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freakingoutthesquares · 2 years ago

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Cocker Lips Now! Words: Johnny Dee, Photographer: Derek Ridgers Taken from the New Musical Express, 4 December 1993 Transcription: Acrylic Afternoons

He's raw sex in hipsters, he's old enough to know better and he's out to make his strange suburban madness a household brand. Johnny Dee braves the shoddiest TV show in the world to bring you Pulp - and the gospel according to Jarvis Cocker.

Pulp singer Jarvis Cocker, a man with the deadpan attitude of Alan Bennett and the raw sexuality of Barry White, doesn't like the idea of Virtual Reality. He doesn't like it at all. "I don't want to sound like an old guffer," he apologises, "but a dose of reality would be better for most people interested in Virtual Reality. I mean, most people would be freaked out if you went round and, you know gagged 'em, drugged 'em or something, stuck them in the boot of a car and dumped them in the middle of a field in North Yorkshire. That would freak most people out more than having some headset on."

The Pulp members - Russell (guitar/violin), Steve (bass), Candida (keyboards), Nick (drums) - are used to such typical Jarvis pronouncements, all delivered with a sanguine matter-of-factness. Jarvis is forever calm and unflustered, a man who'd refuse to panic if his arse was on fire. But this time he's gone too far.

"Bloody hell, Jarvis," says Russell, wrapped up in a tight pale blue PVC jacket that matches his eye shadow. "Well," says Jarvis Cocker. "You'd take the gag off afterwards."

Who needs Virtual Reality anyway? Close your eyes and imagine an endless, white corridor. Here, years ago, a perm-haired kids TV presenter called Mick Robertson crouched on his knees at the end of a row of coins denoting the success of the latest Magpie charity appeal. At the end of the corridor is Room 101 - Pulp's dressing room for the night. We are in TV world...

Well, we're in Teddington Lock, Middlesex for the filming of The Word in a TV centre that feels like a maximum security Holiday Inn. Since fellow guests Onyx have received several death threats throughout the day, there are uniformed men resembling Viz comic parkies stationed at the end of each hallway. On every wall there are unnervingly huge colour pictures of celebrities - Eric Morecambe, Cilia Black, Judith Chalmers. The Magpie appeals no longer worm their way around the maze of studios, but in the canteen, Rory Bremner is tucking into quiche and chips.

In Room 101 Pulp siphon Smirnoff into a Highland Spring bottle to beat the draconian on-set alcohol ban. They've been here since 11am: drinking, having their shirts ironed (since guests get their clothes pressed for free, they've all bought along a week's washing) and make-up done and arguing about "the gap".

Their new single 'Lip Gloss' has a two-second break in the middle, which The Word's people maintain isn't on the record (it is) and are worried that the audience will think it's the end of the song and start clapping like chimps (they do). "The gap" becomes an incredibly significant Pulp moment. If they agree to cut it out they'll be compromising. So Sheffield's finest popmongers decide to make the gap longer. Much longer.

It's been a long day spent in stardom's waiting room, but little things have made it worthwhile. Drummer Nick, for instance, overheard Dani Behr call someone "a f***in' c***". Russell saw a raincoated man bent over and struggling with a heavy box in the gents' loo. He opened the door for him and the man flashed a cheesy grin. "It was Des O'Connor! Des O' flippin' Connor!"

It's now 9pm and Pulp are on stage for the last dress rehearsal. It feels more than just a rehearsal for a sensationalist TV show; it feels like a rehearsal for stardom itself. Pulp have been together with various line-ups for ten years now through punk, new romance, C86 and grunge - always defiantly different.

They've survived disasters: Jarvis once being confined to a wheelchair after he jumped from a window to impress a girl; Fire Records putting their third album on hold for two years during legal wrangles. And they've coped with personality crises, too: Russell going through a disciplinary dictator phase, when Pulp ran to a strict regimented timetable; ex-drummer Magnus leaving the band and going barmy after deciding he was the moon... But over the past two years each successive single has been better and sold more than the last, and their audience has got bigger and younger. Now, incredibly, they're on a major label, their records are available in Woolworths, they're on daytime radio and on TV.

Huge day-glo shapes hang from the ceiling as they perform 'Lip Gloss' to a barren studio, Jarvis snaking across the stage in too-tight, thick, purple corduroy trousers, shaping hand movements not witnessed since Alvin Stardust rolled his ringladen fingers for the Pops' cameras. The only people here to witness this are skivvies fussing around with clip-boards, and the dancers - looking like clichéd Freemans catalogue versions of teenagers - who are paid to show off. As Jarvis sings of lipstick-stained fags and being chucked, these young bucks, with bare, greased-up torsos vogue over-enthusiastically on podiums. Half-naked 18-year-olds pretending to rave and having a fake wild time is bizarre enough but then so are Pulp. The camera cuts from Jarvis in karate mode to someone's bum cheek escaping from a pair of midget Homme pants and then back again to bassist Steve, desperately trying not to laugh.

The lovers portrayed in 'Lip Gloss' are worlds away from this forced environment of The Word. Like many Pulp songs, 'Lip Gloss' celebrates the strangeness of the ordinary and stretches a subject so mundane no-one's dared sing about it before. In this case, being pissed off after you've been chucked because you wasted time getting to know his/her mates who you never liked in the first place.

"I've got a bit of a hang-up about songs and films presenting an idealised version of things," explains Jarvis. "It makes people dissatisfied with their own lot in life. But it's something that never existed, it's just been made up by someone. Yes, we do glamorise the everyday but, you know, a bus journey can be exciting. You can treat it just like a journey and sit there like a plank or you can wonder what other people on the bus do with their lives."

Read any article about Pulp and at least three, if not all of these things will be mentioned alongside "the 'w' word" (wacky) or "the 'k' word" (kitsch). Perhaps all the detritus and trash that's associated with Pulp has masked something fantastic. Maybe Pulp really are going to be pop stars. At 11.35pm on Friday night, watching the TV set in room 101, Pulp's manager, Geoff Travis - who was previously the boss of Rough Trade - is sure of it. Tonight is a turning point, Pulp are contenders.

Do Pulp really want fame or are they content to carry on as nearly-made-it confectionery for the talking classes? Is siphoning vodka into water bottles, moaning about "gaps", getting your clothes ironed for free the behaviour of pop stars or forever sixth-form underachievers?

"Oh, we want to be famous," claims Jarvis. "It's what we've always wanted." But do you honestly believe you can appeal to 15-year-old girls? "I'm always trying. We want to appeal to everyone. I'd like to think we're not only trying to appeal to students and grocers. You can't choose who buys your record - it's in a shop, it could be murderers or bakers. But, we've been going so long it's not like we expect to get to Number One or anything."

It could happen, Pulp could really become stars. They'll never be on the cover of teen magazines, flashing torsos or sporting exotic hairstyles they're too old for all that. But it could be fun - Jarvis on What's Up, Doc? corrupting the nation's youth with dark tales of urban normality. Yet... why do they want to go through it, why do they want fame? Jarvis smiles and puffs on an Embassy regal.

#pulp #russell senior #jarvis cocker #90s #almost britpop #interview #printed interview

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salazarslytherin · 3 years ago

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sex on fire (s.b x y/n)

summary: an encounter with sirius in the kitchen

🃛 masterlist

cw/tw: smut, pussy slapping, fingering, dumbification, praise kink, like exhibitionism if you squint, age difference (reader is of age!)

word count: 2.14k

a/n: Inspired. SO HEAVILY by @thotbutpurple’s dilf!marauders headcanons, specifically this post for this imagine. also heavily inspired by @acosmis-t's fic peanut. honestly this is just, self-indulgent. might do a dilf!series, I'm not sure reblog to boost please xxx

tag list at the bottom ☯︎ join tag list here

Some people would think that it’s weird to like someone almost twenty years your senior. And if we’re being honest, you thought the same too.

That was until Sirius fucking Black walked into your life.

One of your dad’s best friends from high school, Sirius appeared in your life when you were sixteen, riding back into town on a Bugatti motorcycle and a battered leather jacket. A photographer who’d travelled the world, he came back to your small town to spend time with his younger brother and his old friends from high school.

That spelt weekend barbecues at your house, watching the absolute hunk of a man walk around your house shirtless, or in the thinnest fucking white tank you’ve ever seen in your life. Whether Sirius owned clothes that weren’t band tees, white tanks, and ripped jeans, you didn’t know.

But secretly, you hoped he didn’t.

⚔︎.

Now it’s been three years since Sirius had returned, and yet another one of your dad’s friends’ barbecues was being held at your house. The men were out back barbecuing – they called themselves the Marauders, the name never not making you laugh. Unfortunately, this week you were unable to join them, holed up in your room to study for your finals.

With the weather heating up as it neared the beginning of the summer, you could feel each individual bead of sweat run down your spine. Unable to focus on anything with the immense heat and the overwhelming stress you were feeling, you took out your earphones and got up off your chair, deciding to go downstairs to get something cold to drink.

Opening your bedroom door, you could hear the music playing from the backyard, the booming laughter of the various men standing around the barbecue grill. Walking down the stairs, you recited the formulas you were revising earlier, not at all paying attention to anything around you. Stepping into the kitchen, you kept staring at the flashcards you held, opening the fridge door to grab the carton of juice you knew was in there.

“That focused, are we?”

The deep voice scared you, making the flashcards from your grasp fall all over the tiled flooring. You whipped around to see Sirius leaning against the kitchen sink, smirking as he watched you. You watched him in return, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he downed a gulp from his beer bottle.

Shaking yourself off, you turned back to the fridge and grabbed the carton, before placing it on the counter and closing the door. You bent over to pick up the flashcards that you had dropped earlier, only to hear a splutter of a cough behind you.

You turned around as you placed the cards next to the carton, seeing Sirius cough into his forearm, his abs flexing beneath the thin tank top he wore.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay, Sirius?”

The man waved his hand at you, placing the beer bottle between his lips as his eyes scanned up and down your body, smirking around the bottle.

“S’nothing, Y/N.”

Your eyes followed Sirius’s gaze, looking down to realise just exactly why he had his little impromptu coughing fit. Given the heat, you’d forgotten you were only wearing a thin tank top and booty shorts that day, meaning that when you bent over, you’d given Sirius quite the show. You felt yourself turn red as you realised, spinning around promptly to grab a glass from the upper cabinets.

Unfortunately for you, but quite a fortunate happenstance for Sirius, all the glasses on the bottom shelf had been taken outside for “public consumption”, and only those on the top shelf remained.

Conscious of your every move in front of the hottest man you had ever known in your damned life, you stood up onto your tippy toes, reaching for the glasses on the top shelf. You could feel your shorts riding up as you reached up as high as you possibly could, honestly just contemplating climbing on top of the counters to reach the glasses.

All you wanted was some damned juice.

As you struggled, you heard a chuckle sound behind you, then footsteps. Warmth emanating from behind you, and then a hard body pressed up against you. Your body tensed up as you felt Sirius’s body behind you, swallowing audibly. You saw a hand reach up above yours, the large appendage wrapping around the blue glass before receding as the warmth moved away from you.

“Here you go, pumpkin.”

The nickname made your mouth run dry as you turned around to take the glass from the man, smiling slightly at him. You felt a shiver run down your spine as your fingertips grazed his, having to grip the glass unreasonably tight as you felt your hands weaken at his warmth.

“Thanks.”

Your voice croaked at the word, Sirius’s smirk growing on his face yet again. You took the carton and poured yourself a glass, sipping on it as you leaned against the counter, mirroring Sirius who was back to sipping at his beer bottle.

You could feel your exam stress building up again as your hand reached for the flashcards again, flipping through them as you mouthed the different formulas and definitions written on them.

“Stressed, Y/N?”

You hummed in agreement as you focused on the cards in your hands, the glass having been returned to the counter as you sunk back into revision mode, barely registering the clink of the beer bottle being placed in the kitchen sink as the man made his way towards you.

“Want some help, destressing, hmm?”

You looked up at the man only to find him right in front of you, your body straightening up as you watched his teasing expression, lips curled and eyebrows raised.

You knew Sirius knew the way you felt about him. The way you sucked in a breath the first time you’d seen him, the way you licked your lips subconsciously at the sight of him, the way you thought about him when you touched yourself…

He wasn’t exactly subtle with hiding the innuendos.

You shook yourself free of those thoughts as Sirius watched you, almost as if he knew what you were thinking.

“More juice, maybe?”

The smirk only grew bigger as the man shook the carton slightly, uncapping it and tilting his head backwards, drinking straight from the carton itself. You watched with your mouth hanging open slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing entrancingly with every gulp.

“Oops, I might've finished it all. Though, I think there’s still a little more in here…”

Sirius watched you almost mockingly, mouth dropping open to show the bare minimum of juice left in his mouth.

The man knew you wanted him, and felt the exact same way towards you. He couldn’t help it.

The moment you stepped into the kitchen, he was a goner. The tank top clinging to your breasts, showing just the right amount of cleavage, the shortest fucking shorts he’d ever seen you in barely covering your ass, the man was holding himself together by a thread at this point.

“Hmm? You want it?”

Sirius’s eyes scanned your every move, eyebrows raising as you pushed off the counter slowly.

“Come get it.”

⚔︎.

You didn’t know who moved towards who in that split second, only that a moment later your world was turned upside down. Sirius’s lips were soft and sweet – the entrancing taste of Sirius overwhelming you, beer and orange juice mixing together in the kiss. As promised, Sirius’s tongue pushed a dribble of juice into your mouth, making you moan into his lips as your arms wrapped around his neck, flashcards scattering across the tiled flooring yet again, his hands coming up to grip your waist. The man’s calloused hands fingered the hem of your top, pushing the edges up, his thumb drawing circles on your hip bone.

You gasped at the feeling of his fingers on your skin, feeling Sirius chuckle against your lips at your surprise. Your own hands moved from his neck to his shoulders, sliding down to his arms. You could feel Sirius’s arms tensing at the feeling, the veins on his muscled forearms like braille under your fingertips.

Grunting into your lips, the man stepped forward, pushing you up against the counter, the edge right against the small of your back.

“Can I?”

Sirius asked breathlessly, lips bright red from what felt like minutes, but also hours, of yours against his. He ghosted the elastic of your shorts, eyes flicking between yours as he awaited your approval or disapproval.

You nodded, unable to speak as you held your breath.

Was this actually happening, or were you having some sort of heat stroke-induced delusion?

“Turn around and bend over for me then, doll.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as you nodded again, rendered dumb by your disbelief at the situation. You bent over the counter, leaning on your forearms as you looked over your shoulder, watching Sirius crouched down, hooking his fingers into your shorts, pulling your panties down as well in one move.

The man sucked in a breath at the sight of you bottomless, making your face turn red.

“Such a pretty pussy…”

The blush spread throughout your body as you noticed how close Sirius was to you, his breath ghosting your clit as he did nothing. Simply staring at your cunt. His hands moved up from your ankles, where he’d brought your shorts down to, and spread you open, fingers dipping inside you unintentionally, but it was likely to have been intentional. You squeaked at the feeling, walls clenching around thin air.

This is so fucking embarrassing. But your body seemed to disagree, feeling yourself become wetter at the feeling of Sirius’s eyes on you.

Moving in to take a closer look, the older man sent you one of his signature panty-dropping smiles.

Literally, in this case.

“I’m going to fucking ruin it.”

You threw your head forward as Sirius ran his forefinger up and down your slit, the brief contact with your clit making you let out a loud moan of surprise. Your eyes squeezed shut as you hid your head in your forearms, Sirius’s finger stretching you out as you moaned into your arms.

“Don’t be so loud, doll. Do you want everyone to hear you?”

You shook your head, biting your lip as Sirius moved his finger in and out of you, growing wetter at the thought of anyone catching you here. In the kitchen.

With your dad’s best friend.

All coherent thought was interrupted as Sirius’s other hand landed on your clit, rolling the nub between his thumb and forefinger. The movement made your brain short-circuit, letting out a loud gasping moan as he pushed a second finger inside you as well.

“S-Sirius. Fuck.”

The man tutted from behind you but didn’t even falter in his movements, seemingly spurred by your pleasure to pump his fingers in and out of you even faster. You were so immersed in the pleasure that your eyes shot open in surprise as a sharp slap landed on your clit.

“What the fuck?”

Your head whipped back to look at the older man, who merely lifted a brow at your outburst, his fingers still thrusting into you, the sinful sounds echoing around the kitchen.

“Told you to shut up, doll. Or are you too dumb to understand simple instruction, hmm?”

As he said that, Sirius curled his fingers inside of you, making you choke on your breath as he hit something inside of you.

“S-Sirius. I-”

Another slap landed on your cunt, but the pain mixed in with the insane amounts of pleasure you were feeling, your eyes squeezing shut once more to see nothing but stars in the midst of your pleasure.

“I told you to be silent, didn’t I? How’ve I fucked you dumb already.”

You whined silently, wiggling your hips slightly as your walls clenched around him, feeling your pleasure mount inside you, climbing towards its precipice.

“Your pussy’s so tight around my fingers. You wanna cum, love?”

You bit down on your forearm, moaning out into it as you nodded, your orgasm threatening to erupt on his fingers.

Sirius curled his fingers inside you, the movement pushing you over the edge as you nearly screamed, thanking the heavens that someone, probably Sirius, had come up with the idea of blasting AC/DC in the backyard. Convulsing around the older man’s fingers, your chest fell onto the countertop, your fluids running down your thigh as Sirius pulled his fingers out of you slowly. The feeling of being empty made you whine, hand searching blindly behind you to find Sirius.

“Want more.”

A chuckle sounded behind you, Sirius’s hand finding its way to your hair, threading his long fingers through it.

“You didn’t think I was done, did you, pumpkin?”

taglist: @marvelslut16, @siriusbarnesslut, @marimorena06, @weasleysbitch2, @reg-arcturus-black, @themoonwithprophets, @moonys-gf, @quindolyn, @lilypad-55449, @kermiemoon, @jamespotterslover, @remoony1, @siriusblackwifeeey, @iamnibbsi, @azura-mist, @accio-remus-lupin, @tomriddle_whore, @greenlyblue, @lillsthoughts, @jeannelupinblack, @i-love-scott-mccall, @justadreamyhufflepuff, @shit-thats-true, @dorcasmeadowesx, @sunflowersandpansies, @elenapatricia99, @90sgoldentrio, @itsmentalillness, @sprucewoodlover, @kiaslily

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#mine #writing #sirius black #dilf!marauders #sirius black x reader #sirius black smut #marauders smut #marauders x reader #sirius black fluff #sirius black imagine #harry potter imagine #harry potter smut #harry potter fluff #harry potter oneshot #sirius black oneshot #dilf sirius black #dilf!sirius

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wyofabdoms · 4 years ago

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Undercover I Do - Chapter 7

Characters: Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: While on an undercover assignment posing as a married couple, you are attacked and nearly assaulted. Upon waking, all you remember about Javier Peña is what you remembering seeing from two photographs of the two of you posing as the happily married couple. As you struggle to regain your memories, Javi struggles with his own feelings for you.

Rating: Mature (Eventual smut)

Warnings: Memories of attempted sexual assault, fake/pretend relationship, married and undercover trope, temporary amnesia, injury, swearing, soft Javi, feelings, I have no idea how amnesia really works, brief mention of masturbation, Javi reads poetry...did you know that?!?!?...me neither!

Word Count: 4407 (again....Whoopsie!)

Notes: A trip to the office in an attempt to jog your memories ends up revealing more about Javier Peña then you expected. Plus, a trip to the farmer's market knocks some things loose and a thunderstorm brings you and Javi closer.

Read on Ao3

It had been a week since you’d come home from the hospital.

During that week, there had been so little success in regaining your memories save for those brief hopeful moments with Javi the previous weekend. Javi had done as much work from home as he could this past week; when he did have to go in to the office, he usually returned with stacks or boxes of paperwork, spreading out on the coffee table or in the kitchen like now, grumping that he didn’t want to leave you on your own for too long if he could help it. The time in the alone stretched on endlessly and you always felt a jolt of happiness when you heard the key in the lock and your husband strode in on a cloud of cigarette smoke, faded aftershave and cologne with (more often than not) a frustrated scowl decorating his handsome face. You always took note of how that scowl slipped from his face when he greeted you, though, and that moment always made you smile.

The previous day you’d joined Javi at work for a short while. You had discussed at dinner the night before that maybe more familiar surroundings would jar something loose...after all, Javi had said, the two of you usually spent more time at the office than you ever really did in your apartment. You eagerly agreed. If nothing else you were excited for a change of scenery.

It had been more awkward than anything, really and you were disappointed that nothing short-term had seemed to come back to you. Feistl and Van Ness had both greeted you warmly, inquiring as to whether you’d gotten the flowers they’d sent. Both younger men had kindly remarked that you looked like you were doing well and then proceeded to lapse into an uncomfortable silence, glancing from one another and then Javi before quickly scurrying off to complete some menial task. Dixon had found you as well, and had seemed a bit on edge when she had made small talk with you. You simply chalked it up to stress, but you had seen her pull Javi a short distance away and speak furtively to him, clearly irritated with something he had said or done. Javi’s brows had lowered over his dark eyes when the older woman had moved away and he had ushered you into his office, telling you he needed to pop into a quick meeting...shouldn’t take more than fifteen, twenty minutes and did you want to wait here or should he get a car to take you home?

You’d been happy to settle yourself onto the worn leather couch, but as the time ticked by you grew antsy and started pacing around your husband’s office, tracing the pens on the desk, sitting in his chair and twirling in it absentmindedly, aimlessly gazing at the maps and photographs on the walls and bulletin boards. As you wandered, the corner of your jacket caught on something on the edge of the desk, pulling it off and sending a stack of papers fluttering to the floor. You cursed, then bent to re-stack the papers, hoping they had not been in any kind of order. You saw a thin, navy blue book also on the floor and reached to pick it up.

Rumi: The Book of Love: Poems of Ecstasy and Longing

You were struck for a moment: what was Javi doing with a book of love poems at work? You sat down in his desk chair again. Flipping open the small book you noticed a name written neatly in a woman’s handwriting on the inside cover: Sofia Flores

A small piece of paper, worn with time was tucked between the cover and the title page. You carefully open it and read a small message in the same writing as the name:

Even though this marriage didn’t work out, my sweet Javi, remember: I will always love you. Xoxo

Your stomach clenched. “This marriage” hadn’t worked out? You felt like your mouth was suddenly sandpaper and you started to close the book and place it back on the desk when another loose paper fluttered out from the middle pages...one of many pieces of paper stuck there you realized as you flipped to the middle of the book of poetry, finding two with corners dogeared. Two poems on opposite pages bracketed a small collection of what appeared to be newspaper clippings. The first poem read:

“Lovers find secret places inside this violent world where they make transactions with beauty.”

And:

“I want to see you. Know your voice. Recognize you when you first come ’round the corner. Sense your scent when I come into a room you’ve just left. Know the lift of your heel, the glide of your foot. Become familiar with the way you purse your lips then let them part, just the slightest bit, when I lean in to your space and kiss you. I want to know the joy of how you whisper “more”

Your breath caught at the simplicity and beauty of the poems, and it made your heart ache that your husband even possessed a book of poetry, much less one filled with such lovely words. You started to look through the clippings flattened between these two poems and were surprised when you noticed they all seemed to be about you.

There were five total: one from what appeared to be an interoffice newsletter highlighting your work as a successful agent in a mostly male dominated field. The short article included a photograph of you taken several years ago when you had graduated from Quantico. The other four were in Spanish and had clearly come from local Bogota papers. Each had grainy black and white photos of you (and two with Javi along with some other DEA agents) at different locations around the city taken during the last two years as you had worked to help unravel the mess that was Columbian drug trafficking. In one, you and Javi and Feistl stood together surveying a map spread on the hood of a Jeep, most likely either pre- or post- op. In another, you were escorting a minor drug crony from a building, his hands behind his back, your hand firmly on his shoulder and your torso covered in a sturdy tac vest. The others were similar and at the bottom of the small pile of clippings, you found a polaroid photo.

It was another picture of you, but in this one you were sitting amongst a small group of co-workers. Despite the others in the picture, you were framed at the center, clearly the focus of the photographer. You remembered this night from over a year ago: It was Van Ness’’s birthday and you and several other colleagues had pitched in to buy him a Polaroid camera like the one that would have taken this picture. It had been a good night out, a fun dinner with margaritas and beer flowing. As everyone got more silly and giggly and loose, the camera had been passed around and each person had taken a turn snapping a photo. You vaguely remembered glancing across the table just as the snap from this photo being taken had reached your ears and noticed Peña lowering the camera from his face, removing the picture from the roller as it slid from the device, growling something to the person next to him as he passed the camera. You hadn’t thought anything of it, thinking your partner had just taken a wide shot of you and your colleagues across the table. All of the photos had been collected at the end of the evening and presented to Van Ness, who had spread them all out on the table for everyone to giggle and admire one another’s silly faces and poses.

The realization struck you that your husband must have kept the photo he had taken that night, a photo with you at it’s center. It was worn, smudged along the edges and showing creases and a small tear in one corner. Clearly it was handled regularly.

“Hey.” The gruff rasp of your husband’s voice startled you and you looked up at him guilty. “You ready to get outta here…?” He stopped short when he saw the book in your hand, the clippings on the desk, the photograph in your other hand.

“I’m sorry!” Your first instinct was to apologize; clearly this wasn’t something he wanted people to see. “I didn’t…” You quickly moved from being apologetic to feeling tears well up in your eyes as you remembered: “even though this marriage didn’t work out”...from “Sofia”. You looked up at him. “Javi?” You could only choke out his name by way of question.

Javi’s face transformed to worry when he heard your voice say his name. He moved quickly to crouch next to you in his desk chair.

“Hey, hey...it’s ok. What is it? Whatsa matter?” He put a callused hand along your cheek, searching your eyes for an explanation. You could only look back down at the book in your hands.

“Is our marriage over?” You asked him, tears starting to fall. His brows came together in confusion and he spoke softly.

“What? What do you...what do you mean, sweetheart?” You flipped back to the front cover of the book, smoothing out the note from “Sofia”.

“Who’s Sofia Flores?” You held your breath, waiting for him to look guilty, ashamed, abashed at being found out, but you saw realization flutter across his eyes and his face relaxed; he released a puff of air...almost a small laugh, and he stood, leaning carefully on the desk next to you, wiping a hand across his face.

“No. No, sweetheart...it’s not what you think.” He looked at you for a moment, studying you carefully. “Do you remember...do you remember me telling you about Lorraine?” You nod and the next instant, you feel relief come over you. Lorraine: his former fiancé back in Texas. He had told you about her once, one late night at the office when you had both sipped a little too much whiskey and started swapping stories about miserable past relationships. Lorraine: who had always put him down, made him feel like he was never good enough, a piece of shit, who demeaned the things he had found interesting. You had never met the woman, but you remember feeling that night like you had never hated anyone as much as you hated her for treating Javi so poorly. You also remember thinking to yourself that night how incredibly wrong someone could be about another human being. But then again, you hadn’t been engaged to Javier Peña….yet. Javi sees it click in your face and continues.

“Sofia Flores was my mom. She gave me this,” he gently takes the book from you, “right after I left Lorraine...right before I came here. She taught herself English with this.” He held the book up, pride sparking behind his eyes at the memory of his mother. You nodded, remembering him telling you how she had passed during his first few months in Columbia; it had been sudden and he hadn’t even known she was sick until it was too late. He hadn’t been able to get back in time to say goodbye…You noticed him swallow hard as he saw the articles about you spread on the desk.

“What about…”you gesture to the clippings, the photo in your hand. “What about all of these? Why do you have all this stuff about me stuck in here? Why don’t you keep these at home?” He looked uncomfortable for a moment, like he was caught at something somehow.

“I, uh….I just...I had ‘em tucked away from...before we were…” He stopped himself, seeming to think carefully about what to say next. Then he looked from the articles to you and then away again, almost shy. “I guess...I had a little crush on you when we were partners and...I just never took ‘em out of there after...things changed.” He took the photo from you, looking at it for a moment, then back at you; for a moment he looked like a little boy waiting to be yelled at for breaking a window with his baseball. You smiled up at him and his face relaxed, returning the smile with a small one of his own. He cleared his throat and straightened from the desk, returning the articles and picture back to their spot in the middle of the book and quickly depositing the book into a desk drawer. He held his hand out to you and pulled you to your feet. “Hungry?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said, taking a step closer to him and keeping hold of his hand for a moment when he let go. He looked surprised by your closeness, then smiled down at you again, carefully. You stood on your tiptoes and carefully kissed him; a chaste, quick kiss lasting only a moment or two, but you felt a current dance between your connected lips, like sparks from an incorrectly attached jumper cable. His eyes stayed closed for several seconds after you broke the kiss and settled back onto your feet; you smiled at how in awe of the taste of you he seemed to be. Your smile turned into a grin when he opened his eyes and met your gaze, smiling softly back at you. “I’m starving, actually.”

You slid your arm through your husband’s as the two of you left the office and headed for a late lunch.

****

You’re a fuckin’ moron, Peña! Javier had thought to himself instantly when he had walked back into his office and seen her sitting at his desk with the Rumi book in her hand. He’d panicked when he’d heard her say his name and seen the tears in her eyes. He’d quickly realized the confusion and had breathed easy knowing she hadn’t been angry with him.

Once more he felt like a creep when he realized she had found the articles and picture he had kept tucked away inside it. He saw her everyday in clearer situations: her beautiful face on the phone, tongue between her lips, determining if a tip is legitimate; listening through headphones as she giggled trying to seduce an informant; watching beads of sweat drip down her neck and the sound of her heavy pants after she’s finished running down a narco in the dusty streets.

He’s not proud to admit that he has thrown his imagination to any one of these memories on the occasion when he would not seek out a woman to distract him and he had instead unbuttoned his jeans and pumped himself to the thought of his partner. That seemed to have been happening more and more in recent months, but he hadn’t ever used those photos for THAT.

He kept these for the even more frequent occasion when he would close his office door, stare at her face and reread one of those poems for the millionth time, feeling when he did a balloon expand inside his chest with yearning for her...aching to hold her close to him and whisper those lines in her ear; truths about how he felt about her.

Now, he refused to acknowledge how much it made his heart sing as they walked through the outdoor market a few minute’s walk from their apartment. They had returned home and had lunch, no new memories having made an appearance with exposure to their place of work. She had been frustrated by and he had suggested they go for a walk, get out of the apartment some more...it was a beautiful day after all.

Now, they wandered past the tables and stalls of brightly colored pineapples, papayas, bananas, peppers and avocados, stopping occasionally to buy something for dinner or pausing for her to admire a woven bag. She spoke Spanish to the merchants easily, a good sign, he thought, that her long term memories were strong.

He discreetly admired his partner’s profile as she stopped to look at a bright display of flowers, enquiring about price from the kind, toothless, stooped older woman manning the stall. She paid the lovely worker and put her nose to the large white bouquet of petals and Javi felt his heart nearly stop.

She was so beautiful.

...It took him a moment to realize something was wrong, but when he noticed her stiffen and her brow furrow, he was next to her in an instant, his hand on her elbow, quietly saying her name. She looked at him...but didn’t see him for a few moments, her gaze was elsewhere, seeing something else. He knew she was remembering something.

“I remember…”she started, blinking her eyes and looking back down at the flowers in her hands. “Plumeria…” she said quietly. “I remember we were next to...a swimming pool? You and I? It was nighttime.”

Javi knew exactly what she had remembered. He gulped, saying nothing, not wanting to distract her from remembering. She continued following the thread of memory the scent of the flowers had unlocked.

“We were…” Her face flushed suddenly and she glanced up at him, then away again almost immediately. “...together. You...had me up against…” she gulped, the blush in her face turning a deeper scarlet. Javi remembered, too.

They’d made an early exit from Ortiz’s dinner party; she had feigned a headache. They had believed Ortiz’s lab was beneath his pool, the entrance through the pool house in the back of his home. While everyone else had been occupied with the forth course and an unknown number of drinks, the two of them had slipped back around the premises, creeping along the sparkling pool, trying to find some clue to get them into the lab, something they could use to get a warrant.

Javi had heard the noise from the guards making their rounds first, and he had yanked his partner by the elbow, pressing her back up against one of the plumeria trees, shoving one knee between her legs, gripping her ass with one hand and holding her head carefully with the other as he shoved his mouth against hers. She had fallen into the ruse seamlessly, recognizing instantly what he was doing. Her hands gripped fistfuls of his hair, one leg coming up to wrap around his waist, drawing her skirt up and giving his hips more access to the space between her legs.

Even though it was only pretend, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from growing hard...being so close to her sex he had found himself grinding himself into her without thinking, eliciting a small moan from her mouth. He had torn his lips away and begun devouring her neck, making her gasp into the thick, flower scented air and signaling their location to the guards. He had snaked his hand up the front of her dress and pulled down, releasing her breast to the cool night air. She had pulled his head down and thrust her groin along the hard outline of his cock and he had gladly taken the pert nipple into his mouth, relishing in the sensation the soft pebble made between the gentle ministrations of his teeth.

“Perdón por interrumpir, Señor Sanchez,” The two of them had sprung apart, reacting to Javier’s pseudonym, playing up the caught couple. Despite the act, though, Javi had looked at her as she’d straightened her dress, running a hair through her hair and he couldn’t help admire her swollen lips from his kisses and the flush on her cheeks. He had seen something in your eyes, reflecting what he felt himself.

That hadn’t been all fake.

“I...I don’t remember anything other than...us...against the tree.” Her voice snapped him back out of the memory; she was staring at the flowers in her hand sadly, grasping for more of the memory.

He didn’t particularly want her to remember what had happened next.

That night they had been found out. They had been followed back to their “home” and both beaten, separated for a time in different rooms. He had heard her yelling and had heard over and over the sound of crashes and fists and palms meeting flesh amidst the sounds of the same happening to him. He had shouted, too, wanting her to know he was still there, he was still with her, they were still in it together. Later, after the sicarios had given them both a rest, they had been reunited when they were dragged into “their” bedroom and secured to their respective places, whispering to one another, made to wait through the dark hours of the early morning...until Ortiz’s men had returned when the sun had come up.

The rest, he didn’t want to think about.

“Well…” His voice was gruff from the thought of how close he had come to losing her that day. “That’s something. That was...recent...just a few weeks ago.” She looked at him curiously, clearly able to see that he was reacting differently to the memory of them kissing passionately beneath a plumeria tree. She said his name, a question filling the sound. He looked at her and forced a small smile. “That’s good.” He said quietly, reaching for her hand. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”

Javier laid awake in the darkness of the living room, trying not to think about that night again for the millionth time. The blanket was scratchy on his bare chest; he kicked it off of him and lay there, listening to the sound of the pounding rain outside, the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the apartment, thunder crashing and rumbling loudly. He hated that he would always have that memory of her, calling out, yelling in terror and panic.

He sat up….had he dozed off? He thought he had heard her screaming his name again, just like she had from the other room that fateful night.

Then he heard it again.

“JAVI!!”

He was down the hall and next to her on the bed faster than he could take a breath. She was curled in a ball, the covers soaked from sweat and kicked off of her, shaking furiously. In the light from a flash of lightning, he saw that her eyes were closed tightly, her face contorted into a terrified mask. She was having a nightmare...

...and was calling out for him.

He carefully placed his hands on her shoulders, gently nudging her, not wanting to frighten her more upon waking, but wanting desperately to rescue her from the terror of her dream. She screamed as she bolted upright, nearly knocking her head into his. He gripped her shoulders firmly as her arms flailed out around her, fighting against him.

“Heyheyhey...easy, it’s me….its just me. It’s Javi.” She recognized him after a moment, and he continued to murmur that he was there, that she was ok, that he had her, that it had just been a bad dream; she flung herself into his arms. He held her against him, soothing her, whispering to her like she was a child, feeling her body shake. He felt warm, wet drops on his chest and knew she was crying. He gripped his arms around her more tightly, trying with all of his might to will her peace, a feeling of being safe.

They stayed that way for a long time, him stroking her hair, murmuring into her ear, rocking her gently against him. Finally, he felt her take a shaky breath and she whispered against his chest:

“It felt so real. I was tied to a bed and...there was a man...he was trying to…” her voice choked into a sob once more and he felt the tears start to wet his chest again.

“Shhhhh….shhhhhh. It’s ok.” His voice was hoarse from sleep, cigarettes, fear...memories. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” He buries his face in her hair and breathes her name. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ve got you.”

More time passes. Her breathing settles and her tears dry, but he continues to hold her. He feels the tension in her body release itself, little by little and she takes a deep, shaky breath before pulling back to look at him. The room is still dark and the rain still pours down outside, but the thunder has passed, is getting softer.

“It was just a nightmare.” She whispers, almost to herself.

He can’t bring himself to correct her; that it was a memory. Not tonight, he thinks.

She’s staring into his chest, appearing to think about something carefully. He moves to unwrap himself from her, to settle her back into bed, but she grips his forearms firmly, stopping him from pulling away.

“Stay.” She breathes and he almost doesn’t hear it. He thinks for a moment, telling himself he shouldn’t. It’s not a good idea. But then she lifts her eyes to meet his and in the near darkness he sees them sparkle and she whispers: “Please. Stay with me.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just carefully bores her backwards until she’s lying on her back, her head on her pillow. He hovers above her, gazing down at her like a lover...like a husband might do before kissing his wife and bringing her to ecstasy…

...He shifts himself to lie next to her, behind her and he pulls her back against his chest, feeling her legs move to tangle with his. He reaches down to straighten the sheets and pulls them over top of both of them, then wraps his arms around her. He listens to her breathing get heavier and slow and he’s sure she must be asleep. Just as he thinks about closing his own eyes, she turns and rolls to face him, wrapping her own arms around him, too and burying her face in his neck. He’s sure she can feel his pulse pounding frantically, but she simply sighs softly, her breath skimming across his skin. Her breathing slows and deepens once again. She’s asleep.

Javi sighs, remembering the taste of her lips during that sweet, innocent kiss in his office earlier that day. Closing his own eyes, he buries his face in her hair, drifting off to sleep with the weight of her in his arms.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13

#javier peña x reader #javi #narcos #javier pena x female reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #undercover marriage

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chilling-seavey · 4 years ago

Text

Passchendaele WW2 Extension - When the Angels Cry

T/W Descriptions of death and bodies, grief, funerals, child loss/loss, war trauma, etc.

September 30, 1945

Corbyn paid for Richard’s body to be brought back home. He was returned home to England on a cloudy autumn Sunday. Most of the fallen soldiers – especially those who were unrecognizable or unnamed – were simply buried in rows just off the battlefields but when the war was over, families could either allow their sons and brothers to be buried in a British cemetery overseas or brought home for an official funeral and burial. Corbyn wanted his boy home.

Richard’s body was brought back to England on a ship with dozens of other fallen men all in simply wooden caskets nailed shut after almost a year of the bodies being buried. The families were not permitted to open them – most likely to avoid seeing their son or brother or loved one’s decomposing. The loss was painful enough. Corbyn and Christine went to the harbour to meet the ship along with the other parents or relatives of the fallen.

The sky was grey. The crowd was donned in black.

As the ship anchored and the gangplank was set up for the crew to start to empty the coffins onto the tarmac, mother’s shed tears. Each wooden box looked the same and, in a way, Corbyn felt guilty he couldn’t tell which one was his son. He was always so good at picking Richie out of a crowd – especially since he was always a little smaller than his peers during elementary school. He held onto Christine’s gloved hand tightly and she kept her head bowed as the crew worked quietly. The weeping mothers around them didn’t make it any easier.

The officer of the ship had the list of the fallen in his hand that corresponded with plates on the coffins and stepped up on the end of the gangplank to address the crowd. He offered brief general sympathies but got right to work, calling out each soldier’s name alphabetically by last name. One of the first couples to be called to retrieve their son was in near hysterics and the mother threw herself on the coffin and sobbed until she nearly fainted. Corbyn looked away flatly.

“Lance Corporal Richard Z. Besson.”

Corbyn glanced at his wife who held her handkerchief over her mouth and he set a hand on her back, “Come on.”

They walked quietly across the dock to the rows of wooden coffins and a few of the crewmen offered their quiet condolences. Corbyn set a gentle hand on the edge of the box and swallowed back his tears but anyone could see them shimmering in his light eyes. Four crewmen helped to carry the body to the motorcar waiting in the parking lot behind one of the buildings and Corbyn and Christine walked silently behind it, the quietest of the couples that day.

They were finally able to welcome their son home…to meet him at the docks…but not in the way they had hoped.

It wasn’t until the crewmen offered well-wishes to the couple and blandly told them that their son died a hero and walked back off towards the ship that Christine broke into tears. With the wooden coffin resting in the back of their family car to head right to the church for the funeral, it felt much more real now. Corbyn held his wife for a moment, each of his breaths shuttering in his chest as he tried to breathe.

When they finally got themselves into the front seat, they took a moment to just stare out the windshield in the grey weather surrounding them. It was a lot to take in. It wasn’t raining yet – although the clouds seriously threatened it – but Corbyn’s silent tears that fell down his cheeks made up for it, streaking down his flushed skin and dripping onto the black fabric of his dress pants and suit jacket. He turned slowly over his shoulder to the backseat, the wooden box blurred slightly through his tears.

September 2, 1923

Corbyn glanced over his shoulder to the backseat, catching a glimpse of his son sitting there quietly and staring out the window at the rain. It had been a quiet few moments at the beginning of the car ride…usually five-year-old Richard was quite talkative to his father, going on about whatever little stories were playing in his head. He held a small toy plane in his hands, rolling it against his thigh lazily although his wide eyes followed each tree they passed.

“What are you thinking about, Richie?” Corbyn asked, looking back to the road.

“Why does it rain, Daddy?” Richard asked quietly, leaning closer to the window to look up to the grey sky.

Corbyn cracked a small smile at the sweet innocence of his son, “Because an angel’s crying.”

“Crying?” Richie gasped, looking to his father in concern. “Why?”

“Not sure, little man. That’s just what my Mama used to tell me when I was a boy. Why do you think they’re crying?”

Richie hummed quietly in thought and leaned his head against the window, bumping slightly against the glass as they navigated over the bumpy roads of their town. Corbyn glanced back at him again, watching as he traced a raindrop down the window with a small finger.

“Maybe they’re crying happy tears, Daddy.” Richie mumbled.

“Maybe so, Rich.” Corbyn agreed.

“Maybe God made a chocolate cake for them and they were so happy.”

“With ice cream?”

“Yes.” Richard smiled, resting back against the seat.

There was a pause in conversation and Corbyn drove on over the dirt road, the two Besson boys just listening to the rain pattering down on the roof and windows of the car. Richard looked so cute in his school uniform and he kicked his little lace up boots against the seat in front of him lazily. His chubby cheek that was still proof of his youth was squished up against the window and he puffed out a bit of air to steam up the glass and he ran his finger through it in a squiggle.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Will God make me a chocolate cake one day?”

Corbyn’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, and he replied with a gentle but serious, “Don’t say that, Richie.”

“Why?” Richie pouted. “I’m a good boy.”

“You’re a very good boy, Rich. But you do not have to worry about God’s baking skills for a long, long time, alright?”

“Alright.” Richard nodded with a sigh and raised his eyes back up to the grey clouds. His hand pressed flatly against the window and he tapped his fingers there gently, “They sure are cryin’ up there, Dad.”

He held up his toy plane and closed one eye so it could look like his plane was flying through the grey skies along with the car. Corbyn took a second to admire his son and his pure innocence that always made his heart warm. It was refreshing. He was born near the end of the Great War, Corbyn’s very own peace offering after months and years of hell, and there was no one gentler than Richard. No one who deserved a life of happiness more than Richard.

Corbyn didn’t know how he got to the church but soon he was staring up at the white paneled chapel with his once little boy laying in a box in the backseat. The funeral was to be a small event for just the Besson’s and the Seavey’s – including Corbyn’s brother and sister and a bit of their extended family.

They all wore black. The grey sky held off the rain.

The first while was a bit hazy as Corbyn and Christine got out of the car and greeted their family with hugs and kisses and handshakes and the priest joined the group in his robes with a bible in hand. He offered the usual condolences and invited the procession to follow him to the cemetery where the grave had been dug early that morning.

The plain wooden coffin was taken from the Besson’s car and carried slowly to the cemetery by Charlie, Daniel, Corbyn’s brother, Jordan, and Christine’s brother, James. Corbyn walked behind it with his wife and daughter followed by the rest of their family. When they reached the plot, the two gravediggers helped to lower the coffin into the six-foot-deep hole and the priest began the funeral.

Daniel found his spot beside Elizabeth and she tucked her arm in his and rested her head on his shoulder gently. Evelyn did the same with Charlie.

Corbyn didn’t process anything the priest said although he tried to pay attention the best he could. He stood between his wife and his daughter and stared at the sealed wooden box laying underground. Part of him yearned to open it. Part of him dreaded the thought of opening it.

The last time he saw his son was six-and-a-half years prior. The last time he looked at him Richie was barely twenty-one. He left as barely more than a boy and he was now laying underground as a man. Corbyn never got to see his son grow into a man. He didn’t even have a good photograph of him from his time in the air force. He felt like he was burying a stranger but it also felt like the sickening exaggerated reality that he was buying his infant son.

When the prayers coming to a conclusion, the immediate family was given the opportunity to throw in the first handfuls of soil. Christine went first with Corbyn’s protective hand on her back, tossing down a sprinkle of dark soil onto the top of the casket. Frances was next and she had tears streaking down her cheeks as she threw in her handful. Corbyn hesitated a moment, staring down at the two small piles of dirt sprinkled on top of the wooden box below ground and he turned behind him slightly and locked eyes with Charlie.

Corbyn nodded him over.

“Have your closure.” Corbyn whispered just to him.

Charlie nodded thankfully and bent down to take a handful of soil from the pile beside the grave. He stayed crouched, eyeing the unfamiliar wooden coffin below him, still hearing the agonizing cries of Richard’s final minutes as he tried to pull him from the plane. He was now silent. Charlie stumbled over his breath as he tried to keep himself from crying and held out his hand over the deep hole that now housed his brother.

“Alright, Richie.” he breathed and let the soil fall.

Then it was Corbyn’s turn. He took his handful of soil and stood at the side of the grave, staring down at the last of his son. He said a quiet prayer, kissed his hand, and then tossed the handful onto the top of the wooden coffin.

Corbyn stood a few metres away as the family members started to leave and the gravediggers filled in the hole. The sound of the metal shovels in the mound of dirt and the sound of it dropping dully onto the wood almost made Corbyn sick. But still, he stood and watched his son be buried until the grey sky finally opened up and angles wept down onto them.

Corbyn only hoped Richie got his chocolate cake.

#✉#corbyn besson #daniel seavey #why dont we

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ejzah · 4 years ago

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Could you do a fanfic where kensi has to go undercover as a model?

A/N: This prompt was sent a very long time ago. I apologize for it taking so long. This is set in season 4 and may deviate a little from canon.

***

Top Model

***

“This is the best day ever,” Deeks muttered, unable to hide his wide grin. He was situated at the end of a long runway next to several other, actual photographers who snapped rapid fire pictures of the models walking past.

He peered through the viewfinder of his camera, taking several pictures as a heavy beat vibrated through the room and a woman in a mustard yellow dress with a deep slit and feathers decorating the bodice stopped directly in front of him and gave him a sultry stare.

“See something you like?” Kensi asked, sarcasm filling her voice. She was somewhere backstage, waiting for her own turn to catwalk down the runway. He wasn’t sure what strings Hetty had pulled to get his and Kensi’s aliases, Bobby Harper and Rosa Black gigs at a fairly high profile fashion show 12 hours before the event started, but he was infinitely grateful.

Not only did he get to wear a shirt that cost more than his monthly salary (a nice change from all the utility uniforms of late), but he would also get to see Kensi live out her ANTM dreams. He wasn’t sure which of them was more excited.

“Mm, not really my type.” His camera whirred again, capturing the daring stance of a read-headed model in a deep green dress. Kensi made a rude noise, not exactly fitting with her current persona.

“I thought any woman that doesn’t run away is your type.” He grinned again, holding back a chuckle, reminding himself that it would look a little strange if he started laughing at nothing. “Ooh, what about the leggy brunette headed your way?” Kensi waited for the model to stop in front of him and then added. “Her name’s Jasmine and she likes long walks on the beach.”

“She sounds delightful, but still not my type,” Deeks muttered. He had a different leggy brunette in mind who would probably gut punch him if he ever dared to call her “leggy”.

He took several pictures on auto pilot, thankful that no one would actually be scrutinizing them for quality. His photography skills were satisfactory for crime scenes, but probably not quite magazine worthy. “Did you see anything interesting back stage?”

“Other than two models getting into a fight over a pair of Louis Vuitton shoes?” Kensi said. “Not really. There was too much chaos to focus on one thing.”

“Now that I would have loved to see.”

“Creep.” He grinned again at her mild comment. Two more models stalked by, giving their own variation of the same overly dramatic stance. Lowering his camera for a moment, he quickly swept the room to see if anyone was giving particular notice to a single model.

One of them was suspected of selling sensitive information to a foreign government. Nell and Eric had traced the sales of similar information back to several other modeling events over the past two months. They were still trying to figure out how their suspects, mostly in their early twenties and without criminal records, had attained classified information.

Sam and Callen were in the audience, keeping an eye out for their buyer. So far they’d been pretty silent though.

Three more models emerged from either side of the runway amid a cloud of manufactured mist. As the fog cleared, Kensi walked out, and the beat of his heart suddenly matched the rhythm of the music. She wore a dark blue evening gown, the plunging bodice clinging to her torso until it reached her waist and flowed down into several full layers of sheer material. Half her hair was swept up to the side with the rest fell around her shoulders in soft curls.

She looked absolutely stunning, and more importantly, confident. There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation as she strutted down the runway. As she drew closer to the end, Deeks heard a rush of whispers from the other photographers, wondering who she was.

Kensi paused in front of the them, her skirts swirling around her dramatically as she stopped. She glanced to him, her eyes making contact for the briefest of seconds. In that moment see saw a hint of uncertainty and then pride as the whispers continued and a dozen cameras flashed around her. She gave an extra twirl before she headed back down the runway.

One of the photographers said something about winning an award for her pictures and Deeks smothered a smirk. Kensi would get a kick out of that. To bad said pictures would never see the light of day.

“Guys, I just saw one of the models, Jenna Martinez, talking to a guy. He looked about 50 years old with gray hair and a dark blue suit,” Kensi said a few minutes later, sounding a little breathless. “I’m sending you a picture.”

“Did you see what he gave her?” Sam asked. “Coulda been a lot of things. Drugs, money in exchange for other services...”

“No, all I could see was a white envelope. But models aren’t supposed to leave styling area in between walks without permission though. If someone caught her, she could risk getting kicked out of the show. That seems pretty suspicious to me.”

“Kens, check it out,” Callen decided. “Deeks, figure out a way to get out and back her up. We’ll see if we can find Kensi’s mystery man.”

“Got it. Deeks I’ll be back where they store the extra wardrobe.”

Deeks sat through two more cycles of models, conscious they had limited time before the area would be swarming with with even more people once the show had finished. He took the opportunity to slip away when one of the models took an unfortunate fall after tripping over the train of her dress.

Surprisingly, no one questioned why he was wandering around back stage. The stylists and make up people seemed completely consumed with making sure the show stayed on track to wonder about his motives.

“Kens,” he whispered when he found the storage area empty.

“Right here,” she answered, appearing from one of the many closets, still dressed in the evening gown. When she noticed his raised eyebrow, she added. “I didn’t have time to change.”

They passed through a couple dim hallways, taking a less direct route to the locker area to avoid running into anyone.

“You watch the door.” Kensi headed to the second row of lockers, sinking to a graceful crouch.

“Did you really bring your lock picking kit with you?” he asked, glancing through a crack in the door as she pulled something from the top of her dress.

“Nope, bobby pin,” she said holding it up with a smirk before she pried it open with her teeth.

“How very resourceful of you, Nancy Drew.” He nodded in appreciation as she inserted the straightened end into the keyhole.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” After a minute or so of wiggling it around,

she swore under her breath. “Damn it. It’s like there’s rust or something stuck in here and it doesn’t want to give.”

“How much longer do you think it will take?” he asked, checking the door again. There was no one in the vicinity so he left his watch and crouched beside her.

“I don’t know, Deeks!” Kensi snapped, blowing out a long breath. She glanced at him a little sheepishly as she removed the pin and started over again. “Sorry. It’s just that this usually takes me about 10 seconds.”

“Don’t worry about it. You wouldn’t happen to have any WD-40 tucked in there too?” He nodded to her chest and she slanted him a wry look, but didn’t look too annoyed.

“Right next to my wrench and screwdriver. I think-“

“Wait,” Deeks interrupted, making a hushing sound. “I think someone’s coming.” He rushed back to the door as quietly as he could. He couldn’t see anyone yet, but he heard voices and footsteps, drawing closer every second. “Kens, someone’s coming. We have to get out of here.”

“Just one more minute,” she insisted. “ I think I almost got it.” The lock made an audible click and Deeks winced at the loud creak as Kensi swung the locker door open and pulled out a Dior purse and a cloth shoulder bag.

“Kens-“ Ignoring his warning, she dumped the contents of both bags onto the floor and a collection of makeup and clothes fell out along with a medium sized envelope. Kensi snatched it up, tossing it in his direction and started stuffing the rest of the things back in the locker, not taking time to worry about neatness.

Heart pounding, he shoved the envelope in the inside of his pocket, glancing around for somewhere to hide. Two men were walking down the hallway, making a beeline for the locker room.

“Ok, let’s go,” she whispered, reaching for his hand as she stood up.

“No time,” he hissed back, tugging her further into the room. Kensi made a surprised sound when he pushed her up against the lockers and added, “Please don’t hit me.”

She didn’t have time to respond before he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers.

***

A/N: I clearly do not know much about modeling or fashion shows so I went with what I do know fairly well. Densi. Hope you enjoyed and there will be a part 2.

Thanks for the the prompt anon!

#ncis la fanfiction #marty deeks #kensi blye #season 4 #pre densi #undercover fic #anonymous prompt #ejzah fanfiction

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vannahfanfics · 4 years ago

Note

If you want a Mirko prompt, how about her taking a trip to Okunoshima? That way we can have ALL THE BUNNIES!

Yes! All the bunnies! This was super fun to write, and I threw a smidgeon of MirHawks in there just because I wasn’t sure how to tie it up XD

Publicity Stunts

Rumi’s lips were slightly pursed as she peered out of the small window of the helicopter. Below the sleek black accents, the blue waves of Japan’s Inland Sea sloshed and splashed, throwing up bubbly white seafoam in impressive arcs. Her red eyes slowly rolled in her sockets to spy the small silhouette of the lone island nestled within the bay. The morning sun framed its lumpy shape in black; the only contrast lay in its white beaches, which ringed the landmark like a curling ribbon. The sound-canceling headphones secured over her fluffy ears protected Rumi’s sensitive eardrums from the helicopter’s persistent buffeting chops as it spirited her onward to Okunoshima- better known as “Rabbit Island.”

Rumi was traveling to the historical park-slash-island as a public relations campaign her agency dreamed up. “You’re the Rabbit Hero!” her manager had squawked optimistically. “The public would adore you socializing with all these bunnies!” The corner of Rumi’s mouth twitched from just recalling the mortifying proposal. Rumi didn’t hate her animal namesake, naturally, and knew that public relations campaigns were the lifeblood of sponsorships and popularity polls… but did she really have to gallivant off to a spit of land off the coast and cozy up to some feral rabbits for six hours? There are so many more useful things I could be doing, she moped.

The subtle shift in air pressure indicated to her that the helicopter was landing. She straightened up in her seat and compulsively combed her fingers through her long, alabaster hair. The public arrived at Okunoshima via ferry, but Rumi was a VIP if there ever was one, hence her arrival by air; however, the island was not equipped with any sort of landing pad. Instead, the helicopter descended upon a flat stretch of clearing. The grass blades whipped wildly about as they were battered by the relentless air currents sweeping down from the helicopter’s swirling blades. The small-bodied aircraft shuddered as it finally made contact with the earth. Rumi kept the noise-canceling headphones over her tall ears until the engine’s whine dwindled to a small, whimpering keen. As she was wrenching them off her head and tossing them onto the floor, the island caretaker trotted up to the aircraft.

“Did you have a pleasant flight, Miss Mirko?” He asked politely as the lithe, tanned hero climbed out of the helicopter and hopped down onto the grass. Tsking, she clawed the steel-toes of her hero suit into the dirt, digging up clumps of damp earth and dry grass.

“Indeed,” she remarked but only because courtesy was customary. “Although I would prefer to leave the flying to Hawks,” she added with a cheesy sneer. She was only teasing, but the man still tugged at his tie and sputtered something about changing arrangements. “It’s not necessary,” she shrugged with a wave of her gloved hand. “Let’s just get this thing started already.”

“But of course!” the nervous academic simpered and because barking at his numerous assistants and employees to finish the preparations for Rumi’s photoshoot. The hero scowled when her manager quipped at her to exercise proper decorum. All this red tape and two-faced bullshit. Blegh, she thought sourly. While the men and women busied themselves by setting up cameras and props, Rumi wandered to the edge of the clearing.

The helicopter’s droning chopping blades and whirring engine had doubtlessly frightened the island’s residents. Now that the machine sat silent upon the grass, curiosity was beginning to get the better of them. Rumi’s eyebrow crept up a few centimeters as a fat, furry golden rabbit hopped out of some brambles upon her coming. Its nose twitched, and its little jaws were chomping some grass blades into a paste. They live up to their tame reputation, she thought in amusement as she strolled right up to the bunny and patted its round haunches. Though she had gloves, she could tell that the creature’s fur was silky and smooth. The tourism kept the rabbits in excellent health, it seemed.

“Mirko, em, Miss Mir-”

“Just ‘Mirko’ is fine,” she informed the island director as he came trundling to the edge of the clearing. It had a slight decline, and he seemed to be having a rough time of maneuvering through the slick grass in his fancy dress shoes. He probably sits in an air-conditioned office all day. He looks so out of his element it’s not even funny, she thought in mild disdain and straightened up. The man yelped when the smooth soles of his dress shoes slipped over the grass, causing him to fall and slide down the small hill. Rumi couldn’t help but smile when he stumbled up, and his sophisticated beige dress pants sported a streak of fresh green down the left side. He nervously adjusted his tie and cleared his throat.

“Mis- I mean, Mirko, all the preparations are complete.”

Mirko hiked up the hill with ease, with the sweating academic huffing and puffing behind her. The clearing had been transformed from a blank, empty canvas in a matter of minutes. A camera crew was bustling between three different cameras, adjusting lenses and arranging white umbrella-like structures to reflect the flash in a way that would flatter Rumi most. A picnic table was situated amongst a patch of white dandelions growing not far from the helicopter. Several tin buckets of carrots were scattered here and there, likely bribing tools for the island’s furry natives. Rumi sauntered up to pluck one of the orange root vegetables out of the bucket and chomp down on it with powerful jaws. A meek young assistant girl gawked wide-eyed at her as she devoured the carrot in seconds but seemed to have more sense than to question the Number-Five Hero.

“All right,” Rumi hummed and clapped her hands together. The leather of her gloves made the smack even more resounding. “Photograph me with some of these wild rabbits so I can get back to work.” Her manager whined miserably and tipped back her head at Rumi’s show of disdain, but Rumi didn’t care. I’m a hero, not a model, she grumped. This entire photo operation will get one run in a magazine and be forgotten in two weeks.

Rumi glanced down at something brushed against her navy-blue tights. A chunky spotted rabbit was nosing her calf, seemingly demanding pets. Smirking slightly, Rumi leaned over to grab the fuzzy creature and nuzzle him against her bosom. Well, at least all my other models are super cute, she smiled and gave the bunny some well-deserved scratches behind his floppy ears. The photographer called for Rumi to approach, so she did, still holding the contented bunny rabbit.

“Quite remarkable how tame they are,” the photographer grinned under the brim of his baseball cap and patted the spotted rabbit’s flank. Several other bunnies were bounding through the grass-and-flower field toward her, obviously jealous. Chittering impatiently, they butted their furry heads against her solid calves and bounded circles around her steel-toed feet. “They rather like you.”

“Surprising,” she remarked smugly with a twitch of her furry white ears.

~~~~~~~~~~

The photographer situated her at the picnic table first. They piled several of the big rabbits on its wooden surface, with Rumi leaning her cheek in her hand and smiling while hand-feeding them carrots. It actually wasn’t that difficult a pose to maintain, as Rumi found treating the rabbits quite entertaining. Their little jaws worked tirelessly at the crunchy orange root and sprigs of green leaves while their long ears constantly swiveled, searching the airwaves for any signs of danger. Their beady black eyes glittered in the sunlight; beady indeed but glimmering with an individual intelligence and charm that made Rumi smile happily. She removed one of her white leather gloves to stroke the length of one’s back, admiring the impeccable softness of its fur. By the time the photographer announced that they would be moving on to the next phase of the photoshoot, she was rather enjoying herself.

They got a few candid shots of Rumi strolling about through the tall grasses with the curious bunnies hopping along behind her. After a few minutes, she elected to have a fair bit of fun and crouched down to begin jumping along with her powerful legs. The rabbits sprinted after her, then playfully ran circles around her squatting body when she paused. The smile on her face was beaming as she hopped around the clearing with the bunnies. Twenty of them had meandered onto the photoshoot set, nearly all of them dashing along with the laughing Rumi.

“Ahaha! You guys sure are a lot of fun!” she crowed as she rolled onto her back, holding one of the fluffy bunnies aloft. Two more of them clambered up onto her belly, thumping against the toned flesh with powerful paws, while another climbed up her inclined legs to perch on her knees. Another still nested in her voluminous white hair and began chewing on the thin strands, thinking it nourishment. “Hey, cut that out,” she snickered and shoved it in the rump. It twitched its cottony, ball-shaped tail but obediently spat out her long locks. She heard the shutter of the camera snapping frantically and sat up, the rabbits slouching off her like they were boneless sacks of meat.

“I am so relieved you are enjoying our island’s residents!” the director sighed. He was sweating less now, though his earlier fit was evidenced by the damp patches in the armpits of his blue dress shirt. The green grass stripe still glared starkly in his pressed pants, and his tie was crumpled from how relentlessly he had been fidgeting with it.

“Yes, indeed,” she smiled while holding up one of the fluffy denizens. “I was unsure about it at first, but these little guys are quite adorable.” The camera flashed a few more times as Rumi brought the rabbit to her face to nuzzle her cheeks against the top of its head.

“This article is going to make headlines!” her manager cooed with happiness beside the reporter, who was scribbling notes on his notepad. Honestly, Rumi could care less about the publicity or her ratings. She flopped back into the fresh green grasses, and the bunnies immediately congregated around her, nuzzling into every spare inch of space they could find. Their warm bodies insulated Rumi, spreading cozy head from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes; her eyes drifted shut at the contenting heat. She giggled as one of the bunnies nosed her face, and its whiskers tickled her soft skin.

There are more useful things I could be doing, she thought as her mind descended into the twilight of half-sleep, but I suppose a hero could use a break every once and a while. She supposed she could have netted herself a more annoying public relations campaign than falling asleep beneath the summer sun blanketed by cute little bunnies, after all.

She would have appreciated it if they hadn’t used that image as the front cover for Heroes Magazine, however.

Rumi glared thunderously at Hawks as he sat across from her at the café table. He was doubled over in the wrought-iron chair cackling so hysterically that the other patrons were glancing over in concern. Rumi’s tall white ears repeatedly twitched in annoyance at the high pitch of his snickers. After what seemed like an eternity, he slowly sat up, a hand over his mouth to smother the lingering giggles leaking out.

“Are you finished, Hawks?”

“I’m sorry,” the red-winged hero whimpered with another fervid glance at the damning photograph plastered on the cover of the magazine. “It’s just- It makes you look so innocent and sweet!” he howled and threw himself back in the chair. As he flung his bulk, the chair tipped backward on two legs. “Oh no!” he yelped and pinwheeled his arms to rebalance himself. The iron furniture seemed to hang in the air for a moment before falling backward, gaining momentum before striking the concrete with a resounding clang. Rumi smirked, fancying karma had struck the bird-brain quite justly. “I suppose I deserved that,” he huffed while pulling himself up using the edge of the glass-topped café table.

“I agree with you, actually,” she huffed and daintily sipped at her latte. ��That photograph is horrible for my reputation. I can’t have all my young fans thinking I’m some delicate princess.” Hawks grinned at her as he righted his chair and plunked down, more cautiously this time. He laced his fingers and tucked him under his chin, and his shining eyes gleamed behind his golden visor.

“True, I suppose. Although- and don’t hit me for this- I think it’s also quite a flattering image of you.” Rumi’s cheeks flushed hot and red, and she thumped his shin under the table with the flat of her foot. He whined miserably and clutched at his assaulted leg. “I said, don’t hit me!”

“I didn’t. I kicked you.”

“That’s even worse! You could crush watermelons with your thighs, y’know, so I’m sure one of your kicks could crush bones!” he whined, rubbing tenderly at the likely bruised flesh. Rumi smirked, momentarily fantasizing what crushing a watermelon on live television would do for her image. Her red eyes fell back to the magazine, where she lay amongst the flowers and snoozing bunnies. Her white hair cascaded around her, running like rivers of milk between her tanned limbs and the bunnies’ multicolored fur. Her lips were slightly parted, and her head tilted to the side, making the golden sunlight spill over her dark skin and make it glow a rich bronze. Her eyes were slightly scrunched up. She really did look innocent and content… and dare she say, beautiful. Her cheeks hazed again, and she looked at Hawks to find him grinning seductively.

She kicked him in the other shin, and he wailed miserably. She stood from the table, draining the dregs of her latte as he pitifully peered up at her. “Mirko, whyyy?”

“Because you’re a hundred years too early to try and flirt with me, feathers,” she huffed. The ceramic mug clinked against the saucer as she set it down. Grinning, Rumi flashed him a wink. “But I might forgive you if you buy my coffee. Ciaoooo~!” Using her thick legs, she sprinted away, leaving Hawks cursing yet impressed in the dust. Her laughter floated back to him on the wind.

Needless to say, that photoshoot worked wonders for her popularity, in all sorts of ways…

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

Tag List: @deliathedork @simplybakugou @sadistiks

#mirko #miruko #rumi usagiyama #usagiyama rumi #my hero academia #mha #boku no hero academia #bnha #my hero #mha fanfiction #mha fanfic #my hero fanfiction #my hero fanfic #bnha fanfiction #bnha fanfic #boku no hero academia fanfiction #boku no hero academia fanfic

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feverinfeveroutfic · 4 years ago

Text

chapter thirteen: the boys next door

That initial journal stayed under the cushion even when Sam had gone home with the new journal tucked under her arm, and it stayed there as the month progressed along and she made more and more art in those pages. She had to put it all in by the middle of March in order to start school come the fall of that year, and given she had no exact income at the moment, she needed to hustle along with the journal to earn a grant for herself. Ruben and Esmé lent her a bit of money for the first month's rent, but after that, she needed to move it forth with her artwork.

The drawing of Frank and Charlie gave her enough of a boost to continue onward.

But she thought of the man in her dreams, the man with the white streak at the crown of his head.

She wondered about that streak in his hair, if it was something powerful and loaded with all the mental power she could ever imagine. Indeed, at times when she lay down at times at the end of the day, she envisioned him on the back of her eyelids. The streak was so familiar, and so bright under the hazy light of the dreamy sun. She brought her gaze down to his body and he faded out into nothing with the rest of the dream world. She would reach out to feel him and yet he always faded out to nothing.

Even without feeling him, she knew he was soft. Soft and gentle to the touch, as if she tried to touch a low cloud. Sam needed to feel him out some more before she could give him a drawing in her journal. She did however make portraits of Aurora as well as one of her parents based on a framed photograph that Ruben sent her, and Charlie and Marla, the latter of whom took a photograph of themselves embraced in a hearty open kiss.

She had taken out a few sets of pencils from her bag, colored pencils for Charlie and Marla, and the soft gray graphites for her parents. Charlie's wavy dark hair, much like Frank's hair, had so much texture and so many shades of golden and orange all around the crown, and yet his face was a bit fuller and rounder, and the cleft in his chin was extra prominent from the shadows around them. Marla's orange hair shone so bright in the camera light and the pink and blue streaks resembled to little neon lights: a little bit of the white pencil in the middle of those stripes to give them an extra sparkle. He had kept his lips pursed even with the smile on his face, and his skin had such a soft little blush to it.

The drawing of them took her a whole afternoon: she had sat down with it the first thing in the morning, and yet the over hanging possibility that she couldn't even so much as pay her rent pervaded her every thought. The possibility that she could wind up like one of those homeless men down in Brooklyn by all those music shops loomed over her head like a heavy dead weight: no money for Emile and he would have to show her the door, not even after three months of living there. She had no idea if the whole shindig with Stormtroopers of Death would hold any water given that was more of a straight up demo tape on the side of the main endeavor than anything. If something did come out of it, she hoped that Charlie and Scott kept their word and she found herself walking along with a slice of that delicious pie herself.

She held onto the colored pencils as if they were the rungs of the ladder in the fire escape next door to her. Charlie's olive complexion in contrast to Marla's milky skin. It all melted together into a cocktail right before her eyes. Every stroke of the orange and the gold, every time she blended it all together with the edge of the white pencil. It was all bringing her closer to staying there in the apartment complex.

Within time, she signed her initials at the bottom of the page. She dared not date the drawing, lest someone in admissions ask her about it and come to the realization that it was a rush job on her part. She made herself dinner and then stayed up a little bit later to work on the drawing of her parents. She had Ruben and Esmé's heads sketched out and part of their hair filled in with the firm graphite when she felt her eyelids drooping at the realization that she had been drawing all day, away from the world and the hearty spring rain outside her window. She kept the drawing out on her desk before she switched off the light and crawled into bed.

The mysterious man in her dreams appeared once again, and that time, he had crouched down next to the edge of the cliff, which right next to the house. The wind billowed his otherwise black hair over his head and he kept his hands pressed to the cold dark earth underneath him. He squinted his eyes against the burning sun behind him; Sam glanced to her left to behold the sight of the house, a dilapidated two story with a hideous faded pea green paint job and a shingle roof with most of the shingles missing. Her eyes wandered up to the chimney, which was nothing more than a metal tube of the same green color; behind that was a pair of filthy skylight windows. She lowered her gaze to the front doors, a pair of French doors with broken glass and something dangling from the shards near the top of the door frame. The porch looked as though it was about to collapse if the earth shook a little too hard.

But he crouched down at the end of the pathway in front of her; to his left was a series of low scraggly bushes, each of them without their proper flowering. It was springtime and yet nothing was blooming. Meanwhile, behind him stood the steep drop and she couldn't hardly see anything else beyond that. Mere bright white light courtesy of the midday sun.

She lifted her gaze to the sky: not a single cloud in the vast blue canopy over her head. The sky never appeared more blue than it did at that very moment. A weeping willow stood behind her and she had no idea where the next noose would appear on the branches.

The sun shone down on his white streak and his handsome face. He was like a ghost, the ghost of a young men she had neither met, nor touched, nor felt for herself, and she wanted him for herself. His slender knees only appeared to be more slender from his dark jeans, and his little body seemed large and small at the same time. A tall boy and yet he seemed so small and helpless at the same time.

A pained droning caught her ear and she turned her head again. Something big, blue, metallic, and conic spiraled out of the sky to her right. He turned his head for a look himself.

It was an airplane, or so she believed it to be: it resembled an ocean buoy but with narrow wings on its body. A stream of gray smoke billowed out from between the tail fins.

He turned his head to the opposite side as it tried to catch itself. His eyes widened at the sight of it.

“Get away from there!” she called out; her voice echoed out over the canyon before them, and yet it sounded as though she stood underwater. But instead, he stood to his feet and he darted up the path towards her: his jet black hair streaked behind his head like the wings of a bird. That white stripe burned in the hot sun behind him, and he skidded to a stop right before her.

Meanwhile, the airplane had lifted and adjusted itself over the far side of the porch but it stalled right over the railing. She had no idea if there was someone on board it, especially since it looked so small. It dove nose first into the side of the cliff, right where he was squatting, and it burst into flames. The scraggly bushes around it ignited: it was going to become a brush fire soon enough and burn the house down.

“You've got to help me,” he begged her; he called her name but he sounded so far away from her, even though he stood right before her. “Help me put this out!”

“Where's the shovel—” she wondered aloud. She turned her head again and she spotted the heavy wooden shovel leaned against the low brick wall. She picked up and she forced the head of it into the dirt before them, and she hurled the thick heavy clods of dirt onto the raging flames. He had run to the far side of the property in search of the fire hose.

“You gotta help us!” he cried out to the street. “You gotta help us! This place is gonna burn to the ground if we don't have the water!”

Sam continued to dig into the earth and hurl dirt onto the flames. It helped a bit, but a fire hose hooked up to the hydrant outside of the property would do the trick given it was a gasoline fire. So much fire for such a tiny little plane. Gasoline burned onto the dry brush against the tapestry of the blinding sun before her: it all burned so bright and powerful that it began to choke her.

“Where are you, little man,” she pleaded as her arms ached from the incessant digging. “Where are you, baby—” Her arms were sore and tired from the whole thing, and the vast amount of sweat which drenched her back only made the matter more agonizing. He was nowhere to be seen, and the fire continued to burn away at the brush.

That was when she woke up, cozy, warm, and dry under the safety of her blankets. Her fingers on her left hand tingled and her left shoulder ached. She had been laying on that side for so long. She rolled over onto her back and took her hand out from under the covers, and she shook her hand about to get the blood flowing once again. She then lay her arm atop the covers so she could feel the cold of the apartment around her.

Yet another dream where she saw that man with the fear of god in his eyes. Afraid and in a vulnerable place. She opened her eyes and gazed up at the pitch dark ceiling over her: the only light emanated from the amber street lights outside.

The entire building was silent except for the heavy rain on the roof. She sighed through her nose and she thought of her parents.

That drawing of her parents!

Night still kept in place outside, and yet time was of the essence. She pushed back the covers and slid out of bed. Using the ambient light from the street, she made her way over to her desk and switched on the little light on the side. She shielded her eyes with her hand and blinked several times until they adjusted to the shock of the pale yellow light.

She gazed on at the photograph Ruben had sent her: the black and white shot of the two of them after he had taken Esmé to a secret place and asked her to marry him, with her arms around his shoulders and her head leaned against the side of his. She had always wanted to have someone propose to her that same way: out in the wilderness and with no one else there to disturb them. It was one of those things that seemed so romantic and far removed from the world.

But for the time being, she was bunked away in her room in the middle of the night, with a graphite pencil in hand and her journal plunked open before her. Her tired eyes took glimpses at the photograph so she could feel it down to its very core and transcribe it all onto the smooth white silken paper.

She thought of the dream she had had, and how it all felt the most real of all the dreams she experienced with the mysterious man with the white stripe in his hair. Her arm still ached from laying on her side for so long, but she swore she and him were fighting off a fire together. She swore she heard his name, she heard herself say his name aloud to him, but it all faded out into a fog with the fire and the intense sun on their backs.

Sam picked up the thicker graphite for their dark heads of hair and the rich shadows all around Ruben’s round face and nice neck. She held the pencil on its side for a bit of smoothness on his skin and the bones all inside: she held it the same way for Esmé‘s thick dark hair and the round shape of her face. The grains of the paper held the graphite as if they were little pools of water.

The sound of the graphite’s edge filled her ears to the point it stopped being a noise. Everything else fell away into total silence and she was left alone with the journal and the photograph before her.

Before she knew it, she was met with the first kisses of the golden morning sun outside her window. The bitter Northeast cold had finally cleared away for the first little seedlings of the springtime: the near black rain clouds hung over the New York skyline like a heavy blanket, while the sun shone so bright through the windowpane next to her. Sam lifted her head from the drawing and she was met with the fierce light of the sun: the dream was still fresh in her mind as she signed her name at the bottom of the page.

She leaned back in her chair and gazed on at it.

She kept making Esmé‘s right eye too large and thus she had to cover most of her bottom eyelid with extra graphite. She hoped the admissions people would overlook the fact that she overworked it a bit. But every time she glanced away from it and returned to it with fresh eyes, she grimaced at the fact it looked as though her mother had been punched in the face.

Sam fetched up a sigh and stood to her feet to put on a small pot of coffee. Marla and Aurora helped her buy a coffee maker for herself the weeks prior: there was only so many times she could run downstairs and wake up Frank for a cup of coffee. He always greeted her with a smile and a good morning, but she knew that if they were to go tour in the coming months along with her attending school, she had to do something while she still had time.

As the coffee brewed away in the kitchen, she returned to her journal and a brand new page. That mysterious man in her dreams still stayed firmly in mind. She could see him. She could feel him. Even if he didn’t exist, she could feel him.

She had that other drawing of him in her other journal, but she needed to see him in physical form. It was going to drive her insane if she did nothing about it.

She picked up the hardest graphite and sketched out his head. That crown of dark hair complete with that shock of white over his forehead. She closed her eyes to see him again, crouched down low to the ground, and his slim body the darkest spot against the otherwise bright sun. She could make out the shape of his lanky arms and his large hands, the latter of which he kept on the ground.

She closed her eyes again to see his face. The coffee maker let out a soft ding but she was more focused on him. His deep set eyes and his prominent nose and cheekbones. Everything about him stood out the more she thought about him.

She rounded out the drawing with a bit of extra shading near his shoulders. She gazed on at him, right into his ghostly eyes and his faint face. She would have to return to him after her cup of coffee and a bite of breakfast.

Within time, Frank had showed up to her front door with a green flyer in hand.

“What’s this?” she asked him: she recognized the name of Metallica near the top of the paper, but the other names were complete unknowns.

“It’s actually a flyer for something completely different, but Stormtroopers are playing at that venue tonight,” he explained.

“I was just gonna say, the date on this is wrong, too. This came and went!”

“Metallica is going to be there, though,” he pointed out as he never changed his expression. “They’re here in New York to discuss their new record with Jon.”

“Already?” She was stunned.

“Yeah! Welcome to the world of albums, Sam babe.”

She brought her attention back to the flyer for the club name: L’Amour, down in Brooklyn.

“They played here back in January,” Frank continued as he took his seat on her couch, “like right after when we first met, but—”

“You didn't tell me 'cause you didn't know me that well yet,” she finished for him.

“Exactly!” He raised his eyebrows at her. “Well, now that we have a little relationship of sorts between us, I think it's time we introduce you to the guys.” That smile full of star’s teeth crossed his face.

“Are they even here yet?” she eagerly asked him.

“I think they are. I dunno if they're going to be there tonight or not, though. But yeah, they're literally like the guys next door to us. Well—” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “—I shouldn't say 'literally'. They're from your neck of the woods, as I'm sure you know.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“But they might as well be the guys next door to us,” he continued. “They've rehearsed with us, they've discussed touring with us, and they've jammed so many times 'round here and over in Jersey. They might as well be from around here.”

“All of us hailing from California hangin' out with New Yorker boys,” she remarked as she ran her fingers through her dark hair.

“The coasts united,” he declared as he folded his hands together before him. “United and coming together under the realm of music.”

He dropped his eyes to her bedroom doorway.

“What’chu thinking ‘bout?” she quipped.

“Your art,” he replied without hesitation. “How it’s gonna go places.”

“We can hope that,” she noted.

“I know for a fact it will. It’s unique enough—it’ll be everywhere before we know it.”

She thought of that mysterious man in her journal. She needed to finish him and bring him to fruition when she found a moment.

“So are we gonna hitch a ride with someone or take the subway there?” she asked him.

“Yeah, we’re definitely gonna hitch a ride with Aurora and Marla,” he answered with a little nod of his head. “There’s no way all of us are gonna go there via the subway. I should probably tell you that we’re gonna be leaving at about three, give or take. It’s only an hour drive but Charlie and Marla are both scared shitless of traffic.”

“So plenty of time to get dressed and have something to nosh on,” she added as she glanced over at the time on the microwave.

“Exactly! I’ll give you some privacy, too—“ He stood to his feet and he ambled over to the door.

“See you in a bit, Frankie,” she called after him. Once she was alone again, she darted into her room to shade in that drawing. There may not be another chance to do so with that mysterious man.

The heavier graphite flowed onto his hair: she drew around the shock over his forehead, and she would have to save it for the harder graphite. His deep eyes gazed back at her as she used the sharp tip of the softest graphite to bring them forth.

A thoughtful little Mona Lisa smile and smooth silky skin on his face and neck later, and she had him right there on the paper.

She stared at him in silence. She had him right there before her, out of the realm of the dream. Even after the other drawings she had made and a few other ones she was to make in the coming few days, she knew that one would be the centerpiece of it all. When she signed her initials at the bottom of the page, she titled it “the man from beyond the veil.”

Without wasting any more time, she set down her pencil and she crossed the room to her dresser.

It was an overcast but warm spring day in New York City and thus she put on a pair of little yellow shorts and a black sleeveless top: this club was an unknown to her, but she had a hunch it was going to get rather warm in there that evening.

Within time, she slung her purse over her shoulder and headed on downstairs to meet up with Frank, Charlie, Aurora, and Marla. They piled into Aurora’s car and took the long drive down to Brooklyn.

At one point, Marla rolled down the window and peered up to the afternoon sun in her sunglasses.

“Beautiful day in the neighborhood!” she declared over the roar of the traffic.

She tucked her head back into the car and smoothed down her orange hair with one hand. Sam tipped her head back and took in the cool breeze through the open window.

Charlie air drummed to a beat he had written for the new record, and he even began banging his head at one point.

“Easy there, Char,” Frank advised him, “remember the last time you did that while we were driving?”

“Almost went off the road,” he recalled. “Still—I got the music in me, though.” He kept on air drumming, even as they went around a corner and crossed over into the heart of Queens. Frank peered into the rear view mirror at the three girls in the back seat, and then he fetched up a sigh.

Within time, they reached Brooklyn and Frank brought them to the tiny club that was L’Amour, and at that point, the sun hung low in the sky. Almost showtime.

Indeed, Sam spotted four men congregated near the side door, each of them with heads of long lustrous hair.

“I assume that’s Metallica,” Aurora remarked.

“That it is, Aurora babe,” Charlie answered with a little smile on his round face. They took to the parking spot right in front of them, and they climbed out one by one.

“Frankie and Charlie,” the brown haired boy greeted them when they came within earshot, and he peered over his black horn rimmed sunglasses at the three girls behind them, “and three female specimens!” He spoke with an odd accent, and not one native to the Northeast, either.

Frank put his arm around Aurora.

“Ladies, these are our friends—James—” He gestured to the tall boy with the long golden blond hair down past his shoulders. “—Kirk—” The baby faced boy with the head full of rich black curls. “—Lars—” The short boy with the round face and feathery brown hair who greeted them. “—and Cliff.” The extra tall boy with the long smooth hair down to his shoulders.

“And guys, this is Aurora, Marla, and Sam,” Charlie followed up.

“Always nice to see some girls every now and then,” James declared in a big booming voice and with a nod of his head.

“We’ve getting a lot more ladies in our crowds, though,” Lars pointed out.

“Well, you guys don’t really wanna mess around with these girls, though,” Frank said, “they were there when Charlie, Scott, and Billy recorded the tape for Stormtroopers.”

“They’re our first V.I.P.s,” Charlie added with a wag of his finger.

“We’re not worthy, then,” Kirk said with his arms outstretched, which brought a giggle out of both Sam and Marla.

“Drinks on us, too,” Cliff followed suit, and he reached behind him for something: a big wide brimmed felt hat, which once he put it on, made him look like a real life cowboy. He led them all into the tiny club behind them: Sam gaped at his literally bowing his head before he stepped inside. She moseyed up to Lars, who has taken off his sunglasses and revealed to her big bright green eyes and a tiny pockmark under his right eyebrow.

“I really like your accent,” she told him, “where are you from?”

“Denmark,” he replied, “I moved here to the States about five years ago.” He turned his head towards her. “I originally came here to play tennis.”

“How'd you get with these guys?” she asked in a low voice.

“Let's just say that—magic happens when you branch out and seek out new horizons. I put an ad in this magazine called Recycler in search of a guitarist to jam with and James and his friend Ron just so happened to see it one day.”

“What happened to him?”

“Ron? He couldn't take it, so we sought out Cliff up in the Bay Area—we were based out of Los Angeles at the time.” Lars guided her to the small wooden table on the side of the room; Marla lingered back with them while Aurora followed Charlie and Frank to the far side of the room, the site of the low dim lit stage. James and Cliff towered over each of them.

“By the way, if anyone asks, Metallica is my band,” he said in a low voice. “James found me.”

“James found you,” Sam echoed.

“James found you,” Marla followed up.

“James found me and then we found Cliff and—Kirk took the place of Dave, our original guitarist, from a fellow Bay Area band, Exodus. He's been with us only two years at this point.”

“What happened to Dave, anyway?” Marla asked him as she tugged down the hem of her camisole, and then she pressed her hands to her hips as she stood before the edge of the table.

“He was a bad drunk,” Lars explained, “like really bad. Well, we're all into our vodka and beer and everything, but he goes absolutely ape shit with it, though. I wanted to give Dave another chance at it after we gave him a warning but, at that point, we already had Kirk on the phone and ready to jam with us down in New Jersey. We gave him a bus ticket back to L.A. and—he has a band with him now, though. Uh—Megadeth, they're called.”

“Sounds more ferocious than Anthrax,” Sam remarked.

“Yeah, I guess it's—named after the magnitude of a nuclear explosion. Real twisted but fascinating at the same time.”

“So he was a bad drunk?” she asked him with a raise of her eyebrows.

“Oh, yeah. James, Cliff, and I, too much vodka and we turn into clowns. Dave? He got violent and admittedly a little terrifying. In retrospect, I don't want any of us to be around that. I don't know about him, but that's how I feel, though.” He turned his head to Marla.

“Have a seat,” he encouraged her, and she lunged behind her for a chair from the closet table.

“Marla—Taylor, right?” He gestured to her.

“Yeah. From Hell's Kitchen.”

“And I'm Sam Shelley from California,” Sam followed up.

“Ah, a California girl yourself! By mere circumstance we were all drawn together. Now, Marla, I know you're an artist just from what Charlie told me, but what about you, Sam?”

“I'm an artist, too.”

“And according to Frankie and Charlie, she's going to go places with it, too,” Marla added with a twinkle in her eye. Lars flashed Sam a grin.

“I'm curious now,” he admitted.

“Well, my journal is back at my place up in the Bronx,” she pointed out, and she couldn't resist the mirrored grin on her face, “but you oughta come on over at some point, though.”

Lars flashed her a wink and within time, the waitress came on over with a round of drinks courtesy of Cliff. Within time, more patrons came into the club to see Stormtroopers of Death for their first gig, or so Sam thought.

“So where's Charlie at, you reckon?” Lars asked Marla.

“I dunno,” she confessed with a shrug of her bare shoulders, “he went backstage and that's about it. I haven't seen him in over an hour, I just realized. They're going on soon, I know that much. Like in twenty minutes, give or take.” She tugged the bottom hem of her camisole again before she stood to her feet.

“Want me to watch your things, girls?” Lars offered. “I have no problem doing it.”

“Please,” Sam said with a gesture back to him. She followed Marla across the dark floor to the side of the stage, across a series of cables strewn about the floor, and into the narrow backstage area. Charlie staggered towards them with his hair disheveled and his shirt pushed up his body; at some point, he had changed his clothes for show time. Even standing several feet away, Sam could smell the vodka on his breath. He hiccupped and shot out one hand before him.

“Sorry—I'm drunk,” he sputtered.

“Obviously.” Sam chuckled but she stifled it once she realized he had to go onstage soon. Charlie fell right onto the seat of his pants and he gasped at the feeling. He looked up at Sam and Marla in a daze: the color had left his face and his lips were so dry and parched from the alcohol. He showed them a sickly little smile and he reached out for them.

“Help me out here, Sam—” Marla grunted, and the two of them held onto his hands and yanked back. He almost yanked them back onto the floor next to him, but Sam buckled her knees and they pulled him up off the hard floor. He clutched at his brow to steady the feeling in his head. He reached out with his other hand to steady himself. Marla put her arm around his back, while Sam took to his right side to ensure he would stay standing. She eyed the figure of Darth Vader on his shirt, and the whole thing behind Stormtroopers of Death, the thing Frank had told her in the two months before, popped into her mind.

“Charlie, what's going on with Stormtroopers of Death?” she asked right into his ear. But the man had had his share of alcohol, that even standing right there next to him, she knew he didn't hear her.

“CHARLIE!” Marla shouted over the wall of noise around them.

“Huh?” He lifted his head for a delirious glimpse over at her.

“Sam wants to ask you a question!” she declared. He turned his head in Sam's direction.

“What's going on with Stormtroopers of Death? I got my grant for school but I'm still short on money, though. I have to pay back my parents and pay my rent.”

“Oh, we're goin' on tour next month,” he blurted out. “I was gonna tell ya but—” He hiccupped and bowed his head. “—it just kinda happened all at once.”

“You mean it?” She gasped and grinned at him.

“Oh, yeah. I dunno if I was allowed to even tell ya or not, but—yeah. We're gonna play here at L'Amour starting next month. We get paid and you do, too.” He showed her a sickly grin but she could care less if he was inebriated. Sam flung her arms around him which took him aback.

“Oh, yeah—yeah, I love you, too.” His hands caressed up her back, but then his body shuddered and shook.

“Are you okay?” she asked him as she stood back to look right into his face. The color had long left his face, but in its place came something that was the color of old wet paper.

“Oh—” he moaned out, and he pursed his lips together.

“Over here, Charlie,” Marla guided him towards the door behind them; Charlie turned away from Sam and he pushed open the door. No sooner had he pushed it open when he vomited onto the sidewalk outside.

“Oh, jeez,” Sam winced at the very sound of it.

“Yeah,” Marla agreed as she hung right next to her. “When'll these boys learn that drinking's not good for you?”

“Hopefully soon,” said Sam as she adjusted the strap of her bra. “I'd hate to see their beautiful bodies get all ravaged by too much booze.”

“Beautiful bodies?” Marla chuckled.

“Yeah. When I was drawing you and him for school, I couldn't believe how gorgeous his hair is. I made that drawing with colored pencil, too, so it was all full and lush, rich with texture. Also—” Sam glanced around to ensure they were alone there. “—keep this between you and me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Marla nodded her head; Sam extended her pinky finger for her to take, and they linked fingers together. The rich dark red garnet on her index finger glittered under the backstage lights.

“When they were recording Stormtroopers of Death, and Frankie and I were in that closet,” Sam recalled, “he let me feel his hair and his scalp. Like legitimately run my fingers through his hair so I could feel it better before I got down to brass tacks with the drawing.”

Marla gaped at her.

“Really?” she lowered her voice down enough so they would remain out of earshot.

“Yeah. It was—it was something.” Sam folded her arms across her chest.

“What's it like?”

“His hair?”

“Yeah.”

“A lot like Charlie's. Full and lush, but smoother, though. I can tell Charlie's got a lot more curling going on and a lot more split ends, too.”

“Oh, yeah, he does.”

“But Frankie's hair is like—I wanna say silky. I almost didn't want to stop doing it, and I knew he didn't want me to stop, either. Like he was really enjoying it.”

“Like a little too much?” Marla chuckled at the sound of that.

“Yeah...” Sam's voice trailed off, and she leaned her head to the side a bit; Marla turned around so she could see Charlie still at the door. He tugged it closed and very slowly and cautiously, he shuffled around and pressed his hands to his hips. His mouth hung agape and even from a distance, they could smell it on his breath. At least the color returned to his face.

“Would you like a drink of water?” Marla offered him.

“Please,” he begged her. “Please, please, please, god, please.”

“I'll be right back,” Sam told them with a raise of her finger. She doubled back to the side of the stage to fetch a glass of water for him, but something caught her foot. She glanced down at the cables on the floor. She had no idea where they led to, but she tripped.

She landed hard on her knee and yelped out in pain. Lars said something from across the room. Sam wriggled her foot from the cable but the whole space was dark, and not enough light to give her any sort of help. Her knee and her ankle throbbed in pain: she tore at the cables and she finally managed to break free. But when she stood to her feet, she lost her balance.

She fell to the floor once again and grimaced from the pain. Marla and Charlie were nowhere to be found.

“Are you alright?”

She looked up to find Joey over her. She rubbed her eyes with her free hand to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.

“Are you alright?” he asked her again, but that time in a hushed voice, to which she locked onto his handsome sun kissed face. Stray tendrils of that jet black hair dangled down from the side of his head like the tentacles of an octopus. The blue white light from the ceiling overhead shone on the crown of his head and on part of his face: his brown skin glowed within the soft light all around them. His slim little body loomed over her; she kept her hand pressed on his lower leg as if she was about to lose him.

She gazed up into his brown eyes, extra dark against the blue and white around them.

“Yeah. I'm more than alright, actually.” The words left her lips even as her leg ached. He showed her a sweet little smile, complete with a row of crooked little off white teeth. She spotted a small gap in the left side, like his teeth never came in properly when he was growing up.

“Here, lemme help you—” He held onto her hands and tugged her up onto her feet. Her left knee and ankle seared in the pain but she managed to stand on both feet. He kicked a bunch of the cables away from her so they could have a path to the light.

“Let's go over here,” he coaxed her. “It's quiet and calmer.” Joey put his arm around her shoulders to help her into the next room. He guided her away from the darkness and towards a spare door on the side of the room. Inside of there was a low comfortable looking chair and a footstool. Joey helped her to the chair; he kept one hand on her shoulder and he let her sit down on the soft cushion. He nudged the footstool closer to her.

“Here—” He reached down with his hands under her ankle, and he hoisted it up onto the top cushion. Sam shifted her weight and she pushed herself back into the chair. He stood over her to make sure she was comfortable.

“Thank you, Joey,” she breathed out to him.

“Can I get you anything?” he offered her. “A pack o' ice? A little drink of water?”

“Both of those, please,” she grunted from the pain. “My purse, too—Lars has it.”

“Okay, I'll be right back,” he promised her in a gentle voice. He ducked out of the room, and in turn left her alone with her throbbing ankle. Sam fetched up a sigh and rested her hands on the arm rests. Her heart pounded in her chest, even though the adrenaline began wearing away. The pain was almost too much to bear for her even as she held perfectly still and kept her leg in place on the foot rest.

She pinched her eyes shut and leaned her head back onto the top of the cushion. She hoped that Charlie would keep his word and she would see a paycheck in her near future.

“Sam?”

She opened her eyes to find Joey at the doorway. He had put her purse over his shoulder and he cradled three water bottles in his arms.

“I wasn't able to find any ice, but this bottle right here is extra cold, though.” He set the middle bottle onto her ankle. The bite of the cold sent a chill up her spine, and yet it soothed the pain within seconds. He then handed her the bottle in his left hand, and she couldn't get the big drink of water into her mouth any quicker.

“Uh, let's see—” He peered about the room for something, and he set her purse down on her lap and he kept the third bottle for himself. He darted behind the chair for something and he emerged with a mirror in his free hand. Joey kept the door open and propped up the mirror on the far wall of the room.

“Show's gonna start in like two minutes,” he told her, out of breath. “We don't want ya to miss it, though.” He ducked towards the door again.

“Joey?” she called after him, to which he turned around for a look back at her, complete with his dark eyebrows raised in question.

“Thank you,” she told him in a broken voice, and he showed her a modest shrug of the shoulders.

“I saw ya fall,” he said, ��and Marla and Charlie were nowhere to be seen and a lot of people were comin' in, too. I told Lars about it and he went 'oh my god! I hope she's okay' and I told him you were, and then I just came back here. But—let's try not to let this ruin the night, though.” He winked at her and she showed him a smile in return.

“If you need anything, I'll be right next to this door, okay?” he said to her.

“Yeah, of course.”

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ratedbangtann · 5 years ago

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𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐥 | 𝙏𝙖𝙚𝙝𝙮𝙪𝙣𝙜 𝙭 𝙅𝙪𝙣𝙜𝙠𝙤𝙤𝙠

𝙹𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚔𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚐𝚞𝚢. 𝙰𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚃𝚊𝚎𝚑𝚢𝚞𝚗𝚐...

Pairing: Taehyung/Jungkook Word count: 4.1k Warnings: homosexual, m+m, memberxmember, taekook, first time, anal sex, little preparation, oral sex

a/n: this was one of the first m+m au i wrote like... ages ago. be kind lmao.

Jungkook had been working as an intern at a modelling agency for the past 3 months or so, shadowing some of the photographers, editing some of the shoots. Photography was his passion. He found it so fulfilling to photograph beautiful things, beautiful people...

He wanted to immortalise the beauty forever, hence why he chose photography. He wanted to start his own business, but in order to do that, he needed the experience. An internship was the best way into the business. But he was getting bored. He wanted to do a shoot. It wasn't enough to just watch from behind the scenes and edit other people's work.

And then, there was Kim Taehyung; the most prestigious model at the agency. He has modelled for some of the most famous brands across the world. Gucci, Fendi, Givenchy... His fame was something most models could only dream of. Jungkook had been behind the scenes at one of his magazine shoots before; a simple piece for a travel magazine. He'd been told to hold the light reflector. That was it.

Jungkook was getting frustrated, wanting to create his own art.

Finally, the day came.

"Jungkook, I need your help," his boss practically ran to his desk, hanging over the wall of his cubicle as he was editing a set of photos for some kids magazine.

"Sir?" he looked up from his screen to see his boss profusely sweating, eyes wide and frantic.

"My top photographer is stuck in Bali and can't get a flight in until tomorrow evening. I need you to take his place and photograph Taehyung for his personal fashion blog this evening." Jungkook's heart beat so fast at those words. FINALLY he was getting to do his own shoot. And with their top model? This was huge.

"He's very relaxed on his personal shoots and he'll be able to tell you exactly what he wants from your photos. If you do a good job, I'll make sure you'll be put on more photography jobs. I'll email you the details." And with that, his boss scurried off again.

'Time to show them I'm more than a spare part,' Jungkook thought to himself.

That evening, Jungkook made his way to the address his boss had given him with his camera bag in hand. He stood outside a large apartment complex in the richest part of Seoul.

It was a little intimidating, but his boss said that Taehyung was laid back about this kind of shoot, right? So he made his way up to the front door, pressing the buzzer for the number he'd been given.

"Yeah?" said a deep voice through the intercom.

"Uh, Mr Kim? I'm Jungkook; your photographer for the evening." He sounded nervous, and he knew it. This was his chance to prove himself, with the agency's biggest client.

"Oh sure, come on up." There was a loud buzz, and Jungkook pulled on the door open and made his way to the elevator. The apartment was on the third floor, and one of 6 doors on the floor. Jungkook knocked on Taehyung's, and waited.

Taehyung opened his door wearing a matching white shirt and trousers with thin black outline detail on. Jungkook understood why he had a fashion blog.

"Just one sec," he turned and picked up a baby blue coat from his coat rack just inside his door and stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

"Where are we going?" Jungkook asked. He thought the shoot would be done in his apartment.

"The roof. The blog post is about summer evening wear, so I wanna get the sunset in the background, the city... know what I mean?" Taehyung was very calm and collected.

Jungkook's boss had been right; he knew exactly what he wanted. He wasn't playing around. He barely paid any mind to Jungkook as they got into the elevator he'd just popped out of and climbing the remaining floors to the rooftop.

The city looked beautiful in this light, and Jungkook couldn't wait to immortalise this particular sunset, along with the other beautiful view; Taehyung.

"Okay, Mr Kim. What kind of thing are you looking for?" Kook asked as he assembled the lense on his camera, setting up.

"Rooftop, outfit, sunset. Other than that, have fun. I trust you, Jungkook." Taehyung smiled at the younger, noticing how his cheeks were a little flushed, his tongue cutely sticking out of his mouth as he fiddled with lenses and camera settings.

Tae had noticed Jungkook around the offices and in the background at shoots. He was cute, but Tae could tell he was getting bored of his little background jobs.

He liked the look of the intern. His style and his demeanour just told Tae he was an artist. He wanted to put him to the test, which is why of all the photographers in the office, he requested Jungkook to replace his usual photographer whilst he was stuck abroad. Jungkook intrigued Tae. The younger seemed like a little puppy dog to him, wanting to learn and play with the big boys. He found him adorable; definitely his type.

Not that Jungkook was that way inclined, or had any idea of Taehyung's little fascination.

"Okay, I'm ready when you are Mr. Kim," Jungkook stood up from his crouching position over his bag and stepped forward towards the edge of the roof. He shot a few snaps of Taehyung as he looked out at the view, then turned around to look into the camera.

"You look great, Mr Kim," said Jungkook behind the lense, snapping a few more. Taehyung looked past the camera at the view behind Jungkook, giving that far off look of wonder that was typical of modelling.

"Can I see what you have so far?" Tae asked.

"Of course, sir," Jungkook stepped towards him, Taehyung joining him to look at the little LCD screen.

"You can just called me Taehyung. Or Tae, if you prefer. Mr Kim sounds like I'm your boss, when really, we're just working together." Jungkook smiled at him politely, passing the camera to Tae.

"Wow, these are really great. You've really put your own spin on the lighting settings and stuff."

"Thank you, Mr Ki- sorry... Taehyung."

"I think we're done then." Taehyung handed the camera back to Jungkook, and he started to dismantle the lenses and pack them all away. "Say, Jungkook... would you like to stay for a drink? It seems you're quite an artist. I'd like to see more of your work, get to know you a little bit. I like to be friends with the photographers from the agency."

"Uh... yeah okay, why not?" Jungkook picked up his bag and followed Taehyung back down to his apartment, this time, being invited in. As soon as he stepped in, Jungkook was mesmerised.

The interior was stunning. Very minimalistic, very modern. He wanted to photograph the apartment itself.

"This is impressive, Taehyung... I'd love to live in a place like this," Jungkook looked around, his jaw hanging down in amazement. Taehyung chuckled to himself.

"Yeah, I guess it's nice. All those Gucci shoots paid for it. Gets lonely though." Taehyung walked past Jungkook and made his way toward the large black marble and mahogany kitchen to pour both men a drink.

"Make yourself comfortable, Jungkook," he welcomes as he picked out two bottles of Soju from his refrigerator. Jungkook sat down on the large couch, taking in the size and beauty of the place. Taehyung joined him and handed him his bottle. The two of them clinked their bottles together, and took a sip.

Taehyung couldn't tear his eyes away from the younger, watching as he lifted the bottle to his pink lips, as his adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, as his eyes closed shut when he sipped the chilled booze. The young man was so beautiful to him.

His intrigue had sparked long ago, but now he was in front of him, drinking alcohol on his couch, it was growing by the second. Taehyung wanted to know more about him. Everything, in fact. He wanted to know absolutely everything about Jeon Jungkook.

"So, how are you finding life at the agency?" Taehyung sparked a conversation, wanting to hear all about Jungkook and his passion. Jungkook took another sip of soju before he answered.

"It's good experience, and there's a lot of trust in me to edit photographs. I just get a little frustrated that I don't get a chance to show off my own photography. Today was the first time my camera has seen any action, and that's by sheer chance thanks to your regular guy getting stuck in Bali." Jungkook sighed to himself.

Taehyung knew of course that it wasn't sheer chance, that he had in fact requested Jungkook be his replacement. He could have asked for any one of the photographers at the agency, but he wanted him. Jungkook was his own little obsession, and yet, he knew nothing about him.

"Well, today can only help. I love the pictures you took. I'll make sure your boss knows it," he smiled at the younger, taking another sip.

"Thank you, sir," ever respectful Jungkook thanked Tae.

"Please, just Tae," he smiled.

"Sorry..." Jungkook chuckles to himself, taking another sip, "I just have a lot of respect for you. You're extremely successful, and the way you present yourself and carry yourself is just... how could I not respect you, yknow?" he gushed. Taehyung was thrilled by the idea of Jungkook noticing him enough to see him like that.

"That's sweet, thank you," he gushed. "So tell me about yourself; Kookie." Jungkook looked up, smiling a little at the nickname.

"I haven't been called that in a long time," he chuckled. "Well, I'm 20, from Busan. I moved here a year ago with my girlfriend at the time, but she left me. Said I was spending too much time at work. That was the whole reason we moved here in the first place, though. I think she met someone else. Anyway..." Jungkook talked a little more about himself, Taehyung listening attentively.

But of course, he couldn't help but linger on the fact that he had a girlfriend. He was straight. Not ideal...

"What about you though? How did you get into this life?" Jungkook was genuinely interested in Tae. He seemed like a nice guy, and it'd be nice to have a friend in his life.

The pair talked for hours. They played some music and just got to know each other.

And drank.

A lot.

Taehyung went to grab another bottle of soju for them both. As he collapsed down onto the couch, bouncing into the cushions, he ended up closer to Jungkook, his thigh touching the younger's. He rested his head on his shoulder, sighing.

"Y'know what I hate about this model crap? It's so god damn lonely," Taehyung spilled. "This apartment... it's so BIG. And it's just me."

"Small apartments aren't any better," Jungkook argued childishly. He burped before continuing, "I'm alone too. Sucks." He took another sip of Soju, resting his head on Tae's. He burped again, and Tae giggled at him like a little girl with a crush.

"You're cute, Kookie," he looked up at the younger boy, his face flushed from the alcohol in his system. "Damn, you're pretty. You should be the other side of the camera."

Jungkook laughed. He'd never seen himself as remotely attractive.

"You must really be drunk," he sat up, placing his bottle on the coffee table. Taehyung sat forward too, looking at Jungkook as if he'd been hurt by what he said.

"You're a good looking guy, Kookie," he said softly. "I think so anyway..." Tae put his bottle down and started playing anxiously with his fingers. He didn't want to look up at Jungkook in case he saw right through him...

"Says the Gucci model," Kook scoffed.

"I don't say things I don't mean, Jungkook." Tae looked up at him, their eyes locking onto each other's for a moment. Whether it was the soju pumping through his blood or his mini obsession rising to the surface, Taehyung couldn't help himself.

He leaned forward, touching his lips to Jungkook's. He let it happen, kissing him back for a moment before he pushed Tae away.

"Uh...you're drunk, sir. And I'm... I'm not gay," he stuttered, nerves taking hold of him. Tae stared at him, mortified.

The more Tae stared at him, the more he stared back, taking in all of his features; his perfectly tan skin, his beautiful eyes, his cute little nose, and his lips... parted slightly and frozen in fear like the rest of him. They were so pink, and more plump than most.

He didn't understand why, but Jungkook leaned forward again, his lips connecting back to Taehyung's. The older man tilted his head to the side, hoping to encourage some kind of movement from Jungkook.

Kook had no idea what he was doing or why. Something about him was overpoweringly sexy? The fact he was actually interested in Jungkook? The fact that Jungkook was lonely? Maybe he just... liked it?

He moved his lips against Tae's experimenting a little. Whatever he was doing, it was working for him. This kiss was like nothing he had ever experienced before...

Taehyung couldn't control himself, lifting a hand and placing it on Kook's neck, pulling him just a little bit closer... He bit his lip a little; just enough to show Jungkook he was loving the way his lips felt.

The kiss came to a natural end, the two pulling away feeling a little dazed. Taehyung didn't move his hand, out of fear that Jungkook would suddenly disappear from in front of him.

"I-I'm not gay," Jungkook repeated, almost trying to convince himself.

"You don't have to be to like it," Tae replied. Jungkook swallowed hard, his nerves getting the best of him.

"Why did I like it so much?" he asked, his voice cracking a little, his eyes searching Tae's for an answer, but he didn't find anything. Just fear. Taehyung was terrified.

Jungkook panicked, his eyes wide and cheeks more flushed than before. He needed to know for sure. Did he really like kissing Taehyung?

He launched forward, his lips practically attacking Tae's this time. Tae fell back, but Jungkook just took advantage of his new position and hovered over him, slowly but passionately moulding his lips to Tae's.

Tae moaned into the kiss. He hadn't felt this close to someone in so long, and Kook's sudden dominance paired with his exceptional kissing technique was turning him on. So much so, he felt his pants tightening a little. He didn't want to frighten the poor guy away, but god, he couldn't help himself...

Tae's hands wandered underneath Kook's t-shirt, the first skin on skin contact he'd had with another man in so long. His fingers felt like they were on fire, igniting so many urges within him. Jungkook started to kiss Tae's neck sloppily leaving little wet spots all over.

"What...am I... doing?" he said between kisses. His confusion was obvious and yet, he didn't stop.

"Whatever comes... naturally," Tae said breathlessly.

"Shit, please don't stop Kookie. It feels so nice." Jungkook kept kissing Tae's neck.

"I don't intend to stop, Mr Kim."

Jungkook didn't understand what he was doing or why, but it wasn't going to stop him. He was enjoying himself too much. He was enjoying Taehyung too much.

Tae's hands ran along Kook's chest underneath his shirt, desperately trying to get as much contact as possible. Kook moaned against Tae's mouth, and Tae took the opportunity to slip his tongue past Kook's lips, stepping their kiss up a little.

Jungkook found himself grinding his hips down onto Tae's, the pure lust taking over. He couldn't help his erection from growing, straining against the jeans he was wearing. As he lowered his hips, Tae's bucked up, his own bulge meeting Kook's. The pair groaned in unison, the feeling overwhelmingly arousing.

"W-will you touch me, Tae? Please..." Jungkook asked, sounding like a little boy asking for candy.

"You really want this?" Tae asked. He had to be sure.

Jungkook nodded, whining a little. That was all Tae needed. He sat up and pushed Jungkook down on the couch next to him.

"If you want me to stop, tell me," he assured, before lifting his t-shirt slightly, and lowering his lips to Kook's stomach. Jungkook's eyes squeezed shut, loving the way Tae's tongue and lips felt on his skin; so warm and wet.

Tae kept kissing and sucking at the skin as he undid Jungkook's trousers, pulling them down to reveal some light blue boxer shorts with a rather large bulge protruding through the material. Tae let his kisses come down to Jungkook's thighs, worshipping them.

Jungkook found himself wrapping his hand in Tae's hair, guiding him closer and closer to his growing problem.

"Please, Tae... it hurts," Jungkook whined. Tae couldn't be the cause of his discomfort anymore.

He pulled Kook's boxers down by the waist band, his length springing free and resting on his stomach. Tae kissed his way up the inside of Kook's thigh, slowly making his way up until his lips rested on the head of Kook's cock. Jungkook moaned aloud, his head falling back onto the couch cushion and eyes squeezing shut.

Tae started to kitten lick the tip, tasting the little beads of precum that were already appearing. With no warning, Tae licked a strip down his length. Jungkook sat up straight, looking down at Tae as he took him in his mouth completely, bobbing his head.

"Oh, shit..." he moaned. No girl had ever made him feel so good. He guessed guys knew what guys liked. He couldn't believe he was in this situation. But he didn't want it to end either.

Tae decided to push his limits a little, and sat up to meet Jungkook's gaze. He placed one of his fingers on the younger's lips, and slowly slipped them into his mouth, wanting him to suck on them. He kept eye contact the whole time, his dominant and controlling side revealing itself.

Once his fingers were coated, he pulled Jungkook's hips towards him more, and circled his fingers around his hole. Jungkook was nervous. He'd never had anything in... there. But for some reason, he trusted Tae.

Gently, Tae pushed a finger into him, stretching him a little. Jungkook groaned; it felt so good. Tae pushes his finger in and out a few times before adding another finger. A few more times, and he added a third.

"F-fuck, Tae..."

"Are you okay?" Tae was concerned, hoping he wasn't hurting the younger man.

"It feels... so fucking good. I want more, Tae. Please," he begged as he bucked his hips into Tae's fingers. Jungkook reached to Tae's pants, frantically undoing the button and zipper, watching them slide down his thighs. He pulled his boxers down, freeing Tae's cock.

"Oh, you want this, do you?" Tae smirked as he wrapped his free hand around himself, pumping a few times.

"I wanna know what it feels like, Tae." His words turned him on so much, knowing he was about to fill Jungkook for the first time. He held his palm out in front of Kook's face.

"Spit, Kookie," he instructed. Jungkook obliged, and Tae covered his cock in it, hoping to make this a little easier on Kook in the absence of real lubricant. He positioned himself at his entrance, lifting Kook's hips up a little to get the perfect angle. And then he pushed into him, slowly, stretching him more than before.

Tae hissed through his teeth, finally feeling the pleasure he'd wanted for so long. Kookie was so tight around him, clenching at the unfamiliar feeling and making Tae throw his head back in pure fucking bliss.

"Oh, Kookie... fuck. Are you okay?" he hovered over the younger, his eyes searching for any sign of regret in Jungkook's face. He found none.

"Uh, you feel so good Tae," he wrapped his hand around himself, slowly pumping his shaft as Tae started to push in and out of him. Once Kookie was used to the feeling, he picked up his pace, thrusting deeper into him and hitting his prostate.

"Oh fuck," he cried out, feeling himself get closer and closer.... but he wasn't ready. He wanted to know how it felt to be inside Tae. He wanted to take over.

Without warning he pushed Tae away from him. He fell back, his hands stopping him from falling off the edge of the couch.

"Kookie, a-are you o-" he wasn't given the chance to finish as Jungkook smashed his lips against Tae's with such ferocity, it would have been no surprise to see them swollen and bruised a little while later.

"I want the chance to fuck you too, Tae," he growled, flipping Tae over onto his stomach, his face burying into the armrest. Jungkook wasted no time in spitting into his own palm and coating his cock, readying himself for Tae.

He didn't bother to start with his fingers. Tae had done this before, and he was lubricated enough to cause very little pain to the older man. He pushed into him, burying himself in Tae and feeling his tight walls around his cock.

"Shit, Kookie... you're...so big. Fuck it feels good... Fuck me," he begged. Jungkook obliged, thrusting into him hard and fast, pushing Tae's face into the fabric of the couch with each thrust.

Jungkook leaned over as he fucked Tae, kissing his neck, pulling the shirt off his back and kissing his bare skin. He held onto Tae by the shoulders, fucking into him harder. His nails dug into his back, dragging down the skin leaving bright red, angry marks.

The pain felt so good to Tae. He loved it. He moaned like such a slutty little man, letting the feeling and the euphoria take him over.

"Kookie, I'm gonna cum," he warned.

"Hold on, baby. I'm close... just hold on." Jungkook kept scratching at Tae's back, the only way of steadying himself at that moment and keeping Tae in place.

With a few more thrusts, Jungkook was seconds away from his high. He quickly pulled out of Tae, pushing him onto his back and straddling his thighs. The pair of them pumped themselves, wanting to cum together.

Jungkook leaned down, attaching his lips to Tae's again. Jungkook couldn't hold on anymore, his orgasm shaking him to his core. He shot his load onto Tae; his hand that was pumping himself, his stomach, chest... He hadn't cum so hard in so long. The noises that erupted from his mouth onto Tae's lips were ungodly, and sent shockwaves through Tae.

With a whimper and a throaty groan, Tae found himself cumming too, oozing onto his own stomach and Jungkook's too. His limbs shook with pleasure, leaving him utterly breathless.Jungkook let himself lay on Tae, not caring about the sticky mess they'd both created. His head rested on his chest as they both regained a normal breathing pattern.

"Damn, that was... I never thought I'd..." Kookie was speechless, at a loss for words.

"Don't read too much into it. For now, you liked it. You don't have to be gay," Tae said, trying to be helpful but upsetting himself in the process. He wanted Jungkook to want him. Not just when he's drunk, or just because he fancies some gay sex every so often. His little obsession was proving to be more than that, and he wished that Jungkook would want the same.

"You're cute, Tae," he giggled. "And I guess... I just never thought about it. I always found you attractive, but you're a model. I thought I was supposed to find you attractive... We, um... we can see what happens if you like?" He looked up at Tae nervously, thinking that maybe Tae was only looking for company for one night, and that he was already too emotionally attached to the guy he had his first gay sexual encounter with...

"Well, how about we start with breakfast tomorrow morning, hmm?" Tae smiled. He definitely wanted to "see what happens".

"Does that include me staying the night?" Jungkook smirked, a mischievous look on his face. Tae giggled.

"Yeah, I guess it does. But first... we should clean up. Time for a shower, I think," Tae sat up, readying himself to make his way to the bathroom.

"A shower sounds good..." Jungkook chased after Tae, spanking his bare behind as he walked.

"You're too cheeky, Jungkook..." Tae laughed as he slung an arm around the younger man's shoulders and walked with him to the bathroom so the two of them could shower.

Together...

#jungkook #taehyung #tae #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #kookie #taekook #smut au #smut #bts au #member x member #m+m #homo #homosexual #gay #gay smut #first time

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sapphichollow · 4 years ago

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THE UMBRELLA ACADEMY- The Swedes/ Platonic/ Part 8

Darkness swamped the corners of the room, chased away by the soft glow of overhead lamps. Winnie lowered herself onto the floor and undid her laces. She fumbled and slipped her boots off, but she did not speak. They already knew she was home. If their cat like senses weren’t enough, they knew the steady tread of her footsteps by heart.

Before turning into the open living room, Winnie scooped the groceries into her arms and willed a smile to her lips. The Swedes were many things. But they were not stupid. She’d have to really sell it. So a mask painted her face, pinched her cheeks with a smile, filled her with an overexcited bounce- all to make sure they didn’t worry. Or worse, they worried too much. Bad things happened when they worried too much. Who knew what they’d do to Elliott if they found out?

“I’m back,” She called from across the room.

Axel lifted his head and gave her a curious glance from the stove. He was wearing a floral apron, tied neatly at the waist, a white shirt and a pair of beige boxers. This was not uncommon. She considered it - they considered it- underclothes, and it was just his way of being comfortable. Their work clothes were thick, exhaustingly so, heavy and undesirable. She’d once jokingly tried Axel’s coat on, and she practically swam in the blue material, the sleeves drooping down past her hands.

As she eased past, Otto and Oscar paused at their usual game. A knife sank into Otto’s leg, but he didn’t seem to notice, nor did he care. He just smiled. On any other day, she would have said something. Told them to be careful and wrinkled her nose at the flash of silver. They never listened, of course. They were adults, she was not. Therefore, they could make their own choices, even if it meant seriously injuring themselves.

What lunatics. She almost smiled.

“You get fish?” Axel asked as she set the groceries down on the counter. Otto wrenched the knife from his leg, handed it to his brother and joined them both at the table.

“Yeah.. ungutted, like usual,” Winnie grinned at him with heavy eye contact. As she delved through the bags with forced vigour, she felt him eying her. Winnie pulled out a wrapped fish and waved it at him, grinning. But then she stopped. He was staring..

He knew- of course he did. It was obvious. Was she smiling enough? Did she put up a proper authentic guise of...Winnienesss to fool three intuitive men who had known her over five years? Then, as he appeared to dismiss it, she relaxed a little. Apparently not.

Otto reached into the bags and helped her find places for the food. He took charge of the higher spaces- the nooks and crannies she couldn’t reach, often swiping things from her hands just as she was about to find homes for them. It got a little irritating sometimes. But he meant well, and she was too tired to protest or joke around. So she manned the lower cupboards- though there was little to unpack. The smell of fried fish tainted her nostrils. It was her favourite- but somehow she wasn’t hungry for it. Perhaps, she thought, glancing down at the cats which lazed about, she would donate her dinner to them. If Axel would let her.. of course.

It was alright. So far, so good. They wouldn’t find out, and she could just ignore Elliot for the time being. No biggie.

However, as Winnie stowed a packet of pasta into the cupboard, Oscar skimmed the top of her hair with his fingers as he passed. She ducked away instinctively- her first mistake. Winnie dropped her gaze at once, anxious to push away the concerned looks she knew to be there.

She opened the freezer, squeaked, and slammed the door shut. One of the cats leapt back in surprise.

“Forgot about the head,” She gasped, reeling back. Her facade slipped away at once, revealing the hollow, fragile look in her eyes, shaken up to the bone. The black and white cat- Marabou- gave her a sour look and sulked off to the sofa, her fluffy tail scrubbed up like wire.

Axel’s head snapped up, suddenly alert. If he had been a cat, she was certain his ears would have pricked up.

“What’s wrong?” He asked immediately. Winnie looked at him, then her gaze ran to the others, who hovered nearby, bleeding out of various wounds across the length of their bodies. Concern dashed across each of their faces, but she dismissed it at once.

“I think I saw some bandages in the cupboard earlier,” She told them, turning back to Axel.” It’s nothing.. I’m going to paint,” She insisted and turned on her heels, snapped her suitcase open and grabbed her paints, dragging her last canvas with it to the dining table.She could feel their gaze boring into the back of her skull. The sound of Swedish muttering hushed in the room. Hoping it would ease her mind a little, she took up her paintbrush.

For a while there was nothing- just the steady sound of the brush stroking against canvas, the bubbling of water as she cleaned her brush and patted it dry. She dotted black across the canvas absentmindedly. Her eyes were cloudy and unfocused. But the feeling inside still remained. At a glare from Axel, Oscar and Otto had dressed and cleaned their wounds carefully, still hovering about nearby.

Every so often, one of the cats- the black one- would butt her leg with its head, mewling to be picked up and held. She would have liked to be picked up and held herself, but she continued painting. Her lips sealed. As she worked, Oscar settled beside her, pulling the mewling cat onto his lap. But Winnie barely noticed, she was so engrossed in her work that black and grey smears dappled her cheeks, and splattered her fingers, caught under the nails.

It was out of line. The way in which it had panned out. Elliott was her friend- he was desperate. He could have been called crazy. Those were the reasons. The excuses that rose foggily in her mind when she tried to justify his actions. It had deeply unsettled her. It was out of line.

Start of flashback:

“No, you’re outta line,” and the torn pages spiralled to the ground, spread like white feathers at her feet. The girl tried to pick them up, but he stood there waiting. She caught a glimpse of the ink illustration Alice, cradling her pig babe in arms until he kicked the pages away, rough hands capturing her tiny butterfly shoulders. She screamed. But he wouldn’t have it. Nails dug into soft skin. Another scream and he was gone. Poof.

Then, his face warped and changed. His once shiny forehead became that of Elliot’s sallow brow. His eyes were small and weasel-like. Now he bore no resemblance whatsoever to her father. Now he was Elliot and the fingers came back and he squeezed and squeezed.

End of flashback.

As Winnie’s eyes snapped into focus, her hand jerked of its own accord into the jam jar which she kept for water. Murky grey water spilled onto the table, and she sprang back instantly.

“Shit...sorry, sorry,” She blurted out. Salmiak (the black cat) hissed, Winnie backed away from the table, her shoulders flying up to her ears. Axel was there in an instant, having snatched the towel from its shiny holder. She reached for it, wanting something else to hold, something to distract herself with. But he shook his head. His gaze shifted to her hands, which trembled.

“Oh..,” Her mind went numb as Otto took her gently by the shoulders. He gave her a soft nod, with a sad look in his eyes and sat her down on the sofa, giving one of the cats a light shove to get it to shift. The cat mewled lowly and proceeded to stare balefully out at her.

Shit. Shit. Abort mission. Now she would have to speak to them. Now they wouldn’t leave her until they knew every detail. Everything. It had happened before.... it had happened and they’d broken Raj’s nose, killed Rita that one time, and that along with countless other incidents, gripped her with a choking fear, pressing in on her throat. She couldn’t breathe. She-

The sofa dipped as Otto settled beside her. He shushed her softly, and she realised she was holding one of her paintbrushes, squeezing it into the palm of her hand, whimpering subconsciously. It hurt.. It all hurt. She could see Oscar, crouched down in front of her, his white trousers covered in black cat hair.

“Vinnie?” Oscar said, worriedly. She looked up, pushing her hair back, soft tears slipping down her cheeks. She looked like a soft, scared animal. Pathetic, she thought and wiped her eyes hastily.

“No. I’m fine,” She added, snapping a smile to her lips. But it was no use. If she was smiling, it was in that bizarre taut way In which a clown smiles. The shiny greasepaint does nothing to hide the sad creases in the corner of each eye; the dishevelled look of a broken man hiding underneath a painted face, a big red nose and a bow tie.

“You’re not fine,” Otto said suddenly. She looked between them.

“Lilla björnen, “ Oscar licked his lips, his eyebrows furrowed, trying to muster the right words. “You ...tell us anything,’ He managed at last.

Winnie’s throat ached, and she swallowed thickly. It meant a lot that he was trying so hard. Oscar struggled with his English more than the others. He wouldn’t pick up a book like Otto, nor did he infuse much effort in learning the language at first. When she’d first met him, he spoke only Swedish. Actions meant more than words.

“Elliott..he-,” she despaired, struggling to form the words. Her fingers gripped the paintbrush tightly, hands like little claws,” I can’t explain it,”

Oscar took the paintbrush from her before she could hurt herself and dropped it onto the oak coffee table. His soft eyes pierced her own, a subtle language. She knew what he was asking. It was obvious.

Show us.

“Okay..,” She swallowed a wave of nausea, lifted her hand and rubbed her fingertips together.

At once, the home vanished before them, replaced by a mask. A hollow mask. They were in Elliott’s home- she recognised the stacks of paper, the faded photographs and news clippings on the wall, the boxes and the books. Then her memory began to replay itself, a spool of film unravelling and changing. She avoided the their gaze and stood by the wall of photographs.

When people tell you to reflect, it’s usually meant in a sense of memory. Take a good, hard look at yourself and your actions. Really reflect on them. But for Winnie it was literal. She could see herself, just.. standing there. Helpless, scared. She watched as past Elliott gripped her wrist, gripped her wrist and squeezed. Fear sparked in her past self’s eyes. Helpless, scared. She couldn’t move.

Winnie wondered what would have happened if she’d refused. Would he have hurt her again? Would he have apologised and let her leave? He was desperate for security- that was all she knew. He didn’t want other people getting involved. At least, that was what she told herself. As she willed her illusions away, Winnie finally looked up at them.

Something dark thundered across each of their faces. Dark, twisted. It scared her. Elliott’s apartment simply vanished behind them, rolled up like parchment. They were back home.

The three of them exchanged a long hard look. One look was all it took. They had decided. Nevertheless she crept closer to Oscar for a hug. Burying her face into the material of his shirt, she clung to him. It smelt faintly of lavender- probably the soap she’d given him a while ago. His arm looped around her shoulders at once, a warm protective barrier as if he could chase away her fears one by one. She squeezed her eyes shut, still damp and sticky.

“Is okay,” He murmured,” Safe.”

He looked up at Otto and Axel, both of which had sprung instantly into action As they bustled about, collecting guns and checking them for ammunition, her stomach curdled inside. Well shit. She had known this would happen. What was she thinking?

Axel’s lip curled. He frowned and gritted his teeth, surging off in the direction of the coat rack. She knew that look, and wriggled round desperately. She had to give him some kind of sense.

“Axel,” She stuck one arm out and caught the hem of his shirt. Axel turned around, his eyes softening as he looked down at her. “Please don’t hurt him,” She begged, still hugging Oscar tightly.

For a moment, he closed his eyes, and drew breath to speak. She knew he was about to argue. He sighed, “Lilla björnen He hurt you-”

“There’s no mark, just a bruise from earlier. Check if you want,” She interrupted with desperate look.

“No,” Axel shook his head and motioned towards her chest. No, underneath her chest- her heart. ” In here.”

“I know,” She said, ”But it doesn’t warrant a gun in the face,”

“Please,” She tipped her head back, looking up at Oscar who sighed heavily. His fingers tangled in her hair, stroking it thoughtfully, like the touch of father.. or brother. So natural. So calm. But after a moment he nodded.

“Stand down,” he said to Axel, then erupting into a bubble of Swedish something he often did when he couldn’t think of the English translation. Never the less, she knew that if she had not been hugging him in that instant, his hands would have surely tightened around his gun.

“Fine,”

At once, Winnie’s body went slack. Her shoulders slumped to her sides. But Axel wasn’t finished.

“But,” His gaze held her firmly in place,” If it happens again you will tell us,”

“Thank you,” She cried and pulled free of Oscar. It was all she could do but press herself into Axel’s arms for a hug. She wanted to be held, and though she was too big to be picked up anymore like one of the cats, she wanted the closure. No. She needed the closure, dammit.

He held her close, and he was warm and in that instant she felt....safe. A wave of ease washed across her mind, loosening her shoulders. The weight had been spread evenly across the shore. Less of a burden now. She was safe. That was what she knew. She was safe and loved and warm.

“Is okay,” Axel muttered, sighing against her hair.

And that was that.

@gorgeourrific-nerd

Done! I’ll probably post another chapter soon. Maybe this evening, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. She can cast illusions! This means a multitude of things for her, opens her up to a multitude of vulnerabilities which is just swell for me as a writer. But probably not so swell for her, you know? Anyway, expect plenty of fluff- I have some great scenes all planned out. Then we can develop the story and have her meet some more familiar faces.

#the swedes #the umbrella academy

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vmheadquarters · 5 years ago

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We’re going to play a game of written hot potato! Dozens of your favorite authors will take turns telling this story. Each writer will craft a chapter (with no prior planning) and then “toss” the story to the next person to continue the tale. No one knows what will happen, so expect the unexpected! Follow the “vmhq presents” and “murder we wrote” tags for all the installments, or read the story as it develops on AO3. — Chapter Three of MURDER, WE WROTE is written by @saoirsekonstantin

And stayed tuned next week for Ch.4 from @chikabiddy -tag, you’re it!

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CHAPTER THREE by @saoirsekonstantin

The sleet changed over to lacy flakes of fluffy snow that drifted from the sky, further covering everything in a thick blanket of white as far as the eye could see, while the owl flew overhead. It did a cautious circuit over the house before deciding it wasn’t safe there anymore. Flying to the left, it grew tinier in the stormy night sky until it moved out of sight, but Veronica didn’t notice; instead she raced around the back of the house toward Gia’s scream.

Logan and Wallace ran right beside her through a foot of snow, and all three came to a screeching halt when the light of their flashlights found a male body covered, in part, by snow. Blood stained the snow surrounding him, turning it a muted maroon color. A tree branch almost as long as Logan’s arm protruded from the man’s chest.

Tucked between two fingers, and sticking up out of the cup of his palm, was a photo of two men being intimate. It reminded her of the image she’d seen of ‘Joe the Boss’ Masseria with the playing card in his hand, in her favorite vintage crime scene photo. An overzealous crime scene photographer staged the infamous picture of him lying dead on the floor of a Coney Island restaurant, with the blood-spattered Ace of Spades posed resting between two fingers of his bloody hand.

She suspected a similar, if not more sinister, scenario here. There was no way a body that big had fallen without the impact dislodging whatever was in his hand. Despite the ever-deepening snow surrounding the body, from her spot a few feet away she saw cuts and abrasions on his hands, implying he fought back; so that would make him holding onto a photo even less likely.

About five yards straight ahead, past a few longer tufts of dead grass breaking through the snow, the red soles and three-inch heels of Gia’s ‘cute’ but useless boots stuck out of a shadowy snow bank.

Veronica stepped over to the snow-covered male body and crouched down. After removing her glove with her teeth again, she brought her fingers to the man’s wrist, which was protruding out of the snow. While trying in vain to find a pulse, she took a deep inhale of the crisp, snow-filled air and called out, “Gia, Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

The gusting wind caused the branches of a nearby tree to shift, and snow cascaded down on both bodies. Gia gave no response to her voice, or to the heavy snow falling onto her.

Veronica glanced up at Logan and Wallace when she still found no pulse on the guy, she shook her head before rising and stepping around the body.

Her foot hit a slick spot, and she slipped, almost falling—except Logan was right beside her, and reached out, grabbing her. “I got you.”

With a soft up tilt of her lips she admitted, “You always do.”

He grinned at her. “For better or for worse, I always will.”

She glanced away, and they resumed taking cautious steps towards Gia. They reached her lying in the snowbank and discovered that when she fell, her face had turned just enough to keep her from suffocating. Veronica reached towards her, and Logan helped her roll Gia over. With Gia’s eyes closed and the lack of worry lines, she could have been fast asleep.

Veronica watched while Wallace reached down and touched Gia’s wrist. She crossed her fingers and offered a prayer to whoever would listen, ‘Please let her be alive,’ while waiting for him to say Gia had a pulse beating against his fingers.

He let out a heavy gust of air. “She’s alive.” He leaned down and peered at her chest. “And she’s breathing.”

Veronica gave a single jerk of her head. “Good, now let’s look at the dead body real quick. Take a few pictures before getting Gia out of the cold.”

Logan held out his arm for Veronica, who grabbed hold of it before taking the few steps back to the body. She took out her phone, and snapped pictures from every angle of everything she thought the police might want, even zooming in on the branch sticking out of the dead guy’s chest and the photo in his hand.

She took a deep breath of the crisp night air and furrowed her brows, uncertain whether the metallic tang in her mouth was from the snow in the air or the blood on the ground.

When she took the last photo, she leaned in closer to the guy’s snow-covered face. After hoping the police would forgive her for touching the body, she brushed the snow from his face before gasping. “Crap! Logan, it’s Norris Clayton.”

Dick and company chose that moment to come clamoring over through the snow drifts. “We heard a scream. Who’d you kill now, Ms. Black Widow? Shit! I was kidding but isn’t that the guy who had a crush on you in school? See, Logan, I was right. She’s a spider waiting to eat you alive when you let your guard down.” He affected a high-pitched voice. “Come into my parlor, so I can devour you.”

With a frown, she shook her head, ignoring Dick. “Dad said, Norris is a Deputy Sheriff now; so we’ve got a dead Deputy and a dead P.I. who used to be a deputy.”

Dick wandered over, trudging through the foot of deep snow, and after leaning closer to the body he grabbed the photo. “Hey, what’s this?”

Veronica reached for it, but it was too late, Dick was already getting his wet fingers all over it.

Dick cackled. “Dude, Luke, what the hell? You prefer dudes over chicks?”

Luke snatched the photo out of Dick’s hand, and without more than a quick glance at it, moved to tear it in half; but Veronica swiped it out of his grasp. “I don’t care who you like or what gender you prefer. However, I also don’t care how embarrassing you find a piece of evidence, or how much you want to keep something a secret. You destroy evidence and I’ll make sure the authorities hear about it; and you’ll need to explain publicly why you tore up a photo of you and Conner Larkin in flagrante, which I can describe with perfect clarity. And now everyone here knows it, so think twice before you go touching my evidence again.”

While she pocketed the picture for safekeeping and took her taser out of her messenger bag, Luke scowled. “Your evidence? Listen here, you little know-it-all bit—”

Logan interrupted. “I’d watch what you say if I were you and show a little respect.”

With a raised eyebrow, Luke asked, “Why, you going to beat me up?”

Logan, chuckled, and shook his head. “Won’t have to. She’ll splay you out in the snow with a jolt from Mr. Sparky, which is already in her hand.” She waved her taser at him with a smirk, while Logan continued. “Make no mistake, I might make a habit of jumping in and protecting Veronica, but she can take care of herself, especially against the likes of a pretty, pampered, rich boy like you.”

Luke scoffed. “Oh, like you’re not just as pampered and rich as I am?”

With a low, bitter laugh, Logan said, “I’ve got way more money than you could ever hope to have, but no one ever pampered me. Daddy Dearest made sure of that. I can take care of myself.”

Veronica smirked. “You’re also prettier than he is by a long shot. Those arms, hubba-hubba.”

Logan laughed. “Why, Mars, are you objectifying me?”

She smirked but didn’t answer. Dick leaned over Gia’s prone form, and while he glared, asked, “So, did you kill Gia, too?”

Veronica crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t kill anyone, and Gia’s still alive. Which brings us to the matter at hand; which of you strong strapping men will carry Gia into the caretaker’s house?”

Cole took a step back. “Not me. Can’t we just leave her here until she wakes up?”

Veronica rolled her eyes and articulated each syllable with crisp clarity. “And not only leave her unprotected, but let her die of hypothermia instead?”

Logan took a step forward. “I’ll do it.”

With a shake of her head, Veronica said, “No, you and Wallace are at my back and sides since you’re the only ones I’m certain aren’t killing people. It’s got to be someone else who carries her, or…”

She marched back over to Gia, slipping, and landing in Logan’s arms. While he righted her, she said, “See, I need you watching my six.”

He chuckled and helped her over to Gia. She leaned down and slapped Gia a few times, with increasing force. “Come on Gia, nobody has time for you to be lying around while bodies are dropping like it’s going out of style.”

On the fourth slap, Gia moaned. “Ugh, stop already. I told you, Veronica Mars, they do not make these boots for hiking through snow. What’d I trip over, anyway? I would have been fine, but I hit ice.”

Dick leaned closer. “Another of Ronnie’s victims… sorry, boy-toys. Norris somebody.”

Veronica stood back up and faced Dick. “He and I hardly knew each other. I cleared his name when a dirty ATF agent tried to frame him, but I spent all of an hour talking to him in my time in Neptune. And I didn’t kill anyone.”

With a smirk, Dick crossed his arms over his chest, mimicking her. “And I didn’t say you did. I said he was another victim of yours, as in you broke his heart, just like that Leo guy and Piz, and Troy, and Logan.” Wagging a finger at her, he said, “If you get my boy killed, I’m gonna be pissed. You already got my dad and my brother killed. Logan dies because of you and I’m gonna go ninja on you.”

When she began raising her arm with Mr. Sparky in it, Logan grabbed it. “Don’t, he’s not worth the trouble of explaining why you tasered him after this is all over. And if you taser him now, we’ll have someone much heavier to carry than Gia, since he won’t be able to walk. And to make matters worse, he’d play that card for as long as possible.”

He turned and faced Dick, eyes hard, his voice steel. “And for the record Dick, I’m tired of you always blaming Veronica for every little thing that goes wrong in your life. Your dad was a crook who died in prison, because even at rock bottom, he couldn’t dial back the elitist bullshit. And your brother was a rapist and murderer, who took a stroll off the roof of a building all on his own because he was too much of a coward to face the consequences of his own actions. Both were their own people, who made their own choices and paid the price for them. Veronica had nothing to do with either of their deaths, even if Cassidy twisted the knife a little deeper by forcing Veronica and I to bear witness to his end.”

Dick took two steps closer to Logan and snarled. “But if she had minded her own business, no one would have figured out what Dad was doing. And Cassidy was a victim, too.”

Logan shook his head. “They would have figured it out; only he would have had time to add even more victims to his list of innocents, who lost their life savings because of him. Kendall was talking to the authorities. And Veronica was Cassidy’s victim, not the other way around. Yes, he was Woody’s victim; however, you don’t see me or Veronica using our status as the victims of grown men misbehaving as an excuse to blow up a bus full of kids, do you? Your brother may have still been a kid, but he made grownup decisions and hurt people.”

Dick threw up his hands and stomped off through the ever-deepening snow, while calling over his shoulder, “Whatever, dude. When you become another casualty of hers, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The surrounding snow dampened his voice and it faded on the increasing wind with his every step away from the group.

Logan took a step towards him, but stopped and glanced at everyone who was staring between him and Dick’s retreating form. “I’ll let him cool off.”

Gia pouted. “Did you have to bring up my dad?”

He shook his head. “Just stating the facts. What your dad did wasn’t your fault, but I’m not going to pussy-foot around the fact he took advantage of and hurt innocent kids for his own pleasure. I’m hoping he and my dad are roasting in hell together.”

Veronica took his hand in hers and squeezed. “If there’s any justice they are. Now, we need to look inside the caretaker’s home. There might be a phone, or something else that might prove useful.”

Susan frowned, her arms akimbo. “And how are we going to do that? We checked, both doors are locked.”

With a smirk, Veronica rifled through her messenger bag and pulled out her lock-picking kit. “Do you think a locked door has ever stopped me?”

Logan chuckled. “I know for a fact that not even an armed security system has stopped you. Though I still maintain you just wanted to see me in nothing but a towel.”

She batted her lashes at him and brought her free hand up to her chest. “Moi?”

He nodded, and she tilted her head and gave him a once-over before returning the nod. “With those arms, the way they are now? I might pay good money for that, just to see what else has improved with time.”

He gave her his patented smirk and said in a sing-song voice, “You think I’m hot.”

She giggled before slapping her hand over her mouth, and saying though her fingers, “That never happened.” He smirked but didn't contradict her, so after lowering her hand, she eyed him again. “And you know how good you look, with or without clothes.”

Wallace scowled. “Hey, you think the two of you can stop flirting long enough to figure out a way off of this death trap of an island? I may not have been the next victim, but statistically, as the only Black man here, my number is coming.”

She grinned. “Don’t worry, Papa Bear, I’m not letting you or Logan out of my sight, so neither of you will shuffle off this mortal coil anytime soon.”

After turning, she led them back through the snow drifts to the front door of the caretaker’s house; and after handing her flashlight to Wallace he pointed it at the lock, while she took off her gloves and went to work unlocking the door.

Within a minute she pushed the door open and took back her light before stepping through the doorway. She turned and flashed the light on the wall by the door. “Dammit. Nobody touch anything. I think there is blood by the light switch.”

With a shaky hand tucked inside her jacket sleeve to keep both the blood from her hand and her prints from the bloody light switch, she reached out flipped it on, confirming her suspicions. Blood smears covered the wall, as if someone had dragged a bloody hand along the wall while trying to support him or herself.

After turning and facing the rest of the room, she narrowed her eyes and picked her way through the wreckage of overturned furniture and living-room debris, including a smashed flower vase with the wilting flowers covered by the shards of blue glass and several magazines thrown into the air, and allowed to land where they would. She reached the satellite phone on one of the few upright pieces of furniture beside the couch in the room. She pushed the on button but nothing happened. After picking it up, she turned it over. “Everyone keep your eyes out for the battery.”

Wallace used his boot to move some magazines. “Like the one over here smashed to smithereens?”

She skirted around the large triple blood pools on the floor. One of them had drag marks leading up the staircase. For the time being she ignored that and leaned closer to the shattered rechargeable battery on the floor. “Yeah, like that.”

Logan stood inside the door. “Is it just me, or is there one blood pool too many for the number of bodies we have? And what can I do to stop you from following the trail of blood up the stairs?”

Her lips turned up at the corners. “Not a thing. I will turn over every stone, look through every closet,” She picked her way around the room, her eyes scanning everything while she continued talking. “And, hello, rifle through every backpack hiding in plain view behind an overturned chair. I won’t miss any clues if I can help it. Your life and Wallace’s may depend on it. And I’ll be damned if I get either of you hurt.”

Logan dropped his voice an octave, to that tender voice he reserved for Veronica. “You know, you don’t have to save everybody.”

With a shake of her head, she said, “Not trying to save everybody, just those who matter to me, those I love and would be nothing without. Those who are the air that keeps me breathing.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, straightening up. “Are we doing this now?”

She gave him a shrug while she crouched and unzipped the backpack. “It’s as good a time as any, and I need you to know I still need you and I miss you. I—I still love you, always have. Even if you don’t take me back, I need to say it to your face at least once. You deserve that much from me, after everything I’ve put you through. I need to pull on my big-girl panties and admit, to your face, that you’re the only man I’ve ever truly loved; and the only one who not only gets me, but has always supported me, even when you thought I was being stupid and reckless.”

He shifted on his feet and took a step closer to her. “What changed? You’ve never admitted to any of this before, not in so many words, at least.”

She flashed the light into the bag, and after making brief eye contact with him, glanced into the backpack. “Life without you in it sucks. I hate it and want to go back to the world I had where you were always there. And I’m tired of fighting my feelings; somewhere along the way, I realized that the fact you scared me with all your feelings meant I felt something worth experiencing. Living safe is boring and never taking emotional risks makes me stagnant. If I can take risks in every other aspect of my life, why shouldn’t I be just as brave in this instance and take the one risk that matters most? If I’m right, and my life is a shallow empty shell without you in it, imagine what my—our—lives, together, can be... if I grow up, and act like a mature grown adult who isn’t too scared to commit, or even say I love you.” She made eye contact again. “I do, ya know? I love you so much.” After glancing back at the almost empty bag, she continued, “It hurts when we’re apart, and that’s what scared me. That you’re so vital to my happiness. Sue says,—”

“Wait, who’s Sue?”

With heat rising in her cheeks she ducked her head. “Sue is my therapist. Anyway, she said my fear of feeling emotions so much is a product of everything that happened to me—to us—and it amazes me you went the other way and feel so much. But I want to experience that. I want to be free of all the baggage, and I want to be free with you if you’ll have me.”

He stood there staring at her for a solid minute, his eyes flickering over every inch of her face, as if memorizing each curve. Then with a smirk he put her out of her misery. “I’m not saying no, but how do you plan to work around the fact you go to Stanford while I go to Hearst? What about the distance?”

Veronica shrugged, her gaze staying down, but her voice lowered. “Wallace already drives up every weekend, so it’s a doable weekend trip. We could switch off weekends, back and forth. Or if that doesn’t work, you could transfer or I could transfer, either is a possibility.”

Without waiting a beat, he shook his head. “Stanford is your dream. You always wanted to go there. You’re not allowed to transfer because of me now that you’re there.”

Her lips turned up a little. “I will ignore that ‘allowed’ part, because I’m sure you don't mean it in a controlling or bad way, and I don't want to start a fight over something so petty as a word. But, for the record, I would. I would switch out of my dream school, if it meant being with you for the rest of my life. I would give up Stanford and anything else that might get in the way. You shouldn’t be the only one in this relationship making sacrifices and personal changes to compromise and make this work.”

She finished that statement by taking two ID’s out of the bag and standing. “I choose you, Logan, now and always if you’ll have me. And I choose to be your partner in this, a fifty-fifty–” She paused. “No that's not right. I want a one hundred-one hundred partnership. No more lopsided relationship where you put in all the effort and make all the compromises, with me just taking from you without reciprocating.”

He took the five steps to her and pulled her into his arms before crushing his lips to hers. They stayed like that until he pulled back, gasping for air. “I got into San Jose State University It’s half an hour away from Stanford.”

She beamed before her lips turned down. “Why did you apply to transfer there?”

With a smirk he said, “You’re not the only one who felt empty and stagnant. I was hoping to convince you to give us a try one more time. Our story is epic…”

She giggled again. “Spanning years and continents. Lives ruined, bloodshed…”

“Epic.”

Her eyes darted to the pools of blood. “Well, we’ve got bloodshed, and lives ruined in spades today; and, now, I’m even more determined to get you and Wallace out of here in one piece. We’ve got a future to work on, together.”

He leaned in and gave her a tender kiss, and they stood there amid the destroyed living room, enjoying being on the same page, before a scream ripped through the small house. They pulled apart and took each other’s hand before turning towards the scream.

Wallace smiled at them. “I hope it works out for you guys. You suck apart, both of you bellyaching about not being with the other. Do a brother a favor and stay together, so I can focus on my love life instead of yours.”

They laughed before the three of them climbed the stairs, stepping on the edges of the steps to avoid trekking through the bloody drag marks. When they reached the top, everyone else clustered around a doorway. The girls all cried, clinging to each other, and Cole and Luke both bent over and threw up in the hallway.

The three friends pushed their way through the crowded hall and entered the bedroom before looking around the room; bed against the wall, a desk in the corner, bureau standing against the wall the door was in. It appeared normal, except for the bloody drag marks leading to the only other door in the room.

Veronica let go of Logan’s hand, strode to it, and opened it, before staggering back and slamming her hand over her mouth. After fighting her own gag reflex for a minute, she said, “Duncan! What the hell?”

She turned towards Logan, blinking rapidly to keep her tears at bay. The last thing she wanted was to shed tears in front of the other oh-niners. She’d save them and share them with Logan, the other remaining member of the Fab Four, later. For now, she said, “Maybe I am the Black Widow. Perhaps Dick is right for the first time in history and you should get as far away from me as you can.”

Duncan Kane’s bloodied face and lifeless eyes stared out of the closet at them. With quick steps, Logan moved behind her and gathered her into his arms, holding her tight. “Not a chance, Bobcat, wild horses won’t drag me from you now.”

Her lips turned upward before she glanced at the two IDs still in her hand and she lost her smile after she did a double take. She pulled back from Logan enough to hand them to him, but still stay in the circle of his arms, before asking, “Recognize these two jokers with a penchant for hurting people?”

He took the cards with one hand, the other holding her to him tighter and stared at them. “Who are Adam Rodriguez and Peter Hanson?”

After shaking her head, she said, “No idea who the names belong to but look at the pictures. Their names aren’t Adam and Peter.”

He peered at the top card. “Dylan, Dylan Goran, the ass who hurt Trina and got a beat-down from Dear Ole Dad.”

She inclined her head, so he shuffled the cards so the second one was on top and sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Gory Sorokin. Crap! What are these doing on this island, out in the middle of nowhere? You don’t suppose the assholes are here, do you?”

She took the cards back from him and examined them, even holding them up to the light. “These are top quality fake IDs, Logan. They paid good money for these. If these cards are here, I’d bet my college scholarship and your trust fund that Dylan and Gory are here somewhere, too—lurking in the shadows, and possibly killing people associated with me or both of us. Remember, Leo first stole and then sold you Lilly’s sex tapes, and while not directly connected to Clayton, you led ‘the torment Veronica’ campaign at school that he tried to intervene in, or you could even get to him through the ATF agent. You gave Ben a beat-down while he was setting Clayton up for terrorism. And Duncan, he was your ex-best friend and while he was also my ex-boyfriend, Sue showed me that what he did was rape.”

She took a deep breath and released it even while she gripped his arm tight. “He raped me. Somehow, I made what he did okay in my mind, because I couldn't face the fact that my former best friend hurt me like that. And then—then I dated him. Logan—I'm so sorry that I fell for his good boy, perfect choir boy routine. I'm so sorry I ran from you and my feelings for you.”

He pulled her back into his arms. “I forgave you for that a long time ago.”

She sniffled into his chest before pulling back. “Thank you. I’m not sure I deserve that but thank you.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “I’m not sweeping it under the rug or forgetting about it. However, I’m seeing a therapist too, Jane. We’ve been working together on my forgiving those who have hurt me and myself, too. So, I forgive you, because I believe you’re sorry, and Jane has helped me see how much you’ve been hurting, how confused you must have been trying to deal with everything that happened to you, including me turning the school against you.”

He dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. “I’m sorry for that, and, now, you’re sorry for the things you did in our relationship, too. Jane taught me that holding onto that hurt and anger will only hurt us both. So I propose we both work on letting go of the pain and rage and heal together. You and I have always been better together. The problems between us always crop up when one of us forgets that and I want us to work this time 'Ronica. It won't always be easy, but you're it for me, my one true love, and I'm willing to work for us if you are.”

She fell into him more and, damn the consequences, she sobbed all over him even with the oh-niners looking on.

A few minutes later that seemed like a lifetime, a weight lifted off her shoulders and she straightened, and kissed his chin, before she pulled back, straightening her shirt. “Thank you. We’ll talk later about all this when we don’t have more pressing matters to deal with… like bodies piling up.”

With another glance at Duncan’s body, she said, “So, Duncan’s connected to both of us, too. Clayton is, I admit, a stretch, but the other two aren’t and if we include Troy and Piz, we’re both connected to them as well. Troy dated me and stole the steroids after visiting Mexico with you and Luke, and you gave Piz a beat-down when you understandably thought it was him who recorded and distributed the video of him and me making out.”

The door downstairs creaked while it opened before it slammed shut and Veronica did a head count. Everyone but Dick was in the hallway; she waited a moment for him to come upstairs, but he never did. She gave a heavy sigh. “We need to go see who came in.”

Logan’s eyebrow rose. “You don’t think it’s Dick?”

With a shake of her head, she said, “Wouldn’t he already be up here mouthing off?”

“Crap, you make a fair point.”

She turned in his arms and hugged him before pulling back. “This time we all need to stay together for real,” she said, before leading the group back down the stairs.

#veronica mars #veronica mars fanfic #vm fanfic #vmhq presents #murder we wrote #round robin

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dyscrasia-eucrasia · 5 years ago

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Part 26

"So what do you do if someone sees you out in a national park?" Angel asked as he turned onto the road at a wooden sign that ready 'Wayne National Forest'.

"Tell people that we're doing a photoshoot," Demie replied. "Doing that thing those hardcore nerds do when they dress up like anime characters and run around."

"You mean cosplay?"

"Yeah, that. Just lie and say I'm playing that guy in the Chronicles of Narnia."

"Oh, that's right! There was a goat dude in that movie, I totally forgot. God, James McAvoy was so gorgeous in that role."

"He did alright, I guess," Demie mumbled. "That movie was so fucking Jesus-y for having so much pagan shit in it."

"Wait, really? What part of it was Jesus-y?"

"The whole lion sacrificing himself for the little girls and then coming back to life. Which, again, Christians stole from the Greeks. We did the whole god dying and coming back thing first."

"Really? I didn't know that about Greek mythology - which god?"

"My god. Dionysus. That's the whole reason we worship him, him and Orpheus are the only two people to go to Hades and come back. He represents rebirth."

"I had no idea," Angel said as they pulled up to a small dirt parking lot. "That's so cool."

Demie cringed as he looked out the car window. He should've told Angel to go further into the park. There was one other vehicle already parked there, a large black SUV.

"We can turn around and go back," Angel said, and Demie kind of wanted to punch him for it. He'd been so nice and understanding the entire day, even though this was most definitely a waste of time and gas, not to mention the money that went towards the festival tickets. He wished Angel would get angry, or at least annoyed. As it was, Demie just felt like even more of a selfish prick.

"No, it's fine, let's do this," Demie said, opening the car door and stepping out before he could change his mind. Angel quickly followed suit.

A trailhead marker denoted the path that spread out from the lot as Symmes Creek trail.

"You know this trail?" Angel asked.

"Yeah," Demie replied. He'd done it once with a few cousins, as a backpacking trip. Well, as close to backpacking as they got with their limited equipment. It had been a two-day trip, though, and they had hiked at night and slept during the day to avoid detection.

With his cousins, that felt natural and freeing, a way of really getting back to nature. But that didn't sound like something Angel would be up to. Not to mention they didn't have food or even water.

"We'll just go a little ways down the trail," Demie said.

"Whatever you want, man," Angel replied, putting his hands in his pockets and following after Demie as he made his way to the trail.

Having lived around forests his entire life, Demie didn't particularly understand the appeal of national forests, outside of the need to protect wildlife from the encroachment of human cities. That said, Wayne was a little different from the forest he lived in. There were different plants, more wild animals, lots of cool old bridges and rock formations. Everything was lush and green and when he listened really closely, Demie thought he could hear rushing water far off.

They walked in silence for a while, which Demie appreciated. After all that singing in the car without any vocal warm-ups, his voice was weaker. Not to mention, he'd had to exert extreme amounts of self control to hold himself back and keep from letting Angel get taken over by the Frenzy.

He realized he'd probably have to tell Angel about that sooner or later. He couldn't keep him in the dark forever. At this point, he was pretty sure that Angel was his friend voluntarily, but bringing him into the loop may very well help him resist the Frenzy in the future.

Not that Angel necessarily needed to resist it. Demie actually felt like Angel could stand to cut loose a little. He just seemed so… perfect. He was ripped, he had a nice car, he had incredibly straight and white teeth, all of his clothes looked good (even if he did seem to only wear shirts that were a size too small and which strained against his biceps).

It was so perfect that it seemed a little fake, all except for those times he'd called crying. He hadn't been trying to make himself seem cool then, and Demie had… well, 'liked' wasn't the right word, but he'd appreciated it. He didn't think men should cry, but when Angel cried, he was showing an unfiltered version of himself. That was the version of Angel that Demie wanted to be friends with, not the endlessly patient one that kept telling him that they could turn around if he was uncomfortable.

They came across an old stone bridge, and Demie lifted his camera to take a snapshot. Angel apparently hadn't noticed, because he walked right into frame before spotting the camera.

"Oops," he said, stepping back a few feet. "Sorry, don't wanna ruin your shot."

"It's cool," Demie said, taking a photo without any people in it. The camera spit out the photo and he waved it gently and watched it develop.

"Hey," Angel said, but stopped.

"Hay's for horses," Demie muttered. Angel snorted, and the edges of Demie's mouth ticked upwards.

"Hey, so, can I take a picture of you?" Angel asked.

Demie looked over his shoulder at him, the small smile on his face quickly turning into a frown.

"Not, like, with my phone," Angel continued. "But with your camera. You can keep the photo, I just… it would be cool, I think."

"Um…" Demie looked down at his camera, thinking it over. He had virtually no photographs of himself. He had plenty of Elaine and Marius, but he was always the one behind the camera, never in front of it.

Yet Angel had already taken a picture of him that day. And had saved it. Demie didn't particularly feel like he had anything to worry about - he didn't feel like Angel was going to go showing that photo off. It was a friends photo. It had felt private.

"Yeah, sure," Demie said, handing the camera to Angel.

Angel took a few steps back, lifting the camera, but not looking in the viewfinder yet.

"Go, like… stand on the bridge," Angel said.

Demie stepped over onto the bridge, turning back to look at Angel. He lifted his hands slightly and then let them fall to his sides. "Like this?" He asked.

"Yeah, but like… maybe pose somehow? Like… you think you could climb up on the rail and crouch down?"

Demie did as he was asked, stepping up onto the raised stone sides of the bridge and crouching, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Hm…" Angel lowered the camera to tap his lips with his fingers. "Would you be willing to take your shirt off?"

"Why?" Demie asked, furrowing his brow. That sounded kinda gay to him.

"I promise it's not for, like, spank bank material," Angel said, as though he were reading Demie's mind. "I just think that, like… a satyr in nature, it would make the photo cooler if you weren't wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt. It would look more timeless, y'know?"

Demie frowned. It didn't feel like Angel was trying to pull something, but at the same time he was a little surprised at essentially being directed for a photo. Photos were snapshots of memories to him - to be posed made it feel less intimate.

Well, maybe that was okay. He wasn't sure if being super intimate with Angel was something he necessarily wanted.

He pulled his shirt over his head, taking care not to catch the stretched out neck hole on his horns. Once the shirt was off, he felt self-conscious. Nudity wasn't a big deal for him typically, but he couldn't help comparing himself to Angel. He'd never even seen Angel fully shirtless, but the glimpses he could see through the too-tight shirts showed a body that looked like it could be made of marble. By contrast, Demie was scrawny, built like a narrow rectangle, with gangly arms and a veritable carpet of chest and stomach hair.

"Catch," he said, tossing the shirt towards Angel. Angel managed to grab it one-handed right before it hit the ground.

"Okay, ready?" Angel said, draping the shirt over one shoulder and lifting the camera to his face.

"Yeah, sure," Demie said.

"Say 'cheese!'" Angel said. Demie didn't change his facial expression at all.

The shutter clicked and after a moment the camera spit out the photo. Demie got down from the rail and walked back over to Angel, who was rapidly shaking the photo.

"Don't shake it that much," Demie said. "You'll mess up the development."

"Oh." Angel held the photo still, holding it out so Demie could watch as it developed.

Demie had to admit, it was a good photo. Angel had a good eye, framing Demie in the lower right of the photo and capturing the empty wash and trees behind him. Something about it did, indeed, feel timeless.

"Here," Angel said, offering both the shirt and photo to Demie. Demie just took the shirt.

"You can keep it," he said, nodding towards the photo. He trusted Angel.

#writing #writers on tumblr #original fiction #gay fiction #lgbt fiction #mlm fiction #wright's writing #w:demie and angel

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alleiradayne · 5 years ago

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Photograph

Summary: As a journalist, the reader hides her identity as the superhero, Moonlighter, from her photographer co-worker, Sam Winchester. Square Filled: Superhero AU Warnings/Tags: Fluff, sex in a bathroom, anal play, quickie, violence, guns, weapons, blood. Characters/Pairings: Sam Winchester/Reader Word Count: 3,127 A/N: For @spnfluffbingo2019, this fills the square Superhero AU. Thank you, as always, to @atc74 for beta’ing. Song: Photograph by Def Leppard

“Can you run these beside your article?”

His voice sliced through the thick tangle of thoughts cluttering her mind. Time stretched, slowing until it hung suspended as Sam Winchester’s photographs slid across her desk. A hooded woman in a dark suit leaped across building tops, illuminated by the silvery moon high in the sky. Artistic though they were, the surreal sensation of seeing herself captured on camera sickened her to the bottom of her stomach.

“Y/N? Aren’t you writing the article on the… what are they calling her?” Sam asked.

“Moonlighter.”

“Wow.”

She pulled her eyes from the photographs to look at him. “It’s terrible, I know. I tried not to use it but nothing I wrote stuck. Everyone keeps calling her Moonlighter. Like she’s some sort of joke.”

Sam’s scoff mirrored her own irritation. “She’s doing some pretty awesome things for the city. And she’s giving me a run for my money. I’ve had to do four stakeouts overnight hoping to get a glimpse of her. Never did.”

Her blood ran cold, numbing her fingers and toes as her gaze fell back to the pictures. “Then how did you end up taking these?”

“Got lucky,” he said with a chuckle. “That building is right outside my apartment window.”

Christ. How careless of her. Time to stop using rooftops. Or at least, all the rooftops in the vicinity of Sam’s apartment.

“Well? Can you put the layout together?” Sam asked, interrupting her thoughts. “Or, if you want, we could do it together when you’re done writing. Let me know and we can meet up at the café downstairs?”

Her eyes snapped back to his where she expected to find some sort of come-hither gaze, but instead found nothing but his casual smile. “Did you just ask me out on a date?”

He blinked once, twice, then said, “Well, shit, I guess I did.”

Something about his smile disarmed her better than any piece of shit she frequently came across on the street. “I’ll let you know when I’m done, Sam.”

He smiled again as he turned for her door. “See you soon.”

Coffee in hand, Y/N returned to their corner of the café and collapsed into her overstuffed chair. Beside her Sam sat on a stool, laptop resting on his thighs and a full mug beside him.

“What do you think of this?”

He turned his laptop to her and scrolled through the article, his photographs—of her, God dammit all to hell—interspersed throughout the page. She would need to be more careful. No more rooftops. Alleys. Stick to alleys, and the likes of Sam Winchester would never—

“Y/N?”

Her focus returned at the sound of his voice. He had stopped scrolling and started at her, concern clouding his face. Under such scrutiny, Y/N shifted in her seat. “What?”

“I asked you a question,” he said. “How does this look?”

“It’s uh,” she started, but the bell over the door of the café snagged her attention. Three large men entered the café, and while Y/N might not have had a sixth sense or heightened hearing or any sort of fictional superhero nonsense, she didn’t need any of that bullshit. She knew those men, had seen them on the streets of her city countless nights.

“Dammit, Dolohova,” she spat.

“Who?”

Her glare snapped back to him. “Sam, I need you to listen to me,” she started.

“Does it need a footer?” he asked as he frowned, oblivious to the danger. But that wasn't his fault. With his back to the café, there was no way he could know.

“It needs a footer,” he confirmed as he looked back to the laptop.

“I'm not talking about the article,” Y/N snapped as she grabbed his shoulder. “I need you to do exactly as I say. Something is about to happen in here and I don't want you to get hurt.”

“Ow, hey, what are you—”

“Sh!” she hissed as she gave him a rough shake. “Look at me. Three men just walked in here looking like they owned the place. They probably do. Or their boss does.”

Sam started to turn, but Y/N shook him again. “Don’t! Keep your eyes on me. Smile. Act like we’re really on a date.”

“I thought we—”

She cut him off with a hard kiss, intent on protecting him and everyone in the café. At least, that’s what she told herself. Though a treat loomed, Y/N could not deny the fact that she thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of Sam on her lips, his tongue eagerly delving into her mouth, and his soft gasp that lilted into a moan.

When she parted from him, Sam slowly opened his eyes and said, “So we are on a real date?”

“Yes, but this date is about to get really fucking weird,” she growled. “Here’s the plan. We’ll keep making out for seven minutes, then I’ll head to the bathroom. You’ll follow me no sooner than twenty-seven seconds later. Count in your head. Don’t look at your watch. They’ll think we’re going in there to fuck, so that’ll be a good cover.”

“Wait, I’m confused—”

“Sam, I need you to trust me,” Y/N interrupted. “This café has been paying Dolohova’s mob for ‘protection’. And by protection, I mean destruction. Those enforcers are collecting the monthly payment. If the café doesn’t pay, Dolohova’s men wreck the place and buy it out from the owner.”

He stared at her with such aghast shock, Y/N thought she had sprouted a second head. His wide hazel eyes flicked between hers as though searching, but for what she couldn’t be sure. Then his smile spread across his lips—fuck, but he was pretty—and his gaze softened. His hand slipped into her hair as he neared her, lips brushing hers as he spoke.

“I’ve been on the Dolohova case for nearly a year,” he whispered. “And you had all the answers the whole time.”

“I’m so sorry, Sam, I couldn’t tell you,” she breathed. “It’s… I’m—”

“Moonlighter.”

The shock of cold dread slammed into her stomach like a hard-high knee. “I am.”

“My girlfriend is a superhero,” he whispered as he kissed along her jaw.

“Okay, first, I’m not your girlfriend, and second, I’m not a superhero,” she said. “I’m just a person.”

“Y/N,” he sighed, “I’ve been following Moonlighter for months. I’ve seen what you can do.”

Her eyes rolled closed as his sealed his lips on the pulse point of her neck. “Alright, fine, so I’m kinda strong.”

“You throw men twice your size through plate-glass. And you know about fifteen different forms of martial arts,” he stated.

God dammit. “I’m going to ignore all of that,” she started as she shoved him back. When she stood, Y/N forced her best smile to her lips. “Twenty-seven seconds. Start counting.”

She turned on her heel and withdrew her phone from her pocket as she headed for the bathroom. Mismatched chairs and tables crowded the small café, and Y/N navigated the space so that, by the time she neared the end of the counter, she was within arm’s reach of the nearest enforcer.

“We don’t have it,” the woman behind the register said. “That’s almost double last month.”

“Services have expanded,” one of the enforcers said. “So, price goes up. You pay now, we leave. You don’t, we stay and…”

He turned over his shoulder as Y/N passed them, her face buried in her phone as she giggled to herself. Once she rounded the corner, she returned her phone to her pocket and flattened herself against the wall.

“We stay and clean up.”

That was all the confirmation she needed.

Y/N darted into the bathroom and immediately stripped. Beneath her casual blouse and slacks, she wore a suit black as night, the material unknown to her. She hadn’t been about to ask her tailor questions, though. Where he got the material was his business. All that mattered to her was that it stopped bullets and knives.

Over her head she pulled on her full mask and lifted the cowl as she glanced in the mirror. Two white orbs provided her full peripheral view, unimpeded by the cowl or the mask itself. The last of her suit came together in flat boots designed for maximum flexibility, and a pair of gloves to keep her prints out of the game.

And then she withdrew the most iconic piece of her identity from her purse. The small silvery cylinder concealed easily in her palm as the door of the bathroom creaked open and Sam slipped inside. The deadbolt locked behind him, and Y/N hoped it confirmed their ruse. She turned for the window nearby only to freeze as Sam startled.

“Holy shit.”

She wheeled about, coiled like a spring. “What?!”

“I… it’s not that I didn’t believe you,” Sam started. “I did. Those men… they’re starting to argue with the owner. But I didn’t really think…”

She lifted her mask and ran into his arms, lips landing on his for a quick kiss. “You didn’t really think your girlfriend was a superhero.”

“I thought you said you weren’t my girlfriend.”

Y/N righter her mask as she darted back to the window and opened it. With a flick of her thumb, she released the spring on the silver cylinder in her palm, and the six-foot bo staff extended with a sharp crack. Over her shoulder she said, “I am now.”

With that, she leapt through the window and into the darkness of night.

From single to dating a superhero in fifteen minutes, Sam reeled. So deep in thought, he barely heard the shouting from the cafe, and it wasn’t until a bullet burst through the tile of the bathroom that he remembered.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—shit.”

A shower of tile and bullets rained down on him as Sam hit the floor and crawled to the door. There he unlocked the bolt and crouched through the door into the hallway near the register. With his back to the wall, he peaked around the frame and his jaw might as well have hit the floor.

Y/N whirled between the three men as though she were made of water and they of stone. Faster than lightning, she struck with her staff, cracking wrists and fingers and ankles, disarming and disabling. A vicious angled strike slashed the pointed tip of her staff down one man’s face, and he collapsed to the floor screaming, both hands clasped over one eye.

In that moment’s breath to disable one of the men, the other two had recovered their weapons.

“Stop!”

The bull man’s bellow echoed through the café. Screams of terrified patrons followed, hot on the heels of his commands.

“Leave, Night-Light,” the big man said.

“It’s Moonlighter,” the second man corrected.

“Whatever! I don’t care! Leave, or we kill everyone in here,” the bull-man roared.

A second ticked past, Y/N coiled with her staff in both hands. But then she relaxed, her weight on one foot and a hand on her hip. Her head cocked to one side as she spoke. “You know, I get how you Russians haggle and win. You’re terrible at it.”

“What?!” Bull-Man said.

“Leave or we kill everyone in here,” she mocked in an impressive Russian accent, and Sam had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. “You sound like some sort of bad movie villain. In fact, everything about this,” she paused as she gestured to the café, “screams Bad Superhero Movie.”

Bull-Man bellowed another roar of rage as he raised his gun and pulled the trigger. Six shots in quick succession missed their mark, deflected by the whirling silver blur that was Y/N’s staff. Repeated clicks of an empty pistol followed, and Bull-Man tossed it aside.

True to his size, he charged headlong into Y/N. She sidestepped him with practiced ease and vaulted into the air with her bo staff readied. A streak of silver flashed as she whipped the end of her staff around to strike the side of the giant man’s neck, the snap of bone audible clear across the cafe where Sam yet hid in the shadows of the hallway.

The man dropped to the floor in a heap, his massive body an unmoving lump. Y/N turned then to the remaining enforcer and shook her head as though shocked to see him still aiming his gun at her. He seemed to struggle with his options, glancing first to the door, then to the back of the café where Sam hid.

“Really?” she asked.

The man whirled about, and after a beat, dropped his gun. His hands shot into the air, and not a second later, police sirens rose in the distance, still miles away.

“And that’s my cue,” Y/N said as she strode to the man. A flick of her wrist snapped the staff across the backs of his knees as she passed him, and he crumpled to the floor howling. Seemingly satisfied, she loped the length of the café to the rear where she reunited with Sam.

“That wasn’t so bad,” she declared.

“That was insane,” Sam corrected. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

She grabbed him by the back of his upper arm and hauled into the bathroom again. “These are the rules. If we’re gonna be together, you get to know who I am, no lies. But that’s the price you pay. You get to know who I am. You get to live with that constant fear that someone is finally gonna get the best of me, and I might die. I’m not stopping. Not for a relationship. I know who I am as a person. Not as a superhero. And these are my convictions. I don’t expect you to be okay with any of that, but those are my terms, and—”

Sam lunged, and as much as he wanted to believe that he had caught her unaware, he knew she had let him pick her up and carry her into a stall. She tore her mask from her head, and he kissed her as hard as she had kissed him in the café.

Though the police sirens howled miles away, Y/N tore at his pants, buckle and zipper opening beneath her fingers. Sam parted from her in a breathless gasp and asked, “What are you doing?”

“I’m on a massive adrenaline rush, and after you manhandled me into this stall, I’m sopping wet, and you are way too hot not to finish what you started,” she said.

Her honesty—not to mention the language she chose—stiffened his cock, straining against his tight boxers. And yet, as the sirens continued to grow louder, he hesitated. “The cops—”

“Will be here in six minutes. Think you can satisfy us both that fast?”

He dropped her to her feet, grabbed her by the hips and spun her to face the wall. Pleased, Y/N moaned as he shoved her against the wall and pinned her to it with his entire body. He grasped at her suit until he found a seam at her hips, and the material bunched as he shoved it to her ankles. Her back arched as though presenting herself to him, a subtle shimmer coating her sex, and Sam wasted no more of the precious seconds they had left.

He shoved his pants to his knees and withdrew himself from his underwear, the waistband hooked under his sac. When he looked up to find Y/N staring, a familiar sting burned in his cheeks. “What?”

She licked her lips, then spoke. “Oh, I have a feeling I’m going to be more than satisfied.”

“Yeah?” He dragged the tip through her arousal, coating himself as her lips spread for him. “You like it?”

“I’ll know when you’re—oh, fuck me, Sam.”

His hips snapped, slamming his cock into her completely. “Holy shit, you feel so damn good, Y/N.”

“Five minutes,” she stated as she bucked her hips. “If you don’t fuck me, I’ll take care of myself on you.”

Sam withdrew and set his grueling pace, hips pumping into her ass in quick snaps. Y/N grasped his wrist and pulled it from her hip to shove his hand between her thigh. “Four and a half minutes. You’ve got a lot of work to do, Sam Winchester.”

Fuck. “Like this?” he asked as he rubbed furious circles around her swollen clit.

“Harder,” she moaned.

Sam thrust as hard as he could, the slaps of their bodies echoing in the tiled bathroom. Y/N moaned so loud, he knew anyone left in the café could hear her, but he didn’t care. If anything, it only heightened his arousal.

“Two and a half,” she breathed. “I’m close, baby. You feel so damn good with that big fat cock inside me.”

“Oh, god, Y/N, you keep talking like that, I’m gonna come,” he growled.

“Do it, Sam,” she hissed. “Come in me. Come inside my pussy.”

He ground his teeth as he grasped her hip with his free hand. “No, I want you to come first.”

“Sixty seconds, then, honey,” she mewled. “I’m so close, keep going.”

His grip on her backside adjusted, and his thumb pressed to her asshole. A shriek of surprise lilted into a moan so lascivious, Sam growled in his effort to hold back. “Come for me, Y/N. Come on my cock.”

Rapid shudders coursed down her spine as the walls of her cunt squeezed and spasm. “Yes, Sam, harder. Fuck me, baby, keep going. Thirty seconds.”

“I… fuck I can’t—”

Another wild wail filled the bathroom as Y/N unraveled, her entire body writhing in her release. A fresh coating of her arousal gathered on his cock as he continued to thrust into her pussy, his own orgasm ravaging his entire body. His cock twitched a hard, prolonged flex as he came, balls emptied into her as he buried himself inside her.

The police sirens exploded as several cars raced down the streets connected to the back alley of the café. Y/N moved swift as a cat, cleaned and clothes righted in a blur of arms and hands. When she turned and found Sam still reeling from his orgasm, a pink hue colored her cheeks.

“Five minutes and forty-five seconds,” she said as she slipped her mask over her face. “Meet me at my apartment in an hour?”

Sam righted his pants as he followed her from the stall. “Yeah, right after I talk to the police.”

She pushed the open window aside and stepped onto the ledge. “Make sure you're outside in about ten minutes.”

“Why?”

She hopped into the alley as she said, “You'll need a few more photographs to go with my article on Moonlighter!”

If you want in on any of my tags (Sam/Jared, Dean/Jensen), send me a DM or an ask!

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN FLUFF BINGO MASTERLIST

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The Whole Thang:

@atc74 @hannahindie @bevans87 @meganwinchester1999 @plaided-ani-on-hiatus @oneshoeshort @jonogueira @andkatiethings @elfinmox @wonderfulworldofwinchester @princessofthefandomrealm @just-another-busyfangirl @jmekitchens @81mysteriouslyme @dolphincliffs @seenashwrite @canadianspnhunter @meowmeow-motherfucker @depressed-moose-78 @staycejo1 @hobby27 @pretty-fortune @mypopculturediva @fanfictionjunkie1112 @sandlee44 @4llmywr1tings @claitynroberts @maddiepants @scarletluvscas @donnaintx @blackeyedangel9805 @rainflowermoon @winchesterprincessbride @lazinessisalliknow @the-is13 @waywardafgrandma @keymology @sister-winchesters99

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themoonandotherslikeit · 5 years ago

Text

Gone - Part Five

Before

“Just remember not to touch anything.”

“This isn’t my first crime scene,” Castiel said flatly.

“Okay, okay. I hear you.”

The two men exited Dean’s Impala. The cold air bit at Castiel’s cheeks, stinging his skin. He pulled Dean’s leather coat tighter across his chest. Dean’s entire demeanor had changed from the relaxed stature he’d had back at the apartment. He was working now, and his eyes seemed to be scanning everything, taking it all in. He didn’t want to miss a single clue. He squatted down at the space near where they’d found the woman’s body. He scratched his chin as if he was deep in thought.

Castiel felt awkward, out of place, and in the way. He shoved his hands in his pants pockets, fingering the plastic bottle, as he began to walk the perimeter. The ground was frozen from the icy winter air. The grass was frost tipped and glistening in the morning light.

It all felt a little hopeless, empty, because what could they possibly find that hadn’t already been found? The evidence had already been removed, the grass no longer imprinted from where her body laid. Time and the elements eliminated anything else that they could examine. There weren’t any clues.

His shoes crunched the frozen grass and leaves under his feet, and his breath fogged up around his face in warm puffs of white. He’d made it to the other side of the small corner park, his shoe toeing the curb. He sighed and pulled out his phone from his pocket to check his messages. He hadn’t been in to work, but Naomi had told him to take some time off anyway. How much time was enough? A few hours? Would she be looking for him? He couldn’t exactly afford to lose his job.

He hadn’t noticed the numbness in his fingers until he tried to pull his phone from his pocket. The glass slipped against his deft fingers and tumbled to the earth. “Shit,” he muttered, crouching down to retrieve it, the toe of his shoe knocking it into the sewer grate.

He paused there crouching and looking into the blackness of the grate and considered the probability of a demon clown yanking him to his death. Normally, he would venture to say it was unlikely, but in the wake of the week he was having, he was reconsidering. No option was off the table.

Castiel let out a heavy sigh and rotated to where his knees were on the cold, wet ground. He reached a hand down into the grate, squinting into the darkness. His phone lit up with a vvrrr as it vibrated. The light at the bottom of the shallow sewer grate glinted against a shiny piece of plastic. The light flashed again. It looked like some kind of ID-- perhaps a driver's license.

It had to be a coincidence. No clues were that easy. They weren’t handed out on a silver platter. Here you go, Castiel, here’s all the answers. Go tell the pretty detective. He will reward you. He shook off the thought and instead reached his hand deeper into the grate. The metal dug into his shoulder as he strained. He turned his head to the side to get closer, his cheek pressing against the frozen, wet metal. He feared for a heartbeat that he would stick to the grate. How humiliating. He reached his fingers out, further, deeper, until he felt something wet. Leaves, cold and soggy from weather and time. He resisted the urge to gag as his shoulder let out a sickening pop!

His body went slack from the sudden onset of pain, his fingers settling in thick, standing water. He took a few deep breaths, counting to ten.

One.

Inias is dead.

Two.

I may die here stuck in a sewer gate.

Three.

I quit being a doctor.

Four.

I have been numb most of my life.

Five.

But not now.

Six.

There’s an answer. It’s not the answer, but perhaps it is an answer.

There was a crunch behind him, a footstep. “Cas?”

Seven.

I am not alone. For once I’m not alone.

“Shit, did you fall?”

Eight.

“Hey! Answer me! Cas?”

Dean.

Nine.

Dean.

Ten.

Dean.

“I’m fine,” Cas finally managed. “I just… I dropped my phone. I can’t reach it.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Dean scolded as he crouched down next to Castiel. “Come on.” His fingers were against Castiel’s upper back.

“No, I’ve almost got it.” He grunted, stretching just a bit further until, yes! His fingers barely scraped the cool plastic of his phone and then, if he could reach just a breath further. He let out a groan of pain as he nudged the laminated plastic toward him. With agonizing effort he managed to grip both pieces. “Help me up,” he said breathlessly.

Dean obliged, pulling him up using his underarms. His shoulder was fucked, he knew that already, but in his cold, bluing hand he held his broken cellphone and a piece of worn plastic. “I think your phone is toast, Cas. Shouldn’t have risked it…”

“Scold later,” Castiel demanded tiredly. “Look.” He nudged at Dean with the drivers license.

“What?” Dean asked. There was a hint of annoyance in his voice until his eyes landed on the face of the woman on the ID. “Fuck.”

“What is it?”

“It’s her. Meg Masters.”

Castiel let out a laugh, relief flooding his chest and almost numbing the pain that throbbed through his shoulder. “Good.”

“You found this in there?”

“Saw it once my phone fell.”

“Damn, Cas,” Dean said softly, as he cupped Castiel’s cheek in his somehow-warm hand. “Starting to think you’re some kind of lucky charm.”

Castiel gave Dean a weak smile. “I think my shoulder is out of the socket.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What? You’re just tellin’ me this?” He pulled at Castiel’s coat gently to expose his already swelling shoulder. He winced in pain as Dean’s fingers danced along the joint. “Damn it, Cas.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, closing his eyes.

“Don’t say sorry. Just… don’t get hurt, alright?”

Dean Winchester. Don’t get hurt, alright? He was this tough detective, but he had this way about him that felt too soft. Being near him almost felt like being near a fireplace. It was this warmth that radiated, licking at his cheeks, the crackle and the scent sucking him in. When he was with Dean he felt safe. It wasn’t logical, but he supposed relationships typically weren’t.

“Maybe we should get you to the emergency room.”

“No,” he grunted, shaking his head. “Just pop it back in.”

Dean made a face, his lip curling back and his eyebrows coming together in distaste. “You want me to do what?”

“Pop it back in,” Cas said through gritted teeth. “It’s easy.”

“I think we have different definitions of easy.”

During his pediatric rotation he’d done it several times himself. “Come on, Dean. I can’t possibly pop my own arm back into place. Just help.”

Dean let out a sigh and nodded. “Fine, fuck, okay. What do you need me to do?”

“Take my wrist. Pull it forward and straight in front of me fast. Don’t tell me when you’re going to pull. It’s better when it’s a surprise.” He closed his eyes as he felt Dean’s fingers curl around his wrist and yank with a single breath, and for half a second he thought he was going to pass out. “Good job,” he gasped out, letting his head fall back slightly. Dean caught his back, his palm flat between his shoulder blades. “It’s okay, Cas. I’ve got ya.”

Castiel knocked on the glass of the window to the leasing office of Inias’ apartment. “Hello?”

“Come on, your hours say you’re open,” Dean called through the circular section of holes that were cut out for talking between the glass.

The blonde woman behind the glass looked up at him from over the book she was reading. She pointed to piece of paper that had been taped on the inside of the glass that had I’m eating lunch, fuck off! Dean narrowed his eyes, unimpressed.

He pulled his badge off his hip and slid it through the opening onto her desk. Her eyes flashed to it as he said, “Hope you’ll reconsider ma’am.”

She closed her book and forward. She was in her early forties, Castiel surmised, by the way her skin hung on her cheekbones. His eyes flickered down to the book on her desk A Guide to Divorce, you don’t need him sister!

Castiel felt that he was notoriously the saddest person in the room, by default. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

“How can I help you, Detective?”

“We have a question about a former tenant of yours.”

“I’ll do my best to answer whatever questions you have, but people come and go here so fast sometimes it feels like I never even saw them. It’s a building of goddamn ghosts.”

“He’s lived here for years,” Castiel offered, his voice hoarse. Even standing in the lobby, even during the day felt like too much. He could still see Inias hanging in the closet, his hair clumped in the sink.

“You recognize this guy?” Dean asked, sliding an old photograph of Inias and Castiel. Cas stood awkwardly next to Inias, who was grinning like a complete idiot wearing his cap and gown. Even from the blurry resolution Cas could see the bags under his own eyes. “Apartment 415?”

She picked up the photograph and looked at it, examining the photo, the two men in front of her, and then the photo again. “Yeah, I knew him. He was a good tenant. Never caused anyone problems. He was cute, too. Always asked how my day was.” her gaze lingered on the photograph again before sliding it back through the slot to Dean. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“We are having a hard time locating him,” Dean said, seriously.

Dead. Missing. Hurt.

Words bounced around Castiel’s skull like a loose ping pong ball. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing before he fucking lost it right there in the middle of the complex.

“He moved out a few weeks ago, detective. It was pretty sudden. He didn’t even want to wait to see if he got to keep the deposit.”

“Did he leave a forwarding address?”

She shook her head no, and Castiel’s mouth went dry.

“What was he like when you talked to him?” Dean asked. He looked serious, cool, and collected. “Did he seem agitated, afraid?”

“I didn’t talk to him. Well… not directly. He sent me an email.”

Castiel pressed closer to the glass. “Can we see the email?” He found himself asking, pressing his fingertips to the glass, leaving marks behind as Dean touched his wrist gently, urging him to back up.

“It would be helpful, ma’am,” Dean added, not looking at Castiel as he offered her a warm smile.

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down for a moment. “Let me see what I can do. We normally wouldn’t… but if it’d help you, detective .”

Cas flexed his fingers at his side anxiously. She didn’t get it. They didn’t have time to flirt. His friend was dead, or if he was alive, he was almost out of time.

The woman shuffled around her office. From his angle it looked like she was shuffling paper, but he guessed she was cleaning up her work space, because a moment later she opened her side door and waved them both into the tight space.

He didn’t like it. Her door clicked shut, and he immediately felt like he was suffocating. He scratched at his throat absentmindedly and tried to focus on something through the glass, but all he could see was his smudged fingerprints. From there they almost looked like scratches on the inside of a coffin.

“He emailed me late at night, which I thought was odd. He never communicated through email, but it seemed urgent.” She sat in her office chair and typed on the computer, pulling up the email. She clicked a few times before turning the screen.

The two men leaned forward to read the email.

I am sorry to do this without notice. I’m sure it’s going to put you in a difficult position. That was never my intention. Please take this as the notice of my immediate evacuation of the building. I have arranged for the remainder of my lease to be paid out, but please feel free to rent the space as I will not be returning. I have gotten an opportunity that I cannot pass up.

I wish you well.

Inias

Dean looked to Castiel for some kind of confirmation, but Castiel barely saw Dean turn to him. His eyes were focused on Inias’ name. It pulsed, throbbed, the letters bent with the beat of his heart. Dead dead dead dead dead. It sang in his head like a nursery rhyme. Like little girls jump roping. The slap of the rope with every beat of his heart.

“Cas, buddy, you okay?” Dean asked.

He sounded far away. Everything did.

That wasn’t Inias. He didn’t talk like that. Castiel talked like that. The words felt strange, but familiar.

He felt like he was going to throw up. His stomach twisted and cramped, and he covered his mouth in horror.

I did this.

He didn’t know how, and he didn’t recall doing it, but he knew that he’d written those words before.

“Cas?” Dean asked as he pressed his palm to Castiel’s shoulder.

The touch made him shoot up in his seat, shaking his head. “No, no, no. I have to get out of here.”

He turned the knob on the door and pushed out of the cramped space with the thick, unbreathable air, and he ran. He ran through the lobby and out into the street, gasping for the taste of fresh air that he could never hope to get in the city.

He collapsed to his knees, his palms on the asphalt.

“Cas, hey,” Dean called after him. He kneeled next to Castiel and rubbed his back. “Hey, you good?”

“No,” Castiel gasped. “I’m not. I’m not good.”

“Look at me.” He placed his index finger under Cas’ chin, and he turned his face so their eyes could meet. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“I think…” He couldn’t say it, not out loud. He couldn’t admit it, not to Dean… Not to himself.

“Whatever it is you can tell me,” he promised. His thumb traced along Castiel’s jaw. His expression was soft, caring, understanding.

“I can’t explain it,” he said finally after a brief pause. “But the email...those words… They were mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“I recognized the email as if I typed it myself.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Did you kill Inias, Cas?”

“No,” he said suddenly, his eyes widening. “Of course not.”

I couldn’t have.

I didn’t.

I did.

“Then we will figure out the rest, okay?”

Castiel just nodded, because he didn’t have a single other thing to say.

“Are you sure you can get in and out without being seen?” Dean asked nervously, leaning over the center console in Castiel’s car.

Castiel looked to the outside entrance to the morgue in front of him and pressed his lips together tightly. “I have to see if there’s any documentation left, any proof that she was ever here. I can get in and out without being seen. I did it most days I worked here. No one pays attention to the medical examiner.”

Dean looked unconvinced, concern knitted his eyebrows together. “You sure?”

“Yes, I am certain. I will be fine.” He touched Dean’s hand, his fingers brushing Dean’s knuckles. “I will be fine,” he repeated softly.

Dean’s green eyes met his, and they were deep and unwavering. They were the depths of the sea, threatening to swallow Castiel whole, and if he was being honest, he would willingly drown within them. “You’ll be fine,” Dean said, his voice echoing Castiel’s own.

Cas wanted to kiss him, but instead he just squeezed Dean’s fingers and got out of the car. The door shut with a click that seemed to echo in the empty, silent air. It was too quiet, and he felt like he was in a dream. The soft morning fog seemed to blanket him in, surround him on all sides. All he could see was the door to the morgue. There had to be answers within the walls. She had been there. The weight of her ID in his pocket told him that she was real. The phantom touch of Dean’s knuckles told him that she was real, but they needed something more. Something tangible. Something that proved it without a doubt.

So he walked to the door and pulled his key card out of his pocket and swiped it in the slot. He watched the light turn from a glowing crimson to a bright emerald green, the lock clicking open. He turned the knob and pushed into the morgue. The hallways were dim as always, and the familiar smell of formaldehyde stung his nose. He was suddenly so much more aware of the weight of the bottle in his pocket. The pills jingled, bouncing, and clattering, the sound seeming to echo through the empty hallway.

The hallway stretched in front of him impossibly long, the silver doors at the end gleaming in the low fluorescent lights. It felt so far away, like he would never reach it. Perhaps he should turn around and go back to Dean. He could go back to the apartment and hide under the covers. Before he could find any comfort in the thought, Inias popped into his head. His friend's smile gleamed in his memory brighter than the silver doors that led to the answers he could only hope he would find behind the cold and sterile exterior. The weight in his gut pressed and twisted, stopping him in front of the door, his fingers outstretched to push the swinging door open. He stood there, completely frozen. What if the answers he seeked weren't the ones he wanted? The fear of the unknown wrapped around him, coiling and squeezing the air out of his body.

“There’s been a murder. We need you to come up here. There’s a new detective, and I think it’s the first time he’s seen a stiff. We could use you here.”

Inias had asked for him. Inias was his friend. Inias is dead. His chest ached at the thought and he reached into his pocket, pulling out his pill bottle and popping the cap.

Two would be enough, he knew. They'd take the edge off. They'd erase Inias' grin from the front of his mind. They'd give him the strength to push forward, to take a step, to complete his task, to not be such a fucking coward.

He swallowed them dry. They crept down his throat in an almost crawl, and he resisted the urge to vomit. He bit back the bile and clicked the cap back on the bottle and slipped it into his pocket for safe keeping.

He sucked in his breath and held it for a beat, letting the pills settle within him before his fingers brushed the cold metal, the pressure of the door against his fingers felt stronger than he was used to as he pushed the door open.

The space was undisturbed as far as he could tell. His instruments were just as he left them when Naomi had last asked him to leave the building. He trailed his fingers along the cold surfaces, reeling in the familiarity of the space. He’d been thrown off balance and being back in that room gave himself some solid footing, somewhere safe to stand. The morgue had been his saving grace after his surgery career had fallen through the cracks, he’d melted into a person he didn’t recognize, one he didn’t want to. He used to think the morgue had saved him, but now he wasn’t so sure.

He didn’t have the same feeling with his scalpel as he did when he was with Dean. The cold, unforgiving surfaces of the morgue didn’t send butterflies through him, or make him feel safe. Not anymore.

He walked to his desk in the back of the room. He picked up his clipboard and ran his fingers along the edge of where a page had been ripped. He knew it had. He couldn’t prove that it was Meg’s page, but it was something. He opened his desk drawer, not sure what he was looking for, but anything was better than nothing. He moved pens, bright colored Post-It notes, and shuffled through meaningless papers that honestly needed to be shredded.

“Doctor Novak?”

Her voice slithered into the room like a snake in the brush. Naomi. The sense that he’d been caught made his stomach fall through his ass, splatting on the floor. “Naomi.” He sat up straight in his chair, his fingers still shoved deep inside of his desk drawer.

“What are you doing here, Castiel?”

“I left something in my desk.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he said stiffly, pulling out the first thing that his fingers touched. He held up a bright pink pad of Post-It’s.

“Well you couldn’t forget something so special, could you?” She asked, dryly. “Can you come to my office, Castiel?”

He recoiled, sliding back further in his chair, his back bumping the wall as she stepped closer to him, his desk still between them. “I was actually leaving…”

“You were, but now you’re coming with me.” It wasn’t a question.

He nodded in response, standing up slowly, his pink Post-It’s crumpling in his palm. Castiel followed Naomi to her office, every step echoing through the halls, through his head, the walls seemed to tilt as he walked, making his head spin. He wanted to dial Dean, as he could feel his phone bounce against his thigh from the inside of his pocket as he walked.

Naomi stopped to unlock her office door, twisting the key, letting it click open. She swung the door to allow him inside and immediately walked to her electric kettle. “I asked you to not come back to work, Castiel,” she said, almost sweetly.

“I know. I apologize… I just needed…”

“To get the notes from your desk.” Her lips were in a tight line as she spoke. “I remember.” That shut him up almost immediately, and he swallowed hard. She poured a mug of tea and squeezed honey into it from the golden, bear-shaped container. She stirred it with a spoon three times before handing it to Castiel.

He took it and held it in his palms, the heat stinging his skin. “I shouldn’t have.”

“I’ve never known you to be defiant, Castiel.”

Naomi continued to say his name, a sweet hiss. He could see her, then, crouched in the grass looking up at him with large, slitted eyes. Take a bite. Just one little bite can’t hurt.

“I’m not defiant.” Even as he said it he could taste the lies on his tongue. They were thick like cotton, and he suppressed a cough in his throat.

“Of course you aren’t. Have a drink. You’re under a lot of stress. I know that,” she sat on the edge of her desk, and looked down at him. A predator and her prey. His eyes flickered down to the mug in his hands, and he felt sick to his stomach. He knew, deep in his gut that he couldn’t drink it.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Drink it, Castiel. It’s good for you.”

“No.”

She recoiled at that and reached her hand out, her finger pressing on the bottom of the mug, raising it to his lips. “Now.”

+++

Part Six

Masterlist

#destiel #ppb #ppb2020 #dean winchester #castiel #supernatural #spn #dark!Fic #MCI #drug use #addiction #dark material #graphic images

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chilling-seavey · 4 years ago

Text

Passchendaele WW2 Extension - The Dragon Slayer

A/N This is choppy so sorry about that - but breaking it up made each blurb not quite long enough-

T/W Mentions of war trauma, death, pstd, panic attacks, and nightmares.

September 12, 1945

Charlie’s room was just how he left it. Well, except for the sheets that looked like they had been slept in. He lingered in the doorway, bag in hand, and eyed the unmade single bed.

“I’ll put on fresh sheets for you.” Elizabeth said quickly and hurried past him to strip the bed.

Evelyn glanced at her father who was standing quietly beside her. The three of them knew that Daniel had found slight comfort in sleeping in his missing son’s bed over the last few years but the women didn’t express this fact aloud. Charlie sort of knew himself though. He didn’t speak on it.

As his mother brought in clean sheets and hurried to change his bed, Charlie walked farther into his childhood bedroom and scanned all the shelves and pictures on the walls. He lingered at the window, staring out into the backyard and the vast expanse of green grass that came with their home, the view all too familiar. He stared up towards the evening sky and the orange sunset and he almost waited for the streaks of Spitfires to jet across in front of the clouds. There was nothing.

His family watched as he refamiliarized himself with his bedroom, Elizabeth quietly tending to the sheets as Charlie continued around the perimeter, scanning the bookshelf that seemed much smaller than he remembered it. He ran his fingers over the spines of the neatly lined up books and wiped the thin sheet of dust off on his uniform pants. The posters and photographs above the bookshelf had Charlie freezing in place.

Richard’s eight-year-old smile shone back at him from the faded black and white image. The boys stood side by side, each on their own bikes, beaming with pride they both learned how to ride within the same week.

Charlie swallowed thickly. He hadn’t seen his best friend’s face since they took his body away a year and a half prior. Charlie choked back his forming tears and turned away from the pictures.

“Come on, darling boy.” Elizabeth called gently. “Let’s get you into bed.”

Charlie shuffled over and let his mother take his bag from him and set it on the ground. He stood blankly in front of her and watched her quietly as she unbuttoned his uniform for him.

Evelyn said a quiet good night to her father to leave her brother with his privacy and she headed into her own bedroom for the night. She needed a quiet second to wrap her head around the afternoon herself too.

Daniel stood in the doorway of Charlie’s room and watched with a concerned expression and his hands in the pockets of his trousers as Elizabeth spoke gently and reassuringly to her son as she stripped him out of his uniform. He felt like he was watching his own past.

Charlie didn’t protest his mother seeing him in his underwear. Either he didn’t have the energy to ask her to leave or he was too shaken and had missed her touch too much to even want her to leave. Elizabeth folded his uniform and draped it over the back of the chair nicely before returning in front of him with his folded pyjamas. She crouched in front of him and rolled up a pant leg to help him dress.

“One foot at a time, darling.” she instructed. Charlie stepped one foot in, gently resting his hand on his mother’s shoulder to stabilize himself as she dressed him. “These might be a little small on you now but I will go into town first thing tomorrow and buy new a few new sets.”

She pulled his striped pants up his legs – the hems sure enough reaching well above his ankle – and made sure they were sitting well around his waist. She then wrapped his shirt around his back and he slid in one arm at a time and watched her button it up.

“Thank you, Mama.” Charlie breathed shakily.

Elizabeth could have cried right then and there. She just smiled at her son and leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek.

Daniel came over to his bedside as Charlie got into bed and Elizabeth tucked the blankets around him snugly.

“Are you cozy?” she asked quietly, brushing his frazzled brown hair from his face.

Charlie nodded weakly.

“Good.” Elizabeth leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I am so happy you’re home.”

Charlie nodded.

Daniel just stood a few paces away and stared silently at his son, offering him a gentle pat to his hand in good night and the parents left him to sleep.

Elizabeth and Daniel got themselves ready for bed in silence, shuffling through their room as they changed into pyjamas and closed the curtains and Elizabeth unpinned her hair. They didn’t quite know what to say.

They sat up in bed side by side for a moment, both staring straight ahead and trying to process the events of the day.

“Was today real?” Elizabeth asked the air around them.

Daniel didn’t reply.

She glanced over at him only to see his eyebrows furrowed and lip wedged tightly between his teeth. Elizabeth set her hand on top of his, “What’s on your mind, darling?”

“I hate this.” Daniel breathed. He finally looked over at his wife and let her fingers lace with his, “I hate seeing him like this. I…I didn’t want him to end up like me, Lizzie. I…I prayed that he wasn’t going to end up like me.”

“I know.” Elizabeth said, rubbing her hands over his lovingly. She watched him take a shaky inhale, “But you know you can’t control what happens…just how you react.”

Daniel nodded.

“And he’s safe. Our babies are sleeping warm and safe in their beds tonight, Dani. That’s the best thing we could have asked for.”

Daniel nodded and shuffled closer to her, lifting her head up by a finger under her chin to kiss her lips softly. Elizabeth slid her arms around him and he tucked his face in her neck and just held her for a moment or two.

“Is that what I was like?” Daniel asked quietly into her shoulder.

“What do you mean?”

“Useless. Needing you to dress me?” Daniel lifted his head up from her neck to look at her.

“Some days.” Elizabeth answered, holding his face in her hands. “You still asked me to marry you though.”

“At least I was somewhat sane.” Daniel whispered.

Elizabeth cracked a small smile and kissed the tip of his nose, “I promised you before you left for the Great War that I would be yours forever no matter what. There was nothing I would rather have done than taken care of you when you got home. You’ve always been the love of my life, Daniel Seavey, and I would have sat by your side every minute of every day if it made life easier for you.”

They shared a soft kiss.

“And now,” she held his face in her hands still with his arms lovingly around her waist, “you have blessed me with two children and it is only fair to pass on my promise to them too. Especially to them and especially Charlie right now. At best, helping you is what prepared me for this. He’s just like you in all the best ways too…I know how to care for my men. Nothing is going to scare me away. Not then and certainly not now.”

Daniel just stared at her in near awe, “Elizabeth Winifred Seavey, you are…an angel on earth. What the hell did I do to ever deserve you?”

“You loved me.” Elizabeth answered with a shrug and a smile. “That’s all I wanted.”

“I don’t say it enough.”

“You don’t need to. I just know.”

May 2, 1922

Four-year-old Charlie was scared of a few things. He was scared of the dark, he was scared of strangers, and he was scared of three headed fire breathing dragons that seemed to like to crowd his dreams at night. There was a while there where nightmares were common and Charlie would snap his eyes open in a cold sweat, panicked, and all alone in his bedroom. With any and all courage left in his body, he would grab his teddy and jump out of bed and run across the small upstairs hallway to his parents’ room.

He would quietly open the door and tip toe quickly to the end of the double bed and crawl right up in the space between his parents. His father always woke up first – he never slept as deeply after his time on the mainland fighting – and right away he would scoop up his little boy against his chest.

Charlie’s favourite place was in his father’s arms since it was where he felt the safest. His mother was a close second. Like routine, after a nightmare, he would wiggle his way into his parents’ bed and find comfort in his father’s embrace.

Daniel would pet his hair and whisper down to him, “What’s wrong, little one?”

Charlie would just cuddle closer, finding the safety he needed against his father’s chest and strong heartbeat and he would lull himself back to sleep after a few mere minutes. To four-year-old Charlie, Daniel was England’s best dragon slayer.

September 13, 1945

The three headed dragon easily was forgotten about as Charlie grew up but it was never gone for good. It moulded into different things from time to time from failed exam marks to someone who wanted to take his sister, but the worst was the plane. The three headed dragon always moulded into something that was possible but this one was the worst because it wasn’t just possible, it was real and it had happened.

The green scales of the dragon was the chipped paint on the wings of the plane, it’s fiery breath were the flames was engulfed the metal, and it’s teeth were the evil bite of Nazism, threatening to take Europe and it’s men down with it. Richard was its prey and it held him in its jaws until a rain of blood was drenching Charlie’s uniform and soaking into his hair. He screamed for mercy, to take him instead, but he would be ignored and his brother would be devoured.

Charlie woke with a gasp, heaving for breath as he sat up quickly in his bed, sheets drenched in sweat which wasn’t an unusual sight. It took a second for him to process where he was, his head whipping from side to side to try and piece together the German prisoner of war barracks or the Air Force bunks. His own bedroom stared back at him quietly. He sighed a shuttering sigh.

He choked back forming tears, wiping his clammy palms on his pyjama pants, the sweat feeling far too much like the remnants of blood. He trembled. He felt as if the dragon was watching him.

Charlie tossed the sheets off his bed and stepped one foot to the cold hardwood floor after the other before shuffling towards the door. The house was dark and silent. Charlie wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore but he was scared of fear itself.

It only took him five steps to cross the upstairs hallway – it used to take him eleven as a little boy – and he rested his hand on the door handle. He fought with himself a moment, his heart racing in fear as if there would be a punishment for being out of bed in the middle of the night. At the prison camps there was at least.

Charlie opened the door quietly and slipped inside without bothering to close it behind him. He took his usual spot at the end of his parents’ double bed and took a second to watch them sleep. His heart ached and he let out a small sob that he smothered into his hand as he climbed up onto the end of the bed. Charlie shuffled right up between them, choking quietly through his tears as he squeezed his grown-up body between his parents.

Daniel and Elizabeth both woke up at the movement, Elizabeth rolling over to face her distraught son who was trying to curl himself into Daniel’s chest. They shared quiet glances before helping to shuffle him under the blankets with them.

“There you go, little one.” Daniel whispered, tucking the sheets up nice and high around Charlie’s shoulders and then wrapped his arm around him, “We’re right here. You’re safe.”

Charlie only cried harder, clinging onto his father through his sobs without speaking a word.

“Good boy, Charles Christian.” Daniel praised softly, rubbing his son’s back lovingly. “Let it all out.”

Elizabeth sniffled quietly, petting her hand through Charlie’s tangled brown hair as she watched him weep and tremble helplessly. Daniel hummed softly, resting his chin against his son’s head as he cuddled up against his chest and cried into his shirt, rubbing soothing patterns across his back.

“It’s not your fault.” Daniel whispered into his hair as if it were going to be processed by his mind easier that way. “It’s not your fault. None of it was your fault.”

“I miss him!” Charlie sobbed, “Richie!”

“Shh, I know. I know you do.” Daniel held his son closer and pressed a kiss to his forehead, cradling his head under his chin.

“It’s not fair!”

“I know.” Daniel shut his eyes tightly. “It isn’t fair at all.”

Charlie was heaving for breath, chest shuttering and throat choking over each inhale until he was just making himself panic.

“Okay, darling boy, listen to Mama.” Elizabeth spoke gently, resting her hand on his shoulder, “Take some nice deep breaths with us.”

Daniel and Elizabeth both breathed in together to lead him, holding him close as he tried to copy but his trembling and his weeping made it difficult.

“In and out, Charlie.” Elizabeth whispered to him, giving him enough room where he didn’t feel crowded as he fisted the back of Daniel’s shirt in his hand and started to breathe easier. Each inhale was shaky and each exhale was paired with a sob and Charlie just shut his eyes and clung onto his father.

Soon his breathing was calmer and his wails had fallen into whimpers, exhaustion taking over amidst his feeling of safety. Charlie rested against his father’s chest, lips chapped and pouted and long lashes resting on flushed cheeks, his brown hair a shaggy mess on top of his head and it almost flopped in front of his eyes. Elizabeth gently brushed his hair back from his face and left him with a kiss to his cheek, pausing to admire her little boy as he finally fell back to sleep.

She glanced at Daniel and whispered a concerned, “Are you okay?”

Daniel nodded and made sure the blankets were tucked nice and high around his son, “I’m fine.”

“If this brings up things for you, I can always take over.”

“Lizzie.” Daniel interrupted her quietly. “I promise. I’m alright.”

She nodded and leaned over Charlie to kiss her husband’s cheek. They shared quiet ‘I love you’s and curled up close in their double bed now taken up by three grown adults. They wouldn’t dare to complain.

Daniel stared down at his grown-up son in his arms, feeling him breathing steadily and sleeping soundly.

You see, Daniel and Charles were more alike than either would have liked to admit. Their looks down to their passionate personalities were quite similar but even their experiences and how they dealt with grief were similar in themselves. One thing that differed between Daniel and Charles was that Charlie had parents…good parents…and a father who would put his life on the line for his son no matter what.

Daniel never had that paternal comfort growing up and even less of it when he returned from the war and he always feared of becoming like his father. Maybe he was quiet and distant as a young man and was a bit too over cautious when it came to his children, but Daniel knew perfectly well that his purpose in life was to be the father that his children deserved and needed. His son needed him to take away his pain and that’s what he was going to do. He was to be the father he never had, now more than ever.

#✉

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