Tony peels out of the parking lot.

"What- whats happening? Tony, what- why do-"

"Someones trying to kill you, Peter," Tony said, blowing past the guard tower at the exit of the parking lot.

"But why?" Peter asked dumbly, voice slurring slightly as more blood turns the side of his face crimson.

"I'll answer all your questions when we're safe," Tony promised, eyes frantically shifting from the area ahead of him to the rear view mirror.

Peter must really be feeling the effects of his head slamming into the concrete, because he doesn't protest.

"Lay down," Tony orders, merging into traffic and slowing down. "Lay low until I say."

Peter does -Tony thinks mostly because of his head injury. Tony relaxes a little, knowing the scientist won't be gunned down in the back seat.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere safe," Tony answered, keeping an eye behind him.

He doesn't see a tail, but he takes a round-about way to his safe house, just outside of Queens.

When they get to the small cabin, Tony checks the building before helping Peter inside.

"I think I have a concussion," Peter mumbles, swaying on his feet as Tony guides him to the kitchen chair.

"I don't doubt it," Tony agrees, setting his gun down on the table beside Peter's elbow before grabbing the first aid kit.

He pulls another chair over in front of the young scientist and opens the red box.

"Let me see your hands," Tony orders. Peter does, palms up. Tony begins to clean them and his arms.

"Tony," Peter says, breaking the silence. Tony doesn't say anything. He reaches up to clean the blood from the side of Peter's cheek.

"Is your name actually Tony?"

Tony makes eye contact before nodding.

"And you're a hired gun?" Peter asks, slightly breathless. "Like, like a hitman?"

"Yes," Tony answers, reaching the cut on Peter's hairline. Peter winces, but doesn't pull away.

"You kill people for a living?"

"Yes."

It takes Peter a couple seconds, but it seems to hit him. Hes bolting to his feet, the chair clattering behind him.

Tony leans back into the chair, watching as Peter begins to pace.

"What- Tony, you have to tell me whats going on," Peter demands, hand on his head. Tony knows from experience that pacing tends to help the scientist expell excess energy.

"I will," Tony nods. Peter continues his pacing. Back and forth beside the kitchen counter.

"Why- why are people trying to kill me?" He demanded. "Who blew up my car?"

Tony sets the paper towels down on the table, knowing Peter won't sit still for him to properly tend to him.

"The one who blew up your car is another hitman," Tony said. "Goes by the name Winter Soldier."

"You called him Buck," Peter said, pointing an accusatory finger at Tony, eyes narrowed.

"I did," Tony nodded. "Hitmen tend to run in the same circles, though we don't always like each other. Bucky was probably hired to finish the job."

"Finish the job," Peter repeated dumbly. "I'm the job?"

Tony nods, once more letting Peter process. He knew Peter would figure it out without Tony's help. He was smart.

"Finish the job means someone already tried to- to kill me," Peter said, panting as he continued to pace. The wound at his hairline is bleeding sluggishly, dripping down his temple and towards his jaw.

Peter wipes at it without thought, smearing blood against his cheek. He pauses to look down at his hand, fingers glistening in red.

He touches his forehead again, as if remembering he's still injured, then turns to Tony, accusation and fear in his Bambi brown eyes.

"You," he said softly, in disbelief. "You were hired to kill me, weren't you."

"I was," Tony nodded.

"But you haven't," Peter said. Tony can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes. "And, and now whoever hired you hired the Winter Soldier."

Tony only nods. Peter takes a shuddering inhale and has to grip the counter with a bloody hand to stabilize himself.

"I'm- I'm- who- who would want to-to kill me?!"

"The payment was anonymous," Tony said. "Thats how it works. But whoever it is is threatened by you."

Peter looks at Tony incredulously. "Me? Why me? I'm the least threatening person -like- ever!"

"You've cost Big Pharma millions with your insulin," Tony said. "You've patented it, so they can't take it and upcharge the way they've been doing. And if your treatment for cancer is a success, you'd be costing them even more."

Peter takes a moment to process that before he nods. "Right, yeah. I knew I was going to make a lot of people mad about that, but. But I never expected anyone to actually try to kill me."

"Money is a powerful motive," Tony said, a little too much experience leaking into his tone.

Peter hears it, because he stops his pacing, shoulders dropping. Exhaustion seems to pull him towards the floor like an anvil tied to his spine.

He sways a little, and Tony's about to offer him the chair again, but he moves to it willingly. When he sits, their knees are barely touching, and he blinks dazedly at his bloody hand.

Tony grabs a clean rag and leans forward to clean up the blood from Peter's head. The younger lets him, still processing and no doubt sluggish from the concussion.

"Why didn't you?" Peter asked after Tony had taped gauze to his hairline. It was patchy and poorly done, but it would help.

"Why didn't I what," Tony hummed, using an alcoholic wet wipe to clean the remaining blood from Peter's hands. The boy winces at the burn to his scraped palms.

"Kill me," he said, swallowing thickly. "You had plenty of opportunity."

Tony sighed, setting the wipes down before leaning forward and looking Peter in the eye.

"Because I believe in the work you're doing," he said honestly. "And I'm going to make sure you finish it."

Peter blinks once, twice, before breaking eye contact and sighing, body eating to melt into the chair as the air leaves his lungs.

"Come on," Tony said, standing up and slipping the gun into the waistband of his pants. Then offering his hand. "This place is safe. Theres a bed you can sleep in."

"I shouldn't sleep with a concussion," Peter said weakly, taking Tony's offered hand anyway.

"Its mild, I'm sure you'll be fine," Tony mused, heading deeper into the cabin to the bedroom.

The bedroom isn't anything special. A twin bed in the corner, a four drawer dresser and a blackout curtain.

Peter climbs onto the bed, not bothering with the covers or taking his shoes off. Tony thinks its best he sleep with them on anyway, in case Bucky finds them.

Tony moves to leave, grabbing the handle, and Peter bolts upright again, eyes wide.

"You're okay," Tony promises. "I'll be right outside."

Peter gives the barest shake of his head. "Stay here, please," he says softly.

Tony nods, shutting the door and turning off the light before making his way to the side of the bed. Theres an old step stool there, and he sits down at the head of the bed.

Peter lays back down, body too tense to ever fall asleep. Tony keeps his ears attuned to any noise that could alert him to Bucky, or anyone else, gun sitting perfectly stop on his knee, finger off the trigger, but ready at a moments notice.

"Tony?"

"Yes, Peter."

Peter shuffles around, and Tony turns his head just in time to feel pillow soft lips connect with the corner of his mouth.

He can't help but smirk as Peter settles back down. "Thanks for not killing me."

Tony chuckles at that, leaning his head against the wall. "I may be a hitman, but I've got morals," he says into the dark room. "Besides, nobody likes cancer."

Peter laughs tiredly at that before reaching his hand out and grabbing Tony's. Their fingers interlock, and Tony doesn't really know which one of them initiated it.

"You're going to be okay," Tony continued. "I wont let anyone hurt you. You're safe with me."

"I know."

[alderaani]

conceal don’t feel

Summary: Fox removes his helmet in front of Riyo for the first time, and she very much likes what she sees. | AO3 

Pairing: Foxiyo, no warnings.

A/N: I’m not even really sure where this came from, but it has been all my brain wanted to write for the past two days, so.......here she is.

Riyo knew what it was like to fall.

It was a rite of passage on Pantora to climb the cliffs outside the capital, the only high point disturbing the tarnished gleam of the marshlands for hundreds of miles. It usually took adolescents several tries to reach the top and Riyo had been no different, just one of many amongst the blue-and-purple sea of her peers. She’d been fifteen then, straddling the cusp of adulthood and desperate to prove herself. How funny, now, that she wanted to peel back a decade and tell that young girl to slow down, not rush, to cling on to her youth.

The day of her climbing she’d been so impatient, so sure that she would be among the first to reach the top. It had lasted as long as it took to leave the ground before all ambition had been wiped away, the world narrowing down to the tips of her fingers, the pads of her toes and the way she sought out crevices in which to place them. She wasn’t the first to fall, nor was she the last. The memory was sharp and clear, like the cold air near the top of the ridge, where the birds took flight from their nests and swirled, screaming, around their earthly intruders. She’d hesitated a beat too long, her fingers sliding on the slick rock, and then there had been the lurch of her stomach dropping out, the white noise of terror supernovaing inside her skull. The split second of free-fall, of feeling totally and utterly weightless, before gravity had set in. The sudden finality of the drop, of the way the air rushed through her horrifyingly empty fingers.

The ropes had caught her, of course, along with the eager, guiding hands of her friends, and before long she’d been stood on the peak, feeling the wind corral the backs of her legs and pull teasingly at her hair, victory surging in her gut. But the feeling had stayed with her - that long, eternal moment, like a drawn in breath.

It was the sort of thing most people didn’t experience twice. But now here she was, staring into Commander Fox’s face and stepping into free fall.

“Senator?” He was saying, his hands firm and solid on the curves of her shoulders. Her poncho had gone awry in the bomb blast that had shattered her windows and put the Senate into lockdown, and he pulled up the edges and tucked them round her almost absentmindedly. She shivered at the feeling of his gloved fingers brushing over her naked skin, despite the blunt efficiency of the touch.

“Senator Chuchi?” The commander repeated, his hands going tight. “Senator?”

When she didn’t reply, unable to do anything but stare, he released one of her shoulders in favour of putting his commlink to his mouth.

“I need a medic here stat. Think the Senator’s going into shock.”

That was enough for her to shake her head, feeling the scrape of her hair pieces against her scalp where they’d gone awry. Pulling some sort of composure together out of the rubble was harder, though she did her best seeing the worry in those brown eyes.

Was this always what he looked like under that helmet? Was there always so much feeling, fleeting and raw across his naked face? She was so used to having to parse out his emotions from the slant of his shoulders, the tight motions of his hands, the hard shape of his voice, that so much bare skin was almost overwhelming. 

“Sorry, Commander, I’m well,” she murmured. His eyes were a brown she’d seen literally a thousand times, but somehow were completely different. The full lashes, the little creases developing at the corners, the flecks of gold sitting bold at their centres. The hard, piercing gaze that was all Fox, breathtaking without his helmet in the way. It was almost worth the ruin her office had been turned into to have seen the strong line of his jaw, the soft streaks of grey hair developing at his temples. His lips looked chapped and raw, and a not-insignificant part of her wanted to touch them with her thumb. 

“Senator, you’ve been staring at me for five minutes,” Fox informed her flatly, voice deep and scratchy with a bass that the vocoder must usually filter out. “And - kriff, you’re bleeding.”

“What?” Riyo reached up to touch her face, then squeaked when Fox caught her wrist and reached into his utility belt for a tissue, which he used to dab at her hairline. There was a flash of pain as it came away dark, and the cold night air funnelling through the open window sharded against her bare skin, sending shivers wracking through her body.

“Oh,” she breathed, as Fox cursed and pressed the tissue back down. As he shifted she caught sight of a thin line of red beading on his cheekbone and tilted her head. “You’re bleeding too.”

“Just stay still, Senator,” Fox said, ignoring her comment in favour of glancing over his shoulder and shifting so that his body was between her and the door. His uncovered curls lifted as a fresh gust of wind blew in, his shoulders hunching. She saw him glance at his helmet more than once, resting by his feet with the visor shattered, and considered how odd this must be for him too as she let herself be manhandled away from the window to one of the plush green chairs in the corner, stained now and blackened with soot. 

“I’ve never seen your face before. It’s very nice,” she said before she could help it, fighting the urge to clap her hand over her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say it out loud, or to phrase it like he’d picked it at a store. 

Usually she was so careful around the Commander, so choosy with what she said. Riyo had learned early on that blunter commentary would make Fox withdraw, turning him back into a professional pillar of plastoid and paint. Too many nights of him leading her escort back to her apartment had gone by in silence before she’d mastered the knack of weedling him into polite conversation, like luring a baby loth-cat into the open. 

She liked him - liked the way the harsh things seemed to roll impassively off his back, the way he turned to stone should anyone cross him or his brothers, the plainness of his feelings when you knew how to look. She didn’t know why she’d felt so compelled to learn his tells, and he hadn’t invited her in as much as she’d bothered to knock. Commenting on his face, bared without permission, felt much more like picking the lock and forcing entry to the tight facade he so carefully maintained.

It seemed to be a night for surprises, though. Fox just tilted his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“You’ve seen several of the Guard, before, yes?”

Riyo nodded, then winced as it sent pain skittering down her neck. Fox noticed, of course, and moved one hand to support the base of her skull while he continued to press down on the wound. Now that he’d mentioned it she could feel the blood trails tickling as they dried down her cheek. 

“Then you have seen my face, Senator. I got the standard GAR issue, same as everyone else.”

She shook her head before she could think better of it, and realised suddenly that she was trembling, shivers wracking up her arms. Perhaps the Commander was onto something with his assertion of shock. 

“Now that’s not true at all,” she murmured, aware that she was setting herself up for another fall but unable to stop the words tumbling out. “Now that I know it, I’d recognise yours anywhere, Fox.” 

His brow crinkled, concern burning bright in those pretty eyes, and she realised, distantly and unable to care much, that she’d never called him by name before. Not without ‘Commander’ attached, at least. He raised his commlink again. 

“What the Sith-hells is taking so long, Oops? Get your shebs up to level fifty now,” he hissed, then pressed down firmly when she shifted again. “Please stay still.” 

“I’m cold,” Riyo said quietly, closing her eyes briefly until Fox made a low sound and shook her, just a little. 

“Come on Senator, keep talking to me. Are you sure there’s no medkit in here?” He asked.

Riyo gestured at the still-smouldering remains of her desk. “There was one in the third draw down.” 

Fox cursed, soft and sharp, and despite the cold and the way her head was swimming, it made her giggle. 

“Sorry Commander,” Came a panting, tinny voice. “I’m in the stairwell now, moving to your location. It’s chaos down here, ‘m gettin’ run over by half the karking Senate.” 

“Tell him corridor 847 is always empty,” Riyo murmured. “The maintenance tunnel half way down pops out just opposite my aide’s office.” 

Fox raised an eyebrow but dutifully relayed the message, getting a laugh and an affirmative from the medic on the other end. 

“Don’t give me that look,” she said, instantly regretting it when Fox’s expression shuttered. “No - I mean - you can laugh. I suppose it’s silly, but sometimes it’s the only way to avoid Senator Bronn. I climb in there with a datapad and pretend I’m out until he leaves. Courageous of me, isn’t it?” 

Fox’s forehead creased. “Is he giving you trouble?”

Riyo laughed weakly. “No, no, it’s very kind of you to worry, Commander. He just likes to talk too much and orders the worst food - some sort of delicacy from his home, I think, but they taste awful. And it would cause offence to refuse.”

There was a short pause before Fox’s lips stretched into a small grin, his head ducking as if to hide it from view. 

“So you hide in the maintenance halls?”

Riyo couldn’t help the answering smile that burst onto her face, even as her cheeks went hot. Their gazes met, and the jolt that ran through her was electric before she forced herself to look away. She swallowed thickly. 

“I’ve never liked confrontation,” she shrugged. “So where I can, I avoid it. Perhaps not the best trait in a Senator.”

Where Fox’s hand still cupped the back of her neck she felt the gentlest pressure, the quick sweep of a thumb against the dip of her spine. 

“Seems like we could sometimes do with more of that to me,” he said, voice soft but still amused. At this distance she could see the light stubble on his cheeks, a small scar on the bridge of his nose that had paled with time, the deep purple shadows ringing his eyes. 

Riyo stilled, lost again in the thrill of every little detail, and still hadn’t responded by the time they heard a thump and a yelp from outside the door. Fox rolled his eyes, but she could see the tension drain out of his shoulders.

“That’ll be Oops.” 

She smiled. “A promising name.”

Fox smirked. “He’s one of our best, Senator. I’ll let him in.” 

The cold rushed back in from the moment he let her go, but she could almost still feel the imprint of his hand on her skin, the weight of his eyes on her. Fox stood from where he’d been kneeling next to the chair, then turned to go to the blast door.

Riyo cleared her throat.

“Commander Fox?” 

He turned, the emergency lights slanting red over the bridge of his nose. 

“I meant it - what I said. You do have a pretty face. And I’d recognise it anywhere, GAR standard issue or not.” 

It seemed awfully important that he know, right now, before this moment ended, even though she couldn’t articulate why. She had to let him know that it mattered; that for however little it was worth, considering what she was and what the system she was part of made him do, she could see him. 

“I think that may be your head wound talking, Senator. But...thank you.”

He raised his hand towards the control panel, his head ducked, but as he pressed a button and the lights went green, Riyo could see the shy, bashful smile forming on his lips. 

She could only hope that he’d deem her worthy of that great privilege again.

taglist: @simping-for-fives @leias-left-hair-bun @nelba @iscream4clones @dom-i-nic @battletales | list here

[whalesfallmoved]

soft descent

Wedding vows for the dead. Neither of you ever had a chance. 

chargestep. rated m. twisted memories and revenge and nightmares of all kinds and ricardo ortega, starring as sidestep’s poorly repressed self-doubt, in a manner of speaking. 

or, sidestep sees nothing clearly, and her head has never been a pleasant place to be.

warnings: implications of suicide, slight body horror, violence, injury. hurt, without comfort, because of course. 

ao3 link.

——

“Oof, that’s going to leave a mark.”

You’re standing next to the window in the dark the sun blistering overhead and the glass shattered underfoot. He’s looking down. You’re looking at him. It’s always been like that. When you look down you’ll see— no. You’re not going to look down. You’re going to look at him.

“It didn’t feel great.”

He smiles and it’s broken, one hand on the windowsill, one hand on his gut where Catastrofiend’s goodbye kiss drips slowly, wetly, a splash of violence against the cobalt blue skinsuit, Ranger-proud. You want to say you should get that looked at but it wouldn’t do any good, he’s already gotten blood all over the carpet. 

Soft laugh and when he licks his lips you can see a hint of red, waiting to get coughed up, waiting to get expelled, the body killing itself to save itself—you remember the way it stuck between your fingers, the delirium—beg, the monster-thing demanded, and he laughed then too.

You look down at your hands. The way they curl up, clinging to air.

Are you bleeding? You must be. 

“Yeah, I know all about that.” 

“No,” you shake your head and your spine pops, “you don’t.”

“What, are we comparing jumps now?” 

“Are we?” wouldn’t that be something. He never talked about this before, why start now? Trying to get you to forgive him? You won’t.

“It was a longer drop.”

“And there were people there to help you.”

“Depends on your definition of help.” Head jerk to the side, beckoning you to look, look down, look at them, look at you. “Technically, they helped you too.”

Bite down, taste blood and bile. Have you started choking yet down there? You remember the way it sluiced up your throat, the way you could feel the crack and splinter of your ribcage. His brows furrow a little and maybe he feels bad. You hope so. You hope it’s twisting him up inside. 

“Wish they’d helped me to the morgue.”

Exhale, ragged and wet and torn. 

“Yeah, those contracts are a bitch, huh? Nothing like a blood debt.”

“What, you want me to feel bad for you?” You taunt, vision hazy bones aching— pulse in your ribs, they must have picked you up by now, isn’t that nice. He’s still looking down, waiting for something to happen. “Poor Ricardo. The US government branded on his ass till the day he dies. Join the fucking club.”

“Hey—” he hisses, flashing his eyes to you finally, “you could pretend to sympathize.”

“I’m so sorry you have posters and trading cards and get invited to award ceremonies and—”

“Oh, I knew I have trading cards, but how did you know I have trading cards,” a wink, sly, charming and wrong, like a bone splitting the skin. “Collecting them, aren’t you?”

“You wish.”

You want to throw up. His neck is bruised. 

He sighs, knocks his fist against the window. You both flinch. “They’re gonna keep you going till you’ve got nothing left to give, you know.”

And this time it’s your turn to laugh, bitter and cruel and serrated. You want to twist the knife in his gut you want to rake your nails down his skin, it’s the least- it’s the least you can do, god you are so angry you shake, but you’ve always been good at staying still. Hold your breath, don’t scream, fuck that hurts, and now he’s looking at you full on. “I’m already out. No thanks to you.”

Maybe he sees the way your hands are starting to twitch. The smile softens and you want to kiss-bite-punch it bruise blue to match his stupid fucking suit. 

“Are you?”

Are.

You?

I am.

Am I?

A snake in your throat curling up ready to snap bite. Your lips twist, scene hazy at the edges, and when you get your hands around his neck (oh those are the bruises, they look like your hands) you’ll both be sorry—“fuck off.”

Magic words.

Ortega shrugs, pushes the window open like it doesn’t matter, like it didn’t matter, like he can just do that; he always had to make it about himself, can’t even leave you your death, can’t even leave you your place at the window. 

You want to shove him away from it.

You want to shove him through it. 

“If you insist.”

Close your eyes.

One.

Two.

Three.

—

Dr. Mortum does not smile, not until Angel flashes her a wicked grin and a bag of cash and a promise of more where that came from if— if— if—

She flips through the schematics, eyes brightening—the loose design, the necessities, the ideas—oh, you are going to do such great things together. 

“It can be done, I assure you.”

“Excellent. My employer wants nothing but the best.”

— 

The sound of waves takes the edge off the thump of a corpse hitting the ground, but you aren’t ready for it—you aren’t ready for the scent of rotting meat, rancid and cloying under the Los Diablos sun.

You open your eyes and when you look down, a dead girl is mangled, half gone. You think— she almost looks like your target. 

Huh.

“That’s a bad idea, you know.”

Voice soft prying you know it and you groan, twist, turn, the sand uneven and blood-splattered. 

He’s got that loose hold, hip jutted on a rock arms crossed, too casual for the teething gore surrounding them. Suit torn and eaten at, blood drip-drip-dripping down his arm where the skin is all gone, you keep waiting for them to crawl through the sand and eat you both alive. Maybe you won’t save him this time. 

“Which one?” You ask, and when you look down you’re in the old suit, fitted like an infected wound. You yank at the collar, touch your cheek, your face— you’d covered your face here, hadn’t you? Yes. 

He smiles. Shakes his head. 

He hadn’t let them touch you, even when you collapsed, even when they wanted to help. 

Not that it matters. None of it matters anymore.

“So you do care about my opinion?” 

“No,” you murmur, choking down a gag—dead meat, food for the nanovores, food for the flies, “but that’s never stopped you before.”

“True,” he winks, running through the motions; what you remember, what you want to forget. Oh god you want to forget. You want to peel back this body and dig into the marrow and pull, pull, pull until the memories unravel in streams of violent orange. 

He pushes off the rock, kicks his long legs out and walks too easily for a man that almost got eaten alive five minutes ago. “Walk with me?” He asks the way you don’t ask, you order, and throws his wounded arm over your shoulder, locking you hip to hip, no way out. 

You sink under the weight, slotted to his side like a mismatched puzzle piece. Nothing about you fits, disjointed, dislocated. You’ve been shaped wrong for a long time now. They didn’t put all the parts back right. A doll unstitched and gutted for parts, but they didn’t— did they recycle you? Just medical waste and scars.

“You take me to the nicest places,” you say because it’s the only thing you can say when the sky looks like God wrapped his big meaty fist around it so tightly till it swelled and pinkened. 

Black clouds on the skyline. Here they come. Don’t they know how strong you are now? How many webs you can weave? You crack your knuckles and almost smile.

Then you see: Tía Elena crosses herself in the background. She shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe. Why haven’t they evacuated all the civilians?

“Well, you never let me take you anywhere else,” he huffs, ignoring his mother as they walk on by, and that’s not— that’s not right? 

It— no. You don’t want to be here. You can’t do that to him, not even now. 

— 

Fuck that’s good you’re invincible. The reckoning day is coming and when it does you’ll watch out for this one, you’ll remember her, how it felt to sit in her skin and move under it, but she can’t stop you. None of them can stop you now.

You smile and it’s sharp and cruel and silver. You almost almost almost want him to show up but the victory wouldn’t be quite as sweet, and you don’t really want to take a lightning bolt to the chest. Even if it wouldn’t slow you down, it’d still fucking hurt. 

But it doesn’t matter. When you drive your foot into the golden boy’s chest you can feel his ribs crack a little bit and that’s even better. You’ll be riding the high of that for weeks after this. He’s a kicked puppy and you want— you want to kick him again, but there’s no time for that, no time for anything. 

You wonder if Steel recognizes the grin right before you drop her like a body bag.

—

Gasp—jump spin dodge—near miss, fuck—Ortega laughed at the start but he’s not laughing anymore, smoke on the air, electricity crackling over his skin. 

Fire off at its head one two, one miss, one hit. Head jerks, twists.

The thing-beast groans— don’t look at me i’m not here don’t look— “yOu...” guttural ugly it sees you, it sees you.

Run run run don’t touch me— “Noa!” He shouts and you stop drop and roll just in time for a blade to swing down, headsman’s axe, grazing the suit but not quite touching. Space where your body was empty, and it howls rage-snap.

“Mother— fucker!”

This. This you remember.

You remember the way its mind shucked the skin off your bones, all slick-blood drip drip drip. Gory, wrong, wound over wire, dirty fingernails scraping on the myelin, eating eating down down down— you remember: if you let it in it’ll kill you, cut your throat on its twisty edge thoughts as quick as a knife in hand. 

You remember the images in your head— its plans, its ideas, the ways it was going to ply and split him down the middle like a rotten fruit. You couldn’t look at him for weeks. Almost. He was almost.

Almost.

Blink and the scene changes, and backup’s arrived, and you’re holding onto him, your mind pressed up against ITS just enough to make you both disappear. You threw up again and again afterward, but you still couldn’t forget, oil-slick. 

not here we’re not here don’tlookatus

Then: you covered the wound with your own hands. 

Now: you tilt your head to the side, pet his hair. It still doesn’t hurt as bad as the final impact, hitting the ground, or what came next. Suck it up. 

“I told you,” he slurs, eyes half-mast, must be hazy from the blood loss. The human body can only take so much, even with the cutting edge mods. “I know all about that.”

“You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything at all.”

Hand over wound, you push down and he groans. You might as well save him again. You still haven’t had that showdown, and you’re gunning for a win. A dozen to one then, but you’ve gotten better, faster, smarter, your body catching up with your thoughts, and he doesn’t think at all. Doesn’t even matter if he did, you wouldn’t be able to hear it. 

“C’mon, Noa,” that’s not your name, that’s the name he gave you—your name is a mouthful, he’d grinned and you’d rolled your eyes and flushed, but now it sticks like a stove burn—numbers and names and Noa, Noa, no one else has ever gotten close enough to name you— fuck you. “Throw me a bone here.”

“No.”

“Fine.” he gasps, chokes, but the words still spill loose, “but you can’t hate me for what you didn’t tell me.” He says, sounding so fucking reasonable while he’s bleeding out on your lap, and now you definitely have to save him, now you definitely have to make sure he lives, just so you can level him for that alone. Just wait, a feeling builds up in your chest, his day is coming and it’s coming fast.

“Don’t tell me what I can’t hate you for.” You want to snarl, a fighting dog, a dog fit for the ring, but it comes out weak, threadbare, and you hate the way your hands shake, the way your throat hardens up and each word is estranged from your mouth.

“At least give me a chance to prove you wrong.”

“Why?” Is that your voice? Small and weak, a child learning to make a fist, thumb tucked in. But you were never a child. You were never small.

“You know me,” he punches out a laugh and it breaks like a sob, “I love a challenge.”

“This isn’t a challenge, Ricardo. There’s just nothing left.”

—

He.

“November?”

He is.

“I thought you were dead—”

Older. Different. That feels wrong, wrong. He should be the same he can’t have changed that much. Fuck that moustache is ridiculous. He looks so heavy with grief, or is that just you, reflected back? A labyrinth of static. 

It’s all blurry and too much, not enough, but maybe— for a moment— for a moment everything shatters, fingers under a suture, and maybe— it’s just a flash of his eyes, real and in front of you and not blurred by a late night show or security footage fight you only watched to make sure he still leads with his left sucker punch with his right and maybe— 

“Are you still a telepath?”

You say yes and feel like a fool and you tell him a dash of the truth and you feel like a wound and you can’t hate me for what you didn’t tell me.

Your hands are shaking. You make a fist. 

He wants— he wants something.

A raw crack down your spine and you smile and it feels wrong. Maybe it looks wrong. He won’t stop watching you like you’ll disappear if he blinks more than once, if he looks away, and maybe you will. Maybe you’re just ash and graveyard dirt held together with sutures and wire. 

You want to crawl through the floor to someplace small and dark and cold where no one will ever find you again.

You tell him just enough, just enough to keep on hating him. 

It’ll be easier that way.

—

Rewind.

“That’s a bad idea, you know.” He cackles as you thrust out a punch—miss—and dodge his return, feet sliding on the mat. You can’t believe you let him talk you into this, a friendly spar on Ranger soil.

“Which one?” Thrust dodge lock your ankle around his own, slipping up letting you get close like that, rookie mistake— twist of your hip— throw! and the satisfying slap of skin on the mat, his skin, his body hitting the ground, but he holds hard and pulls you down with him (if you go i go) and you land— oof! breathless and grinning and on top, finally, finally.

Fingers lock and you shift, thighs on either side, pin him down, his emitters humming biting pinching but you got him, and you aren’t letting go. A shiver skip-dances down your spine, static-charged.

“I win,” you growl, a winner’s grin biting into your cheeks, free and loose (where’s your mask?)

He squeezes your hand, sends a low-grade jolt up your palms sharp, just to see what you’ll do, jellyfish stings, and you squeeze back harder, lean down till you can feel his breath hot on your lips. You never got this close before, he’s so solid beneath you.

Ricardo, grinning back, a halo of black curls fanned out, sticking to his brow all slick with sweat, “what is that, a dozen to one?”

“Shut up,” he can’t take this from you, not yet, “don’t be a sore loser.”

“Actually, I’m enjoying myself quite a bit right now. I should let you win more often.”

“Fuck you,” but it tears out a laugh far too sweet for your mouth. You feel segmented and gentle, like a scorpion smashed on a rock left out to rot in the sun. Maybe he’ll take you home, run his fingers through your matted hair and not mind the stingers or the venom. You weren’t made for a laughter light like this, and if there was ever a time you could be it’s long gone now, but you still want him to touch you, a want like a scar healed wrong.

“Buy me dinner first— ah!” You let go just to crack your palm against the top of his head, anything to wipe that smug edge off, and— “okay, fine, I’ll buy dinner,” but this time when your hand comes down he catches it, brings it to his lips, soft on your palm— oh god, oh god it hurts. 

“And then what?” You dare, you gasp, you’ve never been that bold—couldn’t afford boldness, always a coward at heart and that’s how he always won, but for a moment you let your fingers curl along his cheekbone. His eyes slide closed, kissing still—dart of tongue, tracing the line of your palm. How long is my life? How many children will I have? What do the cracks in the skin say? Maybe his mouth can divine something human in the shape of your hand, even if the lines there aren’t really yours, just a thing they gave you to play pretend.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, still not giving you his gaze, a pained crush to his brow, “you did ask me to take you somewhere nice.”

“Did I?”

“Don’t you remember?” 

“Liar. I never asked you to do anything.”

He smiles right on your skin, like a knife sliding under your gut—girl/deer, splayed out on the slaughterhouse floor of his kindness. The world hazes at the edges, curling up set aflame. 

Somewhere nice. Too bad it can’t last. 

Finally. Finally he looks at you. Sees you. How long has it been since someone hasn’t stared through?

“No, you didn’t. I wish you would have.”

—

Choking hard gasp and the phone screams or maybe you do. Your teeth throb.

The room is heavy dark save for the corners of curtained sunlight peeking through, the air scented thickly of cheap candles and candy wrappers. The sheets are sweat-slick and you can smell your own skin, the rawness of sleep on it. Musky. Unsterilized. 

The fabric sticks and itches. Fingers under the hem, you toss the sweater aside, hear it thump damply against a wall.

Breathe. Hand to chest and yes, that’s your heart, rocking in your rib cage, slowing down. You breathe with in—ten—tion. 

One. 

Two. 

Three.

Okay, you’re okay. You can do this. You can still do this.

—

“I don’t want to do this here.”

He holds out a plate of food, tilts his head to the side, the corners of his mouth twitching up. Pushes the plate into your hands, and you take it—just hold out something to someone and nine times out of ten they’ll take it without thinking, asking only after they’ve agreed to carry the burden.  

Silly you, you never had a choice. 

His apartment is soft and safe around the edges, and your heart gets sticky in your chest. You think maybe those are your books on his shelf, the ones you lost after—

“What’s wrong with here?” He shrugs, brushing past toward the table, beckoning you to follow with a grin and a nudge.

“I like it here.” You answer honestly, for once, and he beams, a light bright enough to burn.

“I know.”

“So why are you ruining it?”

“Ruining it?” Hurt. Smile gone.

“Take me somewhere else. Anywhere else.” Somewhere cruel and sharp as a scalpel to the throat. Psychopather or Overlord or the dilapidated construction ruin you jumped out of at the second story and broke your wrist because you made a deal— you agreed to a dare— race you to the bottom down the stairs— if you lose you have to answer my questions— and god, you didn’t want to answer anything, anything at all, and he’d screamed your name, cursed you out, told you don’t be an idiot what if you broke your neck and flinched when you snapped I was just following your lead. 

“I can’t,” he shakes his head and you have to sit down, set the plate on the table before you drop it, wouldn’t want to break the fine china. Did his mother give him this? You think so; he’d taken such care, stacking each plate freshly hand washed before putting them away.

“Liar.”

“Not this time,” a loaded smile, a loaded gun, his fork twirls around on his plate. Shadow of a wrist and a vague gesture to the seams of the scenery. “This is all you. Your shape. What you made. I’m just along for the ride.”

“Then I’m not staying.”

Shrug again. Why won’t he do anything else? A looped tape, a slight glitch. Something’s wrong.

You’re wrong, maybe.

“Not even for dinner?”

You stand up. Pace. There are plans— things to be done— finishing touches— you can’t stay here. You can’t. 

“What do you want, Noa?” He asks, so softly, so gently, it would be kinder if he killed you there, but you know he won’t; it’ll take a lot more than bad table manners to push him to that, but maybe you can do it. Maybe you can get him a little ruthless, even more desperate. You’ve seen it before, in flashes, coiling green under his skin. Won’t it be funny if he breaks before you do? No blood on your hands, not yet. What a record. Fitting, almost. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Are you hungry?”

“Why?”

“Hard to work on an empty stomach,” he shrugs again, fuck, stop doing that. Bare feet silent on the carpet and you find yourself back at the table, back in the chair, sitting across from him and there’s nowhere to go—

Blink.

Sterile antiseptic white walls and doctors— in your apartment— your neighbor? Yes, that’s your neighbor he accused you of staring once, the fuck are you lookin’ at? And you weren’t staring, at least not like that, but it took a soft nudge of don’t look at me for him to go all the same. Strange. You didn’t think a doctor would live here. It’s a bad side of town, but it’s good for sidestepping. 

You think: I am going to wake up now.

Wait. No. You say this out loud. It comes through with the wet ache of drowning. 

No. Wait. Your words roll back down your throat—you didn’t say it. You didn’t say anything at all. You never have. 

All the words roll in but they’re not yours you’re fit to burst. 

It must be nice being able to speak. 

Not here.

Maybe that’s what it is to be human. 

Get real, you think because you stick your fingers in a few skulls and cut your teeth on some gray matter while someone thinks about love you know what being human is? 

I could. I could know.

They gave you a tongue and mouth and lips but you can’t kiss and you can’t make words, you can only patch together the syntax, call it real, call it human—but when you speak it’s always going to be with someone else’s voice, strangled out.

The walls are whiter now and the lights slice your skin like a hot knife through butter. It isn’t a cliff but a door you’ve already walked through and the ocean inside the warehouse inside the apartment is now a table with handcuffs. His table. Her table. You jerk your wrists and the metal clanks hard and fuck no not here not here please take me back i’m sorry i want to go back—

(he’s coming to get you)

(he wouldn’t leave you here)

(no time for the dramatics ricardo just get the door let’s blow this popsicle stand)

She smiles at you from across that metal table (wait) and tells you that you are never going to die (stop) because to die you have to be alive (i am i am i?) and you should know better by now we are going to do such great things together (please)

aren’t we, 

aren’t we, 

aren’t we.

aren’t i?

wake up now- i want to— please. 

—

You’re alone in the dark, the armor fits perfectly, and that’s all that matters.

(when you become a casualty revoked from the grave get ready a revenant coming back to eat them alive oh oh oh just you wait) 

You think you’ll keep the name.

(sidestep and charge reunited again you can see the headlines now and fuck you can’t wait to see the look on his face you were always a pair maybe he’ll stop you wouldn’t that be something)

You don’t sleep.

— 

He doesn’t stop you. 

—

“Noa?”

“Yes?”

“You are... fine, right?”

 “What are you talking about?”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong?”

“Of course I would.”

—

Your dreams are filmy, cracked wombs of (not not not) memories and gummy tissue. Press on it too hard and it moves back just the same but with a muscle deep ache. At least you know it’s a dream this time, and when you go up the stairs and find him there, you don’t hiss or spit or curse. You’ve done enough of that. He’ll carry the scars to prove it.

He’s looking out the window. He’s looking at you.

No, he’s looking at you. You flinch and you don’t know why.

“Really? Even here?”

“What?”

“Take the mask off at least. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen your pretty face.”

You reach up and your fingers find hard armor, not supple skinsuit. When you look back his face is different, older, not the poster-ready Marshal but aged, aching, and you ache with it, bone-deep. 

You’re so tired. You wonder if he is too.

The helmet comes off. Drops with a thump. 

You go to the window. After all, there’s nowhere else left, and he asked so nicely.

“What do we do now?” You ask, so softly. Still can’t look outside. Still don’t want to see what he sees. Better to watch him watch you. Now that you’re on the other side of things, you prefer it when you’re the one doing the bleeding—what a thing.

“I don’t know,” a laugh a sob or something in between, he crosses his arms and turns away, turns toward you. “Did you ever figure out what you want?”

“Yeah.”

You blink and he’s himself again, younger, more angular, a grin fit for the big screen on his handsome, handsome face. It’s easier to talk to him like this, the way you remember, the way it should be. Time didn’t move while you were gone, and you’re the only one still snapped in half.

A pause. Are you smiling now? It must be a sad little thing though, because his eyes soften up and a frown mars his forehead.

“I want to watch you grow old.” 

“What, so you can keep on teasing me? That never stopped you before.”

“Shut up, I’m not done yet.” you whisper, stepping forward, stepping up to the cliff’s edge.

“I want to watch you grow old,” reaching for his hand, and he lets you have them both, cradled so carefully—and your gloves are black and armored and insulated, but not the most protected part of your body. Could he kill you with a surge? Maybe. “And I want to watch you die in a bed. Your bed.”

“A little morbid,” he murmurs but you’ve got to keep going, you’ve got to get it out, because once it’s out you’ll never have to look at it again. “But I guess that tracks.”

Turn over his hands, you thumb at his emitters. Hint of a spark, and you laugh and now it’s sob, now it’s a wound. You won’t look at him. “I want to watch the arthritis take your hands and I want to take you away from this fucking city and we’ll both be so bored out of our minds, we’ll start inventing problems just to fix them.”

“Careful, Noa,” hands turn over, running up your armored wrists, grasping at your forearms. “That almost sounds like a happy ending.”

Wedding vows for the dead. Neither of you ever had a chance. You don’t have one now.

“And we can’t have that.”

You look up. The sun’s on his face now, turning his eyes a shade of deep whiskey, and that’s how you want to remember him; alive under the sun, smile lines just forming, his nose a bit crooked from getting punched one too many times. You’ll be on the ground in a moment.

“No,” he agrees, grasping at your elbows now, pulling you close, and you cling to his in turn. “We can’t.” Flash and grin, and there he is, just like you remember. Challenging, challenger. No chance, and neither of you know when to quit. “Want to up the stakes a bit?” 

“Always.”

You let go first. Of course. You turn to the window. You open it. 

“Whoever falls fastest wins.”

“And what do I get when I win?” When, not if.

“A quick and painless death.”

“Fuck,” you breathe. “That’s a hell of a thing. How do I know you won’t cheat?”

“You don’t,” he winks, steps back, head tilt toward the window. Mirrored. You’ve got one hand on the windowsill and one hand curled around your gut, where he sunk that barb between the plates before you cracked his skull on the ground before all of Los Diablos. “You never do. Isn’t that part of the fun?”

You take your place at the window, you set your shoulders, look down. What’s he been looking at all this time? 

Long way down, and you wait to see her; you, in soft skinsuit, teal and black and bloody and broken, but she isn’t there.

Just an ambulance, an end repeating itself.

“Person who falls the fastest, huh?”

“And hits the ground hardest.”

You climb up, clench your jaw. 

It always ends like this. 

“You’re on.”

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: All Eyes On You {One-Shot}***

Lewis Tan x Reader

Warning: Cursing, NSFW AT ALL, SMUTTT, DO NOT READ AT WORK!!

Words: 4.1k

Summary: Hmmmm, Naaaaah!  🙃

Note: You all have Brandie, @night-of-the-living-shred​ to thank for this oh and Lewis’ thirst trappin’ ass.

 ***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

***Mildly Interactive***

 You couldn’t believe it had been three months. Three freaking months since you’d physically been able to touch him. Three months since you’d felt his fingertips graze your skin. Three months since you’d felt his lips on yours. Three months since you’d tasted the delicate mix of sea salt, vanilla, and spice, that was his skin. Three months since you’d felt his arms around you as you came awake every morning. Three months since you’d smelled him. Three months too long.

You loved that he had a career he enjoyed and took pride in. Loved that this career was finally beginning to show him the same love and attention he’d shown it for years, but that also meant you spent a lot more time without him in your bed and a lot more time being your own company and best friend, outside of the company and friends you had. It was often lonely, but you’d been together for almost two years now and had developed a working regiment that combated the loneliness.

 Staring at the message exchange between you and Lewis had your belly filling with butterflies all over again.

 MSG My Heart: Guess who’s coming home a whole week early?

MSG: Don’t play with me, Lewis.

MSG My Heart: I don’t play about coming home to my queen.

MSG: Oh my god. Really? Babe? When? Oh my god.

MSG My Heart: LOL. I love that you’re so excited.

MSG: You’re kidding. Do you know how long it’s been?

MSG My Heart: Three months, fourteen days, ten hours, eighteen minutes, and thirty seconds. I know just how long it’s been.

MSG: Melt my heart.

MSG My Heart: That’s not all I plan on melting.

 The row of emojis was what sent you to the grave. You were practically still quivering from anticipation, and this was yesterday.

 “All finished.”

 You sat up and thanked Lucy, your wax lady who’d just made you a completely smooth again. When Lewis was away, you kept things tidy, but there was no need to get all extravagant. Today, you went all out, and that included a little surprise below the belt.

 “Thank you, Lucy. Same card on file, please.”

 “You got the full special. Does this mean boyfriend is back in town?”

 You giggled. It was a shame she knew the drill. As she ran your credit card, you endured her teasing and salacious suggestions on how to properly welcome Lewis home so he wouldn’t dare think of leaving again. By the time you walked out of the salon, your face was red hot from embarrassment. As you got into your car, you ran down the to-do list you’d made at five this morning.

 Hair, Eyebrow Threading, nails, feet, wax, shop.

 Somehow you’d managed to get through all of the list, except the shopping part, and it wasn’t even three in the afternoon. Lewis’s flight didn’t come in until five. The plan was for him to come home, and the two of you would go to dinner, but you planned on surprising him at the airport. You were that anxious to see him.

 As you were in the midst of getting ready to go to surprise him at the airport, your phone rang.

 “Hello?”

 “Guess who is officially in the same state as you?”

 “Baby?”

 “That’s right. I landed forty minutes ago.”

 Your head snapped to the clock. It wasn’t even five o’clock.

 “Baby, you said five.”

 “I know, look, I thought it would be too but looks like even time and space wanted us to be together.”

 You remembered the first time he said those words to you. They did the same thing now as they did almost two years ago—made your heart skip a beat.

 “I just wanted to give you a heads up before I walked in the door,” Lewis added. That was when you heard a car door shut.

 “Thank you, have a good one.”

 Sensing something was going on, you perked up. As you walked to the window of your bedroom, your phone chime for the Ring went off, indicating someone had tripped the sensor.

 “Lew, baby, is that--.”

 “Honey, I’m home. Come to daddy.”

 A scream escaped you before you dropped your phone and ran out of the bedroom.

 “Slow down.”

 Ignoring his warning, you barreled down the stairs and through your home. For the first time, you regretted signing the contract on this mammoth of a house. You should have stuck to your guns when Lewis said it was perfect, and you mentioned it was only going to be the two of you in a house meant for six people. His rebuttal—then we’ll fill it up with some kids. Once he said that you happily signed the contract right beside his name.

After way too long, you found him in the foyer at the front door, and that was when you picked up speed.

 “Baby!”

Lewis opened his arms and waited for you to leap into them. Once you did, you wrapped your legs around his back and crashed your lips to his. It had been three months since you’d been kissed, and it was long overdue. Eagerly you dipped your tongue into his mouth, hoping to show him just how excited you were to see him. Lewis moaned then turned your body to press you onto the dark wooden door.

 “I missed you so much,” you panted out in between kisses.

 “I missed you more.”

 Feeling as if there were too many barriers between you, you began peeling them off one by one. His jacket dropped to the floor within seconds. Then came his polo that you peeled off of him. with him bare chest, you allowed your fingers to reacquaint with his skin. Lewis must have felt the same way because the tee-shirt you wore, his tee-shirt was gone a few seconds after your nails scraped his back. Realizing you didn’t have on a bra, his eyes feasted on your flesh.

 “Welcome home to me, indeed.”

 You snorted and shook your head before wrapping your arms around his neck to kiss him some more. Lewis carried you through your home until he’d laid you onto the extra-large sectional couch. On lazy days this was where the two of you always ended up just cuddling, watching TV, or just chatting. Lewis pressed kiss after kiss onto your neck, collar, and chest before he rested his head in between your breasts and moaned.

 “Mmmm, I missed your skin,” he muttered.

 You lazily played with his midnight locks taking your time to graze his scalp with your nail tips.

 “I missed your smell,” you replied, inhaling deeply, allowing the scent that was all him to envelope you.

 Lewis turned his head and kissed your sternum before trailing down your belly. When he kissed your pelvis over your leggings, he moaned.

 “I canceled that dinner.”

 “What?”

“I know it was supposed to be a surprise, but when my mom texted me to confirm she kind of let it slip,” he admitted.

 You snorted, then laughed. It echoed through the first floor of your home.

 “Okay, so dinner is canceled. What’s planned in its place?”

 “Nothing.”

 “What do you mean nothing? Baby, I’m sure everyone who was supposed to come to this dinner tonight wanted to see you. It has been months,” you stressed.

 “Oh, I know it’s been months. That is why I canceled with my mom’s blessing. She even had a message for you.”

 You piqued up, straining your neck so you could gaze down at him. Making eye contact without angling his head up, Lewis smirked but didn’t speak.

 “What message?”

 “She’s not getting any younger and would like to be able to do Tik Tok dances with her grandchild without worry about her knees.”

 Your jaw dropped to which Lewis busted out laughing.

 “Wait, wait. What!?”

 “You heard me.” He kissed your belly again and dipped his tongue into your belly button. Moaning softly, you bit into your bottom lip.

 “So you’re saying your mother not so specifically but specifically is suggesting that--.”

 “—I put a baby in you? Yeah,” Lewis filled in.

 Your jaw was again ajar from your state of shock.

 “Wow.”

 You’d always known his mother wanted grandkids, but it was always one of those once a year at family dinners passing comment. She’d graduated now. Before you knew it, Lewis had lifted you into his arms again and was now carrying you through the halls, up the stairs.

 “You’re walking away from the door. What exactly are we supposed to do with the rest of the day?”

 “I think I have plenty of ideas,” Lewis answered as he carried you into your bedroom.

 From walking into the bedroom, he walked on into the bathroom. Once inside, Lewis plopped you onto the sink. As soon as you were seated, he began pulling off your leggings.

 “What’s happening right now?”

 “I’m getting you naked. I want to wash off the airplane and travel off of me before I smother myself with you, and you’re going to help me.”

 “Oh, am I?” Lewis then yanked off your pants and dropped them onto the floor, leaving you in your high waisted bikini-style thong. Lewis lowly growled as he peeped peeks of your ass in the mirror behind you.

 “You were ready for me to come home, you know how much I love these,” he grunted out, snapping the elastic against your skin, leaving a subtle stinging sensation that slowly dulled. Though it dulled, it awoke and intensified another sensation—arousal.

 He pulled back and began working on his jeans. Once he dropped them and pulled his boxer-briefs off, your teeth once again sank into your bottom lip. Your eyes traveled along his body, taking in the sleek muscles that decorated his torso down to his well defined oblique muscles that slanted inward, tempting you with that under bellybutton tattoo. He was even more ripped than he was three months ago. He was also a lot more bruised and scraped up.

 “Jeez, what have they done to you?”

 Glancing over his body, Lewis shrugged nonchalantly. “Eh, occupational hazard.”

 You hopped off the sink and closed the space between you trailing your hand from his hip, over his ribs, and up to his chest. Once you reached his jaw, you gently cupped it.

 “Let’s get you cleaned so I can take care of you.”

 Walking behind him, you led the way to the shower, turned on the water, and allowed the moisture to rain over you. It was hard not to smirk when you heard Lewis’s guttural groan. As soon as he let it out to bounce off the tiled walls, his arms were wrapping around you, pulling you into him.

 Lewis’s lips latched onto your neck and sucked. The force of that suck had you remembering everything that mouth had ever done to you. As if he remembered as well, his grip tightened as his hand roamed to your backside to cup it. It felt like he moved his hands everywhere all at once as if he couldn’t be happy with one location.

 “It’s been so long, baby. I need you so much,” Lewis whispered in your ear, sending a violent shiver through you that awakened so much in you that you nearly overpowered him and took control. Almost.

 Before you could, Lewis pressed you to the wall, stretching your hands out along the tile. His mouth moved from your neck to your lips to suck the air right from your lungs. The man was meant for kissing. Once he was sure you wouldn’t be able to function, you felt his knee nudge your legs apart. Within seconds you felt his hand cup your sex, making you loudly gasp.

 “Do you need me as much as I need you?” Knowing you had no words to express how much you needed him, you nodded.

 “Words, babygirl.”

 You already saw what mood he was setting. Gathering your composure, you pushed off the wall and walked over to your bath products then lathered your bath gloves. Turning back to Lewis, you gently rubbed along his body taking care not to hurt him anywhere accidentally. As your gloved hands slowly traveled across his skin, your eyes followed where they went. The white lather of the soap was a nice contrast with his tanned and tattooed skin.

 Once you made it to his back, you relished the feel of his muscles dancing underneath your fingers, showing you again just how hard he pushed his body. Seductively you swirled your finger down his spine until you made it to the top of his taunt ass. There was nothing but trust from him as your hand rubbed his derriere, a trust you’d mirrored every day since nearly the day you’d met.

 After several long minutes of cleaning and teasing every inch of him, Lewis again pushed you against the shower wall. This time your abdomen and face rested against its cool surface while he pressed his body against your back and ass. Instead of speaking, Lewis kissed your jaw, brought his mouth to your ear, and bit down as he pulled the shower glove off of your hand. He knew damn well it wouldn’t fit his much larger one.

 It didn’t matter if they fit perfectly to him; a few moments later, you felt his gloved hand rub against your backside.

 Up—down—up—down.

 Lewis released a deep groan right beside your ear. Bringing his hand up your back, he gently rubbed your skin, applying enough pressure and force to clean but not enough to give you any sort of pleasure. He was an expert tease. Once his hand made it to your shoulder, he massaged it, applying more pressure dragging a satisfying moan from your lips.

 “You’re tense, love.”

 “I wonder why,” you whispered.

 Quickly, Lewis had you flipped around staring into your eyes. As he distracted you with his golden chestnut orbs, pulling you even more under his spell, his hand wreaked havoc on your breast. He rubbed, circled, pinched, and repeated the process. Bringing his ungloved hand to join in on the pleasure, he cupped and massaged them until he brought both hands to your throat to gently but forcefully hold you there.

 His lips crashed to yours soon after. His tongue was a work of art and spelled by a sorcerer and was proving to you just how well he knew how to use it. Your moans matched his, but when you felt his gloved hand against your folds, your moans increased.

 “Oh, baby.”

 “I can feel that tension increasing,” Lewis taunted as he turned you, placing you under one of the two overhead shower fixtures.

 Once the soap from your bodies was washed away, Lewis was carrying you once again into the bedroom. With you rested across it with your legs spread, Lewis’s head and mouth licked, nibbled, and sucked a path down your body until you felt his tongue flick across your needy bud. With the arch of your back, you gasped again.

 “Fuck, baby!”

 “Mmm.”

 In seconds his mouth was fastened over your sex, feasting as if his last meal was right between your thighs. There was an urgency to how his tongue flicked your clit and then delved between your folds only to nibble against your labia. After a few short minutes, you were a whimpering, writhing mess. Needing something to touch, your hands raked along his head. Every time you tried to snap your thighs together, he used his strength on you prying them apart and holding them to the bed so he could do as he wished.

 “Fuck Lewis, yes!”

 His moans were the only reply he gave. Just as you felt yourself nearing the threshold of absolute ecstasy, he pulled away and stood at the foot of the bed. As if he had a tether from him to you, your body yanked to a half-sitting position.

 “What!? What’s wrong? What’re you doing?”

 Lewis didn’t answer. He just stood there licking his lips before he used his thumb to swipe at the corner of his mouth. The look in his eyes told you he had no intention of coming back to finish the job.

“Lew---,” you cautiously began watching him. He couldn’t tell you that he no longer wanted you; the uterus destroying lightsaber that Kylo Ren wished he possessed said otherwise. Biting your bottom lip, you moaned.

 “Come here, baby, let me help.”

 Lewis walked away to the leather armchair that was in the nearest corner to the bed. He then pulled it across the room to place it at the foot of the bed. By that time, you thought he meant for you to straddle him on it. So when Lewis sat, you began to move.

 “Stop!”

 Pausing, you gave him a questioning look.

 “How long have I been gone?”

 Crinkling your brow, you sighed. “Months.”

 “How many?”

 “Lewis--,” you began.

 “—Y/N. be a good girl and answer me.”

 Like a brat, you kissed your teeth and sighed out exaggeratedly. “Three months.”

 “Have you touched yourself since I’ve been gone?”

 Your eyes bugged. He knew the answer to that. Lewis’s eyes flicked to the right bedside table, where he knew you had your toys.

 “Lewis, I don’t want to play this game,” you whined.

 “Are you sure? Your nipples are telling a different story.”

 Narrowing your eyes, you ended on an eye-roll. “Yes.”

 With your answer, Lewis stroked his cock, bringing your attention to the massive erection just standing tall as if it knew there was none like it. Lewis groaned and sucked in a breath.

 “Though I’ve tried not to, I’ve done this several times. I’ve lost track of how many.”

 You could hear his voice speaking, but you were too focused on his actions to really allow any words to resonate. Watching his large, veiny hand stroke his need had your mouth watering. It was so damn sexy. The sighed, coupled with his moans, was enough to make fresh wetness pool between your legs.

 When his hand stopped, you followed it to rest on the arm of the chair. A few seconds passed before you realized he wasn’t going to bring it back to continue. Locking eyes with him, you recognized the look.

 “Show me how you’ve done it.”

 You could have choked from the shock. You knew he wasn’t joking, and you knew better than to toy with him when he got like this. Bringing your hand down your body, you cupped your own sex and groaned. It was insane how wet you were.

 “Show me,” Lewis said in his impossibly deep voice. It had been months since you’d heard it this clearly. Facetime sex was great, and all, but there was nothing like his voice in person.

 Using your two fingers, you spread yourself so he could see. Lewis’s grunt was loud, and the jerk of his member was a substantial one. As if in a trance, your fingers found your opening and swirled around, coating themselves before circling your clit. The second you began, you had to steady yourself. You knew you wouldn’t last long with him sitting there, but you wanted to give him a good show. Your fingers sped despite your best efforts to slow them. Once your back arched, you had to pull your hand away. The action had your back arched more as you dropped your head back.

 “Fuck!”

 “Such a beautiful pussy baby,” Lewis huskily whispered.

 Bringing your head back to resume eye contact, you took a deep breath then continued. Starting slowly, you sucked your bottom lip and focused on his eyes rather than how you were making yourself feel. Dipping two digits inside your heat, you squirmed, jutting your breasts into the air. Lewis groaned from across the room and brought his hand back to his cock. After a few strokes, he groaned and put his hand back on the arm of the chair.

 “How’s it feel, baby?”                                                                                      

 As you plunged your fingers in and out of your body, you spoke, “So good, but I want your hand. Your fingers. Your mouth.”

 You gasped then brought your soaking fingers to your clit, intent on one thing. Release. Your fingers moved quickly, racing you toward your release. Lewis must have sensed it too because he was now at the edge of the chair observing.

 “Come for me, Y/N!”

 “Mmm, fuck Lewis, I’m gonna—gonna--.”

 Your back arched again, and your fingers sped, and within seconds you screamed out and shook from the sheer power of your release. While you were lost in your pleasure, you didn’t hear anything else but the pounding of your heart. When you felt his cock fill you to the hilt, you screamed and came again and clenched around him. Lewis growled, pinned your thighs to the bed, and plowed into you in a way that you knew you’d feel even tomorrow.

 His strokes were not meant to tease you or reacquaint his body with yours. They were meant to please, meant to mark, meant to ruin you for any other separations. He wanted to erase months, show you how he alone could make you feel this way, and how only he could give you what you needed. When he shifted your body to hoist it a few inches off the bed to give you long, deep strokes, it was over. another orgasm claimed you, and your nails claimed his skin—marking him as yours as much as he marked you as his.

 “Fuck, you’re so tight. I’ve missed you so much.”

 With those words, Lewis pulled you up to him, so he was holding you as he was sitting back on his legs, and you were straddling him with your legs wrapped around his back. He controlled your body with ease and skill, lifting you only to drop you on his protruding heat.

  “I missed you.” Your lips crashed to his and took control of this. You nibbled his lips and sucked his tongue.

 It was such a beautiful mix of submission and dominance that the sheer intimacy of it had your belly fluttering.

 “This won’t be long, babe, I want too much,” Lewis warned.

 “Fuck me!”

 Dropping you back to the bed, Lewis held your legs like a pair of scissors and began throwing pummeling thrusts into you. You were thankful you’d chosen a home that had no neighbors for miles and in the middle of plenty of greenery. As he gave you everything he had the next few minutes, you took it all.

 Once you felt his move from thoughtful calculation to no order or rhythm, you knew it was a matter of seconds. Sure enough, you felt him release into you as he grunted and groaned loud enough to compete with your shrieks and shouts in between his utterance of how much he loved you. Lewis buried himself inside of you and pulled your final orgasm free.

 The two of you laid there for long minutes, composing yourselves while trying to catch tour breaths. When he rolled off of you onto the bed beside you, he groaned.

 “Mmm, I love you so much,” Lewis repeated.

 You rolled to his side and rested your head on his chest as he wrapped his arm around you.

 “I love you more, baby.”

 “Although I think that was the one that did it, we have all night.”

 “Did what?”

 Lewis rolled on top of you and plastered his hands on your belly. “Put a baby in here.”

 You couldn’t help but laugh.

 “Oh, so you were trying to get me pregnant?”

 His smile was wide, cheesy, and completely charming.

 “Do you have any objections? According to my calendar, you’re fertile.”

 Lewis thrust forward, joining your bodies again. Completely shocked, you gasped.

 “Lewis.”

 “Mmmm, god you feel like mine. Let me give you something else that’s mine.”

 “You’re serious?”

 You’d talked about starting a family together before, but you’d never made a decision. It was still something sweet to think about. Lewis stroked forward, then retreated and did it again and again.

 “I am, but I want you to be my wife first.”

 Your heart stopped.

 “Are you breathing?”

 As if for emphasis, he rotated his hips, making you feel his depth and breadth completely. Clenching around him, you shivered.

 “Mrs. Tan has a nice ring to it, as does wife, mother of my children.” With every word he spoke, he circled some more.

 “Love of my life,” he finished before he picked up his pace making your eyes roll to the back of your head.

 You knew that there would be no rest for the wicked, and it was evident Lewis was in a wicked mood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List:

@munteanhorewrites @night-of-the-living-shred @caramara3 @chaneajoyyy @dangerouslovefanfic @sonjashuterbugjohnson @i-just-like-fanfics @areubeingserved @areubeingserved-too​

[jay4firefic]

one day i’ll be gone, or one day you’ll be gone

50. kisses with their dying breath, Buck x Kelly - major character death, hurt no comfort. This is @vykkyyisbored’s fault no matter how much she denies it but @queerfeministdork is also an enabler. Read it here on the AO3.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Buck gasps, “it’s okay.”

A choked laugh escapes Kelly despite the way his eyes sting and his stomach threatens to rebel. Of course Buck is still trying to reassure him, even now. Even with blood on his lips and a steel beam across his chest. Even when every word comes out with a rattle that they both know means nothing good.

“Stop talking,” Kelly commands. He sets his shoulder against the beam again, strains to lift what must be a couple of thousand pounds pinned down by more weight in concrete at either end. If he can shift it just a few inches, if he can just take the weight off of Buck’s chest until 81 can dig them out and get a medic down here - well, it still won’t matter, because Buck’s organs have already been crushed by the weight. But trying gives him something to do. “Save your breath.”

“Nothing to save it for.”

“Don’t--”

“Kelly.” Buck’s hand is cold when he touches Kelly’s cheek. It’s the only limb he can still move, his other arm pinned and his legs unresponsive, though Kelly doesn’t think Buck has realized that yet. Maybe he has and he just doesn’t care. What does it matter if you’re paralyzed when you’ve only got minutes to live, anyway? “Stop.”

“I can’t stop.” Kelly shrugs Buck’s hand off and starts scrabbling in the debris beneath them, searching for anything he could wedge under the beam to get some leverage. “I can’t stop, Ev, I’ve gotta get you out of here. I’ve got to--”

Buck coughs wetly, his face twisting up in pain as he claws uselessly at his throat, and Kelly finally abandons his frantic attempts to free Buck when his nails start cutting red lines into his filthy skin. Kelly seizes Buck’s freezing hand with both of his own, trying to chafe warmth back into it while Buck shudders and coughs and eventually turns his head to the side to spit out a mouthful of blood. When he looks back up at Kelly he manages to smile with his bloodstained teeth.

For some reason, that’s what breaks the last of Kelly’s resolve. He folds over Buck’s crushed body with a sob, pressing their foreheads together and peeling off of his gloves so that he can cup Buck’s face with both hands, his tears falling to mingle with the ones suddenly flooding Buck’s eyes. Buck’s breath puffs against his cheek, uneven and weaker with every exhale, and, fuck, “This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.”

It’s not like this is the first time Kelly has lost someone he loves to this job. Darden, Shay, even Otis, the annoying little brother he never had. But it’s the first time he’s had to stand by and watch helplessly as the life drains out of their body, had to literally feel them fading away beneath his hands. But god, if he had a choice, Kelly would choose to be here with him every time. Buck doesn’t deserve to go out like this - slow, painful, terrifying - but if he has to, he won’t do it alone. Kelly promised a long time ago that he would never be alone again. He had even joked, once, that he’d be nice and let Buck die a few minutes before him.

Because that’s how they were supposed to go out - together. Whether it was in a blaze of glory on the job or quietly at home when they’re old and gray, it was always supposed to be together. And if Kelly had just been two steps further to the left, it would have been. He’s going to regret that for the rest of his damn life. He just hopes that isn’t very long.

“Sorry I ruined your plans,” Buck manages to force out. “Sorry I’m leaving...leaving you alone.”

“It’s okay,” Kelly lies, kissing Buck’s brow. The creases of pain have smoothed out, his skin cool and gray, his birthmark little more than a discolored smudge. Kelly kisses it anyway, strokes his thumb over it gently as he ducks to kiss Buck’s red stained lips. He can’t even taste iron past the salt of their tears. “It’s okay, baby.”

“Got ten good years though, didn’t we?” he’s barely audible over the sound of the rubble shifting and settling around them, the grind of tools and call of voices getting closer overhead. “More than I ever coulda wished for.”

“I would’ve given you the rest of my life.”

“I know.” Buck chokes again, doesn’t even have the breath to cough this time. “Love you, y’know?”

“I know,” Kelly echoes him. “God, I love you. I love you so much, Ev, please don’t go. Please don’t go yet. Please.”

“Shhh,” Buck gasps out, his fingers slipping from their place on Kelly’s cheek. “‘S okay. Just kiss me.”

And Kelly does, pressing feather light kisses to Buck’s blue, unresponsive lips until Buck’s breath catches and his final exhale dissipates against Kelly’s mouth. Even then, he can’t seem to stop - he kisses the scar on Buck’s chin, his scraped cheek, his temple, his birthmark, pressing curses and apologies and promises into his cooling skin until strong hands catch him around the shoulders and pull him away. 

Someone is talking to him, someone else is trying to shine a light in his eyes while another set of hands pats him down for injuries, but none of them matter. Kelly kicks and shoves and elbows, fighting back down onto his knees in the dirt, digging his fingers into broken glass and powdered concrete and trying to drag himself back to Buck where he lays still and lifeless beneath the rubble. 

He’d made a promise after all, a promise that Buck would never be alone again. 

Not even death is going to prevent him from keeping it.

[gottaenjoythelittlethingzz]

Early Evening

Part 2 of the ongoing, loosely interconnected series Swellview has a New First Lady.

Summary: When Ray returns to the Man Cave after a particularly messy battle against a villain, we get to see the internal workings of Cheyanne's and Ray's flirty, romantic relationship. And Cheyanne reveals exactly how much sway she holds over Ray.

*Keep in this series can be read on AO3 & FF.*

~~~~~

Cheyanne had just finished closing up the store for the night. Another shift gone over without a hitch. The counters were wiped down, the junk was newly organized into bins and separated from any loose odds and ends, and the sign hanging on the glass entrance to Junk N’ Stuff read, ‘Sorry, we’re NOT in’. The cash register was emptied, and she carried the day’s meager profits in the elevator, counting bills as she rode down.

When she stepped into the Man Cave she noticed it vacant. This suited her well. It was nice when she could turn in for an early evening. A rare occurrence in these parts.

She was halfway to the sprocket which would lead her further into the expansive underground maze when a swooshing noise halted her footsteps. A single tube shot abruptly to the floor and a blue-and-red-suited superhero dropped in.

“Honey, I’m ho-hughhh.” Ray came tumbling out of the tube clutching his stomach and nose independently. His sarcastic comment lost behind a violent, extended wrenching noise. Since he’s so use to the tube ride it was clear his nausea was in response to the black soot smudged across him from head to toe. The gooey substance was largely crusted on and had entered ever crevice possible. It replaced his normal golden eye makeup with a smoky eye look. The smell it produced wafted across the Man Cave floor and Cheyanne smelt it herself before he approached her.

Cheyanne went to cover her own mouth and nose before smiling sardonically and using two fingers to trace a subtle path from her manicured brow to her peaked lips. She tapped them lightly when questioning, “So, how’d it go?”

“Terrible!” Ray roared. He further smudged the muck on his face and temporarily lost his balance when he could no longer see. Thankfully, he stopped with a few feet of flooring between himself and Cheyanne to correct his eye sight. “Professor Putrid had us chasing him all over down town and into the Swellview ‘Sludges and Slops’ disposal plant. I fell into a vat of tar trying to land a punch on him when he sprayed me with canned skunk spray.”

“That’s horrible.” Cheyanne made her voice sound soothing and sympathetic while simultaneously desiring to reach for a bottle of Febreze. “It should really be a more difficult place to break into. How did – hmph – how’d you catch him? I assume you did in the end.”

“You better believe we caught him!” Ray scraped at his skin with both his hands looking much like a kitten trying to cleanse itself without help until he opened one eye and then finally the other. “Henry used his super power to taunt Professor Putrid in a game of tag. Led the gross weirdo underneath a bucket of quick dry cementing mud. Done in by his own prototype. They’ll have to chisel his face free to get a clear mugshot of him.” Getting his first proper look at Cheyanne in what had been hours, Ray attempted to draw nearer to her while regaling his heroic tale. “The bucket was just dangling there. Suspended ten feet off the ground. Can you believe it?”

Cheyanne made a circular motion with her arms to raise them in question. A visual distraction as she took a sizeable step backwards at the same time. “Who would have thought?”

“You’re one to know, Chey. Anyone who would do half of something like this to the Man Mane is going to serve time.” He ran his hands over his hair trying his best to peel strands loose. The tar had plastered the locks to his scalp and refused to budge. He took another step forward. He hoped to be met with affirmation of his character. “Man, I’m going to have to do my most advanced hair care routine.” The process was designed to be grueling, employed numerous creams and gels, and was assured to undo most any damages.

“It sure is a good thing there’s a new suit in each gumball because that tar is never coming out.” Cheyanne tried to take a step forward to meet him halfway, but another wave of vile odor hit her nostrils, and she relaxed her arms by her sides. Least he think she was offering her hands. “Speaking of taking criminals to jail. Is that were Henry is now?”

An expression flitted across Ray’s face, one like he had not only forgotten his sidekick had been with him mere minutes ago, but it was as though he had forgotten the teenage apprentice existed entirely. “Yeah, yeah. Henry’s taking Professor ‘Pitiful’ to Swellview county prison. Should have dropped the mad scientist off by now.”

“What have I told you about making Henry go by himself?” Cheyanne’s voice shifts from playful to maternal.

“Henry knows where the prison is. He’s been enough times. He’s totally fine!” Ray manufactured excuses. “This was just an annoying level three villain who didn’t even have a superpower. It’s not like I asked the kid to take Arson Boy to jail by himself.”

Cheyanne shook her head with concern. Her brown eyes were always warm, deep pools of understanding but could turn stern all the same. “I don’t like Henry taking criminals to jail on his own. Some of the officers pick on him for his age. The criminals could escape from him. And besides, a crime isn’t solved until the perpetrator is put away. You should have to complete each job with him. I don’t care if Henry’s getting older and is able to handle more responsibilities. It simply isn’t fair to him that he ends up pulling more hours at work than his boss.”

Ray renewed his tactic with an equal level of enthusiasm that he carried with him down the tube. “But, what if I said I wanted to hurry home to spend more alone time with Mrs. Manchester?” His eye brows climbed his forehead. He reached for her again. This time planning to snake his arms around her curvaceous waist.

“No, no, no.” Cheyanne skipped around the couch, using the furniture as a barrier between herself and the immature man. “Not until you’ve thrown that suit out in a dumpster somewhere far, far away, and taken a long, long shower.”

“Come on,” Ray clasped his hands against the rim of the mobile amenity. He made quick crab walking steps to the left and right while verbally taunting her. “You know I like to fool around in uniform.”

“That’s fine, except we can’t actually see it underneath all that foul muck!” Cheyanne was able to expertly predict Ray’s movements. She herself was unable to bite back the adoring smile from creeping onto her face.

He pointed an accusing finger her way. “Don’t act like you don’t like it just a little bit when I come back sweaty and grimy from an epic battle. You know you’re the only person I can temporarily share my ability with, huh?” Ray’s face was completely overtaken by his perfect teeth shining through his victorious grin. He could easily be swayed by his own words even when they didn’t work on anyone else around him. “It’s kind of our ‘thing’, right?”

Cheyanne gasped playfully and brought a hand up to her chest, bracelets shifting noisily to follow the path through the air her arm created, suggesting she was offended by his lewd suggestion. “There’s a lot more going on with you than natural bodily fluids, okay?”

Before she could condemn him further Ray sprang into action. He catapulted his legs over the couch, slide across the table, and landed with his feet on the cushioned seat directly in front of Cheyanne. She was startled by his boisterous movements and leapt backwards straight into the monitors’ chair. She was able to narrowly dodge his sweeping arms.

“Ulch,” Ray complained. He collapsed against the backrest. His head and arms drooping over the edge. “You’re really not going to jump on this opportunity while there are no crimes in progress, and no one is down here to bug us?”

Cheyanne cocked her head and calmly stood from the seat. She spun it in her hands and walked behind the object to place it between them. “Maybe I will reconsider…” She tapped her nails rhythmically to call his eyes onto her. “But first you must get rid of that old suit. And you have to shower - twice.”

Ray smirked at the images his idea called to mind. “Or maybe you could join me in the –.”

“Shower twice!” In a flash, his face morphed with disgruntlement. Flopping dramatically onto his back and sliding off the couch feet first, he began begrudgingly heading towards the stairs. His feet stomping. He might have mumbled something under his breath.

“And darling,” Cheyanne called to his retreating form.

Ray stopped to look over his shoulder. Hope swelled upon hearing his pet name used.

“Put on one of the shirts I like.”

Ray rotated his shoulders to face her, his expression suddenly befuddled. “You mean, don’t put on one of the many loud button up shirts I wear?”

Cheyanne clicked her tongue and nodded assertively.

He brought his hands up to his chest where he tapped his fists together. “Th-the blue one or the purple one?”

Cheyanne gave him a once over before replying with a curt, “Surprise me.”

“And then, maybe…” his voice trailed. The back of his neck warm to the touch.

“I can be persuaded.”

With an emphatic nod, Ray stated, “I can do that.” He promptly headed towards the shower. A new sense of urgency in his steps.

~~~~

No edit this time, but maybe in the future. Feel free to let me know what you think of this couple so far!

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Will you be writing another fic? Because your previous chapter got me thinking of Marinette being dipped in the chemical thing like Harley and had been and becomes crazy like them.

Yeah… trigger warnings. I don’t really know the words for a lot of triggers but if you’re squeamish around emotional and physical abuse or Stockholm syndrome I would suggest not reading this

Also, fun fact: this actually was an alternate ending for Satisfied I considered but ended up not doing because it was darker than I wanted the fic to go

Also also, you don’t need to read Satisfied to read this one. There are a few references to the story, but really all you need to know is that Marinette is using the horse miraculous to spy on the Rogues

She hummed lightly as she went around the warehouse, gathering her things (Catwoman had a tendency to take her things, then get bored of them and leave them in random places). She was just about to open a portal when Joker spoke:

“Wait, NightMare, could you come back later tonight?”

A chill ran down her spine and Marinette spun on her heel to face him.

“Of course, Joker, sir. May I know why?” She said as pleasantly as she could.

He only smiled wider behind his mask.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek and opened a portal for herself.

~

Marinette stepped into the warehouse again and hugged herself tightly. There were no Rogues in sight outside of Joker, who was leaning against his cane as he waited for her.

But, while this worried her, what really messed with her was the fact that he was standing on a tarp. She strained to remember whether or not the tarp had been there earlier, because if it hadn’t…

She tasted blood and quickly released her tongue.

The plastic crinkled beneath her as she walked over to him.

“What did you need me for, sir?”

He didn’t answer again.

“Is something wrong?”

The man finally looked at her and icy dread flooded through her veins. He wasn’t smiling.

But she didn’t have time to figure out what his expression meant, because the lights chose that exact moment to flicker and die.

Marinette made two tiny portals and slowly moved them around, using the dim blue light that they gave off as a kind of makeshift flashlight. It was barely anything, she could still only see a few steps ahead of her, but at least it was better than the total darkness she’d just been in.

She looked around for Joker and couldn’t help but panic a little bit when she couldn’t find him. Where had he gone? He was just next to her, and the tarp crinkled underneath her with every step, how had he just up and disappeared without her knowing?

“I’ll go find the fuse box,” she said softly. There was a very low chance that this was a coincidence but she wasn’t going to risk her identity quite yet.

Her eyes peered around the darkness and she started to walk, only to hear the tarp crinkle behind her. She whipped around in surprise just in time to see the mallet coming towards her face.

Her head jerked back so painfully she swore her neck snapped and she found herself weightless.

Or, at least, she felt weightless right up until she slammed into a wall headfirst. She became painfully aware of just how not weightless she was as her body crumpled in on itself.

She slid to the floor slowly. Her head pounded painfully and she could barely see through all the colorful lights dancing in her vision. She tried to shake her head to get rid of them, but it only seemed to make it worse.

Harley came into view and Marinette cursed when she realized that she was the one to hit her with the mallet. The woman wore an uncharacteristically sad expression as she pointed it at her.

“You were really working for Bats the whole time?” She whispered, her voice soft.

“I don’t…” She swallowed back bile and blood. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please…”

The woman in front of her sighed. “Liar.”

She raised her mallet and Marinette tried to move her body. It was supposed to move, she was telling it to move, why wouldn’t it move?

The mallet came down on her and her eyes rolled back in her head.

~

God, five senses and all of them sucked.

People were screaming in her left ear. Someone must have manually turned on her comm. Every word felt like a mallet to the head (something that she now could say for certain). Their voices blended together, though, and it was useless to even try to discern what they were saying.

Her nose was bleeding. Every painful breath through her definitely broken nose was accented by the scent of her blood.

She’d tried to breathe through her mouth, only to taste blood instead of smell it.

Someone had bound her in her own lasso, and they hadn’t been gentle. The rope dug into her skin and chaffed against her with every breath.

The lights were back on. She wished they weren’t. The lights were so bright that even having her eyes open a sliver sent pain racing through her skull.

But she needed to see. She peeled her eyes open.

The Rogues were all standing over her, betrayal etched on each of their faces.

Outside of Joker, who looked like he was having the time of his life.

She didn’t really know which was worse.

“So, she’s finally stopped dreaming!” Said Joker brightly. “Now, we have limited time before the bats start tracking you -- if they haven’t already -- so be a doll and tell us which ear your comm is in.”

She opened her mouth to tell him to fuck off, only to choke on her own blood.

“I’d suggest telling us, it’ll be a lot less painful for you,” said Penguin, pointing his umbrella at her.

Marinette glared up at them, lips pressed together tightly.

“Right, we’ll have to guess,” said Catwoman.

Penguin nodded. He tipped his head from side to side as if considering before he positioned his umbrella under her left ear. She could feel the cold blade against her earlobe and horror filled her as she realized what was happening. He pressed down on her stomach with his foot to hold her still and then sliced upwards.

Her ear fell to the floor beside her.

She nearly bit her tongue off to stop herself from screaming. Unfortunately, she couldn’t help the rest of her reaction: her body wouldn’t stop shaking, tears and blood spilled from her head.

Joker leaned down next to her and checked the wound.

“Wrong one!”

Her eyes widened. But it was the right one. Her tear-filled eyes found Harley’s. Surely, she could tell he was lying. That was her thing. Marinette couldn’t tell them -- if she opened her mouth she would sob, and she could not let them hear that -- but Harley could.

But the woman averted her gaze.

And Penguin pressed harder into her to hold her still again and poised his umbrella over her right ear.

And then he chopped that one off, too.

A guttural scream escaped her lips despite her best attempts to stifle it and she thrashed around desperately.

Joker leaned down and gave a mock gasp of surprise. “Oh!” His voice sounded tiny and far away. “Guess I missed it! Oopsies!”

He reached into her left ear and dug her comm out with his gloved fingers. She spasmed around in her bindings, sobs slipping from between her lips.

She couldn’t even manage to stay conscious long enough to watch him smash her comm -- her last chance of being saved -- under his foot.

~

She woke up to the sound of metal scraping against metal.

It was just Harley and Joker right now, and they were pushing the heavy lid off of a vat of acid.

She was also still tied up, but that was hardly important to her at the moment.

Wait, actually, now that she was trying to get away, it was definitely important to her.

“Oh, look who woke up just in time, Harls!” Said Joker when he noticed her slowly inch-worming away.

She cursed quietly and then shot him a glare. “So, what’s the plan here? Throw me in acid and see if it kills me? It won't.”

Joker laughed, waving her off. “Of course not! This is trial number two of my experiments.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh? An experiment? You have an independent and dependent variable? How are you quantifying it? Where’s your control group?”

Harley shook her head, giving her a look like ‘shut up if you know what’s good for you’.

Marinette, in fact, did not know what was good for her.

“Besides, that implies that you’ve done this before.”

“I have! On Red Robin. Of course, that experiment failed… he didn’t kill Batman like I’d asked him to, but I think I know where I went wrong!”

She raised her eyebrows. She hadn’t heard about this.

“You see, for him I had to be careful how much I tortured him. If I had killed him then it would have been a waste of time and effort. But with you… I can do whatever I want with you and you won’t die.”

Oh. Fuck.

Still, she gave him a cocky grin. “But he snapped out of your brainwashing and everything. Clearly, torture doesn’t work. I doubt the amount you do will make it any different.”

His eyes narrowed.

“We’ll see about that.”

She took a deep breath as he picked her up and brought her to the edge of the vat. She just had to make sure to hold her breath for as long as possible…

Except, the moment her skin touched the acid, she screamed.

It felt like every cell in her body was attempting to break away from her. She screamed until her throat was raw. Every movement pulled another sob from her lips.

She needed to breathe. But there wasn’t anything around her to breathe in besides acid. She tried to hold it off as long as she could, but it was useless. She acid streamed into her nose and mouth and suddenly the pain was on the inside, too.

A different pain started on her scalp and suddenly cold air rushed over her.

Joker had pulled her out by her hair, and was now holding her torso above the acid. Sure, everything still in the acid and her insides were still on fire, but it wasn’t all of her anymore.

“If you want it to stop, just say please.” He cupped his free hand to his ear like he was about to listen to her.

She opened her mouth, prepared to beg despite her pride, but all that came out was acid. Had she forgotten how to breathe? To speak? She tried to force some air into her lungs, she knew the basic motion for breathing, but it couldn’t seem to push through any of the acid.

“Well, if you have nothing to say…”

He pushed her head back under again.

God, she wished she was dead. Her body was trying so hard to die, she could feel it. The problem was the stupid suit she was wearing: the horse miraculous wasn’t about to give up its user without a fight.

She mouthed the words, but it was useless. You have to actually say them. No sound left her lips, so she was forced to remain painfully alive.

She slowly curled in on herself in the acid, unable to do anything besides cry.

And then a hand pulled her out again. This time, to her surprise, she fully left the vat.

She looked at Harley through heavy eyelids and the woman reached out and gently closed her eyes for her.

Joker sounded annoyed as he spoke: “You’d better have some good suggestions, Harley.”

“Of course! I was a psychiatrist, I can break her for you! Here’s what I suggest we do...”

Marinette didn’t get to hear the suggestions, she was too busy falling unconscious.

~

She woke up on the floor of what appeared to be a lab. Clinically bright lights assaulted her eyes and she had to keep her gaze on the ground to stop herself from crying.

She wasn’t bound anymore. This didn’t mean that moving was easy. Her body shook as she pushed herself up into a sitting position.

“Ah, she’s awake!” Said Scarecrow’s voice.

Her head whipped around to where it had come from, she hadn’t noticed another person with her, and found it was only a speaker on the wall. Oh. That made more sense.

“Now, this is a new batch. I’ve been working to perfect my fear toxin, and I think this is the one! Do tell me about your experience when this is over.”

She watched as the gas flooded into the room. Adrenaline coursed through her as she looked around. She needed a way out.

There! Maybe! Whatever, she had no other options!

She ran to the observation window. It was one-way glass, she couldn’t see through it, but they had to be there. She threw herself at it as hard as she could and groaned in pain when she realized it was bullet-proof glass. Now she knew how Hood had felt when he’d crashed into that window. No wonder he hadn’t moved for twenty minutes afterward. Her body throbbed painfully.

And why should she move? It wasn’t like she was going to be able to avoid the gas.

She closed her eyes as the gas enveloped her.

For a second there was nothing.

She allowed herself to think that, hey, maybe it was a bust. He’d said it was a new version, after all...

And then she heard screaming.

Her eyes snapped open and she watched with horror at the scene unfolding in front of her.

She was at the Wayne Gala, if the fancy outfits and semi-familiar surroundings meant anything. But it wasn’t the calm, posh event that she’d been told about: everyone was running around and screaming at the top of their lungs.

And she could see why.

The Rogues stood at the door, their goons behind them.

And they were all holding machine guns.

“Tikki, spots on!”

She ran through the crowd, pushing past terrified civilian after terrified civilian. She could see the bats doing the same.

And then they opened fire.

People fell to the ground, riddled with holes.

She couldn’t think about it. She ran faster, desperate to do something. Anything.

A shot nailed her in the head.

She was unconscious before she’d even hit he ground.

Marinette groaned as she pushed herself to a sitting position. Just a nightmare, then. Sunlight glared down on her and she brought up a hand to use to block some of it out so she could open her eyes a little.

And god, did she wish she hadn’t. The area around her was covered in bodies. People, the ghost of their last moments of terror on their face, all slumped over each other, motionless. Dried blood coated the grass.

“Oh, thank god, you’re up. You can fix it, right?” Said Tim, and she quickly turned to look at him. She hadn’t been expecting to see him or the rest of the bats there. She breathed a sigh of relief. They were okay, at least…

And then she processed what he’d asked her.

She looked at the floor to avoid their gazes, which was decidedly a mistake. Bile built up in the back of her throat.

So… so much blood…

Damian clicked his tongue. “C’mon, hurry up. They’ve been dead for ages. They’re going to smell soon.”

Her eyes snapped back to him, and she would have been angry at any other time. Now, though, as she looked at them all…

“I… I didn’t summon a lucky charm. I can’t… I’m so sorry...”

Jason’s eyes widened behind his mask, and then he groaned and brought his hands to his hair. “What the fuck do you mean you can’t?!”

She winced.

“You didn’t think to cast a lucky charm beforehand?” Said Damian with a scowl on his face.

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think of it.”

“How? It’s literally your thing,” said Dick.

Marinette felt tears spill over the front of her mask and she brought up a hand to wipe them away, only to find it was coated in dried blood.

“What the fuck do we even keep you around for?” Jason said, pulling her attention back to them.

Dick pinched the bridge of his nose. “We should have known after that whole ‘murdering a clerk’ incident.”

“That was an accident!”

“The only way you could kill someone accidentally is if you were an idiot.”

“I’m not stupid, but it was an accident!”

They weren’t looking at her anymore.

“I told you we should have tried harder to make her give up after the convenience store stuff,” said Bruce with a tiny frown.

“No, what we should have done was never involve her at all,” said Damian.

Marinette hugged her knees to her chest. Every word they’d said was like another tiny knife through her heart, but…

She looked at Tim. He’d been silent for a while. Surely, he would understand. They were friends, after all, had been even before the costumes and vigilantism. At least he had to have some sort of care for her --.

But then he sneered at her. “How did you fail at the one thing we needed you to do? Could you be any more useless?”

Her heart shattered.

“I’m… I’m not useless! I can still do things! I messed this one up… really bad… but that doesn’t mean I can’t still be useful!” She pushed herself to her feet and ran to him. She grabbed his arm. “Please! I promise, there’s still so much I can do! Please --!”

But he pulled his arm from her with a disgusted expression.

She watched the bats walk away and slowly fell to her knees.

“Please… I’m not useless… Please...”

She buried her face in her hands. Tears trickled between her fingers.

“Don’t leave…”

~

You’d think that, after the third or fourth time, having your friends leave you would hurt less. That you would be numb. But it only seemed to get worse and worse.

Every single time she saw their disgusted expressions, every time she listened to their hurtful words, every time she watched their retreating backs…

It cut deeper and deeper.

She wanted it to stop. Why wouldn’t it? Was there anything she could do to stop it? Or would she be doomed to be alone for the rest of her life?

The screaming restarted.

She sighed and opened her eyes to terrified elites.

Here we go again...

~

A hand gently shook her awake and she opened her eyes.

This was new. Maybe the fear toxin had decided to get creative this time.

Harley was leaning over her.

Marinette would have screamed if she could, but her throat was raw from crying.

Still, she sunk into the floor as much as she could.

“Hey, darlin’, it’s okay…” said Harley gently. She held out a hand and Marinette flinched. Then she realized that the woman was offering a glass of water.

She frowned. Was it poisoned? She didn’t think she had a deep-rooted fear of being poisoned, but there was no other reason the woman would be doing this for her.

Harley sighed quietly and took a sip, then offered it to Marinette again. “It’s not poisoned, darlin’.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly and slowly downed the water. It wasn’t enough. She felt like she could drink an entire pool’s worth of water and still be thirsty. But she wasn’t going to risk asking for it.

The woman smiled faintly and reached out a hand. Marinette flinched again, but the woman continued on to cup her cheek.

It took everything in her not to lean into the woman’s touch. When was the last time she’d had skin-to-skin contact…?

But there had to be some sort of catch.

“Why?” She whispered, her voice raspy.

“Because it’s been a long few days for you.”

Days? No wonder she felt so awful.

“Aren’t you mad? I was going to betray you…”

“I wasn’t mad, just disappointed,” she said, running her thumb along her cheekbone gently.

God, the little affection felt amazing…

But…

“I’m not going to kill Batman. I’m not of use to you.”

The woman withdrew her hand. Marinette felt like crying. Damn it, why did she have to go and ruin it like that? She could have pretended for longer. No wonder people left her so often. She wasn’t even smart enough to know when to lie...

“But you could be,” she promised.

Her head shot up to look at Harley, but she was already leaving.

The wall opened up and she paused before stepping through to give Marinette an unreadable smile.

“I’ll let you think about it. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

The door shut behind her and green gas began to flood the room.

~

Harley was back again. This time, she had given her a granola bar.

She scarfed it down. Her face reddened when she saw Harley looking at her and she wiped a few stray crumbs from her mouth.

The woman chuckled and reached out to get some crumbs she’d missed.

Marinette closed her eyes.

“I know you’re trying to ‘break’ me. I heard you tell Joker you would. It won’t work.”

Harley didn’t say anything, just allowed her to continue on.

“The whole ‘psychological torture’ thing isn’t that different from just torturing me physically. It takes longer and uses more resources. Don’t see why you bother.”

She sighed quietly. “There’s more to it than that, darlin’.”

Marinette frowned.

“Wow, weren’t you supposed to be smart?” She made a quiet ‘tsk’ sound and pulled her hand away. “Maybe you were right, you can’t kill Batman. I don’t know why we expected you to be able to beat the ‘World’s Greatest Detective’ when you can’t even figure out what I’m doing…”

She knew it was just to get a rise out of her. She knew it was meant to annoy her. Didn’t mean it didn’t work.

“I’m not stupid!” She hissed.

The woman smirked a little. “Sure you aren’t.”

“I’m not!”

“Really?” Harley laughed. “It’s not like you can prove it stuck in here, and it’s not like you’re going to try and kill Batman. You said it yourself, you wouldn’t do that. So, what, are you going to do taxes?”

She jutted her chin out. “I could. Give me your tax papers. I’ll do them.”

The woman raised her eyebrows slightly and gave an unreadable smile, reaching out and ruffling her hair.

Marinette allowed herself to lean into her touch. Just a little.

She watched the woman leave and broke into a smile.

Not only was she going to be able to prove that she could be useful (she’d done taxes with her parents several times as a kid, she could do Harley’s no problem), she was going to do it without agreeing to kill Batman.

Also, since the fear toxin apparently wasn’t making an appearance this time, she was almost getting bored.

She was going to call the fact that she was about to do Harley’s taxes for her a win.

~

A few hours later, Harley stepped in and dropped the stack of papers in a half-awake Marinette’s lap.

She startled and looked around wildly to figure out what was going on. Then she relaxed when she saw the woman. She was handed a crayon and she raised her eyebrows.

“Only writing utensil you can’t kill anyone with,” explained Harley. She grinned at her. “You sure you can do this?”

“Of course I’m sure!”

Harley laughed and leaned down, pressing a kiss to Marinette’s forehead. “Good for you, darlin’.”

She beamed as she got to work.

~

Harley smiled faintly as she walked in a few days later. She offered some coffee and a few cookies. Marinette gave a whoop and took them from her, relishing in the taste a little. Was it at all nutritious? No. But it was a hell of a lot tastier than water and granola bars.

“How’s it coming along?”

“Done!” Said Marinette brightly, handing over the papers.

The woman raised her eyebrows as she flipped through it. Her eyes scanned them and she chuckled. “Wow, it’s all correct…”

“Oh, it’s no big deal.”

It was a big deal. She’d spent days poring over every number she wrote, overthinking even the most basic math problems. But she wasn’t going to say that. Harley looked so proud of her, surely she’d be more proud if she thought it wasn’t that hard.

And, to Marinette’s delight, the woman leaned down and wrapped her in a hug. “Nice job, darlin’! You’ve done so well!”

~

When the door opened again, Marinette beamed and looked up.

Only for her smile to drop.

Because Joker was with Harley.

She squeaked and attempted to fade into the wall behind her.

Harley made a quiet ‘tsk’ sound with her tongue at Marinette’s obvious horror. “Now, now, darlin’... be nice.”

Marinette hesitated, but she did carefully walk over to Joker and shake his outstretched hand. “Nice to see you,” she strained.

He looked a little bit impressed, though not that much.

Harley, however, openly smiled. She wrapped her arm around Marinette’s shoulders and pulled her into her side. “Thank you.”

She nodded ever so slightly.

~

They waved at his retreating back and Marinette waited until the door was closed behind him to speak: “I’m not going to kill Batman. Not for you, and especially not for him.”

The woman pulled away from her with a frown on her face.

She tried not to whine at the loss of touch. After all, it was her fault. She’d ruined the moment, once again, by admitting that she wasn’t going to be useful in the one way Harley so desperately wanted her to.

“Really?” She sighed and shook her head. “Maybe you and Joker were right. Maybe I’m putting too much work into this… I don’t know. I’ll let Scarecrow have you while I figure it out. Who knows how long that’ll take.”

Marinette squeaked. “You’re coming back in the meantime, right?”

“I don’t know.”

Nononononono she couldn’t be left alone again! Especially not with the fear gas! That was even worse!

But…

She couldn’t kill Batman either.

She couldn’t.

Right?

She watched Harley leave and fell to her knees. She could see the fear toxin slowly streaming in.

~

She found she had made up her mind.

The bats had yet to find her, despite it having been around a month from her approximations. If they’d really wanted her back, wouldn’t they have done so by now? Sure, it was made harder by the fact that they couldn’t track her, but weren’t they supposed to be the ‘World’s Greatest Detectives’ or something? They must not be trying.

And, besides…

When she’d broken the news, she’d been wrapped in a bone-crushing hug.

Marinette choked back a sob, though she didn’t know why. She hugged back, burying her face in Harley’s neck.

It felt so good to be held like this. Like she mattered. Like someone cared about her.

She would do anything to keep it that way.

A part 2 has been made

[theskywaslookingback]

I've seen you taking prompts and if it's not a bother, Jontim with angy Tim letting all his anger go after Elias or someone equally nasty hurts Jon real bad?

you have the patience of a saint. here you go.

litany (in which certain things are crossed out)

"Every morning the maple leaves. Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out You will be alone always and then you will die. So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog of non-definitive acts, something other than the desperation. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing. You want a better story. Who wouldn’t?" - Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, Richard Siken

When the tape clicks on, Tim can’t even find it in himself to be surprised. He’s been viciously marking over statements for at least an hour, highlighting anything that mentions a circus, skin, or a dance. There’s less of it than he thinks there should be, and every minute his eyes skim over written word after written word makes his blood boil higher and higher. He throws the marker to the floor, the bump and skid of the nub marking a trail of yellow from the desk to the floor where it rolls under Melanie’s desk.

“What do you want?” He asks flatly, his shoulders tucked up to his ears.

The recorder whirrs, cassette winding in its casing, a low hum of static emitting from it as the previously locked trap door to the tunnels swings open. Jon comes tumbling out, breathing hard. He looks...God, he looks like a wreck. Hair cropped haphazardly short, like chunks had been cut out with a bread knife, clothes hanging off him like rags. The door closes with an ominous creak, and is that--? Vaguely he makes out the shape of a hand, though that’s not right because no hand looks like that , waving right before the trap door shuts. But no, that’s…

“Well then, where have you been?”

Jon looks up, startled. There are deep bags under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in weeks. His eyes dart off of Tim to the desk where the tape recorder sits. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I was...gone.” He says awkwardly. He keeps rubbing at his wrist and hand like they ache, and the skin does look rubbed red and raw.

“I know that. It’s not like you’re ever really here .”

The last time Tim really saw Jon must have been at least six weeks ago, shortly after their boss outed himself as a murderer . Tim tries not to think about that overmuch. The way Jon’s hand had gone for the recorder almost absently as he tried to apologize, to explain. Tim had yelled, he remembers that, said if Jon wanted to talk they would have to do it without the recorders and then Jon had left . And, well, that was the end of it, really.

Now, Jon flinches. His eyes resolutely trained on the floor at Tim’s feet and Tim can’t remember the last time that Jon looked him in the eye. Like everything else at the moment it just makes him angry.

“I-- I have to talk to Elias.” Jon says. He pulls himself up to standing and shuffles past Tim like it hurts to move.

“Jon.”

Jon stops. “Get this thing off my desk.” Tim can’t bear to look at him.

“Oh.” Christ , why does he sound so sad? “Yes, of course.”

The hand that comes down is so small, dark skin pocked over with holes that mirror the ones in Tim’s own hand. He remembers when they were both smooth, unmarked. The weight of that hand in his own, the feel of that palm under his lips. That seems so long ago now, before the stale air of the Archives turned them both sour and rotten. Jon’s hand closes around the smooth dark tape recorder, fingers folded around it both careless and reverential. His wrist and forearm are covered in abrasions, the skin peeling back in spots leaving half scarred, raw red skin. Before he can stop himself Tim closes his hand over Jon’s.

Jon jerks, in either fear or surprise Tim can’t say. “Tim, I--”

“What did this?”

“Tim it’s-- it’s fine I just...I need to talk to Elias.” Jon tries to pull away again and Tim squeezes hard enough to feel those delicate bones under him shift. “Ah! Ah! Tim--”

“ Jon .”

“Ah, the Circus, it was-- one of them kidnapped me and ah, they had me tied to a chair.” Jon chokes a little on his own words. “They-they we’re going to uh, wear me. I-I-I think it had something to do with a ritual. A dance. They called it the Unknowing .”

Tim lets go and Jon takes a step back, cradling his hand and tape recorder next to his heart. Tim can barely hear anything over the rushing of blood in his ears. He flexes his fists, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his chest.

“So what they just...let you go?”

“Not exactly,” Jon huffs, “it’s-- it’s complicated.” He glances over his shoulder to the Archives entrance, like calculating his chance at getting out the door before Tim can-- do what? Stop him? Is that what he wants to do? He looks so tired, his shoulders hunched and arms scabbed over with half healed rope burns.

“They hurt you.”

Jon huffs out a breath, preparing for...something. Some kind of denial most likely, or maybe even an apology. Whatever it is Tim can’t hear it right now. He stands, the scrape of his chair on the floor making Jon’s jaw snap shut.

He swallows. “Well, yes and no. I mean, my skin is in better condition than it’s been in years.” Jon smiles for the briefest moment before it falters into a grimace, “Is that weird? That’s...kind of all they talked about.”

“Of course that’s weird ,” Tim bites, “everything about you is weird .” He takes a full step toward the door before Jon grabs his arm. Tim shakes him off, more violently than he needs to or even intends.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to have a word with Elias.”

“Why?” Jon asks. It sounds startled out of him, like the abrupt firing of a gun. The tape crackles in Jon’s hand, growling like an aching, hungry stomach. “I mean, why do you care?” He doesn’t sound accusatory or angry, just curious.

‘I don’t,’ is what Tim wants to say. It’s what he means to say. But instead his stomach swoops and the words tumble from his mouth, unwanted and unbidden but true, “You’re all I have left.”

Jon’s mouth does something funny, trembling into an ‘o’. He fumbles for words, though nothing comes out but vague stammering noises. Tim snarls and grabs him by the shirt, twisting his hand in the fabric and pulling hard until Jon meets him chest to chest.

“Do not do that to me ever again.”

“I-I didn’t mean to--”

“Don’t.”

Jon goes quiet. His hand twitches like he wants to grab Tim’s but lets it hover indecisively to the side until Tim lets him go. Jon stumbles backward, bumping into Martin’s desk. “Okay,” he says hoarsely, “okay, I-- okay.” Then, even softer with his eyes on the floor he says, “I’m sorry.”

The inside of his chest explodes white hot, a mix of anger and guilt and shame, and Tim slams his hand on his desk. The cheap wood rattles, pens bouncing off onto the floor and rolling away. His poor desk plant tips to the side and crashes hard against the wood floor and spills ceramic and potting soil across the ground. Martin comes thundering down the stairs a moment later, his eyes wide and startled.

“Tim, what’s--” He starts before his eyes land on Jon and his mouth drops into a soft ‘o’. “Jon?”

“Martin,” Jon breathes, and it comes out sounding overwhelmingly relieved.

Martin crosses the room to fuss, his hands reaching out like he wants to touch but knows he’s not allowed. He reaches out and takes the tape recorder from Jon’s hand, overly gentle. Tim can’t...he turns and strides up the stairs with furious purpose. Martin can do whatever he’d like. If he wants to work himself up into knots trying to care for someone with no sense of self preservation or common sense he’s certainly welcome to do so. Tim’s already burned that bridge.

It’s just...when Tim had nothing else at least he had Jon. And there is a very small part of himself that misses Jon terribly. The easy laughter drawn out by late nights with bad takeout, bent over research reports and books on the occult they couldn’t possibly hope to understand. The curve of his mouth, small and shy, after a kiss. The feel of his hand on Tim’s back, or holding his own. His body, small and lithe, curled into Tim’s side while they walked to the tube after work.

He misses his friend more than any of that. He misses the trust.

Tim is at Elias’ office before he can even think about it, riding a wave of rage so strong it almost knocks the air out of him. He throws the door open, letting it slam against the wall as he storms through.

Elias sits back in his chair and doesn’t even pretend at surprise. “Hello Tim.” He says cordially, smiling for all the world like nothing could ever go wrong for him. “Jon’s back then, is he?”

“You knew,” Tim starts, voice simmering with fury, “this whole time you knew where he was, didn’t you.”

Elias blows out a slow breath. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”

“Tim--”

“Elias.”

“I knew Jon had been taken, yes,” Elias says, splaying his hands out in front of him as though in supplication, though the look on his face is amused, “but I did not know where. I was working on it, though it seems Jon did not need my help in the end.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Tim snarls, slamming his hands down on Elias’ desk and leaning in toward him. “Why didn’t you say anything ? Why did you let us think--” He cuts himself off, biting into the inside of his own cheek.

Elias tilts his head and narrows his eyes, there’s something vaguely predator-like about that gaze that almost makes Tim uneasy. “And what good would that have done, Tim? Hm? Would you have gone to him? Saved him?” Elias leans in and his eyes are so bright Tim has to lean back. “No. Don’t lie to yourself. You would have watched too, just to see him suffer because you thought he deserved it.”

Tim clenches his jaw, teeth clacking together hard enough it sends a jolt of pain up the muscle. “You--” He starts, but there are no words to convey the wrath making itself at home in his ribcage. A rage turned inward because Elias is right and Tim doesn’t know what to do with that.

Elias just stares at him, patiently, eyes bright and lips turned up in amusement. When nothing else comes he finally leans back into his chair. “Right,” He closes his eyes for half a heart beat and then looks up at the door, “That will do for now, I think. Jon is on his way up here right now so no need to close the door on your way out.”

Tim turns on his heel and leaves, his throat tight. He does slam the door shut behind himself as he leaves, an attempt to soothe the complicated torrent working its way around his chest, making it hard to breathe. He sees Jon down the hall, striding purposefully toward Elias’ office. He’s barehanded, no tape recorder in sight, and somehow that gives Tim enough pause to gasp in a breath.

Jon hesitates when he sees Tim, rocking back on his heel like he doesn’t know where to go, and then Tim takes two steps forward and pulls him into his arms. It’s not quite a hug, Tim’s arms are too tight and Jon has no way to move either forward or back, but Tim presses his face into Jon’s hair anyway just for a moment. When he lets go Jon stares up at him, bewildered.

“Tim?"

“No.” Tim says sharply, “Don’t start, just--”

“Right,” Jon says, confused, “right, okay--”

“Just--” Tim huffs out a breath, “Stay safe.” He says and leaves Jon standing there in the middle of the hall.

Tim has lost so much in his life. He’d lost Danny, and he’d lost Sasha. Now he’d almost lost Jon and didn’t even realize it. It wouldn’t happen again, Tim thought fiercely, not ever again.

[quillsareswords]

Smoke: VII | Stay Awhile

SUMMARY: After vanishing for four years, you return to the place you once called home, to the people you once called family. We all carry our baggage in different ways, using different techniques to hide it. You just happen to hide it in cigarette smoke.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: While the antique book shop on Fifth Avenue may have burned down long  before your return, the owner you never forgot is still making an  impact on your life, and she doesn’t even know it.

SERIES WARNINGS: cigarette smoking; underage drinking; gang activity; violence; swearing; blood; self-hate

MASTER LISTS in BIO

    The air is warmer now, than it was a few hours ago. Your windows are open, floors freshly swept, dishes freshly washed, bed freshly made. Outside is crisp and clean, and you've decided the inside should be too.

    Only a lamp illuminates the room, the setting sun does the rest, leaving the corners of the room bathed in comforting shadows.

   You’re in the middle of sorting out the good food in your refrigerator from the bad when he arrives.

   Three knocks exactly, no particular rhythm. You leave the decidedly shamefully rotted takeout in the trash and close the heavy white door before you answer the door. “Hey,” you greet fluidly, welcoming him inside without a second thought.

   “Hello,” he replies, stepping past you to escape the chill in your building’s halls, only to be sorely disappointed in your home. “Is your heating out?” he asks pointedly. You note his coat is buttoned, behind the stack of five books he holds in his arms.

   You stare blankly for a moment, before you shut and lock the door behind him. “No,” you answer slowly. “I thought it was pretty warm out, so I opened the windows. Are you cold?”

   He doesn’t answer verbally, just rolls his eyes. He makes his way to your ratty leather couch. “Anyway, I brought your books.” He sets the the stack of literature in the coffee table as he sits down.

   You nod. “Thanks. For driving all the way over, I mean.” You pick up an empty white mug from the end table by your recliner. “Can I get you anything? I can put the kettle on, if you want tea.”

   He declines, and watches you pour yourself a fresh cup of coffee. Then, you take your seat in the recliner.

   You pull the stack of books across the table, curiously skimming the titles on the spines. Griffin’s Castle, The Dragon Queen, Catcher in the Rye, Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children. An odd group of books, you think. At the top, you open the cover of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

   “Where were you today?” Damian barked from the bottom the tree. You peered down at him from your claimed branch, marking your page with a finger. He looked angry, messenger bag still slung across his torso, glaring up at you with his hands on his hips.

   You rolled your eyes and stubbed out a cigarette, flick it away so he doesn’t catch it. “Jesus, you sound like Nick,” you gruffed. “I’ve been here, mostly. What’s it to you?”

   He threw you an incredulous look. “You were supposed to cover for me in Lit, remember?”

   You heaved a heavy breath. “No, actually, I forgot.” The edge of annoyance to your voice is gone. “Sorry.”

   You heard him grumble something about you never listening, as he started climbing up to his branch, next to yours. He situated himself there, and hung his bag on the chopped stub above him. “So, what? You spent your whole day up in this tree?”

   “Yeah, pretty much.”

   “What are you reading?” He reached over and pushes your book one way, to read the cover. “The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland?”

   You nodded, rough bark of the tree scraping against your scalp and probably knotting your hair. “Yeah, Granny Crockett loaned it to me. She said it’s a crime that I haven’t read it already.”

    “Sorry about the dust. They’ve been sitting in a box in my closet for some time.”

   You gaze shoots up to meet his. “The dust-? Oh, yeah. It’s fine.” You brush off the thin gray film from the title.

   “Alfred sent this, as well,” he adds, pulling a piece of paper from the inner pocket in his jacket. “He thought you’d want it, for whatever reason. Found it when he was dusting, apparently.”

   You accept the thin paper and turn it over. It isn’t a piece of paper at all, actually. It’s a photograph, of you, and Damian, and Nick, all dressed up and ready for the Freshman Dance.

   You smile down at it, shaking your head at the bright purple, sequin speckled dress your past self wears. “I can’t believe you let me go out in that thing.”

   “I did no such thing,” he argues. “I told you the sequins were too much, but you wouldn’t listen. You never did, anyway.”

   You laughed. “I’m the one who doesn’t listen? Which one of us took Rebecca Tacks?”

  He shook his head. “You encouraged the whole ordeal. I would have much preferred to stay home and beat you at checkers until you flipped the board,” he countered, leaning back against the cracked leather.

   “I told you to get a date, not ask out the rudest person you could find!” you defended. “I told you the night would end in tears, now didn’t I?”

   “Maybe you were in tears, but I sure wasn’t,” he chuckled.

   “Only because you didn’t think the junior class president dumping green punch all over the pageant girl was as funny as I did!”

   You left it at that. A long moment stretched on, both of you lost in quiet laughter and memories of screaming teenage girls and a howling student body.

   You stare fondly at the photo still pinched between your fingers. You wonder what prom was like. You wonder who he took.

   “On second thought,” Damian says suddenly, retaking your attention, “I’d appreciate a cup of tea.”

   You blink. You don’t just hear the request, but the ask lying between the lines.

   Can I stay awhile?

   “Really?”

   He nods. “If it isn’t a problem.”

   You smile. “Of course it isn’t.”

   The corners of his lips tilt. “Do you have any-?”

   “Earl Gray,” you say confidently, practically jumping out of your chair, “two scoops of sugar and fresh lemon.”

   When you look back at him from across your kitchen island, he’s staring at you like he’s seen a ghost.

   You grin teasingly. “Do you know how many times I had to make it for you when we were younger? It’s practically ingrained into my memory.” You turn away to get a mug down from the cabinet. You don’t dare mention the number of times you made an extra cup because the smell reminded you of home that first year you were gone.

   While you stand in the kitchen, your back to him, as you wait for the kettle to reheat, he steals the moment to look around your apartment. He hadn’t really gotten the chance last time.

   It isn’t a place he ever imagined you to live.

    It’s nothing like the place you dreamed about growing up. You always spoke of a big balcony, high ceilings. Big windows, but some that could be left open in the spring and the fall to flood the place with fresh air. You wanted large rooms, an open floor plan, and pictures of friends and family on every wall. You wanted a place that felt like home, with soft furniture and plenty of places for visitors to sit. Somewhere big, but not so big that it felt lonely when no one was there with you. Somewhere to go after a long day where you could relax. Somewhere warm, where your family would come to visit for the holidays, wasn’t so close to home that they’d visit too often.

   This is not that place. This place is dark, the wallpaper is peeling in patches, the ceiling is cracked in sport. It smells vaguely of must, beneath the air freshener. Your furniture, while sentimental, is old and warn and falling apart. There’s no room for entertainment, the ceilings are low, the windows are small, the kitchen is dingy. Worst of all, it doesn’t feel like a home.

   With a quick glance, yes, the place has a specific feel that he can only attribute to you, but upon further inspection, it tells an entirely different story. It reminds him more of a safehouse than a home. Somewhere Jason would store space weaponry in a neighboring city. He can count the number of personally decorations on one hand. The more he looks around, the deeper dread burrows beneath his skin. Anything sentimental could be cleared out and packed up in less than an hour.

   Your words from the cafe echo in his mind. When you said you were thinking about leaving, he didn’t think you meant at the drop of a hat.

   Thick glass hitting wood jerks him from his thoughts. Your warm smile is familiar in a way he can’t ignore.

   “It’s hot, so give it a minute,“ you warn. “I know my interior design skills aren’t the greatest, but I didn’t think it looked that bad, all things considered,” you try sparking a conversation, but you look a little nervous. You must have caught him staring.

   He shakes his head. “It looks fine.” He feels as though he’s about to choke on words he isn’t ready for you to hear, so he looks around in a tempered frenzy for something to divert your attention. A framed picture on the wall between your windows is just what he needs. “Who is that?”

   You don’t have to look at the picture to know which one it is. You’d debated on hanging that one. You smile sadly, eyeing it anyway. You swallow thickly, and to stall for a little time, you get up to get it.

   You take the flimsy wooden frame down, gently, as if your afraid it will break under your gaze. You hold out the 7x10 photograph to him.

   He takes it, gingerly staring it down while you find your seat again. It’s an image of you and a man, standing together in front of a grand fountain. His arm is hooked around your shoulders, both of you grinning happily. Something stirs in his chest- he doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen you smile like that. The man his tall, dark skin, black hair, kind eyes. A tattoo is peeking out beneath the sleeve of a denim jacket.

   “His name was Kennedy,” you finally relay. “Kennedy Walter. I always called him Kenny.” You sniffle, and decide to stall a little longer. “I was living in Detroit when we met. I was working as a bouncer at a club. Had a nice little apartment with massive windows on one wall and a loft bedroom on the other. There was this nice little theater down the street from me. They had a theme for every night of the week, and sometimes they’d run these marathons of classics where you could buy one ticket and sit for the whole day.”

   You’re rambling, and he knows it. It’s something you used to do when you were upset: talk about the good things before the bad. He glaces at you. Your voice sounds strained. You’re staring at the coffee table, but he knows you aren’t really looking at the wood. “Were you and he . . ?”

   “Engaged,” you smile. “We were engaged. But, um, a little over a year ago, I was, uh- I got a call while I was at work.” Your voice breaks, eyes dropping to your lap. You pick up your tea and take a few gulps to relieve he tension of grief. “There had been a car accident.”

   He nods morosely, staring down at the man in the image. He must have been something, to have caught your eye. You barely dated through high school. “I’m sure he was a good man.”

   You nod. “He was. I had to leave all my furniture when I moved, because of him,” you laugh, and it doesn’t sound forced, but it’s dying. “I had this ugly orange couch, you see. God, it was such an ugly color. It was only thirty dollars at Goodwill, which is why I got it. It didn’t match anything else in the house, literally. But it grew on me, so I never replaced it. It was like that, um- what was it? That stupid stuffed cat I got from Amusement Mile, remember? On Spring Break?”

   He nods. You’d enlisted him to help you get it. It was quite possibly the ugliest toy he’d ever seen in his life, but it had a place on your bed for the following two years.

   “Yeah, it was like that. He always teased me about it, but after awhile it grew on him too. We named it Fungus, because it grew on people.” You laugh again, a little looser this time. “God that couch was hideous.”

   He smiles. It falters though, because he understands now that you weren’t just gone. You weren’t away from Gotham. All this time, you’d been building a new life. You’d been living, not running. But none of it had anything to do with him.

   “If you don’t mind,” he starts, quietly, “why did you leave Detroit? You talk about living there as if it were a fairy tale.”

   You take another gulp of tea. “Because that’s what it was,” you answer hoarsely. “It was too perfect. And then Kenny was gone. And my apartment was too big for me.” You stare down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers. “And I missed home.”

   His chest feels tight. He doesn’t really know why. Or maybe it’s more than he isn’t willing to admit how much it hurts to see you so pained over this. He swallows it. “Home?”

   You nod hesitantly. “Gotham. I grew up here, ya know? You and I owned these streets back in the day,” you chuckle. You steal a look at his face, but he isn’t smiling. “I missed you. I don’t think I ever told you that.”

   When you look again, he looks somewhere between stricken and conflicted.  His face is pinched as he stared through your picture. “No. You didn’t.”

   “Well, I did. I missed you a lot. And your family. And mine. I didn’t want to leave you, Damian. You have to know that.”

   His body tenses, and you feel his energy shift. “No, I don’t. You left me in a burning building-”

   “I know,” you interrupt quietly. “And I shouldn’t have. I should have kept a better hold of your hand, I should have drove you home, I should have told you everything that night. I should have done a lot of things. But I didn’t, and I’m trying to apologize for them before I lose the chance.”

   That stops him. He relaxes into your couch again. “Before what?”

   You blink slowly, turning your gaze toward the window across from you, which connects to the fire escape. “There’s a reason I had to leave, Damian. Shit happens.”

   His eyes soften. His mind races, realizations dawning. He opens his mouth to reply, but the sharp beeping of his phone cuts him off.

   He answers it without moving from the couch. “Hello?”

   Your apartment is so quiet that you hear Bruce on the other end. “We have an emergency. We need you home. Now.”

   His eyes meet yours. He seems remorseful. “I’m on my way.”

   You divert your attention, excusing yourself to the kitchen with your half empty mug. You hear him pocket his phone and the remaining leather of your couch groan as he stands.

   “I’m sorry,” he says. “If I could-”

   “I know,” you assure. “Probably best anyway,” you brush off, “I'd probably be a blubbering mess of runny mascara and tears if we kept talking about this any longer.” You’re only partly joking.

   He looks at you for a few moments. Standing in your ratty apartment, between your living room and your front door, staring. His eyebrows are slouched together as he works his jaw.

   You turn around at the sound of approaching footsteps, but you’re just a hair too late. You collide with a broad chest, long, warm arms wrapping around you tightly. You’re overhwelmed by he wonderful smell of leathery cologne and bourbon shampoo. Your brain short circuits and crashes like a 2007 laptop trying to run The Sims.

   “I’m glad you’re home,” he says slowly, genuinely, surely.

   He’s gone before you can react. By the time you’re ready to hug him back, your front door is already clapping shut.

   With your apartment once again left in silence and you to your own devices, you brace yourself against the counter, mind whirling thoughts a million miles a minute and heart hammering so hard that you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

TAGS: @howcanibreathewithnozaire @avis-writeshq @mello-10 @ukuleleatnight @chikorita-stuff @idkmanicantenglish

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas20 Day 11: Hybrid, once again

It’s so late and I’ve had a day of... futility, so I’m pulling out some Hybrid, which is just the biggest fic I’ve ever attempted and makes me feel slightly woozy. This is a selection of scenes I’ve worked on, with the first one following on from last year’s snippet, for context

A lot of this is set-up to how Alice actually becomes friends with the Cullens and the lead up to her relationship with Jasper. I also love Alice and Cynthia and their gay dads. A lot of this will be changed or rewritten for the Official Version, so I figure it deserves to be immortalised before I start my tear-down. 

Have a great day, I’m off to bed <3 

NSFW NSFW NSFW. (The most graphic section is marked, but there are implications dotted throughout. Use your best judgement.)

Trigger warnings for body dysphoria (minor)

(AU in which Alice is the daughter of a vampire-human hybrid, who was raised in an abusive home, and ends up in the care of her father and his husband in Forks. Hybrid biology is a little different - or rather, expanded - from canon. This was basically my attempt at expanding the Twilight universe beyond vampires and werewolves and examine the idea that humans are really the worst. At this point in the story, Alice has arrived in Forks, had a less than welcoming experience with the Cullen kids and met Dr Cullen in a professional capacity.)

--

It took me the best part of an hour to walk home from the Cullens. My head was still soupy, the Cullens’ home was outside of town, and I had no idea where I was going.

Oh, and it was dark.

And then I had to lie, and tell Dad and Simon some guy had mugged me, since they were freaking out. I had been gone two hours in an unfamiliar town, and had come home with blood on my clothes. Thank god, my hoodie managed to cover up most of the bandage on my neck.

They had promptly freaked out even more, and called the Chief of Police to report the incident I completely faked, whilst I went upstairs for a shower, peeling off the bandages to get a load of the wound. Angry black sutures ran from an inch or so below my ear, to where my neck joined my shoulder in an uneven line. It made me feel a little woozy, in all honesty. And it would be almost impossible to hide from everyone.  Maybe I could wear a scarf, and claim I wasn’t used to the cold?

And the bruise on my back was impressive, even for me. It was already darkening, and I had no doubt that it would only get worse overnight. An experimental jab to my ribs made the room spin, which made me want to cry. If there was one thing I hated more than anything on the planet, it was broken ribs.

I somehow managed to shower and change into a pair of loose pyjamas that covered all evidence of my injuries without blacking out. My head wouldn’t clear, and when Simon brought up something for me to eat, I could hear the slur in my voice. Dr Cullen must have drugged me.

It took forever for me to find a tolerable position in bed, and I ended up sleeping on my stomach, my arm cradling my ribs. My dreams – thankfully, just dreams – were soupy horror replays of Jasper’s attack; the scrape of his teeth, the tearing, the warmth of my own blood…

… how good it had felt.

When my alarm finally went off after what felt like an hour, I was sleep deprived, grumpy, and in complete agony. I could barely clamber out of bed. I wriggled out of my pajamas, and stared at myself in the mirror. The bruising covered my side was varying shades of black and blue, spread over my shoulder, ribs and back, down to the base of my spine and hip. There was a little swelling, but nothing really worth mentioning.

I ended up finding a button-up dress that I could get into with minimal discomfort, that covered up the bruises, and some of the stitches. Adding a sweater covered the rest up, and I spent nearly half an hour layering concealer and foundation over my pinched and pale face. I swallowed a handful of Advil to help the pain, before I limped downstairs.

Other than a quick reassurance that I was fine, Dad and Simon didn’t bring up last night’s ‘mugging’, and within an hour, I was limping awkward across the Forks High car park, in what felt like a new adventure in pain.

My ribs were probably fractured. God, I was kidding myself. They were definitely fractured. I just needed some decent pain-killer and medical tape, and I’d feel better. This wasn’t exactly a new experience, but it didn’t mean that they were any less uncomfortable, or I was any less miserable.

Luckily, everyone seemed to have lost interest in me as ‘the new girl’, so I limped through the halls without being stared at, or interrupted. Swinging open my locker, I gratefully shoved my bag inside – even carrying it by hand put too much weight on my back and ribs. I’d have to swap books after each class so I could carry them comfortably. Another cherry on top of my awful, hideous day.

Suddenly, there was another person beside me, staring intently. If my nerves weren’t already made of adamantium, I probably would have jumped or shrieked in surprised.

“Good morning,” Edward said.

“Morning,” I said, turning from digging through my books, trying to disguise the stiffness of my movements.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked politely, and I wanted to laugh at his slightly-creepy attempts at small talk. That isn’t a question you normally ask someone you just met, out of nowhere. Did they just not socialize with anyone who didn’t consider A Positive a main course?

“Sure.”

“You should sit with us at lunch,” Edward said in a flat tone, watching me with the sort of look my doctors had always used. It had unnerved me then, and it irritated me now; made me feel like an experiment all over again. If I hadn’t been wounded, I would have accepted the inevitable dislocated fingers and slapped him.

Dislocated fingers are easy to pop back into place.

“Can’t wait,” I said dismissively, mentally praising myself for taking the higher ground, and turned back to my locker, hoping Edward hadn’t noticed how awkwardly I was moving.

Edward watched me rifle through my locker before sighing and walking away, looking pained. I had to resist the urge to stick my tongue out at him, instead slamming my locker and shuffling to my first class.

--

Lunch was bad. I got a sandwich, and limped to the Cullens’ table, where they all stared as I sat. Quite frankly, every time I took a seat, the world around me swam before my eyes.

I took a seat at the end of the table, ignoring the glances that the Cullens were shooting me as I opened my soda, and unwrapped the sandwich.

“Is that for our benefit?” Rosalie asked boredly, nodding towards the sandwich, with a vague sneer of disgust on her face.

I shook my head. “Only for mine,” I said dully, studying my food. It hadn’t occurred to me that my lunch would smell terrible to them, only that I needed to eat so I could take some more painkiller. I hadn’t even really paid attention to their trays – I could see now that they were dotted with cans of soda, fruit, and packaged snacks. Nothing that would smell especially offensive to them – Mom had once told me that it was the preservatives and ingredients mixed together that were the worst to vampire sense; that, and that they could smell decay much faster than humans.

Lunch passed slowly – Edward and Bella chatted quietly, and every so often one of the other Cullens would make a comment, but mostly we sat in silence. I picked at my lunch, and felt my back throb in pain, before the bell finally rung, and they all moved to collect their trays and bags.

I was irritated – why invite me to eat at their table for lunch, when it had been awkward, uncomfortable, and no one had talked?

Whatever. I struggled to my feet and silently left, pausing only to dump my tray, and headed to the library to hide out until the end of the day.

//

Bella was staring at me as I changed out of my gym clothes, the two of us the last ones in the locker room.

“Is that where Jasper…?” she asked as I tugged my shirt on, my jacket following. My back was a rainbow of black, purple and green; so bad that I’d been forced to wear dark colours – you could see the marks through lighter-coloured fabric.

“Uh huh,” I said. “Brick wall, meet spine.”

“They’re pretty worried about you,” Bella said as I carefully shouldered my bag. “Carlisle and Esme want to see you again.”

“They don’t have to worry about me,” I shrugged and winced, regretting the movement. So, I didn’t quite have my full-range of movement back just yet. “I’m fine.”

Bella watched as I gathered my stuff. “They still need an explanation.”

“They’ll be waiting awhile – they clearly told you everything,” I said flatly. It was unspoken, but they clearly expected me not to say anything about them and their secrets, yet they were blabbing my secrets around.  

“You owe it to them, you know everything,” she informed me snootily.

I whipped around, enough for the pain in my back to flare hotly, which just made me madder. “I owe them nothing,” I snapped at her. “They clearly can’t keep their mouths shut when they don’t know anything, so why would I tell them more? And don’t sit there, all high-and-mighty, Bella Swan. You know nothing.”

And I stormed off.

--

Bella clearly ran and tattled on me to Edward, because after school, I saw the Cullens glaring at me as I walked towards the bus. Well, Edward was giving me Death Glares

//

Dr Cullen finally cornered me for a physical, telling Simon to bring me over on Saturday morning. I nearly threw a fit, even though my dreams the night before had made it clear that I wouldn’t be getting out of it easily.

My dreams about Jasper were getting more and more vivid, and the idea of physical contact was so unbearable, I was jumping and flinching when Simon and Dad were getting too close to me. Which was a problem, since Simon was a hugger.

I was sick to my stomach when Simon took me over, clutching the smoothie he’d made me for breakfast. I was wearing loose yoga pants and a t shirt under a sweatshirt to keep everything covered.

Dr Cullen hissed as he saw me in my underwear – the webbing over my chest, the bites on my throat and arms, the angry scar at the back of my left leg, the angry marks on my rib cages.

“What on earth happened to you, Alice?” he asked.

“Hard life,” I shrugged, crossing my arms over my chest. “Can we get this over with?”

“Of course,” Dr Cullen nodded.

—

More than one morning, I’d woken up from my dreams about Jasper with my hand between my legs, sweaty and panting and absolutely ashamed – even sick to my stomach.

All of the Cullen children had made it clear I was their friend out of necessity, rather than interest, and that Rose and Edward barely tolerated me. The idea of a genuine friendship with Jasper was a pipe-dream, let alone an opportunity to recreate my dreams.

Even as my inner-voice pointed out that they weren’t dreams.

And besides, sex was something that was not a good idea. At all. I wasn’t a virgin and I hadn’t been in years. I still had terrors and flashbacks to those terrible, monstrous experiences, I couldn’t imagine it being good, let alone as pleasurable as my brain claimed it would be. In the harsh light of day, I didn’t want anybody touching me.

And who would even want to, with my skinny, scarred body. The curves I had were easily hidden by my clothing.  Short hair. Sour disposition. I’d be alone forever.

It was raining, which suited my mood perfectly when I arrived at school. With the Cullens’ tentative acceptance of me, at least at lunch, I had isolated myself even more from the rest of the student body.

There had been entire days when answering roll call and greeting the Cullens at lunch where the only words I spoke. My personal best was eight words.

I drifted from class to class, finally getting to the cafeteria and claiming my lunch. A soda, an apple and a brownie – there was no way I was going to even pretend to eat the runny tuna salad or the luminous orange mac and cheese.

I hadn’t said anything to Dr Cullen, but I knew my physiology was not coping with my current diet. I was tired and sluggish, eating just two meals a day. In the hospital, I’d had free access to as much milk and as many snacks as I needed. Now, I had to pretend I was normal, and was failing kind of badly, since Simon found the amount of food I packed away at meal times ridiculous.

“Hey,” Emmett nodded at me as I arrived at the table.

“Hey,” I said, taking a seat next to Bella, and opened my soda, and pulled my homework out.

It was the most painless way to fill in the lunch hour – reading was rude, and no one wanted to talk. So, schoolwork.

“You going to eat that?” Rosalie interrupted me.

I looked up. I’d drunk half the soda – revolting diet raspberry had been the only flavor left – and picked at the brownie over the half an hour, but none of it held any interest.

“Probably not,” I said, turning back to my math homework.

“You should.”

Why was Rosalie still talking to me?

“It’s pretty gross,” I said, not looking up. “I’ll eat at home.”

“Bella eats it,” Rosalie said, gesturing at Bella’s empty tray.

“Rosalie,” Edward scowled, as Bella blushed prettily at being the center of attention.

“Bella clearly has a less discerning palate,” I said, closing my books and standing up. “If it’s so important to you, you can eat it, Rosalie.”

And I flounced off.

//

For some unholy reason, Simon and Dad had decided to have a pre-Thanksgiving cocktail party for their co-workers and friends. I stayed out of the planning and decorating, spending my time buried in my homework and ignoring everything around me.

Why Simon decided to invite the entire Cullen clan and Bella and her father, I have no idea. Maybe some misguided attempt to help me socialize. God, I hoped not.

But that meant, the afternoon before Thanksgiving I put on one of the dresses Simon had bought me – with tights – and went downstairs to help set up.

The Cullen kids seemed less than enthused to see me, though Edward was clearly pleased to see Bella.

“I’d apologise, but it wasn’t my idea,” I said as I walked past Emmett and Rosalie with a tray of glasses.

“This will be fun,” Emmett said cheerfully. “We never get to see humans in their natural habitat.”

—

Jasper found me sitting in the kitchen, staring out at the backyard.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I replied, standing up. “Do you need something?”

“No. It just gets a bit much, so many people in one place, with alcohol. Overwhelming,” he shrugged.

“I get it,” I said. “I mean, I can’t imagine what it’s like for your gift. But I get being overwhelmed.”

He offered me a crooked smile. I smiled shyly back, and began stacking dirty glasses. What to say?

“Carlisle is worried about you.”

Apparently, the topic at hand was me.

“He shouldn’t,” I said, as I began to pack the dishwasher. “I’m okay.”

“Esme too – she’s desperate for you to come over to our place so she can attempt to mother you to death,” he continued.

I thought of Mrs Cullen almost longingly for a moment – how sweet and kind she was. Nothing like Mom – Mom had never been warm and fuzzy. Mrs Cullen seemed like she’d be a good mom.

“She’s sweet, but I’m okay, really.”

“Don’t lie to an empath, Alice. I know exactly how you feel.” The ghost of a smirk played at his mouth and I turned to finish gathering up dirty cutlery.

“So how do I feel?” I asked, looking over my shoulder.

Jasper met my gaze. “Like starlight – bright and beautiful, but distant. There’s sadness and longing, ferocity and loyalty, all hidden behind a very tall wall.”

//

Within fifteen minutes, I was being pressed into the couch, with the delicious weight of Jasper on top of me. Somehow, I was down to my tank top, and I was nearly positive the first few buttons of my jeans had been undone. Jasper’s mouth moved down my jaw, to my throat, and I sighed in delight. My hands slipped down, fumbling to get underneath. As my fingers grazed the hard flesh of his stomach, I heard him moan against my throat and I smiled.

“We should stop,” he murmured in my ear.

“Why?” I asked, choosing that moment to shift, aligning our hips, and hitching my knees up. He groaned, pressing me even harder into the couch, one hand tangling in my hair as he pulled me into a scorching kiss.

The sound of the back door opening was very distant, and it didn’t register properly until Simon’s cheerful voice broke the moment.

“Having some good, wholesome fun, kids?” he said.

Jasper only just barely managed to climb off me at human speed, and I half fell off the couch.

Simon was standing there, clutching a bag of groceries, looking amused. Cynthia was standing beside him, her jaw on the floor. Mostly likely because one of the famous Cullens was in her house, making out with her sister.

--

When Dad roped me into helping with the washing up, I knew he and Simon were going to corner me. And they did.

“Alice,” Dad said carefully, as I started wrapping up the leftovers. “Simon told me about how he found you and Jasper Hale this afternoon, and we wanted to chat with you.”

“It won’t happen again,” I said, my eyes firmly on the bowl of leftover couscous.

“That’s not what we’re worried about, sweetheart,” Simon said. “Though, yes, we might need to make some rules about boys in the house. But Alice… how long have you known this boy?”

I frowned, and looked over my shoulder. How did I explain that I knew Jasper, had known him for years? That with our gifts, the second we had met, this had been inevitable.

“Since I met him at school,” I said carefully. “It kind of happened.”

“You’re smart, Alice, and … we’re only saying this because we love you and we don’t want you to get hurt. But it’s only be a couple of weeks, and what I saw this afternoon looked very serious,” Simon continued, giving my father a Look.

“Honey, with the horrible things that happened to you, we just don’t want you to rush into sex and a physical relationship,” Dad finished. “Sometimes it can seem like it might make the hurt and the fear go away, but it doesn’t if you rush into it.”

Oh god. This was horrifying. “Jasper and I weren’t… we aren’t…” I managed, before taking a deep breath. “We aren’t having sex. We aren’t planning on sex yet. He knows I have issues.”

Simon and Dad exchanged looks. “Okay,” Dad said finally

//

NSFW

//

I was trembling slightly as Jasper settled between my thighs, kissing me softly. I was aware of everything – my nudity, Jasper’s nudity, the scent of flowers and fabric softener from my bedding. The coil of warmth in my lower stomach, the circles Jasper was gently tracing on my hip.

“How are you feeling?” he murmured. I could feel him, cool and impossibly hard against my thigh, and I let out a shuddering breath.

“I’m okay,” I managed. “Just nervous. It’s going to hurt.”

“Oh darlin’,” he pressed a kiss to my lips. “If it hurts, I’ll stop. If you want me to, I’ll stop.”

I nodded. “Can you help me a little?” I whispered. “Just a little.”

“If you’re sure?” he said and I nodded. He kissed me deeply, one hand sliding down my thigh to guide my leg around his waist. The warmth in my stomach spread, and the fear seemed to fade. I found myself rocking against him slightly, making indecent sounds.

It didn’t hurt too badly; not like the other times, but I didn’t want to think about those. Proportionately, it was always going to be slightly awkward and uncomfortable the first time around. I knew it would get better, I had seen how good at this we’d become.

That thought just made me press closer to him.

“You’re so warm,” he groaned in my ear, kissing a trail to my neck. I gripped his shoulders, smirking to myself as he began to lick and suck at the juncture of my neck; a vampire with a neck fetish.

//

As I came back down to earth, panting and loose-limbed, Jasper moved about me, carefully but more erratically than before, his eyes darkening to pitch black. And without warning, he flung himself away from me, standing halfway across the room in less than a second.

“I need a moment,” he rasped, panting, his gaze firmly on me. Fuck. He looked like a god, standing there, his blackened gaze firmly on me. I wasn’t sure if it was his gift, the way he looked, but the warmth was building in my stomach again.

//

My mother always talked about vampire mating practices, and made it sound monstrous. Brutal sex, a violent bite to mark each other, and the bond settling over you, like invisible manacles. Cold and vicious, it was meant to be the ultimate unbreakable claim.  

In reality, it was nothing like that; his fingers stroking me, his arm around my waist, and then his mouth on my breast, his teeth biting down as I came apart in his arms, and then the soft lap of his tongue as he closed the wound.

//

Jasper slipped out before dawn with a deep kiss that I felt in my toes, his gaze glued to the throw I had hastily wrapped around myself, so that the neighbours wouldn’t catch me hanging out of my window naked.

“Dad and Simon won’t be home for hours,” I murmured as I leant in for another kiss. “Stay.”

“Alice,” he groaned, nuzzling my cheek. “Don’t tempt me. You need some sleep – and if I stay, there won’t be any sleep. I’ll see you later.”

I scowled but nodded, kissing him one last time. “Go.”

He jumped from my window, and I turned around. I needed clean sheets, a shower, and some sleep.

I just couldn’t stop smiling.

Jasper’s bite stood out on the side of my left breast, raised and pink, though it was already healing. It would fade into my skin over the next day, little more than a shadow against my skin until I touched it and felt the ridges of his teeth-marks. Finally, a bite mark that didn’t make me feel disfigured, or one that would be awkward to cover up. The memory of his teeth in my skin made me shiver; how his teeth were so sharp that it didn’t hurt, and his soft growling purrs, as he licked the wound; the slight sting of the vemon, his lips and fingers grazing the closed wound with such gentle love…

I tumbled back into my bed, with clean sheets and wet hair. I did feel different. I felt peaceful, secure, and loved. I felt human for the first time in a long time.

And I slept without nightmares.

I dreamt, as well, of Jasper getting home and Emmett’s whoop of amusement, and subsequent teasing. Of Edward losing his shit over the idea of a vampire having sex with a human. Of Carlisle being vaguely concerned, Esme looking amused, and Rosalie pissed off that they’d acquired another human pet. She’d be even more of a delight after this, I knew it.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!” I jerked awake to Simon knocking on my door.

//

[chipsfics]

Part 5: Basement

Part 5 is here!!

rated: PG (for injury and swearing)

~~~~

A few weeks later, Tissues and Yinyang had fallen into a sort of rhythm. Get up, get breakfast, sit in the front room and play video games- they still seemed closer than ever, although they weren't making any progress getting better at playing the games. Sometimes the ruckus from Yinyang's rage (mostly Yang's) would annoy the other residents at the hotel. Other than that, things had fallen into a nice, consistent normal. Boring, but normal. Mostly.

It was something small, but... Every odd night, if any thoughts at all, Tissues was thinking about that tiny door they'd found under the wallpaper. What else could the hotel be hiding? Between twisting orange hallways, leaky ceilings and peeling wallpaper- The hotel already seemed like the perfect place to house mysteries. That, or cockroaches. It was the first time in a long time that Tissues had something to think about, to worry about, to wonder about. Most of the time he was just concerned with surviving, any way he can, and keeping himself entertained cooped up while Inanimate Insanity draws closer to curtains. 

It was a bright pink evening, the sunset dazzling and painting the hotel's dusty windows like a canvas. A couple contestants were outside watching the sun go down, but Tissues was in bed, staring at the humming ceiling fan, as he often found himself doing. Around 7pm, if he had the mind and strength to be tossing and turning he would have been. That secret door was there all along, he'd probably walked past it a few times- What other secrets lie hiding, impossibly old, right under his nose, right under his feet? It made him shiver. He wondered if Yinyang thought about it as much as he did, or even at all.

Since their discovery, of course, everyone else in the hotel noticed the door too. The general consensus seemed to be "Huh, weird." OJ seemed a bit upset (mostly confused), but didn't feel like figuring out how to re-wallpaper the peeled area. And of course, nobody had figured out it was them who had uncovered it, or that it had previously housed those mysterious magazines. Tissues sighed, willing himself up into a sitting position and fetching his tattered old journal from his side table's drawer. Once he flipped to the first blank page, a thought hit Tissues sudden as a train and heavy as a bag of bricks.

"Does the hotel have a basement?" 

Tissues, his heart momentarily racing, grabbed his worn out ballpoint pen sitting askew on his bedside table, and quickly scribbled his chickenscratch between the snot-splotched lined paper of the cheap notebook, neglecting to write the date and filling up the page with his large, rough handwriting. 

"DEAR DIARY:" (he wrote in all-caps) "DOES THE HOTEL HAVE A BASEMENT?" (this is when he stopped for a moment, furrowed his brow and chewed on the pen's lid-) "IF SO, WHAT IS IT HIDING..? I KNOW THAT THE ELEVATOR DOESNT GO BELOW F1 BUT IVE NEVER TAKEN THE STAIRS AND THEY MIGHT GO DEEPER. I MIGHT INVITE YY TO CHECK IT OUT WITH ME." (YY is shorthand for Yinyang.) "ON SECOND THOUGHT, NO THEY PROBABLY ARENT INTERESTED IN IT. THE LAST THING I WANT IS TO BE ANY MORE ANNOYING THEN I ALREADY AM." (Tissues scoffed, and put his journal back into the cupboard.) Tissues flopped back down onto his bed and stared at the same old ceiling fan. A small black bug crawled across the lightbulb. Tissues sniffed. The wall clock tick-tocked until it hit 7:23pm. Frenzied thoughts bubbled inside Tissues' mind until they felt like they were going to boil over and out his ears. 

Once he reached for his water bottle and noticed his hand shaking slightly- He decided that tonight was the night. A determined but nervous feeling swept over his body as he huffed and forced himself out of bed and out the door- To the staircase. It was a plain, short walk down, carpeted stairs with nothing to trip or slip on- A short safe staircase. He gulped. Did he trust himself enough to make it down even these easy stairs? 

The dizzy, nervous feeling that made his stomach plunge the two story drop before he did wasn't helping much- He grabbed onto the handrail with a white-knuckle grip. He took a slow step downward, and his head spun- The staircase beneath him seemed to sprawl out into endless darkness. He wasn't about to give up, though. He shook himself off and continued walking down the stairs one step at a time, two steps per stair- Step, step. Step, step. He was making progress! Step, step. Step, step. Once he made it halfway down, he stopped to catch his breath, and.... Oh no. Sniff, Sniff.... He felt a sneeze coming on. Ah... Ah.....

ACHOO! 

Tissues stumbled back and attempted to hang onto the handrail- he tripped over the side and fell, for what seemed like ages, down, down, down, and rolled banging into every odd step on the way down.

"Oof.... Ughh....." Tissues forced himself up, bruised and tattered from his fall, and found himself on cold concrete. Had he ever been on this floor...? It took him a moment to readjust, but as he looked around, rubbing his sore head, he realized that F1 didn't have any concrete. This must be it. The basement.

~~~~

It was dusty and completely dark- cold with a chill that seemed almost too appropriate for such a spooky place. Tissues rummaged around inside his head to pull out his phone and flashed the light into the deep darkness- It cut through the inky blackness like a beacon. Tissues shone it around the room slowly and nervously- illuminating large shapes draped in old white sheets of fabric. Tissues' heart raced before he realized it was probably just furniture with a dust covering- Yeah, just furniture. He sighed. He crept into the strange and cavernous room- His small footsteps echoing through the basement, reverberating clear and crisp as the dark, cold air. He shivered. 

He more he looked around, the weirder the basement got. Cloth-draped chairs and couches and even what appeared to be a small TV set or strangely-shaped table seemed to be arranged as if whoever was using this room just... up and left. It looked like a living room for ghosts. The furniture itself also seemed to be localized around the middle of the room- The rest of the room seemed strangely vacant except for a few stray cardboard boxes stacked on one another.

"The basement can't just be this room, can it? It's an entire floor, is the rest just filled in? It can't be. There's got to be more," Tissues thought, circumventing the room once again, looking for a door, a bricked-off passageway, something that he could use to explore the rest of this strange place. It seemed, after a few minutes of looking around, to be a concrete prison. 

Tmp. Tmp. Tmp.

Tissues froze. 

Tmp. Tmp. Tmp.

Footsteps. Getting closer. echoing down the staircase, heartbeat racing, no way out but up. Between fight or flight, Tissues chose freeze. He stood like a deer in the headlights, holding his flashlight at the entrance, his hand shaking like a paint mixer. 

Tmp. Tmp. Tmp.

Closer, closer, down the stairs, Tissues had no idea why he was so afraid- It was probably just another resident at the hotel. If it was OJ, he might've gotten in trouble, but some strange part of him felt like he was an intruder. Like whoever is coming down the stairs right now was following after him for a reason. As the shadow came into view, in a moment of pure adrenaline, Tissues flung his cell phone at whoever it was that was following him. It hit them straight in the forehead.

"Ow, what the hell?!"

Relief washed over Tissues as he immediately recognized the voice.

"Y.....Yinyang?" Tissues said timidly.

As the familiar face came into view, rubbing his forehead, picking up the cell phone that had gone skidding across the concrete floor moments before. 

"Of course you dumbass, who else?" Yinyang said, shining the flashlight at the bewildered, blinking Tissues. "What are you doing down here? Are you ok?"

"Umm oh. Ohhhh... You-" Tissues stuttered, blushing. "You came down here to check on me?"

"The hell do you mean?" Yang growled, "Of course I did!" Yin continued, walking up to Tissues and inspecting him closer. "You fell down 2 flights of stairs! Are you injured?"

From the sheer adrenaline of the situation, Tissues didn't seem to notice, but his knee was scraped pretty badly. "Ah... Yeah. A lil bit. My knee," He said, gesturing to his left leg. 

"You dumbass!" Yang cursed. "Why did you- Why did you try and go down the stairs alone in the first place? You know-" Yang sighed. "Why are you even in the basement? There's nothing in here but old storage space," 

Tissues sniffed. "Umm... well... ahh... umm..." Tissues seemed to be getting a little bit choked up. "Umm... y'know how we found the old- the little door? After we..." Tissues took a deep, shaky breath. "I wanted to see if the hotel had any more secrets like that. Yknow... cause, I have so much time to think, and it was just bothering me... I thought- It can't be just that, there's got to be more- I guess i just wasn't thinking." Tissues wiped his nose.

"Oh, Tissues..." Yinyang said, his voice soft. "We should go back upstairs. I'll get you patched up," Yinyang continued, patting him on the head gently. “I was worried about you!

"You're probably right..." Tissues sighed, and limped to the doorway, Yinyang letting him lean on his shoulder. On his way out, he leaned against the wall, and his fingers came into contact with something smooth and cool, completely different from the texture of the concrete walls. He froze.

"Wait-" He said. "I feel something." He continued, trailing his hand farther up and feeling something akin to a lightswitch. He flicked it on, and the basement was instantly illuminated- causing Yinyang and Tissues to squint and turn around.

"Huh. I found the lightswitch!" Tissues laughed, and scanning the room in the light, it didn't look as scary as before- and one thought was present in his mind. 

"Hey, this could make a really cool hangout spot if you just fixed it up a little bit." 

It was like another lightbulb came on dinging bright above Tissues' head.

As Yinyang worriedly ushered him back up the stairs and into his room, Tissues was busy smiling, ideas silently buzzing in his head as Yinyang cursed him out while tenderly wrapping blue bandages around his knee. 

The moment he left, Tissues pulled out his journal and hurriedly wrote something in big, messy lettering:

"BASEMENT SUITE...?"

~~~~

[kittymsmithwritesstuff]

Commission: Surprises

A Valorant commission for @sr-023! Was fun to write. :3

If you’re interested in commissions you can find my prices here: (x)

Tags: fluff, humor, light angst, people cooking together. Platonic Viper/Jett getting to know each other a little bit more in the kitchen.

Word count: 2413

-----

“Oh my God, you cook?”

Viper without her mask gave way to several emotions Jett forgot she was capable of. Like amusement. “Yes. And I eat, too.”

“Wow! I never would have guessed. I thought you subsisted on like, diluted snake venom and children’s tears.”

Viper rolled her eyes, peeling a potato in one smooth movement, leaving a curl of peel to fall into a bowl. “It was Breach’s turn to cook. I don’t know about you, but snake venom is far more palatable than lutefisk.”

Jett couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. “You’re just secretly a sweetheart.”

Viper twirled the knife in her hand and pointed it at Jett, mouth a hard line. “Don’t push it.”

Jett shrugged it off smoothly, hoping she didn’t see the stutter of nerves in her shoulders. She looked over the kitchen island-thawed meat, potatoes, green beans that looked like they must have come from a garden, except there weren’t any gardens on the compound that she knew of so...beans-of-mysterious-origin. And all of it in huger quantities than needed to feed the compound. How very American.

And there was Viper in the middle of all of it. Peeling potato after potato in a silent kitchen, a bowl filling with impeccable ribbons. She wondered where she might have learned to peel a potato like that. Like, that totally wasn’t a master poisoner skill, right? It was like a housewife or a hobby cook that was…really into peeling potatoes. Given she was usually taken with annoying Viper, and Viper in turn was taken with threatening her life with any method that violated the Geneva Convention, the fact she hadn’t already kicked her out must have meant she was in an unusually gregarious mood.

And maybe Jett was in her own kind of mood from witnessing the phenomenon of the great mighty Viper being distinctly un-snakelike. She glanced at all the food again, rocking from heel to toe. “Can I help?”

“Yes.”

“Great! How?”

“By leaving until I’m done.”

Jett rolled her eyes, coming to the other side of the island, out of stabbing distance. “C’mon, please?”

Viper stopped mid peel, nicking the skin so it fell, unfinished. She looked at it like it had cut in front of her in line, but it was too public to make a scene. Her eyes flicked up to Jett, who spread her palms over her heart. “I’m good with knives!”

Viper looked from her to the meat, then back again. She sniffed. “You may cut the beef into steaks, if you insist. Inch and a half.”

She almost buzzed, throwing one of her knives up to hover beside her and quickly washing her hands. She wasn’t super into cooking usually, but it was kind of like getting to see the lions actually up and wandering around at the zoo instead of just sitting there and waiting for their next meal. Very aware of the eyes on her, she grabbed her knife from the air, adjusted the meat on the cutting board, and slowly started cutting down into it, trying to channel every lesson her dad ever gave her in the kitchen, all of which she’d ignored so she could go back to doing literally anything else.

Evidently, she wasn’t channeling them very well, as there was soon a knife clattering over the counter toward her. She jumped, half expected to get stabbed, but the knife rested a foot away. She looked up at Viper, who looked absolutely pained. “Use…use an actual knife.”

“This is a knife?”

“It’s a throwing knife. The blade is five inches at best. That is a chef’s knife.” She went back to the potatoes, though somehow Jett still felt her eyes on her. Maybe she had false eyespots like a moth and her real eyes were on her forehead. She palmed the handle, tilting the blade so it glinted in the stark kitchen light, then lined it up and finished cutting the steak-smooth, easy, like butter. She looked over at Viper.

“Good,” she said. She was still peeling potatoes. How many potatoes were there? “Set it on the plate. Use the seasoning there. Not too much.”

Jett snorted, setting the meat aside and using her meat-juice covered hand on the unlabled spice shaker. “Yeah okay, Mom.”

There was another nick, a potato peel falling half done. Jett could see her muscles tense-her whole body, in fact, went rigid, but as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, and the knife was steadily scraping against the potato again. She could have imagined it. This was Viper after all, the same woman that once “accidentally” bumped her into a poison pit because Jett had been “annoying”.

And yet…

She shrugged, flipping and seasoning the other side of the steak, apparently to her cooking neighbors satisfaction, and then went ahead and cut the next steak, seasoning and flipping it, leaving bloody lines on the seasoning bottle until she realized just how unsanitary that probably was, and got the idea to clean it, then grab a paper towel and fold it over a few times, wrap the bottle and tape it. Viper raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think I’ve seen you do something so smart.”

Smart? She just called her smart? Sure, it was backhanded, but she’d never heard her call anybody smart. Especially not her. She threw on a British accent as she said, “don’t need anymore bloody spice shakers, huh?”

She hummed. But it could have been a laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a British person sound like that.”

“Phoenix said if I ever try to do the accent in his presence again he’ll set me on fire.”

“As is his right.”

Jett snorted, returning to her cutting and seasoning. “You’re not…wrong.”

Viper finally finished her unholy pile of starch and set up two pots of water to boil the approximate 230,000 potatoes, give or take a half dozen. Jett finished her own job and set the steaks up on pans to broil, Viper taking over from there and telling her to “get the beans ready”. Considering she’d only ever eaten green beans straight from the can at 2am this was a bit of a difficult task. Difficult, unfamiliar tasks tended to make her nervous. But Jett wasn’t about to be shown up by some beans.

So she confidently put the burner on high, grabbed a handful and dropped them in the water once it was boiling, thus splashing water over burners, herself, countertop and floor, sending up a grand sizzling equitable to the sounds of demon laughter bubbling up from hell. She yipped, jumping away, in doing so smashing into Viper, who almost slipped on the water, caught herself on the counter and flicked the gas off.

The look she gave Jett could have boiled the ocean.

“Get out.” She said. Low, dangerous, like the buzz of a rattlesnake’s tail.

Jett scurried backward, tapping her hip to count how many of her knives she still had on her as her calf knocked against a chair at one of the circular dining tables in the room. She sat in it, not entirely sure as to why. Probably because Viper hadn’t straight up killed her, and she had the self-preservation instincts of that rat from Ratatouille.

She watched from her seat, how she moved around the kitchen as if on a breeze, smoothly following the curve of the wind, twirling between the meat and the potatoes, setting up the beans by gently placing them into the pot (which, in hindsight, was definitely common sense that Jett…apparently didn’t possess). The beautiful potato skins were tossed in one large bowl and covered with water, then a timer was set. It felt like watching an artist, spawning a question in her head.

Viper saw her staring and glowered. “Why are you still here?”

Her feet fidgeted, and she clasped her fingers together to avoid tugging at her hair, like her Mom had taught her. Better to look pensive than apprehensive. “Were you a chef?”

Viper stared, glower softening to a neutral expression tilting towards surprise. She glanced back towards the kitchen, slowly crossing her arms under her chest. “Why would you ask that?”

“Well, cooking is like, a form of chemistry, right?” She pulled the only fact she’d ever retained from Home Ec out of her ass, hoping and praying it worked, cause otherwise she was probably going to be banished from the room…and maybe dinner. Man, she really hoped she wasn’t banned from dinner.

Thankfully, the wind blew in some luck. “I was a double major at University of Washington. Culinary Arts and Chemistry.”

She let herself smile, just a bit. “So, you’re good with knives, too.”

“You could say so.” She was eyeing her, and instead of sitting in the chair across from her, she leaned against the nearby wall. “Did you have any training with your knives?”

Jett was surprised she’d bothered to ask. “I taught myself. Since I was a kid.” She leaned back and swung her hand casually, swirling a knife into the air to illustrate her point. “My mom wanted me to go to college but, like, I can control wind with my mind, so that sounded kind of lame.”

Viper cocked her head to the side. “So, your powers, it’s all mental manipulation?”

Jett shrugged slightly. “I mean, mostly. I also gotta like, move my hands and legs and stuff. But I mostly just think about it. Or don’t-like it’s natural now, like walking or breathing.”

“Fascinating,” she said with a thoughtful tone, returning to the food. Somewhat hesitant, Jett joined her, at a respectful distance. She stabbed the potatoes, and apparently that meant something because she drained them immediately after, chucked in some butter and started sprinkling some salt and pepper and beating the living shit out of them with a hand mixer. She noticed Jett standing and nodded toward the sink. “Make yourself useful and drain the potato skins. Toss them in the bowl with olive oil and the spice mix and put them on a pan in the oven.”

She blinked, then shrugged and slipped around her. Now that she was pretty sure she wasn’t going to get speared through, or find her way into another poison pit, she decided she…sort of liked working with Viper in the kitchen. She was rude but she also was sort of…normal? As normal as she was capable of being? She did as directed, coating the skins until they looked unhealthy and chuckling as she threw in the spices. “Y’know, I probably should have asked if this was poisoned before I put it on.”

Viper huffed, turning off the mixer with a click. “Please, not everything I do involves poison. I wasn’t born with, with tubocurarine dripping from my fingertips, hell I wasn’t like this, I was made into it.”

She tossed everything in the oven. Jett paused, gripping her arms, trying to seem casual. She’d heard a few throwaway comments before, they all had, but right now she thought, perhaps, if she phrased it right, she could ask certain questions without sounding (and being) a total dick. “What’s tubocurarine?”

“A neurotoxin, first used for poison arrows and later to keep muscles relaxed during surgery. It would paralyze you for a couple hours, basically.”

“Oh, interesting.” She bit her lip, digging her nails into her skin. “Hey, you don’t have to say anything but, can I, can I ask who?”

Viper paused, turning slowly to look down her nose at her. She was, again, reminded of the other woman’s venomous namesake. “Excuse me?”

“Who, uh…made you, uh,” in fear of phrasing it wrong, Jett gestured vaguely at Viper, who narrowed her eyes.

The air was heavy, but it wasn’t boiling like with the beans. It wasn’t even rumbling. It was contemplative, quiet, even a little sad. Like a waveless ocean. “I don’t know.” She said finally.

Jett blinked. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean I don’t know.” She shrugged smoothly, though she was visibly tense. Like when I called her mom¸ Jett thought, a stone sinking in her stomach. “My family, my friends, myself-it all was taken from me. And I don’t have faces or names to put it to.”

Her shoulders dropped. “Shit.”

Viper let out a very uncharacteristic snort, pulling the steaks and potato skins from the oven. “That’s about the best way to describe it. Perhaps in some ways it’s my fault, I didn’t fight it as much as I should have…” she stopped, staring at the steaks and then shaking her head, taking a deep breath. “Though if I ever do find out who, they’ll wish they’d killed me. Anyway,” she gave Jett a sidelong glance. “Now you. Venice.”

A bolt of anxiety speared through her being and she gripped the strap of her tank top reflexively. “I-I didn’t do it.”

“A floating city and a wind radiant found at its base? Please.”

She pursed her lips. “I. Didn’t. Do. It.”

She turned slightly, furrowing her brow, eyes darting over her face as she began to move the steaks to a plate. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah.” She looked at her feet. “I was there when it started cracking, and I used my powers to jump off and landed on some chunk that hadn’t come up with the rest of the island. Some guy got me on his phone camera. Nobody believed me when I said I had nothing to do with it. And if I’m being honest with myself, they probably never will.” She sighed and forced herself to look up, braced for the pity, or the accusation-you’re bad at lying, she’d say, like so many others.

But in place of either, there was a slight, slight smile. “Guess we have more in common than I thought, Jett.”

---

Everyone was very thankful to not have to try and find the politest way to refuse Breach’s lye-soaked cod. Jett saying she helped also reassured everyone that the food didn’t contain Viper’s latest experiment. At least, that was until Viper was noticeably not eating, glancing around the tables, sipping only her water as the members of Valorant gradually stopped chewing, some digging into their potatoes, Breach eyeing his steak suspiciously. Jett glanced around and suddenly choked, falling off her chair.

Phoenix screamed, scrambling backward over his chair, the others quickly beginning to scoot away until Jett sat up again, grinning.

“Gotcha,” Viper said, smiling over her glass.

[hawksmagnolia]

Never falter, Never fail

Drunk Drapple Prompt for @the-ss-horniest-book-club​ by @findingasimplepleasure​ / @nano--raptor​

Summary: Destroyer!Chris comes looking for the commander of his special ops team and finds far more than he expected.

Warnings: Mentions of violence (nothing major), tattoos

Word count: 1,844 (oops?)

“Can you tell me where I can find the Lieutenant?”

Behind you, several men snicker until they realize you’re glaring at them and they drop their eyes to the gear as they mumble apologies. 

The former undercover agent, Chris something, is standing there. His beard is still cut into the goatee but you notice it’s starting to fill out into a full beard. He’s no longer wearing persona that he’s been living but the tattoos haven’t quite faded yet and they peek out the bottoms of his polo shirt sleeve. You also think you spy the shadows of leftover ink on his wrist as well. 

Shit.

“Depends. Why do you want to know?” False bravado and snarling attitude to hide the shock.

He frowns at you, at your defensive tone and body language. “I just need to make sure he is clear on the details of this op.” 

He hasn’t recognized you yet. 

Thank fuck.

You shoot him a dark look before you look over your gun, checking the chamber and sliding it smoothly into the holster at the small of your back. He watches you, appraises you really. You’re dressed in your usual tactical uniform. Black boot, black pants and an olive green moisture wicking undershirt under a long sleeve button up. Your hair is hidden under a black baseball cap. 

You know he’s wondering what you’re doing on this team. Not many women willingly join a special ops team like this but not only are you on it, you lead it. You are the damned Lieutenant and you’ll deal with him later. Sticking your fingers in your mouth, you give a sharp whistle that his him wincing and your team snapping to attention.

“Team Three. I need you here, here and here. Split into pairs and do not let each other out of your sight. Period.” There is a crude but effective map drawn out on the white board. Pictures of certain areas are taped next their marker counterpart. Your nails are short, unpainted and your hands are scarred and calloused. You slide the button down off and toss it onto your gear bag.

You see his impossibly blue eyes focus on your arm, ignoring the armed men hustling out of the room. More likely, is that he’s staring at swaths of black ink that vanishes under your sleeve where it begins at the top of your shoulder and ends in the middle of your forearm. The Queen of Swords in all her glory adorns your flesh. Below that is Eagle, Anchor and Globe of the USMC but the globe has been turned into the crosshairs of a rifle. There is more ink under the black fingerless gloves. Gloves that your team bought you as a joke when you were elected their leader. Black leather but with fine, almost delicate stitching that forms the outline of every bone in the hand, ones that you wear every single time you get the call. The rest of the tattoos are hidden beneath your clothing except the three small black swallows at the bottom of your hairline.

There are questions on his face that you can’t be bothered to answer right now. You shrug into the heavy ballistics vest and pull the velcro tight.

“Team Two. I want you stacked up tight in this corridor between shipping containers. Nuts to butts gentlemen, hope you showered.”

The next six men peel off from the pack and are gone.

Only two men are left, so you point to the smaller one on the left. “I want you to cover the back doors from the sky.” You point to the man on the right. “I want you on the west exits. Trench it if you can. There are no windows on that side, just two big industrial doors. I’ll make sure spikes are out in case of vehicles.”

They nod and are out the back doors of the mobile command and vanish into the rapidly forming darkness. You’re about six miles east of the compound, far enough that any light is barely visible. You shut down the lights and start to exit when the agent grabs your arm.

“I asked you where the Lt is.” He says it as “Ell-tee”. You wonder briefly if he’s a veteran too.

You grab your night vision goggles and strap them to your head, leaving them on your forehead. You yank your arm from his grip and grab your rifle case.

“I am the fucking Lt. And I’m very clear on our goals, Agent.”

You nod your head at him and spin on your heel but not before you hear his voice. 

“You and I will talk after this.”

Well, fuck.

===============================

Sixteen hours later and you’re laying on flat on your back on top of a shipping container. You’d climb down yourself but you don’t want to risk any damage to your precious ‘Vera’, a Barrett M107 sniper rifle. You hadn’t thought to bring up the case because your mission’s timeline changed suddenly and you hadn’t bothered, focused on scrambling up four shipping containers for a better sightline. Things had gone sideways but in the end the good guys won and the bad guys went to prison.

There is a heavy thunk of metal on metal and you roll to your side to see Agent Chris kneeling in the ladder bucket of a fire truck. “Ready to come down or are you working on your tan?”

You flip him off as you crawl to your feet, cradling your rifle and make your way down.

“Transport will take you back to base.” He slides to the side to give you a chance to stagger onto the platform.

You nod, too tired and spent to form words. Your legs are like lead, too many hours spent on your belly first in the chill of the night which turned into a sweltering day. He catches your arm first and then your rifle. He lowers you to the ground and starts yelling for a medic.

When you open your eyes, the first thing you realize is that you’re soaked and so disoriented that briefly you think it’s raining. 

And then you realize you’re not alone and your back is pressed against a person. A person whose denim clad legs are on either side of your legs. Your vest is gone. Your weapon is gone.

A little stab of panic cracks your chest as you realize you’ve been stripped to underwear and undershirt. The shower is one of those overlarge ones, enough for you both to sprawl.

You groan and try to sit up and strong arms pull you back.

“Slow down trigger. You’re in my room.”

Him.

Agent Chris Something. 

“Your internal body temp was too high. Technically too high for life function according to the medics. Apparently you’re too goddamn stubborn to die. We had to cool you down.”

“Report.” You rasp.

He hands you a Gatorade. “Drink. Slowly.”

You force yourself not to gulp as he continues. “Zero casualties from your team. Couple of minor scrapes. You run a tight ship there Lt.”

“Thanks…I think. Who stripped me?”

“I did. How’s your head?”

You tilt your head side to side to test your equilibrium and then you feel his palm as he twists your hair off your neck and secures it with a band.

“Swallows?” He asks as his fingers linger there for just heartbeat too long. 

“Yeah.”

“How many do you have?”

“What? Tattoos?”

He shifts you long enough to adjust the water temp up a little bit.

“I..I’m not sure anymore.”

“A full sleeve and also your hip, strong ink work, bold designs. And then you have these little tiny swallows.” His lips barely graze the delicate flesh on your neck as his hand clamps down on your right hip.

“You know I know where all your ink is sweetheart. Why didn’t you tell me that night you were a Fed?”

“Same question could be said for you.”

“Why were you in my local bar nine days ago?” He runs a hand over your side, knowing full well  where he knows the words scrawl across your skin. 

“Intel.” You squirm and his thighs lock your hips. 

“You had my reports.”

“I prefer to have a first person view of the shitshow I send my team into.” You pull away and turn on him, kneeling on the tiled floor. “Sorry I’m not a super special agent but I’m damn good at what I do. And to be honest, I didn’t know who the hell you were and I didn’t trust you. Obviously, I was right, since I distracted the fuck out of you.”

He looks as exhausted as you feel, he’s soaked but still fully dressed. He holds up his hands in surrender. “I would have done the same thing. Just so you know? You’re the only thing that distracted me. Still are distracting me.”

You stare at each other for a couple of heartbeats before you jump into his lap. Your mouths clash together, opening to the other while your hands cup his face. 

“Wait.” He gasps which you promptly ignore, your mouth on his jaw, his neck.

“Sweetheart, no. Not until you’re completely recovered.” He grabs your face in his hands. “I’m not fucking you in a bathroom again. Tell me the story behind the ink.”

“Which one?” You struggle not to kiss him again. Must be the adrenaline dump. Must have been delayed because of your heat stroke. 

You’re a damn liar.

“All of them.”

“The swallows were first. Got them after my first deployment. To remind me.”

“There are three.” 

“We lost three.”

He nods, doesn’t push. He knows you’re not ready for that conversation. Still sitting on his legs, you peel your soaked shirt off and toss it aside.

“Ribs was right before my second deployment. I wanted to have that reminder.” You press his hand against the words.  “I will never falter and I will not fail.”  “Hurt like a bitch too.”

“Got back from deployment and I was fucked up in the head. Too young to have seen what I saw. So I got my spine done.”

He doesn’t have to look, he knows what it says. 

“Scars show us where we have been, they do not dictate where we are going.”

Moving his hand to your right hip, you leave it to linger over the stone tower and crescent moon that stain your skin. “Tarot card. The Tower. Represents everything I felt when I got out.” He doesn’t comment on the two puckered scars at two of the corners. 

You twist your arm so he gets a better look. “Queen of Swords. When I finally found myself again, I wanted to be independent, strong. It helped me patch myself back up and apply for the agency. I got this before my expert firearms test at Quantico. Eagle, Globe, Anchor…with my rifle sight in the globe to show how both of those pieces of me make one.”

“And your hands?” He asks softly. 

He takes both of your hands in his and kisses the ink across your skin at the base of your thumbs.

“Breathe.” Says the left.

“Hold.” Says the right.

“Just a reminder when I line up the shot.”

“How about you give me a shot?”

“What?”

“You’re incredible for reasons not related to a bathroom in a bar. I want a chance to lick every single one of those tattoos.”

“If that’s the case, wait until you see my piercings.”

Chris groans as you smile into his kiss.

@nano--raptor @cchellacat @eurynome827 @jobean12-blog @book-dragon-13 @aesthetical-bucky @marvelgirl7 @sallycanwait68 @buckys-broody-muffin @softpeachbarnes @godofplumsandthunder @azurika-writes @ikaris-whore @this-kitten-is-smitten @randomfandompenguin @littleredstarfish

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[mattzerella-sticks]

Four of Swords

Destiel, 7.1k, M, Ao3 link

Super happy I can finally share what me and my amazing partner, @maleyah-givemetomorrow, cooked up for the @supernaturaltropecelebration

Hope you all enjoy! (story below, but if you go to ao3 there’ll be pretty pictures - I definintely recommend viewing them and showing love to the artist!)

The Four of Swords, in the present position, means you don't want to interact with the rest of the world. Because of stress, you need to spend some time with yourself - unhealthy always being 'on'. That the healthiest thing to do is to escape.

Dean might crave escape, but it's not something he thinks he can have. Something he deserves, even. After his and Sam's most recent hunt, this cancerous feeling has grown heavy and weighs him down. He cannot escape on his own, as best he tries.

Luckily a guardian 'former angel' angel swoops in at his lowest. Helps pick up the pieces as best he can and lovingly put them back together. But he can only do so much. The rest is up to Dean.

Can Dean take those final steps, say those final words, and finally free himself?

        His leg bounces, foot playing with the pedal while forcing the speedometer past its limits. Fingers squeeze the wheel tight enough he knows will leave permanent indents in the leather. Dean feels, more acutely than ever, how small his car’s interior is. Her cabin walls closing in around like the Death Star’s trash compacter. Aided by Sam’s ever-present stare, weighted by all the questions Dean will not let him ask. Forbade with a shake of his head and a rough flick of the ignition.

        The sun creeps past the horizon, morning rudely greeting them. Beams of light pierce the glass, its glare interfering with his driving. Dean swings a heavy paw up towards the visor and pulls down, hard. It blocks most of the sun but gives Dean a worse distraction.

        His gaze strays from the road to the tiny mirror embedded within the visor. Bounces around the borders of his face, studying the features and additions. Green eyes burdened with purplish bags. Dirt smudged around his hairline, disappearing into his short, mussed locks. Scratches peppered his cheeks like freckles, and the dried blood around his lips looks almost comical. Like he overlined them with an ugly shade of lipstick, clownlike and surreal.

        “You’re drifting.”

        Sam tugs the wheel closer, straightening their car. Dean wills back the discomfort of having Sam’s hand covering his. Of the memory, hours ago, where their layered hands held different context. Pushing. Praying. Reaching for a spark of Dean that nearly drowned and was lost forever. He shakes his head, focusing on the road again. “Thanks,” he says once his brother’s hand drifted away.

        They reach the Bunker minutes later, Dean parking between the green Hudson and silver Chrysler. Both collecting dust. Dean checks his phone – 8:34 a.m. 3 missed calls, 8 unanswered texts. He swipes for the message thread, not reading any of the grey bubbles and typing a simple message. Back. Then Dean drops it in an empty cupholder and lays his head on the wheel.

        Exhaustion drips along his bones like slime, filling the spaces between joints. His muscles broadcast their pain in full stereo, working in tandem with his brain. Each twinge a reminder of what happened. What he did and what he almost became.

        Someone howls. It is far, but familiar. It sounds like – home? Belonging? Right? More noise, this time closer. Snarling. Snarling and growling. His jaw shudders and bends, reforming. A fire crackles under his skin, urging him forward. Follow the call. Follow the scent. Smell that, hear that, it is all so… pure. Free. You are free. Trust your instincts.

        “Fuck,” he hisses. Dean presses his dirty nails into his palms, a reminder of their usual bluntness. Definitely not sharp enough to pierce the skin. He can’t hurt anyone else with them. “Fuck…”

        Sam shifts at his side, hovering. Worrying. “Dean –“

        “Not now, Sammy,” he says. Dean sucks in a large breath, fixing his armor. Raises his head off the steering wheel, staring out the window. “I’m not ready, not yet.” He wasn’t ready when they watched the barn disappear behind them, burning, smoke drifting into the starless night. When they stopped at the motel so Sam could collect their stuff while Dean idled in the parking lot. When Sam exploded halfway between Denver and Cheyenne, drool wet on his chin, and still unprepared when he apologized minutes later.

        He didn’t deserve his damned forgiveness.

        “Just…” Dean breathes, shivering, “go.”

        The car door opens and shuts with soft clicks. Dean watches his brother stumble over half-asleep legs to the exit, Sam’s gait heavy and awkward. He pauses under the archway. His head tilts slowly right, and Dean tears his eyes from the rearview mirror. Dean counts the beats of his heart, waiting. After thirty he checks the rearview and Sam is gone.

        Flinging himself out the car, Dean falls on hands and knees while his stomach revolts. He coughs, splutters, and heaves with all the force he can muster. There’s not a lot in his stomach but it surges up, splattering against the floor. Mixes with the blood and dirty already staining his fingers. His nausea passes the crest and recedes, body nearly purged. He spits into the bile, running his tongue over the waxy film coating his teeth. Gross, but not enough. The taste lingers.

        Right there. Follow the fear, the rapid breathing – babumbabumbabumbabum. There is sweetness in victory, in the thrill of chasing. No escape, only death. Screams cut short when you tear through the throat. Chestnut fur matted with blood, goes down smooth. Delicious. Filling.

        Dean winces at the mess. “Not cleaning that up,” he says, “at least not now.” With his remaining strength, Dean drags his body up. Leans on his car for a moment, then walks away with the door still open and with bags in the trunk. He cannot remember if he left the key in the ignition, nor does he care if he did.

        There are more pressing matters that need attending.

        He wanders with intention, drifting past rows of doors until he reaches the shower room. Dean turns, slowing to a shuffle and then a full stop once halfway inside. Head bowed, he focuses on the contrast between his mud-caked boots and the pristine tiles ruined by his intrusion. Squints and sees a twig lodged in the loop of his lace. Looks closer and sees a small pawprint left immortalized on the material.

        In one bite the head tears completely off, blood spurting up from the severed neck. Sprays his face while he chews. Dean smiles, teeth catching the droplets and licking them clean off. He greedily stuffs the rest of its small body into his mouth, then licks his hands. Uncurling from the forest floor, he continues on. There is a call he needs to answer.

        Dean hears the twig snap while clawing at the laces. He throws his left boot to the side, followed by his right. Peels his socks off and does the same. The second round of dizziness descends as the cool floor coaxes a more measured response from him. Sighing, Dean closes his eyes and continues stripping.

        Even blind, Dean knows what he throws away. A yellow plaid button-down ripped across the back. Brown t-shirt crusty with dried blood all over the front. Jeans camouflaged in various stains, held up by a belt that worked in saving him from succumbing. And underwear that, while clean, were rather unwanted in the moment.

        Goosepimples rise along the blades of his shoulders, rushing up his neck and over his back. Dean shakes, crosses his arms and tucks his chin against his chest. “Come on,” he says, bouncing on his feet, “In and out… you’ll feel much better.” He steps forward and then returns to where he was. “You’ll feel better and clean and – and like yourself again.”

        “This is who you were truly meant to be…” His voice purrs, sparks firing off pleasurably in his brain. A rough tongue licks up his neck, and Dean nuzzles the hand petting his cheek. “Who we were always meant to be… give into your instincts, my pet. Give into yourself…”

        “Dean what are – oh! I’m sorry!” He whips around and finds Cas standing in the doorway. Hands squeezing the towel, eyes trained upwards and not ahead like they must have been moments ago. The blush on his cheeks clueing him in. “I thought, when you said you were home, you’d be in bed…”

        Dean rakes his gaze over the other man’s body. At the scruff in serious need of shaving, unkempt along his jaw and overrunning his neck. The oversized t-shirt, tie-dyed in various shades of oranges, reds, and yellows. A graphic from a Led Zeppelin album ironed on from a collection Dean found at a garage sale, given over because the angel reminded him of Cas. His shirt’s hem overhangs and covers half of the shorts he wears, hairy calves fully on display.

        A year into humanity and Dean marvels at how he stays so heavenly.

        “No,” he says, “don’t feel much like sleeping…” Then Dean drifts his focus away from the other man and back to the shower stalls. Empty and waiting. In a few seconds he could wash the entirety of yesterday into the drains, dirtied water swirling at his feet. Scrape any trace of the wildness with soap and scalding, hot water. Keep at it, until the knot in his chest unraveled finally.

        Dean stiffens. Someone brushed his arm. Cas squeezes, whispering, “Are you going to shower?”

        He nods. Steps forward, and again. And collapses at the mouth of the shower, scrabbling for the curtain and ripping it from the rod. Dean gasps, the harsh sound echoing in the room, and curls in on himself. The cheap plastic crinkles and sticks to his skin, blanketing his thighs. One of the metal rings completely tore and now digs into his stomach. Cas calls for him, but his voice is distant.

        “We can start anew once your transformation is complete. I can hear it inside you, Dean. There’s a killer in there waiting to be unchained. Let me free you from the prison society forced you in, allow your true self to roam, empowered in its glory and righteousness. You’ll be my right hand in my new pack. All that’s left, is for you to break the final lock…”

        “Dean, Dean I need you to say something,” Cas presses a warm hand into his back, kneading the clammy skin. “Please… I know not to hope for anything good but at least tell me you’re here, with me.”

        “I’m here,” he murmurs, “I’m… I’m here.” More of a reminder than an answer. Dean blinks, leaving the acrid stench of death for faint, lemon cleanser. Shadows and dim lighting for humming fluorescents. False promises for strong foundations. “I’m here,” Dean says again, sliding his hand from the curtains to Cas’s, the other hanging at his side. Squeezes at his wrist. “Thanks.”

        “It’s no problem,” Cas huffs, sizing Dean up. He shrinks under his gaze, conscious of how he must look. “Do you want to –“

        “No.”

        Cas nods, as if expecting it. “You want to clean yourself up?” Dean shrugs. He clucks, fingers skimming his hairline on a wide rub. “Look as if you’ve glued yourself to the underside of your car and had Sam drive across any backroads he found.” The joke inspires Dean’s dimples to appear, and Cas’s overly proud smile forces a small chuckle. “Are you able to stand?”

        “I think I can manage…” Dean winces, the plastic shower curtain peeling off him. Cas keeps his face steady, not even a flicker of interest in peeking as it falls, when Dean exposes himself. A superficial wound. Fortunately Cas’s hand on his back and the other, now holding his, stay and help him up. He wobbles on shaky legs but won’t fail. “Thanks.”

        “No problem,” Cas tells him, thumb tickling his pulse point, “do you want me to give you privacy?”

        He swallows his tongue. Or rather, something living inside his throat snatches it and prevents him from speaking. Dean glances at the shower, dread crawling forth once more. The scant space between him and the handle stretches, vision tunneling. He wants nothing more, if only the thought of it didn’t paralyze him. Cas murmurs at his side. “What?” he chokes out.

        “I might have an idea,” Cas says, “that is… if you’re okay with me seeing you like… like this?”

        Dean raises a wry brow. “Does it matter?” he asks, “You already have.”

        “Just being polite…” Cas moves away from him, Dean following for a beat until he stops himself. The other man looks to the door, than at him. He scoops his forgotten towel, dumped on the floor at some point in the past few minutes, and offers it to him. “Here.”

        “Like I said, Cas –“

        “I know,” he interrupts, “but I doubt you want to walk the halls like that, where at any point Sam could stumble on you and… assume.” A hell of an assumption. Favorable too, he thinks. Dean blushes and bites his lip. He accepts the towel, lazily wrapping it around his waist. Not bothering to tuck it, holding it with his hands so they wouldn’t hang without purpose. Cas finally dips his gaze towards his crotch and relaxes. “Okay,” he says, “follow me.”

        They leave the shower room, Dean practically hitting Cas’s heels with how closely he trails the other man. Enough that he could swing his arm and accidentally brush his hip. He won’t, though the possibility is tempting.

        It’s not a far enough walk for that.

        Cas turns the corner and leads Dean to the second door on the right. “I found this awhile back, early on in our stay here and carried it to this room one day when you were out.” He opens it for him, gesturing inside with a lackluster flourish. “Glad I did, don’t know how I would have managed without my angel strength.”

        Dean steps inside, searching. There is not much waiting for him. Smaller than most rooms, he can imagine it being a closet with ease. Spots the tiny holes where screws must have been. Hidden in the outlines of where shelves once were. “Didn’t know you were handy.”

        “I learn fast.”

        “I’ll say,” Dean says, “plumbing’s a bitch to do.” He smirks at the large, stainless steel faucet. There’s another outline underneath against the wall that marks where a sink used to be. Removed so the porcelain, clawfoot tub can rest. “You take baths?”

        “When I can,” Cas tells him, “I find it very healing. Even when I could mend broken bones and turn jagged cuts into flawless, smooth skin with my grace, I found myself drifting here every now and then, sitting for a soak.”

        Dean taps at the rim of the bathtub, pouting. “And you brought me here, thinking I want to…” He doesn’t finish, instead studying the other man. Watches how the innocent question rocks the boat of his good intentions. Cas pouts, folds his arms and scuffs his toe on the floor. Dean softens, “Thank you.”

        “…You’re welcome,” he shifts, turning his back, “Now, do you want to get in? I find that when you twist the handle on the right, the water is warmer.”

        He waits. Panic rises, thinking Cas might leave. Worse that he can’t find it in him to ask that he stay. But then Cas settles, staring at the closed door. Dean smiles and starts the faucet.

        When the bathtub is halfway full Dean climbs in. His knees poke from up out of the water, too tall to stretch his legs. He slides in further, so the water laps at his chin and more leg is on display. Already it fogs over, a filmy layer swirling on the surface. Dean cups some of the water and splashes it on his face, all too aware of much red drips. “I’m as decent as I can be,” he calls, splashing.

        Cas sighs. “How does it feel?”

        “S’nice,” he shrugs, “Not that I get to do this often but…” Dean sees Cas walk over, grabbing at a nearby bucket. “What are you doing?”

        “Helping,” Cas says, dropping the bucket. He kneels, presenting a washcloth and a soap bar he must have pulled from below.

        “Aw, no Cas,” Dean starts, sliding into a low crouch. Braced on the edges of the bathtub. “You don’t have to –“

        “Please, Dean,” Cas whispers. Two fingers rest over his knuckles, feather light and barely there. “Let me do this for you… after what you must have gone through…”

        Dean will not break his staring contest with his navel, sure that if he glanced in Cas’s direction another episode like the one in the shower room will happen. “Fine,” he mutters, plopping back into the tub and spraying Cas with a few errant drops. “If you want, go right ahead.” His arms encircle his knees, stricken expression hidden. Sitting in the center of the bathtub, Dean never felt so small.

        Cas carries on wordlessly. Runs the soap under the faucet before turning it off. It’s filled to about a few inches from the rim, any sudden movement able to cause a good spill. Which is why Cas talks him through the steps. Like a skittish animal, provoked at the tiniest snap of a twig or rustling leaves.

        Defenseless. Unaware. Fattening itself for the lucky prey that happens across it. His lips peel back for his teeth to appear, spit dripping from them. His fingers lead him forward, nails glinting when the moonlight breaks through the foliage and hits them. One clumsy step and what sounds like a gunshot echoes in his ears. It stops. Then it sprints off. So does he, a fraction of a second later. The chase begun. He huffs, he smiles, he growls. Hungry.

        Dean hisses when the cloth rubs over a badly healed wound, reopening it. “Sorry,” Cas says, dabbing the spot again and pouring some water from a cupped hand over the skin. “I didn’t see – I’m so sorry.”

        “It’s okay, Cas.” He offers a wobbly smile, shrugging. “It’s okay.”

        Cas grimaces, Dean staring on the thin, chapped line. Better than blue spotlights running across his face. Soon his lips smooth into something more neutral, and Cas resets.

        He focuses on how the washcloth feels, Cas lathering soap across him. Doesn’t fight when he grabs Dean’s arm and holds it up, running the fabric over and leaving soap bubbles in its track. There’s a jagged cut slashed across his knuckles from a misplaced lunge. Cas, prepared, gently dabs at it. His hold is firm and touch careful.

        Too careful. Too caring. The special treatment makes his skin crawl. Dean winces again as Cas drags the washcloth along his shoulder blades and onto his other arm. “Sensitive?” Cas asks, because he notices. Add too observant, too. “Days like these make me miss my powers.”

        Dean snorts, “So you could fly on out of here without any problems?” That escapes easier than he would like. He curses under breath, sneaking a peek at Cas. Like Dean expected, Cas’s expression makes his heart sink into his stomach. “Shit, sorry…”

        “I don’t need wings to ‘fly on out of here’,” he says, “if I wanted, I could get on a plane tomorrow.” Cas finishes lathering his arm and soaps his chest. Rubs the washcloth over and over his tattoo. Its ink vibrating erratically because of his words, the possibility, and Cas’s closeness “The operative term being wanted. What I want right now is… well, I want you to not feel any pain.”

        But he should. It’s all he should feel. Dean deserves the pain. For yesterday, what he almost did. For now, what he callously said to Cas. For years and years of causing so much hurt and enjoying it and taking pride in it. He should drown in all this pain. Instead he has an angel bathing him in kindness.

        He tries every day to be better than his darkest moment. When he and Cas stared across at each other, fully ruptured. Dean throwing more dynamite into the divide until the ground crumbled beneath their feet and the landscape of their relationship was unrecognizable. After Purgatory he made a promise. His pain should remain with him, not forced into the hands of others.

        Some days they wriggle, others they slip. Dean tries every day. If only every day, he succeeded.

        Cas washes his face, leaning half over the tub so there’s barely a breath of space between them. A simple turn and their noses brush together. He cannot do more than breath, sharp puffs out his mouth. Sometimes muffled when Cas wipes at the dried blood marking the skin around it.

        It’s too much.

        “I almost killed Sam.” Cas pauses, frozen at the corner of Dean’s lips. Some of the soap drips into his mouth, and he can taste it. “Yesterday, on the hunt I… I almost killed him.”

        His brain steams ahead, thinking how Cas might wish for the plane ticket now that he knows. Imagines him dropping the washcloth into his hands and leaving without a word. Again, wiping his hands of Dean’s garbage and climbing out the hole before any more shovels in to bury him.

        Instead Cas runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, smiling. “Tell me what happened.”

        His walls crumble immediately. Dean savors the touch while he begins his story. Cas already knew the beginning – driving into a town beset by murders, where killers left heartless bodies for the police. Rolled in with the script memorized, asking all the right questions. Found the pack’s den and attacked. “We said we got all of them,” Dean sighs, ducking his head, “but that wasn’t the whole truth.”

        The leader escaped. They only realized it when counting the bodies, battle too confusing that losing track of one werewolf in a dozen was unavoidable. Risky in their line of work, but a quick perimeter search kicked up no trace of him. Dean and Sam closed the case, driving off to the motel and licking their wounds.

        “I was careless, or… or I don’t know, didn’t think much of it but…” Dean holds his arm up and looks at it. There’s no mark on the skin, but he traces the bite from memory. “Got me when I wasn’t looking. By the time I knew what was happening it was like I… like something had come over me. I heard howling and I tore off after it. Sam coming back to an empty motel room with a broken lock.”

        If he stays too long in his memories, he will lose himself in them again. Racing through the woods with newfound agility and grace. Jumping, launching himself over fallen trees and boulders. What it felt like ripping apart the first woodland creature he crossed paths with. The soapy taste in his mouth turns sour.

        “The leader was crazy… had this whole philosophy that I believed because he said it and all I could think was how much I trusted him. Thinking was too difficult while all fanged out and slobbering and – and so when he said to trust my ‘instincts’ I… I bared my neck. His instincts were my instincts. By that point Sammy snuck in, and – well protect is a pretty strong instinct.”

        Sam plead, rallying all his strength so Dean’s claws wouldn’t eviscerate him. Dean straddled his brother, raging. Spat on him while gnawing for his neck. The last werewolf cheering Dean on. “Free yourself of your human burdens and join me in total freedom!” he sang, “Eat of his heart and you will be mine forever!”

        “You don’t want this Dean,” Sam said, struggling. The syringe nearby looking damaged but not completely broken. “I know you. Fight him!”

        Dean growled, “Want… want free… want blood!”

        Sam sneered, tightening his grip on Dean’s wrists. He shifted and kicked Dean off. Dean flipped, landing on his back. They both scrambled upright, not wasting any time. With misguided fury Dean pounced for Sam, his brother twisting at the right second. Their fight continued in that fashion. Sam dodging Dean’s attacks, the latter growing more frustrated and sloppier.

        Exactly what Sam planned.

        Dean dove and smacked into a wall, knocking the breath from him. Stunned, Sam dove for his belt and slipped it over some exposed pipe. Not knowing any better, lost within the wolf, Dean struggled helplessly until brute strength won.

        By the time Dean ripped the pipe from the wall Sam killed his sire. Injected Dean with the cure when he scurried towards the corpse and mourned. When all traces of his bite left Dean’s system, he mourned again. Sam standing overhead, watching, unable to lay a hand on his shoulder lest Dean bite at it in his familiar defensiveness.

        “So Sam is fine?”

        He bristles at the placid tone. Unbothered. Like Dean mentioned some off-hand piece of gossip that he happened across while scrolling through his phone. “Yeah,” Dean says harshly, “but I… I almost did him in. Nearly ate his heart before skipping off with some werewolf Charles Manson to start another werewolf cult and...”

        Cas raises a brow. “And?”

        Processing the events aloud help him realize how wildly he overreacted. How Sam clearly held no anger towards him for being on the menu. How there’s no reason for the inky sadness clinging to his heart and soul that makes him feel bad.

        Except it’s there, and having no reason makes it even worse.

        “And…” he fumbles, “And I think I’m getting too old for this.” Dean huffs, sinking against the bathtub while Cas continues petting him. “I’ve been doing this for what? Nearly forty years? That was how it’s going to end… Because I let that werewolf creep bite me and nearly turn me into his slave? Kind of makes everything I said about free will look like I pulled it from my ass.”

        Cas chuckles, laying the washcloth on the porcelain rim. He pulls back, laying both arms along the edge and resting on it. Smirking, “No one will call you a hypocrite because you were under the influence of a werewolf bite.”

        “Yeah, but…” Dean sighs, “I’m supposed to be better than this.”

        “If I’ve learned anything from my time on Earth – from you – is that sometimes we have our off days,” Cas says, “We have to forgive ourselves for them.”

        “Maybe if I tripped and scratched Baby’s paint or-or took a risk on some leftovers I don’t remember, sure,” he scoffs, “but when it comes to hunts… an off day can easily become my last day. Hunters don’t get off days. Heroes don’t… don’t…” He digs his nails into his knee, willing away the waterfall hovering around the edges of his eyes.

        “Well, as true as that is, the fact you were able to see the sun rise means yesterday definitely wasn’t your last day.” The faint traces of humor in his tone barely lifts the corners of Dean’s mouth. Cas sighs. A few droplets splashing at Dean’s exposed leg, his hand now gently splashing the water. “I stand by what I said. Yes, you could’ve been more observant during your battle. And more conscious of your injuries. Then neither you nor Sam would still carry what should have been a simple hunt on your shoulders.” Mentioning it makes his shoulders sag further. “But then again, I could be beating myself for staying here watching Netflix while you and Sam got your hands dirty –“

        “You kidding, Cas?” Dean bursts in, brows furrowed, “The Hell should you feel bad for?”

        “A third set of eyes could’ve seen the werewolf escape – or stop him before he did… make sure you were checked over for serious injuries…” His fingers circle lazily, Cas’s mouth tugged down in a way that unsettles Dean’s stomach.

        Dean sits straighter, glaring at the other man. “You needed the rest, Cas. After that ghoul tore your back up something fierce in Missoula? Even if you knew you could do something, I’d still have kept you –“ The tirade cuts short, Cas’s prideful smirk stealing the words from him. He sinks into the water, so low that water hides his burning cheeks. Adjusts by fully removing his legs from the bathtub, bracing his feet on the wall. Faucet between them.

        Cas chuckles, rustling Dean’s hair. “See. Hindsight is only good for the future, to learn from our mistakes. Time is better spent in the present. Accepting that you did the best you could and… glad there are people who care about you, who will do anything to see you feel better.”

        Dean looks up at Cas, the overhead bulb shining. Mimicking the effect of a halo. He lifts his chin enough to free his mouth. “I don’t know how you can put up with my stubborn ass.” I don’t know why I deserve you.

        “I recall you calling my ass stubborn many times.” I don’t deserve you.

        They always end up circling the drain. Never quite going in, a piece of hair clogging the passage. Right now, with Cas petting Dean’s hair and gazing into his eyes, Dean exposed under him in more ways than one, it cannot get any more tender. It’s still not enough.

        At the top of the peak, you can only go off. They never jump.

        Dean knew his reasons. When it felt like they could, there was never enough time. Something more pressing to deal with, a battle to fight. Always promising that when the moment was right, Dean would do something. But then when those moments came Dean and Cas were never there for them. Kept apart by circumstance, by death, by each other. Compelling. Dramatic. Completely frustrating.

        But then Chuck vanished, he and Amara – light and darkness, creation and destruction – becoming one. Becoming entirely new. Blinked off into somewhere that Dean doesn’t care knowing about. As long as, on their way out, they cut the strings hanging over their heads.

        It seemed like it. Life went on, as normal. Monsters needed hunting and beer needed drinking. Except there wasn’t anything more.

        Hell stayed relatively calm with Rowena reorganizing it. Jack, seated on the throne of Heaven, brought a righteous humanity in his leadership. Even Billie took a holiday.

        When the dust settled, Dean was ready for Cas to be on his way, too. One was offered.

        “Are you sure?” Jack asked, eyes still aglow. Hand raised inches from Cas’s bloodied head. “I can give it all back to you. Give you more… you’d be the most powerful angel in my new Heaven. You can help me make it even better than it was.”

        “Thank you, but… I think it’s time you left the nest, Jack,” Cas smiled, stepping back from him. “Heaven is in capable hands because they’re yours… I… we trust that you can do this without us.”

        Jack nodded, light snuffed. He dove into Cas’s arms, then, hugging him. Then Sam, and finally Dean. “I’ll visit when I can,” he promised, trying not to cry.

        Dean coughed, swiping a finger under his eye. “Soon!” he barked, “I don’t want to see you when I’m eighty!” Their laughter was bittersweet. Fully bitter when Jack disappeared with a flap.

        Sam scuffed the ground, turning. “So,” he said, “what do we do now?” He scanned the area, Dean tracking the same space alongside him. At the scorched earth, barely recognizable from when they arrived. Green drained away and left lifeless, with a few serious scorch marks in certain areas. Like the one near a cracked mausoleum, where Chuck threw Cas. Where he held him by the neck and spit serious venom. Where he drained the little angel grace he had left and made him human again.

        Cas clears his throat, drawing their attention. “After a shower and a change of clothes,” he said, “I think some sort of celebration. At home.”

        Dean’s heart skipped over itself. “Home,” he repeated, “Yeah, I like that.”

        Cas chose and chose again, and his choice never wavered. It was Earth. It was humanity. It was him, and it was home.

        “Why are you staring at me like that?” Cas asks, frowning, “what are you thinking?”

        Dean rises somewhat. “I love you.” He would rather he weren’t naked, nor shaken from a hunt. And a forgotten supply closet with a dirty bathtub in it is hardly the number one place for a confession. But waiting for perfection screwed him over so many times.

        “Oh,” Cas relaxes against the bathtub, sinking his hand back into the water, “is that all?”

        Or maybe he should have kept waiting. Dean pouts, “I love you.”

        “I know. You’re repeating yourself.”

        “No, like…” he drags a wet hand over his face, “I love you. Like, I love you love you.”

        Cas chuckles, light and carefree. Lines around his eyes crinkling in delight. “I know, Dean. I know.”

        Dean gapes, chin slapping the surface of his bath. “You have?” Spurred into action by Cas’s growing laughter, Dean sinks his legs into the tub and sits up again. “For real?” The other man nods. “How long?”

        Cas shrugs, “Awhile.”

        “Why didn’t you say anything?”

        Joy retreats from Cas’s expression, leaving him somewhat guarded. He breaks with Dean’s stare. His hand glides through water and finds Dean’s leg. Strokes it. “I thought nothing needed to be said.”

        Dean raises a brow, clicking his tongue. “So you were happy with…”

        “I was content.”

        He frowns, courage leaping up inside his chest and banishing the lingering traces of sadness and self-pity clinging inside his chest. “Well, I wasn’t,” Dean says. Waits for Cas to look at him again. “Do you know how many times we sat together and I wanted to hold your hand, but didn’t? Roll over on my bed and wake up next to you only to remember that you were down the hall? Sit in a diner and-and when the waitress came by I could say, ‘I’ll have this and my boyfriend will have that’ but was only able to order for myself? I won’t even mention the amount of times I wanted to kiss you because at this point I’ve lost count…”

        Cas squeezes Dean’s thigh, lips stretched wide in a tight grin. “You want all of that?”

        “And more. A hell of a lot more.”

        “Then… late is better than never, I suppose.”

        Dean blinks, “What?”

        He resumes stroking his leg, smiling so openly all his teeth are on display. “I’m saying,” he continues, “that if you want to do all that, I find myself being… amenable. We can even start now.”

        “Are you sure?” Dean asks, too experienced with his luck that he knows he needs more. “Is this what you want? You said you were –“

        “Content,” he says, “But not happy. Doing all of what you described – and more – will make me very happy.”

        Dean smiles, “Really?”

        “Ecstatic.” It’s so deadpan, so blasé, and completely incongruent with the mood of the room that Dean cannot stop the snort escaping from his lips. Followed by hiccupped giggles and, finally, laughter that echoes in the tiny space. Joined by Cas, their voices swell to fill the room. Until Dean snatches Cas’s collar with his wet fist and drags him in for a kiss. Closes his eyes and savors the taste of the other man, taking note of every sensation he guessed right and scribbling over what he got wrong with the parts he never could have imagined.

        In the midst of their makeout session, when Cas presses their foreheads together and laughs about not needing a shower after all. Because Dean hauled him into the bathtub with him despite protests, water leaking onto the floor. When he can, without guilt, lose himself in Cas’s eyes, Dean remembers the werewolf from yesterday. Remembers what he thought freedom meant, and how the monster hadn’t the first clue what it actually was.

        Freedom is not power. Freedom is being yourself. Freedom is the ability to show others the deepest parts of yourself and have them stay and love you for it. Freedom is acceptance.

        Freedom is the way Cas’s fingers scratch at the nape of his neck. Freedom is Cas pressing lazy kisses against his cheek. Freedom is the way their feet knock into each other on the edge of the porcelain bathtub.

        Dean, for the first time in his life, feels free.

Epilogue:

        Midnight is a terrible hour to crave bacon. Time cannot stop Dean’s watering mouth or his growling stomach. He disentangled himself from Cas and blindly pieced together an outfit that, in the hallway’s clinical lighting, included his cowboy pajama bottoms, Cas’s dried shirt, and his robe. Dean shrugs and carries on his way towards the kitchen, hoping for a quick trip.

        Seeing Sam hunched over at the table crushes that idea. He perks up at Dean’s entrance, faltering. Rises for a second before thinking better, instead fiddling with his coffee mug. “Dean.”

        “…Sam.” Unsure, Dean’s own hands run rampant. Closes the robe and hides Cas’s shirt, tying a neat, little bow and securing it tighter. Then he unravels it and lets the robe swing open like curtains. “What’re you doing up?”

        He shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep anymore. You?”

        “Hungry.” Dean winces, the image of Sam struggling underneath him flashing into view. It fades almost as instantly as it arrived, replaced with a more annoyed looking brother. Mouth pulled taut like a bowstring, aimed and ready. Dean glances at the mug for safety. “You make enough for the class?”

        “Check the pot.”

        Shuffling over he sees more than enough coffee inside for him. So, he pulls out two mugs and prepares them. Three teaspoons of sugar in one, four tablespoons in the other. A dash of milk on the left, because Cas thinks it muddies the taste of the coffee. “Thanks.”

        “Dean…”

        His tone draws a quiet sigh from Dean. Settles the hunger that dominated his stomach and replaces it with a slight nausea. “Sam,” he says, “can you not…”

        “We need to talk about it,” Sam continues, “Please, Dean, I –“

        “We will.”

        Sam pauses, stunned. Dean turns around and tamps down the laugh bubbling up. Hard given how rare Sam’s jaw drops so far. In the blink of an eye Sam shakes his surprise off. “What?”

        “We will,” Dean repeats, leaning on the counter, “I promise. I just… I’m not ready, yet.”

        It’s not the best answer. Sam doubts him, evident by the gleam in his eye. And the follow up, “Are you ever gonna be ready?”

        His eyes never strayed from Dean’s face. If he dropped his gaze a few inches Sam would see Cas’s shirt. But he didn’t. Dean can rewrap the robe and pretend it’s not on him.

        Except Dean hadn’t the urge. Instead he draws attention to it, rubbing the hem between his fingers. “Hopefully soon… Cas and I had a good talk and – and well, maybe in the morning I might be okay enough that we can sit and talk about it, or whatever…”

        Sam finally looks at his shirt. Then at Dean with a subtle awe. He braces for an onslaught of feelings, exactly what Dean tried avoiding. Why he thought using Cas as a distraction from talking about those was a moment of delirium. Dean sips at his mug, hiding ruddy cheeks behind the rim.

        Thankfully Sam says nothing. Instead mirroring his sip. “Okay.”

        “Okay?”

        “Okay.”

        Dean nods, drumming his fingers on the counter. There’s kindness in how Sam offers the escape tunnel, even though so much is brewing under the surface. A rarity that Dean never expected. He should take it.

        But there’s more. Dean figures ripping the band-aid off all at once is better than peeling it and feeling every single hair torn from his arm.

        “I think I’m gonna stop hunting,” he says. Sam spits a mouthful of coffee into his mug, choking. “For a while,” Dean quickly explains, “Like, maybe a few months?”

        Coughing, Sam wipes at his lips. “Is this because of the werewolf hunt?”

        “Yes?” Dean says, “No – I mean… Look, it’s not because I’m too scared to get back into the game because of what happened but I am kind of… skittish?” He frowns, staring at the light brown pool in his hands. “Like I’m running on empty and… and I don’t think I have enough in the tank. That’s what happened yesterday, but thank God there was a little more in yours to get me to the next rest stop! Who knows what might happen on the next one so I… I’m making the adult decision and taking myself out of the game before the big loss.” Dean gulps at his coffee, throat suddenly dry. “But not forever,” he adds, “Long enough to sort things out… do the stuff we said we were gonna do when the Chuck mess ended. Maybe go on a road trip or, ah… give Cas a proper first date –“

        “First date?” Sam croaks, a tiny snort escaping, “Think you two’ve past that by a few years. Third honeymoon, maybe.”

        Dean rolls his eyes. “Yuck it up… but I’m not the only one who can use this opportunity to focus on important things… things that you’ve been neglecting… when’s the last time you and Eileen had any quality time together?” Sam answers with a blush. “Thought so… at least I’ve had two honeymoons, or so you think.”

        “Shut up,” Sam huffs, drinking his coffee again. His gaze drifts from Dean over to the door, and the fluster drains off his face. Replaced with a more gleeful expression, lips curling. “Hey Cas,” he sings, “how’s it going?”

        Dean accepts all the awkward energy Sam shed. His grip on the coffee mug falters when he sees Cas. Dressed in a stolen pair of sweatpants and nothing else. “Sam, Dean,” he yawns, shuffling closer. Cas squints at the untouched mug on the counter, “Is this for me?”

        “Yeah,” Dean says, handing it over, “just the way you like.” Cas purrs, kissing Dean’s cheek before sipping. Sam's chuckles accompany his approval. “It wasn’t too much of a problem…”

        “So, Cas,” Sam starts, “what got you out of bed?”

        Cas scratches his head and presses against Dean. Slides an arm around Dean’s waist. “Pee,” he says, “and then I noticed Dean wasn’t there so…” If Cas didn’t drive the point home clear enough Dean would worry after his brother’s intelligence. He feels Cas’s chin rest on his shoulder. “Why did you get up?”

        Dean gestures at the stove. “Hungry.”

        “Hmm… I can eat.” Cas taps on Dean’s stomach, pushing off. He moves and joins Sam at the table. “Whatever you were going to make yourself, make double?”

        “Triple?” Sam adds, “All this talk of food is making me hungry.”

        “Yeah, yeah…” Dean flicks the stove on, dropping the pan on the active burner. His hunger returned, aided by the easy conversation flowing between the three. Cas settles across from Sam asking a question about something he read. The conversation quickly devolves into nerd speak, Dean throwing quips in every few seconds.

        He lays a strip of bacon down, and then another one. And another one. Greases a second pan and cracks an egg on the surface, tossing one half of the shell at Sam and the next half at Cas. They retaliate by pelting him when he retreats to the refrigerator for more bacon. Dean doesn’t care that they hit, nor that he steps on one and has to spend time between the eggs frying and the bacon cooking to pick pieces of eggshell off his heel. What he cares about sits giggling at the table, watching while he cleans.

        Dean is happy.

[frizz22]

Tease

Anon prompt: Zelda does a surprise strip tease at home for Faustus before sex

Notes: Spellwood just got back Blackwood manor after fancy coven event. Read on ao3

Zelda narrowed her eyes at her husband’s back. She hadn’t put on this dress at the beginning of the night for Faustus to be grumbling about Shirley fucking Jackson. She looked good enough to eat, and from the stares she’d received all night, many would’ve taken her up had she offered.

Which meant, the fact that Faustus hadn’t already eagerly peeled the sinfully tight fabric from her body and thrown her onto the bed was infuriating.

Carefully setting her fur aside, no need for dramatics to ruin her good stole, Zelda pulled at the ends of her elbow length glove until she was able to pull the thing off slowly by the fingers; the fabric whispering deliciously along her skin.

Looking at the glove, Zelda contemplated her husband, who’s back was still to her as he kicked off his shoes and threw his tie aside in irritation. As much as she loathed it, it seemed extra measures would be needed to get what she wanted tonight. And considering she’d already gone to extraordinary lengths with the dress, Faustus owed her. 

Taking aim, Zelda lobbed the glove across the room, using a bit of magic so it landed squarely across his shoulder.

Faustus froze, his mutterings about ungrateful coven members falling silent, and he drew the glove off his shoulder slowly before he partially spun to face her, eyebrows raised expectantly.

That should have been enough.

An eyeful of her in her dress without the fur stole in the flickering light of the fire in the fireplace should have been enough to have him pouncing on her.

He didn’t move.

Arching a brow of her own, Zelda took the fingertips of her remaining glove between her teeth and pulled, maintaining eye contact the entire time as she exposed the creamy length of her other arm.

Once free, Zelda took the glove back in hand, slapped it lightly against her thigh and then dropped it.

Faustus, whose eyes had been closely following her movements intently, started at the slap, his eyes darkening. Finally getting the hint, he stalked towards her.

But no, he didn’t get to have her that easily. Not after making her work for it. Catching him by the shoulder, Zelda pressed him back until his knees hit one of the chairs in front of the fire and he sat abruptly.

Before his hands could find her hips and pull her in, Zelda backed away from him; fully committed to teasing him mercilessly before culminating the night in glorious ecstasy as she rode him on that chair.

A whispered spell had his arms flying to the armrests, and his back pressing against the back of the seat, effectively sticking him in place. Faustus harrumphed when he found her couldn’t follow her. “Zelda,” he growled, watching her hungrily.

Smiling wickedly, Zelda lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Yes, Faustus?” She murmured, positioning herself only feet from him. Close enough to touch but entirely out of his reach because of the spell.

Eyes and features darkening with the promise of some delicious punishment, Faustus looked up at her from under a hooded gaze. “Don’t play games, dearest.”

“Oh, but darling,” Zelda countered, her tone for the endearment turning sickeningly sweet. “It seems I must play games to get my husband’s attention. I mean, if this doesn’t,” she indicated to her dress, running her hands over her silk clad breasts, down her stomach only to branch out to frame her hips right before she reached the apex of her legs, rejoicing in how Faustus shifted in his seat and licked his lips in response. “Then perhaps I need to work a bit harder.”

Swallowing, Faustus tried to move again but only managed to jerk the chair forward a little. “Zelda, if you think I wasn’t constantly picturing all the ways I could debauch you tonight, you’re wrong.” His eyes swept over her, lingering on the small circles she was tracing in her hip with her finger; likely wishing it were his.

“Am I now?” She asked, eyes sparking in challenge. “Then why is it, that you did not do such a thing while at the celebration? In years past you wouldn’t have hesitated to ravish me, barely concealed, just down the hall from the rest of the coven.” She turned, back to Faustus, and another spell had the zipper of her dress slowly moving downwards, revealing a little skin at a time.

Faustus groaned behind her and the chair scrapped along the ground once more.

As the zipper slid down, she smirked to herself and reached up to start removing the enchanted pins from her hair, loosing the locks around her shoulders one strand at a time. “Or if you wanted to pretend to the coven that you aren’t a voracious slut for your wife, not that they’d believe that, why not debauch me the moment we teleported to the house?” She peered coyly at him over her shoulder and then turned forward once more. “I was practically dripping at the thought of you taking me against the wall in the entry way downstairs. And yet,” Zelda sighed dramatically and set her last hairpin onto a side table. She spun and methodically slipped the straps of her dress from her shoulders. “And yet, imagine my disappointment when you chose to complain, to focus on Shirley Jackson.”  

She stopped then, holding the dress up to her chest with her hands. “Shirley Jackson, Faustus, how could that nagging hag of a witch have your attention over me? Over this?” Dropping the dress, Zelda let the fabric pool around her feet. She was left in her lace corset, matching bottoms, garter, stockings and heels.

Faustus visibly gulped. “Zelda...” And she could see his cock was straining against his pants and allowed herself a pleased smile as he begged. “Please...”

Fluffing her hair a bit, Zelda bent neatly at the waist to unhook her shoes, giving Faustus a generous view down her top before she straightened. “Please what, husband?” She asked, stepping out of her heels and walking closer to him.

“I wasn’t—” He managed, breaking off and looking at her hopefully when she stopped in front of him.

Instead of relieving him in any way, though, Zelda propped a foot up on his still spellbound knee, sliding her foot from there to the middle of his thigh, smiling at the shiver that raced through him and how his cock twitched as his eyes immediately traced her leg from bottom to top. “You can’t dispute it, darling.” She remarked, snapping the garter and then angling her knee outwards so he could easily see her core, see the dampness soaking through her underwear.

He practically choked, and the chair jerked again.

Lifting a remonstrating brow, Zelda tsked. “Can’t say a single word in defense.” She sighed in faux despair, fiddling with the clasps to her garter. “Whatever is a wife to do?” She asked, undoing the clasps abruptly and sliding the stocking down the length of her leg with exaggerated care.

“She’s to let her husband loose so he may prove to her that any other witch, mortal, demon or being is far from his thoughts.” Faustus replied hoarsely, straining against the spell and stretching his neck side to side as though that’d free him.

Zelda huffed and shook her head. “That seems a little too easy, don’t you think?” She shifted so she could prop her other leg in his lap, a bit higher this time. “I mean, a wife shouldn’t have to ask for her needs to be met, a husband, a warlock one at that, should be able to tell, be able to see his wife’s needs are completely satisfied. Shouldn’t he?” She slipped the other stocking down and smirked at how transfixed Faustus was by the action.

Tossing the item aside, Zelda lowered her foot back to the ground and reached for the laces on the back of her corset, only to find she couldn’t grasp them. While she could undo it with another spell, just as she’d done her dress, Zelda smiled wickedly at the idea that had just formed.

She spun slowly, once more sweeping her hair over her shoulder. “Faustus, could you start to make up your grievous mistake of ignoring my needs by helping me with these laces?”

The chair scraped along the floor again. “Zelda.” And there was a hard edge to his voice that told her she’d gotten him truly worked up. It sent shivers through her. “Remove the spell, darling, and I can do anything you’d like.”

A low hum emanated from her throat as though she was actually considering the idea. “No,” she drew out the word teasingly. “I don’t think you’ve quite learned your lesson yet.” She licked her lips and then swiftly sat in his lap, making sure she moved around enough to rub against his hardened length still straining against his pants.

A gasping intake of breath was her reward.

“You’ll just have to use your teeth.” She instructed, settling herself more fully against him and positioning herself so he could dip his head to reach the laces.

A sharp bite to the junction where her shoulder and neck met was her answer, Faustus’ tongue quickly lapping at the almost broken skin to soothe it. Before she could scold him for misbehaving, he latched his lips to her favorite spot right under her jaw, sucking, nipping and lapping mercilessly.

Taken by surprise, Zelda‘s head tilted to give him more access without her permission and her hands went to grip the armrests automatically only to find herself clinging to his forearms, still frozen to the chair, instead.

“Release me, Zelda,” he purred, nibbling on her ear, “and I can do so, so much more to you.”

Her core throbbed at the roughness of his voice, at the promise hanging heavily in the air. And while he’d begging prettily for her earlier, now he was using other means to try and convince her to end the torture and just take him.

But she wasn’t done yet, and if she gave in now, then she’d telling him he could always tip her hand in some way. And she couldn’t have that, couldn’t let him push the scales in his favor, not when they were tipped so far in hers. With strength she didn’t know she had, Zelda leveraged herself off her husband’s lap and stood; if a little wobbly.

“Darling,” she shook her head, snipping her fingers and the corset’s laces unraveled. “You had your chance to be good,” she arched a brow and let the corset fall away, leaving only her underwear and Faustus moaned. “But you just couldn’t.”

Approaching him again, Zelda reached for his pants and slowly undid his belt and zipper—while she’d have liked to take him right then, she did want to at least keep up the pretense she was in control.

She ran a hand through his hair, “can you be good?” She purred, leaning in so their faces were barely an inch apart as she stroked her other hand along his length.

Still only able to move his head, Faustus lunged forward and kissed her brutally, tugging her lower lip and biting hard.

Yanking back, Zelda huffed. “That was your last chance Faustus,” she murmured, stepping back, turning a bit so she could bend at the waist once more and remove her underwear, only this time Faustus got an eyeful of her glistening folds instead of her chest.

He moaned and the chair jumped again, but Zelda knew it was partially for show. He knew she’d have released him if he’d played along, he wanted her to take him like this, wanted her in control.

It wasn’t often he wanted to play the sub, and Zelda wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity.

Flicking her underwear aside with her foot, Zelda drew herself up and eyed Faustus over her shoulder with a dark smirk.

He finally broke. “Zelda, please, I—"

Unable to restrain herself any longer, Zelda was in his lap, straddled him and sinking onto his hard length before he could finish his sentence.

Obscene sounds escaped them both and Zelda wasted no more time getting settled. Hands on his shoulders for balance and leverage, Zelda set a punishing pace; Faustus merely trying to capture whatever part of her he could in his mouth as she moved.