#and go into detail on how nondescript yet weird he looks

[beedreamscape]

He's my lil guy with his monstrous obsidian eyes and ordinary urbane face and terrible divinity that clings to his hairy skin of nondescript brown

[jetii]

Playing Pretend

Pairing: Wrecker x Twi'Lek fem!Reader

Words: 16,373

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! fake married, (not) unrequited feelings, Wrecker yearning x1000, some negative self talk, big "get your hands off my wife!" energy, some minor jealousy, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, praise kink, size kink obviously, light dom!Reader

Summary: The mission is simple: infiltrate a lavish party, plant a bug, and get out. The only problem: Wrecker has to pretend to be married to you, and he's not so sure he can hide how much he likes it.

A/N: Happy Wrecker Wednesday! This is definitely the most self-indulgent thing I've ever written, down to the nonhuman reader bc I'm getting a little bored with humans. With this, we've officially reached the end of the fics I wrote before creating this account, and we're going out with a bang (literally).

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This mission is going to be a disaster.

It's not that Wrecker doesn’t trust you, quite the opposite. You’re quiet, quick, and resourceful, and you’re one of the smartest people he’s ever met. You're built for infiltration, for gathering intel, and as far as the Batch is concerned, you have yet to fail a mission. So no, there’s no doubt in his mind you're the perfect spy.

It’s his own ability that gives him pause.

Hunter, Echo, hell, even Tech would’ve been a better pick for any sort of espionage mission over him. When Hunter informed them Wrecker was the one that was going with you, Wrecker laughed. A full belly laugh that brought tears to his eyes and left his face aching, because the very idea of him sneaking around, being stealthy, well, it was ridiculous.

It was so ridiculous he was sure Hunter had meant it as a joke, but when he saw the serious look on his face, the one that told him his brother meant business, Wrecker began to sweat. He hasn’t really stopped since. 

Lying and pretending are two things he’s truly terrible at, coupled with the fact that he’ll be alone with you, playing pretend with you, and he‘s been on edge ever since.

It doesn't help that Cid insisted the only way you could get close to the target is by posing as a married couple. One that are newlyweds, at that. 

Wrecker knows this is a job, just a job, but it's still you. 

He's still going to be touching you, and not because you need him to, or you want him to, but because the job requires it. And the whole thing just has him feeling weird. He knows you can fake being a couple, but he's not sure if he can.

As much as Wrecker hates lying and pretending, he really doesn't hate you. If he's being honest, he probably likes you too much. So that's why, when Hunter told him about the mission, and then later asked if he was alright with the details, Wrecker had said yes.

The look Hunter gave him told him that he didn't quite believe him, and Wrecker wasn't even sure he believed himself. After all, it's no secret he doesn't have the greatest poker face. He doesn't like lying, especially to his brothers. But he also doesn't like disappointing them, or disappointing you, and he's willing to do just about anything to make sure you're safe.

The rest of the night before the mission was spent planning and strategizing, which meant he didn't see much of you. He wanted to check in and make sure you were feeling good about the plan, but he never got the chance. 

Now, here he is, in a small, nondescript hotel room with you, the rest of the squad holed up in the Marauder and waiting on your signal. The room itself is nice, but small, and there's only one bed. He’d felt his nerves spike when he first saw it, but he forced himself to relax. If everything goes according to plan, you won't be sleeping in it.

There are other things he's more worried about, anyway. Like how he's going to pull this off, and how he's going to manage not to fuck up, and most importantly, how he's going to manage spending the entire mission trying not to get too wrapped up in you.

That last part is the hardest.

He's sitting on the bed, the holomap spread out on the small table beside it. Your target is a small-time gangster, and he’s having a party at his penthouse tonight, so it's the perfect opportunity to sneak in. All you have to do is go through the party, find the main office, plant a few bugs, and then get out. 

Easy peasy.

At least, that's what Tech said.

Well, he said a lot more than that, but Wrecker had kind of zoned out around the time Tech started talking about security cameras and frequencies. 

What he does know is the bugs need to be placed somewhere in the office, and the two of you will have to blend in and seem as natural as possible until you can make your way there. Easy for you, but Wrecker knows he'll stick out like a sore thumb, even if he isn't in his armor.

“You alright, big guy?” 

Wrecker nearly jumps at the sound of your voice, heart in his throat as he feels your hand gently grab his arm. He tenses underneath your touch. 

He can’t remember the last time you touched him, or even the last time the two of you were alone together. Probably because it hasn’t happened. He thinks he would remember if it had, because it feels electrifying. Your manicured hand, complete with a wedding ring, slides against the fabric of his suit. It takes everything in him not to shiver.

Then he turns to face you fully, and his eyes nearly fall out of his head. 

No, he’s not alright.

You look absolutely stunning.

It's not like you don't look stunning every day, you do, and even when you're in armor, or covered in dirt and grime, Wrecker thinks you're beautiful. But this...this is something else. It's not fair.

You’ve shared a bit about Ryloth during your time together, and you’d mentioned that ever since you left the hot planet, you felt cold. He’s never seen you without a jacket except that one time you’d been shot in your shoulder, and even then, he was more focused on keeping pressure on the wound and getting you to safety than on what you were wearing.

But right now, he can't focus on anything else.

He, embarrassingly, tends to ogle whenever any inch of your vibrant skin is on display. He walked straight into a wall the time you stretched in front of him, and your shirt rode up to reveal a hint of the curve of your stomach. When he saw your legs in a dress at 79s, he shattered his glass. He couldn’t help it. That was one of the first times he realized he had a problem, but it certainly wasn't the last.

You're just...so much, all the time, and you don't even realize it. He's gotten better at being discrete, or at least, he's better at hiding his reactions.

But this is so, so much.

Made of some fancy shimmering black fabric, the top of the dress left nearly your entire chest exposed along with your arms. With two thin straps to hold it up, he doesn't know how it's staying in place, but he's sure if he looks hard enough, he'll find out.

A deep cut runs down the middle of the dress, starting right under your clavicle and ending in a point just below your stomach. It's long, coming all the way down to your feet and flaring out, and there are two slits up either side of the dress, exposing your thighs as you move.

There's no denying it, the dress is tight, and Wrecker is trying so hard not to look, honestly, but it's like his eyes are glued to your body.

You mentioned you would have a weapon on you just in case, but looking over you now — admiring the way the expensive fabric clung to every curve of you — he struggles to imagine where it could be.

He swallows. Hard.

The hand on his arm lets go to reach up and hold one of your lek, shifting it so both were draped over one shoulder. You’d gone all out with decorating them as well. Sparkling straps of black crisscrossed up to a velvet headpiece that takes the place of your usual bandana, all coming to a point high on your forehead, where a deep blue jewel sits at your crown. It shifts slightly with the raise of your eyebrows, and he realizes he's been staring, and he’s still not saying anything.

Wrecker forces out the first words on his mind.

“Wow! You look—wow..."

You give him a small smile, a hint of color darkening your cheeks, and his heart thuds in his chest. He wants to make you blush all the time.

He reaches out and grabs your hand, lifting it above your head with ease. Wrecker turns you into a spin, and he’s rewarded with your cute laugh and the sound of the dress swishing as you spin. And then he sees your back, entirely exposed all the way down to the dimples at the base of your spine, just above the curve of your ass.

Holy shit.

He has to look away, letting go of your hand to rub the back of his neck, feeling a little light-headed. This is already not going well.

“You clean up well yourself, handsome,” you say between a laugh, and he blushes more than he already is.

Wrecker doesn't consider himself all that good-looking, especially compared to his brothers, but you've told him once or twice he's not hard on the eyes. You've also told him he has a nice smile, which had him grinning like an idiot for a solid day. He's still smiling now, because hearing you call him handsome makes his heart pound in his chest.

Still, he's not used to all the compliments. It's a lot, especially when they come from you.

"Tech and Echo did the best they could, I guess," Wrecker shrugs. The motion stretches the threads of his dark suit, and he grimaces. It's itchy, and too tight, and he hates it. He doesn't get how people wear these things all the time. "Not really used to the fancy stuff."

You tilt your head, looking him over. He resists the urge to squirm.

“C’mere," you tell him, beckoning him with your hand.

Wrecker does as he's told, and your hands grab his tie. The feeling of you tugging him closer by the silk sends a rush of heat through his veins, and he can’t help but grin down at you as he watches you adjust it for him. 

Your mouth is pursed, nose wrinkling slightly as you concentrate on getting it just right, even though you both know he'll likely mess it up in a matter of minutes anyway. You’re so cute, and you're so close, and it would be so easy for him to lean in and kiss you.

He's thought about it a lot, and he's almost done it once or twice, but then you'd pull back, or one of his brothers or Omega would come into the room, and the moment would be gone. It was probably for the best, considering he doesn't even know how you feel about him.

“Thanks," he mumbles.

You're still standing close, your chest practically touching his.

"Of course." The words are soft, and they leave him feeling hotter than ever. 

He looks away from you, and catches sight of the two of you in the mirror. Wrecker has always been a bit of a sucker for a good romance, and this? This is right out of one of his favorite holovids. You're both dressed in the finest clothes, him in a suit, you in a gorgeous dress, and it's just the two of you against the world.

Except, this isn't real.

There isn't any grand romance, and the feelings that threaten to burst from his chest are his and his alone.

“You really do look beautiful," he says, his voice a little rough, but honest.

You meet his eyes in the mirror. He watches as the corner of your lips quirk up, and you look almost shy. It's adorable, and a little confusing, because usually, you're not so modest. He wonders what changed.

"I—thank you, Wrecker."

"And I'll keep sayin' it till you believe me," he adds, because it's true.

"Oh, I believe you," you laugh, and the sound warms him to the core.

"Yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah."

"Good. 'Cause you really do. You look—" Wrecker swallows, and then shakes his head. He's getting distracted, and it's not good, not when the two of you have a job to do.

"So do you."

You give his tie one last tug, and then take a step back. Your hands smooth down the front of your dress as you look down at your shoes. He can't tell, but he swears you look almost bashful. It's so unlike you that he wonders if you're actually okay.

"You sure you're good?" he asks, concerned.

You hum an affirmative, and then you mutter, “Just already looking forward to taking this off."

The words are mumbled, barely audible, and he doesn't think you intended for him to hear. Wrecker blinks, and his gaze travels down the length of your body, and his mouth goes dry. His mind can't help but wander. It would be so easy for him to reach out, hook his fingers in the thin straps holding your dress up, and just...

"Yeah, me too," Wrecker admits quietly, the words falling from his mouth without thought.

A second passes. Two.

Wrecker's brain catches up to his mouth. He sees the shift of your jaw and the bob of your throat, and he wishes the ground would swallow him up.

"Uh, yeah, I mean," Wrecker starts, trying to backtrack and failing, "because I hate this thing, and it's not very comfortable."

It's not the worst lie he's told, but it's pretty far up there. Still, the look of relief that crosses your face tells him you believe it. Your arms are crossed over your chest, holding yourself in a way that suggests you feel vulnerable, and the realization makes his gut twist.

Wrecker doesn't want to make you feel uncomfortable, and he feels terrible that he has. He didn't even realize that the dress, and the mission, could bother you. You always seemed so put together, and confident, and not bothered by much, that he just assumed you would be okay. But, you're not, and now he feels bad, and stupid.

"We don't have to do this," Wrecker offers, rubbing the back of his neck.

You shake your head, and he can see you forcing yourself to relax. "I can handle a few hours."

Wrecker isn't sure what to say. He knows you're capable, and he doesn't think you would offer if you didn't think you could do it, but the way you're standing makes him wonder.

"But you know if you don't wanna, that's fine too," he adds, because it is.

Hunter would probably give him an earful later, but you were the priority, and Wrecker would deal with whatever punishment was necessary to make sure you were safe and comfortable. He doubted Hunter would be mad, anyway. They're family, and family looked out for each other, and you were part of the team, too.

You look at him, and then down at the floor, and then back up at him.

"It's fine."

Wrecker bites his tongue, but only barely.

You're not fine, and he can tell, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why. There's a reason you've always been the one chosen for missions like this, even back when you were still an intelligence officer and he was barely more than a shiny. It's not just because of your training and experience, but also because of the way you look.

The thought makes him angry. It isn't right, and he hates that you've been forced into this position. Until tonight, he'd held out some misguided hope that you wouldn't ever have to be put in a situation like this again.

He knows you can handle a lot more than most, but you shouldn't have to.

"Really, Wrecker, I'm fine," you say again, and it's only then that he realizes he's been staring at you.

"Are you sure? ‘Cause if—"

You step forward, putting a hand on his chest and looking up at him. His eyes catch on the shine of your lips, and the warmth of your hand against his chest makes his heart race.

"If you keep asking me, I'm gonna start to think you don't want to be my husband," you tease.

"I'd love to be your husband," Wrecker replies without missing a beat, and he means it.

The words are true, even if the context isn't. It's the closest thing he'll get to a wedding with you, and that thought makes him want to scream. Instead, he settles on smiling, even as his heart races and his palms sweat.

"I'm sorry, I just don't wanna make you feel—"

"I'm kidding, ma sareen," you say, shaking your head, "I know. But really, it's okay."

He gives a slow nod, not sure how to respond. You've called him that before, and while he doesn't speak Ryl, he does know it's a term of endearment. One that he's overhead Suu say to Cut a few times, and one that you've used with him, and only him.

Every time, it makes him smile. But it's one thing for you to say it casually, and another entirely to say it in front of strangers, pretending to be married to him. He doesn't know why the thought makes his heart pound in his chest, or his ears grow warm.

"And hey, at least I have someone who can protect me, right?"

He grins proudly, and nods. That, he can do.

"You got that right."

"Then what's there to worry about?" you ask, a smile on your face.

That I might embarrass you, is what Wrecker wants to say, but doesn't. Instead, he follows you towards the door. You pause just before stepping through, looking up at him expectantly. He doesn't quite understand until you reach out and hold your hand palm up.

"Well?"

"What?"

"Give me your hand, Wrecker," you laugh.

"Oh, right," Wrecker stutters, slipping his hand into yours.

His hands are rough and calloused from years of fighting, but your hand is soft and gentle, and he tries his best not to squeeze too hard. You lead him out of the room and to the lift. You lean against him, your head resting on his shoulder, and his breath catches in his throat.

"Relax, big guy, you've got this," you whisper, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Wrecker hopes you're right.

He's not sure how long the two of you have been here. An hour? Maybe two?

Whatever it is, it's long enough that his face hurts from fake smiling. His shoulders are tense, and he keeps a steady hand on your lower back, not willing to let go.

As soon as the two of you had walked through the door, the guards had taken your weapons, and it had been the first time Wrecker had felt truly unsettled since leaving the ship. Not only was he unarmed, but now, you were as well, and he was responsible for keeping you safe. They'd even taken the knife you'd tucked into the holster on your thigh.

They'd also frisked you, and while it wasn't the first time, or even the first time for him, it was the first time he'd seen it done like that. The guard had run his hands up the inside of your thigh, his thumb dangerously close to places he never should've been touching, and Wrecker had seen red.

The man was lucky all Wrecker did was grab his wrist and pull it away, his grip tight enough to bruise. The guard had stumbled, his face red as he tried and failed to apologize. It didn't matter to him. The bastard wouldn't be able to use that hand for a while, and Wrecker hadn't felt bad at all.

After, he'd wrapped his arm around your waist and held you close. He knows he probably shouldn't have, but he needed the reminder that you were safe. He could pretend it was just for show, but really, it was to comfort himself.

It doesn't help that every eye in the room has been on the two of you since you arrived, and while the stares are likely directed at you, Wrecker still doesn't like it. It makes his blood boil, and his skin crawl, and all he wants to do is get out of here. He hates how uncomfortable and vulnerable it makes him feel, and the fact that it's affecting him at all is embarrassing.

You seem to be doing just fine, chatting with various people, laughing and smiling and, unfortunately, flirting.

Not with him, no. With all the men and women around you.

It's the nature of the job, he knows that, but it still sucks.

You're doing your best to blend in, and it's working. He just tries his best to keep up with you. He doesn't trust any of these people, not even for a second, and the tension in his shoulders doesn't ease, no matter how hard he tries.

This is the first time he's been in a party like this, and he doesn't think he likes it.

When Tech had said the target was having a party, he'd expected loud music, maybe some dancing. What he got was an old-fashioned cocktail party, the type he's only ever seen in holovids, and the kind where the rich and powerful mingle and talk about politics and money.

It's boring, and the people are rude, and the lights of the chandelier make his eye twitch. But worst of all, no one can take their eyes off you, and he can't blame them. Even after the initial shock of seeing you dressed like that has passed, his eyes can't help but trail down the length of your body. And while you're definitely the most beautiful person in the room, he thinks there's a part of him that doesn't want anyone else to see you.

At least there's good food. And drink. And while he would never dare touch you without permission, it's nice to know he can do so now.

So he's taken every opportunity to do just that, to let everyone around know that you're his. He's kept his hand on the small of your back, the curve of your hip, the bend of your waist, and he's made sure to be close to you at all times. You don't seem to mind, which is the best part, and it makes his chest swell with pride.

Your arm is tucked around his, your fingers laced with his own, and he loves the way you lean into him, like you need him, like he's a safe place for you. He doesn't know if you do, but it doesn't stop him from wishing.

Wrecker looks at the ring on his finger. It's a simple gold band, nothing fancy, and it reminds him that this isn't real. It's just for the job, and he has to keep reminding himself of that. Because if he doesn't, it'll be easy for him to lose sight of that. And if he loses sight, he might do something stupid, like kiss you, and he's not sure if he'd be able to stop.

"So, where did you two meet?"

Wrecker tears his gaze away from you and to the Twi'lek across from him, her blue lekku adorned with jewels. He has no idea who she is, but the two of you are getting along so well he doesn't want to interrupt. You're the only Twi'leks in the room, and he thinks that might be the only reason the two of you are talking at all.

"Oh, it's a little embarrassing, actually," you answer, a shy smile on your face.

You squeeze his hand and glance up at him, and his stomach flutters.

"Not really," he mumbles, cheeks warm.

"You don't think so, but I might," you giggle, and Wrecker can't help the way his mouth quirks up in a smile. He wants to kiss your forehead, or your cheek, or your lips, but he doesn't.

The Twi'lek woman laughs and sips her drink, leaning in close to listen.

"C'mon, tell me, I'm dying to know."

Wrecker's not sure what story you've told everyone else, so he's not sure if this is part of it, but the way you look up at him makes his heart skip a beat. You squeeze his hand again, and he wonders if it's supposed to be a sign. It's a little distracting.

"Well, um, we met when he saved my life."

Wrecker nearly chokes on his drink.

The Twi'lek raises a brow, glancing between the two of you. "Really?"

"Mhm."

"That's not embarrassing."

"Yes, it is. Because he saved my life, and instead of being grateful, I called him an idiot," you tell her, a blush rising to your cheeks.

It's the truth. When you were still an officer, your unit was under fire. You'd been separated from your squad, pinned down, and Wrecker had found you. He'd pulled you from your hiding spot and out of the way, and the two of you had barely escaped unscathed. But the first words you'd said to him were, 'You idiot, you almost shot me.'

In his defense, he was a little distracted at the time.

"What did you say to that?"

Wrecker shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. "Not much."

You look up at him, your eyes shining. "I mean, he did save my life, so I apologized, obviously."

"Obviously," the woman nods.

"And, um, well," you stumble, and Wrecker wonders what's making you so nervous. It's not like you to be caught off guard, but you seem almost embarrassed. "He's the kindest man I've ever met, and I was immediately charmed by him."

Wrecker can't hide the surprise that crosses his face, but he does his best.

"It was hard not to fall for him," you admit, a softness in your voice that wasn't there before, "and, well, here we are."

Your gaze meets his, and the tenderness in your eyes takes his breath away.

"So romantic," the woman sighs, and you nod in agreement.

"Yeah, it's...it's somethin'," Wrecker says quietly, his chest tight.

He doesn't think anyone's ever talked about him like that, let alone in front of a bunch of strangers.

You lean into him, a soft smile on your face. Wrecker's hand slides from your waist to rest on the small of your back, and his eyes linger on the curve of your lip, the slight shimmer on your cheek. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your eyes drop down to watch the motion, and his heart thuds against his ribcage.

He can't help but wonder if maybe there's some truth to what you're saying. It's not like you've been lying the entire time, and Wrecker isn't naïve. He knows this is all part of the act, but the way you're looking at him makes him feel like you might mean it.

Wrecker can't help the way his mind wanders, or the way his stomach flutters when your lips brush his ear as you whisper, "You alright, darling?"

His breath hitches in his throat, and it's hard not to shudder as you trail a finger up his arm.

"Yeah, m'fine," he manages, the words shaky.

Your lips brush the shell of his ear, and he has to fight the urge to groan.

"We've got company," you whisper.

Wrecker tenses, scanning the room. It takes a moment for him to realize you mean the target. He's making his way through the crowd, and it's only a matter of moments before he's approaching.

"Mr. and Mrs. Kasta," he greets, an air of confidence in his voice, "welcome."

Wrecker nods at him, keeping his mouth shut. He doesn't trust himself not to say something stupid. He's already fucked up a few times tonight, and he doesn't want to embarrass himself. Besides, you're already taking the lead, smiling brightly at the man.

"Thank you for having us, Mr. Dralig," you tell him, giving a slight bow.

"Please, call me Bohme," he insists, returning the gesture. "Always a pleasure to meet such an esteemed couple as yourselves. You look ravishing, Mrs. Kasta."

You blush, and Wrecker fights the urge to roll his eyes. You are the most stunning woman in the room, and he can't imagine how this asshole could think otherwise, but the compliment still makes him bristle. He can't understand why you don't seem more annoyed.

"Well, thank you," you say, a hint of laughter in your voice.

"I do hope you're enjoying yourselves," Bohme continues, "the food, the music, the view."

The man's eyes linger on you for a moment too long, and Wrecker doesn't have to be a genius to figure out what he means.

"Oh, yes, very much so," you reply easily, ignoring the implication, "thank you."

Bohme nods, and then turns his attention to Wrecker, giving him a quick once-over. Wrecker tenses. The man is short and thin, his features pinched and pale, but his eyes are sharp, and his mouth is curved up in a smile that's almost predatory.

"I must say, I was a little surprised when I learned the Kastas would be joining us tonight. I was told they were unable to make it."

Wrecker narrows his eyes, watching the man carefully.

"Yes, well, our schedules opened up, and my husband was able to move some things around. It's rare we get a night off, so I jumped at the chance," you tell him, reaching out to grab Wrecker's arm and squeeze it.

He's glad you're playing the part so well. It's definitely not something he's capable of, and he can't help but feel a little useless. But he can at least make sure you're not alone, and that this guy keeps his hands off you.

"Well, I'm glad you could make it."

"We're glad we could too. The party's been wonderful."

"Glad to hear it."

Wrecker shifts slightly, feeling the weight of the man's gaze. There's something unsettling about him, and Wrecker's never been able to hide his disdain for the people they're forced to work for. But Bohme's the mark, and so he tries his best not to stare, but he's never been good at playing nice.

"If I'm being honest, I thought the rumors were exaggerated."

Wrecker frowns, and you look a little surprised.

"Oh?"

"I see the scars aren't," Bohme adds, gesturing to Wrecker's face.

Wrecker doesn't reply, only glares. The scars have never bothered him, not really. Sure, sometimes people stare, or ask him about them, and sometimes that's more than a little awkward. But he doesn't hate them. He mostly just forgets they're there until he gets one of the phantom pains, or someone points them out.

This man, though, he's staring, and not with curiosity, but with judgement, and it makes Wrecker’s skin crawl. He clenches his jaw, looking for the words to tell him off that won’t make the entire operation fail, but thankfully, you're quicker than him.

"No, but I quite like them," you say, reaching up and brushing a hand over his scarred cheek.

Wrecker swallows, his head tilting down to meet your gaze. Your touch is gentle, your thumb brushing under his eye, and he watches as your eyes shift from cold fury to something warmer, kinder.

"They remind me of just how brave and selfless my husband is," you tell him, the words soft, almost as if they're just for him.

Wrecker blinks, his lips parting. He wants to respond, but his throat is dry, and he's not sure what he would say even if he could.

"And I would be lost without him," you add, your fingers sliding across his jaw.

He knows this isn't real, that it's just for show, and he's just a means to an end, but he can't help the way his heart races in his chest. Because the way you're looking at him isn't fake, and neither are your words. He doesn't know how he's so sure, but he is.

He can't find his voice, and he doesn't trust himself to speak, so instead, he takes your hand and presses his lips to the inside of your wrist. You gasp, and your mouth parts, and he's so focused on the warmth of your skin and the way you blush that he barely registers the sound of Bohme's laughter.

"Oh, to be young and in love."

Wrecker doesn't pay attention to the rest of the conversation. He doesn't care. All he can focus on is you. The way you look up at him, and the softness in your eyes. The way you're pressed against him, and the way his arm is wrapped around you, and the way it feels like you belong there.

You've always felt right in his arms, like you fit perfectly, and every time you touch him, he wonders if it's the last. That's how it is now. Like it could end at any moment. So, he's memorizing everything, every detail, the feel of your skin, the sound of your voice, the scent of your perfume.

Because when this is all over, he'll never be close to you like this again, and he'll never forget it.

"Ma sareen." 

He snaps out of his trance at the sound of your voice. "Hmm?"

"Could you be a dear and get me a drink?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart."

Wrecker leans in, pressing his lips to your temple, and he relishes the way your cheeks turn red and the sound of your breath hitching in your throat. He doesn't know what he's doing. All he knows is that it's worth it to see the look on your face, and the way Bohme looks like he's swallowed a lemon.

He gives your waist a gentle squeeze and turns, making his way through the crowd to the bar. It's the furthest place from the door, and the longest walk of his life, because his head is swimming, and his heart is pounding, and it’s giving him too much time to think.

And when he does, all he can think about is you. He's not blind. He can see the way you've been looking at him tonight, and the way you're touching him. It's driving him crazy, and the more time he spends here with you, the harder it is to convince himself that you don't feel the same.

Maybe you do feel the same, and he's just been missing the signs, too afraid to see them. Maybe he should do something about it.

The thought is scary. What if he does, and he's wrong?

But then he remembers the way your fingers slid across his cheek, the way you leaned into his side,  and the way you blush whenever he calls you sweetheart. It's enough to give him hope.

"What can I get for you?" the bartender asks.

Wrecker blinks, glancing down at him. He'd forgotten why he was here, and his cheeks warm as he fumbles for an answer. Champagne seems like the right call for you. You'd both had a few glasses earlier, and it was fine, but he needed something much stronger if he was going to have a chance at getting through the rest of the night.

"Whiskey, neat.”

He doesn't pay attention as the bartender pours his drink. He turns around toward where couples are dancing, scanning the room for you. When he finally finds you, his stomach twists, and he has to force himself to breathe.

Bohme has his hands on your hips, and your hand is on his chest, and the way his head dips toward yours sends a flash of anger through him. The two of you are dancing, swaying back and forth, and while Wrecker knows it's a mission, and that you're just playing a part, it still makes his stomach churn.

Because even from here, he can see the look in the man's eyes, and it's not one of someone who's just playing a part.

"Is that all?" the bartender asks.

"What—no, no. Give me another," Wrecker mutters, grabbing the first glass and downing it in a single gulp.

It burns his throat, but it's the distraction he needs, because the two of you are getting closer. He's not sure if Bohme is going in for a kiss, but he knows he's not going to be able to watch it happen.

The second glass goes down just as quickly, and Wrecker winces, slamming the glass back on the bar and turning around. He doesn't know what's come over him. He's not a jealous person. Never has been, not even a little. He's been on plenty of missions with you, and seen you get close with other men, and while he didn't like it, he's never felt this.

Wrecker pushes past the dancing couples and walks toward the two of you. As soon as Bohme's hand slides lower on your back, Wrecker knows it's too much. You've gone along with the plan, but Wrecker's not going to stand here and watch you be taken advantage of, not by him, or anyone.

He storms up to the two of you, ignoring the startled looks on your faces and those around you. Before he can even think about what he's doing, Wrecker wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you close. His hand settles on your lower back, your skin warm and soft against his palm.

"Can I cut in?" he growls, his voice low and gruff.

"Uh—"

"I was talking to my wife," Wrecker snaps, his eyes narrowed.

The man's face pales, and his mouth drops open. He glances down at you, and then back up at Wrecker, and then steps back, holding his hands up in surrender.

You press your hand to his chest, and the motion is so familiar and comforting that his shoulders relax. He looks down at you, and his breath catches in his throat. There's a hint of a smile on your face, and you look happy, and his stomach flutters.

"Of course, darling," you murmur, your fingers curling into his shirt, "we were just having a nice chat, weren't we, Bohme?"

Wrecker glares at the man.

"Yeah, sure, we were," the man replies, taking a step back.

Wrecker knows he should leave it alone, and let you take care of it, but the whiskey has loosened his tongue, and the man's wandering hands have left him feeling more than a little possessive.

"Don't get any ideas, pal. She's married," Wrecker tells him, his voice a deep growl.

He's being harsh, but he doesn't care. You've had to deal with this asshole enough for one night, and Wrecker's tired of watching him touch you, and talk to you, and look at you.

"Of course, I would never," Bohme says, shaking his head.

Wrecker's not convinced, but he's not going to start a fight over it. As much as he'd like to knock the guy's teeth in, he doesn't. For your sake. And for the mission's, though he's caring less and less about that as the night goes on.

"You alright, sweetheart?" Wrecker asks, his tone gentler, more concerned, as he leads you away.

"I'm fine, darling," you answer, giving his arm a squeeze.

He's not sure if he's imagining it, but he swears you sound a little breathy. Wrecker's not surprised. If his heart is racing from the adrenaline of pulling you away from Bohme, then yours probably is, too.

"Sorry I forgot your drink," he mutters as he picks up his pace, "that guy just rubs me the wrong way."

"It's okay," you say, looking up at him with a small smile. As the two of you get further and further away, you add, "I was kind of hoping you would."

He stops walking, his brow furrowing. "What?"

"Nothing, ma sareen."

"Wait, were you—" Wrecker glances over his shoulder, and the realization hits him. You'd known the whole time, and were counting on him to notice, and he had. He's not sure if he should be mad, or embarrassed, or something else entirely. "Oh."

You tilt your head, looking up at him with an amused expression. "Yeah, oh."

"That's why you wanted a drink, wasn't it?"

You bite your lip, a blush rising to your cheeks. "Well, I was thirsty."

"I—"

"I knew you wouldn't leave me alone with him."

"I wouldn't," he says, shaking his head, "not in a million years."

You look down, and his grip on you tightens. He doesn't mean to, but he's still shaken up, and your nearness is a comfort, even if it shouldn't be.

You lean into him, and he takes a step forward, pulling you close. His other hand comes up, his fingers brushing your cheek, and his eyes drop to your lips. He doesn't mean to touch you like this, but now that he has, he doesn't want to stop.

"I know," you say softly, your breath warm against his palm.

"Good," he murmurs.

Your hand slips down his chest, and Wrecker shudders. You're standing so close, and your face is only inches from his, and your eyes are shining. The words leave him before he stop them, his voice a low rumble.

"And I don't want anyone else touching you, either.”

The sound that leaves your mouth sends a rush of heat through his veins, and he has to fight the urge to kiss you.

"Good," you whisper, the word nearly lost to the music.

"Really?"

You nod, looking up at him through your lashes, and his heart skips a beat. "Mhm."

Wrecker lets out a shaky breath, his hand sliding down to cup your cheek. His lips are only inches from yours, and he's not sure if it's the alcohol or the dress, but he feels bold. Too bold.

"Then, is it okay if I—"

You press a finger to his lips, silencing him.

"Yes," you tell him, leaning closer, "but not here."

Wrecker freezes. Did he hear that right? Or is he imagining things?

"Why not?"

"Because," you start slowly, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "if you kiss me, I'm not going to want you to stop. And we're in the middle of a party, and the mission's not over."

Wrecker doesn't even realize his mouth has fallen open until you reach up and close it for him. Your touch is gentle, and his cheeks are warm, and the softness in your eyes makes him melt. 

Your hand drags down to adjust his lapel before you slip something into his pocket.

"Got his keycard," you whisper, patting his chest.

Wrecker doesn't care. You could've told him you'd stolen the man's starship, and it still wouldn't have mattered. Not with the way you're looking at him.

"You're really somethin', y'know that?" he asks, and if he sounds a little breathless, he doesn't care about that either.

"So are you, ma sareen," you answer, smiling softly, "so are you."

"Almost done," you say, your voice soft, but urgent.

Wrecker is leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked on you. He's careful not to touch anything in Bohme's office as you make your way around. His eyes are on the sway of your hips, and the soft curves of your body, and it's all he can do not to reach out and pull you against him.

You'd managed to slip away, and while Wrecker is a little disappointed the two of you had to leave, he knows the sooner you're finished, the sooner you can be alone.

"Anythin' you need help with, sweetheart?"

"No," you answer, "I got it."

You're bent over, looking for something, and the view gives him a perfect view of the curve of your ass. It's a bit distracting, and his mind is wandering. He's thinking about how nice it would be to hold you in his arms, and kiss you, and the things he would like to do if he had the opportunity.

The list is getting longer by the minute.

"Just need a few more seconds."

"I'm not in a rush," he answers with a shrug. His eyes are locked on your ass, and the way it moves as you work. You'd asked him to keep watch, and that's what he's doing, just keeping watch.

"Yes, you are," you say, a teasing lilt in your voice.

"Maybe," he admits, not bothering to deny it.

He doesn't care if it's a little pathetic, or desperate. He doesn't want to hide his feelings anymore. Not from you, and not from himself. He wants you to know, and to understand.

You glance over your shoulder, your eyes meeting his. You're wearing a smile that makes his stomach flutter.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask, a sultry note to your voice that makes his head spin. You walk over to the lamp on the wall and unscrew the glass. One of the bugs Tech had given you slips into the empty socket before you replace the bulb.

Wrecker blinks, his mind foggy.

"You."

You look surprised, and for a moment, he wonders if he's gone too far. But then, you smile, and he knows he's made the right choice. "Yeah? What about me?"

"Just how lucky I am," he tells you, the words sincere.

"Lucky?" you ask, raising a brow.

"Mhm."

You shake your head, letting out a soft laugh. "I think I'm the lucky one."

"I dunno. Pretty sure I'm the one who gets to take you home," Wrecker points out, a grin on his face.

Your eyes widen, and your lips part, and for a moment, you just stare at him, stunned. You let out a shaky breath, your face falling, and it's then that Wrecker realizes his mistake. You’re worth more to him than a quick roll in the sheets, and while he wants you, and the thought of it makes him hot and bothered, he's not interested in a one-night stand.

"I, uh, I didn't mean it like that," he stutters, his cheeks growing warm. “I—“

"Don't worry, darling, I know what you meant," you say, a hint of disappointment in your voice.

"It's not like—"

"We should go, Wrecker. The others are waiting."

"Right," Wrecker says quietly.

He doesn't like the tension in your shoulders, or the way you won't look at him. He's not sure what to say to fix this. All he knows is that the moment is over, and his heart is pounding.

When the two of you step out of the office, the door slides shut behind you, and he grabs your wrist. You don't stop, and you don't turn around. But you don't pull away, either.

"Hey, c'mon, just wait a sec, please."

You stop, letting out a quiet sigh. "It's okay, Wrecker, you don't have to—"

"But I want to."

You look up at him, your jaw set, and there's something in your eyes that tells him you don't believe him. It breaks his heart a little. Because it's true. He's been wanting you for a long time, and even if you don't feel the same, he's not going to let you leave without knowing it.

Wrecker takes a step toward you, and another, and another, until he's pressed against you. He lets go of your wrist, and his hand settles on your waist.

"Wrecker, what are you doing?"

"Trying not to be an idiot."

"You're not an—"

"Yeah, I am," he interrupts, a soft smile on his face. "I'm not good with words, and I don't always know the right thing to say. But I'm gonna try."

"Wrecker," you whisper, your eyes wide, "you don't have to."

"But I want to. I wanna tell you the truth."

"The truth?"

He nods.

"And what's that?"

"That I think you're the most beautiful person I've ever met," he tells you, his voice soft. "I think you're the bravest, and the kindest, and the smartest. I think you're the best, and I wish I was half the person you are."

"Wrecker, you're—"

He squeezes your waist gently. "Not done yet."

You smile up at him, a fondness in your eyes that makes his heart race, and you nod.

"And I know I don't deserve you, and I know you're probably just being nice, and that maybe, I'm reading into this too much, but I don't think so."

You look like you want to interrupt him again, but you don't. He's grateful.

"I think there's something here. Between us,” he says. “And I've never been good at keeping my feelings to myself. I think about you all the time, and I can't help it.”

"Wrecker, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I dunno.” He shrugs. “Maybe. Probably."

You shake your head, laughing. "Wrecker, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to tell me you have feelings for me."

"Well, that's because I do."

"What?" you ask, sounding almost as surprised as he felt earlier.

"Have feelings for you. I have a lot of 'em," he tells you, a smile on his face. It feels good to finally admit it. "I've had them for a while."

"How long?"

"Pretty much since I met you."

"Really?"

He nods. "Really."

"That's...a long time," you murmur.

"Mhm. So, that's the truth," Wrecker says. "And if you don't feel the same, or if I'm wrong, or if I'm misreading things, then just tell me, and I'll never bring it up again."

"I don't think I could," you answer, "not now, after all that."

"So, then, maybe—"

"Wrecker," you whisper, his tie and pulling him closer. Your lips brush his, and he has to fight the urge to groan. "I have a lot of feelings, too. I just didn't know you did."

"Yeah?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

"Yeah," you breathe, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He doesn't bother fighting the groan this time. He can't. Not when you're this close. Not when he can feel your breath against his skin. Not when your lips are ghosting over his, and the scent of your perfume is filling his nose, and the warmth of your body is pressed against him.

"Then, does this mean—"

"You can kiss me," you murmur.

Wrecker doesn't hesitate.

His mouth crashes against yours, his hands slipping down to your hips and pulling you against him. You let out a whimper, and it's all he can do not to moan.

He doesn't want to push too far, or scare you away, so he holds back. He kisses you with restraint, with tenderness, with love. Your lips are soft, and pliant, and your fingers tighten in his shirt as he deepens the kiss. It's even better than he imagined, and he's spent hours imagining it.

He doesn't care that anyone could see you. He doesn't care about the mission, or the bugs, or the fact that the others are waiting for you. He only cares about you, and the way you feel in his arms.

"Wrecker," you mumble, breaking the kiss.

"Hm?"

"We should go," you remind him, your voice soft.

"Right," he says, "just one more."

"One more," you agree.

Your lips are on his again, and it's just as good as the first time. Wrecker doesn't want to stop, and he doesn't, not until his comm buzzes, and his brother's voice rings out in his ear.

"Wrecker, status report. We need an update."

Wrecker groans, pulling away from you. "Tech, not a good time."

"Now is precisely the time," his brother replies, sounding exasperated. "What is the status of the mission?"

Wrecker glances at you, and you look back up at him with a soft smile on your swollen lips. You reach up, cupping his cheek, and the feeling is so comforting and sweet that his chest aches.

"It's good," Wrecker answers, smiling. "The mission is going really good."

"Good?" he hears Hunter repeat. He's not sure if it's confusion or disbelief in his voice. Maybe a little bit of both.

"Great," he corrects, leaning down to kiss you again. "Really, really great."

"Oh," Tech mutters, and Wrecker can hear the gears turning in his head. "I…did not expect that."

Wrecker smiles down at you. "Yeah, well, neither did I."

“I see.” There's a pause, and the sound of shuffling, some muffled voices, and then Tech adds, "In that case, we will let you get back to your, ah, mission."

"Thanks, Tech."

"Mhm," his brother hums, sounding a little awkward. "You’re welcome. We'll see you both when you return.”

The comm clicks off, and Wrecker sighs. "Guess we should get back to the ship."

"Yeah, we probably should," you agree, though neither of you move. "Or..."

He perks up. "Or?"

"Or, we could go back to the hotel," you suggest, a playful note in your voice. "We did pay for the night, after all. It would be a shame to waste it."

"A real shame," he nods, his voice grave.

"Besides," you add, your hand sliding down his chest, "we could use the extra time to...discuss the details of the mission. Make sure we're on the same page, and everything."

Wrecker bites back a moan. The feeling of your hand on his chest, and the sound of your voice, and the suggestion in your words, and the glint in your eyes. It's enough to make his knees weak.

"What do you think, ma sareen?"

"I think," he murmurs, kissing your neck, "that's the best idea I've ever heard."

The two of you barely make it through the door.

As soon as it slides shut behind you, Wrecker’s lips are on yours. His hands haven’t left your hips since you entered the elevator. He guides you backwards, his hands roaming across your back and sides. His teeth scrape against your bottom lip, and the sound you make sends a rush of heat straight to his cock.

Your back hits the wall next to the door, and Wrecker lifts you up, wedging a thigh between your legs. The dress is riding up, and his hand slips under it, and he's never been more grateful for Tech's insistence on getting a hotel room.

His tongue slides across the roof of your mouth, and he swallows the gasp that leaves your lips. Your nails dig into his shoulders, and you roll your hips, grinding against his thigh. The sound that leaves his mouth is embarrassingly needy as his hand moves higher, squeezing the soft flesh. Your knife has been safely returned to its holster, and his fingers run along the strap.

He wants to take his time with you, to make sure you know how he feels, but he can't stop touching you. You’re so soft, and he's been wanting to do this for so long, and the dress makes it so easy to find new places to explore.

"Wrecker," you whimper, arching against him.

He nips at your neck, and the soft whine that escapes your throat makes his knees weak. His hand squeezes the back of your leg, and his mouth travels lower, his teeth dragging across your collarbone.

"You look so fuckin' good in this," he tells you, his lips brushing the swell of your breasts. "Drivin' me crazy."

"Yeah?" you ask, reaching up to loosen his tie.

"Yeah," he grunts. He leans down, pressing his mouth to the tops of your breasts. You make a soft noise, and he smiles, his hand slipping up your thigh and pushing the hem of the dress higher. "Been thinkin' about taking it off all night.”

"Well, why don't you, then?"

Wrecker pulls away, and you look up at him, your eyes half-lidded and dark. Your cheeks are flushed, and your chest is rising and falling, and you look so fucking gorgeous, he can't stand it.

He doesn't respond. His lips find yours again, and he pushes your skirt up higher, his hands bunching the smooth fabric. He tries his best to be gentle, but it's hard. The thought of ripping the dress from your body, tearing it off and tossing it to the side is appealing, but he won't. It's not his to ruin, and he doesn't want to make you mad.

"This okay?" he asks, breaking the kiss.

"Yeah," you answer, nodding. Your hands join his, and together you pull the dress over your head, and toss it aside.

He nearly drops you.

He doesn't, but it's a close thing.

"You—oh, fuck," he groans, his head falling to the crook of your neck, "you weren't wearin' anythin' underneath?"

You let out a breathless laugh, and the feeling of it makes his head spin.

"Surprised?"

"Uh, yeah."

He's not sure what to say, or what to do.

The only thing he can think about is the way your bare pussy is pressed against his thigh. Your nails drag across his scalp, and he shudders. He’s pretty sure his brain is short-circuiting, because all he can do is stare at you.

Your makeup is messy, your headpiece a little crooked, and your chest is rising and falling in short, shallow breaths, and you're looking up at him with a smirk that makes him want to drop to his knees and worship you.

"What's wrong?" you ask, tilting his chin up. "You can't talk now?"

Wrecker grunts. You're teasing him, and he can't even pretend he doesn't like it. He likes it too much.

"You're not playin' fair," he complains, his voice gruff.

"No?"

"Nope."

"Well, neither are you," you say, rolling your hips. The motion drags your pussy across his thigh, and the dampness on his skin has him groaning. You lean forward, your mouth next to his ear. "So, what are you gonna do about it?"

He growls, and you gasp as his hands slide down, grabbing your ass. He hoists you up, putting your chest level with his face.

"Gonna show you," he rasps, "just how much you drive me crazy."

He's never seen anything hotter than the way you're looking at him right now, and he's not sure he ever will. He doesn’t want to close his eyes, doesn’t want to blink, but he can’t help it when his tongue darts out and his lips close around one of your nipples.

The soft sound that escapes your mouth makes his cock throb, and he presses your back against the wall, holding you up with ease with one hand as the other comes up to fondle your other breast. His tongue is hot and insistent against your skin, and your breath catches in your throat when he drags his teeth across the sensitive flesh.

"Fuck," you hiss, arching into him.

"Told ya you look good," he mumbles. He nips at the swell of your breast, and a moan escapes your lips. "Good enough to eat."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm," he hums. "Can I?"

"Please."

You let out a squeak as he hikes you up further, his lips ghosting over your ribs, and then your sternum, and then the soft swell of your stomach. Your thighs are draped over his shoulders, and his hands are on the backs of your legs, holding them up and apart, and the sight of you above him is almost too much.

"You smell so fuckin' good," he growls, burying his face between your thighs.

You're already wet, and his nose bumps against your clit as he presses his mouth to your pussy. You're so warm, and soft, and when his tongue slides against you, you moan, the sound desperate and needy.

"Shit, Wrecker," you gasp, your hands coming down to grab his head.

"Just relax," he tells you, his tone a little patronizing. "I gotcha, sweetheart."

He dives in, his mouth eager and unrelenting. He licks and sucks and nips at the sensitive skin, and when his tongue pushes inside, you arch your back, rolling your hips. Your thighs squeeze around his head, and the noises that are leaving your lips are sending sparks down his spine.

He does it again, and again, and again, trying to coax more of those sounds from your mouth. He wants to see what he can get you to do, wants to know what makes you cry out, and moan, and scream.

You're trembling above him, and your pussy is so wet, he can feel it running down his chin.  

"Oh, fuck," you curse, and he can't help but grin.

Your hips buck against his face, and he grabs your ass, squeezing the soft flesh. His fingers sink into the plush skin, and he spreads you apart, his tongue circling your clit. You shudder, and your thighs tighten around his head. He can tell you're getting close, and he can't wait to feel you fall apart, to see your face twist in pleasure, and hear his name on your lips.

He's never been good at this. He's always felt a little out of his depth, a little awkward, a little clumsy. But he's learning. He's watching your reactions, listening to the sounds you make, feeling the way your body responds. And he's paying attention, because he wants to be the only person who can make you feel like this.

He knows it's possessive. He knows it's a lot, especially since the two of you haven't talked about what this means. But he doesn't care. Not right now. He just wants you, and he's willing to do whatever it takes to make sure that's what happens.

You're writhing above him, and he can feel the muscles in your thighs tensing as his lips close around your clit. He makes sure he's got a good grip on you with one hand before sliding the other in between your thighs, and he pushes one finger inside you, and then another.

"Wrecker!"

He's pretty sure that's the hottest thing he's ever heard.

He doubles his efforts, his fingers pushing deeper and deeper. He's not even sure if he's hitting the right spot, but from the way you're writhing, and moaning, and cursing, it seems like he's doing something right. Your walls are squeezing his fingers, and he curls them, trying to find the spot that will make you scream.

You do.

Your whole body tenses, your thighs clamping hard around his head, and you throw your head back, crying out. He watches in awe, his eyes wide, and his mouth slack as you come apart above him. He can feel it, can feel your walls tightening, and the rush of heat as you climax, and he can’t resist the urge to press a kiss to the soft, swollen flesh.

"Wrecker," you choke out, your voice cracking, and he knows he's never going to get enough of this. 

He keeps his fingers buried inside of you as he pulls away from the wall. You cling to him, and he carries you over to the bed, lowering you onto the mattress. His fingers slip out of you, and he watches in fascination as you clench around nothing, your body still trembling.

"Fuck," he groans, dropping to his knees and burying his head between your legs again.

You let out a noise of surprise, and his hands push your thighs open, keeping them spread wide.

"You did so good, sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your swollen lips. He licks you clean, his tongue swiping through your folds. You squirm, and his grip on you tightens. "Gonna make you come again."

"Oh," you whimper, letting out a shaky breath.

"Just breathe, cyar'ika," he tells you, his lips trailing up your inner thigh. He can't get enough of the taste of you, or the way your body is reacting. You're still shaking, and the knowledge that it's because of him is making him delirious. He's pretty sure this is the best night of his life.

"I'm gonna make you feel good," he says, his voice soft and low. "I promise."

"You always make me feel good, Wrecker," you whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm," you hum, nodding. "Always."

Wrecker grins and leans back, shoving his suit jacket off his shoulders. He's not sure where you want him, or how far you want to take things, but he's happy to follow your lead. He’s happy to do this all night, every night, for the rest of his life, if you asked.

He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls up the sleeves, his eyes never leaving you. You're looking up at him, your cheeks flushed, your chest rising and falling. He can't believe he gets to see you like this, so vulnerable and trusting.

"What is it?" you ask with a tilt of your head. The motion moves your lekku, and Wrecker's gaze follows. He's fascinated by the way they shift, and sway, and twitch. He wonders what they feel like, if you’ll let him touch them, if they're as sensitive as he's heard.

"Nothin'," he answers, shrugging.

"Liar."

"No, really," he says. Then, a grin spreads across his face, and he can't help himself, "I just like lookin' at ya."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"What about me do you like looking at, ma sareen?"

"Everything," he tells you, and the sincerity in his voice seems to catch you off guard. "Everythin' about you. You're gorgeous, and I'm lucky as hell."

"Wrecker, you're not just saying that, are you?"

"Never," he promises, "not when it comes to you."

You bite your lip, and the way your teeth sink into the plump flesh sends a rush of heat through him.

"You're too good to me," you mumble, a fondness in your eyes that makes his heart swell.

"Could never be too good to you," he replies quickly, shaking his head. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows and leans back down, kissing the curve of your stomach.

"Wrecker," you sigh, your hands settling on his shoulders, "you're such a gentleman."

"A gentleman?" He laughs, his forehead resting against your hip.

"Mhm," you hum.

He glances up at you, his brows raised. "Sweetheart, I've had my face between your legs for the past fifteen minutes, and you're tellin' me I'm a gentleman?"

"Maybe I like a man who knows how to treat me," you suggest.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

Wrecker chuckles, and then he kisses the top of your mound, and then the crease of your thigh, and then your knee. You make a soft noise, and his eyes flick back to your face.

"So, do you still want me to keep treatin' you?" he asks, and if the words come out a little nervous, he can't help it.

"Of course," you say, a hint of surprise in your voice, as if you can't believe he would think otherwise. You smile sweetly, and the weight in his chest lifts. "I want everything with you, Wrecker. Always."

"Good," he sighs, the tension leaving his body. "Because I want everythin', too."

Your head falls back against the pillows, your hands slipping from his shoulders to his head. You pull him closer, and he's more than happy to follow your lead.

"Then, come on, darling," you murmur, lifting your hips and spreading your legs wider, "give me everything."

Wrecker swallows thickly.

"Yes, ma'am."

His mouth is on you again, and you don't hesitate to let him know how good he's doing. You're not shy, and you're not quiet, and you're not afraid to take what you want.

And, gods, does Wrecker like that.

He's still a little in awe, a little dumbstruck by the fact that this is happening, and that it's not just some fantasy he's making up in his head. This is real, and you're here, and you're enjoying yourself, and the sound of your voice, the way you move, the softness of your body is so fucking overwhelming, it's making him delirious.

He wants to do this every night, for the rest of his life.

Your scent fills his nose, and your taste coats his tongue, and the slick, wet noises his mouth makes as he eats you out are driving him crazy. You're shaking beneath him, and your legs are draped over his shoulders, and your nails are scraping against his scalp. Your heels dig into his back, and his hands move down, holding you steady. He's not stopping until you tell him to, and from the way you're moaning, he doesn't think that's going to be anytime soon.

"You're so fucking hot," he groans, his teeth scraping against your folds. "Gonna make you come again. Gonna get you nice and ready for me."

You whimper, and he knows he's made the right choice.

"Sound good?" he asks, voice muffled by your cunt.

"Mhm," you nod.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," you moan, "yes, please, please, I want you to fuck me."

"Oh, I'm gonna," he growls, his lips brushing against your clit, "but first, I'm gonna make you scream."

He's not sure where he found the confidence, but he doesn't care. He doesn't even notice. He's too busy trying to get you to come for him again. He's licking, and sucking, and kissing, and nibbling, and it's only when you're begging him to fuck you that he finally pulls away for air.

"Not yet," he says, pressing a kiss to the crease of your thigh.

"Please," you whimper, "please, Wrecker, I need it. Need you."

He chuckles, his stubble scratching against the inside of your thigh. "I know, sweetheart, I know. Not yet, though. Just a little more."

He slips two fingers inside you, curling them, and your whole body jolts.

"Wrecker, please, I'm so fucking wet, just—"

"I know," he grins, pumping his fingers in and out of you. Your pussy is soaked, and the sound of him fingering you is obscene. It makes him want to shove his cock into you, to feel how tight and warm you are. "Gettin' you nice and wet for me."

"Don't—don't tease me," you huff, and Wrecker laughs, kissing your clit.

"I'm not," he insists. "Just tryin' to make sure you're ready."

"Ready?"

"Mhm." He pushes his fingers deeper, and he can feel the way your walls are already fluttering, the way your muscles are twitching. You're close, and he can't wait to see what you look like when you fall apart. "Wanna make sure you can take me."

"I can," you assure him, "please, I can."

"I'm gonna make you come again," he says, his voice soft. "And then, when you're all nice and relaxed, and you're beggin' for my cock, that's when I'm gonna fuck you."

"I'm begging now," you whine.

"I know, baby," he murmurs, his tongue pressing flat against your clit. "Be patient. It'll be worth it, I promise."

"Okay," you say, and the sound comes out strangled, like it's hard for you to talk. The way your voice breaks, and your chest rises and falls has him grinning, and he leans down again, his mouth eager and insistent.

"Fuck," you gasp, "oh, fuck, Wrecker, I'm—I'm gonna—"

"Go ahead," he encourages, his voice husky, "lemme see.”

Your head falls back, your whole body trembling as you come for the second time that night. It's even more beautiful than the first, and the way you pull his fingers deeper has him moaning against you. He doesn't stop until you're pushing him away, and even then, he doesn't go far.

Wrecker pulls back, slowly, his eyes on yours. You're breathing heavily, and your cheeks are flushed. Somewhere along the way the headpiece you were wearing had come loose, and it's resting on the pillow next to you. Your eyes are hooded, a dazed look on your face, and you look absolutely gorgeous.

"That was so fucking hot," he tells you, leaning down to press a kiss to your inner thigh.

"Wrecker, that was..." you trail off, letting out a quiet sigh. "I've never come twice that fast before."

"Really?"

You shake your head, laughing breathlessly. "Nope."

"So, I guess I did a good job?"

"Good?" you repeat, looking almost offended. "Darling, it was incredible."

He grins wide and presses a kiss to your stomach. You cup his cheek, and your thumb brushes his lip. It's damp with your arousal, and the realization sends a wave of heat through him.

"I'm just glad I made you feel good," he says.

"Trust me, you did," you assure him, and the earnestness in your voice has his cheeks flushing.

"Glad to hear it," he murmurs. He nips at the underside of your breast, and you whimper.

"Wrecker," you mumble.

"Mhm?"

"Come here."

"Why?"

"Because," you answer, sitting up and grabbing his tie, "I want to kiss you."

He lets out a laugh. "Is that all?"

"No," you say, and the honesty in your tone makes him shiver. You tug on the tie, pulling him towards you until your lips meet in a messy kiss. He's careful not to put his weight on you, keeping most of it on his forearms as he presses closer. Your tongue is hot and insistent against his, and when your teeth scrape his bottom lip, a groan escapes his throat.

"Please," you mumble against his lips. "Please, Wrecker, fuck me."

“Was hoping you’d say that,” he grunts, a smirk on his face.

He kisses you again, and it's rough and needy and a little clumsy. Your hands are roaming across his back, and when they tug on his shirt, he reaches around, pulling the hem out of his pants and working the buttons open.

He doesn't have the patience to undo them all, so he tears the shirt and tie off and tosses them aside. He breathes a sigh of relief at finally being free from the restrictive fabric, only to suck in a sharp breath as your nails scrape his sides. The sensation sends a shiver through him, and he buries his head in the crook of your neck, panting.

You don't let up, your hands exploring the planes and divots of his bare chest. His skin is on fire, and his muscles are flexing beneath your touch. Your mouth finds his neck as your fingers move to undo his belt, and his whole body jolts.

You hum, pleased, and Wrecker knows he's in trouble.

Your teeth sink into his shoulder, and your tongue swipes over the marks, and when you press a kiss to his pulse point, he has to remind himself not to get carried away. He's not even inside you yet, and he's already on the verge of losing control.

"Wrecker, I'm tired of waiting," you whine, your hand sliding under his pants and squeezing his ass. "I need you."

"Shit," he curses, his cock twitching in his boxers. "I need you, too."

"Then, what are you waiting for?"

"Nothin'," he says, sitting up. "Absolutely nothin'."

He gets to his feet, pulling off his shoes and socks faster than he's ever undressed in his life. He shoves his pants and boxers down, and his cock springs free. You let out a quiet noise, and he feels a surge of pride as your eyes move down his body, and widen.

"Oh, Wrecker," you breathe, and the awe in your voice is so fucking satisfying. "You're..."

"Yeah?"

"It's so big," you murmur.

He feels the tips of his ears burn. He knows he's big. He's bigger than most, and he's always been worried about scaring people off.

"Do you think you can handle it?"

"Yeah," you say quickly, nodding.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

He's not convinced. "It's okay if you can't, y'know."

"I know, Wrecker," you answer, sounding amused. "I can handle it."

"I just don't want to hurt you."

"I know. And it's sweet. But if you don't come here and fuck me right now, I'm going to go crazy."

"Well, we can't have that," he mutters, a smile playing on his lips.

He climbs back onto the bed, and you move to meet him halfway, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you kneel together. Your chest presses against his, and you're so warm and soft, and he feels like he's going to melt.

He kisses the tip of your lek, and you let out a squeak, and the sound is so cute, he has to kiss the other one, too. He wants to kiss every part of you, and he plans to, someday. Right now, though, he's got something more important to take care of.

His mouth finds yours, and he cups the back of your neck, holding you still. You're pressed together, skin to skin, and he can feel the heat radiating from your body. Your hands are moving over his shoulders, down his chest, across his stomach, and when your fingers wrap around his cock, his hips buck.

"Fuck," he groans.

You give him a slow, languid stroke, and his eyes nearly roll back.

"You're beautiful," you whisper, your hand moving up and down, spreading precum along his length. You press a kiss to his shoulder, and then his collarbone, and his jaw, and his chin, and his mouth.

"I—ah," he grunts, his forehead falling to rest on yours, "You're kiddin', right?"

"Why would I be kidding?"

"You've got a lot more goin' for ya than me," he replies, his cheeks flushing. "A hell of a lot more."

"Nonsense," you say, shaking your head. Your grip tightens, and his breath catches in his throat. "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen, and the things I want to do to you are..."

"Are what?"

"I'd rather show you," you admit, and there's something in your voice that makes his heart skip a beat.

"Well, go ahead, then," he encourages, giving you a toothy grin. "Show me."

Wrecker lets out a surprised yelp when you grab his shoulders and push him back, his back hitting the mattress. He laughs, and then you're on top of him, and his laughter dies, his breath coming out in short, shallow gasps.

You're straddling his waist, and the sight of your naked body above him is the most incredible thing he's ever seen. His hands move on their own, running across your thighs, your hips, and your ribs.

"This is a good look for you," you say, smirking.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm."

You lean down and kiss him, and he can't help the way his hands wander, one moving up to squeeze your ass, and the other finding your breast. He can't get enough of you, and he doesn't know if he ever will. He squeezes, and rolls, and fondles, and when his thumb brushes your nipple, you break the kiss with a soft moan. You pull away, and he chases after you, his lips pressing against yours.

"Wrecker, stop," you giggle, swatting his hand away.

"I can't help it," he tells you, leaning up and pressing a kiss to your neck. "You're too kriffin' sexy."

"I need you inside me," you say, pushing his shoulders back. "And I'm not going to be able to get there if you keep distracting me."

"Alright," he sighs, falling back against the mattress. "Go ahead, I'll be patient."

"Good boy."

His eyes go wide, and his cock throbs at the words. He knows he likes being praised, and he's not ashamed to admit that, but the way it makes him react is almost embarrassing.

"Oh," you grin, and the mischief in your eyes has his heart racing. "You like that?"

"Yeah," he nods, his cheeks flushing.

"What else do you like?" you ask, leaning forward and grinding against him.

He swallows thickly. "Um."

"Wrecker," you say softly, and his eyes dart up to yours.

"I—" he stammers, his gaze flicking back down to your cunt. "I, uh—you know, I've never really had anyone ask me that before."

"Well, consider this the first time," you tell him, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Tell me."

"Uh."

"Come on," you urge, kissing the other side, "tell me what you like."

"I like makin' you feel good," he blurts out. "I like it rough, I like bein' told what to do. I like knowin' I'm doin' a good job. And I like you, so—so just...tell me how you feel, or somethin', and I'll be happy."

"I can work with that."

You sit up, and the motion brings your pussy closer to his cock. He watches with wide eyes as you raise yourself up and guide his cock between your folds, the tip brushing against your entrance. His hips twitch, and his hands come up to grip your waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin.

"Kriff, you're gorgeous," he breathes, his eyes on the place where his cock is just barely penetrating you. "You're amazing."

"So are you," you reply.

He's not sure he agrees, but he doesn't have time to argue, because you're sinking down onto him, and his brain stops working.

You let out a quiet sigh, and Wrecker tries his best to keep his composure, but the wet, hot, tightness is too much. His hands tighten, his fingers digging into your sides before he realizes what he's doing. He relaxes his grip, his palms sliding across your skin, his eyes still on where your bodies are joined.

"Shit, sweetheart, I'm sorry, I just—"

"Don't apologize," you interrupt, your hips shifting, and his cock pushes a little deeper.

"I can't help it," he huffs, "I don't wanna hurt you."

"You're not hurting me," you promise, one hand settling on his chest. The other takes his hand, and you lift it up to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "I'll tell you if you are, alright? So, don't worry. Just relax."

"Okay," he nods, taking a deep breath. "I can do that."

"Good boy," you praise, and Wrecker feels a wave of heat crash through him.

Your hips shift, and you sink down another inch. He lets out a shaky breath, his fingers curling into a fist. Your mouth is hot and insistent against his knuckles, your tongue swiping over the sensitive skin. You kiss his fingertips, and then his palm, and then the back of his hand. You nip at the fleshy part beneath his thumb, and he hisses, the sensation sending sparks up his arm.

"Fuck," he groans, and his hips buck, and his cock slides a little further inside.

"You're so big," you murmur, your hand sliding up his arm and over his chest. Your nails scrape his skin, and he trembles. "So fucking big, Wrecker."

"Yeah?"

You nod, your mouth open, and your cheeks flushed. Your eyes are a little glassy, and your breathing is shallow, and he can't believe how lucky he is to be here, with you, in this moment.

"I'm gonna—gonna make you feel good," he promises, and you laugh, your walls fluttering around him.

"Oh, darling," you sigh, lifting your hips and sinking back down, taking him a little deeper, "you already are."

His eyes squeeze shut, and his grip on you tightens. He tries to remember to breathe, and not to buck his hips, and not to pull you down and bury himself to the hilt. You're still kissing his hand, and the softness of your lips has him melting, his shoulders falling back against the bed.

"Look at me, ma sareen," you murmur.

Wrecker does.

The sight that greets him nearly sends him over the edge. You're hovering above him, his cock buried inside you, your lekku dangling in the space between your bodies. The lights in the room are dim, but the glow is bright enough to highlight the curve of your breasts, the swell of your hips, and the way your skin seems to shimmer.

You're breathtaking.

"You're amazin'," he says again, because he doesn't have anything better to say.

"You're so sweet," you chuckle, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I love that about you."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

You kiss him again, and his mouth opens under yours. He groans when you bite his bottom lip, his hands moving to your hips, guiding your movements. You roll your hips, and his cock slips out of you, before sliding back in. You do it again, and again, and again, until the tip of his cock nudges against the end of your channel.

"Oh, shit," you gasp, sitting up, and bracing your hands against his stomach. "Oh, gods, Wrecker, you're—you're so fucking deep."

"Does it feel good?"

"So fucking good," you whimper.

He sits up and wraps his arms around you, holding you close. He can feel the tips of your lekku resting on his chest, and they're even softer than he imagined. He presses a kiss to the base of one, and then the other, and then he's kissing your neck, his stubble scratching against your skin.

"Ah," you sigh, your hips rocking. "Wrecker, fuck, it feels so good."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Good," he growls, and then he grabs your ass and pulls you down onto his cock.

You let out a surprised cry, and then you're moving faster, grinding down on his length. He thrusts up, his hips meeting yours. Your hands are everywhere, roaming across his back, his shoulders, and his chest. You're not shy about it, and you don't hold back. You squeeze, and stroke, and touch every part of him, and it's making him dizzy.

"Fuck, you feel so good," you moan, and Wrecker grunts, his teeth scraping the base of your lekku. "So fucking good, Wrecker."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm," you hum, and then you're pulling away, and his chest aches at the loss. You push him back against the pillows, and he stares up at you, his lips parted as you ride him, bouncing up and down. Your hands are planted on his chest, and your nails are digging into his skin.

He watches in awe as you take him, his cock disappearing between your legs. No one's ever taken him like this, no one's ever been able to handle him the way you are. You're not afraid, and you're not shy, and you're not afraid to get what you want.

"You're kriffin' perfect," he says, and then he's reaching for you, his hands cupping your face.

Wrecker kisses you, and the sound that leaves your throat is so needy, and desperate, that he can't help but thrust up into you, harder and faster. His tongue slides into your mouth, and you suck on it, drawing a groan from his chest. He's trying to hold on, to last as long as he can, but it's not easy. Not when you're riding him like this, and making him feel like this.

You pull away with a gasp and bury your face in his neck, and the warmth of your breath makes him shiver. He can't see your face, but he can feel the way you're shaking, can hear the quiet noises you're making.

"You like that?" he asks, his voice rough.

"So much," you whine.

"Gonna come for me?"

"Yes, please, yes," you whimper.

"Gonna scream for me?"

"Oh, Wrecker," you moan, your teeth sinking into his shoulder, and the pain goes straight to his cock. "Wrecker, you're making me—I'm so close, please, harder."

He doesn't hesitate to follow your orders.

He lifts his legs, spreading them wider, and you slide a little further down his length. His hips snap up, and your whole body jolts. The first slap of skin against skin has him groaning, and the second has him cursing, and by the time his balls are slapping against your ass, you're begging him not to stop.

He's not sure he could, even if he wanted to. He thrusts again, and again, his pace building. Your cunt is dripping, the wetness seeping from your entrance, and the lewd squelching sound fills the room.

His hand cups the back of your head, holding you close. You nuzzle against his shoulder, your lips pressed to his collarbone, and the sensation is so fucking intimate, so sweet, he's not sure how much longer he's going to be able to hold out.

"Sweetheart," he grunts, and he doesn't have the words to continue, doesn't know how to tell you he's going to come, doesn't want this to end.

"You're so good," you whisper, and he can feel his balls tightening, "so fucking good, Wrecker."

"Can I—I'm gonna come," he warns.

"Oh, fuck, me, too."

"Where—where do you want me?"

"Inside," you whine, and Wrecker has to grit his teeth to keep from coming on the spot. "Wrecker, inside, please, fill me up, I want it, want you."

"Shit," he groans, "fuck, fuck, sweetheart, you're—oh, shit, I'm—"

Your body goes stiff, your walls fluttering around his cock, and his mouth falls open. He's not prepared for the feeling of your pussy gripping his length, or the sound of your breathy moans. He's not prepared for the way your thighs tremble, or the way your back arches, or the way his name spills from your lips.

He's not prepared for the orgasm that crashes over him, the heat and the pleasure that rushes through his veins, and the way his whole body shudders as he comes inside you.

He can't remember the last time he came this hard, the last time he lost control like this. The feeling of your cunt around him is too much, and his head falls back, his eyes squeezing shut. The only thing that keeps him tethered to reality is the sound of your voice in his ear, a string of words in a language he doesn’t understand falling from your lips.

Wrecker holds you, his arms wrapping around you, and his hips buck, his cock twitching. He can't get enough, can't stop coming, can't stop fucking up into you. Your moans are soft, and gentle, and it's not until his own climax has subsided that he realizes you’re slumped against him, your breathing heavy, your face pressed to his neck.

"Shit, sorry, cyar'ika," he mutters as he realizes his grip has tightened. He moves to pull his hands away, but you reach out, taking his wrists and placing his hands back on your waist.

"No," you whimper, "please."

"Sweetheart, I'm hurtin' you."

"Just a little longer," you tell him, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the base of his throat.

He's not sure why, but the request brings tears to his eyes. You want him. You want him to hold you, and touch you, and the realization makes his heart swell.

"Alright," he agrees, and you sigh and nestle closer.

He lays there, his softening cock still buried inside you, his arms around you, and his fingers find their way to your lekku. He strokes them gently, and you shiver, your body trembling.

"Is this okay?" he asks.

"Yes," you answer, your voice barely above a whisper. "It feels nice."

"Good," he says, smiling. "I like touchin' you."

"I can tell," you laugh and press a kiss to his chest.

He continues, his fingertips tracing a path down the side of one, and then the other. He doesn't know how much time passes. He's lost in the feeling of you, in the warmth of your body, in the softness of your skin. He doesn't even realize his eyes are closed until he hears you laughing.

"What?" Wrecker asks, opening his eyes and looking down at you.

"Are you asleep?"

"No," he answers, shaking his head, though the blush on his face gives him away. "I was just restin' my eyes."

"You sure?" you ask, and there's a teasing tone in your voice.

"I'm sure," he says, and then you're pulling away. His arms drop, and his cock slips out of your cunt, and his mouth falls open. Your combined release is leaking out of you, dripping down his cock and onto his stomach.

"Wow," he breathes.

"Is it a bad 'wow' or a good 'wow'?" you ask, your teeth sinking into your lower lip.

"The good kind," he answers, his eyes roaming over your body before returning to your face. His brows furrow. "Can I kiss you?"

"Wrecker, you don't have to ask," you tell him.

"Well, um," he starts, his cheeks turning pink. "It's just, I'm not really good at this part."

"What part?"

"The after part," he tells you. "I mean, it's always been, you know, in the dark, or quick, and I don't know how you feel about kissing and cuddlin' after, and I just...I dunno, I just like you, and I want to do it right."

"Oh, Wrecker," you laugh, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I like kissing and cuddling."

"You do?"

"I do," you nod, a smile on your face. "There's nothing more I'd rather do than kiss you, and cuddle with you, and hold you, and fall asleep with you. That is, if you'll have me."

"Oh.” He blinks. "Yeah, um, I'd like that a lot."

"Then, by all means, darling," you tell him, "kiss me."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm," you nod, grinning. "Please."

Wrecker leans forward, his hand cupping your cheek, and he presses his lips to yours. He licks into your mouth, his tongue sliding against yours, and the soft moan that leaves your lips makes his heart soar.

"You're incredible," he breathes, and the smile on your face is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"You are too," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "I hope that was everything you were hoping for."

"It was even better," he says, his hand moving down and resting on your hip. "Can we do it again?"

"Right now?" you ask, and he can't help but laugh.

"I was thinkin' tomorrow, maybe," he tells you, his thumb stroking your skin. "I'm gonna be honest, sweetheart, I don't think I'm gonna be able to go again for a while."

"Me either," you reply, laughing.

"But," he starts, his grip on your waist tightening, "when I am, you want to?”

"Of course," you tell him, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his neck. "I have some other ideas I'd like to run by you, if you're interested."

"I'm very interested." He grins. "Lets get cleaned up, and then you can tell me all about ‘em.”

"Mm," you whine, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “But I don’t want to move.”

“Not a problem,” he replies, and before you can say anything, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you against him. You squeal, your legs wrapping around his waist, and he slides off the bed, holding you against him.

"Wrecker, put me down," you giggle.

"You're the one who didn't want to move," he reminds you.

"Put me down," you say, but your voice is full of laughter, and you’re smiling.

"No," he teases, shaking his head.

"Wrecker," you sigh, rolling your eyes.

"Sweetheart," he replies, mimicking your tone. “I’m a gentleman, remember? And a gentleman always carries his girl to the shower."

"In that case," you murmur, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face against his throat, "thank you, sir."

He walks toward the refresher, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, and his chest is bursting with pride. You're smiling, and laughing, and holding onto him, and it feels like a dream.

Wrecker sits you on the edge of the counter, and you wince, a soft hiss leaving your lips.

"You okay?"

"Just a little sore," you admit.

"Shit," he curses. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, no," you shake your head, your hand finding his wrist and squeezing. "It's a good sore, I promise. You were wonderful."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm," you nod, biting your lip. "Best I've ever had."

He laughs. "That can't be true."

"Well, it is," you tell him, and he can see the sincerity in your eyes. "I mean, I've never felt anything like it."

He smiles, leaning down and pressing his forehead against yours. You reach up, your fingertips brushing against his cheek, and he turns, kissing the palm of your hand.

"You're not just sayin' that, are ya?" he asks.

"Why would I?"

"I dunno," he admits.

"Wrecker," you sigh, your thumb brushing across his lower lip, "it's been a long time since I've felt anything for anyone. The truth is, I've had a crush on you for months. You're sweet, and kind, and funny, and the things you did tonight...the way you made me feel, the way you treated me...I've never felt so safe. Or special.”

"It was nothin'," he says, his cheeks flushing.

"It wasn't nothing," you insist, and he knows the look in your eyes means you're not going to let it go. "You made me feel beautiful, and wanted, and cared for, and I'll never be able to thank you enough for that. And it's going to take a lot more than a rough fuck to get rid of me."

"Yeah?" he breathes.

"Yes," you say, pressing a kiss to his chin.

"Okay," he nods. "So, we're gonna try this, huh?"

"Do you want to?"

"Are you kidding me? Of course I do," he laughs, his hands coming to rest on your thighs. "I just didn't want to push."

"Well, consider this your official invitation," you tell him, your hands sliding down and squeezing his biceps. "I'm all yours."

"All mine, huh?"

"Yep."

"Good," he nods, and then he's scooping you back up and carrying you toward the shower. "Because I'm all yours, too."

"Even better," you laugh, and the sound is like music to his ears.

Wrecker kisses you again, his hands gripping your thighs, and your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. You smile against his lips, and he can't help the grin that spreads across his face. He's not sure how this happened. He's not sure why you picked him. But he doesn't care.

All he cares about is the feeling of your lips against his, and the sound of your laughter filling the room. All he cares about is the taste of your mouth, and the warmth of your skin, and the way his chest swells every time you look at him.

He doesn't know where this is going, or how far it will go, but he knows one thing.

He wants it. All of it. With you.

Translation: ma sareen = Ryl for "my sweet"

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@umekohiganbana @resistantecho @dindjarins1ut @tech-aficionado @aynavaano

@burningnerdchild @ihatesaaand @lolwey @hobbititties @mere-bear

@thegreatpipster @lordofthenerds97 @tentakelspektakel @notslaybabes @mali-777

@schrodingersraven @megmegalodondon @dangraccoon @dreamie411 @sukithebean

@bimboshaggy @anything-forourmoony @9902sgirl @jedi-dreea @salaminus

[weyrleaders]

here have another one lol the fact that flirting with jax leads to the reveal that yall have been flirting back and forth for ages makes me want to scream in the woods at 3am so thank you for that @vapolis

i have no idea how the prosthetic eyes work so i took some liberties for the sake of what little plot there is

Aster has always preferred to work alone. At the end of the day, the only person you can really count on is yourself. So why risk relying on someone else when they won’t always be there?

That said, he does enjoy working with Jax. They may be acquaintances at best, but Aster does appreciate Jax’s work ethic. He doesn’t have to plan around Ray’s faux impulsivity, or Ray’s knack for wasting valuable time, or the odds that Ray will make a detour to fuck a stranger in an alley. Ray’s unwillingness to do whatever it takes to get results. Ray’s—

Aster sighs. The little fucker’s not even around and he’s still managing to get on Aster’s nerves. And Aster’s fairly certain why that is.

He glances over at Jax. He’s leaning against the ledge, peering down at the mansion below with one hand on his gun. They’ve been waiting for a few hours, but now the guests have started to arrive.

Aster keeps quadruple-checking his gear without taking his eyes off Jax.

“McClair?” He asks, just loud enough for Jax to hear, the first word either of them has spoken since they settled in to watch.

“Not yet,” Jax replies.

“Then we have a few minutes,” responds Aster. Both glocks are loaded and ready, holdout pistol secured in his right boot, holdout switchblade ready to be stashed in his left. It’s redundant to go over it all again. The third time was enough.

Jax is still looking down at the mansion, scanning the crowd as they head inside. It really is strange to see him out of his usual clothes, foregoing designer button-downs for nondescript street clothes. Which are probably also designer, to be fair. Aster wonders how many weapons he managed to fit in his coat.

“Can you please do me a favor and just fuck Ray already?” Aster asks, sliding his knife back into his boot after testing the sharpness.

Jax doesn’t startle easily, and he doesn’t visibly react beyond cutting his eyes over at Aster for a brief second.

“Excuse me?”

Aster sighs again.

“Our staff meetings—”

“It’s hardly a staff meeting with only four people,” Jax mutters under his breath.

“—are getting unbearable. I know you want him, and while I do have to question your taste—”

“You wore a denim jacket with jeans last week.”

“—I won’t judge you for it,” Aster continues. “Please, for all our sakes, take the bastard to bed and get it out of both of your systems.”

Because that’s how Ray operates. Almost always once, rarely ever twice, and Aster can count on one hand how many other hook-ups have become any sort of semi-permanent arrangement. Not because he cares or has any interest, but because Ray’s an over-sharer who never shuts up and Orla has specifically forbidden him from cutting Ray’s tongue out with the first piece of rusty silverware he can get his hands on. He even asked nicely.

Aster is going to lose no matter what, really. He doesn’t know anything about Jax’s sex life and would love for that particular status quo to remain. But having to sit through Ray’s little play-by-play of what they manage to get up to because they’re stuck in the same room would be worth not having to deal with the weird sexual tension that happens whenever Ray and Jax make eye contact across Orla’s desk. At least the detailed summary would only be once. The longing gazes are forever.

Jax glances over again and narrows his eyes before turning back to the mansion.

“How do you think I feel when you fall over yourself to agree with Orla on everything?”

“That’s different,” Aster hisses. “Of course I agree with her, she’s my boss. McClair?”

“I think that’s his car,” he reports. “She said you did well on that last job and you were practically drooling.”

“I was not—”

“As your coworker, I’m telling you—McClair’s here, we have two minutes—that it’s not going to end well.”

“Stop dodging my original point,” Aster says, keeping his tone very carefully flat as he stands. He makes his way to the edge of the roof where Jax is keeping watch just in time to see their target go inside.

Jax makes for the fire escape as Aster takes his original position at the ledge. As soon as Jax is out of sight, Aster taps their joint mission channel on his SocialLink to get his attention. Jax sends back an acknowledgment.

Aster watches the mansion for any sign of movement. His eyes are better, even if he can’t keep up the fancy tricks for long.  Jax is good, but he can’t be expected to watch the front door, the side entrances, and all the windows at the same time.

Jax tracks down McClair’s car once the valet leaves it unattended. It wouldn’t be fair to continue their discussion, since Jax can’t reply, so Aster just hangs back and lets him work. There’s a brief moment where a woman pauses by one of the windows, and Aster zooms in to watch her face and body language while taking mental notes of what she looks like in case they have to track her down later. But she doesn’t show any sign of alarm or confusion and wanders off after a moment, so Aster returns to his patrol.

McClair isn’t actually the target. They’re here for the prototype in his car. Aster doesn’t know what it is, exactly, just that it’s very valuable and very secret. And he’s selling it to Orla for a lot of money, which is in the small case that Jax is supposed to leave in place of the prototype.

It’s not as if McClair can safely meet with any of them without risking his reputation or job—and thus any more interesting toys he may be willing to part with later down the line—so he and Jax are once again on pickup detail. Aster does a lot of that, lately. Mostly because Ray has Orla convinced he lacks the patience for it and would likely fuck it up. Asshole.

“Done,” Jax reports in a hushed whisper.

Aster enhances his vision and hits the override for his eyes so they can move faster. Everyone is still inside and no one has lingered at the windows. The valet is still waiting by the door and hasn’t so much as glanced in the direction of the parking area. It’s still a very long couple of minutes until Aster hears Jax making his way back up the fire escape.

Aster closes his eyes and reverts their settings back to normal, massaging his temples. He’s going to be eating those black market headache meds Echo got for him like candy tonight.

“As I was saying,” Aster grates out, “watching the two of you dance around each other like school children is painful. You’re both adults. Stop making all of us suffer when you know he’s going to say yes before you even finish asking.”

“And as I was saying,” counters Jax, “you should really be careful about throwing those rocks from inside that glass house of yours.”

Aster sighs.

[ushidoux]

Not Enough - Oikawa (Haikyuu) x Reader x Gojo (JJK)

Summary: Your relationship with Oikawa feels more like a curse than anything else as it comes to a close. (~4.2k words) or tl;dr gojo is mr. steal your girl

Warnings: breakup, idk Gojo is a warning, cracky angst?, pegging mention, yandere themes

A/N: Ngl I’m patting myself on the back for making a crossover fic work somewhat LOLLLL, you can roll your eyes if you want this is hella melodramatic.

(if you wanna commission more niche things, you can always dm me <3)

---

“I-I think it’s best for us to end things here, Tooru...”

Oikawa’s fingers tightened around the cell phone in his hand at the sound of your shakily delivered proposition, and further at the abrupt pregnant pause thereafter - not because he was angry, nor afraid, but out of an all-encompassing confusion.

Two things were wrong with this situation. First of all, it was late enough for you, thousands of miles away, that he was genuinely surprised that you were still awake in the first place and the fact that your voice was thick with tears was particularly upsetting, implying that you’d been up all night before you decided to call. Second, you had to be feeling unwell because you were talking pure nonsense.

He must have not heard correctly. You wanted to ‘end things’?

End what? You and him? That couldn’t possibly happen.

Moments passed, maybe even a full minute, and Oikawa stood perfectly still in spite of the uncomfortable combination of a weightless sensation in his legs and a feverish pounding in his chest as he tried to let himself understand what you were saying. Suddenly lightheaded, he realized he had been holding his breath while you remained quiet on the other end of the line. Maybe he was hoping for you to fill the silence, but he knew you wouldn’t offer anything additional; he could tell from the single soft sniffle that betrayed your sadness.

He sucked air into his lungs.

“I... don’t know what you mean,” Oikawa replied, his voice steady even if his body wasn’t.

You continued.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore. It’s really hard… and I get so lonely, and I know it’s wrong, but sometimes it hurts to see you so happy without me…”

Your voice was smaller still, enough that he strained to hear you past the rush of blood past his temples. For a moment, he considered pretending he couldn’t hear you say such unpleasant things just so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the reality unfolding in front of him in this disdainfully sunny early afternoon, while he stood in the middle of the hallway right outside of his high rise apartment.

The fact that you had finally given up on him after all this time.

In a small way, Oikawa couldn’t blame you. While he had been gone chasing his dream, the emerging star had just as quickly been running further away from you day by day. He knew this was mostly his fault: he called you less frequently and whenever you did talk, the conversations were shorter and less substantial until you and he both felt like your interactions were a simple chore, a checkbox on his never-ending to-do list.

But yet, he could and would absolutely blame you. Long distance was hard but you had promised you’d stay by his side, hadn’t you? You’d promised him, rain or shine, through drought and storm. What could possibly be the issue now?

Even if you hurt, it would only be temporary, and he could always make up for it in full or even twice-fold. In fact, he was on his way to come see you in person this very second; it would just be mere hours before his flight would depart. Coming suddenly on holiday like this was meant to be a surprise, and his suitcase beside him was filled with gifts and souvenirs for you that would, at least partially, assuage your hurt.

At least he thought. Maybe the issue stemmed deeper, starting with the very fact that you weren’t such a fan of gifts - what you really craved was loyalty and quality time - and that too, he had chosen to ignore. Because it was easier to love you the way he wanted to love you, rather than the way you wanted to be loved.

You were often indecisive anyway. Did you ever truly know what you wanted?

“___, stop being silly. I love you -”, he paused at this last declaration for emphasis, gauging your reaction, of which you gave him none, then continued, “-and I’m coming to see you before the sun sets tomorrow,” he insisted, a stern edge in his voice to further supplant the denial that was keeping him able to breathe. Strength returning to his limbs, he resumed his path to the elevators, dragging his belongings behind him.

You were silly. You missed him and you were delirious from loneliness and sleep, and that’s why ridiculous things were coming out of your mouth, that’s all it had to be, he figured. End things? What you had was something precious and irreplaceable. Nothing could be better than what you were together.

It would be you and him for life, at least to him.

Unfortunately for you, that ideal had long since perished.

Any other time, you would have paused, your breath hitching in your throat, your heart pounding as you conjured up the image of your Tooru coming to be in your arms once more, to cross the vast distance and be yours again as it should be. He’d be quick to show you that he chose you over crowded gyms full of adoring spectators, a perfect set, the rush of victory, or a pretty Instagram model.

Any other time before, but time had run out with both you and him unsuspecting, in a flash of clear blue eyes.

---

A few months earlier...

“I’m not interested.”

Your voice was flat and so was your expression. Muttering a soft ‘excuse me’, you walked past the tall young man who had taken the fact that he’d helped you reach an item on the highest shelf (despite the fact that you were still somewhat tall, you still had struggled), as an invitation to follow you around the grocery store.

The stranger had started off indiscreetly at first, and you had to admit, when you’d passed him in the aisle, you had given him a double-take, and it wasn’t just because you were wondering how he could see the food before him with a black blindfold wrapped over his eyes, so you hadn’t thought too much of it. He was admittedly handsome - at least the lower part of his face was - and his relaxed voice and posture as he reached over and handed you your box of cereal reminded you just a smidge of your Tooru.

Your Tooru wouldn’t be caught in that nondescript dark ensemble, though.

Saying “thanks” and continuing on your merry way should have been enough. But instead, this same man had immediately started walking besides you as you pushed your cart as though he knew you, making comments about your groceries.

“I’m not particularly fond of eggs, but they’re a good source of protein.”

“You seem to have a sweet tooth, just like me!”

You probably should have been concerned about this man’s mental state, but he didn’t exactly seem harmful or delusional, just weird. But you were almost done with your shopping trip, and now he was in line with you with a single bag of chips in his hand, and it occurred to you for a while that this stranger might try to follow you home.

“Do you need something, sir?” You told him in exasperation.

He furrowed his eyebrows in mild confusion, still a smidge too close behind you and raised his bag of chips. “No, I’m fine.”

“Why are you following me?” You finally said, bolder than usual in this semi-crowded grocery store. You had had enough of being polite and you’d tried very hard so far. Today had been a long day and you just wanted to cook a meal and sleep, not argue with strangers.

“Oh, I was trying to be friendly,” he replied, shrugging, as though that were normal behavior, and thus here you were, switching lanes abruptly while making it clear to him that he needed to leave you the fuck alone.

Checking out of the store with your items occurred without incident but you had to admit you were both irritated and confused about that encounter, and again, while you didn’t exactly feel malicious intent or really any sort of ‘creepiness’ from the young man, the behavior was nevertheless alarming. You surreptitiously glanced over your shoulder just to make sure he wasn’t still in sight, only to catch him walking in the other direction, whistling again with the single bag of chips in his hand, now paid for.

Again stunned, you found yourself lost in a stare for a moment, a million questions in your head.

What was he trying to accomplish? And most importantly, how could he see with that blindfold?

What did he look like without it?

Quickly realizing your questions were getting absurd, you decided that whether he was attractive or not was a completely inconsequential thought, because the fact of the matter was that he had to be clinically insane. Absolutely.

With that thought in mind, you texted a friend briefly sparing the least salient details.

Call me in about thirty minutes if I don’t call you first. I’ll fill you in later.

Just for safety’s sake, but thankfully, you didn’t think you’d ever seen him again.

You may have brought up your odd encounter to Tooru that night, if he had managed to return your call.

---

“Go to sleep, I’ll talk to you when I land tomorrow. I love you, ____.”

Before you could protest, the line cut off abruptly and you lowered your phone to your lap. Now it was no longer just your voice wavering, but your entire body trembling as you sat over the side of your bed. You lurched forward, the pit of your stomach heavy with guilt.

Your Tooru was coming to see you and for once, he was the last person you wanted to see.

---

You had left your home a little later than usual but given that you would rather die than miss your morning coffee and croissant, you still stopped by your neighborhood bakery.

Noting that the line was a little longer than expected, you queued up, humming softly to the beats of your favorite song, not registering that the man standing before you had turned slowly in your direction and was now smiling down at you.

“Fancy seeing you here again.”

Your eyes furrowed as you looked up, then almost yelped in surprise when your eyes registered the same white-haired stranger who had stunned you at the supermarket lined up just two paces before you.

What the-

Of all the coffee shops in this city, why here? The hairs on your neck stood up on end, worse when he decided to keep speaking.

“Let me buy your coffee,” he proposed, tentatively. “Only condition is that you have to drink it with me.”

Today, the strangest of strangers almost looked normal; rather than a blindfold, his eyes were hidden by a dark pair of sunglasses and his hair had been allowed to fall into a slightly windswept cut. He was also dressed less eclectically, in a loose-necked long sleeved shirt and a pair of fitted dark jeans.

Like this, you could call him fashionable. He was definitely forward, at the very least.

He was obviously flirting and normally you would have a curt prepared answer for him, but the manner in which he leaned forward, smirking with hands on his hips, again felt too familiar. Like Tooru, who had forgotten to call you back and instead sent you a quick text that promised he’d get back to you.

If he remembered.

Before you knew it, and almost embarrassed as soon as it left your mouth, you blurted out, “I… have to go to work.”

It wasn’t a lie but for some reason it came out like one. Perhaps because what you would have normally said was, “I have a boyfriend,” without giving him a second look.

He frowned nevertheless.

“That’s too bad,” he finally said, letting out a loud sigh, excessively dramatic for the situation. You stared at him, dumbfounded, and he suddenly clasped his hands together, preparing to say something else but the barista had called for the next customer.

He made a motion for you to go before him, and flustered, you obliged, giving the barista a look that implored for help in any way he could offer it. The barista knew you well enough to ring up your order before you even asked for it, but not well enough to sense that the man behind you was actively harassing you.

“I can buy my own coffee, sir,” you murmured once you saw him rummage in his pockets and pull out his wallet while the barista went off to toast your pastry.

He grinned widely.

“Call me Satoru.”

---

“A drink for you, sir?”

The flight attendant’s voice betrayed a hint of irritation under her sweet tone of voice, hinting that she had been waiting for him to answer a while, and Oikawa realized that he had been staring at his phone for a lot longer than he expected. He flashed her his classic pearly whites before nodding, but the wheels in his head were still turning.

A mere couple of hours into the first leg of his flight back to Japan, he had taken to poring over his last few conversations with you.

Conversations that, at least from his end, had become pressured, short, and at times, he had been downright dismissive.

But he loved you - you had to understand that! It was a lot to manage:  being available for you but also giving 150% of himself to the game.

So what if he missed your calls but kept his Instagram up-to-date? So what if he was a little bit too cozy with his fans (and known to be so)?

There was always you, and you were supreme. He’d do anything for you.

“Wine?” The attendant offered him the higher octave in her voice making it clear that Oikawa had managed to charm her back into her retail persona.

Maybe a glass, but he’d limit his drinking. He wouldn’t want to disappoint you when you met.

---

You were shocked.

Satoru stopped a car that was meant to crush you, and you were still trying desperately to comprehend what had just transpired.

You were possibly too eager to escape that coffee shop, to get away from the young man whose presence both unsettled your stomach and made your face grown warm, that you’d hurried out into the crosswalk, somewhat complicated drink and slightly crisped pastry in hand, and right into the path of a car hurtling through a red light.

You didn’t have time to scream or rarely even time to drop your drink, but the impact of your carelessness and preoccupation, between him, being late to work, wondering why the fuck your boyfriend had yet again forgotten to text back, never came.

Instead, the car seemed to halt to a stop almost immediately before you, before him who now stood before you with lips held into a neutral expression, and one hand in his pocket. Even if time seemed to stop for a split second, the force that should have struck your body didn’t, instead hurtling around you in a terrifying gust of wind.

But you were safe.

There was a shatter of glass windows as energy redistributed and the car took the brunt of the shock, and airbags deployed, engulfing the driver who could have possibly ended your life.

When Satoru finally turned to you slowly, looking at your cowering form, you finally caught a glimpse of piercing blue. For once he wasn’t smiling, and he was suddenly much more terrifying than anything else.

As though the mask had come off.

He didn’t ask if you were okay. Instead, he asked you to control your grief.

---

You shouldn’t be able to love anyone so much that your heart breaks repeatedly.

Something about you had to be pathological - it couldn’t be normal to feel the pain of separation this acutely. It was just a long-distance relationship, even if he was just getting more famous and less available by the day.

You shouldn’t wake up wondering if you could still breathe without him.

You shouldn’t.

---

“I’m a sorcerer,” Gojo revealed as he stirred a warm caramel latte, as though he had said the most natural thing in the world.

You tilted your head over so slightly, knit eyebrows betraying your confusion.

“... Like a circus performer?”

The repetitive turn of his wrist halted almost immediately and he looked at you, the constant smug smirk immediately awash from his features.

“Do I look like I belong in the circus?!” He half-exclaimed, half-whined, as though you were the only patrons in this bustling coffee shop. Part of you was bent on saying yes, but you kept mum yet staring at his face in distress, you find yourself stifling a giggle.

Now that he’d saved your life, you felt (and probably erroneously so) obligated to at least indulge him in coffee, and your curiosity about the young man sitting before you a whole day later now waffled between morbid and genuine.

Cursed energy? Leaking from you? Sorcery?

He cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair once he realized you were more entertained by his distress than anything else, crossing his arms and raising his legs on the table. You stared at the bottom of his shoes with mild disgust but instead focused on his face.

He really was like your Tooru, the boyfriend that slipped away from your reach in your nightmares, causing you to wake in a cold sweat. You shook the thought of your head, a quick barely perceptible movement, and crossed your own arms.

“You’re sad enough that I can sense it, which despite the fact that I am obviously quite gifted, can be a bit of an issue long term.”

“Why would it be an issue to you?”

“Because grief creates spirits and spirits are a pain in my ass.”

You furrowed your eyebrows again.

“So you followed me because you thought I was sad?” It sounded far fetched enough but absolutely on brand for a weirdo like the man before you. You took a sip of your tea - you’d picked chai for this… meeting. It wasn’t a date.

He grinned, an elbow rested on the table propping up his chin as he leaned back towards you.

“No, it’s because I thought you were beautiful.” ---

For the first time in a year, Oikawa’s first step back on Japanese soil did not immediately bring him joy but anxiety.

It was odd for him to feel anxiety, this unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach, but of course it would dissipate the moment he saw you.

But first, a warm shower in his new hotel room. Then he’d go to see you.

It felt odd not to have you waiting for him, your million dollar - no, priceless - smile on your face, so he could kiss you dramatically in the midst of all watching to again reassert that you are his, and his alone.

But you were upset, and understandably so.

So he would come to you, as a good boyfriend should.

---

“I have a boyfriend,” you told him immediately and indignantly, as you got up to leave. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you I’m not interested.”

He didn’t rise as fast as you did, watching you calmly instead as you balled your fists in irritation. It’s so shameless how he flirts, you thought. He’s so bold and rude and even if he’s a ‘sorcerer’ as he claims, there’s no spell that he can cast onto you that will make you leave Oikawa for him.

Not your Tooru, whose last Instagram post features a beautiful, tan, large-breasted and bikini-clad woman you’ve never met.

“Where is he then?” Satoru said in a low voice. He didn’t necessarily mean to cut but it did anyway. A lump formed in your throat.

“Overseas.”

---

The sound of chirping crickets is surprisingly loud for this part of the city, Oikawa considered, as he made his way towards your apartment building. It was an atypically warm evening for this point in the spring and he briefly mused if that is what excited them. Maybe they were cheering for him. They sounded a lot like the crowds if he closed his eyes.

He also hoped you had room for the gifts he carried with him, the most important of which was a Cartier bracelet he would hand to you once he departed, with a solid gold T for Tooru.

If he was on the search for fame and glory, he had to spoil you too, right?

To think that you were so angry with him that you had not yet contacted him since he had landed.

He knocked on your door finally, noting the shuffling of too many feet towards the door. This was the right door. He didn’t understand. Did you have friends over?

He called, and you didn’t immediately pick up.

---

“You have to leave!” You hissed. The statement was a plea and it was a command and it was a curse.

The blue of Satoru’s eyes was less electric in the dim moonlight, now more of a cool ice. Bare naked like this and barely visible save for the cracks of the illuminated city through your blinds, he was unfairly beautiful, as though he were carved out of marble. Again like your Tooru. Like, not better.

But still, he was there when Tooru wasn’t.

But Tooru was there now, knocking on your door, having traveled thousands of miles despite the fact that you had broken up with him just yesterday.

It was too little, too late.

But you didn’t love Satoru. He was just a band-aid for the loneliness that wrung agony out of you.

Right?

“I don’t want to leave,” your makeshift lover replied, flatly.

Your glare was sharp and instant, but Satoru matched your look, less pointed but unwilling to sway.

An unstoppable force, no different from the day he’d saved your life.

But he’d caused the problem in the first place, hadn’t he? Would you have run out so carelessly if not for him?

Your voice softened as you slipped on your clothes. The fight was lost before it started.

“Please? I… I can’t do this to him.”

Only a plea was left.

Your phone started to ring and your throat felt as though it would close up.

“___?”

Before you knew it, you heard your front door open and your heart dropped into your throat.

---

“What the fuck-”

Blue eyes were cruel.

Oikawa prided himself on his height but Satoru was taller, and his smirk was wide, while Oikawa’s face was ghostlike, devoid of any appreciable expression. Stunned.

“So you’re the boyfriend?” His voice dripped with mock amusement and he patted him on the shoulder before swinging open the door wide, letting Oikawa into his own girlfriend’s apartment, only to stand face to face with you whose feet seemed glued to the floor in shock.

“I.. T-Tooru..”

“Are you fucking serious?!”

His voice came out as a cry and his tears hot and fast. You never thought you’d see him crumple so fast, for you, for anything.

Your mouth opened and closed, and your hands shook but again, you stayed planted to the same spot while Satoru, still shirtless (but at least with the decency to have worn a pair of pants before answering the door), settled himself on the couch.

Before you could open your mouth to find a word to defend yourself to your sobbing boyfriend, your visitor let out an exaggerated yelp.

“____, you really showed no mercy on my asshole, did you?” he jeered. Then covering his mouth, he made a gesture of ‘Oops.’

What could you do?

Oikawa looked like he would stop breathing any second. He wanted to fight and maybe scream, but what use was that?

You had broken up with him yesterday.

You approached slowly, attempting maybe a touch, anything that would make your mistake less grievous.

You’d only been seeing Satoru for several weeks to… you weren’t sure why, really? Tooru was the one you loved. And to see him curl up like this… someone who was normally so proud...

You were disgusted with yourself.

“Tooru-”

“You said you’d wait for me.”

It was shocking how quick he rose, broken dignity, gifts and all.

“Tooru!”

He turned to leave, while Satoru contented himself on picking the earwax from his ears. It was easier to be like this, insufferable, than to gracefully accept the idea that his object of affection loved someone else.

He’d coveted you from the day he’d met you.

“Tooru!!!”

You were running after a man who gave 150% to everything, yet again. 

Everything but you.

But had he at the very least given you 100%? You weren’t sure.

Oikawa was the last person who could accept the thought of someone else. You weren’t sure if he’d call you ever again. You weren’t even sure you wanted to break up.

Cursed energy. Maybe you didn’t just leak cursed energy. Maybe you were just cursed.

Heart shattering to pieces once Oikawa was no longer within view, you made it back to your room. Satoru was there waiting, and you couldn’t see the look in his eyes, but his arms were open, and so you fell into them.

[ifmywishescametrue]

WAIT I DIDNT KNOW YOU SHIPPED SAMTONY TOO!!! another oneeee #13 "I saw you looking at it last time we were in the store together, so I got it for you." for samtony

samtony is a very pure ship 😌 thank you for sending a prompt, and I hope you like it!

It starts on a perfectly average Tuesday morning.

“Why do I do this to myself?” Sam pants out, folding himself in half with his hands on his knees. “Every damn time I say it's the last time, and every damn time here we are again.”

Bucky claps a hand on his back and almost knocks him over with one touch. “Maybe you're a masochist, Sammy.”

Sam feebly flips him off, walking off the elevator on jelly legs. “I told you not to call me that.”

“You let Tony call you that,” Bucky points out, following him towards the kitchen.

"I actually like him. We're friends."

“That's offensive. I'm literally your best friend. Your favorite person. The Abbott to your Costello. The Tom to your Jerry. The Lucy to your Ethel.”

Sam snorts, “You're not even my favorite hundred year old man in this building. Also, if anyone’s the Lucy here, it’s me.”

Bucky scoffs, but whatever retort he had coming cuts off when they enter the kitchen. “Oh, damn, are those banana pancakes?”

He reaches for one on the top of the stack, and Tony slaps his hand away with the spatula. “Where are your manners, Barnes?”

“You’ve got like ten there,” Bucky whines. “Why can’t I have one?”

“You can have one when it’s your turn.”

Bucky gives him a dramatic pout that has no effect, and Sam laughs at the scene as he collapses into the stool next to Nat at the peninsula. She gives him a raised eyebrow and a quirked lip at the complete lack of grace.

Tony flits through the kitchen, exchanging lighthearted quips with Bucky as he goes. He has on an apron that Clint gave him at Christmas last year, covered in snowflakes and purple hearts with arrows through them in a mimicry of an ugly Christmas sweater pattern. Underneath it is a t-shirt dotted with Captain America shields, and the sweatpants have a cartoon version of the War Machine suit on the thigh. As usual, all of the colors clash.

A mug of coffee is placed in front of Sam with a small smile before Tony returns to the stove, and Sam is still drinking the first sip when he comes back with a plate of pancakes for him, topped with just the right amount of syrup and a dollop of whipped cream. Tony’s gone again before he can even finish saying thank you.

“Why is it his turn before me?” Bucky complains, and Sam laughs again through his first mouthful at how petulant he sounds.

“I like him the best,” Tony says, sending a wink Sam’s way. “And they’re for him, anyway. Your favorite, right?”

Sam’s eyes widen a bit in surprise. He doesn’t remember telling him that. “Uh, yeah, they are. How’d you know that?”

Tony shrugs, “I pay attention.”

He hands Bucky a plate of pancakes with another jab at his lack of patience, and the moment passes as quickly as it came, but it keeps happening after that.

Tony pays attention to him.

Maybe it was happening all along, before that morning with the pancakes, but just too subtle for Sam to take notice at first. Now that he has, though, he sees it all the time.

The next is just a few days later, when Tony knocks on his door holding a small, nondescript black box.

“What’s this for?” Sam asks, taking it from Tony’s hand. He doesn’t get an answer before he opens the lid to a simple, leather-banded watch. It’s nothing overtly expensive, nothing that screams ‘gift from a billionaire,’ but it is exactly something Sam would have chosen for himself.

“I saw you looking at it last time we were in the store together, so I got it for you,” Tony says simply. “Figured it would go well with that suit Pepper picked for you for the gala tomorrow night.”

Later, Sam will realize that Pepper had nothing to do with the suit choice that fit him perfectly, but for now he runs a thumb over the dark brown leather and says, “Yeah, it will. Thanks, Tony.”

“No problem,” Tony replies, and he lingers in the doorway for a while longer, lower lip between his teeth. Sam is about to ask if there was something else he came here for when Tony claps his hands together and says, “Well, I should get going. Workshop things to do and all that. I’ll see you at dinner.”

He disappears quickly, and that becomes part of it, too. Never dwelling on it when he does something just for Sam. Fleeing if he can, but sometimes staying when that’s what Sam needs instead.

“You look exhausted,” Tony says, and Sam manages a grumble from where he’s slumped on the living room couch, rubbing a hand over his bruised abdomen.

The mission took longer than either him or Bucky expected, and the fights were more intense. It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out type of deal. Infiltrate the base, take out the lower level minions, and apprehend the leaders. But the intel wasn’t as accurate as they were hoping, and there were nearly double the number of enemies than predicted. No major injuries for either of them, but he’ll be sore for at least a few days. Bucky’s cuts and bruises healed on the way home.

Sam doesn’t notice that Tony left until he comes back with ice wrapped in a kitchen towel. He places the ice right on the worst spot over his ribs, holding it there until Sam replaces his hand with his own.

“It’s getting pretty late,” Tony remarks. “You should probably head up to bed. You’ll feel even worse if you fall asleep here, trust me on that one.”

It’s somewhere past midnight, Sam knows, but even with how tired his body is, his mind is still wide awake. The mission replays in his mind. Every faulty move, every chance to do better, every little detail both good and bad.

Sam shakes his head, “Not ready for bed yet.”

Tony takes the seat next to him, leaving an inch of space between them. “J, turn on the Saints game from yesterday.”

Sam smiles a little and asks, “Do you even like football?”

“It’s not the worst sport,” Tony replies vaguely. He settles back into the cushions and pulls the blanket off the back of the couch to cover them both.

“Yeah, what’s the best?”

Completely serious, Tony says, “Ping pong.”

Sam laughs, “That’s not a real sport. Pick something else.”

“Of course it’s real. It’s in the Olympics and everything,” Tony grins. “Give me one good reason it’s not a sport.”

“Alright, fine, maybe it’s real, but there’s no way it’s your favorite.”

Tony shrugs, “It’s entertaining sometimes. The professionals get really into it. There’s an awful lot of grunting involved.”

They stay up for a while longer, talking about nothing of importance, and Tony slowly shifts closer to him until that bit of distance is gone. His arm presses up against him, and Sam starts to have a hard time keeping his eyes open, it seems only natural to rest his head against Tony’s shoulder.

“You can go to bed,” Sam murmurs. “You don’t have to stay here with me.”

“I don’t mind,” Tony whispers back.

Sam does regret it a bit when he wakes up on the couch in the morning with a sore back, but there’s a fresh mug of coffee already waiting for him on the table, still warm and exactly how he likes it, and he smiles to himself anyway. That night is a shift to something different, and he knows it right away.

He starts to pay more attention to Tony’s interactions with everyone else, just in case he’s part of the rule and not the exception. Generosity is one of Tony’s best traits, but even so it tends to extend even further to him. More personal and frequent.

“So there’s this place in Brooklyn that claims to have the most authentic cajun cuisine outside of New Orleans. Want to come with me? Tell me if it’s true?”

It isn’t true, and Tony comes to him the next day with another one, until they’re on a quest together to find one that doesn’t make Sam miss home after just one bite. It takes them all over the city and into Jersey once or twice, and Sam doesn’t point out that Tony doesn’t even seem to like crawfish, no matter where it comes from. He doesn’t want it to be over if he does.

“This is pretty close,” Sam says. He thinks it might be place number eleven, but he lost count a while back. “Could use a little more spice, but at least they didn’t try to add their own spin to it.”

Tony’s watery eyes widen. “This isn’t spicy enough for you?”

Sam grins and shakes his head. “Remind me to bring you with me the next time I go home. You won’t know what hit you.”

Tony’s face does something complicated at that, before it settles on a soft smile. “Yeah, that would be fun.”

Sam fully gets it then, what exactly it all means, but he doesn’t quite know what he wants to do about it yet. Tony has taken up residence in a place in his heart that he wasn’t sure was capable of opening up anymore. He did it so easily, sneaking in like a thief in the night and catching Sam unaware.

Now the sound of Tony’s laugh makes his stomach flip. He seeks it out, telling him stupid stories and jokes to make it happen more. He stares a little too much to catch glimpses of his smile, and now he can see just how often Tony looks back.

It isn’t subtle anymore, this thing between them. Lingering looks, too long touches, and every quiet gesture all build up. Bucky teases him and Natasha gives him knowing looks. Steve tells him that he hopes they make each other happy, and Sam doesn’t tell him that nothing has happened between them like that. They’re still just friends, and they don’t talk about what any of it means.

“Do you want to see a movie with me tonight? There’s that weird one with the killer robots playing downtown,” Sam suggests, and neither of them say anything when Tony slips his hand into his in the darkness of the theater. It goes unmentioned, too, when Sam holds tight after Tony almost lets go when they reach the sidewalk afterwards.

It’s another late night when the last piece finally falls into place.

Sam is nursing bruised ribs again after another mission that turned a little sideways through no one’s fault. He’s still sweaty, dirt under his fingernails and dried blood caked around a shallow cut on his cheek, but Sam still asks JARVIS in the elevator to take him to wherever Tony is. It isn’t as surprising as it should be that Tony is waiting for him on the edge of Sam’s bed.

He stands there patiently while Tony looks him over, and he looks his fill in return. It’s strange how days away from him feel longer now. His balance is off center until Tony is around to set him right again.

“I missed you,” Sam murmurs, and Tony smiles softly.

“You were only gone a couple of days,” he points out, but Sam knows now that it’s his way of saying that he missed him just as much.

Normally, Sam would let it move on from here. Tony would lead him into the bathroom, gently clean up his scrapes, and click his tongue at every bruise. It would end with them on the couch, Sam’s head in Tony’s lap or vice versa, depending on what mood it takes. Sometimes he wants to hold Tony and remember that he survived another fight so he could come home to this, and sometimes he needs to be held to forget about everything else that was lost along the way.

But tonight he reaches out to grasp Tony’s hip, and he draws him in a little closer. The room is dimly lit, and each shadow on Tony’s face is accentuated. Sam can’t remember quite the first time he looked at him and thought the word ‘beautiful,’ but it’s all he’s thinking now.

“You love me,” Sam says. “For a long time now, right?”

Tony nods, and he wraps his arms around Sam’s waist, careful not to hold too tight. “You caught up eventually. Didn’t take as long as I thought it would.”

Sam smiles, cupping Tony’s face in one palm and stroking his thumb across his cheekbone. “How long were you expecting?”

“Maybe never,” Tony admits. “I would’ve kept trying, though.”

“Stay with me tonight?” Sam asks, because nothing more needs to be said for now. They both already know.

“How about every night?”

Sam leans in slowly, murmuring against his lips, “Sounds like a plan.”

[lorienfae]

The Uncanny Mountain

If it wasn't the library, then we'd sweep ourselves away into the Study, a sprawling yet dark mausoleum of hundreds of leather tomes lining the equally numerous shelves Father Atkins always kept immaculate. He would often retreat into the chapel and let us use the study. He thought its atmosphere was rather apt.

"Stern and formal is the best environment for pupils to learn in," he said. "There are no colors here to distract wandering minds."

We'd never disagree. At least, not to his face. However, the room posessed a weird musty odor and a possible ghostly presence, hence we made each other swear never to be left there alone. We could venture in pairs or a group, but not by oneself.

Father Atkins kept his most prized book, a large ornate antique Bible, locked away in his desk. He showed it to us once, proudly explaining he had inherited it from a mentor. We nodded politely. This book didn't speak to us, but later, there were some that practically hollered to be seen.

The Mortician's Encyclopedia, for one.

Quite morbid. Illustrated with detailed how-tos of embalming techniques, going all the way back to ancient Egyptian mummification, a variety of pallor-reducing make-up tricks, funeral dressing, coffin sizes and shapes, et cetera. Its gray spine with spidery lettering stood out among an array of black biology and zoology volumes practically begging to be looked at.

The Lackluster Poetry of a Vibrant Persona by an obscure poet called Nygel Wane, whom none of us had ever heard of before, was a thin nondescript book Ingrid found wedged behind a large dictionary. All of Wane's poems were made up of a single word. Each page contained a title and then only one word in the middle. Was it a riddle? A joke? A modicum of undiscovered genius or mere nonsense?

It was decided that the mystery itself was rather lackluster and the book was promptly put away onto a shelf that held literary works.

Our next discovery happened when Sid made a not so elegant turn, catching his bookbag on a rather thick, dusty tome that promptly fell onto the floor with a loud thud. It was bound with velvety-soft brown leather and had no lettering at all on the spine. The cover was likewise devoid of words, displaying only a single, very familiar symbol.

It was a pentagram. Inverted.

Sid bent down to pick it up and sneezed, setting off a mini-cloud of dust, which had revealed the symbol.

We stared at it in silence. None of us had expected to find anything so blatantly occult in a Chaplain's study. Not that the study belonged to him exclusively, because it didn't. Yet, he spent a lot of time there as well and it seemed somewhat uncanny.

Like the book.

In that moment of beholding it, all three of us had become telepathic, with the same exact thought coursing through our minds. A satanic grimoire. It felt a bit eerie, standing in that dark room, holding this potentially evil volume in our hands. Yet curiosity prevailed.

Sid turned the cover with slightly shaking fingers. The title page bore the same pentagram and proclaimed:

Brotherhood of the Crimson Temple: A Comprehensive Guide and Handbook.

As we proceeded to browse the pages, it dawned on us that we had been both right and wrong about it. It was and yet wasn't a grimoire. It was more than a simple book of shadows — a collection of spells, potions and rituals — sure, it included listings of rites and ceremonies the brotherhood performed, but also sigils, runes, and charts, illustrations of proper attire and a chapter on history of the order. There was a glossary of terms and an index of invocable entities. More than that, the pages were laden with a heavy aura that instilled an even deeper sense of unease in us than before.

What was this book doing here? Was this a secret society or a some sort of a demonic cult, and was Father Atkins a part of it? Or was it simply a remnant from someone's personal collection that got donated and eventually wound up in a random university study?

We had no answers, but seeing it cast a shadowy cloak upon the already darkened atmosphere around us.

The room felt larger and more mysterious than before. The temperature seemed colder. There was no ruling out of goosebumps on skin.

Sid replaced the tome onto the shelf and slowly backed out of the aisle, careful not to dislodge any more possibly demonic volumes. Ingrid and I followed him, wordlessly, toward the doorway. Thoughts of a nice, hot cup of coffee drifted through my mind.

I reached for the light switch on the wall beside the door and just as I flicked it off, I heard it.

A whisper of my name, from the back of the room. Then an exhaled sigh, on the back of my neck.

I did not look back as I slammed the door shut. Shivering.

© Anna S., 2021

[sunnysidekit]

Summary: The road to loving Frankie Morales is tough, but you’d do it all again if you had to. And again, and again, and again…

Pairing: Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales x F!Reader (no y/n)

Warnings: Language, major character death but not the permanent kind, (this is literally just a series of au’s in which the reader becomes kind of self-aware), nondescriptive smut (minors, please skip this one!).

Word count: 2.6k

A/N at the end

My masterlist

“Hey,” Frankie shouts, his voice only just carrying over the heavy rain. “Hey, wait up!”

You glance back at him over your shoulder, but you don’t stop running. You can’t stop running. Not after what just happened. Why did you decide to tell him how you felt about him, again? Worst decision of your life.

“Hey!” Frankie shouts again, even louder this time. He’s quickly gaining on you; blame that on his Delta training. You keep running, looking left and right for a spot between the old buildings to shelter from the rain. Something just big enough for one person to hide from their best friend would be great, but you doubt you’ll find a spot like that.

Just when you spot an alcove the size of a small closet you step into a puddle that’s way deeper than it looks, and you smack against the pavement.

You hear Frankie curse from behind you, the splashing of his boots in the puddles getting louder and louder until he stops right next to you and crouches down to help you up. You let out a painful groan when he lifts you off the ground, your arms flailing around unwittingly until you manage to grasp onto his soaked flannel.

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not, Frankie,” you say with a sniffle. “Look, I know that just because I feel a certain way, you don’t have to… Why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry,” Frankie grins. “But you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear those words! I’d given up all hope you’d ever say them, so,” he shifts to hold you closer to his chest, “I was a bit shocked, is all.”

You blink up at him dumbfounded as lightning flashes behind him, bathing the two of you in a heavenly light for just a moment. Before you realize what you’re doing, you grab his face and crash your lips into his with a passion you never knew you were capable of. He hums against your lips and you smile; this kiss is better than whatever you imagined it could be.

The rain washes over you and makes goosebumps pop up all over your skin, though that could also be from the intensity with which Frankie kisses you. His nose bumps against yours as he deepens it and something starts to blossom up in your belly, a tingling spreading from your sides all the way to your fingertips. After what feels like an eternity, he lets you go, the both of you breathing hard and haggard.

“Holy shit,” Frankie chuckles. “We’re both incredibly stupid, aren’t we?”

“Speak for yourself. I’d do it all again if this is what I get for it.”

Frankie laughs breathlessly and you can’t help but join him. All the anxiety in your body has transformed into exhilaration; you throw your head back and let the raindrops splatter onto your face freely when suddenly another flash of lightning strikes, this time so close you can almost feel it burn your skin. Hey, wait… why doesn’t it stop?

The burning sensation digs deeper into your skin and you snap your head back to look at Frankie, but he’s still laughing. You try to reach out and grab his shoulder, but something’s wrong with your hand. It’s- it’s shredding, your fingers flaking off and burning up in the air as you yell out, horrified at the sight.

Frankie doesn’t notice it when you feel yourself losing weight and floating upward, memories flurrying around you in the ash you’re slowly becoming. He doesn’t notice it when you get sucked higher and higher into the air, screaming his name and pleading him to help you. He doesn’t even notice it when you gasp in one last breath before the stinging headache you’ve developed in the last few seconds overwhelms you completely and you feel your consciousness slipping away.

You jerk awake. Holy stars, that wasn’t a normal nightmare. Where in Newton’s name did that even come from? Rain? It never rains here on the SS Endeavour, you’re in space. All the rain you’ve ever seen has all been via holovids. It did feel oddly realistic, though. Kind of like déjà vu. You stretch out your arms above your head and yawn; maybe you did drink a bit too much last night.

But that kiss… why would you ever kiss officer Morales? Sure, you’re friends. You’re his copilot, for Newton’s sake. But he’s far too mission oriented to even consider romantic relationships. At least, that’s what he says. You’d agree with him, if only he wasn’t obviously lying.

“Stars, would you hurry up already?”

You jump out of your bunk at the sound of Ava’s voice and start changing into your overalls, but it’s no use-- she’s already seen you.

“I don’t want to have to skip breakfast again because you can’t be bothered to get up when the alarm goes off.”

“Oh, stop worrying about your breakfast. I’m sure you still have some extra bread rolls in your secret hiding spot.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that claim,” Ava says, but she’s got a twinkle in her eye. She’s such a bad lair. You step into your shoes, the soft hiss of the self-tying mechanism a nice reassurance of the fact that you’re not dreaming anymore.

“When commander Penn finds out you’ve been using his second wall safe to hide food, you’re getting an instant demotion,” you say. “You do know that, right?”

“It’s so sweet you still think that’s where I hide my stuff. Anyway, I really hope you’ve already picked up your new badge.”

You look up at her from where you’re sitting on the bottom bunk. “…Oh, shit.”

“Really? What kind of gas giant-”

“Don’t start calling me names you’ll regret, Ava,” you grumble as you scramble up and run out of the sleeping pod. This day really is off to an amazing start.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Fish greets you when you climb into the cockpit of your jet with a scowl. “We’ve got zone E today.”

You fasten your seatbelt and heave a sigh. “Yay for us.”

“I thought you liked the asteroid belt.”

“I do, I just…” You chew on your lip as you busy yourself with the control panel. “I had a weird dream, is all. Let’s get going, Fish.”

Because nothing kills a conversation quicker than telling someone about the strange dream you had last night. Now that you think about it, there was something else wrong with it: the stars. They were all in different places, made different constellations…

Usually something like that doesn’t dance around in your head for very long after you wake up, but this somehow keeps popping up whenever you try to navigate manually. It’s like your memories have been copied, but the copy has a whole lot of mistakes. Like there’s been a very, very bad data overhaul.

And then there’s Fish. Despite his casual, relaxed attitude he’s tapping his fingertips against the controls at a rapid pace. It’s a small detail, one you’ve noticed a hundred times before, but it’s taking on a different meaning in your head. You remember him doing it in the dream, too, right after you told him you loved him. Could that maybe-

“Hey!” Fish snaps his fingers in front of you, and everything around you comes back into focus. You’re floating in zone E, engine off, and there’s a bright red jet peeking out from behind a particularly large asteroid.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. “What’re they doing here? This isn’t Galactican territory.”

“Ambush, maybe?”

“I doubt it. If they were planning an ambush, they wouldn’t pick a fucking asteroid belt. Lord knows those new engines of theirs are about as stable as a peach in a blender.”

“Whatever they’re doing here, I don’t trust it,” Fish says with a frown. You sigh.

“Maybe they haven’t seen us yet. D’you think we can we get out of here in time?”

He shakes his head. “Can’t risk leading them right back to the Endeavour.”

“You… you haven’t radioed this in yet, right?”

“No.”

You lean forward to get a better look of your surroundings - seems you’ve been daydreaming for quite some time - only to see a whole lot of asteroids. “Well, it is just one of them, and it doesn’t look like the engine’s on.”

“It’s not broken,” Fish mutters. “At least, I don’t think.”

“Then what do you suggest we do? If we radio this in and someone’s in there, they can easily trace any signals the Endeavour sends out. If we open fire, we’ll have started a war-- and we really don’t need another one of those.”

“It’s taking too long.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not you,” he says absentmindedly, pointing at the blue spacecraft. “That. It’s moving too slow. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the brakes are on.”

You grab the lens from the wall beside you and take another look. Fish’s right: if the engine’s off, it should be floating around freely, not hanging still. As you stare at it, though, it does seem to move a little bit. No, it glitches. Your breath hitches in your throat. “Holy fuck.”

“Hm?” Fish hums, turning to you. You push the lens in front of his face, and he looks through it as well. No five seconds later, he’s grabbed the controls and started the engine. “We need to get out of here, right now.”

You grab the radio, but Fish snatches it from your hands and throws it across the cockpit. “We’re not gonna radio this in.”

“Are you insane?”

“What do you think base is going to do when they hear tell of a glitching Galactica spacecraft in the last productive tantalum mining fields?”

“Are you seriously suggesting not letting millions of people prepare for-” You’re cut off by the sudden appearance of a dozen more spacecraft, all of their noses pointed in your direction as you and Fish zoom past way faster than you should. “No, no, no!”

“Sunshine, listen to me,” Fish says as he puts his hand over yours. It grounds you, and you’re grateful for it, even if you don’t understand what he’s doing. “If they know we’ve been patrolling the fields, I’m guessing their main plan is to follow us back to the Endeavour.”

“…Which means they don’t know where it’s anchored,” you add, your anxious expression slowly turning into a smirk.

“Now you’re getting it,” he chuckles. “Let’s go take some advantage of that, hm?”

You nod and grab the controls in front of you to start plotting a route that’s just erratic enough not to draw suspicion to the fact that you’re leading the following spacecraft away from the Endeavour. Fish navigates the jet precisely along your route, narrowly avoiding the asteroids while turning a few degrees to the left every few seconds until you’re coasting out of the mining fields and into empty space. It works; behind you, the stream of spacecraft grows steadily, and with it, so does the size of the individual ships.

“They’re still following us,” Fish says after a while. He sounds a lot less sure of his case than he did ten minutes ago. “Hey, we have enough power left for a jump?”

“Depends on where you want to go,” you say, checking the fuel systems. “I reckon we can jump a total of about a thousand light years.”

“The center of the galaxy’s a little less than eight hundred light years away, correct?”

“Yes, but what…” you trail off as realization hits you like a nuclear bomb. “No, don’t even think about it.”

“They’re not backing off, Sunshine.” Fish turns to look you in the eyes, a small, watery smile on his lips. “I don’t think we have a-”

“Of course we have a choice,” you say with as much severity as you can muster, which, to be frank, isn’t a lot right now. “There’s always a choice.”

“Would you rather wipe out their fleet or our own?”

“I don’t-”

“Do it, Sunshine,” he says sternly. “Make the jump.”

You hesitate, your hand hovering over the lever. “Is… is there really no one on the Endeavour you’d turn back for?”

Fish’s smile grows a bit; you can see it’s genuine. “…I’m here with you, aren’t I? That’s enough for me.”

It catches you off guard, the way he says it. Deep down, you already knew what his answer would be. You dreamt about it, after all. Without another word, you push the lever forward, and the jet glides across space-time until it slows down again, finally coming to a halt near the event horizon of the massive black hole at the center of the galaxy.

“Did it work? Are they coming?” Fish almost jumps out of his chair to look outside, while you decide to look at the little radar on the control board. One by one the tiny, blinking dots come streaming in; your evidence of a job well done.

“Fish?” you ask, your voice wavering. There’s something more important than saving the universe on your mind right now. “Am I really enough for you?”

“Oh, stars,” he says, his own happy mood turning into something else as well. He sinks to his knees in front of your chair and looks up at you. “You are more than enough. You’re all I ever think about, you’re the only one that-”

Before he can finish his sentence, you’ve already grabbed his face and crashed your lips into his. You’re about to be swallowed up by a black hole, explanations can wait. The kiss grows more and more fervent as Fish’s hands travel up your thighs to hold your waist, a tingling feeling taking up refuge in your belly. After Newton knows how long, the two of you reluctantly break away from each other to breathe.

Stars, Fish, you whisper, but he shakes his head. Call me Frankie, he says. Please, call me Frankie. You tilt your head and press your lips against his scruff. Frankie, you whisper, please don’t stop. And he doesn’t. He closes his eyes and kisses you, over and over and over until your lips are swollen and all thoughts have left your head.

He zips open your overalls slowly, kissing every inch of newly uncovered skin he can find. His kisses burn lower and lower across your skin, past your clavicles, your chest, your belly, and before you, thousands of stars slowly implode. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt like this before; it’s all so incredibly bittersweet. You get to spend the longest night of your life with the man you love, but it’ll also be the last night you’ll ever experience.

One by one little pinpricks of light fade out in the darkness outside, while others explode in brightly colored clouds-- the same thing happens to your nerves whenever Frankie moves even the slightest bit. It’s a good thing sound doesn’t carry in space, or else you wouldn’t be able to hear the beautiful noises he makes when he closes his eyes in pleasure.

The two of you tumble around in what little space you have, the light of a billion dying stars illuminating every single part of your joint bodies as you splay your hands across his chest. The darkness is taking over more quickly now, enveloping your jet into nothingness, drawing you into the vast emptiness of its core.

We must have done something right, Frankie whispers as you lay, sweaty and tired, awaiting your bittersweet ending, to deserve such an incredible encore.

You close your eyes and curl up into his chest as you whisper back, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

You open your eyes again and smile when you look at Mr. Morales. He’s so gentle like this, with his fingers flying across the piano, not at all the stoic soldier he usually is. It’s nice, even if the others think it’s boring.

He finishes the piece with a shuddering creshendo, and you bite back a smile when he looks at you with those gorgeos eyes of his.

“Why’d you stop singing, my lady?”

“I apologize, sir,” you say as you flip over the music sheet on the little ledge of the piano. “But I simply can’t help it; you play so wonderfully, and I never truly learnt to sing very well. It seems a shame to pollute such beautiful tones with my own.”

“Nonsense,” Mr. Morales says with a kind smile. “Your voice only ever makes me want to play better.”

Your cheeks heat up at that, but the moment is quickly disrupted.

“Encore, encore!” a voice behind you yells; it’s Mr. Garcia, who’s been sitting in his usual post on the third floor. “We’re gonna need more than just the one piece if we’re to have any luck in catching more than a score of those bastards tonight.”

“Why don’t you come down and try singing for a bit, it might help,” Mr. Morales chuckles beside you. When he notices you staring at him, he leans in a little closer and adds, “Are you all right, miss? You seem distracted.”

“I’m perfectly good, sir.” You swallow hard and let out a weary breath. “Your music always seems to carry me away further than I expect.”

And for a moment there, you think to yourself, I thought I saw the stars up close.

A/N: I really threw all my knowledge of space and science out the window for this one and replaced it with nonsense and movie-science. Also, I’ve watched Interstellar, Free Guy, and Groundhog Day way too much for my own good.

The title of this chapter comes from an instrumental by the Grandbrothers which I listened to while writing, so if you want the full experience you can look that up.

If I'm missing any content warnings, do let me know! I'd hate to hurt someone with my writing, but I don't really know how to work those out yet.

PS: If you've got a favorite AU and/or dynamic, I'd love to hear about it! This series is going to explore a bunch of different ones, but I think my own imagination will only get me so far :)

As always, feedback is appreciated and my inbox is open! Have a great day!

[goldencuffs]

fake dating au part two

Whenever Laurent was overwhelmed, or feeling the kind of loneliness even a good cock couldn’t cure, he would sneak off into the library in the north wing of the Palace, where most of his mother’s official portraits were displayed.

Laurent loved all of them; Hennike was smiling in every single one, blonde hair curled perfectly, and teeth a stunning white. The colouring of her gowns and crowns were so bright, even painted, they seemed to shine in the dullest light. Laurent didn’t really know her; she had died three days after giving birth to him, but he had watched so many interviews and home videos of her, he felt like he had. She had been beautiful, well spoken, and everyone had been shocked when she had fallen for Al, because she had been betrothed to someone else.

Laurent liked coming down here to talk to her. It helped to have her listen to his dramatic tirades. He had started doing it when he was thirteen, when Auguste had enlisted in military training and left him alone, but had stopped a few months later, when Al caught him, his face ashen as he’d watched his youngest son babble to his dead wife.

After that, Laurent made sure to only come down in the dead of night, when he was absolutely desperate.

Which was clearly now; Laurent’s head had been spinning since the dinner at Heston’s. Even dessert hadn’t cheered him up — Heston, the absolute cretin, had served only four options of dessert and not a single one had chocolate in them. Not even one! It was like people intentionally went out of their way to put Laurent in a foul mood. Laurent had already drafted a wordy letter about Heston’s appalling lack of class and hosting abilities on the way home, and he was going to send it to the local tabloid first thing in the morning.

Laurent paced around the library, addressing his favourite portrait of his mother. It was her wedding portrait, and he loved all the detailing in it. The blush pink flowers in her bouquet matched her lipstick and her blush, and the tiara she was wearing had 588 diamonds in it. It was called The Laurent Tiara, and when Laurent had found out it had been Hennike’s favourite crown, he’d cried into his pillowcase for an embarrassingly long time.

“If I tell Al the truth now, he’ll kill me,” Laurent wailed at an appropriately low volume; he was very considerate of the sleeping guards when he threw his tantrums. “Or worse — get me married! Oh god, he’ll set me up with that idiot Torveld and I’ll have to spend the rest of my life hearing about his coin collection. Who even uses cash anymore? And what exactly is the point of having money if you can’t use it? And has Al even considered the aesthetics of our coupling? How are we supposed to wear matching outfits if Torveld looks rubbish in Egyptian blue and azure? Hello! Those are my signature colours!” Laurent sunk down on the lumpy sofa and buried his head in his hands. “Maybe death really is the better option.” He looked up at Hennike’s green eyes. “Is heaven overrated? Where would you personally place it on a scale of one to ten?”

She didn’t answer him, obviously. It was no use, anyway; Laurent was definitely not getting into heaven.

*

Laurent woke up irritated and unrested, and not for his usual, fun reasons. He hadn’t come up with any sort of solution to his dilemma and he had had a very strange dream where Damianos punched him while Al watched on. Then the scene had changed, and Laurent was on stage accepting his tenth Oscar for Best Actor, even though he had yet to star in any films.

“I’m thinking of becoming an actor,” Laurent told Al later that night during dinner.

Al’s eyes narrowed and his mouth became a sharp line. “What?”

“I mean, I have the looks, obviously. And really, how hard is acting anyway? Clearly you don’t even need to be very good at it to star in a movie — look at Channing Tatum. I’m sorry, but it’s very obvious his height was the only thing that got him into Hollywood, and even then it’s not that impressive.”

Al put down his knife and fork. “Can we —” He sounded very strained, “have a normal conversation for once.”

Laurent considered this. “I don’t think we’ve had enough conversations to statistically find out what constitutes a normal one,” he said. Al went red, so he continued, “So you don’t think acting is for me? Shall I try directing then? Or maybe —” He sat up excitedly in his chair. “I could write movies! I have so many ideas! Why, for instance, has no one considered a gay version of The Princess Bride? What would that even be called? The Prince Groom? Ugh, no, that’s terrible. Oh, who am I kidding — with my face and my body I have no choice but to be on camera. Otherwise, it’d be such a waste.”

The vein in Al’s forehead was throbbing. If he had been wearing his crown, it would have gone unnoticed, but like this, it was rather unflattering.

Al said, “Laurent,” in a sombre tone. “I really hope you’re joking.”

“About The Prince Groom? Kind of. But the acting thing — would it really be that bad?”

“You are a prince,” Al said, teeth clenched. “If it is the glam and glitz you want, you have more than enough here.”

Laurent, uncomfortably, thought of his room, the only place in the Palace that was truly his, devoid completely of personal artefacts. He swallowed. “Yes, well.” He tried a smile. “Maybe I should borrow another crown from the royal archives. I don’t think I’ve worn one with emeralds yet.”

Al resumed eating. “Speaking of crowns,” he said, completely glossing over Laurent’s last statement. “I’d like you to wear the Crown of Naos when King Damianos arrives.”

Laurent’s mouth dropped open. “As if! Al, the gold colouring on that completely washes me out! Not to mention the fact that that thing weighs like, five kilograms!”

Al’s nostrils flared at the word Al. He said, “The crown is a gift from Damianos’ great great grandfather to yours. It will be an appropriate and symbolic gesture if you wear it.”

“But why can’t you wear it? Or Auguste?”

“I am not the one having an affair with the King of Akielos,” said Al.

Oh, right. Laurent had forgotten about that. But what was the point? It wasn’t as though Damianos would recognise the gesture. If anything, he might think of it as inappropriate.

Instead he said, “Well, gee, Al, I didn’t peg you as a romantic.” Laurent fluttered his lashes a little.

Al pushed away his plate. “I’m done, thank you.” A servant immediately came to clear away his food.

Al left the dining hall, his shoulders tight. Laurent wished Auguste would hurry back home already.

*

In the morning, on the way back from the stables, Jord said, “Looks like your wish came true.”

Laurent stopped dead. “Oh my god — is Pierre-Alexis Dumas here? Is he finally going to collab with me?”

“Who’s Pierre-Alexis Dumas?” said Jord.

Laurent whirled on him. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

“Sorry.” Jord said, not sounding the slightest bit sorry. The audacity! “But look.” He pointed past Laurent, to the front of the Palace.

Laurent looked. There was a nondescript black limousine parked on the long, gravel pathway. Laurent would have dismissed it, if he didn’t spot sight of Jeurre, Auguste’s chauffeur, leant up against one of the doors, smoking.

Laurent gasped. He passed on his bridle to Jord, who fumbled to catch it, and ran inside.

Auguste and Al were in the plate room. Al was sitting on the large, velvet throne, a glass of whiskey in his hand. It wasn’t even noon! And he was baring his teeth in that weird way — smiling, as he called it.

Auguste was standing in front of him, hands behind his back. He had gotten very tan, and his hair was much darker, a strange golden colour that made the blue-green of his eyes more appealing.

They both turned when Laurent entered. Al’s mouth was already drooping at the sight of him, but Laurent only had eyes for his brother, whom he hadn’t seen in eight whole months.

Laurent wanted to hug him, which surprised even himself. Laurent was not a hugger. He wasn’t much of a toucher, either, unless it involved getting laid.

Auguste gave him a nod. He sometimes acted so much like Al, it disgusted Laurent; the only difference was that Auguste’s eyes were always kind.

Laurent peered at him closely, shocked. “What have you done to yourself? Are you having a mid-life crisis? Should we call Paschal for a yearly psych evaluation?”

Auguste laughed. “It’s a moustache, Laurent. It’s very fashionable in Kempt, you know.”

“It’s horrendous!” Laurent cried. He stared at the thick hair above Auguste’s top lip in horror. “Right. I’m officially ruling Kempt out as a holiday destination this summer if all the men are growing that.”

Al’s eyebrows furrowed. “I like it. It’s very refined.”

“Oh god, now we have to get rid of it,” said Laurent, which made Al frown and Auguste laugh. Auguste squeezed Laurent’s shoulder. He was always mindful of Laurent’s boundaries. “I think you��ve grown taller.”

“I haven’t,” Laurent said. He showed off his riding boots. “See? It’s three inches of heel.”

“Very impractical,” Al said under his breath, which was not a very Kingly thing to do.

Auguste was still smiling. “I like it. It matches the piping of your coat.”

“Yes, exactly!” Laurent was so happy in that moment, he leant forward and hugged Auguste. It was very short, but Auguste looked so pleased afterwards, Laurent wished he had prolonged it.

“Did you get me anything?” he asked, to cover the embarrassment following his sudden burst of affection.

Auguste raised an eyebrow. “I’m hurt, Laurent. You’re not going to ask me about my classes or my rather excellent Anthropology professor?”

Laurent scrunched up his face. “Are you stalling because you didn’t get me anything?”

Auguste smiled. “There’s about fifty boxes of Grand Cru chocolate in your bedroom.”

Laurent’s sound of ecstasy was too loud; Al spilled some of his whiskey onto his pants. Auguste clapped him on the back in commiseration.

As the servants laid out a small meal —  roses of smoked salmon on cucumber slices, macaroons, thin slices of cured meat and cheese, crunchy shrimp salad on crusty rolls, grapes and strawberries and mango and pineapple, individual strawberry shortcakes, that kind of thing — Auguste said, “Father tells me you’re having an affair with the King of Akielos.” He said it casually enough, but Laurent could see he wasn’t thrilled about the idea.

Laurent swallowed his last bite of sandwich and placed a hand on his heart. “Al! You should know better than to gossip, shame on you!”

Al just sighed, a long, suffering sound, and Auguste glared openly at him. “I thought you promised to stop disrespecting Father like that.”

Laurent’s stomach pooled with an uncomfortable tightness. Being told off by Auguste somehow was always worse than being told off by Al.

“Fine,” Laurent said shortly. He said to Al: “Oh dearest Father, Papa, Your Majesty, light of my life, the man who impregnated Queen Hennike, so I, your glorious creation, could be born to bring some joy to this bleak, bleak world: stop gossiping immediately.”

There was a very long pause. Then Auguste laughed. “You are such a shit.”

Al sighed again. “He’s becoming more and more insolent by the day.”

“Thank you so much,” Laurent said, wiping away an imaginary tear.

Auguste barked another laugh. Al sipped more whiskey; a very good sign. Laurent was going to take advantage of this; he wanted a new watch.

Auguste continued his questioning a few minutes later. “So. You and the King — it’s true?”

Laurent flapped a hand. “Oh, you know how it is. He saw those pictures of me from Aimeric’s birthday party where I wore those silk shorts that were just long enough to be tasteful and the poor darling had absolutely no choice but to slide into my DMs and woo me.”

“What’s a DM?” asked Al, and if the question had come from anyone else, Laurent would have found it adorable. He probably would have tweeted it as well.

“Texting,” Auguste said. He seemed contemplative. “Aimeric’s birthday — from last September? It’s been a bit more than a year.”

“Yes,” said Laurent. He tried to say it as wistfully as possible. “He bought me a Ferrarri.”

“Really?” Auguste sounded impressed. “The 1954?”

Laurent grinned. “Do you want to drive it?”

“Fuck yeah,” Auguste said, then quickly cleared his throat and looked at their father. “I mean, yes. Perhaps later in the afternoon.”

Al shook his head, but he didn’t say anything for the rest of the meal. Well, he didn’t say anything to Laurent. He really was in a good mood.

*

Having Auguste back had Laurent so distracted it wasn’t until a few days later that he realised how frantically the staff were cleaning the floors and walls and painting frames.

In fact, he became so relaxed doing less than nothing all day, since Al was too busy doing this and that, or fawning over Auguste, he didn’t comprehend why the chefs needed fifty boars delivered fresh on Friday morning, until Al told him before their weekly Council, “I want you to wear your red high neck blouse tomorrow.”

“Why?” Laurent asked, checking for any fine lines in the shine of the armour of one of the propped knights in the hallway.

“It is the colour of the Akielos banner. I am trying to seem as diplomatic as possible.”

Laurent went very, very still. With dawning horror, he said, “The — Damianos is coming tomorrow?”

Al’s expression turned thunderous. “Do not waste my time asking stupid questions, Laurent. You know how much I despise it.”

Laurent’s eyes widened. “Oh no,” he said quietly, real fear settling into his bones. Damianos was going to murder him tomorrow. He would need to get a facial tonight, to ensure he was the most beautiful corpse the human eye had seen. And then something much more horrific occurred to him. “Wait! I can’t wear the red high neck with the Crown of Naos! Those colours completely clash!”

Al seemed to age a few centuries in a blink of an eye. With a shake of his head, he walked into the Chambers, leaving Laurent alone in the hallway.

Laurent frowned. One of these days, he was going to be the one storming out. It was only fair.

*

Things only got worse.

Laurent’s last minute facial broke him out, so he threatened to sue and smashed one of their stupid reclining chairs.

Laurent had honestly thought that was going to be the worst of it; the pimple along his jawline was easy to cover up once he got the local dermatologist to inject something in it.

But on the morning of Damianos’ arrival, Laurent was in a terrible mood. He hadn’t slept at all, worried about his pimple, his horrible outfit, and the fact that a man who was the size of a small house — Google said Damianos was 6’6”, but he was definitely way more, no arguments — was going to viciously kill him.

“Hurry up,” Laurent snapped at the servant dressing him, who had been pulling too sharply at his laces for the last six minutes.

“Yes, Your Highness,” he answered meekly, and continued fumbling about.

When a few more minutes passed, Laurent looked down at him. “Okay, seriously, this is ridiculous. You usually get me dressed in ten minutes or less. What is the problem?”

“I —” The servant looked like he was on the verge of tears. “Your Highness, the laces — I can’t do them up. It’s uh — it’s too tight.”

“What do you mean?” Laurent asked, narrowing his eyes. “This fit perfectly a month ago.”

“Yes, well —” And his eyes slid over to the bed, where an empty, open box of chocolates was stacked against many other empty boxes of chocolate.

Laurent saw red.

It took three guards and then Jord and Lazar to keep Laurent restrained enough to not kill him. In the end, he yelled until his throat was hoarse and the servant broke down, running out the room with his face covered in tears.

Afterwards, Laurent attempted to do up the laces himself, because he was not fat, and he definitely had not gained weight; he was svelte and sexy and desirable.

In the end, he could only do his trousers up, and only just. If he let out a particularly deep exhale… well, breathing was overrated anyway, Laurent had always thought so.

“Oh, forget it!” Laurent howled, miserable and on the verge of tears himself. “I look ridiculous.”

“No, you don’t, Your Highness,” Jord assured quickly. Too quickly.

Laurent glanced at himself in the mirror. His ass was practically suffocated in these trousers — and that was his best feature! He ran a hand down it forlornly. “It’s too tight.”

Jord’s eyes followed his hand with avid interest. He was drooling.

“Could be tighter,” said Lazar, leaning against the bedpost.

Laurent flung himself on the bed. “No it couldn’t. I need to lose about three kilograms in the next —” He checked the clock, “half an hour. Oh god. Just tell Al I died. It’ll make his day, go on.”

“Orgasms help with weight loss,” said Lazar. “I could fuck your face.”

Laurent sniffed “Don’t be so stupid.” He looked at the clock again. “Obviously, riding you will help me lose more calories. Both of you get on the bed, quick.”

*

Laurent did not lose three kilograms in half an hour. As enjoyable as the sex had been, it had only made him tired and anxious.

Jord suggested that Laurent should just let the laces at the back trail, and cover it up with a coat, even though it was far too hot in the year to wear one. Laurent obliged anyway, knowing how difficult Al would be if he showed up wearing undiplomatic colours. He changed his trousers into a different pair, making sure it had an elastic waistband to stretch accommodatingly.

When the crown was placed on his head, he staggered a little. It really was unnecessarily heavy. His great great grandfather must have had a head the size of a watermelon.

Laurent walked unsteadily down the hall, towards the Palace steps where Auguste and Al were already waiting. His insides became so twisted with the thought of seeing Damianos, he had to make a detour and hide behind a tapestry to have a panic, but only a little one.

Outside, the sun was blazing. Auguste clapped him on the back in greeting, and Laurent winced, the material of his blouse sticking to his armpits. Al’s lips curled at his outfit, but Laurent couldn’t care. He hoped he looked beautiful enough — just enough — so Damianos would reconsider his murder. At the very least, Laurent hoped nothing happened to his face.

“Alright?” said Auguste. “You’re sweating.”

“Shut up,” said Laurent, mortified. He was a prince; he did not sweat.

Auguste’s response was cut off by the sound of the gates opening and rolling tires on gravel. Laurent’s heart was in his ears; he swallowed, but it made him feel more sick.

The sleek, black car was parked in the driveway. Several seconds later, Damianos stepped out, tall and handsome.

Laurent whimpered. It was one thing to see photos of Damianos on the internet, walking briskly down the street or shaking hands with Al, and it was another thing entirely to see him in the flesh as he walked down their driveway.

He was so tall. And he was built like a tree; all thick arms and chest and thighs. Laurent had such a weakness for thighs, they were really the best part of a man’s body, how they framed the groin and the cock and —

Laurent realised, suddenly, that he had not prepared at all for how he was going to greet Damianos.

Lovers kissed each other, yes? Laurent didn’t think he could do that without being punched but god, would Al think it was weird if he didn’t at least attempt to kiss Damianos? Maybe he could pretend to suddenly be shy, too coy to look into Damianos’ eyes in front of everyone — yes, yes that sounded perfect.

Damianos came up the stairs, smile wide and straight. His teeth were amazing. Were they fake? Laurent didn’t think so; he ran his tongue over his own, nervous, heart still thumping in his ears.

He greeted Al first. Laurent’s head was spinning. What if Al said something? What if Auguste did? What if Damianos said something that alluded to the fact that this was technically, the first time he and Laurent would be speaking to another?

And then Laurent couldn’t think of anything else, because Damianos was standing right in front of him.

He reached out, one large, dark hand to shake Laurent’s. Laurent staggered forward, into his chest, and closed his eyes.

*

When he opened his eyes again, Laurent saw the most beautiful angel.

“Wow, you’re hot.” Laurent poked a very hard, very strong bicep. “Heaven’s pretty cool.” He was dead, obviously,  because people this good looking didn’t exist in the mortal world.

“You’re not dead, Laurent. Can you sit up?”

Laurent thought about it. He wasn’t dead? That was good news. But he felt like he was dead because he couldn’t move his body at all.

“Here, can you follow my finger?”

“Hmm.” Laurent said and stared unblinkingly at what he assumed was a finger. It was quite blurry.

“I think he’s concussed.”

Laurent giggled. The stranger’s accent made it sound like he had said cock-cussed. It made Laurent want to suck cock.

He said, “If I’m not dead, I’d like to be. Jord, get me my blue Prada scarf. I want to be buried in it. Lazar, get your gun out.”

“He doesn’t seem concussed.” That was Al. The compulsion to die was suddenly much stronger.

“We should take him to the hospital,” the hot angel said. Laurent was in love.

He said as much: “I really love you,” he told the blurry figure. Then he rolled over onto his side and threw up.

[carewyncromwell]

“I know you -- I walked with you once upon a dream... I know you: That look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam...”

~“Once Upon a Dream (cover),” by Lana Del Rey

When he was growing up, Atticus Grimsley @cursebreakerfarrier​​ was something of a teacher’s pet. Thanks to the influence of his father who put such stock in the Grimsley family’s reputation and legacy, Atticus grew up with a hyper-focus on his studies and so ended up having a rather solitary and lonely time at Hogwarts. Therefore when he met Bartholomew “Bat” Varney as an adult, Atticus wasn’t incredibly well-practiced in the art of making or maintaining friendships. Fortunately, despite his and Bat’s obvious differences in attitude and life experience, the two men ended up slowly building a bridge of understanding and camaraderie between them. The big turning point was Atticus agreeing to help Bat track down and capture a vampire who had stolen Bat’s identity and used it to target and murder a wizard just outside Hogsmeade, even if it put Atticus at considerable risk not just with that vampire, but with the Ministry, since Bat was still considered a suspect at the time. After this, Bat finally accepted Atticus into his heart enough to start calling him by the nickname “Grim,” rather than the more detached and nondescript “Professor” -- in essence, seeing Atticus as an individual and allowing himself to “get attached,” even if Bat would no doubt out-live Atticus and mourn him when he died. Bat opened up, showing a genuine warmth and a love of life’s trappings that encouraged a youthful sense of fun out of Atticus he’d never really experienced before.

As the two friends got to know each other better, Atticus -- like Adelia Selwyn @that-ravenpuff-witch before him -- started to notice certain inconsistencies and interesting word choices in his conversations with Bat. Bat was very evasive about how he became a vampire, but he’d also make weird off-the-cuff comments about his condition, like that "his body didn’t truly belong to him.” He could give a full history lecture about the War for American Independence and describe multiple battles in great detail, and yet would immediately go quiet and disinterested as soon as any mention of the Battle of Yorktown propped up. He’d sometimes even compare Atticus to his best friend at school, telling full, exciting stories about their exploits and laughing at the memories, but seemed oddly tight-lipped when Atticus asked him his friend’s name. After a while, the man the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would go to whenever they had a case they had trouble solving found himself way too curious about all this to let it lie, and so set about tackling the mystery of Bat Varney’s past on his own.

Through his investigation, Atticus found out more and more things that just didn’t add up. Bat always seemed pleased whenever Ravenclaw was in the running for the Quidditch Cup, but an enchanted portrait of Bartholomew Varney in his Hogwarts robes that was commissioned by his family featured him wearing a red and gold Gryffindor tie. Bat was well-versed in Muggle society and culture, and yet the Varneys had been a prominent wizarding family who had shares in a large assortment of businesses in Diagon Alley back in the day. Then there was the story Atticus had collected from the merpeople about the three students who had helped save their queen a hundred years ago -- Robert Harker, Cecelia Crouch, and Bartholomew Varney. “Robert” had to be the mysterious best friend that Bat had mentioned, Atticus thought -- after all, he and Bartholomew had gone to war together as if they were Muggles despite both being wizards, so they were clearly incredibly close. But why had Bat never mentioned his other best friend, Cecelia Crouch? Particularly since, according to letters, she and he grew up together, and according to Ministry records, she’d eventually become his wife.

At long, long last, Atticus conjured up a terrible theory -- that Bat, in fact, was not the real Bartholomew Varney. His suspicions were confirmed when he tracked down a shady contact in Knockturn Alley who explained the unforgivable Dark process of creating a vampire, which requires not just a person feeding their subject a potion containing both their own and the caster’s blood, but also the caster cursing the soul of the person upon death to be forcibly chained to a body against their will. Atticus realized that his friend -- the vampire called Bat Varney -- was in truth the soul of Bartholomew Varney’s best friend Robert Harker, chained to the first’s reanimated corpse by Bartholomew’s wife and Robert’s once-friend, Cecelia.

The knowledge shocked Atticus -- he hadn’t known such a thing was even possible, and if it were true, it’d be a horrific thing for anyone to go through. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor took some time to himself to get a handle on what he’d discovered, only to be surprised one evening by the sight of a familiar Irish Wolfhound sitting in his office chair. Bat had noticed Atticus wasn’t in Hogsmeade at all for more than a week after having come to visit nearly every evening prior, so he thought he’d pop up to the castle to see what was going on. So Atticus took the opportunity to tell Bat everything he’d found out.

Whatever reaction Atticus had been expecting, it was not Bat looking hurt.

“Robert?”

“Don’t -- ”

The word came out in an oddly sharp, barking voice. Bat gave a very painful-looking swallow to try to restrain himself, even as his red eyes pulsed with pain.

“ -- don’t call me that.”

Atticus was confused. “What? But...it’s your name, isn’t it? Your real -- ”

“Shut up,” Bat said very harshly.

He turned his back on the professor, his fist absently clenching at his side.

Atticus’s skin prickled with an emotion he couldn’t yet place. It made him suddenly feel like the ground he was on was very unstable.

“Bat, what’s wr -- ?”

“I don’t want to talk about this. I didn’t want to talk about this. And yet now you’ve forced my hand and are now trying to make me talk about this. Well, I don’t want to talk about this with you! I know time is different for you than it is for me, but do you truly have no patience at all? Do you truly have so little respect for me, that I wasn’t allowed a choice in whether or not you knew? I...”

The vampire’s eyes were going redder, as was often the case when his heart was beating painfully fast or his lungs were breathing heavily. Although Bat’s voice never got incredibly loud, there was a very low, growl-like aspect -- something oddly raw.

Atticus knew what the emotion he was feeling now was -- it was guilt. Remorse.

“Bat -- ”

“I have to go,” Bat cut him off lowly without skipping a beat or turning around.

And in a blur of motion, he’d become a dog again and darted out the open door.

Bat didn’t reappear in Hogsmeade. Nights went by, and no one Atticus spoke to had seen him. The Honeydukes family even said he hadn’t returned to roost in their attic in the daytime like he always did. And Atticus knew why -- he knew that Bat’s sudden disappearance was all his fault.

In the nights following the argument, insomniac Atticus had even more trouble sleeping than usual. Once he ended up fitfully nodding off in the armchair of his bedchambers around 3 AM -- and there in his dreams, he was confronted by a vision of Robert Harker, looking just as dark-haired and handsome as he did in the enchanted portrait Atticus had found of him and Bartholomew in their army uniforms, signed with Cecelia Crouch-Varney’s name. Robert was smiling just as he did in the picture, and his brown eyes shone with the same sharp, bright gleam Atticus knew so well from Bat’s eyes. He even spoke in Bat’s voice.

Robert Harker bent down over Atticus sitting in the armchair, his handsome face mere inches from his. The proximity immediately startled Atticus, not just because he wasn’t used to people being in his personal bubble, but because Bat in particular so carefully avoided getting too close to him due to his blood lust. The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor shakily brought up a hand against the taller man’s chest as if to try to push him back, but his limbs lacked strength.

“W-wha -- what are you -- ?”

“Now, now, Grim...you were looking for me, weren’t you? It feels good to have solved the mystery, doesn’t it -- to know all those terrible things your mysterious associate was keeping under wraps?”

“Th-that...”

“Well, really, how else were you going to find out? I certainly wasn’t going to tell you. Why would I want to revisit the time when one of my dearest friends stabbed me in the back and turned me into a bloodthirsty animal? Made it so I could never be a professor like you, the way you know I wish I could?”

“You’re not an animal, you’re my -- ”

“Your what? Your friend? Oh, now, that is a cute sentiment.”

“What...?”

“You don’t have any friends, Grim, old boy. You never have. What I was, who knows...a pet, perhaps -- someone to talk to, to pass the time -- but a friend? I don’t believe friends go behind each other’s backs and betray their trust. Oh...but I suppose mine already did. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, that you’re just the same...”

“Robert -- Bat, I’m...I didn’t mean to -- ”

“At least now, things can go back to the way they were before. You’re all on your own again. All alone with your books, just like before. Just like you’ve always been...”

The nightmare was really rather short, but it was still enough to make Atticus wake up in a icy cold sweat.

Two weeks later, Atticus caught wind from his students that Bat had returned to Hogsmeade. Despite the anxiety and shame he felt, Atticus dropped everything that night to go find him, catching up with the vampire just outside the Three Broomsticks, not far from where they’d first met. Atticus immediately launched into an extensive apology, as Bat listened with a rather blank, placid expression on his face. It was only when Atticus started getting really emotional that Bat actually reached out and took hold of the man’s shoulder. The vampire immediately had to use his free hand to take out his flask and take a long drink of blood, and then he had to bury his face in his winter scarf and turn his focus onto the closest chimney to try to ignore Atticus’s scent and blood pulsing through his skin and clothes -- but he held Atticus’s shoulder anyway, his voice very low and soft in his throat when he spoke.

“I’ve...already forgiven you, Grim.”

Atticus’s guilt lingered somewhat even after that, but the whole affair ended up strengthening the two men’s relationship even more than before. Since this point, Atticus has become the only person who knows Bat’s real name and will, on occasion, use it in private conversation.

[chasseurdeloup-retired]

Gimme Gimme Gimme || Otto, Nadia, Dot, Nic, Alain, and Kaden

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The docks SUMMARY: A deal gone wrong

Otto glanced at his unfamiliar reflection in a broken pane of glass double-checking the glamour runes carved into his collar bones were still functioning correctly. Sunken eyes, a thicker jaw and plain brown eyes looked back at him. Different enough from his day to day appearance that he could pass without someone recognising and the spell would hold for a few hours now that it was in place. Hand-offs were always tricky businesses even more so when you didn’t know the other parties you were involving yourself with so precautions had been taken. Namely in bringing Nadia along as back-up along with a trusty shot-gun. Spells were useful in a pinch but if things went sideways little beat the pure destruction the end of a shotgun could bring about. Unfortunately, tricky business was simply the life of a newfound criminal trying to find their footing in a small town full of strife.

He glanced over at Nadia who carried the delivery in a nondescript brown box padded and covered in protective runes as an extra layer of precaution as they made their way into the boating house on the docks where the arranged trade-off had been arranged. Boats bobbed silently, crusted sea-salt clung to several surfaces and the splosh of water was broken by the occasional bay of a seagull outside. They’d scouted the perimeter already, checking their entrances and exits before heading inside and even then Otto kept to the pillars as cover. He checked his watch and when he spoke his voice was an octave lower, “they should be here soon. Not met this person before…” in other words, he didn’t trust them at all. But then again, you didn’t live in this job if you truly trusted anyone

Adjusting the box to one hand and pulling her hood up a little more, Nadia grinned. This was what she really needed. A good job, the potential for a bit of action, a shotgun on her back, and a revolver at her side. And she was back to being more connected with her body again. She’d been hungry that morning. Hungry. It might’ve been because she’d forgotten that she even had to eat, but it had gnawed at her stomach in the most pleasantly painful way. Even better was that she’d been able to go somewhere and grab herself something without worrying about someone looking for her. Plus, Nadia wasn’t fighting, and she was back to being the one in charge. So she was ready for whatever Otto’s job managed to throw her way. Part of her wanted something easy, a quick drop off, nothing major, maybe a bit of smooth talking if need be. But another part of her wanted some action. She’d be thrilled either way.

As Otto caught her eyes, Nadia gave him a wink. He was a fun guy, from the jobs they’d run together before. Almost as good with his words as she was for a guy who didn’t have a built in lie detector and emotional radar. Plus, his magic was wicked cool. Following him in, she leaned against a pillar and waited. “Cool, cool. Well, don’t worry, as long as they’ve got a pulse, I think I can figure them out.” She could read his distrust like a magazine at the dentist’s office, so she wasn’t feeling quite as blase as she might have seemed. If Otto was worried, she should probably be a bit worried, too. But being a little worried was always healthy. She took out her revolver and opened the chamber, making sure it was loaded. The shotgun was double-barrel, two bullets in. Everything looked good to go.

Everyone had a secret talent. Some people could juggle or burp the alphabet backward. Dot’s secret talent was getting involved in the shadier shit a town had going on. Her other secret talent was being able to do a really fast crab walk. She didn’t like that one as much as she liked getting involved in crime though. She loved that. People would ask her to do jobs and most of the time she didn’t care if she was getting paid or not, though she didn’t tell people that part. She liked the thrill of it. Breaking rules was fun and she liked when she made things inconvenient for other people. She wasn’t a career criminal, not even close, but she never said no to a job. It hadn’t taken long after she moved to White Crest for someone to approach her doing something for them. After doing a couple of jobs, she proved that she wasn’t a complete imbecile and then this job was given to her. It was simple, a hand-off, nothing she hadn’t done before.

Walking to the meeting spot, she was glad that she actually took her gun and knife with her this time. She relied on being a siren far more than she really should. As she saw the two in front of her, she popped her lollipop out of her mouth. Grinning at them, she spoke in a cheerful voice,“Hello, lovelies. Are you here waiting for me?” She might not have been an idiot, but she was never professional. “It’s like we’re all having a little secret party,” She shook her shoulders at them. She considered asking them if they wanted a lollipop, but she only had green apple left and those were her favorite.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Otto lifted his head to eye the newcomer. He didn’t recognise them, but then again he didn’t recognise most people in town on first meetings considering most of them weren’t really memorable enough to truly warrant him paying them all that much attention. But this sort of situation demanded a new sort of attentiveness for a lack of it could cost you so much more if you made the slightest misstep. Yet, that wasn’t the vibe he got from the woman he saw approaching; lollipop and all. It was… intriguing to say the least, her grin was infectious and brought one of Otto’s own about. Cocking his head his eyes sparkled with newfound mischief.

“Seems so darling,” he greeted pushing off the pillar “and it does, doesn’t it? Little rave is just what everyone needs… Let off some steam, have some fun. Shame we don’t have music to set the mood.” He knew Nadia had his back in this, it was one of the few constants he actually trusted in this situation which was saying something, “now as much of a sweet-tooth as I happen to be, I’m curious to see the sweetener to this little party hm?”

Looking at the girl walking towards them, Nadia grinned. Good, a pulse. The other woman’s emotions weren’t nearly as easy to read as Otto’s, but that wasn’t a problem. Nadia only needed a sense of what she was feeling to make sure nothing the wrong sort of shady happened here. Not that there really was a wrong sort of shady. Shady was always fun, even if it went to shit. But, taking in the girl’s appearance, her laid back nature as she had a lollipop of all things in her mouth, Nadia couldn’t help but feel that this was going to be nothing but the good kinds of fun.

“I’m all up for parties,” Nadia said. She jerked her head towards Otto. “This guy throws some of the best, I swear. He might not look like it now, but he’s a fun guy. Isn’t that right, Kelly?” She gave him a wink. She was glad that he trusted her still, even after all that she’d told him. Maybe not completely, maybe not the same way that he had before, but the trust was still there. She could feel it, after all. She hefted the box with their delivery into her arms. “Maybe when all this is said and done, we can actually have a party, to celebrate. Music and everything. And booze. So much booze.”

Maybe she would offer these two her lollipops… They seemed like fun and Dot loved some good fun. She had expected a bunch of people with sticks up their asses who would tell her that she’s too immature to be in this business. The type that took themselves way too seriously. Those people were exhausting at the best of times and she wasn’t doing this to be exhausted. Based on the grins these two had, she liked them so far, but she wasn’t naive enough to forget that this was still a job.

It took quite a bit of self-control to stop herself from beatboxing right there and tell them to dance to the music. Slipping the strap of her bag off her shoulder, she waved it slightly at them. “I think this is the sweetener you’re looking for and that’s what I’m looking for,” She nodded to the box. She liked this part a lot, the anticipation right before a handover. “I know a guy who can get us more than booze,” Dot told the woman, a sparkle in her eyes. Sighing, very dramatically, she continued, “But I guess the job comes first. What was agreed to is in the bag.”

Kaden didn’t know much about the situation at hand, but he knew Nic asked him to be here. That was enough. No matter how weird his relationship was with hunting right now, he wasn’t about to drop his loyalties. If a hunter was in need, one he trusted, he was there. The place by the docks looked sketchy enough, seemed appropriate. “You know what it is we’re looking for, Nic?” he asked, making sure for the fifth time tonight that his gun was loaded properly and ready to go. “Probably a little late to ask for details but if you need all of us here, I’m guessing it’s something big and bad.” He wondered if this was some big monster take down, something like the bounty Montgomery had made a call for a while back. Shit, hadn’t thought about that fucker in a while. The thought of the trophy room sent a shiver down his spine. But he trusted Nic and Alain, despite any differences of ideals they had, would never chop off someone's head and keep it. Which was good enough for him. His brow furrowed as he picked up a sound off in the distance, closer to the boathouses on the docks. Looking in that direction, he saw a small flash of movement and a figure headed into one of them. “Hey,” he whispered, nodding over towards the boathouse. A quick glance back and it was clear where the hunters were headed. Whatever shady shit they were looking for, pretty sure they found it.

While Nicodemus still couldn’t quite wrap his head around what a turn it had been with the Bossman, now known as Roy Chambers, he didn’t question Erin when she told him she might have found a way to figure out what the fuck he was. All he did was agree, make a few calls, then pack up what was necessary before making his way to the agreed upon meeting place. It was gonna be a long night. Shit, it had been awhile since he had worked with one hunter. Let alone a whole gaggle of them. That was just the bounty way. He worked his jaw as he double-checked the edges of the knife he carried. “Reckon it ain’t somethin’ that’s gonna be easy-breezy,” he muttered as he slid it back into its sheath. “But hell, it ain’t ever is.” His fingertips lightly tapped against each other as he cocked his head. Looked toward the same place Kaden had heard the noise. A short nod and a quiet grunt of agreement followed. The calm that settled over him before most hunts began to run its course. “Ain’t no time like the fuckin’ present,” he whispered as he started to move, boots quiet. “We goin’ in quiet or goin’ in loud?”

While Alain was still unsure of why it was that Nic had asked all of them to come here, he was relieved to see that he was not the only clueless one here. It was reassuring to be with familiar faces, and with people he knew he could trust, but some details would have been great. On the one hand, he doubted that she would put them all in mortal danger without warnings, but on the other hand, if the hunter needed back up, this could not be good. “Going in loudly when we have no idea what’s in there, that sounds like a really shitty idea, Nic,” walking beside him, the hunter repressed a yawn. He had managed to get a bit of sleep lately, but he was still having too many nightmares to get rather proper rest. Tired or not, he still would help, because while he never signed up for anything, he had always acted like it was the case. With no idea of what to expect, he had left his sword home and gone for shorter blades, and probably for the best, all things considered.

“Stop yawning, slayer,” Kaden said, giving Alain a small nudge. “Isn’t this your normal hours, anyway? When all the creatures of the night come out and shit?” He was giving the other hunter some grief, sure, but he did kind of hope he wasn’t too exhausted to be here. One mistake on a hunt, especially one like this where the details were sparse and the threat seemingly high, well, that could be deadly. Kaden nodded at the suggestion to keep it quiet as they headed in. There were a few entrances and it was best they split up if they were trying to go for a surprise attack. A few gestures and nods and it was figured out. Kaden creeped up to the side door, listened a moment, and heard voices inside. They seemed occupied. For now. Good enough for him. He did his best to slowly and silently open the door, sneaking through and hiding behind a crate near the entrance. With his pistol in hand, he leaned around the corner to get a better look at what was going on. Three people as far as he could tell. None of them werewolves as far as he knew, either. One guy, didn’t recognize him, two women. The one was also unfamiliar, but the other... Was that… “Nadia?” he found himself saying out loud. Or rather, whoever was in her body. Shit, he didn’t mean to do that. He also didn’t mean to keep walking forward. But he had and he fucking tripped and stumbled over a rope on the ground. Putain. So much for his stealth approach.

They were in the middle of the transaction, the briefcase being opened and the requested black-steel music box embossed with silver images of graeco-figures deifying some strange entity revealed, nestled within a bed of foam to protect it from any harm. “As discussed, acquired and undamaged.” Though not tested, Otto didn’t know what this thing was meant to do but the less he knew the more deniability he had regarding it. Closing the lid once more and clicking it shut the runes engraved across its surface glowed a bright purple before fading from sight once more to prevent anyone untoward tampering with it. “Wonderful, in that case let’s exchange and maybe after this we can all go cele-” but any further remark was cut off, by the sudden intrusion of another voice from a stack of crates nearby. Shit. His eyes cut to the man he didn’t recognise who tripped over the rope in judgemental frustration.

But this stranger’s focus seemed to be on Nadia, recognising her - or recognised the old her most likely. But there were perks to this being the Nadia he’d worked with for so long and on so many occasions. A silent language that a subtle look or expression could convey a thousand messages. So the curious look between Nadia and this stranger and the thin smile that followed spoke volumes. Play him, buy us some time. In the interim, Otto subtly scanned the nearby vicinity for options they could run, but who knew how many more people this dude might’ve brought along. The warehouse might be surrounded.... They had their guns but a firefight was never ideal if it could be avoided.

His eyes passed a few of the boats moored nearby. Maybe if they could rig one up it’d be a decent means of escape… Otto glanced at the other woman unsure if he could trust her or if she’d staged this whole thing. What he did know was he wasn’t going to die because of some fucked over job.

Things were going good. Easy, even. And then Kaden fucking Langley literally tripped his way into the meeting. Nadia pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to maintain her control. But, hey, things were still going well. Just not easy. Well, she didn’t care for easy, anyway. She made sure the box was with the others, and she gave Otto a wink. She knew what to do here. “Heya, Kadie!” she said with a sweet smile, letting it reach her eyes. Nadia Diaz had a great smile. Very charming. Easily disarming. Perfect for getting people to let their guard down, even if they knew they were locking eyes with a rattlesnake. The problem with Kaden was that he knew. He knew what she was, had looked at her and really seen her. He wouldn’t be fooled again. Not for long, at least. But she still had the advantage. He didn’t want to hurt her. Well, actually, he probably wanted to hurt her really, really badly. But he didn’t want to hurt Nadia Diaz. She gave him a wave. “Been a minute, yeah? How’s it going? What are you and your friends doing skulking around the docks at such late hours?” She walked a little closer to him, attempting to block Otto and the other woman to give her partner time to think. She knew the bastard would still be quick on his feet. She just had to play distraction. In a stage whisper, she said, “You know that dangerous people hang around the docks, right?”

For all the things Dot had done, she had never been caught before. Sure, she had gotten in trouble with the cops before, gotten a slap on the wrist for trespassing or some community service for fighting, but this was different. Had he been alone, she would have just gone for her gun, but as Nadia pointed out, he had friends. Her lips pressed as she looked over at Otto, trying to hide the rising panic she felt. She was no professional at this and she knew it. She began to inch towards the door she had come through, bag on her shoulder. The deal wasn’t happening with company. Kaden being here was no good sign. Blanche had liked him, but Dot had never really been around him enough to form an opinion other than ‘fun to make fun of on the internet’. “This is a closed, invite only party,” She chirped, popping her lollipop back in her mouth. “Very exclusive rave you just wandered into and partycrashers are no fun. Unless they’re me, but you’re not me, so no fun,” She rambled around the candy. “So. Shoo.”

Alain had a point and Nicodemus nodded in agreement. “Yup, you got a pretty good fuckin’ point there.” He muttered to Alain as he crouched himself and followed behind Kaden through the door, his own gun drawn and a hand over the knife on his belt. Better to survey the area, get the lay of the land, and--Goddamn it, Kaden. Nicodemus pursed his lips and breathed in sharply. That’s alright, he thought. The rest of them could go around, surprise. And then that was also shot to shit at the word friends. He nodded to himself, resigned. “That’s fine,” he grunted quietly. “Knees gettin’ tired anyway.” The hunter stood and worked his jaw as he walked beside Kaden, pistol resting against his shoulder. He glanced at the briefcase between the three of them. The way it looked, the three of them were all talkers. Time wasters. He sucked at his teeth. “Could save us all some time and fuck off,” he said with a tilt of his head as he took a small step forward. Mediation wasn’t a skill he spent time or money on. “Chattin’ ain’t what we’re here for.”

Alain’s eyebrows raised as he gave Kaden an Italian salute. Of course it was ideal to him for things to be happening at this time of the day, but lately he had had to skip a few cemetery trips in order to rest a little. It would be fine, it had to be fine. Besides, even if he was not at the top of his form, he had to be here for these two hunters. Although that did not mean he would agree with everything they did. Are you fucking kidding me? Breathing out loudly, his eyebrows furrowed as he recognized Nadia. What in the goddamn hell was she doing here? He did not suppose that now would be the time to question her life choices, but from the look on his face, you could get an idea of how disappointed he was. The other two, he did not know, but he was not impressed. “Cute,” he said with a sucking sound of disapproval. Now that their plans of being quiet had gone down the drain, he supposed that the least they could do was not to waste their time trying to have a conversation with these people. “Yeah, let’s get this over with,” he agreed.

Shit. There went the stealth approach once and for all. And it was painfully clear which Nadia he was dealing with. At least he didn’t have to worry about this being some weird hostage situation “Hello Janet,” Kaden replied, using Blanche’s nickname for the ghost with disdain as he stepped out from the shadows, properly this time. He kept his fingers ready on the trigger of his pistol just in case. Nadia was no danger to him, but the ghost, Janet or Cordelia or whoever she was, would kill him without a single remorse. He knew that much. “Funny I could say the same to you. Dangerous and all that. Good thing none of us are out here wandering all alone.” The other hunters had seemingly given up the pretense of stealth as well. He peered around Nadia’s body to get a better look at her cohorts here. “Hey. No one move,” he said, holding his gun up, aimed at the woman trying to make a break for the door in the back. “My invitation is right here so how about you show us what you’ve got there.” Kaden wasn’t sure if these were the calls to be making or what exactly they were here for but if it was to break up something or extract something, it was going to be a lot harder to do if anyone fled. “You wouldn’t want to ditch the party early. We’re just getting started.”

Otto had hoped he could slink away to at least get on board one of the boats, having made it several steps backwards though mindful not to blindly signal his intent or direction with his body language. But as another burlier man stood up behind Kaden holding a pistol he knew this evening was likely very soon going to go to hell in a handbasket. What was it with people and guns? They were so… primitive. But it didn’t change the danger they posed either way. His magic ebbed near to the surface, practically urging him to throw the first shot at these intruders and yet he bided his time. No need to give away his game just yet. He’d purposefully not tapped his reserve at all just in case, always just in case. His leather clad grip tightened on the briefcase handle, shifting it out of the line of sight of these assholes while running through the list of options that were fast running short. Think Nova. One thing they did have in their favour was positioning. These guys were too closely spaced and that tipped the balance in their favour. Maybe if they could carall them some density spells would be enough to immobilise them where they stood. Give them enough time to get the hell out of dodge. The guns were trained on the others for now, that counted for something at least. He took a few more steps, nearing some crates stacked up. Just in case things went sideways, cover never hurt. “Sorry, I was taught better than to hang around and talk to creepy men following me at night. Avidazen.”

“It’s cuter when the kid calls me that,” Nadia said conversationally, one hand on the strap of her shotgun, the other resting near her pistol holster. “Speaking of, let her know I said hey, and I want my gun back.” She pretended to think a bit before she perked back up. “Oh! And tell her next time I won’t fucking miss, ‘kay?” She checked on Otto and the chick that was with them, hoping that the two of them would get out before she had to do anything serious. She took a step towards Kaden as soon as he pulled a gun out. Like second nature, she smoothly pulled her own revolver out and leveled it at him. “Sorry, babe. Put the gun down. I think we both know which of the two of us is more likely to shoot someone, yeah?” Could they not just fucking leave? “Party’s over, folks!” she called out to the people with Kaden. “If you could let us be on our way, that’d be so fucking nice.” She tried to avoid the look of disappointment on… Alain’s (she thought that was Alain’s) face. She needed to stay calm. She needed to keep her cool. She… really fucking wanted to kill Kaden, still. She’d take the shot as soon as they all lowered their guards, and then she was making a break for it.

Bro, Dot was not fucking into this. She was so not into this. “Listen, Kandy, Blanche wouldn’t be happy if you went around shooting her ex girlfriend so like what if you put down the gun and I head out.” Dot loved fights, she really did, but she liked them when guns weren’t drawn. She was pretty out of her fucking depth here. “I don’t want to fight, ‘cause we all who’s gonna win and it ain’t these two,” She nodded toward Otto and Nadia with a shrug. “I mean unless you want me to fight with you guys, would that get me off the hook? I might not be too much help, I’m literally a TA, but I got a gun.That wasn’t a threat to clarify. What do you say Mr. Thickness? Kandy? Tall Napoleon?

Nicodemus wasn’t in the mood. These people talked too fucking much. He sure as shit wasn’t Kandy. Tall Napoleon? Nope. That only left one option. Jesus fucking Christ. He glowered but didn’t move his eyes from the one near the briefcase. He shook his head. “This ain’t a conversation.” His stance shifted and the dirt under his boot crunched. They weren’t going the easy route of just handing off the briefcase, were they? Fine enough. The three hunters had a job to do and they would sure as shit see it through. One way or the other. He spat to the side. His hand tightened around his gun, finger under the trigger guard. A second passed before he took off into a dead sprint. Straight toward the briefcase.

“Blanche? What the fuck does pipsqueak have to do with this? Leave her out of--” Before Kaden could finish, it looked like Nic had the briefcase covered, for now. And he was getting shit started. Great. Fighting was better than talking anyway. “No one leaves til we get what we came here for.” Kaden took a shot at the door, hoping to scare the obnoxious TA lady. Catching Alain’s glance, he gave him a quick nod to her. If he had the TA covered, then that left him free to deal with Janet. He knew Nadia had a gun trained on him and while he had a feeling Nadia would do what she could to save him, bullets fired real fast. He ducked behind a box briefly before taking off towards her. Maybe if he could get there fast enough, disarm her, he could help Nic. If he needed it.

Well shit. Those were the initial thoughts that went through Otto’s mind as Popeye McGee took off in a sprint straight at him. Shoving his hand into his pocket and drawing out a pile of iron filings these were dusted over the briefcase, there was a moment of concentration before an aura of purple seemed to circle the briefcase and seep into its essence with it suddenly becoming heavier in his grip. Backing up towards the dock he extended his arm back fighting against the significantly increased weight “hey now, back the fuck up or I drop it and then nobody gets their due!” With the weight of it now and the water finding it again would be a job for anyone. Not impossible, but more work than whatever this job was worth.

Well those were some crappy nicknames coming from Iago - yes, he had read Othello a while ago - Alain deadpanned as she approached them, probably hoping that she could switch sides like that with no consequences. Considering that she was a skinny woman, and that it didn't take too much to knock someone out (much to most people's surprise), it didn't take much for Alain to get rid of the betrayer and leave her down. Glancing over at the drama queen with the suitcase, the hunter tilted his head to the side and looked over at Kaden to communicate his fed-up-ness with someone, then back at the magician. "You do realize that even if you drop that suitcase, you still have to deal with us next? This doesn't change much for you. Or... Well, it does. It gets things a lot worse."

This was all going to shit. Nadia could see that clearly. Fuck the briefcase, fuck the payment, and fuck that bastard charging at her. It wasn’t particularly smart to run at the woman with a gun trained on you, but Nadia had to give Kaden credit. The guy had balls. Too bad that wasn’t going to save his life. Finger on the trigger, she smiled as he got close and, as she pressed down, gave up control for a brief moment.

Nadia always seemed to be around for the inevitable unhappy ending, and her eyes widened as she watch the bullet from her own gun connect with Kaden’s chest. It was like the cabin all over again. She tried to drop the gun, tried to step forward, but she couldn’t move. She wasn’t really in control at all.

Even though Nadia wanted to gloat, there wasn’t anytime. “Too fucking slow,” she told Kaden before she turned on her heels and started running. “It’s not worth it!” She yelled at Otto, hoping he’d take the hint. They needed to fucking leave.

Kaden was running full out, eyes on Nadia. The gun was drawn, she looked ready to shoot, and Nadia might, but Nadia would never let her. He had to count on that. He had to. He kept running at her. He was sprinting, he almost reached her. Until he didn’t. Something hit him. No. Worse. Something shot him. Putain. Kaden dropped down and screamed out in pain, hand clutching to his chest. Fuck, fuck. Where did it hit? Upper. Near the collarbone. Not heart. Fine. He’d be fine. He hoped. But fuck it hurt. “Fuck off, Janet! I’ll make sure your soul is banished to fucking hell!” He curled up by one of the boxes, hand pressed against the wound, blood spilling out. Aw shit, he saw black at the corners of his vision. He tried to fight it off but he was slipping. He looked around for something to press to the wound, hold it together, so he could hold himself together, too.

The tides were turning fast, one person choked out and a gunshot that echoed across the warehouse with two individuals advancing on his space. Apparently not deterred by the notion of losing the thing they came for. Otto’s eyes slid across to Nadia and then to the pile of cash in the backpack the woman had brought along, with her out cold it was there for the taking. So Otto abruptly dropped the case which hit the ground with a dull thud, shoved his hand out in the direction of the bag and curled his fingers muttering the simple summoning incantation. The bag jerked as if tethered by some unseen force before it arrived in his hand leaving him standing there with the two men making ground fast. His hand shoved once more into his pocket and a scattering of iron filings were tossed out in an arc through which Otto pushed an open palm. The magic radiated in a sudden conical shockwave, reverberating around normal air suddenly growing denser and slowing those that moved through it. Giving him enough time to turn and hightail it after Nadia towards one of the boats. “Unhook the rope! I’ll get the engine!”

Nicodemus breathed in sharply through his nose. If the case went into the water, then the fucker holding it wouldn’t be far behind. He moved with an intensity he hadn’t carried with him before. An intensity that if they didn’t get this fucking job over and done with, there was a lot more to lose. A hell of a lot more. Langley was shot, Alain had knocked someone out, and the two left behind were scrambling. Something slowed his progress and he strained against it, sweat gathering at his temples and the back of his neck. It didn’t matter, he thought, as he continued to brute force through it, muscles and tendons bunched as he worked to push through it. The case had been dropped and as far as he was concerned, he didn’t care if any justice or whatever other asinine bullshit happened. The case was what they came for and it’s what they would leave with. He pushed further, stepped closer. Fuck, he hated magic. Vurals withstanding. Blood gathered between his teeth but it didn’t taste like copper when he managed to get closer to the case. Just a few more steps and his hand would be able to wrap around its handle.

With quick fingers, Nadia untied the rope from the dock, more than anxious to get the hell out of Dodge. But the anxiety, the stress, it wasn’t really hers. She wished she could get rid of it, for good. But at least she had control for the time being. She gave a smirk and waved at the men still left on the docks. Win or lose, it didn’t fucking matter today. She turned around and sank down into one of the boat seats as they drove away, running a hand through her hair and laughing breathlessly. “What a fucking shitshow, huh?” She closed her eyes, not even paying attention to an answer. What a fucking shitshow. She never seemed to get paid enough for these things.

[redspiderling]

Next on “Do the Russos even know how to direct”

We have Civil War.

In this instalment we are going to focus on the following:

Camera Angles

Lighting

Locations

Let’s start with some easy stuff: the Church scene.

There are several things wrong here but first I feel like I should congratulate them for getting the ENTIRE faces of the actors on screen. Well done Russos.

I am left to wonder though, what’s with the angle? The camera is well below eye level, and it’s tilted. There are specific reasons why a director might use a tilt in the camera angle, for dramatic effect usually to portray imbalance, a moment of uncertainty for the characters etc. 

The script of the movie though has led us to believe that Steve gained his equilibrium after Sharon’s speech at the funeral, so he’s actually much more grounded now than he was during the meeting at Avengers HQ. Natasha is never imbalanced, and she definitely wasn’t during that time since she had made her position quite clear early on.

Thus, I am left baffled by the tilts and angles employed here. My eyes are feeling tired and I’m the one off-balance trying to figure out why they decided suCH ExtrEME AngLEs were necessary. 

It’s like a first year film student trying out weird shots for the heck of it, even if the characters are just having breakfast.

Also this

Was it really that hard to put the fucking mark a step to the right so they’d be centred? Why should my eyes bleed with your compositing Russos?! Also, we are we watching them from slightly above the floor, whyyyyyy?

Lets see a good example in a similar setting

Aaaah, the joys of being parallel to the ground and not watching the world like a drunkard. Note: this film was partially crowdfunded, yet this film-maker knew how to best position the camera AND, to use lighting as a storytelling tool to create tension and drama.

Let’s talk about lighting. Look at the frames bellow

If you hadn’t seen the film a dozen times, would you have been able to tell that these scenes took place in completely different settings, at completely different times, and with a completely different context? I know I wouldn’t. Everything, including tony’s clothes, is exactly the same. Same lighting, similar nondescript office space same weird tilts. 

I could argue with myself that they’re trying to offer character perspective, but it’s completely unnecessary and thus doesn’t work. There’s no reason to move the camera around just because one of the characters is sitting down, much less tilt it. 

I should note here that the Russos get away with A LOT thanks to how good the actors are. I mean, look at the disbelief on Sam and Tony’s face when Natasha agrees with Tony, and the self-satisfied smile on Tony’s face when he realises he knows something Natasha doesn’t (the spider kid). I also love how Tony says “case closed” the moment Natasha states her opinion. They knew she was the one that would seal the deal. Too bad character moments like that are cut as fast as possible.

To get back on track, character perspective should be employed when it’s of some use. There’s no reason to attempt (badly, I might add) to get Natasha’s perspective in these scenes. It doesn’t offer any information to the viewer and it’s just weird. Lets take some lessons from miss Fisher. The characters in a public setting

and the characters in a private setting

Everything is different even though the scenes are minutes appart. The light is employed to indicate the passing of time, top is morning, bottom is early evening. Top is more jovial, bottom is dim and intimate, this is a private discussion.

Also, note how, even though some of the characters are sitting down and some are standing up, the camera doesn’t tilt, or follow them around for no reason. Instead what it does, is slowly close in the more intimate the conversation gets.

Yet another thing the MCU lacks: a moving camera. 

The characters in the MCU are never allowed to breath on screen. There are constant cuts between shots, which means the actors don’t really get to dive into what they’re saying, and we’re not given the chance to really get a feeling of their emotional state. When a camera is allowed to roll, we get a much more complete sense of a discussion, because we get the quite moments and we get to slowly get to a close-up, instead of cut straight to it.

Moving on to talking about location. Take a look at these shots

Same generic lighting, same generic backgrounds (but OMG LOOK! They learned how to use focus blur!). 

Nothing in the frames above says anything of significance about the locations. The light is so eerily similar. It doesn’t offer anything in terms of atmosphere, we can’t tell how Natasha feels by looking at the location. One of them takes place, presumably, in her home, another is after a funeral, and bottom one is at the UN headquarters in Europe. Yet nothing screams “home” in the scene after the meeting at Avengers HQ, even the furniture look like they came out of a magazine. Nothing on screen, aside from Natasha herself, gives us any insight into what’s happening with the plot, and the emotional state of the character.

By the way, this is why the MCU uses labels a lot. “VIENNA”, “10 weeks later”. They don’t use the tools that they have properly, which leads to us viewers having no concept of time and space. Hell, the entire Civil War could have taken place during lunch hour on a Wednesday as far as we’re concerned.

Let’s take another lesson from Miss Fisher.

Location 1, morning, indoors

Location 2, midday, outdoors

The light already shows signs of difference, even though the scenes are a few hours away. Notice 2 things: a) The light is dimmer in the outdoors shot, and you’ll realise later why. b) The location is made clear by a sign on the fucking door, not to mention the character reads it out loud. No need for huge titles to cover the screen.

Location 2, evening, indoors

Intimate lighting, characters have taken outer layers of clothing off since they’ve been here for a while.

Location 2, night time, indoors

I can’t possibly stress this enough. Lighting.Is.Crucial. 

In the span of a few scenes, we have moved from nondescript, to intimate, to slightly creepy, because that’s what the script demanded of it.

Time is a very important element of film-making as well. We lose part of our connection to the characters, and to the plot, if we can’t figure out the timeline on which the events on screen unfold.

And an Easter Egg to close this post: Location 2, night time, outdoors

It’s raining. The film takes place in London. The weather is fickle in London, which means that even though they had a sunny morning, by midday the sky got cloudy (hence the dimmed light in the outdoors shot of location 2) by night time it was raining like hell.

Those are details that might seem minor, but are actually very significant. They add realism, tension, and a sense of story. It’s London. It’s going to rain, characters will have to deal with it. This, is what my professors were talking about when they were telling us that everything on camera has to have a reason to be there. The Russos are not film-makers, they’re hacks.

[ramblinganthropologist]

Writober 2020 - 18 (photograph)

Extra, extra, read all about it: someone’s about to fucking die. As they should, because who the hell honestly believes that Commander Shepard and Commander Shepard are straight anyway?

(ME1)

---

“Do you think either of them know they were seen yet?”

“Doubt it. Definitely explains the last name thing, though. How long do you think it's been?”

“Can't have been more than 5 years, they both did N7...”

Alistair was starting to get tired of people whispering. Didn't they know it was rude?

Ok, maybe his nerves were still a little frayed from the whole touch the Prothean beacon, figure out Saren is trying to kill everyone, become the first human Spectre thing. Nobody could blame him that he was a little cranky that morning as he left his office to get the Normandy where it needed to go. The fact it was actually his ship definitely didn't help either. After years of being enlisted or an officer, having free reign was... deeply uncomfortable.

He'd probably get over it, but... yeah it felt weird.

Still, even in his terrible mood it was impossible to miss the stares and the whispers from the crew whenever he walked by. Part of him had wondered if it was them gossiping about how he'd gotten the Normandy off Admiral Anderson, but... it didn't feel right. Professional whispering from the ranks was one thing, but this felt... oily. Salacious, maybe. Definitely something personal, which just amped up the gossip even more.

Now, had he been in a better mood, Alistair probably would have ignored it. The thing was, he wasn't. So he would have to be forgiven if he took a right when he should've gone straight and walked straight behind the two gossiping crew-mates. Neither of them noticed him, of course. He was quiet like that.

“What was that about N7?”

He shouldn't have enjoyed just how much air the two men cleared when they jumped out of their skins, but forgive him if he wasn't feeling just a little petty that morning. They were both 3 shades lighter as they turned to face him, and the sweat was really starting to pour down their faces. On his scale, he'd call that shit terrified.

Good.

“C-Commander Shepard, sir! W-we didn't see you there!”

He smiled, but there was nothing friendly about it. “Yes, that tends to happen when someone comes up from behind you. Now, to reiterate. What was that about N7? Have either of you been asked to join the training program? My congratulations if so, it's an honor even to be asked.”

He would know – he had it tattooed above his ass. And he definitely knew nobody on his ship was in active training at the moment. It was one of the perks that came with being the Normandy's CO. The other was getting to see moment like this transpire before him.

The larger of the two was sweating bullets as he tried to figure out what to say. “N-no... nothing like that, sir.”

“Just...” the words failed the smaller one. His face screwed up as he seemingly gave up whatever he was holding back. “How long have you been married to XO Shepard?”

…

Alistair blinked slowly. “What?”

If he hadn't known better... someone had just asked if he was married to his XO. His XO, Commander Bo Peep Shepard. His XO, Commander Bo Peep Shepard, his best friend and probably the closest thing he had left to family.

What the entire fuck?

Big one rubbed the back of his neck as his face began to take color again. “It... was on the extranet a few days ago. Pictures of you two together. It implied that you two were married. We thought it would explain the shared last name and all...”

Alistair let a sigh leak from between his teeth as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “A tabloid with nothing better to do, I assume.”

He let the pinch go, shaking his head. “Mind sending that site to me? I think I need to do some correction next time we dock at the Citadel.”

The two were already racing for their omni-tools, but he could tell the question still loomed in both their eyes. After all, he could just be trying to quash the story to keep his so-called marriage quiet. These crew, lovely as they were, didn't know he or his XO well enough yet.

Maybe that was why he rolled up his sleeve to expose his tattoo. “And by the way, I think this should clarify your questions.”

He tapped the wing colored in the gay pride flag for emphasis. The other, shaded in trans pride, went without saying. Years later, he was still glad he had gotten it during pride, even if it had been somewhat of a spur of the moment choice. Ironically enough, he had gotten it with Bo – she had the lesbian colors around her ankle.

You know, because she was a fucking lesbian and he was gay as hell.

“O-oh... yeah I guess it would.” Someone's face was turning red. “Sorry, Commander...”

“Just don't spread it around anymore.” Down went his sleeve. “Now, I'm going to go see where this website is hosted...”

With that he left them, the details blooming to life on his omni-tool screen. Once they got back to the Citadel, he and Bo were going to have to take a little trip...

---

“I'm going to murder them when I get my hands on them.”

“Don't worry, I won't stop you.”

The port hissed as Bo and Alistair left the Normandy's decontamination lock and entered the Citadel docking bay. It had been a few days since the discovery on ship, and now they were at the heart of the matter. Someone was about to get their clock cleaned, and it wasn't going to be mechanically.

'Don't forget ,you two, you don't have to testify against each other in court since you're married and all~!'

Al shot a glare back at the Normandy as he pressed the communicator in his ear. “Joker-”

'Just kidding, commanders. I know what teams you two play for. I guess we'll know you found them when we see the blood spurting.'

“You better fucking believe it.” Bo's eyes were practically glowing with hostility as she stomped down the walkway that connected their ship to the dock. Around them hummed the activity of the Citadel proper. Ships sailed above their heads, people went about their business... and somewhere, a tabloid was about to get the unholy shit kicked out of it.

Alistair checked the details on his omni-tool as they began to walk. “I traced the website's ISP to a building in the Wards. Chances are, they're there.”

“If not, they're going to tell us where the fuck they are.” Her knuckles were white as she slammed them together. “Damn straights and their height kink. How the hell could anyone think I was straight?”

Yeah, that was his question – she was built like a tank and had pink hair. How the hell could anyone read that as straight?

“I mean, they thought I was straight somehow, so they don't have a great judge of character.” Alistair tapped at his omni-tool. “It would be faster if we got a taxi, but walking is an option too. Up to you honestly.”

Bo didn't answer him. He realized why once he figured out he had lost his handy patch of shade. The other Spectre had left him in order to go storm over to a nearby newsstand where people were whispering. Given a few were running...

Well, he ran over to make sure nobody died.

“I can't fucking believe this!”

She pounded her fist on the counter, and Alistair felt like doing the same once he saw it. A new story had popped up, front cover with a picture that definitely wasn't photoshopped. Bo was front and center, chatting with a rather lovely lady. Anyone who could read body language could guess the two were probably flirting, which is probably why someone had been so quick to take it. Above the photo, a bold headline proclaimed “Commander Shepard: Newlywed in Bisexual Affair?”

Oh boy... whoever took that was a dead man.

Bo rounded on him, fire in her eyes. “Taxi. Now.”

Alistair didn't need to be told twice – they were soon in the back of a cab, headed towards the Wards. To say a burning silence fell over the back was putting it mildly. Bo was gearing up to kill someone, and he... well he didn't want to be next in the tabloid.

The cab driver unfortunately didn't have the sense God gave to rocks as he surveyed the two. “Trouble in paradise, huh? Well, there's always divorce court.”

Alistair grabbed for Bo before she could crash the cab. “We're actually going to clear up we're not married!”

“Ah, that's a shame. You two make a cute couple, being the first two Spectres and all. You could've made some wicked strong biotic kids.”

“Sir when I tell you I'm the only thing keeping you alive right now, please believe me and keep driving.”

By the time they were dropped off in the Wards, Alistair was pretty sure he had lost 10 pounds keeping the cab driver alive. His arms were killing him as they stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of a nondescript office building. It had a listing on the side, telling the different businesses inside. Their next stop was on the fourth floor... so if anyone got tossed out of a window, they would probably live.

“Alright, so let's figure out what we're-”

He didn't get to finish his statement. Bo was already walking in like a woman on a mission, leaving him in the dust. All he could do was chase after her, eventually catching up on the stairs to the second floor. All the while, a receptionist chased after them.

“Excuse me, you can't just-”

Bo turned back to face her dead on. “Spectre business.”

Their tail shook a little, but... Al was pretty sure it was because she was kind of into that. She was definitely blushing a little as she backed up. “R-right... fourth floor is what you're looking for, ma'am.”

Alistair sighed as he held up his hand in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry, we'll be done quickly. Thank you for your information.”

And then he was chasing after Bo again as she took the stairs two at a time. Before long, they were standing on the fourth floor's landing. There was only one door here, labeled with a sign that called themselves Citadel Daily. They were one of many tabloids that supplied the Presidium and Wards with the lack of news people loved, and no doubt they were one of the more popular ones. After all, they were creating quite the buzz about humanity's first two Spectres.

A buzz that was about to be repaid with a lot of violence if he didn't mediate.

He managed to grab her wrist before they went in. “Let's just... try talking first.”

“It's not you they're calling a cheat, Al.” She tugged her arm away. “I'm handling this my way.”

And then she pushed the door open, probably burying the knob in the wall. All motion stopped on the other side as she stormed into the room, coming to a stop at the heart of it. All Alistair could do was enter after her pulling the door out of the wall as he did. Yep... the handle went straight through. That was going to require a patch.

Bo glared at the room filled with desks and people. Someone was reaching for a camera, a device that abruptly died as her eyes glowed red. She might not have been good with technology, but she knew how to break it just fine. No more devices came out after that – they were smart.

“I'm only going to say this one, who the fuck is John Jacobs and when are they getting the fuck out?”

Nobody moved at first. Alistair could hardly blame them as he scanned the room. Mostly, he just saw shocked wanna-be journalists and gossip columnists who had never expected this kind of treatment. After all, they weren't printing anything particularly hard hitting. Of course, their mistake had been printing about the Shepards... which was a bad idea to say the least.

He spotted someone twitching in the corner of the room. Rather than alert Bo, he began to pick his way over. Nobody would look at him, but that was fine. He had his eye on the man trying to hide behind his desktop, looking at though he might piss himself.

And as he should – from the looks of things, he was working on his latest article.

“'Commander Shepard spotted coming out of a bar with-'” He shook his head, sighing. “Mr. Jacobs, if you were even half a journalist you would know I can't drink on my medication. That's just sloppy work right there.”

The man definitely pissed himself as he backed up in his seat. “C-Commander Shepard!”

“One of them, anyway.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Bo, found him.”

Maybe that was mean, but the photoshop job on that picture had been particularly atrocious. So maybe he didn't feel bad that hell on wheels was storming over, ready to put her fist straight through this guy's head. At least he'd stop it if it came to murder...

Maybe.

Bo came to a stop in front of the desk. His desktop fizzed and died as she loomed over him. Alistair definitely smelled piss and something else as the full weight of his crimes fell upon him. And of course, nobody was dumb enough to take pictures. After all, they were Spectres and about ready to prove what happened if you tried to smear them.

Though... was it actually a smear if they did make this guy's life a living hell?

“John Jacobs?”

His answer came out shaky. “Y-Yes, that's me. I didn't expect the story to get so big, b-but-”

Too late. He was already out of his seat by the collar of his garish shirt. Bo had him at eye level, and Al was there to avoid the pants region as he watched the carnage unfold. Someone nearby had a camera up  - a blue-eyed gaze quickly put a stop to that. Bo wasn't the only one who knew how to break technology.

“What the fuck was going through your demented little fucking head?” She brought him closer. “You got some kind of height kink, you nasty fuck?”

John was sweating bullets. “N-no! I just... a lot of people think you two are married! It's the same last names!”

Yeah, Alistair was doubting the lack of height kink, but at least he was trying to be honest. He was still probably going to get the shit beaten out of him, though. He kind of deserved it, what with insinuating they were not only married but... ugh...  straight.

Really, how the hell did anyone think that of them?

Bo's eyes said murder and her fists were willing to comply. “Let me put it to you this way, that receptionist down there is more my type than this manlet will ever be.”

“Hey, I'm a maligned party too, don't take out your frustration on me.” Alistair rubbed the back of his neck anyway – talking about his height was a sensitive subject. “Anyway, we're very clearly not married.”

“Or straight.”

He nodded. “Or straight, yes that's kind of important. So maybe you should print a retraction on those articles and apologize so you don't get thrown out a window. You'd probably survive, but it would sure hurt a lot regardless.”

Judging by the grip on his collar, he wasn't going to get out of this without some form of damage... but maybe they could keep him from getting tossed out a window. Besides, if he pissed himself anymore he was going to start leaking on the floor. Talk about gross.

John's eyes traveled from Shepard to Shepard. “T-this is cen-”

“Oh come the fuck on, she's ready to murder you do you really wanna complain about censorship? Read the room, man.”

Normally, Alistair didn't swear. However, this man clearly didn't have sense in his head, so maybe shock methods were needed. At least he shut his mouth that time as he thought the offer over. Maybe he should think a little faster.

Bo started to move to the window. “Well, he had his chance.”

“No, wait, stop!” Both his fists couldn't fit around her wrist. “I'll print the retraction!”

She stopped a few feet from the open window. “And you'll stop writing about us. No more Shepard stories, understood?”

He started to look like he wanted to argue, but... that window was pretty damn close. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he considered his options. Then he got inched a little closer, and the decision was clearly made.

“U-Understood... I won't print anymore.”

And then he was dropped to the floor in a sad, soggy heap. Bo wheeled around and glared at the entire room. Alistair stepped forward as well, feeling much more pleasant as he surveyed the terrified reporters sitting before him.

“I hope you all understand, that goes for anyone here. Nobody gets a free pass out of defenestration, understood?”

And then his eyes glowed as another camera died. “No story about this either, by the way. I've added you guys to my omni-tool news feed, so don't think just because we're off saving people that we won't hear about it.”

Given everyone else looked like they might need a change of underwear once they left, that was another pact sealed. With any luck, they wouldn't get too stupid about their stories. Of course, if they did... it wasn't like they were going to move buildings.

“Good talk.” Bo was already throwing the door open. “Let's get the fuck out of here, it smells like piss.”

Alistair was already following her out, sighing in relief as the door shut behind them. At least nobody had died, or even been really bodily harmed in the process. As far as missions went, this was one of their more successful ones.

Then again, Bo hadn't gotten to work her frustration out, so...

“Want to hit up the Alliance training course to work out that energy before we go see Anderson?”

“Fuck yes.” Bo was already heading in that direction. “I still should've thrown him out the window. Damn your sensibilities.”

Eh he could take her being mad at him if it meant nobody died. Dissatisfaction was part of being a commanding officer.

---

Retraction on previous stories concerning Commander Bo Peep Shepard and Commander Alistair Shepard

The Citadel Daily would like to publish a retraction towards two stories it printed. Along with this, we extend a heartfelt apology to-

“Well, I guess they got the message.”

Joker was chuckling as the message read over Alistair's omni-tool. All three were gathered in the cockpit a few days later, after a successful mission on a nearby planet. The news had come in as they were on the shuttle, and he had been waiting to listen.

Bo nodded as the message finished. “They fucking better... still don't know who took those damn pictures. They're lucky I didn't find them...”

Alistair nodded as he killed the feed. “Oh, speaking of. Turns out they're a freelancer. I think I have a beat on them-”

No doubt he was starting another hunt for some poor sap, but... well, again, he didn't feel bad. After all, they had thought he was straight. Someone had to pay for that grievous misstep. And with any luck, maybe this one wouldn't wind up out a window either.

You know, maybe being the CO wasn't so bad after all. He got to schedule time for defenestration duties. Talk about a perk of running the show...

[bettycooperoutfitwatch]

2x22 Chapter Thirty-Five: Brave New World

End of season 2!!!!!!!!

I had a bit of difficulty in the latter half of season two (maybe you noticed). In costuming, there’s a point about two thirds into the season where I struggle to see a perspective in the wardrobe choices being made. This isn’t a wardrobe department’s fault (although it can be). Wardrobe takes its cues, first, from the script, and by that I don’t mean costumes are dictated in the writing (although, yes, sometimes they are). Rather, the script is the foundation on which all matters of production of an episode of television are built, wardrobe included. Television is a writer’s medium, or so it is often argued.  

We start in Jug’s dream state, which is always a fun place to visit. Betty wears her B pendant, and a black coat that is actually new to us. 

And carries Jug’s hat. 

Addendum: @heartunsettledsoul​ pointed out that I failed to make mention of her crown earrings, which, wild, because fandom was all about those earrings when they first popped up on social. My oversight. 

In my defense they’re hard to see!! Anyway, putting his girlfriend in crown studs during his death-dream—I see u Jughead. 

“Jughead to his friends.” How do you think he felt about them putting his full-ass name on his headstone? I actually think he secretly wouldn’t mind. Kid is very family proud, and wouldn’t introduce himself as Jughead Jones the Third if he wasn’t. 

We’ve seen Betty in several sweaters of this raspberry color. 

And yet the v-neck on this one actually suggests it’s brand new to us lmao. What’s to be said, beyond that a girl loves a raspberry pink sweater?

Please note the cozy socks. And the beanie, on top of Jug’s blanket, which narratively connects us to the dream that opened the episode. Perhaps she was holding onto it for him. 

Betty says she wants to atone for her father’s sins, which always makes me a little sad. That’s not her work to do. But this idea is something Riverdale will tease out over the third season and actually into the fourth. 

(Ice cream letterman, envelope purse.)

The neon pink of the Xs are kind of great on top of this cream color. This sweater’s doing quite a bit, with the varying knits and stitches, which seems to make it a true Betty Cooper Sweater. 

And then she goes and apologizes to Fred? Who, rightly, is like ‘girl, not your fault.’

Betty and Polly play with the twins on the floor of the living room. 

Betty wore this sweater when Jughead first kissed her back in 106. 

CHEEKS.

Interstitial moment: Boys eating their feelings. 

Now we must acknowledge a timeline oddity.

This Betty-in-a-white-sweater-on-the-living-room-floor-with-the-babies scene takes place on a different day than the previous Betty-in-a-white-sweater-on-the-living-room-floor-with-the-babies scene. Jug and the Serpents escape the Whyte Wyrm and the Southside, at night, between these two scenes. What’s up? 

Filming with babies. Filming with babies happens under very strict time constraints (note the babies don’t get a costume change either.) That’s probably our reason. They’re in, they’re out, there’s no time to do a costume change. You make due. It’s probably why she’s wearing an incredibly nondescript sweater.

As it is, I didn’t even notice until this moment. So. Shrug. 

If this sweater looks familiar, that’s because it’s a sister to the one Betty wore in 211. This iteration is a little tamer; perhaps it indicates Betty’s desire towards innocuousness, as the daughter of notoriety. It’s also this navy color, a darker palette than Betty usually dons, but not unheard of by any means.

Here young Elizabeth wears blue sheets and this weird gold honeycomb duvet. Carry on, girl. 

PS Polly’s back from her sojourn to the West Coast and/or 1967. RIP Headband Polly, all rise for Earth Mother Polly. 

[It’s not relevant to our subject here, but this is an...oddly tone deaf moment, especially for Riverdale. Why the choice to include the American national anthem, at a moment when its performance was a topic of great conversation in the culture? And to make a black woman sing it? (Who else would have to sing it but Josie, she’s the chanteuse.) Just things I wonder about. Season 2 was weird.]

We finish in a multi-color crewneck knit with a chevron detail. It’s just a sweater, but it’s also a marled knit with a riot of color that you only notice if you look really closely at what’s going on. Read into that what you will. 

Summary: It’s complicated: 1 dream outfit, 6 irl outfits, 1 of which is worn on 2 different days, and one instance of Betty in her all-together. How many is that? 

Key necklace appearances: no, we haven’t seen key necklace in an age 

Is Betty a River Vixen??: the Vixens open this inauguration pep rally, so she would not appear to be one

That backpack?: ...I forgot to look but also that says to me no??

Best outfit: I’m partial to that white sweater with the pink x details. Carven? Whew, yes. 

Slave to the aesthetic. 

Season 3 let’s goooooooooooo.

[noonawriter]

Delicious Rendezvous Chapter 3

WORD COUNT: 4151

WARNINGS: cursing, an attack of sorts (no bloodshed), thinly veiled protectiveness

DELICIOUS RENDEZVOUS

Chapter 3

“There,” Heechul told you, panting. “It is done.” He pulled away to lay beside you. For him having a cold touch, you still immediately missed what warmth he brought. The sensation of the spell spreading the rest of the way through you was half pins and needles, half a deep sort of pleasure that defied explanation or words, running up your spine. He turned on his side, one elbow bent, chin resting on his head. “I’m going to be quite busy - frankly, I’ve already taken a lot of time out of my day for you.”

His nonchalance came as a surprise after the intimacy he’d just shown. “You could be nice for one second,” you mumbled, the afterglow quickly fading, but he was apparently determined to ignore any and all feelings, including yours. You shook your head to hide your face and the look of disappointment. 

“I’ll figure out a training schedule for you tomorrow. For now, go make friends and get some food. Order what you like.” He smiled as though he’d handed you the keys to the club. “I’ll let them know to expect you.” Heechul continued to make himself presentable when he added, “I didn’t take much blood, but you still need to replenish what was lost. Let Shindong know what you want at the bar and he’ll relay it from there.”

“...Wait, huh?”

Heechul let out a put-upon sigh. How were you supposed to learn anything from him, let alone stick around for the next three months? Was he really going to be able to help you? You rolled your eyes.

“Look, I thought you were pretty good at talking to strangers, but maybe I was wrong.” He huffed out a little almost-laugh through his nose. “Just start with,” he gestures with his chin towards the door, “Ryeowook’s little boyfriend, the kid at the piano. He should be wrapping up soon. He loves to eat and he’s a blank, so you aren’t in any danger from him and you won’t be alone for now.”

Your eyes widened, “Am I in danger from anyone else?”

Heechul raised his eyebrows once. “That depends on you, doesn’t it.” His grin is wide and knowing, one eyebrow cocked up. While you gaped as such an unhelpful response, he levitated himself to standing, summoned his pants and slipped his lean legs back into them. Though you couldn’t help but watch the movement of muscles beneath the skin for a moment, you were determined to not make a habit of it, forcing your eyes away.

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

“Nice to meet you!” Henry shook your hand enthusiastically, already a weird start. He didn’t look old enough to be in a bar in the first place, which the rosy tint perpetually blooming on his pale cheeks didn’t help. After the ritual, though, you probably didn’t look any better, so it was nice of him to not comment on that.

“Um, I was told Ryeowook-”

“Oh, yeah! He got me this job.” He looked over in the direction of the stage and back, though not before you caught the gleam in his eye, a particular one that left you aching with longing. Adoration couldn’t be written more plainly on his face. “It works out really well, you know? I didn’t actually know what I was going to do with my degree.”

“That’s really good.” You feigned politeness just long enough to ask the question you really wanted the answer to, leaning forward to speak more quietly. “How is it here really, though? Do they treat you well?”

“Yeah, everyone’s so nice here!” He beamed. “When Ryeowookie is busy,” the gleam of affection cropped up faintly again before fading, “Donghae makes sure I get lots to eat. My visa got processed so much faster here than my school one, and I got direct deposit since my first check. It’s great!” With a cute tilt of his head, he added, “I’m glad no one minds that I don’t really drink. I get all itchy. But Heechul’s never had a problem with it.” Sticking his hands into his pockets, he frowned. “To be honest, the only thing I’m worried about is that Ryeowook never eats breakfast. But everyone’s different, right?” He concluded his rambling with an easy, friendly smile, shrugging his shoulders, then rocking on his heels.

“...Right.” In your mind's eye, you could see clearly what Ryeowook would look like with his wings and claws out. And that the butler was actually over by the entrance to the club, his shoulders subtly widening and narrowing over and over again, his hair growing longer and then shorter. You realize what wasn't said. That made you mad as hell! Oh my god, you thought, this kid doesn’t know anything, does he. Heechul is a bastard.

Too bad you still needed his help.

“Oh yeah, you just got here, so you don’t know where anything is, huh.” Henry’s words drew your attention back to him and away from your thoughts of Heechul. “Come on, let me show you the break room.”

As the two of you made your way past the bar, Shindong came in from the back, carrying a nondescript box. He pointed at you, then immediately, his hair shot up and back as if by a gust of wind. His confused expression was so comically exaggerated that you couldn't help but laugh. 

He patted it back down into place, looking confounded, then went on his way as if nothing happened without so much as a wave.

“He’s a weird one.”

Henry held his finger up to his lips, eyes that told you to be quiet. “Don’t let him hear you say that.” The rosy-cheeked man looked around, as though he was worried Shindong was watching at that very moment. He stepped closer. “Man is insufferable, at times. Even moreso if he likes you. At least you got some form of interaction from him being it's only your first day here. Took me a week to get anything out of him.”

All you could manage was a quiet “hmm”. Henry resorted back to indifference as he made sure you were following him as he continued to guide you to the much-needed food. Something about Shindong was intimidating, despite the brief comedy routine, so you decided to come back to the issue of ordering food a little later, when you’d had a chance to gather some courage.

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

Once he’d taken a bite off the corner of one sandwich, Henry exclaimed, “Alriiiiight! He remembered to salt them more this time like I asked.”  Handing out the egg sandwiches, cut in two halves to form neat triangles, he added, “You’d think it wouldn’t need it when the bread has garlic butter on it, but there’s a lot of egg, you know?” One was placed in front of Donghae, and another in front of you.

“Oh, uh, thanks.” This only left you more determined to put off figuring out Heechul’s food. The kitchen you’d passed on the way was loud and looked extremely busy, so it just felt weird to add to that. And you hadn’t seen a menu anywhere, either...

“No problem! Ryeowook always makes extra anyway. I think he gets worried when our schedules don’t line up to eat together.”

Both men sharing the small round table with you stuffed practically a whole triangle in their mouths at once. You couldn’t help but giggle. “Oh, is he going to be on stage for a while?” You asked, trying to keep the conversation going. It was a fair trade - garlic butter was such a simple indulgence, yet oh so worthwhile. Had you missing home, all of a sudden... Missing it so bad that you couldn't bear to think about it.

The conversation turned out to be a welcome interruption.

“Nope,” Henry said, only half succeeding at covering his mouth. “That part's done for today. He’s got backstage appointments to get to.”

“...Technical work? I didn’t know he did both.”

He only stared at you for a moment. “No,” he said slowly, “backstage work.” Left utterly confused, you looked back and forth between them until Donghae’s lascivious smirk got the meaning across.

It slowly dawned on you that it was a euphemism, not to mention what was going on behind all those closed doors. “Oh.” Your eyes widened so much they nearly fell out of your head, and you had to force your mouth closed, because you were something like a guest here and it’s not polite, right? What if it seemed insulting or condescending, the longer you looked scandalized? You could feel your cheeks heat further at that thought, even if that had seemed impossible with how they’d burned immediately after Donghae’s hint got through. “Oh! Right. I see.” Well, you’d really rather not, but it appeared the rumors were true after all. Staring at the plastic container was the closest you could get to meeting anyone’s eyes for a little while after that kind of revelation. “That doesn’t bother you?”

But Henry only shrugged. “Nope.” He offered no details whatsoever. That was that; he and Donghae proceeded to bicker over who had to eat the carrot sticks hiding underneath the stack of sandwiches. (Donghae insisted that demons don’t eat carrots, which Henry reluctantly accepted, though not without a heaping spoonful of skepticism.)

The three of you chatted amiably for a few minutes between eating. That calmed you down enough to see about asking for a menu after all, making your way through the same corridor from earlier, the one with the framed drawings of urban wildlife with inspirational slogans under each one. You were pretty sure the kitchen was back this way-

Whatever just took you off your feet meant business. Your eyes opened to find the ceiling above you and the cool marble tile beneath your back. You sucked a deep breath in all while moving your hands and feet to make sure everything still worked correctly. What drew you out of your self-inspection was the groaning coming from a few feet away. The strange yet beautiful man from earlier was bent over with his hands braced on his knees. He looked wobbly, maybe just as hurt as you were.

Laying back and being still just made more sense at that moment. You closed your eyes as the back of your head met the ground

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

He sensed the spell and honed in on it to take him there.

Of course, he’d already been attuned to security alerts for defensive spells. From his alcove, Heechul had watched as his apprentice stumbled back and fell, at the same time that the reflective force flung Sungmin just as far back. Luckily, the incubus had reflexively done one of those martial arts rolls, but now leaned heavily against the hallway wall where he was sitting slumped against it, his eyes glazed, one small hand pressed to his own cheek and temple.

While Henry ran over to him, Heechul shot a faint blue spark from his fingertips.

“You know being teleported makes me dizzy,” Jongwoon grumbled at Heechul in the next instant, but quickly softened when he spotted his patient. Dropping onto one knee next to her, resting his forearm on the other, he leaned forward the slightest bit. “Hey there. Can you tell me what’s wrong?” He asked in a soft, husky voice.

“M’dizzy,” she mumbled, “and I fell.”

Jongwoon turned to the vampire, already back to looking annoyed. “Did you set your shield to let healing through?”

“Of course I did,” Heechul scoffed.

“Then open up pain relief as well.”

Feeling a bit sheepish when he realized that that type was indeed still blocked, Heechul did just that, drawing a quick symbol on his palm with his fingertip. Admittedly, he hadn’t cast this sort of protection in quite a long time, and the last time... That wasn’t sexual in the least. So he’d asked Shindong to set up tests for it, making sure his friend wouldn’t tell him when or how. It was a mercy that he didn’t have to specify to not hurt her; the risk was too great, and the very thought stabbed fear through his heart.

An invisible anodyne cloud sprung up around Jongwoon, a sort of magic dandelion the doctor himself had developed. Caught in its radius, the ever-present ache in Heechul’s wrist dialed down to a faint hum.

The pained grooves marring her forehead eased at once, too.

She was in good hands. Heechul knew this, knew it with the knowledge of many decades, so he turned to check on Sungmin, but... It was more difficult to do so than he’d imagined. No matter how much he tried to make his eyes focus forward, he itched to do otherwise.

Worriedly looking back over at her, Heechul nonetheless made himself turn away once more to attend to Sungmin, where Henry was already murmuring to him while pressing the back of his hand to the incubus’ forehead. Logically, Heechul knew Sungmin must've gotten the brunt of it, but-

That was all he’d allow himself. He shook himself back into action. Heechul motioned Henry away with a small gesture of his head. The young, bright eyed man wanted to stick around and help, but Heechul’s eyes insisted, mouthing ‘thank you’. Henry, ever shocked by the silent but kind motion, nonetheless complied. He turned his sights back to the scene he’d turned away from. "You did a great job, Sungmin. We got the test data we needed." Sungmin nodded gingerly, only grimacing. "Thank you for helping again. Donghae should be back near the bar by now, or soon, that'll be kicking up some lust. Go soak that up until your head settles, then lie down for at least five minutes, alright? I'll send the doctor to check you over when he's done here."

"Yes, boss," Sungmin said, slowly standing up, one hand on a nearby wall the whole way up. Heechul lent his arm for support, only remembering to call out when Sungmin had made it a couple of feet away on his own, "And drink some water!" Sungmin merely threw up a thumbs up over his shoulder as he cautiously walked away.

Setting that aside, he hurried over to her. To his apprentice. That's all, he told himself. Just someone who needs my help. The shield held beautifully, though nothing could beat real world experience to be sure. Since every scan and both tests came up well...

Mostly well, he realized, watching Jongwoon shine a small light into her eyes, then asking her to follow his finger. Fuck, the stun shouldn’t have gotten through that strongly. That meant there were cracks, and right now... He didn’t know how to fix those.

There were no shortcuts. He couldn’t help but get close enough to squeeze her hand, needing to touch her even if only fleetingly, to feel that she’s alright, then immediately left to do a field reset on the room he’d set aside to start her training. She would need so much more than just this. No telling how soon she’d have to be able to protect herself.

Not for the first time, Heechul lamented that he couldn’t be in two places at once.

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

Hardly a minute or two later, belly full and mildly nauseous after whatever that stunt was, you felt a caress brush against the confines of your mind. It drew you in, past this door, that way down the hall, into a quiet carpeted room that contained only Heechul. His trademark smirk sat easy across his mouth.

“So you’ve properly met at least one of my kids now.”

“I did,” you said tartly, recalling what you’d realized, “and-”

“Hold on.” Holding one hand up, he stopped you with merely two words; you hated that you were going along with it. “If you’re looking to chew me out some more, save it for another time. Training requires dedication and concentration.”

“...Fine. But it’s only a delay.”

“Good enough,” he said, rolling his head side to side. “So, he’s a sweet kid, right?”

“Henry? Yeah...”

With that admission, Heechul’s smile turned genial. “Good. You have some basic sense.”

“Oh, so you get to insult me during training? What’s wrong, you can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

Though he rolled his eyes, his smile grew wider, too. “Some fires are unquenchable. We’ll work it out as we go. Now. Follow me. Deep breath in, then let it out slowly.”

Reluctantly, you did as he said, putting all other concerns into a box and setting it aside in your mind’s eye. “Okay, now what?”

He raised one eyebrow. “You really will have to learn some patience. Not an insult, darling!” He added with a laugh. “A simple fact required to progress.”

“Hmph.” You crossed your arms. Realizing how petulant that looked, though, you forced yourself to let them hang loose at your side instead. “I suppose. If you learn some manners.”

“Fair’s fair,” he answered with a shrug. “Now, back to the kid. Only pull up the image of him if it helps you; the essential part is whatever feeling of connection you can find. This works the same way an address on a building does.” He blinked slowly, tilting his head back, then forward again. “You feel it?”

The thread may have been thin, but you were able to strengthen it by kind of... latching onto Heechul’s connection as well. Were you supposed to do that? Who knows, but it felt like it was working. “Yes,” you answered distantly, almost having forgotten that you were asked a question at all.

“Good. Now imbue it with your magic.”

For some reason, this step scared you. Was it safe? Would it hurt anything? What if once you did it, that little bit was gone for good...

“You’re panicking.” But you weren’t- Oh, Heechul was right. Your breathing had gotten heavier, shallower, too quick. Before you’d noticed, he stepped closer, one fingertip tilting your chin up. “What is it?”

“I don’t wanna let it go!” You blurted out. Immediately, Heechul’s hand smoothed over your hair.

“It’s alright,” he said more gently than you’d thought possible of him. “You’ve done it before, and it’s always filled back up. You just didn’t know you were doing it.” But he stepped back, screwing up the corner of his mouth, and that also frightened you. You wanted his reassurance back. “This will be the only exercise for today. We’ll start you on foundational material next time.”

“Did I mess it up?” You croaked.

“No, everything’s alright,” he assured you, still in that too-gentle voice. “Let’s just try one more time, okay? The well will refill. You’re just taking a drop from it. Deep breaths. Two, three, four. There we go.”

Slowly, the whole thing feeling embarrassingly elementary, you made your way back to being calm and levelheaded. “Okay, I did it.”

“You found it? Good, well done. We’ll continue tomorrow.” Before you, far too close, Heechul visibly swallowed, then pressed his face to your neck for a long moment, taking a deep breath and leaving you feeling immensely calmer, strangely enough. When he wrenched himself away, his eyes held a faint tint of red, something gleaming in his mouth as well. “Forgive me,” he said. “A moment of weakness.” He looked at you intensely, his nostrils flaring. “All creatures hunger.”

Then he whirled away. “Please do not think me evil for it.”

You desperately wished you could see his face when he said that, but in a blink, he was gone.

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

“Kamau’s treatise on diplomacy and oratory is a must,” Heechul muttered to himself, flipping through the pages absently before adding to the pile on the table at the center of the room. “Oracles are known to be inherently weak in persuasion, and Zhang’s research on complementary domains proved it..." Back at the shelf, he ran his finger over the spines of an entire row, hoping it would jog his memory. “Damnit, who wrote that particularly clear natureweaving introductory text a century ago? I know I have it here somewhere, I just can’t remember their name.”

Familiar footsteps accompanied by a click on the floor sprang up behind him, so he didn’t feel the need to turn around. It wasn’t long before strong hands alighted on his shoulders, that familiar moon-topped cane gleaming where it leaned against one of the shelves.

“You’ve been in here for hours, Master,” Siwon murmured, clearly doing his level best to forcibly massage the tension out of Heechul’s body through his shoulders.

Probably true, but the leader wasn’t going to admit it. He allowed himself to hum low in his throat, turning into a closed-mouth groan, but no more. “Why aren’t you finalizing the quarterly ledger?”

But Siwon only chuckled. “The computing machines handle nearly everything in the modern era, Master. Did you forget again?”

“I still don’t like that whole expense,” Heechul muttered. “They’re just little boxes and they don’t show their work!”

Moving down his back, his right-hand man told him in a strangely indulgent tone, “I can audit them any time you’d like. You need only say the word.”

Heechul sighed. “No, don’t bother. There are much more important uses of your time.”

“Like this?” The other man joked, digging his thumbs into a knot at Heechul’s lower back.

“You very well know I meant getting ready for that raid that I sense coming sometime next week,” Heechul said archly. “See if,” god his head hurt just pulling the info, but raids were always hard on his kids, “the same one’s still in the 223 precinct to cut a deal.” However, when he felt the loss of those strong hands, he failed to hide his laughter when he complained, “I didn’t say to stop!”

“Very well, just another minute, then, shall I?”

His head drooping forward, Heechul muttered, “Whatever happened to ‘Yes, Master’?”, though the words had no bite to them.

Suddenly, hovering next to Heechul was a grid without lines, each one holding what looked to be a title and author. “How about an index instead?”

“What would I do without you?” Heechul whirled around, the index following to his right, to squeeze Siwon’s hand. “I guess it was worth saving you after all, if you’re going to make yourself useful.”

In front of him, Siwon beamed as though Heechul had said something far more affectionate. “You might even like me, too,” he lobbed playfully, squeezing back. “Also, Whitman’s parlor tricks book got into your pile again,” he added, pointing to the table with his chin.

“Ugh.” Heechul ran his hand through his hair. “Goddamned cursed fucking book. You see?” He picked it up, waving it around. “This is why I tell everyone to not get me presents. Not everyone can sense what’s been cast on them, so I get stuck with a useless book that tries to follow me around like a lost puppy. Prestidigitation? Hardly a step above distracting children with a marionette,” he huffed.

Siwon held his hands behind his back, but he was visibly suppressing laughter; Heechul never could prove where the wretched tome came from, but he had his suspicions. “Your evening appointment grows near, Master. Are you going to be in here much longer?”

Flipping through the index with only half his mind on it, Heechul did a locate on a symbolism book. He’d have to review that one first before adding it to the curriculum - not to mention, there was something waiting its turn to be shown to him that left him feeling that he’d need to have it fresh in his mind.

“Return to me in half an hour. I’ll be ready then, but I need you to handle the nightly security review in my stead.” The flash of fear in the other man’s eyes had its answering echo in Heechul’s chest, and he hated being powerless to assuage it.

“May... May I ask why?” Siwon sounded hesitant when he asked. If Heechul took in any more information, though, he’d be completely overloaded, and thus useless for meeting with the ingredient supply broker. Still, he knew that Siwon had never done a security review without him, and didn’t know how to reassure him about what it could mean. There was just... too much to do. And no way to know what kind of attack could be coming next.

Of course, if that fact became known to his staff, it would bring nothing but panic. Leaving Siwon entirely in the dark was not a viable option, however. If only the damned visions would be more specific!

Once more, Heechul sighed. “I need to be prepared while I know not for what I prepare. Don’t make a Cassandra of me for saying so, hmm? But I have a feeling,” he said, shelving the gag book while pointedly not looking at Siwon, “that our troubles are far from over.”

Author’s note: again, a huge thanks to @thesirenandtheking​ for all the assistance in this piece. It would not be possible without the SuJu knowledge and effortless flow of the editing process.

[orihara-infobroker]

I should be writing but instead, my brain is meandering. I was thinking about the visual presentation of the characters in Durarara a few days ago and went flipping through the first novel. The anime presents them very differently than the descriptions in the books and it kind of makes me sad to see those changes because I don’t think they’re positive ones. 

Specifically, the one that I think bothers me the most is our protagonist, Celty:

^^ Anime version of Celty

Below are some descriptions from the first novel, where we are introduced to her:

The shadow of a figure stood over him. Not metaphorically, either—it was a shadow. The figure was dressed in a black full-body riding suit without a single pattern or logo on it, making it look as though the black material had been dipped into even darker ink. Only the reflection of the parking garage lights signified that there was even something physical there at all. From the neck upward was even stranger. An oddly designed helmet sat atop the figure’s neck. In comparison to the uniform blackness of the body, the shape and patterning of the helmet seemed somehow artistic. It didn’t clash with the overall dark look, however. The faceplate of the helmet was like the dark mirrored glass of a luxury car. It showed nothing of what lay behind the glass, only the distorted reflection of the lights overhead.

<The guy riding the black motorcycle—has no head.>

Celty had been patrolling Ikebukuro for twenty years, and for much of that time, she’d known this man. Of course, he had no idea of Celty’s true nature or her gender, but Shizuo was also the kind of man who didn’t bother with little details like that.

Hair as black as darkness, just tracing over her eyes, features that were carved into her heart long in the distant past—right atop the shoulders of the woman stumbling across the sidewalk in her pajamas!

Rumors had spread about the headless rider, but the rumors didn’t identify her as a woman or a dullahan. She didn’t feel a particular need to hide these things, but neither did she plan to reveal them.

So yeah... We have an androgynous form of a person that almost everyone mistakes as being male. Even Shizzy. Also, her head has black hair.

Yet the anime puts her in a catsuit, gives her obvious female features ( . Y . ) and changes her hair to brown, which I am guessing is to emphasize her not-Japaneseness? But there’s no significant reason to change her physicality. Especially when you’re talking about Celtic fae who are very often quite androgynous in their beauty.

And the catsuit thing is just plain objectification. Biking suits do not look like catsuits. They are actually quite different. They’re leather and usually armoured to protect the wearer from injury. They don’t have the vinyl catsuit look that is given to Celty (or later Vorona whose biking leathers also look more like catsuits than actual bike gear).

I know there are plenty of reasons why they might have made changes to characters, some of which might actually be valid, but it still bothers me because I know that on some level the choice was sexy-sells because Celty isn’t the only character who faces this.

Shizuo is actually spot-on between books and anime, for example. As are Mikado and Masaomi.

But Big-Tits McSchoolGirl (Anri) is not. Nowhere in the first novel is she described as having big tits.

Izaya is also not entirely the same. I mean, on the one hand, they make him an anime pretty boy, which he is in the books, but they give him a very nondescript outfit and that’s not how he’s described. You can’t get more generic than black slacks, black shirt, black jacket. but the novel says this of him:

But in the next moment, all of that was destroyed as a fresh new maelstrom of anxiety and excitement burst into life. “Hey.” It was a very pleasant voice, crisp and clear and vibrant, as though being hailed by the pure blue sky itself. And yet, the instant he heard that voice, Masaomi grimaced as though he’d been shot in the back with arrows. He slowly turned in the direction of the voice, an instant sweat congealing on his face. Mikado turned the same way and saw a young man with an equally pleasant face. He looked soft and gentle, but with a bold, intrepid edge—a perfect materialization of some ideal of handsomeness. His eyes were warm and all-accepting but glinted with a hard scorn of anything that wasn’t himself. His outfit, while possessing its own personality, did not show off any obvious features or characteristics. All in all, he was very difficult to grasp or classify. Even his age was indistinct based on appearance alone. He had to be more than twenty at least, but there was no way to tell anything beyond that.

Everything clicked into place for Mikado. The man not to get involved with. The man not to make an enemy out of. But the fellow standing before him didn’t seem all that dangerous. Aside from his sharp gaze and handsome features, he seemed like any other young man. Even his plain, glossy black hair stood out amid all the bleached and dyed hair around him. He looked like the kind of sharp young man that would be teaching at a cram school out in the country somewhere. He’s more normal than I expected, Mikado thought, and decided to introduce himself.

Izaya chuckled shyly. If that expression was the only thing to go on, he’d never be mistaken for someone fully immersed in the criminal underworld from head to toe.

In Izaya’s left hand, held behind his back, was a very sharp knife. The scariest part was that Mikado had been watching the man’s movements the entire time, but he never noticed where the knife came from or when he’d slashed the bag free of the strap. Izaya smartly folded up the knife and slipped it into the sleeve of his suit jacket, all one-handed behind his back. Mikado felt like he was watching a magician at work.

Now I don’t know about other people but I don’t find this:

To be an outfit that has any personality. Aside from the coat. Which... Maybe this is because I am Canadian but... coats with fur lining aren’t that weird? I mean, not even winter coats but we have fall/spring coats with fur trim? So why does everyone comment on his coat? Why is it so weird to y’all? But the rest of his outfit has absolutely no personality whatsoever. Literally, the blandest thing you could wear.

And the last quote: when he meets Mikado during the bullying incident, he’s wearing a suit, my dudes. A suit. In which he hides knives. :3 Give me more Izaya-suit-porn pls. Need it. For research. :3

I know anime has a habit of sticking characters with a single, identifiable outfit but honestly, they could have given him something better. And it’s not that I’m opposed to his look exactly... I just don’t think it entirely lines up with his character.

So yeah... These are just some points from the first novel. I might go through more of the novels at some point and do this for other characters too because I’m curious. When I read them the first time, it was with the anime images already in my mind as visuals so I didn’t pay as much attention to physical descriptions.

Done rambling for now... XD

[elizadunc]

Marry Me, Because I Want to Date You

There’s a moan and then an expected “Oh my gods, marry me, Bluebell.” 

They’re cookies, and she got them from the store. 

But still, he proposes.

As he’s been doing for the last 8 years. 

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

It had started in college, they had been assigned as partners in a required chemistry class and had quickly gone from hating each other, to becoming begrudging allies in the face of Dr. Tarly’s archaic ideas of teaching, to being best friends, over the course of about 3 months. 

The proposals were harmless at first, it had started as a joke, or at least, she had assumed it was a joke.

They had been up late studying and she had gone on a coffee run. She’d learned his coffee order by this point and, though she preferred tea, it wasn’t like remembering a coffee order was difficult. 

But he’d taken a sip and looked at her as if she was the Maiden in the flesh.

And then he’d done it. He’d said it. 

“Marry me, Bluebell.” 

She’d snorted and rolled her eyes, doing her best to hide her response to his dumb nickname that always made her feel like the ice cream more than the flower that he claimed was the inspiration. 

She’d allow herself to take out the whole interaction and turn it over in her mind later when she wasn’t being faced with the full force of her best friend.

He’d smirked at her predictable reaction and they’d both gone back to studying as if nothing at all had happened. Well, Brienne supposed, nothing actually had happened. 

It was only later that night in her dorm room that she’d sat on her bed and screamed a bit into her pillow about the fact that she’d actually heard the words “Marry me” directed at her. 

Not seriously of course. 

Brienne was well aware of what she looked like and what Jaime looked like. She was under no ridiculous notions that anything would ever happen between her and her best friend. So she had taken it as a joke and moved on. 

But then he’d done it again a few weeks later at the student union when she bought him a sandwich after he’d realized he left his wallet in his dorm room. 

And again when they were at the climbing wall in the student rec center and he’d forgotten his climbing shoes so she’d loaned him an extra pair that she had in her locker. They were purple. He looked hilarious. But still he said in that ridiculously serious voice, “Marry me, Bluebell”. 

Jaime had continued to “conveniently” forget his wallet, and so Brienne had continued to buy him coffee, or lunch, or any number of things that meant he would ask his dumb question. 

It continued like that for years. 

They'd graduated and moved to King’s Landing and started careers that kept them busy, day in and day out, and still he would propose. 

It had to have been the longest running joke in the history of forever. But Jaime liked it, and who was Brienne to deny him.

He’d shown up to her apartment once with a six pack and a movie and then asked her after she’d ordered the pizza, as if it were some big thing for her to pay 15 dragons for a large pizza with pepperoni and bell peppers. 

And again after she’d bought him yet another coffee and gotten his new, ridiculously complicated, order right the first time. An order that was much, much, more ridiculous than the simple black coffee with two creams and four sugars that had been his go to during college. That time he’d written the question on the napkin. He'd doodled a little flower next to his dumb nickname for her. A doodle that to her managed to look like a cross between a sad dog and a really weird looking dandelion. It had spikes.

She’d drawn mean looking eyes on it in response. Jaime had burst out laughing, and, after a moment, Brienne couldn’t help but join in. They’d laughed for what seemed like hours. They’d gotten stares. 

They had started to get settled into their jobs and their lives, they’d added some friends to the group and Brienne contented herself with a life full of friendship. Contented herself to a life without romance. 

Then she’d met Hyle Hunt. 

He was everything she’d expected to deserve in life. Almost nondescript looking, brown hair and brown eyes, and entirely forgettable. 

But he’d liked her. He’d brought her flowers and took her out to dinner and didn’t mention her height all that much. 

He had managed to be both sweet and a bit patronizing and while she wouldn’t have taken it from anyone else, she felt that if someone was actually showing an interest in her she should at least try to show an interest back. 

And it was fine. 

Jaime had hated him, but Jaime was a prickly person to people who weren’t in his immediate friend group. 

But they'd been fine. Hyle was fine.

He’d tried, toward the beginning, to call her Bluebell and she found that there was no way in any of the hells that she would ever allow anyone but Jaime to call her that dumb nickname. 

Hyle had been offended at first, but then had taken to calling her all sorts of different names that hinged on the word blue. 

She really hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings, and she’d already felt like she was pushing it with not allowing him to call her Bluebell. So she allowed it. 

Hyle was always doing that, finding ways to inch into her life in all of the spaces where Jaime normally fit. And it wasn’t always a seamless transition. 

She and Jaime loved watching documentaries about the age of heroes. Hyle found them mind-numbingly boring and never failed to let her know during the few times she picked one for their now weekly movie nights. 

Jaime loved trying new and weird dishes from different parts of the world and would regularly order from the most obscure hole in the wall restaurant he could find. Hyle hated anything that wasn’t from Westeros and refused to eat something that had more than one pepper of spice in it. 

Jaime and Brienne worked out on a regular basis and were matched fairly evenly, Hyle had gone once or twice to the gym and ended up complaining both times that they didn’t include him in their workout. Mostly because if they’d tried he would have collapsed into a heap on the ground.

He’d claimed that he was trying to be a good boyfriend. That generally boy/girl best friends weren’t as close as Jaime and Brienne were and Jaime was obviously trying to steal Brienne away. 

Brienne usually rolled her eyes at that and did her best to reassure Hyle that if Jaime was interested in her he would have said something some time in the last 8 years. 

But then Hyle found out about the proposals.. 

He’d been at her apartment for dinner and had found one of the millions of times that Jaime had proposed by writing it on a random piece of scratch paper on her desk. 

That particular time had been after he’d had a particularly trying work-day and she’d bought him Pentoshi take out even though it wasn’t her favorite. 

They’d been lying on the couch watching a dumb movie and he’d hopped up suddenly and run over to her desk to grab the first piece of paper he could find. Then he’d dropped it in her lap and settled back down to watch the rest of the movie. 

It was dumb, a random moment among millions of other random moments that all surrounded the ridiculousness that was her best friend’s insistence on proposing at every chance he could. 

But Hyle had been upset. 

Well, upset was putting it mildly. 

He’d stormed over to where she was just starting to brown the meat for the tacos they were having and thrust the random piece of scratch paper under her nose as if presenting the final piece of damning evidence in a courtroom. 

“Did you know about this?” his voice was not calm. 

“Of course I knew about it, it’s a joke. Jaime does it all the…” Brienne trailed off, realizing too late that this was probably one of those times where lies of omission were permissible. 

But the damage was done. 

“He does this all the time?” Hyle’s face was turning red. It wasn’t pretty. 

“Yes, but he doesn’t mean anything by it! He’s done it since we were in college!” 

“Right, well that’s going to stop right now. I will not have another man proposing to my girlfriend.” 

“I’m sorry?” she said this incredulously but Hyle, in his fashion, misinterpreted it. 

“You should be! This isn’t right! I’ve been trying to lessen his hold on you for months now, but if this is how it is then maybe you should stop hanging out with him altogether.” 

“No, sorry, no. I’m not going to stop hanging out with my best friend because for some reason you’re jealous of him. Jaime doesn’t see me like that.” The meat was going to burn if she didn’t stop stirring it, but this seemed like it was probably an important conversation that deserved her full attention. She turned the burner off. 

“Well it’s him or me, Brienne. I won’t date someone who gets a regular marriage proposal from her best friend.”

It was then that Jaime proved to either have the best or the worst timing imaginable. A key turned in the lock and Jaime entered already talking. 

“Hey Bluebell, I forgot to bring back your copy of ‘The Life and Times of Knights in the Age of Heroes’, oh hey Hyle.” He was holding the book in his left hand and two bags of Mereeneese take out in the crook of his right elbow. 

Hyle turned to Brienne, “He even has a key. Choose.” his face was a lovely shade of puce at this point, and he was glaring at Jaime and Brienne alternately. 

“Him, of course I choose him. I’m sorry, Hyle.” 

Hyle had immediately stormed out leaving Jaime looking bewildered and Brienne feeling, well, rather relieved actually. 

Jaime had wanted to know the details but after that all she really wanted to do was watch a documentary and eat food that wasn’t from the three places Hyle deemed ‘acceptable’. 

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

“Yes, Jaime. Alright, I’ll marry you.” 

It’s been two weeks since Hyle walked out and Brienne is done with saying no or rolling her eyes. She wants to see what will happen if she says yes. 

Jaime looks at her for a second, blinks twice, and then shoots to his feet and cups her cheek. 

“You’re not just saying that. You never say yes.” 

“Jaime my boyfriend gave me an ultimatum and I chose you, no I’m not just saying that, but are you actually asking? Were you serious all this time?” He rubs her nose with his and then nods. 

“Of course I was serious. I wouldn’t just ask. You laughed it off, and I understood, we were young, and for all that I had my dad’s money I hadn’t exactly bought a ring. But you kept saying no. So I figured I’d keep asking. And maybe one day you’d say yes. Because Bluebell I’ve been in love with you since chemistry.” 

It’s like all of Brienne’s hopes and dreams are coming true all at once and she doesn’t know how to feel. 

Jaime shuffles his feet, “any time you want to say something would be alright with me, Bluebell.” 

“I love you too, of course I love you too. I’ve been in love with you for years. I don’t remember not being in love with you. But I thought you were joking.” she gives in to the temptation to run her fingers through his hair and he leans into her hand.

“I know you did, but you were always going on about how you didn’t need a relationship. But then, then Hyle happened and I was so angry with myself for not asking you out first.” 

“I didn’t think you’d ever actually want me.” 

“Of course I want you, you’re my Bluebell. How could I want anyone but you?” 

“Okay, enough. Sap.” Jaime laughed at that before brushing his nose against hers again. 

“I need to kiss you now. I’ve been waiting for this for 8 years.” It somehow manages to be the best kiss Brienne has ever been a part of. Sweet, and intense, and laced with more meaning than any of the kisses that she had ever shared with Hyle. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you. Did you actually mean it when you said yes?” 

“Jaime we’ve never even dated. We can’t rush into getting married. This is too important.” 

“A long engagement, then. Just, wait here for a second.” He rushes out of the apartment and returns not even 5 minutes later with a small black box, and for a second Brienne can’t breathe. 

“Okay, okay, I’m going to ask you for real this time.” 

*fade to black*