#what kind of Neon nonsense

[chinchillasorchildren]

So now The Taste of Things is also a 2023 US release via a single-city qualifying run

[eff4freddie]

Free

No Outbreak AU!Joel Miller x AFAB Reader

Words: 7.7k of basically porn lols

You confess to Joel one of your filthiest fantasies, something you've never told anyone before. He's a good man, but you underestimate just how much he will do for you.

Warnings: Minors DNI. Explicit. Free use. Public sex. Praise kink. Beer bottles and dirty dive bars. Tiny lil breeding kink if you squint. Like seriously guys, this is filth. I've gone a little shy of myself? Like wow we are learning some things about Freddie tonight.

Like most wildfires, neither of you were sure where the first ember landed. Joel preferred dive bars, liked the blues on the juke box, the fact that he would wear his flannel and jeans flecked with paint and wood shaving and no one would notice. He knew you preferred the fancier places, occasionally would make an effort, but knew you also didn’t mind sometimes slumming it with him, sometimes just leaning back into a booth and letting the neon red light leech over your skin. You’d never admit it to his face, never give him the power over you, but you didn’t really care where you were so long as it was with him.

You liked it when he lifted the beer to his lips, saw his throat work to swallow it down. It reminded him of the times you’d made him gasp, groan, as he worked his cock into your throat. It felt like an intimate thing, the chords of his muscles working just right there under his skin. Sometimes you reached out, ran your fingertips under his collar, made him shiver. He’d grab your fingers, put them on his lips, press a kiss to them, tell you off for lettin’ ‘em get so cold in the night.

On these nights, when Sarah’s with the sitter and you’re winding down from a long week of work, its these nights when Joel takes you out in a pretty dress or a shirt skirt, waits in his truck while you slip your panties off and puts them in his pocket, helps you down to the street with a hand gripping the back of your thigh. It’s these nights, when Joel’s worked up from the job site, when he’s stressed about Sarah’s teenage rebellious phase, when it’s been a while between drinks, that he’s handsy with you, pushing himself into a booth in a dark corner and pulling you down on top of him, perched in his lap with your legs spread over his so that he can face you out to the bar, open your thighs just as someone walks past, lets you feel the breeze on your cunt while you hide your face in his neck and burn, either from embarrassment or from how wet he’s made you, showing you off like this, you tucking his hands under your bottom to stop him slipping them into you while you try to concentrate on the specials board.

‘Shy, baby?’ he’d tease you, pulling your hair off your neck to bite at your jaw line, whisper dirty nonsense into your ear while you fought for some kind of decency, some way to cover yourself up, at least until you’d finished your first drink.

It was one of those nights, when he’d finally relented and let you eat your meal in peace, that he’d got it out of you, the confession that set the whole thing in motion, the idea taking root in Joel’s mind so swiftly that the tendrils of it spilt into his veins, spiralled down to his cock, made him harder than he ever remembered being.

You knew this about Joel. That it wasn’t a jealousy streak, or an insecurity, that it wasn’t even so much of an exhibitionist streak for him. It was just that he liked showing you off, liked knowing that of all the men in the room who were undressin’ ya, wantin’ ya, he was the one with his fingers buried in your cunt while you struggled to act like nothing untoward was going on. He liked the power of it, the power he had over you, and you wondered sometimes how far he would go with it. What would happen if you were ever found bent over with his cock buried inside you, his hands on your hips pulling you back into him, his teeth bared and his sweat dripping onto your back. You knew without having experienced anything like it that he would probably keep going, that he would like the watching. That he’d probably goad the audience into coming closer, commentate for them, let them see what he, and only he, was wringing from your body as it clamped down around him. The thought of it, the image of it in your mind, kept you awake at night, your cunt throbbing. You felt the pride in it, you supposed, that he desired you so dearly he wanted to show off that he had you.

You knew all of that when you confessed to him what you were thinking about, three beers in and his hand on your knee, rubbing little circles with his thumb, sliding his whole hand over your skin and back down again, not even noticing he was doing it. You watched his pupils blow wide, the far away look come over him as he imagined what you were describing, the way he swallowed, hard.

‘You want that right now?’ he asked, and he looked like a kid on Christmas morning, not quite believing he’d actually been given the bike he’d asked Santa for.

‘No, not right now, probably not ever,’ you said, flopping your head onto his shoulder and listening to his quickening heartbeat in his neck. ‘Just like to think about it, is all.’

‘Baby you can’t say that to me and not…you have to know what you’re doing to me,’ he all but whined, and you giggled.

‘You wouldn’t mind it?’ you asked, pulling up to look at him again, study his eyes, knowing that you were way out on a limb now. You saw not an ounce of hesitation on his face.

He barely got you out of the place before he had you bent over the bed of his truck, your hands clawing for purchase on the chrome as he drilled into you right there in the parking lot, your face buried in your arms in the hope that the darkness of the night was protecting you both from being arrested.

--

He didn’t bring it up again for another few weeks, both of your jobs getting too busy, Sarah getting too demanding and fourteen, the world conspiring against you to rob you both of your dirty Fridays. Joel was getting pent up, the idea of it bouncing around his mind too often for him to concentrate, but his bones were sore of a nighttime, and he only had the energy to relieve himself in the shower before climbing into bed and switching off the light. You didn’t mind it, had been together a long enough time now to know there would be ebbs and flows. He held you as you slept, he kissed you in the morning even as you tried to shove him off and scold him for his morning breath, promised to take you out when your schedules were clear and knew that he meant it, that he was a man of his sometimes limited words. Sometimes it just went with the territory of wanting him always, you knew, that there would be aching times of not-having.

So you were surprised when you came home from dropping Sarah off at her friend’s for the night and saw his truck in the drive, expecting him much later if the week had been anything to go by. You heard him in the shower and figured he was washing off another stressful day, intending to leave him to it, except that for a man with basically one good ear he was surprisingly adept at knowing where you were at all times, and he emerged, towel wrapped loose around his hips and dripping onto the carpet, to pull you by the arm in with him. You just managed to strip out of your jeans before he was on you, pulling your wet bra off your skin, slipping your underwear down your legs and throwing them into the sink.

‘Won’t need those tonight,’ he said, simply, as you gawped at him, the water running off his shoulders and into your eyes. You leant forward, resting your forehead on his chest. It had been an intense few minutes.

‘Where we going tonight?’ you asked, and he didn’t answer, instead pulling back from you and bending to lift your leg up, hooking it over his elbow. You leant back onto the cold shower tile, the water beating down on your chest, as he dripped your favourite body wash onto a loofah and ran it tightly over your skin, crouching down and slipping your leg over his shoulder to run it up and down the inside of your thighs, each time his fingers sweeping closer to your cunt, the heat and steam of the shower making you light headed as your clit throbbed for him. He was teasing you, working you up and you knew he was going to leave you like this, that this is how the whole night would go unless you did something about it, pushing yourself off the wall and crashing your pussy into his mouth, the sharp angle of his nose landing hard on your clit as he gasped.

It hadn’t been the plan but he wasn’t above improvising. In his head he was just going to tease you a little, make sure that you were up for what he had planned, but this was just as good, just as effective. He was careful not to let you come, careful to keep you right on the edge, the suds and the water running over his mouth and nose as he lathed at your clit, ran his tongue up and down your seam, not letting it dip inside where he knew you wanted him. He looked up your body, watched your hips shudder and the muscles in your tummy roll and contract as you tried to draw him in deeper. He grinned, a huffled little laugh into your pussy. You were furious when he drew back, wet hands trying to grip his hair and keep him there. He held you to him, wrapped you warm up in a towel even as you cussed him out, madder than a barn cat at having had your pleasure interrupted. You were perfect like this, he thought, watching you huff, wild for him. He reminded you to dress for a night out. He made sure your underwear stayed in the sink.

--

You were still pissed, but your curiosity got the better of you when he missed the turn off for the bar, heading instead over the railway track and further out of town. If you had been speaking to him you would have asked where he was taking you, but you were refusing to let him off the hook for his cruelty in the shower. Twenty minutes later, when he pulled up to a bar you’d never seen before, a couple of dirt bikes parked out the front and a few trucks in the lot out the back, he gave you a little tap on the knee. You turned to him, eyebrows shooting up.

‘Figured we better go where no one knows us, baby,’ he said, and he was grinning at you in a way that made your belly flip, an electric bolt shooting straight between your legs.

‘What are you up to, Miller?’ you asked, as he leant over and undid your seatbelt. He made you jump down out of the truck yourself, striding as he was towards the bar. The bright red OPEN sign buzzed over the door, the sound of it reverberating into the air beneath it where you stood, your nerves jangling in tune. Surely he wouldn’t, you thought. You pulled your short skirt down, worried now that without underwear a strong breeze would expose you to anyone passing by. He held the door open for you, darkness behind him and the sounds of clinking glass, tinny guitar over a shitty sound system, chatter and drunkenness.

‘Trust me, baby,’ he said, and you did, you knew you did. He held his hand out to you. You took it.

Once inside you could see a bit better. The bar itself was quite small, a couple of men sitting around it drinking beers and whiskeys. There was a row of booths under the blacked-out windows, a pool table in one corner. By the bar a hallway led down to the bathrooms. You shivered when you saw it.

He led you by the hand to the corner of the bar right next to the hallway, the single stool.

‘This is where I’ll be,’ he said to you, putting your hand on the bar to feel how solid it was, that it was real and that this was happening, to ground you. He pulled you forward, five or maybe six paces down the hallway, to a piece of wall right by the men’s bathroom. He backed you up against it, letting you glance over his shoulder to the stool where you had just been.

‘This is where you’ll be,’ he said to you, his voice heavy and thick and you recognised the want in it, the need. He spun you around, kicking your feet apart and holding your hands up above your head. You tried to breathe but couldn’t seem to get enough air, tried to expand your lungs but you could only puff and gasp, your stomach doing somersaults as he positioned you. He pushed them into the wall, the two of them held together under his palm.

‘You don’t move them from here,’ he said, stern and calm at the same time. ‘You look over your shoulder you’ll see me, but you don’t move these from here. Nod so I know you heard me, baby,’ he said. You nodded your head, your nose almost grazing the plaster of the filthy wall. He pulled your hips out so that you bowed slightly, your arse sticking back behind you. He ran his hands over the back of your thighs, leant down to cup your bottom as he ran his hands up and over, pulled your skirt over your hips.

Your heart was racing so hard you could feel it in your knees, your whole body thrumming as he exposed you to the room. You heard no shouts or protests, your eyes slammed shut and your face buried in your arm. You could feel cool air on your skin as he moved away from you, and you yelped, a bolt of panic shooting through you. You lifted your head and he was there again, his arms over yours as he covered you, brought his mouth down to your ear.

‘You can do this baby, I’m right here,’ he said, and you felt like you might scream or cry or come, you weren’t sure which or what you preferred, your mind scrambling to keep up with the fact that he was letting you play out one of your dirtiest fantasies, that he trusted you this much, that you knew he would keep you safe, would stop it from going too far if you needed him to, that you wanted this, that you wanted to give it to him.

‘Two rules,’ he said, when he could tell you were coming back into yourself, that you were listening. ‘Hands stay on the wall,’ he said, his voice rough and low as he stopped to chew on your earlobe. You could feel you were wet, could feel you were shivering. You hadn’t had a good look at the men in the bar. You weren’t sure if you were glad of it.

‘Second rule,’ he said, and now he was running his hands over your hips and down your belly to rub little circles into your clit. You shuddered, pushing back against him, felt that he was throbbing. ‘No coming ‘til I say so,’ he said, and then he was gone, your body cold and aching where he had just been.

You lifted your head and turned to watch him over your shoulder, your spine twisting to see without moving your hands, now resting palm-down above your head. You saw him calmly order a beer from the bartender, who didn’t bat an eyelid at you standing, skirt over your arse and bent at the waist, the seam of your pussy exposed to the entire bar, your thighs quivering as you felt the slick start to collect on your skin.

All you could do was try and breathe. Try to keep your knees from shaking, your legs from collapsing underneath you. You turned your face back to the wall, your nose resting on the brick, as you gulped down air and tried to swallow on a bone-dry throat. Maybe nothing would happen if you just stayed completely still, you thought. Wasn’t that how they survived the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park?

You could hear the toilet in the men’s room flushing, the tap running as the dude, mercifully, washed his hands. You knew you were seconds away from being confronted, that he would have to squeeze past you if he wanted to get back to his table, that maybe the others wouldn’t have seen you tucked away as you were down the side of the bar, but not now, not where Joel had positioned you. You closed your eyes, the humiliation of it mixing with heat in your cunt, and you couldn’t decide what you wanted to happen, couldn’t quiet your mind enough other than to count backwards from 10 and try to force your lungs to work.

10. You heard the door swing open, the rush of air ruffling the skirt over your lower back.

9. Footsteps striding out of the bathroom, stopping abruptly.

8. A short, sharp exhale of breath. A ‘what the fuck?’. Surprised, but not angry.

7. A long, heavy second or two of silence.

6. A slower footstep. Another. Towards you.

5. A hand, warm and foreign, on your hip as he moved behind you.

4. The thunderous sound of your voice in your head telling you to just stay still, stay still, stay still.

3. A nervous little laugh as he slid behind you, his hips to yours to get past you on the wall. His hand still on your hip but gripping, fingers squeezing at your flesh.

2. A soft swipe of your cunt as he clears you, his fingers gently fluttering over your seam as you stand, exposed and wet.

1. Your gasp, all of the breath you had been trying to get suddenly sweeping into your lungs, a needy little whine on the exhale, a shiver.

And a few moments later, laughter, a group of men on the other side of the bar, a hint of disbelief in it, a hint of awe. You blinked your eyes open, your body quaking. You couldn’t turn your head, wouldn’t turn your head to Joel, but you knew he was there, knew he was watching you quiver, knew he would stop it if it got too much, that you wouldn’t have to ask him, that he would just know. You felt heat on your cheeks and a twist of something in your gut. For a moment you wanted to skip forward to the aftermath, to Joel holding you in bed and loving on you, recounting the events that hadn’t even unfolded yet as you felt the heat of his skin and the strength of his arms, the muscles ripping under his skin as he kissed the shell of your ear and let you drift to sleep, wrapped up in him.

 Joel gripped the neck of his beer bottle harder than he intended, barely registering the cold on his hands. It had been his idea to set this up, he knew that, had rented the whole place out to make a safe space for you to play, had vetted the guys from the job site, had been careful to select the ones he knew would treat you right. Still, though. Still, he could see you were shaking, trying so hard to be good for him with your hands pushed into the wall, and he doubted for just a second, wondered whether he should call it. He could see you were slick between your thighs, could hear that you were breathing heavy. But he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t feel a surge of something a little like jealousy at the way the eyes of the guys travelled over your delicious curves, curves he had – up until this moment – reserved the sole right to traverse. He wondered if the guys would be able to stick to the limits once they had you under them. He was ready to pull you out of there the moment something got out of hand, but he worried, now and for the first time, that by then it could be too late.

You swallowed over your dry throat. You were trying to stay in your body, to close your eyes and give yourself over to it, but you were still struggling to quiet your mind. This is what you had wanted, and you knew Joel would never push you further than what you had told him you would go. You knew that. But did the other guys? You considered for a moment, the thought occurring to you like a lightning bolt, that Joel had worked you up in the shower precisely so that you would be horny enough not to run for the door the second he tried this. You almost wanted to laugh, except that you were too scared to lest you lose all control.

There were more footsteps, coming towards you from beside the bar, and you swore you heard a group of men cheering the man on. He wasn’t hesitating, whoever this stranger in the bar was, probably having spotted you from across the room. You kept your eyes on the floor, your head hanging low between your shoulders. From this angle you could see your ankles, the heels Joel insisted you wear even though you could barely stand in them, realising now why he wanted you off balance, why he wanted you unable to run for the door. Two pairs of trainers appeared between your ankles, a rough hand coming down to rest on your left butt cheek. It wasn’t a slap, wasn’t even a particularly hard grope, but you whimpered anyway, slammed your eyes shut and immediately wondered if it was better to look or not.

And throughout it all your pussy throbbed. Even if you were in turmoil it knew exactly what it wanted, was hungry for the attention and the desires of all these men, was having a fucking field day knowing Joel was watching you, wanting you, from across the room.

The man behind you slid two fingers over your seam, his breath on the back of your neck as he leaned over you. You shuddered, his skin rougher than Joels, as he prodded at you, eased your lips open and ran his fingers up along the flesh there. You realised he was collecting your slick, felt him pull away and his lips smack around his hand as he, presumably, sucked you off his skin.

‘Jesus, boys,’ he called to his friends over the other side of the room, and you startled. ‘She’s fuckin’ sweeter than honey and dripping onto the floor.’

Under the cheers you swore you heard Joel chuckle, and you shivered. You wanted this man to touch you again, almost whined when he instead moved back to his table. You were sweating, could feel that the small of your back was damp, felt like you had a fever, some kind of delirium, the pulsing of your cunt so intense it almost hurt.

You heard more shuffling footsteps, now, three or four sets, as you realised the table of friends were making their way over to you. You shivered, turned a wild eye over to Joel, who was sipping at his beer and watching you, nodding gently at you to keep you there. You kept your hands on the wall. You wanted to be his good girl.

‘And we can touch her wherever?’ a guy was saying, and you moved your face back to the wall, arching your back slightly, practically waving your cunt in the air.

‘She ain’t protesting,’ a voice said, and you recognised it as the man who had just touched you. To demonstrate his point, he extended his hand to your face and stuck two of his fingers in your mouth, and you sucked them willingly, tasting a hint of yourself on him. You felt your eyes close all by themselves, smiling as the man gasped.

‘Holy shit,’ someone else commented, and you were slapped hard on your arse then, the sting of it making you whine. A finger quickly followed, probing you open again, your copious amounts of slick easing the entry.

‘Like this?’ the voice said, and you realised he was asking you a question, and you nodded your head. ‘Yeah, you like this,’ the voice affirmed, a finger finally sinking into your cunt. You felt yourself spasm, throwing your head back and groaning, your hips rolling all on their own.

‘Tight little thing,’ someone said, and you grunted as another finger was added. You were being pushed into the wall, your face lying on the brick, your hands still planted above your head.

‘Ease it on her a little,’ a third voice said, and you felt another hand snake around you, this one cold on the fingertips, as it slid over your clit.

‘Oh!’ you gasped, the pleasure of it shooting through you. You could feel that you were clamping down on the fingers inside you.

‘She liked that a lot,’ the man beside you said, and he pulled his fingers from your mouth and dropped them to your tit, rubbing the nipple through the barely-there shirt Joel had picked out for you tonight.

You were whimpering, gradually losing control of the sounds you were making, of your little cries into the noise of the bar, and you could hear them snickering, laughing at your pleasurable distress, at the ache and thrum of your cunt, at the way you were so wet you were leaking down your thighs.

You were losing your grip on your thoughts, felt them slipping through you, unable to catch them as they dripped past. From somewhere a memory stirred itself up, sitting on Joel’s lap in the bar you always go to, his hand pushing on your clit from outside your panties as he shielded you from the rest of the patrons, whispering into his ear that you fantasised about being used by strange men, about being set up by him to be groped and fondled, to be watched as men took their pleasure from you, to have to wait for them to be done with you, to be bored of you, before you were released. ‘But they never get bored of me, not really. Sometimes they let me rest for a bit. But they want me that bad, they can’t stop.’

‘How long’s this all take, when you think about it?’ he asked, feeling even through the fabric of your underwear that you were dripping.

‘Sometimes hours,’ you whimpered, breathless just at the thought of it. ‘I’m free for their use, for hours. For hours,’ you said.

--

Now, with your hands against the wall in just the position you had described to Joel weeks before, you bite your lip. God, how long does he plan on keeping you here? You want to come already, want to push down on the hands behind you and flood them with your spend.

These men, though, these three, are just teasing you, and right when you start to rock your hips they pull away again.

‘Unreal,’ one of them says, as if you’re a work of art hanging on a wall in a museum, and you want to howl at them, want to grab their hands and put them back on your skin. You resist the urge, biting down hard on your bottom lip. Joel said no coming, so maybe you should be grateful. Even if you’re now quivering. Even if you’re not sure your legs will keep you standing.

You take a couple of shaky breaths, coming down enough to notice that your shoulders are starting to ache. You roll them, careful to keep your palms connected to the surface, trying to push the hair out of your eyes by running your face along your forearms.

You’re not sure how long you stand there. You try counting the songs on the jukebox but they all sound the same to you, and it’s hard to decipher when one stops and the next one begins. Every now and again there’s the sound of glasses being dumped into the trough behind the bar, clinking ice and peels of male laughter. Once or twice, someone walks past on the way to the bathroom and pat you on the arse, put a hand on your lower back and bend you further, pushing you until your sweet little cunt is more fully exposed. But no one is bold enough to touch, no one is as forward as the three men from before, and you’re feeling a twinge of disappointment settling in between the arousal and the shock. These scant touches aren’t nearly enough, and you realise that you’re pining for someone to come and tease you, play with your cunt or your tits until you’re gasping.

You chance a look over your shoulder at Joel and see that he’s turned away from you a little, his beer in his hand while he chats to a man beside him, and his casual disregard for your predicament infuriates you as much as it sends bolts of heat to your cunt.

You’re being ignored, you realise, and it makes your tummy do weird flips you don’t fully understand. You start to arch your back again, weave your hips in slow circles in the air. You don’t have a lot of mental capacity in this moment, so it’s only later you will consider that Joel had made sure you would beg for any attention, knew that you would be outraged at not being the centre of attention in this moment, that you would reach a new level of depraved heat just to get the eyes back on you. It had maybe been half an hour and you’d gone from praying no one would see you if you didn’t move, to trying to scent the air around you with your cunt, luring them to you like a siren on a rocky cove.

Now, though, now all you want is for someone to touch you, someone to ease their hands onto your skin and feel the heat of it, coo at how mean your man is, how silly for letting a pretty little thing like you out of his clutches. You realise you allowed to close your legs and you do, wrapping one foot behind your ankle so you can rub your thighs together. The skin slides easily and you sigh, gently.

You’re wrapped up in it, your ears tuning out the noise around you to properly concentrate on the thrum of your cunt, so you don’t realise there’s someone behind you until they’re basically on you, kicking your legs apart and arching you back again.

‘Naughty girl,’ the voice says, and it’s not Joel and you’re marginally disappointed but also it means this isn’t over yet, and you grin back at him.

‘Not sorry,’ you say, and you’re pulled back then, almost bent over in a right angle as your hands slide down the wall but stay on it, your arms now covering your ears.

You just barely hear a grunt, then something cold and hard is pushing at your lips for entry, and you realise that you are being fucked in a strange bar with a beer bottle in front of however many strange men, and you groan at the insanity of it, at the filth. He’s twisting it, his other hand finding your clit, and you’re throwing your head back now, your hair falling down your back as you arch, the glass so smooth and cold inside you that you wonder for a second if you’ve fogged it up. Its thrust into you three, four, five times before the man slips it from you, and you hear him take a swig of it, the taste of your cunt on the glass as he lifts it to his lips. He groans, rests a hand on the small of your back as he sips.

‘Sweet?’ someone calls out, and you hear him laugh.

‘Heaven,’ he says. ‘Come get yours before I ruin her.’

You hear chairs being pushed back, and looking down at the floor you count seven pairs of shoes assembling in a line behind you. You can hear some guys are still playing pool, the crack of the 8 ball as someone breaks. You look for Joel’s along the line of shoes behind you. You don’t see them.

There are fingers in your cunt again, two or maybe three, you’re not sure, and you have moved up a little, your tits pressed to the wall as they grope you from behind. It’s delicious, exactly the right pressure in exactly the right spot, as if someone has given them all a manual to your body. Someone lifts your leg under the knee and twists your hip so that you can rest your foot on his thigh, and then you’re even more open, even more exposed. You close your eyes, your spine twisting to keep both arms on the wall, but in this position one man can get underneath you on his knees and lick up into you and you gasp at the feeling of it, the warmth of his tongue compared to the cold of the bottle, and you’re really sweating now, want to rip your top off and pull the skirt from around your waist just to get it out of the way, but someone is using it to hold you still, the fabric bunched under your tits so that you won’t fall. With one mouth on your cunt someone else is behind you with his fingers inside you, and someone else is holding your tits in his hands, his thumbs squeezing and rubbing at your nipples.

Over your shoulder you can hear someone commentating for his friend. ‘Fuck, you thought she was wet before,’ they’re saying, and the way they’re talking about you like you’re not there, like you’re an object for them to play with, a doll, a toy, has you bucking against the tongue on your clit, against the fingers inside you. They’re setting you on fire, the embers catching on gasoline. It’s heaven and its torture and its so, so much.

Fuck, you’re going to come and you can’t stop it. But you have to, you promised Joel. You’re almost wailing now, trying to get the feeling out in some way so that you won’t tip over the edge, and the guys are laughing.

‘Listen to her hollerin’,’ someone says, and you can’t keep your eyes closed anymore, open them to see a bunch of men standing around you, all of them palming their cocks through their pants, as one man crouches under your form, his shoulder pushed hard into the wall to get under you. You can’t see the man behind you but one is off to the side, his eyes on our cunt as he bounces your tits in his hands.

‘Oh, hey beautiful,’ one of the men watching says when he catches your eye. He’s handsome, they all are, you realise, and they’re all in their early 30s and they’re all incredibly fit, and if you had any presence of mind in this moment you would consider that this was an odd coincidence, but as it is right now you just want their cocks in your mouth, want their come dripping over your tits and your face. The one behind you, with his fingers buried in your cunt, is grinding against you and for a deranged moment you consider freeing him from his pants and slipping him inside you.

‘She’s so fucked out,’ someone laughs, and you’re gasping, crying out as if that will stop you from coming, but it’s not enough, the cliff is right there. You’re rolling your hips, your mouth agape and gasping when you’re not howling for relief.

‘Like a bitch in heat,’ someone says. ‘Hey, tag out.’

All of them stop, hold you steady for a second. You’re panting, your legs weak as you lean your weight on the wall. You can feel yourself receding from the cliff again, can feel the throb in your cunt easing off just enough that you can think. Your leg is dropped back to the floor, and you are jostled back into position as the men rearrange themselves, and you realise they’re taking turns using you. Even without their hands on you, the thought alone could make you come. You want to turn your head to look for Joel but they’re crowding around you, and for a second there’s a drop of panic in your belly before it’s replaced again with wildfire. You know he’s there. Know he’ll stop it if he needs to.

‘Holy shit, she’s still so tight,’ someone says, slipping back into place in your cunt, and another man laughs. ‘Get the bottle again, stretch her out.’ Their hands are probing again, a man finger-fucking you from the front now, another holding you up from behind as they twist you off to the side. They’re all staring at your cunt, at where you’re spreading open to take them, marvelling at the intrusion.

‘How many fingers you reckon she can take?’ someone asks, and you buck your hips away from it, away from how obscene it is, from how irrevocably turned on in makes you.

‘Joel said not to mark her,’ someone says, and much later you will recall this, recognise this as the moment you might have realised he had set all of it up, including who these men were. As it was you were too busy trying to quell the rushing bliss thundering through you, trying to hold back the cracking dam with your pinkie finger and good will.

‘Scoot over, then,’ someone says, and you are moved again, your legs opened up a little further so that two hands can be inside you at once, their fingers moving just out of sequence enough that they rub at different speeds, forming a relentless piston, a wave of pleasure that’s going to drag you under, fill your lungs.

You can’t take it. Your eyes are blurring from unshed tears, the respite from moments ago disappearing under the weight of the bodies covering you. Are your hands still on the wall? You open your eyes a crack to check. You want them to throw you over their shoulders and slip their cocks inside you, one in front and one behind. You want to roll on the floor with them, have them line up and sink yourself down on them one by one like some kind of deranged Goldilocks. You want every last one of them to come on you, in you, to breed you, to make you theirs.

You can feel your back arching, can feel that you’re rearing up again, the pleasure twisting up your spine and elongating it, your head pulling hard up and away from your shoulders. You’re holding your breath, trying to keep the orgasm away, but it’s bolting up on you.

‘I can’t, I can’t,’ you’re saying, and you’re not even sure what you can’t do exactly. Can’t hold it back, can’t take anymore, can’t stop. Can’t come like this, not allowed to. Joel’s good girl.

‘Hey!’ a voice booms from the bar and you recognise it immediately, Joel standing up and moving towards you. He’s seen you struggling, has seen your hips rolling and heard your wails as you tried to hold back for him. ‘I said no comin’!’ he bellows, and you groan. Your knight in shining armour has arrived just to keep fucking torturing you.

‘Joel!’ you cry, whine, nearly in tears for the need of him. Suddenly you don’t want any of these guys, you just want him, want his smell and the sweet softness of his flannel, want his eyes on you and his whispers in your ear. Want his cock inside you, his come claiming you from within. He’s shouldering his way to you, pushing the guys out of the way, and then he’s with you, your heart racing as his hands are on your shoulders, turning you back to the wall.

‘So good f’me, baby, I know, I know,’ he’s soothing you and you realise you’re sobbing, your breaths coming in deep huffs.

‘Please, please,’ you’re calling for him, and you feel his arm around your waist, feel him scrabbling around to undo his belt and pull down his fly, at the same time as he’s lifting you up and pulling you down on his cock, the fit of him so perfect inside you, his skin inside yours. The guys are watching and you don’t care, because finally he’s with you again, finally he’s the right one, and you’re groaning and gasping, calling his name as he whispers filth in your ear.

‘None of these men get your come,’ he’s saying, ‘none of these guys. Just me that makes ya come, ya hear me?’ and you’re nodding.

‘I want you to make me come, Joel. Only you, only you.’

‘Can feel you grippin’ me, baby,’ he’s babbling, and he’s not sure he’s ever been so hard. He was so patient, watching the guys take you apart bit by bit, until your eyes were unfocussed and your mouth was hanging open, gasping and trying so hard to catch your breath. He could see it in the strain of your muscles, in the way you were panting and hollerin’, that you were holding off for him, that you were keeping yourself sweet and well behaved out of love for him, out of desire, and despite all the other men in the room that wanted you he knew in that moment you were his, that you were his good girl, his, his, his.

It hadn’t been his plan to fuck you like this, but he couldn’t help himself when he heard you callin’ for him. He’d thought he’d just let you come on their hands or their faces, or that you would eventually break and he’d get to slap your arse a little as punishment, but not that you would nearly snap every bone in your body, let your sinew scream and strain, just to stay his good girl.

He surges forward, gripping you to him with one arm, and raises his other hand to cover yours, still pushing into the wall of the bar. He can feel that the skin is ragged underneath, that the exposed brick has grazed you from your effort of keeping your hands there, and he resolves to bathe you in warm water and lick every inch of broken skin the moment he gets you home.

But not yet. Right now, he’s pushing himself further inside you, lifting you up a little so that you’re just on your tippy toes on the floor, balancing on his cock so he can get even deeper inside. You’re keening, your whole body shaking, and you’re not sure you’re going to survive this but you really, really don’t mind going out this way.

You don’t even have words. You can barely get air. You just entwine your fingers with Joels’ where he holds your hands to the wall, tuck your chin to your chest and howl, the orgasm crashing over you and rolling almost immediately into another one, Joel behind you and fucking up into you while you know you still have an audience, while they’re coming onto the floor at your feet, jerking it to the idea of them being the ones to be inside you, of their cocks splitting you open and feeling your cunt milk them dry. You don’t care about any of them, don’t care that they want you so much they’ll settle for their own fists, because all you want is this man, this one inside you and coming deep into your cunt, this one who loves you, who carries you now in his arms with warmth and strength, who is holding you up as he ruts his spend into you, as he gasps and cries out for you, in this very fucking public dive bar just off the highway, where you know you can never step foot again.

--

He doesn’t let you sink to the floor, no matter how badly your legs want to give out on you, but is instead wrapping his hands under your knees, under your arms and lifting you to him.

‘Dirty down there, baby,’ he says, and you open one eye to see the streams of come decorating where you were just standing. The men have all disappeared, knowing that the fun is over, and Joel has wrapped his coat around you at some point, and your muscles are loose and stretched and shaking, suddenly cold from the chill of your sweat in the open air. You tuck your head under his chin, listen to the way he grunts, quietly, when he pushes open the door with his shoulder and carries you to the car. You feel him drop you into the passenger seat of the truck, feel him put the seatbelt on you and turn the heater up as soon as the engine starts.

You can’t move, your whole body spent. You realise by how dark the night is outside the car window that it has been hours. That he has given you everything you asked for, and then just a little bit more. You crack one eye open to watch him as he drives, the streetlights strobing over his face, the scruff on his cheeks, the pointed angle of his nose, the greys appearing by the day in his hair.

You feel your eyes drift shut again, the heat of the car and the warmth of his jacket soothing you down to sleep. He has given you something you only ever dreamed about, something you never even hoped to one day have. You don’t mean the guys in the bar.

Tag list:

@kyloispunk

@604to647

[itstheghostofmypast]

16.51

University Student P.Seonghwa x (F)Reader

Summary: Sometimes, you just need a sugar boost and some Lego sets to make your day a bit brighter - oh, don't forget the main ingredient, Park Seonghwa.

Genre: Fluff

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.1K

Est.Read Time: 5 min

Networks: @cromernet @k-labels @illusionnet

A/N: For my hardworking girlboss- @edenesth (a late bday present of sorts).

With a heavy sigh, she placed her bag on the bench before slumping down beside it. Whoever said university was fun deserved a special place in hell. Two years in, and she still had to sit on a patch of grass surrounded by her friends, all looking up at the camera with smiles that would put toothpaste ads to shame. Not to mention the endless hours of back-to-back classes, followed by the nonsensical amount of assignments and projects given to them, all made her wonder what exactly was this all for? She was not birthed to become a slave of capitalism, a slave of the system- she was but a mere butterfly, all too willing to flutter around in an endless field of opportunities, skipping from one soft petal to another, tasting the sweet essence of a blissful and youthful life.

Or she could get a rubber-clad four walled white room, at least she'd be able to pass off being delusional as a crazy person, rather than someone claiming she was so depressed she had begun day dreaming in classes. Her fingers twitched at the thought of how a few juniors caught her crying in a bathroom stall today, though they were far from cruel, their consoling words just made her feel worse- maybe she really wasn't cut out for all of this. This hectic schedule, this hectic lifestyle, these expectations.

She was so invested in falling down her pit of misery and despair that she didn't notice someone pick up her back, replacing it with their own presence, nor did she notice the way he was now staring at her, for a good long while too. Her attention was grabbed by a sharp ice-coldness that spread across her numbing cheek causing her to jerk away as she gasped, cupping her cold, wet cheek, turning to glare at whoever was foolish enough to mess with her- oh.

“You know…one bad presentation doesn't define you…wasn't even that bad.”

The rumble of his hushed voice had her senses tingle, perhaps his ASMR hobby was actually well worth it, though he was still an idiot because even a dead man could see how bad her presentation was today. She tilted her head to glare at him, but once again, her view was obstructed by a condensed plastic cup filled with some kind neon green beverage - he was probably trying out those horribly weekly juices again.

“You weren't even paying attention today,” with a soft mumble she sat back straight, her legs spread out in front of her, head leaning against the uncomfortable back of the bench, staring up at the pastel adorned sky, could this day take any longer to end? Closing her eyes, she continued, “And also, you're lucky the lecturer didn't catch you. How many times have I told you not to show up in my class? Especially if it's not your majo-ack!” she choked at the sudden intrusion, something stabbing the back of her throat before disappearing as quickly as it had come.

“Shit- sorry! Why'd you open your mouth!?” He gasped, pulling back the drink, trying to not laugh at how comical it was- yes, he felt bad because he hurt her, but it was ironic how his romantic gesture just had him blowing around.

Swatting his hand away she glared at him, at his hideously good-looking face, at his stupid boba eyes, and his hair -at this point she wanted him to trim it because he was serving more looks that needed, especially with so many people eying him. With a huff, she crossed her arms over her chest and turned to face him, “Exactly why are you here, Park Seonghwa!?”

“Me?” He pointed to himself with the cup in hand, before bringing the plastic straw to his pouty lips, taking a sip and humming, “I came to cheer up my butterfly, got her a treat too, but instead almost killed her.” With that, he 'carefully’ pressed the straw against her lips, this time being cautious not to stab her again this time. His smile deepened at the way she took a sip, watching the way her eyes twinkle at the taste, or perhaps the rush of sugar that she oh so desperately needed after the horrid day. He let her hold the cup, busy drinking away, his hand now reaching up to her face, gently caressing her cheek with his knuckles before his finger tucked the few loose strands behind her ear, “I'm sorry today didn't work out as planned.”

Placing the empty cup between them she sighed, facing him with a small smile, thankful to have someone like him, to have someone like him take care of her, be there for her, smile at her, pull her up when she was down I the dumps, have her try new things- like this Kiwi and Pineapple juice. He may have been a bit thick skulled sometimes, sometimes his inner nerd would win as hed demand they build random lego sets in the middle of the night, or he'd force her to watch him play Animal Crossing- but one thing for was for sure, reaching forward she placed her hand on his, giving it a light squeeze.

“It's alright…I'm glad you were there, it made me feel better.”

At that, he tugged her closer, pulling her into his warm embrace, giggling when he felt her sigh into his neck, gripping his shirt as if she was afraid he'd disappear. Truthfully, even during the whole mess of her presentation, the only reason she had kept going was because he was there, smiling at her, silently rooting for her, encouraging her to go on- then instantly hiding when her lecturer turned around to look at whom she was staring at, her handsome, caring, loving clown.

“I'm glad it did because I missed a test today, so at least I know it was for nothing.” He hummed, chin atop her head, enjoying the moment -

“YOU WHAT!?” Shoving him away, she glared at him wide-eyed, a test!? He skipped a test to be there!? She wasn't sure if she were to find this romantic or just stupid-

“Oh my, would you look at the time!” Standing up, he grabbed her bag, slinging it over his shoulder, grabbing the empty cup before gripping her wrist with his free hand and pulling her up, “Let us go, fairy princess!! Time to build your castle lego set! SO WE CAN HAVE OUR HAPPILY EVER AFTER FOREVER!” He declared ragging her along ignoring her complain about him not taking his academics seriously- who cared about a stupid test, he'd make up for it with extra work, all Park Seonghwa could think of all day, was her, because if he was sure about anything about his anxious, doubtful, self-conscious existence, was that she was his reason of being.

Taglist: @edenesth @skteezcursed @mlysalt @the-kpop-simp @spooo00oky @bunnyluvr25 @s-h-y-a @ateezswonderland

[inkspiredwriting]

A Not-So-Normal Day

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

Five Hargreeves was determined to have a normal day. After the chaos of time travel, apocalypses, and his family’s constant drama, he and his wife, Y/N, deserved some peace and quiet. He had planned a simple day for them: breakfast at their favorite café, a walk in the park, and a quiet evening at home. It was supposed to be perfect.

But the Hargreeves family had other plans.

The day started promisingly enough. Five and Y/N walked hand in hand to the café, the morning sun casting a warm glow over the city. They found a cozy corner table and ordered their usual: pancakes for Y/N and coffee for Five. As they waited for their food, Five felt a rare sense of calm.

Then the door to the café burst open, and Klaus strolled in, wearing a flamboyant feathered hat and a neon pink jacket. “Hey, lovebirds!” he called out, drawing the attention of everyone in the café.

Five groaned inwardly. “Klaus, what are you doing here?”

Klaus slid into the booth next to Y/N, completely ignoring Five’s annoyed expression. “Just thought I’d join you two for breakfast. I mean, what’s a normal day without a bit of family bonding?”

Y/N stifled a laugh as Five glared at his brother. “We were kind of hoping for some alone time, Klaus.”

Klaus waved a hand dismissively. “Nonsense! Besides, I bring entertainment.” He pulled out a deck of tarot cards and began shuffling them dramatically.

Despite Five’s protests, Klaus stayed for the entire breakfast, regaling them with absurd stories and giving impromptu tarot readings to the waitstaff. By the time they left the café, Five’s hopes for a quiet morning were thoroughly dashed.

Next, they headed to the park. Five hoped for a peaceful walk, maybe a chance to sit by the lake and enjoy the tranquility. They found a secluded bench and sat down, Five finally beginning to relax.

“Maybe we’ll actually get some peace now,” Y/N said, leaning her head on his shoulder.

Five smiled. “Let’s hope so.”

Just as they were starting to enjoy the moment, a soccer ball came flying out of nowhere, landing at their feet. They looked up to see Luther and Diego jogging over, both dressed in athletic gear.

“Hey, Five! Y/N!” Luther called out. “We need an extra player for our game. Wanna join?”

Five’s expression hardened. “No, Luther, we’re trying to have a quiet day.”

Diego shrugged. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Just one game.”

Before Five could protest, Y/N nudged him playfully. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to join them for a bit. It might be fun.”

Reluctantly, Five agreed, and what was supposed to be a quick game turned into an intense match. Luther and Diego’s competitive nature took over, and soon they were diving for the ball and arguing over every point. Y/N cheered them on from the sidelines, laughing at their antics.

By the time the game was over, Five was exhausted. He and Y/N decided to head home, hoping to salvage what was left of their day. They walked back to their apartment, fingers entwined, sharing quiet laughter about the unexpected turn of events.

As they approached their building, they noticed a familiar figure sitting on the steps. It was Viktor, holding a violin case and looking sheepish.

“Viktor?” Five said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Viktor stood up, smiling apologetically. “I heard you guys were having a normal day and thought you might like some music.”

Y/N grinned. “That sounds lovely, Viktor.”

They all went up to the apartment, where Viktor played a beautiful, calming melody that filled the space with warmth. For a moment, Five felt the peace he had been longing for.

But just as Viktor finished his piece, Allison burst through the door, followed by a trail of paparazzi. “Sorry, I couldn’t shake them!” she exclaimed, slamming the door shut.

Five buried his face in his hands. “Why can’t we just have one normal day?”

Y/N laughed, wrapping her arms around him. “Maybe this is our normal, Five. Chaos and all.”

Five sighed, but a smile tugged at his lips. “I guess you’re right.”

As the day came to an end, Five and Y/N sat on the couch, surrounded by his siblings. It wasn’t the quiet, peaceful day he had planned, but it was filled with laughter, love, and the unique madness that only the Hargreeves family could bring.

And in the midst of it all, Five realized that maybe, just maybe, this was exactly the kind of normal he needed.

[spahhzy]

Saphron: It was so good to see you again ,baby brother!

Saphron gave her brother a big hug, to which Jaune reciprocated in kind.

Terra: We all held out hope that you'd come back...even when some of the family gave up.

Jaune: I thank you for holding out for me, honest.

Saphron: So...what are you gonna do now?

Jaune: I... don't know...with Team RWBY forever trapped in the EverAfter...does Remnant even have a chance anymore?

Saphron: Nonsense, regardless of what happened back in that place, humanity will always have a fighting chance!

Jaune: Your belief in humanity is impeccable, sis.

Terra: Adrian, please sit still...

The toddler in question squirmed around in his mom's arms as if he were trying to move away. He began to start crying when he saw Jaune move close to him

Jaune tilted his head at the boy.

Saphron: Forgive him. He's just tired from the long flight to Vacuo.

Jaune: Oh, I could never be mad at him!

Terra: Hun, we should get going. The rest of the family is going to come soon, and they all want their moment of time with Jaune.

Saphron: Oh, alright, okay Jaune... please don't disappear into another dimension.

Jaune: I make no promises!

The brother and sister laughed before giving one more hug.

Saphron: Be ready, parents and the rest of our siblings are gonna tear you apart.

Jaune: Oh, don't worry... I'm quite curious to see them.

Saphron: Don't you mean 'happy' or 'nervous'?

Jaune: Oh yeah...

Saphron: Heh, alright, little brother.

Saphron picks up Adrian from her wife's arms and brings him closer to Jaune.

Saphron: Say goodbye to Uncle Jaune Adrian.

Jaune held out his arms to hug the child, but said child just became even fussier, and his cries became more vocal.

Terra: I'm sorry, Jaune. He must be really out of it if he doesn't wanna give his favorite uncle a hug.

Jaune: No worries *looks at Adrian* You're Uncle loves you, Adrian, never forget that.

That did nothing to quell the boy.

Jaune walked the three to the door.

Saphron: Have a good night, Jaune. Enjoy your meeting with the rest of the family.

Terra: Have a good night!

Jaune waved at them with a smile as he watched them walk away as he did, Adrian looked at him from Terra's shoulders, and Jaune stopped waving.

Adrain felt his lip tremble as he looked at his uncle.

Gone was the smile replaced by a long jagged chesire grin, his normal blue eyes, now shone a neon blue with a singular white pupil.

'Jaune' looked at Adrian and brought a finger to his lips, making a 'shhhhh' gesture.

Adrian could only look on in fear and cry as 'Jaune' disappeared from view.

[strangelittlestories]

It was 4am and Treasure was forcing down a third can of energy drink when thing got *weird*.

The library was hazy with that kind of quiet hysteria that blooms late at night, when impending deadlines crush the soul down into fertile soil for strangeness.

The fluorescent strip lighting and insufficiency of windows didn't help any.

Treasure was tired in a way that banished coherent thought and made sleep an impossibility. Her eyes kept trying to close, but when they did, she just saw spots of dark light floating on the inside of her eyelids.

She stared at those spots, daring them to make sense.

Imagine her surprise, then, when those spots - those holes in the reality of her - began to stare back.

Treasure opened her eyes. She looked down at the energy drink and considered setting it aside (she did not). She looked up again and found she had opened a new document on her laptop.

"MAKE AN OFFERING" It read in bold Grotesque font, each letter an oddly elegant blunt instrument.

Treasure looks from the energy drink to the laptop. Her hand moved on its own, pouring a splash of blue neon liquid onto the keyboard. She resisted the urge to wipe it off. She failed to resist the urge to swear.

The liquid fizzed and hissed on the keyboards and there was a scent of sickly fruit tinged with ozone in the air. The keys, already gummed up by solidifying chemical sweetness, began spitting out characters onto the document.

At first, they were nonsensical - no words, just a jumble of letters, punctuation and blank space. But as Treasure's eyes began to unfocus, the whole mess began to coalesce like one of those magic eye images (but made out of ASCII art).

The figure on the screen was a mess. Eyes like black holes. Lines running down them like cracks or oily ramen stains. Hair like thunder.

"What are you?" Treasure whispered.

Amongst the slurry on the screen, a few letters became bold and spelled out a sentence.

"I AM OVERDUE. GODDESS OF BURNOUT."

"Do you..." Treasure's voice was quiet, reverent, hesitant; a hymn in the key of awkward. "...do you want me to worship you?"

The letters swam. Rearranged.

"YOU ALREADY DO."

"What do you want from me?"

"GET SOME SLEEP."

"I ... I can't. I have a paper on Applied Theurgy due tomorrow."

"NOT A REQUEST."

Treasure's eyes closed. Sleep came.

When she awoke, days later. She found out that she had submitted a paper to the Arch-Professor. It was junk. The same mess of forehead-smashed input through which the goddess had appeared to her.

She had received a B minus.

The title of her paper was "It Is Better to Fade Away: An Accidental Communion."

It had been submitted with the note: "Please Give My New Disciple A Good Grade."

Treasure went in search of coffee.

[snek-eyes]

Do you think Crowley is mean to Muriel? My gf says he is a little mean but tbh I don't see it. He wants everyone gone so he can have alone time with Aziraphale, and Muriel is not a friend. They're sweet and all, but they were happy to spy on Crowley and Aziraphale and rat them out to Heaven, and they adore the Metatron quite obviously. Muriel isn't evil, just incredibly naive and as caught in the manipulative system just like Aziraphale is, in a way, but they work for that system and they seem to do it happily. They did help Crowley in Heaven, but that doesn't make them friends especially since as I said Muriel is clearly pro Metatron or too naive to be against him. If I were Crowley, I'd want them gone as fast as possible, too 😅 And they don't get the hint the first time with Crowley talking about "us time" so he just gets a little more direct, but that's about as direct as he can get with Aziraphale, too, and as he is with Maggie and Nina, and it's never mean or rude, yk? Just grumpy, in his lovable way. That's how I always read it. I'd love to hear your thoughts on it 😁

* fogot to add: it's nothing personal, Muriel's just doing their job and Crowley knows it, they even helped him (more or less willingly) but they're still working for Heaven.

Hey there, really interesting question! or I'd say two questions: A) Is Crowley mean to Muriel, and B) is that justified?

imo, Crowley & Muriel can basically be summed up by this moment:

"Yay, bully for you." *turns away to go back to cursing heaven*

Crowley, well... he is mean to Muriel. But it's in the way you are when you recognize it's not the person's fault you personally find them annoying, and you don't want to actually make them feel bad. He knows! He knows it's not their fault they're such a neon sign of everything he hates about heaven, that they're so brainwashed and ignorant, and cheerful about it.

But the fact is, Crowley manipulates the heck out of Muriel! And he's downright disrespectful about it, doesn't ever bother to give them a good story, he just says confident nonsense, knowing Muriel has no choice but to take his word for it. He takes advantage of their naivete and uses them for his own ends. That's not exactly nice!

^ tell me that's not condescending as hell lmao

But on the other hand... Yeah, Muriel is a spy for heaven! Not only that, but they've been sent here knowing absolutely nothing about earth. Their very presence is an insult! Crowley and Aziraphale have been here for 6000 years, and heaven still thinks that just the baseline of 'being an angel' makes someone good enough to outmaneuver them? Rude af. So, it's not all that out of line for Crowley to give heaven the same level of respect they showed his side.

But that still leaves Muriel stuck in the middle, getting used by both sides.

I think Crowley is intentionally only seeing Muriel as a tool—one of Heaven, but one that he can use to their advantage. He doesn't want to be sympathetic to them—they are a danger, and Crowley's also got his personal issues around how he seems to have only let himself get attached to one other being.

Yet, there's this moment where he seems to sympathize with them, despite himself:

and another one, when Saraqael shows up and it seems like he's gotten Muriel in trouble, he starts to jump in to defend them. That seems kind.

"shh, don't say anything without a lawyer present."

That final bookshop scene is what you seem to be focusing on though, so let's get there.

Crowley has been hyped up on manic energy all night, all week really, and finally all of this is almost but not quite over, he just wants so badly to finally be alone with Aziraphale and re-establish their status quo. He barely has the patience to even be fake-polite to Muriel (especially now they're being bubbly about the Metatron, who's already on Crowley's shit list and just you wait buddy), he wants them to go away. Maybe it also isn't any fun to manipulate them anymore now he's sympathized with them that little bit.

The pretense is paper thin, but Muriel doesn't get it until he drops it entirely:

This is the first time Muriel's fully cottoned on to the fact that Crowley isn't being Nice anymore. And it's possible Crowley feels bad about it, because when Muriel still tries to stay in the bookshop, he gets dramatic about it, but still reigns himself back in for his next attempt.

The really interesting moment comes when Muriel actually asks for something. Asks to take an earth thing with them, asks to learn. That finally gets Crowley's attention, it's the first time he looks away from the window (Aziraphale) for a reason that isn't telling Muriel to shoo. Long enough to not only look at them properly, but give them enough personal thought that he recommends them a book.

Listen, I love Crowley, but he's kind of an asshole! He's impatient and condescending and manipulative... and yet, when it comes down to it, he cares. All of that can be true.

[melancholicmarionette]

[Oh shit I did something. I wrote Val and Sam as podcasters. Warning: this is fucking stupid. I literally had to just stop writing bc it made less and less sense as I went on. But I love writing dialogue and it’s silly and this is tumblr. here have a little snack my dudes]

Graveyard Girls Episode 12: Roasting Ember’s Beauty Guru Era at 1 AM

“Hello and welcome to Local Ghost Smash or Pass—”

“I will fucking kill you.”

Valerie had to admit that Sam Manson’s ability to keep a completely straight face while saying the most unhinged nonsense was probably one of the reasons their video podcast was so popular. Her own ability to refrain from actually killing her was the reason it still existed at all. How they’d made it to episode twelve, however, still remained at least partially an enigma.

Though it was overall Danny’s kindness that slowly made his trio of friends into a tenuous quartet, Valerie had slowly become accepted by all of them, once she finally came to terms with Danny’s secret. Sam was the last to come around, though by the time they were both seventeen their tension was less due to fighting over a boy and more due to the fact that they could agree on almost nothing.

Most of Graveyard Girls was the two girls arguing, originally spawned by a viral TikTok Tucker posted, in which Valerie—at Danny’s bizarre request—tried to explain The Bachelor franchise to them and Sam being convinced she was making some of it up. People had been interested, and with Amity Park being a niche-but-also-hot topic, a weekly podcast was born.

“Okay but,” Sam leaned back in a vintage-looking office chair, “if I returned as a ghost, would you sma—” Sam cut herself off with a grunt as she dodged a throw pillow.

The show was mostly the two competing to see who could get the other to essentially rage quit, and while Sam’s personality was surprisingly just as strange as those of her best friends, Valerie was competitive enough to be a worthy opponent.

“You might just be, like, the worst person,” Valerie said, expertly catching the throw pillow as it was hurled back at her. “We’re not even three minutes in and I’m so uncomfortable with the energy you’ve created.”

“So our very last episode is three minutes long and titled Valerie Quits, then?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you Manson?” For a tense moment they stared each other down. “Say it one more time, see what happens.”

“So what is today’s topic, then?”

It was a challenge, to see if Valerie had forgotten it was her turn to start. She had.

They had the Box Ghost to thank for it, too.

“Okay, so—full disclosure,” she began, and she looked at her phone, “it is…1:16 in the morning. And both of us have been awake for like…”

“More hours than usually recommended,” Sam continued, “for reasons. We wanted to get this episode out on time so we are crunching.”

“And suffering.”

“And suffering quite a bit,” Sam concluded, nodding. “So my topic is that Ember McClain is trying to release eyeshadow palettes.”

“You cannot just drop that on me.”

“It was dropped on me,” Sam told her, “I’ve had to live with this. You don’t read the DMs for our official account so you didn’t see it and this poor lady, she has this indie cosmetics company and she slides into our DMs asking ‘is this person for real? I think she’s a ghost? She wants to collab.’”

“Collab…”

“And she sent me like…a mock up. I’m putting it in the google drive so get ready.”

Valerie picked her phone, opening their shared drive and—sure enough—seeing a digital version of a very Ember-esque palette, showcasing both dark and neon shades.

“She’s unhinged. But like…some of the shimmers on here aren’t terrible.”

“That’s the thing—I don’t like the bright blues and greens but there’s potential here. I could make a look out of it.”

“I’ve got conditions—if she wants to start the beauty guru era of her ‘career’ I need a full press release saying it’s not a complex murder plot,” Valerie said.

“I swear under penalty of perjury that I’m not imprisoning your parents in hamster wheels to power my sound system,” Sam affected an impression that would positively enrage the ghostly pop star as she spun around in her chair.

“My mad power-grab via subliminal mind control is so over, okay? That was the old me. Get to fucking swatching.” Valerie continued, snickering. “We kid, but this is actually peak influencer already.”

“We’re writing her YouTube apology for her,” Sam said, and she trained her eyes on the camera before continuing, “you cannot use this. I know you’re watching, I said your name once, and your Obsession is name-searching the universe. You have to do your own YouTube apology.”

“We should edit her name out before we upload.”

“We should.”

“…We’re not going to.”

“No, and a certain somebody’s gonna be on my ass about it. We should perhaps move on…”

[kirschteinoir]

about you.

vendetta!leon kennedy x reader.

❝ ”and I'll miss you on a train, i'll miss you in the mornin'. i never know what to think about...” “i think about you.” ❞

leon has a favourite bar and one day, you decide to visit him there.

wc; 2277

!! gender-neutral reader but wearing perfume is mentioned, i wrote this with a slight age-gap in mind (what can i say i love me a dilf) but can be read without, drinking, mutual pining (TENSION!!!), leon is a bit of a lewser in this sorry i can’t resist writing cringefail leon

𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘢!𝘭𝘦𝘰𝘯-𝘤𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘪’𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺,,, 𝘪 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘪 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱

to anyone but you, it sounded like he was just talking nonsense about an arbitrary bar on the wrong side of town. no one gave leon more than a nod of acknowledgement every time he brought it up, wondering what was so special about this place. but not you - you slipped him a telling smile as he spoke, peering through his long blond lashes.

you hadn’t seen the D.S.O agent in a few months now - you’d had your own commitments and he’d had his. this didn’t stop him from crossing your mind often during your missions: you thought about his eyes, once sky-blue bright but now dull and frozen over like the arctic, his soft blond hair, which was so often matted with blood and sweat that you weren’t even sure he was blond for a while after you met him.

you didn’t know why you’d suddenly had the urge to grace this side of town with your presence, the side that is lit only by neon signs and cigarette butts. the rain patters against your umbrella as you wander down the alleys and the clack of your expensive shoes against the asphalt echoes in the narrow spaces. for a reason unknown even to you, you’d slipped into your best clothes before you’d left - the kind of clothes you reserved for official government meetings and stuffy medal ceremonies. you’d even sprayed a little extra of your expensive perfume in hopes that he would compliment it like he always did.

your relationship with leon was complex to say the least. all you knew of him were longing gazes after the other had left the room, a lingering touch for a second too long as you handed paperwork to him or when he brushed past you in doorways. you knew nothing of his past - his family, his friends or how he became one of america’s best B.O.W hunters - but you could paint his face from memory and pick out his cologne in a blind test. you could map the freckles on his face and trace your fingers over the stubble on his cheeks.

the hour becomes later and later as you sweep past various storefronts and other shifty establishments - some closed for the night, some advertising theri after-hour ventures. you decided to allow yourself to indulge in your thoughts of leon tonight: how had you met again? no matter how hard you tried, you blanked every time you thought about your first meeting with leon. to you, he felt like someone you had never not known and had always been a part of your life (and by extension a part of you). this line of work had a reputation for numbing you to the human condition, making everyday feel the same and replacing your earlier happier memories with unspeakable horrors.

it’s not long before you find yourself in front of a non-descript wooden door that had been painted over so many times and beaten by the elements that it appears a dull, unassuming brown. the glass windows have blackened with the build-up of grime and the brass handle is half-rust by now.

there’s no name, no sign: just a single flickering LED light to draw your attention to the uneven step sitting poised under the door, reading to ensnare the oblivious and send them flying. you lower your umbrella, feeling the rain mist your face as you shake off the excess water and tuck it under your arm. a deep breath escapes you as you push open the door, the wood dragging over the stone with an ugly screech.

you step inside and drop your umbrella into the basket by the door, sighing as you glanced around.

this is exactly the place where leon would be on a day like this.

despite looking unkempt and almost abandoned on the outside, it was rather cosy on the inside thanks to the cheap yellow lights casting a sickly warm glow. very few tables littered the bar floor and even fewer customers to occupy the sticky stools. those who had chosen to sit at the tables sat alone, their backs facing everyone else. they sipped their drinks like robots, staring into space or at the cigarette smoke dancing up from the ashtrays. their gaze barely flickered to you as the door slammed behind you.

there was no ambient music, no chatter - nothing to audibly entice you except the thump of pitchers on the tables or the clumsy clink of a bottleneck against a glass.

there was only one man sat at the bar. you dust down your clothes and clear your throat a little - you weren’t actually expecting him to have to face him tonight. the air feels sluggish as you march over to the bartender and ask for an extra dry martini. he nods once to let you know that he heard you before turning around, effectively leaving you alone with him.

“long day?” the deep timbre of his voice shakes you out of your thoughts as you bite back a smile. you turn to face him, resting your elbow on the grimy bar counter.

“everyday is a long day,” you respond with an honest edge in your voice. his features look tired and worn even under the soft yellow glow of the lights. he chuckles at your response and takes another sip of his drink, pretty pink lips wrapping around the cool glass. you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows the last of it in one go. you avert your eyes, your heart racing a little.

leon doesn’t need to look at you to know that you’re beautiful today, as you are everyday. even when the pair of you have been covered in blood and guts and you have mud all over your hair and face and your under-eyes show your many sleepless nights, leon still finds you breathtaking. he’ll never forget when you both met for the first time: you, a new recruit just wanting to make the world a better place and him, already numb to the things he’d been forced to endure. the mischievous glint in your eye as you sized him up and how you got him to smile within the first fifteen minutes of knowing him will remain in his memory forever.

he can feel your gaze on him as his glass clinks against the wooden table. clearly, you’re waiting for an invitation to sit with him - he wants to tell you that you don’t need one, ever.

“i don’t bite,” he muses, his finger circles the rim of his empty glass absent-mindedly.

your laugh makes him feel lighter than any mixture of spirit and liquor ever could as you slide over to the stool next to his.

“geez, you reek of liquor. how long have you been at this shithole?”

you raise your eyebrows as you sip your martini, swallowing dryly. now you’re beside him you can see the details of his face: his rough stubble, the faint wrinkles on his forehead from the constant furrowing of his eyebrows and, your favourite, his long blond lashes guarding his cerulean eyes like reeds around a pond. his irises are brighter than normal but still hint at exhaustion and you try not to stare for too long.

leon doesn’t respond: he doesn’t feel as though he needs to. he knows you know the answer to your own question, as if the empty bottle beside his gloved hand wasn’t a dead giveaway.

you mutter his name under your breath as you reprimand him lightly and he feels a lump forming in his throat as his heart skips a beat. his fingers tighten around his glass and he finally allows himself the privilege of looking at you for the first time since you walked in here.

he draws in a quick breath as he’s engulfed by your appearance: you’re a deity to him as you swirl your drink, watching the gin swish against the side of your martini glass. leon feels utterly undeserving of your company and he sighs, letting his hair fall over his eyes.

he doesn’t want to burden you by falling for you.

“what are you doing here?” he asks gruffly, no longer wanting the attention to be on him. he watches from the corner of his eye as you shrug.

“you kept talking about this place so much that i had to come and check it out. i had a gut feeling you’d be here tonight.”

leon smirks and stares down at his calloused hands: the ones that wield pistols with the same ease as he does his toothbrush. his fingertips, constantly smeared with gunpowder, should never be allowed to touch you. his smirk falls.

“pretty miserable gut feeling then, if it led you to me,” he jokes softly. his bad habit of self-deprecation made him cringe but you laugh, downing the last of your martini.

“ever the optimist, leon. lighten up, will you? i haven’t seen you in ages. don’t you think it’s fate that we met tonight?” the alcohol was beginning to daub your judgement and although you only half-believed in what you were saying, the thought that seeing leon tonight was because of divine intervention made you smile. you lean closer to the blond, trying to coax a more relaxed side of him out.

he’s caught off-guard by your openness and lifts his glass to his lips to ease the awkwardness of his reaction. it’s empty though, so he sets it down again.

“fate? i...i don’t believe in fate...”

you roll your eyes playfully at his leon-esque response.

“you know what i mean. it’s funny though, because i was just thinking about you the other day.” you’d meant it to sound light-hearted and friendly but leon senses something else hiding between your words. he raises an eyebrow at you, genuinely curious.

“thinking about me? to what do i owe the honour?”

he finally turns to face you fully, crossing his arms over his chest. his leather jacket squeaks as he anticipates your reply.

“nothing like that...” you begin, sensing the smugness of his question. “you just crossed my mind, s’all.”

your answer doesn’t satisfy leon but he doesn’t push you, knowing you’d let him in eventually - you often found yourself being more chatty, more open, more vulnerable when you spoke alone with leon. it constantly eluded you as to why: he didn’t exactly have the most welcoming personality. you just couldn’t help yourself, taking his comfortable silence as a sign to continue whatever you were rambling on about. it was a dangerous habit that you knew you had to reign in, for both of your sakes.

he notices the lull in conversation and his throat starts to close up - his hands feel a little clammy and he realises that he doesn’t want you to leave just yet.

“can i get you another drink?”

your cheeks heat a little as you nod. “sure. i’ll just have another martini,” you say sweetly.

he nods stiffly and flags down the bartender. he doesn’t order a refill for himself, which honestly surprises you.

“are you tapping out for the night?” you joke, motioning to his empty glass with a smirk.

the blond dares to chuckle at your joke, shaking his head. now that you were here, he wanted to remember every second of it and he knew another bottle would breach his usual limit. no, he was very much staying sober from now on.

“a thank you would be nice,” he quips, leaning forward and resting his arms against the table. he steals another glance at you, getting lost in your features as he commits them to memory for the millionth time, afraid of ever forgetting you. he doesn’t realise he’s staring until you clear your throat softly and look towards the bottles of liquor lined up behind the bar.

“thanks...”

“you look nice today,” leon blurts out at the same time as you thank him. he immediately fidgets in his seat, not meaning to speak over you.

whilst leon has complimented you before (nice shot!, you just saved my ass., good work today. ect) this one felt new. it stirred something within you that you had been trying to suppress ever since you first joined the D.S.O. your gaze snaps up to his face and you try to discern his own feelings right now. he was making it difficult though, by refusing to look at you.

“thank you, leon,” you say tenderly.

god, the way you said his name had his mind reeling. he sucks in a sharp breath at your tone, knowing he was fighting a losing battle by trying to stay on his side of the line.

“sorry..i-” what was he even apologising for?

you cut him off by placing a hand on his arm as an attempt at reaching out to leon, hoping he’ll meet you halfway. his cornflower eyes flicker up to yours in surprise and you can see his lashes fluttering as he figures out what to say next.

“there’s this new vietnamese restaurant that opened up near my place. i’ve been meaning to go recently but i’ve always been away on missions...”

his eyes visibly soften and he relaxes as he realises what you’re doing.

“oh really?” he breathes, daring to glance at your lips for a fraction of a second. this doesn’t go unnoticed by you and you smile.

“yeah. i was thinking of going tomorrow actually. around 7.”

after a pause, leon nods.

“maybe you’re right. fate did bring us together tonight.”

you bite back a laugh, taking another sip of your martini.

about me. 

[placeinthemiddleofnowhere]

Is könig the type of guy to put a picture of sneaky in his wallet?

Because I feel like he is🧍🏻‍♀️

After the whole removing his shirt fiansco it might as well be a spicy-but-not-too-spicy-because-he-is-protective-like-that picture yk?

Ok so I know you've literally said that it could be something spicy *right* there, but for the sake of this super cute idea we're getting something fluffy ✨ with a hint of Sneak being naughty

You could hardly believe your luck. It was incredible, but you'd managed to find a day that both you and König were free after work and the rest of your team were too busy to question your absence from base. Price was dealing with something that required he and Gaz out of the country and Ghost and Soap were sent off on a mission elsewhere. None of them could track your movements and no one else was nosy enough to bother.

That left you and König time to wander into the city together, riding the bus like a couple of teenage runaways giggling to yourself in the stuffy shuttle, uncaring of the few nicotine addled people that rode with you. König leaned against the window and held you close to his chest, stroking your arm as he filled you in on the team’s antics. Apparently, despite heavily warning the 141 off of messing with their least favourite KorTac operator, the shits had decided to go ahead and do it anyway.

“MacTavish tried to jump out at me the other day, but I heard him blabbing to Ghost about it from way down the hall, so unfortunately for him it didn’t work! After that Price had tried to give me a telling off, but I ignored him of course, at which point I get assaulted by Ghost and Garrick when I walk out and-“

“Assaulted?” you groaned, cutting him off as he was in the midst of telling you.

Ghost had informed you that he’d had a polite word, but neglected to mention any kind of ‘assault’. At the time, you’d taken his lack of bloody knuckles to be a good sign, though according to sharp bitter tones in your lover’s voice - that wasn’t the case. You could only imagine what Ghost had done to König in the heat of his anger.

“He pinned me against the wall and practically strangled me, talking all this nonsense about ‘if you don’t leave Sneaky alone, you’ll find more embedded in that back of yours than nails’ as if he’s capable of that,” König snorted.

“König that’s awful!” you moaned, wrapping your hand around his arm.

“What was awful was the punch to the gut I gave him,” he said with a grin. “He let me go pretty quick after that.”

“He just let you go? Just like that?”

“Well, I might’ve run from him and his little companion, but that’s neither here nor there,” he said with a chuckle.

A whoosh of laughter burst free before you could stop it, but nevertheless you’d slapped König’s chest playfully and told him not to do stuff like that. It wasn’t worth riling Ghost up any more than he already was, he could be quite formidable when he felt slighted and the last thing you wanted was permanent damage on behalf of your so called ‘protection’.

Then, after the long winding journey had rolled to a close, you stepped out into town and grabbed something quick to eat. At which point you’d demanded to trawl the streets in search of a decent bar, looking for somewhere quiet to grab a cocktail. It was important you not go anywhere too crowded, but at the same time you knew that most of the old fashioned quiet places that König had pointed to were unlikely to make you anything nice if at all under the basis that cocktails ‘weren’t real drinks’.

Eventually, after a lot of discussion, sore feet from all the walking around, and whining on your part, you agreed to venture into a quirky little place with ocean themed decorations, ironically called ‘the dive bar’, that had a few customers and a relaxing vibe. The inside was lit by blue neon and dim yellow halogen bulbs and all the tables were made from old wood, like something off of a ship’s hull. It was cheesy, but it did a great Daiquiri and most importantly König wasn’t crawling out of his skin with crowd anxiety.

“I like this place,” you’d declared, looking around at the kitschy décor while you sipped your fruity drink. “It’s cosy.”

“It’s not so bad I suppose,” König replied, picking at the dewy label on his beer bottle.

“Oh c’mon, admit it, it’s fun!”

“If you think pirate decorations and hardly being able to see is fun,” he shrugged. “Then yes. Very fun.”

“Don’t be a spoil sport! Plus look, they have pool over there and foosball and… oh my god a photobooth!”

He groaned at that and narrowed his eyes, giving you a look as if to say not in a million years.

However, never one to deny you, he’d dutifully marched over for a game of pool (which you’d let him win of course, just to butter him up a little) and watched as he smiled victoriously when he’d potted the black ball. Though, he wasn’t so easily convinced into your next suggestion. Apparently getting König into a photobooth was harder than any other feat you’d accomplished yet.

“Those eyes won’t work on me,” he shrugged, taking a gratuitous sip of his beer. “I’m not falling for it.”

“But…pleeeeaaasseeeee,” you whined, dragging out each letter like it was molasses pouring from a tin.

“In case you’ve forgotten I can’t have pictures of my face floating around, Sneaky, you know this.”

“But you can put on your neck warmer!”

“I don’t have it,” he sniffed.

“Liar! You always keep it in your back pocket if you’re not wearing it,” you challenged, poking at his chest.

“Been staring at my arse much, hm?”

You felt your cheeks heat up, but nevertheless stood your ground. You were determined, you weren’t going to let him change the subject. You were high on the light buzz of overly sweet alcohol and you desperately wanted something to hold onto when you couldn’t have him near.

“You know I have been,” you winked, recovering quickly and embracing him. “And look – I’m right.”

He growled out and snatched the cloth from your hands, his eyes narrowing down at your ‘butter wouldn’t melt’ face. If you were anyone else, you’d be dead or held up by one of the decorative nets on the ceiling, but by virtue of being you, you were allowed to remain standing. Hell couldn’t beat the heat firing from his eyes, but even despite that, he broke and started to put the neck warmer on.

“You’re paying.”

You could hardly believe it, but you weren’t going to waste time standing there contemplating where the depths of König’s devotion lay. You followed him into the booth and planted yourself on his lap, excitedly slotting the coins into the machine, listening to them rattle, watching as the screen flashed and presented you with your options. Apparently you could choose a range of different filters and frames, though, ever a fan of the classics, you opted to go for a black and white filter and no frame.

“Look happy, grumpy man,” you chastised, looking over at him while preparing for your first photo and fixing your hair.

“This is me happy.”

“Don’t seem to recall you looking like that in the hotel room,” you whispered, brushing your lips against the side of his neck. "And I seem to remember you were very happy then."

The first photo flashed and you sniggered as you saw it dissolve into view, you looking sultry and pleased with yourself while König looked flustered under the mask. That one was a keeper for sure, no matter the protests that he made. He didn’t have much of a chance to put it down though. In a matter of seconds the timer was counting down again and you tried to do a silly pose, sticking up peace signs until König broke you by tickling your side.

“Hey! That’s not fair,” you said, half giggling half groaning.

“You got me, so I got you. Fairs fair, Sneaky,” he chuckled.

“You’re such a meanie!”

“Yeah, and you love it,” he said, his eyes glinting with a smile. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have stuck around this long.”

The third and final photo was taken when you were looking into each other’s eyes, locked in a gaze that betrayed the sickly lovebirds you were underneath all the playfighting and cool exteriors you both tried to preserve. Neither of you said a word as it came and went on the display, both admiring how the other looked, stuck in your adoring silence.

Though soon the screen went dark and König sighed, petting your thigh so you’d stand from his lap. You obliged and wandered out, going to fetch your paper strip of photos when you were beat to your prize. König snatched them first and held them up at a height, inspecting them again while you jumped and screeched like a Tasmanian devil.

“Hey! I paid for those,” you growled, trying to grip onto his shoulders for leverage.

“Maybe so, but I’m afraid I have to confiscate them,” he said in a fake somber tone, easily batting your hands off of him like a kitten. “They’re classified, you don’t have the clearance for them.”

“But they’re mine!” you whined.

“Mine now,” he grinned, slipping his temporary mask down so that he could stick his tongue out.

You huffed, but eventually you vowed to steal them later, not missing König sticking them in his wallet and making sure to secret it away in his front pockets away from your sneaking reach.  You would get those photos somehow, someway, you’d told him. His bullshit arm span couldn’t protect him forever!

[oceanlipgloss]

FILM NOIR

SYLUS.

+ warnings: extremely implicit suggestive themes (in ending), mentions of blood, strong language.

A film noir marred with smears of red. The colour of their hearts, his irises, and fresh blood. At first glance, his world looked like that—black, illegal, corrupt.

They were the two of them not quite the classical example of a pair from one of those atmospheric motion pictures, however. He was not plagued by illusions, and she did not want to lead him to armageddon.

This was a noir much more modern, its basic foundations twisted and rotated so as to become their own.

Sexier dreams are sold in cities, or so they say. Because between the clustered buildings and peeling walls, things differ. There’s the seductive motions, the sweet corruptions, the disruptive temptations.

Murder dripped from his fingertips. Crime trickled down his palms. He was one with his guns. Death couldn’t even kiss his sharp cheek. She saw in him an incarnate of demons.

That, however, began to change later.

The tall haughty man shrunk into a silly little boy sometimes. He was still as annoying as ever, of course, but also quite kind. Even a bit childlike.

As it turned out, his world wasn’t all about crime. Core truths were hidden, away from her sight. He could be...nice.

In his crimson world, he hummed an unknown melody in the kitchen. Hearing musical notes clumsily tiptoe on the octaves of his baritone was both unfamiliar and endearing alike. And in that shady world of his, she turned her fingers into a surprise weapon that poked his side.

The blue galaxy took in her sighs. She was beginning to care about him despite herself, despite all his violence, arrogance, and nonsense.

Was he arrogant, though, or did he merely know himself, with that frightening perception and alluring confidence?

Some time ago, he had bound her wrists with burgundy fog and captured her unwilling fingers.

His was a nauseating existence.

Such a handsome man, such a sickening attitude. Those were her thoughts back then. He was so beautiful, but so vile—always making her heart shrivel with subconscious repulsion.

How harsh. Did it wound his heart?

Well, she had always been defiant. Not her fault. He lived on the dark side. It was only fair, perfectly right.

These days, being near him shot her veins with neon. It flowed inside her, darker than cherries, as irresistible as his power.

Like children, they were always bickering. He threatened stubborn plush toys for her. She scolded his moody crow for being a stalker. Together they took over the arcade, capturing soft soldiers. His teeth marked her hand with the pink crescents of playful bites. ‘Gifts,’ he called them.

He appeared to be the kind of man who would indulge in cinema’s greatest noirs, but he could entertain her childish antics, too. He played along so often.

They were so good together.

Never again did he let his coarse fingers so much as brush her tender skin all of a sudden.

Women had their wiles, but he adored her and only her—so much so that his heartbeat became manic under her small hand on his broad chest.

Nothing and no one could be as cute, his love was pure, and he wasn’t about to be seduced. By anyone else, that is. Perhaps he would give in to her; all he needed now was her sweet acceptance, her absolute consent, so that one day he very much could, with pleasure.

Just what about them was similar to a fucked up couple from a film noir?

+notes: finally, finally, my first Love and Deepspace fic debuts and sees the light of day or that of the moon, 'cause it's late at night rn anyway :P

May I now offer you a short babble on how I died a thousand deaths in order to settle on an idea? I kid you not, I've been quite literally yearning and agonising to write a Sylus fic almost since I saw in-game screenshots/videos of him for the first time, which was quite a while before I even began playing the game. I didn't give in and do that, though, as I didn't have a clear, precise picture of what exactly he's like—and I always study characters down to their cells and bones before I write a fic about them—so I resisted the temptation. Some time later (a little over a week ago, in fact), I installed the game, learned a lot more about him with a lot more to go, and my God...

Listen, I really liked him prior to downloading, but right now? I love him very much :/ how could I not? He likes fishing, but the only thing he's catching on that darn hook is hearts. It's a lame joke to make, but can the truth be denied, for goodness' sake? His personality, his mind, his attitude, his darkness, his sweetness, his humour, his face, his height, his fashion sense, his secrets, his lil' son Mephisto too.

Anyways, the inspiration for this piece came from a mixture of parts and sources: the main story, interactions (i.e. arcade, chats, Destiny Café, etc.), home screen and combat lines, dates, Tender Moments, animations, as well as content I have yet to unlock, of course. Do I also need to mention how I adore MC's dynamic with Sylus? They're so cute and funny together pls lol

Seriously, I was confused out of my mind with indecisiveness, writer's block, and this intense desire to write. I genuinely feel a lust to write fics about him until I combust. A fun and silly fic, an innocent one, a sensual one, a melancholic one, a philosophical one, anything and everything else I can think of/that comes to my mind. May the odds be ever in my favour, for sometimes the brain's mechanisms really suck.

+ MASTERLIST

+ AO3 POST

©𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙨

[brewstersbru]

Uh-oh have some more; i have a problem ! Huskerdust pt. 2 🕸️❤️‍🩹

It’s stupid. Really, it’s fucking insane, nonsensical, and the worst goddamn idea Angel’s had since he sold his soul. Still, though, he can’t stop humming the song.

“I’m a loser, baby…” He sings to himself, curled around Nug as he stares out his window into the neon lights and building fires that ever burn throughout the city. One thing he likes about the hotel- aside from actually having people who care about what happens to him, and a safe (and free!) place to sleep- is that he can’t see Val’s from his room's window. He can fall asleep without his sword hanging over his neck, without the constant reminder of what he’s allowed himself to become.

Before tonight, before Husk’s surprisingly uplifting little song and dance number, Angel hated most of what he was. Yeah he likes sex, but he doesn’t like being a whore. Doesn’t like being Val’s whore, especially. 

And it didn’t make anything better, not really. Not in any way that matters. But it was nice to smile at Husk and not be expected to put out for it. To dance and sing without a leash, and instead gentle fleeting touches to guide him through the steps.

Angel curls further into himself, Nug makes a soft squealing noise at the jostling. 

Husk was so careful with him. They were on the side of the goddamn street, next to a puddle of bum-puke (which Husk had prevented from getting on him!!) and Husk chose to be kind with Angel. What an idiot. What a gentleman.

They’d never work out, Angel has to remind himself of that when a shiver of a feeling he’d thought had long been fucked or beaten out of him by now works its way through his body. Warm and sugary. 

Both beholden to contracts they’d signed, pets to egotistic psychopaths entirely too eager to make them suffer. What now feels so comforting could very quickly turn into something agonizing and painful. Plus, Husk doesn’t want him. He’s made that abundantly clear by now. Sure he’s being nice now that Angel’s ‘respecting his boundaries’ or whatever but the boundaries are there for a reason. He doesn’t want Angel. So much that it makes him uncomfortable if he gets too close.  

Angel can feel his eyelids getting heavy, but there’s a jittering in his chest that signals a rough night. Shit, even with a night as good as this one, he can’t sleep in peace? 

He’s a loser. Damaged goods. Maybe he’s not alone, but fuck if he doesn’t feel it right now. 

Nug wriggles out from the lax cage of his arms and jumps off the bed. 

***

There are texts from Val waiting on Angel’s phone when he wakes up. 

He was right, it was a rough night. Only managed a cool three hours of fitful tossing before his alarm rang for the hotel’s ‘daily activities’. Say what you will about him, he’s nothing if not punctual (and Charlie had looked real pitiful when she asked him to come down in the mornings more, it’s really impossible to say no to her face). 

The texts are a long eternity of scrolling pink. Angel sighs at the few words he manages to catch as he makes his way to the top, “whore” (unoriginal), “bitch” (overdone), “ungrateful” (points for accuracy), and a whole myriad of other demeaning things that his exhaustion addled mind can’t be assed to fully compartmentalize.

He didn’t know how much he’d miss being called “baby” in that smooth low baritone until now; being called all the regular stuff makes his stomach churn in comparison. Or maybe it’s just who’s calling him what. He’d let Husk call him whatever he wanted if he kept being all gentle with him. Shit, it hasn’t even been a day and he’s already mooning like a whiny romance protagonist. Eugh. 

Looks like he’s got another long shoot today. He’s expected over in an hour or so, and Val had signed off with an “xoxo” which really means “or else”. God, he’s really punishing him for stepping out of line this time. Angel can feel a twinge of something in his back as he stands from his bed. Even with an enhanced body, fourteen hours nonstop took it’s toll, and it’s just going to get worse from here. He winces to himself and moves to rub at the sore spot. “Fuck.” He mutters, casting around for a decently sexy outfit so Val doesn’t have another thing to nitpick about. 

It doesn’t take long, after the first several years of coming home sticky and itchy Angel had curated his closet to be both sexy and comfortable. Every piece strikes that balance perfectly and nothing clashes when combined. He’s quite proud of it actually, but it’s not something that comes up often in conversation so he doesn’t really ever have the occasion to brag. 

Husk is- as he always is- shining glasses behind the bar when Angel makes his way down. One has to wonder if the dishes he’s cleaning are actually dirty, or if he just needs something to do with his hands. Angel would put a lot of money on the latter, no one here- even with all the alcoholics- could possibly go through glasses that fast. 

Husk’s eyes dart up to his when the stairs let out a sharp creak, announcing his presence. With a small, private smile he waves him over.

“Mornin’ Angel. Fancy a drink?”

It’s really pathetic how much Angel has to fight to not give in. Not to walk over and settle at the bar, letting that warm, even voice soothe all his decades old aches and pains. He smiles, but it’s tight and untrue. Husk glances down at his lips for a moment, frowns, then goes back to shining.

“Sorry, Kitty, got a shoot. Raincheck?” He hopes he says yes. What he would give to be able to see Husk at the end of the- long, painful and entirely exhausting- day and share a drink. He’s never been to heaven, never even tried thinking about what might be up there because, well, look at him. It’s not really his kind of place, is it?

Still, though, a drink with Husk at the end of today’s misery has got to be pretty damn close. As close as Angel can ever hope to get, anyways. Husk sets the newly polished glass down, and leans against the countertop.

“Sure thing. I’ll have a cosmo waiting.” Angel can tell he wants to ask, that he wants to say something about Val and the fact that this is the second day in a row Angel is going in for a long shoot. About the bruises that are still visible, having just started purpling against Angel’s skin. But he doesn’t, he bites his tongue and offers what solace he can. The feeling that bubbles beneath Angel’s skin at this realization is hot and dangerous. 

He nods, curt and with another stiff smile before scurrying off. He hates that Husk has seen him like this. 

“I can’t wait.” Angel mutters- more to himself than anything- at the cusp of the doorway. 

And it’s the gospel goddamned truth. 

***

It’s late, definitely later than whatever ballpark time Husk had in mind when he accepted the raincheck for tonight and though Angel knows Husk’s not really one to give much of a shit about punctuality-  when you have eternity ahead of you, ‘on time’ becomes pretty damned relative- he still feels like shit for keeping him waiting.

He’s fidgeting in the back of a sleek, pink limo Val had been kind enough to provide him when, at the end of today’s shoot, Angel had found himself frighteningly unable to walk. Of course, nothing is ever free in this unlife, so Val had taken a cut of his earnings to ‘compensate himself’ for having to cart Angel around, when, if he’d just done as he was told, he wouldn’t have gotten himself hurt enough to need it. 

Angel doesn’t want to buy into the idea, but Val has a point. He needs to be more careful if he’s going to continue being of any use to the hotel. As much as he pretends to be an uncaring freeloader, something itches beneath his skin at the thought of actually becoming one. He can pull his weight. He can pull his goddamned weight.

The limo swerves in front of the hotel and lets him off with little fanfare; Angel gingerly picks his way up the hill to the large front doors, wincing and trying to ignore the stabbing agony going on below his waist with each step. 

He doesn’t expect to see anyone when he walks in, it’s late, and they have ‘redemption’ exercises to do in the morning; even Husk has to have a bedtime and it’s late enough that Angel assumes the time has already passed. Hell, if Angel didn’t have work today he’d probably be asleep by now. 

And yet- as he tiptoes past the threshold, gently pulling the door closed behind him- Angel hears a low rumbling sound. The lights in the lobby are off, as expected, but there’s just enough ambient light to reveal a small lump curled up on the couch. Upon closer inspection, Angel realizes that the sound is purring, and the lump is Husk. 

“What the fuck…” He mutters to himself, as Husk’s purring is interrupted by what Angel can only describe as a hitching snore before resuming with even more force. His wings, which have been wrapped around himself in a facsimile of a blanket, tremble and shudder with the power of the vibrations. Angel has to strangle the coo that tries to escape his lips at the sight. 

Fuck, that’s adorable. He really is just a kitty underneath all that jaded bullshit, huh. Unwitting, Angel’s hand reaches out to coast over the fur on his head. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warm shudder of contented purring. It’s enough to make Angel forget about his injuries for the moment, too enamored with the rare sight of a pleasantly sated Husk in the throes of sleep. 

Alas, the bliss of the moment is short-lived, and before Angel can tug his hand away, Husk snatches it out of the air, scrambling up into a sitting position to glare at him and hiss. Okay, even his hissing is kind of cute, but that might just be Angel’s fucked up-ness talking. 

“Hey… Huskie…” Angel eeks, trying to pull his hand away from Husk’s bruising grip. His body’s already got its work cut out with his other injuries, it doesn’t need more paltry bruises to expend its energy on. 

Husk shakes his head and, after a moment, his eyes clear of the film of sleep. Once he recognizes Angel in front of him, he drops his arm, as if burned. 

“Fuck, Angel. Y’can’t sneak up on me like that.” Having regained his senses, he takes a moment to apprise himself of the state of Angel, eyes roving critically over each exposed patch of skin in the dim light. His expression gradually hardens as he becomes more and more aware of just how much damage there is to contend with. Angel, desperate to talk about literally anything but his bleeding body laughs hollowly.

“Yeah, sorry man. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sleep before, though, did you know you purr?” Husk gives him a blank look at the obvious attempt at deflection but, after a moment, shrugs and scoots over, patting the space beside him on the couch. “I was aware. Must’ve passed out waiting for you.” He scratches at the chops of fur just below his chin as he speaks, seemingly unconcerned with what he’s just said. That he waited for Angel to come back so they could have their raincheck; that he waited up and Angel was late. 

Angel feels a little sick, the mixture of butterflies and sinking despair in his gut creating something entirely new, and entirely nauseating. He winces, but settles on the couch, curling into himself. “Sorry about that, Tuts. Got a little caught up at the studio… Y’know you didn’t have to wait up, right? We can always raincheck another day.”

It’s quiet for a long, excruciating moment, before Angel feels Husk’s eyes on him again. He can’t bring himself to meet them, instead staring further into the relative safety of the knotted wooden floor. Husk sighs.

“I know. I wanted to.” 

Oh. Oh, fuck. Angel is infinitely thankful for the fact that the lights are off because he can feel the aggressive flush working its way up his cheeks and knows it would be incredibly obvious, if it isn’t already. He coughs into one of his hands. 

“But… I was late…? It’s- it’s like four AM. I wouldn't blame you for just going to bed.” Angel isn’t really sure why he’s arguing with Husk about this, all he knows is that none of what has happened since he walked into the hotel has made any goddamn sense, and it’s making his stomach churn. Husk’s tail swishes, hovering lightly over the span of Angel’s hunched shoulders, not touching, but close enough to feel. 

Finally, after another long minute of silence, Husk speaks.

“I just wanted to make sure you got back okay.” Part of Angel swoons at the gentlemanly sentiment, the rest of him bristles at the implication that he needs that. That he can’t make sure he gets back okay on his own. That he’s weak. He whips around to glare at a startled Husk. 

“And you don’t think I can get myself back safely? Fuck you, man, I’m not some weak little damsel in need of saving.” He spits. Husk shakes his head, eyes wide at the vehemence in Angel’s words. His hand raises from his lap- perhaps to reach out, to comfort- but at Angel’s expression, he brings it to his own arm to rub at his tricep sheepishly. 

“Stop putting words in my mouth, Angel.” He scolds, brows furrowed, “I don’t think you’re weak, I just don’t want you to feel like you’re facing this alone.”

Angel scoffs and turns away. Evidently, that’s the breaking point for Husk, because he huffs and snarls, “What? I can’t care about you?” There’s a static to his movements, a ruffling to his fur that indicates real irritation. For some reason, that makes Angel angrier. 

“Not if you’re not fucking me! Not if you don’t get any fucking thing out of it! Fuck!” His wounds give a valiant, biting twinge at the end of his sentence, causing Angel to hunch over himself and press a hand against his side while he struggles to catch his breath. Through the haze of agony, he hears shuffling, and feels the couch straighten as Husk rises to leave. 

Good fucking riddance. Angel knew it was all talk. He knew it. 

His breaths remain ragged for a long time while he tries to get ahold of himself again. Enough, at least, that he can drag himself back to his room. He curses Husk, but more so he curses himself for getting himself into this situation in the first place. What was his one rule? Don’t get attached, don’t let them lure you into thinking they care because they never do, and you’re just going to end up getting your feelings hurt if you keep being stupid about it. 

The pain does not abate, even as his thoughts spiral ever downwards into despair. 

After an excruciating, indeterminate amount of time, he feels the couch dip again and, unwilling to face whatever well-meaning do-gooder it is this time, Angel shakes his head. 

“Leave. Me. Alone.” he grits, each word more painful than the last. The person does not leave.

“Are you gonna let me help you now, or is it going to be another fight?” It’s Husk’s voice. He’s back. Fuck, why is he back? The noise of confusion that bursts from Angel’s lips is entirely unwitting. He opens his mouth to offer a scathing rebuttal, but can only manage a soft groan. Husk scoots closer. He’s warm. Fuzzy.

“Just nod or shake your head. Can I touch you?” Angel takes a moment to think about it, but has to acquiesce to himself that if he doesn’t let Husk touch him, he’s going to be in agony for the rest of the night. With great effort, he nods. A heavy breath punches itself from Husk’s lips, fanning warmly across Angel’s head. 

“Okay. Good. I’m gonna lay you down so I can get a better look.” Angel desperately wants to make a joke about the phrasing of that, but doesn’t get the chance before he's being manhandled onto his back. It’s a familiar situation, but the usual spike of fear in his throat is noticeably absent this time. Angel doesn’t dwell on what that might mean. 

Husk works quickly and efficiently on Angel’s wounds, soothing him with a warm hand through Angel’s hair whenever the pain gets to be too much- punching miserable little sounds from him- and keeping his touches strictly clinical. When he finishes, he sits back on his heels with a sigh. Settling back at the other end of the couch and allowing Angel his personal space again. Angel’s eyes feel surprisingly heavy. He catches a soft look from Husk before they flutter closed. 

Husk chuckles, soft and low.

“See? Doesn’t always have to be a fight.”

[hazbinhazbinhazbinreblog]

//scuttles in here

I TRIED MY HAND AT WRITING A FIC FOR TEH ASKS HAHAHAH. i am working on the main fic still, college has been an ass but i wanted to do crossover nonsense.

Warning for extra angst and like, kind of big hint/borderline reveal as to why Radio guard Alastor is pissed at his Vox. Also very long I am sorry ---

Vox didn’t know what he expected from this…other version of himself.

He was head over heels with his counterpart, who he fucking fumbled. This absolute dumbass somehow fumbled the tattooed hottie that was his Alastor.

And sure, he fumbled but like also who cared. (He cared…he cared so much he hated it). The hottie was still an outdated relic stuck in the past. Figuratively and literally. But still, he was hot. His Alastor had a sort of bad boy, protective guard dog vibe going on and he could get behind that.

Of course, he vocalized this. It was an attempt to piss off this weak version of himself. Seriously, the pathetic idiot had to seek advice from the one who was married to his Alastor for decades in secret. (Which Vox wasn’t totally jealous about, no, not at all. And besides why did this weakling need the other them. He had Valentino! Like him! Just asked him for advice!). And you know, maybe he vocalized this. Or something similar.

Maybe he bragged and boasted about how happy he was with Valentino compared to being with Alastor. He must have since the other Voxes made a face. The fallen overlord one audibly gagged. But he saw how the tattooed Alastor’s Vox froze. How he turned his head so slowly with a notable crack in his neck. His eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. Yet there was this flicker of something in them. He swore it was rage, but he laughed it off.

But he said something to finally make the other snap. To let the rage out. And at the moment he couldn’t remember what it was.

Kind of hard to when you were on the guard, shielding your face, while deep blue blood dripped from your arms because this other version of yourself has decided death was a better option for you.

He had no time to react, one moment he loaded the verbal gun, the next all he heard was a crashing, gargled, scream of TV static, and the next, he was on the floor, stunned and dazed before snapping to when he swore he felt something crack. Not on him, but from the other Vox.

Tendrils of wires with sparks littered his back as his screen seemed to drip with an ooze (tears. Neon blue, coolant like tears he would remind himself later).

And despite seeing this display, like the ego-driven fool he was. He doubled down. Bringing up Valentino. Bringing up how much of a fool this version of him was to be so lost in the past when he had a hottie next to him.

That only worsened the rage. Which led to this version whaling on him.

“How can you say any of this!” the other cried, blinded by anger Vox can only guess.

And like a dumbass, he responded.

“Uh maybe because Valentino is hot, he’s modern. He’s everything any Alastor won’t be. A fucking relic who deserves to stay-”

CRUNCH

Any words in Vox’s throat died when he heard that sickening sound. He didn’t even realize the wires had tangled around an arm and yanked back, crushing it in a vice grip. He could see his blood seeping out, impling the skin was punctured alongside whatever was broken.

“HOW CAN YOU FUCKING BRAG ABOUT BEING WITH SOMEONE SO FAKE?! VALENTINO LIES AND LIES. EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM OOZES NOTHING BUT LIES. FALSES PROMISED AND BROKEN TRUTHS. HOW CAN YOU BEEN SO HAPPY ABOUT TRADING IN YOUR JOY FOR LITERAL NOTHINGNESS?! HOW CAN YOU BE SO HAPPY ABOUT BEING FAKE?!”

With each shout, with each scream of words, the other Vox hit him. It was getting to the point it was threatening to shatter his glass screen.

“HOW CAN YOU SAY SUCH AWFUL THINGS?! ALASTOR GAVE US EVERYTHING! HE TOOK US IN, HE LOVED US. HE GENUINELY LOVED US. ARE YOU SO FUCKING CLOUDED BY YOUR SELF IMPOSED EGO TO BE BLINDED TO THE MEMORIES YOU TWO SHARED?! TO HAVE THE FUCKING GALL TO SUGGEST I…to suggest I..to suggest i do…”

The other Vox had trailed off, and for a moment Vox thought he lost steam until-

It felt like a flash, one moment the other Vox was still, his body shaking with silent sobs, and the next his fist was raised again, anger in his eyes and all Vox could hear was his screen shattering.

He was still functional. He was still there. So he was able to hear everything still. He could hear the other Vox, the one tied to the Princess like a guard dog, run out of the room. Choked digital sobs echoing in his head. He could hear another version of himself run after him, his best guess was the married one. The other two stayed behind, but they dare not go near him.

It was in this moment of silence, it slowly clicked with him.

The Radio Guard’s Vox’s anger wasn’t just anger. It was grief and guilt and regret mixed into one package as the words from before played in his head.

“If your Alastor hates you so much, why not just kill him off, huh? Why not leave him for dead? Just leave him for the angels or what not, let him be crow food. Who cares if a relic like him dies, he deserves to die after all.”

….jesus…when did he start sounding so much like valentino?

-⚔️ anon

This was so intense but never apologize for writing a lot bc I am always happy to share your work and it's so well written as well, I can't wait to see the full fic

[nyctophiliq]

young agents in love:

the first time you went over to deal business with solomon reed as the newest consultant of his and the fia, you came across a girl who seemed to be lost in her own world, or rather the network, judging by the netrunning chair she settled in during most of your visit. you were quick to learn however that she could push your buttons faster than any kind of higher-ranking agent who was trying to get through to you before forcing your hand and making you join the agency.

“reed will just take a moment.” you nodded at her words, one of the few times that the two of you actually exchanged words and you didn’t just stare at her like some freak. you stood to the side, letting her walk past you with ease and get back into her chair. but you couldn’t ignore how you didn’t hear the click of her gear so you turned back to face her and noticed she was staring at the box in your hand.

“what’s that?” it took her a second to build up the courage to ask, but sure enough she did and even a blind person could see that you were once an animal from dogtown with the way your chrome glowed with the neon streaks under the dim lights of the room. dead giveaway, you couldn’t even deny it.

you shrugged, “a gift, where i come from we don’t arrive without a little something.” yes, dogtown had its own little traditions, so to speak, that is to mention that most of the time the gifts back home were bombs or other lethal objects that were made to harm the receiver. everyone jumped to conclusions about what your intentions were when you stepped outside of dogtown, but in reality, they were all harmless.

you could bet she was thinking you were here by mistake, looking to score a deal with the wrong people, or a chrome up that you wanted to cheat the system to get. the look on her face told you though that she wasn’t satisfied with your answer at all, so you followed it up just to get her off your ass, “it’s a shard, something reed has been looking for and i got it for him.” she hummed after you explained then you heard the click and she was gone.

every time you visited you were interrogated by so mi (you also learned her name over the course of your many visits) about your ‘gifts’ and why you turned up in the hideout time and time again. you always told her, you were here because solomon reed asked you to be and little details about the shards and other kinds of gifts that you brought.

today was probably the last time you visited the hideout after months, getting wind of that the fia is sending solomon on his way to take on another mission. your only quest was to get enough information and maybe ‘bribe’ your contacts (as once you were thought by kurt hansen himself) for intel, telling them that you were still with the barghest but in reality, you were dropping the wire on how to infiltrate various points of interest.

“this is my last visit here, thought i would bring something for my favorite netrunner.” your walls slowly crumbled down, all assumptions getting lost in the fog of your mind and heart growing closer to the netrunner.

so mi was hesitant of accepting the wrapped gift from your offering hand. “trust me it wasn’t easy to shit something like this out, you wanna take it.” she didn’t have to know how hard it was to gather just one little shard with all the stuff she wished for, this is when you need to thank reed before never seeing him ever again for helping.

“i… um…” her voice shook with uncertainty, gazing at the shard between your fingers. “i don’t know what to say.” so mi breathed.

“then…” you start, biting your tongue to slow yourself down before muttering some nonsense. “what if i ask the big guy to let you out? for lunch or dinner, we could make it a date…” you made a mess of your feelings at the end there, slipped up but it could have ended a lot worse than it actually did.

“a date sounds perfect.” so mi said, not having too much luck with trying to hold back the smile that crept up on her face as she stepped up to you. her hands landed on your shoulders, tip-toeing up so your faces were right in front of each other, just inches away. too fast…

she quickly pulled away, muttering an apology for her sudden moves. you assured her she didn’t do anything wrong. “kid, come on inside.” you heard reed call out. you looked over your shoulder before looking back at so mi and leaning in to press a gentle kiss on her rosy cheek.

“something to make sure you won’t stand me up.” you turned on your heels, and now the composed and serious ex-barghest walked inside the office she knew very well. you could jump out of your skin over so mi saying yes to your date later, and work out some other details (like how you two are both agents and the guys on the eighth floor didn’t really find that a good idea) even after that.

a/n: i always wanted to write something for songbird and now that I am easing into this blurb or drabble style I got going on right now I thought why not cook up something for the best netrunner in the world? i hope you guys liked it and thank you for reading !!!

[pilot-boi]

Could we see Jaune choosing not to be Jaune Arc anymore and just become the knight? Please, with extra suffering and angst on top?

((Okay, but remember you asked for this. Fair warning, this got WAY longer than I was intending, but that’s what happens when you write at AM))

Nothing here makes sense. Mice and raccoons can talk. A tiny prince has a castle full of card and chess people. And no matter how much he walks towards the tree, Jaune can’t seem to get any closer to it.

It’s like that story his mom used to read him and his sisters, The Girl Who Fell Through The World. He can’t remember all the details of it, but the ones he can are eerily similar to his current circumstances. Talking raccoon and all.

He remembers a Knight, and wanting to be just like them when he grew up. He remembers the main character being utterly alone. And he remembers that she got out of there through the tree.

So that’s where he’s going. As much as all the evidence has shown that Remnant is better off without Jaune Arc, he can’t do that to Ren and Nora. It just wouldn’t be right.

Although as of late he’s not the best judge of what’s the right thing to do.

His sword is heavy at his side. Multicolored maple leaves blow past him. Every where he looks there’s another reminder of his failures.

Pyrrha dead because he wasn’t strong enough, Penny dead because he wasn’t fast enough. Too weak to help, too weak to heal. The portal closed and he failed Ren and Nora again by not making it back to them.

And then he fell.

He couldn’t even die right.

Jaune wanders listlessly among blue shaded trees, passing neon glowing mushrooms and multicolored flowers. The plants tower over him, as tall as a building, but he doesn’t spare them a passing glance, pushing his exhausted limbs on relentlessly.

He can’t afford to stop. He’s not sure he’ll be able to get going again if he stops moving. Just another failure.

“What are you?”

Jaune blinks, reactions lethargic. It could be a threat, could be practically anything in this nonsense world, but he just can’t bring himself to care. It’s a…

He blinks again, a shock of awareness creeping back in. It’s a…caterpillar? Or a butterfly. Some combination of both, maybe. Jaune didn’t think he was capable of being surprised at this point, but the universe just delights in proving him wrong.

The caterpillar blinks at him, eyes wide and calculating. “I’m a Huntsman.” Is he though? What kind of Huntsman abandons his team? Kills his friend? “I need help,” he settles on at last.

Help with what, he can’t say. He doesn’t know.

The caterpillar’s eyes narrow. “If it’s help you need, then I can provide,” they say, voice raspy and gravely as the earth itself. “That is my purpose, as the Herbalist” They sling a bag of leaves over their shoulder. “At least, until I’m not anymore.”

Jaune follows as the self-proclaimed Herbalist leads him through a doorway into what must be the caterpillar’s home. They bustle around, weighing herbs and grumbling under their breath. “What did you say you are again?”

“I’m…” That question again, and he still has no answer. He can’t call himself a Huntsman, not after what he’s done. “I’m a hero.” That’s all he’s ever wanted to be, but even with that he falls short. Can’t very well call himself a hero after leading his friends and who knows how many civilians to their deaths.

“So are you a Huntsman or a Hero?” The caterpillar asks, and Jaune can almost hear the capitalization in their voice. “I can’t help you if you don’t know what you are.”

“I’m sorry Mr. uh… Herbalist?” Gods he’s never sounded more out of depth in his life. “I don’t think I understand the question.”

“I don’t understand how you don’t understand.” The caterpillar grumbles, rolling their three eyes in sync. “We all have our titles, our roles to play.”

Jaune follows them deeper into their home, through a bead curtain and into a room full of smoke. “And in order to help you fulfill your role-” The Herbalist drops a handful of maple leaves into the fire, and the smoke builds like a wave. “-you should really have a better understanding of what your purpose is now.”

His purpose? His role? Jaune’s head is spinning, and it’s only partially because of the smoke. Is there a single role he’s held that he hasn’t failed at spectacularly? Jaune feels like he’s falling down a long tunnel.

“So I ask you again.” The caterpillar rounds on him. Their eyes are flashing different colors in sync with the the pounding in Jaune’s head, a psychedelic swirling beating in time with his heart beat. Distantly he realizes his knees have hit the earthy floor.

“What are you?”

And his vision fills with smoke. It fills his lungs, choking him, and Jaune’s sure he coughs hard enough to lose a lung. A cloud of the stuff expels from his mouth, pooling on the smoky ground in front of him.

“So? Are you a Huntsman yet?”

Jaune looks up, heart full of dread. Because he knows that voice, knows it like he knows his own name.

A facsimile of himself smiles back, all false confidence and floppy blonde hair.

This Jaune’s eyes aren’t shadowed with everything he’s lost, everything he’s done wrong. His smile is wide and innocent, untainted by horrors he hasn’t seen yet.

The armor on his shoulders is too big, awkwardly tightened and perfect for a young hero ready to grow into his strength. Head full of dreams of a legacy to uphold, of people to protect.

It’s still lined with iron. Pyrrha’s gilding has never felt heavier.

“What?”

“Are you a Huntsman yet. Did you graduate from Beacon?”

Jaune’s heart clenches. “Beacon fell,” he says woodenly.

“And it’s your fault your partner died,” Not-Jaune says brightly. “Let’s face the facts, if Pyrrha had a stronger and braver partner instead of you, then she would have lived.”

Jaune winces at hearing it said in so matter-of-fact a tone. He’s right, he’s no Huntsman. A Huntsman would’ve been able to help Pyrrha instead of dragging her down.

“So you’re not much of a Huntsman, but you still have this whole legacy thing to uphold. So are you a hero then?”

“I help my friends,” Jaune says. His protests sound weak and desperate even to his ears“I protect people in danger and heal them when they’re hurt.”

“But you’re also the one to do the hurting.” Fake-Jaune’s voice is cocky, in that tone he’d always put on to project the air of confidence his father always said he’d need.

“Weiss was stabbed because you were too blinded by anger. Your brilliant strategy in Argus led Blake to fight her abusive terrorist ex-boyfriend. Splitting up in Atlas got Oscar kidnapped and Nora maimed.”

Not-Jaune ticks off his failures like they’re items on a grocery list. It’s like he can’t tell that every word twists the sword in Jaune’s chest a little deeper. “Oh!” His eyes light up, and his grin widens. “And we can’t forget about Penny!”

Jaune actually chokes.

Gods how many people are dead because of him? Penny certainly, her blood still stains what’s left of his sword, as red as the sash around his waist. Weiss as well, blasted off the side of a platform because he was too weak to hold on.

He’s no Huntsman. He’s certainly no hero.

“So, what are you?”

“I…” For the third time in how many minutes, Jaune doesn’t have an answer. He’s not a Huntsman, he’s not a hero. He’s staring at his hands and they’re shaking. What even is he except a failure? “I’m Jaune Arc.”

“And it sucks, doesn’t it?” The smile on his own face looks forced, cruel and and triumphant pitying all rolled into one. “Always just barely too slow to help, too weak to protect. Always the idiot stuck in the tree while his friends fight for their lives.”

Jaune doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears drop onto his palms.

“You don’t have to keep trying, ya know.” And for the first time since arriving here, Not-Jaune’s voice sounds gentle. Understanding. “They don’t need you, they never have. So why not give up?”

“You’re not a Huntsman, you’re not a hero. You could give up on being Jaune Arc.” He looks up. His younger self towers over him, eyes not shadowed and armor not gilded. His hands are on his hips, one resting on the hilt of Crocea Mors.

A better person than he’ll ever be.

“After all, what’s one more failure? It seems to be all you’re good at.”

[monsoon-of-art]

As promised, here is my Long Fiction piece with my Superheros!

"Two Wrongs do Make a Right"

It was generally accepted that Superheroes do not steal.

Superheroes have a verbal contract, as it were. Unstated by most but very well known; to protect their city and the people inside it. Methods and motives vary, but this rule kept things simple.

Dragonfly planned on breaking that rule.

She had never liked being conventional, truthfully. She didn’t work with cops, rarely worked with the local government. She didn’t have powers from the heavens or radioactive spills, and she certainly wasn’t rolling in cash right now. She protected her city and she protected her people, she just did it her own way.

And while she was skilled in hand-to-hand combat and all different kinds of technology, actually robbing a museum was beyond her normal capabilities.

So, here she was. Dragonfly in all of her neon glory, pacing on a rooftop. Her blue goggles only added to her insect-namesake, her thick curls trimmed short. “I just worry about the security. And the cameras. Security cameras.” she rambled. “Being physically seen robbing a museum wouldn’t be ideal.”

“Mhm. No. I imagine it would not be.”

With her was her partner; Clay. A being made of ever-shifting liquid earth, his voice often flat and monotone. Even now, as she nervously paced on the rooftops, he sat idly by, letting bits of himself drip onto the floor with a half-lidded expression.

“Dragonfly.” said Clay, his voice heavy like syrup. “I have never been inside a museum before. It cannot be that difficult. I think you are stressing yourself out. I will take care of the cameras.”

“I think it’s more the robbing- wait. Wait, you've never been? Holy shit, OK. When we’re done with this, I promise I’ll take you to a museum.” she said with a faint smile. “One with lots of hands-on stuff for you to play with.”

“I would very much enjoy that.” Despite the kind offer, Clay’s tone didn’t change. “I am still unhappy with the main part of your plan. Working with. Him.”

Right. Hayday.

Dragonfly and Clay didn’t have many people they could trust. Another terrible truth that came with the job. Dragonfly had no other living family, and Clay’s origins were a total mystery. Their flippant attitude with the local cops and government did them no favors.

And in a sea of criminals, smugglers, gangsters, mobsters, murders, aliens, eldritch beings, and whatever other nonsensical weirdos that had it out for the pair, Hayday was…an exception.

Hayday was a bit of an enigma. No delusions of grandeur, no plans for world domination. As far as Dragonfly and Clay could tell, he was just a dude who dressed up like a scarecrow to hide his identity and commit petty crimes.

“Yeah, yeah. I know you don’t.” Dragonfly sighed. “But please, give him a chance? It’s either Hayday or cops.”

Clay relented on this, if only slightly. “...I do not like cops. But I also do not like Him. The first time we met him-”

 “I believe in second chances.” She said, quietly. “Besides. We need him-”

“-Cuz ya don’t know how to pick locks.” Clambering up the fire escape to join them upon the roof was the man himself. In a striking contrast from Dragonfly's slick, modern look, Hayday looked like he stepped right out of a cornfield; dirty overalls, wide-brimmed stetson hat, a burlap mask that covered most of his face.

Clay stood, shoulders - or what could be generally considered shoulders given his anatomy - tense, brow furrowed. "You are late."

"In case ya haven't noticed, Clay-Dough, but we are currently on top of the museum? They don't exactly want people on the roof. D'ya know how hard it was to climb up here?" Hayday shot back. "Can we maybe meet up somewhere closer to ground level next time?"

"I hope there will not be a next time." Clay hissed, voice dangerously quiet. "And my name is Clay."

"The building schematics says this should be a maintenance entrance." Dragonfly brushed aside their comments with a brief explanation. She gestured to a locked door, no doubt guarding a stairwell. “It’s locked, and you’re the best lockpick we know.”

“You are the only lockpick we know.” Clay clarified.

Hayday looked between the locked door and the two. “Why not have Clay-Dough break down the door?”

“I could-” Clay began to say.

“No.” she said sharply. “I don’t want any real damage here. I want a quick in-and-out operation.”

“Operation? Don’t be so coy, now.” Hayday said with a sneer, rummaging in his pockets. “You’re stealin’. Stop actin’ high and mighty.”

Removing some thin tools from his pockets, Hayday gave the door a cursory glance. “Hm. I’m gonna guess a double cylinder deadbolt. Should be easy.”

Dragonfly and Clay couldn’t help but try and look over his shoulder, seeing slivers of silver tools inserted into the lock. If they focused, they could hear subtle clicks beneath the rumbling city ambiance.

A clank. Hayday pulled back, the door opening with him. “There.”

“How did you do that?” Clay demanded. “That took no time at all!”

Hayday gave him an unimpressed stare. “Ya ever hear the phrase ‘a magician never reveals his secrets’, Clay-Dough?”

“No. What does that mean?”

“It means ‘tough shit’.” Hayday turned to Dragonfly. “Right. Pay up. I helped ya, and now ya owe me-”

“We’re not done?” she said, tilting her head slowly at him. “You said you’d help, and we’re not done? This is only step one.”

Even with the burlap mask he was wearing, the confusion was clear on his face. “...care to run that by me again?”

“We asked for your help with taking the Dragon’s Eye Ruby, currently housed on the first floor of the museum. I got a tip that Snake Eyes planned on taking it, so Clay and I decided to take it before them-”

“And plant a fake, yeah, yeah. I got that part.” Hayday hissed, gesturing for Dragonfly to stop talking. “And I did help. I unlocked the door. What else do ya want me to do?”

“Help us take the ruby?” Clay offered. “You have experience, do you not?”

“I suppose. Experienced enough to know that I’ve already triggered the silent alarm.” he said with a wry smile. “Y’all got about twenty minutes. Thirty if traffic is bad - and let’s be honest, it always is.”

Clay’s form began bubbling like a pot of water. A rare flash of anger crept into his voice. “You knew this, but you did not tell us?!”

“Clay, cool it.” Dragonfly said, placing a hand on his ‘shoulder’, not caring for his goopy nature. “We won’t be that long, with any luck. Besides, we’re at stage two now, and that’s you.”

Taking a deep breath, Clay steadied himself. “Right. Right. I am sorry. I will go in and destroy the cameras.” He turned to Hayday, pointing at him. “If you try anything while I am away. You will regret it.”

Without another word, Clay completely melted. His humanoid form sloughing away like a warm candle, slithering through the door like a mud-covered snake.

Hayday waited a moment before turning to her. “I’ve done my part, Dragon. Pay up. I don’ wanna be here any longer than I have to.”

“Not until the job is done.” she replied. “Once the ruby is in my hand, I’ll give you what you want.”

He glowered at her. “Yer killin’ me, I hope ya know. What do ya want from me? Ya want me to hold yer hand the entire time? What’s yer angle?” His voice grew softer, more hesitant. “I didn’t think ya’d ever wanna see me again, after…”

“You tried to kill me?” she asked, looking up at him. He couldn’t look her in the eyes. She continued. “But you didn’t. That’s the key thing. You had the opportunity. But you said it yourself. You couldn’t.”

Finally, he met her gaze. “It’s…that’s just not who I am.”

“Who are you, then?”

He didn’t respond to that.

Her goggles lit up, the soft blue glow illuminating her dark face. A police report flashed on her heads-up display. “The cops are on their way.”

“Great! Great! Perfect!” Hayday began pacing. “What are ya gonna do about the rest of the security measures, dare I ask? The guards, the proximity alarm?”

“I’ve been carefully tracking the pattern of the security for several days now. If worst comes to worst, we can knock them out-”

“WE?!”

“- As for the proximity alarm, hopefully we’ll be gone by then. The cops are already coming, what are they gonna do? Send more?”

“YES?!”

Clay opened the door, gesturing for them. “The cameras have been destroyed. I have caused a distraction for the guards on the first floor-”

Dragonfly interrupted. “They’re still alive, though, right?”

He blinked at her. “Yes. My distraction caused no damage. As far as I am aware.”

“Clay-Dough, that is not reassurin’.” Hayday wheezed, sounding like a strange combination of a laugh and a choke.

“While normally I would question that statement to Hell and back, we’re really short on time here.” said Dragonfly, glancing back at the police report on her HUD. “The case with the Ruby should have a lock on it.”

She gave Hayday an expectant look. “Please?”

Hayday glared back. Clay glanced between the two of them, unsure which side to take.

"Fine. I'll stick around for now. But so help me, if there is even a whisper of trouble, I am gone. Understand?" Hayday finally said, his voice a quiet, strained hiss.

Dragonfly seemed pleased. "Thanks. We really appreciate it."

"I hold no strong feelings on this matter." Clay muttered. "Do not drag me into this."

"Ladies first." Hayday said with a wave of the hand, encouraging Dragonfly to take the lead.

She rolled her eyes at that, but stepped forward to enter, her faint glow of her goggles and gloves illuminating the dark stairwell. Clay followed, his footsteps quietly sloshing behind her. Hayday went last, closing the maintenance door behind them.

“What happens if Snake Eyes finds out?” Hayday whispered in the darkness of the maintenance tunnels. “He and I aren’t exactly on good speakin’ terms.”

“Why?” Clay twisted his neck like an owl to ask directly.

The man hesitated, fiddling with his hat. “I…erm, well, he offered me a job. I wasn’t able to do it, and I kinda…haven’t spoken to him since?”

An uncomfortable silence fell over them.

Snake Eyes had men in every little nook and cranny of the city. The fact that Hayday had managed to avoid them all was both impressive and concerning. You couldn’t just ‘not speak’ to Snake Eyes; not forever, at least.

“That was not smart of you.” Clay finally said, swiveling his head back to normal.

Dragonfly slowly opened the door to what looked like the storage area, wincing at the creaking metal. “This should be the first floor. Let’s go do the switcheroo, and then we can bail. Don’t touch anything.”

“She is referring to you.” Clay whispered, giving Hayday a look.

She nudged Clay with a grumble. “Be nice.”

“I’m not stupid.” Hayday shot back. “Most everythin’ will have a proximity sensor.”

The three of them stalked through the darkened museum, taking care to stick to the shadows when applicable. The displays seemed practically ghoulish in the low light, with some of the displays quite literally looming over them.

"I do not want to visit a museum anymore." Clay whispered.

The Dragon's Eye Ruby, being a new exhibit, was very prominently displayed. The gem itself was a brilliant gradient of reds, purples, and oranges, and about the size of a large fist. Right in the middle of the room, contained within a glass box. The bottom of the box had a lock on it.

"Hayday, can you please-" Dragonfly began to say.

But Hayday pushed past her before she could finish. "Yeah, yeah, I'm on it. But ya better be ready to make the switch. Once that proximity alarm goes off, it's going to be loud."

As he began carefully stepping closer, a loud boom shook the museum. The ground and walls shook, the various exhibits clinking and clattering in their cases.

"...Dragonfly." Hayday slowly turned to her. "When was the heist supposed to happen?"

"Not until tomorrow…" she slowly trailed off. "Shit."

While Dragonfly wanted their version of the heist to be as clean and neat as possible, Snake Eyes and his goons had no such qualms about collateral damage.

Sirens screamed throughout the museum. "I didn' do that!" Hayday yelped, stumbling backwards.

"They must have moved the heist date." Said Clay. "They are going to take the gemstone. I would also guess they will not allow us to leave-”

"Wait, wait! This is a great thing!" Dragonfly grabbed onto Clay's arm, fingers sinking ever-so-slightly into him. "We can just fight them here and now and really send Snake Eyes a message! With the three of us, I bet we could totally-"

"Hayday is leaving."

Dragonfly glanced over to where Clay was pointing, seeing Hayday already having picked the window lock and beginning to open it.

"H-Hey!" She called after him. "Don't go!"

"No! I told ya! I did NOT sign up for a fight! I was here to pick locks!" He snarled, already swinging one leg over the threshold to climb out. "Look. The job Snake Eyes gave me? Was to kill you. If his men see me with ya? I'm in for a world of hurt!"

"If we work together and scare them off, imagine the message that’ll send! With your help-"

"Ya still want my help?! Then take my advice. BUZZ OFF.  Yer not gonna win this fight, Dragon. Give up. Ya lost. If ya stay here, you’re gonna get killed."

Dragonfly stared at him for a moment, before her mild surprise twisted into a deep frown. “You knew this…and your first instinct was to get yourself out of danger? You were completely content in leaving Clay and I to die?”

There was an unpleasant silence that followed.

“W-Well. No. No.” he eventually stammered, trying very hard not to make eye contact. “I-I would’ve-”

Whatever he was trying to say, she didn’t let him finish. “You were! You were! You were going to ditch us to die! I get wanting to leave, and I get being hesitant to help, but you were fine with! With!” 

“N-Now just hold on-” Hayday had almost appeared to shrink into himself, partially trying to climb out the window and partially trying to put distance between him and Dragonfly.

She leaned in close, her voice a near hiss. “Earlier, I asked who you were. You’re a cowardly, spineless thief. And you may not like blood on your hands, but you certainly don’t mind it splattering your boots as you run.” 

Leaning a bit too far out the window in response to the verbal lashing, Hayday yelped as his hand slipped, and he promptly fell backwards out the window. There was a great clamor of noise - glass bottles, metal cans, crinkling of plastic and paper, the noises of trash. Even after everything, Dragonfly struggled to resist the urge to check on him, to make sure he wasn’t hurt.

She forced herself away from the window, turning to her partner. “Clay, I know this is silly to ask, but are you ready for a fight?”

“Yes. Yes. God, yes.” He answered, fists already raised. Then he thought for a moment. “Where is Hayday?”

"He left." Was all Dragonfly said. But Clay knew her tone of voice well enough to get the picture.

"Ah. I am not surprised. He is a criminal. All criminals are the same."

She felt like she should've disputed that. She instead settled on giving him a disapproving look.

Dragonfly had more important things to focus on right now. Such as the suspicious shuffling from the closed door just to their right.

"How many of them do you think there will be?" Clay whispered, fists raised.

"I'm going to guess six." She replied, turning on her combat gloves. When active, they could deliver a terrible electrical shock, usually just enough to stun. Even as the wielder, she could feel the familiar tingle run through her bones.  "You know how Snake Eyes loves his dice motifs."

"Ah. True."

The henchmen burst down the door not a moment sooner, some of them expressing surprise at the pair being there first. The rest of them merely gripped their weapons a little tighter.

Eight of them. She was a bit off on the numbers. Thank God none of them carried firearms, so sure that they wouldn't face any resistance, they had only brought crowbars. Of course crowbars still had the capacity to hurt, something that Dragonfly hoped to avoid.

(Clay, as far as she knew, seemed completely impervious to physical damage. The crowbars would just thunk into his body, leaving a strange indent, but nothing more.)

Living up to her namesake, Dragonfly was constantly moving. Darting across the room, looking for a weakness in their defenses to strike. The room was far too small to use her wings, but even without them she was quick. 

But even as they fought, they couldn’t keep track of all the crooks at the same time. In the corner of her eye, she could see one of the men start to pick the lock to the ruby’s case. “Clay!” she shouted, narrowly dodging a crowbar.

“Currently occupied!” Clay shouted back, grabbing two of the men by their collars to restrain them.

The man grabbed the ruby from the case, sirens screaming all the while. Upon seeing an opening. She shouted, “Clay! Take over! Like we practiced!” she said, thought for a half a second, then quickly added. “Do NOT kill anyone!”

She bolted as Clay lost all pretense of human form, shifting into tendrils to grab and disarm like a horrifying claymation octopus. She normally did not like leaving him alone in fights (especially like this), and not because she was worried for his safety. But seeing the thing she came here specifically to protect currently slipping from her fingers prompted her to temporarily disregard this concern.

Nearly slipping on the museum floors, Dragonfly chased after the crook with the ruby. “HEY! Stop right there!”

He did not stop. Dragonfly wasn’t sure what she expected.

She certainly wasn’t expecting the handle of a broom to swing from a doorway to beam the man in the face, knocking him to the ground. The ruby clattered to the floor, doing more damage to the floor than the actual gem itself.

Sliding to a stop by the groaning man currently slowly writhing on the floor, she looked to see who was holding the broomstick. And she was honestly surprised to see Hayday standing there, panting as if he had ran a mile.

“You came back-”

“WHY ARE YA STILL HERE?! What part of ‘If ya stay here you’ll get killed’ did not get through to ya?!”

Dragonfly blinked at him, baffled. “Because I don’t run from fights?”

Huffing, clearly not happy with that answer, Hayday gestured to the ruby with the broom. “Well, get the stupid gem and let’s split.”

“We may not need to.” she picked up the ruby with careful hands, holding the cold stone close to her chest. “If Clay managed to beat up the rest, we can simply say that we got here only moments after and stopped the robbery. The police and the news don’t need to know our original plan.”

“Lyin’ to authorities, breakin’ and enterin’, taking’gems from museums, are ya sure you’re a hero, Dragon?” Hayday asked with a lopsided grin.

Dragonfly did not answer, stiffly turning and starting to walk back.

“H-Hey! Hey!” he quickly gave chase. “Are ya mad? Yer mad. But I came back! Look. Look. I’m sorry. Really, I am!” Hayday said. Maybe it was the lack of the smarmy attitude that he had since the very beginning. But something about it sounded genuine to Dragonfly.

Genuine or not, his timing was poor. “Let’s have this talk when we’re not in a museum full of sirens with the police on their way, kay?”

“Good plan. Good plan.”

Returning to the room where the ruby was originally kept, Dragonfly and Hayday were met with men unconscious or in stages of stupor, lying around like ragdolls. “Holy shit.” Hayday quietly muttered. “Clearly ya didn’ need me-”

Clay reformed upon seeing Dragonfly, taking his human shape. “They are still alive. I have checked.” he quickly reassured her.

“That’s awesome!” she said, carefully returning the ruby to its place. “You’re making great progress in not doing that.”

A rare smile graced Clay’s face. However, the smile died almost immediately upon realizing Hayday had returned. “Oh. I was hoping you had left. For good.”

“Yer not gettin’ rid of me that that easy, Clay-Dough.”

The sirens of the museum proximity alarms were replaced with the sirens of police cars. “And now it’s time we leave!” Dragonfly said, placing the glass box over the gemstone. Finally, she placed a small, plastic dragonfly on-top.

“Do ya just carry those around?” asked Hayday.

“Ever heard of a calling card? Have some class.” she replied.

Once the plastic dragonfly was set in place, the three of them bolted for the maintenance stairs. And once on the roof, they kept running; traveling from rooftop to rooftop until the red and blue lights and police silence blended into the usual city rumble.

Dragonfly and Clay turned to Hayday, who was currently wheezing like he had just run a marathon, hands on his knees, almost doubled over.

“For someone so quick to flee. You do not have good stamina." Clay muttered.

“Why’d you even come back?” asked Dragonfly.

“Because-” he said between breaths, “Because I didn’ mean to leave ya.”

Dragonfly crossed her arms over her chest as Clay loomed behind her, the pair of them silently urging him to continue.

“It’s just.” he stood straight, kicking at the cement under his feet. “I’ve been workin’ solo for…years now. When shit started hittin’ the fan, I worked on instinct. And my instincts told me to hit the bricks. You two didn’ deserve that. ‘M sorry.”

“OK. Where is the rest of the apology?” Clay said slowly, eyes narrowing.

“...what else am I apologizin’ for?”

“Being a thief. Being a criminal. Attempted murder-” Clay began to list on his fingers.

Hayday sheepishly smiled, “Oh. Yeah, I ain’ apologizin’ for that.”

“I appreciate the apology.” said Dragonfly with a nod. “And I’m appreciative for the help. My plan wouldn’t have worked without you.” 

“It was an alright plan.” Hayday admitted. “I’m sure it would’ve gone off withouta hitch, if they didn’ move the date of their heist.”

Dragonfly snorted. “Yeah. ‘Moved the date’. Sure.”

Hayday paused. He opened his mouth, closed it again, thought for a moment, then finally managed to ask, “You…you knew they were coming today, didn’t ya?”

She smiled. “Course we did. We’re no rookies, we know what we’re doing.”

“So ya lied to me? Told me that they were coming another day, manufacturing all of this? For what? I don’t get it.”

“I told you why at the very beginning. I wanted to know who you are. A test of character.”

"I tried to convince her otherwise." Clay added, his voice slow and languid. "But I could not sway her."

Hayday stared at her, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted and mouth slightly agape. 

But she continued regardless. “I remember, when you tried to kill me. You were shaking so bad, you know. You said you couldn’t do it, and you vanished off into the night.”

“I think…” Dragonfly looked him up and down. “...you’re a good person. I think that deep down, underneath all the sarcasm and snark and everything. You are a good person.”

Hayday continued to stare. She wasn’t sure if it was confusion, or disbelief, or maybe she had just broken him. “You honestly think. That after everything. That I’m a good person?”

“Yeah.”

There was a moment of contemplative silence. She could see him working something out in his head. Then, with a deep, rumbling sigh, he reached into his pockets to pull out a jewel-laden necklace. “Here. I swiped it earlier, when ya weren’t lookin’. Take it before I change my mind.”

"I knew it." Clay hissed. "He is a thief. He will always be a thief."

"I gave the damn thing back, didn't I?" Hayday snapped. "I could've kept it!"

"You really shouldn't have taken this. Like. The entire point of asking you to help us was to prevent museum theft." She said, carefully taking the necklace from his hand.

"Ya didn't say I couldn't steal." He snapped his fingers. "That reminds me. You owe me. And I'd like to collect now."

Dragonfly sighed. "Clay. Wallet please."

Clay shoved a hand into his own body, not unlike how one would rummage through the mud to find a missing shoe. After a moment, he pulled a wallet from his chest. "Here."

The two silently traded, Clay inserting the necklace into his body for safekeeping as Dragonfly rummaged through her wallet.

(Hayday was silently disgusted by the entire exchange.)

She handed over a plastic card. He snatched it, proceeding to give it a confused look-over. With absolutely no emotion in his voice, he asked, "...is this a fifty dollar gift card to IHop."

"I enjoy their cinnamon roll pancakes." Clay said, confirming Hayday's question.

"You wanted payment. You never specified how. But if you don't want it-" Dragonfly reached over to take the card back.

But he quickly put the gift card in his pocket, "Nope, nope, mine now. In the future, I'd like something a bit more rewarding, mind."

Dragonfly beamed at him. "Next time, huh?"

Hayday paused, as if he only just realized what he said. "Look. We ain't friends. I ain't a good person. I'm only doin' this because I'm in a good mood. Got it?"

"Buuuuut?" She pressed.

He waved his hand dismissively. "...but I wouldn't be completely opposed to working with you two again. But in the future, don't lie to me, and I don't take gift cards."

She took his outstretched hand, giving it a firm shake, much to his confusion. "It's a deal!"

Dragonfly finished the handshake, glancing at Clay expectantly. But he just slowly shook his head. "We should be leaving. The police will be searching the area soon."

"Right, right!" Dragonfly chirped, her smile near infectious. "This was a good day! Tomorrow we'll return the necklace." 

Her backpack whirred to life, two pairs of neon blue wings forming from electrical components tucked inside. Clay had already left, using his semi-solid form to quickly dart off to another rooftop.

"I'll keep in contact." She told Hayday, wings buzzing as she lifted off the ground.

"I'm uh. Sorry for trying to kill ya." He shrugged. "Way back then."

"It's alright." She smiled. "I forgive you."