#also turning this into a please god keep wearing a mask and taking measures to stop covid spread

[hogmilked]

can’t wait until i finally get health insurance, looking forward to not having moments like now where my room is a little chilly but generally a perfectly normal temperature but i’m bundled up under three layers of fleece, sherpa, and sweatshirt and am still shivering because my blood flow is just going “no ❤️”

[guttedwhxre]

─ 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌 ❞ michael a. myers (sft ver.)

my michael myers headcanons!

tw: blood ment

author notes: i wanted to post the nsft version at the same time but got impatient </3 hopefully i’ll post all hcs at the same time in the future!

michael was never taught ASL in smith’s grove - well, he was, but wasn’t very receptive to it. dr. loomis checked it off the list after the third month of trying to get the boy to learn. michael knows some ASL, but doesn’t remember most of it. while his pantomiming is still mostly effective, you think it’d probably be better to actually learn ASL. gives him something else to focus on other than, you know, murder.

michael had no clothes when he first came to you, nothing besides the clothes on his back. when it came time to finally wash the coveralls the man stalked around your house naked, with only his mask on. it was a little comical, but he definitely needed something else to wear besides his, ah, work uniform. so you went on the trip to your nearest, cheapest clothing store - because let’s be real michael would most likely absolutely destroy the clothes somehow, whether it be by murdering someone in them or getting dirty on purpose to piss you off, whatever. no need to spend a ton of money on it, so the most you got him was some underwear, socks, normal t-shirts, tanks (because you KNOW he’d look amazing in a wifebeater), and the pinnacle, grey sweatpants.

wearing civvies struck a cord in michael, so sometimes when he came back home from a long few nights out he’d have a new hoodie or jacket for you to wash the bloodstains out of. he has surprisingly good taste.

as mentioned in his beginnings imagine - michael often leaves you shiny little gifts. jewelry, coins, rocks, anything that sparkles and catches his eye. he’ll also bring home lighters, car keys, house keys, nail filers - small, personal items. he doesn’t give them to you, just drops them around the house.

the house and car keys are often alarming, as they’re almost direct evidence. you don gloves and try to swiftly get rid of them when you find them laying around.

michael is very, very tall. he’s somewhere around 6’5’’- 6’7’’, but he refuses to let you measure him.

‘78 myers is closer to 6’5’’

RZ myers is closer to 6’7’’

he’s also very buff - you’d have to be, all the murdering michael does. it’s fun to squeeze his biceps, and if he’s feeling kind, his pecs.

(he gazes down blankly at you, blue eyes seeming to glitter with amusement. he huffs, warm breath fanning out against your forehead as you give his pecs one final squeeze, kissing him on his cheek. “you’re too kind to me, michael.” you see the corners of his lips begin to quirk up into a smile. he knows.)

he loves the way you smell. doesn’t matter if you think that you stink, or smell a certain way, michael loves it because it’s so you. he’ll grow accustomed to the perfumes and colognes you may wear, and if you change it up he expresses his distaste by hiding the new scent and finding (a.k.a stealing) the old one from wherever you get it. it gets old very quickly.

michael is pretty good about the boundaries you set. if you’re gentle and firm about it he’ll listen, yelling and screaming at michael will get you nowhere but a grave.

(“michael,” you start, trying to keep your tone even. this is what you get, for buying a white comforter set. old blood is smeared all over it, evidence of him laying down after a kill in those god forsaken coveralls. he doesn’t move from his spot, staring up at you from his place on the bed, mask still adorning his face. finally, he shifts, turning a little towards you and smearing even more blood into the bed. you take a deep breath. this had to be a test. “please don’t get into the bed when you’re still bloody. shower and change your clothes first,” you exhale, “please.” at first michael doesn’t move, then slowly, he stands up from the bed, and brushes past you into the bathroom, pantomiming the movement of turning a faucet on. you look down at your now ruined bed spread. yup, it definitely had to be burned.)

michael uses sooooo much body wash and hair product in one go, so much so that you had to start buying hygiene products from surplus stores. people assume that you’re doomsday prepping, but no, you just have a giant boyfriend who needs a lot of soap. 

when michael finally does warm up to you, he’s awfully handsy. he always has his hand on something, your arm, leg, ass, anything he can get a grip of. he’s fond of just massaging wherever he’s grabbed, kinda like a cat making biscuits on a beloved blanket. you’re his favorite blanket! 

[ericsangyeon]

addicted - l.sy

‘He was like fire, she was his igniter. Together they were each other's addictions.”

pairing: sangyeon x female! reader

word count: 7.0k

genre: angst, fluff, suggestive

theme: gang au sorta??

warnings: SMUT!!, profanity, drinking, guns, blood, kidnapping, bang chan and skz are villians

a/n: hey guys! i wanted to try writing a fic bc why not! this is my first tme ever writing smut so be nice. also this was edited many times but there could be mistakes so just bare with me. enjoy it! i worked really hard hehe -t :D

playlist moodboard

~

“Kevin oh my god. I'm not going to that criminal ball.” I roll my eyes at my best friend.

“Pretty please? You can finally meet Jacob! And I'm pretty sure a certain someone wants you there too,” Kevin smirks from the other side of the work area. I stop cleaning the countertops and stare up at him with wide eyes.

Kevin, and his boyfriend Jacob, are members of the underground mafia group TBZ, which never gets brought up when I'm with Kevin because he knows it makes me uncomfortable. That was until Lee Sangyeon came into the picture. Sangyeon is the leader and “big boss” (as Kevin calls him) of TBZ, and has somehow found interest in me. Ever since Kevin brought him into the cafe a month ago during one of my shifts, I kept bumping into him everywhere. From work, to campus, to even near my apartment. He tries to make small talk with me, which I always ignore and keep distance from him. I see him all the time despite wanting to, and I want nothing to do with him…. even though he literally looks and talks like an angel sent from heaven. I'm positive there is some sort of an attraction between the two of us. But don't tell anyone I said that. Lee Sangyeon is hopelessly attractive and I couldn't help myself to have developed a crush on him. If it wasn't for his shady career choice, I would have hooked up with him in an instant.

“How many times do I have to tell you Kevin? I want nothing to do with him,” I cry while Kevin snickers.

“He's not even that bad, he only hurts people who have wronged him” Kevin explains.”But never mind about him, Jacob really wants to meet you and you said you’re free Friday so please, please pl-”

“Fine oh my god.” I huff while Kevin claps, pleased with himself. “One problem, I have nothing to wear.”

“Not to worry about that sweetheart, I got that covered. Just text me your measurements.” Kevin says. I was going to try to argue with him but I knew he would win no matter what, so I just shot him a thumbs up.

“Anyways babes I gotta go to class now. See ya y/n!” Kevin grins, blew me an air kiss which I caught with a small smile, and walked out of the cafe.

I sigh and put the cleaning supplies away. As I went to greet a customer, all I could think was - it's just a ball, with your best friend and his boyfriend. What could possibly go wrong?

~

On Thursday night, as I was getting ready to make dinner, there was a knock on my apartment door. I went to answer it, but found no one there when I opened it. Instead, a white box with a small bag on top, both had my name on it. “Oh yes.” I thought to myself. “The criminal ball.”

I grabbed both items and brought them to my room to open them. I unsecure the first box to be greeted to white tissue paper and a note on top, which I pick up and read the writing.

“This colour will look ravishing on you. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”

Or at least that's what I thought it said. It was written in a script that I had never seen before, and it certainly wasn't Kevin’s handwriting. Maybe Jacob’s? I put the note aside and unwrap the tissue paper to take out the dress and my jaw drops. I pull out a ball gown that was wine red and had a lace strapless top with a semi-poofy skirt attached. Below it were gold open toed high heels. I laid everything down on my bed and reached for the small bag that was on top. Without checking first, I pull out what was in that bag and gasp. In my hands is a beautiful gold mask with black silk fabric to wrap around my eyes. Fuck. Kevin never mentioned it being a masquerade ball? Now I have a higher chance of running into Lee Sangyeon since I probably won’t be able to tell who's who.

I send Kevin a quick text saying thank you for the dress, cursing him out for not telling me that piece of info. To finish my day, I made my dinner and went to bed early.

~

Friday night at 6:45pm, found me applying my last coat of lipstick as I stood up from my vanity chair. Staring back at me in the mirror was a completely different person. I loosely curled my long straight hair so it was falling down my back in waves. My makeup was not too heavy, yet not too light. My eyeshadow was a nude colour to contrast with my mask, as well as my lipstick was wine red to match my gown. The dress and shoes fit me perfectly (thanks Kevin), as well as the finishing touch, the gold mask.

My phone beeps and I looked down to see a text that the car Kevin sent for me was here, so I grabbed my phone and clutch and locked up my apartment. “Goodbye bed, I’ll see you later tonight.” I thought to myself, smirking.

The car waiting for me downstairs was gorgeous and sleek, and when I entered the back seat, the driver tipped his hat at me and we were on our way.

After driving 20 mins out of the city, the driver turns onto a single sided road where in the distance, I could see a huge house with bright lights shining.

“Oh my god.” I whispered to myself as the driver pulled up to a mansion - no - castle with a staircase leading to the entrance. The car stops and I could feel myself start to get nauseous. The driver came to open my door, lending me a hand so I could get out of the car safely.

“Have a great evening, Miss y/n.”

“Thank you, I do hope so.” I smile softly as I turned to walk up the staircase on this warm June evening.

As I was walking in the big hallway that led to what I'm guessing is the ballroom, I went over my rules for tonight. 1) Don't trip 2) stay with Kevin 3) avoid Sangyeon at all costs.

But of course, when the guards opened the big double doors for me to enter, everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at me as I walked further into the room. I see someone come forward from the crowd of people and my eyes go wide because I know it is not Kevin or Jacob.

Lee Sangyeon is walking towards me like he had been waiting for this moment, and there was nothing I could do about it.

He looks amazing of course, like a walking marble statue that came to life. His light brown hair was pushed back to reveal his amazing eyebrows and smirking lips and he was dressed in a black velvet suit that was so low cut that I could see a glimpse of his defined pecs. He wore a black velvet mask over his brown eyes. Sangyeon had me very much weak at the knees right now so thank god everyone went back to minding their own business.

“Y/n! I'm so glad you could make it.” He smiles at me. That goddamn smile. “You look exquisite.” Sangyeon said to me as he reached down, grabs my hand and softly kisses it while staring at me.

My breath hitches. “You don’t look too bad yourself.” I softly smile at him. “Now excuse me,” I whisper, attempting to create some distance. But his hand on mine got tighter.  “May I have this dance?” Sangyeon asks. I nod my head, not sure what took over me. He softly smiles at me and leads me toward the dance floor, where other couples are dancing already. As we were nearing the dance floor, I felt myself trip over my gown. Before I could faceplant with the floor, rough hands were on my waist pulling me up.

“Be careful y/n.” Sangyeon chuckles and I thought I would throw up on his designer shoes.

He puts my hands on his neck and grabs my waist to pull me close to him. Sangyeon starts to sway me back and forth, eyes never leaving mine. As we danced for a few minutes, I felt his thumb lightly brush against my hip bone and I saw him slightly leaning his face towards mine. I finally jumped out of the trance he put me in and unwrapped my arms from his neck.

“I can’t do this. Excuse me.” I told Sangyeon as I brushed past him, leaving him on the dancefloor alone.

I speed walk over to the bar and spot a familiar black head of curls standing with a brunette boy wearing a similar tux.

“Where have you been, asshole?” I yell behind Kevin, making him jump and then smile at me.

“Hey y/n you made it! Meet Jacob, my boyfriend.” He gestures towards the man next to him wearing the same mask.

“Nice to meet you, Jacob. Kev, I'm getting a drink and then calling a cab to leave. I can’t be here.” I say while looking around.

Before Kevin could say anything back, I turned my back to him and ordered red wine from the nearest bartender. I sigh and drink my wine and look over at the guy who is standing next to me.

“Rough night?’ He smiles at me.

“You could say that.” I smile back as I drank more of my wine.

He chuckles and extends his hand to me.”I’m Bang Chan.”

“Y/n.” I shake his hand back.

His smile faded once I said my name.”You’re Lee’s girl?”

I stare wide eyed at him. “I'm who's girl??”

Before he could answer me, a body was standing between us. Sangyeon.

“Piss off Bang, she's mine.” Sangyeon growls at him.

“Excuse me?” I said but no one seems to hear me.

“Chill out Lee, I was just getting to know her, but I’ll leave.” Bang Chan waves bye to me behind Sangyeon’s back and walks away.

Sangyeon turned around and looked at me, his defined jaw clenching tightly.

“Y/n, we are leaving.” He states.

“I am not going anywhere with you!” I yell back while a muscle in his jaw twitches as he clenches  his hands into a fist.

“Y/n. I suggest you go with him before he tries to shoot someone, because he will.” Kevin appears and says behind me, squeezing my shoulder. I just nod my head at Sangyeon. Kevin would never put me in danger. Right?

Before I could even say bye, Sangyeon grabs my hand and is leading me out the ballroom door, out of the castle and towards his car.

He opens the passenger seat car door for me. “Get in.” He says to me. I glare at him as I get in slowly.

Sangyeon shuts the door and walks over to the driver side, gets in, takes his mask off, and starts the car without even saying anything. And we are off to god knows where.

The entire drive was silent. Sangyeon is gripping the wheel tightly, rough fingers scattered with rings turning white. I'm too scared to move, only moving my hands to remove my mask and my heels that were starting to hurt my feet.

20 minutes later, we are back in the city and Sangyeon is pulling into a parking garage surrounded by guards. He pulls into a parking spot, and leaves the car after stopping it. I open the car door to follow him, barefoot and all.

In the elevator I kept trying to glance over at Sangyeon, but he’s looking straight ahead, defined jaw still clenched. The elevator door opens and I gasp. I walk out behind Sangyeon to see a beautiful penthouse common area surrounded by glass windows overlooking the city night sky.

Before I could even admire the place and the city lights that surrounded the room, my back is being pushed against a hard wall to face a livid Sangyeon. He grabs  my wrists and leans in.

“How dare you talk to other men, especially him.” Sangyeon growls in my ear. “You’re mine.”

I stare at him in disbelief as he faces me again. “I-I will never be yours. You can't tell me what to do.”

A smirk slowly appears on his face. “Oh yeah? We will see about that, princess.”

Before I could even think of a witty response back, Sangyeon grabbed my face and his lips were on mine, and I felt my tough interior crumble as I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him even closer, bodies touching.

He kisses me again. And again. Like he is possessing me. And it was working as I kissed him back hard. “You are mine” Sangyeon whispers against my lips. “No one else’s.” Sangyeon starts kissing down my neck, lightly sucking on certain parts, while I’m biting my lip trying to hold back my moans. It felt so goddamn good, but I'm stubborn and didn't want him to have the upper hand. Sangyeon sucks hard on the crook of my neck, making me release my lips and moan as I feel him smirk against my neck. He won, I lost and now I am melting into his touch.

Sangyeon kisses my shoulders and exposed collarbones, stops and chuckles into the crook of my neck.

“You know I picked this dress for you. Not Kevin.” he says while unzipping my gown.

“What?” I whisper, shocked.

“You heard me.” Then my dress is on the ground, leaving me in just my black strapless bra and panties.  Sangyeon is staring at my body with lust covered eyes as I just stare back at him, both of us breathing heavily, a boner starting to appear in his velvet suit pants.

“Wow, you’re so fucking beautiful.” He says quickly before kissing me again hard on the lips, shoving each other's tongues deep inside our mouths.

“Jump” He mumbles against my mouth and I obey, wrapping my legs around him as he carries me to his bedroom, never breaking the kiss.

When we enter his room, he lays me down softly on the huge mattress and proceeds to take my bra off, leaving me topless.

“God, these tits.” I hear him growl as I hiss at the cold air hitting my bare breasts, but the hissing quickly turns into moans as Sangyeon takes my right nipple into his mouth and sucks on it while playing with the other one using his hand.

“Fuck.” I moan loudly, mouth parting.

After rotating, sucking and playing with my breasts, Sangyeon removes his mouth from my nipple and starts to kiss down my stomach, inching towards my panties.

“You're such a good girl for me.” He coos on my stomach as I moan and squirm. Sangyeon brushes his fingers lightly against the fabric of my panties and looks up at me and mouths “you sure?” I nod my head back. He smiles before removing my panties with his teeth. I am now bare naked in front of a fully clothed Lee Sangyeon.

Sangyeon positions himself right in front of my pussy and spreads my legs open as I gasp and watch him lean down. He kisses and sucks on both my thighs, guaranteeing hickeys in those spots later on.

“You’re so fucking ethereal, Y/n.” Sangyeon mumbles and kisses the tops of my thighs softly, and before I could even think, his mouth was on my clit and I scream.

“FUCK Sangyeon oh my god!” I arch my back and moan loud as he licks into my clit.

“So wet me for me already.” He murmurs against my pussy.

He starts to suck and kiss my clit and I can’t breathe. I could feel his tongue exploring my entire pussy, eating it up as if it was his favorite food. My hands found his soft light brown hair and as I ran my hands through it, he sucked on my clit even harder. After for what seemed like seconds, Sangyeon comes up for air and proceeds to put a finger slowly in my hole, pumping in and out.

“You tasted so good, I can’t wait to see how you take my fingers and then my cock.” Sangyeon rasps out as he adds another finger as I'm a moaning mess below him.

“FUCK! Im gonna-” “Cum for me babygirl.” He says while pumping his fingers faster. I arch my back and scream his name while I cum onto his rough digits. He removes them from my pussy and sucks on the juices that got on them.

“Tastes so sweet.” He says while licking his fingers clean and staring directly at my hooded eyes and parted mouth.

Before I can even catch my breath, his lips are on mine quickly, stands up from the bed and unbuttons his blazer, revealing his amazing toned upper body and taking off his pants and boxers, cock slapping against his abs. He was huge, I gulp knowing that that's going to be inside me soon.

“I'm on the pill!” I hear myself blurt out. Sangyeon chuckles at that.

“Good to know y/n.” He says with a smile while running a hand through his hair before positioning himself over my body, hands on each side of me and aligning his cock with my hole.

“This is gonna hurt.” I thought to myself, since the last time I had sex was high school and it was awful to say the least.

Sangyeon starts to slide his dick in slowly and I can’t breathe again.

“Fuck. You're such a tight baby girl.” He rasps out as I let out a string of curses.

Sangyon thrusts into me slowly at first, but when he realizes i'm no longer screaming and just moaning, he removes his cock and slams it back into me hard and fast, which makes me lose my mind. He swears under his breath a few times before he speeds up the movements. I wrap my arms and legs around him, leaving scratches on his back as he leans closer to me and touches his forehead with mine.

“You're so beautiful sprawled out like this under me princess.” he growls into my ear as he thrusts even harder into my pussy, making both of us swear and moan each other's names as I move my hands from his back to his hair and he moves his to play with my nipples.

Between Sangyeon pinching my nipples and his cock tearing me open, the pleasure flowing through right now is something I have never felt before.

“Shit y/n!” Sangyeon grunts and thrusts hard once more into my pussy and pulls his dick out and uses his right hand to pump out his orgasm all over my stomach. His other hand reaches down to rub my clit in circles while kissing my neck and leaving more hickeys to help ride out my second orgasm of the night.

“Fuck Sangyeon!” I scream as I release all over his fingers once again. He licks it up again and mumbles “so sweet princess.” while looking at my dilated pupils.

He gets off me and rolls over so that he's beside my overstimulated body but head is tilted towards my direction.

“Are you okay?” Sangyeon asks me, concerned eyes looking over my shaking body that's struggling to even look at where he is.

“I'm amazing.” I respond back softly, him sighing in relief as he strokes my cheek with his knuckle.

“I've wanted to do this for so long.” He whispers and smiles softly at me.

“Me too.” I whisper back smiling as he kisses my lips softly and jumps out of bed, and runs into the connected bathroom fully naked leaving me alone in his huge bed, body paralyzed.

Sangyeon returns with a washcloth and a bowl of warm water and moves my shaking body so I'm lying on his leg while he dips the cloth in the water and starts to clean me up.

“You did so well for me. You were so beautiful when you came. So beautiful for me.” He murmurs to me fondly, rubbing the cloth over my body tenderly as I'm falling in and out of slumber. As I fall asleep, Sangyeon gets into bed next to me and tucks us both in. He kisses my forehead and wraps his arms around my waist and I rest my head on his chest.

“What a night.” I think to myself before dozing off in Sangyeons strong arms, moonlight shining through the huge windows.

Tomorrow is a new day, where we decide what happens next. But one thing's for sure.

I am addicted to Lee Sangyeon.

~

Light shines through the windows as I open my eyes to an unfamiliar surrounding, and then it hits me. I had mindblowing sex with Lee Sangyeon and now I am lying naked, tangled in his bedsheets. I feel an arm loosely draped around my bare waist. As I sigh and glance over next to me, I find Sangyeon lying on his side, staring at me with fond eyes.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He whispers to me in his deep morning voice. Swoon.

“Good morning, handsome.” I whisper back to him with a smile on my face.

I untangle myself from his arm, and attach my lips softly to his. Sangyeon does not react at first, but proceeds to kiss me back softly and full of tenderness as he cups my face into his hands. I break the kiss and lay my head on his bare chest.

“Last night was amazing.” Sangyeon murmurs into my hair and kisses my temple as I nod back.

Oh fuck, I just remembered. I sat up and faced the man with wide eyes.

“What's wrong baby?” Sangyeon asks, genuinely concerned.

“Fuck, what do I tell Kevin?” I gape at him.

Sangyeon chuckles loudly, eyes crinkling as he grabs my waist and pulls me down towards him. He tickles me, making me laugh.

After lying in bed for what seemed like hours and just talking, Sangyeon reaches over to the night table next to him. He grabs his phone and starts to furiously type as I just stare at his fingers flying across the screen.

“I told Jacob he is in charge over at the house this weekend, which means I get to spend it all with you.” He says as he puts his phone back down. Apparently, now I was spending the weekend at Sangyeon’s luxury penthouse. Good thing I didn’t have work this weekend.

After taking a shower in Sangyeon’s massive ensuite bathroom (and looking at myself in the mirror, in shock at the sight of my hickeys across my body), I changed into the clothes he left me, which seems to be his boxers and a blue and pink pullover sweater. I walk out of the bedroom towards the kitchen to find a very shirtless Sangyeon putting waffles on the island counter. He briefly explained to me earlier that he sent all his staff home, including his cooks, so it could just be us in the penthouse.

“Wow, waffles? You really know the way to a girl's heart.” I say amused as I take a seat on one of the island chairs.

He laughs loud and leans over the island, arms resting on the counter. “It's one of the only things I know how to make, so expect take out the rest of the weekend.” Sangyeon says with a smile on his beautiful face as I wolfed down the waffles in front of me.

“One day I’ll teach you how to cook.” I wink at him.

Sangyeon grabs my hand softly and rubs his thumb over my knuckles and kisses them softly. “I would love that, y/n.” He says with a smile on his face.

The rest of the day is spent just relaxing. Sangyeon shows me around his penthouse, from his impressive indoor gym to his walk in closet in which he implies that will once be mine as well. I ignore his comment. Afterwards, he shows me the tv room where a massive flat screen was attached to the wall and asks me to pick a movie, which I pick The Notebook.

“Really y/n?” Sangyeon rolls his eyes as he sets the movie up.

“Yes Sangyeon really. Now come sit here and enjoy.” I respond as I pat the spot on the leather couch next to me.

After the movie, and laughing at an almost crying Sangyeon, I go to retrieve my phone from my clutch to find 15 missed calls from Kevin.

“Oh good! He didn't kill you!” Kevin cries in my ear after picking up after the first ring.

“Yes Kev, I'm totally fine.” I respond quietly.

“Did you guys fuck?” Kevin asks and when I don’t respond, he screams into the phone, which makes me cringe and move the device away from my ear.

“OMG I KNEW IT YOU HAVE TO TELL ME EVERYTHING! WAS HIS DICK AS BIG AS JACOB AND I THOUGHT?” He yells into the phone as I softly chuckle and proceeds to tell everything to a panicking Kevin.

“Holy shit. I owe Eric $50.” Kevin sighs into the phone after I explained everything to him.

“You were betting on me? Anyways I don't even wanna know.” I say annoyed.

“Are you guys like a thing now?” He asks me.

“I'm not entirely sure.” I reply unsure.

“Well no matter what, I support you sweetcheeks.” Kevin assures.

I snort. “Thanks Kev, right back at you. Gotta go now eat dinner, I'll update you later.”

Kevin laughs. “Enjoy Sangyeons big d-” I hung up on him.

That night found Sangyeon and I, fully clothed, cuddled in bed and holding each other, just listening to each other's heartbeat and making small talk.

“Sangyeon, how did you become the leader of TBZ?” I asked, looking up at him from where my head was on his chest.

He sighs and looks straight ahead. “For generations, a Lee has always led the gang, no matter what. It was between my cousins and myself, but my elders picked me, as my dad was the former leader before he passed and I've always been a leader, even since I was a young boy,” Sangyeon replies.

“I’m so sorry.” I say to him. He smiles softly and kisses my cheek.

“Don’t worry about me princess. Tell me, what are you studying?” He asks me.

“I'm studying childhood studies and english lit  so after I graduate I can enroll in a teachers college. I wanna be an elementary school teacher.” I answer him proudly.

Sangyeon smiles at me fondly. “You will be an amazing teacher.” He says while stroking my face with his hands. He kisses me softly as I melt into his touch.

After not being so sure about Sangyeon, I have come to realize how amazing he is. I can feel myself starting to like him more and more each day.

I am his and he is mine and in the end, it's him and I.

~

Months pass, and Sangyeon and I can’t get enough of each other. Everyday when I finish my shift at work, he picks me up and we either go to his place or mine to have dinner. Last week I even taught him how to boil pasta! But, sometimes we don’t even make it to dinner because I end up riding him in the back of his luxury car. Whoops.

One day while we were lying in bed after having sex, I sat up.

“Wait Sangyeon, what are we?” I asked him, facing where he was lying on his back.

Sangyeon sat up next to me.  “Well y/n, I'm extremely fond of you and think you are the most intelligent and beautiful girl I have ever laid eyes on, and I wish to give you nothing but happiness and satisfaction. I would love nothing more than for you to be my girlfriend,” He says to me, a glimmer in his eyes.

I stare at him, shocked because no one has ever said anything like this to me, and then I felt myself smile at him as I wrap my arms around his shoulders.

“Yes Lee Sangyeon, I will be your girlfriend. I will be yours.”

He smiles wide back at me. “Then you are all mine.” He whispers back as he connects his lips with mine for a passionate kiss.

Kevin thinks it’s hilarious that I wear more turtlenecks more often, which always makes me turn beet red. Because when Sangyeon and I have sex, he doesn’t just bite, he chews on my body like a fucking dog (“Doesnt it feel so good though?” “Kevin I swear to god.”) I have also gotten to meet Sangyeon’s entire gang, made up of 11 men including himself, and watching Sangyeon speak to them so confidently and leader-like makes my heart flutter. Yeah, I definitely think I’ve fallen in love with Lee Sangyeon.

A rainy Thursday afternoon found me finishing up my shift at work, getting ready to close the cafe as the only employee left. Sangyeon had texted me earlier saying he couldn't pick me up today due to an important meeting, so I was stuck walking home alone. Which was fine with me since my apartment was only a ten minute walk from the cafe.

As I was locking up the cafe doors, I heard a car engine behind me. I turned around smiling, expecting to see Sangyeon, but my smile faded, when the window opened and Bang Chan was in the passenger seat, pointing a gun at me.

“Y/n. Get in the car right now so no one gets hurt.” He commands me in a monotone voice.

“Never.” I sneer back at him and start to back away from the car.

“Fine. Guess we are doing this the hard way.” He replies.

Before I could sprint away, someone appeared behind me, put a cloth to my mouth and grabbed my waist. As the world around me went black, all I could think was, “Lee Sangyeon is going to murder you for stealing his girl.”

Blood. Blood is dripping from a gash in my forehead when I regain consciousness. I look around frantically to find myself in what looked like an abandoned warehouse with my hands and legs tied together with heavy rope.

“Help!” I scream loudly, but that did not do anything for my situation. Instead, Bang Chan enters with another man holding a rifle and I feel another scream forming in my throat. The rope tied around my hands and legs were digging into my flesh and I could feel blood emerging from them.

“Ah y/n! Lee’s playtoy! Glad to see you awake!” Bang Chan claps and smiles at me wickedly while I just glare back.

“TBZ knows you're with us sweetheart.” He says. “We told them it's either you or the money.”

My mouth opens and then closes. “What money? I swear I don't know anything, he never tells me about his work,” I cry to him.

“LIES!” Bang Chan screams. “Han. Go get her.” The other man - Han - walks over to me, ignites the rifle and puts it against my head hard. I start to cry even harder and squirm in my spot even though I feel the rope burning getting worse.

“We are going to try this again y/n. Where is the money?” Bang Chan yells into my face. I spat at him and Han forced the gun to my already bleeding forehead harder.

“I'm done. Shoot her.” Bang Chan shouts.

“No, please don't shoot!” I cry, knowing nothing will make a difference.

As I felt Han press down on the trigger, I stop thrashing and sat still. At this point, there was nothing I could do to stop this myself.

Lee Sangyeon, don't forget about me.

“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH HER!” A familiar voice yells behind Bang Chan.

I wail loud with my last bit of strength I had.  “Help m-” BOOM!

Around me, I see the building collapse, rubble hitting my head as it knocks me over. Gunshots were loud and clear although my ears were ringing loud.

The last thing I remember before blacking out again were strong arms pulling me out of rubble.

Beeping. White ceiling. That is what I see and hear when I finally regain consciousness again. Looking around the plain room, I can see that I’m in a hospital bed. There is a bandage on my head and I can feel both my wrists and feet bandaged tightly, as well as an IV in my right arm. I move my head to the right slowly to the hallway window and see guards are positioned outside the hospital room. “Anything for Lee Sangyeon’s girl.” I think to myself and chuckle.

Wait. Sangyeon. Where is he? Is he alive?

“Hey sweet cheeks.” I hear a voice from the other side of the room. I slowly turn my head to see Kevin standing up from the couch that is in front of my bed and smiling at me.

“I'm glad you're okay. You woke up earlier than the doctors thought. You don’t have to worry about the Stray Kids gang anymore. They all died in the explosion.” He explains to me.

I nod my head slowly.

“Sangyeon. Where is Sangyeon?” I rasp out to Kevin.

Kevin softly smirks and shakes his head at the ground. “He's okay, he was here a few minutes ago, he hasn’t left your side in days. I’ll go get him, he's just getting his bandages touched up. He got injured in the explosion while pulling you out of the rubble.” Kevin tells me as I feel tears in my eyes. He would’ve sacrificed himself to save my life.

After patting my head softly, Kevin left the room to get Sangyeon, leaving me alone crying softly.

“Y/n.” I gasp and sit up and look towards the door, where the love of my life, Lee Sangyeon is standing with white bandages on his left arm and tears streaming down his scratched up, but beautiful face. Seeing him standing in front of me, makes me cry even harder. Without saying anything, I rip the IV out of my arm, slide out of the bed and jump into Sangyeons arms, and engulf him in a hug, which he gladly returns.

“I thought I lost you.” I cry into his shoulder as he sits down on the bed with me on his lap. I move my head to stare into his beautiful eyes, that still have his usual shimmer, even after all that has happened. “You'll never lose me.” He whispers fondly as he cups my face in his hands and wipes away my tears softly with his right thumb.

Sangyeon held me like I was a broken doll, fragile but sweet. He whispered sorry to me over and over again, which I quickly shushed and ran a bandaged hand through his soft brown hair.

“I love you so much.” I say to him, grabbing his neck softly and pulling him towards me.

“I love you more princess.” He says while smiling wide at me, which made me smile back at him as we connected foreheads.

~

“God Sangyeon. Go take a shower you stink.” I say to him as we enter his penthouse after being in the hospital for days, which ended with the doctor clearing both of us. I got the bandages on my head, hands, and feet, and he got his bandages removed.

“And you don’t smell y/n?” He smirks at me as I scoff. “Shower with me.” He says, eyes darkening as my breath hitches.

“Okay.” I nod, and we are on our way to his huge ensuite bathroom.

We both strip out of our dirty clothes and get into the massive glass shower, me going in first with Sangyeon following.

I watch him pump the liquid from the shampoo bottle into his hands, and lather the shampoo into my hair as he stands behind me.

“You’re so fucking beautiful Y/n” Sangyeon tells me as I lean my back into his chest. His hands lightly trace my body, lingering on my lower stomach and my breasts. I could feel his erection growing, and being the little greedy bitch I am, I grind down on it slowly. All of a sudden, he turns me around and attaches his lips to mine hard, and we are both caught in a rough make out session. He breaks the kiss and stares at me with lust clouded eyes.

“Are you gonna take care of this princess?” Sangyeon asks me while his eyes are motioning to his cock.

“Yes Sir.” I reply, not sure where that came from, as he pushes my shoulders down lightly and I feel myself fall to my knees.

Without thinking, I grab his hard cock with my hands and pump it a few times.I licked the slit tasting the precum that had come out, before sinking my mouth down his shaft softly, making him swear under his breath.

“Fuck you’re such a good girl. You suck my cock so well.” He hisses while grabbing my hair and guiding my head back and forth while I lap up his precum. He guides my head so that I swallow his cock and I gag on it a bit, which makes him growl loudly. My watering eyes glanced up at Sangyeon to see his head tilted back, mouth open partially.

“Fuck y/n I’m gonna cum. Gonna dirty up that hot mouth of yours.” Sangyeon rasps out as I feel his hot cum go down my throat as he rides out his orgasm. I release myself from his dripping cock and swallow the cum that had landed in my mouth.

“Fuck y/n. Princess. You're so good at that.” He cooes at me while helping me stand up and kisses me quickly and firmly on the mouth.

“Do I get something for being good, Sir?” I ask him while batting my eyes together, trying to pout as much as I could.

“That depends, what do you want? You want me to fuck you in this shower until you can't walk” He asks me loudly.

“God yes!” I answer him. Sangyeon picks me up like I weigh nothing as I wrap my legs and arms around his broad body.

“FUCK!” I scream as Sangyeon slams his cock into my pussy without any warning.

“You’re so fucking tight, shit.” Sangyeon curses under his breath.

I moan like crazy as Sangyeon fucks me hard, every thrust hitting my g-spot.

“You feel so good y/n. Your tight pussy feels amazing around my cock.” He rasps out before sucking on my jaw, making me arch my back and moan. I could feel my orgasm coming already. Sangyeon is a sex god and he knew how to have me cumming within seconds.

“I'm gonna cum in you, y/n, ok? I want you to feel my hot cum inside of you.” He growls in my ear as I loudly moan. I couldn't even answer him, I just nodded my head while leaving scratches on his back.

“FUCK!” We both scream and cum at the same time, I shudder feeling Sangyeons hot load entering my pussy. He drops his head onto my shoulder, whispering praise in my ear as I'm shaking in his arms. Both of us panting and sweating, even underneath the water. When he pulls his cock out, his cum and my cum is dripping fast out of my pussy. Sangyeon puts me down but I start to fall over, so he catches me and starts to snicker.

“Well I guess we have to take a real shower now and clean ourselves up.” He says amusingly as I roll my eyes and smack his chest as he laughs.

~

June 2021, I finally graduate college! As my name is being called, shouts and cheers come from the audience as I look and see the entire TBZ gang jumping up and down. My smile grows even bigger when I'm shaking the headmaster's hand and see Sangyeon, my boyfriend of one year, in the audience holding a bouquet of red roses with a huge proud smile on his face. After enrolling in teacher’s college and officially moving in with Sangyeon, Kevin announces to everyone over a gang family dinner that he and Jacob are getting married, and that I'm his best person, which makes the whole gang erupt in chaos. Sangyeon has to calm everyone down, and congratulates the happy couple fondly, knowing that everyone will be as supportive when he finally asks his best girl to marry him.

Two months later I found myself at the MoonBae wedding. During the reception, Kevin calls all the non-married men and women to the dance floor so he can throw the bouquet. What shocks everyone the most is when I catch it, making Kevin and Jacob both scream and tackle me in a hug. Sangyeon chokes on his glass of scotch and turns purple watching the whole event unfold.

Sangyeon proposes to me one quiet night four months after Kevin and Jacob’s wedding as we are both drinking wine and watching the sunset on his penthouse balcony.

“Y/n, You are the most amazing thing that has ever happened to me.” He says to me with tears in eyes as he gets down on one knee. “Will you marry me?” Sangyeon asks.

“Yes! Of course I’ll marry you. ” I answer him crying.

Sangyeon smiles wide at me and picks me up and spins me around before kissing me passionately.

“I love you so much y/n l/n.”

“I love you more Lee Sangyeon.”

“You’re mine forever.”

“And I'm yours.”

well i hope you enjoyed! sorry if it was bad or rushed again it was my first time hehe

stream breaking dawn and support tbz on kingdom :D

[jarofstyles]

Dirty Business V- Affogato

A/N: HI!!! sorry for the long wait, we’ve been really busy with life, but we wanted to get some stuff out for you! We’ve taken some of the requests about this series into consideration and tried our best to fit in everything we could. If it’s not in this part, it will likely be in the next! We’re thinking two more parts for them? let us know you’re thoughts! - n + d

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masterlist

pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

warnings: smut, FILTHY dirty talk, rough sex, use of toys  👉🏼👈🏼

word count: 6.8k

Things were going amazingly for the two love birds. 

Harry had been excelling at his job, it seemed everyday Y/N’s father was giving him praises. Y/N had felt secure enough to return her focus on her boutique, expanding the store online and even dabbling in designing some of her own clothes. The anniversary of her father’s company was coming up, the big 50th, and as usual she knew to expect a special event to be planned where all of his most coveted employees, partners, clients, and investors would be invited to attend. Food, drinks, live music, the whole lot. It was the talk of the year. Y/N also knew that this meant that Harry would be meeting her mother far sooner than she had hoped. The pair had been together for about 3 months now, stable and in the groove so it seemed right, but she knew how her mother could be. How unpleasant she was especially when it came to things that Y/N loved doing.

“Babe? you sure this is alright?” Harry called over to her general direction. Y/N had bought him some Gucci suit— well, called up her friend who worked the head and asked for one? Giving them Harry's photo and measurements. It was a black with a silky pattern and he didn’t know much about it other than the designer and he liked it. “I feel like I look expensive. Kind of like a prick.” He smiled. “Love it though.” He had her hands going through his hair before and he missed the feeling. Y/N was much more relaxed with him. Calmer. Soothed. Like a different person and not as anxious or on edge. When they had gone away to Paris it was similar, but here at their home, she was on edge. Especially today. “Oi, my love. Where did you go?” He peeked out to her bedroom from the en suite,  seeing the room empty, before he heard the heels clicking down the hall.

“I’m here, baby! One second!” Y/N came walking back, just having finished slipping on her dress, she just needed to get a few extra things. Accessories for herself and for Harry to complete the look. As promised, she had gotten him a Rolex, a small congratulations for moving up in the company, but also because she felt like he deserved it for being so incredible. A wide smile spread across her face when she saw him, admiring him in the sleek suit that hugged his body just perfectly. “Mmm I think you look perfect.” Y/N cooed, walking closer to him and gently playing with the lapels of his jacket. He had learned well from her, the top buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned only slightly and it definitely gave him that youthful expensive look. Y/N hooked her finger in his necklaces and tugged him closer to her, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. Thank god for liquid lipstick, not that she cared about him having lipstick stains on his lips. “Give me your wrist. Close your eyes.” She spoke, pecking his lips in between each sentence.

Harry was so lucky. He was reminded every time he saw his woman but— there was that blank in his head that wondered just how the fuck he had been able to resist this woman for so long. She was perfect for him. In all aspects. 

“Hm?” He pouted when she pulled away, her immaculate lipstick that matched her dress perfectly not budging at all. It was amazing. Some feminine magic he didn’t know about. “A surprise?” He raised a brow, not sure what it was. But, the man complied, closing his eyes when he felt a cold metal on his wrist. At first he thought she was being kinky but it wasn’t a handcuff. It was... a bracelet? A watch? Too heavy just for jewelry. When she told him to open, he nearly passed out. A fucking Rolex. The cheapest he had seen being 4 grand. But he knew this one was leaps and bounds more expensive considering the fact it was gold. “Y/N...” Harry breathed, eyes wide. “Baby... What is this?”

“Congratulations, my love.” Y/N cooed, pressing another kiss to his lips. “On the promotion, on making waves... Every businessman deserves a good watch... can tell a lot about a man by his watch. I wanted the best man I know to have the best watch.” She blushed and gave a squeeze to the hand she held. “Do you like it?” She asked sweetly, a bit shy because she knew she went a bit overboard with gifts but she felt like it was the least she could do. Y/N knew that all this money her family had went nowhere and she would rather spend it on him, someone who deserved it, than let it set collecting dust. Y/N knew once he took over the company that he’d be donating all the money he didn’t have use for. “I know you don’t necessarily like me spending lots of money on gifts, but... you’ll have this watch forever and ever and you can pass it down and everything and it will always remind you of your successes and humble beginnings and your hard work.”

“Yeah— I wanted to yell at you for spending so much but I know it’s cause... your heart is there.” He sighed, looking it over. His Y/N. His sweet, lovely, beauty. So generous and thoughtful. Pulling her in, a sweet kiss was given to her lips, repeated a few times. “Thank you. You’re the best.” She was one of the best things, if not the best thing to happen to him. “Trust me. I adore you. And I adore this watch. But if you buy me something ten grand again, I will spank your little ass until it’s bruised.” He brought a hand down for a warning spank and smirked when she squealed. “I love it. Wow.... now. How about we get going?” He smoothed the hair from her face. “Precious girl. You’re so lovely. I can’t wait to show off that you’re mine.” At work he didn’t let her bet too touchy. But outside of work, he had gotten a bit too happy with it!

Y/N was happy to hear that he liked the watch, she would happily take a spanking for spending loads of money on him. He definitely deserved it. It’s a good thing he didn’t know how much all of these clothes cost either. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him though. She had her driver come pick the two of them up, thankfully, Oliver was with Niall for tonight so he wouldn’t have to be alone for god knows how long. These things usually dragged on for hours but as long as the two of them made it to at least midnight, they’d be fine. Besides, Y/N was sure she could manage to sneak them away somewhere. 

----

When they arrived at the hotel, Y/N hooked her arm in his and put on her best resting bitch face. Everyone there knew who she was of course, but it was Harry’s first time attending. He looked incredible and she could feel the eyes on him. She couldn’t help but smirk to herself, knowing she had a catch. Harry was perfect. 

“Relax.” Harry kissed her cheek. Oh, how he wished she could be her bubbly and happy self here. “It’s alright. I can feel your nerves from here, my love. I’m here.” He cupped the side of her face with his free hand, kissing her forehead too. It was amazing to see her other persona pop up, incredible even. She was so easy to speak to people with this mask on and fake laughed at things while he observed and talked every so often. He would linger at her side and pull her in, kiss the side of her head or whisper funny things that came to mind. She was slowly relaxing but never enough.

“Styles, my boy!” Y/N’s father’s voice called from behind. “Princess, you look beautiful.” He complimented before turning to look at Harry. “Love seeing you two together.” As much as Y/N wanted to believe he meant that in a genuine way, she knew he really just liked the fact that his favorite employee was dating his daughter, that his legacy and company was in good hands. 

Y/N instantly stiffened up, hating that she didn’t even get a chance to brief or warn Harry about her mother. She knew I’d her father was there she wouldn’t be far behind. Keeping up this illusion that they actually loved one another. The all too familiar clicking of heels coming her way informed her that that moment was coming even sooner than she hoped. Y/N certainly didn’t have a great relationship with her mother and no matter how old she was she still felt her anxiety spike whenever she was around. Be it the comments she made on her life choices or how she looked, she always managed to spoil her mood. 

“Y/N?” Her mother asked with a raised brow, looking between her and Harry with a look of surprise. “Is this your boyfriend your father has been raving about?” She spoke in a tone only Y/N could read as sarcasm. The look on her face gave it away to others though. 

“Yes, he is. Harry, this is my mother. Mother, this is my boyfriend, Harry.”

Harry held her to him. She had tensed up next to him and he felt it as she got upset. She tried not to show it. 

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” He extended a hand to greet her. He was prepared slightly for the grimace when she took his hand, shaking it weakly. Oh, great. “You’ve raised a lovely young woman. I enjoy her company very much.” He complimented, trying to make this pleasant— but he knew Y/N wasn’t the fondest of her mother and he was prepared for something to go wrong. Anything. He was concerned. 

“Dear, this is Harry. He’s been treating Y/N very well and a very good worker.” Her father tried to soften the blow of what was going to come.

“Charmed.” Her mother answered in her usual snobby tone. The woman was never impressed by anyone or anything really. No amount of money could buy this woman happiness or passion. She was bitter. For what reason? No one was sure. “Just how well can he treat her if she bought everything he’s wearing?” Her mother countered, very much able to sniff out her daughter's sense of fashion. She was aware that her husband never hired anyone with money, no, people with money always had motives. He always hired potential. 

The comment made Y/N’s blood boil. She felt like she was seeing red. Y/N finally felt like she had a positive influence on her life, felt like someone was making her into a better version of herself and her mother had to step in and invalidate it. 

“He treats me so well that I struggle to walk most days...you must have forgotten how that feels, yeah?” The words flew out of her mouth before she could even think. She just needed to get something out even if it wasn’t the most appropriate thing to say to her mother. Then again, she wouldn’t take disrespect from anyone.

Harry closed his eyes at her comment. Jesus Christ, Y/N. He wasn’t taking her mother’s comments seriously but she had blurted out a very obvious innuendo about the fact Harry fucked her so good she was wobbly, the first time meeting her mother. 

“Baby...” He chuckled, squeezing her sides. “Is money more important than how your daughter is treated, ma’am?” He said it a bit loudly, knowing her husband was looking more amused than anything. He wouldn’t get in trouble for this. “While I’m saving money for our future and showering her in more affection and love then anyone else with a hundred million in their bank accounts ever would, I am happy. I think your daughter is very happy with me. She buys me things and I buy her things. Our relationship isn’t transactional, ma’am. It never will be either.”

The older woman looked them both up and down, taking a sip of her champagne and letting out a sigh. “It’s not about the money, it’s about our reputation...” She answered and let out a sigh. “Then again, she’s never been good at making choices that represent our family well.” She rolled her eyes. 

Y/N didn’t even have a chance to say a word before her father moved his arm in between the two. “It was actually my idea, dear... Harry is the closest thing to a son I have and he will be the next in line when I step down... regardless if he is with our daughter or not.” He stated calmly, “Please, do not bring this nonsense into tonight’s celebration.” 

Y/N was left speechless at her father’s statement. The entire interaction further proved her beliefs that she wasn’t really an important member of the family. She was merely there. Her father so calmly defended Harry, said he’d have the job regardless of Y/N being in the picture or not. It was like a shot to her stomach. 

“Well what a shame that is.” Her mother sighed, looking around the room to find someone else to talk to before excusing herself and leaving the group all together.

“Excuse us, sir.” Harry gently took Y/N’s arm and led her out to the back patio, knowing she felt upset. He could just... feel it. The energy of the room wasn’t helping her and the fact people had been looking. Weaving through people, he gave professional smiles with little nods before he got to the doors, taking notice of some of the people out there and walking towards the empty side. It was a time that he knew her well enough to know she needed some alone time to recharge. Most of all, she needed a hug. 

Y/N was stunned, her face stone cold as the two of them walked out onto the balcony for some fresh air. She couldn’t bring herself to cry about her parents again, couldn’t bring herself to cry in front of all these people. It was just a kick to the stomach really, the one this she had been prepared for but was hoping to avoid. 

Harry gripped her waist and held the back of her head to his chest, sighing when he felt her rest herself against him. His back was taking the blow so no one could see her being vulnerable. 

“My baby.” He soothed, petting her hair. “You alright? Not the best interaction hm?” Her hair smelled so good and he focused solely on her, not focusing on any possible business opportunities. She was his priority. “I’m sorry I got loud with her. I didn’t mean to but I don’t want her to speak about our relationship like that.” Harry muttered. “I won’t let people disrespect you or us like that.”

“‘s not your fault, Harry...” Y/N spoke softly, “no need to apologize, you did everything right.” Y/N added and allowed herself to close her eyes and relax into him. “I didn’t want you to meet her...” She said in a quiet whisper, “She has a way of getting into your head… I didn’t want her to... to make you feel like I wasn’t proud of you or that I’m not proud to show you off...” Y/N didn’t really care what her mother said at this point, she knew she was wrong. It was the way her father defended Harry first that really made her upset. “Do you believe me now?” She asked quietly, pulling back to look at him with worry in her eyes. Y/N had told him about how her parents didn’t care about her as long as they had their money and reputation.

“Baby...” Harry’s heart broke. “I’ve believed you since you told me. I always believed you. I don’t know how they could feel that way but...” He smoothed his thumb over her face. “My darling girl. You always have me on your side.” It was nearly impossible for him to comprehend why either of them cared so much more about money and reputation than they did about the happiness and well being of their daughter but he wouldn’t stand for it. He wouldn’t ever let anyone make any children of his feel that way. “She isn’t going to get into my head at all. I’m happy with you. I know who I am. You’ve made me feel so much more secure in that. Not the job, but just how it is. We need each other.” He pressed a kiss to her nose. “You’re what I want to have and who I want to be with. No one can convince me otherwise. I want you. You’re my sweet girl. My angel. My baby. Yeah? No matter what shit she says or tries, I’m not going anywhere. She can’t change my mind.” Thumbs rubbed soothing circles into the girls skin, Harry’s eyes soft. “She’s probably going to have very, very limited time with our children though. Even supervised.”

Our children. 

Y/N felt her heart flutter. Harry had said it to her before, sure, but to hear him say it so confidently again and to know he was thinking about it? Well, it just made everything feel better. Restored her confidence though it hadn’t faltered much like it usually did. 

“Funny how you think she’s even going to get to meet our children.” Y/N mumbled, looking up at him with her brows furrowed and nose scrunched. It wasn’t nearly as intimidating as she thought it was but his fond little laugh was worth the attempt. “I love you.” She told him again, her voice gentle and sweet. Y/N had saved saying it for moments like these and though he still hadn’t said it back to her, she didn’t mind the wait. “So much.” Harry was truly her rock. Had he not been here, had he not been the way he was, Y/N would have reacted much differently and would likely be making a scene. She had gotten so much better. “But the company is yours regardless... you heard it straight from the horse's mouth.” Y/N said to him with a small smile, “How does that make you feel?” She asked and moved her hands up to play with the unbuttoned portion of his shirt.

“I love you even more, my sweet girl.” Harry pulled her in for a few sweetened kisses to make her smile a bit more than she had. He did love her, the girl was so lovely. He would risk it all for her, every bit. “It feels nice that the company is mine, but I’d choose you before I chose it.” That's the truth. For a long time at the beginning he was trying to focus on that but she had brought him so much happiness, so much self love for himself and he was head over heels for the woman. 

“You love me?” She asked, needing to pause for a moment to make sure she heard him right. Y/N was over the moon. Sure, they might have had a very unpleasant conversation with her mother, but that didn’t change how Harry felt about her. That was all the support and love she needed. Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned up to press a sweet, passionate kiss against his lips. For years she was convinced she needed to be someone else to be loved, for a few months she thought maybe she needed to be someone else for Harry to love her. That wasn’t true at all. He loved her. And she loved him. 

“Yes. I love you very much. Do you want to go home, my lovely? Can drink some champagne on the car ride back and go back. Cuddle a bit....” Harry knew that champagne made her frisky. Harry mainly wanted to get her out of the same place as her mother and wanted to be selfish with his time with her.

“You sure you don’t want to stay?” Y/N asked sweetly, “Just for a little longer.. we just got here. Go mingle a bit, I’ll behave. I promise I’m fine.” Y/N cooed, pushing a few pieces of hair away from his eyes. “Lets go inside yeah? We’ll stay for a little and then we can go back..”

“But... what if I want to go home?” Harry murmured, cupping her cheek again so he could kiss her again. Not having gotten enough beforehand. He wanted to kiss. And kiss, and kiss, and then spread her open and fuck. He had so much love for this woman right now. It was growing every day but he was hit hard with it. “Just want to be alone with you and remind you how much I utterly adore you and your every bit.” He nibbled her bottom lip lovingly, pulling back. Their sex life was erratic. Some weeks just having cuddles but others being full on fuck fests. Right now, he wanted an even mix. “C’mon. Want to be close to you.” He slid a hand down her body to rest on her ass. “You’ll give me that, yeah?” 

Oh. 

Harry wasn’t usually this forward, it was often Y/N who wanted to love up on him and have him completely and utterly ruin her. Not Harry who was pleading for them to leave an event that could be important for work. Oh how the tables have turned. This was a welcomed change though. 

“Is that so?” Y/N murmured truly surprised by the way he was acting, but she was going along with it. She wanted to see what could come of tonight. “Of course I’ll give that to you, baby, I’m just—” She bit her lip when his hand squeezed her ass tighter. “Okay, alright!” Y/N giggled, leaning up to press another kiss to his lips. “Let’s go.” She decided they’d slip away unnoticed. No one would really look for them. The cars were already waiting out front and Y/N made sure she snatched a bottle of champagne for them to take in the car with them.

Harry felt like the kitten who had gotten the cream— even though he hadn’t quite yet. He had gotten her to leave, was touchy and finally got her in the car where they finished the bottle of champagne quickly. He pulled her closer to him, feeling like a needy puppy with the way he nuzzled at her neck. A hand slid up the slit of her dress and touched the softness of her inner thighs, purring at the heat of them. 

“Haven’t told you how much I love this dress.” He muttered against her neck. “S’so lovely. But I want to get you out of it.” He was only slightly buzzed but he felt even more in love right now. “Want to see somethin’ like this on you when you’re pregnant. Mmm— fuck, that’ll look so gorgeous. Can’t wait for that.” He had a bit of him that hadn’t realized how much he had a bit of a breeding kink until she showed up. The idea of filling her and letting the cum catch in her, claiming her in that most primal way? It was godly. “When are you gonna let me, pet?”

Y/N was definitely feeling the champagne because his comment caught her off guard for a moment. She remembered when he first told her about this kink of his, how he wanted to put a baby in her and just... pretend that that was the goal. How he had a thing for knowing he could get her pregnant. She had been on birth control for a while and they’d been having sex without protection for a while. There was really nothing to fear. All she had to do was give in, let that primal instinct take over and let him live this fantasy that quite frankly, turned her on. The way he wanted to be a father of her child, the way he wanted to see her stomach swell with life. It was hot. 

“Wanna put a baby in me?” Her glossy eyes looked at him, a loopy smile on her face as his fingers pressed against her skin.

“Mmmm. Yeah, so bad.” Harry rubbed his face against her. “Sooo fuckin’ bad, bunny. Just want to stuff you up full, over n’ over again and make you hold it in. Even tho’ it looks so pretty drippin’ out. Love cleaning it with my tongue but I want it to catch.” He sighed. He thinks perhaps it’s a mix of the alcohol buzz and the way he felt like maybe she truly needed to see his desire for him that set him free. He really wanted her to be able to see that he was so into her, he never wanted to leave. Ever. Add in the fact she just made him unbelievably horny. “Wanna get it all stuffed in that little tummy of yours, yeah? Just... wreck you n’ make you cry from his good it is, then keep fillin’ you up.” He muttered. “Jus’ wanna get inside cause I’m so hard. Want to fuck. Get back inside my pussy.” He always referred to her cunt as his own, and he knew she liked it even if she didn’t tell him that.

“Daddy..” A whimper left Y/N’s mouth at his words, her whole body heating up with a sudden burning desire to be at her home and in a car with the partition up. Goosebumps spread across her skin as he continued to speak, lips brushing against her sensitive neck making her squirm. Between the alcohol and hormones, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could take it. She dared to look out the window, seeing that they were only a few blocks away from her place. Thank god they weren’t driving all the way to Brooklyn, she would’ve had him fuck her right in this car. Y/N moved her hand to rub over his hard cock, giving it a slight squeeze. “What’s gotten into you, daddy?” Y/N smirked, her voice coming out much darker. “We’re almost there... then you can take me upstairs and do whatever you want. Anything.” She hummed, knowing that whenever they were in this mood something kinky always went down.

“Haven’t been in you in too long. I’m so... I want it.” Harry grunted against her neck. “Jus’ wanna be inside of you. You’re all hot and slick. I know it.” He moved his hand up and startled her, groaning against her skin as he felt his suspicions become reality. “Mmm— Yep. Knew you’d be wet for me.” He smirked to himself, placing his fingers on her pussy. He didn’t move them yet but kept hold of it. “S’all mine. Let me touch it whenever I want to just do this. Want to make you go crazy with how good it feels.” He muttered, kissing her jaw and finding her ear to talk into. The vibrations of his dark voice tingling against her, making her shudder. “Daddy’s hot little cunt. And you’re such an eager slut for it. Already slick for my cock. Gonna have a hard time keeping still when I lick your pussy up and get you cleaned up. Plus... have a bit of dessert.” He felt her shiver as he pressed his finger tighter against her.

Y/N inhaled sharply, feeling his fingers press against the place she needed him most. It had in fact been a while, a few days. It’s not long by most people’s standards, but for them? It had definitely been a while. 

“Fuck, please—“ Y/N bit down on her lip as the car had come to a haunt. “Thank you!” She called today the driver, hesitantly pushing Harry to get out of the car as she followed with the empty bottle of champagne. Y/N threw it out in the trash can in the lobby, hoping her dress still sat correctly on her body after Harry had a proper feel in the car. Seeing him all drunk and disheveled, nice suit and hair a mess was the hottest fucking thing she’d ever seen. She swore it. Seeing that loopy smile and his hungry eyes on her was making her forget why they even went out in the first place. Y/N stumbled into the elevator with him and hit the button for the top floor, looking at him from over her shoulder. “What?” She giggled.

Harry grabbed her and pressed her front against the wall of the elevator, ankle hooking hers and knocking her legs open. Immediately his fingers found her cunt, sinking two inside of her. The shocked gasp and moan mix make him smirk, fingers moving in and out of her pussy. 

“Couldn’t wait to feel it. Missed my pussy so fucking much.” He smeared his mouth over her jaw biting down gently. “Fucks sake, sometimes I think you forget that it belongs to me. S’daddy’s pussy. Think you need a proper reminder of that today.” He bit down on her ear this time, moving his fingers harder into her pussy, the slick little squelch of his fingers filling the enclosed space. She was squirming in his arms and making these noises— fuck. “Keep making those little mewls. Such a dirty kitten. Letting your daddy finger fuck you in the elevator.”

It was all so sudden. Y/N really thought he’d at least wait till they got inside, but before she knew it she was pressed up against the cool wall of the elevator, her heart racing. Harry really wasn’t playing tonight and Y/N surely wouldn’t underestimate him again. 

“Fuck me— daddy, ah!” She whimpered out, cunt clenching against his fingers while they moved inside her. Her head fell back on to his shoulder, the feeling of him biting at her jaw and smearing kisses against her skin sending her wildest thoughts over the edge. “‘S your pussy daddy! Fuck— yours, all yours!” She pleaded, feeling herself shiver at the sound of her own slickness against his hands. Y/N had never been quiet and Harry was well aware of that, hitting all the right spots inside of her that would make her go crazy for him. “Please— please!” She begged, “feels so good! Don’t stop!” Y/N begged, knowing she could easily cum just from how insanely turned on she was.

Harry didn’t hesitate to make her cum. She came all over his hand in the elevator, a devilish grin on his face as he pressed his fingers in and curled them just so, having her drip all over the digits. He truly felt like he was going feral because he really couldn’t wait. He loved his Y/N so much, he felt the tiny bit of buzz hitting him and all he wanted to do was fuck. Show her how much he meant it every time he promised forever. How he cherished her pleasures. He had swiftly picked her up and thrown her over her shoulder when they’d gotten to her penthouse. Carrying her through the whole place to her bedroom with a dirty hand he had sucked clean and a squealing Y/N over his shoulder, he finally got to her bedroom. 

“You’re going to be a good girl for me. Aren’t you?” Harry smirked while Y/N looked up with her innocent eyes and nodded, seeming to be in awe of his behavior. Harry hadn’t exactly gone this primal before but she was wet as fuck and he was as happy as could be. Taking his tie off, he smirked down at her and held it in front of him. “Wrists.” He demanded. At the rapid blinking, he gripped her throat, leaning down over her. “Don’t make me ask for them again. Give me your wrists.” It was quickly after that, she was stripped and they were tied and held to the headboard. Naked and all at his mercy, Harry stalked the end of the bed with a dark gleam in his eye. “Look so pretty, my sweet girl. Innocent, if it wasn’t for your drippy little cunt making a mess of those expensive sheets.... Said they were silk, didn’t you?” He chuckled, unbuttoning his shirt. “Where are the toys?” At a drunken 2 am they’d ordered sex toys one night and a little toy chest she had gotten for them, and he wanted to play with them. 

“Daddy!” Y/N whined, but the sharp glare he sent in return immediately sent darts of hot arousal and a bit of fear through her. “Closet....”  the whisper was given as she clenched her thighs together. Harry brought the chest out and hummed as he looked through things, happily finding what he was looking for. 

“Ah!” 

When Harry took out the wand vibrator, it had her heart racing faster. She hadn’t ever used one with someone else before. Usually she could control when she took it away and just how much she could handle at a time, but with the way Harry was acting... Y/N knew that he wasn’t going to be nice about it. 

“Daddy... please, I just want you inside.” Y/N tried, not sure she could handle all that pleasure. 

“Hm. It’s a shame I didn’t ask, isn’t it?” Harry knew that she would be okay with this, because he had gently asked her colors and she had genuinely responded green. He knew her well enough and had permission beforehand. They’d spoken about this being something they did anyways. “Now. I can see you’re all slicked up. Already came once tonight so I’ll be nice and make sure this one is even better.” He cooed, leaning down over it and spitting right on it. The flinch had him grinning, Y/N moaning and bucking her hips at the sensation of it. 

As soon as the vibrator was clicked on, Y/N knew she was in trouble. Still sensitive from the knee weakening orgasm from the elevator, the buzzing had her legs stiffening. 

“Oi.... keep them open.” Harry scolded. “Daddy’s been so nice to you. So sweet. And now you’re out and trying to take away my fun?” He gave a faux pout, but his voice was thick with arousal. 

“I forgot about how much of a slut you are sometimes. Been so gentle with you lately but you really have been wanting a bit of fun.” He murmured, clicking up the setting. 

Y/N was laying with her mouth open, breasts heaving with the way Harry moved the wand up and down. The powerful vibrations had her shaking a tiny bit and she knew she wouldn’t last long. Another pitiful whine of his name had her getting a bit more pressure over her clit. 

“Shhh. That’s my girl. Daddy’s dirty whore, hm? Can’t get enough.” 

Her hips were bucking up and the heat coursing through her was intense. Harry’s behavior well was fueling this intense arousal. He was all man. All.... perfect for her. She loved being admired and needed and even a little bit degraded when it came down to it, and he was giving it to her. 

“Fuck... look at you. Dripping down to your sheets and panting like a bitch in heat. All you want is cock inside your precious cunt, isn’t that right?” 

“Yes! Daddy, please. I’ll be so good. So, so good just... inside me!” Y/N pleaded, bucking her hips needily. Harry was so good to her. More generous than any other lover. More caring and loving in general but in bed, it was a whole other level. 

“Begging... sounds so good coming from you.” Harry muttered, pressing the setting up as he leaned over her. “One more orgasm before you can take me. I know you love being filled up. Pounded. Like when your makeup gets all messy and smeared because you’re so fucked out you can’t breathe. I know that you want to be so sore in the morning that it’ll be obvious that you have the best cock in your bed.” Harry has also shown off his possessive side lately. Been increasingly so. “Want everyone to know and to see that you’re well taken care of. Daddy’s princess.” He muttered, watching her face. 

Y/N was losing it. Her stomach was hot with heat and she kept bucking her hips and grinding into the wand Harry held firm against her cunt, playing with her breasts with gentle movements of his fingers. Two types of sensations. 

“That’s it. I can see it.” Harry encouraged, it was obvious when she was close. “Be a good girl. Cum.” 

At the demand, Y/N lost it. Shaking, she let out a gasped sob as her body writhed against the sheets, a squeal of his name and holding on to the tie holding her wrists to the board, her back arched and her whole body trembled in the best way possible. She didn’t even know what was happening as she felt her wrists get let go of, flopping to the bed. All she felt was herself being turned over to her stomach, propped her hips up with a pillow and then— fuck. 

Harry filled her. A loud moan came from him, a pathetic whimper. Harry’s hand gathering her hair up and holding it firmly, cock buried deep inside of her for a moment before he began to go. There was no mercy with his thrusts. Hard, bed shaking, dirty. Leaning his body over her, speaking into her ear. 

“That's it. This is what you were made for.” He muttered into her skin. “Made to be fucked by me. Act so spoiled all the time but no one knows... you come home, my sweet little angel. Want to be so sweet to me and then a needy little bitch in bed.” He cooed, hands slipping between them. He wasn’t going to last very long. “Had me all worked up all night with that sexy fucking dress, your pouty lips. I love it so much. My pretty girl. I love showing you off. I want to do it more.” He grunted as he pressed her further into the bed. “Mine. You’re all fucking mine. This pussy belongs to me. I want every fucking person to know that I’m yours. That you are mine. No one else gets to take you. I’m keeping you forever.” He wasn’t even hesitant to say that. He loved her. His woman was the only one for him. “Mine. Fuck... I’m gonna cum soon. You got me all worked. Fuck, I needed this pussy so bad. Needed you.” He groaned into her ear as he ran sloppy circles across her clit. 

Y/N was more than happy to take it, whining loudly as she felt him take every bit of his cock and slam it in. Truly, she felt cock drunk, eyes crossed and mouth unable to close. She was so sensitive and needy, but she had let go completely in his hold. It felt like shocks every time he pounded into her and the stream of whimpers and little noises was loud but pitiful. She needed this so bad. To be fucked out by him.

“Daddy! Daddy! Plea-” Her whines got caught in her throat as his hand grabbed at her hair and pulled her back. 

“Yeah? Begging to cum again like the good little cum slut?” Harry practically growled, “Squeeze for me, yeah��� that’s it… fuck, you’re so good, so perfect.” He knew he wouldn’t last long. Her cunt felt like heaven. Nothing had ever felt better. With every thrust Harry felt like he was struggling to hold back his full power, essentially shoving his cock as deep as he could manage. Y/N’s sweet sounds of pleasure only edged him on, his own grunts and mutters begging her to cum for him so they could share a sweet release. 

And my god was it sweet. A series of throaty moans left the both of them, nothing but the added sound of skin slapping against skin and the slickness of their climaxes filled the room. Harry slowed the pace of his moving hips and stayed hovering above his love whilst they caught their breath. 

“You mean everything to me, you know that? Nobody, and I mean nobody will change that. You’re mine, Y/N. I love you.” Harry meant it with every fiber of his being.

He was going to marry this girl.

------------------------------------------------------

A/N: hehehe fore-shadowing? 😈- n + d

let us know what you think!

masterlist

[bitchesgetriches]

Noble citizens of the aspirationally decadent Conglomerated Nation of Bitches Get Riches: let’s have a lil’ chat, shall we? It’s been a while since we chatted about our favorite topic: ourselves!

We hope you’ve enjoyed season two of the Bitches Get Riches podcast. Recording it was a bright spot for us during this dumpster fire of a year, so thank you all for listening.

As we wrap up another season, we had a few notes to share with you. Including some more personal reflections about how we’re doing, where we’re at, and what the future holds.

Let’s get into it!

Merch is back online

If you visited our Etsy shop in the last few months, you might’ve noticed the physical merch—tee shirts and coffee mugs and tote bags and such—wasn’t listed anymore. Basically, when lockdowns started, it caused a lot of disruption and delays on orders. Not wanting people to be stuck waiting for stuff, we decided to take it all offline, and only offer digital merch.

As of today, we’ve reactivated everything! But please keep in mind that there may still be delays, depending on what’s happening in the world! We appreciate your patience, if patience is indeed called for.

Visit Our Etsy Shop

Season one transcripts

Next, we wanted to let you guys know that we now have transcripts available for season one of the Bitches Get Riches podcast!

We’re committed to making BGR as accessible as we possibly can. We know that some people can’t hear, or struggle to absorb information aurally, so transcripts were something we’ve always wanted to offer.

… But, you know, at the end of the day, we’re just two people! Transcribing and editing audio is time- and labor-intensive work, and there just aren’t enough hours in the day for us to do it along with the fifteen million other things we have to do.

We were able to offer season one transcripts thanks entirely to A Purple Life, a peerlessly talented and wonderful fellow blogger who selflessly made it happen. (If you don’t already read her stuff, you’ve already disobeyed us, as we commanded you to in 10 Rad Black Money Experts to Follow Right the Hell Now. And for that, we’re strongly considering smiting you.)

We’re incredibly thankful to Purple for her hard work on this. But we also feel strongly that this DESERVES to be paid work! So the release of season two transcripts is dependent on getting more Patreon donors to offset funding it.

Season 1, Episode 1: ��Should I Tell My Boss I’m Looking for Another Job?”

Season 1, Episode 2: “How Should I Behave on My First Day at Work?”

Season 1, Episode 3: “My Parents Have Bad Credit. Should I Help by Co-signing Their Mortgage?”

Season 1, Episode 4: “Capitalism Is Working for Me. So How Could I Hate It?”

Season 1, Episode 5: “I Don’t Love My Job, but It Pays Well. Should I Quit—or Tough It Out?”

Season 1, Episode 6: “I Lent My Boyfriend Money. He Took It to a Casino.”

Season 1, Episode 7: “I’m Terrible at Budgeting. Do I Suck It Up—Or Is There Another Way?”

Season 1, Episode 8: “My Mother Demands Information About My One-Night Stands.”

Season 1, Episode 9: “I’ve Given up on My Dream Career. Where Do I Go From Here?”

Season 1, Episode 10: “I Want a Pedigreed Dog. She Wants a Rescue Mutt. It Turned into a Fight… and the Fight Got Ugly.”

Season 1, Episode 11: “I Feel Cornered by a Friend Who Keeps Asking to Borrow Money.”

Season 1, Episode 12: “Should I Believe the Fear-Mongering about Another Recession?”

Bonus Episode: Merry Bitchmas! The 2019 Star-Studded Holiday Spectacular

For transcripts, scroll to the bottom of each episode and click “episode transcript.” Or read them directly in the podcast player of your choice!

Podcast reviews

We also super wanted to thank all the people who’ve etched their names in blood upon the dusty pages of our dark grimoire written reviews for the show on Apple Podcasts, Stitcher, and other places!

We are beyond flattered by the kind things you guys have said about us. Like MoonPetalLily, who described us as “the snarky older sisters [they] wish [they] had.”

FunshineKelly said our “advice helped [them] land a $20k raise and a signing bonus without crying even a little bit.” GOOD! We don’t support tears in the workplace! Not even in the sanctity of your car parked way in the corner of the parking lot. Keep it together!

And God bless MelHubbs, who said, and I quote:

They’re prepared, and still relaxed; informative, and still light-hearted; comforting, and still sexual. It’s everything you could ever want in a podcast, in an internet personality, in your sisters-in-arms against the terrible war between capitalism and what humans actually need to survive & thrive. One of my favorite things about them is that they don’t have any corporate sponsors or ads, so you know what they’re saying is what they mean, not what their advertisers want them to say. If you’re able, support them on Patreon! If you’re not, listen to their podcast, take their advice to heart, reflect on your options, make your moves, then, with your newfound financial independence, become a patreon!

MelHubbs, you joyful sonnet!

Your review is so good that it reads suspiciously like something we paid you to write! But we’re too cheap for that—IT REAL!

Bitches Get Riches at the crossroads

All right. Time to level with you guys.

In keeping with 2020’s overarching theme (“everything is pure shit”), this year has become a real “shit or get off the pot” moment for the two of us.

Although I’m comfortable and doing fine, Piggy is still unemployed. And last week she received the last unemployment check she’s entitled to. It sucks. And it’s scary.

Being a partnership is awesome in almost every way. But one way that it sucks is that we have to earn double the amount of money to be truly profitable! (And no, before you ask, it’s not possible for us to only pay Piggy. Believe me, that was our original plan—but it turns out that’s not allowed in a 50/50 legal partnership. We must pay ourselves equally, or Uncle Sam will spank us. And he doesn’t do it in the sexy way—only the traumatic way!)

Piggy is doing okay for now. She has freelancing work, and an intact emergency fund. But understandably, anxiety and worry take their toll. She’s pushing through it, but it’s hard. Creativity and passion can’t thrive for long without some measure of safety and stability.

During these scary times, our Patreon community has been a lifeline. As more and more of you have joined us, it’s slowly crept up from grocery money to grocery and utility bill money! So thank you, thank you, from the bottom of our hearts thank you to those who’ve stepped up and joined.

But we’re kind of at a crossroads. Because of Piggy’s situation, we really need it to become “paying the mortgage” money. And it’s gotta get there pretty fast. Otherwise, it’s just not fair to ask Piggy to invest so much of her time in Bitches Get Riches, when she could be taking on higher paying freelancing work to keep herself afloat.

And trust me, you do not want a BGR that’s too Kitty-heavy. I am longwinded af, slowly losing my abilities to think and spell, and take every possible detour to inject disgusting sexual comments wherever they are least germane (although idk maybe you’re here for that).

Our new goal for ourselves, and you

With all of that in mind, we have a new goal: to produce season three of our podcast, we need 500 total Patreon donors.

Today we have… 294. So that’s, uhhhhh… a really ambitious goal!

It’s probably too ambitious. We’re probably gonna fail. Who cares, it’s 2020! The planet is on fire and god is already dead, so we have no reason not to give it our all!

We are leaving this in your hands. We—Piggy and I—believe that the world would be a better place if people could hear reliable, relatable financial wisdom funded by regular people, untainted by corporate sponsors with deep pockets who want us to push their capitalist crap upon you. And 294 of you have already demonstrated that you believe that too. Thank you, thank you, infinity thank yous to all of you who are already a part of our Patreon community. You are shining stars that smell faintly of vanilla.

For the rest of you: if you like what we do and you want us to keep doing it, please show us that you believe in it too. You can do that by joining us at the Bitches Get Riches Patreon.

We hope to be back soon for a third season. Until then, stay safe, stay sane, wear your masks, triple-check that you’re registered to vote, and save room for dessert. (What’s for dessert? So glad you asked—it’s the rich!)

For now, Bitches OUUUTTTTT!

Join the Bitches on Patreon

Join the Bitches on Patreon

[voorbeees]

[ me, writing a decent fic? impossible! Anyway here’s a fic about Jesse adopting a kid that I got kind of carried away with but i don’t care. 

you can also read it here . Also don’t forget I take commissions. ]

The sharp hunting knife plunges into the woman's temple. It's a faster kill than he enjoys. Usually he'll bide his time, watching, waiting until he's spotted a piggy that suits him. Typically it's a cat and mouse game, dragged out for as long as possible. Psychological torture is the game. That accompanied by true torture, eventually.

Jesse has found himself becoming far more annoyed by Preston than usual, which is saying something, considering that the man makes him consider driving a knife into his own eye in order to end the conversation faster. After the latest whining spree, he's decided he's just going to kill him. Preston offers no value to himself or his organization anymore. Only he wants an audience when he does it. Set an example. No other employees voice opinions like him, but Jesse wants to make sure they remember who's in charge.

Chromeskull twists the knife in a fit of anger. God even thinking about him pisses him off. Another turn for good measure then he yanks the blade from the woman's head. It's a clean kill and for that he's sorry. She'd have been perfect for slicing and butchering. Whatever. It's done. The night is still young and there's still plenty of piggies to find.

He swaggers back to his Chrysler 300 to retrieve a body bag. Once he's back, Jesse stuffs the body in the bag and slings it over his should as if he's done this a thousand times. (Probably because he has done this a thousand times.) He's not too worried about the crime scene, it's an abandoned warehouse for Christ's sake. The only people who'll be snooping around in here are your typical crack head junkies. No one in their right mind is going to believe that they found blood. Even better, they'd probably be convicted of the crime. Now that's fucking hilarious. Jesse laughs silently at the thought. The only indication that he's even doing it being the up and down movement of his shoulders.

By this point he's made sure his knives are tucked safely away back in his chrome briefcase, which he holds in his free hand. Jesse kicks the door open with enough strength to knock it off its hinges. He stands there on the stoop in the back alley for a moment before marching down the dimly lit alleyway to his car.

A scuffing noise coming from behind catches his attention. Jesse turns around with enough force to make the body over his shoulder whizz through the air and thunk hard against his back. Nothing catches his eye so he brushes it off. Most likely a stray cat.

The trunk to the car opens with a click and he throws the body inside. Better care is taken when he places his briefcase in beside it. The video has long since finished recording and he takes the time now to remove the tape, titling it Jacksonville. It's honestly not even worth keeping or naming but who gives a fuck. He caught the bitch and killed her, it's his fair and square.

Pocketing the tape, he slams the trunk shut. He's opted to keep his chrome mask on. No sense in taking it off just to reapply the adhesive an hour later. He whirls around, ready to jump into the car and drive off when instead he practically jumps out of his fucking skin.

There no more than a few feet away stands a small child, no older than six. Big doe-like eyes stare up at him and it takes Jesse a minute to regain his composure. What the fuck? He looks around but sees no one. Clearly she belongs to someone, which sounds stupid as fuck because she isn't a fucking dog. And yes. Now he can make out clearly that it is a little girl. He doesn't have many rules he abides by when the chrome mask is placed on his face, but killing kids is one of his top ones. They're still too young to understand the world or just how terrible their mothers are for leaving them alone long enough to get a fuck in.

The little girl takes a tiny step forward and Jesse wastes no time in yanking his phone from his pocket. He types furiously on it, black nitrile making hardly a sound.

'GO AWAY' . The electronic voice echoes off the brick walls of the alley. He can tell by the way she flinches back a step that his point is made. Good. Jesse brushes past her, ready to leave the situation behind. At least until he feels a tug on his black slacks.

The little girl clings to his designer pants, eyes wide but not from fear, more so curiosity. Jesse wastes no time in furiously typing on his phone again. 'GO HOME. I'M A BUSY MAN AND I DON'T NEED TO BE HELD UP. ' His only response is a slow blink.

'NO. ' He dislodges her tiny hands and pushes her on the back in the opposite direction. ' GO HOME. ' Jesse thinks he's finally gotten her to understand but it's the exact opposite. For some fucking reason that makes her want to be even closer to him.

"Why do you wear that?" She asks as she points to his mask.. She has to hold her head all the way back to even see his "face". It's actually rather comical and if anyone were to walk by at this moment they'd probably double over with laughter. The girl barely makes it up to his thigh, as to where the 6'7 man looks like a god damned giant looking at a pomeranian. "Are you hiding from someone?"

Yes that was obviously it! He, a known killer, was hiding from someone. What a stupid -- Jesse stops himself mid thought as his brown eye takes in her appearance. It's raggedy to say the least. Then again, anyone who compared his attire to another’s would consider it to be raggedy. ' HOME. LEAVE ME ALONE. FIND YOUR MOTHER. '

The girl's face seems to crumple at this and for a moment Jesse is dumbfounded. "I -I don't know where she is." The tiny voice squeaks out. Her lower lip begins to quiver and ohmyfuckinggod he's done it now. People could care less if they heard a woman on the streets yelling, but a kid? Someone would come bounding around the corner to the rescue. Which only meant he'd then have to kill them and whoever else came with them. "She leaves sometimes and doesn't come back for a while." His mangled lip twists into a snarl under the chrome mask. "She usually says it's because she has to work." Ah, so that explained it.

Jesse's eye darts to the trunk of his Chrysler 300. Of course the whore brought her kid to work. If he could talk, Jesse would have a mouthful of slurs to toss at the dead woman. He knows all too well what it's like to not have a mother, and knows even better the concept of a drunk for a father. Though something tells him there's no father in this situation.

"Can I come with you? At least until she comes back?" It's such an innocent question and it takes everything in him to hold back the sensation of snuffing out a life. Chromeskull is creeping further into the picture, just begging to sink his claws into her and kill her but Jesse smoothers that thought.

He's always had a fond spot for kids. It was actually something he was excited about when he'd found out his wife was pregnant but just like everything else that had been ruined too. He never talks about his wife. The only time he did was when Spann had the displeasure of explaining the situation to him. After that he'd made it clear to never mention her or the unborn baby again by destroying everything in his office. The room looked like it had been hit by a tornado when he was done, broken pictures, splintered chairs, holes in the wall. The scenario made his fiasco with destroying the mirror after seeing his own disfigurement seem mild. All of that accompanied with the unsaid "this is your fault" regarding her suicide has been eating away at him slowly over the years.

' NO. ' He shakes his leg free. Tricky little pest.

"But please?" She's latches on to him again and Jesus fucking Christ what the fuck about his current attire screams "I'm here to help you!". Because it sure as fuck isn't the mask or knives hidden away in his car.

By this time he's just decided to remove his gloves, throwing the used nitrile into the passenger seat of the open driver side door. The low light illuminates the tattoos that cover his hands. The letters on his knuckles moving slightly when he clenches his fists together. He's about to start typing again when the tiny voice breaks the silence. "Oh you painted your hands!" It's the stupidest fucking thing he's ever heard. They're tattoos, tattoos that decorate both arms from the knuckles up when he's not dressed for the job. But it's also the funniest thing he's ever heard and Jesse can't help the smile that stretches across his mangled face behind the mask. Children are so God damned innocent. A tiny hand removes itself from his slacks to grasp at his hand but Jesse moves it out of her way before she can grab it. A sad expression settles on her face but it quickly disappears as he hikes his slacks up by the knees, making it easier for him to bend down. He's eye level with her now and he sees almost instantly how her demeanor changes. Once more it's not fear (odd considering there's a giant man in a chrome skeleton mask right in front of her face), but rather elation.

She wastes no time in snatching one of his hands examining it. In the process his sleeve rides up to reveal more ink on his arm. "You colored your arm too?" She looks up to see him nod once slowly. This only sits off another tirade of questions. Jesse can't really answer them. Sure he could type them and let the phone do the talking but that’s too much fucking work. He's not sure if she understands sign language so no point in trying that. He settles for just nodding or shaking his head, short answers she's bound to understand.

"You don't talk much, huh?" It's not that he doesn't talk, it's that he can't talk. Most days Jesse would give anything to be able to express himself through voice, even if it meant giving his remaining eye. But he's always lived like this and there's no point in complaining about what can't be fixed. Plus it adds an intimidation aspect to him, something he rather enjoys.

"Can I come with you?" She asks again and this time Jesse studies her for a moment. He weighs the options in his head. She is alone and it would be awfully rude to simply leave her here by herself in the back of an alley. Seeing as Jesse is the perfect gentleman, he can't simply do that. It's hard to tell what will happen to her if he just leaves her here. Other people might say she's his responsibility because he obviously just fucking killed her mom, but from his point of view she didn't seem like a mother anyway. No loss in that department. He finally nods and there's just something about the way her tiny face lights up with delight that just wants to make him laugh. For having just met him, she seems very content to cling to him. Then an idea pops into his head. Wanting children and then having the possibility taken away, only to be rewarded with one. He can already hear Preston's annoying voice now, and honestly that's all the fucking push he needs.

Jesse stands to his full height with ease. The little girl follows him as he makes his way back to the car. She blinks at the automobile. "I've never seen a car like this before. Are you rich?" Very rich, he wants to say but settles for nodding. And if he has anything to say in the matter, she’ll be just as rich in a short time also.

---------

Jesse parks the car outside the warehouse his operation is currently running in, not bothering to make an effort to hide it. Besides he's not too worried about the police. He pulls open the back door and the little girl eagerly jumps into his arms, still talking a hundred miles an hour (something she's been doing for the last twenty minutes, but frankly he doesn't care). He walks them through the building's side door, being met instantly by Spann and then Preston, who's wearing that annoyingly fake 'happy to see you!' expression.

"Sir, we didn't expect you back until morning." Spann's soothing voice meets his ears. He responds with a shrug as he sees her eyes land on the child.

And then that voice grates on his ears. "Boss, you're fucking kidding, right?" It's followed by a nervous and unbelieving laugh. "I didn’t take you for the adopting strays sort of guy. Let alone, I think she's a little young for you." Preston laughs again but he's met with Spann's hard stare and Jesse's blood-curdling one. The implication that he has something planned is enough to make his mangled lip curl into a snarl under the mask.

It's then he places the girl in the other man's arms and begins typing on his phone. ' GET HER SETTLED IN AT HOME. ROOM. CLOTHES. SCHOOL. ' It's a clear statement and he doesn't plan on repeating himself.

"Might I commend you on how great of an idea having an apprentice is, Sir." Jesse makes a so-so movement with his hand then signs the word "daughter". Spann smiles widely. "Even better. I've always seen you as a family man." The both of them begin to make their way back to his office.

"Boss!" Preston looks between the kid in his arms and back to Jesse. "You're not serious."

The electronic voice meets his ears once again. ' DO IT NOW. '

"Boss!" The sound reaches his ears once more before he closes the door and sinks into his chair. A smile stretches across his face under the mask as Spann begins explaining plans to move the operation. Maybe Preston does have a use. Being the always available babysitter.

[otpnessmess]

For you, there’s nothing I wouldn't do

Here it is finally! The first part of the Jasonette fake dating AU I had promised. I’m working on the following parts already as I will have a couple of weeks with a lot of free time. I’m so sorry for disappearing. Enjoy!

Ao3 - Masterlist

Next

-

“You’ve officially lost your mind, Jay, I swear to God.”

When Marinette had agreed to get up early on a Sunday morning because Jason had asked her to hang out, she didn’t think she’d regret it five seconds into meeting her best friend at their favorite restaurant. And she hadn’t yet, but it was very close.

“Nette, please, I’m begging you right now. Do you want me to kneel and plead? Because I will, don’t try me.” His blue eyes had always been her weakness and the puppy face he was making at her right now almost made her agree on the spot to whatever insane plan he had come up with. The keyword being almost.

“Alright, let me just reiterate to make sure I’m understanding. Your father is hosting a gala in a month and you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend?” Marinette tried to keep her face as straight and serious as possible but it was proving hard since the words she had just said sounded utterly ridiculous.

“Pretty much, yeah. So, will you? I swear I’ll pay you if I have to, I just need you to help me out with this.” He had started to look hopeful since she had yet to outright deny him his request. “You know I love you Bug, and you’re the only one I can trust with something like this.”

Damn, he was good at telling her exactly what she liked to hear, and Mari was just not strong enough to say no to him, though she did plan to at least make him sweat a bit more for it. “Oh really? And what if I asked you for, I don’t know, a new car?”

Her forced attempt at being difficult hadn’t flown under Jason’s radar as he seemed to pick up on it and smirked. “We both know you would never ask for that since you refuse to let me pay for anything every time we go out, but if you did ask for that, know that I’m ready to do whatever you wish me to do. Do you maybe want an apartment? You did mention wanting to stop paying rent… ”

Despite the teasing tone in his voice paired with the sly smirk on his face Marinette knew he was dead serious which, even if it flattered her that her friend would even think about doing such a thing for her, made her backtrack on being difficult immediately.

“No! Argh, you’re impossible. Fine, I’ll follow along to whatever your brilliant plan is, but don’t you dare buy me an apartment, you crazy knobhead.” The look she shot at him tried to be venomous but seemed to be ineffective when the brightest grin took over Jason’s face as he moved to sit by her side to squish the living daylights out of the tiny woman.

“I swear I don’t know what I did to deserve you Nette, I love you.”

That earned him a playful smack on the arm as Marinette gave in and chuckled at his antics. “I love you too, you goofball. Now, get off of me and finish your breakfast.”

The man sat across her once again looking like the cat that got the canary, Cheshire grin in place. “You’re the best."

She pretended not to notice the way her heart paused for a beat when she saw the way Jason was looking at her, with caring eyes as if she was incredibly precious. Instead, the woman hid her face behind her mug of coffee.

"W-why do you need me to do this anyway? What do you need a fake girlfriend for?”

Jason’s demeanor instantly changed, his shoulders squared up and he frowned. “The annual gala my father holds for the company’s investors and partners is always full of old men who are full of themselves-”

“Doesn’t that remind me of someone?”

“Oh shut up, I at least have a good reason for it. They’re nothing more than a bunch of old hags who like to brag 24/7, and since this gala is in their "honor” they can bring guests with them. If I have to go by another year hearing them pitch their daughters and grand-daughters to me hoping I’ll date one of them, I’ll simply kill one of them. Some of the girls over the years have been nice but for every decent one you can actually talk to, you have at least 9 others doing the most ridiculous things to try and get your attention. I assume it’s what they are asked to do but I swear… And everyone else gets out of it too. Dick is already married to Kor'i, Tim is forever married to his job and Damian is not old enough for most of them. So that leaves me, the handsome Jason Todd, to carry the family’s weight on my shoulders.“

She snorted at the theatrical sigh he let out before laying his head on the table, immediately regretting it as he looked up at her with a glint in his eyes. "That’s where you, my dear Miss Dupain-Cheng come in. If I have a girlfriend, those girls will have to effectively back off of me as well, and I won’t have to restrain myself from being incredibly rude to them.”

“As if you could actually restrain yourself from being rude.”

Whether he didn’t hear her or just decided to ignore her comment Mari didn’t know, but once the monologue had been delivered, he leaned back on his seat with his signature smirk. “I’m a genius, I know.”

It took a whole lot from Marinette not to smack her dumbass of a friend again, but even she had to admit no one deserved to have their space invaded as she knew Jason had had in some of the other events his father organized, and if he was being truthful with her, then this gala was shaping to be even worse in that regard. If she could help her friend it would be enough for her, but in doing this she would also have an opportunity to design a gown to wear and hopefully get some people interested in her designs. Maybe she didn’t regret agreeing to this that much anymore.

“You’re one hell of a crazy person, Jay. You’re lucky you’re my best friend.” She rolled her eyes and nudged his leg with hers under the table with a smile. “We’ll have to do some planning this month and you better be ready. I’m not meeting your family for the first time as your fake girlfriend without running through each and every way this could catastrophically end.”

His shoulders relaxed as he nudged her leg back, relief flooding his face seeing her so committed. “Don’t worry Bug, they will love you, and I’ll explain everything to them after this is over, but if they are in on it from the start I just know one of my brothers will screw it up. I think we can pull it off though, and you know I’m always up for a challenge.”

The already familiar confidence rush that ran through Marinette whenever Jason reassured her that everything would be fine made an appearance once more, and at that moment she completely trusted themselves to be able to make do with this crazy-ass plan. After all, Jay was stubborn and always ready to jump in head-first into the weirdest situations.

Newsflash. This time he wasn’t.

Jason had known it was risky to ask his best friend to play pretend so he could get rid of the sticky girls from the gala.

Not because he thought she would refuse, but because of his own feelings.

Truth is, he was in love with Marinette and had been ever since five months into their friendship they encountered two thugs trying to rob a teenager on their way to school. Jason had put one of them down but, before he could go for the second one, Marinette already had knocked him out.

Her breathing was just a bit labored from throwing the man over her shoulder and one of her pigtails had come off from where the robber had grabbed it, but then she turned to wink at him with a smile before going to see if the teen was alright. Red Hood could only feel the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

Knowing Marinette was potentially able to kick his ass at any given moment had made him feel all kinds of things, and he was already a goner by the time she was back by his side.

That same night, and back in his bed, Jason was mulling over the earlier events. Read: thinking about Marinette. He had never felt so flustered around the tiny woman and it had proven to be a hard task to get her out of his head even when she had left for her own house several hours ago.

One thing led to another and soon he found himself reminiscing about the past months spent in Marinette’s company. How she always seemed to brighten up any room she walked into, making him feel like he should look away but being unable to. Her caring nature taking over whenever someone in need of help was in the vicinity, the tenderness with which she treated people’s injuries, be it physical or emotional.

Jason remembered the first time he had been at the receiving end of it. It had been the time when his identity as Red Hood was also revealed to her.

In his defense, he hadn’t expected Marinette to arrive early to his flat for their movie night only to find him trying to get the cuts all over his abdomen and arms to stop bleeding. Time seemed to freeze as they stared at each other, one sitting on a barstool at the kitchen isle, the other standing at the door with a bag of snacks in her arms. Marinette, being the quick-witted and resourceful person she was, recovered astoundingly quickly from her stupor and started chastising him while tending to the cuts herself while he could only look at her in awe.

Later, when he explained where he got injured, she didn’t seem fazed by discovering his identity. If anything she seemed…smug?

“What’s with that face? I expected more of a reaction:”

Her smile only grew at that as she put on the last bandage around his arm. “I’m glad you finally told me, but I kind of…already knew? I mean, I had my suspicions. You two had roughly the same measurements as far as I could tell, you also happened to go MIA whenever there was an emergency a time too many for it to feel like a coincidence. Also the little stunt you pulled the other day talking to me in the mask? You should’ve at least tried to fake your voice or something.”  Once she was done she patted his head with a wink and left him to process everything while she prepared the popcorn.

That wink had been so cheeky it left him swooning, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Wait. That had felt familiar.

Oh.

Oh.

Jason was brought back to the present with such force he thought someone had slapped him. Laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling at 3 am he couldn’t tiptoe around the issue anymore. He wondered how he hadn’t reached this conclusion much earlier.

He was in love with Marinette.

He was in love with his best friend.

Dear God, he was so fucked.

That had been the moment he accepted he was so utterly in love with Marinette, and even though Jason had hoped that what he thought was a very one-sided love would subside eventually, with each passing day where he got to know her better and better he only fell harder for her.

Why was he even thinking about all of this? Oh right. He had asked Mari to play pretend as his girlfriend that same afternoon.

What could possibly go wrong?

Marinette had taken it upon her to have their lie be as believable as possible, which meant she wanted them to at least plan out what they’d do if certain situations arose while they were navigating the gala. What this meant was that the following month they had spent a whole lot of time together, maybe too much for Jason’s sanity to remain as stable as it could.

Even if he was used to meeting her at least twice a week and spending their weekly movie night together, Mari practically lived in his apartment now. And he wasn’t complaining at all, but by the gods, if it wasn’t so damn distracting to have her around. She would often keep him company while asking questions about the people who would attend the gala, working on her dress for it, or simply walking around the house jokingly complaining about how Jason tasteless choice of furniture and decorations made the living room look like a yard sale.

Oh, and there was also all the teasing. There had been a consistent amount of it between them before, but now it had turned into a constant stream of cheeky comments, smirk exchanges and usually a smack or two from Mari.

All in all, Jason had lived through both the most blissful yet most frustrating month of his life and the worst of it had yet to arrive, though time did pass by way faster than he would’ve hoped for.

And just like that, the big night was upon them.

-

And that’s it! Hope you liked this little thing and look forward to the next parts! Thank you a lot for reading <3

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[chiseler]

Stolen Faces

Cinema is an art of faces, almost a religion of faces: on screen they loom above us, vast as a mother’s face must appear to an infant. We can get lost in them. The deepest thrill the movies offer may be the opportunity to gaze at human faces longer and with more unabashed, lover-like intimacy than real life regularly allows. Most often, of course, we gaze at beautiful faces, though cinema has its share of beloved gargoyles, mugs with “character” rather than symmetry. But the uncanny power of faces onscreen also anchors films about disfigurement and facial transformations, about masks and scars and plastic surgery. These stories summon all the fears and taboos, desires and unresolved questions swirling around the human face. Do faces reveal or conceal a person’s true nature? Can changing someone’s face change their soul?

Deformity is a staple of horror films, of course, from classics such as Phantom of the Opera and The Raven (in which the hideously afflicted man played by Boris Karloff muses, “Maybe if a man looks ugly, he does ugly things”) to surgical shockers such as Eyes Without a Face. But plot twists involving faces that are damaged or corrected, masked or changed, turn up with surprising frequency in film noir as well, where they are related to themes of identity theft, amnesia, desperate attempts to shed the past or recover the past. One of the grim proverbs of noir is that you can’t escape yourself. There are no fresh starts, no second chances. But noir also demonstrates the instability of identity, the way character can be corrupted, and stories about facial transformations harbor a nebulous fear that there is in the end no fixed self. If noir is pessimistic about the possibility of change, it is at the same time haunted by fear of change—fear of looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger.

The Truth of Masks

Two films about men who literally lose their faces take the full measure of the resulting ostracism and crushing isolation—and what men will do to escape it. Hiroshi Teshigahara’s The Face of Another (Tanin no Kao, 1966) is based on a Kobo Abe novel about a scientist named Okuyama who has been literally defaced by a chemical accident. We never see what he used to look like; he spends half the film swaddled in bandages like Claude Rains in The Invisible Man, ferocious black eyes glinting through slits. Obsessed with people’s reactions to his appearance, he lashes out bitterly, insisting that all his social ties have been severed, including his conjugal ties with his wife. She tries to convince him that it’s all in his head and that her feelings haven’t changed, but her revulsion when he makes an abrupt sexual advance convinces him that she’s lying.

Okuyama believes that a life-like mask will restore his relationship with his wife and his connection to society. He has evidently not seen The Face Behind the Mask (1941), a terrific B noir in which Peter Lorre stars as Johnny Szabo, who is hideously scarred in a fire. This tragedy and the ensuing cruelty of strangers transform him from a sweet, Chaplin-esque immigrant to a bitter criminal mastermind, even after he dons a powder-white mask that gives him a sad, creepy ghost of his former face—more Lorre than Lorre.  The mask is merely a flimsy patch on the horrible visage that spiritually scars Johnny, and though it enables him to marry a sweet and loving (and perhaps near-sighted) woman, it can’t reverse the corrosion of his character.  

The doctor who makes a far more sophisticated mask for Okuyama does so because the project fascinates him as a psychological and philosophical experiment. He speculates about what the world would be like if everyone wore a mask: morality would not exist, he argues, since people would feel no responsibility for the actions of their alternate identities. (His theory seems to be borne out by the consequences of internet anonymity.) Unlike the one Johnny Szabo wears, here the mask bears no resemblance to Okuyama’s original looks, and the doctor believes the new face will change his patient’s personality, turning him into someone else.

When the mask is fitted, it turns out to be the face of Tatsuya Nakadai, one of the most striking and plastic pans in cinema history. With only a little help from a fake mole, dark glasses, and a bizarre fringe of beard, Nakadai succeeds in making his own features look eerily synthetic, as though they don’t belong to him. Sitting in a crowded beer hall on his first masked outing in public, he creates a palpable sense of unease, keeping his features unnaturally still as though unsure of their mobility, touching his skin gingerly to explore its alien surface. As he gradually grows more comfortable and revels in the freedom of his new face, the doctor tells him, “It’s not the beer that’s made you drunk, it’s the mask.”

Abe’s novel contains a scene in which the protagonist goes to an exhibit of Noh masks, highly stylized crystallizations of stock characters and emotions. In Noh, as in other traditional forms of theater that use masks, the actor is present on stage but vanishes into another physical being—men play women, young men play old men, gods, and ghosts. In cinema, actors impersonate other characters using their own faces—usually without even the heavy layer of makeup worn on western stages. Movie actors are pretending to be people they’re not, yet if we judge their performances good it means we believe what we see in their faces. When an actor’s real face plays the part of a mask, like Lorre’s or Nakadai’s, this strange inversion—the real impersonating the artificial—has a uniquely disconcerting effect.

At the heart of this disturbing film lurks a horror that changing the skin can indeed change the soul. Okuyama tries to hold onto his identity, insisting, “I am who I am, I can’t change,” but the doctor insists he is “a new man,” with “no records, no past.” In covering his scar tissue with a smooth, artificial skin he eradicates his own experience, and with it his humanity. The doctor turns out to be right when he predicts that the mask will have a mind of its own. Suddenly endowed with sleek good looks, Okuyama buys flashy suits and sets out to seduce his own wife. When he succeeds easily, he is outraged, only to have her reveal that she knew who he was all along. After she leaves him in disgust he descends into madness and random violence. He has become the opposite of the Invisible Man: a visible shell with nothing inside

Okuyama’s story is interwoven with a subplot about a radiation-scarred girl from Nagasaki, whose social isolation drives her to incest and suicide. Lovely from one side, repellent from the other, she looks very much like the protagonist of A Woman’s  Face. Ingrid Bergman starred in the Swedish original, but Joan Crawford is ideally cast in the 1941 Hollywood remake directed by George Cukor. Half beautiful and half grotesque, half hard-boiled and half vulnerable, Anna Holm spells out what was usually inchoate in Crawford’s paradoxical presence. A childhood fire has left her with a gnarled scar on one side of her face, like a black diseased root growing across her cheek and distorting her eye and mouth. Crawford makes us feel Anna’s agonizing humiliation when people look at her, which spurs her compulsive mannerisms of turning her head aside, lifting her hand to her cheek, or pulling her hair down.

Also perfectly cast is Conrad Veidt as the elegant, sinister Torsten Baring. Veidt went from German Expressionist horror—playing the goth heartthrob Cesar in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and the grotesquely disfigured yet weirdly alluring hero of The Man Who Laughs—to an unexpected late-career run as a sexy leading man in cloak-and-dagger films such as The Spy in Black and Contraband. When Anna turns her head defiantly to reveal her scar, Torsten gazes at her with a gleam of excitement, even of perverse attraction. She is confused and touched by his kindness and gallantry, helplessly trying to hide her sensitivity beneath a tough façade. Her broken-up, uncertain expressions when he gives her flowers or kisses her hand count as some of the most delicate acting Crawford ever did. Anna assumes that Torsten, the penniless scion of a rich family, must want her to do some dirty work, and she turns out to be right, but he also genuinely appreciates the proud, bitter, lonely woman who faces down her miserable lot through sheer strength of will.

People are horrible to Anna, nastily mocking her wounded vanity and her attempts to look nice. “The world was against me,” she says, “All right, I’d be against it.” She has found the perfect outlet, blackmailing pretty women who commit adultery. In one of the film’s best scenes, the spoiled and kittenish wife she is threatening retaliates by shining a lamp in Anna’s face and laughing at her. Anna leaps at the woman and starts hitting her over and over, forehand and backhand, in an ecstasy of hatred. This savagely satisfying moment is derailed by the film’s first grossly contrived plot twist, as the encounter is interrupted by the woman’s husband, who happens to be a plastic surgeon specializing in correcting facial scars. He offers to operate on Anna, and once the bandages are removed, in a scene orchestrated for maximum suspense, an absurdly flawless face is revealed.

The doctor (Melvyn Douglas) calls her both his Galatea and his Frankenstein: he views her as his creation, but isn’t sure if she’s an ideal woman or an unholy monster, “a beautiful face with no heart.” Her dilemma is ultimately which man to please, whose approval to seek: the doctor who believes her character should be corrected now that her face is, or Torsten, who wants her to kill the young nephew who stands between him and the family estate. This overwrought turn is never plausible; it is always obvious that Anna is no child murderer. What is believable is her erotic thrall to Torsten, the first man who has ever shown an interest in her. Crawford is at her most unguarded in these moments of trembling desire; Cukor remarked on how “the nearer the camera, the more tender and yielding she became.” He speculated that the camera was her true lover.

Anna undergoes months of pain and uncertainty for the chance of being beautiful for Torsten, and there is a marvelous shot of her gazing at herself in a mirror as she prepares to surprise him with her new face, brimming with hard proud joy. But he winds up lamenting the surgery that has turned her into “a mere woman, soft and warm and full of love,” he sneers. “I thought you were something different—strong, exciting, not dull, mediocre, safe.” In this same speech, Torsten reveals himself as a cartoonish fascist megalomaniac, which fits in with the film’s slide into silly, flimsily scripted melodrama, but sadly obscures the radical spark of what he’s saying. Anna’s character is shaped by the way she looks, or rather by the way she is looked at by men; the disappointingly conventional ending sides with the man who equates flawless beauty with moral goodness, and against the one man who was able to see something fine—a “hard, shining brightness,” in a woman’s damaged and imperfect face.

A Stolen Face (1952) follows a similar premise, much less effectively, and reaches the opposite conclusion. Paul Henreid plays a plastic surgeon who operates on female criminals with disfiguring scars, convinced that once they look normal they will become contented law-abiding citizens. He gets carried away, however, sculpting one patient into a dead ringer for his lost love (Lizabeth Scott plays both the original and the copy) and marrying her. His attempt to play Pygmalion backfires, since the vulgar, mean-spirited and untrustworthy ex-con is unchanged by her new appearance: she is indeed “a beautiful face without a heart.” That is a succinct definition of the femme fatale, a type Lizabeth Scott often played and one that embodies a fascination with the deceptiveness of feminine beauty. In The Big Heat (1953), it is only when Debbie (Glora Grahame) has her pretty face rearranged by a pot of scalding coffee that she abandons her cynical self-interest to become an avenging angel, fearlessly punishing the corrupt who hide their greed behind a genteel façade. She has nothing left to lose; pulling a gun from her mink coat and plugging the woman she recognizes as her evil “sister,” the disfigured Debbie asserts her freedom: “I never felt better in my life.”

Blessings in Disguise

Sometimes, people are only too happy to lose their faces. Dr. Richard Talbot (Kent Smith), the protagonist of the superb, underappreciated drama Nora Prentiss (1947), sees the bright side when his face is horribly burned in a car crash. He has already faked his own death, sending another man’s corpse over a cliff in a burning car. In a neat bit of poetic irony, by crashing his own car he has completed the process of destroying his identity, and no longer needs to fear he’ll be recognized. Losing his face is a blessing in disguise—or rather, a blessing of disguise. But the disfigurement is also a visual representation of the corruption of his character: his face changes to reflect his downward metamorphosis with almost Dorian Gray-like precision.

Car crashes are a kind of refrain in the film. The doctor’s routine existence veers off course when a taxi knocks down a nightclub singer, Nora Prentiss (Anne Sheridan), across the street from his San Francisco office. Talk about a happy accident: the nice guy trapped in an ice-cold marriage to a rigid, nagging martinet suddenly has a gorgeous, good-humored young woman stretched out on his examining table. Nora may sing for a living, but her real vocation is dishing out wisecracks (her first words on coming to are, “There must be an easier way to get a taxi.”) When the doctor mentions a paper he’s writing on “ailments of the heart,” the canary, her eyelids dropping under the weight of knowingness, quips, “A paper? I could write a book.”

It’s hard to imagine a more sympathetic pair of adulterers, but the doctor is so daunted by the prospect of asking his wife for a divorce that it seems simpler to use the convenient death of a patient in his office to stage his own demise and flee to New York with Nora. It’s soon clear, though, that some part of him did die in San Francisco. Cooped up in a New York hotel room, terrified of going out lest someone spot him, the formerly gentle man becomes an irascible, rude, nervous wreck. When the faithful and incredibly patient Nora goes back to singing for Phil Dinardo (Robert Alda), the handsome nightclub owner who loves her, Talbot becomes hysterically jealous. Unshaven and hollow-eyed, he slaps Nora and almost kills Dinardo before fleeing the police and heading into that fiery crash. He becomes, as the film’s evocative French title has it, L’Amant sans Visage, “the lover without a face.”

When his bandages are removed, he is unrecognizable, wizened and scarred, his face a creased and calloused mask. His own wife doesn’t know him, and when Nora visits him in prison his damaged face, shot through a tight wire mesh, looks like something decaying, dissolving. He’s in prison because, in an even neater bit of irony, he has been charged with his own murder. He decides to take the rap, recognizing the justice of the mistake: he did kill Richard Talbot.

This same ironic plot twist appears in Strange Impersonation (1946), albeit less convincingly. This deliriously far-fetched tale, directed at a breakneck pace by Anthony Mann, stars Brenda Marshall as Nora Goodrich, a pretty scientist whose glasses signal that she is both brainy and emotionally myopic. She is harshly punished for caring more about work than marriage: her female lab assistant, who wants to steal Nora’s fiancé, tampers with an experiment so that it explodes, burning Nora’s face to a crisp. Embittered, she retreats from the world, and when another woman, who is trying to blackmail her over a car accident, falls from the window and is mistakenly identified as Nora, she seizes the opportunity to disappear, have plastic surgery that miraculously eliminates her scars, and return posing as the blackmailer, to seek revenge. She goes to work for her former fiancé, who strangely fails to recognize her voice or her striking resemblance to his lost love.

The plot plays out as, and turns out to be, a fever dream, but this last credibility stretcher is too common to dismiss as merely the flaw of one potboiler. Plots involving impersonation and identity theft rely not only on unrealistic visions of what plastic surgery can achieve, but on the assumption that people are deeply unobservant and tone-deaf in recognizing loved ones. A film that underlines this blindness with droll irony is The Scar (a.k.a. Hollow Triumph and The Man Who Murdered Himself, 1948), a convoluted but hugely entertaining little B noir in which Paul Henreid plays dual roles as a crook on the run and a psychologist who happens to look just like him. John Muller, pursued by hit men sent by a casino owner he robbed, stumbles across his doppelganger and decides to kill him and take his place. All he needs to do is give himself a facial scar to match the doctor’s. Only as he is dumping the body does he notice that he has put the scar on the wrong cheek—the consequence of an accidentally reversed photograph. But the irony quickly doubles back: Muller decides to brazen it out, and in fact no one notices that the doctor’s scar has apparently moved from one side of his face to the other—not even his lover. (Joan Bennett glides through this awkward part in a world-weary trance, giving a dry-martini reading to the script’s most famous lines: “It’s a bitter little world, full of sad surprises.”) The assumption that people pay little attention to the way others look or sound seems directly at odds with the power that faces and voices wield on film, and the intimate specificity with which we experience them. But noir stories often turn on how easily people are deceived, and how poorly they really know one another—or even themselves.

In The Long Wait (1954), perhaps the most extreme case of confused identity, a man with amnesia searches for a woman who has had plastic surgery. Not only does he not know what she looks like now, he can’t even remember what she used to look like. Since the movie is based on a Mickey Spillane story, he proceeds methodically by grabbing every woman he sees, in hopes that something will jog his memory. The film is fun in its pulpy, trashy way, provided you enjoy watching Anthony Quinn kiss women as though his aim were to throttle the life out of them. Quinn plays a man badly injured in a car wreck that erases both his memory and his fingerprints. This is lucky when he wanders into his old town and discovers he is wanted for a bank robbery—without fingerprints, they can’t arrest him. Figuring he must be innocent, he goes in search of the girlfriend who may or may not have grabbed the money and gone under the knife. It’s an intriguing premise, but the ultimate revelation of the right woman feels arbitrary, and the implications of all this confusion of identities are left resolutely unexamined. Nonetheless, there is something in the film’s searing, inarticulate desperation that glints like a shattered mirror.

Under the Knife

The promise of plastic surgery is a new and better self, the erasure of years and the traces of life. Taken to extremes, it is the opportunity to become a different person. Probably the best known plastic surgery noir is Dark Passage (1947), in which Humphrey Bogart plays Vincent Parry, who visits a back alley doctor after escaping from San Quentin. Parry was framed for killing his wife, so the face plastered across newspapers with the label of murderer has become a false face that betrays him. A friendly cabby who spots him recommends a surgeon who is he promises is “no quack.” Houseley Stevenson’s gleeful turn as the back-alley doctor is unforgettable, as he sharpens a straight razor while philosophizing about how all human life is rooted in fear of pain and death. He can’t resist scaring Parry, chortling over what he could do to a patient he didn’t like: make him look like a bulldog, or a monkey. But he reassures Parry that he’ll make him look good: “I’ll make you look as if you’ve lived.”

During the operation, Parry’s drugged consciousness becomes a kaleidoscope of faces, all the people who have threatened or helped him swirling around. His face is being re-shaped, as his life has already been shaped by others: the bad woman who framed him and the good woman who rescues and protects him, the small-time crook who menaces him and the kind cabby who helps him. Faceless for much of the movie, mute for part of it (he spends a long time in constraining bandages), Vincent Parry is among the most passive and cipher-like of noir protagonists. When the bandages finally come off after surgery, he looks like Humphrey Bogart, and the idea that this famously beat-up, lived-in face could be the creation of plastic surgery is perhaps the film’s biggest joke. But Vincent Parry remains an oddly blank, undefined character, and he seems unchanged by his new face and name. In a sense the doctor is right: he only looks as though he’s lived.

The fullest cinematic exploration of the problems inherent in trying to make a new life through plastic surgery is Seconds (1966), John Frankenheimer’s flesh-creeping sci-fi drama about a mysterious company that offers clients second lives. For a substantial fee, they will fake your death, make you over completely—including new fingerprints, teeth, and vocal cords—and create an entirely new identity for you. There is never a moment in the movie when this seems like a good idea. The Saul Bass credits, in which human features are stretched and distorted in extreme close-up, instills a horror of plasticity, and disorienting camera-work creates an immediate feeling of unease and dislocation, a physical discomfort at being in the wrong place.

Arthur, a businessman from Scarsdale, is the personification of disappointed middle age, afflicted by profound anomie that goes beyond a dull routine and a tired marriage. When the Company finishes its work—the process is shown in gruesome detail, to the extent that Frankenheimer’s cameraman fainted while shooting a real rhinoplasty—the formerly nondescript and greying Arthur looks like Rock Hudson, and has a new life as a playboy painter in Malibu. He’s told that he is free, “alone in the world, absolved of all responsibility.” He has “what every middle-aged man in America wants: freedom.”

At first, however, his life proves as empty and meaningless in this new setting as it was in the old; even when the Frankenstein scars have healed, he remains nervous and joyless as before. After he meets and falls for a beautiful blonde neighbor, who introduces him to a very 1960s California lifestyle, he begins to revel in youth and sensual freedom. Yet something is still not right; at a cocktail party he gets drunk and starts talking about his former existence—a taboo. He discovers that his lover, indeed almost everyone he knows, is an employee of the company or a fellow “reborn,” hired to create a fake life for him, and to keep him under surveillance. His “freedom” is a construct, tightly controlled.

Arthur rebels, making a forbidden trip to visit his wife, who of course does not recognize him. Talking to her about her supposedly deceased husband, for the first time he begins to understand himself: the depth of his alienation and confusion, the fact that he never really knew what he wanted, and so wanted the things he had been told he should want. Seconds is a scathing attack on the American ideal of a successful life, a portrait of how corporations sell fantasies of youth, beauty, happiness, love; buying into these commercial dreams, no one is really free to know what they want, or even who they are. Will Geer, as the folksy, sinister founder of the Company, talks wistfully about how he simply wanted to make people happy.

There is a deep sadness in the scenes where Arthur revisits his old home and confronts the failure of his attempt at rebirth—beautifully embodied by Rock Hudson in a performance suffused with the melancholy of a man who has spent his life hiding his real identity behind a mask. Yet Arthur still imagines that if he can have another new start, a third face and identity, he will get it right. Instead, he learns the macabre secret of how the Company goes about swapping out people’s identities. Seconds contrasts the surgical precision with which faces, bodies, and the trappings of life can be remade, and the impossibility of determining or predicting how or if the inner self will be changed. For that there are no charts or diagrams, and no knife that can cut deep enough.

by Imogen Sara Smith

[libermachinae]

Drops in a Bucket, Splashes on the Ground

Also available on AO3! Tags: Mature, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Gen, Whirl (Transformers), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Whirl is Primus AU, Angst, would you believe me if i said i didnt set out to write another angst fic, whirl's just like that Wordcount: 4202 Notes: I would highly recommend you read "Bullets" or at least be familiar with Whirl's abuse of Rotorstorm before reading this fic. The scene containing graphic violence begins with "Tacticians always struggle..." and the scene referencing abuse begins "He shoves his way..." Please feel free to reach out if you need any further information.

~*~

“And I guess old Primus makes five.”

“Hah! No, no, no. That’s not Primus… you’re Primus.”

~*~

 Whirl has never been intimidated before. Not so intentionally, not by bots whose forged bodies have been piled on with armor and weaponry, no expenses spared by the ganglords. The Heavies rolled up on treads that left gouges in the streets, painful marks that tomorrow’s taxes will go to fixing, and their transformations took a full five seconds as excess plating moved out of the way while their protoforms tried to bend per their original configurations. They wear identical red visors and dark gray masks: faces, certainly, but only in the barest sense of the word, enough to separate them from lowlifes without affording them identity. It is impossible to tell one from the other and Whirl knows, intrinsically, that it will not matter.

 ~*~

 Rung is the only one who doesn’t flinch. Whirl stands over Adaptus’ body, freshly relieved of what they can all agree was a spectacularly ugly head, and puts away his gun.

“Right,” he says, with a meaningful glance out the window. “Want to agree none of us heard that?”

“Whirl!” Rodimus shouts. “You can’t just kill a god!”

The body explodes into a pile of dust.

“Sure I can,” Whirl says, shaking it off his foot even as he leans down to inspect the scrapple. “Hey Ratch, can you rig me to explode next time I get shot?”

“Is it true?” Nautica asks, doing her intellect a massive disservice by stepping in front of the unhinged bot with a blaster.

“Obviously not,” Ratchet says. “He was lying.”

Whirl nods.

“Yeah. You think I would keep it a secret from any of you if I was a god? You think Cyclonus would ever hear the end of it? Nah.” He stands, kicking pile and sending a spray of metallic dust into the air. “Awesome way to go, though, can’t say I’m not jealous.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to kill him for it.”

“So, you’re not Primus?” Nautica asks. She hasn’t moved, her arms crossed in front of her. If Whirl had been her creator (and he isn’t, he already has his claws full with a nest of scraplets), he would have been pretty proud of her right now.

“Nope!” he says. “I’ve never vouched for the universe before, but that kind of joke would take on an extra level of cruel, don’t you think?”

“Got to agree with Whirl, here,” Rodimus says, a hand on Nautica’s shoulder drawing her back. “I could buy pretty much anyone else. Maybe not Rung, but, say, Velocity? She could be Primus. Or Roller. I guess not Megatron, since we saw him come online, but—”

“The point, Rodimus,” Ratchet deadpans.

“The point is, not Whirl,” Rodimus said, sweeping his hands up to gesture at him. “I get Primus is disappointed in us. We are a textbook example of why a race of sentient war machines should never be left to their own devices, combined with a case study on how to avoid learning from every mistake you’ve ever made. But I really don’t think that disappointment would translate to actively hunting us for sport. Isn’t Primus supposed to be all about forgiveness and loving your cellmate?”

“Right,” Whirl says, clacking his pincers together in his approximation of a snap. “An angry god is so cliché.”

“I don’t think anyone knows what Primus believed,” Rung says. Oh no. He’s taken off his glasses. “I don’t see any reason he couldn’t be Whirl.”

“How about we start where the part where gods don’t exist, and Whirl does?” Ratchet suggests.

“I… I am Solomus, though.”

The whole group turns to the offending voice. Whirl goes for his gun and Rodimus knocks it out of his hand, a stern finger silently telling him not to kill any more gods. As if being an ex-Matrix bearer gives him some sort of say.

Tyrest has not stopped touching his gaudy mantelpiece, poking at the holes. It wouldn’t be so disturbing, except he’s staring at Whirl while he does it.

“Primus, don’t you remember?” he asks.

“Hey, let’s watch the fragging language.”

“Adaptus wanted to send our creations to pointless war,” Tyrest goes on. “Violence for the sake of violence, conquests built on the backs of others. We fought him.” He steps forward and reaches for Whirl. “Together, we—”

Whirl jerks back with his claws extended out.

“I will cut your hand off, I swear to—I swear.”

He is saved from any more interrogation by the ground violently rumbling underneath them.

“Okay, so regardless of whatever’s Whirl’s deal is, we do still have at least one Primus to worry about,” Rodimus says, looking out the window at the approximation of what Whirl, personally, had always assumed god would look like. “Solomus, you still got your teleporting rigged up?”

 ~*~

 No one ever considered giving The Institute a waiting room, so Whirl stands to one side of the hallway while the butchers discuss his case. He knows his proposal intrigues them: they have never had an opportunity to shadowplay a willing subject before. What is there to learn from a brain that does not fight them every step of the way? What backdoors exist that every other victim kept hidden? Whirl does not care about the potential scientific advancements his offer provides. He just wants to stop dreaming of gears, lose the phantom aches of his fingers. He wants to look in a mirror and see nothing: not himself, not a monster. Just an object, fulfilling its purpose.

The scientists who walk by him in the halls stare. Everyone stares, but the look they give him is different. They do not find him exceptional, nor do they feel for him pity or contempt. He is no marvel. He is a creation, perfectly engineered to suit its purpose, every detail minded with care to ensure it all works together as an ideal mechanism. He wishes he could see himself through their eyes.

The door beside him slides open and a bot he has never seen before steps out. His helm comes up no higher than Whirl’s waist and his large yellow optics do not look up from his datapad.

“Whirl of Polyhex, the panel has elected to reject your petition,” he says. “I am to remind—”

“What?” Whirl startles; his new head shoots upward, forcing him into an angle that is both unnatural and instinctual. “Why? Ice Pick said he could—”

“I am to remind you that you have signed a nondisclosure agreement; failure to comply will result in penalty of death.” The little bot flares his plating, the click of a motor lock setting it in place. “You will now submit to full stasis and be escorted back to your home.”

The jack comes from behind.

 ~*~

 “This is my hab suite.”

Whirl knows the tonal difference between a bullet hitting living metal and a wall. He scowls and gives up, waving Cyclonus inside.

“My room’s a mess,” he says. “Think I’m gonna crash here for a while.”

Cyclonus comes in and sits beside Whirl on the berth. When the door slides shut, they are visible only by their biolights: Whirl closed the shutters when he came in, the stars too much like blinking numbers. Cyclonus is a surprisingly quiet machine. His presence comes with none of the usual hisses and clicks one would normally get with their kind, like each component was designed specifically to work with those around it. Compared to Whirl, whose body is a wreck of pieces that almost fit together, clinking and scraping through their standard functions, he practically doesn’t exist.

“This is slagged, huh?” Whirl asks.

Cyclonus thinks on it a moment, then there is a shift of plating as he nods. Is it an admission, a confession? Pri—frag, Whirl doesn’t want to have to start thinking about that.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You don’t need to—”

“Scrap, you’re right. What am I doing?” Whirl laughs. “I’m infallible now, right? It’s all been part of my grand plan for Cybertron. I should be saying you’re welcome; you should be thanking me.”

Cyclonus sighs, a rush of air out his vents.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks.

Whirl pokes and pinches at his own plating, trying to make sense of it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Start praying, and keep Megatron far away from me.”

 ~*~

 He’s spent two days in the holding cell before he realizes no one else is coming for him.

That Orion Pax… he’s good, and Whirl’s not sure whether it’s the kind that gets people hired or gets people killed. Not that it matters, not that he cares. The Senate’s going to crush all of them one by one, like little cans of oil under a rolling tank. He thought being a tread would come with some measure of relief; instead, it just landed him in a hole.

He digs a claw tip into the wall, another score among a small collection. He has been trying to reconstruct the miner’s face, what it looked like in the split second between recognizing he had been struck and realizing there was more to come. He can’t relish a memory if he can’t keep it, and he’s already struggling well enough to accomplish the former. This assignment was supposed to be a release. Look down at the big thinker and imagine in his place Senator Proteus, Sentinel Prime, the faceless Functionist Council. Tell himself that this is what it would feel like to rip their plating open until their priceless energon spilled onto a dirty floor.

The face, though, it’s escaping him. How can he fell anything about a person with no face? What relief is there to be found in beating the slag out of a nobody? He is trying so hard to adapt, but it’s like his processor is working against him, reminding him how far he got before he was reeled back in. The silhouette of his sketch is familiar.

His claws hurt where he has worn the tip blunt, and the portrait is still incomplete.

 ~*~

 “I don’t make Matrixes,” he insists. The group was polite enough to knock once they found him, but they’re failing to pick up the hint that he wants all of them to go away, right now, and leave him alone forever.

“Well, Epistemus says you can,” Rodimus says, dentae blocked together. “Why do all the other gods have their memories back, but not you?”

“I dunno, maybe Needles can stick me and figure it out.”

It’s almost cute, the way Rewind steps protectively in front of Chromedome.

“Rodimus,” Rung says, trying to get between them, “this isn’t helping.”

“Thank you,” Whirl says. “Now can we get to the part where we storm the planet, guns a-blazin’?”

“That won’t help either.” Rung turns to look at him. “Your memories haven’t been deleted, Whirl. Somehow, there should still be some part of you that remembers creating the Matrix.”

“The Functionists probably took it out,” Whirl says.

“That’s not how mnemosurgery works.”

“Says the dropout.”

“You told me once about your earliest memory,” Rung says. Whirl should be furious that he’s doing this here, in front of people who have no business knowing what’s in his head, but he’s more interested in the way Rung has taken off his glasses and is squinting up at him. “What happened just before it?”

They did not bring Ratchet, a testament to the fact that they will not leave before he gives them answers. He could start lying again, or find another way to forgo the question, but something about Cyclonus’ presence at his back helps him settle down the compulsion. Everybody lies about their forging. Everybody wants to say it was overseen by the Prime, or that they settled into their form like resin poured into a mold, instant and perfect. Whirl has a set of seven stories he deploys on rotation, ranging from heroic to beautifully tragic, and he spends a moment picking through them, trying to remember which was the real one.

“I showed up at the Functionsts’ place to get my docs in order,” he says. “I was… I was trying to get Polyhexian citizenship.” Awful city, but he had always sworn the energon tasted better there than anywhere else.

“But you said you were forged in Polyhex,” Rung says.

“Yeah. It was easier that way.” Whirl puts a claw to his head. “I… augh, nope. No, this is stupid.”

“Whirl—”

“No, I’m done,” he says, pushing Rung away. “Fully done, Rung. That’s right. You were god’s therapist, and he fired you. I’m gonna go take out a planet.”

 ~*~

 Tacticians always struggle with where to put Whirl on a battlefield. On the one hand, he’s an attack helicopter, equipped with long-range cannons and advanced aiming modules. Keeping him in the sky is the perfect way to set up a terrible surprise for Cons on the ground. On the other, he’s Whirl, and facing him head-on can be just as chilling and or fatal.

In the end it rarely matters which call they make because, as stated before, he’s Whirl. He will do whatever he damn well feels like. Right now, that means skimming over the top of the battlefield, sights trained on the odd dot who tries to disgorge themselves from the fighting mass. He is supposed to be providing support to the ground troops, peppering the Decepticon line so they can break through, but no one is going to complain about a few more dead soldiers.

A truck breaks free and he pitches down, giving chase, machine guns firing before he’s got a lock on. The ground explodes in shrapnel as they try to serpentine out of the way, but he keeps firing and soon enough their paths cross.

He riddles them. Their roof is already a puckered, punctured mass of warped metal before their back tires blow and they go skidding and flip onto their side. Their plating shuffles, uncoordinated, as they try to transform, and Whirl goes for the underbelly, shattering the exposed protoform in a burst of pink energon. They slump with their legs disengaged. There is a buzzing, crunching noise as the dying t-cog tries to settle into either mode, then a jet of smoke erupts from the body. The engine has seized, locking it in a permanent limbo.

Whirl spins around to track down his next prey. He loves his job. The Autobots have a need, and he fills it with a gusto that only occasionally gets him in trouble. He’s no hitmech: he lacks the finesse, the style. But he can rain irreverent murder down from the sky, send Cons fleeing just long enough to make them think they had a chance, and he can do it without questioning an order. The war needs people like him.

Two soldiers are trying to escape together, one with their arm over the other’s shoulder, a sparkling stump of a leg between them. Whirl gets low, following them until the roar of his rotors is unmistakable, until they cannot help but turn and he sees their optics. Then he fires.

The wounded one falls first, knocked onto their front and grasping uselessly until their hand is blown off and they go still. The other gets their legs knocked off and goes spinning, landing on their head with a crunch. Whirl keeps advancing, keeps firing, tearing open their plating and reducing their inner working to molten slag, spattering the ground with used energon. They flop, over and over, until Whirl gets bored of the show and hauls off, leaving them almost indistinguishable from the carnage of the land itself.

Whirl hovers over the fighting and looks down while he scans for a target. This high up, visuals are useless for determining Bots from Cons. Little Cybertronians run around, whacking and shooting at each other, falling down, down, down. The metal under their pedes is slippery pink with energon. It splashes against their plating, over their insignias, until they are all just little wandering targets.

Whirl has his job, and he loves it, and he does it well.

 ~*~

 He should feel something, but his spark is a void as he tosses the rest of the guns into the shuttle, all the stuff he held off using because he wasn’t ready to get kicked off the ship. He is not coming back from this. He knows it, so better to take it all.

He’s just fastened the locker when he hears the footsteps on the hatch and looks up. It’s Tailgate, of course. Tailgate, who has a pack hanging from one shoulder and a gun holstered at his side. It’s a shrimpy thing, something Cyclonus taught him to shoot in case they ever got separated, more useful for making noise than taking down an aggressor. It has room for one round of ammo and Whirl doubts he brought a bullet more.

He comes aboard without saying anything and stops beside world, continuing to say nothing. The hand on his pack is clenching: he’s being brave. He’s also waiting for some grand speech, some sacred insight to the nature of their quest and their places in the universe. Well, tough. He should know Whirl better than Primus.

He lifts a claw to shove Tailgate backward and down the hatch, but it stops an inch before Tailgate’s plating. What does it matter? Cyclonus can’t kill him where he’s going and Tailgate himself is just a drop in the bucket. Standing there with his chest puffed out, optic band steely and focused, he looks like any other Cybertronian, never mind a few years left behind.

Whirl retracts his claw. Tailgate nods at him.

Another drop in the bucket.

 ~*~

 He shoves his way to the front row, slamming himself into his chosen seat just ahead of a little spy plane who had been angling for the same spot.

“Buzz off,” he says. Never mind the spy plane outranks him. This is his big day! He got here early so he could get this seat, right in front, though he can barely hold it as the audience fills in around him, so many Bots he does not know and who do not matter. The only one he cares about it up on the stage, smiling with an air of detached cooperation, off in his own head again like he always was. Whirl thought they had made progress on that, but some habits were just too hard to break.

The opening speech is long and predictably boring, lots of talk about this base he has never been on before. Whirl’s engine clicks in agitation. When bots give him dirty looks, he sneers.

“Chronic fanbelt lockup, ever heard of it?” he hisses at them, adding in a few extra ticks for good measure. They go back to minding their own business, but Whirl still catches the optics glancing at him, and his engine goes from annoyed click to angry hum. He knows what they see.

Luckily, the speaker eventually gets over himself and moves on.

“Rotorstorm, will you please step forward?”

Whirl is on his feet before the other copter has a chance to rise, his cheering rising well above the swell of the crowd. He shouts, he stomps his feet, and he bangs his claws together until the bots on either side of him wince, and he gets even louder when he knows Rotorstorm has noticed him.

“Go on, get up there!” he shouts. “You earned this, didn’t you?” The rest of the crowd has calmed down, but he stays standing, arms dropped to his sides. He stares at Rotorstorm as he crosses the stage, shoulders pressed back, each step placed so precisely in front of the last that it must be calculated. He waits until Rotorstorm has reached the edge to sit back down, and then still his optic is pointed, refusing to let Rotorstorm look anywhere else. Rotorstorm’s own optics are wide, though the rest of his expression is slack. His biolights are steady, his ventilations manual and even. He’s perfect.

“Rotorstorm,” the presenter says, “I hope you will forgive us; this is an honor that is long overdue. During the Simanzi Massacre, you singlehandedly scouted a pass through Mount Helix that allowed for the rapid evacuation of the 9th Battalion. Your commanding officers estimate that your decisive actions saved upwards of one thousand Autobot lives.” Whirl’s engine is silent. He’s drinking in every word. “Today, we present you with the Novic Medal for Outstanding Honor. ‘Til all are one.” Rotorstorm ducks his helm as the award is magnetized to the right of his cockpit, finally breaking his optic contact with Whirl.

“’Til all are one,” he repeats, though most of the crowd does not hear him over Whirl’s cheers.

Rotorstorm turns without looking up and returns to his seat. The next recipient is called forward and Whirl walks out.

 ~*~

 He can’t do it. He’ll blame it on the way Tailgate’s plating quietly rattles or Cyclonus’ entire personality as he starts to board, but he shuts off the shuttle’s engine and disembarks with them trailing behind. He retreats to his hab suite, and though he does not invite them he’s glad when they make it inside before the door closes.

“Nobody in the mutiny is allowed to have any of my stuff. I don’t care if Thunderclash is dying again and my innermost energon is the only compatible fuel in the galactic sector, he can’t have it.”

Tailgate nods along, his fingers in a death grip around Whirl’s pincer.

“And when you guys are talking about me later, no one call me anything but Whirl. I’m serious. I don’t know about anything I did before that, so what could it matter?” He looks up at the ceiling. “In fact, don’t tell anyone about the Primus thing. No point.”

Cyclonus is a solid, immobile presence on his other side.

“Am I forgetting anything? Oh, tell Roadbuster I’ll be waiting for him in the pit.”

“Do gods go to the Afterspark?” It’s not clear who Tailgate is asking.

“I definitely don’t plan to stick around and watch over you or whatever. Think I’ve had enough of this universe.” He chuckles, a strained sound. “Yeah. So, that’s it. Better get this show on the road, huh?”

“We’ll be with you the entire time,” Tailgate promises.

“For as long as you want us,” Cyclonus amends.

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs, laughs again. “I’m not even really scared of the whole dying thing. I’d made peace with that. Whenever there was something I needed to do, I took care of it, so I wouldn’t have to worry about it if the right bullet finally found its mark.” He glances between them. “Now, though… you two better behave, I swear. I’m making it your Primus-sworn duty to take care of and listen to each other, okay?”

Cyclonus nods, and the way he takes it so seriously makes Whirl almost glad he’s on his way out. He couldn’t handle being looked at like that all the time, and especially it’s the way they reach across his lap and entwine their hands that really does him in. He hates them dearly.

“Okay,” he says, winding up his t-cog for the big spin. “Okay, twelve Matrixes. No problem.”

 ~*~

 Whirl times the blinking numbers to the rotations of his spark. 1,600 exactly. He’s done it.

He leans back in his chair but cannot stop staring at the little device in his hands. It is perfect. After years of researching, studying, trying, and failing, the pieces have come together to allow him to create this one perfect thing. He loves it, and a dangerous feeling of pride fills his spark, the kind that has so long been missing from his work in the Aerial Corps. If there is a Primus (and he’s still not sure, whatever the Functionists insist), this is what he built Whirl to do.

He gets up from his desk and walks across his small living space to a shelf. Nearing capacity, it has just enough room for him to push a few previous attempts aside to make room for the latest version. Surrounded by its brethren, it becomes lost almost immediately amid the sea of blinking lights, indistinguishable even from those he considers lesser. Some defects are more obvious than others: one has sat at the same time since the moment he brought it online, while another counts one klik backward for every two forward. But most are just slightly imperfect, necessary steps to get to this point, and he loves them all dearly.

He stands back. It feels like the work of a lifetime, these clocks, though he knows he took up the pursuit relatively recently. It’s just hard to remember how he filled his time before he had this project to work on, and he is again grateful he discovered it at all.

It is a gift to be able to create, he thinks, to cast a broad eye over his creations. The numbers blink at him, all out of tune, and he lets himself imagine being content doing just this for the rest of his life.

[maximumninjavoid]

Mining for Unobtanium part 21

Oh my gawd, yes, twenty one.

Ya’ll have been so good, you get TWO parts of this nonsense today. that’ll make your Monday suck less.....

I’m having a GREAT time writing this. I need to put it all into one BIG WORD DOC. an asbestos word doc.

Unbeta’d, we die like appliances . And cheap cars.

@fishcustardandclintbarton, that’s their line. I stole it.

At eleven packages arrived. One was from a lingerie shop I had browsed at online, Bordelle. Their stuff was exquisite, really, cutting edge fashion, and wickedly sexy. I assumed he either knew or guessed my sizes. I had already done my due diligence on the dreadmill, hoping some of this whatever this was would dissipate, but even an hour at an incline of three and a half didn't settle the starlings in my stomach. Those were no butterflies. I spent an indulgent amount of time in the bath, lotioned everything that could be with almond oil, touched up my cuticles, decided my pedicure was in good shape,  exfoliating, buffing, it was madness. Nerves, I suppose. I mean, wouldn't you be? I began opening boxes. Stockings, of the most fine denier, that you could read a newspaper through, and a Cuban heel with a seam up the back. A suspender belt of black straps, almost like an open bottom girdle, with six garters. A matching balconette bra that would really display my decolletage.    There didn't seem to be any panties. Hmmmmmm. There was a beautiful pair of shoes with a low heel and an ankle strap, which was amazing, because I don't have the grace or the talent to wear heels. The dress that accompanied it was simple and elegant, well made, and also rather retro in it's styling. Fitted bodice, sweetheart neckline, sleeves that ended just at the elbow, rather fit and flare in its styling, and the skirt was voluminous. My God, there was even a hat with a little veil and gloves. He didn't miss a trick.   I began to dress. Fortunately two weeks in a hotel had not been all that bad for me. The circles under my eyes required minimal spackle, a bit of blush, a swipe of contour here and there, with my contacts in, eyeliner was out of the question and it hadn't occurred to me that I should pack lashes. Mascara it is then. Lip stain, blotted, fixed,reapplied, blotted again, this was NOT coming off, on my mask or on a shisuitAollar. I spritzed some scent in all the proper places and I hoped he wouldn't recognize it, and that it would please. I've never been one for traditional women's fragrance. It smells artificial on me. I like darker notes, spice, leather,and they're much better balanced in men's fragrances. I get lots of compliments, and never find myself wearing the same scent as anyone else. Seams straight. Pearls. Hat. Bag. Gloves. Aaaaaand it's 6:45. I've got fifteen minutes to make macrame out of my internal organs. And now, for entertainment, our brain will show a selection of every possible disaster scenario it can conjure, no matter how ridiculous. And I pace. I look at the clock again, and I swear it's moved backwards and now says 6:40. That cannot be correct. I shake my head. I pace some more. I pop breath mints like they're drugs I did in the eighties. I am not going to smoke. I might pass out. There's a knock on the door. My heart pounds. I walk to the door and try to breathe....{internal voice; don't lose your shit} I open the door and there he is. In a suit. Not just any suit. I mean, you can't. Not when you're built like a brick...... House ( apologies to the Commodores). I could write epic poems that would put the Iliad to shame just describing his fair countenance....but I would be doing him a disservice if I didn't spent some time on just how much style he possesses. Tailoring is one thing. Fit, proportion, but he has raised style to high art. Like old Hollywood meets English Nobility, and unless I miss my guess, that's a bespoke Huntsman suit. Made specifically for him. To his precise measurements, by HIS cutter, who has a file on him, and all their other clients; about their preferences, in colors, fabrics, linings, how they want their trousers, best preferences, THE WHOLE NINE YARDS. Did you see *The Kingsmen*? That place. It's actually Huntsman. I think they have been on Saville Row for over 100 years. Might even have a Royal charter. The suit is perfection. Fits literally like it was made for him..... Because it was. And it took twelve weeks and multiple fittings.  Charcoal grey, with a hint of a chalk stripe, very subtle, crisp white shirt, double breasted vest, with a watch chain no less, and the trousers are perfectly tailored, break at the perfect spot, and his tie is a perfect four in hand, and the tie is splashy, but flawless. Me? Oh I'm taking this all in, trying to remember to breathe, and he takes my hand, bows a little, brings it to his lips and just as his mouth is almost at my hand he turns my wrist and kisses the bare skin above my glove, and looks up at me with that smirk he has. "Ma'am? Shall we?" I put my finger under his chin and raise him to his full height . " A moment, please. " I step toward him and slide my hands up each side of his chest and lean in toward him. "Before we leave I wanted to thank you for your excellent taste. Your gifts were lovely and I hope I do them justice" and I pressed my lips to his. He pulled me in closer and wrapped his arms around me, his tongue sought to part my lips and I allowed it, my hand reaching up for the side of his face, as our tongues explored each other's mouth, tentatively at first, quickly catching fire. I didn't want to stop. But I knew if I didn't, we'd be rutting in this doorway and whatever he had planned would be for nothing. Difficult as it was, I pulled back and smiled. " I could do this all night, happily. And more, or did you want to keep our original plan? " He adjusted himself ( I don't think he knows I saw that ) and took my arm in his. "Do you have everything?"  " Thank you, yes. I have my key, my bag, I am in your hands" . He closed the door behind us and walked me down the hall. We exited the hotel through a side door and got into a car with tinted windows. " Please tell me I'm not wearing your lipstick" Smiling again, I remarked that he wasn't but if he wanted to... And he laughed and pulled me in for another kiss. We made out. Like teenagers. In the back of this heavily tinted car, and I couldn't get enough of his kisses. We drove for a bit, I'm not certain how long,  I frankly was too caught up in kissing him, and occasionally pulling back to look into those eyes. We could have driven off the cliffs of Dover, I'd never have known. We turned down a side street, then an alley and stopped in the back of a building. He got out of the car and said he'd be around to get me. Ok. I'll behave. He opened my door, offered me his hand to help me out, said something to the driver and then took my arm and we walked the few steps to the door in the back of this building. Henry was grinning like the cat that are the canary, and I couldn't figure out why. He knocked on the door and after a minute or two, it opened, and we went down a short hallway into a kitchen where there was a booth, IN. THE. KITCHEN. It was all I could do to not scream and go completely fan girl, for at that moment I realized where we were. This was the imagination station; the chef's table at Gordon Ramsay 's restaurant on Royal Hospital Road. I turned to my dinner date and threw my arms around his neck, peppering his face with kisses. " How did you know? How did you manage this? You realize that this might just kill me....oh, right, we have a provision for that. " He bowed from the waist " My Lady is pleased? "

" Oh darling, pleased is not the word! " Dinner was spectacular. Course after course of the most delicious ingenious things the chefs could create, with pristine service and just the two of us. Sharing bites, oh you must taste this, ooh! This, taste! Stealing kisses in between courses, and such easy conversation. we talked about books, and we talked about music, and he ribbed me about my ‘frozen in amber’ musical taste and I told him I had checked out some of the bands on his running playlist and liked quite a few of them. we sat close to one another, thighs touching, holding hands between courses, I kept getting lost in those eyes, but I did manage to hold up my end of the conversation.

I asked him if he was disappointed about not drinking during dinner and he countered with “ I haven’t seen you smoke”. We agreed that kissing was worth some sacrifices. Truth be told I did want a cigarette, but not as much as I wanted him. Dessert, coffee, more conversation, and I asked what else he had up his sleeve. He smiled. “ There is that american expression about the gun show?” I threw back my head and  practically roared. “ I have this well in hand. Shall we?” And he took my hand and we got up and walked out the same back way we had come in, to the waiting car.

[lu-undy]

Chapter 33 - SBT

Here it is!

"You still want to drive or shall I?" 

"You keep your filthy spooky hands off of her!" 

"Filthy hands? Me?" Lucien exclaimed as they got closer to the van. "Bushman, my hands are in excellent hygienic and cosmetic condition, unlike yours!" 

Lucien and Mundy hopped in the van. They fastened their seatbelts but, to Lucien's surprise, nothing happened. Mundy did not start the engine. He just had his hands on the steering wheel and he was staring at nothing in front of him. 

"Bushman?" 

"Hm." Mundy woke up from his daydream. 

"Something is the matter?" Lucien asked as Mundy started the van and started driving off. 

"N-no, it's just… I'm surprised you know Lulu, is all."

Lucien smiled. 

"Head for the old centre of town… He is an interesting character, Lulu. Like any artist I believe, he has been cursed."

"What d'you mean?" 

"The man is way too romantic for his own good. He sees beauty in everything, even in the most tragic disaster." Lucien said smiling, albeit sadly. Of course he was talking about himself, but for Mundy, it was Lulu that it was all about. "When he sings, he gets possessed by the words that come out of his lips, as if they had control over him and not the other way around."

"You seem to know him so well… How did you meet and become friends?" 

"It was… It was decades ago now, in Paris, even before I became a sp-... Uh…"

"You wanted to say before you became a spook, eh?" Mundy joked. 

"Oui, you are contaminating me with your jargon, Bushman. But oui, it was before I got my current position." Mon Dieu, what would have happened if he had slipped and said he was a spy?

"You said Lulu was singing in the poshest place in Paris, right?" 

"Oui, he was. And what a sight…! His shows were phenomenal, people came from all around the world to see him. Some were even lucky enough to share a chat, or a meal with him. Oh that man led the happiest of lives, and he loved it there."

"What happened? Why did he leave Paris?" 

"I am not sure entirely, but he stopped singing. Maybe he wanted to take a break, retire for a while."

"And then he decided to sing again?" Mundy asked. 

"Apparently, oui. I guess retirement did not suit him, or the other way around, God only knows."

"Why come to Australia? That seems awfully far from home." 

"He is well travelled. Well, I guess he has travelled to such an extent that nowhere is really home anymore." 

Mundy heard the distress in Lucien's voice. It struck him. Why was the man in the mask distraught about that? 

"You almost sound… sad. Were you that close friends with Lulu?" He asked. 

"Oh, oui, the best of friends." Lucien answered. "I think I got to know him at the most innocent point of my life. I was a young adult, carefree, not a clue about the cruelty of life, or so little. Each time I think of Lulu, his personality, it brings me back decades ago that feel like another life altogether." 

"I guess it makes sense if all that happened before… y'know." Mundy didn't dare say that it had happened before Lucien lost his fiancée and son. 

"Oui, it did." 

"Hm, I get it…" 

"As much as the man is cursed, he is extremely lucky." Lucien said. 

"What d'you mean?" 

"Don't you sometimes wish you could feel something else than just this brutal lust for revenge?" Lucien asked. 

Mundy's eyebrows jumped at the unexpected burst of truth. 

"Yeah actually. I uh… Sometimes I even wonder how it all was when I had my parents, how happy I was without feeling happy. I didn't know I was happy. If I could go back in time, I'd tell myself to feel privileged."

"But would your younger self understand that privilege?" Lucien asked and Mundy's eyes shot to him. 

"I can see you were very close to Lulu, you talk like him." 

"Have you talked to him? Oh, by the way take it right here and we should park nearby."

"Alright." Mundy flicked his blinking light and took the turn. "And yeah, I went to have a chat with him." 

"Lucky you! The man is arrogant and doesn't just let anyone talk to him." Lucien answered, still playing Mundy like a damn fiddle.

"Really?" Mundy's heart jumped. He felt special… 

"Oui, I assure you. And given the long queue of ladies and admirers of all sorts, Lulu has no choice but to live like that, pushing people who look at him with fondness away from his life "

"Oh, wow… I had no idea…" Mundy parked and stopped the van. He looked down and fell deep in thought, his hands still on the steering wheel.

"But I guess that if he accepted a chat with you, he must have found something worth his while under that brown hat of yours, hm?" 

Mundy looked at Lucien. The French bastard was smirking and exited the van. L sure did have quite the smirk, a bit like Lulu, Mundy thought. But that mask made him look so… non-human.

"Let us go." Lucien opened the door for his colleague to get in.

"Oh…" Mundy looked at the tailor's shop. He recognised it. It was the one he had come to when he had asked about that blue and golden button! 

"Come on, Bushman. I know you have rarely seen suits of that standard, but don't be too impressed." Lucien mocked him. 

"Spook…" 

They both slipped in. 

"Ah! L!" Richard and his impeccably trimmed moustache welcomed the Frenchman warmly. "Bonjour mon ami!"

[Hello, my friend!]

The two Frenchmen shook hands while Mundy hoped the tailor wouldn't recognise him...

"Please, Richard, meet my friend, M." Lucien turned to face Mundy and frowned. "Bushman, your manners!" Lucien pushed himself to the tip of his toes and snatched Mundy's hat off his head. 

"Oi! My hat!" Mundy tried to take it back but Lucien turned away from him.

"You are inside, you don't need it, you impolite!" Lucien answered. "Richard, please pardon my friend's manners."

"No problem at all." Mundy and Richard shook hands. "How may I help today? I hope you liked the few suits I made for you, L?" 

"They were divine, Richard, as usual. And I think I am getting used to wearing a bit more colour now." 

"Ah, you see? I told you!" Richard exclaimed happily. 

"Shall we take a seat, please? Our request might take a bit of explaining." Lucien asked. 

"Of course, please." 

Lucien and Mundy sat on a sofa while Richard was on an armchair in front of them. 

"So, what will you need?" 

"We are attending a masquerade ball and we need disguises, costumes." 

"Ah, I see. M, do you mind standing up and removing your jacket, please?" 

Mundy looked at Lucien who nodded, and the Aussie removed his sleeveless jacket as he stood up. 

"Here." 

"Oh, a tall man indeed…" Richard stood up and started taking measurements. "Hm… Paul, tu peux venir prendre les mesures du Monsieur s'il te plaît?"

[Paul, can you please come and take the measurements of the man here?]

Paul and his brother emerged from the workshop and got busy around Mundy. The Aussie felt awkward standing up between Lucien and Richard, with both Richard's sons turning around him with tape measures. He kept looking at what they were doing, turning his head left and right nervously. 

"What costumes do you want?" 

"I would like to go for a costume of Le Roi Soleil." 

"Didn't you want to go Louis-the-whatever?" Mundy asked. 

Lucien rolled his eyes.

"Le Roi Soleil is the Sun King, which is the nickname that Louis the Fourteenth got, because he radiated such strong power, it was as if France was ruled by the sun itself."

"Crikey… You never stop, do you…?" 

Lucien smirked and tilted his head on the side. 

"I see you are starting to know me."

"And for you M, what would you like?" Richard asked.

"To be honest, I have no idea, mate."

"Give him something that suits him and he can keep it even outside of the party. A new suit won't hurt him."

"Ah, I see. Shall I also make masks?" Richard gestured to his sons who took notes.

"Naturally. M, I would recommend one for you too." Lucien said. 

"Why?" 

"First, to hide your unpleasant face."

"Spook…" 

Even Richard cracked a smile under his moustache. 

"And second, it is better to hide your identity. The longer they don't know who you are, the better."

"Is it why you wear your mask?" 

Richard's eyes went to Lucien. 

"Amongst other things, oui." Lucien looked at Richard. "How long do you think it will take before we can get the costumes?" 

The tailor was looking at his son's notepad and Mundy's measurements. His eyes went up to the hunter. 

"A well-built man you are, sturdy shoulders, tall…" Richard sprang off his armchair. He put his hands on Mundy's shoulders and opened them. "Don't stand slouched, straighten your spine, here, that is a nice posture, I will spare you the chin…"

"What about my chin?" Mundy asked, as he had just been re-arranged by the tailor as if he had been made of clay.

"Ah, watch this." Richard said and raised his index finger. "L, would you mind standing up, please?"

"But of course." Lucien stood up next to the hunter and pulled the panes of his jacket to close the button again.

"Look here, M, this is how to stand tall and proud. Look at the way L holds his head, the chin slightly up, the chest proud, without overdoing it, that posture!" Richard was pointing as he was turning around the Frenchman. "The curves on his spine, the fabric of the vest just follows it almost poetically, and that is not talking about his proportions!" 

Lucien himself started to blush and looked at his feet. 

"This man's body has been designed for modelling!" 

Mundy squinted and as he stared more, he started to see Lulu's graceful silhouette on L.

"In more than thirty years in the business, I haven't met a single man, not a single person, with a body like his." 

"Richard…" Lucien looked at the floor, slightly embarrassed. He brushed his eyebrow with a finger and licked his lips.

"That, and an exquisite taste in clothing!" Richard went on, as if Lucien hadn't interrupted him. And he turned to Mundy. "But you…" 

He got closer to the tall Aussie and pointed an accusative index finger at the man.

"You have no understanding of fashion. You do not honour the fabrics that you wear and vice versa. You dress up because you have been raised to and that is one of the very few things that still separates you from the animal."

Lucien raised his eyes to Mundy who lowered his, and faced the other way. 

"But look at you…! Such potential! If you just saw the numbers! Paul, the notepad!" 

Paul handed his father the notepad on which he had written Mundy's measurements. 

"It's all here! The numbers! Now, words might lie, faces might lie, anything can lie, but numbers…? Numbers cannot lie! And do you know what these mean?" 

Mundy didn't dare move. Lucien was watching the whole scene unravel in the centre of the room, surrounded by rolls of fabric on wooden shelves, under yellow lights. 

"The numbers that I see here do not mean what I see! I see a man whose clothes are older than my sons' careers but the numbers on the paper here, they scream! Such injustice! You could be so much more! Why do you treat your clothes this way…? Why do you choose to present yourself this way?"

"I didn't choose."

"Of course you did! And of course you do, everyday!" Richard answered. "Now, I will take it as my responsibility to show you the potential that these numbers show. I will make a suit that you will keep for your entire life, and it shall reveal what you could be. Do I have your agreement?" 

Richard extended his hand and looked Mundy dead in the eyes. The Aussie raised his eyes from the floor up to Richard. 

"A-alright." He shyly raised his hand and Richard shook it firmly. 

"Right, now L, should I give him the same pockets as you?" 

"Non, the classic ones and just two extras."

"Dimensions?"

"Same as my jacket ones." 

"Understood. Fine, now, was that all?"

"I do believe so." Lucien said. "Thank you a thousand times, Richard." 

"My pleasure." 

A few moments later, Lucien and Mundy were back in the van. 

"Gosh, your friend is… Intense." Mundy said. 

"To be honest with you, I never saw him getting so emotional." Lucien answered. "You, Bushman, you have your effect on people. First, it was Lulu, now Richard, who next? Me?" 

"Yeah, well, I don't know. I never asked to have people shout at me about my clothes, eh." 

"And yet…" Lucien looked at his friend. He stared at him with a smile. 

"And yet what?" 

"Can you drive me back to Maurice's? I need my motorcycle." Lucien answered. 

Mundy looked at him for a second. What the hell did he mean, that Spook? 

"Yeah." He started the van and off they went. The ride was mostly silent if one doesn't count the rumble of the engine. 

"You could bring your sheila to see Lulu. If she likes you, she likes posh stuff and she'll no doubt love Lulu."

"My sheila?" Lucien repeated. 

"Yeah, your sheila, the one that waitress at the diner talked about… what was the name again… Payrlee or something? She French too I guess?" 

Lucien was about to burst out laughing. Mundy thought that Perle was a woman… 

"Her name is Perle, or for you in English, Pearl."

"Ah, right. Poetic." 

"Indeed, and again I am surprised in a good way that you of all people appreciate the poetry. But non, I found her here in Australia, not in France." 

"Ah, so it's fairly recent, eh?" 

"Oui."

"Guess it makes sense." 

"What?" Lucien asked. 

"You're a classy bloke, you've got the manners goin' and all. No doubt the sheilas queue for miles for you, eh?"

"I cannot complain in that regard." Lucien smirked. 

"Must be a French thing."

"What?" 

"It's a bit like with Lulu. The other day he received heaps of letters from sheilas."

"Quite the interest you have with that singer, M." 

"What?!" Mundy blushed and his grip on the steering wheel hardened.

"In French we say 'Tous les chemins mènent à Rome.', 'All the roads lead to Rome', but with you, all the discussions lead to Lulu it seems."

Mundy didn't know what to answer as he started to realise that yes, he was quite interested in the singer.

"Quite the admirer, you are." Lucien said. 

Mundy decided to just be honest about it. 

"It's the way he sings, not the bloke himself, although he isn't unpleasant to watch."

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, he has a way of… Mh… No, I can't tell you." 

"Why not?" Lucien asked. 

"Because you'd tell him and also, you'd bully me for it and I don't need that." 

Mundy got startled when he felt L's hand on his shoulder and it reminded him of Lulu's exact same gesture.

"M, I do like to laugh but if matters are serious, I am also able to lend an ear, as you already know."

"Do I?"

"At the Doctor's, weren't you the one who accepted to speak openly as if I wasn't there?" Lucien asked and Mundy sighed. 

"Yeah, I guess." 

"So you know I can listen. Go ahead if you want to speak."

"Hm… It's just… Lulu just speaks about his feelings so freely, it's insane…!"

"Do you envy that? Do you wish you too could do that?" Lucien asked and Mundy briefly looked at him before his eyes snapped back on the road. But in that furtive gaze, Lucien had read the distress that Mundy failed to hide. "I can understand." He added, to try and help.

"I'm sure you could understand the nightmare it is to live without your loved ones for so long, but I'm not sure you can anymore."

"Why?" Lucien asked. 

"Because you have someone again now." 

Mundy arrived in Maurice's district and parked the van where they had started their journey. He pulled the handbrake and cut the engine. Silence fell in the van. 

"Having someone now does not erase the decade of my life that I have wasted." Lucien said. 

"No, but it helps to forget it." 

"M, I will tell you something." Mundy raised his eyes to the man in the mask. He looked focused. "I found someone who helps immensely, but if they could speak here, they would tell you that they very much feel the weight of those years on me and on us. She helps, yes, but I know that she will never heal me." 

Mundy's eyebrows jumped. 

"Why? How d'you know that?" 

Lucien's lips pursed up in a smile. 

"If you knew Perle, you would understand. She isn't the sort of company that you would expect to help me beat La Solitude completely and even worse…"

"What d'you mean worse?"

"Paradoxically enough, sometimes she makes me feel worse."

"How?"

"Because she makes me remember those easier, sweeter times. She makes me remember those times and the fact that those times ended. She is a constant reminder that whatever I have with her, or with you, or with anyone is bound to end. Nothing is ever-lasting, nothing truly means anything." Lucien answered. 

"So she never goes away, the Solitude, eh? That's it, we just have to deal with it till we get Duchemin, kill him and then get killed for it, hm?" Mundy concluded.

"Non, M. What I am only saying is very specific to my case. What I am saying is that Perle helps, but she will never heal me completely."

"Can we even heal completely?" Mundy let his hands rise and fall on the steering wheel. "Can we even get out of that… that…"

"That constant, dark grey cloud around our heads?" Lucien finished his sentence for him. "I believe we can, M. I am older than you and I have seen my fair share of things in life. I have seen things your mind would not comprehend and so have you, only you don't see it that way."

Mundy raised an eyebrow, confused. 

"Like what?" 

"Look there." Lucien pointed through the window, at the children playing in the dirty street. "What do you see?"

"It's a bunch of kids playin'. What about it?"

"You are only seeing that?" Lucien asked. "There is so much that you are seeing but choosing to dismiss…"

"Really? Like what? What do you see then?"

"M, those children who are playing, look at their old clothes, look at their messy hair, look at the dirty street they are playing in, with no adult supervision. This is in fact a horrible sight. These children, our future, those who tomorrow will decide of the rules of our world, they are playing in the dirtiest street of their town, with an old, half-deflated ball, with no adult to make sure they are safe, and they do not care about it. And that is the worst part."

"Why?" 

"Because it means that not only do they not have parents to care for them, they also now are completely familiar with the idea of them not being worth any adult's attention. That is why each time they come to deliver a message to me, I…" Lucien took a deep breath. "They remind me of my Jérémy. Little blond heads, blue eyes, an innocent outlook on life, not a care in the world, why would he?" 

Mundy felt the distress in his friend's voice. He put a hand on his shoulder and tapped it gently. 

"But these children, M, they do not see all this like I do. Non, they are having fun! They are enjoying their game that they are playing with the best ball they have ever had. They are growing up together, playing and enjoying their time, a time that they are not counting at all!"

Lucien turned his face away from his window to look at Mundy. 

"This is what I find incredible and this is what makes me think that we can heal from whatever Duchemin did to us. The children in their non-existent wisdom show it to us everyday. Tant qu'il y a de la vie, il y a de l'espoir."

Lucien looked at the lagoon blue eyes. They reminded him of Perle's. 

"As long as we live, there is hope." He translated himself. 

"You think so?" Mundy asked. 

"I am sure of it. If I could cut my hair, shave my unkempt beard, put on the suit and tie again, the mask, all that after ten years off; if I now manage to wear any other colours than black and grey, if I accept to work with you, then surely there is hope and I am pulling myself out of La Solitude's grip. But look at yourself, Bushman, I am sure you could see the same progression."

Mundy frowned. 

"Here you are, with someone on your passenger's seat in your van, talking to this mysterious man in a mask that you don't even know the face or the name of, you even go to the Queen Victoria and watch concerts while enjoying fine food, all that while wearing a suit and tie! Would the M from five years ago ever think of doing that? Non, of course not. Yet here you are." Lucien said and Mundy's jaw dropped as he started to realise it all. 

"You are not even realising it, but you are healing already."

Mundy blushed. His blood was boiling with energy as he practically buzzed on his seat. He was healing!

"I'm… Am I?" He asked. 

"Oui, you are." 

"Jesus, I never saw things this way before…"

"Because you have always been scared." Lucien answered.

"Of what?"

"Looking inside you."

"Why?" Mundy asked.

"Because of the risk. Think, Bushman. If you let yourself look inside here," Lucien poked Mundy's polo shirt on his chest. "Then, you take the risk of finding things that you don't want to find."

Mundy blushed. 

"Guess you're right." He sighed. "But you… You're really like Lulu."

"How so?"

"You manage to put words on stuff I knew was somewhere in me, but never managed to really say."

Lucien gave him a grin that was almost sweet.

"Contrary to you, I asked myself all those questions before you. I knew the risks and I took them."

"What did you find then, in there?" Mundy poked the Frenchman's jacket on his chest like he had done a few seconds before.

"Does it matter?"

Mundy sighed. He now knew that whenever L didn't want to talk about something, he would just say "Does it matter?".

"A bit. But if you don't wanna talk about it, it's fine." He sent a sweet smile back at L. "Although, uh… Thanks."

"What for?" Lucien raised a curious eyebrows. 

"I like chatting about those things. And I never really had anyone to do that with before. To be honest, that's also a reason why I quite like Lulu, he accepted to talk with me about that." 

"Whenever you want, Bushman." 

Their eyes met with a smile on both parts. 

"But right now, let us wait for Richard to make the suits." Lucien exited the van. 

"When is the party?" 

Lucien looked through the van's open window.

"In a week so we have time, enjoy your holidays." 

"You too, Spook."

They nodded to each other and Lucien turned to get to his motorcycle. 

"L?"

Lucien turned. 

"Uh, enjoy your time with Pearl, eh?" 

The Frenchman smiled. 

"That's all I hope for." He answered.

[tsc-updates]

Modern TID - Part 6

Part 5 - Part 7

Will and Tessa had been dating for two weeks. It was after the fifth date that they had considered it official. When Will got home, he received a photo from her. It was a screenshot of her status update. It read “In a relationship”.

But they still hadn’t kissed.

It was driving him insane. Being so close to her, holding her hand, leaning down only to have her turn her head the other way laughing was killing him. It also made him more attracted to her. He was completely at her mercy.

They saw each other as much as possible, with how strict her brother had become all of a sudden. Will had almost skipped with joy when she had called him last night informing him that her brother was going on a business trip for three weeks. He wouldn’t have hours to drop her off anymore and maybe, just maybe, he could finally enter her building.

His heart almost leapt out of her chest when she invited him over to “bake cookies”. That had to be a code. No one bakes cookies at ten pm at night. Right?

He changed shirts four times. He put on a black one first, made him look white as a ghost. Then he put on a mauve one, he had no words for how terrible he looked. He tried out a blue one, but something wasn’t quite right. At last, he put on a white one, and just decided to take this one and stop thinking about it too hard.

He spent twenty minutes on his hair. He wanted to make it look not brushed but styled. As if he was a character in a movie and had just rolled out of bed. Messy but sexy. He sprayed cologne on himself every time he changed his shirt or rearranged his hair.

“You do realize that you’ve sprayed that on yourself about seven times now, right?” Jem was on Will’s bed, lying on his back, reading one of Jessamine’s magazines. “Did you know that a celebrity I never knew the name of, who earns a living by doing a job I didn’t know existed, did something I don’t care about at all?”

Will sniffed himself. “I smell like a horny thirteen-year-old boy.”

Jem scoffed. “You are a horny thirteen-year-old boy.”

He turned to his best friend. He pointed a finger. “Excuse you, but I am a horny nineteen-year-old boy.”

“So we’re not counting your mental age?” Jem laughed. Will grabbed one of the shirts he tried on earlier and threw it at him. It hit the magazine, which fell to the floor with a small thud. “Hey, I was reading that!”

Will raised an eyebrow. “Were you?”

Jem shook his head. “Nah not really.”

Will gave an exasperated sigh. “Help me!”

His best friend gave a laugh as he sat upon the bed. “Fine.” He put his hands out as a sign of complete attention.

Will dropped his head. “Do I look sexy like this?”

“I’d really rather not answer that.”

Will looked up smirking. “James Carstairs, are you insecure in your masculinity?”

“Of course not. I just don’t want people to think I have a thing for you.”

“What would be wrong with a guy having a thing for a guy?” “Nothing wrong with a guy having a thing for a guy. I just don’t want people to think I have a thing for you specifically.” Jem got up and came to stand beside him facing the mirror. “I have much higher standards.”

Will scoffed. “Please! I’m the highest of standards. Plus, I’m the only one who can put up with you anyway.”

“I thought that was my line?” Jem said smirking. he put his hands on his shoulders. “You look great. Stop being so nervous.” Will turned back to the mirror. “And for the love of God Will, do something about that smell. It’s like you’ve swum in the Thames.”

After hopefully masking the smell, Will raced downstairs. It had already been almost an hour since Tessa invited him, and he didn’t want to keep her waiting any longer. His wishes of hurrying up were wrecked when Charlotte stopped him at the front door. “And where do you think you’re going at this time of night?”

He shrugged. “Just going for a walk.”

She looked down at her wrist. “At eleven at night?” She looked him up and down. “And so well dressed?”

“Just because I’m gonna walk alone at night, it doesn’t mean I can’t look nice.” He waved his hands. “I deserve to look nice for myself.”

She crossed her arms and leaned on the bannister of the staircase right in front of the door. “This doesn’t happen to have anything to do with the girls you’ve been seeing for the past few weeks does it?”

Will widened his eyes. “What girl?”

“The girl you’ve been hiding from us.”

“I haven’t been hiding her.” He complained.

“Ah-ha so you are dating someone!” She pointed a finger at him. Will sighed in exasperation. “Is there a reason why we can’t meet her? Does she only wear bright pink? Is she obsessively into small dogs?” She gasped. “Does she have something against gingers?”

“No, Charlotte. None of that.” He looked away grinning. “She’s perfect.”

“Then why haven’t we met her yet?” Charlotte said impatiently.

Will sighed. “Look, if it’s that important to you... I’ll arrange something for this weekend. Okay?” He put his hands on her shoulders to hold her steady, so she wouldn’t hug him. Unable to move, she simply nodded her head excitedly.

He went to leave. Before he could close the door he heard Charlotte call out to him. “You wanna know why it matters so much to meet her?” Will didn’t answer, urging her to continue. “Because if there’s someone out there that makes you smile like that, then they are worth meeting.”

Will didn’t reply, simply shut the door behind him. But he was smiling. And he smiled all the way to Tessa’s apartment. Standing in front of her building he was going to ring the buzzer so she’d let him in... when he realized he didn’t know her floor or apartment door.

He could try to guess. Or he could just ring all the buzzers and hope one of them is the correct one. After doing so he realized he could’ve just texted her and ask. “Too late now.” He thought as the door buzzed him in.

He walked inside the building and started going up the stairs when he realized that he still didn’t know her floor or apartment number. “Good job, moron.” He said to himself.

“Will?” He heard Tessa’s voice calling out to him. He looked up and saw her leaning from the first, second, third, fourth floor. He smirked and jogged up the stairs. The universe was working on his side tonight.

He saw her as soon as he got to her floor. She was standing by the door, an apron around her, her hair and face with flour all over. She was breathtaking. “Hey.” She smiled up at him.

“Hey.” It came out under his breath. It took every single will power in him not to brush a rebel strand of hair that was falling on her eyes.

Tessa took his hand and pulled him inside, locking the door behind him. “So do you want to batter the mix or roll it out?”

He stood frozen at the door and she returned to her counter. There were ingredients for cookies everywhere, cookie mix in a bowl and a similar mix on the counter waiting to be rolled out. There was also cookies cooking in the oven as well. “So when you invited me over to bake cookies, you actually meant bake cookies.”

“Of course. What else would I mean?” She turned to him, an eyebrow raised in confusion.

“Nothing.” He shook his head and took off his jacket. He hung it on the coat rack. It was bare except for his. He looked around. It was a simple, nearly bare apartment. The couch was red and old, and the small tv was on top of a small cardboard box. There was no dinner table, nor cushioned chairs. The fridge was his height, and there was no freezer. The over could barely fit the tray of cookies she had already put in. There were three doors on the wall behind the couch. Two were closed, must be her brother’s room and the bathroom, and the other was ajar. Inside he could see a small bed and the corner of a wardrobe, but not much else.

He had never realized how little her living conditions were. She was also so full of life he never considered she could have serious money problems. The clash between them was clear. He lived in a manor full of expensive and opulent things. He never had to worry about how he was going to get his next meal, how he couldn’t buy something out of a whim because he might not have money to pay the bills later on. He had the urge to take her away from here. To give her a room at the manor and shower her with everything and anything she wanted. But he knew it wasn’t his place to offer, not yet at least.

He came to stand beside her. He picked up the wooden cookie roller and smiled at her. “I can roll.”

She smiled and pointed at the circle-shaped metal cutters next to him. “Rolling implies cutting too.”

He nodded. “I think I can handle it.”

They worked side by side in comfortable silence. She mixed, he rolled and cut, and the cookies in the oven kept baking. A little while after she tried to get something from the cabinet above her. Even on her tiptoes, she struggled. “What’s the point of being tall if I can’t reach stuff?” She huffed.

Will laughed. “I got it.” He got behind her and reached to take the stuff she pointed to. It was a measuring cup. “Here you go.”

She had turned to face him. They were so close that their noses almost bumped together. She reached to take it from his hands. When their fingers brushed he dropped it. It didn’t break but it rolled away. “Sorry.” He moved to get it but she stopped him.

“Leave it.” She whispered. She was staring up at him with those big grey eyes of hers. He felt dizzy as if he had just walked inside one of his dreams.

“Tess-”

“Yes.” She interrupted him. “Yes, you can kiss me now.”

He dipped his head and softly pressed his lips against hers. It woke every single nerve in his body. He held onto the counter. If he hadn’t, his knees would’ve given in and he would’ve fallen. It lasted only a few seconds. He broke the kiss and opened his eyes to look at her. She was already looking at him.

They didn’t speak, not with words. The look on each other’s eyes was clear. They leaned in together for a kiss full of hunger and desperation. Three weeks. Three weeks worth of frustration all released in one kiss. Her hands clasped on his neck and his move from the counter to her hips. She flinched. He quickly removed his hands and was going to stop the kiss, but she urged him to continue. This time, instead of putting his hands on her hips he rested them on her back, pulling her closer to him.

She buried her fingers in his hair and he unconsciously pressed her against the counter. He was afraid he’d hurt her, but the noise she made wasn’t of pain. His stomach was doing three thousand flips a second. His hands formed fists as he pulled on her shirt. He felt her nod, and it took him a second to understand what she was nodding him to. He softly and carefully pulled her shirt above her head. Before he could lean down and kiss her again, she was working on the buttons of his shirt and failing. “Why is this so complicated?” She complained.

“I got it.” He undid his buttons himself and pulled his shirt off. A cold rush of air went through him but it couldn’t ease the heat radiating off him. She put her hands on his shoulders and gave a small jump, wrapping her legs around him. He lost his ability to breath or even think. But those things were overrated anyway.

“Couch.” She whispered against his lips. He took her over to the couch and fell backwards, leaving her sitting on top of him. They both started laughing. She was still laughing when he sat up and kissed her. This kiss was softer, sweeter, the hunger was gone but the desperation still an undertone.

Suddenly, a very familiar smell invaded Will’s nose. “Do you smell burnt?” He asked her while her kisses travelled down his jaw and neck.

She leapt from the couch immediately. “The cookies!” She yelled. She grabbed a kitchen cloth and took the tray of burned cookies out of the oven. She put it over the sink and groaned. “Dammit!”

He went over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s ok. We have more.” He pointed to all the other cookies they had made that were ready to be baked.

She looked at the cookies and something flashed in her eyes. “You know, it would be really unfair to you to come all this way to help make the cookies, only for you to leave without trying them.”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

She was smiling. “My brother is out of town you know?”

“Yeah I know, you told me.”

She laughed. “You really don’t see where I’m going with this?”

“I have an idea but I don’t want to assume.” He brushed his hair out of his eyes.

“Do you want to stay over tonight?” Her cheeks pinked up. It was so cute he had to control himself not to swoon.

“I would love to.” He grinned.

She took his hand and brought him over to the room with the ajar door. She picked up their shirts from the floor and threw his at him. As he put on the shirt she grabbed her laptop and opened it on her bed. “I opened my Netflix account.” She stood up and walked over to the door. “Pick a movie for us to watch. Anything but documentary or horror. I’ll go put the cookies in the oven and warm up some milk.” She walked away.

He sat on the bed and cruised through the Romantic movies section. This was a date after all. He spotted the movie “Life As We Know It”, a movie he’d been forced to watch several times. He leaned back on her pillows and waited for her. She returned with two glasses of milk. She sat next to him and handed him a cup while reading the title of the movie he’d chosen.

“Are you psychic?” She leaned against him. “I’ve always wanted to see this movie.”

“I have two sisters. I know what girls like.”

She looked at him confused. “You have two sisters?”

He froze. His heart stopped. One. He has one sister. “Yeah, Sophie and Jessamine. They’re not technically my sisters, but they’re like sisters.” He technically wasn’t lying, not about Sophie at least.

It was a good enough answer for Tessa. “If it has the Will Herondale seal of approval than it’s got to be good.”

Little did she know, she had the biggest Will Herondale seal of approval of all.

[renlimotroll]

Cruel Summer

Summary: "Stay, Sensei, please." Siruko begs, even though it was useless. Sensei didn't belong to him. Sensei belonged to the world, to his fans, to the stage, to the microphone. This borrowed summer was the best and worst of times, where devils roll their dice and angels roll their eyes. What doesn't kill Siruko makes him want Sensei more.

Pairing: Limone-Sensei x Siruko 🍋🐶

Warnings: BL, a lot of ANGST (but I'm a sucker for happy endings, don't worry), extremely out of character, pure imagination, REALLY LONG ONESHOT FIC, PG-17 (there's nothing explicit at all, but there are heavy implications of mature themes) Please don't read if you are uncomfortable. You have been warned.

A/N:

Lately all I've been thinking about is LimoSiru, and I've been itching to write this ever since my friend Shuura showed me that picture. I'm really not good with angst, so writing this was a major challenge, and I hope I was able to pull it off.

I also want to thank this person who hates me so much, because if they didn't antagonize me so much with subtle little things that no one else sees, then I wouldn't be able to write this masterpiece. I learned that sometimes, no matter what we do--be kind, ignore, confront--they’ll find anything we do to be annoying and they won’t like us and that’s okay. We don’t have to make people like us, and they don’t have to like us too. It's really not healthy for me to be able to only write under extreme negative emotions and stress, but oh, the beauty that comes out of it is heavenly. I turned my frustrations into something beautiful, and I’m proud of it. Without this person, I wouldn’t have been fueled to finish this.

This is dedicated to all LimoSiru shippers like me. Seriously, what's not to like about LimoSiru? Have you seen how Limone-sensei acts when he's with Siruko versus how he acts with everybody else? Sensei turns into the playful, teasing younger-brother person while older-brother, responsible Siruko laughs exasperatedly at him (LimoSiru Hanany Land Reconstruction Part 1, Sensei's POV). He's usually not like that, always being the tsukkomi to chaotic Hanae, so seeing him be boke with Siruko-san is really cute. Plus, when Sensei scolds Mintosu-san VS when he scolds Siruko-san, you gotta tell me how you don't see how much softer he is with Siruko-san. And yes, it's canon that Siruko-san likes it when Sensei scolds him. He's the reason why the whole recorded voice clips went on sale, after all. Thank gods for the Number One Limojo, Siruko-san.

I should stop before the word count goes even longer. Enjoy!

"Stay."

It was still dark; the stars were still scattered across the night sky. Siruko blinks blearily, sleep still evident in his purple eyes. It was rare for him to be up this early, and for good reason. Siruko wasn't good at goodbyes.

"Stay, please. Sensei." He begs into the darkness, even though it was futile, just like all those times he pleaded before. Siruko follows the movement within the room with half-lidded eyes, crawling over to the other side of the bed. To the side where it always smelled like lemons and happiness. Limone was already buttoning up the white shirt he always liked to wear. A glance at the clock showed it was 3:15 am.

"Ohayou, Siruko-san." Sensei chuckles mirthlessly. The bed dips as the blue-haired man sits down. He takes Siruko's hand and kisses his knuckles, and with his other hand he runs his beautiful fingers through purple hair. Siruko almost purred. "You know I can't." He reasons out with a hint of regret in his deep, melodic voice.

What Siruko knows is how cruel this summer is. For the first time in years, his and Limone-sensei's break finally matched. 30 days of pure bliss--of netflix and chilling, playing games all day, going on sneaky dates, and even a trip to the beach for Sensei's birthday. It was good, all kinds of good that he soaked up and basked in because it was limited--a fragile heaven. Alas, all good things must come to an end.

Who would have thought that the man Siruko met in the net cafe so many years ago would be one of the most popular idols not just in Japan, but the whole world even. He could still remember it like it was only yesterday, when a handsome man was there staring at him as Siruko looked up from the vending machine. They struck up a conversation, and Siruko found himself attracted to this gravity of a man who was as charming as the devil and yet as kind as an angel. Since that day (during which Siruko was in high school making friends with a college student Limone), there was never a day where they didn't talk or hang out. It was almost a love story.

Except it wasn't. While their relationship progressed from gaming friends to real friends to friends with benefits, there was never really a clear status or label as to what they are. Especially when Limone started to upload videos of him singing (encouraged by none other than Siruko himself), and he got discovered by the public. Siruko knew one day he'd be popular; it was even him who nicknamed him 'Sensei' as a result of all those times Limone taught him something he didn't know, and the name stuck and now became a stage name. Singing was Sensei's dream, and he loved it with a passion burning as bright as the sun. Siruko loved it too--loved the twinkle in Sensei's eyes when he sang in front of a sea of crowd, loved the healing laugh when he gets interviewed on the TV, loved every billboard and commercial he sees as he walks throughout the busy streets of Tokyo. It's just, sometimes he wishes he had Sensei all to himself. Sometimes, he didn't want to share him with the world. He immediately feels guilty for that thought and scolds himself for being too selfish.

"Why don't you sleep a little longer. You have 8am classes, don't you? You need some rest." Sensei pecks his cheek sweetly, and Siruko chases his mouth for a better one. He needs it like the air he breathes, a kiss of passion, of desperation, of something that wasn't even his to lose, and Sensei gives it to him like he always does, a hot, bright and burning clash of lips and tongue. Heat pools at the bottom of his stomach and he breaks away to leave a trail of light kisses on Sensei's neck, hoping to make him feel how much he wants him.. hoping...

"Stop, Siruko-san." Sensei growls, pulling away and standing. Siruko stills immediately, shame burning acid behind his eyes. He internally mourns the loss of the warmth of another body. "How many times should I tell you, no marks. I can't come out wearing a hickey, you know that. Papz are everywhere." And just like that, the moment was gone. How unfair, Siruko thinks, because he knows his body is littered with colors of different shades, blue warring with purple, marks planted by none other than the possessive lips of Sensei. Limone likes to make sure Siruko knows who he belongs to. Isn't it unfair how only Siruko's body gets to be decorated with bruises and hickeys? Well, who was he anyway to get possessive over Sensei. He swallows the bile threatening to make his tongue bitter.

At least Sensei had the decency to look guilty. "I'll be touring again in a couple of weeks, in America." The idol sighs resignedly. Siruko closes his eyes in defeat; it was inevitable after all. Sensei puts on his watch with all the speed of a turtle, and Siruko knows he is stalling time, using up every millisecond he's allowed to have with his purple lover (?). Sensei didn't look like he wanted to leave either, a small comfort in the growing ache in Siruko's chest.

"How long?"

"3 or 4 months, I guess."

"That's too long."

"It's really not." That's true. When Sensei finally broke out into the international scene and started holding tours in other countries, he has been gone longer. Siruko can never begrudge him of the distance, because Sensei always Skyped and called him even in his busy schedule, even during the times Sensei can barely talk in his exhaustion. He knows, he understands with his whole being the realities of dating (?) an idol, but that doesn't stop him being upset.

He should just be grateful that Sensei spends time with him, a normal college student.

"I'll walk you to the car, Sensei."

Sensei finishes getting ready, putting his glasses and black mask on. Siruko combs Sensei's cerulean silky hair with his fingers, hair that became so messy from their bedroom activity. Siruko doesn't know why Sensei keeps coming back to him when he could literally have any man or woman in the planet, but he takes pride that he was the only one who can mess up Sensei's hair like this, a result of their dirty bedroom fun.

They walk in silence to Sensei's tacky rental car, a preemptive measure to avoid paparazzi or fans who can recognize him. Sensei holds his hand tightly, rubbing circles on the student's cold skin with his thumb. Siruko's chest is heavy, but there's no use whining. Sensei belongs to the stage, to the millions of fans who adored him. Instead, Siruko tries to think about the Sensei only he had. The Sensei who makes him watch horror movies so Siruko could cling to him when he's scared (the sadistic Sensei who enjoys Siruko being scared out of his wits only to comfort him after), the Sensei he can surprisingly outdrink (and how cute the drunk, clingy Sensei was), the Sensei who pets every street cat they see, and makes sure not to get any cat hair on him so Siruko's allergy won't act up.

August slipped away in a blink of an eye, but Siruko memorized everything. Every conversation, every place they went to, every food they ate. He's always been good at memorizing, and he stores everything in his heart. Sensei wasn't his, but the memories with him were his. No one can take that away.

The purplehead makes a whine at the back of his throat, and Sensei cracks a smile, slowing to a stop. Sensei always knew what he wanted, what he needed. He pushes Siruko-san to the shadow created by the walls in the narrow alley, but no one was around anyway, not at this hour. Sensei removes his mask as the darkness shields them from prying eyes and snakes his hand on the purplehead's waist. The singer cups Siruko's chin, tilting his head up, and Siruko can only grab onto Sensei's arm to steady himself. The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is Sensei's hungry blue eyes and his gold ear-piercing, then Sensei swoops in and captures his lips into a hot, wet kiss. Limone-sensei runs his tongue into every cavern of Siruko's mouth, exploring everything, and it feels like heaven, a toe-curling sensation Siruko can never get enough of. Sensei bites his lip and it stings, then sucks on it tenderly as an apology. The pain mixes with the pleasure, and Siruko forgets where they are at the moment. Sensei takes and leads and dominates, and Siruko can only let him, as always. Fireworks explode in his body and Siruko moans loudly, not even caring who hears. The world could burn right now and Siruko will keep chasing Sensei's lips.

It felt too long and too short at the same time. The need for air separates them, and Siruko pants, chest heaving up and down. "Stay, please, Sensei." He can't stop begging, holding onto the fever dream high Sensei keeps giving him. Siruko knows the answer anyway, knows it from the way Sensei's lips thin into a firm line, knows from the way his shoulders straighten in resolve. However, knowing doesn't make it hurt any less.

"Stop playing so late at night and focus on your studies, okay?" Sensei whispers in his ear, his hot breath tickling him. He caresses Siruko's cheek in a way that he knows will always bring a beautiful blush. Sensei likes the fact that he can easily make Siruko blush.

"Yada."

Sensei flicks his forehead, earning a grumpy pout from the student. The pseudo-teacher gives in to the temptation to kiss that pout away. "If I say yes to your idiotic request of me recording all those freaky lines you want, will you promise to take care of yourself better?"

Siruko pretends to think. "Fine, but I want that 'Bakagayo' morning alarm. It has miracle powers that'll help me for my crazy morning classes." Sensei rolls his eyes but his chest rumbles in deep laughter, and Siruko likes that. Sometimes he imagines those laughs were reserved for him, and he likes making Sensei laugh a lot. He needs this goodbye to end on a positive note, or else he'll break down.

"You'll do great, Sensei. I'm sure everyone will love the new album." He whispers back, careful not to disturb the peace of the early morn. Despite the fame, the money, the influence Limone has, somehow, he always needed to hear this from Siruko-san, and the latter is only happy to give this to him. It was the only other thing he can give, aside from a good one-night stand. Sensei says Siruko grounds him, whatever that means. Siruko doesn't really understand why Sensei needs reassurance--he was a great singer and an even greater human being, with his charm and wit and kindness, and sometimes Siruko feels silly encouraging him, because Sensei was so out of his league. Sensei was everything he's not--confident, beautiful and interesting. He and Sensei live on two different worlds. But Sensei gives him that small, shy smile that Siruko really loves, and Siruko's heart squeezes. He'll fight the world for that precious smile.

Finally Sensei gets in the car. He rolls down the window to wave goodbye, and then he's off, and in a few hours, in another country, a different timezone. Siruko waits till the car disappears around the block, comes back home, then sags down behind the door and cries and cries.

He lets the tears fall until it's time for him to prepare for class. He doesn't even know why it still hurts  even after all these years. He can't get used to it, no matter how hard he tries. He knows they can never be like any other couple holding hands on the street--they're not even a couple. He was just… that guy Sensei keeps coming back to. A friend, at best. He should be content with stolen kisses, hidden touches, forbidden passions. It's nothing new--he knows he has to keep secrets to keep Sensei. So why? Why does it kill him this much?

Maybe it's because when, three days later, he wakes up into an internet chaos when Limone-sensei's new album comes out. The Bintroll group chat descends into panic and madness of 300 messages. He ignores it all and buys the album, listening to it as he prepares a lab report, even though he already knew all of the songs before the release. He pretends that they were about him, for him. If he pretends hard enough, he can imagine Sensei is with him in the room.

Maybe it's because he sees Sensei everywhere, but it wasn't his Sensei. It was the world's Sensei. His new single is played in every music show, in every diner he eats at, it's in the lips of every conversation around him. Siruko's emotions are always a roller coaster during a comeback. It was good for his grades when Sensei is away; he can concentrate on studying while Sensei focuses on his own career. But the phrase 'out of sight, out of mind' wouldn't work when all he can see and hear is Limone-sensei.

The new single sounds really good. Siruko was really proud of him. When Sensei played it for him on the piano, it wasn't a duet yet. It was different from his usual upbeat, rock-popish songs. Sensei didn't usually sing about anything even remotely resembling love, but this one was almost like that, and that's why Siruko loved it. He didn't know Sensei intended for it to be a duet though, and as much as the woman's voice sounded nice, he preferred the version of only Sensei's familiar voice.

(It reminded him of the beach, of fireworks, of Sensei's wonderful birthday spent with Siruko, of a cruel August slipping away like a bottle of wine.)

Maybe it's because no matter how much he wants to tell his friends and family about this, Siruko can't. He does love the small world he and Sensei are in when they're together, where no one can judge them and they're alone and free to love and make love, but in times like this where he's hurting, he really really wants, needs someone he can share his pain to. It only hurts even more when his own friends talk about Sensei in front of him.

"I'm telling you, it's all promotion, promotion! A gimmick so the song will be talked about more! Not that Sensei needs it." Jiraichan huffs in frustration as Siruko arrives at their group's usual bench. He has half-a-mind to turn back and eat somewhere else as soon as he hears the topic, but that would be suspicious behavior. He tries to smile at the others as they greet him, hoping it didn't look as lonely as he really feels inside.

"And I'm telling you, the song itself is about some kind of a summer love! So… what if it's true!" Quartet argues, and Siruko's throat constricts. Did… they find out? Was their affair finally discovered by the world? Oh no, this scandal, it'll be huge, he can't be tarnishing Sensei's name… people will be hating him. It's ok if they hate me, I don't care, but please don't let this ruin Sensei's career, oh god what can he do to clean up this mess, why did he even think he can sort-of date an idol, oh my god ohmygod

"Siruko-chan? Are you okay? You look pale." Ichihachi notes, worry coloring his tone. He puts down his snacks and inspects their leader's face. Siruko didn't even realize he was on the verge of a panic attack. "Did you stay up all night studying again? I thought you got a high score on that midterms."

"I'm fine." But it wasn't true. His chest is being constricted by a big snake, squeezing air out of his lungs. The purplehead tries deflecting. "Where's Hakotaro and Minben-san?"

"They're in class. Siruko-san, have you heard of Sensei's new song? Of course you did, is there anyone who hasn't heard it yet?" Jiraichan asks rhetorically, obviously trying to change the topic away from Siruko to help, bless Jiraichan's soul, but in this case, it only makes it worse. "Do you like it? Do you think the rumors are true?"

"What.." he chokes, feeling the much-needed oxygen escape his body. "...rumor?"

"Eh you didn't know? Hang on." Quartetchi fishes his handphone from his pocket, scrolls for a while, then shows him the screen. A picture of Sensei and the female idol he had a duet with. Sensei's hand was on her back and they were laughing. They look… good together. "It says that Sensei is dating her. The internet's going crazy, but Sensei's company hasn't released a statement yet. It could be true though, I-- wait where are you going? Siruko-san?"

Siruko dashes away, feeling guilty for the three worried, confused looks of his friends he left behind, but he needs to get away. He needs to.. he doesn't know… he never knew it was possible but this was so much worse, so much more painful than earlier. He can't breathe, can't apologize to those he bumps along the way (not recognizing it was Minben-san and Hakotaro who calls his name, tries to grab him but he shakes them off violently). Nothing registers in his mind anymore than the need to get away… He needs to get out of here. He needs to…

Tears stream down his face and he can't even see where he's going. He trusts his legs to take him home, because honestly his brain can't be relied on right now. The image is flashing again and again in his mind, like his own personal hell. He shouldn't worry about it, dating rumors have always been there since Sensei rose to fame, the company will deny it later, Siruko's sure. But there was something ugly, something twisted eating him alive, making it hard to breathe. Maybe it's his insecurities, telling him that they look nice, and dating another idol must be better, because Sensei is honestly better off with anybody than Siruko, a good-for-nothing college student who sometimes streams games with his friends. He was just an old-time friend good for lonely, horny nights, and there wasn't even something between them. Maybe it was just all his imagination, the heated affection he sees in Sensei's electric blue eyes after Siruko tells a horrible joke, the promise of forever after a heated exchange of lips. He thought there was something there. But what if there wasn't?

Before he realizes it, he's in a bar, and he resolves to drown everything in alcohol. He wants to get wasted, to forget about everything, even for just a moment. Maybe even find someone he can replace Sensei with (as if, his heart scoffs). But he can't. Every time someone talks to him, it wasn't that deep melodic voice with witty banter, the voice who always scolds him but is always gentle with him, and he is disgusted with anyone not Sensei. When someone tries to flirt with him, he is revolted and he flinches away, because it wasn't Sensei's beautiful fingers touching him, it wasn't Sensei's rough yet caring touch. He goes home, drunk in the back of the cab and crying all the way home, and thankfully the driver ignores him.

Siruko doesn't realize that he's calling Sensei as he locks his front door. He curses himself as the ring goes too long; it could be any time of the day for Sensei right now, on the other side of the world. He could be preparing for interviews. He could be practicing with his crew. He could be with his girlfriend.

"Hi Siruko-san,"

And Siruko breathes clear for the first time today, that's the effect Sensei's voice has on him. His vision is blurry, maybe from the tears, maybe from the alcohol, maybe from the relief that Sensei answered the call. "Hello? Nashita? Is something wrong?"

"Is it true?" He whispers.

"Is what true? Hey, have you been crying?! What's going on?"

"You're dating her."

Siruko hears someone on the other end, maybe Sensei's manager Hanachan, muffled voices in low tones, and he feels guilty for interrupting whatever Sensei was doing. Siruko wants to hang up; he shouldn't be doing this right now, should have planned more for this discussion. He wonders if he can break up with Sensei, if he even has the strength to. The thought is so horrible and unbearable it makes him sick and want to vomit. Call him masochistic, but Siruko isn't above being a side lover, if only just to at least still be beside Sensei in some way. He decides to leave the decision to Sensei, and whatever he wants, Siruko will go along with it, as he always did. He'll follow Sensei to the ends of the world anytime.

"I'm sorry Siruko-san." Siruko intakes a gulp of air at Sensei's tone. This is it, he thinks. It's the end. "I didn't know about the rumor at all. Hanachan said the company is taking care of it."

"She's really pretty. You look good together."

"What?! No way! I told you it's not true! Jesus, Siruko-san." Sensei anger-whispers frustratedly. "I am not dating her."

Siruko pauses, forcing the words out, "But you can."

Sensei's pointed silence was an answer enough and Siruko continues. "You can date her. She's a better match for you more than I will ever be." Sensei inhales sharply that signals he's about to interrupt, but Siruko-san won't let him. For the first time, all the words are flowing. They'd be having the conversation they should have had all along these years. "It's not like we're… what are we, Sensei?" His voice breaks, and Siruko chuckles humorlessly and clutches his aching chest to keep himself together. "I know what I am to you. A friend, a good time in bed. And I'm content to be that. It's up to you now what you want me to be, but please. Please don't keep me away from your life. I… I can't stay away from you, Sensei. I'll be anything you want me to be, as long as I can stay in your life. That's all I ask for."

"Siruko-san," The blue-haired idol starts, and Siruko can picture him pinching the bridge of his nose like he does when something upsets him. Siruko wonders if the new girl knows Sensei like he does, knows how Sensei is annoyed when his glasses are fogged up, knows that Sensei hates cigarettes so Siruko gave it up for him, knows how much Sensei loves sneakers. Siruko grits his teeth angrily. No, no one knows Sensei like he does. Why is it so unfair, why can't Sensei just be his.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm interrupting something, so please, don't mind me. Congrats on your new album and single by the way. Good--

"Wait!!" Sensei shouts frantically. "Siruko-san, please, listen to me." Oh gods, here it comes. Sensei will break up with him. Knowing it's coming doesn't make it any less painful. "You're…

You're very special to me, and I don't want to see you like this. I… I'm sorry… " Siruko's breath hitches as he expects break-up words next. "...that I hurt you, I swear that rumor is false. I would always be honest to you, so please believe me." Sensei pleads. Siruko is confused why Sensei is not yet breaking up with him.

"Can we… this conversation… I think it's better if we talk personally… so I'm really sorry to ask this but, please, wait for me? I'll be home soon, I promise. Wait for me, please?"

Wasn't this something... worse? Waiting for Sensei to leave and dump him… isn't it agony? Sensei should just rip Siruko's heart out right now, swift and easy, on a phone call and not personally, instead of cruelly making him wait for months. But oh well, if Siruko has been able to keep their relationship a secret for five long years, what is a few more months.

"Okay…. I'll wait for you."

"Thank you, Siruko-san. I--" Siruko cuts him off and decides that this conversation has been long enough. He wants to sleep.

"I need to go, Sensei. Before I hang up, can I tell you something? Though, it might be the worst thing you'll ever hear."

Sensei hesitates but relents. "Sure, what is it?"

The few seconds were long enough that Sensei could be thinking he was asleep, but he waits patiently. Siruko decides it's now or never.

"I love you."

Then he hangs up.

November came. Autumn leaves were falling down, a reminder of the beauty of letting go. It had been two months since their last conversation, and it might be the worst two months in Siruko's life. Everyone noticed and were worried, and although Siruko appreciates their concern, he can't exactly tell them why he's not eating well, why he prefers staying on his bed rather than gaming like he used to, and their persuasions are becoming annoying. The purplehead leaves the lecture hall, rearranging his red scarf and wrapping his arms around his bony self. The air was cold, and something about it felt like something was going to happen soon. 

On the way to his apartment building, he sees a familiar man wearing glasses and a black suit with an orange tie, and it was so out-of-place in the sea of half-awake, half-dead zombie horde of students that Siruko couldn't help but stare. The man scans his surroundings and locks eyes with him. Siruko instinctively steps back.

The man approaches him with a big smile. "Hi Siruko-san! We finally meet! I'm Hanae Natsuki, I'm assuming you already know who I am?"

Siruko's lilac eyes widen in surprise. Of course he knows who this man is. He's the only person in the world who knows about his secret relationship with Sensei, although he's never met Sensei's manager personally before. (Even if he's not connected to Sensei, Siruko would have still recognized. Hanachan was as popular to Sensei's fans as the idol was.) He nods, unable to form words out of his nervousness. Why was he here? Is Siruko in trouble? 

"Do you still have classes? Can I invite you for tea?"

"Hai…" Siruko murmurs anxiously. Hanachan flashes him another wide smile and leads him to a sleek, fancy car.

The cafe Hanae-san brought him to was a quaint, charming one, and the smell of coffee and pastry wafts throughout the place. Hanae-san guides him to one of the more private tables. Their orders arrived moments later (expensive-looking aromatic tea for Hanachan and coffee for him, along with several kinds of pastries and treats).

"So, you're a university student? How's school?" Hanachan asks after a sip.

Siruko shrugs, "If I pretend that my professors are the monster bosses in a game I have to defeat and that every year I pass I level up and get closer to clearing the game, it's fine."

"You're a gamer?" Hanachan chuckles at the metaphor. "Sensei always makes me play horror games!" He complains good-naturedly. "What kind of games do you play?"

They converse for a while, pleasant enough to the point where they can laugh for a bit. Hanachan forks the scone to his mouth and remarks, "Now I know why Sensei likes you so much."

Siruko blinked, mouthful of croissant. "Eh??"

Hanachan shakes his head a little, grinning. "You're too cute for your own good. Listen, the real reason I met with you is this." He fishes out a big ticket and an armband from his coat. "Sensei's performing tomorrow at the Unit, so go see him, okay?"

Siruko swallows painfully, biting his lower lip anxiously. "But… doesn't he have an American tour?"

"We're on a break right now." Hanachan assures him, "He misses you. He doesn't say it, but I know him." Hanachan looks at him with heavy intensity, and suddenly Siruko knows why this man was good at what he does. Hanachan knows how to wield his charm and professionalism. Siruko privately thinks he would be super famous too if he weren't a manager. "Go see him, Siruko-san, and if you choose to, please talk to him. Everything will be alright once you talk. Got it?" Siruko finds himself unable to say no, not that he wants to. The thought that he'll be able to see Sensei fills him with nervous excitement. He nods meekly, accepting the gift. To be able to see Sensei, even just as a fan, it's enough. Siruko's stomach is filled with butterflies.

"Sa te, see you there!" Hanachan stands to leave, and Siruko scrambles to bow deeply to thank him. "You're really good for him, you know? Sensei's born to shine under the spotlight, but he won't take the stage if there wasn't someone pushing him and encouraging him from the shadows. He can fly to anywhere in the world, but at the end of the day, he needs and craves a home to come back to. Thanks for being that person, Siruko-san." 

Siruko flushes red at Hanachan's words. "Is it this easy to tease you? I might start doing it more." The manager laughs evilly, causing Siruko to sweat-drop. Hanachan places a firm hand on his shoulder.

"I know you've always been there for him, so continue to take care of him, ne? Let's play together sometime too!"

"Hai!" Siruko's lips twist upwards brightly. Hanachan is an amazing person; he was like a walking sun. Siruko stays in the cafe for a while, staring at the ticket for the details. He really really wants to see Sensei, and he's so tired of stalking him via fancams and tv shows and social media. Tomorrow, no matter what happens, whether Sensei dumps him or not, Siruko's going to see him, and that's all that matters.

It turns out, he'll be going to the concert on his birthday.

When he arrived at the concert venue, Siruko almost wanted to go back home again. He couldn't stop his hands from shaking, whether it was from nerves or excitement, he doesn't know. But the guard recognizes him (maybe Hanachan showed him a picture) and leads him to a back door, where usually the staff and crew are. Hanachan greets him and leads him to the steps that lead to the stage where Sensei already was. Siruko bites his lip and hunches to himself, hoping Sensei wouldn't notice him yet.

It was always a one-of-a-kind experience attending Sensei's concerts, and Siruko loves it. Loves the energy, loves the crowd swaying to the beat and chanting the idol's name. It was electrifying, and he can honestly say it was one of his favorite things in the world. Tonight's concert was a small one, a limited only fan member-exclusive type. But that didn't mean it wasn't crowded. It was Siruko's first time being on the other side of the stage though, and he can see the limojos and fans' excitement as Sensei taps his mic to start the show.

Siruko enjoys the show, he really does, but he feels a bit strange. Usually when he watches Sensei's concerts, he focuses on Sensei alone, blind to everything else. Now that he's on the other side of the stage, he can see the fans' reactions to everything Sensei does, the way their eyes are lit with faithful admiration, the way they absorb everything Sensei says and does, and it reminds Siruko again that Sensei is not his. That Sensei is a performer and he belongs to the microphone, to the stage, to the fans. And Siruko can tell that Sensei loves this, that he's having fun doing this, that the fanchants only motivate him to sing better, to be a brighter star than he already was. Siruko can't take this away from him, and maybe it really was for the best to part ways. If Sensei can't do it, then Siruko needed to be the one that got away. Siruko's heart drops to his stomach, melancholy seeping through his veins. I'd gladly sacrifice my heart and happiness, he thinks sadly, for Sensei.

As Siruko was about to leave, Sensei clears his throat on the mic, implying an encore. A crew hands him a guitar and Sensei jokes a little, and the fans are ecstatic. Sensei looks especially handsome under the bright spotlight, and that's not Siruko being biased. He drinks from his water bottle and suddenly Siruko feels thirsty too (it should be illegal to look that hot just by drinking water). He begins the encore by giving a message, and Siruko decides to stay against his better judgement. It might as well be the last song of Sensei's he'll ever let himself listen to.

"First, I'd like to thank all of my fans and supporters. I owe everything to you guys, and if it weren't for your support I wouldn't be here on this stage. The last five years were truly an amazing ride, and I'm glad to be able to share my music to the world. Thank you so much." He bows deeply. 

Suddenly, Sensei turns his head to the side and their eyes meet, blue connecting to purple. Sensei smiles, and Siruko can't help but to mirror it. Siruko's heart drums out loud in his ears. Limone addresses his audience again. "That's why I'm hoping that my fans can support me in this announcement I'm about to make." Sensei pauses, and there's a mix of confusion and anticipation in the air. Sensei holds Siruko's gaze again as he speaks into the microphone, and the intensity makes the butterflies in his stomach flutter harder. "There's a really special person in my life, a person that I love so much, and I hope my fans will accept that." Siruko's breath hitches. He can hear the shocked noises of the fans but he can't really process anything. Was Sensei… really doing it?

"Many of my fans have asked me before, why I don't sing about romance. I've actually written a lot, but I was scared. I know it's silly and stupid. Me? Scared?" The audience laughs and Sensei does too. Sensei can charm an entire mass of people just by being himself. "But that's the truth. The industry I work on can be ruthless and cruel sometimes, and every little thing I do is subject to the public eye. I wanted to protect this person from the hatred and the judgement, so I kept us a secret for a long, long time."

"How long?" An audience shouts, and Siruko panics, thinks that the fans won't accept, that they're angry, that Sensei's career is blowing up and Siruko's to be blamed, and it must have shown on his face because Hanachan is suddenly beside him brushing up on his elbows, and winks at him. He realizes that this must all be planned, that maybe the fan was planted there to ask it. Siruko relaxes.

"How long, you ask? Five years! It was way before I started being an utaite. Actually, you guys should thank this person because they were the one who told me to upload my singing videos." Sensei declares in amusement. His tone takes a more somber note as he continues. "I'm really sorry for keeping this from you guys, so please don't be mad." Siruko sees some people shake their heads as a reply, and he realizes for the first time that maybe, this could work. The sliver of hope shines bright for the first time in his life. Maybe Sensei can finally be his.

"I guess what I want to say is, I hope people can accept that I'm only human, and it's not a sin to love, is it?" The fans shake their heads unanimously, and some even looked like they were about to melt. Siruko feels he is about to melt too. "I decided that I want to still keep our relationship private, so I hope my real fans respect our privacy. This is me saying that I won't hesitate to shove any paparazzi cameras to their faces, bakatare omaera." The audience laughs and takes every word of Sensei's with an awesome amount of worship, like they're ready to fight anyone that stands in the way of their idol's happiness. "The most you guys get is maybe a hand or a voice in one of my social media posts, and that's it. I'm not sharing this person with anyone." Another audience shouts, "Sensei, aren't you too possessive!" and Sensei roars with laughter, making the audience join him too. "Yes I am!" He says proudly, and Siruko can only chuckle and shake his head exasperatedly.

"I won't be giving any interviews about this, so go ahead and upload this and share it everywhere. I also won't hesitate to take any legal actions, I can totally afford a lawyer or five." Sensei jokes, but everyone knows how serious he is taking this. "I'm just asking my true fans to respect that I'm allowed to love someone and I'll do anything in my power to protect it. Is that okay?"

The audience screams yes, and Sensei laughs, which is music to Siruko's ears already. He feels tears well up in his eyes and tries to hold them back by biting his lower lip. This is too overwhelming, and so different from all the ugly scenarios he was always worried about. This isn't how he imagined it to go, not this easy acceptance from his fans, not Sensei revealing he loves Siruko to the world first before Siruko himself. 

"I'm dedicating this song to that special person. I hope my feelings reach you, love." And the audience went 'aaaaaw' as the lights dim, a lone light focused on the singer.

Sensei began singing the notes to his latest single, and tonight he's performing it as a solo, the way Siruko heard it originally.  And now Siruko understands. It really was that summer: the picturesque beach on that day, the waves on his feet, the sand underneath his body as Sensei smiles on top of him. The beautiful purple twilight, the fireworks he wished would never end along with the summer. For the first time, he can finally assume that the song was his. Sensei was his.

And he can see it. That underneath the Limone-sensei that fans adore and worship on the stage was Siruko's Sensei who couldn't hold his hand in the beginning because he was too shy. That beneath all the glitter and glamour of being an idol, a star, is Siruko's sensei who knows all the spells in the Harry Potter movies, a big big dork who picks out all the vegetables in his food and whines about it unless Siruko threatens to withhold coitus if he doesn't eat it. He's still Siruko's Limone-sensei, who can master any game he plays so easily it's almost god-like, and honestly Siruko thinks Sensei would have been a better pro-gamer than an idol. 

His Sensei, who looks at him from time to time while singing, with love and affection in his intoxicating ocean eyes, something that Siruko can't be mistaken about anymore because it was so clear as the blue sky. 

As the song ended, Hanachan grabs his elbow, and Siruko quickly tries to wipe his cheeks (he didn't even realize he was crying) and Hanachan just gave him a knowing smile. "Here, go to this hotel room," he says while handing out a card. "Wait for him there, Siruko-san."

As he takes the card, he glances towards the stage and once again, blue meets purple eyes. Sensei smiles at him so tenderly it physically hurts Siruko's heart, and Siruko smiles back shyly. He's grateful for a time to collect himself before they talk, because if Sensei kept flashing that stupid disarming loving smile like that, Siruko will probaby die and ascend to heaven.

"Thanks, Hanachan."

"Sure! Just remember, put your hickeys in places we can't see, okay?" Hanachan winks.

Siruko blushes so hard he turns beet red, and Hanachan laughs loudly at his expense.

It took Siruko a long time to come down from the high Sensei brought him to. After admiring and checking out the high-class, fancy hotel room, he decides to take a shower to help calm himself down. Just as he came out of the (really big) bathroom, Sensei barges in with a loud noise, takes one long head-to-toe gawk at Siruko's robe-clad wet body, and Sensei lunges at him like a hungry predator, kissing him hard, taking his robe off faster than you can say "darling".

They're lying on the fancy bed now, silky sheets tangled up between them, the perfect afterglow leaving them to their own thoughts and to catch their own breaths. When he turns to his side to look at Sensei, he sees that Sensei still hasn't come back to Earth either, what with his dopey smile and glazed blue eyes. Siruko wants to bottle up this moment forever.

However, some matters need to be discussed first, even though Siruko would rather talk with his body than his mouth. "I think we should talk, Sensei."

"No shit." Sensei chuckles then faces him. This close, Siruko can feel Sensei's breath fanning his face, can count each beautiful eyelash, can easily touch Sensei's collarbone and feel the warm skin against his. Sensei takes his hand and kisses it, and Siruko follows the movement with his eyes. It was incredibly intimate, and he only realizes now that Sensei liked to do this all the time. He really was that blind, huh.

"First, I want to apologize. Nope, don't interrupt," Sensei puts a finger on his lips when Siruko was about to react. "This was my fault, and I'm surprised that you held out so long for me. Thinking back, that was really shitty of me and you could have left me, but you didn't. Thank you."

Sensei gathers his thoughts with a deep breath. "This is such a lousy excuse, but the truth is, I didn't have time to think about us. I was always chasing after my career, and frankly, I took you for granted. I never told you, but you're the anchor that keeps me stable and steadfast even against the stormiest weathers. The reason I can sail through this shitshow of a show business is because I have you to come back home to." Sensei traces his jawline affectionately, unknowingly repeating Hanae-san's words. Siruko's heart clenches. "You're my lifeline, Siruko-san. And you've been so patient, so kind, so understanding, waiting for me all this time. I'm so incredibly grateful but also really surprised that you haven't left my dumbass." They both let out amused laughs at that.

"After you called me that day, I realized how much I screwed up. I was so focused on keeping us a secret that I never even told you how I felt about you. So I talked to my agency, told them I want to announce us, and... wait, I realized I went ahead and said we're dating even though I never really asked you out." Sensei realizes, horror dawning on his face.

"Bakagayo," Siruko whispers Sensei's favorite phrase, making Sensei laugh. "You already said it out there, so you can't take it back. Oh my god, we're," Siruko mirrors Sesnsei's stricken pose as the realization hits him. "...dating! Sensei, punch me so I know I'm not dreaming."

"Bakagayo," Sensei shows him how it's said the right way, and Siruko giggles. He loves it when Sensei says that. "I talked to my agency, and at first they were hesitant. It's understandable, but my career could burn at our door and I wouldn't care. You can't expect an idol to sing about love when they're not allowed to love. That's stupid." He rolls his eyes irritatedly, and traces Siruko's lips with his finger.

"I did tell them I have hundreds of songs written about you, so that's good album material as any. There wasn't any point arguing with me because my mind was all made up, and Hanachan was totally backing me up hard. We pestered and badgered until they gave up and let me."

"But… wouldn't this damage your career?"

"Hmmm… the crazier fans would flip out, but I couldn't care less. Haven't you seen my fans? They're the kindest!"

"That's true." Siruko agrees. "Are you sure the limojos won't hate me?"

"Are you kidding? And aren't you my number one limojo, though?" Sensei kisses his nose, and Siruko giggles again, pressing closer. "But we're still gonna be private about this. Just as a precaution, I don't want anyone crazy coming after you, so I'm not revealing your identity if I can help it, and we still can't go out on dates in public. I'm sorry." Sensei hugs him tighter, kissing his violet hair as a sincere apology.

"It's okay, no one has to know about us. I'm already content that everyone knows you belong to me." Siruko feels Sensei laugh through the vibrations in his chest. The feeling of hearing Sensei's heart beat like this was magnetic. "But can we at least take a pic so I can tell my family and Bintroll?"

"Now? You really wanna be announcing us to them naked and just after we had---"

"NO!! LATER!! BAKA BAKA BAKA!"

Sensei laughs, and Siruko feels that everything is okay in the world. It feels like he's been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and it's been lifted off of him now. He relaxes further into Sensei's embrace, rubbing his head into the crook under Sensei's chin and burrowing further, like a feline. Sensei responds by stroking his hips, and Siruko knows it won't be long before they start their tumble in the sheets again, coz Sensei is insanely insatiable like that. But for now, Siruko savors the cuddles. Honestly, he didn't care about them hiding. It just feels better now that he can at least tell his friends, and that no matter what happens, he knows that Sensei is his. 

Of course it won't be easy, the complications of dating a famous person are always there to ruin things after all, but Siruko doesn't really care. As long as he gets to be with Sensei, that's enough. Even if he doesn't get to scream it to the world, as long as Sensei loves him back, it'll always be enough.

Siruko reluctantly pulls back from his warm cocoon of Sensei's arms to look up to Sensei's beautiful piercing eyes. "Sensei, I need to tell you something that might be the worst thing you'll ever hear."

"Hn?" Amusement dances in his blue eyes, already knowing what it is.

"I love you." 

"Jya, I'll tell you something too, but it might be even worse than what you just told me."

"Un?"

"I love you too. And happy birthday."

The kiss that came after was electricity starting up their hearts, fire burning their bones. It was blue as the beauty of sky, the loyalty and trust in every shade. It was purple painting the twilight, devotion and passion in every stroke of color.

It might have been a cruel summer, but Siruko wants every kind of summer with Sensei.

Later, the locket that was his birthday present opens up to a picture of them kissing at that beach, taken after Sensei had just turned his brain, body and soul into mush after their mind-blowing something and just right after fireworks decorated the night sky, and Siruko decides it wasn't really a cruel summer after all.

The End.

A/N:

I did imagine an omake where Siruko sends a picture of Sensei kissing his cheek while they're in bed to the Bintroll group chat, and Jiraichan screams "WHAAAAAAT", Quartetchi furiously types, "IS THIS A PRANK", Ichihachi calmly sends "Congratulations", and Minben-san teases him "Wow, way to go getting yourself a sugar daddy. Omeome!" Hakotaro calls him angrily and scolds him, but in the end, he was happy for his Niisan. (And maybe he gives Sensei the shovel talk later. Hurt my Niisan and I'll drive a wooden stake straight to your heart.)

My only regret is I want to write Sensei's pov, coz obviously Siruko can be a little bit of an adorable baka who doesnt see how much Sensei loves him---

The fantastic art in this story was made by my friend Shuura, so please do not grab or reupload it elsewhere. Thank you, Shuura! Click this to see more of her Limone-sensei art! 💙

Send me your reactions and comments! I'd love hearing your thoughts! Also, you can send some prompts or requests, I'd like to try challenging myself in writing, and any Bintroll pairing is fine! Thanks for reading~ 🌻

Also, the thought of scared-to-death Siruko-san x horror-fears-me Limone-sensei is haunting me, help I love this trope.

Lastly, I wonder if anyone can recognize the easter eggs and real references I wrote. There were a lot 🍋🐶

[jlf23tumble]

i’ve never read anything finn/poe so i would love even an out of date rec!! i trust your fic judgement haha

I feel like you sent me this ask, like, five billion years ago, multiple fic recs ago, I don’t even know if you still follow me at this point, god, I’m so sorry, but I had a massive delay because a) gross sickness (pneumonia AND the flu), b) holidays, c) most of my reading in this fandom was long before my bookmarks were of any use, and d) I didn’t keep up past 2016 because all my fave authors went to hockey RPF, like, the trajectory was literally Man from UNCLE —> Force Awakens —> hockey, lmao. And then to add sadness to all of that, two of my very fave authors deleted all their work, and I had downloaded their TMFU fic but not their finnpoe (stormpilot?? I’m never sure of the official name), so I was thisclose to weeping real tears of sadness. But never fear! My compulsion, uh, compels me, so I went into my tags, went through the authors I remember, skimmed a BUNCH OF STUFF, and pulled a few I hope you like. The “good” news about finnpoe (stormpilot???) is that a LOT of the fics are really short, but that means it’s extra tough to put them in length order like I normally do, so I put them under the cut in date order (my faves started in late 2015, drifted into 2016, there’s a gap, and then I have a few in 2017 and 2018). I haven’t seen the latest movie yet, so I might have more recs in a month or so, but the real Renaissance was after the Force Awakens…most of us were very meh after Last Jedi, seemingly. A few caveats, I don’t have ANY prefs on who tops/bottoms here, but the notes are sometimes hilarious because they make it seem like at that point in time, they were really bucking convention? I also LOVE both the finnpoe (stormpilot???) and napollya authors who pulled heavily from kink memes and prompts; you just don’t see that in One Direction fic, and more’s the pity. Enjoy!

everything led back to you, by Bupkis, 3k. Finn can’t sleep. Poe helps.

Supernova Tonight, by halotolerant, 9k. There’s probably a lot that Finn needs, now he’s conscious again, and probably half of it Poe is never going to be able to figure out, but at least he can tell him the stories.

the measure of things, by mortarsmayfall, 6k. His face is – not what Poe expects from a Stormtrooper. The polymer armor is a shock of lightning against his broad face, handsome with dark skin and soft black eyes that are wide not in fury, but panic. Beautiful, is what Poe’s exhausted brain supplies. Instead, all he manages to do is blink.

save an x-wing, ride an ex-stormtrooper, by visiblemarket, 1.7k.  He should take it slow, if not for his own sake then for Finn, who’s sworn up and down that he’s ready for this, who’s assured Poe that it’s far from his first time, who Poe’s careful not to patronize but still so desperate to protect.

Instructional Manual, by imaginary_golux, 5k. Everyone assumes Poe is great in bed, except he’s been holding out for true love. And Stormtroopers, of course, are not encouraged to have interpersonal relationships. There are instructional manuals for everything *else*, why not for this?

The Papers Want to Know Whose Shirts You Wear, by athriax, 2.4k. Poe’s dedicated himself to making sure Finn starts his days sticky and happy.

More of This, by ginevraknifehands, 9k. Poe’s voice is muffled by the slow line of kisses he’s dragging along Finn’s jaw. His thumbs press small circles into Finn’s back. Finn stares down at the worn blanket they’re lying on and tightens his grip on Poe’s hip. “I want to do more. With you.“

first comes the night, by coffeeinallcaps, 20k. He doesn’t get nightmares. He doesn’t dream about the mask, the cries of the villagers, waking up in the desert with a blinding headache and his mouth filled with blood and the man who’d saved him gone, most likely dead. Instead, he just can’t sleep.

you’ll be my resolution, by zeppelin, 8k. And so it went, until last night in the caves of Yavin 8 Finn was knocked unconscious, and no one thought anything of it until he woke up with— “Amnesia,” Poe clarifies bluntly. (or the one where Finn gets amnesia and he feels distinctly like he’s on the outside of a joke.)

Hold Me Down, by coffeeinallcaps, 5k.  He’s clenching down around Finn, head thrown back into the pillow, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and Finn realizes, with sudden clarity, He wants me to fucking wreck him. It’s a bewildering thought.

A Room with a View, by pyes, 13k. Poe awaits Finn’s arrival at a busy spaceport after a long, lonely year spent on opposite ends of the galaxy.

Love and the inevitable decay of these prisons of flesh we call our bodies, by Krytella, 2.8k. Written for the kink meme prompt: “Poe turns 40, has a miniature crisis about dating someone half his age, ends up in front of the mirror poking his doughy belly and identifying all the grey in his beard and above his ears.”

A-Wing, X-Wing, Y-Wait, B-Mine (Please), by ester_inc, 7k. Finn keeps finding himself in situations where – no, wait, let’s start over. Poe keeps ending up shirtless, nearly shirtless, or soaking wet, and somehow Finn is always there when it happens.

Simple Pleasures, by orphan_account, 6k. Poe Dameron is a man of many talents. He’s a highly skilled pilot, a dedicated fighter, a passionate lover, a decent musician, and, according to Jessika, a tolerable cook. Coming from Jess, it means a lot. He is not, however, a patient man.

A Thicket of New Veins, by gloss, 5.7k. “I’m okay.” Poe grabs Finn’s shoulder and tugs him closer. “Promise you won’t laugh?” “Yeah, of course, I won’t.” Finn nods and hope it looks reassuring. “You know, other than that one defection, I’m a pretty reliable person.”

(these are my faves of faves, but you can find PLENTY of gorgeous pwp in this pairing, sweeping huge stories, etc.)

[shewhowillnotbenamed1]

ProRogue

@ravenfan1242​ - Same Prompt List!  I did combine these two, but I do have Wally Raven in the works. This is a little different. I took some liberties with the NightRae of it all… (Please don’t kill me.) I do hope you like it!

——————

Bubbles ascended to the surface. One by one. In a slow succession…

Pale lips parted, effervescing, as water pressure roiled in her eardrums.

Purple hair pendulous all around her.

As if she was frozen.

Suspended.

In this moment. Though time was not.

The seconds were steadily, surely, running out. And she was running out - of air.

She wasn’t unaware of that fact.

But she made no effort to leave. Or to free herself from confinement - a watery prison.

Still she stayed. And still, she stayed.

Floating.

In the tub… In a pool… In the ocean…

It didn’t matter. She was still underwater.

Drowning.

As she went deeper down, unconscious thoughts floated up.

I think…

I forgot how to breathe…

…but if I did, he would probably just…

Do it for me…

Her eyelids scrunched as she struggled now. The increasing pressure of the watery depths kept them shut. To keep her blind.

“No…”

But it was futile.

At last they opened, pupils constricting… to keep out the sight - the painful reality.

Raven wheezed as she woke. Fighting. Gasping. Pushing off his large arms, and unbinding them from her body. Shoving, until at last, she was freed. Her legs dangled off the side of the bed as she sat up. Her back to him, she panted, wiping sweat off her clammy face.

“Raven…?” Dick rasped, turning over in the sheets to face her. She moved her head a fraction to see his eyes were shut. “You… ‘kay?” He mumbled as he strained to open his eyes. His large hand reached out and it began to toil. Searching the sheets for her.

She watched his fingers. Cautiously edging herself in the opposite direction. She just had to get away. A moment to herself. Just a minute. To breathe. To think.

Couldn’t she just be for a minute?

It hadn’t yet given up its pursuit. Raven continued to stare at his arm’s attempt to bring her in. “Yes… Dick.” The empath insisted with a brisk edge to her voice. She tried to soothe him back to sleep by assuring him. He relaxed the second she placed a hand on top of his. “I’m fine - I just… need some air.”

“Alright, hurry back.” He said sleepily. Blissful dreams. Delirious happiness. Completely unaware. Was Dick Grayson.

He had no clue. Not even an inkling - of her feelings when she woke up in the middle of the night. Her feelings in the dark. He certainly didn’t know anything about them.

Her… Hesitation.

Her… Suffocation.

Her… Languishment.

He was blind to it all.

Raven sighed, drawing up her shoulders with the vastness of the exhale. The sheer exhaustion of it all. She slunk away, barefoot to kitchen.

Where a visitor stood. And it was a welcome distraction.

A reprieve.

The darkened outline turned to face her. A smile etching onto those lips. “Let's talk. You look like you need it.”

A shaky nod and her anxious expression washed away.

And that was how Raven found herself in the kitchen sitting before him. At an ungodly hour. The red dome-shaped mask propped next to his cup of tea.

“Between then and here.” She started to say. “I think I forgot something. Something important. I just feel…” Transfixed by the pattern of tiles on the ground, as her pupils traced the black ones in a diagonal line. Much like a bishop would move. Chess. How she missed chess. Gods, when was the last time she even took out her chessboard? Or did something just for her?

She knew how she felt.

She knew exactly how she felt. But, she couldn’t say it. It was not the kind of thing one could vocalize. Not in mixed company. Not to a best friend or a confidant. Not to a lover or a partner. Not even to one’s self. Not. Ever.

Raven swallowed.

She felt…

That were pieces - and these little bits of her, and they were just slipping away... Into the nullity. Like wisps of smoke from incense sticks. Or… Raven’s lips parted, her vision blurring and unfocusing in front of her now.

Steam from a cup of tea. Like the one she currently had clutched tightly in front of her. She was losing herself. There was no Raven anymore. Now, it was always Raven and. Raven and Nightwing. Raven and Nightwing are out on patrol. Raven and Nightwing are in Titans Tower… Rachel and Dick. Rachel and Dick are out on a date. Rachel and Dick are in their room…

Raven and Nightwing. Rachel and Dick.

It was too much. Too much.

“You just feel…?” Jason urged her, gesturing with his cup.

She was impinging upon a topic that was flowing straight into dangerous waters. And she knew it. And he knew it. “I’m sorry, it’s late. I don’t even know what you’re doing here… Don’t know what I’m doing here. Or what I'm saying.”

The reply he gave, “Yes, you do.” Was simple. But also complex. She watched him as he spoke. Wondering if it really was that simple. “It doesn’t matter what I’m doing here… I’m glad I came, and that I could catch you.” Curious… Auspicious. Suspicious. Though, one always had to be careful around Jason Todd. “Besides after you guys move out of here, I won’t be seeing much of either of you, will I?”

“I suppose…” Raven couldn’t bring herself to offer much more than that. “I suppose that’s true.” He was right. After they moved out. After they left. It would just be her and him.

Alone.

“You guys are still moving out, right?” His aquamarine lighthouse was searching for her. Probing.

She bit back. “You sure are asking a lot of questions.” Her hand curled to clench the porcelain handle. “One would actually think you care.”

Jason blinked as his face settled into a knowing smile. “That’s because I do.” He murmured. “I’m catching up with an old friend. We’re friends.”

“That’s not exactly what I would call us.”

“Fine, Raven.” He said calmly. “I’ll just skip the part where I ask you to confirm the existence of said friendship…” His lips were a puckering pink, as he sipped his tea. “But, friends care about each other - I do want to know if you guys are okay.”

“Of course we are.” Raven replied flatly. Doing her best not to give anything else away. Though it was redundant now. “And yes, we are moving out.”

“Oh good.” The sound of his voice was distorted by the white mug raised to his lips.

“Yes, it’s very good.” Raven hadn’t meant for it to sound so argumentative. It just slipped out that way.

And she was tired.

“Good.” He repeated, giving her nothing. In his tone. In his words. In his expression.

She tried to relax. “Dick’s great.” Raven nodded. “And I’m - good. Everything is great.”

“Right. Great.” He slid his middle finger down the side of the mug.

“Great.” She watched her face distorting the surface of the sleepy-time tea, as she leaned over and blew on her cup.

“Then, you probably should get back to that.” Jason said nonchalantly. Even shrugging.

“Probably.” She echoed. Raven was wondering why she was even continuing to pursue this, when it was clear he didn’t want to talk.

He sneered for the briefest second. And licked his lips, before he muttered. “And you probably shouldn’t be talking to his brother this late - wearing that.” He pointed to the short negligee of mulberry silk and midnight lace. She blanched, as if she hadn’t realized. The robe, too had slid open. Raven had worn it earlier. Dick had commented on it. Moments afterward, she forgot she was wearing it. Raven slid up the right strap, but made no moves to cover herself further. “You always dress up for him?”

Scarlet climbed up her neck to her cheeks. “Not sure that’s any of your business.” She argued. “Besides, I was stifling - sweating… I was sweating in there.” She found herself stammering and blinking a few more times than necessary. “It was hot in the room - our room. It was hot. And I’ve cooled off now… Good night, Jason.” She decided at that moment - regardless of his implications or suggestions - to take her leave. The chair screeched abruptly against the floor. And she stumbled, as she pulled herself to her feet.

Raven shook her head as she marched down the darkened hallway. Slowing her pace the second the doors closed behind her. Why would she try to talk to him? To get advice from Jason? He just seemed like he wanted to judge her. She hadn’t seen him since before the announcement. So she knew, he hadn’t heard. She meant to tell him about it tonight, but after that she hardly saw the point.

He had just listened to her, yes. But when he talked, it was almost as though he was bating her. Wanting her to reveal something, besides her lingerie. The short nightdress, that he had been so unaffected by, yet he still felt the need to comment about it. What was with that? She gazed absentmindedly out the bay window she happened upon, after walking straight past the room where Dick slept. For the second time.

Suddenly a warm arm reached out from the dimly lighted hallway and brushed her shoulder. “Raven -” She whipped around quickly, the sheer sleeve falling down her arm.

“Jason, geez!” Raven exclaimed. Managing to maintain her usual low voice after she took a breath. “What are you doing? You can’t keep sneaking up on people.”

“Hi. Pot. Kettle. Need I say more?” Jason drawled. “Since when can anyone sneak up on you?”

“Since… I’m a mess…” Her tone was exasperated. “Or hadn’t you heard?”

Thick digits descended through the thick hair around his face. “Raven, I wanted to apologize. I didn’t mean to be a jerk.” Jason paused. His tall, muscular form sagged under the gravity of what he said to her next. “Things are hard, even when you get what you want, huh, Raven?”

What she wanted?

“What I want?” Her voice sounded empty. Directionless. Her head tilted as she peered back at Jason, as though asking for guidance.

“Mr. Perfect?” Jason elaborated, eyebrows raised to punctuate. Clearly, he expected her to agree.

Which she did. “Dick’s certainly perfect…”

“Even with the stick up that ‘perfect’ ass.” The dark-haired man added for good measure.

Raven barely acknowledged the jab. “Someone perfect who adores you…” She whispered. Walking up to the window. “Who would do anything and everything for you. Who wouldn’t want that?” She had that, along with sleep deprivation night after night. The tossing and turning. After all this time, it was getting to her. She wasn’t even sure what she was saying. Who she was talking to. Was she was even talking to Jason at this point? She didn't think…she was. Was she?

She saw his image slid in behind hers in the glass suddenly. The deep voice spoke. “Who wouldn’t want someone who’s perfect? ”

“Perfect…” The purple hair fell behind her shoulders, as she lifted her head. Drawing herself to full height. Regardless, she was still dwarfed by him, overtaken. They watched each other. For several long seconds. There was nothing but the sound of the air filtering itself through vents above them. Without another word. Her arms were ascending, up to his face to guide him right to her mouth. The rough hands laying over hers. The pale cheeks tilting to the side as her eyelids drew to close.

But then, they opened. He reeled her back holding her, steadfast, as their lips hovered just outside the range of the impending kiss.

A million wordless conversations passing between them. She smoothed over the bristles of his stubble, as he clutched her.

The distance between them disappeared right into his mesmerizing mouth. His softness was satisfying. The taste of lemongrass in the lukewarm tea on his lips was delicious. She groaned low and ardent in her throat, nothing short of desperate to feel the tautness pressed up to her body. As her palms parted the unruly waves of onyx, Raven didn’t stop siphoning the air out of his lungs. Not for a second. She clutched him tighter and tighter, as their tongues tasted. Twisted.

Finally.

It was like she could breathe.

At last, she had air. His air. It was sustaining her.

The push of his lips each time they connected, propelled her. Their lips enfolding. And flattening. Harder and harder. Large hands gripped her curves. Slinging her thigh over his hip. Jason’s hands were right there on her lower back, circling the dimples, as she dragged him further into the darkness with her. The feel of his hardness brushing the skimpy panties that she wore. Raven clawed his biceps. Whispering sanctions, her nose slithering straight down scars. On his neck. His arms.

“You know… I only mentioned the outfit because… I like it.” He murmured hotly. “It's sexy.” She was grateful for the admission.

That he couldn’t resist.

“Jason…” She hissed. His fingers thrust under the sides of the silk top. The pressure and heat of the hands on stomach. Skimming the skin to tease and kneading it to please. Upward they traveled. To cup her chest. Jason’s touch brought her to another place. It was mind-numbing. So much so, that she could ignore any guilt. Almost. She tried to shove down any of her unconscious thoughts. But in the back of her mind, she could remember Dick’s comment from earlier - when he saw her.

“You always look so…” he whispered.

“-gorgeous…”

An echo…? In her head. Of Dick’s words and Jason’s…

“In that color.”

Suddenly, they were the same.

One voice.

“Stop. Stop. No.”

This was wrong.

“Raven, what’s wrong?”

Would everyone stop asking her if she alright tonight? Of course she wasn’t.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Raven barked out a harsh peel of laughter. “Look at us? The brother and the girlfriend…” She held up a quivering pale hand. “Who are we trying to convince?” The sliver of light glimmered off of a modest band. The ill-fitted silver band slipped around to reveal a decently sized rock.

He paused for a while. Jason’s hands on hips as he shook his head. Even through the dark, she distinctly saw him mouth the word, wow. Over… and over. And over. Lost in his own head. His own thoughts. Pacing…

The ring didn’t fit.

It was too big. He had offered to resize it, many times. But, by then, she had just lost more weight. Dick thought he knew why.

“For the wedding?” Dick asked, looking concerned. His arms caging her in, as he rested on either of her shoulders. He insisted, his voice a whisper, “Raven… you’re already the picture-perfect bride.“ Then, he smiled and kissed her cheek. "Perfect.”

Even if they did get it resized, it would never fit. Not really.

Jason completed one last angry, uneven rotation before he spoke, a bitter edge to his inflection. “I don’t understand… I don’t understand - how this. You… and him.”

“It’s called… a proposal.” Raven explained, through her gritted teeth. Gritted because she was annoyed with her own antics. She was the one who didn’t understand what it meant to be someone’s fiancée. That was clear. “I meant to tell you earlier…”

“No.” Jason argued. “I may not have known - but you did. How does that make it any different from twenty minutes ago?”

Her lips parted, before her retort. “Don’t tell me you want me to feel guilty about this.”

“No, I don’t.” He said quickly. And he took a breath before he began in a low, serious voice. His eyes never leaving her own. “A proposal isn’t a marriage. Engagements break… Even marriages aren’t forever.”

“Don’t. You. dare.”

“I do. And I will.” He was adamant. Jason’s jaw stiffened. “I will always you give tough love, Roth. And you can hate me for it. But I don’t care. I know what you want.”

Her hands shook. And yet she insisted. “You don’t know a thing.”

“I know that you want out.” Raven regarded him through her dark purple glare. “And you want to use me to do it. It’s alright. I’ll say it because you can’t.” Horror struck the sorceress’s pale face. Before she went cold. She advanced, arms folded.

“Are you right, Jason?” She took another step closer. “Or is this some sort of wish fulfillment?” Raven pantomimed a gesture as though she were weaving one of her spells. And not debating her devotion. The aqua gaze flashed dangerously. “You… stealing your big brother’s girl.” Raven spat. Jason’s eyed her through slits. She could sense the aura around him darkening. But Raven didn’t stop. “The one thing you couldn’t steal. Can’t steal. Because - I’m still his… I’m his and that meant nothing.”

His head whipped back and forth as he refuted this. “It did.” He disagreed. And he was livid. “Yes, it did. I wasn’t the only one feeling that.” A thumb jerked to his chest to insist upon this. “There’s something between us.”

“You were.” Raven maintained. “It’s nothing. And it meant nothing to me.”

“Raven,” Jason rasped. “Why are you fighting me? Or this?” He bit his lip to hold in the desperation in his voice. The long legs closed the distance between them. “Please -”

The petite girl held up a hand and pushed his chest to keep him at bay. “Dick is perfect, and he loves me… I should have never done that. That will never happen again.” Her voice was flat and eyes hollow.

His head hung. The ebony tresses masking his face. Then… he was back up. And he was Jason again.

Jason’s shoulders quaked as he emitted a cruel chuckle. “Who exactly are you trying to convince?”

“I love him.” She said simply. Her brow furrowed as she realized what she had to do. “He’s my family. And yours. You should go.”

But, Jason was ready for her. And she was hardly in a position to argue. “I didn’t forget he’s my family. So, that means no matter where you move, or wherever you go, I’ll see you. That’s a promise.”

“I hope you don’t think you’ll be invited over any time soon,” She retorted. It was low and it was pathetic, but it was all she had left to counter.

“I do think.” Jason said with an air superiority that made her crazy.

“Don’t.”

“I do, because I will…” He smiled callously.

“You won’t…” Raven seethed.

“If not, then…” He leaned into her. Angling his face as closely as possible, so she could feel the brush his words on her mouth. “I’ll just see you - at the wedding.” Jason gave her one last look, and then pivoted on his heel.

That word from his lips…

The final word gave way to the water. The prison trapping her. Her throat tight and choked, as she called after his receding figure.

“Wait.” She lunged after him. Gripping his bicep tight. “I… Don’t go - please…” Pulling, forcing him to turn around. To come back to her. Her white fingers slid down his shoulder to his chest. Where she fisted his shirt. “Please, Jason.” And she tugged him firmly to her lips, feeling the tension in his body dissolve. “Jason…” Raven whispered into his ear. “This is the last time -” Smoothing his mouth to Raven’s, he ripped her robe right off. He lifted her by her hips, carrying her only a short distance, before he slid open the first door he could find.

The Evidence Room.

He cleared the desk off with one long sweep of his arm, and placed her down. Pushing her back flat to it, thighs spread. Jason climbed up to surface, kneeling right between her legs. Her arms outstretched wildly, as she reached for his waist. Dark nails, sinking into his skin, she went lower. Down to his waistband, tugging black spandex over his hips. To free him. His face contorted in a way that bordered on cannibalistic, Jason was sinking. Bringing himself down. To meet her. He supported his weight as he leaned over her.

Raising her shirt over her bare breasts, to expose her. Her back arched when Jason’s hand slid over her core. Another tug to slide her panties to the side. A full mouth trailed along her collarbone, as it curled into a smile. He nibbled the flesh, just hard enough to make her moan. But not hard enough to leave a bruise. They did have to be careful, after all.

His aqua eyes lingered on the sanguine shape of an X on the skull mask tacked to the wall.

“Yes… This is the last time.”

Before a loud grunt, as he took the plunge, submerging deeper and deeper into her water.

Deeper and deeper he went…

Raven inhaled sharply. And deeper and deeper she went…

But this time she could finally breathe.

[rambling-at-midnight]

Inferno: Part 5 (final)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Your father drops what he’s holding when you literally rip the front door of the compound off its hinges and toss it a few feet away. “Were you ever going to tell me?” you yell, stomping into the room. You know your face is too hot and so are your hands but you can’t be bothered.

To his credit, Tony doesn’t pretend to not know what you’re talking about. He sighs and crosses his arms. “Y/N, calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” you bellow, your eyes stinging with anger. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!”

“I was worried about you—”

“So you sent the one person I hate most to spy on me? To completely invade my privacy? The one person I knew I could trust—”

“Okay,” Tony admits, “so it wasn’t the best idea. And I realized that soon after. But Y/N, what was I supposed to tell you? How was I supposed to tell you?”

“Um, by telling me?” You scoff angrily. “Instead of me going through my former best friend’s texts and figuring it out for myself?”

“Wait,” Tony interrupts. “Peter didn’t tell you himself?”

“Why the hell would he? He’s too busy making fun of me with you!”

“No, Y/N, you don’t understand—” Tony shakes his head. “Peter was supposed to tell you in person. I told him to. We figured you’d at least take it better, but no wonder you’re so upset—”

“It wouldn’t matter if he told me in person, in text, or over a goddamn email!” you yell. “You still spied on me—”

“Can we please talk about this?” he pleads. “Y/N, you’re traumatized. You were imprisoned for a crime you didn’t commit. You wouldn’t talk to me and I knew that you and Peter would get along, but after the first meeting it was obvious he needed to wear the mask!”

“I don’t want to talk to you about anything,” you say, disgusted, shaking your head. “I don’t want your excuses. What you did sucked, okay?”

“I know, baby, and I’m sorry—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” you bark. “I don’t want to hear anything from you for a while. Just leave me the hell alone!”

You stomp away in the direction of your room and the fire alarm starts to beep.

“Miss Y/N, please cool yourself,” FRIDAY says calmly. “You are reaching dangerous temperatures.”

You scoff. “I can’t hurt myself with fire.”

“No, but you could hurt those around you,” the AI responds. “Including myself.”

“Did you know what they did?” you demand up to the ceiling.

There is a pregnant pause before the AI confirms it.

“Wow.” You shake your head. “Just wow.”

“I was under strict orders not to inform you—”

“Whatever, FRIDAY. I don’t want to hear from you either.” Scowling, you slam your door shut but stop short at the sight of a figure upside-down outside your window.

Spider-man—Peter Parker—taps frantically on the glass, waving to get your attention. You close your blinds and turn your back on the window, but a buzzing in your pocket catches your attention. It’s the boy outside your window. You decline the call. He’s already tried to call fifteen times and sent you 13 text messages.

For good measure, you block his number. Not a second later is he messaging you on Instagram, so you take the next logical step in your mind. You throw your phone out the window so hard it shatters the glass and hopefully hits that lying bastard, too.

You’re out of the room before Spider-man can stick his head out the window, locking the door from the outside using a special program you’d installed in FRIDAY, and decide to sleep in a guest room.

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

Thankfully your new phone has a new number that Parker doesn’t know, and you’re pretty sure Tony knows better than to give it to him. You blocked him on every social media platform you have for good measure, although that hasn’t stopped you from noticing him. In fact, you’re probably noticing him more than usual because your two fanbases have come together in a major panic over why Inferno and Spider-man aren’t hanging out, following each other, or even talking anymore.

All your mentions in the past two weeks have looked exactly like this:

just-a-dumbass: @Y/N_Stark plz respond!!!! why are you and Spider-man fighting? he won’t talk about it at all when we asked on his livestream he hung up and hasn’t done another since!!!!

that-one-asian: @Y/N_Stark and @The-Official-Spiderman you guys really need to make up you were my #1 celebrity ship and i dont understand why you broke up

spideyismydaddy: guys you can tell @The-Official-Spiderman is really cut up about this, he hasn’t livestreamed in days or even uploaded a story. @Y/N_Stark you’re a real bitch for breaking his heart

newyorkhoe: guys we don’t even know if @Y/N_Stark and @The-Official_Spiderman were dating. maybe they’re just really good friends that are fighting. either way, you can tell that both are having a rough time. lay off the negativity!!!

wyoming_isnt_real: @Y/N_Stark why are you and spidey fighting? if he hurt you i’ll beat him up :(

spideyinferno: @Y/N_Stark @The-Official-Spiderman

That tweet has a link attached. You click on it out of curiosity only to realize that actual news websites are writing articles about the ‘Feud Between New York’s Hottest Heroes’. You scroll down to the bottom where there are previews of other articles written about this. Is this really the biggest deal ever? Are people really freaking out over the fact that you’re not hanging out with a spying liar anymore?

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

You should have known. Even at night, civilians are still out and about, and they love to do nothing other than gossip. You’re in Brooklyn, for God’s sake, and they’re still chasing after you with cameras, screaming and asking questions about your relationship with Spider-man. These people have probably never even seen him before. He operates in Queens!

It’s no use. You have to change out of your suit. You’re too noticeable.

You duck into a tourist shop and melt the door handle so the screaming hordes can’t follow you in. “I’m so sorry,” you say breathlessly to the shopkeeper and dig around in your pockets for an empty check. You’ve learned to always keep one on hand. You have one, but you don’t know exactly how much replacing a door costs. “Do you have a pen?” Just to be safe, you write down $15,000 and grab a hoodie and sweatpants while the shopkeeper stares at the check you’d shoved into his hands. You can hear people pounding on the back entrance of the store, too, and you look around wildly for an escape.

Unwelcome, a thought pops into your head: What would Spidey do? How would he get out of this situation?

You look up and smile. You may not have webs but you can jump pretty high.

“Sorry about this,” you say to the shopkeeper again. He gapes as you leap straight up into his ceiling. You take a running leap off the roof and land on the sidewalk a couple hundred feet away. Some New Yorkers spare you glances as they step around and over you, but you don’t mind them as you pull your hood up and start walking.

A familiar thwip, though, has you stop. People start to yell Spider-man’s name and you look up, one hand keeping your hood in place. You duck behind a taller man and peek at your former friend from behind the stranger’s arm.

“Where is she?” he yells, wheezing a little bit. He must have sprinted over. A little part of your chest warms at the thought of him being frantic to see you, but then you realize that his voice really doesn’t change at all when he’s got the mask on. You were just too stupid to notice it.

The civilians start to all shout different things, mostly pointing to the store, but Spider-man waves his hands to get everyone to be quiet. “One at a time!”

“She went into that store but got out through the roof and now we don’t know where she is!” someone shouts.

“What happened between you two?”

You lean forward, holding your breath. Surely Spider-man will say that you overreacted and were the bitch most people on the internet seem to think you are. It’ll cement your belief that he’s a giant jerk and you’ll be able to go about your day feeling a little better about this whole situation.

“I messed up,” Spider-man explains, sounding sadder than he has a right to. “And I don’t blame her for being mad at me. I’d be pretty mad at me, too.”

“What did you do?” someone else shouts.

For a moment, you think Spider-man meets your eyes and you jerk back, accidentally falling into somebody else. It cuts off Spider-man, who was saying, “It doesn’t really matter what I did. I’m just really sorry and I want her to know, even if she doesn’t forgive me—”

“Watch it!” the person snaps, yanking your sweatshirt in anger. The hood slips off your head and their eyes widen. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry—”

“She’s right here!” another person who’d watched the commotion shouts. “Look, Spider-man, you can apologize to her—”

The crowd starts to scream, looking for you, and you shove your hood back up and keep up with the commotion.

“Y/N!” Spider-man shouts, his voice cracking. “Please just talk to me?”

Pull yourself together, you think viciously. You’re acting like a total idiot in public.

And you don’t look back.

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

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Y/N, come on.”

“I’m not doing it. You can’t make me.”

“We need you.”

“You have him.”

“Yeah, but we also need you.”

“I have plans for today.”

“Really?” your dad crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. “And what are those?”

You cross your arms right back and don’t respond. You both know you don’t have any plans for today, but you’d rather do nothing than go on a mission with half of the team including Spider-man.

“I’m sure he asked you to include me?”

Tony scuffs his foot on the ground.

“Not a chance.” You shake your head.

“Look, is now really the best time to be arguing about this?” Natasha puts in, tapping her foot impatiently. “Parker and Cap are handling this mutant fine at the moment but his friend is coming. They can’t handle two of them.”

You roll your eyes. “You two can go. You’re highly skilled and experienced—”

“And one of them is a lava monster,” your dad interrupts.

“Exactly, so my powers will be useless on it.” You shrug.

“But you also won’t get hurt if you draw its fire. Plus, Nat doesn’t have powers at all. Dealing with human criminals is one thing but mutants are a bit much for even her to handle. No offense, Nat.”

The assassin in question raises one eyebrow and doesn’t agree or disagree with your father’s statement. Privately, you think that Nat really could handle at least one of the monsters on her own, depending on the tools she has to work with. But you digress.

“I hate you,” you try.

“Love you too, honey.” Your dad kisses your forehead for the first time in a month. “Your suit is in the jet. Can we get going, please?”

Okay, you will admit that maybe you underestimated these two mutants. One has heat-based powers, just like you, and flickers between a human form and a human-shaped pile of lava. The other seems merely to have super strength and is trading blows with Captain America like it’s a friendly sparring session.

You narrow your eyes and assess the battlefield from your perch in the jet. “Okay, so we obviously need to get the civilians out of here. Nat, you can handle that, right?”

The red-haired assassin nods her head.

“And I can distract the fire thing,” you decide. Anticipation curdles your stomach though it’s less at the fight and more at the thought of seeing Spider-man again—he is the one fighting that monster, after all, and dodging its streams of fire quite spectacularly, though you’d never tell him so. “We just need to knock it out when it’s in its human form. Dad, you can help Steve, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he salutes you and you roll your eyes. “Everybody ready?”

Butterflies flutter in your stomach as the jet lowers just enough for you to leap out of it, Tony in his suit with Nat clinging onto his back just behind you.

You slam into the lava monster, knocking it off its feet and tumbling a few feet away, your teeth clanking at the impact. Through your earpiece, you hear Cap greeting Nat and Tony, before a significantly higher male voice pierces your eardrums.

“Y/N?”

You wince and look up. Peter’s staring at you, and though his mask is on, you can tell that his mouth is open with shock. Though his exclamation was loud, it was also comforting. You’d missed him more than you care to admit.

“Underoos, pay attention!” your father barks and Peter looks at the lava monster and shrieks (you make a mental note to tease him about that later) before leaping into the air and avoiding a stream of lava that would have melted him instantly.

“Inferno,” the lava mutant hisses, eyes flickering between gaping black rock pits and dark human eyes. Both appearances convey her hatred for you clearly. “You can’t hurt me.”

“Yeah, well, ditto,” you respond. “And, for your information, fire isn’t my only power, thank you very much.”

The mutant holds up her hand and a stream of lava flies toward you, hitting your skin and sliding to the ground before it hardens instantly. “You’re a mutant against your will just like me,” the lava mutant hisses. “Join us. Help us take revenge against those who wronged us.”

Peter shoots a web that disintegrates a foot in front of the mutant. The air around her is so hot it’s wavering like a mirage. Powerless against the mutant, he looks at you.

“Look, I get getting revenge,” you say. You press a hand to your ear and mutter, “Shock web when she’s human.” You continue louder, “I got my own revenge. But I didn’t do it by hurting innocent civilians. In fact, my father did it so Killian wouldn’t hurt anybody else.”

“They don’t understand our pain,” the mutant hisses. She flickers and Spider-man twitches but he was too slow and continues to creep out of the mutant’s line of vision. With her eyes fixed on you, she doesn’t seem to care. “Only we do.”

“I know,” you say soothingly. You hold your palm up to the sky and let a little flame dance over your palm. “I know it hurts. I was in pain for days straight when Killian gave me the serum. But this isn’t the way to get your revenge.”

This time, when the mutant flickers, she remains in her human form for a second longer. You smile smugly.

“We’re the same,” you say soothingly. “I know just how it feels.”

“I can’t stop now,” the mutant hisses. “They’ll lock me up.”

“They locked me up too, and I didn’t even do anything,” you point out. “But when you get out, I can help you.”

She drops the lava monster guise and looks at you wondrously.

You wince when Peter’s shock web hits her in the back. She makes a sort of choked noise before keeling over. Something fragile inside you fractures as you see what you could have been. There’s a little too much of you inside that mutant.

The other mutant roars with anger and you turn, ready to burn it. But its anger is aimed at Spider-man, who landed the final blow, and he sweeps Cap and Tony away, throwing them into nearby rubble.

You dart in front of the monster and ready your fists, even if his biceps are bigger than your waist. He shoves you away and the breath leaves your lungs but you still manage to cling onto his arm like a koala and summon the anger to the surface. Your body goes white-hot in seconds and the second mutant roars with pain and slams his arm into the ground.

You feel your spine crack in multiple places as well as your tailbone—and your neck.

“Y/N!” Peter bellows when you don’t move. “NO!”

Something wet trickles down your neck as the bones arrange themselves back into place and you sit up, tears slipping from your eyes as you do so. Now you’re pissed off.

The mutant’s arm, you can see, has a nasty-looking burn on it in the shape of your body. You relish the sight of it as you take a running start at the mutant, plowing into his back and sending him flying, landing on the ground and skidding a few feet. Since you’re half his height, it must have been a comical sight.

Peter lands in front of you and holds out his hand, which you notice is shaking. “Are you okay?”

You don’t nod your head. You’re scared that just moving it will break your back again. You might have broken your arm and ankle before, but never your neck and back. You’re going to have nightmares about it for weeks to come, you already know.

“You can cool down now,” he says softly. You realize you’re still glowing white-hot.

With a strangled sob, you let go of the anger-heat and fall into his arms, squeezing him so hard you’re sure he would have a few broken ribs if he wasn’t enhanced.

“How bad did he hurt you?” Peter asks, one hand rubbing up and down your back.

“It would have killed anyone except me,” you whisper back. And that’s all you have to say on the subject. You move to step back from him and gasp. The mutant is up and angrier than ever. He’s picking up a chunk of plaster with a few copper wires protruding from its multiple sides. He’s hoisting it above his head. And he’s throwing it at you two.

You hear multiple screams as you shove Peter out of the way, but the ginormous rock hits you in the stomach. As if in slow motion, you flip backwards, the plaster rolling with you, and hit the ground, skidding a bit. The plaster still sits on your stomach, making it nearly impossible to breathe, which means you don’t have the strength to push it off of you.

Oh God. Asphyxiation is one thing the serum can’t help you with. For the first time in your life, you might actually die from an injury.

You weakly wiggle, trying to get the plaster to tip off of you, but that causes a stinging sensation in your sternum that’s almost unbearable. Your back is getting wet. One of the copper wires must have entered your stomach.

You try to suck in a breath but barely get more than a gasp. The effort makes you cough, your throat tasting metallic.

The serum can’t work if I can’t breathe, you distantly realize. It’s a part of my bodily functions now, but my body can’t function at all without oxygen.

So you’re going to die. It’s as simple as that.

This time, when you suck in a breath, you cough on a liquid in your throat, choking as you can’t get any air in and becoming more panicked as your vision becomes more blurry. You try to blow the liquid out of your throat but you don’t have enough strength to blow hard, so all that happens is that you’re completely out of air now. You thrash on the ground but the plaster refuses to move.

Your vision goes dark. Your stomach drops. Is this it? Are you going to die now? You never even got to make up with Peter, which you now realize you’d wanted to do all along.

Then the weight on your stomach lifts and you suck in a shuddering breath that just makes you cough and choke more. The darkness lifts from your vision, making you squint and realize that someone had been standing over you and lifted the plaster from your stomach.

The person turns you over onto your side and you spit blood out of your mouth as the pain in your stomach begins to abate. When you finally suck in a shuddering breath that clears your vision, hands cradle your face and you look up into Peter’s face. It’s a bit screwed up because he’s crying.

You blink slowly at him.

“Oh, my God,” he says as though from a long way away. “I thought you were going to die. Are you still bleeding? Can you breathe? Are you all right? Do you have brain damage? Wait, are you dead? Y/N, can you hear me?” He shakes you. His voice gets higher. “Y/N, you gotta respond to me or I’m gonna think you’re dead! Are you dead?”

You cough, splattering his face with more blood and mucus, and his lips thin as he wipes it off.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“Your mask,” you croak weakly. Your eyes widen with realization. “Oh, God, your mask, Peter, people are gonna see you—”

“Thank God you’re all right,” he breathes, gathering you into a tight hug that has you gasping for air. His splayed hands on your back move up and down, probing for holes. “I think you’re okay.” He begins to rock back and forth, still holding you in his arms. “I thought you were going to die.”

Weakly, you wrap your arms around him and squeeze as hard as you can. You’re already feeling better. “Peter Parker, did you just save my life?”

“Does that mean you forgive me?” He pulls back, beaming at you even though he’s still crying.

“I guess,” you say mock-reluctantly.

“Thank God,” he breathes. “Y/N, I like you.”

“What?” You blink.

“It’s all right if you don’t say it back,” he says, rushed. “Or if you don’t feel the same way at all. I just thought you should know.”

“No, I—”

“Y/N!”

Tony sweeps you off your feet, twirling you in a circle. “Oh my God, baby, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Dad,” you reply but don’t push him away. “Peter saved me.”

Tony picks up Peter’s discarded mask and shoves it into his favorite intern’s hands before sweeping him into the group hug too. “Does this mean you don’t hate him anymore?” he asks, beaming.

Peter pulls his mask on and turns away. You glance after him, frowning.

“What?” Tony asks, deflating. “Do you really still hate him?”

You tap Spider-man on the shoulder. Peter shrugs and says without looking back, “It’s fine, Y/N. I shouldn’t have expected anything else, considering what I did to you—”

You spin him around, lift his mask up to his nose, and fit your mouth against his.

When you pull back, his mouth stays open as he gapes at you.

“I never said I didn’t feel the same way,” you say, feeling shy all of a sudden.

“Seriously?” he squeals. Then he coughs and lowers his voice. “I mean, uh—seriously?”

You shake your head and smile before planting your lips on his again. And that’s how the media finds you two. And the internet kind of explodes for the next two hours. It turns out a lot of people have been shipping you two for a while now.

Inferno Taglist:

@paullrud @eridanuswave @loveissupernatural @moistpotatobear @oh-annaa

Peter Parker x Reader Taglist:

@iconicbabesss

Forever Taglist:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight