#and a taste of the bullshit. i will never go into detail with sir and ma'am of how awful they were because it's a bunch of triggers

[lionheartair]

Artair was born in the U.S., but he was moved to Ireland when he was around six. In canon and most renditions that follow it closely, he is returned to his uncle around seven or eight once legal battles are resolved by Byron finding the documents that mark him as Artair's legal guardian where they were squirreled away by his parents in a move and with the pace the court moved at.

In the 80s au, he never returns to Byron. He is raised instead mostly in County Kerry with his grandparents, though he did also stay in County Galway at times during trips. Byron sent him many letters over the years, but they did not allow him to see or know about any of the correspondence, and told Artair fairly young that his uncle had passed. The implications were heavy that it was due to the loss of his brother. Byron meanwhile was told that Artair wanted nothing to do with him anymore, and blames him for not being there the night his parents passed.

Eventually Byron gives in and throws himself into his work instead, the last thing he cares about that he has any control over, and the one thing that connects him to his brother that remains. He knows his mother and step-father though, and he worries what happened to his brother's kid. He still doesn't know to this day about the music career.

[tarithenurse]

Good Girl

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen Pairing/starring: Satoru Gojo x fem!reader Word count: 2090 Content: Gratuitous smut (sub/dom-ish, some sort of safety system, praise kink and more). No plot whatsoever. A/N: ....oops? Unbetaed – sorry about that but really, that’s the only thing I’m sorry about.

He could rip your head clear off and you’d probably thank him.

Okay, you wouldn’t but that’d just be because a corpse can’t talk.

AND to be honest you’d rather he ripped something else off of you.

Glaring at Gojo through the mirror from your place on the treadmill, you can see he’s barely breaking a sweat, circling the sandbag and hitting it with barrage after barrage of kicks and punches. He seems...bored? Ceruleans sometimes peeking over the edge of the sunglasses that he insists on wearing indoors (at least it’s a step up from the blindfold that he normally favours). His gaze follows his students as they leave the room and you’re alone with your crush.

Crush. Do you want a relationship with him or do you just want to get fucked senseless? You don’t know. You’d probably take any scraps Gojo’d give you which in itself probably is a worrying sign that you’re a lost cause.

“You’re staring,” he drawls, making you sputter out a bunch of nonsense to deny it.

Frustrated with yourself on all levels, you step off the treadmill and grab your little towel and water bottle in the hopes of hightailing it out of there. You’d be skipping the rest of your workout but that’s okay as you can come back tomorrow – it’s getting late anyways.

“Done already?” There’s a hint of mockery to his voice.

“Yeah,” you lie, hearing the waver yourself.

“Bullshit,” Gojo challenges, “you always move on to the various machines before finishing with a cool-down run and yoga. I know. I watch you too.”

That makes you stop dead in the track, gaze flickering to the nearest mirror that shows your reflection and him behind you.

Slowly, lazily, he’s stepping closer. And closer. It’s reminiscent of a prowl and it makes your skin pucker with anticipation for something you’ve only dared to imagine, never to hope.

Unable to move, you close your eyes when he’s right behind you, breath barely palpable along your exposed neck and his fingertips trace your wrists before dancing up your arms.

“Tell me...will you only always look?” his lips brush the shell of your ear as he whispers, now standing at your side.

You have to swallow hard and there’s no doubt in your mind that he must have noticed it. You can imagine his cocky grin and maybe even a waggle of white eyebrows.

A quick glance from under fluttering eyelids show you just how wrong you are: his gaze burns, searing every detail of your face as he studies you, his glasses completely discarded.

It’s impossible to keep back the little whimper as your cunt clenches around nothing and your heart yearns to please him.

Gojo’s one eyebrow arches and a tiny smirk makes the corner of his mouth twitch. “Oh, so it’s like that.”

One of his large hands splays on your stomach, gently but firmly pushing you back to the centre of the room where a huge mat is lying, used for sparring sessions.

“Good girl.”

Heat floods through your body and you just know that your panties must be soaked already. You love this. Love how he’s taken charge, crowding you with his larger frame now that his fingers move to the hem of your top. Fingertips make sure to caress your skin as the slightly damp fabric is pulled upwards, eventually meeting the first obstacles and causing the sorcerer to pause.

“Listen carefully,” he announces, “traffic light system. Green is go, yellow is tentative and red is full stop. Got it?” You nod. “Use your words.”

“Yes, sir.” The last bit just pops out on its own but the way his pupils expand, you think he likes it.

“Colour now?”

“Green.”

His lips crash on yours. Tasting him for the first time, your mind struggles to find adjectives fitting for it other than “amazing” and “perfect”. He’s demanding. Hungry. One of his hands has grabbed you by your neck to tilt your head just right while the other hand roams your back before grabbing on to the ass and pulling you flush against him which means you can feel his erection through the few layers of clothes.

Then he withdraws a few inches, eyes locked with yours. “Colour?”

“Green, sir.”

It’s not like you’re just standing still. You can’t. Too jittery with anticipation, you’re fighting back wave after wave of goosebumps while your own hands dig into his wild locks, tugging ever so gently which earns you a growl and makes you stop.

“Did I give you a red light?” he promptly snaps, squeezing your butt a bit harder.

“No, sir,” you pout, “sorry, sir.”

But it’s too late. Letting go of you, he takes a few steps back to survey your puffy lips and the top that’s still suspended by your chest, allowing the skin of your belly to be admired. Palming himself lazily, there’s no rush to his movements any longer as he begins to circle you, coming to a halt behind you after a few rounds. The skin of his calloused hands is hot as it comes into contact with your waist.

“Take your top off,” Gojo whispers.

Grabbing the hem and pulling upwards, you almost manage to keep silent as he slips a hand under the waistband of your shorts at the same time. Long fingers sliding under clingy fabrics and down. He kicks your legs out, making you wobble for a moment until your gaze catches his in the mirror at the end wall. Piercing. Unadulterated desired.

“Sports bra too,” he orders.

This requires a bit more than simply yanking upwards: hooks in the back, straps to loosen...all the while Gojo has made it his mission to distract you by delving a single finger between your folds, slipping in the wetness from your wanting hole before honing in on your clit. It’s just light circles. Nothing fancy. But it’s taking your breath away and making it hard for you to stay standing still.

“Colour?”

“Green.”

A smirk. “Then we are you still wearing that bra?”

You can’t hold back the whine but the sense of unfairness helps you power through to get the offending clothing off. Barely has it landed by your feet before Gojo’s free hand is cupping your tits, thumb alternating sweeping over the sensitive nipples at the same pace as the circling of your clit which intensifies.

“So pretty for me,” he bites your earlobe testingly. “So needy, aren’t you?”

There’s no point in denying it. “Yes, sir.”

“Look into that mirror,” he orders and you can sense the shock of white hair bobbing the direction he means, “look into my eyes.”

Doing as he wants reduces your world to nothing but him. You couldn’t look away if you wanted even as he resumes circling your clit with renewed intensity. His other hands wanders from your breasts to your throat, squeezing lightly and making your cunt clench just as he slips his fingers in.

“I felt that,” he smiles, readjusting his hand so you are riding his fingers, thumb toying with your clit until you begin to forget how to breathe. Then he gives your throat another squeeze accompanied by what must be your doom: “Such a good, needy girl for me, huh?”

The whine escapes your lips as you try to keep your eyes open through the wave that surges in your body. Your legs are shaking, suddenly too weak to hold you so Gojo has to guide you onto the floor. On your knees, a new whimper escapes as he lets go of you completely and your body aches for his touch.

“Colour.” He must know it’s green, but you manage a whispered confirmation anyways. “You think, you’re a good girl?” You nod, finally finding his gaze only to have concern creep into your heart because his eyes a cold. Icy. “A good girl would have asked for permission first,” he tuts.

Your juices are still glistening on his one hand but now he slowly raises it to his lips, licking it clean in a way that’s meant to get your mind racing (it does).

“I’m sorry, sir,” you whisper.

Smiling benevolently, Gojo hunches down before you, grasping your chin to tilt your head up to meet his face. “You’ll make it up to me, right sweetie?”

“Yes, please let me make it better!”

Your hands move on their own, reaching towards his thighs and sliding up until you have a firm grip on the waistband of his sweatpants. You risk a light tug, fluttering your eyelashes to soften what could seem like a demand into a request...and you’re rewarded with a bright smile.

Rolling forward onto his knees, Gojo lets you pull down the sweats and his boxers. He even lets you get onto your hands and knees, tnogue darting out to wet your lips at the sight of his boner, before grabbing hold of your head with both hands.

“Green,” you interrupt him just as he opens his mouth to ask.

An eyebrow arches at your eagerness, but what can you say? You want him. All of him in any way possible.

“Then be a good girl.”

Rather than let go of your head, he guides your lips to his erection: big, weeping, an angry vein throbbing along the underside of the shaft as you gingerly take hold before kitten-licking the crown.

He let’s you play for a bit – get yourself familiar with him and his impressive dimensions. It makes it less daunting by the time your lips stretch around the cock head and you start to work your way down the shaft. You live for the sigh it pulls from his chest.

Back and forth, using your hand to compensate because you’ve never learned to deep throat and you sure as fuck won’t manage to now with Gojo’s cock...but you do your best, chasing after the “fuck yeah”s and “good girl”s that indicate that whatever you’re doing is the right stuff. His head has fallen back, eyes fluttering closed and he’s trying so hard not to take over and move your head, his big hands still clasped around your skull. A flick of the tongue. Hollowing the cheeks. All of it to please him.

“Stop.” You can barely trust your own ears although his voice leaves little doubt. “Lie back, darling.”

You let go with a pop and start to move but you’re too slow for Gojo who somehow has managed to tear off his t-shirt while following you. He’s caging you in on the mat, chests heaving and brushing against each other as you both feverishly work to get the rest of the clothes off. Pushing and pulling, a seem gives, elastics slap against the thigh as a grip falters for a moment but it doesn’t matter because next instant there’s nothing between you.

Warm and blunt, Gojo’s cock head is pushing against your folds, sliding back and forth easily to get proper lubed although you barely want to wait for such details. Your hands have found his ass, guiding him while he holds himself above you with one arm.

“Colour,” he pants, eyes finding yours.

There’s a hint of concern in his gaze – if you said no, he would respect it. “Green. Colour?”

The smirk tugs at his mouth. “Good girl. Green.”

Then he slides in, stretching your cunt and stealing your breath away all over again. You can do nothing but cling to him, whispering praises that mingle with his as he begins to rock into you.

He deserves credit, trying so hard to keep a slow pace with shallow thrusts but his insatiable hunger takes over, driving his hips. Earning him red scores where your nails slip on his back but he only seems to relish it, telling you how well you’re doing, how good you are, how tight you feel...and that you’re his. His good girl.

You seize up, barely remembering to ask for permission this time which you get in the form of a strangled: “Cum for me.”

He rides you through it and you’re just about to come down when he changes the angle, prolonging your high instead as he rams into you hard as he cums too.

He’s twitching, lazily humping through the after-wave when you remember to breathe. You have to fight back a whine as he finally rolls off you because you’re afraid of what will happen next.

As if hearing your thoughts, he kisses you cheek. “Gonna get you washed and fed and stuff before the next round, baby.”

[osakunt]

「𝟭:𝟮𝟯 𝗽𝗺」 - 𝗧𝗼𝗷𝗶.𝗙

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"Megumi, you can let go now"

"Thank you do being an amazing mother figure in my life"

"Of course sweetheart. Thank you for letting me be that figure" smiling you ruffle the teenage boys hair glad to see that he was alright. When he came back looking dead from retrieving Sukuna's finger and fighting the curse with the death paintings you were rushing towards him once Yuuji and Nobara came running towards you saying that your beloved child was dead.

"Let me make sure that head of yours is alright. You were bleeding pretty badly when you got back" you inspect him making sure he was fully okay before dressing the wound on his head and kissing it, giving him another motherly hug.

"There she is !!! (Y/n)-san !!!"

"Not now, child" you quickly hush up Gojo who walked in whining about a small cut on his hand he had done to himself on purpose to go see you.

"What's the real reason you're here ?"

"To greet the most gorgeous women on earth" he smiles hugging you, smooshing his cheek with yours.

"Bullshit. You want something. What is it ?" You look up from the twin dogs Megumi had summoned.

Gojo smiles swiping his phone then turning towards you shoving it up to you face. Snatching the phone from away from your face you look at the picture of the man. Your eyebrow quirking up you let out a low chuckle.

"Greet him for me" you give back the phone, going back to check on the dogs in front of you. Megumi starting to get curious he looks over at the phone that was now locked.

Forgetting about it in a second he turns to you asking if his dogs were fine. " they'll be fine. Just let 'em rest." Sending him off and making sure he was no longer around your infirmary - you close the door and lock it.

Sitting back down on your rolling chair you look at the blue eyes dumb ass in front of you. "Is he back or did you stalk him ?" 

Taking his sun glasses off he gives you an offended look ,clutching his chest. "That hurted you know !!!"

"hUrTeD....same lol"

"But no. I was walking by when I saw him. Just had to take a picture ya know ? I mean you did have a little fling with him after all~" he boops your nose cackling

"I sure fucking did. Best sex I've ever had, like bro what !! All in all fuck him. He ain't shit" you turn to your phone pointing at the pigtailed male on the screen "He can get it though" you smirk at the younger male whose eyes went wide for a minute.

"The death painting ?!! But he's like 150 or something !!" Gojo yells finding it a bit weird.

"Close the door for me, I'll be heading out now. Might stop by that bakery Kento talks about" 

"Oh oh get me something"

"Sure whatever"

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"Come again !!" The girl from behind the counter smiles, waving you off as you smile leaving the establishment already digging in your bag of baked goods.

"Damn, sis knows who to make a mean ass cookie" munching away on the soft cookie you turn a corner to a busy street killing any little cursed creature that popped up in your sight.

Digging in the back for something more to munch on, your arm gets grabbed dragging you into some ally.

"Of course you aren't. You kill curses for a living. Killed a man too but that's not my business" The man speaks up, putting his gun away in his pants and letting you go.

"Toji,huh. So why'd you bring me to an ally ? Looks suth af fuk" your words muffled from the piece of cake you had taken a bite from.

Grabbing the plastic container and fork from you hands, Toji presses you against a wall kissing your jaw line. "Long time no see, (y/n)" his voice seductively going into your ear.

"We saw each other last week,sir"

"Exactly. last week." He kisses your lips tasting the chocolate frosted cake that was suppose to be for Gojo.

"How's Megumi ?" His eyes soften as soon as he asked for his son.

You smile patting his chest "Got into it with some cursed thingy mabob. Patched him up and sent him to rest. He'll be fine though. Gave him some pain killers to chill him out. Probably knocked out, from how strong those are"

"Please take care of him for me. I trust that he'll be safe if you're around" Toji sighs burying his face into your hair as he came in for a hug.

"Sooooo no sex ?" You joke then feel his arms tighten around you. "Fine, fine. Megumi is in good hands with me. The work he does is dangerous - can't lie about that. I'll always be there to intervene if things go wrong."

His once tight embrace now looser from getting the assurance that you'd do anything for the kid. And of course you would. You were the first person after Gojo who he was introduced to. Having more trust in you he became like your own. Though you and Toji did indeed have a little something something going on, you never had anything against the boy. Now all you'd do with Toji was hook up when needed.

"I wish I got to meet his mom. Bet she was nice."

"She was. Thank you for stepping in"

"I'm tired of you people saying "thank you"- even though I knew whose kid he was, I just felt like I needed to be in his life. Not because of you, cause fuck you but because of him. As soon as Gojo brought him into the school, first thing the kid did was look at me and ran towards me. After that I felt an attachment to him. As is I were his guardian. By all means I did it willingly. No need to thank me" you finally hug back receiving a kiss on your lips.

"I know but still thank you......So back to what I was saying...." Toji unlatches himself from you giving you a knowing look, making your way out the ally.

"Yea I'm down for some rough, back blowing sex" you beam at the male making him wonder why you were like this.

"Don't shy away tonight either,mister." You smirk; that same smirk disappearing when the cake you were still eating was taken from your grasp and eaten.

"You know what ? I don't think I wanna smoosh with you anymore. By the way where's the ugly worm that's always around you ?"

Feeling himself revive at your antics, Toji swings an arm around you to bring you closer, kissing your temple. "Sure are the charmer, ain't you ?"

「𝘼 𝙛𝙚𝙬 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪」

"I thought she said she had ended things with Megumi's dad." Gojo glares at the back of your head not understanding why you were with Toji.

"Probably fuck buddies" Shoko shrugs letting out the smoke from her lungs.

"Probably, but she said she wanted the pigtailed death painting !!"

"And she'll get him. Just let her do Toji, first. Take a picture so we have proof that we saw them. She won't tell us the details unless we show evidence"

"She also ate the cake that was suppose to be for me.."

"Fuck man. Let's go get your damn cake. Fucking cry baby, I swear" Shoko drags the white haired male to the same bakery, buying him three slices of the same cake you had gotten to shut his ass up.

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[rowansparrow]

Juke Box Hero: A Rose Story

This is SO STUPID LMAO But I hope you guys like it anyway. I’m back on my bullshit and I am here to provide you with a little story based off THIS POST. Anon, thank you for your service, because this was very, very fun. 

This snippet takes place during Chapter Seven of BAON, during the flashback when Reader is meeting Rex for the first time and Rose and Co. are stuck cleaning up the barracks. You don’t necessarily have to have read it for this to make sense, but the right context might be neat. 

Also, for timeline purposes/in BAON, Tup and Dogma technically never met Rose, as they weren’t part of the 501st before he died, but I’m including them in this because I make the rules and I wanted to. 

Also Denal’s here because I think he’s a funky dude and deserves more content.

The clones deserve to dance and have fun and who’s gonna write them doing that if it ain’t me? 

Rating: Mature-ish? There are some dirty jokes and swearing but mostly it’s Just fun shenanigans with Rose and Bros. 

(Also I spent a TON of time picking everyone’s songs so pls tell me what you think of my selections lmao).

I’m tagging everyone from the BAON tag list in case you’re interested. Enjoy!

In retrospect, perhaps Rose should have put a stop to the loth cat situation – or as Hardcase called it, Operation: P.U.S.S.Y. He claimed it was an abbreviation for “Petting Unusually Sweet Strays, Yeah!”

“You have to call it something else.” Rose had said at the time, staring at the loth cat cradled protectively in Hardcase’s arms.

“But you’re not saying no?” Hardcase prompted eagerly, already bouncing lightly on his heels.

“Just…” Rose pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just… clean up after it? And if it breaks anything, it’s on you, and for the love of Force, don’t get caught.”

Now, as the Lieutenant surveyed the disarray that had befallen the barracks, and the company of very disgruntled subordinates, he was reconsidering his earlier leniency.

“I feel as the acting SIC, you’re the one who should be taking the flak for this, not the entire company.” Jesse grumbled, glaring at Lieutenant Rose over his shoulder as he scrubbed at the floor of the barracks.

“Don’t look at me. I’m not the one who brought a pregnant loth-cat into the barracks in the first place.” Rose replied, straightening up for a moment where he’d been hunched over, his back cracking as he moved.

“Well, you didn’t fight me very hard on it!” Hardcase protested. “And I didn’t know Beans was pregnant at the time! I didn’t even know she was a girl!”

His explanation only earned him several slugs to the arm from nearby vode.

“And just because I’m second-in-command does not make me exempt from the Captain’s wrath.” Rose added. “You didn’t get the dressing-down, you just have to carry out the punishment with me.”

“Hang on, I thought we agreed the cat’s name was going to be Road Rash?” Coric asked.

“That’s unladylike.” Said Denal. “And rude. She can’t help her scars.”

“And Beans is ladylike?” Jesse raised an eyebrow.

“She likes it! And her kits looked like beans when they came out too!”

Rose shook his head fondly at his men as they bickered. At least they weren’t complaining anymore.

In truth, he was surprised the situation had been managed as long as it had been. They’d lasted almost a full three weeks without anyone figuring out they were hiding a cat in the barracks. Of course, the kittens made it much harder, and they could only hide them in overturned helmets during inspections for so many days before the helmets started to mewl.

And once Beans threw a tantrum over not having her kits with her, it was game over. She’d knocked over an entire can of armor paint in her wrath, and blue pawprints and large paint puddles coated the durasteel of the barracks, and a few of the bunks had claw and bite marks in the fabric.

“It’ll take us an hour, maybe more, to clean this whole mess up.” Fives complained, looking around the barracks forlornly. He had a nasty scratch just under his eye from finally snatching Beans up in her rampage. “Kriff. I was excited to go out tonight.”

“Not to mention after we finish here the Captain said we had to go take over latrine and canteen detail from other battalions.”

“Then I guess you better get scrubbing.” Kix said absently, thumbing through medical requisition forms on his datapad and sitting cross-legged on one of the few bunks that didn’t have blue paw prints streaked across it.

“Why aren’t you helping? You’re part of the company too.” Echo said. “Fives and I are ARC troopers, if anyone here should be exempt from company-wide punishments, it’s us.”

“I’m not helping because I didn’t participate.” Kix replied, not looking up from his ‘pad.

“The kark you didn’t, you delivered the kits!” Fives snapped.

“Well, Captain Rex didn’t catch me, so.”

“That’s because you went and hid in the medbay and didn’t warn the rest of us he was coming.” Tup muttered under his breath.

“Not true. I sent Jesse a comm.” Kix said, finally looking up only to shrug and return to his work. “Which he didn’t check, and that’s not my fault.”

“It doesn’t matter who was involved and who wasn’t involved.” Dogma piped up. “Clearly, because if it did, I wouldn’t be here either.”

“We know.” Said Jesse and Fives in unison.

Rose sighed, his eyes drifting forlornly to his bunk. He spotted his footlocker sticking halfway out from underneath the durasteel, and he lit up. He opened it quickly, pulling out a beat-up radio he’d gotten at a market stall during one of his first deployments. He’d had to trade a droid popper and half his rations for it – Rex had not been pleased about it when he found out – but it was worth the two-day latrine rotation he’d gotten as punishment.

He’d already downloaded several songs off the HoloNet, along with a few channel recordings of past BoloBall games. Even if he knew who won them, it was still something to listen to on long stints on cruisers.

“What’cha doing, Lieutenant?” Tup asked, peeking around the corner as Rose straightened back up, fumbling with the little radio for a moment and propping it up on one of the bunks so the music could fill the whole room.

“No. NO! No.” Jesse jabbed a finger at the Lieutenant as he saw him set up the radio. “No. Absolutely not. I have had enough of your osik-brained, Force-forsaken, whack-ass music to last me a lifetime.”

Kix chuckled, rolling his eyes at the other trooper. “You listen exclusively to electronic dance music. Even when we aren’t at 79s. You have no room to talk.”

“This is better than that.” Rose promised, dialing up the volume. “This is the kind of stuff you’d find on the jukebox at Dex’s Diner.” He grinned. Dex was personal friends with General Kenobi, and was one of the few Coruscant establishments that was friendly to clones, as long as they behaved themselves. Rose had gone there with his brothers a handful of times, and even Anakin had dragged his Padawan Ahsoka, Rose, and Rex along once.

“You have a radio?” Dogma frowned. “Isn’t that contraband, sir?”

“Relax, it’s an old prewar-era radio, it’s not hurting anything.” Fives drawled, knocking Dogma lightly on the shoulder. “What’re you gonna play, sir?”

“Let’s see…” Rose filtered through his downloads, and grinned wider, pressing play.

Immediately, soft music rang through the barracks, and Jesse smacked his head against the bunk, groaning loudly.

“I’m begging you, Lieutenant.” Jesse said. “I’m begging.”

Rose was already swaying his hips, bending over to grab Jesse by the chin.

“On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair, warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air.” Rose serenaded him.

Jesse swatted Rose’s hand away, and Rose turned, swinging around on the side of the bunk and pointing to Fives this time. “Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light. My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim, I had to stop for the night.”

Fives grinned, joining in even as he stumbled slightly over the words.

“There she stood in the doorway. I heard the mission bell and I was thinking to myself, this could be Heaven or this could be Hell.”

Kix was drumming his fingers on his datapad, nodding along and singing under his breath.

“Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way. There were voices down the corridor, I thought I heard them say…”

“This is too slow.” Echo griped, rising to his feet and stepping over Dogma, who was still stubbornly scrubbing away at the barrack floors and refusing to engage even as the rest of the clones began quietly singing along with the chorus.

The ARC Trooper fiddled with the dial for a moment, scrolling through Rose’s music and selecting another song, already grinning as the chanting started through the speakers and eventually rippled through the ranks of the 501st.

“STOP.” Jesse barked, trying to kick Fives as the other ARC trooper hopped to his feet, stomping his feet and chanting along. “STOP, I HATE THIS ONE!”

Rose and Hardcase were chanting too, and Coric had started clapping his hands on an overturned bucket, a few shinies clapping their hands together as Echo shook his ass, kama swaying as he climbed up onto a nearby table. He scooped up a mop, pulling the handle to his mouth.

“I can’t stop this feeling, deep inside of me.” He pointed to Kix, grinding against the handle. “Girl, you just don’t realize what you do to me.”

Kix gave him the finger, and Echo pointed to Fives, who was still chanting with the others but was now holding up his helmet, recording the whole thing. Echo amped up his performance.

“When you hold me in your arms so tight, you let me know everything’s alright. I’m hooked on a feeling!”

Tup whooped from where he’d moved to sit on one of the bunks. Dogma shot him a nasty look, which he ignored in favor of watching Echo strut on the table.

“I’m high on believing that you’re in love with me. Lips as sweet as candy, its taste is on my mind. Girl you got me thirsty for another cup of wine.”

“Wait, wait, wait, I have a good one.” Fives shoved his helmet at Hardcase, letting him take over recording as he scrambled to the radio, quickly turning the dial once again and elbowing Echo off the table as fast, loud, angry guitars shredded through the barracks.

Jesse seemed to perk up just slightly, and any of the 501st troopers who were still trying to actually clean – save for Dogma – had abandoned their supplies and had elected to dance instead, crowding the table and forming a makeshift mosh pit.

Fives was nothing if not a showman, and when he snatched the mop from Echo, he performed.

“When I get high, I get high on speed. Top fuel funny car’s a drug for me, my heart! My heart! Kickstart my heart!”

He stomped his foot hard on the table, flipping his head back and running one hand messily through his hair.

“Always got the cops coming after me, custom-built bike doing 103, my heart! My heart! Kickstart my heart!”

Rose laughed, watching as Fives looked at the helmet Hardcase was hoisting up over the crowd, singing into the camera and rolling his shoulders back.

“Ooh, are ya ready, girls? Ooh, are you ready now? Woah, yeah! Kickstart my heart, baby give it a start. Woah, yeah! Baby! Kickstart my heart, hope it never stops. Woah, yeah, baby yeah!”

The clones joined him for the chorus, and then Fives dropped to his knees like he’d seen rockers do on the HoloNet, high fiving the nearest vode. Dogma was still stubbornly trying to clean up the barracks, but had moved on to one of the far corners, only giving the rest of his battalion the occasional side-eye.

“Skydive naked from an aeroplane, or a lady with a body from outer space, my heart. My heart! Kickstart my heart.” He wiggled his hips as he straightened back up, biting his lip through a grin and dropping his hand to his hips and shaking his fist obscenely, as though he was jerking himself off.

“Say I got trouble, trouble in my eyes, I’m just looking for another good time, my heart. My heart! Kickstart my heart!”

Before Fives could do something else profane – or possibly attempt to crowd-surf and give Rose a handful of incident reports to fill out, the music suddenly shifted, and all heads turned to the radio.

Kix was smirking. He’d divested himself of the top half of his armor, instead electing to shimmy his way up onto the table in just the upper half of his blacks and lower armor plates. Fives exited, rejoining the crowd as Kix leveled a sultry look at the camera for just a moment before turning his back on the crowd.

“Clean shirt, new shoes, and I don’t know where I am goin’ to. Silk suit, black tie, I don’t need a reason why.”

He spun quickly, switching his grip on the mop handle as though he was holding a woman in his arms, dipping it low towards the crowd as he sang.

“They come a runnin’ just as fast as they can, ‘cos every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.”

Fives and Echo were howling with laughter, and Hardcase wolf-whistled loud enough that Rose’s ears rang. Even Jesse had finally joined in, nodding his head along to the music and trying to bite back a grin. Tup had left the crowd to instead attempt to pull Dogma in, and Denal had rounded up a few newer members and was trying to push them closer to the front.

Kix unzipped the top half of his blacks, doing a slow strip-tease in time with the music.

“Gold watch, diamond ring, I ain’t missin’, not a single thing. And cufflinks, stickpin, when I step out I’mma do you in.” Kix shrugged out of his blacks and rolled his hips along the mop handle, dropping his ass low and slowly dragging himself back up, grinding against the handle.

“They come a runnin’ just as fast as they can, ‘cos every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.”

Fives actually pretended to faint, falling backwards into Echo, who was laughing so hard that he fell over with him.

“ALRIGHT!” Dogma shouted over the music, elbowing his way through the crowd with Tup following anxiously behind him. Dogma firmly stopped the music, hands on his hips as he turned to face the rest of his brothers, who’d begun to boo.

“We have orders,” Dogma reminded them. “This is a punishment, not a party. When we finish here, we’re supposed to clean the shower block, and then we’re supposed to report to the mess hall and take over the canteen cleanup shifts.”

“We know the orders, Dogma.” Rose said, putting a hand on the younger trooper’s shoulder. “There’s no harm in having fun while you work.”

“I’m the only one still working.” Dogma grumbled.

“Alright, alright, we’ll turn it low for now, and we’ll finish up in here, then we can bring the radio with us when we move to the refreshers and canteen. Fair?” He asked, turning to the rest of the men. There were a few muttered responses, and Rose raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry, I couldn’t quite make that out.” He said. “We are cleaning this mess up, correct gentlemen?”

“Sir yes sir!” They all answered quickly, hurrying back to work.

Rose chuckled, shifting the music to something a little calmer, the gentle piano wafting through the barracks as they continued to clean up.

Denal’s head perked up as soon as he heard the piano start, and while he didn’t climb up onto the table like his brothers had, he smiled to himself, turning back towards the spot he was scrubbing and singing to the durasteel floor.

“I'm sailing away. Set an open course for the Virgin Sea.”

Echo hummed, closing his eyes and rocking back on his heels for a moment, listening to his older vod croon.

“'Cause I've got to be free. Free to face the life that's ahead of me.” Denal continued, his voice soft but steady. “On board I'm the captain, so climb aboard. We'll search for tomorrow on every shore and I'll try, oh Lord I'll try… to carry on.”

Somebody whistled, a few scattered claps ringing through the barracks. Coric picked up where Denal left off.

“I look to the sea, reflections in the waves spark my memory. Some happy some sad.” He sang. “I think of childhood friends, and the dreams we had.”

Tup glanced to Dogma, who was practically seething as he scrubbed at the same spot on the floor that he’d been working on for the past several minutes. “You like this song, don’t you, Dogma?”

“No I don’t. Shut up.”

“Join in. They won’t mind.” Tup encouraged.

“No.”

“We live happily forever, so the story goes. But somehow we missed out on that pot of gold.” Sang Coric. “But we'll try best that we can to carry on!”

The music picked up, and Jesse shot Rose a look.

“This is a deceptively fast song.” He said.

“It sneaks up on ya.” Rose chuckled.

The barracks devolved into chaos once again, the clones all screaming along to the lyrics, even the ones who didn’t know the words picked it up quickly, encouraged by their brothers.

Despite the distractions, they finally finished cleaning the barracks, and Rose plucked the radio from where he’d stashed it, leading the way down the hallway towards the refreshers. The 501st were especially rowdy in the quiet halls – most of the barracks were empty, the clones who weren’t being punished for loth-cat related shenanigans were taking advantage of the shore leave.

When they opened the door to the shower block, they encountered a few members of the 212th already in there, cleaning up.

“Pack it in, lads.” Rose announced. “We’re taking over for you.”

“What? Why?” Boil asked, leaning on a mop and raising an eyebrow. “Did you get in trouble?”

“Yes.” Hardcase replied sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“All of you?” Waxer poked his head out from inside one of the refresher stalls, Crys and Wooley pausing from where they were wiping down countertops.

“Yeah, it’s Hardcase’s fault. As usual.” Jesse said, strolling over to Boil and plucking the mop from his hands. “We’re supposed to take over your shifts.”

“Good, I was hoping to get to 79’s tonight before last call. I hear they’ve got purple spotchka.” Boil said excitedly, glancing at Waxer over his shoulder.

“We can help you finish.” Waxer said, immediately raining on his brother’s parade. “There isn’t much left to do anyway.”

“You sure?” Rose asked. “It’s technically a punishment -.”

“Nah, it’s fine, there really isn’t much left, aside from the toilets.” He grinned. “But you boys can handle those.”

“Fair enough.” Rose chuckled, nodding over his shoulder to his men. Fives, Echo, Jesse, and Hardcase were in a heated four-way battle of rock, flimsi, cutters in order to determine who had to clean the toilets first.

“What’s that?” One trooper Rose didn’t recognize asked, pointing to his hand.

“It’s a radio!” Rose said cheerfully. “I’m err… technically not supposed to have it. But we’ve been listening to music while we worked.” He set it up on the countertop. “Do you have a favorite song…?”

“Spitter.” The 212th trooper supplied helpfully.

“Spitter.” Rose repeated, chuckling to himself and wondering how the hell he’d earned that name. “Do you have a favorite song?”

“I don’t know the name of it.” The trooper admitted shyly. “But – but it’s the one they play on the hits channel all the time. I hear it playing in the admiral’s quarters on the Negotiator all the time.”

“I know that one!” Waxer said excitedly, nodding to Rose. “It’s the one Commander Cody likes. You were playing it in the hangar a few weeks ago when our flight detail overlapped.”

“I remember.” Rose smiled, and turned the song on.

Immediately, every head, including Dogma’s, perked up at the familiar tune. Fives clapped his hands together, getting them started.

“When I wake up, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who wakes up next to you.”

The younger trooper, Spitter, lit up and followed it up.

“When I go out, yeah I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who goes along with you.”

Waxer elbowed Boil, trying to get him to join in, but the other trooper shook his head and crossed his arms, rolling his eyes even as Waxer sang.

“If I get drunk, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you.”

Their voices carried through the refresher’s tiled walls, and Jesse picked up where Waxer left off.

“And if I haver, yeah I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who’s havering to you.”

When the chorus rolled around, everyone joined in, their voices bouncing off the walls around them.

“But I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more, just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door.”

“When I’m working,” Kix began, offering a hand to Wooley and giving him a playful spin. “Yes I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who’s working hard for you.”

“And when the money comes in for the work I do, I’ll pass almost every penny on to you.” Wooley laughed, shoving Kix away with a grin.

“When I come home,” Tup piped up quickly, before someone else could. “Oh, I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who comes back home to you.”

“And if I grow old,” Crys smirked, shaking his shoulders at Fives, who punched him playfully in the arms and joined in, singing the line in unison. “Well, I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who’s growing old with you.”

The chorus returned, and they sang with even more feeling than before, dancing and tossing their heads back, shouting along to the words and nearly drowning out the music itself as they sang.

As the final verse approached, Waxer sidled up next to Boil, giving him a hopeful look. His brother sighed, scrubbing a hand bitterly over his face and reluctantly joined in.

“When I’m lonely, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who’s lonely without you.” He sang.

“And when I’m dreaming,” Echo called. “Well I know I’m gonna dream, I’m gonna dream about the time when I’m with you.”

“And when I go out, well I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who goes along with you.” Fives followed.

“And when I come home, yes I know I’m gonna be, I’m gonna be the man who comes back home with you.” Denal said.

Tup took a deep breath, preparing to finish off the verse, but he was cut off.

“I’m gonna be the man who’s coming home,” Dogma’s voice was shaky as all eyes turned to him, and he finished in a squeak. “With you.”

The room erupted in cheers, Fives catching Dogma under his arm and giving him a noogie as the chorus rang out once again, everyone shouting along to the lyrics together.

When the song ended, and the cleanup was done, the 212th parted ways with the 501st, the brothers patting one another on the back and jeering affectionately at one another now that the song and dance was done.

“If you finish with everything before final call, catch up with us at 79’s.” Boil called over his shoulder. “We can give the vode there a run for their money with our rendition of that song.”

“Count on it.” Rose chuckled, giving the other company a little salute before leading his men on towards the canteen.

The canteen, blessedly, was empty, and most of it was already clean. All they really had to do was wipe everything down, mop, and then make sure the kitchen was well-prepped for the next day.

“I didn’t know you had it in ya, Dogma.” Echo said affectionately, knocking his younger vod playfully in the shoulder as they walked.

“Let’s just get this over with.” Dogma muttered, his ears burning as he pushed into the canteen, grabbing the cleaning supplies from the nearby supply closet.

“Who’s turn was it for a solo?” Fives asked, watching as Rose started to set up the radio above one of the food windows so it could project into the entire cafeteria.

“I think Dogma should go.” Kix grinned. “Now that we know he’s got some pipes.”

“Absolutely not.” Dogma said immediately, not looking up from where he was wiping down tables.

“I can go first?” Tup offered, raising his hand sheepishly. Dogma shot him another stern look, but Tup was already wandering over to the radio, moving the dial and tentatively pressing play.

Upbeat music filled the canteen, and the other troopers cheered as Fives ushered Tup over to the nearest table, boosting him up on top of it and then thrusting a mop into his hands. Hardcase was already fumbling with the helmet again, trying to get a recording as Tup tapped his foot along with the beat, nodding his head as he found his rhythm.

“I get up in the evening, and I ain’t got nothing to say. I come home in the morning, I go to bed feeling the same way.”

Fives was leading other troopers in pounding the surrounding tables in time with the drumbeats while Echo was leading another group to clap in time.

“I ain’t nothing but tired! Man, I’m just tired and bored with myself.” Tup flashed the camera a grin, reaching up and pulling his hair tie out, shaking his wild curls loose around his head. “Hey there baby, I could use just a little help.”

Jesse whistled, and Dogma had stopped cleaning and was watching his brother, the slightest smile pulling at his lips.

“You can’t start a fire, can’t start a fire without a spark. This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just dancing in the dark.”

Tup shook his hair out of his eyes, tossing his head back and jerking his hips.

“Messages keep getting clearer, radio’s on and I’m moving ‘round my place. I check my look in the mirror, wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face!”

He swayed his hips again, and Hardcase shoved the camera at Kix instead so he could join in the clapping.

“Man, I ain’t getting nowhere, I’m just living in a dump like this. There’s something happening somewhere, baby I just know that there is.”

He hopped off the table, instead taking Dogma’s hand and dragging him towards the makeshift stage.

“You can’t start a fire, you can’t start a fire without a spark. This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just dancing in the dark.”

He pushed the mop into Dogma’s hands instead, beaming at him as he scurried off the table, sprinting over to the radio and quickly changing the song.

Immediately, slow guitar started but quickly escalated into heavy drums and fast riffs. Dogma’s cheeks turned a darker shade, and he looked frantically to Tup, trying to climb back down off the stage.

“No, no, come on!” Fives shouted, trying to body block Dogma from getting down. “Come on, you got this!”

The lyrics began, and Dogma sang along, his mouth barely moving, voice almost imperceptible.

“Another head hangs lowly, child is slowly taken… and the violence caused such silence, who are we mistaken?”

“Come on!” Tup called to him. “You LOVE this song! Let ‘em hear it!”

Dogma grit his teeth, his voice gaining strength. “But you see, it’s not me, it’s not my family, in your head, in your head they are fighting.”

He stomped his foot on the table, practically snarling out the words. “With their tanks, and their bombs, and their bombs, and their guns, in your head, in your head they are crying.”

He threw his head back, and for not the first time that night, the radio was drowned out by cheers.

“In your head! In your head! Zombie, Zombie, Zombie. What’s in your head? In your head? Zombie, Zombie, Zombie!”

Dogma climbed off the table quickly, his ears and cheeks burning but a small smile was on his face, even as he was smothered by Hardcase, Fives, Tup, and Echo swarming him with hugs and rubbing his head affectionately.

Jesse climbed up onto the table next, picking up the discarded mop and clearing his throat.

“I would just like to dedicate this song to the gorgeous woman I picked up at 79s last week.” He drawled, nodding once to Kix, who was hovering knowingly by the radio. He nodded once to the helmet, which was now stationed on a nearby table, still recording. “Darling, you had the best pair of tits I have ever seen in my entire life, and you had the mouth of an angel and the coochie of a devil.”

Fives whistled, and Coric snickered. Rose rolled his eyes.

“So, babygirl, this one is for you.”

Kix turned on the radio, and Jesse grinned.

“Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame. Darling, you give love a bad name.”

Guitar rang out through the mess hall, and Jesse bit his lip, rolling his hips as he leaned slightly off the edge of the table.

“An angel’s smile is what you sell, you promised me heaven then put me through hell. Chains of love got a hold on me, when passion’s a prison, you can’t break free.”

He dropped into a crouch, singing directly into the camera.

“Whoa, you’re a loaded gun, whoa, there’s nowhere to run, no one can save me, the damage is done!”

He jumped to his feet, the table shaking under him as he landed.

“Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame. You give love a bad name. I play my part and you play your game, you give love a bad name!” He turned his back on the crowd, dropping low again and slowly rising, shaking his ass. “Yeah you give love…”

He looked over his shoulder, tossing the camera a wink. “…a bad name.”

The music changed abruptly, and for a moment Jesse looked pissed. “What the hell, ‘Case?”

But his expression shifted as Hardcase rushed to the table, pushing his brother out of the way and taking the mop from him. The crowd cheered all over again as Jesse climbed down, brothers slapping him on the shoulders as Hardcase’s song started up.

“We finish strong, right vode?” He asked cheekily.

“We still have to finish cleaning!” Dogma called back.

Hardcase only smirked in response, and sang quickly to keep up with the lightning fast lyrics.

“Backstroking lover always hiding ‘neath the cover, can I talk to you, my daddy say. He said, you ain’t seen nothing ‘til you’re down on a muff and then you’re sure to be a-changin’ your ways.”

He cupped his codpiece, bucking his hips forward into his own hand.

“I met a cheerleader, was a real young bleeder, all the times I can reminisce. ‘Cos the best things of lovin’ with her sister and her cousin only started with a little kiss, like this!”

He swung his arms wide, shaking his ass in time with the music and stuck his tongue out, having the time of his life.

“See-saw swingin’ with the boys in the school and your feet flyin’ up in the air. Singin’ hey diddle diddle with your kitty in the middle of the swing like you didn’t care.”

He walked backwards along the table, rolling his shoulders back as he moved.

“So I took a big chance at the high school dance with a missy who was ready to play. Wasn’t me she was foolin’ ‘cos she knew what she was doin’, and I know love is here to stay when she told me to walk this way!”

The rest of the 501st joined in with him, repeating the chorus of “Walk this way! Walk this way! Walk this way!” over and over again, Hardcase taking over again as the next verse began.

“School girl sweetie was the sassy kinda classy, little skirt’s climbing way up her knees. There was three young ladies in the school gym locker when I noticed they was lookin’ at me.”

He ran his hands along his thigh, mimicking raising a skirt.

“I was a high school loser, never made it with a lady ‘til the boys told me something I missed. Then my next-door neighbor with a daughter had a favor so I gave her just a little kiss, like this!”

“Do you think he has any idea what he’s singing about?” Kix asked Rose, leaning back against the counter and chuckling.

He watched as Hardcase went back to grabbing his own crotch, dry-humping the air and hummed.

“I’d say most likely.”

“See-saw swingin’ with the boys in the school and your feet flyin’ up in the air. Singin’ hey diddle diddle with your kitty in the middle of the swing like you didn’t care.”

Hardcase grinned, and to both Kix and Rose’s utter chagrin, Hardcase actually did dive off the makeshift stage and attempt to crowd surf.

“So I took a big chance at the high school dance with a missy who was ready to play. Wasn’t me she was foolin’ ‘cos she knew what she was doin’, and I know love is here to stay when she told me to walk this way!”

“I’m not patching you up!” Kix shouted over the roar of the music. Rose chuckled, turning the volume nod down as the rest of the 501st shouted in protest.

“Alright, that’s enough for now.” The Lieutenant said, taking control once more. “We can listen to it quietly in the background, but we really do need to wrap up cleaning.”

“Why? Got a date tonight?” Jesse asked with a raised eyebrow. Rose punched him lightly in the arm, and they got back to work once again.

They worked in relative silence, the occasional voice humming or singing along to the music, but they remained productive right up until one of the final songs Rose had downloaded cut through the speaker. The piano wasn’t as rich-sounding as it was through a regular speaker, but even through the tinny cadence of the beat-up radio, every single trooper in the canteen bolted upright, eyebrows raised. Rose smiled knowingly, and turned up the volume once again.

Fives beamed, sitting down on top of one of the tables and laying back, one leg bent and the other stretched flat, a hand behind his head as he sang up at the ceiling.

“Just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world. She took the midnight train going anywhere.”

Jesse leaned back against the wall on the other side of the canteen, closing his eyes as he joined in.

“Just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit. He took the midnight train going anywhere.”

Echo kept mopping, but was grinning as he picked up the next line. “A singer in a smoky room, the smell of wine and cheap perfume.”

Kix grinned. “For a smile, they can share the night, it goes on, and on, and on, and on.”

The rest of the 501st joined in together, their voices carrying in perfect harmony.

“Strangers, waiting. Up and down the boulevard, their shadows searching in the night. Streetlight people, living just to find emotion, hiding somewhere in the -.”

“Night!” Hardcase shouted, straining every muscle in his chest and neck as he struggled to reach the high note.

Tup picked up the next verse, climbing onto one of the tables and dragging Dogma up with him once again.

“Working hard to get my fill, everybody wants the thrill. Paying anything to roll the dice just one more time.”

Dogma smiled, nodding his head along to the music. “Some will win, some will lose.”

Tup threw his arm around his brother, and the two of them sang together. “Some were born to sing the blues!”

Rose’s voice carried from over by the radio. “Oh the movie never ends, it goes on and on, and on and on!”

“Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard, their shadows searching in the night. Streetlight people, living just to find emotion, hiding somewhere in the -.”

“NIGHT!” This time, it was Dogma, of all people, who rang out with the high note, and the explosion of shouts and cheers was deafening. They were screaming along to the lyrics, dancing and jumping and shouting and swaying in time with the song.

“Don’t stop believin’! Hold on to that feeling. Streetlight people! Don’t stop believin’, hold on-”

“WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?!”

The booming voice was so powerful, it could be heard even over the shouts of all the clones. Echo was closest to the radio, and quickly shut it off as the song and dance stopped immediately, every clone scrambling to stand at attention.

The Jedi that filled the doorway was massive, an imposing shadow in the entrance to the canteen. He zeroed in on Tup and Dogma, who had been standing closest to the entrance, and stormed towards them.

“Who is your commanding officer?!”

“Me, sir.”

The Besalisk Jedi turned, spinning on Rose immediately. He stalked over to the Lieutenant, jabbing a meaty finger into his chest, hard enough to send him stumbling backwards.

“What is the meaning of this?” He snarled.

“Sir, we were assigned cleaning detail.” He explained. “We were just finishing up.”

The Jedi bared his teeth. “Doesn’t look like much cleaning was taking place to me.”

He surveyed the rest of the troopers, but turned his head back to Rose.

“What is your designation?”

“CT-7673.” Rose recited immediately, keeping his back ramrod straight at attention, even though the Jedi was deep in his personal space. He knew this man. General Krell had quite the reputation through the GAR, and Rose had no clue what he was doing outside of the Jedi Temple this late at night.

“Who is your commanding officer?”

“Captain Rex, sir.”

“Not a clone! Is there a malfunction in your design?!” The Jedi bellowed. A few feet behind him, Hardcase flinched at the sudden loud sound, but Rose held still. “Your general, CT-7673! Who is your Commanding Officer!?”

“General Skywalker, sir.” Rose said instead. The canteen was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.

He turned his head, noticing the little radio on the table and picked it up, the device small in his massive hands, raising an eyebrow at Rose. “Contraband, disturbance of the peace, behavior unbecoming of an officer, insubordination.” He hissed. “That’s plenty of grounds for a court martial, Lieutenant.”

“Sir.” Fives spoke up, taking a step towards them. “Proper chain of command designates General Skywalker as the one to hand down a court martial order, sir.”

He narrowed his eyes, his voice dripping with contempt. “With all due respect, sir, you do not command this battalion, and cannot order a court martial on the Lieutenant.”

“Fives.” Rose snapped, whipping his head around to face Fives. “Stand down. Now.”

The ARC Trooper shrank back, his hands curled into fists at his sides, and the General turned back to Rose.

“Be that as it may,” he began icily. “You can rest assured this breach of conduct will not go unreported.”

“Yes sir.” Rose replied stiffly.

General Krell pulled back at last, surveying the battalion. “I want this canteen spotless, and not a word out of you in the meantime!” He ordered. “And I don’t think you’ll be needing this anymore.”

With one quick motion, he smashed the radio in his hands. Rose heard a soft, hurt sound somewhere behind him, but ignored it. He didn’t look away from the General.

“Dismissed.” Krell growled, turning and stalking towards the doors. “And as for you,” He turned, jabbing one large finger at Fives. “I’ll be mentioning you in my report as well. Pray our paths do not cross again, clone.”

And with those words, he left the canteen.

Rose relaxed, but only minimally so. The silence hung heavy over the 501st, and everyone quietly shuffled back to work.

Rose gripped the mop handle tightly as he worked, his knuckles turning white. His chest burned, a tight, constricting feeling wrapped around his insides. It was a feeling he’d never felt before – anger, sadness, humiliation, resignation – all rolled into one hateful ball, coiled in his gut.

“Finished with the kitchen, sir.” Came Tup’s small voice. He’d put his hair back up, the tight bun back to regulation standards. Dogma was standing stiff beside him, still not entirely relaxed yet. “And the um – the canteen area’s just about wrapped up as well.”

“Very good.” Rose said with a small nod. “I’ll report back to Captain Rex, let him know we’ve finished for the night.”

“Sorry about your radio, sir.” Hardcase murmured, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s alright, ‘Case.” Rose smiled, but his eyes were sad. “It was – it was old, anyway. Just a silly thing.”

Fives bristled, his jaw setting as he tossed the bucket he’d been holding back into the supply closet with far more force than necessary.

“We aren’t supposed to leave base for the rest of the night, right?” Denal asked, arms folded across his chest as they finished the last of the cleanup. “Guess we could play Sabacc or something back in the barracks?”

There were a few murmured agreements, and the 501st shuffled back towards the barracks. Rose was still thinking about the General, and had a bitter taste in his mouth. They hadn’t been doing anything wrong, really.

Was it such a crime to enjoy oneself? To simply exist?

Fives and Echo fell into step on either side of Rose, the ARC Troopers bracketing their Lieutenant. “I bet Echo and I could rebuild the radio.” Fives offered. “Might take a little bit, but even if we can’t, Kix is real good at bartering stuff down in the markets. Remember when he got us those HoloDisc movies for just a tube of bacta?”

“We could find another radio for you?” Echo suggested hopefully. “Or maybe,” he lowered his voice slightly. “Maybe Y/N could find you one?”

“Let it go.” Rose said, picking up the pace and pulling away from the ARC Troopers. They reentered the now far tidier barracks, and Rose gravitated back to his footlocker, starting to close it up and push it back under his bed. The metal clacked slightly against the edge of the bunk, and he paused, the tinny sound echoing in his ears.

He knocked the footlocker against the bunk again, listening to the little noise again.

Kark it. He was more than just a mindless flesh-droid. He was a person. A human being. And he liked music.

And he wasn’t about to let anybody take that away from him.

“I never got to do a song.” He announced, straightening up and putting his hands on his hips.

“You can’t be serious, sir.” Dogma said, shaking his head at him. “Haven’t we gotten in enough trouble?”

“I’m sure the General’s slithered back to the Temple by now, where he belongs.” Jesse replied, turning back to the Lieutenant. “We don’t have a radio anymore, sir.”

“We don’t need one.” Rose said, pulling his footlocker back out and propping up one leg on it. He tapped his foot against the metal, the rhythm settling, nodding his head along. He took a deep breath.

“Standing in the rain, with his head hung low. Couldn't get a ticket, it was a sold out show.”

Fives recognized the song, and started tapping his foot along, drumming his hands on an overturned weapons crate.

“Heard the roar of the crowd, he could picture the scene. Put his ear to the wall, then like a distant scream.” Rose climbed up onto the table. “He heard one guitar!”

Jesse slammed a bucket from earlier down against the supports of a bunk, the loud clang mimicking the strum of a guitar.

“Just blew him away. He saw stars in his eyes, and the very next day, bought a beat up six string in a secondhand store. Didn’t know how to play it, but he knew for sure, that one guitar!”

Another clang, this time from Kix repeating Jesse’s motion, and Echo, Denal, Coric and Fives were all drumming on overturned buckets and crates.

“Felt good in his hands! Didn’t take long to understand, just one guitar, slung way down low, was a one way ticket, only one way to go.”

Tup and Hardcase had picked up a brush – typically used for scrubbing their blasters and armor down – and were knocking it against the durasteel wall. Dogma had rounded up the others, a look of sheer determination on his face as they clamored around the bunks and tables, smacking their fists in rhythm with anything they could get their hands on.

“So he started rockin', ain't never gonna stop. Gotta keep on rockin', someday gonna make it to the top!”

Rose stomped his feet, and the rest of the 501st joined him for the chorus.

“And be a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes. He's a juke box hero!”

“He took one guitar,” Rose sang, while the rest of the battalion echoed “juke box hero, stars in his eyes” around him. “Juke box hero, he’ll come alive tonight.”

The singing quieted down, listening for a moment to see if anyone was coming, and Rose grinned, starting again and pitching his voice low.

“In a town without a name, in a heavy downpour, thought he passed his own shadow, by the backstage door.”

The clones took position, preparing to resume their makeshift instruments as Rose picked up in volume.

“Like a trip through the past, to that day in the rain. And that one guitar, made his whole life change! Now he needs to keep on rockin', he just can't stop! Gotta keep on rockin', that boy has got to stay on top!”

Once again, shouts rang out as his brothers joined him for the chorus, their voices louder and more determined than ever, refusing to be silenced.

“And be a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes. He's a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes. Yeah, juke box hero, stars in his eyes. With that one guitar, he'll come alive, come alive tonight.”

As they finished the song, Rose panted softly, glancing down at his commlink again. He decided he was going to go off base after all. He wanted to see you, and nobody, not his Captain’s orders, and definitely not some karking General like Krell, was going to stop him.

“Dismissed.” He said curtly, and took off out the door without another word.

~

SONGS USED (because they’re all bangers and you should listen to them): 

The 501st (introduction): Hotel California Echo: Hooked on a Feeling  Fives: Kickstart My Heart Kix: Sharp Dressed Man Jesse: You Give Love a Bad Name Coric and Denal: Come Sail Away Dogma: Zombie Tup: Dancing in the Dark Hardcase: Walk This Way The 212th and 501st: I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) The 501st (Canteen finale): Don’t Stop Believin’ Rose and the 501st: Juke Box Hero

TAG LIST (Aka everyone on the tag list for BAON):  @fat-zygerrian @ladydiomede @pro-fangirls-unsocial-life @threevie @cheesemachine44 @bubblyacey @fivedicksinatrenchcoat @loverofclones @starwarsgarbage @hockeyjedi13 @crazygirlwithasword @dar-manda-rjct @gotomarvelgal @baba-fett @whore4rex @bubblegumcat229 @generalcannoli @hellothere501stlover @in-the-crosshairs @vaderthepotater @for-the-love-of-clones @babyhowzer @imrealatedtothe501st @chewychewyque @bobafettuccini @baba-fett-writes @chromia7567 @coffeeandtodd @thedomesticatednerd @kirinpl @djarrex @a-c-lee @embarrassedauthornerd @kaorikoizumi @the-girl-of-rain-and-shadows @sammi9498 @theroguesully @salaminus

[bookishofalder]

Pretty Girl - Two

Summary: In which Flip struggles with his feelings for the reader, and his emotions hit the breaking point when she is threatened. 

Warnings: Swearing, suggestion of slur (not written), masturbation, violence, angry Flip, sexism. WC- 3,030

A/N- I rewrote this chapter a few times to get it just right, I really wanted to convey the struggle Flip is having. Feedback is appreciated! 

It was late October, the chill in the air crisp as the apple cider (Y/N) had brewed and brought in to the station, using a hot plate to keep it warm. It filled the whole building with the scent, which was a pleasant upgrade from the usual mix of cigarette smoke and body odour and leather. She had even commissioned the local elementary school to draw autumn-themed pictures for decoration. As a way to boost morale and community engagement, she proudly displayed them in the lobby for everyone to admire when they came to and from the station.

Flip had teased her when he found her one morning, standing on a chair to tape the photos up. Now slightly taller than him, she turned with care and playfully glared down at him.

“One more word, detective, and I’ll be assigning you to take over the job,” she threatened, then added, “I should have done that in the first place, actually. You don’t even need the chair.”  

He laughed loudly, “Apologies, I know it’s not your fault you’re so-“

“Seriously, don’t finish that sentence, Flip!” She giggled, her hand reaching out and ruffling his hair. Before Flip could react fully to the sensation of it, she was shooing him away and chastising him for distracting her. She grinned as he retreated, his hands in the air in surrender.

However, he had spent the rest of that day replaying the feel of her hand on his head.

Although neither of them had discussed it, it had become a routine for Flip to give (Y/N) rides to and from work regularly. They both enjoyed each other's company, their friendship solidifying, and it wasn’t like he had to go out of his way. To thank him, (Y/N) insisted on bringing him breakfast. Fried egg sandwiches and a hot dark roast coffee were handed to him every morning. Along with her endearing ability to make him smile, Flip was more than satisfied with the arrangement.  

If their colleagues at the CSPD noticed the closeness developing between Flip and (Y/N), none remarked on it initially to either of them. Secretly, many of the detectives who knew Flip were beyond grateful for the friendship, as it brought out a side of him that they would all agree, if asked, was more tolerable and likeable to his usual angry demeanour.

It wasn’t until a young rookie officer had spotted them arrive one morning a few weeks after Flip had started driving in with (Y/N), that the rest of the station came to learn the relationship was more important to him than he let on. His rare show of emotions the indication that alerted them.    

The rookie had met up with Flip in the bullpen, loudly inquiring as to whether he was banging the hot new secretary, a cocky grin on his face, expecting perhaps a joking reply, or scandalous gossip.

For most of the detectives in the room that knew Flip, a collective intake of their breath and exchange of weary glances took place. They had watched apprehensively as he had turned to Caruthers, a glare that defined to term, ‘if looks could kill’ marring his handsome features. Flip then knocked the coffee out of Caruthers's hands and jabbed him in the chest as he had shouted. The rookie had nearly pissed himself, apologizing profusely before running off. Flip had then glared around the room, daring anyone else to suggest such a thing, but no one was stupid enough, and those who Flip worked closely with were better men than the likes of Caruthers.

As Flip had taken his seat, his blood boiling at the inappropriate question, he considered the reason for his over the top reaction. (Y/N) had brought a lot of happiness into his life, filling a void he hadn’t taken the time to recognize had grown over the last few years. Loneliness, the acceptance of retaining his bachelor status permanently. And the realization, when she would casually touch him, that he was touch starved. He was already comfortable with, and protective of, their friendship. The last thing he wanted at that moment was for her to overhear Caruthers suggestion, should it cause a rift between them.  

And, if he was honest with himself, he recognized that his feelings for her were...complicated. If he were to see a reaction in her at the suggestion they were sleeping together, he was not sure what that could do to them. The idea that Flip could lose (Y/N) terrified him.

So he actively worked to push his feelings down, preferring the safety of friendship. The safety of routine and the expected.

+

Today, Flip and Jimmy returned from a successful arrest on a perp they’d been following for weeks. They had managed to nail him while he was completing a small drug shipment from his mother’s garage. The whole arrest took them only just over an hour, and it was clean-the suspect, upon seeing the two detectives, surrendered.

When they arrived back at the station, Flip lingered outside to finish his smoke, feeling pretty satisfied with how the arrest went down and looking forward to sharing the success with (Y/N). He never told her anything classified, however in her position she was privy to a lot of sensitive information. She knew the details of most of the cases the detectives worked on.

He found it effortless to share the good days straight away, enjoying the way her features lit up at his words. Regardless of what she was working on, she would give him her full attention. The bad days she coaxed out of Flip with care during the drive to her home, always ready to comfort him or offer words of encouragement.

“Did you have a rough day, detective?” She had asked him one afternoon as they walked to his truck. He had been silent when approaching her at the end of the day, giving her a brief nod as she joined his pace and they hurried out of the station.

Flip had glanced down at her, unable to keep the frown off of his face. She merely tilted her head, her eyes soft as she waited patiently for him to speak, to say whatever he needed to. He had taken a deep breath before relenting.

“Just, usual bullshit from the Chief, about a case I worked just before you joined us.” He wasn’t able to elaborate, the entire case classified. Even files had been destroyed to keep it under wraps. Which was part of the reason he was so annoyed-he felt they could have accomplished more if they’d remained undercover longer. The Chief wholly disagreed.

Part of Flip had wondered if she would tease him, or tell him off for whining; a reaction that would have been entirely unsurprising from any of his fellow detectives. “Flip, do me a favour, tough man?” She had asked instead, leaning slightly against the side of his truck and gazing up at him.

“What’s that, darling?”

(Y/N) smiled, “When you walk through those doors at the end of the day,” She gestured at the main entrance, “You leave all the bullshit behind, don’t take it home with you anymore.”

He returned her smile, shrugging, “What if it’s too much to leave behind?” He hadn’t meant for the words to come out so quietly. (Y/N) stepped closer to him, their bodies inches apart, and Flip found himself unable to tear his gaze away from her (y/e/c) eyes.

“Then let me help you carry it, at least.” She had replied, voice equally as soft.

After a pause, she had patted his arm gently before moving to climb into the truck.  

“Flip,” He glanced up, pulled from his thoughts, to see Jimmy standing at the main station doors. His expression was unusually annoyed. Flip tossed his smoke, stomping it out.

“What is it?”

Jimmy shook his head, “You ain’t gonna like this.” And he pulled open the door. The sounds of a man shouting were the first thing to reach Flip’s ears, and he followed Jimmy inside, curious.

The shouting man had his finger angrily pointed at (Y/N), who was standing behind the counter. His yells echoed off the walls, a jarring contrast to the warmth and professionalism the station usually exuded. (Y/N) was positioned somewhat defensively in front of Donna-who Flip only noticed as he was approaching-her jaw set and mouth in a thin line. His eyes assessed her quickly, taking in her crossed arms and narrowed eyes, while he moved toward the scene with fast steps.

“I don’t give a god damn that he’s a police detective, I’m telling you no-” As the man uttered a slur, Flip’s frown morphed into a glare. He made his way down the hall unnoticed by everyone, all attention on the man. He hated when men cursed and uttered slurs in front of ladies. He especially hated that it was being directed at (Y/N). “-is going to be arresting my son, no sir, now you get that damn-“

“Sir, I’m not going to tell you again, your son was arrested, lawfully by a respected Detective of this station. Now lower your voice and I would be happy to take you to see your son and meet the detective.” Flip had never seen her angry-or even annoyed-but at that moment her eyes were narrowed, lips twisted in distaste as if the irritation tasted sour on her tongue. He did not like seeing (Y/N) upset, nor treated so poorly.

Her reasonable words served to merely enrage the large man further, his face reddening as he stepped closer to the counter. Flip, still unnoticed, moved to step in and lead the man away, his intention simply to diffuse the situation. However, there was a pressure building in his chest; the next few moments seemed to slow down in his red hazed vision, his willpower strong enough to remain professional, his hand reaching out to touch the man's shoulder-

Only the fucker pointed, his dirty hand inches from (Y/N)’s face, and rudely snarled, “Shut up bitch, and get me a white detective to talk to before I-“

The pressure hit a breaking point.

Flip instead seized that hand and twisted it behind the asshole’s back. A growl ripped from his chest as he used his free hand to grab the back of the man's neck and force him down, bending him over the counter. A wave of gratification swept through Flip when the man grunted in pain and surprise, his face pressed to the countertop.

“You were looking for a white Detective, I hear?” He snarled, his grip too tight for the man to struggle against. Flip was much too angry, a fact that his rational mind was concerning over-he had been fine moments before. Movement out of the corner of his eye had Flip glancing up, his eyes meeting (Y/N)’s over the desk. “You alright, darling?” His voice considerably softer as he surveyed her, concerned.

She nodded, her eyes holding his gaze steadily. “Just fine, Detective.” (Y/N) quickly assured him. Flip thought he saw something pass through her gaze, but before he could read it, it was gone. Something about that look had the thundering rage inside of him fading, which was for the best. He loosened his grip, slightly, resisting the urge to cause further harm.

Adrenaline coursed through Flip’s body, eyes never breaking away from hers. She seemed to draw him in, the look alone calming him further.

“Alright, sir, you’re coming with me, we’re going to have a little chat on how we conduct ourselves around ladies.” Jimmy stepped up, smirking, and cuffed the man. Flip looked away from (Y/N), and watched his partner and a uniformed officer lead the man away.

Flip momentarily considered following, but thought better of it. He drew a steadying breath of air, his anger dissolving as quickly as it had come on.

“Oh Donna, are you okay?”

Flip turned at the sound of (Y/N)‘s voice. Donna was visibly upset, her gentle nature affected. (Y/N), it seemed, was much less shaken. She wrapped her arms around Donna and gave her a comforting hug.

“I’m being silly, really,” Donna gulped, wiping at her eyes, “I’ve seen it all, at my age, you know. I just really worried he was going to hop the counter!”

(Y/N) patted her back, “I did too, but we’re alright, thanks to Detective Zimmerman. Why don’t you head home early?”

Flip agreed, ignoring the swell of pride at her words, “You don’t need to be worrying about us, Donna, you go ahead home and tell Carl I defended your honour on his behalf.” Flip joked, causing his matronly friend to give a shaky laugh and wipe away her tears. (Y/N) gave him a grateful look.

Flip stuck around while Donna gathered her things and bid them farewell, never taking his eyes off of (Y/N). She had walked over to the benches that lined the wall, taking a seat and letting her head fall back against the brick. Waving happily as Donna walked out, her smile dropped when she was out of sight.

She heaved a big sigh, watching as Flip joined her. His arm pressed against hers, neither of them adjusting their positions to move away. He said nothing, knowing she would speak when she was ready. They sat in silence for a few minutes, staring across at the silly pictures the kids had drawn.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that, Flip,” (Y/N) finally said, shaking her head sadly. Flip stared down at her a moment, raising his brow.

“There is nothing for you to be apologizing for, darling.”

“I-I know, I suppose I just...” She trailed off, glancing away. When she didn’t look like she would finish her thought, he decided to joke and change the subject, though he filed her reaction away in the part of his mind he reserved for her failings at caring for herself. It ultimately served to provide him with excuses to care for her in his own ways, as a friend would.

A friend, only.

“You want me to go in there and rough him up a bit?” Flip wished he was fully kidding, but part of him would have been happy to go and knock the asshole around if she’d asked him to.

Instead, she laughed at his words, an arguably much better result. He smiled at the melody of her voice “Flip, thanks for shutting him up.” She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes, an almost coy expression appearing.  

Giving no real thought behind the action, simply following his instincts, Flip reached out and gently tucked some loose strands of (y/h/c) hair behind her ear. His hand lingered there a moment, before dropping abruptly, “Of course.” His voice came out in a rumble, “No one will ever speak to you like that around me, darling.”

She had watched him with her wide, beautiful eyes as he’d spoken, barely moving when he’d touched her hair. She was regarding him now with affection; he could see it clearly.

“My best friend, the protector.” She teased, breaking the frisson that had built between them, much to his relief.

Flip smirked down at her, though his heart was beating tirelessly in his chest and his mind was reeling. She patted his leg before standing, thanking him again. He watched her walk back to the reception desk, his expression unreadable. While he was fairly sure he could return to his desk, Flip decided to go outside for another smoke. chastising himself for the direction his thoughts had moved; from the intensity of his anger to the guilt of imagining filthy scenarios with his best friend.

When she had teased him, it was the first time the term had been used. And he found himself torn, feeling both touched at the sentiment, yet disappointed at its platonic connotation.

Flip returned home that evening in an overwhelmed state of mind, after a quiet car ride with (Y/N). She had thanked him again before hurrying inside her home. He wanted to stop her, to ask about the look on her face earlier.

He wanted to ask her why the first word that came to mind to describe it was hungry.  

Bristling, he sought release immediately, not bothering to undress beyond kicking off his boats and lowering his jeans to his thighs. He stood in his bedroom panting, one hand on his dresser to keep him steady, as he fisted his already hard length. He was desperate, sensitive from weeks of pent up sexual frustration he had pointedly ignored.

A guttural moan ripped from his chest as Flip finally allowed the thoughts of (Y/N) to the forefront of his mind; thoughts of her glowing skin, soft to his touch, her body quivering as he explored head to toe, kissing every inch. His hand moved quickly, the tension building within him swiftly. It only took a few more pumps as he imagined his name on her lips in ecstasy, pleading for him not to stop...

With a cry, he came-the wave of pleasure pulsing through his body as his cum spurted, coating his hand and dripping to the floor. "Fuck!" His head tilted back.

His legs trembled, perspiration coating his skin; he crashed from his high and quickly sat on the edge of his bed, gasping for air. After only a few moments of relief, the guilt seeped back into the front of Flip’s mind.

He sighed, “Flip, you’re a piece of garbage.” He muttered to himself, eyes closing in disgust. He fell back, now laying on his bed, chewing his lip as he considered everything that had happened. His mind was now much clearer.

And there was simply no denying, the expression on (Y/N)'s face had not been of fear or concern. It had been of arousal. Flip wasn't sure of how he would react if he ever saw that look cross her face again, and so he fretted at the best way to move forward.

Would telling her how he felt, and risking their friendship, be the right move? Or was Flip too selfish, too cowardly, to admit his feelings?

Flip didn't sleep a wink.

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Tag list ✨ @tashastrange89 @finn-ray-nal-beads @fizzywoohoo @iamnotthecatladynextdoor

[rotworld]

The Truth in Masquerade

usurpers part 7. previous | next

derek gives in. izsák reaps the rewards.

->derek/oc. explicit; contains d/s dynamics, degradation, biting/blood drinking, descriptions of violence and torture, and the usual derek things.

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It takes less than a week for curiosity to eat through Derek’s resolve completely. Izsák speeds things along by bringing up weird shit every chance he gets and then waiting, perfectly poised, for a shift in Derek’s expression. It’s always some off-handed mention when it’s just the two of them. Izsák will help him prepare for another guest appearance at another dreadful party, presenting him with a fresh towel after a shower, tying his tie, and then he’ll sigh in a wistful way and say, “You never have liked these little soirees. It was much easier when Ferenc was here, wasn’t it? He bore the burden of public scrutiny with such ease.”

And what the fuck is Derek supposed to do? Not ask questions? Not think about why Izsák will stare, studying his face expectantly, and then suddenly laugh and mutter, “Pay me no mind, sir.” He tells himself it’s just Izsák being his usual freaky self, but has he always been so strangely in tune with Derek? Did he always stand so close and act so concerned over every little thing? Fussing over him when he bangs his knee on a table, or after a particularly public breakup? It’s fucking weird. Derek tells him it’s weird, and Izsák just smiles peaceably and goes about his business.

Three days after the museum, Izsák is drinking tea at the kitchen table while Derek eats lunch. His father is out with Clarice and the house is blissfully quiet. Derek is texting Emilia, who is hysterical and wants to break up with him again over some new bullshit that Derek can’t remember and doesn’t care to figure out from the vague hints she’s dropping. He’s sure he can talk her into a night out and a quick fuck with the right combination of sweet talking and apology gifts. He wouldn’t bother, but his father chewed him out about how it looks when he brings a new girl to every social function. People notice, his father claimed, and people talk. Derek rolls his eyes just thinking about it. His father keeps a girlfriend for a few months and now he thinks he’s some kind of fucking expert on monogamy.

And then, out of nowhere, Izsák breaks him out of his thoughts. “Are you feeling restless, sir? I had something in mind, if you are interested.”

“Unless it’s something to get Emilia to calm the fuck down, I’m not interested,” Derek says. He only looks up from his phone when he hears the scrape of Izsák’s chair across the table and sees him coming closer. He stands behind Derek, rests a hand on his shoulder, and leans in to peer at the phone screen. His touch, light, weightless, totally innocent, makes Derek burn with desire.

“I see. She’s upset that you have taken other partners.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. Of course it’s that. Nobody can keep a goddamn secret anymore. He wonders which one of them couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Regina? Francine? Couldn’t have been Laney, because Laney...

Derek swallows hard at the thought, the memory. Standing here in the kitchen when Emilia called him sobbing, saying her two-faced bitch of a friend was comatose in the hospital. Car accident. She never woke up. Izsák had looked up from organizing his father’s day and watched as Derek took in the news. There was something knowing in his eyes, and Derek remembered suddenly how Izsák had uncorked a vial of chicken blood and flicked it after Laney.

There’s no way. Derek repeated that in his head like a mantra whenever he caught himself starting to believe it. The blood of a black-feathered hen. No fucking way. He looks over his shoulder at Izsák, at the eyes gazing back at him and awaiting—something. 

“You got a spell for this?” Derek says. He’s perturbed when Izsák smiles, like he’s delighted to be asked.

“Of course, sir,” he says. He retrieves his tea and strides quickly to the kitchen sink, dumping the rest of it down the drain. Derek watches him pluck the damp bag of herbs out of the cup, shaking the rest of the water out, and setting it on a plate. “You may watch if you’d like,” Izsák says.

“I don’t care,” Derek says. And he shouldn’t. But his gaze is drawn back when he sees Izsák pull a lighter from his pocket and flick it until a little wavering flame appears. It looks like he’s trying to light the tea bag on fire, but it’s too damp to catch. Some foul-smelling smoke sizzles to the ceiling. Izsák whispers something, not in English, and Derek just stares.

That’s when Emilia messages him back after a solid ten minutes of the silent treatment. She says she can’t stay mad at him and asks to meet up later that night. Derek stares at the text in disbelief, then looks up and finds Izsák standing there, watching him. Smiling.

“You may ask me questions, if you have any,” Izsák says. “I wonder if you remember this one.”

“Where exactly am I supposed to remember it from? I’ve never seen that shit before.” 

Izsák answers automatically, like he’s been waiting for this. “Csejte, 1578. I performed this spell for you for the first time.” 

Derek doesn’t know how to react, so he doesn’t. “You did not.” 

“I did,” Izsák insists.

“You fucking didn’t. That doesn’t make sense.” Izsák frowns, opening his mouth to disagree, but Derek gets up, leaves the table, and goes out to the pool to soak his feet and avoid whatever it is that’s happening. Izsák knows better than to pursue him and gives him space, but it’s too late. Derek is thinking about chicken blood. He’s thinking about headless girls encased in ice. Which is weird because he’s never seen that before, but something about the statue at the museum, about the things Izsák said, put a distinct image in his head. He’s hungry. He wants to taste somebody’s blood. He feels himself salivating when he remembers biting Izsák’s neck and he wants to feel skin give beneath his teeth.

“What the fuck,” he mutters to nobody. He kicks at the water until dusk, until his erection is gone and his father comes home with Clarice and Izsák is busy with other things so Derek can avoid his eyes and that look that knows too much.

*

Four days after the art museum, Derek wakes up and his dick is so hard it hurts. The dream snaps out of place and tries slipping away before he can remember it, but he holds tight to everything that’s left;

A castle. Stained glass windows. Stone archways. The snow-covered courtyard with its frozen women like grotesque, grasping trees. Long corridors and echoing screams. He stood eclipsed by flickering candlelight and writhing shadow, walking barefoot through puddles of blood. There were bodies dangling from the dungeon ceiling, hung from meathooks and impaled in iron cages. Slit throats. Dangling entrails. They wept and moaned above him, and their blood rained on his skin. These were his kills. He hunted them himself, hung them like trophies. He reveled in their pain. Silhouettes played across the walls, human and beastly shapes that grew and warped and twined together in obscene dance. Derek felt these shades watching, but he didn’t fear their gazes. There was no need to perform for them. 

And Izsák was there, smiling gently. He wore nothing. He was deathly pale, unmarked as though the blood couldn’t touch him. Derek was possessed by the need to dirty him. He reached desperately, his grasp leaving bruises, dragging Izsák through red rain and filth. He was tainted slowly, a splatter across his shoulder, a rivulet dripping down from his scalp. It fell in heavy clots in his lashes. Derek pressed him against the cold stone wall, his wandering hands smearing abstract shapes over Izsák’s skin, and then he licked it off of him with long, slow drags of his tongue.

It was so fucking stupid. He’d never do that in real life. But just thinking about it gets him even harder. Derek palms himself through silk pajama pants, shivering, leaning back against the headboard. He’d never be so tender and gentle. But in the dream, Izsák looked at him with this passion, this reverence, like Derek was God and that castle dungeon was their private, depraved heaven. It was so vivid. The musk of all that flesh and blood was heady and visceral. He slips his hand beneath the waistband of his clothes. It’s pathetic. Jacking off has never been so disappointing. He can see it when he closes his eyes, dreamlike and hazy; bodies and darkness. Izsák beneath him, his hands framing Derek’s face, his eyes glazed with wanting. He twists his palm around the head of his cock and imagines it’s Izsák doing it, Izsák between his legs and covered in blood.

It’s not the first time he’s fantasized about Izsák, but it was always different before. More impersonal. Izsák’s mouth around his cock. Izsák’s hips moving against his. The way Izsák’s back arches and his muscles all go taut while Derek fucks him raw over his father’s desk. But this is so much more heated and detailed. It’s not just the sensation or the view, it’s how Izsák looks at him, how he talks to him. It’s how he knows Derek in intimate and frightening ways, and doesn’t expect anything more of him.

In the dream, Izsák worshiped him. He got to his knees and the sight of Derek’s body, his apparent desire, the hard cock swollen against his abdomen, seemed to mesmerize him. He looked up at Derek as he pressed a kiss to the head of his cock, drool and precum on his lips. His tongue caressed Derek’s length from base to tip and his hands smoothed along his thighs. He moaned shamelessly, the sound vibrating against Derek’s flesh as he suckled on the sensitive underside. He mumbled something, unwilling to pull away and cease pleasuring Derek for even a moment, but Derek understood somehow. He knew what he was trying to say; I’m yours.

Derek bites his lip so hard it bleeds, desperately fucking his fist. It’s too hot. He has to throw off the sheets and pull his pants down around his thighs but he’s still sweating, his head pounding. He still feels the stagnant dungeon air, the blood drying to his skin. He remembers the way Izsák bobbed his head, the hot slide of his lips and his tongue at the base of Derek’s cock when he started to deepthroat him. Izsák gagged and squirmed but he didn’t pull off, didn’t even try. Derek wasn’t holding him still because he didn’t have to. They didn’t speak to each other, but he understood in that moment the depths of Izsák’s devotion to him. He knew Izsák would do anything for him. Would kill for him. Would give his own blood, his own body, if it would satisfy Derek.

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, panting. Izsák is too hot and wet and perfect around his cock. He thrusts deep, feels his balls slap Izsák’s chin and he grinds against the back of his throat, and Izsák chokes on a moan. His worship becomes even more fervent. His hands grip the back of Derek’s thighs, squeezing his ass, spurring him into more violent movements and keeping them locked together. He wants everything Derek has to give him. He accepts it all, the hunger and brutality, his every whim and desire. When Derek cums down his throat, Izsák gags on it, his hands tightening on Derek’s legs, but he stays. He looks up at Derek through hazy eyes and swallows obediently. He lets Derek soften in his throat, sucking gently as though to milk him of the last of his climax.

Derek lays there, dazed and confused, realizing he’s alone and his sheets are soiled. It takes time to catch his breath. He lies in his own mess, eyes closed. He’s still there, in the castle dungeon. The dreamfog begins to clear. He isn’t standing anymore. He’s reclining, encased in liquid warmth. When he moves his hands, red swirls around them. He licks it off his fingers. It’s hot, metallic, and sickly sweet. It’s so clear, so detailed and real, that Derek is startled to open his eyes to the dark ceiling of his own room again. 

Just a dream, he tells himself. His heart is still racing.

*

Five days after the art museum, Derek’s determination to ignore all the strangeness is shot. Pretending that everything is fine and he isn’t turning into a fucking vampire goes from a chore to a battle of epic proportions against his own body. He’s hungry all the time, his libido is out of control, and he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep himself from sinking his teeth into anyone else. He takes Emilia out to see a movie and he can’t focus on anything but her neck. The way the light plays across it, the moving shadows, the outline of her muscles every time she swallows or laughs. He imagines himself biting her, his jaw clamping down on her throat like a wild animal. He tells her he has to use the bathroom halfway through and jacks off in a stall fantasizing about tasting her carotid artery.

Asking Izsák is out of the question. His pride won’t allow it. Izsák is already smug as fuck about all of this, sneaking up on Derek constantly and asking very pointed questions about how he’s feeling or whether he’s had enough to drink, all with that fucking smile on his face. He retreats to his room in his father’s house, blessed with a rare moment of privacy, and gets online. The tentative approach doesn’t get him far; a quick online diagnosis gives him two types of cancer. In desperation, he starts trying the things he’s heard Izsák casually mention, names he can’t remember right and places he can’t spell. 

Inevitably, he finds her. Frozen in time, she gazes back at him from her lofty position atop a webpage detailing her atrocities. One hand rests daintily upon a faded red tablecloth, the other holding an embroidered handkerchief. She isn’t smiling and there’s a weariness to her regality, a thinly veiled disdain in her eyes. Derek feels that he knows her, that he recognizes that quiet sneer. He’s seen it in the mirror before. A strange, twisting feeling knots up his stomach, and he doesn’t fully understand it, doesn’t know what all of this means, but he knows something has happened to him. Some change has taken root. 

He skims the page absently, the words washing over him both exhilarating and deeply familiar. Torture. Mutilation. Bloodbaths. The stories are fantastical, too incredible to be true, and yet there is no shortage of them. Derek searches further, needing to find her, needing to know exactly who she was. Elizabeth, Erzsébet, the Bloody Countess—no matter what she’s called, Derek finds kinship in the morbid details. Born into wealth and excess, thrust into the noble’s spotlight, and utterly disinterested in it all. She was on a quest for timelessness, to escape the mundane world. She performed as Derek does, marrying, attending to her courtly duties, wearing the mask of contented civility, but she also indulged and hunted, relishing in the viciousness of it all. Derek looks at her portrait with newfound emotion, something heavy yet freeing.

He almost isn’t surprised when Izsák speaks as though suddenly materialized behind his chair, “Your father sent me, sir. I am to prepare you for this evening.” Derek turns and examines Izsák, searching for things he hasn’t noticed before, or things he didn’t want to notice. His easy, eager submission. His smile. His eyes that know Derek, know what he wants, what he needs before Derek himself is even aware. Eyes that have seen centuries.

“Which one?” Derek asks. 

Izsák tilts his head, silently seeking clarification. He’s smiling very slightly. Did the Blood Countess see this same smile? Did it greet her before grand balls, assuring her of the safety of her secrets? Did it welcome her to the dungeon, her private sanctuary?

“She had accomplices,” Derek says. “Servants who helped her keep things quiet. Some of them were questioned at the trial.” He doesn’t clarify; doesn’t have to. Izsák listens patiently, his smile widening as though this is precisely what he’s been waiting for. How long has he waited? Derek wonders. How much longer was he willing to wait? “There was one man who helped her torture her victims, but the rest were women. One was her old wetnurse, and one was one of her personal servants. The other two were witches or something. Right?” Dorottya and Darvulia. He didn’t bother to learn the rest of the names, but he memorized those. One of them was important. One of them mattered more than all the rest.

Izsák hums thoughtfully. “That is what many people say, yes.” 

Derek stands up and hits him. It’s sudden, impulsive, happening so quickly that he doesn’t realize he’s done it until his hand starts to sting. Izsák touches his reddened cheek with soft, uncertain strokes, as though he’s just as surprised. The way he looks at Derek is wrong. Not disdain. Not disappointment. Elation. The joy of a long-awaited reunion.

“Which one are you?” Derek asks.

Just like in the dream, Izsák sinks to his knees before Derek. The movement is slow and graceful, as though he’s done it a thousand times before. He takes one of Derek’s hands in his and holds it as though it’s something precious. “I am the one who did not betray you,” he says, pressing his lips to the back of Derek’s hand. The gesture is gentle and intimate, stirring something violent within him. He wants to hurt Izsák. He wants to dirty him. He wants to thank him for coming back after all this time, saving him from suffocating in his own constant performance, but he only knows how to lie about gratitude, not show it for real.

The one who didn’t betray him. Derek turns the words over in his mind to admire like precious stones. He remembers—did he read it somewhere, or does the knowledge come from somewhere else?—that the countess’ servants were called to stand trial. Each one confessed to the atrocities, the beatings, the bloodletting. The man. The wetnurse. The servant. Even Dorottya broke her vow of silence and servitude to testify against her mistress. They all betrayed her.

All but loyal Darvulia, her devotion unending. She wasn’t there that day. Already dead, some stories say. It doesn’t matter. Derek knows what became of her now. He threads his fingers through Izsák’s hair.

“I don’t get it,” he admits. “I don’t get how it works. But I believe you. I see pictures of her, and I know we’re the same.” 

Izsák nuzzles against Derek’s palm like an animal, a pet seeking affection. It’s intoxicating, the power he holds, the total submission Izsák gives him, unchanged by the centuries. It feels right. It makes sense the way a dream does in the midst of it. “I couldn’t save you,” Izsák murmurs. “I was not strong enough then. This time will be different.” 

Derek is too caught up in the thick need in Izsák’s voice, the curve of his spine as he leans into Derek’s touch, to understand the words right away. “Save me from what?” he asks, but Izsák is already standing, stepping away from him. Derek isn’t done with him. He yanks him back by the forearm and bites him without warning, leaving the shape of his teeth in his earlobe. “Save. Me. From. What,” Derek growls, each word punctuated with a nip to Izsák’s delicate skin. He bruises so easily. 

“From your family,” Izsák gasps. He holds onto Derek, moves against him shamelessly. Derek feels how hard Izsák is and smirks against the fluttering flesh of his throat. He slides his thigh between Izsák’s legs, giving him the privilege of rutting against it. Izsák is so needy, so desperate to serve and explain as he chases his own pleasure, his words coming in breathless pants and whines. “Just as it was before, your own blood plots against you. Your father, he—oh, sir, please!” 

Derek can’t pay attention to whatever Izsák is trying to tell him. It doesn’t matter. Nothing is more important right now than getting inside of Izsák and tasting him. “On the bed,” he demands, and Izsák obeys without question. They’re all over each other. Derek savors the roaming worship of Izsák’s hands down his biceps and across his chest. It feels good. It feels right. He can’t get undressed fast enough, still shedding clothes as he nips and licks at Izsák’s tempting neck, and Izsák is so good and obedient, turning his head to give Derek better access. “You really are mine,” Derek says.

“All yours, sir,” Izsák says. Derek has barely touched him and he looks blissed out already, eyes glazed, a delirious smile on his face as though just being in Derek’s presence is the greatest of pleasures. He unbuttons his shirt further, exposing a tantalizing flash of his collarbones and old, faded marks Derek left days ago. “Take me. Drink from me. Do with me whatever pleases you.” Izsák’s nails sink into his shoulders as he pulls himself up enough to whisper against Derek’s ear, “Please, master. I’ve waited for you.” 

The final, worn string of Derek’s self-control snaps. He bites into Izsák like he’s meat. He hears skin and tissue give beneath his teeth, splitting, squelching open, tastes the tangy burst of Izsák’s lifeblood on his tongue. He ruts against Izsák’s hard, twitching cock, trapped between their bodies, and Izsák’s head falls back in ecstasy. Derek sucks at the wound and tastes Izsák’s tenderness, the sharp sweetness of him. It’s so good, so right and familiar. Izsák was born for this, born for him. He would never belong to anyone the way he belonged to Derek, would never know anyone as deeply, would never want anyone as wholly. Somehow, arched and gasping, Izsák moves himself, grinds slowly against Derek’s achingly hard cock. He reaches between them and guides Derek to his twitching, anticipating hole. Derek slams inside of his welcoming, tight heat and his eyes roll back in his head. Nothing has ever felt so good.

“You’re mine. My loyal little toy. My cockslut,” Derek hisses, unclamping his jaws from Izsák’s neck just to find a new, fresh spot to taste. Izsák shudders around him, beneath him. His legs open wider. Derek hooks Izsák’s ankles over his shoulders and bends him in half. It’s new, doing it like this. He’s fucked Izsák while looking at him a couple times but never staring like this, never pressed chest to chest and sharing breath. Izsák’s lips are right there and he moves without thinking, swooping in, crushing their mouths together. So soft and tender. His teeth crunch through Izsák’s lower lip and blood gushes into his mouth, heady and intoxicating. “Can’t get enough of you,” he moans into Izsák’s mouth.

Izsák’s nails rake down his back hard enough to draw blood. Derek lets him. It’s better that way, more raw, more wonderful. He pulls back to admire the blood and saliva smeared across Izsák’s lips, dripping down his chin. It feels like the desert in his room, the heat, the intensity, a soft body surrendering beneath him. He slams his cock into Izsák’s helpless body over and over again, relishing the sensations, the sounds, the desperate raggedness of Izsák’s breathing. He crushes Izsák against the bed and this time he kisses him. He should’ve done it earlier. Izsák’s mouth is so hot, so soft and slutty and wanting him. He sucks on Izsák’s tongue as he fucks him into the mattress, hips pistoning, cock drilling into his pliant, shaking body.

Izsák has been wanton and shameless before, but this is more than that. This is devotion, Derek thinks. This is what he’s always deserved. Izsák’s thighs quiver as Derek pounds into him, so hard and fast his own legs are straining but he can’t bring himself to stop. The pleasure is blinding, a liquid heat in the pit of his stomach. He’s kissing Izsák in filthy, hungry ways that he’s never done with any of his girlfriends, licking into him, tangling their tongues together, sucking on the bite he left for every bead of blood that bubbles to the surface. He’s going to cum. He’s going to claim Izsák so thoroughly, so completely, that he’ll never be satisfied by anyone else ever again. He’ll worship Derek’s cock just like this with his whole body. He’ll beg for it. He’ll beg for a chance to suck his dick under the table at dinner parties. He’ll thank Derek when he cums down his throat and swallow every drop.

Izsák is his. He might be Derek’s father’s assistant on paper, he might spread his legs for him sometimes, but he’s Derek’s. He’s been Derek’s across centuries, across continents. He’s come all this way just to get on his knees before Derek, where he belongs. Derek squeezes Izsák’s ass, digs his nails in. This is mine, he thinks. This body, this mind, this entire being. He stops kissing Izsák to nose against the other side of his neck, licking and teasing the unbroken skin.

Derek smirks against Izsák’s hammering pulse. He’s close. He’s going to cum. He fucks Izsák deep, grinds against him, feels his balls roll over Izsák’s smooth skin. “Beg me to bite you,” he purrs. 

Izsák clings even more tightly, begs even more sweetly. “Please, give me your bite,” Izsák cries for him. “I need it. I was born to receive it. Please use me, make me yours. I should always belong to you, master.” 

Derek cums hard, buried deep inside of Izsák. Everything whites out, sight and sound and understanding consumed by orgasm. There’s a sharp stinging sensation somewhere on his body, a pain that crests with the pleasure, intermingled too tightly to process on its own. Izsák writhes and whimpers through his own orgasm, his own cum splattering across his chest and Derek fills him. It feels like the aftershocks last forever, heat rushing through him, waves and pulses.

Derek is trembling when he pulls out of Izsák, watching Izsák’s hole clench obscenely around emptiness as cum leaks out of him. Neither of them speaks for some time, basking in the completion of it all. Derek feels the world swaying as though he’s riding a metronome, the call of sleep smothering and irresistible. He can’t believe how hard he came. There’s still blood on his mouth and he licks his lips, humming at the taste. He feels someone touch him; Izsák, gentle and reverent. Tracing his muscles. Caressing his chest. He doesn’t cuddle, but when he’s this tired, teetering on the edge of oblivion, he can’t complain.

He wonders if they did this before. If Countess Bathory laid with sweet, loyal Darvulia, cuddled like lovers. Just this once, he thinks, he’ll let Izsák get away with it. For old times’ sake.

*

—murmurs. Someone calling him. Calling his name. Softly and distantly, then loud. Close. Not Izsák. Not respectful enough.

“Derek. Get up.” 

A rustling sound, the scrape of curtains rising. Blinding, burning light assaults Derek’s eyes and he groans, rolling over. God, what time is it? Sleep clings stubbornly to his mind, clouding his thoughts. He’s sore, mostly in his legs and back. Right, it’s coming back to him. He and Izsák fucked last night. Izsák, Darvulia, hundred year old Hungarian witch, whatever. It was some of the best sex of his life. But usually, it’d be Izsák who comes and gets him in the morning, so why is his father here, looming over Derek’s bed and refusing to leave? 

“What?” he says, groggy. His father is frowning in that tense, disappointed way that turns Derek’s stomach. He sees it directed at other people mostly, former business partners, overambitious rivals, people who really, really fuck up. Derek’s mouth goes dry. “What?” he says again, struggling to sit up straight. What happened? What did he do? He can’t be mad about Izsák, right, it’s not like they were being subtle. Did he forget something?

Derek looks at the window and fuck, it’s late,he must’ve slept through an event he was supposed to go to or some shit. He rubs his eyes, pushing himself to remember. He thinks, maybe, there was some kind of afternoon social he was supposed to make an appearance at, but the details are foggy. Why is his head pounding like that? It’s like having a hangover. He feels like he slept for decades.

His father paces halfway across the room. Derek follows the movement with his eyes and spots something at the foot of the bed. Is that blood? Dirt? Some kind of ugly stain on the sheets. They really got carried away last night, he thinks, but then he sees an arm.

Just an arm. 

Not Izsák’s. He’s not sure why his mind goes there immediately, but it’s not, he knows it isn’t. Izsák doesn’t wear flaking pink nail enamel with glitter. He just knows there’s a severed human arm on his bed and a bunch of stains around it. Definitely dried blood, but there’s dirt, too, like someone dug up a grave, and.

That’s cum. That’s definitely a cum stain. Derek’s eyes slowly trail up to meet his father’s. His father looks down at him and doesn’t say a word. Derek swallows hard and tries to think of something, anything, that he can say. Nothing comes to mind.

“I’ve had concerns,” his father says. Derek can barely hold his gaze. That judgment, that cold scrutiny—he works tirelessly to escape it, to put on the most convincing performance he can. “You don’t know the first thing about discretion. That’s one thing. It’s another that you think I’ll clean up all of your messes for you.” 

Derek glances at the arm, sprawled grotesquely over his sheets. “I don’t know what that is,” he says hoarsely. Obviously he knows what it is, but he doesn’t know how it got there.

“I’ve been lenient,” his father goes on, as if Derek never spoke. “Too lenient. I’ve turned a blind eye to most of your deviancy. But this? This crosses the line. I should have listened to Izsák sooner.”

Derek’s blood goes cold in his veins. “What does that mean?” he demands. His father turns his back on him. Derek throws himself out of bed, rushing after him. “What the fuck does that mean?” 

“It means you’re cut off,” his father says. He doesn’t even look at him when he speaks. “I want your things out of here by tonight, but don’t go too far. The police want to speak with you. Something about graverobbing and desecration of a corpse.” 

Derek stands there numbly, watching his father walk out and the door slam shut behind him. No. He didn’t do it. He didn’t do any of this. He looks back at the arm hatefully. What the fuck is it doing there, ruining his life? Heat rises to his face, shame, humiliation. Maybe he was getting a little arrogant, brazenly packing his bags for his desert outings, leaving things lying around in plain sight, but it was always so easy to explain away. He’s good at his performance. No one suspected anything. If he’s going to get caught, it’s not going to be for some bullshit he didn’t even do. He wipes angry, helpless tears out of his eyes and storms downstairs. Izsák. He needs to find Izsák.

He runs into other housekeepers who pale and dart out of his way. Derek ignores them. He doesn’t care about any of them, his gaze lingering only if they’re the right height, wearing the right uniform. No sign of Izsák in any of the usual places. No one in the kitchen. Not a soul out by the pool. He scares a gardener when he comes storming through but finds nobody else. His father has retreated elsewhere in the house and Derek finds his office abandoned, paperwork strewn across his desk. Derek sees several financial forms and summaries, land deeds, company assets, stocks and bonds. A copy of his father’s will sits in the corner and Derek’s heart stops.

Under the section for inheritors, his name isn’t listed. Neither are any of his siblings or cousins. Not even Clarice shows up anywhere. But one name does appear, getting absolutely everything his father could possibly leave behind.

Izsák Varga.

There is one moment of silence. A lack of comprehension. Derek reads the name several times before it makes sense. Then comes the storm building, the fire and venom churning inside of him, a tight, clenching pain in his chest. Disbelief. Bitter humor. A hatred so powerful it makes him lightheaded and hot in the face. He goes through the stages of grief in the span of a millisecond, mourning something he didn’t realize he even wanted, and a crazed smile stretches across his face.

Calmly and quietly, he goes upstairs and begins going through his things. He shoves his dresser out of the way and pushes aside a false wall panel concealing a large, musty-smelling duffel bag. He unzips it, checks the contents. Grains of sand trickle from an open compartment. Good. Everything he needs. He’s angry. He can’t remember the last time he was this angry, his hands shaking, his whole body seeming to vibrate with the need to stab and strangle. But there’s an excited edge to it, the sort of anticipation that comes with his vacations.

I’m going to fucking kill him, he thinks. I’m going to make him beg for death.

He’s smiling too big, too honestly. He feels giddy and he can’t hide it. A woman dusting in the hall gives him a wide berth when he passes, plastering herself against the wall. He’s a predator passing, a wolf with better things to do and bigger prey in mind. He licks his lips. His mask fails him. He doesn’t even try to pretend anymore.

[cowboyified]

Below are some WIPs I’m releasing into the wild. They were all written at different times over the past two years so any mistakes/cliches you can blame on past June, I don’t know them. 

Go, be free.

This first one I think is the one I’m most fond of. I had such a vision for it; bottlecaps in trees, river swimming, making out against the fridge, all that good stuff you get with weecest. 

The summer Sam is seventeen they stay in one place for long enough Dean starts referring to it as ‘home’. 

It’s an old farmhouse, miles from any other structure, bar an outhouse and hay shed. There’s a porch running the length of the front and back, the wooden boards pulled up from their nails, wavy with the weather. Weatherboard paint peeling, wallpaper inside torn and missing in most places. 

They’re squatting, technically. The property owned by a family saved by hunters once, friends of friends of Bobby’s, too distraught by what they’d witnessed to raise their kids on cursed land. Dean had told Sam that Dad had been told by Bobby that had been told by Pastor Jim that it was chupacabras. A whole pack of ‘em, feeding off the lambs in the back paddock, tried to take a bite out of the baby girl and Sam had said, “As if man, those things are tiny, I’ve seen pictures, you could kick one and it would limp away like a fucking chihuaha, you scared of chihuahas, huh, Dean?” But Sam still hikes his sheet up under his chin when he hears scuffling under their window between sleep. 

There’s remnants of the house’s past inhabitants still scattered around the place. Sam had stood and slid two inches on the wheels of a tiny replica car that had been jammed under the couch the second day they arrived, piffed it at his brother’s head, who’d caught it, exclaimed that it was Camero, dude, treat her with some respect and had sat it on top of the fridge. 

The bookshelf in the corner of their shared bedroom holds mostly dust and tattered occult books stolen from libraries from all over the country, left by hunters who have found what they’ve needed and moved on. There are a few of the worst Stephen King novels shoved haphazardly on the top shelf and Sam finds something funny in that, the irony in enjoying bad horror when the real deal lurks behind the screen door. 

Dean gives him a look when Sam pulls down and cracks open a copy of The Tommyknockers, snorts, “Haven’t you read that one already?” and Sam says, tucking himself into bed, “Yeah, it fucking sucks, King was royally off his head while writing it, that’s why it’s so good.” Sam finishes three quarters of it in one sitting while listening to Dean’s quiet snores from the other side of the room. 

It’s a ten minute drive to the closest town, an off the highway, invisible to the outside world, kind of one-street community. No reason to take the exit if you don’t already know it’s there, one store, one gas station, one bar in an old brick post office building, unfitting, the carpet pulled up at the corners but home to the best fries Sam has ever had in his life. 

Sam follows Dean out to the courtyard, neither of them are legally old enough to drink but there’s nothing else to do but to get respectably drunk in a place like this, anyone that has lived long enough in the true country is some kind of functioning alcoholic, so Dean orders a beer and isn’t asked for ID. In a town small enough for everyone to know every intricate detail in the threads of dirty laundry, they are foreigners. No one knows where they’re from or where they’re going and Sam knows that Dean likes it that way.

It’s never been a secret that Sam prefers to feel like he has a part in everyday normalcy. Dean thrives under anonymity, gets a kick out of it because it makes him feel dangerous. He had stopped accompanying Sam to school two states ago, a silent agreement with their father when Dean had come home early and helped John cut splits into the tips of bullets instead. Like hell I’m signing up for compulsory extra curricular activities. What’s the point in making friends with people whose biggest concerns are the answers to whatever bullshit test and who fucked who last Friday? 

Finding comfort in a nine-to-five kind of community is a flaw Sam’s been burdened to deal with. 

It’s early afternoon, the courtyard is empty and the table they chose rocks on its legs every time Dean slides his drink over for Sam to share. It’s bitter and Sam hasn’t had enough beer in his life to know if it’s supposed to be like that or if it has just soured from the long journey it took to get from the brewery to their glass. He drinks it and doesn’t grimace because his brother is looking at him through the rays of warm country sun. 

“Tastes like piss, huh,” Dean says, leaning forward out of the light so Sam can see him clearly again. He takes back the glass. 

“S’not that bad,” Sam replies, rubbing the leftover condensation into his hand, doesn’t look at Dean, finds it hard these days, twists in his gut all wrong. Sam knows why. 

His brother hums, “There’s gotta be something else to do around here.”

Sam thinks, Dad’s left the car, we can go wherever we want, but doesn’t say it because his brother is loyal to a disastrous fault. 

That’s a recurring thought. Sam in the shotgun seat, his brother behind the wheel, driving away. Just away, to someplace else and they’d be okay because they’d have each other and all Sam ever needs is his brother, like water. But John will be back in two weeks, term starts again in a month and he needs his father to sign the enrollment forms. Two more years. 

“You see the old dredge outside of town?” Sam asks, remembers passing it when they arrived, all twisted, rusting metal, the bones of it against the setting sun.

“What did I tell you about respecting your elders?”

“You told me that they all smell like porridge and are easily susceptible to sleight of hand. No, Dean, Dredge,” Sam stresses. “Big rusty old machine that pulls minerals out of water.”

“Looking to strike big, Sammy?”

“Yeah, you see, my family is poor, brother at home too dumb to get a job. Our father went to get milk and never came back,” Sam sniffs for effect. “I can’t go home empty handed again, sir.” 

“Ah, a real sob story,” Dean nods in understanding, tips his head back and finishes the beer. “Let’s get out there then, sonny. We shan't let that simpleton, downright fool of a brother go hungry.” Dean jabs Sam in the ribs when he stands, hard enough for him to gasp, gets Sam’s head under his arm before he can recover. Sam claws embarrassingly at his brother’s torso, face pressed warm into the side of Dean’s waist. 

“I will pray for us young Samuel, for I too, dream of riches,” his brother is exclaiming, tripping them out and onto the street. “I only ask that we share whatever bounty dredged as I saw the most exquisite pony a few miles back and I simply must have it.”

And Sam thinks - with his flushed cheek hard against Dean’s skin through the thin sweaty fabric of his shirt, heart beating too fast against his ribs in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion - you can have it all. 

---

Sam’s brother’s perpetual state of being is ten miles over the speed limit; this can be applied to almost every aspect of him. Dean goes and goes and rarely stops. They’re pushing double that out of town, north of their property, into the forever stretch of flat land and Sam loses himself in it. That idea of away, of going and going and that Dean could take him because he’s an expert in the field. 

The Impala blasts Born To Be Wild and Sam imagines the lyrics spreading out over the dry grass. He rolls the window down and throws his head out, trying his best to keep his eyes open against the road’s wind. The sun beats down, warmth soaking through and into his bones and Sam laughs as the cattle turn to catch a glimpse of them soaring. 

Dean pulls him in, tugs at the back of his shirt, says something along the lines of, what are you, a dog? Should get you a shock collar for all the times you’re a little bitch, but Sam can’t hear him over the roaring of the open window and the look of transparent glee on Dean’s face, it’s loud and assaulting and Sam has to turn away because seeing Dean like that wobbles him dangerously from the nonchalant facade he has going on in relation to how he feels about his brother. But mostly his face hurts from smiling too wide.

Used as a warm up last year. Boyking!Sam

He thinks he’s in Louisiana, maybe. That he got here in the tray of a pickup and that he couldn’t feel the wind in his hair like maybe he should. The driver had stopped for a piss-break and Sam had snapped his neck without his hands.

He rubs them together now, tries to feel guilty but there’s nothing to feel guilty about because his hands are clean; he doesn’t have to use them anymore. 

Sam thinks he’s in Louisiana because he stepped out of the truck and into a wet kind of heat. There’s a church with thick greenery growing over the roof and white wood that’s been mold-blackened by the humidity. He laughs to the darkness because it's very funny to him that he’s driven himself subconsciously to a place of grace. 

He skips up the steps, two at a time, gleefully. The smell of the bayou and rotting wood has put him in a good mood. The lock snaps when he blinks, the chain unraveling and snaking into a coil at his feet. The doors open for him and maybe he did that with his mind too, or maybe they were just expecting him. 

The church has been used recently, its interior better kept than the outside, bibles tucked neatly in the backs of pews, ribbons tied into plaits. The white of the moon falls in blankets through the windows, shadows of leaves moving over the floor like rippling water and the bust of Mother Mary prays for him at the altar. 

Sam spreads his arms and addresses her, says to the room at large, “Shall I repent for my sins, oh Lord?” and it echoes, gives him goosebumps, a current under his skin. He has an audience here because God is omnipresent, this is a place of worship and Sam has always been good at that. 

A church in Louisiana, standing before a plaster of his mother’s namesake in a church for a God he used to think could have some defying factor in a destiny that was always going to be concrete. It’s funny, blatantly. Sam puts his hands gently to Mary’s cold face, kisses her on her lips before crushing her head, spraying ceramic. 

Sam stands behind the lectern, hands red with his own blood now, sticking the pages of the Good Book. He’s read it before anyway. 

“Am I to be forgiven?” 

Last is a casefic I had planned out in 2019. I didn’t get very far into the actual writing part of it, but I still think the setting is cool, less so the plot I had in mind. 

Just outside of Bridgeport, Connecticut there’s a community built on a sandbar. A small secluded semi-island, connected to the mainland by a mile-long beachfront. A town of forty to fifty now abandoned, vandalised residences.

The police find the bodies of the boys there, bleeding out and into the sand, each other’s skin caught under their fingernails. 

Sam watches as his brother pulls the sheet back from one of the corpses, laying blue on the steel morgue tray. He’s a kid, a boy, not even eighteen. Hairless, lanky, multiple stab wounds puckered around his belly and Sam thinks he does not look peaceful for someone who is meant to be at rest. 

Dean is quieter than usual, his body language stiff. They’ve seen their fair share of dead kids but Sam thinks that this one might look a little too much like an adolescent version of himself. Shaggy brown hair, too long limbs, college on the horizon. Sam blankets the sheet back over the boy’s face and hears his brother exhale in what he thinks might be relief.

The coroner tells them that the other two are the same, besides the youngest one. He’d been blinded, thumbs pushed through his eyes until they popped like grapes. He asks if they want to see him too and Sam says no, thank you, we’ve got what we need.

Which is a whole lot of nothing, but they’ve only just arrived and there’s evidence that doesn’t involve corpses that needs to be checked.

“Pussied out in there huh, Sammy?” Dean says as they’re walking down the funeral home’s front steps, past the manicured roses and trimmed lawn. You see these perfect hedges? We’ll treat your dead mother with the same detailed care!

Sam pulls at his tie and scoffs because he knows he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable standing in the morgue; cases that involve kids always rub them both wrong.

[alolowrites]

Gold Coins and a Gold Heart

Summary: Bakugou is forced to help give out candy at your factory’s annual Halloween trick-or-treating event—costume included. 

Author’s Note: Hello everyone! I’m back with another story and this time it’s for Bakugou (yay!!). It is a sequel to Everyone’s Got a Sweet Tooth! I had fun writing this, so hopefully you all enjoy it too :D 

Word Count: 1.6K+

Bakugou collapsed on the chair.

His afternoon patrol was crazier than usual today, which meant only one thing—it was Halloween. The early dumbasses roamed the streets like brainless hooligans disturbing the peace. As always, Bakugou reined them in with a simple blast to the face. It was fun at first, but Bakugou’s patience was wearing thin after dealing with the twentieth fool that day.

He ripped the mask off and closed his eyes. All he wanted was some peace and quiet—

“Knock, knock!”

He spoke too soon.

Bakugou’s irritated eyes watched as you gleefully skipped toward his desk with a large garment bag. Your beaming smile never wavered despite feeling the hero’s heated glare; you were practically immune to it. An exasperated sigh left his lips. Bakugou knew better not to ignore you whenever you visited him. You were persistent, and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with your childish pestering afterward.

“What do you want?”

“I don’t even get a ‘hello’? My heart, babe,” you pouted, gripping the bag in your hands. Bakugou mumbled a half-assed greeting in return. A shit-eating grin stretched across your face; he was so whipped. “Thank you. So, are you excited for tonight?”

“What’s tonight?” Bakugou rested his chin above his hand, barely paying attention to you.

“The annual trick-or-treating festivities at my factory!”

“And?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot,” you huffed, slamming the garment bag on his desk. Bakugou jumped, mouth ready to bark. You wagged a finger at him like a parent scolding a child. “Ah, ah, ah! You promised me you were going to help give out candy tonight for Halloween.”

“Since when!?”

“Glad you asked!” you clasped your hands together, standing up straight. Bakugou wouldn’t be surprised if you whipped out a detailed PowerPoint to support your case. “On September 18th at exactly 10:48pm, you agreed to help me out. As a matter of fact, your exact words were ‘Yeah, I’ll do the damn thing’ in between our passionate make-out session—”

“Oh, for fucksakes!”

“You still promised!” Seconds later, you added: “Besides, you can’t back out of this. Kioshi officially added it to your schedule, and your PR team approved it, so you’re going!”

“I’m gonna kill Small Head.”

You rolled your eyes. “No, you’re not. Stop being such a drama-hoe.”

“Fine, I’ll do this stupid event,” Bakugou’s finger lifted the bag before letting it fall again. “What’s this?”

“Your costume, silly!”

“I’m not wearing a fucking costume!”

“Oh, don’t be such a sour puss,” you chastised him, walking around his desk and planting yourself on his lap. Bakugou made no move to push you off, but he also refused to look at you. Your soft, lovable kisses peppering along his cheek proved otherwise. “I know wearing a costume sounds stupid for you, but it’s Halloween, Katsuki.”

“Can’t I just go as Ground Zero?”

“You’re Ground Zero every day! Halloween means dressing up as someone you’re not.”

“This is stupid…”

“No, it’s not,” you slapped his chest lightly. As Bakugou continued to brood, you lifted his chin and bopped his warm nose. “C’mon—your fans will love it, the kids will love, and, most importantly, I will love it. Won’t you do it for me?”  

Bakugou’s throat tightened at the sound of your melodic voice; it was like pure honey. On the surface, it sounded innocent, but Bakugou knew this voice well. You only played this card when you wanted something from him. At first, the hero refused to succumb to your wicked spell. Except it was hard when your delicate fingers danced across his hero costume. A shudder ran down his spine, and he squirmed slightly—you drove him over the edge.

You shot Bakugou a smug smile when he gripped your waist. His intimidating glare proved useless against you. Especially since you both knew who won this battle. Bakugou banged his head on the leather chair, grumbling a curt ‘fine’ shortly after. You squealed and delivered a quick peck on his lips.  

“I knew you would understand,” you perked up, ruffling his soft mane before checking your watch. “Well, I gotta skedaddle. There are still some last-minute preparations to get done before the kids come. Ooh, this is so exciting!”

You hopped off Bakugou’s lap much to his displeasure; he wanted you back. Your steps fall in tune with a Halloween song you heard this morning. His eyes silently follow you toward the door, and you called over your shoulder, “See you later, babe! And don’t be late!”

Bakugou gruffed just as the door closed. He slumped back against the chair while pinching his nose. Why does he always get dragged into your ridiculous shenanigans? Damn your infuriating but cute personality. Red eyes narrowed at the garment bag sitting patiently on his desk. He unzipped it halfway to take a peek at the costume…

…and exploded.

“Fuck!”

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Bakugou gritted his teeth.

“I can’t believe I’m wearing this shit.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” you chimed behind him, smoothing out the costume’s wrinkles. Bakugou huffed and grudgingly turned around. Your Cheshire cat-like smile grew as you stepped back to admire the final outcome. “You look so handsome!”

“Shut up.”

“My handsome pirate—”

“I told you to shut up!”

Your giddy laughs bounced off the walls; Bakugou snapped his head away with a growl. However, he was betrayed when a slight blush dusted his cheeks. He felt absolutely ridiculous in this outfit that belonged in the dumpster. Except for the jacket—Bakugou secretly liked how it emphasized his broad shoulders.

“Was this why you attacked me with that damn measuring tape last time?”

“Honestly, it was more fun than just asking Kioshi for your measurements.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Sorry, not sorry,” you shrugged, smirking as Bakugou’s eyes raked up and down your own pirate costume. It was seductive yet tasteful for tonight. Only your bare shoulders were exposed and Bakugou’s clenched his mouth—they were his weakness. “Behave tonight, and I’ll make sure to reward you well, captain.”

“Tch, damn tease.”

“I know,” you winked, tugging his hand as you both walked out the door. It was almost time to start tonight’s event. Bakugou grumbled as he followed your lead. “But seriously, behave. That means not making any child cry tonight.”

“Let me blast any idiot who tries to pull some shit on you, and we got ourselves a deal.”

”Fine, but not the kids.”

“Deal.”

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

Tonight was harder than Bakugou thought.

No one flirted with you, much to his relief. However, the hoard of kids screaming at the gates drained his energy and tested his limited—or nonexistent—patience. Security guards safely managed the crowds while staff members let in a few groups of kids at a time.

You hopped on your tippy-toes every time a new batch approached the steps. Bakugou, on the other hand, showed disdain and tried—unsuccessfully—to keep his distance from them; the kids stupidly disagreed. Bakugou scowled, but it wasn’t enough to scare away the waves of mini vampires or superheroes. Instead, they rushed up to him with goofy smiles.  

“Trick-or-treat!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, here’s your candy.”

Bakugou reached inside the large treasure chest for the black pirate pouches. A friendly-looking skull graced the front and contained delicious goodies inside—chocolate gold coins and colorful sugar jewels. You spent weeks designing the Halloween candy so they fit with the pirate theme this year. It was a lot of trial and error, but you never settled for anything less.

That was something Bakugou noticed and silently admired.

A small tug pulled his attention away from you. Crimson eyes peered down at a little girl wearing a butterfly costume. Fuzzy red antennas bounced in the air as her innocent eyes glanced up at the pro hero.

“Are you really a pirate?”

Bakugou froze and blinked at the question. You softly laughed while handing out the pouches to the other kids. Before Bakugou could answer, a young boy blurted out: “Of course he’s not a pirate! That’s Ground Zero, dummy!”

“I’m not a dummy!”

“Yes, you are!”

“No, I’m not!”

The young girl was on the verge of tears. You were about to step in to defuse the situation, but Bakugou quickly beat you to the punch.

“Hey!” Everyone stood at attention after Bakugou’s rugged bark. All eyes were on him as he pointed a stern finger at the robot boy clutching his candy bag. “Does Ground Zero wear a pirate hat and carry a plastic sword?”

“N-no.”

“Then I’m not Ground Zero today, I’m a pirate,” he raised his head up high while adding, “and a captain pirate, too. Do you understand, kid?”

“Yes-s, sir.”

“Good, now apologize to the butterfly for calling her dumb.”

Mr. Robot did, and surprisingly, Bakugou dropped a pirate pouch into his bag. Muttering a curt ‘Go,’ he watched the young boy waddle away. Faint sniffles interrupted the silence shortly afterward. Bakugou averted his gaze to the little girl again.

“Hey,” he called out with a gruff but soft voice and crouched down. Round, puffy eyes stared in disbelief when Bakugou dumped two candy pouches inside her Halloween basket. “Don’t let anyone call you dumb, got it?”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pirate!”

The girl happily skipped away. Bakugou stood up and bristled at the sight of your shit-eating grin. He forgot you were still here, which meant you saw everything. You sauntered toward him with amused eyes and teased, “You’re such a softie!”

“Eh?! Quit spewing bullshit,” he barked weakly, folding his arms over his chest. “You said no kid should cry, right? I did just that, so slap that stupid grin off your face.”

“Technically, I said you shouldn’t make any kid cry.”

“Whatever.”

“Softie,” you whispered before pecking Bakugou’s cheek; he grumbled an insult to save face. You poked his forehead while laughing, “Frown all you want, but you can’t hide that gold heart of yours. At least not around me.”

Bakugou’s lips twitched into a genuine smile reserved only for you.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

A pirate who managed to steal his gold heart? Yeah, it all made sense now.

Thanks for reading!!

Spooky Season 2020 Masterlist

[fallout-lou-begas]

Elevated Extras: Ranger Ghost Companion

You a Courier? If so, this might be your lucky day...if you don't mind walking a bit and your eyes are good. 

(Original sketch by @tarberrymentats / based on the OC Companion Meme by @falloutfandomeventhub / if you borrow this concept please tag it as #fallout elevated extras)

General

Name: Ranger Ghost

Location: Mojave Outpost

How to obtain: Complete the sidequest “Keep Your Eyes on the Prize,” then begin the sidequest “Giving Up the Ghost” to get her reassigned from the Mojave Outpost. Once freed of her assignment, she can travel with the Courier to monitor Legion activity throughout the Mojave.

Companion Quest: “Giving Up the Ghost.”

Ranger Ghost, like everyone else, is sick and tired of being stuck at the Mojave Outpost. Unfortunately, orders are orders. With the courier’s help, though, she just might be able to come down from that rooftop, but dealing with NCR bureaucracy might be a worse ordeal than Legion crucifixion.

Companion Wheel

I think we should travel together. You probably can’t tell, but that’d make me very happy. Let’s get the hell out of here.

Let’s talk about your tactics. Sure. Lecture the ranger on tactics. Go ahead. / What’re you thinking?

I want you to change your combat style. (humoring) Alright. / If you insist.

Use a melee weapon. Close combat, then. / Sure. We can hold their hands and tuck them in while we’re at it. / (Wild Wasteland Enabled) Try to remember the basics of CQC.

Use a ranged weapon. (stating the obvious) It’s what I do. / You going to spot for me? / (deeply sarcastic) Aww. Finally remembered I’m a ranger?

Be passive. Sure, give peace a chance. / Don’t go pacifist on me, now.

Be aggressive: Locked and loaded. / (mocking the company line) Right, and with “extreme prejudice.”

Enough about tactics. Agreed. Anything else? / Are we good, then?

Let’s talk about how close you’re following me. Is there a problem? / What are you...implying, exactly?

Wait here. Right. Things to do, places to be? / Holding down here. / I’ll keep watch here.

Follow me. Let’s roll out. / Finally. Don’t like waiting. / Right. Skip to my fucking lou.

Stay close to me. (sternly cautious) Define “close.” / Got it, on you. / Just don’t bump my gun.

Keep your distance. Positioning, got it. / Yeah, covering you. / (facetious concern) Don’t get lost, now.

Let’s trade equipment. Don’t get fucking handsy, now. / Just don’t hog the ammo.

(Overburdened). I’m not your fucking pack brahmin. / (exasperated) I’ve only got so many pockets.

(Sneaking). Staying low. / (wryly imperative) Quiet, now.

(In Courier’s iron sights). What the fuck is wrong with you? / (slowly, emphasizing) Watch your trigger discipline. / Don’t make me take that away.

(Courier lays mine). I’ve got my eyes on that. / You’d better have a plan for that.

It’s time for us to part ways. It’s because i’m a bitch, isn’t it. / Such sweet fucking sorrow, I bet.

I’d like you to go to the Lucky 38. Hm. Sending the Ghost to the haunted house. See you there. I’ll try not to spook the Securitrons.

We can meet again at the Mojave Outpost. (sucks teeth) Guess I’ll report what I’ve got back to headquarters. Hopefully by now they’ve got someone else watching the brahmins shit full-time.

Injured: (seething) SSShhit. / Didn’t want it like this. / (with conviction) I didn’t get off that roof just to fucking bite it.

Damaged Limb: (shout of pain) Fucker clipped me! / Sure could use a fucking medic.

Regaining Consciousness: What...what the hell happened? / (trailing off) Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck...

Death: (death rattle) / (weakly) Ghosts...can die, huh...ha...

Attributes

Aggression: Aggressive.

Confidence: Brave.

Assistance: Helps friends and allies.

Karma: Neutral.

Perks

Ghost of a Chance: When Ranger Ghost is by your side, so are the odds. In addition to gaining an extra 3% chance to critically hit, any single attack that would kill you may instead leave you just barely alive and invulnerable for a brief moment..

Drops, if killed

Ranger Vest Outfit

Ranger Grey Hat

Authority Glasses

Cowboy Repeater

Combat Knife

Iguana Bits

Grognak the Barbarian

Dialogue, Quest Details, and Ending Slides:

Dialogue

Why do they call you Ghost? What, don’t I scare you? Boo? Nothing? (beat) Well, if you gotta know, it stuck pretty quick back in basic. Not like there were many other albinos in boot camp. The all-white spooky bitch who shoots better at night? Yeah, that’s a ghost, alright. Pissed me off at first, but I came around when it started giving privates the heebie-jeebies. Just a little kick, is all.

What’s an albino? Albinism is a pigment disorder. You know, the color of your skin and hair? As in I don’t have color. Pale as a sheet.

[Medicine 35] A sharpshooter with albinism? Isn’t your vision affected? Done your homework, huh? Well, these big, bad sunglasses aren’t just for intimidation, doc. They only come off when I sleep. Sucks enough being photosensitive in the goddamn desert, but like I said. I’m a lot better at night.

What’s your real name? (the thousandth time she’s answered this exact question) If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.

Aw, come on. Curiosity killed the courier. Don’t push it.

[Speech 40] I’m just trying to understand my partner better. Then “understand” that I don’t owe you shit except loyalty. Just call me Ghost, and you’ll get that.

[Cherchez La Femme] Surely you’ve got a name to match that lovely personality. (flustered) Are you d-...I-...Yeah, I do.But you can just keep calling me Ghost. (quietly) For...for now.

What’s the deal with Ranger Jackson? Man hasn’t got a thought in his fucking head...which is why he’s such a good C.O., from the top down. He’s a nice enough guy on a good day. He’s...principled, for sure. But the man wouldn’t budge on an order from brass if it’d save his life. Stranded caravaneers get so bored and restless because of the impasse he’s overseeing that he’s started (excessive emphasis) “hiring” the rowdier ones for odd jobs off the grounds, which is why we’ve been “losing” supplies for a while. Gets shit done, I guess, but wish he’d show half that drive when bitching to HQ, but no. They tell him to sit tight, he says yes sir, and then he takes it out on us when we get frustrated at the frustrating bullshit.

Do you know Major Knight? (standoffish) Yeah. Good guy. Known him a while. Hell, he’s been at M.O. longer than I have.

What does he do? Repairs, mostly. With all the caravans backed up, we sort of have a monopoly on maintenance and upkeep. And believe me, he does damn fine work.

[Confirmed Bachelor] Is he...you know…? Is he...oh. Between you and me? Yeah. He and I are...alike. I mean, I’m the bitch everybody hates, so I don’t really give a shit, but beneath that…(thinking how best to describe him, ribbing him a bit)...accountant exterior of his, he’s really the soft, sensitive type. Needs someone to talk to sometimes. I’m that someone, sometimes, but if you get the chance...it’d do him good just to know he’s not that alone out here.

How can I best use your skills? Hard to find a way that’d be worse than all the wasted time at M.O., but I’ll make it easy for you: give me a target and let me shoot it. If it’s too close to shoot, I’m trained in hand-to-hand, and if it’s too far to shoot, it’ll never see me coming. Standard repertoire for a ranger.

What’s your opinion on the NCR? High enough to keep me enlisted, low enough to where I’ve got plenty to mock. We’re a good country, a damn good country. We’re the only real country actually left in the West. We’d be the best thing to ever crawl out of the bombed-out ruins of this war if it weren’t for all the bureaucratic bullshit, and the brass getting duller the higher you go. It’s all just song and dance and sloganeering to them out here. Whatever looks good on paper. They don’t give a shit what really happens to people out here, and if Caesar doesn’t kill us, that might. At least on the inside.

What’s it like being a ranger? Ranger training is the best, most brutal gauntlet this side of the Colorado. Hours and hours of days and days spent shooting, drilling, fighting, bringing the body to its breaking points, pouring blood and sweat just to get an inch past the wide-eye hopefuls who were always going to just wash out...and all of it just to stand on a fucking rooftop staring at ants and malnourished raiders on the interstate. I swear, if you gave headquarters a golden egg, they’d fucking cook it.

Were you at the battle of Hoover Dam? Was going to be, but believe it or not, I sat out sick. Got the fucking flu right before and was stuck at McCarran the whole time, half-lucid. Let me tell you, the whole tent of coughs and sneezes crowding around that radio, listening to the reports...when Hanlon ordered that retreat out of Boulder City, we were grabbing our rifles and getting ready to march out on foot, even if we could barely stand. We thought that was it. Of course, it wasn’t, and we cheered so loud when they radioed about the explosion that I hope Caesar damn well heard it.

Do you wish that you had been there? Of course I do. If I miss the next one because I’m stuck at the Outpost or some shit, I’m deserting with a dozen fed-up caravaneers to flank his fucking fort myself, if only for some goddamn excitement.

How do you feel about the Legion? Love ‘em. Joined the NCR because I just wanted to meet them that bad. Their new Legate’s such a heartthrob, I hear.

You’re not serious. (sucks teeth, deep sigh) Look. You saw Nipton. It was just a taste of what they do. I’ve seen good men die on crosses, and that’s a mercy compared to the good women. I hear when women sign up now, they get about five extra “are you sures?” from recruiters. Not officially, of course. Brass would never let people back home know how bad it is. But it’s just another thing that makes me glad I’m a sniper, sometimes. Engage at range. Out of reach.

What about Legion society? Do you know anything about life across the river? There’s nothing across that river. Nothing. (beat, pondering) Do you remember the Enclave War? Bitter, bloody, big explosion at Navarro? And the Brotherhood campaign out here? Even worse of a shitshow, but still, we won that out, too. But the Enclave and the Brotherhood at least stood for something. They were societies, or at least promises of one, and if things had shaken out the other way for the NCR at least something would still be standing here. The Legion isn’t like that. They aren’t “something.” They’re one big razor across Arizona, shaving everything down. And if we don’t stop them here, we never will.

What about their Legate? (with contempt) Lanius, “The Monster of the East.” Caesar must’ve plucked him out of hell or something after his first legate blew it at Hoover Dam. Word from recon is that the only reason we’re all still twiddling our thumbs there is that he’s out making friends for Caesar someplace, and he’ll be bringing them all back for a whole ‘nother goddamn jamboree soon. (tension broken by a funny thought; spoken dryly) Or should I say a Damboree. Since it’d be at the Dam.

Do you know anything about Mr. House? No. Closest I’ve ever been to the Strip has been McCarran, where I was too proud to get wasted on expensive booze in the casinos. As punishment, I got stuck with nothing to do but get shitfaced on cheap booze at the outpost. All I know is Mr. House runs the whole Strip himself, and there’s one casino, the Lucky 36 or something, that’s supposed to be all his. No one’s allowed in, no one’s ever come out. Frankly? Just strikes me as fucking weird.

Companion Quest: Giving Up the Ghost

After completing the sidequest “Eyes On the Prize” (in which the Courier checks Nipton for survivors), Ghost will remark that the Mojave’s going to hell, and all she can do is sit and watch. The Courier will reply that she ought to stop watching and travel with them, to which she’ll respond that her orders are absolute—but if the courier can change her orders somehow, she’d be indebted. The quest then begins.

= = = Stage 1: Deal with Jackson = = =

First, the Courier must speak to Ranger Jackson and convince him to consider Ghost’s reassignment. They can do this through the following dialogue options:

[Speech 80] This outpost is just waiting to be overrun by Legion. You’ll be the next Nipton unless you’re proactive.

[Speech 55; completed “Can’t You Find It In Your Heart” beforehand] Maybe I could tell your superiors about where I “found” these “lost” supplies, then.

[Barter 80] Ghost is an exceptional asset to the rangers. Stationing her here is a waste of valuable NCR resources.

[NCR Fame] There’s work to be done for the NCR out there, and Ghost is who I trust to do it with me.

[Black Widow] I’ve ways of making men come around...especially handsome men in uniform. (The Courier must then sleep with Ranger Jackson)

Note that the Courier can not simply complete the quest “Can’t You Find It In Your Heart?” as a favor to Jackson for Ghost’s reassignment. While he’ll let a caravaneer go, it’ll take more than clearing some ants from the road to get him to compromise his standing force and let go of a ranger. 

Alternatively, Jackson’s death will advance the quest.

Kill Jackson. Similar to Cass’ companion quest, Jackson can simply be killed. However, Ghost is far less sympathetic to this course of action and will confront the Courier over the murder. If Jackson is simply killed, the Courier will either need a convincing alibi [Speech 90] to argue that they weren’t responsible or admit to the murder. If the Courier fails the Speech check or admits to the murder, Ghost will turn hostile (“Maybe you didn’t fucking think this through, but do you know what we call someone who kills an NCR ranger? An enemy of the NCR rangers. Now, eat shit.”). Alternatively, the Courier can intimidate Ghost into silence with a [Terrifying Presence] option, after which a shaken but seething Ghost will simply ask the Courier to leave the outpost and never come back. Passing the Speech check is the way to not fail the quest from this option.

Kill Jackson and frame Cass. If the Courier kills Jackson themself, attempting to loot Jackson’s body will trigger a message suggesting that they could frame Cass for the murder by splashing whiskey on the body (so long as Cass is not currently the player’s companion and is currently at the Mojave Outpost, not the Lucky 38). By adding a whiskey bottle to Jackson’s body without themself or the body being discovered in the meantime, they can successfully implicate Cass for the murder, and explain as much to Ghost. She’ll buy it, since Cass was one of the most frustrated residents of the outpost and was drunk almost all the time. Cass will then disappear from the game, and if Lacey, Major Knight, or Ghost (if the Courier left the outpost before speaking to her again) are asked, they will explain that Cass was arrested by the NCR.

Have someone else kill Jackson. A desperate, fed-up caravaneer named Paul by the brahmin pens is willing to kill Jackson for 5,500 caps. This price can be negotiated down to 4,000 with a [Barter 60] check, and 3,500 with [Barter 75]. At midnight that night, Paul will attempt to sneakily kill Jackson. Alternatively, Paul can be incensed into attacking Jackson immediately and for free with a [Hot Blooded] trait check. In either case, though, there is no guarantee that Paul will succeed, and if Paul is killed then the Courier must advance the quest another way (though they can loot their spent caps from Paul’s body). When spoken to afterwards, Ghost will remark that she saw the Courier speaking to Paul and ask if they had anything to do with it. By passing a [Speech 50] check, the Courier can convincingly lie that they were trying to talk him out of it. With either the [Black Widow] or [Cherchez la Femme] perks, the Courier can lie and say that Paul very foolishly did it to try to impress them. With [Low Intelligence] the Courier can earnestly say that they thought “taking care” of Jackson meant doing something nice for him.

Somehow allow Jackson to die. If Jackson just somehow dies in an unaccounted way, such as from a spawned-in deathclaw eviscerating him in his own office, Ghost will remark on the strangeness of the situation but won’t blame the Courier. This is a failsafe option to prevent quest breakage.

= = = Stage 2: Find a Replacement = = =

If Jackson is alive, he’ll agree with the Courier that he ought to let Ghost go, but he’s still under orders to maintain a standing force at Mojave—a standing force which includes a highly trained sniper. If Jackson has been killed, Ghost will mention that Major Knight is next in command and would be glad to give her clearance, but that he won’t be able to do so without a replacement sniper, either. Either way, the Courier is tasked with finding a suitable replacement. The Courier can ask her for advice:

Who should I look for to be your replacement? They have to be NCR, obviously. Ex-NCR might work, too, so long as they’re in good standing. Any Dick or Jane off the road is a no-go, since brass put the kibosh on officially contracting mercenaries. Oh, and anyone you get would have to be well-trained. Not necessarily a ranger, but good enough to replace one, even for a sit-on-the-shitter job like this. Only the best and brightest get to stare at this fucking road all day, apparently.

Where should I look for your replacement? If you checked out some of the ranger stations around the Mojave, they might be able to move some people around. Hell, take it all the way to McCarran if you want, or with Hanlon. If you’re going to give them shit on my behalf, by all means, go nuts. A lot of higher-ups can be greased with enough favors, anyway. Whoever you get just needs the right credentials. Legion attacks get dragged asses and twiddled thumbs, sure, but bad paperwork would set a goddamn fire at headquarters.

The following characters can be recruited as the Mojave Outpost’s new watch:

A generic ranger. By speaking to the commanding officers of at least three of the NCR ranger camps across the Mojave with sufficient [NCR Fame], the Courier can speak to Chief Hanlon to arrange for Ghost’s replacement with a generic ranger. This option is impossible if “Return to Sender” has already been completed.

Craig Boone. If the Courier has completed “I Forgot to Remember to Forget” in a way that makes Boone repentant over his past, he can be persuaded to take over Ghost’s position as a good way to put his skills to use. Otherwise, he will refuse, either preferring to stay in Novac where he lived with Carla or not wanting to be stuck as a watchman again when he could be out killing Legionnaires. If selected, Boone’s home marker will change from Novac to the Mojave Outpost.

Manny Vargas. Novac’s other sniper can be convinced to take up Ghost’s post, but only if the Courier has completed “One For My Baby,” “Come Fly With Me,” and eradicated the Legion presence from Nelson. Once convinced that Novac seems safe, for now, he’ll be willing to reenlist if paid a generous salary. The Courier can either pay Manny 5,000 caps to reenlist now, pass a [Barter 65] check to explain that it’s a provisional reenlistment and reduce their bribe to 3,000, or if the Courier has already passed the [Confirmed Bachelor] check in dialogue with Knight, they can tell Manny about the cute little major sitting behind the desk all day there by his lonesome. Once convinced, Manny will relocate to the Mojave Outpost and take Ghost’s place.

Bryce Anders. This keen-eyed ranger can be recruited to Ghost’s position if he is rescued from the Vault 3 Fiends by the Courier. Once spoken with in Camp McCarran, the Courier can explain that the Mojave Outpost needs a new ranger stationed there. He will defer to Colonel Hsu’s authority on reassignments, and with a successful [Speech 60], [Medicine 40], or [NCR Fame] check, Hsu will agree to the reassignment on the grounds that it’s a useful position still sedentary enough to not complicate the ranger’s recovery.

Little Buster. The listless bounty hunter at Camp McCarran is looking for another career path and would be willing to take over Ghost’s do-nothing position. However, the only way to recruit him is to fabricate both credentials and enlistment records by either stealing personnel files from either Colonel Hsu’s office at Camp McCarran or from the filing cabinets at Camp Golf, or speaking to Daniel Contreras, who “knows a guy” who’ll take care of it if the Courier has already acquired access to Contreras' expanded inventory by siding with him in the unmarked quest “Dealing with Contreras.”

Private Halford. The sole survivor of Camp Guardian mentions that he wants to head back home through Mojave Outpost after being rescued from the mirelurk caves, at which point the Courier can mention no one is allowed to leave through there, and ask if he’d like to take Ghost’s position there instead. At first he’ll refuse, but with a [Speech 45] or [NCR Fame] check he can be convinced that a quiet, do-nothing watch assignment would be a lot better than anything else after what happened at Camp Guardian, to which he’ll agree. He will also relocate to the Mojave Outpost after being freed anyway, getting stuck like everyone else so that the speech check can be re-attempted. However, Halford isn’t considered well-trained enough for a ranger’s job. The Courier must speak to Jackson (or Knight, if Jackson is dead) and pass a [Speech 80] or [NCR Fame] check to make a strong endorsement, or a [Survival 55] check to explain how impressive it is that he survived an attack from so many mirelurks. Alternatively, the Courier can fabricate impressive enough credentials through the options required to assign Little Buster.

Once Ghost’s replacement has been assigned to the Mojave Outpost, the Courier only needs to speak to Ghost again. She will explain that she’s been “reassigned” to open patrol across the Mojave, ostensibly to track Legion activity, so long as she does so with the Courier. She also gains an additional dialogue option dependent on your choice of replacement:

What do you think of your replacement?

(Generic ranger) For this job? Any ranger’s as wasted as any other. I almost feel bad, I doubt she’ll like that fucking roof any more than I did...almost feel bad. Doesn’t quite cancel out the relief.

(Boone) First recon is one hell of a pull. Took right to it, too, like he was already used to it. Strikes me as the...quiet, contemplative type. Likes to think. Not much else to do up there, anyway. I bet those brahmin pins have never felt safer.

(Manny) First recon is one hell of a pull. Took right to it, too, like he was already used to it. Seems like a nice enough guy, and seems to be getting along with Major Knight. Hell, you love to see it.

(Bryce) A good man. Heard about what the Fiends did to him, and after all that, he certainly deserves a break. Didn’t think of this shit job as much of a vacation before, but seems like it’ll do him good.

(Buster) Not sure where the hell you found this guy, but if (Jackson / Knight) gave the okay, then...okay. I would’ve put a goddamn brahmin in a beret up there if it could have gotten me another assignment.

(Halford) The mirelurk guy? Yeah, he seems alright. I’ve never actually seen a mirelurk, but after hearing his story, I don’t think I want to. I didn’t even know we had a camp that far up there.

Speaking to Ghost after her replacement takes her position completes the quest, and from then on, she can now be recruited as a companion. However, similar to Boone, she will only remain the Courier’s companion if they maintain good reputation with the NCR, and as an active-duty ranger, her intolerance for anti-NCR actions is even more strict.

Ending Slides

If "Giving Up the Ghost” is started, but never completed:

NCR Victory. Ranger Ghost remained at Mojave Outpost, dutifully, thanklessly, and restlessly. When the rangers there received word that the Legion had made their move on the dam, the entire outpost went silent. Waiting. From her rooftop perch, at least she was the first to see the bearer of good news come up the road. In the moment, at least, it was worth everything to be there.

Legion, House, or Independent Victory. Ranger Ghost remained at Mojave Outpost, dutifully, thanklessly, and restlessly. When the rangers there received word that the Legion had made their move on the dam, the entire outpost went silent. Waiting. From her rooftop perch, she was the first to see the NCR’s retreat, as civilians and troopers alike began fleeing through the Long 15. She was right: this whole time, all she could do was watch.

Ghost is dead. Ghost, bitterly, died as she lived...(deep sigh) at the Mojave fucking Outpost.

If “Giving Up the Ghost” is completed:

NCR Victory: When legionnaires by the score descended upon Hoover Dam, Ghost was proud to have been one of the many rangers in the battle that kicked their shit in back across the Colorado. She celebrated with the rest of them, even a smile creeping onto her face every now and then. Still, Ghost returned to business before long, as part of a squad out East tracking down the straggling remnants of Caesar’s retreating Legion.

Legion Victory: Ghost was among the many rangers who fought at Hoover Dam, but when the army of legionnaires led by the Courier, to whom she owed her very presence there, proved unstoppable, she was ultimately among its many casualties. Their advance was too sudden, too overwhelming, for a clean evacuation, and a grisly duel with a centurion trapped her near the front. Still, the Legion never took Ghost alive. She made sure of it.

House or Independent Victory: The arrival of the Securitrons at Hoover Dam was a surprise to every NCR trooper stationed there, including Ghost. Their sudden turn against the NCR, and their allegiance to the Courier, even more so. The triumph of vanquishing the Legion was short-lived, then, as Ghost joined the forced retreat, one pale face in a sea of many. 

Ghost is dead: Despite her name, there was no supernatural flourish when Ghost died. She simply died like a ranger, fighting to the end. That’s all that mattered.

(Bonus) Cass’s Ending Slide if the Courier frames her for the murder of Jackson:

Rose of Sharon Cassidy spent all of her time at the Mojave Outpost in a drunken stupor, which is why when Major Knight oversaw her arrest for the murder of Ranger Jackson, it took so long to get exonerated. By the time the alibi was pieced together and the evidence was admitted as circumstantial, the battle of Hoover Dam shifted NCR’s attention elsewhere, and the crime was never solved. For a few months in the clink, though, at least Cass got what she wanted: home, and finally away from the outpost.

[abaikgirl]

7 FOR VILLAIN NIGHTEYE AAAA

Send me a number and a ship for a Friendly Fighting drabble

Ok this one kind of got away from me and I think it’s probably going to be the official sequel to “Lovers at Sunrise, Enemies at Nightfall”, so thank you so much for sending the prompt!

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

The relationship between Toshinori and Mirai had been complicated for a while. With one of them devoting their life to saving people through vigilante heroics and the other convinced killing was far more effective, it was inevitable that they would implode. 

At first the arguments weren't so bad. Sure, Toshinori was naive and idealistic and Mirai was stubborn and cynical and they would shout and argue for hours, but the make up sex was amazing enough that even those disagreements seemed worth it.

After several months of this, the rosy haze of the new relationship wore off and the arguments had stopped being foreplay and just became arguments. 

It was unclear who was the most foolish that night; Toshinori for asking what Mirai intended to do to his latest target or Mirai for telling him.

"You don't have any right to act as judge, jury, and executioner," Toshinori said.

"Well all three of those have failed this woman, but if you want me to sit back and let her husband beat her to death, I'll be more than happy to comply."

"That's not what I mean. You could report him or arrest him or hell, just scare him a bit."

"All of those routes have been exhausted, Toshi. How do you think I even knew about the case?" 

They were in Toshinori’s apartment and the remnants of their dinner were growing cold on the table. Mirai pushed the food around his plate, anxious to have something else to focus on rather than his rising frustration. 

"I can't let you keep going out there and killing people just because you've decided that's what they deserve. There are laws for a reason."

Mirai scoffed. "Laws? Really? The ones you break every day with your vigilante escapades? Or the ones that ruled a quirkless could never be a hero? Are those the just and fair rules you're referring to?"

Toshinori’s cheeks were red with rage and embarrassment. Mirai knew he would regret the low blow of bringing up his quirklessness and lost dreams, but in the moment he didn’t care.

"You know what I mean," Toshinori began.

"Yes I do. You mean your idealistic bullshit that dictates that if we just believe in people they'll do the right thing." He stood slamming his hands on the table. "Well wake up Toshinori, and stop acting like the people you save wouldn’t turn on you the second they learned of your quirk status--"

"Get out!" Toshinori shouted, standing up so fast he almost knocked the table over. The sound of it scraping on the floor was enough to make Mirai recoil from him. "Out, now!”

So, Mirai had left and for a few weeks they didn't speak to each other. Mirai knew he had crossed a line bringing up his quirk status and Toshinori knew he shouldn’t have yelled at him, but neither of them broke the silence.

Nightfall had been steering clear of the areas All Might patrolled, trying to avoid running into his probably-ex-boyfriend while he was working. Tonight however he found himself on top of an apartment building right around the area All Might was usually patrolling. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was lonely. He was tired waking up in the night and reaching for Toshinori only to find empty sheets and even if it was from afar, he wanted to see him again. 

It didn’t take long for All Might to appear. His apprentice Midoriya trailed after him, the little tails on the top of his mask waving in the wind. The mask was clearly meant to imitate the way All Might styled his bangs up into a V, but it only made him look like an enthusiastic bunny. 

Midoriya knew they were fighting. He had even gone as far as showing up at Mirai’s apartment, determined to talk him into resolving. Usually, Mirai enjoyed Midoriya’s company. Occasionally, when he was rambling on about his quirk analysis or recounting one of Toshinori’s many heroic acts, Mirai would muse that if he had Toshinori were able to have a child, he would probably be like Midoriya. He was idealistic, quirkless, and noble like Toshinori, but with Mirai’s green hair and sharp eye for detail.

The day that he had turned up on Mirai’s doorstep, he had felt a rush of sadness at the sight of him. He had missed him, even if it had only been a few weeks. His pride made him force the emotion down and cover it with a cold glare. 

Midoriya had stammered and stuttered his way through what was clearly a pre-prepared statement, telling Mirai that he and All Might missed him and he knew they disagreed on a lot of things but relationships were about compromise and if Mirai would just talk to All Might he was sure that everything would work out. 

Mirai had waited for him to finish before declaring he’d had enough of quirkless vigilantes to last a lifetime and slammed the door. 

Watching Midoriya bound after All Might like an eager bunny made Nightfall feel guilty for being so harsh with him. Maybe he could make it up to him somehow when he and All Might resolved. 

If they resolved. 

Down on the street, All Might was oblivious of Nightfall’s watchful eye and continued his patrol. Midoriya stayed close, scribbling in his notebook as they walked. They had stopped a purse snatcher a few blocks back with a highly unusual mutation quirk and Midoriya was rushing to document it. He was so absorbed in his writing, All Might had to steer him to the right to keep him from walking into a trashcan. 

“Make sure you’re paying attention to your surroundings,” he chided him. 

“Right! Sorry All Might,” Midoriya replied. 

There was an explosion and they both jumped, looking towards the smoking building. “Let’s go!” 

All Might and Midoriya ran towards the explosion. All Might didn’t have a quirk, but even with his average strength, he was able to move the rubble aside, clearing a path inside. Midoriya squeezed through first, his small stature making him perfect for getting in without disturbing the rubble. 

“Look for survivors,” All Might ordered. “And be careful moving anyone that looks like they might be in shock!”

“I’m on it.” 

All Might moved another large slab of concrete to make room for him to be able to get in as well. Just as he put it down, someone punched him in the face. All Might stumbled, tasting blood. He looked up and saw a man with a shaved head glaring at him. 

“You stay out of this,” he barked. “These people deserve to die.”

All Might grabbed him, throwing him into the remaining wall. The man swung at him, making All Might back away. 

“All Might!”

The struggling men paused and turned to see Midoriya. He stood there with a woman leaning against him, her face bloody. 

“Get out of here,” All Might yelled.

The man growled and put his hand to the wall. There was a slight glow from his palm and then it exploded.

The dust was still settling when All Might regained his bearings. He cast around. “Midoriya?” he called. “Midoriya! Where are you?”

There was a weak cough and he saw a tuft of green hair peeking out from the rubble. Running to him, he started to frantically dig him out. He whined in pain. “All...Might?”

“I’m here. It’s going to be ok. Just stay awake.”

“The lady...is she alright?”

Toshinori wanted to laugh and sob at the same time. Of course Midoriya was worried about everyone except himself. He cast around and saw the woman lying on the ground not too far from them. Midoriya must have thrown her out of the way before the building fell on them. 

“She’s fine, thanks to you.”

“Not for long.” 

All Might looked up and saw the man standing over them. He extended his palm towards All Might, that faint glow lighting up his palm again. “I’ll kill you both and then her.”

There was a flash of metal and his hand was cut off with one swipe. Screaming in pain he turned around to face his new attacker. 

Nightfall scowled behind his helmet. “Takahiro Tanimoto, quirk Explosion Touch. You were evicted from this apartment three months ago, I believe?” Nightfall had seen the eviction and harassment reports at work. He never forgot a face, especially not when the person wearing that face was attempting to kill two of the most important people in his life.

He raised his katana, the blade still dripping with Tanimoto’s blood. “You stay away from them or you’re going to lose more than your hand.”

Tanimoto grabbed at him with his remaining hand and Nightfall easily dodged. While they fought, All Might continued to dig Midoriya out. He was limp in his arms, blood splattered across his face. 

Head wounds bleed more than other cuts, he told himself. He’ll probably be fine. I just need to get him out of here.

He picked up him and the woman, carrying them towards the street. The wail of an ambulance could be heard in the distance. 

Seeing his prey getting away, Tanimoto kicked Nightfall in the gut and ran after them. Nightfall had been trying to avoid killing him, but seeing him lunge for All Might and Midoriya, he threw that precaution out the window. 

He stabbed him through his back, slicing right through his heart.

“I warned you,” Nightfall growled, watching Tanimoto crumple to the ground with a twinge of satisfaction. 

The moment Nightfall heard the explosion he called an ambulance. Thanks to his recaution, one arrived on scene before Tanimoto’s blood had even cooled. 

All Might hovered at the edge of the scene, trying to get in the ambulance with Midoriya when they loaded him up. “I’m sorry, sir,” the paramedic said. “Family only.”

“But he’s...of course.”

They told him which hospital he would be at and sped off. All Might felt his knees go weak as he watched the lights fade. Would he be alright? This was all his fault. If he died because of his carelessness…

His legs gave out and strong arms wrapped around him, holding him steady. “Don’t go passing out on me, Toshi.”

He turned and saw Mirai looking up at him. He’d discarded his helmet and katana, stashing them behind a dumpster before the authorities arrived to avoid suspicion. His green hair was ruffled and a few strands of it clung to the sweat on his forehead. 

Toshinori had never been so happy to see him. His eyes stung with tears and he struggled to find his voice. Mirai didn’t wait for a response. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

He leaned against Mirai while he retrieved his weapon and helmet and they walked back to Toshinori’s apartment together. He collapsed on the couch as soon as they entered. 

Mirai remained standing. “I’m sure he’ll be alright,” he said at last. 

His words broke the emotional dam Toshinori had built up and he began to cry. “He was only there because he’s trying to be like me. He’s so strong and kind and he should have never been there in the first place. What if he doesn’t...what if he…”

His words failed him and he sobbed helplessly into his hands. 

It was startling to see him like this. In all their time together, Mirai had never seen him break down. Toshinori was always strong, always smiling, no matter how bad things got. 

Mirai pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into Toshinori’s hands. 

“Look, I know things are… complicated between us right now, but I really don’t want to leave you crying alone. Do you want me to sit with you?”

Toshinori sniffed. “…. Please.”

Mirai sat next to him, looping his long arm around Toshinori’s broad shoulders. His large body shook as he cried, Mirai’s handkerchief quickly becoming soaked with tears and snot. Mirai rested his head on Toshinori’s shoulder, listening to his choked crying for a long moment. 

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Mirai said at last. “Midoriya is the kind of boy that would have been running into danger with or without your influence. He was lucky you were there today.”

Toshinori blew his nose with a loud honk. “We were both lucky you were there too.” He reached for Mirai’s other hand that was resting on his thigh. 

Mirai relaxed into him, breathing in his familiar scent. “Tanimoto wasn’t.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Aren’t you mad that I killed him?”

“It was self defense. He would have killed all three of us if you hadn’t stopped him.”

“Probably.” He rubbed Toshinori’s back, his hand tracing firm, comforting circles into his skin. “I’m sure Midoriya will be alright. His injuries didn’t look fatal. You can trust me on that, since I am an expert on fatal injuries.”

His joke drew a laugh out of Toshinori. “Right, I guess you are.” He lifted their intertwined hands and kissed his palm. “Sorry for throwing you out.”

“I deserved it.”

“I mean it…”

“So do I. I shouldn’t have said those things.” He pulled his hand from Toshinori’s grip to wipe the last of his tears. Toshinori leaned into his hand. He’d missed his touch, his soothing voice in his ear to ease him to sleep. 

“You should get some rest,” Mirai said. “Visiting hours aren’t for another few hours.”

He stood and Toshinori grabbed his sleeve. “Stay?”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“You won’t. Stay and come with me to see Midoriya tomorrow.” He gave him a tearful smile. “Someone needs to protect me from his mother. She’s going to kill me when she finds out I was involved.”

Mirai felt warmth bloom in his chest. “Alright. I’ll stay. After all, I need to apologize to Midoriya.”

“For what?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

[britbritwrites]

Dr. Robotnik’s reaction to his child being bullied

(A/N: Y’all have no idea how much I love this man and was excited to write for him 😫😫😂😂 Well, here it is! Enjoy!)

-LISTEN Y’all!

-Robotnik may not be the nicest person in the world

-CoughCoughHeCanBeAnAssholeCoughCough

-(I love that man but it’s it’s true *shrugs*)

-BUT When it comes to his kids, the sweet, soft side in him that he doesn’t want anyone to see jumps right out!

-He DOES NOT PLAY about them!

-Like he’s very protective of them

-He doesn’t always have the best parenting skills

-But the man tries his best 

-He had a terrible upbringing as a child and he was gonna make sure that his child had an amazing childhood that he wanted to have growing up

-ANYWAYS!

-Right now, the child is 8 years old

-When he found out that his child was being bullied at school by two older kids, He was LIVID

-The child had come home with a black eye, crying and telling him what had happened, and let me tell y’all something…..

-He was ready to RAISE HELL

-He was bullied by punks just like them as a kid and he’d BE DAMNED if he’d let that happen to his child

-At first, his child told him not to do anything because they don’t want to make the whole situation worse than it already is and to go talk the school instead

-(Not that they would do much about it though but still)

-But NOPE! This is personal for Robotnik!

-He wanted to face those little gremlins himself

-Nobody hurts his child and thinks they can get away with it

-NO MA’AM!

-OOOH Boy! Were they in for something they won’t expect

-“Don’t worry, I will handle this! And I’ll make sure they’ll never hurt you again!”

-He asks the name of the boys and what they look like

-The child tells him all the details and Robotnik is absolutely satisfied

-(Not as satisfied he will be when he gets his hands on those little devils)

-He then tells Agent Stone watch over his child while he goes out and finds the boys so he can teach them a lesson they will never forget

-When he finally found the boys, they were playing basketball and whatever

-They looked about 14 or 15 years old

-They were older than his child, so the fact that they felt the need to bully someone younger and smaller than them knowing they can’t fight back really made his blood boil

-Wooo! Was he gonna have a great time dealing with those two and he was gonna MAKE SURE that they would be taught a lesson they’d never forget

-When he had confronted the boys about what had happened between them and his kid

-Unsurprisingly, these boys were being difficult, they refused to apologize about what they did to his kid and give the money back

-In response, they not only laughed and insulted Robotnik over defending his kid

-But also insulted his kid in front of him, thinking Robotnik wouldn’t do anything about it

-THAT DID IT!

-He done HAD ENOUGH of their bullshit

-So without hesitation, He bought in his drones

-And guess what?

-Those boys nearly crapped in their pants when they saw them

-And BOY Robotnik was enjoying this!

-It brought back memories on how he got revenge on his bully back in grade school for humiliating him and he felt like he was reliving it all over again except he was doing it for someone he truly cared about.

-And he loved it!

-He kept shooting at their feet and it made them look like they were dancing

-Robotnik was found it so hilarious, he was having the time of his life

-He wished he had a camera right now

-The boys got terrified and even started crying like little babies

-“Pathetic!” He says. “Absolutely pathetic!”

-It was, actually. They made a kid cry and took what belongs to them because they wanted to feel cool, now they’re the ones who’re crying now that they got a taste of their own medicine

-They eventually had enough and begged and gave in, apologizing and giving the money back

-“Thank you for giving my child’s money back but it is not me you should be apologizing to”

-Robotnik dragged the boys back to his home, made them face his child that they had hurt. They apologized to them and the child accepted their apology.

-Before he let the boys go, he gave them a glare and told them…….

-“If I ever hear that you’ve both have been bullying my child, I’ll make sure your pathetic little lives are ruined for good. Are we clear, gentlemen?”

-They nodded and sobbed, tears streaming down their faces.

-“N-no sir! We won’t do again, we promise!”

-“Good, now go on! Run home to your mommies” He mocked them.

-After that, the child happily jumped into his arms and hugged him. -They had the most biggest and happiest, yet adorable smile you could ever imagine

-A smile that could stop an entire war

-A smile that would melt the hearts of even the most evil villain in the world

-And one thing for sure did melt Robotnik’s

-“Thank you so much daddy for doing that for me, I love you so sooo much!”

-His heart especially melts every time his child tells him that he loves him

-He needed to hear that growing up and he’s happy it comes from someone he truly cares about

-As for those two boys?

-Let’s just say they’re scared as hell after that little encounter and never messed with Robotnik’s kid again

-In fact!

-They stopped being mean to them and even started being a nice to them every time they saw them

-They’re now scared shitless of Robotnik now and realized he’s not to be messed with AT ALL!

-Moral of the story?

-NEVER mess with Robotnik’s kid! Otherwise, you would face the wrath of his drones!

-PERIOD!

[lightsburnbrite]

Things We Do for Love: Part 15

Third part to Such a Thrill and The Devil is in the Details

Karina stood next to Leon, clutching his arm, as they waited for the valet to bring her car around. He helped her into the passenger seat before getting behind the wheel, glancing over at her and smiling. "I think you're drunk, Maus."

"I think you might be right, sir." Karina giggled. "But the Moët was so good."

Karina practically sunk down in her seat, a giddy smile on her face. "God, I needed this. Thank you so much, Baby."

"Well," Leon caught her eye and smirked. "You know how you can thank me."

"Pull over right now and I will suck you dry." Karina kept such a serious tone that Leon's eyes widened for just a moment thinking that she was actually serious until she burst out laughing.

He glanced over again at her and just shook his head. "We've got all night, ok? Can you wait like 20 more minutes?"

"Ugh, fine!" Karina pretended to groan as she flung her arm over her forehead.

Leon didn't even bother to pull into the garage, choking instead to pull into the carriage loop and park right by the front door. He hopped out and opened Karina's door for her, offering his arm for support.

"You, sir, are the best husband I could have ever asked for." She nearly lost her footing only for Leon to catch her.

"Well, shit, Maus." He laughed as he put an arm around her waist to steady her. "Apparently I just need to keep you fed and laid and you're happy."

"I am a simple girl!" Karina's voice was almost sing song as they walked through the front door but she stopped as soon as she realized that Samantha and Marius were waiting for them.

"We need to have a discussion." Samantha stood and gestured to the sofa across from her. "Please, sit."

Karina audibly scoffed at the though of being invited to take a seat in her own house but her brain wasn't moving fast enough to come up with a witty remark. She sat down next to Leon and immediately leaned into him as he rested his arm around her, soliciting an eye roll from Marius.

"Karina, I can't have you showing me up at my own wedding." Samantha sat straight as a pin but then softened her shoulders as if she didn't want to appear to harsh.

Karina let out a laugh that was closer to a cackle before she put a hand up to her mouth to stop herself. Instead of responding, she smiled as Leon took over. "Why do you think she would show you up?"

With a frown, Samantha seemed to think it was obvious and was flustered that she would even need to explain it. "Her outfit tonight costs over €9,000 between the McQueen dress and the clutch, her Louboutin shoes, the Gucci coat. I'm not even taking jewelry in to consideration. I can't afford haute couture and I don't want her looking better than me on my wedding day."

Samantha paused as if she was expecting some sort of stronger reaction other than Karina's bewildered expression. Pressing her lips together, she continued. "I've decided that I'll pick out a handful of appropriate outfits for you to choose from-"

Karina laughed again before holding up one finger. "Sorry, I'm a little tipsy from dinner. Um, you can pick out all the outfits you want, but we're not coming to your wedding."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. Are you that pussy whipped that you're not going to come to my wedding? You're supposed to be my best friend." Marius stood now and pointed an accusatory finger at Karina. "This is bullshit. You fucking cunt, this is all your fault."

Leon stood to meet him, somehow remaining stoic. "Do you have zero self awareness? It's your own damn fault. I've told you numerous times that I don't like the way you treat Karina and finding out that you were behind your family cutting her out was too much."

"I fucking told you this would happen." Marius jabbed his finger into Leon's chest. 

Grabbing his wrist, Leon gave him a gentle shove back, but it was a warning not to push him any further. "This has nothing to do with Karina. I decided that I wasn't going to your wedding because I'm tired of making sure I don't offend you when I choose to do something with my wife. Your jealousy has gotten out of control."

"I'm not jealous!" Marius shouted back. 

"Then stop acting like it." Leon lowered his voice. "Stop acting like Karina is preventing me from spending time with you. I hate to break it to you but if you're going to make it in to a competition, Karina is going to win. Every single time."

Leon heard Karina sigh from behind him. "Babe, I'm tired, I'm going up to bed."

He walked over to Karina and kissed her cheek. "I'll be up in a few minutes."

"It's honestly bullshit." Marius shook his head again.

With a laugh, Leon shook his head. "You might get it and you might not once you're married but my first priority is my wife. Seeing how you and your fucking parents have just broken her down so much pisses me off beyond belief and I'm not just going to stand by and act like it's ok. Your actions have consequences and now you just have to deal with that. So please pack your shit and be gone after breakfast."

When Leon walked into their bedroom, he found Karina buried under the duvet. He walked over and kissed her forehead before he began undressing.

"Well that killed the mood, didn't it?" Karina didn't attempt to hide her whining.

Leon playfully flung the duvet back so that Karina automatically moved towards him to seek out his warmth. "Oh, I don't know. There's still time."

Karina wrapped her body around his as he gently rubbed her back, stopping to thumb the silk material of her camisole and shorts set. "I like this color on you."

"It's aubergine. Which is a fancy name for eggplant." Karina giggled as he slipped his hand under the crisscrossed back, grazing his fingers along her spine. Eventually the night and the champagne caught up with her and she let out a sigh as she closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder. "I love you, Leon."

Leon leaned over and kissed the top of her head, continuing to caress her back. "Love you too, Maus."

Karina had been silent for so long that Leon had thought she'd fallen asleep when she spoke again, it startled him. "Do you remember when we first talked about having kids and I said that I just didn't want to be a mother?"

"Yeah?" He wondered where she was going with this. "If we're being honest, that always surprised me because of how great your are with other people's kids."

She sighed again. "It always terrified me that I would end up treating my own children the way my mother treats me so I thought it would just be easier to not have kids."

Leon hesitated for a moment. "You know that's not true, right? You are empathetic and compassionate and you've been nothing short of sweet and nurturing when we've watched my sister's kids."

When Karina didn't respond, he continued. "I still stand by whatever your decision is but I think you would make a wonderful mother."

She remained silent. "Maus?"

"I'm about due to have my implant replaced." He felt her swallow. "I guess I was just curious how strongly you felt about being a father."

He draped his arm around her and gave a gentle squeeze. "It's whatever you want, just as long as I get to keep you."

"Do you really think I'd make a good mother?" Karina looked up at him, almost fearful of his response.

"Absolutely." He replied without hesitation.

"But?" Karina finished the rest of his thought for him.

"But," He kissed her forehead, "I want you to talk to Dr. Schmidt to see how it would be with your anemia and I think you should talk to Dr. Kattan about your meds. I don't want a baby if it's going to negatively impact your health."

Karina inhaled and nodded but Leon looked back at her earnestly. "I'm serious, Maus. You are the most important thing to me, ok?"

Karina nodded again. "I actually have appointments with both of them next week."

Leon smiled back at her before kissing her again.

It was surprisingly cathartic for Karina to watch her family pack up and leave despite the fact that they were leaving on schedule. Leon had hinted at it, but she had decided that she was going to keep very minimal contact with them moving forward. Leon noticed that once she decided that she didn't have an obligation to them, it really seemed that a weight had been lifted from Karina's shoulders. Although Karina told Leon she didn't want him to avoid Marius on her account, it seemed that Leon's blatant statement that Karina would always come first put a bad taste in his mouth.

Karina walked into the kitchen, where Leon was making coffee, and kissed his on the cheek. "Morning, sir."

"Hey Maus." Leon smiled as he reached out to give her a quick swat on her backside. "You taking the girls into work with you today?"

Taking a mug from him, she shook her head. "Not today, I have an afternoon appointment with Dr. Schmidt so it's just easier to leave them here today."

"Gotcha." Leon's smile grew wider when she mentioned her appointment. "I've got a double session so I'll be home a bit later. Maybe we'll go out tonight?"  

Karina mirrored his smile. "Whatever you'd like."

After kissing Leon goodbye, she went to her wardrobe and picked out a tailored black pinstripe suit to wear with a cream silk camisole. Staring at her shoes, she eventually decided on a pair of neon coral patent leather pumps to add some color. Karina kissed the dogs goodbye as well before making her way to the museum. She smiled to herself, now that she was actually able to drive again, she swore she'd never take it for granted.

Karina walked into her office and sat her bag down when Nena poked her head in.

"Don't forget we've got a board meeting in 15 minutes." She glanced at her watch. "If you need coffee, get it now."

"Right." Karina plastered on a smile. "Of course."

It had been almost a year since she had presented an idea for an exhibition to the board and while she had been toying around with a few things, she had forgotten about this meeting and didn't have an actual proposal to present. Karina slunk into the meeting room and took a seat at the table, hoping that there wouldn't be time for her to be called upon.

"Miss Müller…er, Goretzka? As in the footballer, is that new?"

Karina sat up straighter, hoping to appear as though she was paying attention the entire time. "Yes, I've recently switched to my husband's name."

"Right then," He continued. "Mrs. Goretzka, what have you been able to line up?"

"The Mauritshuis has sent a collection of Jacobus Vrel works which should be arriving next week." She shuffled her papers a bit before proposing something she hadn't run by Nena yet. "There was also the though of something I like to think of as 'Old to New'. That is, why not display some of the Neue Pinakothek's more popular exhibits while its undergoing renovations? Maybe the impressionists?" 

There was a quiet murmur of approval in response and Karina sat back down feeling like she had escaped undue scrutiny.

"Karina?" Nena caught up with her after the meeting. "Karina, I love your old to new idea, can we chat about it over lunch?"

Karina held up a hand in apology. "Maybe tomorrow? I've got a doctor's appointment during my break today."

"Yes, of course." Nena smiled. "I hope nothing serious?"

"No, no. Just routine." Karina smiled, hoping that she didn't come across as nervous as she felt.

She sat in the waiting room, her ankle bouncing while she drummed her fingers on her knee as she waited to be called. 

"Goretzka? Karina Goretzka?"

Karina wanted to laugh to herself as she still hadn't gotten used to hearing her name paired with Leon's. She stood and walked towards the nurse, her finger nails digging into her palms.

When Leon came home, Elsa and Ember were right there to greet him. "Hello, ladies. How have we been today?"

As soon as Karina heard his voice, she walked out to meet Leon as well. "Hey, Baby. How was your day?"

"Not too bad, Maus." Leon pulled Karina in to give her a little kiss. "What about you?"

"The board liked my proposal for a newish exhibit so that was good." She let out a giggle as he pinched her backside while she squirmed away.

Leon smiled proudly at her. "Yeah? How'd your appointment go?"

"Let's..um, discuss that over dinner." Karina smiled and raised her eyebrows hopefully but Leon couldn't quite figure her expression out. "Ok?"

He nodded. "Ok. Do I need to go change? Or…?"

"Nope, you're good." Grabbing his hand, she gave it a little tug as she grabbed her bag. "It's just Toshi."

"Sushi?" Leon smirked. "Ok."

They were seated and had ordered within a few minutes but Leon found he couldn't wait any longer.

"So?" He took a sip of his water and looked back at Karina. "The doctor?"

Karina gave a little nod and parroted what Dr. Schmidt had told her. "While women with iron deficient anemia do need to be monitored more during pregnancies, it's not necessarily a high risk."

The corners of his mouth twitched but Leon did his best to remain neutral while Karina continued.

"I had spoken to Dr. Kattan a few weeks ago about my meds and she actually suggested cutting back to see how I felt." She shrugged as she took a sip of her water. "I've been on a half dose since and I feel fine."

"That's great!" Leon allowed himself to smile now. "So you really are getting better and it's not just because of the meds."

Karina smiled too because she loved that Leon was genuinely concerned with her well being. "So…all things considered…I've been given the green light…so to speak."

Leon's eyes widened. "Yeah? And you're sure it's something you really want to do?"

Pressing her lips together, Karina gave another little nod as she slipped her jacket off to reveal a compression bandage around her bicep. "I had Dr. Schmidt remove my implant today."

[polyamorous-mysme]

Really fucked up that i got 3 asks ten days ago and literally didn’t get notified about them until 1am this morning. fucking bullshit. 

anyway did y’all know in korea christmas is more akin to valentines day than western xmas. i didn’t but.

Jumin x V x Zen

“Have the documents for the bistro deal been dealt with yet?” the Chairman’s voice crackled through the speakerphone, the sound of papers rustling in the background.

“Yes, sir. They’ll be posted first thing in the morning. Jaehee will be taking care of it on her way home tonight.

“Tonight? Don’t she and that lady friend of hers have dinner plans tonight? I know Christmas Eve is less chaotic than Christmas, after all, I figured Jaehee to be the type to prefer that.”

“Yes, they have a reservation at eight. My gift to the two of them this year.” Jumin knew, in fact, that both had devised separate proposal plans for the evening, to the pure delight and entertainment of the other RFA members who’d agreed in secret not to let either of them know about the other’s respective plan despite numerous chat rooms helping them plan speeches and dinner and other details. Though, Jumin didn’t think his father needed to be privy to that piece of information. 

“At somewhere nice, I hope. That woman deserves a nice night out, after the last few months.”

The interest Jumin’s father had in Jaehee wasn’t new. He still held hope that Jumin would follow in his footsteps, even down to sleeping with his secretary, though he’d never say so out loud.

“And you, I hope. You have Christmas plans?”

“Yes, dinner with friends tonight, as well. And a small gathering afterwards with the RFA. I should probably get going myself. My car is waiting.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Merry Christmas, Jumin.”

“And to you as well. Merry Christmas.”

He hung up the phone with one hand, the other holding his half-tied tie’s position around his collar. It was a simple royal blue, small silver polka-dots. Zen liked it best for the season. He said it looked like snow. He conceded to a small, corner-mouthed smile at the memory, where Zen’s slender fingers grazed the front of the tie before loosening it to remove it from Jumin’s neck, leaning in for a kiss as he did so. His other hand had reached around Jumin’s waist, soft hand gripping it lightly to tug himself closer. 

That was last Christmas. The three of them -- Jumin, V, and Zen -- hadn’t made real plans due to the storm that had taken the power in the penthouse for the night. They’d stayed in, eating the cake Jumin’s chef had prepared the night before and sipping mulled wine in the candlelight. Despite the lack of grand planning, it had been quite romantic -- perhaps not as romantic as a double proposal, but it remained one of Jumin’s favorite evenings in living memory. 

He slipped the three envelopes with Saeyoung, Saeran, and Yoosung’s gifts in the pocket of his suit jacket. The three of them were expected at the cafe after dinner for the Christmas party to exchange gifts and listen to carolers in the plaza. Obviously, congratulations were in order for the future engagement, but V and Zen were in charge of that. 

Even now, only half an hour from their dinner reservations, Jumin’s heart ached at the thought of them. He longed for them every moment they were out of his sight, craved their conversation and laughter every second he wasn’t listening to it. Christmas held a special place in their relationship, after all, as it was three years ago tomorrow that the three had made their relationship official and come clean to the other members of the RFA. Two years since the first real disastrous fight of the relationship. A year since the favorite night of Jumin’s life.

Three years of the most love and worship Jumin had ever given anybody, and he wouldn’t change it for the world. 

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

V, of course, was early. He was seated on a bench outside the restaurant, listening to the bustling sounds of the city, feeling the soft, cold flakes of snow fall on his upturned cheeks, completely at peace. While not particularly religious himself anymore, Christmas remained his favorite. He loved the spring and summer, of course, but he took the winter months as a chance to reset, to reevaluate what he wanted from the next year to come. And, of course, the holiday itself served as a reminder of how much his life had changed over the last few years. 

Though he’d be terrified to say it in as many words, that Christmas three years ago, and the two men he’d shared it with, genuinely saved his life. He’d been quietly setting all of his affairs in order for months, ready to simply disappear with the end of the year, no plans to return. No escape plan. He’d listed Yoosung and Jumin as the trustees to most of his assets, with instructions to the RFA on what to do with the rest. He’d written a letter to Saeyoung to be delivered posthumously, as well, with explanations and plans and last known whereabouts. 

He really hadn’t expected to make it to the new year, until that Christmas. Until the explosion of vulnerability that had been building for months finally forced him to face his issues head-on, to ask for help. Even now, he could be quite the locked box, but it was Zen and Jumin that made him feel safe enough to entrust the key to someone else rather than hide it away in yet another box. 

“Well, hey there, stranger. You out here all by yourself?” a musical voice asked, interrupting V’s dramatic reflection. 

It took quite a few moments for V’s vision to focus onto the character, as focused as it could get, anyway. He knew who it was before that, of course, Zen’s sarcasm was uniquely recognizable, even in a crowded stadium.

“Actually,” V started, stretching his neck, “I’m waiting for a very handsome man to sweep me off my feet. Maybe you’ve seen him around. He’s the most beautiful man on the planet, about six feet tall. A bit self-absorbed, but his musical talent is unparalleled.” V could sense the smirk on Zen’s face, feel the air stir as he stood a little taller with the praise. “His name is Jumin Han. Have you seen him?”

He heard Zen’s melodramatic gasp at the insult, and stood to embrace him, wrapping his arms around Zen’s neck and giving him a small kiss to the cheek. “Really, though, have you seen Jumin? I expected him here first. You, after all, are chronically late to anything remotely important.”

“He’s right here, you two. Sorry, there was an accident on the road.”

At the sound of Jumin’s voice, V broke away from Zen to turn and smile. Jumin, quite frankly, sounded exhausted. It always worried V, when he had big projects and deals to navigate at work that took up months of free time and proper sleep, but Jumin wasted no time in moving closer to the other two men and giving them an entirely appropriate embrace. Fair enough, of course, one could never be sure of what opportunist was around to gather the gossip on three fairly well-known men.

“An accident? I’d blame it on my astounding beauty and rockin’ good looks, but according to V here, that’s your area of expertise now,” Zen huffed. V might not be able to make out the finer details in sight anymore, but it didn’t take eyes to tell Zen was gearing up for the eyeroll of a century.

“Well, Astounding Beauties, I have been sitting out in the cold and wet for far too long waiting on your fashionably late selves. Shall we go inside?”

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

Zen truly did admire Jumin’s taste. In most things, at least, it was impeccable. Fine dining was definitely no exception. When Jumin made reservations, they rarely ate at the same place twice, at least not together, yet somehow the experience never failed to exceed expectations. 

Their real plans didn’t fall through, so much as got transferred. When Jumin heard Jaehee and MC had planned their proposals on Christmas, he immediately called the other restaurant to alter the reservation as a gift to them. Zen never would have expected it from the Jumin of three or four years ago, or perhaps even the Jumin before this year, but lately Jumin seemed to have melted into quite the romantic. He insisted that a proposal was much more worthy of the experience, and he had no shortage of strings to pull to find another. It gave Zen an odd mix of pride, awe, and sentimental mush to see how much effort Jumin had personally put into the night, for both V and Zen, and Jaehee and MC. 

Zen never put much stock into Christmas before. His family would always attend a Christmas service together growing up, and he’d done it the years he lived alone, but he’d never done the big romance aspect of it before.

Well, not until V and Jumin, at least. That Christmas three years ago, it was like someone had given him glasses, corrected his vision. The whole ordeal sharpened into focus, and Zen finally understood why it was considered such a romantic holiday, why his parents would go out to dinner and come home flushed and laughing and more in love than he’d ever seen them. They’d give him and his brother a to-go box with two perfect pieces of Christmas cake, even though they’d never get home until hours after their usual bedtime, and they’d all sit in the kitchen laughing and making jokes long into the night. Now, those nights no longer seemed like a slightly better than average night, they were full of love and care Zen hadn’t seen or experienced anywhere else, until three years ago.

Last year, they hadn’t gone out or exchanged gifts or anything, but it was still the best night of Zen’s life. He hadn’t said it at the time, but the simple pleasure of sipping a warm drink, sitting in the candlelight talking and laughing and telling stories had meant more to him than any fancy dinner or gift. They spent the night completely present with each other, no distractions, no work, as though they’d found themselves on their own little planet, completely untethered to Earth and its day-to-day, and had fallen asleep in a tangled mess on the floor as the fire slowly died. 

He’d have settled to have done it again this year, but Jumin felt as though he needed to make up for the sorry excuse for dinner he’d made last year. That, of course, and the party afterwards. Zen was looking forward to hearing the story of Jaehee and MC’s accidentally joint proposals, drinking champagne, and seeing Yoosung and the twins for the first time in a while. 

Mostly, though, it was the look V had given him while cracking his joke earlier. It was the way Jumin’s entire body seemed to have been relieved of ten tons of weight as soon as he laid his eyes on the two of them together. V’s small peck still burned on his cheek, just like it was the first and not the thousandth. At the end of the day, Zen didn’t care if it was in a crowded restaurant, a room full of friends, or on the thick carpet on Jumin’s hardwood floors in front of the fire while the world around them was buried in snow, Zen was most at peace, most loved and loving, most humbled and worshiped in the presence of the two men he’d bore his soul to three years ago, nearly to the date. 

“Zen, are you coming or not?” V’s voice called from the door of the restaurant. His lips were red, cheeks flushed from the cold, blue eyes wild with anticipation and the remnants of laughter. Zen could see Jumin waiting inside through the door, his dark eyes peering around V’s head to look at him, one smug rich boy eyebrow cocked and the corner of his mouth turned upwards. 

“No, the two of you don’t even need me for my looks anymore. What use could I possibly have for you inside?” he mocked, though his feet had already begun walking, one arm outstretched to grab the door from V. catching their collective reflection in the door window as he did so.

Well, if nothing else, he could agree that Jumin had impeccable taste.

[zankivich]

The Arrangement: CEO’s Son/Dom!Shawn x Black Sub Reader Chapter 2

A/N: I can’t promise all the chapters will come this quick, but I am inspired and I think I’m in love with these characters. I’ve never done a cocky character before, so I really want to try and tap into something interesting here with Shawn. Maybe I won’t who knows. Let me know if you like though? 

WARNING: smut. sex toys. public masturbation (kind of). orgasm denial.

*Shawn’s point of view*

She crawls out of his bed in the wee hours of the morning, at least for him. He wakes up long enough to tell her she’s free to use the shower and whatever else she needs. He can tell by the look on her face that she’s surprised at the gesture. She really thinks he’s a complete and total dick. But it’s the crack ass of dawn and he doesn’t have the emotional capacity to argue with her yet, so he rolls back over to go to bed.

He wakes up again to her heels clacking on the hotel room floor. She reaches over the bed in search of something, maybe her phone, and he tugs her down on top of him. She doesn’t seem nearly as happy about it as he is.

“Let me go! I am so late. I was supposed to be at work an hour ago.”

He skims his nose along her neck, happy to see that the hotel soap didn’t rid her of her own personal scent he’d grown obsessed with the night before.

“You’re the boss, you can go whenever you want.”

She pushes against his hold and he lets her for now, much more excited to watch her then fight with her.

“That’s not how I run my shit.” She snorted putting in an earring that must have slipped out when he was making her scream his name the night before. “This never happened by the way.”

He chuckled. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. That was a mistake, a big huge mistake. Your dad would have my ass and ruin my career. We both know it.”

It pisses him off far more than he has any right to. He used his dad freely for the connections, the money, the access to anything he ever wanted. But the second his dad became an inconvenience, he couldn’t beg for enough distance. This woman, with all her thick ass thighs and musical moans, was so much more than he ever could have expected. And he wasn’t about to let his dad ruin that for him.

“A mistake yea? Which orgasm? The one with my tongue, or the one with my fingers, or the one against the headboard? Just wanna make sure I’m on the same page.” He muttered.

Her eyes turned to slits and she leaned over him before shoving him back down to the bed with a very pointed finger.

“Listen here jackass. You do not get to use what we did last night against me.” She hissed.

“What the fuck would I wanna do that for anyway?! Jesus, we should keep fucking just so you can calm the hell down every once in a while.”

“Not likely. Bye Shawn.”

Her braids cut through the air as she leaves the room just as quickly as she entered it. He collapsed back against the pillows and let his hand travel along the tender spots where she’d sucked at his skin the night before. He could still taste her. Could still hear her. And his body absolutely betrayed him as a half chub began to form in his boxers. No one had ever given him what she had the night before. She had let him take the lead, had given herself over to him completely and fully. He was always dominant in bed but never with someone who gave off such opposite energy. She probably should have been the one bossing him around, and yet she had placed a lot of power and a lot of trust in his hands.

His half chub turns a little fuller the more that he thinks about her and he lets his fingers crawl beneath the covers to deal with it. He hadn’t jerked off over a woman, let alone a hook up, in years. He could think about the ramifications of that later. Not now. Not when he’s got the feel of her lips in his brain.

***

He heads past Tiffany’s desk to get to his dad’s office, but stops for a second when she gives him a look. Tiffany was probably the only reason his dad was able to get dressed every morning. She knew every detail of every minute of his day and she kept him directly on schedule at all times. It’s probably the only reason she wasn’t fired, cause she sure as hell isn’t sleeping with him like the other ones in the past. He likes her. She’s maybe the only person in either of their lives that doesn’t take any bullshit, even if she does have a little soft spot for him.

“Hey Tiffany. You’re looking radiant as ever this afternoon.” He grinned, leaning against her desk.

“You’re late.” She said flatly. “He was expecting you hours ago.”

“Yea, I had a bit of a late start today.”

She lets her eyes glide over him and stares blatantly at a hickey on his neck he hadn’t bothered to try and hide.

“Sure. I suggest you get your ass in there. He’s on one today.”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Sounds good. Thanks, Tiff.”

When he walks into his dad's office, he’s already screaming to some poor bastard on the phone. So, he heads straight for the fridge and grabs himself a water to wait for the tides to turn against him. It doesn’t take long.

“Well if it isn’t my son, my one and only, the kid I’ve given everything to at every waking moment of his life! How kind of you to join me!” Manny sneered.

He took a seat on the other side of his father’s desk, plopping down into one of the not so comfy chairs he had there.

“Nice to see you too daddy-o. What’d I miss?”

“You missed the first goddamn meeting with the directors I asked you to come to!” His dad roared. “What did I say, Shawn? Enough of this childish bullshit. I gave you that pony show last night so that you could start taking things seriously, so that you could start taking your future with this business, seriously!”

“I fucking forgot okay. My bad.”

“It’s always your bad, dammit! Enough is enough. Everyone with a brain the size of a pea knows you don’t deserve a position in this company, the least you can do is make the nepotism a little less obvious. The least you can do is make the first goddamn meeting with the people who help fund us!”

His dad was definitely going to have a heart attack by sixty. It was just a given at this point.

When the yelling and the screaming doesn’t work, and it never does, his dad as an innate ability to switch up his approach. His dad was a vindictive bastard at heart and no one, absolutely no one bore the brunt of that the way that Shawn did.

“You want to touch music ever again?” He asked, his voice quieter than it’d been since Shawn stepped into the room.

His whole body locks up, and his eyes harden as he stares at him.

“This is all you got. All those demos, all those melodies? They belong to me. This is what you get okay? And if you don’t start treating this business with some dignity and respect? I’ll let one of these other yahoos take over the company and you’ll be shit out of luck. Do I make myself clear?”

His shoulders completely slump and the feeling that he seemed to have within him at all time came roaring back infinitely. The inadequacies. The powerlessness. He was nothing. Nothing. And never would he be anything that his father hadn’t already determined him to be. That’s just the way it went. It was the way the cards had been dealt for him. No use in fighting it.

“Yea, dad. I understand.” He muttered getting up out of his seat.

“Have Tiffany share the notes from the meeting you missed today. I want you here tomorrow at nine am. You’re going to follow me around to my meetings, get the lay of the land.”

There was no arguing so he just headed for the door instead.

“Oh and Shawn?”

He sighed but turned to face his father again. “Yea?”

“Try to not to let whatever whore you’re with next time make it so obvious. We’re better than that.”

No use in fighting it.

“Yes, sir.”

***

His shoulders are so tense that he can feel the knots forming along his neck. It’s the stress that always comes when his dad lays down the law and reminds him of where he’s at in life, where he’ll probably always be. They could say money buys you happiness all damn day long, but he hadn’t been happy. He hadn’t been happy in a really long fucking time. He’d tried just about everything. A five mile run. Had played the guitar until his fingers were sore. It isn’t until he tries to jerk off and that vision of her appears in his mind again, the way she had flicked her braids over her back, the way she had gleamed with sweat. It’s not until then that he really has to contemplate what the entire hell is going on with him, because he’s never thought about a hook up like this. Ever.

He stares up at the ceiling with another fucking boner starting in his pants. Fuck contemplation. Where had that ever got him?

“Thank you for calling Miss y/l/n’s office. This is Tianna, how may I help you?”

He peered over at the clock on his bedside. It was after eight o’clock. Way past working hours. He had a feeling wherever y/n went so did she.

“Tianna, darling.” He hummed. “She working you into the ground over there?”

She immediately snorted. “We’re doing just fine over here Mr. Mendes. How can I help you?”

“Please, call me Shawn.”

“Call me stupid. What do you want?”

Tough crowd in that office, really.

“I need to schedule a meeting with her. It’s work related. My dad needs her.” He lied.

“Uh Huh...and just what is it that your dad needs that he’s sending you to get at eight o’clock at night?”

He rolled his eyes up at the ceiling. “Look he’s having me take over some accounts to get the lay of the land. I’ve got two artists playing jingle ball alongside her artists. We want to talk possible on stage collaboration.”

And they called him dumb.

“Hmmm...well, she’s very busy.” Tianna drew on.

“Yes, I’m sure she is. If I was to come to her office right now though I’d assume she’s not exactly having meetings now is she?”

“If you came to her office right now I think your little spiel about ‘on stage collaborations’ might look more like a booty call.”

He chuckled. “But if you help me out with a little something, then I could maybe help her out with a little something, and we can all be a little happier.”

“You white boys always thinking your dick can cure cancer. Get off my phone.”

“I think if you didn’t want me to come, Tianna? You would’ve hung up already. I’ll see you in twenty.”

It was that kind of relentless optimism in life that had gotten him to where he was today. Here’s a hoping it struck one more time.

***

y/n point of view*

You’re sat at your desk trying to figure out what it was about the age of twenty that seemed to make your artists lose their ever loving mind. One of your up and comers was found outside a bar as three am drunk off his ass and now you had to face the casualties. There’s a tension thick and firm in your shoulders and rolling down over every individual vertebrae in your spine. You were stressed, had been all day, and it didn’t look like that was going to change anytime soon. You rubbed your fingers against your temples and reached for your phone to tell Tianna to maybe order you some dinner, and then head home for the night. No use in both of you being miserable.

“Hey Ti’. I’m gonna be late again. Could you order me something? No mexican please, maybe something from that asian place with the dumplings?” You asked softly. “You can go home straight after.”

“Sure thing, girl. There is something I wanted to run by you though--”

“Oh not tonight, Ti. I’m swamped. Just the food, and that will be all.”

It was a bit of a bitch move, but you and Tianna had navigated these waters time and time again throughout your friendship. She let you be when you were stressed, but never let is pass. She’d always call you out eventually. You were pretty good at navigating professional and friendship. Also, you wouldn’t last a day without her, and both of you knew it.

It’s another hour before you hear movement outside your door. You assumed Tianna had given the delivery guy your office number, so you slide from your chair still barefoot and went to grab your meal.

He’s standing on the other side of your door with your food in his hands and that dumbass smirk on his face that you had practically licked off the night before. The worst part was the rush of feelings that flooded your stomach with him there. There wasn’t nearly enough irritation and annoyance as there was a fluttering and a heat. You had seen what he could do after all, and your body was already attuned to such things. Dumb.

“Oh what the hell!” You groaned snatching the brown paper bag from his hands. “How did you get up here?”

“Hey, don’t get mad at me! I told Tianna I was coming.”

Shit. She’d tried to warn you too. You were an idiot and a bitch. Lovely.

You reached straight for your dumplings, not having the capacity to deal with your six foot two headache before you dealt with your hunger problem. You popped a squat on the edge of your desk and looked at him between bites. No suit today. Instead he was wearing black skinny jeans that looked like they’d been painted on. He was wearing a cardigan that looked particularly fluffy and a white t-shirt. You noticed there was a difference in the way his eyes looked then what you remembered. They were duller. They weren’t nearly as alive as they’d been when he was making your body sing for him the night before. Hell, he hadn’t even looked this dead at the banquet. He looked tired, beat down. But, that wasn’t supposed to matter to you. Right?

“Why are you in my office right now?” You asked.

He stalked a little closer, choosing to sit on the arm of the chair beside your desk so that his legs could slide closer towards yours.

“I thought you’d be a little happier to see me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And why would you think that? I told you what happened last night never happened. And you agreed.”

“I didn’t agree. I said I wouldn’t tell my dad.” He corrected.

“Whatever. You don’t hook up with the same woman more than once anyway. We both know that.” You shrugged reaching for another dumpling.

“Yea, I--I know. But, I think we both know last night wasn’t a normal hook up.”

You crossed and uncrossed your legs paying special attention to chewing each bite of food before you swallowed it, as you worked to compose your face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh you don’t do you?” He hummed dipping his head to catch your eye.

He got up off the chair taking the two steps to be far too close into your bubble. You wondered idly if his lack of understanding of personal space came with the privilege of being rich, or the privilege of being attractive, or if was that whole male privilege thing instead. When his hands settled on either side of you on your desk, you settle on it being some kind of combination of the three.

“You’re gonna tell me I didn’t treat you good last night?” He whispered nose skimming along your neck. “That I didn’t touch you in ways you’ve never been touched before? That I didn’t have you cumming for me like a fountain?”

Your thighs pulse needily, but when you go to squeeze them together, he’s already standing there between them so that they wrap around him. His fingers trailed to your thighs and the sensation was so familiar, so right, that you found yourself leaning more into his space.

“I’m not asking for your hand in marriage. You’re stressed. I’m stressed. Just let me come over every now and again and knock you into a wall for a few hours. I think it’s a worthy transaction for the two of us.”

He was such an asshole. God, he was such an asshole and the assholery came off of him in waves. But he made you wetter than a faucet and he had big hands that felt so good when they were shoving you wherever he wanted. When you woke up that morning you had felt infinite relief. You hadn’t wanted to leave the warmth of the sheets behind. It was your first time being late since you got food poisoning three years prior. You had wanted to stay. And that was the second you lost.

“There have to be rules.” You sighed in defeat.

Shawn only heard yes and begun to tug at your jacket off your shoulders, his stupid lips doing this incredible thing on your neck that you really wish you hated.

“No one can know. It can only happen at night time.” You begun and paused to moan as he sucked at your collarbone. “It only happens at my apartment building or yours.”

“God I’ve really gotta gag this beautiful mouth.” He groaned reaching up to silence you with his lips.

Somewhere along the way you figured out that you were always working to have the upperhand, always fighting for power. And you figured out that you didn’t need that with Shawn. Once you realized that he wasn’t going to use it against you, that allowing him to be dominant was only going to result in your pleasure? You were able to let go. And when you let go, the pleasure was infinite.

Your chinese ends up on the floor. So does you dress as he very quickly breaks one of the goddamn rules and bends you over your own desk instead.

“God, this ass. I could write whole songs about it.” He muttered. “Spread your legs for me.”

“M--My desk.” You stuttered trying to be reasonable when your mind wanted anything but that.

“Spread them, or I’ll tie them open.”

Jesus.

You moaned softly into the hardwood, letting your legs drape open  against the side of the desk. His fingers mapped out your body, melding to every curve, and keeping you on high alert. Not being able to see him only made you want him more. You could hear the sound of his belt clanking as he undid his jeans, could smell that he was hot for you as you were for him. And that’s all that mattered.

“You’re so tight for me. Christ.”

He plunged inside your body like no one had ever before. Like maybe he hated you, or like maybe your pleasure was the only thing that mattered to you. His hips were hard and punishing. His hands gripped your hips like a gentle caress mixed with a punishment. It left you distorted, left you hot and bothered and completely absorbed in everything that he could make you feel with such startling precision. This wasn’t just him using your body to get himself off, this was something that occured in unison. For every second he spent chasing his own high inside you, you continuously found your own pleasure from him. It was infinite and all consuming. It was more than enough to keep you coming back for more.

The desk quaked on its legs, your papers flew everywhere, and still his fingers are grabbing at your ass like it’s his. And in that moment, it is. In that moment you’d give him everything one a silver platter if he asked for it. But, he doesn’t. He takes and he takes and he gives it all right back to you ten fold. You feel that familiar tightening in your stomach and your eyes clam shut. You’re at a total loss for how your orgasm could possily come this quickly and this intensly,  but here the fuck you are.

You reach back for his wrist on your ass and cry out into the wood of your desk as he only moved deeper within you.

“I’m gonna cum.”You whimpered.

“Not yet.”

You shook your head a tremble beginning in your legs.

“No I--I’m gonna cum! I can’t.”

His body leaned over you, caging you in and his lips found their way to your ear.

“If you cum without my permission? I’m gonna spank your ass so raw, you won’t be able to sit for a week.”

“Oh my god.”

The desk jerks askew and Shawn just slows down his thrusts in favor of digging deep into your body. And your back loses its arch as you turn to actual liquid in his hands.

“Fuck! Fuck! Shawn!”

“You’re fucking dripping for me. Take it. Take all of me. Make yourself cum.”

You grab at the papers on your desk and your eyes roll back in your skull once again. There’s a squelching sound every time you pushed back against his hips. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. You’re fucking exploding. What a fucking arrangement.

***

Work goes a little differently in the coming weeks. You yell a little less, smile a little more, and don’t find yourself constantly rubbing that spot in your neck that seemed to absorb every ounce of stress you ever had. And it’s not about Shawn. It’s definitely not. It’s just the regular sex. It could have been anyone, really. It just helped that this someone was good with knots and his hips. After the initial fuck up, you stuck to the rules. Only his apartment or yours. Never during the day. He didn’t come to your office, and you sure as hell didn’t go to his.

It wasn’t exactly meaningless sex. It was purposeful sex. You each had a goal, a build up of tension, that you needed eased. Doing that together just seemed to make a little sense. It was easy. It wasn’t complicated. And that’s what you loved. Not the person. Just the act. It was dirty and hard and sometimes painful, and you loved it. He seemed to find every kink you had, even the ones you hadn’t thought you had, and laid them all out with sparkling clarity. You couldn’t help but think back to the first time after your agreement when you’d stepped into his apartment.

“Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? I think I’ve got wine, water, and a juice somewhere.”

You were confused, plopped off your heels and headed for the shockingly white couch.

“Uh, do we need drinks for sex?”

He snorted. “What you, the most talkingest person I’ve ever met, thought we were just going to jump into things without talking first?”

“Well...yea. Kinda?” You murmured, now feeling a little indignant.

He took a seat next to you on the couch, crossing his leg over his thigh and turning towards you. The proximity alone was enough to get you a little bothered.

“Look I...I want this to be good for the both of us. And I want it to be safe. I want it to be consensual at all times. And to do that we really need to talk, okay? We’ve gotta set up what we want this to be. What we both want this to be.”

It’s a lot more endearing a lot softer than you expected. And you didn’t know how to justify this image you continued to have of him, with all the things you kept learning about him. He really made it hard to hate him sometimes.

“Okay.”

“Okayyyy. Well, why don’t you tell me something you don’t want, and I’ll do the same. And we’ll start from there.” He coaxed.

“Well I’m not doing no race play shit, that’s for damn sure!”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “What kind of a guy do you think I am?”

“A white one.” You blinked.

“Funny. No race play. Got it. I like to be dominant, but there’s some shit I won’t do. I won’t do anything until you bleed. I love slapping your ass as much as the next guy, but I’m not gonna do it to the point of pain over pleasure. I’m not gonna hit you, and I’m not gonna do any of the bodily fluids besides semen.” He explained calmly.

You bit your lip. “So you uh...you’ve done this before huh?”

He nodded softly. “I have. And you haven’t. That’s okay. I’m more than willing to teach you.”

“Okay...so is it like a dom and sub relationship?” You asked hesitantly.

“It doesn’t have to be that if you don’t want it to. Sometimes adding a label on it makes it more scary than it needs to be. This can still just be a hookup. Are there other things you don’t wanna try?”

“I don’t really want to be called anything derogatory.” You admitted. “I liked the rough parts. I liked...doing what you asked me to. I just don’t want to feel demeaned if that makes sense.”

You felt very out of your element. Again, you weren’t the expert in the room. He was. And you just had to trust that he was gonna do the right thing for the both of you. Only because, so far he actually had.

“Of course. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed yet but I’m not just here for my pleasure, y/n. Half of what I get out of it is making you feel good. That’s what I want to do.”

It was hard to look at him when he spoke like that. The softness, the earnestness. None of it made a lot of sense to you. And you didn’t like how your body reacted to it, how easily he could draw you in like that. So you reached for him, lips and teeth and fingers on the back of his neck. And he pulled you into his lap with such ease. It made you melt. You were kind of fucked. But it was okay for now.

“So you’ll be in LA through Sunday for the awards. I have you back here Monday afternoon. I moved all your meetings to Tuesday so you could rest up a little bit. And then it’s time to prepare for the MSG shows for Khalid.” Tianna rattled off.

You were listening. You were a hundred and fifty percent listening. And you weren’t at all squirming in your seat. Nope.

“S--Sounds lovely. Can’t wait!”

She did the black mother squint and lean at you, so you forced your hips to calm the hell down in your seat.

“What the hell is up with you?” She asked.

Your eyes widened. “Cramps! A real son of a bitch, aren’t they?”

“Cramps? You want me to get you some mitol?”

“No thank you, I already took some. I’m gonna work on the proposal for the new marketing campaign with nike and then I’ll take lunch okay?”

“Sounds good chief, holler if you need me!”

You watched with painstaking eyes as she slowly left the room before finally allowing you to collapse and reach for your phone. This was too much. This was the worst idea ever in the history of ever.

“Hello?”

“Turn it off. Turn it off right now, Tianna probably thinks I’m a mad woman!” You sighed shakily.

Shawn chuckled. “Nice to see you too darling. What did I say last night?”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you thought back to the look in his eyes when he’d pressed the egg shaped device between your legs.

“If I don’t wear it all day then I’m not a good girl.”

“Exactly. And what do good girls get to do?”

You bit your lip unable to stop the rocking of your hips. “Good girls get to cum.”

“That’s right. Do you wanna cum y/n? Do you deserve to cum for me?”

“Y--Yea. Yes, please? I--I wanna be good. I wanna cum.”

Sure enough the damn vibration increased and your thighs began to quake. You whined desperately canting your hips up for something that wasn’t there. Something that was probably a good forty-five minutes away from you by subway. And lord knows Shawn’s ass had probably never been on the subway.

“You make the prettiest fucking sounds.” He sighed. “I wish I didn’t have this meeting, or I’d come right over there and make you fall apart all over my cock.”

“A meeting? What meeting?” You asked desperate to keep your mind off the quaking beneath your skirt.

“My asshole of a dad is having me meet with investors for this new Madison Beer look-alike he just signed. They’re already trying to figure out how to maximize sex appeal. She’s seventeen.”

“That’s disgusting. You have to know that’s disgusting.”

“Of course I do. And you have to know better than anyone that I don’t really have a choice in the matter.”

You rolled your eyes up at the ceiling. “You’ll destroy that girl before she even gets a chance to figure out who she is, what artist she wants to be.”

“Yea well my father isn’t in the business of letting artists decide who they wanna be.”

It’s a little more honest than you’re supposed to be with each other. A little moment, where you let the facade slip. Where you’re not just two people fucking. Because you’re both in the same business, the same industry, and there’s something that allows you both the ability to know more than anyone else ever could. And that makes it a little hard.

“Are you coming to mine tonight?” You hinted, trying to get this thing back on track.

“Yea. I uh I’ll be there around ten.” He cleared his throat, base continuing. “I want you to keep it inside of you all day. And if you’re good. If I’ve decide you’ve been good, then I’ll let you cum tonight. Maybe I’ll even let you ride my thigh”

A moan escapes your lips that had no business coming out in the open like that. You had never even mentioned that his thighs sort of made your mouth water, nor that you’d even thought about rubbing your pussy all over them. That just seemed to be another one of those things he picked up on without you having to say it.

“Fuck. Okay, okay I’ll be good.”

“Good girl. I’ll see you at ten.”

You collapsed back against your chair again as the phone call ended. 12 hours to go. Shit.

***

You were lying on the bed withering. It’s the only way you could describe what it felt like you were going through. You felt like you were in heat. The room was sweltering. Your thighs had been pressed together for the past hour and it wasn’t getting any better. You needed to cum. God you just needed to cum. About twenty minutes ago, that bastard had moved it to the highest setting. You were dripping at this point.

He let himself into your apartment, the directive to leave your door unlocked making a lot more sense when you were practically grinding into your sheets.

“Fuck, I can smell you.” He hummed. “You miss me?”

“I need to cum. Please, Shawn. Please.” You started rambling immediately.

He proceeds as if you’ve said nothing. He starts with his watch, slipping it over his wrist to set on the nightstand. His rings and bracelet join the party as well. Then it’s his jacket and the button up. You listen to the metal clink of his belt and it make your eyes roll back in your head knowing that you’ll finally get what you’d been waiting on forever. The excitement is in your chest and between your legs. The want that you have for him curling up like a ball in your gut. He knows exactly what he does to do, and it makes you hate him and want him all the more.

It feels like hours before he joins you on the bed. And when he does, he just stares at you for a while. His eyes roam over your hips and your cheeks and the arch in your foot and the stretch marks near your belly button. It’s so specific and so intimate that you can only watch him watch you. He turned off the vibrations, but somehow you’re only now just noticing. Sometimes when he looks at you like this, you don’t know how to respond. Can never decide what the look in his eyes means. And you wonder if he knows either.

He blinks and the look vanishes, and back is this look that says, “I’m going to devour you for all that you are.”

“Come sit on my lap, baby girl.” He whispered.

You move on shaky legs, crawling onto your knees to where he sat at the edge of the mattress. His fingers slip between your legs, your hands falling to his shoulders as he tugs the vibrator from inside you. You’re a whimpering mess, and he just fucking smiles at you and tugs at your hips. Your lips touch his thigh and you have to hide your face in his neck to keep from cumming right there.

His fingers reach for your ass, digging deep into the flesh, as his lips touch your ear.

“I’m gonna let you ride my thigh until you cum. It’ll be the only time you get to cum until the end of the night, so I suggest you make it count.”

You whined softly arms wrapping around his neck in desperation.

“I’m so sensitive.” You whispered.

He tilted your hips down with his hands on your hips resulting in your clit brushing against his thigh with purpose. You practically sobbed.

“Oh my god!”

“God, your fucking voice.” He grunted. “Ride my thigh.”

There’s no need for lubricant of any kind because you’re soaked to your very core. It saturates his thigh until your gliding easily against the flesh. And it’s so fucking hot. It feels so fucking good. You couldn’t control the way that your hips fluttered and twitched against him with every push of your hips. Every slide had you gasping his name with recklessness. Just the way he wanted you. Desperate. Needy. Submissive. And you thrived in it.

He tensed his leg, making his thigh firmer, and you fucking lost it. Your fingers turned to fists in his hair just to have something to grip onto as you rode him for all you were worth. His hands on your hips helped move you faster and it made the knot in your stomach tighten and tighten until it snapped with ease.

“That’s it. That’s so good. Cum for me like a good girl.” He demanded.

You cried out into your apartment, back arching as your orgasm ran through you like a tidal wave. His thigh became drenched and your heart hammered heavily in your chest as you collapsed in his arms like the mess he turned you into.

“Fuck.” You moaned desperately. “Oh my god.”

“Feel good?” He hummed. “What do you say?”

“Thank you. Thank you for letting me cum.”

“You’re welcome. Now go pick out a toy to keep yourself occupied with.”

The second that Shawn found out you had a pretty impressive arsenal of toys for yourself, he had taken full advantage. You quickly discovered that your favorite scenario was the gspot stimulator that did some amazing, amazing things. You liked it most because it seemed to drive him crazy when you lost control, when you were just barely holding on to a thread for him. You got off on his pleasure, and he got off on yours. It was a beautiful endless cycle.

You go to lay back against your blankets, only for Shawn to join you sooner than normal. He took the toy from your hands and sat it down by your hip. His fingers trailed between your labia, thumbing playfully at your clit. He looked at you as you did it, eyes dark and hooded and hot. You were in for a wild as night tonight.

“I’m gonna put this in. I’m gonna fuck you with it. And you’re gonna wanna cum. But you’re not going to. Not until I say, do you understand?”

You rolled your hips incessantly and sighed. “Yea.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

His fingers were rough and calloused, an incredible sensation against your smooth thighs. You felt his curls tickle your stomach as he leaned down to test your wetness with his lips. A groan made its way past your lips as he kissed at your clit. Before you could even begin to move your hips, he was pushing the toy inside of you and flicking the switch on.

“Mmmmm,” You hummed. “Feels good, Shawn.”

He twirled the stem of the vibrator manipulating the toy until it rested directly against your gspot. And that’s when he turned it to the highest setting.

“Oh fuck!”

“Feel good?” He chuckled teeth hitting your inner thigh.

“Y--Yea. Holy shit yea.”

He peered up at you from between your legs and proceeded to kiss, lick, and suck at the skin of your thighs. His fingers wrapped around the vibrator and started to thrust it in and out jaggedly. Your fingers dug into the sheets and you bit at your lip as he played you like a fuckin violin. The egg shaped toy slid in and out hitting the tip of your clit on every outward stroke. You whined and tilted your hips down trying to get more pressure.

He frowned up at you, teeth biting down into the flesh of your thigh before he soothed the mark with his tongue.

“Don’t do that. Be good for me.”

“I need it.” You sighed. “Please, Shawn.”

“What do you need?”

“Your tongue, your fingers--anything. Please?”  

“You want my tongue?”

“Yea. So bad.” You whined. “Fuck Shawn, please!”

He maneuvered your leg over his shoulder tongue pointing between his lips to hit your already engorged clit. The dampness of his tongue was heavenly against your aching flesh, but in combination with the still rampant vibrator it was so much more than that. It was completely and utterly too much. The coil in your gut grew hotter and tighter. Your toes curled. Holy mother of god.

“W--Wait! Wait I’m gonna cum!”

His hands did that thing where they locked into your hips, pushing you firmly down into the bed as he continued to suck you for all you were worth. You fist your fingers in his hair and threaded your legs around his back fully and deeply prepared to ride your orgasm out. Just as you were about to fall apart, muscles tensing and aching for release, it all disappears. He lets your clit slip from his lips and takes the vibrator out leaving you to pulse and thrash against the sheets.

“Fuck!” you grunted, thighs squeezing together involuntarily.

“Ah ah ah.” He hummed pulling them apart with ease. “Let me look at you. See the way this perfect cunt twitches for me. Shit, y/n. You have no idea how fucking pretty you are.”

You peer down between your legs watching your muscles clench anxiously around nothing. You can see yourself glisten from where you are, can only imagine how much better it must be from down there. There’s no room to think about it for long before he’s running the flat part of his tongue along your entrance in search for any juices he may have left behind.

Drool oozes past his lips, and he runs his thumb into your clint to spread it around. And then the vibrator is back in his hands, but instead of slipping it inside you, he presses it right up against your clit instead. The vibrations are rapid and loud hitting at every nerve ending in your already thoroughly soaked core. There’s no need to grind against it because he’s pushing it so tightly against you already, and when he flicks it beneath your hood so that it touches just barely at your actual clit, you’re done for. It’s right back where you were not even sixty seconds prior.

Your nails dig into his wrist and your back arches in desperation.

“Please! Please!” You gasped. “Let me cum!”

He shook his head not letting up on the pressure at all.

“You don’t order me. I’ll let you cum when I’m ready.”

Tears form in your eyes. It’s the denial and the pleasure and the cusp of pain that might just drive you over the edge if he’d ever fucking let it happen. You didn’t know the act of not cumming could feel this good, could make you feel this desperate. He pushed your body places that it had never been, made you feel things you had never felt. And he thrived on what it did to you. He thrived on your hips pushing back against him, on the moans that rung out from your throat. Every response seemed to fuel him even further.

Your legs begin to twitch again, screaming for ecstasy when a knock rings out on your apartment door, bringing everything to a crashing halt.

“You expecting company?” He asked, vibrator still very much in tact.

You shook your head, bottom lip destroyed by your teeth at this point.

“No. No one.”

They knock again.

“Are you sure?”

“You know I really can’t focus on anything but my clit at the moment!” You huffed.

The knocking continues, a little more aggressively this time, and Shawn finally rolled his eyes and pushed the vibrator back into his rightful position against your gspot.

“Don’t move. And you better not cum while I’m gone.” He ordered.

*meanwhile at the door*

There’s a guy at the door in a suit with his arms crossed in a semi intimidating fashion. Shawn’s half naked with one of the strongest hardons of his life hidden behind the door, and he’s a little confused and annoyed at the interruption.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

“Is Miss. Y/l/n here?” The guy asked.

Shawn raised an eyebrow. “Who’s asking?”

“I am sir. We got a disturbance call, and I’m checking to make sure things are alright.”

“Oh….Oh! Yea, no I understand why you might have gotten that call but I assure you things are fine here.” He snorted.

“Yes, well I assure you just as soon as I see her alive and well, I’ll take your word for it.”

The shit he went through for sex.  

“Look dude,” He sighed pulling the door open to reveal the sheets bunched awkwardly around his very naked waist. “She’s not in any pain she doesn’t want to be in. We’ll try to keep it down.”

“I’m sure that might be, but we take our jobs very seriously here and I’ve yet to see y/n, so I’m afraid I cannot leave you alone in an apartment you don’t live in.”

He rolled his eyes and turned to call into the house. “Y/n! Will you please tell the not so nice security guard than I am fucking you, not killing you!”

“SHAWN! IF YOU DON’T GET YOUR DUMB ASS FROM IN FRONT OF MY DOOR!!”

“Anymore questions?” He asked the guard politely before closing the door in his face.

*Meanwhile back in the bedroom*

“You better have been fucking joking.”

He dropped the sheet from around his waist and wrapped his fingers around his dick working himself back up to peak hardness.

“Not at all. But I’m not done with you yet. Be a good girl and lie back.”

“But Shawn--”

“Be a good girl and lie back and I’ll let you cum on my tongue before I fuck the shit out of you.”

You lie back for him. Duh.

If you wanted to buy me a Kofi so I can not be poor that would be dope. 

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[imaginejamesandsirius]

Sirius going back in time to save James. Confusion and angst ensues.

((A/N: Age difference between past James and 30 yr old Sirius, also cw for depression cause Sirius was in Azkaban))

Sirius must have fucked this up somehow. Of all the things in his life he wanted to keep safe and protected, his family was number one. Not the Black Family, with all the relatives that wanted muggles dead or worse. His family. James and Regulus and Remus and Peter. They were the four people Sirius thought he'd do anything for, but James and Regulus had died and Peter had betrayed them and Sirius hadn't trusted Remus enough. All mistakes, all his, and he should've been able to see. Peter hadn't always secretly hated them or some rot, he'd been scared. If Sirius had protected him better, he never would have betrayed James. If Sirius had trusted Remus a bit more, he would've gone to him with Harry instead of leaving the baby with Hagrid and hoping that Dumbledore would protect him when he had so many other things to be looking out for. 

He saw Peter, transformed as Wormtail, in the Prophet, and he knew that he had to get out. Harry would never be safe around someone that had betrayed his parents to their death, and even though Sirius had failed at everything else, he wasn't going to fail at this. With that thought firmly in mind, he transformed into Padfoot and slipped under the bars. It was a tight fit, the stone scraping painfully against his belly, but he made it. As a human he wouldn't stand a chance, but he knew how much more abuse he could take like this and jumped off into the water. 

Hitting it was like that time he'd fallen from a tree: real fucking painful, like he was hitting unyielding ground instead of fluid water. He sank low and he knew that even though it was too dark to see, and by the time he surfaced, his lungs were burning with the need to breathe and he gasped before the current pulled him back under. It was a constant struggle, trying to get a big enough breath to stay alive before he was pulled under again, and then the exhaustion started to creep in. Sirius started to worry that he'd die before he made it to the shore, but eventually he felt something solid under his paws and scrambled closer to it. The beachfront was a long way from him, but it was easier to make his way there now that he could walk instead of trying to swim. 

He'd heard of 'the feeling of freedom' but he'd never understood it until this moment. No more bars, no more Dementors accompanying the constant chill of the ocean. He could go further inland and never have to see the ocean again, he could do it. He was free. Not in name and not officially, but right now was the most freedom he'd tasted in over a decade. Merlin, it had been more than ten years since- since everything. He'd lived three sections of ten years. The first ten he barely remembered. The second ten were where he found his life, and half of that was spent being miserable because of his parents and that sodding family legacy they insisted he uphold, and the last ten had been spent in a prison that was basically hell on earth. 

He was free. And it was stupid and dangerous but when the fuck had he ever let that stop him. He transformed back into himself, wanting to experience it as a human, just for a minute. The smell of salt water was less sharp, the cold just as deep in his bones, but the sight... the moon was starting to wane, but it still filled the night with light, accompanied by hundreds of bright stars. He hadn't been able to see that in Azkaban-- he'd been able to see the water and waves and in the distance a very far off horizon. It was nothing like this. He took a deep breath, collapsing back on the wet sand for a minute as he stared, mesmerized, at the sky. 

Sirius didn't know how long he looked, but it was longer than he should have. He needed to find Harry, make sure he was okay, try and track down Peter, and find some damn food. Not necessarily in that order. 

*

This wasn't right. Something was horribly, horribly wrong because the newspapers were talking about attacks from Death Eaters and the growing rise of Voldemort (or You Know Who, as they all printed it). How had Fudge been visiting for years and never once mentioned that? All those idiots in the Ministry thought that Sirius was a bloody Death Eater, how had he not heard about it? Padfoot walked closer to the newsstand to look at the details, then sat heavily when he saw the most important part: the date. January 3rd, 1978. The seventies. Merlin, in- in the seventies, they'd been at Hogwarts, James had still been alive. His breath caught. James was still alive. 

He needed to get to Hogwarts. It was a long trip from Diagon Alley to Hogwarts. He didn't have a wand, money, or transportation. He could get a wand, but the easiest way to get one would be if he had money. He wasn't morally opposed to stealing a bit from one of the rich arseholes walking down the street in robes that cost hundreds of galleons, but he didn't know how to pickpocket without a wand. Even if he did know, he looked too scraggly in human form to get away with it. 

If it was '78, Sirius could go to Grimmauld Place. He wouldn't exactly be welcome, but he knew how to get in and Black blood was never kicked out. If his parents were there, they'd have to deal with him more than the other way around. Worst case scenario was that they give him a hex or two as they boot him out the door, and he'd dealt with worse. 

He made his way across London to get there, stopping a couple times to rest and eat, but he had plenty of time before the day was over by the time he walked up the steps. There was a familiar shudder of magic as he reached the doorstep, hiding him from view. He transformed and leaned against the frame. Knocking was less likely to get him cursed, but he also didn't look like someone you wanted showing up on your doorstep. Nothing for it though, and he knocked loudly. There was the crack of Disapparation, then the door opened, showing Kreacher glaring up at him suspiciously. Gods but Sirius had hated him. He had bigger things to worry about. "Sir is of the Black Family," he said, narrowing his eyes. 

"Is the master of the home here?" Sirius asked, then wanted to wince. He hadn't said anything since he got free, and his voice sounded so much worse in the normal world than it had from his cell. Orion had always been easier to deal with-- so much easier to manipulate, honestly. All Sirius had had to do was lie once or twice and he was golden, but Walburga had always demanded total devotion and obedience. 

"Kreacher can't let you in without an invitation, Kreacher is a good elf." 

"Can you tell him a member of his House wants to speak with him?" 

A pause, then Kreacher nodded, the tips of his ears flapping with the motion. He closed the door, and Sirius blew out a breath. Standing was tiring. Everything was tiring. He wanted to spend all his time sleeping or eating in a comfortable place, was that so much to ask? It was only a minute that he was waiting before the door opened again, and Orion Black in all his glory was standing on the other side. "Thank you Kreacher, that will be all." 

Kreacher bobbed his head once, then disappeared with another crack. 

"Who are you to ask to see me?" 

"Just a member of the family." 

Orion ran a scathing eye down his body and less than impressive state. "Not one we were missing." 

"With all the losses you've been taking recently, and the members not listening to you, do you really want to turn away someone without knowing what they could offer?" 

Orion's expression hardened. "You know nothing of this family. Say what you're here for or leave." 

Sirius could try to get in his good graces-- which would end horribly since he had no intention of delivering on any of them-- or he could do as ordered. "I need a wand." 

"What happened to yours?" 

"Taken by the Ministry when they threw me in Azkaban." 

Orion looked at him for a long moment. "I give you a wand-- one you can keep-- and you don't ask me for anything further unless your offer will be genuine." 

"Done." It wasn't surprising that Orion hadn't believed his bullshit-- he was out of practise, after all-- but that he was going to help was all that Sirius cared about. Instead of panicking at the proof that he was somehow in the past, he was taking it in stride. James was alive. All he had to do was save James and everything will have been worth it. Everything. 

Orion opened the door wider, letting him in. He watched him with a careful eye the entire time, either looking for an attack or making sure that Sirius didn't have sticky fingers. It didn't matter how closely he watched though, because all Sirius needed was a half decent wand. Like so many other things, the wand would probably be a family heirloom, and if it was connected to the family magic, that made it better than any secondhand shops he could have tried. 

They walked through the halls, and all Sirius could think was that he hated this place so sodding much. It had been oppressive and ugly and dangerous on a bad day. He'd much preferred the Potter Mansion, with all their windows and rich colours; they certainly hadn't had old house elf heads hanging on the wall. Merlin, Euphemia and Fleamont were still alive too. They wouldn't recognise him-- he wasn't sure he'd recognise himself if he looked in the mirror right now-- but the pull to go see them was almost stronger than to the need to see James. Almost. He'd always felt so safe and protected around them, the parents he'd never had but always wanted. 

Orion led him to an unfamiliar room, clearly a storage area of some sort. There were cabinets lining all the walls, tables crammed into the center of the room with every centimeter of them covered in baubles and trinkets. He went over to one of the cabinets and opened a long but short drawer, filled with wands. "Pick one." 

Sirius stepped up next to him and tried not to snicker at the subtle way Orion leaned away from him. He skimmed the tips of his fingers over the handles, waiting for one to react to him. If none of them did, he was going to pick one of the black wooded ones and go since he'd never been a fan of the lighter woods for himself. It didn't come to that though, as one of the black ones-- rather long, with a simple thin handle-- warmed at his touch. He picked it up, and it was the same feeling that he'd gotten back in Ollivanders' for his first wand. "Thanks," he said to Orion. 

"Remember our agreement," was his response, as though Sirius had taken his inch and now thought to try for a mile. 

"As if I'd want to stay here," Sirius said drily. "Thank you for the wand, I have no intention of seeing you again." 

"Good, see that you don't." Orion closed the drawer, and Sirius would have put the wand away if he had somewhere secure to put it. Always a joy dealing with his father. 

The walk back to the front door was much quicker, with Orion eager to get rid of him and Sirius eager to be on his way. Sirius stepped down the steps out of the enchantments, then Disapparated. He landed just outside Hogsmeade and found himself breathless again. Hogwarts. His first real home. The half formed plan in his head went shooting out like it had never existed. Instead of staying in the village as Padfoot to get a feel for the climate, he started walking towards the castle. Sirius was from the damn future and he needed help. Yeah he could survive on his own for a while, but he wouldn't be able to see James like this, and how was he supposed to live in a place where there was another Sirius Black? He wasn't prepared to deal with any of this, so he was going to make Dumbledore deal with it instead. The war hadn't really started yet, the old man couldn't be that busy. 

He waved his newly acquired wand at himself, getting the mess off. Another flick of his wrist and the stench vanished. He didn't care to stop and take care of his clothes (and hair and beard) because it would take too long, but this was a definite improvement. A deranged looking man walking on a school campus drew some attention, but all Dumbledore did was send Professor McGonagall to intercept him. She did the whole 'protective of her students' thing, which Sirius could appreciate, and since he didn't feel like explaining this-- it didn't help that he had no idea how to explain it, either-- they walked the rest of the way in silence. 

Professor McGonagall said the password-- currently 'fire beetles'-- and the gargoyle hopped aside. 

Once Sirius was standing in front of the Headmaster, McGonagall left. Dumbledore was looking at him seriously, not a hint of good humour behind his spectacles. He was just as Sirius remembered him, if not as downtrodden by the losses the Order was taking. "Who are you?" 

"Sirius Black. I would say the one and only, but that's not exactly true." 

"You're from the future," he stated, and Sirius shrugged. 

"As far as I can tell." 

"Why? What did you need to change?" 

"You're acting like I did this on purpose." Sure he'd been thinking about a few past regrets, but everyone had those, and as far as he knew, no one else had gotten catapulted to the past without any effort on their part. He'd been getting the fuck out of Azkaban and that was it. 

"Did you not?" 

"No." 

Dumbledore gave him a considering look. "Then why did you come to me?" 

Sirius shrugged again. "You always know what to do, and I don't have anywhere else to go." 

"You want me to have all the answers." 

"Yeah." 

"When I hardly know what has happened." 

"I'm the one it happened to, and I don't know what's going on. What do you expect?" 

"Answers. But, you look tired. Get some rest, I'll have a room prepared for you here, and so long as you stay out of sight, we can-" 

"No." 

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. 

He wasn't going to go from one prison to another. It didn't matter the intent, he wasn't going to stay anywhere that he couldn't leave if he wanted. So Dumbledore gave him that look, and Sirius gave him the same look back. It probably didn't have the same effect when he was unkempt and his hair was a scraggly mess, but he didn't really care. 

*

Dumbledore pulled some strings and got him a little place in Hogsmeade as a compromise. He was close to Hogwarts (and Dumbledore), but still had his own space. The first thing Sirius did was eat, and the second was sleep. But the fourth thing (after eating again and savoring the taste of warm food that didn't taste half rotted) he did was shave. He'd never liked beards. Back in his fifth year or so, he'd tried growing one just to see if he could-- he couldn't-- and that had been enough to let him know that he never wanted one. At first he'd trimmed it short, but even that scruff had made him want to claw it off. He went a little too close to his skin, nearly cutting himself more than once, but the smoothness he got afterwards was worth it. He must have spent twenty minutes afterwards sitting on the floor-- the couch was too soft-- running his hand over his jaw. 

The hair was more complicated. When he was a kid, he'd kept it short, never long enough to tie back. Cutting it up to his shoulders felt... too short, almost. Less like who he was and too much like who he used to be. Spending that much time in a fucking cage had changed him, whether he liked it or not. He trimmed it a little. Braided it some days, just for something to do with his hands to try and get the fine motor control he hadn't known he'd lost. Other days he pulled it back, winding the hair around itself again and again until he had a thick bun atop his head. 

He spent most of his time laying on the floor staring at the ceiling thinking either about James or nothing at all. He'd start when the sun was up, and sometimes so much time would pass that the next time he looked outside it would be dark. Sometimes he went outside and laid in the grass doing the same thing, just because he could. James was close, and more than once a day he found himself ready to walk up to the school and find him, but what would he say? That was what stopped him. James had a much better Sirius by his side, and there was no easy way to explain what had happened to make him like this, and no way at all to explain what had happened to James that Sirius would now be so desperate to see him. James didn't need to be told that he'd get killed, and if Sirius could help it, it wouldn't happen this time. Not to be a dramatic bitch, but he'd rather go back in Azkaban than deal with James dying again. 

It was completely illogical, but when James bloody Potter showed up in his house one day, Sirius's immediate thought was that he'd been thinking about him so much that James had heard it. Thankfully, he kept that to himself. He stared at James for a long moment. Too long for it to be considered normal, but James was staring back at him the entire time so it's not like he could complain about it. 

"You look just like him," James said suddenly, and Sirius was about to start fucking crying. James. He wasn't as filled out as he was the last time Sirius had seen him and his voice wasn't quite as deep, but it was undeniably him. 

"Like who?" Sirius said, even though there could only be one person he was talking about. 

"Sirius. He's my best mate," James explained, because he didn't know that Sirius knew that already. "You're like an older, more sad version of him." 

Sirius snorted. "Thanks. Is that why you broke in?" 

"Your door was unlocked, I didn't break anything." 

"Pretty sure walking into someone's house uninvited is still a crime." 

"You won't tell anyone," James said confidently. 

"You sure about that?" Sirius asked, even though there was no way in hell he'd tell anyone. Who would he even tell? Dumbledore? Yeah, he really wanted to get into that with the old man. 

"'Course I am, or I wouldn't have tried it." He accompanied the statement with a cocksure grin, and Sirius wanted to kiss it off his face. 

James sat down next to him and was leaning over slightly to look at him. Everything in his body language made Sirius think James might like it if they kissed, and that was confusing as all hell. "What do you think is gonna happen here?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

Sirius snorted, looking away and back to the ceiling. He could still see James. "I'm too old for you." 

James immediately dropped the pretense. "No you're not, too old would be sixty." 

"Why don't you find your friend that I look just like and do this with him." 

His mouth twisted; he didn't think that young Sirius would want to. The thought seemed ludicrous, but also... was it? It wasn't until they were out of Hogwarts that Sirius had realised how he felt, and by that point it had been far too late to do anything about it. He'd always thought that his feelings started long before that, but he'd turned it over in his head so many times that there was no way to be sure. "He's not interested," James said. "Besides, you're different. Sirius is so focused on having fun that he doesn't want to tie himself down for an instant." 

He remembered that. He'd gotten out of under his mother's thumb and not been willing to do anything that reminded him of living there. Dating was fine, committing to anything like a relationship had been out of the question because it was too close to thinking about his future. Merlin, what a fucked up situation. James put a tentative hand on his cheek, rubbing his thumb across Sirius's cheekbone slowly, and Sirius amended that to what a fucked up seduction. Technically he could say no to this, but it was a far off possibility, like Sirius getting married and having children with the white picket fence. It was possible for him to say no by the letter of the word, but it was never going to happen. If he was going to say no, he would have kicked James out as soon as it became clear why he was here. 

"I've erm-" James stopped and licked his lips. His eyes darted to the side and he moved. Never let it be said that James Potter was a coward. He threw one leg over Sirius and seated himself on his lap, straddling him. He didn't need steadying, but Sirius's hands went to his hips automatically. "I've seen you sitting outside. You always look-" he stopped again, biting his lip then releasing it. "What did you lose to make you so sad all the time?" 

"Everything," Sirius said quietly, but he wasn't thinking about losing James, because James was here now, sitting on him and looking like all he wanted to do was make him feel better. 

"Well you can- you can start over, right? That's why you're here, to start a new everything." 

"Is that your official opinion or is that what you're hoping?" 

"It's true either way, isn't it?" 

Sirius had never been good at admitting when he was wrong, so he didn't say anything. 

James started to lean down, and Sirius's heart beat harder in his chest. "I've er- just- don't get mad if I'm total shite at this, alright?" And that was all he said before he kissed him. It was a soft, cautious pressing of their lips together, and Sirius brought one of his hands up to cup the back of James's head. James kissed him again, harder this time. Again and again until James was moving against him like he had something to prove-- and maybe he thought he did, but the truth was that James never had to prove himself to Sirius. He'd take everything James offered, and maybe he'd hope for me but he wouldn't dare to ask. 

Sirius knew that he should stop it the same way he knew he should have told James to leave and go back to the castle when he'd first come in the house. He didn't do a damn thing to stop it other than asking every now and then if James was sure; James always said yes. 

It was entirely comical that after they'd had a completely ill advised shag on the bed Sirius never used, James said, "You should eat more." 

Sirius snorted, and that turned into a full body laugh. 

"Hey, c'mon, I'm not taking the piss." 

That just made Sirius laugh harder, because James never used that phrase. He was trying to seem older by cursing because he still thought he had to prove something to him, and that was hilarious. When Sirius finally stopped laughing, James was pouting. "I know," Sirius said, still snickering a little as he ruffled James's hair. 

James bat away his hand. "'m not a kid," he muttered petulantly, trying-- for the first time Sirius had ever seen-- to flatten it back down. 

"That's the first time I've laughed in..." twelve years. He wasn't going to admit that. "Thanks." 

"Well." James sniffed, trying to save face. "You're welcome." 

Sirius reeled him in for a kiss, then gave his chest a shove. "You should get back." 

"You kicking me out?" James asked, raising an eyebrow, but there was no fear there. He knew that Sirius was as capable of doing that as he was saying no to him. 

"I didn't say you had to get back, only that you should." 

"Mmhmm." James snuggled into the bed, wrapping an arm around Sirius and shifting until he managed to find a comfortable position. It meant that Sirius was going to try and sleep in this thing, apparently. 

He didn't want to ask, but he found the words coming out of his mouth anyways. "Are you going to visit again?" 

"'course," James answered immediately. "Aren't we dating now?" 

"Would you let me say no?" Sirius asked, amused. 

"Nope." 

"Then yes. But maybe don't tell anyone you're dating a bloody thirty year old. I like my bollocks right where they are, thanks." 

James laughed. "No one would do that." 

Young Sirius definitely would. "Whatever you say, Jamie." 

"Don't call me that." 

"Why not?" 

"Makes me feel like a baby." 

Sirius paused, wondering if that was true for everyone, or if it was an age difference thing. "Alright. Just plain James from now on." 

Silence for a minute, then, "You never told me your name." 

He couldn't tell him 'Sirius' because there was only one living person with that name in the Wizarding World. "Siri." Close enough that he'd respond, but the first time around this life, Sirius hadn't had nicknames. He'd gone by either Sirius or Padfoot and that was it. Hopefully James wouldn't read too much into it, but it's not like he'd figure out the truth with just that. Probably wouldn't, at least. Sirius sighed, wondering how much Dumbledore was going to kill him when he found out about this. 

[withastolenlantern]

The footsteps stopped outside the door. She lay down on the floor, feet jammed against the bottom of the door, and pointed her revolver about handle high. For a moment there was silence, and then she felt the door slam against the soles of her shoes but the door only budged slightly. She heard several popping sounds as a submachine gun opened up from the other side, the nine-millimeter rounds erupting through the door frame and crashing into the tiled wall above and behind her. Chatham in return fired the final round from her revolver, and remained prone.  

She held her breath and with it her panic, and waited what felt like an eternity but in reality was less than a minute. Satisfied the exchange was over, she propped herself up into a kneeling position and shuffled over to check on Santomas once more.

The door came flying open with a start, and a black clad figure stormed into the bathroom. In the split second she had to react, Chatham immediately noticed that there was a hole in his tactical fatigues, about sternum high, where the thirty-eight round from her revolver had cut through and crashed into the ceramic plate underneath, disintegrating. 

The man leveled his gun down towards Chatham, but the detective kicked out towards him, and the jagged remainder of her broken high-heel caught him just above the ankle. He howled in pain and Chatham launched forward, bear-hugging her assailant around the knees and tipping him toward the floor. As he fell, he grabbed Chatham by the black gauze at the top of her gown; the material gave and tore off in his hand, but he managed to roll the detective down as he fell and landed on top of her. 

Chatham struggled to get out from under him, jamming her forearm up into the man’s throat. He balled his fists and threw several punches, only one of which connected, but it was enough to stun the detective. He put his hands around her throat, squeezing hard, and her vision started to tunnel as the oxygen left her brain. She wriggled desperately for position, managing to get her feet out from under the pin and kicked straight into his stomach, sending him flying up and backwards. His neck crashed into the lip of the sink behind him, and his head twisted back at an inhuman angle as his spine cracked with a sickening noise. He fell to the floor, limp.

“Fuck,” she cried, her chest heaving with a mix of exhaustion and fear. She pulled herself up onto her knees, leaning over the man she’d just killed, and burst into a half-sobbing, half-screaming wretch. His head flopped in a grotesque posture, the weight no longer properly supported, and she suppressed a sudden urge to vomit. Her panting slowed, and the adrenaline burst subsided as she finally caught her breath. 

More gunfire echoed down the hall, followed by fresh screams. She grabbed the man’s gun and pulled it into her lap. It certainly fit the form factor they’d seen in the fab schematics. She pulled the charging handle and leveled the barrel as best she could toward the now open entryway to the bathroom. It was unlikely she’d survive another encounter like that.

“Detective? Inspector Chatham?” someone called out.

“The cavalry has arrived, mum” Gibson droned cheerily.

“In here,” she yelled hoarsely. Her throat was raw and her mouth had the bitter taste of bile, but a sense of relief flooded her. “In here.”

A uniformed officer with local patches appeared in the doorway, and she lowered her weapon in relief. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” 

“Looks like you had a time of it,” one of them commented as she helped pull the detective up to her feet. The officer gestured over toward Santomas, still slumped in the corner. “He okay?”

“I think he’ll be altight but we’d better get him some help,” Chatham replied. 

“There’s an ambulance and medical crew outside. Help me get him up, if you can.” They each grabbed the engineer under an arm and lifted him up, his weight supported fully on their shoulders, and walked him out of the bathroom.

He groaned groggily in response, and half-opened his blood caked eyes. “You look terrible,” he murmured.

The detective laughed slightly, then coughed as her throat muscles reminded her of their recent trauma. “You should see the other guy.”

They carried Santomas down the hallway out into the ballroom, which had devolved into the chaos of incident response. Tables and chairs were strewn about haphazardly, and they were careful to avoid the broken glass and crystal from the fallen chandelier. Party attendees huddled in small clumps, obviously shocked; some were giving statements to local officers and others being attended to for minor wounds. 

They handed Santomas off to an EMT who helped him onto a gurney in the back of an ambulance parked in the courtyard just outside the now-opened French doors. Chatham thanked the local constable for her assistance, and went to find the local shift sergeant or incident commander. She found him standing nearby, surrounded by other officers, but also the Lady Swansea and Sir Travers.

“Oh detective, you’re alright!” Newby-Ross cooed as the detective approached. She grabbed the detective gently by the arm, and Chatham was surprised at how small she looked compared to earlier. Her make-up was smeared across her face with sweat and she held an icepack to her now swollen lip. Travers clutched his arm gingerly as if in some pain, likely from his wrestling antics, and his demeanor was clearly one of immense displeasure.  

“Yes, mum. I’ll survive,” she said with a small reassuring smile. 

“Ah, detective, good to see you’re alright. I understand we have you to thank for getting us here,” the local commander said. The crown pips on his uniform indicated he was a superintendent, which meant he technically outranked Chatham although deference was often given to her Commonwealth-level status regardless.

“Just doing my job, sir,” she responded with a casualness that belied the activities of the evening. “What’s the situation?”

“Thankfully no one appears to be seriously hurt, except for Minister Lamb there.” The superintendent gestured to the man who’d been executed; his body lay still on the floor now, covered with a light sheet of plastic, and surrounded by a small dark pool of dried blood. “And the other two fellows whom I believe are your handiwork. Unfortunately the suspects appear to have made off with quite a haul of valuables before we arrived on scene.”

“And our money!” Travers fumed. “How the hell did they get passed the manor security systems?”

“We’re looking into that, sir. The drone net outside appears to have been temporarily disabled somehow.”

“And you,” the ex-minister said, turning to Chatham. “Where the hell did you go?” 

“I beg your pardon?” she asked.

“All of a sudden there’s shooting and robbery and the only law enforcement official on the premises is nowhere to be found,” he said, pointing a finger angrily with his good arm. 

“I was attending to Mister Santomas’s injuries,” she explained, flustered to be so quickly back on the defensive. “You might have also noticed the two dead intruders.” 

“This should never have happened,” he railed, furious. “What the hell did they bring you on for, anyway? All you’ve done is let more thieves get away from our fabs, and now they’ve come here and stolen from us directly.”

“I don’t think that’s a fair…” Chatham attempted to interrupt.

“Thankfully this is a self-correcting problem, and one that I’ve already taken care of,” Travers explained, ignoring her protestations.

“What does that mean?” the detective asked.

“It means you’re fired, Detective Inspector.”

“What?”

“I’ve already spoken to your superiors. This investigation is being re-assigned to MI5. I think it might be better to their...” he paused slightly, to let the accusation linger, “skill sets.”

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” the detective exclaimed. 

“I’m afraid not, dear. We really do appreciate everything you’ve done,” the Lady said, again reaching out to touch Chatham gently on the arm. “But it’s really for the best.” 

Chatham stood for a short moment, a mixture of confusion and anger battling inside her for primacy. If anything, she should have been relieved. This was a shit detail from the start, and it would free her up to pursue other investigations of importance to someone besides the aristocracy she resented so much; away from this one particular aristocrat, around whom her whole life had seemed so destined to revolve without her consent. 

But for some reason she felt compelled to see this through, and her abrupt termination filled her with a mixture of guilt and rage she couldn’t understand. The guilt was easier to digest: she felt it as a combination of disappointment in herself for professional shortcomings, and in the unspoken failure to live up to her father’s example. The rage was harder to process. It was surely the fact that the patricians were once again having their way outside any bounds of process or expertise or reproach, getting what they want by virtue of power and money either earned or otherwise. But there was something deeper that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, something more insidious and worrying. She filed that away to resolve later, after the immediate business was done. 

“Fuck you,” she spat, surprising everyone, including herself.

“Excuse me?” Travers said.

“You heard me. Fuck you, and fuck your peerage bullshit,” Chatham snarled, having evidently resolved on anger as her predominant exit strategy.

“That’s quite enough, Detective,” Lady Swansea said. “It’s probably best if you let the local constabulary handle this from now. I sincerely do wish you the best.”

“No offense, mum, but toss it.” 

She stormed across the courtyard back toward the ambulance where they’d taken Santomas, but it was gone, likely off to the hospital. She sighed heavily and took off toward the parking area where she’d left her rental. She hobbled awkwardly on her broken shoe, and made it several meters before she bent down and ripped off it and the other heel, throwing them into nearby shrubbery with an anguished wail of frustration as tears started streaming down her cheeks. Several of the responding officers turned to look, but out of the corner of her eye she noticed the woman who’d helped her earlier give them a stern look and nudge them back toward their duties.