#and he says it so breezily so casually like its nothing

[qunaricatnip]

something to be said about the grand cleric refusing to let alistair go

[fantasticsandwich]

yandere influencer x fem! reader (pt 14)

{tw for coercion}

Even several days after Cillian had transferred the money into your account, you were still trying to process the fact that your brother's tuition was paid in full. You cried and ran through its every iteration, weeping, sobbing, moping around, because while you were grateful, you knew that you'd never be able to repay Cillian for this grand act of kindness. When you decided you were finally able to see him without bursting into tears, you figured the least you could do to show your appreciation was purchase him something from his favorite cafe.

You didn't want to ruin the surprise, so you scrolled through your contacts until you found someone you hadn't talked with since graduating secondary school. Cillian's mother quickly responded, sending you their address. Inputting it into an online map, you were pleasantly surprised to discover that he lived within walking distance. The true shock came when you finally arrived at his house.

You only recalled that stout, faded brick building on the same street as yours. You hadn't visited Cillian after he moved households, and now, as you stared at the grand structure, felt a pang of envy and rage, the latter at how he'd kept his luxurious lifestyle hidden. Suddenly, you felt insecure about offering a measly cake in thanks.

Nevertheless, you steeled your nerves and approached, not minding how an elderly neighbor eyed you with suspicion. Before knocking on the door, you pressed your collar down and smoothed your skirt. Your palms felt sweaty as you grabbed the knocker and released it, allowing it to pummel the door. Almost as if they'd been waiting, someone instantly opened it. She had the same set of eyes and shaped lips. She didn't quite have the same jaw or the same nose, but otherwise, she was the spitting image of Cillian.

"Y/N!" She pulled you into an embrace, quickly pulling away to tuck flyaway strands behind your ears. "It's so nice to see you again! Cillian's been looking forward to your visit all day."

You blinked, certain you'd told her your visit was intended as a surprise. "Thanks? Are you alright?"

Nodding, she seized your shoulders and ushered you inside, using a tender force to push you through the hallway and into the living room. In her haste, she jostled you around. The cake you'd packed to snack on jostled around in your arms. You stumbled into the foyer, gawking as she slammed the door shut.

Left alone, you traced each crystal hanging from the chandelier on the ceiling, the expensive decor. You hadn't been to Cillian's house since his family 'made it,' and now, you understood why. Cillian must've known that, instead of feeling comfort or recalling a fond memory from your childhood, you'd only feel like you didn't belong.

Another voice stirred the silence, somewhat warming you.

"What are you doing here?"

"Lee," you started, relieved at the sight of him. "Hey! I thought you would like this." You lifted the take-out bag to display the contents, but he tilted his head. "Got it from that cafe you love." 

"Why did you come here?" he bluntly asked.

Smile faltering, you stumbled over your words. "Do I need a reason?"

"Not at all," he breezily said. "It’s just… Nothing. Never mind. I'm happy you're here." Cillian stepped forward, and in the light you could see how his hair wasn't yet dried, causing his green locks to appear darker than they should be. "What happened?"

You half-heartedly smiled at him. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants. Even when he was dressed casually, with a simple black shirt and sweatpants, he eluded beauty and grace. You would have barely recognized that those were his home clothes. 

"I just brought you a cake to say thanks," you dryly said. "You still fine with me staying? Or should I leave?"

"Why would you leave?" Cillian marched towards you, seizing the bag. Then, setting it aside on the couch, he swept you into his arms. "I'd have to be insane to pass up time with my girl."

Shrieking, you laugh and beg him to put you down. When had he gotten so strong? He lifts you as if you're nothing, going against your wishes and spinning around, causing you to feel vertigo.

What had caused his spontaneous nature today? Usually, Cillian was stiff-faced and severe, dutifully maintaining his image. You didn't know, but you were pleasantly surprised by this hidden playful side. And of course, by how strong he was. Thrown over his shoulder, you felt some muscles you hadn't noticed before. You felt him moving, propelling you to some unknown destination, trailing down a long hall lined with dark oak tiles.

He tossed you onto his bed. Silky sheets billowed around you, temporarily engulfing the world. When they fell back against the mattress, you were startled to find Cillian kneeling over you, arms caging you in on either side.

"Hi," you stuttered, startled by his handsomeness at such proximity.

"Hi," he responded.

You counted the moments with each thud of your heart against your ribcage. One, two, three anxious flutters, then his lips were on yours, ravenous as he siphoned the breath from your lungs. Mind on overdrive, you tried returning his zeal, grabbing his collar for leverage. Your body tingled, but you ignored the strange pit forming in your stomach. Cillian's desires weren't odd. Neither was him acting on them. He was your boyfriend. You were going to have to get used to this sooner or later.

That was what you told yourself, but when his hand crept from your waist to the waistband of your jeans, you felt a sudden jolt of panic and seized his wrist, sheepishly grinning. When he looked up, his eyes lacked their usual sheen. Gulping, you quickly tried to set things straight. It wasn't that you didn't want him, too. Only...

"You don't think it's too soon?" You whispered, refusing to meet his gaze. "I mean… We barely started dating. I don't know if—"

He answered your question with one of his own, sharply and slightly defensive. Huffing, "You trust me, don’t you?"

"Of course," you instantly confirmed, feeling your heart stutter.

"So just trust the timing," he replied, toying with the hem of your shirt. "It'd make me happy if you’ll just be good. I want us to enjoy each other."

The bedroom, dimly lit by the soft glow of a single bedside lamp, seemed to pulse with an electric charge as he guided you into his embrace. His lips crushed down on yours, devouring your mouth in a hungry kiss. His tongue dominated yours, stilling your breath as he explored your mouth. Meanwhile, his hands roamed beneath your shirt, thumbs encircling your nipples.

"Please," you panted, head falling back to reveal more of your neck, abandoning any vestiges of shame. Your hands slipped into his hair, holding him against you. "Touch me."

He murmured in agreement, his breath hot against your skin and he undressed you painfully slow, pausing between articles to press open-mouthed kisses to the newly barred flesh. The soft rustle of fabric and the sound of your breath hitched in your throat filled the room as Cillian finally stripped you bare, save for your underwear. The glasses, he let you keep, too. He wanted you to see him.

"Do you want me to show you what to do?" He asked, his voice low and smooth. "Or do you want me to make you feel good first?"

Yuqing hesitated, her glasses slipping down her nose as she nervously met his gaze. That need to please him, to maintain the love she cherished, gnawed at her. But there was another truth, one she couldn't keep hidden any longer.

"I—I should tell you," you stammered, your eyes darting around the room, seeking something else to help anchor you to the moment. "You're not... you're not the first person I've been with. The first time wasn't that great, but I trust—"

The tension in the room tightened like a coiled snake as Cillian's expression faltered. His jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened with an emotion that seemed to swim between hurt and anger. A silent storm raged behind his eyes as he processed her words, his initial shock quickly turning into a seething jealousy. The air in the room thickened, charged with tension as if a thunderstorm loomed overhead.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, his grip on your wrist tightening slightly.

"I've been with someone else before," you sheepishly admitted, quivering under the intensity of his stare.

"Is that so?" His face contorted with possessiveness. "Then let me try something first to see how he ruined you."

Sharply inhaling, you decided to take the plunge. Nodding, you stared at the ceiling, releasing an anxious huff when Cillian's pried your knees apart. Smoothly, he positioned himself between your legs. He tilted his head, nipping at her inner thigh. You felt a gust of warm breath and shivered as his teeth grazed your tender skin. Desperate for him, your hands threading through his hair, guiding him where you wanted him most. But Cillian was in control, and he resisted your attempt to direct him.

"Cillian," you choked out, voice wavering. "I've never done this. It feels weird."

"You'll be fine," he murmured. Hooking his fingers around the side of your panties, he tugged them off your hips, discarding the pair onto his bedside table. "I need to make sure your pretty little pussy is ready to take me."

His kisses trailed higher, over your hips, then back down the insides of your thighs. You whimpered at the lack of attention, and Cillian's eyes locked with yours, a devilish glint in his gaze. Finally, without warning, he lowered his head, his tongue flicking over your clit. You threaded your fingers through the sheets as he sucked and licked, an arm resting across your hips to keep you where he wanted, while the fingers on his other hand spread you open, allowing him to delve deeper.

Cillian whimpered and groaned, mindlessly muttering praise as he devoured you. Your hips bucked, grinding against his face, desperate to feel more, but Cillian took his time, exploring your hole with his tongue before pulling away with a raunchy smack. Lips glistening, he greeted you with a smile. You frowned, displeased at the lack of attention, but he didn't seem keen to allow that expression to remain for long.

"Ready, baby?"

Breathless, you began, "Ready for—"

His head dropped back between your legs. His mouth reattached to your clit. Groaning against you, Cillian inserted a finger into your tight hole, slowly easing you open, scissoring and curling agonizingly slow while he continued to suck and lick your clit, not even stopping while your legs began to quiver around his head. If anything, your reactions spurred his frenzy. He moaned against you, the vibrations sending you higher. He added a second finger, stretching her further, his tongue never ceasing its magic.

Cillian continued pounding his fingers into you, scissoring and curling until you released a moan, announcing that he'd found that spot that had you seeing stars with every thrust. Your mind was lost, your body convulsing as your release flowed over his fingers and mouth.

"That’s it, love," Cillian praised, his fingers never ceasing their motion, milking every last drop of pleasure from you. Grabbing your legs, Cillian tugged you back down so you were facing him. Momentarily, you were face to face with his wide smile. The sight of the lower half of his face glistening with your slickness caused a wave of embarrassment to wash over you. "Silly girl. I'm not done with you just yet."

"What do you mean?" You asked, your eyes widening as you felt his hard member pressing against your thigh.

"Need to feel that sweet cunt around my cock," Cillian said, positioning himself at your entrance. Teasingly, he rubbed the tip against the hole.

"Lee," you moaned. "Too sensitive. Let me suck you for now."

Too focused on your studies, you hadn't been with someone in such a long time. All of the attention he was giving you was overwhelming, touching you so eagerly, and in ways you'd never before experienced.

Instead of jumping at the offer, Cillian glared. "Did he teach you how to do that?" he demanded.

Meekly, you shook your head. "Wanna make you feel good, too."

Expression returning to his signature smile, he pressed his lips against yours. You tasted the remnants of yourself on him, saw yourself reflecting in his love-struck eyes. You'd never felt so desired. So wanted. He was desperate to have you, and you were ready to give and do anything for him in return.

"We can get to that later," he said. "For now, you'll take what I give you. Need to make you forget anyone else."

In your dazed state, it took you a moment to realize who he was talking about. When you realized, you flinched, a blush creeping up your cheeks at the memory. Cillian noticed your expression, and his nails pressed into the plump flesh of your thighs.

You whined, hips futilely rising to meet his. "Keep going, Lee. Please. Need you so bad."

You hoped your pleas would spur his hips into motion, but he continued, slopping thrusting into you. The lack of friction was driving you insane. Biting your lip, you permitted his teasing ministrations. Whatever jealous streak Cillian was going through, you'd just have to permit.

"But I need to know," he insisted, suddenly picking up the pace. He punctuated each word with a sharp snap of his hips, pounding into you. "I need to know everything he did to this so I can do it better and make you forget him completely."

"His name was…" you began, the words catching in your throat as he dragged his thick cock against your walls, slamming into a spot that had you seeing stars. "Cillian!" You cried out, legs wrapping around his waist. You relented your grip on the sheets in favor of digging your nails into his skins

"Good girl, marking me up." Cillian's jaw clenched, but his hips continued moving at their languid pace, almost as if he were torturing you. "You're driving me crazy. So good for me." Save for his soft grunts and your moans, the only sounds filling the room was your sweat-slick skin against his as he picked up the pace, growing more frantic and rough as he chased his release. His voice grew less coherent with every thrust. "Gonna be my perfect girl and let me finish inside?" He pleaded, mouth falling to the crook of your neck, teeth sinking in. "Please, love. Wanna see my pretty doll stuffed with my cum. Wanna see it dripping out of you."

 Feeling a coil in your stomach, you squirmed, but he kept you pinned beneath him with a bruising hold, keeping you flush against him as thick, warm ropes of cum flooded your pussy. Vision blurred and mind suddenly clearer than ever, you lay there, staring at the clock against the wall as the room swam in and out of focus. Your body was a confusing mix of sensations, sore, yet strangely satisfied. With the sun dipping on the horizon, pale sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting eerie shadows.

You tried to move, but Cillian merely whined and pulled out, watching his cum spill out. He tried to scoop some up and prod your hole, but you hissed in protest, sharing your exhaustion. Almost mournfully, he relented: he had left no part of you untouched and still seemed keen to explore some more. Even then, he held fast to you, fingers tracing idle circles on your side, brushing aside the sweat-slick strands of your hair so he could view the marks he'd left on your neck.

You tried to ignore the tingling sensation where he had marked you and the numbness of your legs as he pulled you closer until your back was flush against his chest. Feeling his still-hard cock against your back, you couldn't help but shiver.

"Y/N," Cillian murmured, his voice suddenly tinged with a hint of remorse. It took you aback. You tried to turn and face him, but with a hand pressing down on your hip, he held you firmly in place. "I'm sorry if I acted odd. I just... I love you, you know? Always have. I just hate knowing that I didn't get to have you first. I don't like the idea of anyone else having you at all." He pressed a chaste kiss against your shoulder blade. You felt him rub his cock against you, felt him kneading the flesh of your ass. "So can I be the first to have you here?"

As you stared into Cillian's eyes, you felt the icy tendrils of your own destruction beginning to take root. You were thankful for everything he'd done so far, so it couldn't hurt...

It would, but you'd push through the pain with him wiping your tears, whispering sweet nothings as you finally gave him something no one else would ever steal from him, something that only he alone would have the chance to cherish.

this was my first time actually writing smut instead of only implying it so i'm sorry if it seems rushed/awkward/scattered 😅

[quilly-catkin]

The lights are off. His bedroom is dim rather than dark, the everpresent lights of a large city filtering through the blinds. They are undressed, but comfortably. The kisses they trade are casual; they are more interested in the conversation.

BOY

Tell me what you were going to say earlier.

GIRL

Nope.

BOY

Curiosity killed the cat.

GIRL

[breezily, buying time]

It's funny - I also say that when I want someone to tell me something, even though I know it means the exact opposite. The cat didn't die of remaining curious. It died poking its nose where it shouldn't have.

BOY

Do it. Kill the cat.

GIRL

[coyly]

No. I like cats.

Silence. She turns away and seems about to sleep, but her eyes are wide open. The angles and arches of her back lay bare in the faint light. He pulls her against him, wrapping his arms around her.

This time they are both facing the ceiling. His mouth is near her ear; he absently breathes little kisses into it.

BOY

So what were you going to tell me?

GIRL

Did you know trees communicate with each other using networks of mycelium?

BOY

Huh?

GIRL

It’s true. They send chemical markers, information about pests and fungal infections, even share nutrients. What’s coolest is that they can recognize their own descendants, and remember their friends…

BOY

That’s actually cool as shit. Definitely want to have a conversation about it with you later. It's also definitely not what you were going to tell me.

His face is hidden by shadows. Hers is solemn as children's faces are sometimes solemn. He shifts slightly to fit better against her.

GIRL

[softly, maybe involuntarily]

I....

He says nothing, but almost imperceptibly hugs her closer. They are silent. He is waiting. She is listening to his heartbeat.

GIRL

[as matter of factly as she can manage]

As of right now...and the past few weeks, but especially right now....thank you for being exactly what I needed.

A long pause.

BOY

[quietly, almost under his breath]

Right back at you.

GIRL

[surprised and hopeful]

Do you really mean it?

BOY

[quieter still, his voice too even]

I mean it. Glad I met you. Glad you kissed me. Glad I saw you again. Glad you're here.

There are no words they can use. All that come to mind demand reciprocity or a promise of some kind, and any such invocation of the future will surely break this spell. She merely turns around and kisses him. In their own way they are young enough for fairytales.

So his arms cradle her back. One slim, scarred hand cups his face and other rests on his chest.

The air in the room is warm and still. We leave them kissing silently for a time, finally dropping off, him, then her, into sleep. Of all the things touch can say, perhaps this is the truest: please, let this moment never end.

[kryptonitejelly]

ok i’m not done

“Hi gorgeous”, is how Jake would greet you, and you would smile and laugh breezily, leaning in as he kisses your cheek. You play it cool, because his greeting is nothing out of the ordinary but inside you are alfhkshfoahsa melting.

“Hi yourself, handsome,” you joke and he winks at you, like how he has done ten million times before, but it makes your knees go soft.

He guides you into the restaurant, palm resting on your back, and for the whole, damn, night, you realise afterwards, he has some part of him touching you, whether its knees or thighs bumping into yours under the table where you are sitting side by side, , ankle casually resting against yours, arm brushing your arm - it is, you find yourself musing later, heart doing a weird flip flop, so casual, and yet insanely intimate.

The night whizzes pass, as it always does with Jake. He gets the bill - of course, gives you a warning look when you try to shove your card down. You are three glasses of wine in, enough to feel a slight warm buzz of happiness and nothing bad. You both exit the restaurant the the air is crisp and cooler because it is approaching autumn. Jake notices you rub your arms lightly, and he immediately pulling you towards him, arm anchored around your arms, palm rubbing against the skin of your upper arm. You let him, and you immediately feel warmer - both from the heat of his body and the burn of something, of want, beneath your skin.

“You ok?” He says, and you find yourself glancing to him, your faces close enough in proximity, that you can see the shadow his stubble creates against his normally clean shaven jaw.

“Yeah, I’m ok,” you say, and your brain chimes with the unspoken part of that sentence, with you.

Hchfksbdksjdkdjfjfkskajshfjjsjs 🥺 i am feeling something…

but 🥺 flyboy jake one day when he comes to visit you, pre-flyboy era, with him already in the Navy. imagine it is the last few days of summer, fading to the start of autumn, he had an errand to run that day and you are supposed to meet him for dinner; but he is running a few minutes late and you are standing outside the restaurant, sunglasses anchored on top of your head, dressed in a sundress that hugs your body before cascading down around your legs - leaving just enough room to peek strappy heels. the setting evening sun catches against you, and it is the first thing jake sees when he rounds the corner. you aren’t looking at him, but down at your phone, but in that moment, he stops dead in his tracks - because my god you just take his breath away

[happyandticklish]

Sensitive Connections - Part One

Notes: Based off a conversation I had with @tickles-tea and some others about the intermingling of voodoo magic into the drrr universe, and thus this was born. It ended up a tad longer than I expected, as I got vaguely carried away with exposition. 

Summary: Shinra comes into possession of an exciting new artifact that he’s eager to show his friend.

Shinra was practically vibrating with excitement when he met Izaya at the door, quickly flinging it open before sprinting back to the earlier room without so much as a word of greeting to the other. Izaya blinked, hand still raised where it had previously rested against the door in the imitation of a knock.

“Hello to you too,” he said, narrowing his eyes with vague irritation. “And such a warm welcome…”

Shinra popped his head back into the hall, seeming surprised that Izaya had not already followed him. “You got my call, then?”

“If by call, you mean the voicemail I received in the middle of the night calling me over here for some ‘strange new phenomenon you discovered, urgent’, then yes, I received it,” Izaya said, hanging his coat by the door and kicking off his shoes. “This couldn’t have waited till morning?”

Shinra wrinkled his eyebrows, giving his friend a strange look. “Well, I mean, it could have. I honestly didn’t think you would come right away. I didn’t imagine you would be this invested.”

Izaya bristled at the implication, but before he could say anything in argument, Shinra had moved back to the living room. Izaya sighed, following after him reluctantly.

Shinra stood triumphantly before the table in the center of the room, whereupon lied a simple doll. It appeared to be made of felt, almost like that of a stuffed animal, and was entirely featureless save two black buttons sowed where its eyes would be. Stitches crisscrossed its body, giving it a disjointed looking appearance. It sat utterly splayed out on the center of the table, its single occupant.

Izaya glanced between Shinra and the doll a couple times, attempting to decipher what he was looking at. “You called me here, in the middle of the night, for a… doll? A toy?”

“It’s not a toy,” Shinra countered, waving one hand at the notion. “This doll is actually one of the most powerful artifacts in this entire household.”

Izaya raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

Shinra sighed, rolling his head back as he searched for a way to explain it. “How much do you know about the ancient art of witchcraft and the occult?”

Izaya had come across the concepts many times over the years, though he’d never devoted that much interest to them as he considered them the wild fantasies of fools. Admittedly, meeting Celty had certainly bought the ideas more validity, but each and every time he tried to look into it, he found himself unable to take the ideas seriously.

“Not much,” he admitted honestly, picking up the doll and examining it. It had a deceptively innocent appearance, that, knowing Shinra, was sure to be disproven soon. “Is this a talisman of some sort?”

“How do you know what a talisman is but not a voodoo doll?”

“Is that what this is?”

“Yep.” Shinra peered over Izaya’s shoulder, smiling affectionately down at the doll like a proud parent would. “Pretty cool, huh?”

Voodoo. That made sense. Izaya was vaguely familiar with the concept, mostly from pop culture and casual references of it over the years. Now that he was looking closer at the doll, he wasn’t sure how he had failed to pick up on it earlier. Leave it to Shinra to find something like this.

“And how exactly did you come into possession of it?” Izaya asked, glancing back at the other.

“Well, I’m not sure how much of that I could safely confess, but I can tell you that I received it from a good friend.”

“A good friend?” Izaya racked his brain, trying to think of the people Shinra was in association with. Celty, of course, and Shizuo, but he doubted the brute would have managed to acquire something like that. Celty maybe, but it was unlikely that she would care for such things. For some reason it irked him that there might be someone else Shinra was close friends with, close enough for a favor of this size.

“Of sorts,” Shinra agreed. He noticed the look in Izaya’s eyes, smirking suddenly. “Why? Are you jealous?”

“Of course not,” Izaya sniffed, tossing the doll back on the table. He whirled around, falling into onto the couch absently. “So how does this thing work exactly?”

An excited glimmer entered Shinra’s eyes, the likes of which Izaya had encountered many times over the years. It meant that the info broker would not be leaving the flat for quite some time. “I’m glad you asked. We’re still trying to work out the theory of it. Based off the myth, sensations placed upon the doll will be reciprocated on the owner, without any physical marks. For instance, if you pricked it with a pin, there would be no evidence on the owner of any kind of damage, but they would feel it as if it had poked them all the same.”

“The owner,” Izaya mused, leaning his head back. A vague hint of devilish interest entered his tone. “So are you the owner then? I think I would quite enjoy stabbing needles into you after all you’ve done to me.”

“Done to you?” Shinra scoffed incredulously, rolling his eyes at the other. “What have I ever done to you?”

“The time I was stabbed and you just—” Izaya started, but Shinra quickly cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Okay, okay, point taken! I guess you could say we’ve both done some pretty horrendous things to one another.” Shinra sighed, taking a seat besides him. “The answer is no, by the way, to your question. I considered it, in the beginning, but Celty quickly vetoed it. She insisted it would be too dangerous, especially considering we don’t know if there are any harmful effects of it yet.”

“So it’s blank right now?” Izaya confirmed, throwing a suspicious glance back over at the doll. Its empty face gazed back at him, devoid of sympathy. He felt an unmistakable shudder make its way down his spine.

Shinra nodded, oblivious to Izaya’s inner conflict. “It could just be considered a normal doll in its current state. You’d have to actually connect it to a person for it to activate into anything.”

Izaya couldn’t tear his gaze away from the doll. There was something captivating about the concept that held his curiosity like a moth to a flame. He wanted—no, needed—to know more about it. Even as he grew more invested in the subject, however, he felt strangely reluctant to let the other in on his interest.

“Say you were to attach it to a person,” Izaya said slowly, trying to force as much nonchalance into his tone as possible as he spoke. “How would one go about that process?”

For the next half hour Shinra spoke excitedly, laying out details and charts and theorems before the other, entirely unaware of how closely Izaya was listening. Eventually, Shinra had to excuse himself to go grab something from his lab for demonstration. He bounded down the stairs, leaving Izaya utterly alone in the apartment.

He couldn’t explain what called him to do it. Only that before he knew what was happening, Izaya had snatched the doll from the table, racing over to the door where his coat remained hanging. He quickly pulled it on, shoving the doll inside its folds and out of eyesight. He was just shoving on his shoes when Shinra returned, holding a small object in his hands with wires sticking out of. Heaven only knew what it was meant to be, and Izaya certainly didn’t have time to find out.

Shinra tilted his head in confusion when he saw him, frowning. “Izaya? Where are you going?”

“I just figured it was getting late, you know,” Izaya explained breezily, quickly brushing the issue aside as he tugged on his final shoe. “I have quite the busy life, you know; wouldn’t want to disappoint any of the many people waiting for me.”

“You mean your online friends?” Shinra asked wryly as Izaya opened the door, waltzing merrily out of it.

“Try not to be jealous, my dear Shinra—it doesn’t look good on you.”

Shinra shook his head as the door closed on him, smiling indulgently.

 The clock ticked slowly on the wall. Three in the morning. Izaya spun slowly around in his desk chair, hands steepled under his chin. He glanced back at the doll. Two emotionless buttons stared back at him. He spun himself around once more, kicking off on his desk. The room whirled around as his thoughts did the same.

The drive home had held a strange energy to it, a mixture of excitement, nerves, and growing interest in the doll shoved inside his jacket. For once he was silenced, a blessing that the taxi driver escorting him was highly grateful for.

The walk to the door had been silent as well, a calm, practiced walk that spoke nothing of the ancient mythos hidden on his person. With every step up the stairs of his apartment, he could feel its weight. It was only once he finally set it upon his desk and was faced with the blank doll once more, a harmless toy, nothing more, that he began to feel maybe he was overreacting over the whole situation.

He pressed his foot to his desk, catching himself on his final spin. “I suppose there would be no harm in trying,” he mused at last to the empty room; Namie had taken the evening off for some unnamed activity she refused to reveal, so he had the place to himself for the night. “After all, the worst that can happen is I discover it truly is a simple doll after all and this whole evening has been a waste of my time.”

Reaching up, he pinched a stand of hair between his fingers, tugging firmly. He winced at the momentary pain, rubbing his scalp.

Shinra had explained the process of connecting the doll to an owner thoroughly, at Izaya’s bored request. There were a couple different methods one could try, but the simplest one would be to connect a piece of the chosen owner to the doll in one fashion or another. Izaya wrapped the hair carefully about the doll’s arm so as not to break it, tying it into a gentle but resolute knot.

Feeling a tad silly about the whole situation, he pressed his thumb to the doll’s forehead, tracing down to its chest and finally stomach, reciting as he did so, “I name you—Izaya Orihara.”

Afterwards, he removed his thumb, placing the doll once more on the table, and waited. For a while, nothing happened. No strike of lightning or crash of thunder, no cupboards rattling with sinister intent. Outside he could hear cars honking and racing past each other as people shrieked in joyous conversation. Nothing out of the ordinary for the bustling city. His body felt entirely his own, the only things he could feel being the leather of his chair and the slight stinging of his head from earlier.

Izaya sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. “Well, I can’t say I’m not surprised,” he said wryly, reaching out for the doll. “After all, what did I expect coming to Shinra for—”

He sentence broke off halfway in shock. Where his fingers had brushed against the doll, Izaya had felt a bolt of mirrored sensation run up his arm, sending pleasant shudders down his back. He jerked back with a start, narrowing his eyes. His fingers were curled hesitantly in midair from where they had retreated. After a moment, he reached out once more, stroking a finger down its arm. Again, sensation crawled unbidden up his skin and he instinctively shook his arm to rid himself of it, though the action did nothing to alleviate the feeling.

Izaya’s eyes widened. “Incredible,” he murmured softly, fascination lighting up his features. Quickly, he opened one of the many drawers in his desk, retrieving a pen. He held it up, carefully poking the doll up its leg. He winced as he felt the minor pain reflected in his own body, his leg tensing up with each stab.

A sudden shriek of a whistle interrupted his thoughts and he nearly fell out of his chair, his heart slamming about a mile a minute in his chest. The kettle. Of course. He had completely forgotten he had set it on. He quickly stood up, leaving the doll and the pen discarded upon the table as he sprinted to retrieve the screaming pot.

Removed to the kitchen now, he entirely missed the sound of the door opening and the disgruntled voice of Shizuo calling out, “Hello?”

Upon receiving no answer, Shizuo sighed, slowly clicking the door shut behing him and collapsing against it in exhaustion. The rounds that night had seemed to go on forever, and almost every client had decided that day of all days to pick a fight for reasons entirely unknown to the tired man. Tom had offered to let him go early, but Shizuo hadn’t wanted to leave the other alone. So he had stayed. And now it was three in the morning and all he wanted to do was sleep.

He dropped his stuff by the door, wearily making his way over to the living area where Izaya usually spent most of his time. He glanced around, but the info broker was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he found a bland doll thrown haphazardly on his desk in his place.

Shizuo raised an eyebrow. Knowing Izaya, it almost definitely wasn’t as harmless as it seemed. “Izaya? You there?”

Izaya paused midway through the process of pouring the kettle, his heart stuttering a little in his chest at the sound of the voice. He had almost forgotten Shizuo had promised to stay the night with the other amongst the chaos of everything Shinra had shown him.

“Late, are you?” he called out in response. “I was starting to think you had run off with Tom instead.”

Shizuo huffed a laugh, taking a seat in the leather-bound chair. “And what if I had?”

“Then I would burn to the ground everything you loved until you returned,” Izaya replied blithely.

“Mm, that’ll be unfortunate for you then. Deciding to experiment in self-arson, Iza?”

Izaya chose to ignore the heat creeping up his neck at the nickname. He poured the remains of the water into the pot, hopping upon the counter as he waited for the mixture to steep. “Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear brute.”

Shizuo smiled fondly, the exhaustion receding slightly as he fell into the ease of conversation. He turned his attention back towards the doll on the desk, wondering at its hidden purpose. There was no way in hell it was just some toy. He picked up it slowly, holding it up to his face as he turned it left and right in examination.

Sitting on the counter, Izaya’s mouth fell open in a surprised O as he felt a warmth clutch his body tightly, the comforting presence of a human body when there was nothing there. At first he was taken over by the sudden panic that maybe he had truly gone insane after all these years, when he remembered the doll sitting on his desk.

Shit.

Izaya slid off the counter with the intention of intervening, but before he could a sudden poke at his stomach made him jump, his mouth clamping down on a strangled yelp. Just as soon as he’d begun to regain his bearings from the first attack, there was another poke, this one angled down more towards his hips and sides. Izaya’s nerves flared up in anticipation, and he squeaked, falling quickly back against the counter, holding on with one hand for support.

Shizuo, meanwhile, had no idea of the effect he was having on the other. He innocently poked the doll as he searched for some kind of switch or button to activate whatever the toy’s true purpose was. He traced his fingers over the stitches lined haphazardly over the doll, scratching curiously at a cluster of them gathered at Izaya’s hip.

Izaya’s knees crumpled at the fluttery sensation, his face breaking out into a helpless grin. “S-Shizuo!” he stammered, sliding down to the ground. “Wait!”

“What is it?” Shizuo asked, momentarily stopping his attempts. “Wait for what?”

Izaya warily regained his footing, worried all the while for a sudden attack. “Nothing,” he responded, making his way out of the kitchen, tea entirely forgotten. He flashed him a disarming smile, hoping for a distraction. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Izaya—”

“Ah, I see you’ve discovered my secret,” Izaya interrupted, nodding towards the doll. “I found it on the road this morning and figured it belonged to one of the various Ikebukuro brats. I was just going to go out and try to return it.”

“You were…what?” Shizuo asked, genuine confusion wrinkling his brow. “You were going to return it?”

“Yes,” Izaya snapped impatiently, moving forward to try and snatch the doll out of the other’s hands. “So if you could just—”

“Since when have you cared about children?” Shizuo demanded, jerking the doll back and out of his reach.

“I’ve decided to branch out in my hobbies, now will you just—ah!” Izaya’s arm shot back where it had been reaching for the doll, coming down to snap against his side. When Shizuo had moved the doll back, his thumb had curled into its sides accidentally, shooting sparks of sensation throughout Izaya’s core. It was still there, still digging in, and fuck, Izaya was going to kill him.

Shizuo narrowed his eyes at the other. Izaya was strangely doubled over on his desk, but instead of a grimace of pain, his lips were turned up into a wobbly grin. Experimentally, he moved his thumb again and Izaya twitched, the softest of noises leaving his mouth.

“Izaya,” Shizuo said slowly, rubbing his thumb over that same spot on the doll’s side as he talked. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”

“I-It’s a v—hmm!—ah, that is, a voodoo doll,” Izaya stuttered, his arms coming down to wrap around his sides though he knew it would do nothing to prevent the sensation. “Shinra g-gahave it to me.”

“Gave?”

“Or rather I stole it from him—don’t!” Izaya squeaked as Shizuo scratched a finger over the doll’s hip again with a disappointed frown. The subtle tickling was insistent against the area, and Izaya found himself at a loss for what to do. No matter how he attempted to rub the spot, the feeling wouldn’t go away. Giggles, of all things, fell unbidden from lips. “S-Shizuo—”

“So, let me see if I have my story straight. You stole this from Shinra, a voodoo doll, a dangerous artifact, brought it into our home, and connected it to yourself? Why would you do that?”

“I wahahas t-testing ihit—” Izaya tried to explain, his sentence breaking off into more stuttered laughter. Of all the outcomes for the doll’s potential effects on him, this was certainly the least expected. He hadn’t anticipated Shizuo to take advantage of the artifact’s power so blatantly. Once again, the other had outwitted Izaya’s expectation.

Usually, this annoyed Izaya. However, as he fought against invisible sensations dancing merrily along his hips, the helplessness of his position beginning to set in, he found that he was almost… excited. Panic, irritation, delight… all of it mixed together into a confusing concoction inside him, and he struggled to find a way to understand just what it was he was feeling. He was finding it difficult to concentrate, with Shizuo now intentionally scratching his nails against the doll’s hips, running his touch featherlight along the other’s bikini line.

Izaya gasped, crumbling instantly to the ground as his laughter rose several octaves. “N-Nohoho, nohoho, nahahat thehehere y-yohohou—fuhuhuhuck!” His insult was lost between expletives and squeaked giggles.

Shizuo watched this display in amazement. Despite the very obvious effects it was having on Izaya, he still found it difficult to believe that it had worked. Voodoo. Genuine magic. He wasn’t surprised to have found it in the info broker’s possession—he was constantly discovering strange and unusual artifacts scattered about their apartment. Still… he couldn’t say he wasn’t impressed with this particular find.

Shizuo couldn’t help but agree that it was the perfect oppurtunity for revenge. For the past week Izaya had been taking advantage of Shizuo’s inability to defend himself against this particular method. Sneaking up behind him and squeezing his sides when he wasn’t expecting it, Izaya would quickly render the man useless on the floor before he could muster enough strength to fight back.

Now, however, the tables had been reversed. He smirked as he held the doll securely in one hand, dragging sweeping touches along his hips with his thumb, the index of his other hand setting to work scratching gently around the place where his ears and neck connected.

There was something so oddly intimate about that casual touch, the slow, gentleness of the gestures, that somehow served to make the whole situation a lot worse. Izaya felt his face warming for reasons entirely outside the tickling.

Curled up on the ground, Izaya was taken over by fits of breathless giggles, unable to continue any kind of rapport. His fingers curled around the folds of his shirt, twitching and gripping it tighter as he forced himself to somehow deal with the devastatingly light tickling. If he would only move off that one spot, for even a moment—

“Can you imagine if I possessed something like this back in our heyday?” Shizuo mused, pretending like the other wasn’t dying on the ground before him. “I would have ruined you with this. What do you think all those top dollar yakuza would think if they saw you like this?”

Izaya dearly did not want to have to think about it. The mere thought of the Awakusu-Kai, or one very specific member at that, discovering a weakness such as this sent a chill down his spine. Luckily for him, holding any thought in his brain was becoming very difficult due to his current predicament, so he didn’t have to dwell on it for too long.

It was when Shizuo’s fingers curled just below the doll’s hips however, that delicate area where torso met thighs, that Izaya began to truly get desperate. “Shizuo please, no, don’t, c’mon, not that—”

“Are you… begging?” Shizuo repeated incredulously, startled delight ringing through his words. “Is the great Izaya Orihara begging?”

Izaya’s mouth snapped shut and irritation flooded through him at the trap of his own making. There was no way to get out of this without shattering his dignity through genuine begging, yet at the same time there would be no dignity left to salvage if Shizuo pursued that spot. In the end he settled on fuming silence, neither a confirmation nor a denial.

Shizuo examined him for a moment, clearly debating the risk versus reward in his head. In the end, he shrugged, holding the doll limply in his hand and thusly removing the threat. “Alright. You win. If you can’t handle it, then I’ll stop.”

Izaya eyed him suspiciously, doubt flickering among his features. “I’m impressed Shizu-chan—that was almost believable.”

“Hey, take my word for it or don’t, but I promise I’m done.” He held the doll out as a peace offering, its limbs splayed out invitingly in his hand.

Izaya narrowed his eyes. He waited several moments for the other to do something, but Shizuo merely appeared bored, his arm growing tired from its outstretched position. Against his better judgement, Izaya slowly stood up, walking over and reaching for the doll.

“Thank you. I’m glad you’ve finally come to your senses—ahAHAHA SHIHIT!”

Izaya let out a veritable squawk of laughter as Shizuo jerked the doll back suddenly, curling his fingers into the death spot. Izaya’s legs buckled underneath him as he cackled, and he stumbled forward, falling into Shizuo. Luckily, the other managed to catch him just in time, letting go of the doll and placing it quickly on the table.

Izaya wheezed, the disorientating feeling of the sudden sensation and its abrupt removal leaving him reeling. He blinked wearily, only to find his face inches away from the other. He decided to blame the pink tinge to his cheeks on the laughter.

“Hello,” Shizuo greeted, grinning.

“You are atrocious, you know that? A despicable human being.”

“Hey, save it for tonight.” Shizuo leaned in, softly kissing him in a manner that made Izaya’s bones melt inside of him. When he finally pulled away he found Izaya glaring at him, though it wasn’t very convincing.

“You cannot simply kiss me and expect everything to go back to normal.” He stiffened when Shizuo pressed his lips to his neck in a manner that was altogether far too distracting. “This is not going to work.”

“Mm.”

“I am—” Izaya broke off, struggling to remember how words worked—“still very angry with you.”

“You talk too much.”

Izaya frowned in dismay down at the other, before eventually relenting with an exhausted sigh. He pulled Shizuo’s face up to his, kissing him properly this time. “You are truly insufferable,” Izaya murmured against his mouth.

“And you are tremendously annoying,” Shizuo agreed. It was as close as they got to saying the simple phrase, three words that would make all of this seem too real for safety. So instead they stuck to petty insults, each understanding their hidden meanings.

The doll lay discarded on the desk, but by no means forgotten. In several days, a disgruntled scientist would discover the missing doll and a long-suffering info broker would face the consequences of the phone call that would follow. But until then, the two were content to let the night go on without them as they sat curled together in the slightly spinning chair, their bodies saying what their mouth could not.

Izaya decided that maybe the night hadn’t been a total waste, after all. 

[joemerl]

Writer’s Month 2021, Day 5: “Secret”

Fandom: Invader Zim/Gravity Falls crossover

Word count: 880

Summary: Dib tries to investigate a paranormal hotspot. Unfortunately its residents aren’t making it easy for him. 

Author’s notes: Hopefully this will be a full-length fic someday.

Dib Membrane was used to frustration. He was used to people refusing to see the paranormal even when it was in front of their eyes. But he wasn’t used to people lying about seeing the paranormal. And after an hour in Gravity Falls, he was convinced that that was what was happening.

“Never mind all that!” a random townsperson said when asked about the events of the previous year.

“But witnesses said that the sky was red, only in a patch of sky right above this town! How—”

“Never mind all that!” the man insisted, then turned and ran away.

The same thing happened when Dib went into the local diner.

“Never mind all that,” the blue-haired waitress said breezily. One eye swiveled as she moved. “Now, what kind of soda would you like?”

“Classic Poop. But the town was completely cut off! My sources say that there were no calls, e-mails—”

“Power outage.”

Dib flipped through his notes. “Okay, but people who went to your town’s website, or even any blogs or social media accounts from people living here, saw ‘staticky videos of a weird, triangle-shaped cyclops laughing and speaking in ominous backwards messages.’ And any recordings of those messages went blank a few days later!”

“POWER OUTAGE!” Dib recoiled as the waitress put her face about an inch from his. Then she drew back and cheerfully left to get him his soda.

Dib marched out of the restaurant a few minutes later. He grilled random people walking along the street. He tried asking some kids younger than him. He asked a police officer. And each began with the same phrase: “Never mind all that.”

He might have believed that they were all just stupid, like the people back home...except that, as he was talking to one woman, a giant eyeball with bat wings flew by. Dib let out a scream and fell back, while the woman scoffed, swung her purse at it and grumbled something about “stupid pests.” Dib was still fumbling for his camera while it flew off into the forest.

While he was talking to the policeman, two foot-tall men in pointed hats ran by, working together to carry a large ham.

“And what are those?!” he cried, motioning as they disappeared into the bushes. “How can you tell me that there’s nothing weird about this town when—YAAAGGGHHHZZZ!”

“WHOO-HOO! Mad with power!” the police officer cheered, running off and waving his taser above his head. 

Dib stumbled over to a telephone poll and grabbed it for support. He blinked when he noticed the flyer attached to it. Then he snatched it up, rereading it thoughtfully.

And that’s how he found his way to the Mystery Shack, a small wooden building not far out of town.

There were a few other tourists milling around as Dib tentatively checked out the exhibits. A fake bear head with a unicorn horn. A fake Sasquatch wearing briefs. A stuffed jackalope, which upon close inspection proved definitely fake. A T-rex skull that might have been real, but didn’t technically count as paranormal if it did.

In the gift shop, Dib found a tall, redheaded teenager reading a magazine behind the counter. He grabbed a bumper sticker at random and slapped it on the counter.

The girl sighed and then, impressively, started to scan his purchase without looking up from her magazine.

“Hey. Did you enjoy the exhibits?”

“No. So,” Dib handed her a ten-dollar bill, speaking in a fake-casual voice that he hoped was leading, “you deal with the supernatural here, right?”

“I assure you, nothing in these exhibits counts as ‘natural.’”

“Right. Well—I’ve heard some rumors about stuff in this town.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Specifically, stuff that happened around here last August?”

The girl finally looked up. “Oh, right. ‘Never mind all that.’” She gave Dib a wry look, like this was some inside joke that she expected him to get. Then she slid his bumper sticker across the counter, along with a penny in change, and went back to her magazine.

It was her tone, more mocking than deceptive, which finally set Dib off. He pounded the counter, causing her to jump.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! You have a museum dedicated to the paranormal, but you still won’t tell me about the actual paranormal phenomena that you obviously know?!

“Do you think you’re being clever?!” he continued, now pacing back in forth in front of the desk, gesturing wildly at the air. “Every person in this town says that same thing! This couldn’t be a more obvious cover-up! And then I waste ten dollars on a bribe, and you still won’t cut me a break? You think I actually want this?!” He waved the overpriced bumper sticker in front of the girl, who continued to stare. “If you think you’re fooling anyone, you’re wrong, and I am not leaving this town until I uncover the truth!”

He ended by pointing dramatically in the girl’s face, then lowered his arm, breathing heavily.

A few seconds passed before she spoke.

“I go on break in five minutes. Sneak into the back room, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Dib blinked. Then he gave a manic grin, grabbed his bumper stick and hurried in the direction she had pointed.

[omgreally]

The Apprentice Read on AO3 Pairing: Din Djarin/F!Reader Rating: E for Explicit, Soon Wordcount: 5k+ Summary: Peli Motto took you off the streets of Tatooine to become one of the best apprentices she's ever had - but honestly, the DUM droids are setting the bar pretty low.  Still, you work out well for the first few months until an armored Mandalorian stranger lands with a busted-up ship and a strange magic baby and, well, you're intrigued. Even though you know you shouldn't be. Peli's always teling you to keep away from anything hot but sometimes, to fix something, you have to stick your hand straight into the fire.

Chapter Two - The Beholder

The Mandalorian is always watching you.

You’ll be working on something on his ship and feel it - like standing with your back too close to a fire. The heat of his gaze gathers between your shoulder blades, amplified by the blankness of that damned visor. 

He doesn’t give a flying kriff that you notice, either. You’ll glance over your shoulder at him and he’ll be there, lounging against something, effortlessly casual, and he’ll just look at you and shrug, as if daring you to say something.

You tell yourself that Mando is just protective of his ship. There’s a lot of surprisingly expensive hardware on it - the contents of that weapons locker, for example - and he doesn’t want you to fuck something up. After all, you are the apprentice. Peli vouching for you doesn’t make a damn lick of difference. This floating metal trap is his home, and the first time you met you spent some time insulting it. It’s understandable he’d want to keep an eye on you after that.

And you tell yourself you don’t like it.

At first you try to ignore it. You work, and you work hard because Peli expects nothing less. You end up with the arms of your coveralls tied around your hips, your tank damp with sweat and sticking to your skin, your hair an absolute mess, covered head to toe in engine grease. 

You descend the recently-repaired ramp wiping your forehead on your arm, and here he is, leaning against one of the landing struts. “What are you doing?” he asks, making you jump near-out of your skin; you whirl to glare at him, clutching at your pounding heart.

“Taking a break,” you say, when you’ve recovered enough to speak. “I’ve been working all day.”

He surveys you impassively. Is there anything under that helmet, you wonder? Or is it just air and wires? Just like one of those droids. But no, the way he moves - all coiled, unreleased power, the potential for violence - you can feel he’s more than that.

You’re not sure if it terrifies or intrigues you.

You tell yourself it’s fine, that it doesn't really bother you. That every time he appears behind you your heart doesn’t skip a beat. But the sheer physicality of his presence is full of a devastating uncertainty and potential that you don’t know what to do with.

And he’s always watching you.

He says nothing, and you turn and shake your head, stomping off away from the ship. Razor Crest, it’s called. You think it should be called Tetanus Crest.

“What’s his deal?” you ask Peli as you grab some water inside. Your boss still has that weird green baby, but she’s given back your shirt, although you’re not sure you’ll wear it ever again. The thing coos and surveys you with googly eyes that creep you out only marginally less than Mando does.

“Whaddaya mean?” Peli’s only half-paying attention, too busy rocking the kid - Grogu - as she tries to get him to sleep in her arms. He waves his stubby claws, evidently enjoying himself too much to do so.

“He’s...very intense. Always watching me.”

“Well, he is a Mandalorian. They’re not exactly a friendly people. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s personal, Peli,” you say, shaking your head, “Every time he looks at me, I’m not sure if he wants to shoot me or fuck me.” 

You expect Peli to tell you off for your mouth. She only covers Grogu’s ears and glances around to make sure Mando isn’t listening when she says, “Careful, Girl. It could be both.” She laughs as you blush, from cheeks to collarbones, and she wriggles her hairless brows at you suggestively. Then, her fun had, the mechanic shakes her frizzy head and sits back, her tone turning a little more to the serious.

“Don't worry yourself too much. I trust him. Mando won’t hurt you. If he did, he’d owe me even more credits'n he already does. But he’s...he’s a good man, kid. Grogu here is proof of that.” The stubby creature makes a happy burbling noise and claps his tiny hands together. You can’t help but smile a little.

“Plus, if he hurts you, he’ll be answerin' to me. And you can remind him of that, too.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind him hurting me in a couple of ways,” you say breezily, if only to see the shocked look on Peli’s face. You walk away laughing. 

Well. Overall, that was...unhelpful.  You grab a discarded rag and wipe sweat from your brow, probably only succeeding in smearing black grease all over your forehead. War paint, you think, not with a touch of irony.

You’ve had a few tumbles in the sand in your time.  Nothing permanent, few even memorable. You even considered doing it for credits, when things started to get really bad, before Peli came along. But you’ve never been confident enough in yourself to just go for what you want, and you waited until the boys or the men or the women came to you with hooded eyes and soft, promising touches and you went along to see where it led you. It’s been a while, and sometimes the urge strikes you to head down to the Cantina and find someone for a night, but you always end up alone in your bunk with your hand in your pants and your lips clamped shut so you don’t wake Peli as you work out your own frustrations.

You could be wrong. You hope you’re wrong, in this case. Fucking a regular customer, much less one who is a Mandalorian, sounds like trouble. But it also sounds like a lot of kriffing fun.

The Mando in question is nowhere to be seen outside. You ascend the ramp slowly, cautiously. How a big, shiny, broad, tall, menacing Mandalorian can hide in a tiny little krill can like this is beyond you, but he manages it. He’s not in the cockpit when you ascend the ladder, but that’s fine - you’ve been working on the busted nav computer for the last couple of hours and it’s been impossible to concentrate with him breathing down your neck.

It’s been disassembled into a pile of wires and cables  and circuitboards that make sense only to you. You sit in the pilot’s chair and pull it into your lap, humming to yourself as you tweak and twist things into place. You’re not sure how long you’re there for - long enough to rewire it into something that starts to make visual sense, long enough for your fingers and neck to cramp. Long enough to calm down after a very weird day or two.

“You’re good with your hands,” says a smooth, filtered voice by your ear.

You jump and the circuitboard almost slips from your fingers - you catch it pinned between your knees at the last moment, half-twisting in the chair to glare up at the Mandalorian who stands eclipsing the hatchway, leaning a forearm against the bulkhead, helm tilted as he watches you. 

“How long have you been there for?” you ask, trying to keep your aggression levels down, but damn it he startled the fuck out of you and almost made you undo all the work you’ve been doing for the last - you check the nearest chrono - two hours? Have you really been up here that long? 

Outside the viewport, the suns are starting to set, and the fading orange-purple light paints the brushed durasteel interior in hues of silvery midnight, lit only by the standby lights. It would be peaceful, if not for the metal hulk boxing you in and making your heart beat twice as fast at his proximity.

“Not long.” Mando nods to the boards between your knees. “You fix it yet?”

You draw a small, calming breath, hoping he doesn’t notice. “The computer? Sure. The ship? You’re asking a bit much for a day. Got at least a week’s worth of work left to get this thing into shape.”

“Will it fly?”

You snort. “Yeah, it’ll fly. Might explode or crash at any moment, but it’ll fly.”

He makes a sound like a displeased grunt, but it’s hard to tell through the vocabulator. Then he stills, just looking at you, and you turn your back, discomfited as always. You resolve just to keep working as best you can, even as his gaze bores into you.

The board is ready to go back in - you slide off the chair and onto your knees, carefully setting aside the mass of circuitry. Then, grabbing the front of the panel, you swing yourself underneath it on your back. 

“Hey, uh - Mando? If you’re still there, can you hand me that board?” You hold your hand out from underneath the panel. Then you clear your throat and add, “Please.”

The wiring board is pressed into your palm, and you relax a little. You fit it into place - a lot easier now with the cables organized - and examine your handiwork for a moment. Then you run into a problem. 

Easing yourself out of the cramped space proves to be more difficult than getting in had been. You realize you’re stuck about halfway through trying to ease yourself out on your back, and you end up jammed between the bottom of the seat and the top of the panel.

“Fuck!”

“Need a hand?” Mando’s filtered, scratchy baritone sounds amused, or maybe that’s just your imagination. You can see the edge of his gloved fingers hovering within reach. The muscles in your neck and back are burning and your hip is aching - if you stay there any longer, twisted up like a pretzel, you’re going to pull something. So you take his hand.

He doesn’t just pull you up, though, no. He reaches down with his other hand and a strong, metal-encased arm circles you, and you’re maneuvered out from under the panel, onto your feet and straight into his arms in one smooth movement.

You splay your hands on an impossibly shiny, smooth expanse of Beskar, your breath held up in its journey on its way from your lungs. He seems to eclipse your entire horizon, an expanse of silver and black. 

This close, you can smell him, a mix of gun oil and cordite and oxygen that makes your mouth water. Everything about him speaks to the part of you that craves danger, but there’s no little warning voice in your head telling you that this is wrong.

He is the one to let you go - to pull back, almost apologetically, placing his hands on your shoulders and stepping back to extend the distance between you. “You okay?” he asks, for all the world sounding unconcerned, but there is something knowing in the tilt of his helm when you look up into his visor.

Kriff, he is so much bigger than you. You should find that terrifying. You should find this whole situation dangerous, alone with a strange, masked man in his ship where Peli wouldn’t be able to hear you scream if something went wrong.

But Peli trusts him, you tell yourself. And, evidently, he trusts Peli.

So where does that leave you?

“Nav computer should be fixed,” you say, and your voice is smaller than you would like. “Anything else you want, Mando?”

There is a moment that is far more heavily charged than it should be. Mando’s helmet inclines a little. His hands are heavy on your shoulders, and they slide slowly down, over your bare biceps, heedless of the buildup of sweat and grime as the leather drags roughly over your skin. It makes the hair on the back of your neck lift, a flush beginning somewhere in your chest and spreading outwards in both directions. 

“Passive sensor’s acting up,” he says then, and the tension in the pit of your stomach fades, replaced by frustration. “Could you take a look at it?”

You sigh heavily, trying to contain any obvious display of emotion. “Sure,” you say, managing a smile. Then you realize his hands are still on your arms, and you don’t know what to make of that. “Where is it?”

The helm nods towards below the pilot’s chair.

You groan. “I gotta go under there again? Damn it. Let me go get my tools.”

Unexpectedly, Mando volunteers. “Wait here. I’ll go get them.”

“But you don’t know which ones I’ll-” need. You call after him but he’s already down the ladder. Sighing, you plop back into the pilot’s seat.

Now you have to add sexual frustration to your lists of complaints about this job. You never thought a fully-armored bounty hunter would do it for you - maybe it’s just been too long.

Shit, you’ve got to make an effort not to be alone with him, you think. Because if he’s just being a  Mandalorian and he doesn't mean anything by it, it’s going to be embarrassing if you end up slipping up in front of him.

Soon he returns, a bag of your tools in hand, and surprisingly it looks like he’s found all the right ones. You nod appreciately, sliding off the seat and into the footwell again. 

“Mind giving me what I need while I’m down here?” you ask, and there’s a pause where Mando’s helmet shows absolutely nothing, and your face threatens to flush again. “The tools, I mean.”

“The tools,” he repeats, his voice flat, emotionless. “Right.”

Fuck, you think. This is a bad idea.

Nevertheless, you forge on. You’re not going to run screaming from the ship and tell Peli it’s because the sexual tension - probably imagined - is too much for you to bear. You’d be fired and back on the streets in a heartbeat. So, you’re going to try to remain professional.

You move forward on hands and knees underneath the panel, until only your ass is sticking out from underneath it. You try not to imagine the Mandalorian’s gaze on you now . You concentrate on opening the little access cover to the passive sensor array, reaching into your coveralls for a clip-on flashlight which you fix to the strap of your tank top. 

Yeah, it’s a mess in there, all right - corroded to hell with carbon scoring, probably from a glancing impact in a firefight. You don’t know why you find that thought exciting. You’ve repaired ships that have been in battle before, but - to be fair - none of them had been piloted by a Mandalorian.

“Hyperspanner,” you call, holding your hand out backwards. The smooth handle of the correct tool, thankfully, is placed in your palm. “Thanks.” 

You forget the weird tension as you work, the immensity of the Mandalorian’s presence, your nervousness around him. You think only of what’s in your hands, the intricacies of electronics and wires and switches, the zen-like process of focusing on finding what’s wrong and fixing it. 

In this case, it’s mostly a cleaning job. You end up covered in black carbon soot, coughing as you scrape clouds of it from the affected components. None of them look damaged, though, which is a good sign. 

Eventually, you emerge, wriggling backwards hip-first until you can sit on your haunches with an elbow braced against the pilot’s seat. Half to your surprise, half-not, Mando is still there, though he’s taken up residence on the passenger seat instead, and he sits comfortably with an ankle crossed over his knee and his helm cocked at an angle to watch you work.

You flush as you realize he’d probably been watching your ass that entire time, even while handing you tools. Say what you like about them, a Mandalorian is definitely still a man. It’s right there in the name.

“Anything need replacing?” he asks, all business - but can you detect a warmer buzz in the modulation of his voice? Or is that just your imagination?

“Just my clothes,” you say, dragging up the bottom of your tank top to wipe your face. A little deliberate, since doing so reveals some of your stomach, but Mando’s only reaction is a small lift of his chin and a slight shifting in the chair. “Sensors should be fine now. And I’m gonna call it a night.”

He rises at the same time you do, and before you register what he’s doing, he’s in between you and the hatch, so large he covers entirely your only method of escape. You swallow the sudden lump in your throat, your hand tensing around the handle of your toolbox.

Peli trusts him, you tell yourself. He won’t hurt me.

“I wanted to...thank you,” he says and that is definitely not what you’re expecting. You blink a couple of times and he continues. “I’ve been watching you, and you work hard. You might even be able to get the Crest flying in better shape than before.”

“Oh,” you say, unsure. “Well...What can I say? I like fixing things.”

He nods. You think then that he’s done, he’s going to move out of the way, when he speaks again. “What’s your name?”

You shrug. “Peli just calls me Girl.”

“You don’t have a name?” If you could see his face, you’re sure Mando would be rasing an eyebrow at you.

“Do you?” you fire back and that silences the helmet for a moment. Then it shakes from side to side slightly.

“Fair enough...Girl.”

“Fair enough, Mando,” you echo with something like a smile. He moves away from the hatch and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. As you move past him you stop and turn, seized by a sudden impulse.

“Hey, we’re having a barbecue tonight with some deep-fried gorg, leftover krayt jerky and pika fruit. D’you...d’you want to join us?”

He's silent for a moment, processing that. Not looking at you. Then: “I eat on the Crest. Alone,” he says pointedly. 

Peli had told you he never takes off the armor, on penalty of his Creed - whatever that is, it sounds sacred, and you don’t mess with anything that’s sacred. So you don’t take too much offense at the rebuff. Instead, you opt for a compromise.

“You don’t have to eat in front of us. Just come grab something and take it back with you. Or I could bring you something before I go to bed?”

The visor stares at you blankly for several long moments before inclining in a nod. “Okay,” he says. You’re not sure what he’s agreeing to, but at least he’s agreed to something. You find yourself oddly eager for his company, and try not to read into that too much as you smile and nod at him.

“Great! I’ll see you then, Mando.”

You sling the toolbox over your shoulder and descend the ladder, eager to get out of the Razor Crest and under a shower for at least fifteen minutes before dinner. 

Maybe then you can work off some of the weird tension before you have to see him again.

[hecrtfelt]

date: july 5, 2021

time: 10:27 a.m.

subject: company-wide interrogation

griffin olson knew there was an interrogation taking place in the morning -- his coworkers said. and yet the night before, he’d still accepted the invitation to go partying with a few of the other younger lobbyist in the region; he’d never been famous for turning down a gathering. but this time he had attempted to be good, to smile his charming little grin and shake his head, hold out his palms at the proffered svedka bottles and powdery white lines. nah, he’d say, the perfect picture of self-control and restraint, i can’t go too crazy tonight. i have police shit in the morning. i’m being interrogated, isn’t that wild ? and his buddies would lean back in awe, flashing lights illuminating their shocked faces, and all the bottles and drugs would disappear, and the next hour would be spent with them praising his self control and restraint. he might even get the key to the city because of it.

and then that quite literally never happened, because griffin got exactly one syllable out before hennessy was being poured down his throat. its now monday and he’s barely recovering from his hangover, his nose wouldn’t stop bleeding from you-know-what, and he was currently being escorted to a makeshift interrogation room on the i.t. floor. 

“ has gum gotten mintier these days ? ”  he’d joked with the officers as they guided him into the room. griffin was really counting on this boyish charm that got him chosen as prom king two years in a row to help him distract from the fact that he was not sober in the slightest, and he was now sitting across from two officers in a room with nothing more than a table, some chairs, and a lamp, and he was not sober for any of it.

“ okay, son, you seem alright enough, ” one of the officers grunted, clicking a pen to life and reaching for a notepad. “ and i highly doubt you’re actually involved in this, so this should be quick and we can get you back to work, alright ? ”

“ sounds good. ” 

his knees were shaking under the table from the drug rush he’d had yet to come down off of, but griffin felt fine. he was meant to be eloquent for a living, he got paid to talk; this would be literally nothing so long as he just was himself.

“ what do you know about alice adams ? ”

“ that she works here. i don’t know what her job is, though. ”

“ and what have you heard about her regarding a luke johnson ? ”

he wasn’t so breezily confident on how to answer this one. “ something about his death. i didn’t really get any details. ”

“ and how’d you hear this ? ”

“ from our company chat. ”

“ but like... who told you all ? ”

“ oh, i don’t know. ”

the officer paused his writing, narrowing his eyes. griffin felt his nose running, so he sniffed. “ what do you mean, you don’t know ? ”

“ i genuinely don’t know who finds out this information. ”

the officer sat back and poked his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “ so you can’t tell us a source ? ”

“ no. ”

“ you can’t give us an idea of who would know this information ? ”

“ no. ”

“ you can’t give us anything to verify that the information your work chat received is true ? ”

“ nah. --sorry, no. ”

“ you can’t tell us anything about the luke situation other than the little you’d heard ? ”

“ yeah. sorry. i just work here. ”

the officers looked at each other for a moment, whispered some things covered by their unrealistically thick mustaches, and then, after a moment, collectively sighed before turning to face griffin again. he looked up from where he’d been absentmindedly folding a paper airplane out of a scrap paper sheet.

“ alright, son. you’re free to go. we’ve gotten all we can out of you. thanks for the cooperation. ”

“ oh, for real ? that’s it ? ” griffin had been kind of waiting for the moment where one of them slammed their fist down and yelled you can’t handle the truth ! ...he also wasn’t of sound mind at all in the moment, so expectations about reality should really be on the fucking floor for him right now.

“ yeah, you’re free to go. have a good one. ”

griffin blinked exactly twice before nodding and getting up, pushing the chair against the table and turning to leave. he’d really just gotten interrogated while hungover and still reeling and nothing happened, huh. and they say white privilege isn’t real !

“ ...wait. turn back around, kid. ”

oh, fuck. griffin paused, squeezing his eyes shut because fucking damnit, maybe he should’ve sprinted out of the room. he plastered a nonchalant, cool and casual facade over his face as he looked at the officers.

what was only maybe thirty seconds of eye contact felt precisely like three hours of it. was it hot in here or was it just the looming charges of use of an illegal drug breathing down his neck ? 

one of the officers who’d been eyeing him like a hawk clicked his tongue. griffin tried smiling. 

“ you look familiar. that’s all. ”

he hoped the sigh of relief that left him wasn’t obvious. “ i was on jeopardy once. have a good day, guys. ”

[yandere-society]

Reincarnate

Synopsis: ‘Taehyung hates his immortal life, rueing the day Namjoon blessed him with eternity. But now, a hundred years later, he stumbles across someone who he— who they— want to keep forever.’

Pairing: Taehyung × Fem!Reader × Namjoon 

Genre: Inspired by Interview with a Vampire, Horror 

Word Count: 7K

Admin: @chimchimsauce​​

Trigger warnings: yandere-themes, descriptions of manipulation and physical harm. Please read with caution. 

Rain patters peacefully against the large diner windows, blurring the lights of the cars passing by on the highway. The smell of cheap coffee wafts through the air as a tired-looking waitress wipes a rag over the empty countertop.

YN sighs, eyeing her own cup of now cold coffee and watery grits. She’s ordered almost an hour ago to calm her nerves about her upcoming interview. But with each minute that passes by, the reporter becomes more and more aware that the mysterious man on the phone had stood her up. She really shouldn’t be surprised anymore. She gets more prank calls than actual ones.

And yet, the disappointment is still there. The man who called her only this afternoon seemed much different from the giggling teenagers who claimed to have the latest scoop. His voice had been heavenly, enchanting even. Surely a voice like that couldn’t belong to a prankster.

Her rubbery eggs suggest otherwise.

Rising in anger (both at the mystery man for ditching and at herself for sitting here this long) YN begins to pack her bag, shoving notebooks and recorders into her small satchel before plopping two dollars on the table as a tip. When she turns to go, however, the woman nearly screams out in fright, startled by the stranger standing right in front of her.

Any snarky remark she intended on delivering falls dead on her tongue as her eyes widen, taking in the man before her. YN can confidently say in the twenty-four years she’s been alive, she’s never seen someone so beautiful. She openly stares at him, taking in his tall height, broad shoulders, large hands, and perfectly sculpted face. Even his attire is gorgeous. His fitted shirt hugs his body closely, jeans hanging on his waist loosely, ears pierced with sparkly silver jewelry.

This man belongs on a runway, not in a run-down diner under a highway.

“Sorry for making you wait,” he says jovially, not uncomfortable at the slightest due to her blatant staring.

“I - what?” YN asks, finally coming back to reality.

The stranger doesn’t respond, sliding into the other side of the booth and propping his head on his hands, looking at her endearingly. It causes color to rush to YN’s cheeks as she sits down just as quickly as she stood, trying to seem less frazzled than she really is.

“It’s okay,” the reporter says, finally putting two and two together and realizing that the handsome stranger was the one who called her, “Things happen,”

He smiles lazily, the expression sending YN’s heart into overdrive.

“Thanks for being so understanding,” he says with that beautiful voice of his, “I had a . . . prior engagement,”

His easy smile morphs into an amused one, making YN believe he’s referencing some inside joke she doesn’t understand.

“Would you like to order something? Coffee maybe?”

“I’m good, thank you,” he responds.

“Ah, well,” YN starts, trying to move on.

She really needs a story. The small newspaper she works for has had declining numbers this entire year. She’s afraid if she doesn’t write something spectacular, she’ll be laid off. YN rummages through her bag and sets up her recorder.

“You don’t mind, do you?” YN asks, looking up at the man.

He just shakes his head, the amused look on his face staying firm. It doesn’t quite sit right with her.

“You said you believe a vampire is behind the recent animal attacks that have been plaguing the town,” she asks once she’s certain that the device is recording.

She’s not one to waste time.

“Mmhm,” the man says, still grinning.

“And why is that, Mr . . .” YN trails off, realizing that she doesn’t know the man’s name.

He didn’t mention it earlier on the phone.

“Kim,” he says, “Kim Taehyung,”

For some inexplicable reason, that name seems familiar to her. She can’t tell where she’s heard it before, the memory lurking right out of her reach.

“Mr. Kim,” YN says, licking her suddenly parched lips, “You are aware that vampires are just myths, aren’t you? Especially around this season, it can be easy to blur the lines between fantasy and reality,”

For the first time since they’ve met, Taehyung’s eternal smile droops.

“Believe me, Beastie, vampires are most certainly real,”

“As fascinating as that would be to believe,” YN says, ignoring his strange conviction, “The attacks have been reported by the authorities as animal attacks. It’s not uncommon for a wolf to wander into town, considering Mistyhollow is completely surrounded by woods.”

Mistyhollow, the town YN grew up in, as the most uninteresting place on Earth. Even as a child, the sleepy town made YN restless, made her want to escape and see the real world. College had been that escape for her, but once both of her parents passed away in a freak accident, YN had no other choice but to come back and sort everything out.

The guilt is what made her stay. Her parents had been driving up to surprise her for her birthday when a semi-truck came out of nowhere and totaled their car and took both of them out of this world. YN couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility, couldn’t turn her back of the town her parents loved.

So now, five years later, YN is still stuck here at this place, chasing adventure the only way she knows how.

“No animal has the prowess to kill the exact same way every time. Every person who was murdered died because of a fatal wound right here,”

The man - Taehyung - places two of his long fingers over his jugular.

“How did you know that?” YN asks, bewildered.

That information hadn’t been released to the public. The only way YN knows it to be true is because the chief of police - an old friend of her father’s - mentioned it to her when he came over to check on her last weekend. The large spike in murders caused the middle-aged man to worry for her safety, especially since he had taken it upon himself to watch over her ever since her parents passed.

“Because I know who killed them,” Taehyung says breezily and without a care in the world.

YN’s heartbeat skyrockets. She’s never seen Taehyung before tonight and Mistyhollow is small enough that she knows almost everyone. There’s a very real possibility that he indeed was the one to kill all those people or that he’s in cahoots with them.

The woman’s fear must be evident in her expression because Taehyung continues.

“Don’t be afraid. There won’t be any more murders in this town after tonight,” he tries (and fails) to soothe her.

YN stands up, story be damned. She’s not sitting next to a murderer for one second longer.

But before she can even blink, Taehyung is in front of her, cold hand wrapped around her wrist. His grip isn’t tight, but it’s firm enough to prevent her escape.

“Off so soon, miss LN? I haven’t even given you my story yet,”

Taehyung is incredibly bemused, YN’s growing terror causing him to smile.

“Let me go,” she demands, trying to free herself, “Or I’ll scream,”

“Go ahead,” Taehyung offers, not moving an inch.

The coldness seems to spread throughout her body the longer he’s touching her.

YN doesn’t hesitate. She screams at the top of her lungs, the sound sharp and shrill, every ounce of fear forcing its way out.

But nothing happens. No one comes running as she’d hoped they would. It’s at this moment that YN realizes that the two of them are all alone.

“I came here to be interviewed,” Taehyung says, “It’s incredibly rude to run out on me, especially since I had to travel such a long distance,”

“Please don’t kill me,” YN pleads, her voice barely above a whisper.

She’s terrified, completely frozen in place.

“Kill you?” Taehyung asks as if the thought had never occurred to him, “Of course not, beastie. I’d never hurt you,”

His words are much too loving for the situation they’re currently in.

“Then what do you want from me?” YN asks, brain coming up with a million different scenarios, some even worse than death.

“I just want you to listen to me. Is that so much to ask?”

“N-no,” YN says, willing to go along with whatever he says until she can figure out a way to escape.

“Good. It’s nice to see you obedient for once, Beastie,” Taehyung says, guiding her back to her spot in the booth and finally releasing her.

She knows that another attempt to run would not be smart.

“Now where were we,” Taehyung asks, settling back in, “Ah, right. You don’t believe in vampires. I don’t blame you. I didn’t either. Not at first,”

“Do you have any proof?” YN forces herself to ask, continuing to play her role.

Taehyung tilts his head to the side, thinking.

“You know, I think I’d like to order something after all,”

And just like that, the waitress reappears from the kitchen, approaching the table as normal, as if she hadn’t heard YN scream only moments ago. The reporter is completely stunned. The waitress doesn’t even look at her. She’s standing too stiffly for her stance to appear normal, a dazed, glazed look in her eyes.

“Hi, doll,” Taehyung regards the lady with a patronizing tone even though she’s old enough to be his mother, “I’ll take a cup of coffee,”

As the waitress walks away, YN notices the two puncture wounds in her neck, right where all the other victims had been attacked. Her mouth dries out as she tries to swallow, noticing the blood oozing from the wounds. When she’s finally able to tear her eyes from the sight, her eyes connect with Taehyung’s.

“Persuasion works really well right after I bite someone,” he says casually, dragging his tongue across his lengthened canines, “She’ll be fine soon enough,”

YN is silent, struggling to process what’s going on.

Vampires are real. Vampires have been behind the mass murders in town. The man in front of her is a vampire.

For some reason, it isn’t nearly as difficult to accept as she’d thought.

“Why tell me this?” YN finds herself asking as the waitress hands Taehyung his coffee.

He swaps his fresh cup for YN’s cold one.

“You wanted a story didn’t you, Beastie?” Taehyung asks, “So I’m going to tell you a story. Listen well and drink that coffee, we’re gonna be here a while.”

The day was sunny. Taehyung never knew how much he would grow to hate sunny days. It was sunny when a snake shot out and bit his new wife, sickening her until she faded away like snow in spring, taking their unborn child with her.

The funeral was held on a sunny day. Taehyung’s tears and bloodshot eyes did not match the warm green grass and cheerful birds. And so he retreated into his too big, too empty house, unaware of the calculating eyes watching his every move.

Time went by in a haze of bar fights and blowing his money in the whore house, desperate to feel something - anything. But no matter what the twenty-three-year-old did, all he felt was empty. He’d loved his wife so completely that her death seemed to destroy him as well.

It was another one of those nights where the man was drunk just as the sky turned dark, getting yelled at for cheating at the game of cards he’d just won. Staggering, Taehyung stumbles to his feet, raising his fists for another fight. But before the seething man across from him can sock him in the throat, someone pulls him away, spewing apologies to the other man and hurrying the both of them away before Taehyung can cause even more trouble.

Taehyung doesn’t even bother to look at who his savior is. The world is spinning too much for him to care about anything. His shoes catch on the ground, causing him to lurch forward only to be rescued by the stranger at the last second. The sudden change in momentum is the final straw for Taehyung. He gags before puking all over himself and the floor, probably getting some on the stranger based on the sound of displeasure he makes.

The stranger drops Taehyung, the man landing in a heap on the ground. Taehyung groans but doesn’t complain, content being trash on the side of the road.

“Honestly,” the stranger begins, “You’re quite a mess, aren’t you, Taehyung,”

He crouches beside Taehyung, finally giving the drunk a look at his face.

The stranger is handsome, tall and poised. The smile on his face is wicked and mischievous causing Taehyung’s heart to sink to his stomach.

“You even ruined my coat,” he says, tutting slightly as if scolding a small child, “But I’m sure you’ll make it up to me,”

“Who are you?” Taehyung asks, the feeling of danger boiling in his stomach.

There’s something off about this man, something sinister.

“Why, I’m your guardian angel,” he says, lips stretching even farther in an unnatural grin.

“Tell me,” he continues once it’s clear that Taehyung has no desire to reply, “Do you want to die?”

“Yes,” the fallen man says quickly, startling himself.

It’s a thought that has been bouncing around his skull ever since his wife died, ever since he realized how alone and miserable he’s been.

“Say your prayers, then,” the stranger says.

In the blink of an eye, the other man is on him, hand tangling into his hair and yanking his head to the side, exposing his neck. Pain radiates through Taehyung as long fangs force their way into his neck, red hot pain shooting through his nervous system.

Taehyung tries to scream but the sound is muffled by the stranger’s hand. The vampire’s eyes flutter closed as he draws in mouthful after mouthful, a near euphoric sensation causing a moan to get caught in his throat.

This desperate man has some of the best blood the vampire’s ever tasted and he’s going to drain him dry.

Despite claiming that he wanted to die only moments ago, Taehyung fights back as best he can, feebly punching at the man and trying to dislodge his fangs from his throat. Prey fighting back usually annoys the vampire but he finds himself in a good mood, pulling away to look Taehyung in the eyes.

“I thought you wanted to die,” he says, amusement lacing his tone as his tongue darts out and licks his bloodstained teeth clean, “Have you changed your mind?”

Taehyung nods as best he can, fiercely glaring at the vampire with a passion that makes the other’s toes curl in delight. He’s going to be a lot of fun.

“Let me cut you a deal, then,” the vampire begins, “I’ll save you, make you like me, but you’ll be mine. Do you understand?”

Taehyung nods again, his world slowly turning black.

And then the vampire is on him again, draining him nearly dry before using his fang to tear into his own wrist, placing his dripping arm up to the dying man and forcing him to drink. Taehyung soon becomes greedy, grasping onto the stranger with as much strength as he has, trying to pull more of the pure power into him.

“That’s enough,” the stranger says, attempting to pull away.

Turning someone else always drains his energy.

Taehyung doesn’t respond, trying to keep drinking his blood. Growing angry, the stranger rips Taehyung off of him, raising both of them into the air and over the neighboring harbor, his clawed hands coming up to strangle him.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he growls out, eyes as dark as pitch, “I’m the one in charge. Don’t test me,”

And with that, he drops Taehyung into the water.

“The vampire who changed me is named Namjoon,” Taehyung says, watching YN’s hands tremble as she tries to drink the coffee as he told her too, “He’s an insufferable bastard. Manipulative, selfish, mean. I hated him,”

“Then why,” YN begins, “Did you have him save you?”

Her question is hesitant. She’s equally afraid of asking the wrong thing and asking nothing at all.

“I had no idea what my life would turn into,” Taehyung says, a faraway look in his eyes, “If I’d known how it would go, I would have had him kill me . . . or maybe I wouldn’t have,”

His statement is confusing but YN doesn’t push any further.

“My new life began once I crawled out of the water like a drowned rat. I didn’t notice anything different at first. Namjoon wasn’t there and besides an intense ache in my throat, I didn’t feel any better. So I hauled my ass home,”

He pauses. YN gets the impression that talking about his transformation isn’t something Taehyung enjoys doing. It makes her question why he’s forcing this interview.

“The full moon is when it happened. The blood finally took over me. It was the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. I had escaped into the night and stumbled my way to the cemetery in my back yard. It was a rather morbid time if I think about it,”

“When was this?”

“Seventeen ninety-one,” he replies.

YN tries to hide her shock. The man in front of her is hundreds of years old.

She must have failed because he laughs slightly.

“I’ve aged rather well, haven’t I, Beastie?”

She nods numbly.

“And then the change came. Namjoon appeared. He watched me be ripped apart from the inside and put back together without even flinching. It felt like an eternity, but it was probably a few hours at most. It was still dark when I awoke,”

“What was different?” YN asks, continuing to play her role.

If she somehow manages to escape this diner, she’ll be able to say that she actually had an interview with a vampire.

“Everything,” he says breathlessly, “Everything I thought I knew to be true was a lie. Being human is seeing the world through a filtered, muddied window. Becoming a vampire was like removing the lense. Everything is clearer, sharper,” he lifts his head up, staring at the ceiling, “I can see every flake of paint, every dust molecule drifting through the air. I can hear your heartbeat and the cars on the highway a hundred miles from here,”

“That seems,” YN begins, searching for the right word, “Overwhelming,”

“It was. My whole world had shifted on its axis and started spinning the opposite way,”

Taehyung lay gasping, struggling to pull in air for his burning lungs.

“You can give that up,” Namjoon says, appearing from wherever he’d been hiding and landing softly on the dirt next to Taehyung, “Your lungs don’t work anymore. Stop trying to breathe,”

Seeing as it felt as if the new vampire was suffocating he does as told, holding his breath until his lungs stop screaming.

“You don’t need to breathe any longer,” Namjoon says, leaning over the crumpled Taehyung with a grin on his face, “But I imagine you’re rather hungry,”

It’s as if the words ignited a thirst in Taehyung. He began to claw at his throat as it burned, the need for blood overcoming him.

“Let’s go hunt, shall we? I wouldn’t want my new companion to die of thirst,” Namjoon says jovially, helping Taehyung up and dusting his clothes off.

“You can at least try to be presentable,” he scolds, “You are the head of an estate. You must look the part,”

“How did you know that?” Taehyung asks, eyes taking in all of the new sights and scents he hadn’t been able to register before.

“I know everything,” Namjoon says dismissively.

“Now,” he continues, clapping his hands together, “Follow me,”

And with those final words, Namjoon speeds off. If Taehyung had still been human, he wouldn’t have been able to see him. But his new vampiric sight allowed him to see every step the other took, every swish of his hair as he ducked and dodged branches.

With the thirst growing stronger every second, Taehyung follows him, eager for the feeling to go away. It doesn’t take him long to catch up with Namjoon despite running headfirst into a couple of trees as he tried to get used to his new speed.

Surprisingly, Namjoon doesn’t tease or scold him. The elder vampire simply crouches down at the edge of the forest, looking out into a clearing where a small, shoddily put together house stands. Light blinks in one of the thin windows, Taehyung’s new sight allowing him to make out the candle and the wax that slowly slides down the side.

“Tell me,” Namjoon asks, voice so quiet it would be undetectable by humans, “What do you hear?”

The question annoys Taehyung. He just wants to quench his thirst. But something tells him that Namjoon could end him easily if he stepped out of line. So he obliges, closing his eyes to try and better hear. He picks up the sound of three heartbeats.

“People,” he says, finally, “I hear their heartbeats,”

“Very good,” Namjoon praises, “How many?”

“Three?”

“Wonderful. You’re doing very well, pet. Soon enough you’ll be able to tell even more about prey before you’re anywhere near them. But those skills come with practice. Let’s go eat, hm? The blood in these humans isn’t nearly as delicious as some others, but it will do for now.”

Before any reasonable part of his brain can stop him, Taehyung rushes after Namjoon as they make their way over to the house.

“Now we could just break in and drain them,” Namjoon says to the salivating Taehyung, “But there isn’t any fun in that. Hunting is an art form. Watch.”

The suave vampire raps his knuckles on the door. When it isn’t immediately answered, he knocks again, this time harder. Shuffling can be heard in the small cabin as someone stirs awake, taking the lit candle and peeping through the door hesitantly.

“Hello,” the man begins, clearly confused as to why he has visitors at this late hour.

“Hello,” Namjoon says, barely containing his smile, “My companion and I,” he grips the slightly disheveled Taehyung, pulling him closer, “Were wondering if you could perhaps allow us to stay the night at your wonderful home. You see, we’ve become quite lost and -”

The human slams the door in their faces before Namjoon can even finish. He snarls at the door.

“How rude! And to think, I was going to kill him first so he didn’t have to watch his wife and child die first. Do you see what I get for being so kind?” Namjoon rants, turning to Taehyung.

It’s clear that he wants him to agree. Taehyung nods. The thirst grows more each moment. It’s all he can focus on.

“I’ll draw it out then. Alright,” Namjoon says, ripping the door entirely off of its hinges.

The screaming inside is instant. Namjoon pounces upon the man from earlier, sinking his teeth deep into his flesh. The wife scrambles to protect the screaming child, a boy of eleven or so. But Taehyung is too far gone to process his actions. In the blink of an eye, the new vampire has the woman pinned against the wall, hands squeezing her neck so tightly that it breaks, killing her mid-scream. Taehyung’s mouth aches as fangs push through his gums and find their way into the woman’s shoulder, pulling in mouthful after mouthful. He isn’t sure how long it takes but soon enough her body is completely drained.

The blinding thirst has absolved quite a bit, but it still taunts him, still calls for him to drink more. So he turns to the crying child huddled in the corner, barely registering the joy in Namjoon’s face and the horror in the man’s as he’s forced to watch.

The child doesn’t have a chance. Taehyung bites his shoulder, growing annoyed as he struggles and screams loudly. Without pulling away, he reaches a hand up and crushes his skull, effectively silencing him. After draining him completely, Taehyung licks the streams of blood off his ruined face, sighing in relief at the fullness he feels.

It’s only then when he registers what he’s done.

“My humanity was gone,” Taehyung says, watching the expressions on YN’s face. “Namjoon and I went on a violent killing spree for the first month after my transformation. We killed everyone we came across,”

YN swallows.

How many people must he have killed? Taehyung is over two hundred years old. The number has got to be in the thousands.

“And after I settled into my transformation, once I was free from the desire for blood constantly hanging over my head, I began to hate what I was, what I choose to become. I am a murderer. I steal the lives of innocent people just so I can creep through the night forever. But I could not freely express these emotions. Namjoon was extremely temperamental back then. One wrong word and he’d have me pinned against the ceiling,”

YN chews her lip. She wants to ask more about the relationship between the two men but she also doesn’t want to end up dead on the floor.

“Go ahead, Beastie,” Taehyung prompts, staring at her with eyes too beautiful to belong to a soulless creature such as himself, “Ask your question,”

YN’s cheeks heat up. He’d caught her off guard.

“What exactly . . . was your relationship? With Namjoon?”

Her words are hesitant.

The vampire seems to think for a moment.

“Companions, I suppose,” he says after a pause, “Sometimes more. Often times less. Namjoon always wanted something. He changed me because I had the ability to amuse him. He’d been watching me for quite a while. Namjoon knew the money and influence I held and wanted it for himself. I was nothing more than a plaything for him in the beginning,”

“That sounds toxic,”

“That’s not even the half of it,” he says, laughing a little.

YN supposes that it’s been long enough that he can laugh about it.

“Eventually I grew tired of it,” Taehyung says, becoming more serious, “Namjoon was so happy and I was even more miserable than I was as a human. And one day at dinner I just snapped,”

“Your servants are great cooks. Too bad I can’t enjoy any of the food,” Namjoon says, poking a turkey with a solid silver fork.

A golden goblet sits to his right, filled to the brim with blood. Namjoon’s ringed fingers daintily wrap around the glass’ stem, bringing it to his mouth, his lips painted ruby.

Taehyung sits opposite him, his own glass still full. He cringes internally, thinking of the servants Namjoon put under persuasion to go into the town and kidnap people, only to lock them in the cellar to be used as personal blood bags.

Namjoon shares none of this guilt, jovially chatting away and enjoying his expensive clothes, all bought with Taehyung’s money.

“The decor in here is a little dated, don’t you think, pet? So last century. I say we redecorate,”

“You say a lot,” Taehyung spits, unable to hold his tongue for a moment longer.

Namjoon’s happy expression hardens.

“Oh?”

It’s a challenge, clear as day.

Normally Taehyung would back down immediately, but he’s had enough.

“But you never say anything important. All you do is ramble on and on. Don’t you ever get tired of yourself? I certainly do,” Taehyung snaps.

It feels good to let it all out.

The fork Namjoon had been holding bends in half in his grip.

“You’re an ungrateful brat, you know that?” Namjoon says, struggling to keep his cool, “I give you eternal life and you treat me like this?”

“I’d rather be dead,” Taehyung says, glaring at his ‘savior’.

“That can be arranged,”

And with that, Namjoon launches himself over the table and at Taehyung. The younger vampire was ready, however, and soon a brawl broke out. The two of them completely trashed the banquet hall, Taehyung knocking over a candle and setting the luxurious rug on fire.

The vampires don’t notice, continuing to fight each other viciously. It’s only when the ceiling begins to fall around them that they break away and escape the house fire.

It’s chaos outside as servants scream and search for each other.

“Look what you did,” Namjoon growls, his fancy clothes charred, no longer looking even close to their original glory, “Look what you ruined!”

Taehyung pays his creator no mind, watching his home burn to the ground. It sends a bolt of satisfaction through him. That house was where all his happy memories were, where his human life occurred. It should be turned into ashes, just like his soul has been.

“Weren’t you sad that you lost your home?” YN asks.

By now her coffee is completely empty. She grows slightly more courageous as every minute passes. It’s probably the caffeine.

“It felt liberating. That home was where my old life lived. Being there after being turning was another level of torture I hadn’t known I’d been suffering through until it was gone. Abd the look on Namjoon’s face was absolutely worth it,”

“What happened next?” YN asks him.

She’s beginning to get sucked into the story. It almost seems like a demented fairytale.

“We were penniless. Our days of grand parties and servants were over. I had expected Namjoon to abandon me, but I think he realized sticking around would be the perfect payback for ruining his carefully thought out plan,”

Taehyung taps his fingers against the diner table absentmindedly. He comes back to himself, waving a finger in the air to summon the waitress who promptly refills YN’s coffee.

“Thank you,” the reporter murmurs.

Taehyung smiles again, some unreadable emotion hiding behind his eyes.

“For some time,” he continues his tale, “The two of us wandered about, draining people and using their belongings for as long as we could,”

YN winces.

“I know. It was awful. But at the time, there didn’t seem to be anything else we could do. And then it got even worse,”

“How?” YN asks, fingers warm from her cup.

“A sickness came. It was still the time where one person being sick could take a whole town with them. So of course, the blood quality fell tremendously. Vampires can’t contract illnesses, but diseased blood can make us weaker. It was then,” Taaehyung says, locking eyes with the girl in front of him, “that we met her,”

“Her? Who?” YN asks, feeling entirely naked under his intense gaze.

“Elizabeth,” he says with a fondness reserved for those dearest to his heart.

His entire form brightens considerably.

The town around them looks like it got hit by a tornado. Houses are empty and decrepit, windows cracked and door ripped off of their hinges. Crappy, poorly assembled carriages are turned over in the streets.

“Oh great,” Namjoon says as the two vampires make their way through the ghost town, “Everyone’s already dead,”

The elder vampire steps on a dead body, kicking it over with a pout on his face.

“You whine so much,” Taehyung says, peeping into an abandoned house, seeing if anything is able to be salvaged.

He’s rummaging through a set of drawers, only finding old papers and nicknacks.

“You’re a bad luck charm. I’m sure of it,” Namjoon complains, destroying a wall with a half-assed punch.

“Why are you still here then? You’re absolutely welcome to leave,”

“Oh please,” Namjoon says, laying himself over the younger, “You love me too much for me to leave,”

Taehyung rolls his eyes as they continue going through town, looking for people to drain. By the time they’ve reached the final house, hope is almost entirely lost. It’s been a few days since either of them has had blood, weakening the both of them.

As they enter the last house weak footsteps can be heard.

A willow of a girl steps into sight. Her cheeks are sunk in and her body is so thin that it’s obvious that she hasn’t eaten in a long time. Her skin is dirty and caked in dirt, clothes nearly falling off of her. Taehyung guesses that she’s a teenager.

“Can you,” she begins, “Help my mother?”

Taehyung’s eyes are drawn from her form to the dead body curled up on a stack of straw mats.

“She’s ill,”

A pang of sympathy surges through Taehyung.

“Your mother’s dead,” Namjoon tells the girl bluntly, “And you will be too in just a few moments,”

Before he can attack, Taehyung holds his arm in front of Namjoon’s chest, stopping him.

“Don’t,” he says.

Something about the girl is so innocent and sweet. The sudden urge to protect her overwhelms him.

“You want to kill her?” Namjoon asks, surprised.

Taehyung almost always attacks people over the age of thirty. It helps ease his guilt.

“Leave her,” Taehyung says.

She’s trembling now, huddled next to her mother’s corpse. He pities her. He’d done the same thing when his wife died forty years ago.

A sudden, wicked smile emerges on Namjoon’s perfect face.

“I’ll tell you what,” he begins, not even trying to hide the scheming tone in his voice, “I’ll give you two options. Either you turn her,” he pauses, always one for dramatics, “Or I’ll kill her,”

“No,” Taehyung nearly growls out.

He isn’t sure why but the thought of her death makes him angry. Namjoon has obviously picked up on it and is using that sudden determination to manipulate him.

No matter what, some things never change.

“Try and stop me,” the elder says with a cocky grin.

Even though Taehyung has been a vampire for decades, he’s not nearly as strong as Namjoon. Their numerous fights always end with Namjoon winning and boasting about it for weeks afterward.

Taehyung takes a deep breath, inhaling her scent. She smells absolutely divine, the blood thumping just barely under her skin calling to him. He glances once more at Namjoon before approaching the frightened girl.

“What’s your name?” he begins, crouching down next to her.

“E-Elizabeth,” she stutters out.

Taehyung smiles at her sweetly, trying to calm her down so she’s not as frightened for what’s to come.

“Don’t worry, little Elizabeth,” Taehyung says, “You won’t feel the pain for much longer,”

Her eyes are blown wide as Taehyung opens his mouth wider than what should be possible, his sharp fangs glittering in the moonlight filtering in through the broken window. A scream gets caught in the girl’s throat as his fangs sink into her skin.

Her blood is the best he’s ever tasted. His eyes roll back in his head as she struggles against him. Taehyung wraps his arms around her frail body, careful not to crush her bird bones. The blood is almost too delicious to stop but Taehyung pulls away just in time, force-feeding her his own blood as Namjoon had all those years ago.

Namjoon watches with a satisfied grin on his face, loving the way he can jerk the younger around and bend him to his will.

Because the full moon is tonight, Elizabeth’s transformation is nearly instantaneous. Taehyung watches as her cheeks fill out and regain a healthy, youthful glow. Her hair becomes shiny and her cracked, dirty nails grow to a dainty length.

She’s beautiful.

“Are transformations always this stunning?” Taehyung asks Namjoon, looking at the elder in wonder.

“I’m not sure. You’re the only person I’ve ever been able to successfully change,” he says, “But you became so beautiful,: Namjoon says, voice trailing off as he looks at his companion.

Despite the way they always fight and generally have a giant distaste for each other, Taehyung holds a special place in Namjoon’s cold, dead heart. He feels more alive when the other one is around.

The moment is broken when the girl gasps loudly, waking up.

“I loved her,” Taehyung says, “We both did. She was the breath of fresh air we needed in our lives. We bonded over her presence, but we . . . disagreed over how we should teach her,”

Taehyung takes a breath, looking at the face he adores, noticing how it’s ever so slightly different than before. She’s older than she ever got before, her face a little slimmer, her stature a little taller.

“Soon after we found and changed Elizabeth, there was a boat expedition we managed to sneak onto. Namjoon managed to convince Elizabeth to help him rob some of the richer passengers. While I didn’t agree - robbing from the living is quite different than robbing from the dead - it was enough to set us up with a new life,”

YN is quiet, obviously thinking over his story. Taehyung indulges her, remaining silent as well. If he’s learned anything in his time on earth, it’s how to be patient. Even though she doesn’t know it, Taehyung would never hurt her.

“Was it better? Were you happier once you became reestablished again?”

“The wealth didn’t make much of a difference to me,” Taehyung says honestly, “But Namjoon was ecstatic. And so was Elizabeth. Her entire human life had been lived in squalor, so it was just as foreign as her new abilities. It made Namjoon so happy to spoil her. He’d order new dresses to be made almost weekly and always bought her anything her heart desired,”

He speaks of those times fondly, almost happily. It stirs something in her heart.

“But it made her meaner - crueler. And I couldn’t help but get jealous. She was mine. I’d turned her, I was the one who saved her. And yet Namjoon was jeopardizing her time. So I sweet-talked him, played into his ego and greed and got him to spend more time away from the house. He got into stocks and business, stealing from rich business owners while smiling at them.

“Were you together with her? With Elizabeth?”

“I suppose. Nearly,” Taehyung says, pain evident in his tone and facial expression, “We spent so much more time together. For the first time since meeting my wife, I really connected with someone on a deeper level. We would lay together and just talk about whatever. We’d speculate about the future, talk about how we wanted the world to change. I loved her more than anything and I know she loved me too. But then,”

He falls silent again.

“We’d managed to catch the attention of a local cult. One of the leaders worked with Namjoon and convinced him to bring me to a meeting. We’d expected a normal meeting but were subdued with silver chains and taken hostage. But that wasn’t what made me - us so angry. They’d taken Elizabeth. Took her from our safe home and forced her into captivity,”

YN reaches out to the vampire, surprising both of them when her warm hand touches his cold one. She moves to snatch it away but Taehyung quickly interlaces their fingers, preventing her from moving at all.

“They tortured her,” Taehyung spits bitterly, “And then murdered her right in front of our eyes. They pushed her out into the sun and made us watch as she disintegrated,”

“I’m so sorry,” YN says, heart going out to him.

She knows exactly how it feels to lose a loved one.

“They got what they deserved. Someone slipped up and Namjoon and I were able to escape. We slaughtered them all and set their lair on fire,”

YN squeezes his cold hand, all the fear she’d had at the beginning of his tale gone completely,

“Namjoon and I grew closer after losing her. It was devastating to both of us. We were the only comfort the other had. We’d both lost a lover, a companion . . . a friend. We had to become those for each other. But even still, it was a loss we couldn’t recover from,”

“How long ago was it?” YN asks.

Time does not heal all wounds but it does make it easier to cope.

“About a hundred years,” he pauses, “But something happened recently. I don’t think we’ll feel that pain anymore,”

“Why?”

A ding catches YN’s attention. She’s surprised to see another man, this one even taller than Taehyung. Hs grins at her with a dimpled smile.

“Hello, pet,” he says, voice sending a shiver down the reporter’s spine.

Taehyung doesn’t even look behind him, relaxing instantly.

“Hello, Namjoon,”

YN’s heart rate picks up rapidly. In the blink of an eye, he’s standing right in front of the table.

“I got impatient,” he says, speaking to Taehyung but looking at YN with a smile so wide her stomach flips.

“I’m not surprised,” the other vampire responds.

Something tells YN that there is no chance of escape.

“Make it quick,” YN says, closing her eyes and feeling breathless, “Please,”

She doesn’t want to face her death with open eyes.

There’s movement around her. YN squeezes her fists together.

But no fangs enter her skin. When she opens her eyes, both Namjoon and Taehyung are looking at her fondly.

“We’ve missed you so much, Beastie,” Namjoon says, eyes dialed.

“I - what?” YN asks, confused and terrified.

“I never believed in reincarnation. But here you are. Our sweet little angel,”

All at once, it rushes back to her. The soft way Taehyung had spoken over the hours, the nickname, the way he looked at her.

“I don’t - no,” YN says, shaking her head, trying to run but getting surrounded immediately.

“Don’t worry,” Namjoon says, “You learned to love us once. You can do it again,”

Her voice dies in her throat as two pairs of fangs approach her, sinking into either side of her throat. As the world turns dark, YN hears one a singular sentence.

“You won’t leave us ever again.”

[qqueenofhades]

Aziraphale and Crowley decide to go travelling.

They have been on Earth for over six thousand years, but they’ve not actually seen that much of it. They’ve been soldiers posted at a garrison, responsible for the blessings and/or temptations despatched in the British Isles for jolly well most of that time, and they can’t just faff off whenever they please. (As well as, of course, the unspoken fact that neither of them will stray too far from the other. Aziraphale’s had to handle the Irish-related bits since the fifth century, when a killjoy bloke named Patrick chucked the snakes out. Pity, that – Crowley, being red-haired and fond of drink and trouble, would love to come back, but alas.) They have moved out of London and to that cottage in the South Downs, itself a change after living in the city for almost five hundred years, but it doesn’t take long for them to realise that without constant marching orders to await and no destruction of the world to avert, they’ve got… time. And one morning Crowley suggests, and Aziraphale somehow finds himself agreeing, that they just bugger off and see the lot of it. Or at least make a start.

They don’t travel like humans who want the big flashy commercial bits: the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall of China, the Sydney Opera House, Disneyworld. Aziraphale thinks at first that they’ll just ride in Pullman cars, something he has always rather wanted to do, and is dismayed to learn that Pullman cars went the way of the dodo in 1968. Failing that, they should just fly, or miracle themselves. He’s taken aback when Crowley thinks it’s funny to insist on human transport, though Crowley himself was responsible for many of the recent innovations of the airline industry and has to admit, the first time they’re stuck in economy class aboard an over-booked jetliner with a screaming child behind them, he may have overdone it. They are subject to delayed trains, packed buses, leaky ferries, and the delights of something called a moto, which Aziraphale might have enjoyed more if he wasn’t screaming the whole time. Course, Crowley loves it. Nothing but respect to any mad bastard brave enough to drive that fast in Rio de Janeiro.

(‘Oh,’ Aziraphale says softly, as they stand at the very top of the hill, beneath the vast shadow of Christ the Redeemer, and think back to that promising fellow they saw nailed to the branch in Golgotha, and gaze down, down, down at the green mountains and the glittering city and the sun-blazing sea. ‘Oh, my.’)

They argue about where to go next. Crowley thinks Russia is too cold and Aziraphale thinks India is too hot, but they end up in both anyway. Aziraphale is entranced by a night at the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow, and they wake one morning in the thick air of a humble guesthouse along the Ganges, smelling the burned offerings of the temple and listening to the splash of bathers and the chittering of the monkeys that stole their curry. They are generally pegged for gormless Englishmen wherever they go, or at least Aziraphale is; something about him just screams bum bag and floral-print shirt. Crowley manages to deter any local trouble by being himself, or if need be, flashing a strategic glimpse of his eyes. Not that that always works. A bunch of clubbers in a neon disco in Rome think it’s very chic.

(Crowley doesn’t like Rome much. He can barely walk round the city without looking like a jitterbug, and Aziraphale refuses to let him pop in on the Pope one morning in his skivvies, give the old man a good jolt. Supposedly it’s romantic, and watching a sunset over the Colosseum, hand in hand, Crowley can admit it’s got that going for it, memories of the lions that used to be big here notwithstanding. Nonetheless, he is relieved to leave.)

‘Look at me,’ Aziraphale beams, having ordered them a scrummy spread in Greece a few days later. ‘Real gentleman of the world, don’t you think, my dear? Pity we can’t see the Parthenon from here, but I suppose I can always – ’

‘If you say so, angel.’ Crowley lights a cigarette and tempts the loudmouth bastard blocking the view to go home and rethink his life. ‘Take another look now.’

They go to New York so Aziraphale can see a Broadway show, whereupon Crowley wonders how America has got into such a mess even with nothing whatsoever to do with him. Wants no part of that, thanks. They pop up to Canada after, which turns out to mostly be more Canada, though Crowley nearly hits a moose driving at ninety miles an hour down an empty highway and that would have good and discorporated both of them. They wind up at a tiny roadside motel where the only sound are the crickets and the distant sigh of passing cars, where it is deep summer and green and slow, and they lie on the bed with Aziraphale’s head on Crowley’s chest and neither of them say a word.

They drive down to San Francisco and fly from there to Tokyo, which delights Aziraphale with its proximity to sushi, clean and precise public transport, and miles of convenience stores to supply every imaginable item. Everyone looks somewhat surprised when he speaks Japanese. Crowley is just tall enough to regard doorways with suspicion, and cannot slack his vigilance when going through them. One such mishap leaves him with something of a lump when they arrive in Istanbul. Aziraphale’s wallet gets pinched in the Grand Bazaar, then after a brief and exciting episode involving a snake head, hastily returned. ‘Mesopotamia,’ Crowley remarks breezily. ‘Always an adventure in these parts, isn’t it, angel?’

They make their way down into Africa, where Crowley insists on paying homage at Freddie Mercury’s hometown in Zanzibar. Aziraphale snaps a photo of him at the sacred site and supposes that will be going into pride of place in a frame back at the cottage. They’re both burnt brown and riotously freckly, at least in Crowley’s case, and Aziraphale has acquired, under his dearest’s expert tutelage, a succession of fashionable sunglasses. They walk along a deserted beach in Cape Verde and sleep curled together in a hammock with waves lapping soft on the sand. Get on a boat headed to some island in the middle of the Atlantic, out in the arse-end of absolutely bloody nowhere, and gaze up at more stars than either of them, a pair of celestial beings, have ever seen in their lives. These do not fall, or burn, or break. The heavens do not brim with fire, nor does hell rise up. The world is at a point of perfect stillness.

‘We should get married,’ Aziraphale says one night, as casually as if it’s something that has only just occurred to him. ‘I mean… for the tax purposes.’

Crowley turns to stare at him as if it is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. ‘Tax purposes?’

‘I just…’ Aziraphale opens and shuts his mouth. He still owns the bookshop, since he couldn’t bear to part from it, though he’s hired a couple of bright young things to run it. But of course, tax purposes do not actually have a rum thing to do with any of his reasons for asking. ‘If you didn’t… didn’t want...’

Crowley kisses him, hard and sharp and hungry. They don’t say more about it then.

They narrowly escape a hurricane in the Caribbean. They go on a trek through the Andes of South America, whereupon Aziraphale does not enjoy himself at all and has to shout at Crowley to stop leaping up hills like a lizard. They go up to Norway and putter along the fjords, and Crowley gets very drunk and pretends to be Thor. (His hair is growing out again, and he could throw lightning and thunder if he wanted to.) They hop to various cities in Europe on weekend discount-airline deals and go to the Christmas market in the Old Town Square of Prague. The really delightful thing about all this travelling, they discover, is the ability to come home together. Pop along on the train from Luton or Stansted or Gatwick or Heathrow, crunch up the walk with their bags, unlock the door and collect the post on the mat and go into the kitchen, make a nip of supper and crawl into bed together, half-packed suitcases dropped on the floor. It’s a lovely cottage. The houseplants are verdant and properly terrified, and the books cover every flat surface.

‘We should get married,’ Crowley says, on a flowering spring night in Vienna. ‘Horribly antiquated human institution and all that, but…’ He trails off, then shrugs elegantly. ‘Tax purposes.’

‘I thought, my dear,’ Aziraphale says, taking a sip of his wine, ‘that was originally my suggestion.’

Crowley’s yellow eyes sparkle at him. In this light, they are almost gold, rich and depthless, and Aziraphale would be very happy indeed to spend the rest of forever drowning in them. Placidly the demon says, even as his fingers interlock with his angel’s under the table and hold on tight, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

[bigskydreaming]

@dykeskomandr

OKAY BUT CHECK IT OUT!

So imagine Chris Kent and Duke start hanging out and being friends because Clark pushes him in the direction of the nearest Bat his age, thinking like...look it worked with all our other kids, sixth time for the win! Or whatever the actual number is with these literal mobs masquerading as families.

And Chris is for the most part a total sweetheart but he was raised by Zod and Ursa who were supremely consistent with their ‘Kryptonians are superior to all other lifeforms who should kneel before anyone with our last name’ rhetoric. 

Its plausible that Chris, even knowing his parents were douches, would have internalized at least trace amounts of that he needs to work through....maybe just enough that he’s uncomfortable or awkward around Dick, because it bothers him that a human is using the name and symbol of a Kryptonian legend, or maybe its more accurately that it bothers him to realize it bothers him.

But Duke makes him snap out of it, because once he realizes the issue, he doesn’t mince words and bluntly tells Chris: 

“Look, I know you’re dealing with a lot being thrown at you all at once, but if you’re gonna keep having an issue with Nightwing, we’re gonna have issues. On account of y’know, he’s my actual bro now and he’s totally a credit to that name and rep and nobody’s got any business thinking he’s not worthy of it or whatever your deal is. So you can not deal and scram, or you can deal and we’ll be cool. Or, if you want, you can choose Door Number Three and make a big deal about it and I’ll kick your ass and then we’ll be cool.”

Chris isn’t really sure what to say to that, so he defaults to: “As if you could. I am Kryptonian, you know.”

Duke just smirks back, totally unphased: “And I’m a Bat. Maybe you’ve heard of us.”

Chris thinks this over. Nods thoughtfully. “Point taken.”

And that behind them, they proceed to become the best of friends.

Meanwhile, Bruce happens to be lurking just out of sight around the corner, as he is wont to do, and overhears everything. He starts tearing up when listening to Duke casually threaten the ultra powered Kryptonian-might-as-well-be-a-demigod teenager, all without the slightest trace of nerves or even a hint of doubt about his ability to deliver yon ass-kicking if need be.

“I’m so proud,” he whispers to himself.

Hundreds of miles away, Clark hears. Because Kryptonian senses and also Plot Convenience. He sighs.

“Some parents settle for putting their kids’ artwork up on the fridge, but no. Its his kids saying they could beat up my kids that makes him gush. Every time.”

“Problem, sweetheart?” Lois asks, with clear amusement. She has no idea what Clark’s overheard, of course, but she obviously knows it has something to do with Bruce’s somewhat divergent parenting philosophies, so that’s really all she needs to get the gist of it.

“Nothing to worry about, honey,” Clark says, shaking his head. “Its just a day ending in ‘y’, that’s all.”

“Mmm,” Lois muses knowingly. She’s not quite ready to let sleeping dogs lie, as she clearly senses an opportunity here. For entertainment. Its that keen reporter’s intuition, just used here for evil personal gain. 

He tries not to begrudge his wife her hobbies. She works very hard after all.

“Is Chris doing okay over at Bruce’s? Getting along alright with his brood, I hope?”

Leading questions, oh how the love of his life does love them. All the more when he knows right where they’re leading - but still knowingly marches straight towards his doom. 

After all, precedence has established that trying to jump the tracks only prolongs the agony. She’s on the hunt now, and won’t stop until she’s sated her amusement.

(Cat always warned him Lois had a mean streak, but noooo, he had to chalk it up to jealousy.) 

So forgoing his usual stoicism and giving his wife the frank honesty she’s after, undignified as it may be, Clark frowns. In a way some might describe as sulking, but they would be wrong, for it is merely a frown.

“Well, Duke just threatened to beat Chris up, but now that that’s out of the way, they seem to be quickly becoming the best of friends,” Clark says. In a way some might describe as petulant, but they also would be wrong.

Lois nods as she absorbs that. And then she smirks. “Try and pin that on Bruce all you want, Boy Scout, but I think we both know Duke’s not the only one of those two who’s riffing off a well-established theme there. Or am I remembering wrong, and you and Bruce actually skipped straight to the enduring friendship, with absolutely zero blustering or bravado before that?”

“Whose side are you on anyway?” Clark pouts in a very heroic way, stiff upper lip and everything, as Lois sails breezily past him down the hall. 

She laughs gaily, her playful mockery lingering in her slipstream as she vanishes into their bedroom. “The truth of course, darling. I’m always on the side of Truth.”

[aseriesofunfortunatetexts]

I posted another chapter of the zombie fic! Now featuring Esmé, and her being surprisingly concerned for Kit.

You can also read it under the cut, if you want.

There’s a plume of pitch black smoke rising to the east, out in the forest. The color tells Kit that it’s still burning. She slows the taxi down to a stop and sits for a moment staring at it. She’s too late. She just hopes Charles got away before whatever happened went down.

Sir can burn for all she cares.

She knows she should continue onward to investigate, although that wasn’t her original mission. She ought to have something to show for her journey into the field, some information to bring back to Dewey at least, so he hasn’t been forced to worry about her for absolutely nothing. But the part of her that just wants to go back to headquarters argues that there will be very little left to investigate, with no firefighters on hand to combat the flames.

There’s a twinge in her gut and she immediately reaches down to touch the slight swell of her stomach. A kick? If so, it would be the first one. She’d hoped she’d be with Dewey when that milestone was reached, and that’s what helps her make up her mind. She’s writing off the mission and going to the hotel, mission be damned.

She’s just put the taxi in gear when she spots a figure on the side of the road out in the distance, walking towards her. She immediately reaches for her spyglass, hoping against hope that it might be Charles.

It isn’t. Not unless he started wearing black catsuits and elaborate blonde wigs. No, she knows who this is even though they’re too far away to make out their features.

Once again Kit is faced with a choice. She can drive up there, like her superiors definitely wouldn’t want her to do, or she can turn the taxi around and pretend like she never saw anything.

Weirdly enough the thought that crosses her mind in the last second before she shifts the taxi into gear and drives ahead is that Esmé is probably donning really impractical footwear with that outfit.

For a person who presumably just burned down a small town and a lumber mill, and fled on foot in boots with five-inch heels, Esmé looks good. Great even. When she recognizes Kit as the driver of the Snicket taxi she smiles wickedly and waves at her. Kit ignores the gesture and turns the cab around so it’s pointed back towards the City, then brings it to a stop. Esmé opens the passenger’s side door and slinks inside, making herself comfortable on the seat with a satisfied sigh. Finally she turns to Kit, “Hello, darling.”

Kit fixes her eyes on the road ahead and floors it, enjoying the way she is pressed back into the seat as the taxi lounges forwards almost as much as Esmé yelp of shock. The taxi gains speed at a much faster rate than you’d expect for a vehicle of its age, but Kit doesn’t let up until they’ve hit 100. It’s terribly irresponsible to be going this speed, even out here in the middle of nowhere, what with random Infected shambling all over the place, but Kit wants to get back to the City as fast as possible, so she can kick Esmé out somewhere relatively safe, and then return home.

Esmé takes a few miles to relax. “You’ve made your point,” she then says, tersely.

Kit doesn’t slow down. “Why did you do it?”

Esmé somehow shrugs without shrugging. “Orders.”

Kit bites down on a snide comment, realizing that she’s not really in a morally superior position this time. “Charles?” she asks, trying her hardest to sound uncaring.

Esmé gestures dismissively with one hand. “Didn’t see him.”

That’s not comforting in this world of theirs, but Kit still finds herself relaxing her press on the accelerator.

And she regrets this choice of action immediately when Esmé’s hand comes to rest on her knee. “It was very... noble of you to pick me up.” There’s an undeniable hint of mockery in her voice and nary a trace of genuine gratefulness. “Must have been a difficult decision.”

Kit doesn’t answer, but nor does she try to get Esmé hand off. Human touch is in short supply in this world, it despite everything it feels comforting. That obviously changes when Esmé inevitably starts sliding her hand up Kit’s leg, nails dragging along the fabric of her pants. Now would be the time to put a stop to this, but Kit is uncharacteristically frozen. Esmé reaches her thigh and then goes for the button of her pants.

Which is the moment her inner wrist comes in contact Kit’s stomach, and she immediately jerks her hand back as if she’d been burned. Kit doesn’t need to look at her to know Esmé is stunned, her temporary silence is enough.

Her hand darts out again, moving Kit’s jacket out of the way and exposing her middle.

“You’re pregnant?” she shrieks, loud enough for Kit to flinch. “Have you lost your mind?!”

“It wasn’t planned,” Kit replies tersely.

“You do realize there are ways to fix problems like this, right?” Esmé asks, voice still laden with disbelief.

The very thought makes Kit press harder on the accelerator as she is overwhelmed with emotion and finds no other outlet for them. She’s not going to cry in front of Esmé.

This time Esmé doesn’t react to the change in speed. “Who’s the father?”

Her gut instinct is to ignore the question, even though there’s really no reason to keep Dewey’s existence a secret anymore. What’s the other side going to do, kill him? There’s no reason, Dewey’s work no longer involves gathering evidence to put firestarters in jail, so why should they care that he’s alive and working?

“Dewey Denouement.”

“Dewey Denouement isn’t real,” Esmé says. “Or he’s dead.”

Kit sighs. “He’s real. And alive. And he’s the father.”

Esmé covers her eyes with one hand and sighs dramatically. “Immaculate conception would have been more understandable,” she asserts.

Kit doesn’t answer.

Esmé removes the hand again and out of the corner of her eye Kit can see her giving her a surprisingly serious look. “Does your side have any qualified doctors? Or a midwife?”

Kit frowns. “What?”

“Do you even know what the mortality rate is amongst women giving birth without professional help?” Esmé asks, sounding increasingly disturbed. “Imagine dying in childbirth during the apocalypse, that would be very not in, darling.”

“You still care about what’s ‘in’, do you?” Kit asks, because she doesn’t know how else to react to Esmé unexpected concern.

“Dying has rarely, if ever, been in,” Esmé says, then adds, “I’m serious. We have a couple of doctors who used to work at Heimlich Hospital in our ranks. They could help you, when the time comes.”

There should be something fundamentally wrong with considering letting some firestarter help her give birth, but Kit finds herself doing it anyway. Sure, almost all of her associates are trained in first aid, but there are no real doctors amongst them anymore. And while there are plenty of books on childbirth and care in their libraries, actual experience with the process must be vital.

Esmé must sense her wavering resolve, because she pops open the glovebox and fishes out Kit’s common place book (she still remembers that Kit keeps it there during missions, that’s almost flattering) and a pen, flipping it open and writing something down. “This is the address of one, he lives in the Free Zone, so unless you people are banned from entering the safest place in the world, you should be able to get to him.”

Kit almost tells her that, actually, all known VFD members have been banned from the City by the authorities, and they’ve had to create false identification papers by the hundreds and brush off even the oldest disguises to keep moving freely. Obviously the tunnels are still safe, and they will remain so no matter what, but sometimes you need access to the streets.

Esmé tosses the book back where she found it, “Please consider it. I would hate to see you dead.”

Kit feels tears threatening to form in her eyes again. She was never this emotional before she got pregnant. She takes a minute to compose herself, then speaks, “Thank you, Esmé.”

“You can thank me once you’ve safely delivered the ghost’s spawn and both of your made it.”

“Please don’t call my baby a ‘spawn’,” Kit says, but she finds herself smiling despite it all.

Esmé makes a dismissive sound, then asks, “Boy or girl?”

“Girl,” Kit replies.

“Is that a fact or a feeling?”

“Just a feeling.”

Esmé scoffs. “Typical. Got a name picked out yet?”

“Not yet.”

“How about Gigi?” Esmé asks. “As a show of gratitude for my help.”

“I’d rather not advertise your involvement,” Kit says. “If I can help it.”

She doesn’t need to look at Esmé to know she’s rolling her eyes. “You people are absurd, shouldn’t your safety be more important than anything?”

“I’m afraid some people will never accept it if I seek help from your side,” Kit says, and she knows it’s true.

“Then I guess we’ll just keep it between us, won’t we, darling? I can be discreet.” 

Kit lets out a bark of laughter, which morphs into a series of half-hysterical giggles. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” she finally manages to say.

Esmé doesn’t sound offended when she replies, “You forget, I’m a very good actress.”

There’s no denying that. Hell, if it weren’t for Jacques, Esmé would be married to Jerome by now, and they wouldn’t have the penthouse, the last safe place in the City for them.

Actually, Kit can’t help but gloat a little at the thought. “Too bad about Jerome,” she says.

Esmé waves her hand casually through the air. “Easy come, easy go,” she declares breezily. “He was a terrible, cowardly little man anyway.”

Kit feels unexpectedly defensive of her brother’s lover all of the sudden. “He is a kind, generous, well-meaning man.”

“Exactly. It’s incredibly pathetic.”

Kit decides not to argue any further, and the irony of doing that during a conversation about Jerome isn’t lost on her. “Where should I drop you off?”

“The edge of Zone 3 would be nice,” Esmé answers. Then she leans further back in her seat and sighs. “Wake me up when we get there.”

Kit finds herself feeling sad at the apparent end to their conversation, but she doesn’t want to appear desperate to talk with someone other than her associates, so she floors it and lets Esmé doze. Burning things down can be tiring. She knows from personal experience.

[illwork4anime]

Excerpt from Done with Love Ch 2

Scene: Dinner with Team 10

Just sharing some of my favorite scenes from my In-Progress fic! Hope you guys enjoy!

Done With Love - Ch 2 [FF | AO3]

Ships: Hints of Shikasaku, one-sided ChojiIno, InoSai

Scene summary: Sakura agrees to finish some work with Shikamaru over dinner, but the unexpected addition of his teammates complicates things. 

Shikamaru had agreed to meet and finalize her plan over dinner. Tsunade wanted it in by tomorrow, and Shikamaru had made her promise to treat him to dinner for having to work on it in the evening.

She's walking into a BBQ restaurant she knows Team 10 visits quite frequently, but that she's never been to. In the back, she finds Shikamaru is lounging in a booth but as she approaches, she notices he's not alone.

Choji is across from him, already grilling meat on the table grill.

"If you think I'm paying for him too, you're insane." Sakura says, sliding into the bench next to Shikamaru. He huffs, but moves aside to let her in.

"It was an accident. I told him where I was going tonight, and he insisted on coming along." Shikamaru explains.

Sakura groans internally, and while she has nothing against Choji, this situation was embarrassing enough without an audience.

"I'm right here, you know." Choji interjects between bites, then to says to Shikamaru, "I did ask if it was a date, didn't I? You could have just told me the truth if you didn't want me here."

Shikamaru and Sakura blush bright red and say together, "It's not a date!"

Choji looks even more skeptical after the swift denial, but then says "Shikamaru filled me in about your training, Sakura, and I gotta say, you are so lucky to have him helping you out. He's the smartest guy I know. You'll be back in the game in no time." Choji gushes.

Sakura blanches at the 'back in the game' comment, but she thanks him quietly. Then she shoots a glare at Shikamaru for oversharing and Sakura sees a bashful look on his face telling her he's not comfortable with praise.

"Hey, don't go making promises I can't keep." Shikamaru says, averting his eyes from Sakura's gaze.

Recognizing an opening, Sakura pulls out some pages from her bag. "I brought those changes with me. I met with everyone today, and they're all on board."

Shikamaru scans the top page, arms crossed and not bothering to take them from her hands.

They'd agreed on getting a genjutsu mentor and someone to help with speed training. The general strategy focused on enhancing her current skill set. The base defense and evasion techniques she'd learned from Tsunade were solid but could be rounded out with the additional speed training. When Sakura did have to go on the offense, Shikamaru had explained, she needed more options than just punching her way out. That's where genjutsu came into play.

They'd selected Kurenai for genjutsu and, after a lot of back and forth, Rock Lee for speed training. When she'd gone to meet Lee to ask for his help, he'd been training with Team Gai. Much to her utter mortification, one word to Gai and she was suddenly worked into their training schedule. Monday, Wednesday, Friday at 6 am. Oh joy. That left Tuesdays and Thursdays for her training with Kurenai.

To top it off, she'd get strategic lessons from Shikamaru in the afternoons. She'd been surprised when he had volunteered to meet daily but didn't argue. He didn't give details on the training no matter how much she pressed, but she had a feeling this was just an elaborate ruse to give him several hours a day to watch clouds while she worked her ass off. After having to join Gai's team, an afternoon of cloud watching sounded just fine to her. If she played her cards right, Shikamaru might not even notice if she snuck a nap in too.

"Looks fine," Shikamaru says a little too quickly for Sakura to believe he had actually read a single word.

"Did you even read it?" Sakura presses.

"Ah," he lies, leaning back.

"Shikamaru can speed read. He's like a super genius." Choji defends before waving down the waitress, "Another order of beef ribs, please!"

"Geeze, why did I even bother coming if you were just going to okay everything without reading it anyway?" She mumbles to herself, shoving the papers back in her bag. "If that's all, I'm just going to get going then." She pulls her wallet out to pay him for his meal. A promise was a promise.

"You're already here. Might as well stay and grab a bite," Shikamaru says casually. He's still not looking her in the eye. She doesn't miss the curious glance Choji shoots Shikamaru. It's gone in a moment, as the waitress brings Choji's order of Beef Ribs.

"Yeah, Sakura! You have to stay. They have the best Beef Ribs in the village." Choji insists.

She looks at Shikamaru one more time, trying to gauge a reaction but his face is carefully blank. Well, she might as well enjoy the meal she's paying for. And it did smell heavenly.

"Okay fine," She assents, and Shikamaru's posture softens slightly. The waitress takes her order, and as Shikamaru hands her the menus, his shoulder brushes against Sakura's. The booths are small, and the grill added to the heat. She slides a little farther to the edge of the booth feeling crowded.

There's a terrifying moment of silence. Despite popular opinion, Sakura was no good at small talk. She was scrambling for something to say when she hears in a sing-song tone, "Oh, Forehead!"

Ino is waving and headed over to the table. Great. Shikamaru is grumbling something under his breath too. The sentiment is shared it seems.

"Ino, over here!" Choji waves her over. He's about to move over for her to sit, but she slings and arm around him and leans into his shoulder.

"Hey, Choji. Didn't see you there," She says breezily. Choji preens under the attention. Interesting. She glances at Shikamaru looking for confirmation that the fondness she was seeing from Choji was correct. His eyes are narrowed on Ino, and his expression is just sour enough. He crosses his arms and the action has his arm pressing against hers again in the small booth.

"Don't you guys look chummy," Ino says to a little too sweetly to Sakura, "You're not trying to steal my team away are you?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question, Ino-pig?" Sakura returns, referring to Ino joining the last Team 7 mission. Ino just giggles.

"Shikamaru's mentoring her. They came to figure out the details," Choji explains, and Sakura wishes he hadn't.

"Over dinner? That doesn't seem like you, Shikamaru" Ino questions.

Just when she thinks this can't get any more humiliating, Choji responds, "They already said it wasn't a date. That's why I'm here."

Ino's glancing between them, eyes lingering on their arms pressed together. Sakura's bright red again, leaning away as far as she can in the small booth.

Ino belts out a laugh, "Of course not! Can you imagine? Shikamaru would never go for a girl like Sakura."

Even though she has no interest in him, Sakura's still put off by the blatant refusal. What did she mean 'a girl like Sakura' anyway? She was about to ask but stops herself, afraid that it would be misconstrued as genuine interest in Shikamaru.

Surprisingly its Choji that comes to the rescue, "What's wrong with Sakura? She's nice and almost as smart as Shikamaru."

Normally Ino wasn't cruel for the sake of it, and they had come quite a way from fighting over Sasuke. So, what was her problem? Sakura glanced between the three teammates, trying to gauge the strange dynamic.

"I guess so," Ino say, "But Shikamaru likes blondes, remember?" She twists a lock of her platinum blonde hair as she says it, and Sakura doesn't miss the gesture. Maybe she was jealous. Maybe Ino and Shikamaru had some history she didn't know about.

"Plus Sakura only has eyes for Sasuke." Ino reminds them.

"I'm over him, Ino." The words are out of Sakura's mouth be fore she can stop them. There's a tense moment of silence.

"Really?" Choji asks, eyebrows high and sitting up a little in his seat.

"Since when?" Ino challenges.

"For a while now, not that it's any of your business" Sakura grumbles, shrinking under the scrutiny of all three of them.

"Well, then, maybe there is a chance." Ino says glancing between Sakura and Shikamaru before saying, "They would have the smartest babies ever, wouldn't they Choji?" Sakura doesn't think Ino notices, but as Ino leans in, her breasts press into Choji's shoulder and he goes bright red.

"Enough Ino, we get it." Shikamaru says, finally speaking up. He only looks slightly annoyed, but his clenched fist under the table gives away that he's suppressing stronger emotions to Sakura.

"Alright then," Ino's smile drops to a pout and she pulls away from Choji, "I can tell when I'm not wanted," Ino says, vying for sympathy. Choji bites right away.

"He didn't mean it like that," Choji insists, "Eat dinner with us. We're just getting started."

Ino continues to look put off, but her mouth twitches up under the reassurance. "Thanks, but I'm actually here with Sai."

Choji deflates, "You're here on a date?"

Ino brushes off the comment. "I'm not really into labels," she lies, probably meaning he hasn't said one way or another. Knowing Sai and how socially ignorant he was, Sakura doubted he even knew Ino was hitting on him at all. "But we'll see where it ends up afterward." Ino finishes suggestively winking at Sakura before flitting away.

The atmosphere is heavy in her absence. Choji is picking at the food on his plate, sighing heavily, and Shikamaru watches with a frown.

"Hey," Shikamaru says to Choji, "Let's get another round."

Sakura get's the feeling this is the best way to cheer Choji up, but is surprised when he says, "I'm not that hungry anymore."

Shikamaru's fist clenches harder under the table.

"Come on, my treat. Whatever you want." Shikamaru insists. The waitress arrives with Sakura's order just then.

"Really?" Choji perks up, "Even the deluxe meal?"

"I'd be offended if you got anything less," Shikamaru jokes.

"You heard the man!" Choji shouts to the waitress, "One deluxe meal on him!"

As the waitress backs away with a strained smile, Sakura studies Shikamaru from the corner of her eye. He relaxes at his friend's spirits returning. He was a good friend, and Sakura felt a wave of respect for him.

Shikamaru must feel her gaze. His eyes slide to hers and although her first reaction is to quickly look away, she doesn't back down, silently asking a thousand questions. Shikamaru lets out a huff that seems to say, 'don't ask'.

"Hey, Sakura, are you gonna eat that?" Choji interrupts the moment and Sakura is shooing him from her plate.

She'd corner him later. They did have plenty of time after all.

[thedistantstorm]

Project Compass 07

Read Along on AO3 Here

<< Previous Chapter <<  >> Next Chapter >>

This time: A reunion between Thrawn and an old colleague. Ivant and Ar’alani discuss dangerous complications.

Next time: A conversation in Sy Bisti. Thrawn gives Ezra good news.

-/

Karyn Faro tipped her head in the direction of the hold. "Unload the rest of the cargo, if you would," She directed her crew in a tone that wasn't quite commanding, but left little room to argue. The two men standing just off the ramp turned in a hurry, nodding politely as they passed.

"It is good to see you," Vah'nya spoke in Sy Bisti. Beside her, Thrawn stared at Faro as if seeing a ghost. Both women had left him to stew while they conversed.

"They speak it too," Faro answered. "They're good kids, the both of them."

"Trustworthy?"

"Enough to be here and unload the Admiral's meiloorun shipment." Laughing, she continued, "I'm serious. I regret ever letting her try them that time on the Chimaera."

"It was a good gateway for discussion, though," Vah'nya smiled but got to business. "I know he meant to meet you, but Captain Ivant is busy at present."

The other woman looked breezily past Thrawn and around the empty Hangar. "I'm sure." She waited for Vah'nya to act, and when she didn't, Faro spoke again. "Go in and question them about the ordeal. They already know to expect it and don't need me to hold their hands."

"You're sure?"

"Positive," Faro glanced at Thrawn before a casual smile unfurled across her lips. “We’ll be outside.”

Once Vah’nya was satisfied, Karyn Faro stepped around Thrawn, moving towards the far wall of the hangar. He wasn’t far behind her, and, since he was taller, it was easier for him to catch up. They were nearly to the far end of the hangar before he spoke. “The Empire does not know you are here.”

She stopped dead in her tracks, Thrawn catching the lack of forward momentum in his periphery and turning immediately. “No,” She bit off the beginning of the habitual ‘sir,’ and there was something sad about the almost curl of her lips as she appraised him, drawing her own conclusions. “Of course he didn’t tell you,” She said, then rolled her eyes, giving clear voice to her disdain. “I don’t know why I thought he would.”

It was another few steps, when they were furthest from the transport ship’s dock, before she spoke up again. Thrawn was plenty patient and willing to wait her out. “I’m not with the Empire anymore,” She said carefully.

At that, Thrawn frowned. His question took her by surprise. “Was it because of your association with me that they dismissed you?” He asked.

The conversation stopped awkwardly again, Faro looking up at Thrawn twice while trying to choose how to word things. Experience told her that stress was stored in the tense line of his upper back, his words were soft and clipped, indicative of anger without any real outlet.

“Dismissed… They didn’t dismiss me,” She admitted slowly, watching his face for a reaction. “I defected.” Of all the times she’d said it - to former colleagues, to allies who had once been enemies - this time her voice held the most certainty and resolve.

Grim was the only word that could be used to describe the twist of Thrawn’s lips. “You narrowly escaped the fate of the Seventh Fleet over Lothal, and your command was secured. What would possess you-”

Her dark eyes burned into his glowing ones. “Loyalty,” She interrupted. “Tens of thousands, just - gone - overnight.” Her eyebrows drew closer together. “And it was nothing to them. And you… You were in their inner circle, Thrawn,” She stumbled ever so slightly over the lack of title, but continued all the same. “You were supposed to be trusted. They glossed over you like you never existed.”

“I am an alien,” Thrawn pressed. “I was never going to be trustworthy.”

“True, but you got results.”

“Until I didn’t,” He argued, looking away, contemplating something deep within his mind. His face didn't shift from its usual brand of stoic. Silence fell over them again, the conversation having an ebb and flow like ocean waves.

“I didn’t want anything to do with the Rebellion,” She said plainly, when it was clear he wouldn't say anymore. “Though I kind of understand them now. I think they might have a shot at taking out the Empire They destroyed Stardust, you know. Over Yavin."

"Syndulla's group?"

"Leia Organa's, technically," Faro didn't appear impressed about that, but she smirked and added, "Syndulla was a bit busy having a baby. Apparently Pryce didn't succeed in wiping Jarrus out, not for lack of trying." Again, she rolled her eyes but he could see begrudging respect in them, all the same.

They swung back around, moving slowly back to their starting point. "Bridger will want to know more about the child. "

"She had a boy? Faro's eyebrows raised. "Vanto will tell him, sir, you don't have to worry about the details."

Ignoring the slip up, Thrawn changed directions tactfully as he recognized the opening. "The Captain has not been forthcoming with information with either Bridger or myself. I assume you've been providing the Ascendancy with reports, yes?"

"Yes," Karyn nodded, then pressed,"Look, if he hadn't told you, I'm sure he has a reason. Hell," She held back her snort, "Maybe he doesn't know how to handle the role reversal. He did spent most of his career serving you."

"You're deflecting, Karyn Faro." Thrawn seemed to draw himself up to his full height, looking through her with a focused glance. "You know something you aren't telling me."

"Well I know I didn't miss you reading my mind," She quipped. "Even if it is damn impressive."

"Your newfound willingness to speak casually in my presence will not distract me, either. You know this." Thrawn guided them just short of the transport and turned to do another circuit through the empty Hangar.

"Look, I can't tell you what Vanto's doing. I don't know. I make my deliveries, the Admiral takes whatever she's supposed to - sometimes I see her, most times I don't - and then I go back to the Outer Rim and do it all over."

"And you rendezvous always with this vessel?"

"This one or the Steadfast."

Thrawn didn’t hesitate to push further. "And how exactly did you come to be in contact with the Admiral?"

Faro paused. Thrawn waited for her to catch up. "I contacted Vanto." He continued their circuit at a sedate pace. She remembered this. If she closed her eyes, the ex-Imperial could imagine them traversing the upper deck of the Chimaera. He walked slower when inviting his subordinates to talk, when there was something he was looking to for. When he had no time for others, he would walk so fast most people ended up paces behind him. All except Vanto, who remained one step behind but on pace, shorter legs be damned. On some level, she thought, maybe he deserved this, whatever fresh hell he was experiencing with his people, Vanto, and the Jedi who she had absolutely no desire in meeting. "They knew you were missing before you missed a scheduled data-dump." She smirked. “Yeah, I found out about that,” She said. “Can’t say I blame you, now.”

"How?"

"You know how," She said. "Vanto was in my office."

"With Ronan watching."

"Yes, he was underfoot the entire time," She agreed, "But our admirals expected us to be better than that." If the mood was lighter, she suspected Thrawn might smile, even if it was just with a knowing gleam in his eye. He did not, so she pressed on. "Ar’alani wanted an alternative means of communication. Apparently, she trusted you and Vanto’s judgements enough to consider me an option."

"And so you contacted them."

"As soon as I found out." Her dark eyes narrowed as she looked up at him. "Look, you know how Vanto is," Faro said, looking conflicted. Her posture said she wanted to say more, but she couldn't. And as someone who rarely held her tongue, that was significant. "I can't really say more than that."

"This version of Vanto is not the same," Thrawn said. "He cannot bear to be in my presence."

"So that's what this is about," She said, understandingly. Thrawn hated it.

"My decisions over Lothal, while necessary, were regrettable. He sees me as responsible, and I cannot blame him. I am."

"Yes and no. Your back was against the wall, and I think they all knew it.” Faro pursed her lips just a little. “I know you probably don’t need my advice,” She began carefully. Respect flavored her tone. “But I think you should talk to Vanto. Alone.”

“I have not had the opportunity.”

“Then make one.” Faro looked back to see Vah’nya exiting the ship, a series of crates stacked onto hover carts. Her lips thinned into a polite smile. “We should get back to the others.”

-/

“We have two issues.”

Captain Ivant sat at the desk in his office, his workstation and holo projectors whirring softly as they displayed data. As if sitting in the chair across from his desk and not in her command chair upon the Steadfast, Admiral Ar’alani gave him a stern look.

When he finished outlining the first, Ar’alani asked, “You are certain of what you saw?”

“I am.”

“I will speak with Vah’nya upon our arrival. Perhaps I’ll take her with me for a time.”

“That will only make him more curious, assuming he noticed.” She levied her gaze upon him once more. “And I do assume he did,” Ivant continued, answering what was sure to be the next question. Despite the plushness of his chair, he shifted slightly, leaning forward to take in some of the data being sent to him. "Besides, she is needed here."

Ar’alani considered it. “He will not have any basis for comparison, and there is no logic behind it. It will bother him, but so long as he does not receive any other indication of the occurrence, it will remain an irksome anomaly.”

“I know he’s trying to figure out our goal here. It’s been six months and we’ve only gone after small-time smugglers. Nothing related. He’s not good at complacency.”

“No, he is not. This is the first instance you are aware of?”

“Yes.” Ivant stopped swiping through data and pulled up something for closer inspection. The Admiral did not continue the discussion of Thrawn, so he moved onto the next, more pressing situation. “Did your sweep recover any listening devices from the Grysk ship?”

“The techs are still combing the debris. Should we?”

“The frequencies jump around a bit in the collection data from your time aboard their vessel. Not enough for a long-grange broadcast, but enough to alert anything in the immediate vicinity.”

“Would it correspond with the Jedi using his abilities under duress?”

He pulled up a different set of data and combined it with what he'd already been studying, explaining, “No, it wouldn’t jump like that. I’m using his training data as a control. The interference he creates with his Force abilities is typically a deviation of negative point zero four. This is tiny blips of positive distortion over time. Like a Chiss monitoring device making a short range sweep.”

Ar’alani leaned back in her seat. Her hand cradled her chin for a moment as she thought. “Be plain in what you are saying.”

“You found evidence that the Navigators Faro and her crew brought back to us were on that ship at some point. Eli swiped along some data, highlighting it. Aboard her command ship, the Admiral saw the red borders appear around it in real time. “The readings are comparable to our own equipment because it is our equipment.”

“And the Grysk were studying it? They have seen it before. It is useless to them.” Ar’alani paused at Ivant’s brisk head shake. “Something else,” She realized. “Speak, Captain.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Ivant said. “Both girls reported being summoned for a routine physical prior to the attack. They were given a booster of some sort - neither asked for what. I believe the devices were implanted subdermally. The two recovered have an incision about two centimeters wide on their deltoid made by their captors, which is consistent with the charts we pulled from the military database.”

“The rest, if you please,” Ar’alani waved a hand. “I follow so far.”

“I believe the original Grysk attack was a setup. Misleading intel, incomplete backups, the gaps in the data are intentional. The ships attacked were pre-selected. Possibly wounded before the Grysks arrived to finish the job.”

“Why go through that trouble implementing a listening device just to kill the crew?”

“The Grysks tend to keep persons of interest alive to see if they can exploit them. If they were kept alive, we would recover them. I don’t believe for a minute they were trying to spy on the Grysks.”

“You believe this was an attempt to look into the program,” It wasn’t a question.

Still, he answered. “Yes, Admiral,” Ivant said, eyes hard. “I do.”

Ar'alani spoke into a separate comms device, her voice clipped and dangerous as she ordered another sweep and the immediate quarantine of the Navigator's recovered body. The not quite sheepish - or, as Ivant had come to understand it, Chiss sheepish - voice of the lieutenant on the other end was quick in coming. They'd already found the remains of one of the implanted spying devices.

-/

Ezra stood in the doorway to his and Thrawn's quarters for a second too long, Un'hee at his side. She quaked in sympathetic distress, but kept a brave face. "They are frightening," She said softly in Basic. "But we are stronger than them."

He nodded. He didn't tell her how he wished he had his lightsaber. In fact, he didn't say much of anything, just focused on not letting her feel just how unsettled he was. Her Sight was strong, he knew that from working with her and getting to understand how Navigators did what they did, how they perceived the Force. He doubted he was entirely successful.

But Un’hee simply sat with him, silent but present. He knew he needed to meditate, but right now, the cold made his hands shake and he didn't have it in him to close his eyes and keep them that way.

He heard her keying something on her datapad, and another Navigator appeared a few moments later, allowing themselves entry to the suite. They were very young, maybe five or six years old. Un'hee smiled at them, and her residual fear seemed to melt away like it had hardly been there at all. "Navigator Ke'hala," She began, and the rest of her words seemed to melt away, fuzzy and unknowable. Ezra didn't pretend to understand it, instead focusing to try and convince his rapidly beating heart to stop thundering in his ears. He'd seen horrible things, but nothing like that.

[darklesmylove]

Pull Me Under ch 1 | alarkling

sequel type au for king of scars, check it out on ao3 as well!

For the first time, they were alone.

Nikolai watched the Darkling with a caution that was thinly veiled, his hazel eyes hard and troubled and haunted with fear as he casually sat on the edge of his bedroom desk, his arms lazily folded over his chest. The Darkling mirrored his body language, arms loosely crossed as he leaned against the bedpost, regarding Nikolai with those infuriatingly amused silver eyes. It seemed with every subsequent passing second he was becoming more and more... himself, his appearance growing more beautiful, muscles hardening his lean frame, his skin paling to ivory, the lines of his features softening and sharpening to graceful, effortless beauty.

A strange thought, that someone so beautiful could harbor so much darkness.

Nikolai shifted. They hadn't spoken a word, a strange challenge in the air as they stared at each other. Who could be more relaxed, more unbothered, more nonchalant. More strategic. More cunning.

Uncomfortableness pricked across his skin as he was maddeningly aware of every single one of his movements being carefully analyzed by one of the most powerful grisha to ever exist. More likely than not the man was cataloguing some gleaned information away to use against him later.

"I admit your survival was not in my top ten list of things I wanted to see happen." Nikolai spoke first, careful to keep his words even, a hint of the playful sarcasm present that he used with everyone. Now it seemed fundamentally wrong in the face of this ancient power.

"I'm sure many would agree with you." The Darkling hummed in return, the picture of ease as he quirked an eyebrow in some mild semblance of challenge.

Nikolai felt his cool crumbling significantly faster than he had initially hoped. He needed answers, he needed to get this demon out of him and he was more than willing to sacrifice his pride to do so.

"What did you do to me." His words carried the echo of surety, but was not quite convincing enough to either set of ears.

The Darkling canted his head, a mockingly thoughtful expression passing over his graceful lips. Silence hung in the air; the Darkling knew he had a handle on control and he was savoring it to the very fullest.

"Tell me about Alina and maybe I'll consider helping you, otkazats'ya king," he responded breezily, though Nikolai didn't miss the flicker of something in his quartz eyes. Longing, maybe?

A weakness then.

A faint inner voice angrily chided him. That weakness was Alina, and he would never exploit her for his own gain again. That much he had promised himself.

"Alina Starkov," Nikolai tapped his lips, words light, "Short, spunky little thing, has a strange aversion to power, immune to my charms. Ghost white hair and perpetually dark bags underneath her eyes that somehow make her beauty even more glorious. Married to a quite irksome tracker." The Darkling's jaw tightened quite obviously with something between jealousy and irritation. He stared at Nikolai with calm, cool anger, expectant.

They both knew that hadn't been what the Darkling meant.

A hollow sigh escaped Nikolai's lips.

"Still powerless, so she is of no use to you anymore. She's happy. We don't speak often."

The Darkling's gaze averted, something soft passing over his features. "Usefulness. Something I have had much time to contemplate on."

Nikolai had no reply to that.

Had that just been some sort of twisted admission of how he truly felt about her? Or was this more of his infamous manipulation?

He had known there was something powerful that had bound the Darkling and Alina together, but maybe Nikolai had underestimated the depth of their emotional connection.

The Darkling straightened his shoulders, suddenly all cold, hard edges. The sight was almost a relief; now this was the Darkling that Nikolai knew and loathed.

"Merzost is not within the natural order, I trust you have at least come to that basic conclusion by now," he cooly murmured, "It lives on once it has been brought into this world, it cannot be expunged any more than the air or the sea or the sky. But it can be dispersed, it can be... transferred." His gaze flickered down to Nikolai's hands, something satisfied present underneath his impassive demeanor. It didn't matter. Hope had already rooted deep in Nikolai's heart, dangerous in its strength.

"What do you want?" Nikolai questioned, pausing before adding a sarcastic, "I wouldn't suppose you'd be interested in my hand in marriage. That's quite a popular commodity currently." He instantly felt the urge to cringe as the Darkling flashed him the blankest, emptiest stare he could have possibly fathomed. A beat of his silent contemplation ensued.

Nikolai braced himself for what he would demand. The throne? The heads of the people he deemed traitors? All of Ravka?

"Alina. And a spot on the council to oversee the protection of Grisha. That is all I require, and I will rid you of the darkness running through your veins and rooted deep within your soul."

Nikolai sputtered. "I-I can't give you Alina, are you insane?"

The Darkling flashed him a look of mirth. "I know she cannot be given or claimed anymore than you or me. That much I have come to realize. No, merely request that she comes to Os Alta so that I may speak to her and that will suffice. That and a seat on the council. That is my price."

Protectiveness immediately clouded Nikolai's thoughts, he forced the irrational response to the back of his mind. Alina would want to know that the Darkling had survived, and she would be perfectly safe within the walls of the palace. As far as a seat on the council, he most definitely couldn't trust the man, but had he ever really trusted anyone in politics?

"How do I know you'll uphold your end of the deal?" Nikolai asked with feigned casualness. He had the wild urge to claw at his chest, to desperately scrape at the black veins crawling along his hands. This dark power had been inside of him for too long, they both knew it.

The Darkling arched a brow, his lips pressing together as if to stifle an amused laugh. "My word is good enough. You can lock me up if you please until it's done."

Nikolai resisted the instinctive temptation to say something inappropriately suggestive.

"Tolya and Tamar will escort you to temporary chambers for you to sleep in, which will be locked and patrolled on a 24 hour watch," he pushed himself up off the desk so he was standing at his full height, still an irritating few inches shorter than the Darkling. The man merely nodded in an unbothered manner, as if he wasn't a prisoner here. It was disconcerting, to say the very least.

That night, as Zoya chained Nikolai to his bed, he speculated that, in fact, he was more of a prisoner than the Darkling ever would be.

Irony, perhaps, was even wittier than he was.

***

It hadn't taken long for Nikolai to get in contact with Alina, and in doing so he had purposefully left his summons ambiguous at best. A coach had been sent for her safe passage; she was to arrive in Os Alta today. Soon, in fact. The thought of seeing her again sent a pang of something bittersweet through the very depths of his heart. Alina Starkov, the only person to see him for the man he truly was, the first woman to ever reject him so profoundly, the friend he hadn't spoken to in months due to his own shame.

His hands wrung together, clothed in black leather gloves that dimly reminded him of a certain master thief back in Ketterdam.

Zoya was nowhere to be found, having previously denounced him rather poisonously for so quickly giving in to the Darkling's demands. In fact, all of his council had been varying levels of furious with him.

But none of them were living with a demon inside of them. None of them had to endure that constant, harrowing terror and excruciating pain. And none of them had the promise of a cure dangling over their heads.

Genya stood beside him currently, and though she had undoubtedly suffered the worst at the Darkling's hand, she had also been the most forgiving of his quick surrender. She knew the horrors of merzost almost as well as he did. But today her amber eye was sparkling with nothing but excitement, her fiery red hair glowing in the pool warm daylight casting down from the expansive window. They hadn't seen Alina in a significant while, none of them visited Alina often upon her request to live a normal life, which had undoubtedly made the sting of losing her even worse. She had made it painfully clear she didn't want to be apart of their world any longer.

Nikolai grimaced. She might not have a choice anymore.

Without warning, the palace doors were drug open rather ceremoniously to reveal a figure clad in dull gray, hood falling back to expose a shock of white hair. In a flash, the two best friends were tangled in an embrace, leaving Nikolai to look on nervously as they exchanged laughs and tears, mournful giggles and happy cries filling the expansive room. When they finally broke away, Alina's golden eyes immediately went to Nikolai.

It felt as if someone had slammed a particularly hard fist into his gut. Suddenly he was three years younger, looking down at her with a carefree grin and a heavy emerald ring clutched tightly in his hand.

"Nikolai," she smiled gently, tears still shining in her eyes as she rushed into his embrace. He held her close, savoring the gentle, soothing scent of her, like a summer breeze twisting through a field of freshly bloomed flowers. She clutched at the rough fabric of his olive green uniform, he felt it bunch briefly as her grip tightened before releasing slowly, almost painfully so. He wanted to protest as she pulled away but, rather reluctantly, he held his tongue. Her golden eyes were no longer threatened with tears, a curious suspicion cautiously held about her. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, but why did you ask me here, Nikolai?" she questioned, raising a brow a calculated measure.

The look made him entirely too uneasy, it mirrored an expression that the Darkling wore all too often.

"I-" he hesitated, resisting the urge to take her hands in his. He looked to Genya for help, meeting her eye with an air of helplessness.

No one would want to be the one to admit it to her.

"Just come with us, Alina," Genya grimly determined, hooking her arm around Alina's and promptly tugging her towards the grand staircase. Nikolai trailed behind, feeling much less than a king as they ignored him in favor of murmuring softly to one another, Alina growing increasingly agitated with every passing second. Their steps echoed through the empty hallways as they drew nearer to the chambers they had found for the Darkling, an entirely new room seeing as Zoya had taken over his. Nikolai couldn't hear what Genya was saying, but as they stopped in front of the closed door, he registered Alina's gasp of horror, the anger flashing in her golden eyes.

And yet, there was no fear to her demeanor as she shook her head, her hands clenching tightly at her sides.

"Leave us be, this needs to be done alone," she snapped with a heated glare directed at neither of them. Genya reached forward, squeezing her hand in comfort before she retreated. Nikolai's heart ached to do the same, though he knew he would never dare. "You too, Nikolai," Alina harshly spoke, not sparing him a second glance and she threw the door open, immediately snarling something unintelligible at the inhabitant.

Nikolai turned, but hesitated, morbid curiosity prickling at his fingertips.

Quietly, he approached the door, which remained open a small crack, thankfully a large enough gap for him to peer through. Alina was gesticulating wildly, a storm of beautiful, wild anger as she punctuated each furious remark with increasingly hard smacks against the man's chest.

It was shocking, to say the least, to see the Darkling look almost remorseful under her gaze, taking every verbal and physical blow in somber silence. Nikolai shifted closer, his ears straining to hear what she could possibly be saying to him.

"... you have got to be fucking kidding me, Aleksander, you shouldn't be alive. You shouldn't be alive. You should have fucking stayed dead, saints, I mourned you, I cried for you. And you'd best believe if I still had my powers I would cut you in half right here..."

Nikolai's breath had hitched at hearing her address him by a name, not his title. Jealousy and disbelief grew thick at the back of his throat.

Just how close had they been?

"Alina..." The soft hum of the Darkling's voice, gentle as a caress, was almost jarring.

She visibly ground her teeth together. "You are not going to interfere in my life, Aleksander. I will not allow it. I dare you to try me, look me in the eye and tell me I'm playing around right now you stupid fucking idiot."

He took a step closer to her. Nikolai had to restrain himself from slamming open the door and beating him to the ground.

Alina tilted her chin up in defiance, meeting his gaze with a ferocity. The Darkling gazed at her with a startling reverence. "You can control the shadows Alina, do not act as if you don't know. As much as you wish it so, you will never be a normal otkazats'ya with a normal otkazats'ya life."

Her body visibly shuddered. "No."

He nodded, seemingly hesitating before lifting his hand. To Nikolai's utter surprise, a soft glow ignited in his palms, soothingly captivating. Dread pooled in the pits of Nikolai's stomach as, after a tense moment, Alina lifted her hand level with his, palm up.

Shadows collected at her slender fingertips.

The look they shared was devastating.

Alina's hand dropped, her expression shuttering. "I love Mal, Aleksander, and I swear if you try anything with him I will stab you a hundred more times until you are dead for good. I don't..." she paused, clearing her throat. "Say you know that there will never be anything between us again," she spoke more firmly than before. The Darkling stilled, falling silent. Slowly, cautiously, his hand reached out for hers, tugging at her fingers and intertwining them as he murmured, "I know." To Nikolai's dismay, she didn't resist the intimate gesture.

"You can still be a better man, Aleksander, but it can't be for my sake anymore," she said so quietly Nikolai almost missed the words. Then she pulled her hand away, turning and heading for the door.

Nikolai scrambled backwards, hastily darting a healthy distance away before leaning back against the wall with a charade of boredom. His heart was pounding in his throat as the door eased open. She shut it gently behind her, immediately startling at the sight of Nikolai a ways down the hallway.

"I thought I told you to leave, Nikolai," she frowned just slightly, though seemingly no actual anger backed the expression.

"I just decided to wait in case he tried to steal away my lovely bride to be," he grinned with his familiar air of confidence, though an insistent, hollow ache thrummed against his sternum in protest.

Alina had never looked at Nikolai the way she had just looked at the Darkling. He gave a slight, imperceptible shake of his head to dispel the gloomy thoughts as she made her way over to him. He was not in love with Alina anymore, and furthermore, neither him or the Darkling had managed to capture her heart. He offered his arm in a grand, overly dramatic gesture, making her snort, though she took it anyway without hesitation. "I hate men," she muttered, though a couple seconds later she matched his grin with an equally bright smile.

As they walked, making light, teasing conversation, he desperately tried to push away the haunting thought of shadows in her hands.

***

The atmosphere at the table was tense, to say the least, everyone finally reunited with the exclusion of Mal. There would always be an unspoken understanding between all of them after all they had been through, but for some reason now it felt like everyone was worlds apart. Alina was, quite surprisingly, the first person to speak, her voice ringing with an unusual authority.

"What the fuck happened. Why the hell is he here, alive. Furthermore, why are you dragging me back into all of this shit?"

Her golden eyes seemed ancient, haunted with unspoken knowledge. It made Nikolai's skin crawl.

"We just bumped into him on a lovely stroll on the Fold, I thought a reunion might be fun," Nikolai smiled wanly, canting his head as Alina shot him a look of irritation.

Zoya's features were pulled into a less than pleased scowl, her lips curling slightly. "We should have killed him already. Nikolai just seems to think that we should bow down to all of the Darkling's demands and let him waltz right back into power. Isn't that right, moi tsar?"

Her words dripped an acetic bitterness that rubbed at Nikolai's already frayed nerves. "I would prefer to not have a demon living in my roguishly handsome body for another second, but that's just me." He flashed her a smile across the table, she glowered in response.

Alina's gaze trailed over his body with an aura of thoughtfulness, lingering on his ungloved hands. When they had informed her of Nikolai's... friend, she hadn't seemed surprised in the slightest, murmuring something about the wound on her shoulder itching in the depths of the night, a silent answer to the call of merzost.

"I have no doubt the Darkling is the only one that can fix you, Nikolai," she let out a sigh that was impossibly heavy, "Merzost is a secret of the world that only he has unlocked. I won't risk tampering with it. If you want answers, he has them."

Genya's head tipped forward in a reluctant nod of agreement. "I think Alina is right."

Murmurs of unrest rippled across the table.

A throbbing sensation formed at Nikolai's temples. "He wants a spot on the council, is that really so horrible to accept? It will allow us to keep track of him even more easily if he's within the palace walls."

Zoya scoffed. "Yes, Nikolai, you'll keep track of him up until he kills you in your sleep."

"Zoya." Alina's voice was soft, but firm with warning. To the room's surprise, Zoya fell to silence. Brooding silence, but even so.

In fact the whole room remained quiet in favor of waiting for her to speak, as if she held all the answers in the palm of her graceful hand.

"I think it would be best for me to move back to Os Alta," she sighed, her words laced with dim irritation, as if the situation of their biggest, most powerful enemy coming back to life was a nothing more than a minor nuisance.

Nikolai's knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table, not doing well at hiding the jolt of surprise that traveled through his body. "Really, Alina? What about Mal? I don't think he'll-"

Her words were sharp as she cut him off. "Mal and I are no longer together. And furthermore, no man speaks for me. You need my help to fix this mess and to deal with him, and even if I don't want to come back I'm not going to abandon Ravka." Everyone was shocked to silence, staring at her with wide eyes. Nikolai's thoughts more than likely mirrored everyone else's.

Who was this new Alina? She was the same and yet somehow startlingly different. More confident, more sure of herself than she had ever been. Though it seemed that her sarcastic, irritable streak had remained.

She stood up, her hands braced against the wood of the table. "No objections? Great. I'll see you all tomorrow."

With that, she twirled on her heels, striding from the room and leaving them all in collectively stunned silence.

[anthropologicalhands]

ceg fic: impressionism (what completes this picture of me and you)

title: impressionism (what completes the picture of me and you) characters: heather & valencia, beth/valencia, heather/hector summary: Valencia admits that she once had a crush on Heather notes: not totally sure how happy i am with this fic, but at this point it has been sitting in my drafts for literal months now, so out it goes. Ao3 Link

~

In Heather’s opinion, one of Valencia’s best qualities is her willingness to throw herself wholeheartedly into her ventures.

Granted, Heather usually prefers to observe the hurricane from a comfortable distance, rather than letting herself get swept up in it all. But, on occasion, she doesn’t mind braving her way into the eye of the storm.

Like right now, when she is seven months pregnant and less chill than she has ever been in her life, Valencia showing up unannounced and armed with rose, apple juice, and her cosmetics bag is unequivocally a good thing. It’s been a while since they’ve been able to hang out, just the two of them. Hector is nice and Heather loves him and she’s happy he’s been here for her during the pregnancy, but sometimes his niceness is just too much, and almost as annoying as Rebecca’s casual thoughtlessness. In contrast, Valencia’s straight-shooting, take-no-prisoners determination is a gift.

Even better: unlike the people Heather is living with, Valencia is observant, and notices changes around her without Heather having to point them out.

 “What’s going on with Estrella?” Valencia pauses in front the aquarium on her way back to the sofa, bending down to get a closer look. “She looks different.”

 “That’s ‘cause she is different,” says Heather as she reclines on the sofa with her feet propped up, doesn’t bother to look up from her phone.

“What do you mean?” Valencia asks, perching on the ottoman to resume painting Heather’s nails. She’s been looking more relaxed recently, Heather finds herself thinking idly. Probably the result of a series of fortunate events—the small but tangible successes so necessary to building a business. Heather bets that taking on Beth as a partner has probably helped ease the stress.

And, well, also the fact that Valencia is now definitely getting some on the regular. There is no way that there isn’t a net positive effect of some kind.

“I mean that she’s a whole new starfish,” Heather explains, wincing as the Rebyl spawn punctuates her statement with a two-beat kick.

Valencia’s concentration doesn’t waver, but her eyebrows arch up high on her forehead in surprise, followed by a deep sigh of resignation. “Again? Seriously?”

“Yeah. At least this one looks more like the original Estrella, so I didn’t know it happened until this week, because last week was Rebecca’s turn to take care of her.”

Valencia purses her lips, shaking her head in disappointment at Rebecca’s carelessness. “Wow. I’m surprised you’re not more upset.”

Heather shrugs. “I probably should be, but I already got angry at the shower this morning for the wrong droplet-to-skin-volume ratio, so it’s not worth working up the extra energy.”

“That sucks,” says Valencia sympathetically, looking down at her handiwork, forehead wrinkling in concentration.

“It really does. These pregnancy hormones are sending my reactions totally out of whack. I am noticing, like, everything is too much, like this dress is super itchy and you still smell like Beth’s perfume from yesterday. I know that sounds creepy, sorry, but I can’t help it,” she adds, responding to Valencia’s weirded-out expression. “And to make things worse, now I’m missing other things. Like, stuff I actually care about.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I used to be able to tell things about people before they even know it. Like a wolf. I learned a lot about wolves before I dropped my wildlife biology class. Did you know that they can tell if a person is pregnant even before they know it themselves?”

“That must get awkward.”

“Right?” Heather asks, letting her head fall against the back of the sofa so that she is staring right up at the ceiling.  “But I’m not like that anymore – I used to be a wolf, and I knew things, but now I’m a pregnant wolf and I know nothing. Which doesn’t make any sense.”

Valencia’s eyes have gotten almost comically round as she follows this train of logic to its conclusion. “Oo-kay,” she says after a brief pause, setting down the bottle of violet nail polish and taking up the setting. “Speaking of Rebecca, you’re channeling her pretty hard right now.”

Heather rolls her eyes. “Yeah, that’s because she keeps texting me about the gestational periods for different mammals and it’s like, getting really annoying. I don’t care that elephant pregnancies last for two years, I’m human and I want it out now.”

Valencia’s head jerks up and she stares at Heather. “Two years?”

Heather gives a slow nod. “Yep.”

Valencia wrinkles her nose in distaste. “Ew.”

“Right? But it’s true.”

“Weird. Does Rebecca just know these things off the top of her head or is she Googling random animals every few days?”

“Who knows? But I’ll admit that she does follow up with cute videos of the respective baby animals, so that kind of helps, but only because my baby brain is really dumb and easy to please.”

“I mean, cute animal videos will do that,” agrees Valencia seriously.

Heather hums her assent.  “But seriously, my powers of observation are gone. I’m missing out on the subtle social cues that tell me about drama. And you know I love drama.”

Valencia hums her agreement, and they lapse into a comfortable silence. Heather texts Hector a non-negotiable request to pick up non-dairy milk and any bath products that might possibly have lavender in them.

“You’ll be back to normal and picking up drama in no time,” says Valencia soothingly. “It doesn’t matter if you miss a couple of things in the meantime.”

“It kind of does,” says Heather, looking up from her phone, peering over the swell of her abdomen down to Valencia. “It’s like missing an episode of The Nanny. It might not matter in the long run, but it’s still totally possible that a massive change happened while you weren’t looking and everyone is making references to an event that you don’t get and you have to piece it together without context, because streaming is not an option.”

“You’ve missed things before. No one is going to judge you for it.”

“No, I don’t miss things.”

Valencia’s responding hm is just judgmental enough to compel Heather to straighten up in her seat.

“I don’t,” she says, a hint of challenge entering her voice. “It was basically my superpower, before this parasite took it.”

“I’m not saying you don’t pick up stuff,” says Valencia, setting down the bottle of polish. “I’m just saying, that you can’t notice everything. It’s not possible.”

Heather’s eyebrows shoot high up her forehead; pregnancy might be messing with her senses, but Valencia’s carefully blank expression is radiating I have something on my mind loud and clear. “Okay, enough generalities – what did I miss?”

Valencia hesitates, but when she looks up to meet Heather’s eyes, she juts out her chin a little bit, firming up. “It’s nothing. And I’m going to tell you.”

“Good.”

“It might be weird.”

“Valencia, I am currently pregnant with Rebecca and Darryl’s baby. Is it that level of weird?”

“No, it’s not that weird,” says Valencia after a pause. “Right. Let me finish the varnish first.”

“Cool.” Heather opens up her phone and adds egg salad to the list. It’s not something she would normally eat, but whatever the Darryl baby wants, it’s gonna get. Maybe it will get bored by all the luxury and try to strike out faster.

Valencia screws the cap back on the bottle and travels back up to sit on the couch cushion besides Heather. “You’re going to love it –they have little white flowers on them.”

“Cool. I’d offer more specific compliments, except there is no way that I will be able to see them over my distended stomach and swollen ankles.”

“Which is why I uploaded the pictures on Instagram,” says Valencia breezily, waving her phone. “You can leave your comments there.”

“Right, exactly. Because that’s what Instagram is for, looking at things you can’t look at in your normal, day-to-day life.”

Valencia makes another noncommittal hum. Heather watches as Valencia continues to mess around with the bottles in her makeup bag, waiting patiently for her question.

“Well?” Heather prompts, when nothing juicy is forthcoming.

“Oh! Right.” Valencia startles a moment before composing herself, tucking her hair behind her ears. Interesting.

“Do you think you ever noticed anything about me that you don’t think that I was aware of?”

Sounds like Valencia is on another self-awareness kick. Well, Heather’s down to help. She tilts her head to one side, considering the question. “I doubt it. I mean, once you broke up with Josh, you’ve been pretty upfront about what you were thinking. Maybe when you and Beth were becoming a thing, but you figured that out pretty quickly, so it doesn’t count.”

“Okay but…”

“But what?”

“But what about me liking girls, specifically?”

“Specifically?” asks Heather, raising her eyebrows slightly.

Valencia takes a deep breath, setting her shoulders straight. “Yeah.”

Huh, interesting.

“Nothing specific,” says Heather thoughtfully, mentally flicking through their past hangouts for signs of Valencia’s interest in anyone beyond their direct social circle. “I mean, there was a distinct lack of interest in guys going on with you, like, even on our girls’ nights out, but when I saw you and Beth together I, like, knew that you had a vibe going on. I didn’t see that before with you and anyone else.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay, then you didn’t notice,” says Valencia, sounding vaguely offended.

“Notice what?”

Valencia takes a deep breath. “Beth might be the first girl I’ve dated, but she isn’t the first girl I liked.”

“That makes sense. Who were the others? Denise Martinez from high school? You’ve always complained about her. No, wait, it was Rebecca, right? I know she kissed you once—”

“She mentioned that?” demands Valencia, sitting up, spine ramrod straight, before she pauses and reconsiders. “Wait, no, I shouldn’t be surprised. But no. That was…something else. Which, in retrospect, might have helped me reconsider a couple of things, but that’s so not what I’m talking about right now.”

“Okay, so it’s not Rebecca. Cool. Then would it have—” she stops suddenly. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“So—”

Valencia nods. “Yep. I think I liked you.”

Valencia says it casually, but it’s a bombshell all the same. Heather blinks as she considers this new information, comparing this new context to all the things she knows about Valencia, like pulling away a curtain for a clear view. Their ease with one another, how quickly Valencia started seeking out Heather’s advice and was willing to let her slouch on her couch when she needed time to refill her chill bar during the most hectic days of Rebecca’s hasty wedding planning storm. Valencia had been remarkably lax about Heather setting very close boundaries.

“Oh, huh. Okay, didn’t see that at the time, but okay. That tracks.”

Valencia stares, incredulous. “That’s it? That’s your reaction?”

Heather considers the facts, how she had only known Valencia tangentially as Josh’s girlfriend, with a general idea that they were unsuited, but not understanding just how much until Rebecca brought her to Sugar Face for the first time, beaming and declaring that, if it was all right with her, Valencia might hang out with them a few times while she got over her own post-break-up blues. And she was kind of basic, but also acidic, and very fun and a little clueless and then she just stuck around.

“I mean, I don’t think I totally missed it,” clarifies Heather. “I thought I got a vibe on you for a little while there when I met you, but like, I was trying to figure out if you knew that or if it was just getting into the groove of having a girl group, but there was also the stuff where we were both trying to figure out what to do with our lives and then everything went down with Josh and Rebecca and it just, like, kept going down.”

Valencia nods, grimacing at the memory. “Yeah, it was a lot to process.”

“So much processing,” says Heather with feeling, eyes rolling heavenwards. After a beat, intrigue overtakes her surprise and she sits back up again. “So: how long did you carry a torch for me?”

Valencia gives a dismissive wave. “Not that long. After you started dating Hector I had an epiphany.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I realized that our tastes were way too different to ever work out.”

Valencia pulls a face to punctuate her statement, startling a laugh out of Heather.

“That kinda sounds like an excuse,” teases Heather, a little relieved. Valencia’s shoulders ease, and it’s obvious from the way she’s speaking that there isn’t jealousy or some sort of anguished feeling behind her declaration, and that’s soothing in a very Valencia way. She doesn’t want to stir up drama – she just wants to make things clear and straightforward.

“It really isn’t,” says Valencia, in the same tone she uses when critiquing Josh’s taste in formalwear.

“Okay, it isn’t.”

“I genuinely believe that your interest in Hector cleaved our chances as a couple completely.”

“Sure,” concedes Heather with a smile, “I know you don’t like Hector. Is it because he knows all of the embarrassing stories about you from when you guys were kids?”

“No. Why?” Valencia’s eyes narrow and her body goes rigid. “Why do you mention it? Did he tell you something? Was it about the Sleeping Beauty thing, because he really should know better than that—”

“No, he hasn’t,” says Heather immediately, because it’s true and if the way that Valencia’s perfectly sharp eyebrows are starting to furrow in the middle, if Heather doesn’t clear up that point immediately, there is a nonzero chance that Hector’s demise will be imminent upon walking through the door.

“Good.” Valencia leans back on the sofa, her face still thunderous. “At least his sense of self-preservation is intact.”

“I’ll get that story out of you, then,” says Heather, amused. “You really have nothing good to say about him, do you?”

“Hector is very symmetrical,” says Valencia primly. “And I am willing to admit that he’s been handling your pregnancy very well despite not actually knocking you up.”

“Thank you, I know that cost you something.”

Valencia nods, looking faintly martyred before she shifts position on the sofa, leaning against the cushions, her chin propped up in her palm. “So, you didn’t know I had a crush on you at all?”

“No, I missed that. Which is unfortunate, because it really is flattering.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, totally. You’re definitely a catch. So,” she drags out the word, starting to grin, her long-starved desire for gossip sniffing the air. “When did you know that you liked me?”

She’s pleased to see that Valencia relaxes completely at her teasing, whatever fears she has reassured by Heather’s reaction.

“I didn’t at the time,” admits Valencia. “It didn’t take that long to understand that I liked Beth, really, but I’ve been kind of unpacking stuff with her since we’ve started dating. You know what a good listener she is.”

“Right.”

“And I would keep talking, right, about times when I might have been attracted to other women, what I might have thought of them, and I would think about you and about how, when we first started hanging out, I was so giddy about having female friends for the first time in a long time, and you really helped me figure out what’s normal girl stuff and what wasn’t. And I was so excited to have such smart and attractive friends and I wanted to see you guys every day and your opinions really mattered to me—and I realized that there had been, like, two layers to how I was thinking about you, specifically.”

“Two layers, huh?”

“Yeah, both the core that, you were a cool person, but also like a filter on top of it that make things especially nice. Like the Amaro filter on Instagram. Which, incidentally, is the one I used when I posted your pedicure.”

“Got it.”

“Like, I wanted to be friends,” Valencia continues, insistent. “I absolutely wanted to hang out with you as a friend. But I also kind of wanted to impress you and…have you look at me in a certain way. Though, to be clear, that feeling isn’t really a part of our relationship now, that I was attracted to you. That is in the past. It’s important, but not, like, the defining thing about us. But it in our history and it was weird that you didn’t know about it.” Valencia deflates. “I’m sorry, is this making any sense? This isn’t meant to be a love declaration, or anything, and I’m worried it sounds like one, but it’s just—”

“Part of the history of our dynamic,” Heather finishes. “No, I get it. Human attraction is interesting and doesn’t really care about fitting neatly into romantic-platonic categories.”

“Exactly,” says Valencia, smiling. “Like, I just feel that it’s weird that you didn’t know that’s how I felt about you. You know everything.”

“Apparently not,” says Heather wryly. “But I’m glad you think so.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thanks for telling me. For the record, though, we totally would have been a hot couple in a parallel universe,” Heather adds. “Totally objectively speaking.”

Valencia laughs, her shoulders loosening. “I’ll drink to that.”

 “Yeah. And while you might not think the same about me, I do think you have good taste – I’m glad you met Beth. She’s very cool.”

“Aw, thank you.” Valencia beams, pressing her hand over her heart. “That means a lot.”

Heather smiles, a rush of affection for her friend coursing through her, sweeping aside the discomforts of the day. “Come on, let’s have a toast to your good taste and behaving like mature adults. Now gimme my apple juice.”

Laughing, Valencia does as she asks.