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absolutepokemontrash · 4 years ago

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MC’s half Demon, and they look AWFULLY familiar...

‘Kay guys, I got a different kind of stupid Headcanon to throw at you. Get ready!

Part 2 Lessons 1-5 Part 2.5 Group Retreat Lessons 10-12 Lessons 13-15 Part 3 Part 4

*ahem* picture if you will, it’s the day the exchange program is set to start. The student council (nix Mr. Kill All Humans, Weeb-supreme, and our Scummy Sweetheart) have assembled to welcome the new human student. All is going according to schedule, the portal opens up at eight am sharp, they hear the pitiful screams of the selected human who was not given a heads up about the whole thing, and the poor little human falls straight onto the marble floor.

There’s something a tad... off about this human don’t you think? After they’ve peeled their sorry ass off the floor they observed the assembled student council with an air of sophistication and self importance that no one expected. Their posture was perfect, their eyes sharp and calculating... they bared a striking resemblance to-

“Lucifer,” Diavolo looked to his right hand man, then back to the human. “The human kind of looks like you!”

And out popped four pitch black wings from the human’s back and two small horns out of the sides of their head, one horn was a bit bigger than the other. They even still had some of their down feathers! How cute!

((Content warning: Swearing (I have a potty mouth, forgive me), but that’s it.))

Luci-dad

So, the MC is Lucifer’s kid! Of course Mr. Prideypants immediately tries to recall exactly what little romp in the human world uh... spawned this half-human half-demon child of his. Good thing MC’s got the other parent on speed-dial.

“Please note, MC,” Lucifer pinched the bridge of his nose upon hearing Asmo take even more pictures of his newly discovered hellspawn. “I was not aware of your existence, if I was I’d-”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not upset.”

Lucifer blinked a few times in surprise. “P...pardon? You aren’t upset?”

“No, my parent told me that my father was a high ranking demon, and they bare no ill will against you. Though, I am looking forward to this whole... exchange program thing.”

Oh wow, that was easier than Lucifer thought. Damn. Well, he was a father... (let’s be real, he’s been parenting his brothers for thousands of years, and a good chunk of you sinners call him daddy)

MC is probably the most protected student at RAD, despite the fact that they have no visible security detail whatsoever. They didn’t want to be seen as... weak and pathetic.

Something about this human just... set the lesser demons on edge. Any talk of eating them was stamped out on the first day when they walked by. It’s like Lucifer himself was staring at them, daring the demons to try and bother the human. MC’s powerful presence kept them protected and feared.

...at least until dear uncle Asmo decided to do their hair one morning. All those ribbons may have looked adorable but they kind of ruined the intimidation factor.

MC loved to mess with the other students, keeping their lineage a secret for the first little while just made it so much funnier when the other demons tried to scramble out of MC’s way without looking like they were running from the ‘weak little human exchange student’.

Oh wow, what a sadist. Like father like child

Flying lessons are a must. Poor MC isn’t terribly good at controlling their wings, and their horns are still growing in so when they pop into their demon form the first thing they get is a sore skull. Ow... it sucks that Lucifer isn’t outwardly very sympathetic.

“Ow!” MC crashed face first into the grass in the backyard of the House of Lamentation. “Father! My wings are cramping! Can’t we practice this tomorrow?”

The sight of seeing his dear child crash face first into the ground had lost its hilarity after the first three times. Lucifer slowly lowered himself to the ground and crossed his arms as he stood over his incredibly grass-stained kid.

“MC, we’ve been ‘practicing this tomorrow’ for the past month. If you want to learn to fly you’re going to have to actually manage to stay in the air for more than three minutes.”

MC shot Lucifer a withering glare that only preteens were capable of, Lucifer matched it with his own much more sophisticated glare.

“You’ve been flying for over a thousand years! Don’t you have any tips that can actually help other than ‘don’t panic, you’ll look ridiculous’?”

Lucifer dragged a gloved hand down his face and looked around, the two were alone as far as he could see.

“MC,” Lucifer began. “When I was a young angel, I needed to learn how to fly with someone else.”

MC perked up. “Who?”

“Michael. The smug bastard picked up flying quicker than I did.”

“What’d you do?!”

Lucifer smiled at his child’s intense investment. “I practiced flying every day for five extra hours until I could do everything that Michael could do, just better.”

MC’s starry eyed interest died almost instantly upon hearing about the extra five hours of practice. “Humph, I bet I could outfly younger you and Michael with only two hours of practice a day.”

“Really now?”

“Yes! Watch!” MC shook off their wings and took off in a running start before shakily making it into the air. Their form was decent enough, and they weren’t shaking as much as the previous attempts. “SEE?!”

“Yes MC,” Lucifer smiled. “I can see.”

You know what else Lucifer could see? MC crashing right into a tree.

“Ouch...”

Okay... maybe they could halt practice a little early and order a treat from Madame Scream’s. A little sugar to refuel is needed when the end goal is crushing a mutual rival beneath their heels. Just some good old fashioned father/child bonding time!

MC has a smaller seat right next to Lucifer’s seat in the Assembly Hall. I will not compromise on this one.

For all your fluff needs, I give you: Lucifer teaching MC how to play the piano. He has a proud little smile on his face when his kid finally starts getting it. That’s all. Enjoy the image.

That one Uncle who gives you Alcohol at Family Gatherings (Mammon)

Yeah, when Mammon burst in late to the party and whining about everyone’s spamming him with texts to haul his scummy ass to the Assembly Hall, the last thing he expected was to see a mini-Lucifer.

“What the fuck am I lookin’ at?!”

The glare the two Lucifers gave the poor Avatar of Greed was enough to make him want to turn tail (uh, wing) and book it down the hall.

“Mammon, this is MC. They’re my child.”

“Hello.”

“...whaaaa..?” Mammon looked between the two, same glare, same intimidating aura, same annoyingly good posture.

Mammon scratched the back of his neck and looked over at his older brother. “Do I uh... still gotta babysit em’ if they’re not human?”

“The lake of Cocytus will melt the day I let you babysit without supervision.” Lucifer grumbled.

“I don’t need a babysitter!”

Despite Lucifer’s initial denial, Mammon and MC ended up spending a lot of time hanging out when Lucifer was busy with paperwork. Of course Mammon’s first thought was ‘how do I profit off this situation?’

MC is now Mammon’s designated babysitter after they caught him picking up their feathers that had fallen off with the intention of painting them white and claiming they were Lucifer’s from back in the Celestial Realm.

Mammon does end up spoiling MC a little. Just a smidge. They’re the kid of his totally not his favourite brother after all! How could he not? Whether or not these gifts are obtained legally or are legal at all is subject to scrutiny.

“Mammon, I can’t drink this!” MC placed the bottle of Demonus back on the counter of the kitchen.

“Why not? That’s a bottle of the good stuff! We gotta celebrate you gettin’ an A on that test somehow!”

“I’m underage! Incredibly underage. I’m not legally allowed to drink.”

Mammon wordlessly plopped a silly straw into the bottle. “...does that help?”

“No.” MC then inclined their head to the bottle. “And I don’t want to get hung from the ceiling, that bottle was in my father’s study yesterday, I’m above theft.”

“How old are you s’posed to be anyway? Never mind... uh...” Mammon wracked his brain for something else he could do for MC that didn’t cost anything (don’t judge him, the poor bastard was flat broke!). “I could... teach you to drive!”

“Driving?”

“Yeah! Drivin’ is awesome! We can take my car!”

The bills for the damages done to the car and the Devildom were mailed to Lucifer the next day, and MC and Mammon got to keep each other company as they hung from the ceiling. Ah well! At least MC wasn’t upside down!

Mammon wasn’t that good of a flight teacher either, he also crashed into a tree (the same tree MC crashed into, actually) when he was cheering for MC. They were finally able to do a loopdy loop! He was proud and distracted! Okay?! Lucifer! Stop smirkin’ at him! It’s not that funny!

At least the vantage point from the tree was decent and the branches didn’t scratch him up too badly. Oh hey... that person walking by was wearing a very nice watch... he’d be right back-

That Uncle That is Always Absent From Family Gatherings and When He is Present He Leaves Early (Levi)

He missed everything. That is not an exaggeration. He was in the middle of an online raid battle and couldn’t look at his phone! No Lucifer he can’t pause an online game! That’s not how it works!

Okay, the human exchange student is half demon? WOAH! THAT’S JUST LIKE THAT ONE ANIME- W A I T. THE LITTLE NORMIE IS LUCIFER’S KID?!

Okie doke, he was fully convinced that MC just had to be an anime protagonist.

They binged every series that Levi compared them to. Sure MC might have missed a few assignments because of late night anime binges, but they were too good for this school crap anyway, right?

Nope. Lucifer put a ban on the two watching anime until both their grades improved. Surviving that hell brought the two together.

“Ugh!”

The sound of a pencil case being haphazardly thrown across the room made Levi peek out of his bed-tub. If his figurines got knocked over so HELP HIM-

“This is stupid!!I shouldn’t have to catch up with this!” MC crossed their arms and gave their Demonology textbook their best disapproving glare.

Lucifer Lite (tm) was having a hell of a time trying to claw through their missed work, and Levi sympathized, he really did, it’s just... he was playing Animal Crossing-

Levi paused the game to placate his anime-buddy when their wings popped out and he feared for his rare merch’s safety.

“H-hey, MC? Do you need help?” Levi’s offer was met with a bone chilling glare that lived rent free in his nightmares ever since. He had pulled a Mammon and forgotten he was talking to Lucifer’s child. Lucifer’s allergy to help must have passed down to MC.

“No! I don’t! It’s just... dumb!” MC hissed, she turned and looked over at the fish tank. “Right Henry 2.0?”

Henry 2.0 did not respond.

“MC, you need to finish your homework or we can’t watch anything together,” Levi sighed, he had finished his work over an hour earlier. He had mastered the art of all night anime binges and managing to do most of his work in the fifteen minutes between the time he woke up and the time school was supposed to begin. “We haven’t even binged all of volume 4 of TSL yet!”

“Mmm...” MC grumbled. “Fine...”

MC picked up their pencil case and began continued their work. Levi breathed a sigh of relief and went back to Animal Crossing.

The tiny normie did in fact finish their work, only after they caved and asked Levi for help. Swore him to secrecy, they did... very intimidating, they were.

Just saying, he most definitely sent that one Keanu Reeves meme with big Keanu and little Keanu but with Lucifer and MC to the wrong group chat. Poor bastard.

Flying lessons? No. Levi hadn’t flown since his time in the Celestial Realm, he had no advice to give other than: “Flap your wings!”

“THAT’S WHAT I’M DOING YOU-”

MC didn’t get to finish that thought, they lost their balance and fell right into RAD’s fountain. Ah well, Levi had a head start on running for his life that he squandered by laughing at MC. RIP.

The Uncle/brother/whatever the fuck that Starts a Fight With Your Dad at the Family Reunion. (Satan)

Oh... another Lucifer? Eugh. Gross.

Satan gave the kid a wide berth when they first met. Everything the kid said or did ticked him off. “Tsk. Look at MC. Making an omelette. So annoying.” “Oh wow, MC vacuumed? Roll out the red carpet, we need to celebrate their existence!” “Look at them. Breathing. Disgusting.”

MC’s pride wouldn’t ever let them admit it but... they knew Satan didn’t like them, and it hurt their feelings.

“Shhhh,” Satan whispered into his backpack.

“Meow.” The backpack replied.

“I said shhhhh.”

The backpack did not reply after that, which was a good thing considering the little princet of the HOL was nearby.

“Satan?” They asked. “Who are you talking to?”

Satan coldly brushed past them as he made his way to his room. “No one you need to concern yourself with.”

When the little calico kitten was safe in his room, Satan quickly realized a mistake in his foolproof ‘sneak a cat into the house’ plan. He didn’t have any toys for the kitten, and he didn’t want his books getting scratched...

It was alright, he’d just rush out to the a store that sold cat things and rush back! Five minute trip tops!

Well when Satan got back the cat was no longer in the room. Oh dear. He discreetly tore apart the house looking for the poor little thing until he ended up finding it in the library, happily chasing around a loose feather being held up by MC.

“Oh, hello Satan.” MC chirped as the kitten batted it’s adorable little paws at the feather.

“My... my door was closed. Did you let the cat out?”

MC shrugged. “I heard meowing.”

Satan ran a hand through his hair and grumbled. Stupid smaller Lucifer. Stupid original Lucifer. Everyone sucked.

“Let me guess, you’re going to run to Lucifer and tell him all about the meowing and the rule breaking.”

MC shook their head and glared at Satan. “Of course not. I’ve already gotten way too attached to this little guy anyway. We’re co-parenting this kitten like mature adults.”

With some coaxing, Satan did sit down and play with the kitten, maybe MC wasn’t... so terrible.

The two watch Unsolved Mysteries together, that’s their show. “This guy did it.” “Satan, we’re two minutes into the episode-” “Trust me.”

Thirty minutes later.

“He did it.” “See MC, what’d I tell you?”

Lucifer did find out about the cat, but with enough pleading, MC and Satan managed to warm up the cold spot in Lucifer’s chest where his heart should have been. The cat’s name is Detective Toe Beans (or just Bean).

Satan can’t fly, he has a tail, but he did read up on wing anatomy and how flight actually works in demons, his advice would be good in theory, but it’s full of so much technical jargon that MC can’t understand it.

At least MC didn’t crash into something, they barrel rolled through one of the HOL’s windows. Good thing it was the window to their room. The broken arm still hurt like hell.

The Best Dressed Bitch Who Brings The Booze to The Reunion. (Asmo)

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Lucifer’s kid was SO CUTE! A thousand pictures commemorating that adorable moment needed to be taken! Wait- Lucifer- GIVE BACK THE PHONE-

Asmo, surprise surprise, absolutely adores little MC! So cute! So small! He was just so excited to announce to all his Devilgram followers that Lucifer was finally a certified DILF.

That post disappeared five minutes after it was made but the damage had already been done.

Asmo made sure MC looked their best at all times, if they needed help talking to anyone? Asmo’s got their back!

Sure, maybe he’s a little pushy, but pushy’s a good thing sometimes, right?

“Asmodeus-”

“No, these shoes wouldn’t fit you...”

“Asmo-”

“No, not these ones either...”

“ASMODEUS.”

Asmo squeaked and jumped upwards, Geez Louise... little MC’s voice could sure be scary when they wanted it to be...

“I don’t need any fancy new shoes.” MC huffed, sitting up straighter in one of the chairs in Asmo’s room. “I thought this was supposed to be a sleepover.”

“Hmmm...” Asmo pouted. “Makeovers are an essential part of sleepovers... what’d you do with your human friends up in the human world that could possibly be better than a make-over?!”

MC began to list things off. “Ordered junk food, talked about people we hated, watched movies,”

“Greasy food is so bad for your skin...” Asmo cringed and shook his head violently. “But I’m totally down to watch a movie and bitch about people I hate!”

“Ah yes, human sleepovers, a tradition I never quite had the chance to enjoy.” Solomon said from Asmo’s bed. “Who are we bitching about?”

“Remind me what Solomon is doing here.” MC muttered as they sat down in front of Asmo’s TV.

“Because, I wanted to hang out with my two favourite humans.” Asmo cooed, reaching over and trying to pinch MC’s cheek, which they awkwardly dodged.

“Can we watch The Exorcist?” Solomon asked, propping his head up with his hands.

“Ew, no.” Asmo made a face at him. “That scene with the vomit? Hell NO.”

“Mm.” MC mumbled. Asmo turned to look at them.

“MC? Are you doing okay? You don’t look like you’re having any fun...”

“I’m fine.” MC grumbled.

Asmo pursed his lips, as much as it made his little narcissistic heart break, he nudged MC. “Why don’t you pick the movie, sweetie. I’m sure Solomon and I will like anything you pick!”

MC noticeably brightened. “Let’s watch Scream!”

The strangled noise that came from Asmo was... concerning, but to his credit, The Avatar of Lust held his tongue about his distaste for the movie, and the three slumber-party goers had quite the lovely time.

After the movie ended, MC went back to their room, sure it was a sleepover but their bed was right down the hall.

Good for Asmo and Solomon. Horny fuckers. We stan.

Asmo just claps and tries to cheer MC on when it comes to their flying lessons. (The idea that Asmo came up with to wear his cheerleader costume from the previous Halloween was immediately shot down by Lucifer)

“You’re doing wonderful, MC- WATCH OUT FOR THE POWER LINE!”

MC didn’t hit the power line, but Asmo’s scream of terror caused them to fall butt-first into a dumpster. Their injured tailbone served as a tragic memory of the incident.

Oh well, good thing Asmo had nice smelling soap to give that could mask dumpster-stink.

The Uncle that eats everything and tells you to eat your veggies while you angrily pick at your broccoli at the kid’s table. (Beel)

Lucifer... has a kid?! Beel choked on the cheetos he had snuck into the Assembly Hall when the kid’s wings popped out.

Oh wow, that’s nice :) maybe they can eat together. Belphie would probably like them.

Wait what is the gender neutral term for Niece or Nephew?

...Nibling? Uh... let’s not say that around Beel. We don’t need him to get hungrier and begin associating MC with nibbling on things.

The Underground Tomb incident probably went a little differently, but after all that nonsense, the two are closer than two peas in a pod!

Mmm... peas...

“Beel?” MC stepped into the Avatar of Gluttony’s room.

“Hi MC.” Beel was doing push-ups in the middle of the room, on the ground right beneath his head was a massive bowl of spaghetti that he bit into every time he completed a push-up. “Can you come stand on my back? I need the extra weight.”

“On your back?” MC padded closer. “Are you sure? It’s not going to hurt?”

“No, it’ll be okay.” Beel assured them. “Belphie and I did this all the time. Except Belphie is normally asleep.”

MC tentatively stepped onto Beel’s back. It was a balancing act to say the least, they eventually gave up on standing and ended up sitting cross legged between Beel’s shoulder blades.

“You did this with Belphegor?” MC asked.

“Yeah,” Beel sighed. “He was always too tired to exercise, but he’d let me bench press him sometimes...”

MC frowned and hugged their knees to their chest. Knowing full well that Beel’s twin wasn’t in the human world like Lucifer said was absolutely ripping them apart from the inside. Guilt felt just as rotten as their pride did when they were being belittled...

“Maybe you’ll see him again sometime soon.” MC whispered. “Maybe my father’ll come to his senses and let him come back down to the Devildom.”

Beel paused his push-ups for a brief moment, then nodded and went back to his eating exercising combo. “I hope so. He’ll like you, MC. I’m sure of it.”

MC nodded. “I... hope so.”

Beel’s a pretty decent flight teacher, but his wings are just so different from MC’s that it renders any tips he had next to useless.

“MC, maybe your wings aren’t flapping fast enough.”

“Beel, I appreciate the thought, but I’m not a hummingbird. Or a fly. I don’t need to flap my wings a million times a minute to stay afloat.”

Ah well, MC tried to take some of Beel’s advice, but their lower right wing cramped up and they ended up flying in circles until Beel was able to catch them. Ah well, better than the dumpster incident the previous week.

The Uncle That Passes Out in The Basement and You’re Not Allowed to Wake Him Up Even Though All Your Toys and Video Games Are Down There. He Also Picks a Fight With Your Dad’s New S/O Before He Passes Out. (Belphie)

Sitting in the attic was quite a drag, and this supposedly weak little human was quite the annoyance to try and call out to. It took a lot longer than expected, but when he heard little footsteps coming towards his prison, Belphegor nearly jumped with joy.

Oh... it... looked like Lucifer. Smelled like Lucifer. Stood like Lucifer. Quacked like Lucifer. Or... trilled..? Whatever sound a peacock made, this brat sounded an awful lot like Lucifer.

A... half-demon. Hmph. Belphie honestly thought Lucifer had actual standards. Not anymore, he guessed.

(Man I could fill a whole-ass fic with the Belphie betrayal thing, but for now let’s skip to post attic nonsense)

Okay so maybe MC wasn’t disgusting. They made a good nap buddy. It was cute when their wings came out when they were sleeping sometimes. Well... it was cute when they didn’t hit him in the face and make him wake up with his mouth full of feathers.

What Beel said had been true, Belphie made a good substitute when weights weren’t available, but Beel didn’t want MC to feel left out, so Belphie and MC ended up sitting on his back while he did push ups. MC once got bored and started playing Go Fish with Belphie on Beel’s back while he exercised.

Yes. MC is still a member of the Formerly-Anti-Lucifer League.

“Are you sure he’s not going to be too mad at us?” MC asked for the dozenth time that day. Detective Toe Beans was wrapped around their neck like a scarf (he had gotten so big!!!) while MC nervously sat in one of the Library chairs.

“Positive.” Belphie said with a toothy grin. “Besides, he’s like putty when it comes to you. Just give him your best puppy eyes and we’re not guilty on all charges.”

Putty..? Really..? Lucifer..? How strict was he before MC got there... they wondered.

“Sh! He’s coming!” Satan stuck his nose into a random book, it was the Oxford English Dictionary... and it was upside down.

Belphie pretended to pass out and MC decided that the best course of action was to stare deeply into their cat’s eyes. Yeah... that looked casual and not weird.

“Satan, MC, Belphie.” Lucifer nodded to the three of them as he walked towards the entrance to his study.

“Lucifer.”

“Afternoon, father.”

Belphie let out a cartoonishly loud fake snore that nearly caused both MC and Satan to break cover and start laughing.

Side note, Bean had adorable widdle eyes! That cute little face was just to die for-

“You three..!”

Belphie, Satan, and MC peeked their heads into Lucifer’s study, their handiwork was perfect. Everything was covered in red post it notes. Perfectly not harmful, but SO inconvenient!

“You’re all cleaning this up or so help me-”

“GO!” Belphie and Satan each grabbed one of MC’s arms (Satan also grabbed Bean) and sprinted out of the House of Lamentation. Maybe they’d move back there in twenty years... they hoped that Solomon and The Angels would let them crash at Purgatory Hall...

Belphie had used up his physical energy supply for the next four years. He passed out the moment they stepped into sanctuary. Time for a nap...

Flight practice? Ha. Belphie’s napping. Though, he was suspiciously awake and filming whenever MC did something stupid.

“Try not to suck so bad.”

“GO TO HELL BELPHIE!”

“I’m already there. Hell is every second I’m stuck here watching you fail.”

“YOU’RE GOING TO GET IT FOR THAT!”

Well... MC mastered the dive bomb that day. Lucifer bought them a cake.

Bonus! Your Dad’s New Husband! That Has Managed to Somehow Make Everyone Hate Him Despite the Fact That He’s A Cinnamon Roll. (Diavolo)

A mini Lucifer? A mini Lucifer!

Diavolo dotes on MC like he’d dote on his own kid. MC wants a crown? They’re getting a crown! A damn nice one too! MC wants a title? Here! MC is now... idk Ruler of the area between Majolish and Hell’s Kitchen.

Poor Uncle Mammon’s got some financial insecurity, he’s still the cool uncle... right?!

He is very much that ‘how do you do fellow kids?’ Meme.

He tries to do stereotypical ‘dad’ things but he’s not very good at them. Once he tried to host a barbecue...

Barbatos saved the day, but Mammon’s hair was still singed, Solomon’s cooking still gave Beel food poisoning (SOLOMON EATS TOXIC WASTE I SWEAR-), Luke still got hit in the face with a frisbee, and Simeon got an unhealthy dose of DAD NERVES and got so stressed everyone was almost blinded by the holy light he suddenly started blasting. We do not mention the water guns.

(Seriously whose bright idea was it to give Belphie and Satan water guns while they were in Lucifer’s presence?)

Praise Barbie. He’s too good for them.

“Um...” MC awkwardly held up the baseball, trying to look at it from all angles like it was a completely alien object. “Lord Diavolo... are you sure you want to play catch?”

Diavolo clapped his hands and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Yes! It’s a thing human fathers do with their children, correct? We must make up for lost time between you and Lucifer, right?”

Lucifer massaged his temples and nodded. “If you two would like to play catch...” Lucifer grimaced. “I will too.”

“Okay! MC, throw the ball to Lucifer!” Diavolo instructed.

Lucifer half heartedly held up his baseball glove as MC tossed him the ball. He caught it, and looked over at Diavolo, who was applauding like he just witnessed the greatest feat in sports history.

“Okay! Throw it to me!” Diavolo waved his glove in the air, Lucifer rolled his eyes and smiled. He threw the ball at Diavolo with... a lot of force. Enough force to probably dent steel... Diavolo caught it like it was nothing.

MC suddenly feared for their safety.

“Okay MC, catch!”

Diavolo threw the ball with enough force to break the god damn sound barrier. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration, but the ball sailed way over MC’s head and crashed right through a window.

“Oh my...” Diavolo put a hand on his hip and surveyed the damage to the window. “This isn’t so bad, I believe in human world TV shows this happens quite often. Look! The glass broke in a perfect circle!”

“Yay... property damage...” MC murmured.

Lucifer sighed and pulled out his DDD. “I’ll phone someone to replace the win-”

“Lucifer no! Now according to human world customs we must,” Diavolo took a deep breath, rushed forward, grabbed both Lucifer and MC’s hands and started sprinting away from the Demon Lord’s Castle. “RUN FOR IT!”

“Di- Diavolo!” Lucifer gasped.

“Who are we running from?! That’s your castle!” MC squeaked.

“I don’t know! Just run! That’s what the human TV show says to do!”

Weirdly enough, Diavolo was the best flight instructor. MC’s ability to fly increased tenfold after Diavolo found out that MC was learning to fly.

“You’re doing amazing MC! That was a perfect turn!”

“Thanks Lord Diavolo, I’m surprised I haven’t crashed into anyone or fallen yet!”

“Well, I highly doubt you’ll be crashing into anyone anymore, your flying is practically perfect now!”

Mammon proceeded to fly past them holding what looked like Lucifer’s wallet.

“M-mammon?!”

“Oh... I wonder what he’s doing. Look, MC! It’s Lucifer! Hello Lucifer dea-”

Lucifer ended up colliding with the two of them and sending them all crashing to the floor.

That was the last time MC fell during flying practice.

(We currently have a Go Fund Me set up for Mammon to get the funds necessary to flee the Devildom after that incident. Please donate to save- oh shit hi Lucifer-)

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maxwell-grant · 3 years ago

Note

You have done an (excelent) post on how to reinvent Batman as a Pulp Hero. Do you think you could do one to Superman as well? Or do you think it is impossible to do this with the progenitor of the Super Hero genre without transforming him in a totaly diferent character?

Well, you saying it as impossible only makes it seem ever more tempting of a challenge, but yes, it is a bit harder. I'm gonna link my Batman post here as a reference point.

Partially because Batman's a franchise I've thought extensively about for a long time in regards to what I like about it or how I'd like to approach if given the opportunity, which is not something I can really say for Superman until more recently the Big Blue to start orbiting my brain. I don't have years worth of redesigns or fan concepts saved on my galleries and files to comb through to pick and choose here, and my experience with Superman as a character is considerably different, in some aspects more deeply personal, and not really something I'd like to go into in this blog, at least not now.

Part of the reason why it's harder is also because Batman and Superman have very different relationships with their pulp inspirations. Batman was, ostensibly, a pulp character adapted to comics, a dime-a-dozen Shadow knock-off who picked up and played up diverging traits from other characters and gradually ran with them to gradually forge a unique identity. Superman right from the start was rooted in a much stronger conceptual underpinning: the Sci-Fi Superman and Alien Menace who, instead of being a tragic monster or a tyrannical villain, becomes a costumed adventurer and social crusader. Even the name Super-Man was taken from an early story of Siegel and Shuster about a telepathic villain who ends the story lamenting that he should have used his powers for the good of mankind instead of selfishness. I hesitate to call what Siegel and Shuster were doing “subversive” because that term's picked up a real negative connotation, and it's not like Siegel and Shuster were out to upend their influences (they were pulp aficionados themselves), but rather putting a more positive, new spin on them.

Which is why it also becomes a bit harder to do what I did with Batman and align Superman with some of his pulp-esque inspirations, like John Carter, Flash Gordon or Hugo Danner, without just making it "Superman but he's John Carter", "Superman but it's Flash Gordon", and "Iron Munro / Superman but everything sucks" respectively. It's harder to create a character that wouldn't feel reduntant and derivative at best, and actively contradictory to Superman at worst.

I guess if I had to come up with a "Pulp Hero Superman" take I liked, well first of all I'd have to take steps to distance it from the likes of Tom Strong or Al Ewing's Doc Thunder, those two are as good as it gets in regards to Pulp Supermen. I stipulated for Batman a "No Guns, No Murder, No Service" policy partially to distance my takes on Batman from all the "Pulp Batmen" that just add guns and murder and take Batman back to the barest of basics. Likewise, I'm adding a "No Depowered Science Hero" rule here, which means it's a take that's likely going to veer off a lot more into fantasy and probably enough tampering with Clark's character that it does risk becoming a different character.

Frankly I don't think I'm gonna succeed at doing these without just making it a new character entirely, because with Batman you can get away with just upending the character's aesthetic and setting and even origin and still keep it recognizably Bruce Wayne (in fact Batman does that all the time), which isn't really the case with Superman, who needs those to remain recognizably Superman as he goes through internal changes and character shifts. I guess what I'm gonna do here is more taking the building blocks of Superman/Clark Kent and see a couple new ways I can rearrange them to create a Pulp Superman

Perhaps something we can do is to scale back or recontextualize the "superhero" parts without diminishing Superman's role as a superpowered fantasy character.

One way we can start is by picking on that connection between Superman and the sci-fi supermen/alien monsters of pulps I mentioned earlier and play it up further, to create a Superman who's deeply, deeply alien in a way that no mild-mannered disguise or colorful outfit can really disguise, something so dramatically powerful and alien, that instead you could get tales about the kinds of ensuing changes and ripple effects this has on the world upon the The Super-Man's arrival. And for that I'm gonna have to quote @davidmann95's concept for Joshua Viers' absolutely stunning Superman redesign on the left side of the image above

The red, the goldish-orange and white, the alienness, the angelic, sculpted feeling, the halo, that innocently curious expression: it’s genuinely beautiful. Superman as a redeeming science-angel from beyond our understanding, as much past the uncanny valley of limited human comprehension as a Lovecraftian monster but tuned to the opposite key - you could spend an endless procession of human lifetimes trying and failing to understand this being, but all you’ll ever know for sure is that it is beyond you, and it knows you, and it loves you.

Superdoomsday from Earth 45, healed and transformed into the savior it was originally envisioned as? Some descendant of his, or a future of the man himself? An alien who picked up on a broadcast of Superman from Earth, and so inspired reshaped itself in his image to spread his ‘gospel’ to the stars?

Alternatively, to come back to Earth a little, many, many pulp characters and series were built off the antics and personalities of real people, celebrities getting their own magazines or serials or fictionalized takes on them, so perhaps one way to make a "pulp" take on Superman would be to emphasize a bit more of Superman's real-world roots, trends that inspired his creation directly or indirectly at the time. The Jewish strongman Sigmund Breibart and Shuster's interest in fitness culture, Harold Lloyd's comic persona, the rising "strongman" film genre in the early 20th century, actors Clark Gable and Kent Taylor that supposedly named his secret identity, Clark Kent being a socially-awkward journalist based of Siegel's own school experiences.

Maybe one start to an authentic Pulp Superman, who would still be Superman, would be to just ask the question "What if Superman was a real person and/or a celebrity, and they started making pulp magazines and serials dedicated to him? What would those look like?". You wouldn't even have to restrict it to just a story set in the 1930s, in fact you could even play around with the rise of new mediums over the decades.

This third one is a little closer to some plans I have for my own take on a Superman character, not necessarily what I would do with Superman proper but one of my ideas for a Superman analogue. Superman's a character I'll always associate strongly with childhood and childhood fantasy, and to tap into that I would emphasize the other end of the fiction that influenced Siegel and Shuster: comic strips, in their case specifically Little Nemo and Popeye.

In my case I would bring additional influences from some of the comic strips I personally grew up reading like Monica's Gang and Calvin and Hobbes, and I already talked a bit about Captain Fray in terms of how he’s a Superman character despite being a villain. I guess you could call this one "What if Superman was a public domain comic strip character, stripped of the importance of being the founding figure of a super popular genre or extended universe, and also was kind of ugly?".

He's not "Sloth from the Goonies" ugly, I swear I didn't actually have Sloth in mind when typing out this idea, I've never watched that film nor did I know until now that he actually spends the film in a Superman shirt. That's not really what I'm going for. Visually I was thinking of modeling my take on Superman heavily after Hugo from Street Fighter and his inspiration Andre the Giant, to really emphasize the “circus strongman / freak wrestler” aspect of Superman’s inspiration, particularly in regards to how Hugo’s SFIII version strikes a really great balance in making Hugo ugly and both comedic and fearsome in battle, as well as lovable and even a little dopey (without being outright stupid, like his IV self) in his victory animations and endings.

He's still Superman, he still goes on fantastical adventures to help people, he's still a deeply loving and compassionate soul whose face beams with joy and affection and who's got wonderful eyes and a great smile. It's just that this smile has a couple of mismatched stick-out teeth or some missing ones, and he's got a crooked smile some people take as smug or malicious, he’s got a strongman’s gut instead of a bodybuilder’s abs, his nose is a little busted (maybe he’s had too many crash landings), and his hair is a little wild or greasy, and he doesn't exactly have very good people skills because of how others usually react to him and, y'know, he doesn't get the kind of publicity Superman would get despite doing ostensibly the same things. He’s not deformed, he’s incredibly intelligent and capable, but in comparison to how superheroes are usually allowed to look, he might as well be Bizarro in the public eye.

It becomes a running gag that people tend to assume some nearby fireman or cop was the one who rescued the hundred orphans out of a burning building single-handedly, meanwhile he's getting accosted off-panel by police officers who think he set the building on fire, or think they can bully this weird man dressed funny. He goes to rescue old people in peril and occasionally they yell at him that they don't have any money. He doesn't get asked to lead superhero meetings or teams even though many in the community advocate for just how much he does for the world, he gets censored out of tv broadcasts or group shots (even his face is sometimes pixelated when they do show him), people invite him on talk shows and don't really let him talk or assume they got the wrong guy. He goes to rescue a woman dangling off a building, and then he gets attacked by like three different superhero teams who assume he must have kidnapped the poor damsel. He was the first superhero, he is the strongest of them all still, but he never really gets credit for it, it nor does he even want to. None of this at all stops him or deters him, except for some occasionally funny reactions.

This never really changes for him, he doesn't really earn people's approval nor does he have to, instead the stories, outside of the gags and adventures you’d expect from a comic strip, veer more towards others learning to be less judgmental and him learning ways to better approach people. He isn't any lesser than Superman just because he doesn't look like most people would want him to look and he doesn't have to look like Superman. Really I think we could use more superheroes that don’t look all so uniformly pretty.

Again, probably not a take that would work for Clark proper, but it’s one way I would take a shot at doing Superman with my own

I have other stuff in the works for this character but I'd like to keep them to better work on them for now, but yeah, these are three of my shots at developing a Pulp Superman.

Alternatively here's a fourth idea that's more pulp than all of these: Join up Nicholas Cage with Panos Cosmatos again, or whatever weird indie director he decides to pair up with next, and let them do whatever the hell they want with Superman. Give us Mandy Superman. Superman vs The Color Out of Space. Superman vs Five Nights at Freddy's. Superman’s quest to find THE LAST PIG OF KRYPTON. Anything goes.

#replies tag #dc comics #superman #clark kent #superheroes #comic books #nicholas cage

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drbtinglecannon · 3 years ago

Note

Hiya!!! If its not too much uh. Thoughts on susato? Also vanlock bc its funny

Hello! Apologies for the delay, I always forget about asks! @_@

But it's no trouble at all! Susato is honestly probably my favorite assistant char in the franchise, or very very closely tied with Maya, she is SO endearing and lovely. She's this great motivating force, a real voice of reason, she's intelligent, polite, thoughtful, and compassionate, but she's still a little immature and goofy at times which really rounds off her charm factor. Susato Takedowns like, what a cool kid. I personally loved her rapport with Ryuu and how they were such friends and siblings but also still respectful colleagues, their bickering and commentary at all times were this amusing blend of respectful yet dunking on each other/things together. She has terrible (great) taste in idols, and I think it's funny before you know the big reveal that she's just A Giant Fan of this weird British dude who then invites you to be his roommates, and no amount of dumb shit he does sways her high opinion of him. He talked about eating soap and she was like "...uh. Anyway". Susato handling the budget cuz Ryuu sucks with money is such a hilarious detail too. She used her limited travel space to bring an authentic tea set and makes tea daily for everyone, and even tho Ryuu hates it he still drinks it cuz she made it and who could say no to her?

Her relationship to Kazuma is one of the things I lament most about the duology -- not only do I wish we got to see more of her mourning Kazuma's "death" (and Ryuu's mourning, let's be honest they were both disconnected from everything for most of case 2 and then never really talked about it together later) but I think Susato earned the right to go a little apeshit on Kazuma over everything. He was her brother and then he "died" but also he hid something very important that could've directly screwed her over. I understand why she and Ryuu forgave him so quickly and appreciate that, but I wish Susato and Kazuma got more attention to their dynamic and especially their post 2-5 conversation. Mostly I think she and Ryuu should've hugged Kazuma during 2-3, so I pretend they did haha! Anyway I started drafting up a long fic looking at them growing up together cuz I love them and I think the idea of lavender marriages is sad but maybe if it's a mutual cover up it could be happier.

As for vanlock it's the ship that rots my brain alongside asoryuu. It's just. The comedic potential was too much to ignore then I watched the DLC case and they were too fucking funny, omg, their banter! Barok spit his damn wine out! They're both these sad losers in their 30s that have a shared relationship with Iris and their bff's live in different countries, so they have to get along y'know? No other choice lol. Being complete opposites just makes it funnier.

I think in the time of building a balance of Barok being in Iris' life and no longer suffering the title of "Reaper", and Herlock fully embracing the title of being Iris' dad, that they would form some kind of amicable dynamic, romantic or not, but I like the romance potential angle. They're very much either a "they're exes" pre-canon type ship or "they have to coparent a kid anyway might as well kiss" post-canon type ship, both of which are amusing for me. I also enjoy the idea of Kazuma and Gina constantly dunking on Barok over it.

Anyway thanks for asking, and for your patience as I answered!

#asks #answers #i have a lot of susato thoughts. & vanlock. but susato is just. ah. i want to redesign her dlc outfit so bad. actually there was a really #good one by an artist ill follow i need to look it up again but ill post it in the comments #sorry again for the delay! im so bad at remembering asks

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thou-breath-of-autumns-being · 3 years ago

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Apocalypse World MDZS, Part Two: The Lan Clan

Previously: the Jiang Clan.

I originally thought that the Lan clan would be a settlement, but then I saw the Hocus and a vision passed through my brain of our favorite boy, Lan Xichen, as the spookily calm priest of the Lan religion which follows the three thousand precepts. I think this is extremely cool.

There are few followers of the Lan, only about ten, because of the burning of the Cloud Recesses. The Lan are hardworking and no-nonsense. In theory, they’re incredibly dedicated to the precepts of the Lan clan as represented through Lan Xichen, but by the same token they tend to be judgmental; if Lan Xichen doesn’t live up to everyone’s standards, he will rapidly face extremely polite and reserved rebellion. Stats: 10 followers, +1 fortune, barter +2, wants: hunger, judgment.

Lan Xichen

Everyone’s favorite surprisingly non-spooky priest, and head of the Lan family/religion/clan/whatever. The Hocus is a Weird-heavy playbook, and I feel like in this case we should not understand it as demonic cultivation; instead, we should understand it as reflecting some kind of eerie unsettling calmness, as well as his connection to the Lan rules.

(Yes, that means that Lan rules and demonic cultivation run on the same underlying stat. Suck it, Lan Qiren.)

Stats: Cool +1, Hard 0, Hot +1, Sharp -1, Weird +2. (Our poor boy gets Sharp -1 to model his critical failure to figure out what’s going on with Meng Yao.)

Starting Hx

Follower: Lan Wangji, +2

I’ve seen your soul: Meng Yao, +3

Everyone else: +1, for being a quick judge of character

Advancement Progression

Starting Moves

Fortunes: fortune, surplus and want all depend on your followers. At the beginning of the session, roll+fortune. On a 10+, your followers have surplus. On a 7–9, they have surplus, but choose 1 want. On a miss, they are in want. If their surplus lists barter, like 1-barter or 2-barter, that’s your personal share, to spend for your lifestyle or for what you will.

Frenzy: When you speak the truth to a mob, roll+weird. On a 10+, hold 3. On a 7–9, hold 1. Spend your hold 1 for 1 to make the mob: • Bring people forward and deliver them. • Bring forward all their precious things. • Unite and fight for you as a gang (2-harm 0-armor size appropriate). • Fall into an orgy of uninhibited emotion: fucking, lamenting, fighting, sharing, celebrating, as you choose. • Go quietly back to their lives. On a miss, the mob turns on you.

Obviously, Lan Xichen ends up using “go quietly back to their lives” much more often than some of the other options.

Divine protection: your gods give you 1-armor. If you wear armor, use that instead, they don’t add.

Is that not aesthetic for him???? Walking through the battle protected only by the gods...

Seeing souls: when you help or interfere with someone, roll+weird instead of roll+Hx.

MAGIC EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION SKILLS. he manipulates you with the power of his preternatural calm

Charismatic: when you try to manipulate someone, roll+weird instead of roll+hot.

Magic! Emotional! Manipulation! Skills!

+1 hard

because our boy is tougher than previously statted out

Get a holding and wealth

Holding stats

your population is small, 50-60 souls. Want: anxiety

for gigs, a mix of hunting, crude farming, and scavenging (surplus: 1-barter)

an armory of scavenged and makeshift weapons.

a garage of 4 utility vehicles and 4 specialized battle vehicles.

a gang of about 40 well-disciplined soldiers (2-harm gang medium 1-armor).

your armory is sophisticated and extensive. Your gang gets +1harm

your compound is tall, deep and mighty, of stone and iron. Your gang gets +2 armor when fighting in its defense.

your holding owes protection tribute. Surplus: -1barter, want: +reprisals.

the protection tribute is to the Jin clan for supporting the rebuilding

your gang is small instead of medium, only 10-20 violent bastards.

Wealth: If your hold is secure and your rule unchallenged, at the beginning of the session, roll+hard. On a 10+, you have surplus at hand and available for the needs of the session. On a 7–9, you have surplus, but choose 1 want. On a miss, or if your hold is compromised or your rule contested, your hold is in want. The precise values of your surplus and want depend on your holding.

Observe that Lan Xichen never actually gets surplus-- the money his clan earns all goes to the protection tribute. Don’t worry, Meng Yao will provide. :)

This is the rebuilding of the Cloud Recesses!

+1 Weird. The spookiest and most preternaturally calm of priests.

Lan Wangji

Gunlugger. That’s right, our boy has some big-ass guns. One of them is named Bichen and one of them is named Wangji, of course.

Stats: Cool +2, Hard +2, Hot -2, Sharp 0, Weird 0. Our poor child has a manipulation and flirting skill of No but he makes up with it about how very very good he is at using his guns.

Starting Hx

The prettiest and smartest: Wei Wuxian, obviously. +3

Has fought shoulder to shoulder with me: Lan Xichen, +2

Left me bleeding and did nothing for me: Jiang Cheng, -2

It just seems in character

Advancement Progression

Starting Moves

NOT TO BE FUCKED WITH: in battle, you count as a small gang, with harm and armor according to your gear.

All caps in the book!

Battle-hardened: when you act under fire, or when you stand overwatch, roll+hard instead of roll+cool.

Battlefield instincts: when you open your brain to the world’s psychic maelstrom, roll+hard instead of roll+weird, but only in battle.

Reputation: when you meet someone important (your call), roll+cool. On a hit, they’ve heard of you, and you say what they’ve heard; the MC has them respond accordingly. On a 10+, you take +1 forward for dealing with them as well. On a miss, they’ve heard of you, but the MC decides what they’ve heard.

This is how I’m handling Lan Wangji’s reputation as the peerless Twin Jade of Lan.

Prepared for the inevitable: you have a well-stocked and high-quality first aid kit. It counts as an angel kit (cf) with a capacity of 2-stock

In my heart, this is a way of coping with the existence of Wei Wuxian.

Daredevil: if you go straight into danger without hedging your bets, you get +1armor. If you happen to be leading a gang or convoy, it gets +1armor too.

Go where the chaos is!

+1 cool

Lan Wangji is even less able to be freaked out under pressure than before.

Advance Do Something Under Fire, Go Aggro On Someone, and Read A Charged Situation.

Lan Wangji can now do extremely cool things with his guns. Probably because of all the practice going where the chaos is.

#apocalypse world AU #gay necromancers #westwind.txt

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years ago

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The Cassell Cynics Chapter 3

@hectabdr

@hectab

Hana Sato walked back into the administrators building alone and shrugged when the Guderian, Manstein and Schneider all sighed at once.

“Hey, I tried.” She said.

“You were gone for such a long time. I got my hopes up.” Guderian lamented. He looked at the CCTV footage. Nathan Phillips was still where he had been all afternoon, but now he seemed to be sleeping. More likely he was just too stoned to sit up straight.

“Did you find out anything?” Schneider asked.

“Well...” She shrugged. “I found out that he’s C-ranked, he doesn’t believe he can actually slay any dragons, and he’s planning on dropping out and having his memory wiped.”

Guderian visibly paled. “Dropping out?! No one ever drops out!”

“I was going to ask you that.” Hana winced. “Do you know of anyone who’s ever actually dropped out?”

“Dropping out is easier said than done. It takes an extremely strong will to do it. Hybrids are fundamentally different from other humans.” Schneider’s voice was very soft. He spun a pen in his hand and his eyes turned distant. “A young person will feel an intense loneliness, the desire to reach out and find people like them without hearing anyone speak to them in a way they will understand. It doesn’t matter if it's a school like Cassell, or a private club, or a religion. Hybrids will wander and search until they gather together out of loneliness and the need to be with those of their own kind. For someone to experience the company of other Hybrids and then to turn away....” He paused, not finishing the sentence.

Guderian sighed, mournfully. “It seems so impossible. But it's true, he hasn’t joined any clubs, and shows no interest in any classes. Shows no interest in any girls.”

“The feeling is mutual. He’s has a reputation of uselessness on a level higher than Fingel Von Frings.” Manstein said. “Few on the faculty want to deal with him. Much less the students.”

“Perhaps that’s intentional. If no one sees him as useful, it's easier for him to disappear.” Schneider said.

Manstein spoke up. “Toyama has said that it is very rare for someone to be able to resist the ‘Cry of the Blood’ but it can happen. If the dragon blood purity is low enough then he might not feel the Blood Cry so strongly. Perhaps he is actually of C-rank and you two are having wishful thoughts.” Manstein huffed.

“Wait, you’re not sure what rank he is?” Hana’s eyes darted back and forth from face to face.

Schneider cleared his throat loudly. “His willfully negligent behavior is unusual for a C-rank and is intriguing enough to investigate. You see, low ranking hybrids are not usually this stubborn. We thought perhaps we could retest him.”

“He seemed pretty normal to me…” Hana responded. The three professors all stared at her. “I… I mean, some of the things he said were things I could understand. He doesn’t like the fact that people are here just to score what he called ‘social points’. He feels he’s here just to please his parents, but because he’s no use to the Cassell Mission it’s pointless for him to work hard. It’s not that he’s rejecting anyone. He seems to know that when the big missions come along, he won’t be called up. So there’s no point in being at the top of his game.”

“There are no useless hybrids at Cassell.” Schneider said. “In order to stay here you have to be above average, answering six out of the ten questions on the 3E exam. If he were just an ordinary Hybrid or possessed only garbage dragon genes, then he would not have been acceptable at all and we would have rejected him. He should know this.”

“I don’t mean to be argumentative, but he’s kind of right.” Hana said. “A-ranked students are called up in dire emergencies only. The last emergency we had, it was only A through S rankers. Since when was a C-ranked student sent on an A ranked mission? Wouldn’t that be the same as sending them on a death trap? No one is going to send a C-rank to kill a dragon king. It just doesn’t happen. What’s more, everyone knows that a B ranking should be the lowest grade on the Campus, for someone to get a C or an F like Fingel, it’s a joke to the whole college and no one would want to be caught dead hanging out with him. The only reason I could sit and talk to him was because I’m already a reject. I can’t get any lower, right?”

The three professors looked at each other in turn.

Guderian rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you can talk to him again! He seems to like you! He doesn’t usually hold a conversation with anyone for very long!”

“Uh…” Hana smiled. “Honestly, I think I’m better off handling this escort mission alone. He’s made it very clear that he’s not interested in doing the assignment.”

Guderian gasped. “Oh right! The assignment! Yes… about that. Don't worry about that.”

Hana’s jaw dropped in confusion. “What do you mean don’t worry about it?”

“Um… the shipment was delayed. Yes… delayed. So you don’t have to worry about the assignment. More importantly, I think Mr. Phillips can use another interview from you. And we’ll make that your assignment!”

Hana sighed in disbelief. She crossed her arms. “When will this assignment end and how do I know I got a good grade?”

Manstein and Schneider both glared at Guderian and the man flinched. “I uh… heh… The assignment will be complete after this last interrog-... I mean, interview. And you’ll receive a full completed mark for my class.”

“I’ll take it!” Hana beamed. “Now if there’s no more, I have to get ready for my assignment!”

------

“So you were right. There probably wasn’t any cargo assignment at all. They’re just really interested in the idea of you dropping out.” Hana reached over to dip her pita bread in the tzatziki sauce. “I think I got assigned to you because I was the only one with no social clout you might talk to. So now, talking to you is my assignment.”

“I don’t get it. Why do they care?”

“It’s not because of their ego. It’s because you’re unusual! It’s weird for hybrids not to want to be with Hybrids. The fact that you would willingly want to drop out and fantasize about it? It got their attention. I think they feel they might be wrong about your ranking. You’re C-ranked but you don’t act like it. Plus, it’s not possible for a C-rank to get into Cassell. The lowest rank they’ll accept is B. Officially. Fingel was A ranked when he joined but was demoted after. You were accepted as C… that’s strange. Did they say why?”

The spring air was still chilly but Nathan kept the window open in his dorm. The smell of garlic was strong from both the Greek and the Italian food. Hana and Nathan sat around a table full of half eaten styrofoam clamshells. Nathan sat back, his arms resting on the back of the used sofa, against the open window, shamelessly without a shirt, in the same pants he’d worn all day. His brown hair was roughed by the wind but he seemed to like it that way. “No.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what happened.”

“You had to resonate at least somewhat… right? C isn’t nothing.”

Nathan let out a breath and stood up to go to the dark kitchen and he returned with a beer. “You’re just going to go back and report everything I say. So why should I tell you anything?”

“Worst case scenario, you actually don’t belong there, this is all a mistake and they wipe your mind early. Best case scenario you find out you’ve been under-ranked all along and you can actually go on the dragonslaying missions and you can shove it in the face of all the people who looked down on you.”

He sat back down on the couch. “Both of those scenarios kinda suck.”

“You’re all about reality and truth, right?” She said, “If you really don’t belong here, you shouldn’t be here. If you do belong here, you should be here. If you’re as low ranking as you believe you are? Brain washing should be no problem. But if you’re strong? Having your memory wiped could cause intense anxiety and depression. Because you won’t be able to silence the blood-cry, no matter how hard you try. Hybrids always find each other. Only you will be miserable because you’ll be locked out of the world you belong to. Once you leave Cassell… you can’t come back. People may look down on you because you’re ranked C… but Fingel is ranked F and he’s not leaving. They haven’t kicked him out. Probably because he wouldn’t survive on his own out there. What do you think your chances are?”

Nathan took a drink from his beer. “I know that.”

“I’m on your side here. Just tell me what happened. I won’t tell the professors. I promise. They just said I had to complete the interview. Guderian didn’t say I had to tell them anything.”

He put the bottle down at the table. “You go first then. What did you see on your exam?”

“I was running down an unusually long corridor. And I just kept running and running until I got to the end and I saw myself. Only… My clothes were covered in blood and I was crying tears of blood. I was crying like...the kind of crying where you’re exhausted and you want to stop but you can’t. I felt like I knew what I was crying about, but I couldn’t… say it. Something terrible that shouldn’t be spoken. An incredible guilt. And I deserved what was coming to me.”

Nathan lowered his bottle from his lips. “Sorry…”

Hana just shrugged her shoulders. “Okay. It’s your turn.”

“Okay… don’t tell them, okay? Promise me.” Nathan’s eyes seemed to darken and Hana realized that perhaps she’d managed to convince him to talk.

“I won’t. I promise.” Already her mind was fielding several different ways she could talk and somehow get away with it. Mentally, she crossed her fingers.

“I’ll hold you to it.” He tilted the bottle at her. “Anyway, I just… saw one dragon. It wasn’t that I saw a real dragon, I just got a sense of what they were. And I thought about how I’d been running behind my brother trying to keep up with him and my status obsessed parents. But when I saw what real power was? I was like… screw it. Everyone is just… rats on a wheel. So… I just stopped. I stopped writing.”

“What do you mean you stopped? You… stopped taking the test in the middle of it?” Hana's jaw dropped in disbelief for the second time that day. “How could you stop?! The visions are uncontrollable.”

“It was hopeless! I felt the deepest hopelessness you can ever feel. Like you were digging a hole thinking you almost reached the bottom and all you see when you look down is more and more dirt and you understand that you’ll die before you reach the bottom! So you just stop!” He slammed the beer on the table. “It wasn’t something I could control or think ‘okay next question’. It was like the universe reached out and said. ‘No.’ There was no choice. Once you understand what we’re up against? You’ll get it. But… I hope you never do.”

Hana couldn’t pull her gaze away from the haunted look in his eyes. They were the eyes of a crazy person. Maybe it was the fact that they were ringed with dark circles and red rims or the moonlight that made his skin look paler than usual. He certainly looked like someone who had a bad trip.

“I can look at you, Hana… and I can tell you flat out. If you meet a real dragon? You’re dead. You don’t understand what these things are. They look real, with eyes and skin and heart and lungs… but that’s just the … physical outward… manifestation of … some sort of Eldritch Abomination!” He fought to find the words to express what he remembered from the 3E. He was so defiant and stubborn before but now that was all gone. “You THINK you can kill these things because you don’t… understand…”

He leaned forward, his eyes were the most intense she’d ever seen. Hana leaned away from him.

“Cassell college is a joke. On a fundamental level. So yes. I’m getting my memory wiped. Because C ranked… A ranked… forget it. We’re toast.”

“You’re not C ranked.” She said, her voice shaking. “You’re not… And you know it. But you’d rather run away… You’re just like Fingel...”

“I think you’re right about that. But Fingel either doesn’t have the guts to cut and run or they won’t let him. The same way they won’t let me. They send you here to stop me from going. But you’re on my side right? Then you tell them the truth and tell them that ‘Yep! Nathan Phillips is just a C-ranked idiot. Just let him hang out here and cut him loose.’ You’re on my side. Right?”

“You really mean that Cassell can’t win?”

Nathan shook his head slowly. “Not a chance. Not a snowflake's chance in hell. You’re on my side right? Please Hana. Just… tell them I’m a useless C.”

----

Hana stepped out of the dorm. The wind blew and ruffled the skirt of her uniform. She looked at the stately buildings and prime real estate. She had three assignments due the next day, and a presentation due after that. But a long shadow was suddenly cast over her future at Cassell.

The shadow by the question. “What if he was right? What if it was really all hopeless? Cassell’s mission was to slay dragons but if it was impossible...”

She turned her face up to the single lit window. Nathan’s window was still open and even though she was outside and he was on the second floor, she could smell the weed from here.

If I ever meet a dragon, I’ll bow down and say, “I welcome my scaly overlords!”

“You were serious...” She whispered. She turned and walked away, her lone figure receding into the night.

#Dragon Raja

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bang-to-the-tan · 5 years ago

Text

Moth to Flame

Chapter 13

Reader x OT7

► Vampire!AU

Smut/Porn With Some Plot

Warnings: (hoo boy) Oral Sex, Blowjobs, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, Sloppy Seconds, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, Degradation,Somewhat Dubious Consent/Hypnosis, Vaginal Fingering, Anal Fingering, Handjob, Masturbation, Cumplay, Threesome (M/M/F), Foursome (M/M/M/F), Voyeurism, Slight Stockholm Syndrome?, Possessiveness, Vampires (Biting, Blood-Sucking, Reference to Death), Language

Words: 11.1K (jesus tittyfucking CHRIST)

↳ Summary: Robbed of your memories and intended as a birthday present for a deadly creature of the night, you unwittingly become the center of a territorial dispute between two covens of vampires. Tensions are rising and the brothers are getting hungry…

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Yoongi’s sweatpants fit well enough to get by in, matched with another of Namjoon’s hoodies—this time in a tan color. (How many hoodies does one man need? You’re reminded again of Jin’s seemingly endless supply of clothing, though you don’t dare mention the similarity) The flip flops he’s lent you are a little on the large side, but you doubt it really matters. You’re just glad to be wearing shoes again. As you wait by the door for Namjoon to get his keys and slide his arms through his jacket, tugging on a bucket hat and hanging a pair of sunglasses onto his shirt, you’re still trying to process your emotions. Outside. With other people. Other humans, even. Are you going to run? Are you going to try to escape? It feels like that’s what you should be planning.

“Oh.” Namjoon catches your attention as you muse, pulling dark, smokey fabric your way and wrapping it around your neck. You pluck distractedly at one of the fringes hanging off it, meeting his gaze after a second.

“Just in case,” he says, shifting the scarf around your shoulders more securely. “For the marks.”

“They look bad?”

He tilts your head to the side, inspecting you with a quirk of his lips. “Mm. No. Not really. Kinda healed. But just in case. Don’t want any awkward questions.”

Awkward questions. Like, ��blink twice if you’re being held hostage’? That kind of awkward? You allow him to tuck the edges back in, hiding the evidence of where you’ve been. What you’ve been doing. What’s been done to you. You grimace. Your head still hurts, and the world has begun spinning a little when you turn your neck too quickly.

You blink, and you’re in the passenger’s seat of the car, staring out the window while Namjoon talks. Vaguely, you’re aware of what he’s saying. That he thinks it’s awfully important. You beg to differ.

“—find you on any, like, missing persons databases so I think we’re in the clear, but just to be safe, y’know. This is…it’s a risk. You understand?”

You hum, working your jaw. You wish he’d gotten you something a little stronger for the headache. It’s better than it was, but not gone. Swear it gets worse when he talks, and he’s talking a lot.

“I need you to behave yourself. Don’t make a scene. If you act out, then we can’t do this anymore.”

You roll your eyes, even knowing that it’s going to twinge at your migraine.

“I’m not gonna run around screaming about being kidnapped, Joon,” you grumble.

“I know. I know, I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. I promised you we’d let you go when we’ve…sorted something else out.”

“That’s a different phrasing than you used last time.”

“I’m trying. Okay? Just—I’m not trying to keep you prisoner.”

“Hence the handcuffs.”

You flick a glance over at him just in time to catch the tick of his jaw as he narrows his eyes at the road ahead.

“That is…not the same thing.”

“If it’s sexy, then kidnapping is okay.”

The exasperated snort of air that he answers with is partly humored and partly frustrated.

“You are, annoying sometimes, you know that?”

“I get to be, I think.” You turn back to the window. “Considering.”

“…yeah. Alright. Considering.”

The store has too many fucking people in it, is the thought that occurs to you. At first, pulling into the parking lot, you’re excited to see them. Human beings, running amok, running free. You feel like an animal at a zoo released into the wild. Ordinary people, milling about, going about their ordinary lives. It’s invigorating.

That feeling quickly fades when you actually get into the building. The smells, too-sharp chemicals and body odor hits you immediately; cheaply, quickly cooked food and even cheaper body spray. The noises. Chattering, obnoxious laughing heard from the other side of the store, children shrieking and shouting. A cart down the way has a squeaky wheel and you can track it through the aisles. You ruminate on thoughts of violence perpetrated by the item in question itself, of picking it up and throwing it out the finger-smudged windows with the screeching baby still inside it.

Namjoon’s hand on yours squeezes reassuringly. It’s unclear to you whether he can sense your discomfort but you don’t think you’ll mention it if it’s possible to avoid doing so. You can’t imagine how unbearably smug he’d be to learn that you’d rather be around him than them. Once you’re in the store, he lifts his sunglasses, but leaves the hat on.

“Not gonna burn to a crisp in the sunlight?” You ask after a moment of watching a child attempt to shove his entire hand up one nostril.

“Nah. Just a little sensitive on the eyes.”

“The super cool, far-seeing, all-knowing vampire eyes.”

“Those ones.”

“I should have brought a flashlight to the club, is what you’re telling me.”

He chuckles, shrugging. “Maybe so.”

He leads you to the clothing section, still holding your hand, and there isn’t an atom in your body that is even vaguely alright with the idea of letting him out of your sight. There’s a feeling like you’d get swept up in this sea of people, lost in a world so entirely foreign to you. You know you used to belong here. This used to be yours.

But flicking numbly through shirts and pants, skirts, jackets, mumbling half-remembered guesses at measurements, listening to the cacophony around you, lost in the harsh overhead lights…you don’t belong here. You aren’t sure whether it’s more upsetting to think that you don’t now, or that once upon a time, you did. Once upon a time, you didn’t question it.

A gaggle of teenaged girls passes by. For a third time. They stare at Namjoon in turns, giggling and speeding up, skittering past, chattering to each other excitedly. Their idea of stealth leaves a lot to be desired.

“You have admirers.”

Namjoon cocks his head, lips pursing, as he pulls a t-shirt off the rack and holds it up to you appraisingly. “I’m ignoring them.”

“Not hungry?”

His eyes flit to yours. “Never teenagers.” He replies, low, firm. He sounds almost upset. “Never kids.”

You hear the click of a phone camera and a high-pitched giggle of embarrassment, the forcibly hushed whispers of ‘turn off the noise turn off the noise, oh my god!’.

“Not even annoying ones?”

“If you really want to discourage them, you could kiss me.” He says instead, lightly, but his eyes flick to yours and you can taste the heat behind them.

“That’ll do it, you think?” you echo sardonically.

He hums, nodding once in affirmation.

Before you can think too hard, you slide a hand over his on the shirt hanger, guiding it back towards the rack so that you can close the gap between you. Like the first time, he doesn’t move at first. Allows you to crane upwards, struggle to brush your lips together, before he finally acquiesces and takes the remaining space, laying a lingering kiss against your mouth. He’s warm, soft. His lips taste like him. Like how he smells. Like Namjoon. The two of you lock gazes as you part, and you willfully ignore the electricity shimmying down your body.

“I don’t like the color of that one,” you break the silence after a pause. He blinks slow, a grin crawling across his face.

“No?”

“No. But the one behind it is nice.”

“Anything for baby.”

You don’t allow him the warmth that curls inside of you at that.

The two of you end up standing in line, holding a modest armful of clothing that you’re pretty sure will fit, waiting for your turn at the checkout. It’s not even a matter of what you’re planning to buy at this point—your headache has only gotten worse and it’s all you can do not to lose your fucking mind. You reached the breaking point about ten minutes ago and you’re absolutely going to go batshit if you don’t leave this store immediately. Which is why when Joon starts doing that ‘patting himself down in surprise’ motion, you’re thrown into palpable despair.

“Oh, shit.”

“No. No, Namjoon.” You plead through gritted teeth, throwing him a desperate look.

“My wallet’s in the car.”

“Damn you, goddamn you—“

He grabs your arms with an apologetic smile that dimples his cheeks. “Just stand off to the side. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

“No, Namjoon. No.”

But he’s already skipping away from you, holding up two fingers and mouthing ‘two minutes’ back your way. You hate him. You hope he gets run over while he’s out there.

You trudge over to a nearby empty counter, dumping your armful onto it, resisting the urge to throw yourself on the pile and pull a pair of jeans over your head. Your brain hurts, your teeth are chattering, it’s too bright, it’s too loud, it smells, god, it smells, you had no idea you were so sensitive, you are so ready to go home. And by now you don’t even care that you’re calling it home. You can’t afford to care. What you wouldn’t do for more medication. For that turtle. Oh, how you lament the absence of that heavenly reptile.

“Hey.”

You start at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, sounding up and away but too close to the back of your head. You turn, casting your glance up at the tall man standing by the counter. He’s not a worker; instead of their overly bright getup he’s sporting a leather jacket and black jeans. You don’t understand why he’s talking to you, if that’s the case, and you’re not really in sure how to pretend otherwise at the moment. His grin is crooked, raising his eyebrows expectantly, but at your expression his mischievous look fades.

“…Sorry, I thought I knew you!” He says after an awkward moment. Your heart seizes. Knew you?

He gestures with his hands as he explains. “Y’know, from the back, you look—I thought I recognized you.”

“…O-oh.” You aren’t sure what to say to that. Fuck, you sincerely hope he was mistaken. You hadn’t even considered what would happen if someone who used to know you sees you. The person you were before…before this. You don’t think you recognize him.

There’s another pause, where you turn away slightly, willing this moment to be over, but he doesn’t move. The moment instead stretches into forever. You would like to cease existing.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine! I’m—“ God, it’s been a long time since you’ve spoken to real people. You crane back around, forcing a smile that you hope doesn’t look too forced. “I’m fine. Just waiting. My, um.” You stumble over a way to define Namjoon, deciding in the end to abandon it entirely. “He left his wallet in the car.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t look convinced, flashing you a cursory up-and-down glance. Actually, looking at him, he’s pretty handsome himself. Wide lips, strong nose. A jawline to kill for. His neck is thick. You wonder what else of him—no, no. No. No. You like his eyes, you decide weakly. He’s got kind eyes. Good, nice eyes.

“Do you mind if I talk to you?”

You frown, throwing him another glance. Misgiving pools in your stomach warningly. You really, really aren’t in any kind of state to be carrying conversations with strangers. “Uh.”

He casts a look around, casual if not for the serious slant to his strong brows. He leans forward, pulling one edge of his jacket to the side. You see a flash of silver, recognize the badge hooked to the inside, and it clicks in your head, despite the chaos spinning around the edges of the world like a sick carousel. You don’t see much of the ID badge underneath but for his name, and his serious-faced photo, before he tucks it back away. Jackson. His name is Jackson.

“…You’re a cop.”

“Nothing’s the matter,” he reassures, holding out a hand placatingly, eyes watching yours. “Just like to ask you a few questions.” He jerks his head at the entrance.

“Come with me.”

Oh. Relief floods your limbs so intense you almost sigh aloud. That’s okay, then. Yeah, that’s fine. The clothes’ll be alright here for a second longer, you’re sure. You’re already following him as he peels off the counter and starts walking casually, your doubts melting away, making your steps lighter. Local police. Just a few questions, yeah. You can handle that. God, you were so afraid for a minute. The thought makes you chuckle under your breath when his back is turned as he leads you out the door, turning the corner to an alcove by the entrance. You definitely can handle whatever this handsome stranger wants to dole out.

He turns when you get there, stepping to the side so you can tuck yourself by the side of the building, out of view of any nosy people.

“How can I help you, officer?” you ask demurely, a smile curling the edge of your lips. Just being out of that building is helping your headache immensely. It’s fading as you speak, releasing its grip on your jaw, your thoughts.

He cranes over his shoulder to survey the parking lot behind him and you take the brief respite to admire the way his shirt pulls across subtle pecs, across broad shoulders, underneath the jacket that does little to hide his physique. The way he fills those black jeans. You like the obvious power in what you can see. Is it weird to be checking the cop out? No. No, certainly not. You resist the urge to bite your lip when he looks back to you and grins again. He’s cute when he smiles.

“So where are you from?”

“Ah…not too far from here, actually,” you return, playing at shy.

“No?” he chuckles, and the giggle threatening to bubble up past your lips finally wins over. You sway a little with the girlish sound. It’s all part of the act. You’re a normal human girl talking to a normal, albeit strikingly handsome, police officer. Everything is fine. “You sure? You aren’t from a little further up north? Think very carefully.”

You shake your head, grinning. The world around you spins delightfully when you do, fuzzing slightly about the edges. It’s really warm out here. You didn’t notice that before. It’s nice. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Don’t think so?” he echoes, stepping closer. That’s good. You like that. Your heartbeat quickens in your throat. “Weird way to answer…are you having trouble remembering?”

“Maybe.” You giggle again, feeling a thrill wash through your frame when he takes another step forward, threatening to invade your space. You fall back to the wall, leaning your head against it to allow yourself a better view of his smirk. Your head doesn’t want to stay upright properly, but the wall helps. If you can just get him a little closer…maybe you could…he is very handsome. And his lips…You stare at them with hunger pooling in your gut, intently watching the way they pull when he scoffs. Very kissable. Check.

“I’m gonna take a wild guess,” he murmurs in that low growl of his, “About who you really are…”

One hand comes up to brace against the wall, caging you in. You can feel his warmth now. Can smell the mint on his breath. Your stomach twists in anticipation. There’s something familiar in his expression now. A darkness. A hunger. You’re beyond pleased to see it in a face so handsome.

“Going by these…” he hums, and you feel a finger dragging against the column of your neck, slipping underneath the scarf. You huff a pleased breath, craning to press more of your skin towards him, nearly moaning when he presses his hot palm against the bitemarks in a curious fashion. “And…this…” His hand slides down, disentangling from the fabric, fingertips grazing your sternum, too close to the mark at your breast. He’s finding your little secrets very easily, you think with a hushed giggle. You wonder if he’ll get the next one. You hope he gets the next one. Arousal crawls down your spine and you arch at the thought, suddenly desperate for it.

“Hah, fuck, wow, that’s a reaction, huh? They treat you nice?”

You’re nodding, whimpering when his hand starts towards your hip. He nuzzles forward, presses a testing peck against your lips but you surge towards him, clutching at his wide shoulders, pulling him closer. He chuckles breathlessly against your mouth as you kiss him, a free hand going to his wrist and tugging it towards your inner thigh. He tastes like mint gum, warm lips caressing yours firmly, supple and pliant.

“Are you good for them?” he whispers between kisses. “Hmm?”

“So good,” you simper, humming when he nips lightly at your mouth. “I’m so good.”

“What do they call you? Are you their little whore? Little pet? Hm?” he clutches the meat of your thigh suddenly, and your approving squeak is muffled by his tongue, wet, slippery, sloppy.

“Could you be good for me too?” he growls when you part, licking across your swollen lips. The sound of it, already so rough, so low, has you twitching. “Could you add one more to your little collection?”

“Yes,” you’re tugging him closer, writhing when his hand ghosts to cup you between the legs, firm, possessive, demonstrative. “Y-Yes, yes, I can be good.”

“Can you be quiet?” he adds with a hushed laugh, raising his eyebrows at your fevered expression as you continue to scrabble at him, yanking on his jacket, his wrist, begging and twisting. “You have to—shh,” he shushes you when you keen, pressing his fingers closer to your pussy through Yoongi’s sweatpants, feeling for your heat and finding it easily, “You’re too fucking loud. You have to be quiet, or else—“

“She’s very vocal.”

You almost cry out in pleasure when you hear the voice that breaks through the cop’s low mumbling, arching and trembling against the wall. But he told you to hush, so you bite down on your lip, vision swimming with sweet obedience and heady recognition.

“I can see that.” The dark-eyed officer chuckles after a beat, his hand slipping from your apex despite your muffled, disappointed noise and attempts to pull him back. “Shocked nobody’s been called in for domestic disturbance around yours yet.” He pulls his hand from you easily, leaning back and turning to better address the owner of voice behind him.

Arousal skitters up your spine, coiling in your limbs, at the way Namjoon flicks you a momentary, disapproving look, his jaw ticking. Is he thinking of punishing you for this? You hope so. But his plump lips curve into an overly-pleasant smile, eyes crinkling as they cast to the other man.

“By all means, don’t let me interrupt.” He says smoothly. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“I’d hate to get in any real trouble,” is the reply, just as cool. “Have to set an example for Yugyeom, right?”

Your body itches. Everything is warm, soft, bubbly, and the heat of the man in front of you is like a furnace, the hot center of your universe. You sneak your fingers into his belt loops, scooting him closer to you, and he allows it with a vaguely smug expression.

Namjoon’s smile doesn’t move, frozen on his face. “Your border is a few miles north from here, isn’t it? You’re cutting it a little close, don’t you think? Jackson?”

Jackson blinks, straightening. He grabs your wandering hand by the wrist from where it had travelled around his side to his zipper (how on earth did it get there, you wonder with a snicker), holding it up and away from his body with one wide palm. You whine through your nose. “We’re just passing through.” His tone has turned more serious. Respectful. “Avoiding the main roads. Won’t be spending more than a few hours this close to your territory.”

“Passing through?”

Jackson hesitates.

“We’re leaving, Namjoon.”

Namjoon’s smile falls, curving into a confused frown, his brow creasing. “What do you mean, you’re leaving?”

“It’s too slim here. We’re not having any luck lately. It’s my turn to disappear anyways.”

You press up against Jackson’s side, trying to slide your other hand up under his shirt, but he catches that one, too, holding you prisoner against the tacky feel of leather and his body heat. You mewl pointedly, hands straining, rocking against him. What’s he so busy for? Can’t he see that you need it? Your mouth waters. You need it…Up against this wall, bent over—you imagine Namjoon joining in and the thought has you aching. You can always prove how good you are. Can always show your new friend how good you can be for him.

Namjoon’s frown takes his lips with it, bares his teeth in a grimace. “You can’t be serious. What, already? What are we supposed to do?”

Jackson cocks his head in your direction and returns your sly grin with a raise of his eyebrows, briefly looking you over with an expression that makes you wet. You hum, trying to send him psychic requests for touching, kissing, biting through your locked gaze.

“Looks like you’re already doing something.”

“She…she was an accident.”

“And here I thought you and Jin had finally made nice.” Jackson looks back to Namjoon, neck lolling with disbelief. He lets go of your hands, spinning and suddenly disentangling you from him in one smooth motion. He pushes your arms to your own chest and looks you dead in the eyes again. Hours pass where you’re lost in his eyes, caught in the endless depths of obsidian, floating in nothing and everything.

“Don’t. Move.”

A shiver wracks your body violently, and you have to throw yourself against the wall just to avoid crumpling to the ground with the pleasure that comes with obeying. You won’t move, you won’t move. You can do that for him. You press yourself to the brick, shuddering and panting quietly, eyes trained on his frame, watching how the world seems to heave with your every breath, lends him and Joon halos, makes heat spark and flare inside of you.

“You’re not actually leaving. We need you up north. Who’s taking your place?”

Jackson shakes his head, craning back to Namjoon. His tongue flits to wet his lips, gaze flicking upwards. You can think of better places his tongue could be. “No one. All of us are headed southwest.”

“Jaebum has better sense.”

“Back when it was an option.”

“You can’t just fucking leave, Jackson, we need cover. Now more than ever.”

“Wasn’t that the point of Jungkook?”

Ohh, Jungkook. You like Jungkook. Jungkook would take you. Press you up against the wall again, like when you met, but this time…you’re threatening to drool. Not moving is really hard.

“Jungkook is a kid. They’ll notice eventually. Jin isn’t thinking about the long term.”

“Then you’ll have to move anyways. You can’t just stubborn your way through everything, Namjoon.”

Namjoon’s smile returns, but it’s tight, dangerous. He looks like a predator. It’s a good look, makes you warm and wet all over, but you know better than anyone how to smooth it off him.

“I appreciate your opinion.”

“Good. I like giving it.”

“Stay out of my territory.” He pulls the phrase through his grin, low and heavy with threat. “If I catch any of you with so much as a toe over the line, I’ll pull you apart.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. Like I said, we’re just passing through. Thought we’d grab one for the road in between territories.” Jackson flashes you another glance and you shiver. “…I won’t say anything about her, though. For you.”

“I told you she was an accident. You know times are tough.”

“I don’t agree with taking them like this. I don’t know anyone who does.”

“It’s temporary.”

Jackson shrugs.

“I’ll leave her with you anyway.” He says finally, with a sniff. “From the smell of her, you’ve got enough to worry about with just the two of you involved.”

He ruffles the back of his hair as he starts to walk. Namjoon doesn’t step aside for him, only watching as he gets close. When he comes within distance, he reaches forward and takes his arm. It’s weirdly gentle, familiar. You wish he’d grab you instead. Less gently would be preferable. Be nice if you could move, also.

“Tell me someone is staying.” Namjoon pleads. His eyes are genuine as he searches the other man’s. “Someone, anyone. Tell me we’ve still got cover. That the riots won’t reach us.”

Jackson slowly, hesitantly, places his hand on top of Namjoon’s.

“…You said it yourself. Times are tough, Joon.” He replies, quiet. “I’m sorry.”

This time, when he moves to walk past, both hands slipping from his arm, Namjoon angles his body to the side to allow him the space to continue.

“By the way,” Jackson adds after a beat, “You might want to check the ‘most wanted’ lists for up north. I could be wrong, but I think you’ve got one more problem.”

Namjoon’s head drops into a defeated nod, worrying his lower lip through his teeth as Jackson turns the corner out of sight, back towards the entrance.

Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move. A particularly violent shudder courses through you and you whine at the feeling of disobedience, but your body is shaking, breath coming in irregular pants. You’ve broken out in a sweat, your entire frame twitching and needy. Namjoon’s form ahead of you has you wanting, knowing he could make it better, he could kiss and lick and bite and touch and fondle and you need him to. But he only stands there, brow furrowed at the concrete beneath his feet, scratching at the back of his neck distractedly.

“N-Namjoon,” you whisper before you can stop yourself, feeling a thrill race through you when he freezes. Jackson said you needed to be quiet, so you don’t dare say much else, but when Namjoon looks up and meets your eye with a steely glare, you bite back a whimper.

“And you,” he says, low. “What do you have to say for yourself, hm?”

You only watch him, shivering.

“Speak,” he commands.

“Please, please, Namjoon,” you’re begging, babbling loosed from your lips in a tidal wave, “Please, I’m so hot, I need, I need you, I’m so warm, Namjoon, I need—“

“Were you going to let him fuck you?”

“I—“

“Were you. Going to let Jackson fuck you?”

“….I…” your mouth goes dry. At his scathing look you crumble. “Y-yes, yes, I wanted—“

“You were going to let him bite you?”

Your voice has become small, hesitant, but the surface of your skin still buzzes and every time you answer him, pleasure rushes up your spine. “Yes.”

“After I told you not to.”

“I’m hazed,” you whine, shuffling your feet, squeezing your thighs together.

He shakes his head, casting his glance to the side with an expression that morphs into desperation mirroring your own. “…Fuck.”

Yes. Yes, exactly. You concur.

“Come—” He gestures, but the movement doesn’t even register until you’ve already thrown yourself into his outstretched arm, nuzzling into his shirt, pressing as much of you against you as you can manage.

“—here,” he cuts off with a shocked wheeze when you slide your palm down past the front of his pants, rubbing for his cock through his jeans. A thrill runs through you at the realization that he isn’t soft under there. You growl. He grabs for your wrists, shaking, eyes wide as he tries to meet yours. “Hey, whoah, no—fuck, goddamn it.” “Naaaaaamjooon,” you complain. “I was gonna let you fuck me, too…”

“I can see that.” His voice is strangled. He pauses, grip briefly tightening over your wrists and you purr at the feeling.

“Get in the car,” he says finally.

“You could haze me more to get in the car,” you waggle your eyebrows at him, chuckling under your breath at the bubbliness of the world in the corners of your vision.

“Or I could tell you to get in the fucking car and then you just do it.”

“I’ll do something fucking for you, Namjoon.”

“Get. In the car.” He sounds strained, but you’ll take it. Eventually, he’ll give you what you want. You don’t even have to worry about it! You stumble with him to the car, giggling when he tries to usher you into the passenger’s side and avoid the way you’re trying to pull him on top of you.

By the time he comes around the other side to sit behind the wheel, he’s already chattering to himself under his breath. He does like to talk a lot.

“Get Hoseok to pull some strings with one of his, get those clothes bought, look up the wanted section—wanted? What the fuck does that have to do with anything? Godammit, Jackson—gotta give this time to wear off. Maybe we can sneak you past Yoongi. Maybe he’s sleeping. God, I hope he’s sleeping.”

Your hands are wandering again. Drifting over the center console as the car jerks roughly under you and starts speeding smoothly into the sunset. It’s way more interesting to you, what’s happening inside the vehicle. Your fingers dance over to Namjoon’s lap, trailing, watching his face for any sign that he’s going to stop you. His jaw clenches again and he throws you a grim glance.

“Don’t think about it.”

“Think about what.”

“You know what.”

“Taking your cock out?” You clarify innocently, watching with interest the shuddering inhale he takes. “Putting your cock in my mouth?”

“Exactly that.” His teeth are gritted.

“Tasting the tip?” you continue, curious, brushing a palm against his crotch, feeling triumphant at the way the fabric stirs, the way he shifts underneath you. “Or deeper?” Your mouth isn’t working exactly the way you’d like, you’re slurring pretty hard, but you’re already drooling at the thought of sucking him off.

“I’m trying to fucking drive,” he whines, and the sound takes you aback slightly, watching his brow crease in frustration. Consent. Namjoon likes consent. He likes it when you ask.

“Can I suck your dick?” You ask with a polite smile, delighted with yourself for figuring him out so quickly. “Namjoon?” His hips rise of their own volition, stuttering. He doesn’t reply beyond a sharp breath and you frown. Not a ‘no’. But not a yes.

Wait a minute. You’re being so silly. You’ve forgotten the most important part!

“Can I suck your dick, sir?...”

He growls.

“No.” he says. You pout. You did so well, and this is what you get for it. You’re a good girl, why is he going to act like this?

“But I—“

“No buts.” He snaps. “Hands to yourself. Don’t move until we get home.”

Gold dust bursts beneath your eyelids, gathers under your skin, slinks up your throat, and you lean back into the car to watch it curl up through the atmosphere. Your hands are by your side. Where they belong. Where they’ve always been. You barely even notice how hard Namjoon is breathing.

By the time you get home, the soft lights and rounded corners of the world have faded some—not enough to be gone, but enough that your attention has returned to the wetness between your legs. You’re so wet. There’s even a patch forming on Yoongi’s sweatpants. You hope he won’t mind. You recall the way he licked you up in the diner and shudder. He definitely won’t mind.

Namjoon leads you quickly out of the car and up the stairs to the apartment, refusing to look at you, eyes wild, brows furrowed, nostrils flaring and jaw working. He looks like he’s thinking about lots of important things. One of them ought to be how good you’ve been, and how much you need him to touch you, but you’ll let him come to that conclusion himself.

He halts violently in the front hall eyes wide.

“Shit.”

“…Namjoon?” Yoongi’s voice comes from the living room, sounding surprised, almost…guilty?

Namjoon immediately takes a few steps forward, body angled between you and the room.

You peer around him to snag a peek anyways. Yoongi stares back at you from his position on the couch, belly down and hunched over something black. The bags under his eyes are almost a weird shade of purple, they’re so dark. He looks like he’s dying, drawn and fixated. When your gazes meet, his tongue slips over his lips, slow, heady. You whimper before you’re even aware you’re doing it.

“Really? Yoongi?” Namjoon sounds exasperated. Worn thin.

“Really yourself,” Yoongi bites back, but his tone is gravelly. “When you said you were going shopping I thought it would be for longer than five minutes.”

“On the couch?”

Yoongi’s upper row of teeth suddenly bare in a lopsided grin with a mild chuckle. “Not the worst thing to happen on the couch. Right?”

His smile drops suddenly, nostrils flaring. A shiver crawls up your spine as you watch his hips rock forwards and his eyes flutter back in his head. “A-ah, fuck. What the fuck have you two been doing?...”

It isn’t until you feel Namjoons arm raising to halt you at your chest that you realize you’ve been scooting forward in a trance, trying to catch a closer look at the fabric that Yoongi presses his face into now with a low groan.

“Yoongi…” Joon swallows, hard, “You should go back in your room.”

“She’s fucking hazed, isn’t she, Joon? Fuck, she’s so wet,” he continues to hiss under his breath, as if to himself. “Fuck, she’s so wet.”

This time you can see his arm shift, can hear a slick noise from underneath him, his breath catching. His jeans are hanging a little low on his hips, baring a black strip of underwear, you realize, and with that realization comes understanding. The fabric is Namjoon’s old hoodie. He’s got it pinned to the couch beneath him. When he nuzzles into it, you recognize the faded pattern from the hem brushing his nose. It’s upside down, so that his face is where…where your pussy was.

“It was a mistake,” Namjoon says while your world spins dizzyingly with arousal.

“Hmm…” Yoongi grunts, impossibly low in his throat. “Lots of those.” He doesn’t sound fully cognizant of what he’s saying. It’s absent, slurred. You see why when he twists his head again, mouth lolling open to lap secretively at the hoodie, his tongue pointed and firm. Arousal slips heat down your back, between your legs when you spot his bared teeth. Long, sharp, glistening with saliva as he exhales shakily. Oh, yes. That’s what you want.

Namjoon’s arm presses against you and he takes a half a step back, taking you with him even though you don’t really want to walk backwards. The way Yoongi tucks his head into the hoodie, his hair splaying against the fabric, inhales loudly, humps forward, hips curling with a sloppy sound that indicates just how wet he is in his own palm—it reminds you of an animal.

“Gonna bite holes in the couch, Joon,” he warns thick, muffled. “Mmm…I’m going to lose my fucking mind. She’s fucking hazed. God, I-I can’t do this.”

“It’s only been a day.” Namjoon’s voice is strained. You cast a curious look at him, but immediately your eye is drawn to the tent growing in his pants. He tries to move it, tries to casually tuck it out of view, but it’s too late, the damage is done, and a huff of desire escapes from your throat, eyes threatening to bulge out of your head. You like very much the way things are shaping up. “It’s only been a day—“

“Fuck. Fuck.”

“—We need to give her time to recover—“

Yoongi makes a noise that’s too close, too close, to a high-pitched whimper, his head still bent, hiding his face.

“Recover nothing, recover is bullshit,” he’s babbling, dark, frustrated, garbled by the pillows underneath him. “I need—“

“It’s not a good idea.”

“I need to be inside of her now, Namjoon.” Yoongi pulls his head back up, laying his cheek ontop of the hoodie. His eyes are blown wide, all traces of brown swallowed by obsidian, hooded and piercing as he meets your gaze, blazing a path straight through you. His delicate lips can barely keep his teeth at bay, bitten, abused pink playing peekaboo with glistening pinpricks of ivory. His jet hair spiders out across his forehead, stuck in places with sweat. “I need to drain her.”

“It isn’t a good—“

“I’ll kill you.” It fights its way past his lips, stuttering and stammering, like an addict denied his high, lent credence by the way he digs his nails into the sofa, ruts into his own hand. “I—I’ll, Joon, I’ll fucking kill you.”

There’s a pause of silence, punctuated only by your breathing and the soft fabric noises as Yoongi humps the couch.

“…No, you won’t.” Namjoon’s voice is soft. Quiet. He sighs through his nose, long and weary.

Yoongi opens his mouth to reply, but he stills at the same time you see movement in the corner of your eye. A hand drifting to the hem of Namjoon’s second hoodie. Its twin, on the other side. Shuffling its grip up, taking the hoodie and the scarf with it, peeling it up and over your head with all the gentleness of a caretaker. You can’t look away from Yoongi. He’s stopped moving entirely, too-bright eyes watching you from over the pillows, a snake in the grass ready to strike. You don’t think he’s breathing. Namjoon’s hands return, slipping long fingers beneath the elastic waistband. He shucks them off you, helping you step out by placing your hand on his shoulder. One leg at a time. You sway a little, completely nude, standing in the living room like a sacrificial offering to the heathen gods. And the intensity with which the creature on the couch watches you, your chest heaving with heady breath, tells you that analogy isn’t far off.

You next feel warmth at your hand, wandering fingers drifting to clutch yours in a show of unexpected softness.

“We aren’t going to hurt her,” Namjoon says, fighting to keep a tremble out of his voice. Is it excitement? Fear? “We’re going to take care of her. Right, Yoongi?”

“Fuck,” Yoongi whispers, eyes wide.

“We aren’t going to hurt her.”

“No.” Yoongi echoes.

“We’re going to take care of her.”

“Yes.”

“I will use force if I have to.”

“Mm.”

Namjoon nods, once. The hand at yours disappears, reappearing with a sudden grip of your hair, tugging your head back.

“You wanted so badly to suck cock, baby,” Namjoon snarls into your ear, sending hot breath coasting against your neck, making you squeal when he yanks unmercifully, his grip burning against your scalp, “Here’s your fucking chance. You’re going to take Yoongi down your throat like a good slut. I don’t want you coming up for breath. Do you understand?”

“I understand, sir,” you mewl immediately, scrabbling upwards, delicate fingers flying to his with no effect. The switch has left you reeling with whiplash, but it makes you shake all the same. All the same, it makes you ache. He releases you, shoving forward, and you stumble, catching yourself on the arm of the couch, just beside Yoongi’s head.

Yoongi still hasn’t moved. You slide to the front of the sofa, eyes trained on his, unable to keep down the feeling of being a steak in a lion’s den. But he uncurls from his position, turning to reveal his dick to you, head cocked, hands clutching the cushions on either side of his legs like he has half a mind to tear them to shreds.

You almost choke, just looking at him. Flushed a painful red from tip to base, bright veins bulging angrily, twitching in the cold air apart from his hand. Coated in precum, streaks shining in the light down what you can see of his lower belly, wet patches soaked through the bottom of his white shirt, glazing his cock. Under your stare, it oozes another dribble, and suddenly you’re famished.

“Please.”

It doesn’t register as a word until he shifts, legs widening, hands kneading. You look back to his face. He looks half out of his mind, eyes dark.

“Please.” He repeats, hoarse.

You’re already falling to your knees, jaw dropping opening with the sick plop of your tongue leaving the roof of your mouth, reaching for his thighs. His hips flex when you get close, easing his head past your lips and you can taste the heat before you even descend on him, sucking, laving at his fevered skin.

The noise he makes is sin, lust, and velvet. Not far from a purr. His hands don’t move from where they’re digging into the cushions, allowing you to take as much of him as you want, as much as you can. You fill your senses with him greedily; his taste, his smell, every twitch of his thighs and every bob of his cock into your mouth.

You feel wandering fingers trace your spine, curling around your ass, alighting to your dripping pussy with intent. When two push inside, eased tremendously by the seemingly endless slick that drips from your entrance, you arch into him.

“Y-You fuck her first,” Namjoon’s murmuring from behind as he presses his fingers into you, scissoring, stretching, curling seekingly. You hump against his hand, trying to push him deeper even as you suck Yoongi’s cock down your throat with a slavering eagerness. “Or-or maybe I do…M-maybe we…”

“Both,” Yoongi growls, sharp. A moan bubbles up around his member from your throat and his hips rise to meet the sensation, almost lazy if not for the way he shakes. You feel a hand curling into your hair less than gently, by your face, tugging your head a little to the side so that he can look you in the eye while you suckle at his head. He’s grinning, feral and distant. As your gazes lock, he scrunches his nose at you in a playful snarl.

“You have two holes for a reason, don’t you think?” he drawls past a slur. “Let’s see how wide we can stretch them.”

Behind you, Namjoon grunts deep in his throat and his pace stutters. “Sh-shit, that’s—“

“She wants it. You want it, don’t you? You want me in your ass. You want Namjoon in your cunt. Admit it.” He tsks, his tone dropping somehow lower. “Admit it, and we’ll prepare you first.”

He pulls you off his cock with a fierce tug of your locks caught between his knuckles, teeth baring again in a half smirk, half grimace as he watches you take deep gasping breaths with all the tenderness of a hawk surveying its squeaking prey.

“I—I do.”

“Little whore.” The vampire in front of you hisses, murmurs, but the thumb brushing against your swollen lips is akin to fond. “I know you do. You want Namjoon’s fingers in your tight little hole?”

You’re nodding into his palm, trying to shift your weight more comfortably on your knees. Either he doesn’t notice or he’s pretending not to, perfectly fine with allowing you to arch, crane. Twitching when Namjoon’s fingers bump against those perfect places inside of you with slick, overly wet noises.

“You want him to stretch you wide for me. You want to beg us for it.”

“I do. I want it.”

“I don’t know that she can take it,” Namjoon mumbles, hoarse, but his fingers give you one more pump, squelching into your arousal, before they’re sliding slowly out, tracing up back towards your spine.

“She’ll fucking take it.” Yoongi’s leading you back to his cock, pressing your cheek to his strained member. His head throws back with a low groan when you obligingly lick up as much of his skin as you can, tasting salt and feeling the heat under your tongue. “She’ll take it and she’ll love it.”

“I’ll take it so good,” you agree between laves, between sloppy kisses and slurps. “I’ll take it.”

Warmth presses experimentally against the tight ring of muscles at your ass. When you tense thoughtlessly, it immediately disappears, Namjoon exhaling shakily.

“I don’t think—“ he mumbles.

“I think,” Yoongi snaps. “Stop fucking thinking, Namjoon. Just do it.”

There’s a pause, a shuffling from behind you, the sound of a bottlecap popping open. The fingers return, and this time you make sure to roll towards them, humming your approval as you lathe up and down Yoongi’s member sloppily. This time, you recognize a much slicker feeling—he must have found lube. Just for you. How nice of him. One digit presses deeper, sinking into you and you huff a sigh at the strange sensation; even with the lube, it hurts, just a little, just a sting, but it’s warm and smooth, filling you up. Another finger pad rubs comforting circles into your clit as he pumps his finger steadily into your asshole. Yoongi purrs with appreciation at the both of your compliances, hips twitching.

“Mm, yeah, stretch her good. Stretch her so good, so I can slip right inside of that tight little ass.”

Namjoon introduces a second finger and you have to stop sucking Yoongi’s cock to rest your head in his lap, keening at the intrusion. It burns, it burns, but the thought of taking his member inside of you, the thought of taking both of them, has you shaking with anticipation.

“Hoseok’s gonna be so mad,” Yoongi mutters, watching you whimper and carding lithe fingers through your hair. “His loss.”

Namjoon’s abrupt chuckle is humorless and short. “Hoseok is in big trouble for that stunt he pulled last night.”

“Hmm? What stunt?” The corner of Yoongi’s mouth twitches upwards in a knowing grin. A hand explodes against your ass, forcing you to jump, working yourself harder on Namjoon’s fingers, and you moan thickly.

“Tell him.”

“H-Hoseok came in the room while I was being pun-punished,” You stutter as Namjoon slides a third finger into your quivering hole, stretching you further with a deep grunt. “He-he fucked my chest.”

Yoongi chuckles. “Shh,” he hums, mock-comforting, stroking your hair with one hand as his other drifts to his own member, teasing at the purpled, leaking head absently, drifting to lock around his base. “I know. I know. Did you like it? Hm? You did, didn’t you? I bet it made you so fuckin’ wet for Hobi’s cock.”

He makes a thick noise deep in his throat. “Namjoon.”

“Gently,” is the response. Namjoon’s fingers slip out of you, even as your body clamps down on him as if trying to convince him deeper, and the rush of pleasure as they’re removed has you shuddering. “Go slow.”

But Yoongi’s gripping your hair, patting your cheek, is excited and rushed. Feverish.

“Turn around. Turn around,” he urges.

Obediently, you sit up shakily, assisted by an arm slipping beneath yours, and turn to face Namjoon. At some point, he’s taken his shirt off, unbuttoned his pants to better stroke at the bulge growing at his crotch. His eyes are hooded, his lips are red from his own worrying. He flicks his eyebrows at you when Yoongi’s hand comes up with a sharp crack on your asscheek, jolting you forward. You can hear him shuffling out of his pants entirely behind you.

“Ready?” Joon asks.

You nod, leaning up and seeking out his lips again. He kisses you back briefly, hands alighting on your waist to encourage you down. Yoongi’s hands drift over your ass, your thighs, tugging you closer, pulling you to meet the hot skin of his lap. His fingers as they dance over your cheeks, shifting you open so that he can rub the tip of his dick against your opening. The hot, slick feeling of his velvet head finally breaching the tight ring of muscle has you gasping, scrabbling at Namjon’s arms.

Yoongi is definitely bigger than Namjoon’s fingers. As you sink down on him, impaling yourself on his cock, you clutch forward at Namjoon desperately, mouth open to allow for the breathless mewls escaping your throat. Behind you, Yoongi grunts and hums directly into your ear, tsking through his teeth.

“Are you okay, baby?” Namjoon murmurs, almost sweet if not for the feverishly intent way he watches his elder penetrate you. “Is that still good?”

“Big,” you hiccup, unconsciously trying to shift your hips to accommodate the girth as it parts your walls. “It-it’s big.”

“I know,” he soothes. He keeps up petting your cunt, brushing your clit, rubbing your tits. He leans forward, pressing soothing kisses to your collarbone, up your neck, the edge of your mouth. “I know. You tell me if it’s too much.”

“Oh fuck,” Yoongi growls, low, when he finally bottoms out, sheathing himself completely inside you. “Oh fuck. God, you take it so good. You take it so well. Are you sure Jin’s boys didn’t do this for you?”

“N-No.” You’re glowing at the praise, at the attention, as you adjust. The pain quiets to an ache the longer you sit there, but you won’t deny the twitching in your limbs, the leaking of your pussy. It isn’t taking you too long to warm to the idea of taking both of them at the same time.

“No? No, just us, hm? Think they’ll be jealous, Namjoon?” Yoongi catches your earlobe with a bite that’s a little too sharp, humming.

“Jealous that we got to have so much of baby? Oh, yeah.” Namjoon mumbles, kissing you deep. His tongue slides across yours, sweet and gentle. Your lips smack obnoxiously when you part, the sound so loud in this enclosed space between your faces. “Jealous that she’s ours.”

“Is that right?” Yoongi’s hips move experimentally, thrusting shallow, and you moan at the sensation. It’s like he’s reaching through you to your guts, and you love it. “Are you ours? Hmm?”

“Y-yours,” you choke, humping with him.

Eyes caught in yours, Namjoon fishes his cock out of his underwear, giving the thick length a pump, two, before he’s edging closer. He’s kissing you again as he sinks into you, and you melt into the bliss of being held so intimately, so gently. Yoongi at your back, rocky steadily into your ass, Joon at your front, thrusting into your wet pussy, both humming and grunting with the effort as you writhe helplessly between them. You’re so full, so full, disallowed from resting between thrusts with the alternating rhythm they quickly fall into.

“F-fuck,” Namjoon growls. “So good, you’re doing so good for us, baby.”

When he thrusts especially hard, you can feel it criminally deep inside of you and you arch, hips lifting to meet him. The feeling of both of them fucking into you simultaneously, breathing into your ears, moaning, has you roiling in ecstasy, strong, warm arms holding you up, moving you against them, caressing breasts and rolling your clit.

“I-I’m not going to fucking last…” Joon warns.

Yoongi chuckles breathily, licking his lips so sloppily it’s loud.

“Cum in her,” he demands, hoarse, “Give her everything. I want to feel it.”

There’s the sound of the lock turning at the front door. Namjoon’s pace quickens with a groan. He starts pounding into your cunt, leaning over you with his brow furrowed, lips parted, sweat making his neck, his cheeks, glisten. His cock fucks so smoothly into your cunt, stretching you around his girth, bottoming out and slipping until he finally settles for rocking up deep into you. The sounds his pelvis makes as he fucks you perfectly are loud, stuttering.

“Gonna, gonna,” he mumbles, licking up your lips.

“Hoo!” Hoseok’s voice calls from the front hall, “What is going on in…here…?”

Joon stills inside you with a violent thrust, cock buried deep inside of your guts, pulsing as he paints your walls with wet warmth, exhaling a grunt into the crook of your neck. Yoongi stills completely, moaning low in your ear.

There’s a pause, punctuated only by the heavy breathing of everyone present. Namjoon presses a sweet kiss to your mouth, humping once, twice, sliding his spent cock from your gaping hole with a hiss.

When he moves to look to Hoseok, you get to see him too.

Standing in the hall, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. His hair’s wet at his forehead with sweat. Under your stare, he licks his lips. His eyes are already smoldering, congenial grin faded into a hungry look.

“You guys having fun?” he asks, falsely conversational.

“No, it’s the worst.” Yoongi’s deadpan reply doesn’t earn him more than a flick of the eyes. “You should probably go back to the studio.”

“Sorry, Hope,” Namjoon interjects softly, still panting. “It—we didn’t mean to go this far.”

“I did.” Yoongi interrupts again in a whisper. You jolt at the feeling of his hot, slick tongue suddenly wetting a path up your neck to your ear. You squirm, both of you moaning quietly when you jostle his cock inside you.

Hoseok shrugs, lips curving into a pout. He slips his gym bag off his shoulder, tossing it carelessly to the ground as Joon flops to the side of the couch, far enough to be out of the way but close enough to keep a discerning eye on Yoongi.

“Well. I’m here now…” Hoseok says low, stalking closer. You’re suddenly very aware of how lewd you must look right now. Yoongi buried in your ass, Joon’s cum leaking out of your wrecked pussy.

“Hmmm about that…Hoseok misbehaved, didn’t he?” Yoongi murmurs into your ear, his breath tickling your neck. He shifts, beginning to roll into you again, stealing your breath. “Left you high and dry. What do you say we leave him?”

It’s impossible to concentrate, between his smooth fucking into your asshole, the way Joon’s rapidly cooling cum runs down your cunt, the smoldering glare that Hoseok throws your way.

“We can make him watch.” Yoongi’s next thrust is overly excited, and you jerk back into him with a loud moan, back arching as his cock parts your tight hole and slips up into your depths. It dislodges more of the cum inside you, encouraging it to ooze out in a fresh glob painting your slit. “Hmmm…we can make him watch and he can fucking cream all over himself in his ridiculous fucking pants. Make him clean it up, suck it up out of the fabric, no hands.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Hoseok’s smile is not friendly. It’s dark, dangerous—not far removed from an animalistic sneer.

“You don’t think I would?” is the glib response, heavy with promise, punctuated by a grunt when you clench around him. Hoseok’s smile disappears.

“Fuck, fuck,” Yoongi pants into your skin, tsking through his teeth. “What a fucking idea. What a fucking idea. You want to see it, too, don’t you?”

“P-promised,” you stammer, mind reeling, toes curling.

“What was that, slut?” Yoongi snarls, a free hand curving around your neck. Namjoon’s eyes dart to his fingers with an expression that betrays how ready he is to save you, even as he continues to recover from his position on the floor, but Yoongi doesn’t tighten his grip more than enough to choke your words and make it difficult to slur through them.

“He, H-Hoseok promised, he promised, t-to fuck me.”

“He promised to fuck you.”

“Mm,” you whimper, nodding, vision swimming with heady pleasure.

“You can’t get enough, is that what you’re telling me?”

“N-no.” You moan when he starts to thrust even harder into you.

“Never enough cock for you. Never stuffed full enough, never satiated. It would take all of us, wouldn’t it, and still you’d beg for more. Tell me I’m wrong.

Come here,” he barks, fevered, without waiting for your reply. “Get over here.”

Automatically, Hoseok moves, the edges of his expression softening as Yoongi’s haze pulls a veil over his eyes. He doesn’t even get a full step forward before Yoongi is commanding him again.

“Down. Knees.”

Hoseok’s legs buckle at the knees, his head flopping forward, eyes fixated on the unbelievably erotic sight of Yoongi’s cock disappearing into you and reappearing covered in juices and lube, the way your pussy weeps clear arousal and thick white seed down your thighs, soaking into the couch beneath you.

“Tell her you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.” It escapes his mouth easily enough, but his lips twitch in a faint grimace afterwards, as though the words leave a bad taste on his tongue. Yoongi fucks harder into you, before grunting and suddenly grasping your hips with both hands, one on either side. You can feel him twitching deep inside of you, but he doesn’t cum yet, just rocks upwards, curls absently against your back.

“How sorry?”

“So sorry.”

“Prove it. Show her. How fucking sorry you are.”

Hoseok’s eyes flit upwards, catching you in their endless chocolatey depths. You feel warmth, palms, curling over your thighs, holding you splayed in front of him with long hands. Maintaining eye contact, he leans forward, jaw inching open, tongue presenting itself, before he makes contact with your pussy, licking a long, hot stripe upwards. A low moan claws its way out of your chest, your hips thrusting forwards and halted by their hands, Yoongi’s on your waist, Hoseok’s pinning you to Yoongi, forcing you to take it as he starts to eat you in earnest. He slurps up Namjoon’s cum like he daren’t waste a drop of it, sucking it off your lips, sliding his tongue everywhere but your clit, rubbing through your folds, dipping like a man possessed into your cunt to retrieve as much of it as he can taste. You convulse with every flick, humming and whining, sweating, straining against their grip as Hoseok tilts his head, maneuvering this way and that, as though determined to lick up every trace of Namjoon from you.

“That’s it,” Yoongi growls thickly. “That’s it, just like that. Make her cum and I’ll let you inside her.”

The response is immediate. Hoseok forces your thighs apart even further, lips finding your clit easily and attaching with a decadent slurp so loud and so obnoxious your ears ring, holding you down as you shake and arch into him, moaning unintelligible pleas for mercy as he sucks you up like his last meal. Your body wracks, shivering, and you hardly even realize how near you are until you’re finally shoved off the precipice. You’re cumming, hard, scrabbling for purchase on Yoongi’s thighs, the couch beneath you, Hoseok’s fingers. The scream that tears itself from your throat is raw, over-extended and cuts out entirely at the end as pleasure races through your entire body, forcing you to convulse and shake.

Yoongi’s steady fountain of curses barely registers until you realize he’s begging just as painfully, as desperately as you are.

“Fuck, Hoseok,” he hiccups, “Fuck, hurry up, get—get in her, fuck, I can—I’m gonna—“

“Was that nice?” Hoseok preens as he pulls away. His mouth and chin are shining, glazed with your arousal. He licks absently at it, slipping the waistband of his sweatpants down teasingly, catching your eyes with a hazy, prideful smirk. “Was that good? You want Hobi to fuck you now, pretty girl? You forgive me yet, hm?”

“Stop fucking around,” Yoongi bites, hands dashing to your thighs from around your back. He opens your folds for you, presenting you even more prettily to the other vampire, who watches you twitch with satisfaction and desire. “Come fuck the communal whore.”

Hoseok’s cock is thinner than Namjoon’s, but it’s longer. When he lines up with your entrance, guided easily by Yoongi’s fingers, and presses in with one smooth motion, you release a deep exhale, head thrown back over Yoongi’s shoulder.

“There you go. There you fucking go.” He encourages in a mumble, hands raising, one to your neck to caress and fondle, the other to your hip, to steady as he and Hoseok start thrusting in tandem.

Hobi’s hips flow into you effortlessly, curling, stroking the inside of your cunt with precision that leaves you breathless. The difference between the fevered way Yoongi now rams unevenly into your ass, drawing thick breaths through clenched teeth, has you clenching around the both of them.

You feel something against your palm, and you turn to look, meeting Namjoon’s eyes. He watches you caught between his brothers, expression heavy. He wraps his fingers around yours, and you realize his other hand is curled around his own dick, stroking himself to the time of Yoongi’s thrusts. He leans his head back, staring at you past hooded eyelids, plush lips parted in quiet huffs as he twitches and releases again, small spurts up his chest, decorating his abdomen. The sight of him, shining with sweat and cum, pleasuring himself as you bounce, filled up and defiled, makes you cry out, wrapping one thigh around Hosoeok’s ass.

“Gonna fill up this pretty ass,” Yoongi hisses, “Gonna fill you up so good, fuck.”

“Good girl,” Hobi soothes through his grin, “Good, just like that, take it, yeah, take it.”

Yoongi’s pace becomes even more erratic, even more uneven, his voice giving way to high pitched mewls and low grunts, burying his cock inside you with a growl.

“N-Nam—“ he pants suddenly, arching, pressing his lower half to your back.

Namjoon sits up with a rush, hand disentangling from yours to reach upwards, just over your shoulder, and you can feel the force as Yoongi’s head is thrown backwards into the cushion of the sofa. His prick twitches and throbs, finally emptying himself into the cavern of your asshole, filling you with wet warmth. Hobi pushes forward one last, long drawn-out time, and cums inside your cunt with a huffed breath almost of surprise.

Behind you, you can hear Yoongi hissing, growling, whimpering. You can feel the struggle as he thrashes against Namjoon’s hold, his fingernails beginning to dig into your hips.

“You fucker,” he spits, seething. “I’m so fucking hungry, you son of a bitch. It’s your fucking fault, you fuck.”

“Shh, Yoongi,” Namjoon soothes, brows knitted together. “Shh, I know. I know.”

“Fuck you, Namjoon, let me drain her fucking dry. You’re such a cunt.”

Hoseok slides out of you, watching your pussy leaking fresh cum with absent satisfaction, brushing a thumb against a flushed lip to collect some of it. He leans up, smearing it across your mouth and you lean forward into him, sucking the digit into your mouth with an exhausted moan.

“Hobi, get her off him.” Namjoon says, sharp.

“Alright, alright. Come on, pretty girl,” Hoseok urges gently, wrapping his palms underneath your ass to help lift you upwards. You try to prop your legs up under yourself, but you’re so sore, so used up, they’re almost completely useless. Yoongi’s member leaves your ass with a plop, his release already beginning to ooze down your thigh. His hands are hesitant to leave your waist, but eventually trail off, obeying hushed encouragement from Namjoon. Hoseok pulls you to stand, into his still-clothed chest, propping you up on your feet and letting you lean against him.

“Can you stand?” he murmurs into your ear. You’re shaky, disoriented, clutching everything you can reach of him. You shake your head ‘no’, burying your face into him, inhaling the comforting scent. “Okay.”

He slowly moves to collect his pants from the ground, keeping your hands on his shoulders as he bends. When he straightens, he pulls the soft material up your legs, wiping at the thick liquid flowing freely from your abused holes. When you flinch away at a slightly rougher tug, he apologizes quietly under his breath, craning to press a weirdly sweet kiss to your cheek.

“I’m gonna take her to get cleaned up,” he says over your shoulder, rubbing comforting circles into your lower back.

“Good,” Namjoon replies, distracted. Briefly, you feel a hand at your calf, stroking upwards in a soothing kind of manner. As Hoseok turns, leading you down to the hall, you catch a glimpse of Namjoon sitting beside Yoongi on the couch. They’re embracing now, both glistening, both panting. Their eyes are closed, Namjoon’s peacefully if not for the worry that creases his brow, Yoongi’s screwed tightly shut.

“Didn’t mean it.” You catch Yoongi’s deep mumble, choked with emotion, as he buries his face in Namjoon’s shoulder.

“I know. I know. It’s okay.” Namjoon’s hand brushes up his back reassuringly, even for how it shakes. “It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

Hoseok leads you slowly to the bathroom, props you up in the shower. The space is too tight, too small, to comfortably fit both of you, but he gets down to business washing you clean with the kind of care you’d expect from someone who’s done it a million times before. He keeps you upright, sudsing you up, rinsing you down, keeping your hands on his shoulders, occasionally placing a steadying arm around your waist while he cleans the rest of you with lukewarm water. He hums while he works, some absent tune you don’t recognize.

“Namu seems to really like you,” he pipes up. “I saw that handholding jerkoff thing.” He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. “What a sap.”

You don’t have anything to respond with, so he continues.

“He’s not the type to like people easy, you know.” He sighs through his nose, craning to catch your eye with a nod to indicate how serious he’s being. “None of us are. I don’t know what Yoongi thinks…or if he does right now.”

He straightens to continue rinsing your hair, taking the utmost amount of care to avoid getting soap in your eyes. It feels nice. Warm.

“But if Namjoon likes you…I guess we’re going to have to take better care of you.”

There’s a pause.

“I am sorry.” He says finally. He sounds sincere. “For the tit job.”

Now you look up at him, too tired to really say or think much, but hoping he gets the expression you mean to send him. He grins, wide, and boops your nose with the loofah with a giggle.

“It was really hot, though.” He adds, in a mock-defensive pout. “Really hot. I jacked off earlier today just thinking about it, you know. Shit, maybe I’m falling for you.”

That makes him laugh, his signature cackle bouncing off the tiles of the bathroom.

Previous Masterlist Next

#moth to flame #bts x reader #bts smut #bts vampire au #namjoon x reader #yoongi x reader #hoseok x reader #do you see now #do you understand #why it took me so long #none of this was originally in it ok #(hey anon i hope this soothes our relationship. <3 u #sorry again)#FUCK yoongis fuckin MOUTH in this one #i dont know WHO i was CHANNELING #hand to god it only gets worse i just kEEP GETTING W O R S E #am i retconning hoseok being an asshole #eeeeeeyup lmao do what i wanna shrug #oh oh did you get my reference #w the other vampires #eeyyyyyy im not gonna put them in the tags cos its such a small bit part but eeeeeYYY #i dont actually listen to anyone but BTS im sorry i just wanted smone else to exist in this world that WASNT them ok #ive heard some of their stuff just havnt like #idk i dont follow anyone #i was incredibly into super junior when i started listening to kpop but thats cos i used it to write other smut :)#cos i couldn't understand korean #hey how you doing this is a lot of tags huh #well its been a long day alright #its been a day #ive been writing this chapter for so long i just wanna write my FEELINGS now

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sambergscott · 5 years ago

Text

i'll promise that i'll love you for the rest of my life

one giving the other flowers, as requested by @rosalitadiazz AGES ago, also dedicated to @397bartonstreet for the initial idea of amy sleeping in/just being the best and @nine-niall for helping with the marriage highlight reel.... and for making me listen to heartbreak weather on repeat for the last few days and coming up with this title

happy anniversary to jake and amy!!! (also since the ep aired 2 years ago today i'm not *technically* late thank u very much)

One million, fifty one thousand and two hundred minutes after marrying Amy Santiago (or, two years), every moment is as wonderful as day one. He still feels the same rush of excitement when he sees her waiting by their car at the end of a shift, the same swell of pride when she introduces him to someone as her husband, the same “oh my god we’re actually married” moment when he catches her rings glinting in the sunlight. It’s been the best one million, fifty one thousand and two hundred minutes of his life. And while he appreciates every single second they have together, knowing how in their line of work things can change all too easy, their second anniversary presents the perfect opportunity to remind her that everyday he gets to be with someone as amazing as her is crazy to him.

He has flowers, a handmade card, he even hoovered and she’s still asleep.

She never sleeps this late.

Everyone knows she’s the morning person in their relationship and he’s the Get Out Of Bed After Snoozing The Alarm Seventeen Times person. They live together, share a car, and yet most mornings he ends up riding the Subway, squashed between an old woman and a nerdy looking guy who smells like he hasn’t showered in a week, Amy rolling her eyes when he gets to work mid-briefing. The rare days she can get him out of bed early usually involve some kind of bribery using food and/or sex.

The point is, he’s supposed to be the one sleeping in past 11 AM, but ever since their doctor prescribed Clomid to help stimulate ovulation and boost their chances of making a baby, their roles have been totally reversed like Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis in Freaky Friday.

Pregnant Amy falls asleep anywhere and everywhere. The couch, the car, the cleaning cupboard at work when she was trying to find some Nuclear-strength cleaner to remove the stench of Charles’ lunch from the air before she hurled again.

She could sleep all day if he let her and he quite easily could. She looks so peaceful and cute and free from the stresses of her family asking why they waited so long (well, long for Santiago standards) to start a family. Plus, the messy hair and tiny bit of drool on her chin are impossibly endearing in the way only she can be.

He smiles and wraps his arms around her, resting his head on his shoulder, his hands - like his thoughts - drifting to her growing bump as they inevitably always do.

This time next year they’ll be celebrating with their little boy or girl, telling them all about the insane, magical day that was May 15th 2018. Of course, it might be some time before they can fully grasp the TV-worthy drama of the creepy phone call, the bomb in the vent, the ex-boyfriend proposing - twice! - and the wall of Amy photos, but they will sure as dammit know how beautiful their mom looked in her dress and how happy their dad was when Grandpa Holt finally announced them as husband and wife.

“Can’t breathe,” his wife squeaks, finally awake. “Arms too tight.”

“Oops. Sorry, babe.” He kisses her by way of apology; sometimes when he gets to thinking about that day, about seeing her walk down the shredded paper aisle under the glow of fairy lights, surrounded by the very people who watched them fall in love, he kind of forgets where he is and what he’s doing.

She’s always had that intoxicating effect on him. That’s never gonna change.

“Time is it?” She yawns, stretching her arms above her head.

“Twenty five to,” he pauses to brace himself for her reaction, “...twelve.”

“Twelve?” Horrified, she moves to get out of bed and yeah, he knows her so well. “Let me go,” she huffs in frustration when he forms a barrier to keep her from leaving.

“No can do, Santiago,” he says authoritatively. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone and you’re pregnant. You need to rest. We’ve both got the day off, our dinner reservations aren’t until 8. Just let your husband take care of you for a couple of hours.”

She chews on her lower lip, making her contemplative face that he recognises from sitting opposite her for so many years, preferring watching her piece together the leads in a case rather than work on his own. “Fine,” she eventually concedes. “Happy anniversary, by the way.”

“Happy anniversary,” he returns the sentiment, kissing her again because, well, he can, one of the perks of marrying Amy Santiago (alongside a perfectly organised sock drawer and getting to hang out with the best person in the world 24 sevs). “I got you these,” he adds, procuring the daffodil bouquet he found online.

“Jake,” she sighs dreamily, placing the flowers on her nightstand. “They’re beautiful. And my favourites.”

“I know,” he smirks. He may not be Santiago level smart, but he’s smart when it comes to all things Santiago. “Also made you this.” He hands over the card.

She opens it, instantly tearing up at his sweet message inside, the dam bursting when she notices the scrawled message written with his wrong hand from their unborn baby. “Mine sucks in comparison,” she laments, passing him his card before locking her eyes back on the words ‘happy anniversary to the world’s best mama’.

“It does not suck,” he reassures her, clutching it to his chest. “I’m going to savour it for all times. I want to be buried with it.”

She rolls her eyes, drying her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I thought you wanted to be buried with your original copy of Die Hard.”

“OK, Die Hard and your card. Rhymes for a reason, Ames.”

“You’re such a dork,” she responds, stifling her laughter. “Can’t believe I’ve been married to you for two full years.”

“I know.” He grins. “What was your favourite part?”

Her eyes glimmer with excitement and love and memories of their first anniversary before things turned upside down. “Are you suggesting we do a marriage highlight reel à la NBA inside stuff?”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting. I’ll go first. NUMBER FIVE,” he yells in his spot on Ahmad Rashad impression, earning a giggle from his wife. “Number five is that dress you wore on my birthday. Your butt looked the bomb in it.”

“Thanks, babe.” Two years in, she’s used to the constant “your butt is the bomb” comments, often uttered at the most inappropriate of times like when she stands up to brief the squad or play soccer with her brothers, much to her chagrin and their delight.

“Number four,” she quickly moves on. “The time you taught me to play Mario Party and I beat Wario on the first try.”

“That was my worst moment,” he groans.

“And that’s why it’s my best.”

He sighs, considers debating it, engaging in the classic back-and-forth that is the very foundation of their relationship, but it’s moot. She was way better than him. Santiago’s learn fast. It’s in their genes or something. And despite the crushing disappointment when she beat Wario with ease and dork danced her way to the kitchen to grab them both an orange soda, it was still a very fun night and a worthy moment in the highlight reel.

“Number Three. The York murder.”

Immediate understanding spreads across Amy’s face, but he explains anyway.

“I spent three days working that case and you just came in, saw the board and solved it right away.”

“I’m very smart,” she jokes lightheartedly.

“You are,” he agrees, his voice coming out softer and sincerer than even he imagined. “I love that about you. I love your brain. I love how good you are at your job, at figuring out puzzles. I love that you listen to NPR and know so much about the font Helvetica and have read, like, a million books. I love that you do a crossword every night and I love how proud you look when you give me a sports clue and I actually get it right. I love cheering you on at Trivia Nights even when Kylie can’t stop glaring at me. How lucky am I to have the smartest wife in the world?”

Touched, she can barely compile her thoughts to reveal her Number Two.

“The night at Shaw’s, at Hitchcock’s second divorce party, your speech, the way you kissed me, the way you were so gentle when we got home,” she sniffles. “It was special and made me feel so loved and if I say anymore I’m going to cry again, so you go.”

He chuckles knowingly. The pregnancy hormones have been making her extra emotional lately, they can’t even watch commercials anymore without her fully weeping. And while last year Pam and her twisted bowels interrupted before they could get to Number One, this year Number One is obvious. Clear as day. And there’s no one to interrupt.

He pretends to think about it for a minute (because he will always love teasing her, married or not). Only when she grabs his arm and digs her nails into his skin does he put both their hands on her bump and smiles. “Obviously this little guy or gal is Number One.”

She smiles back at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

His own face falls. “Ames?”

“It’s been a hard year, hasn’t it?” She sighs, thinking back to calendars and fertility appointments and the strict no nacho policy.

“Yeah,” he says, “it has. But this next year is gonna be the best one yet.”

“I mean... We’re probably not going to sleep a lot.”

“You might not sleep a lot but I sure will,” he teases, his words falling flat. “Just kidding, babe. Obviously I’m going to get up for all the feeds and diaper changes and whatever else this kid throws at us. Gonna be there for you both. No matter what.”

The pregnancy hormones strike again and she starts crying and, honestly, he can’t wait for this baby to get out, for more reasons than one.

“BRB, I’ll go make your favourite breakfast to make you feel better, don’t grow anymore body parts while I’m gone.”

He returns seven minutes later with pancakes, a ton of fruit, decaf coffee and another kiss. He climbs back into bed, devours his own Nutella pancakes and posts his favourite blurry, drunk on Champagne and love selfie from their makeshift wedding reception at Shaw’s, on Insta with a caption about how he promises he’s gonna love her for the rest of his life.

And he keeps that promise.

#b99 fic #jake x amy #my writing #dork danced is my new favourite verb

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when-they-write-stuff · 4 years ago

Note

Because I know you love your angst: “I’m fucking terrified and I don’t know what to do or how to stop feeling that way, okay? I’m scared…”

Stiles thought this pretty accurately summed up his life.

The abduction and torture that was. The three weeks spent in darkness and the pain that just kept coming. Stiles felt like this was a pretty normal thing nowadays, much to his loathing.

The token human. The easily kidnappable sidekick.

Stiles Stilinski, ladies and gentlemen.

But then on day twenty-three, there was someone new thrown into the cell next to his.

Stiles didn’t actually see a face or a figure. He just heard the faint sounds of struggle, followed by what could only be growls, and then there was the sound of a door opening, a body hitting the floor, and the door slamming closed again.

Stiles winced, curled up in the corner of his cell. He fiddled with the strings of his hoodie and waited for the footsteps of the hunters to leave, not moving until he was sure they had. Only then did he glance up, cautiously creeping toward the iron wall of his cell and pressing a hand against it.

“Uh… hello?”

Silence was his answer. Stiles curled his fingers against the metal and felt his stomach sink.

“Scott? Liam? One of the other pups?”

He still didn’t get an answer, but Stiles could hear movement from the other cell. He sighed and drew back, curling in on himself again. He’d been here for long enough that he was tired of just about everything. And clearly, this wasn’t one of his friends. But that didn’t mean he had to take another supernatural’s shit.

“You could at least say something, you know,” Stiles said. “Since clearly the hunters have taken both of us and we’re probably in for the long haul. Although I’ve been here longer, so I get seniority.”

“... How long?”

Stiles furrowed his brows at the voice. It was hoarse and definitely male, and there was some part of him that felt like he recognized it. But no matter how hard Stiles wracked his brain, he couldn’t remember from where. Maybe his mind was just playing tricks on him.

He’d spent over three weeks in the darkness, after all.

“Going in twenty days or so now.”

Stiles knew he heard a growl again. He tilted his head toward the wall of his cell and blinked, once more trying to figure out why it was so familiar. He couldn’t quite place where, but Stiles knew he wasn’t crazy. Or he was pretty sure, at least.

“Uh, random question, dude, but do you have a name?”

The darkness went still and a long moment of silence passed. Once more, Stiles didn’t get an answer. He sighed.

“Well, mine is Stiles. You know, just in case I die here and you’re the last person I end up talking to. Because I’d say I have extremely high hopes that my pack will come rescue me— I’m assuming you’re supernatural, by the way— but they’ve been severely lacking in capabilities lately. So I’m not really feeling too positive anymore.”

“You shouldn’t be telling strangers your name,” the man said after a second. “Or anything about yourself for that matter.”

“Hey,” Stiles half-joked. “We’re not strangers anymore, right? I mean, we’ve both been thrown into the darkness together, even though there’s a very rude wall currently separating us. I would say this is quite the bonding experience.”

“A bonding experience.”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles said. “Studies show that being abducted together makes for lifelong friendships. So, you want to tell me your name so I can put something to the face… err, voice?’

“You don’t want to know my name.”

Stiles blinked a few times at the wall. Then he moved closer and lowered himself to the floor, trying to see through the grates into the next cell. But all he could make out was a pair of black boots. He wrinkled his nose and rested his chin on his hands, letting out a long breath. “Don’t presume to know me, kind sir. I would love to know your name.”

“No, Stiles. You wouldn’t.”

It felt weird, hearing his name for the first time in three weeks. Whenever the hunters came in to interrogate him about Scott’s pack, they just called him ‘boy’ and kicked him around a lot. And they were the only voices he’d heard since he’d been taken from his jeep and thrown in here.

Maybe that’s why the voice of the grump next door sounded so familiar. Stiles’s brain was just trying to give a familiar face to anything except the hunters.

“I’ll call you Miguel then,” Stiles said after a moment. “That’s usually my go-to nickname. It’s gotten me out of more tight spots before than you’d ever believe.”

He could’ve sworn he heard the man chuckle. “I don’t doubt it.”

Stiles smiled to himself and leaned against the wall. For some reason, even just imagining that there was someone on the other side only a few feet from where he sat comforted him. He felt a little less terrified. A little less alone.

“Just a quick warning though,” Stiles said. “I talk a lot and ask way too many questions. Before this is all over, you might end up knowing about my entire childhood, all of my lifelong dreams, and every single person I’ve ever fallen in love with only to have my heart broken.”

Stiles heard a sharp intake of breath. His heart skipped a beat or two.

“Unless that’s not okay?”

“No,” Miguel said quietly. “No, that’s okay.”

“Oh good,” Stiles said with a grin. “Because you don’t seem like much of a talker. But that’s okay! I can promise to talk enough for the both of us and then probably some.”

“Have the hunters hurt you?”

The question was so sudden, Stiles’s smile dropped. He reached up and prodded underneath his jaw where one of the men’s knuckles had left a dark bruise only a few hours ago. It still hurt, although Stiles’s entire body hurt at this point. He felt like he’d been living throughout one giant ache these past three weeks.

Miguel seemed to be holding his breath. Stiles lowered his hand and debated either telling the truth or lying; he thought he’d heard fear in the man’s voice. So maybe he feared pain. Maybe he hadn’t experienced the hunters as often as Stiles had.

If that was true, he probably didn’t know what to expect. And Stiles found it hard to make himself tell him.

“No,” he lied. “No, I’ve been fine and dandy. A little lonely, you know, but now I have you! And remember what I said about abduction leading to lifelong friendships—”

“Stiles,” Miguel’s voice cut him off. “I can hear you lying.”

Stiles closed his mouth and slumped a little further into himself. He supposed that cleared up what kind of supernatural creature he was dealing with then, although Stiles had his suspicions from the beginning. “So you’re a werewolf then.”

“Yeah.”

“Bitten or born?”

Miguel didn’t answer. Stiles wet his cracked lips, running a hand through his hair.

“My friend was bitten, but he’s the current true alpha of the Beacon Hills pack. That’s where I’m from, you know. I don’t actually know where we are right now cause the hunters knocked me out pretty good, but I’m sure my friends are coming for me. Or at least, they’re going to try and come for me.”

Silence met his words. Stiles tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, desperately holding onto those words.

“I do believe in him, you know. He’s just… he’s not the same. Not the same as the alpha that used to live in Beacon Hills, that is.”

There was a sudden movement from the other cell. Stiles startled, but then he realized Miguel was only shifting around a little. Relaxing again, Stiles kept talking.

“But that guy has been gone for years now. Four, I think, but I don’t keep count.” Stiles hesitated and then scoffed. “That’s a lie, I totally keep count. I’m pretty sure I’ve counted every damn day since he decided to leave Beacon Hills. I mean… he wasn’t an Alpha when he did, but it still kind of sucks, you know? He kind of sucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

The man’s voice was soft and hoarse and Stiles was surprised at the shiver that ran down his spine at hearing it. He turned his face toward the wall. “Dude, why the hell are you apologizing? It’s not your fault he’s a jerk.”

“A jerk?”

“A jerk, a Sourwolf, a goddamn asshole. I mean, I didn’t ask him not to leave and I probably should have, but still, he left. He left and that was a shit move. No more visits, no more texts. He wasn’t even there when I— er, the pack— graduated. Kinda messed up, you know?”

For a moment he didn’t get an answer. Then there was a soft “I know” and Stiles sighed.

“Sorry, man, I warned you I’d be lamenting all my pains and woes. Hey! Wanna tell me a little bit about yourself? Gimme a favorite color.”

“... Red.”

“Red?”

“Red.”

“I mean, that’s legit,” Stiles said after a moment. Miguel didn’t actually ask the question back but Stiles decided to pretend that he had, furrowing his brows as he thought about his own answer. As if he didn’t already know. “I like red too. But also blue. Blue’s just pretty, you know?”

Stiles could’ve sworn he heard a chuckle. That made him smile a bit.

“So, are you a beta or an alpha? Cause some alpha powers right now would be seriously epic to get us out of this shit—”

“Omega.”

Stiles cut off mid-sentence, snapping his jaw shut. Internally, he cursed himself, and the silence reigned for a moment. Then he chuckled nervously. “Oh, that’s fine too. I mean, at least we got some werewolf muscles, right? I love me some werewolf muscles… that totally came out wrong.”

Stiles definitely heard a chuckle this time. He thought that counted as a win.

“Hey, so if I asked you how you got here—”

But before Stiles could finish his sentence there was a loud bang. He flinched and pulled into himself as the sound of footsteps echoing off the metal floors filled the air. Stiles couldn’t help the pit of dread that formed in his stomach, nor the panic that started to make his throat constrict.

He gasped for breath and buried himself in his hoodie. He’d been going through this for twenty-three days now and it still didn’t get any better. Stiles hated himself a little for the panic that rose up in his throat.

“Hey, hey! Stiles!”

Stiles blinked a few times and spotted a hand reaching through the grates between their cells. He was reaching for it before he could even think and the feeling of another pulse point underneath his fingers was enough to make Stiles’s own heartbeats slow down a little. He gripped the man’s hand tightly and closed his eyes, chin tucked into his chest as he tried to catch calm, deep breaths.

But then he heard the door of Miguel’s cell open and the man’s hand was yanked away from his.

A whole new level of panic rose in his throat.

Stiles shoved himself up and scrabbled at the wall. The sounds of pained grunts and sharp, gasping breaths filled the air and Stiles couldn’t tell if they were Miguel’s or the hunters, but he had a pretty good idea. Moving toward the door of his own cell, Stiles slammed a fist against it and let loose a litany of curses, not even sure what exactly he was trying to accomplish.

“Hey, asshats, why don’t you try coming for the human, huh? That guy doesn’t know shit about the McCall pack but you know I’ve got all the info—”

He cut off as his cell door swung open and one of the hunter’s familiar faces sneered in. Stiles retreated a few steps back, his heart leaping into his throat, and tried desperately not to regret his words.

“Okay, hold up now, let’s talk about this—”

The hunter caught his arm and dragged him out of the cell and Stiles nearly sobbed at the sudden change of scenery. Daylight streamed from down the nearby corridor and glistened off the floors. Stiles hiccuped as his breaths caught in his throat, but instead of being dragged toward the light, he was pulled away from it.

Stiles barely resisted the urge to thrash and fight back, going limp in the hunter’s hold. The man dragged him into the adjoining cell, where two other hunters already waited, and Stiles didn’t raise his eyes until he was dropped to the floor, knees cracking on the cement.

And when he did look up, eyes meeting the grey-green ones of the man curled up in the cell’s corner, Stiles’s heart stopped.

Four years.

That was the first thought that entered his mind.

It had been four years since Stiles had seen such a vivid grey-green color and it had been four years since he’d laid eyes on Derek Hale’s face. Even now, with blood running from a split lip and pain cracking through in his eyes, Stiles recognized Derek like the day he’d left Beacon Hills. He had a slightly scruffier beard, clothes that were ripped and hanging off of one shoulder, and lips twisted back in a grimace, yes, but it was him all the same.

Four years.

Stiles’s knees nearly buckled beneath him.

His second thought was Miguel and that really shouldn’t have made a humorless laughter bubble up in his throat. But Stiles couldn’t help wondering if he was seeing things. Because of all the people that he could’ve seen in the cell, Derek Hale wouldn’t have even made the list.

The hunter shoved him forward and Stiles sprawled to the floor near Derek’s side. The man snarled and tried to rise, but another kick to the ribcage had him doubling back over.

It was then that Stiles noticed the glowing blue bullet embedded in his arm. And the black lines creeping up his skin.

Stiles drew away, shying into himself. And if possible, Derek’s eyes cracked even more.

“The McCall alpha,” one of the hunters hissed, learning close to Stiles’s ear so the words tickled his skin. “Or the Hale mutt. You have twenty-four hours to decide.”

Stiles’s heart stuttered and the man laughed as he drew away. The door slammed as the three hunters filed out back out and as darkness fell over the cell, the silence returned once more.

There was no more sunlight.

Derek shifted with a soft groan and Stils scrambled away, back slamming into the opposite corner. The man looked at him quietly, one hand pressed to the wound in his arm, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“Stiles—”

“Don’t.”

Derek’s face twisted. He tried to sit up even more but only groaned again, slipping back down to the floor. The cut on his lip wasn’t healing, Stiles noticed. His face was unnaturally pale.

Stile’s stomach twisted and he felt nauseous. ‘Four years’ kept ringing through his head. Glancing down at his hands, Stiles unconsciously counted his fingers before feeling sick again. He had ten. There were ten.

This was real.

“Miguel,” Stiles scoffed, still staring at his hands. “Goddammit, Derek, I hate you so much.”

The man flinched. Stiles closed his eyes.

“How soon did you know?”

“The moment I caught your scent.”

“And if I would’ve died in that cell, would you have told me first?”

“Would you have wanted to know?”

Stiles clenched his teeth so hard they gnashed. He didn’t realize he was trembling until he was curled in on himself again; and it wasn’t from the cold. “Why, Derek?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you here?”

For a long moment, Derek didn’t answer. When Stiles opened his eyes again, the man’s gaze was fixed firmly on the floor. He looked shaky, fragile. Stiles couldn’t believe he hadn’t recognized his voice before. He knew Derek. Or at least, he had four years ago.

But a lot of things had changed between eighteen-year-old Stiles and now. He’d done four years at MIT and then he’d done a summer of training underneath his dad’s section at the station. Though Stiles still didn’t know what the hell he wanted to do with himself, wandering aimlessly from thing to thing.

He’d graduated with a master’s in criminology. He kind of hated it.

He kind of hated everything about the past four years.

“How are you here, Derek?” Stiles asked again. “How the hell did you find me when my own pack couldn’t?”

Derek flinched. Stiles’s stomach twisted.

“Did Scott send you?”

“I haven’t been in contact with Scott since I left.”

“... Did my dad?”

Derek looked confused and Stiles shrugged, dropping his gaze again.

“He doesn’t think very much of Scott’s pack anymore. I’d always thought he had outside contacts, but I could never be sure.”

“No, Stiles,” Derek said quietly. “Your father didn’t send me.”

Stiles looked at him pleadingly. Derek swallowed once more and then shifted again, face twisting in pain. When he glanced up, grey-green eyes glowed blue and Stiles felt it like a tug to the gut. Something latching around his chest and pulling.

“I just knew.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know, Stiles.”

Stiles clenched his jaw and looked sharply away. Derek’s sharp breaths filled his ears like a ringing alarm and he realized suddenly that they were on a ticking clock. Twenty four hours or Scott’s pack.

Scott’s pack… his pack. The pack. Whatever it was, they were in trouble.

If he tried to save Derek’s life, that was.

As if the man could read his thoughts, Derek’s eyes flicked back up and he looked pained. But not just because of the bullet wound currently festering in his arm. His lips were cracked. Blood continued to dribble down his chin. “It’s okay, Stiles.”

Anger rushed up in Stiles’s throat. He was on his feet in a second.

“No, Derek, it’s not okay! None of this okay, dude, don’t you understand that? I’ve just been asked to choose between Scott’s pack and you. You, who I haven’t seen in four years and just admitted to thinking about nearly every other day? Do you understand how truly not-okay all of this is? I can’t be expected to choose, asshole! I can’t— I can’t—”

Stiles stumbled and slumped back to the floor again, pulling his knees into his chest. His entire body was shaking now.

“I just got you back. I can’t lose you again.”

Derek blinked at him. Stiles scoffed humorlessly and glanced at the man’s arm where the bullet was still glowing blue.

“Need me to attempt to cut that off for you, Sourwolf? Because I’ve grown and matured since we first met. I think I could attempt as long as it didn’t involve using my teeth or something.”

A rare smile tugged at the edges of Derek’s lips. “I thought you fainted at the sight of blood.”

“Only at the sight of a chopped off arm.”

Some of Derek’s smile faded. Stiles hesitated where he sat and then pushed himself back up and moved forward, sinking down next to Derek’s uninjured side. The man radiated heat like a furnace and Stiles couldn’t tell if that was the werewolf or the wound. He was scared to think that he might know that answer.

“We have twenty-four hours to get out of here, Sourwolf.”

“You’ll have longer than that.”

“No,” Stiles said, voice cracking. “No, because you’re not going to die and I’m not going to give you up. We figured it out the first time, Sourwolf, we can figure it out again.”

“The first time we weren’t trapped in a metal cell.”

“Yes, but the first time we were relying on Scott to come through.”

“And we’re not doing that now?”

Stiles’s smile slipped. He glanced down at his hands and realized the truth in Derek’s words. Except this time, he really didn’t think Scott was going to make it in time. And the choice to save Derek’s life was much more costly than it had been before.

“I could always tell them small things,” Stiles said softly. “Numbers maybe. I could make up names and—”

“If they realize you’re lying to them, they’ll kill you.”

“And if I give them what they want, they’ll most likely kill me anyway.”

Derek’s face tightened, but he didn’t argue with that. Stiles leaned against his shoulder and swallowed hard, still not quite able to believe that this was Derek. This was Derek next to him, the man Stiles had thought about for four years. The same man he’d tried so hard to forget.

He’d failed each time.

“I can’t lose you again,” Stiles said quietly. “Derek, you can’t ask me to do that.”

“I’m sorry.”

Stiles’s stomach clenched as he glanced over. Derek studied his face and then dropped his gaze, eyes flickering blue.

“I was going to come back,” he murmured. “But then Scott had a pack and everything seemed to be going well—”

“Derek,” Stiles said. “Derek, what the hell do you think I was talking about earlier? Everything’s not going well. We could use you. We need you. ” Or maybe just Stiles needed him. But he was terrified to say that out loud.

“Stiles, I can’t go back to Beacon Hills.”

It hit like a blow to the chest. Derek blinked at him and Stiles slowly lowered his gaze, a knot forming in his throat. “Oh.”

“Not because of you,” Derek said softly. “Not because there’s no longer anything left for me. But I’ve been traveling. Meeting other packs, sometimes going back to see Cora. I don’t have a pack in Beacon Hills anymore. I don’t... have a family.”

“And if you did?”

The words slipped out before Stiles could stop them. Derek gave him a startled look and Stiles dropped his gaze, silently cursing himself.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Nevermind.”

“Stiles—”

“Derek,” he said, cutting the man off. “Derek, I’m fucking terrified right now and I don’t know what to do or how to stop feeling that way, okay? I don’t know if we’re going to make it out alive or if we’re both going to die here. And I’m scared, but I don’t want—”

And suddenly, the man was kissing him.

It was gentle and cautious at first. But the moment Stiles pressed back, Derek was running his good hand through Stiles’s hair and pulling him in closer, kissing him like a drowning man searching for air. Stiles was pretty sure he’d made a sharp noise at the back of his throat but he couldn’t be sure. The only thing he could concentrate on was Derek; the smell of him, the taste, and the feel.

Stiles had imaged Derek’s departure countless times. Maybe he would’ve moved forward and kissed the man before he could wish them goodbye. Maybe he would have tracked him down and dragged him straight back to Beacon Hills, refusing to let him leave.

And maybe… maybe he would have followed. Maybe he would’ve taken Derek’s hand and left with him, and the rest of the pack could’ve stopped to digest all of that.

Stiles was pretty sure they were going to die here. So he kissed the man with all his pains and regrets and tried to pretend they weren’t locked in a cell together, the ticking clock hanging right above their heads.

Stiles could feel it again. That tug in his gut, that rope around his heart. Pulling like he was a magnet and his landing place was only inches away. Derek felt like a place to meet in the middle. Derek felt like an anchor.

An anchor.

And maybe the complete opposite.

Stiles thought he could hear distant footsteps. The ringing of faraway doors opening and voices slowly growing nearer. Panic coiled in his stomach like the terror rising in his throat.

“Derek,” Stiles said, gasping around his lips. “Derek, I need you to do something for me. I need you to do something.”

The man nipped at his lower lip, mouth trailing down his neck. Stiles gasped and grabbed a handful of his hair, pulling Derek closer to his skin. The man’s mouth lingered on the nape of his neck and Stiles gripped his hair tighter.

“Derek, do that. I need you to do that.”

He could feel hot breaths against his skin, Derek’s heartbeat pounding through his chest, and the man hesitating for a moment; waiting. Stiles made a low noise as the back of his throat and moved his hand down to cup the back of Derek’s neck.

“Derek, please.”

When teeth met the skin between Stiles’s neck and shoulder, they were gentle. Cautious. But then they got sharper, fangs elongating and sliding through skin. Stiles winced and tried to smother a small groan at the back of his throat, but he couldn’t quite. Derek tensed and Stiles rubbed a thumb over the back of his neck, tightening his hold a little.

The feeling in Stiles’s gut moved to coil in his stomach. Like fire racing through his veins, feeling blood trickle down his neck. Stiles closed his eyes and focused on it. Derek’s mouth left his shoulder and his nose traced up his neck, underneath his chin and when lips met his own again, Stiles could taste blood.

It hit him like a blow to the chest.

Stiles gasped and yanked back, hand-clapping to the wound on his neck. Derek startled too, pulling away and when Stiles’s eyes snapped back open, the man’s own flashed blue.

Derek’s lips parted, eyes widening a little. Stiles blinked at him and tried to talk, but his tongue felt heavy.

“Stiles,” Derek said softly. “Red.”

Red.

Voices filled the air. A door slammed, another one opened, and then light flooded into the cell. Stiles leaped up as the hunters moved forward but then the man coming at him froze. In his hands, the taser slipped and then dropped. He retreated a step backward.

“What the hell?”

“Twenty four hours,” Stiles said, stepping forward. The man’s face drained of blood and he stumbled back toward his friends. The air filled with the sound of guns cocking. “You really think you should’ve given us twenty-four hours?”

“Get back, boy.”

“I have a question,” Stiles said, leaning down to pick up the taser and turning it over in his fingers. “How much electricity can the human body take?”

“Put that down.”

“This,” Stiles said, wiggling it through the air. “Has fifty thousand volts. I wrote a paper once, you know. For fun. And most humans… most humans can’t take more than a hundred thousand. But that means this isn’t much use to you, doesn’t it?”

“Shoot him!”

Derek snarled from the side. Stiles looked at him, eyes flashing, and the man’s glowed blue in return. Stiles smiled, one word ringing through his ears.

Anchor.

He turned back toward the hunters right as the sound of loading guns filled the air, and Stiles dropped down, slamming a palm against the floor as sparks leaped off of his hand. They raced across the floor, rebounding off the metal walls, and actively sought out any beating heart in front of him.

Gunshots turned to shouts. Shouts turned to screams.

Blood roared through Stiles’s ears. Trickled down his shoulder. Dripped onto the floor, inches from his hand, and sizzled in the heat.

“Fifty thousand,” he murmured to himself, slowly lifting his eyes. “I’d say this is about five hundred thousand or so.”

By the time silence had fallen back over the cell, Stiles felt a little bit faint. The air smelled like burnt flesh and his sight was a little blurry. He still managed to rise to his feet, glancing over his shoulder, and Derek met his gaze with wide eyes.

But Stiles couldn’t find any fear in them. Just wild, dilated shock. He smiled a little and leaned shakily against the wall.

“Guess chopping off an arm won’t be necessary.”

“Stiles—”

The man moved forward but then collapsed, dropping to one knee. Stiles was rushed to his side before he could stop himself, his own world spinning a little. The lines of black had moved to creep up Derek’s neck and he hissed as he pressed a hand against the wound, face terrifyingly pale.

“Stiles, bullet—”

It hit him hard and Stiles scrambled sideways, shaking a wolfsbane bullet out of the nearest gun. He ripped the top off between his teeth, shook the powder into his hand, and then gave Derek an apologetic look before shoving his palm against the man’s wound.

Derek howled and arched into Stiles’s chest, face turning into his neck. Stiles pulled him close and they both sunk to the ground, until Derek’s panting died down to a soft gasp or two and his chest was no longer rising and falling so rapidly.

Stiles still held onto him, holding the man trembling in his arms. Derek whined softly at the back of his throat.

“That should do it.”

“You’re okay?”

“Other than the agonizing pain?”

“Well,” Stiles said, chuckling a little. “The ability to use sarcasm is a good sign of health.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek huffed. Stiles grinned.

“So, I guess we’re not relying on Scott to come through.”

The man stilled. Derek turned his head and glanced up to search his face. Stiles nervously wet his lips and Derek dropped his gaze again. “I still can’t come back to Beacon Hills, Stiles.”

“Because—”

“Pack, Stiles. I’m not part of Scott’s pack. I don’t think I’ll ever want to be.”

Stiles held him for a moment longer. Then he leaned forward and touched his lips against the man’s forehead and when Derek glanced back up again, Stiles smirked. Sparks danced over his fingers and his eyes flashed; Derek’s glowed blue in return. The man swallowed, his words coming out in a hoarse whisper.

“Red, Stiles.”

“And you know blue’s just pretty.”

“Stiles—”

“Come back,” Stiles said. “Derek, come back for me.”

The man studied his face for a moment longer. And then once more, Derek was kissing him, no hesitation or cautiousness to it this time. Stiles chuckled at the back of his throat, making the man growl. One hand tangled through Derek’s hair. Another cupped the back of his neck.

Stiles could’ve sworn he heard the word ‘Alpha’ whispered behind Derek’s mouth. His heart skipped a beat or two.

Twenty-four days, a handful of dead hunters, and one slight love confession later, Stiles saw daylight again. Derek leaned against his side, Stiles bit back a soft sob, and the dawning sun tipped on the horizon, hints of scarlet and blue coloring the sky.

Stiles had thought this all pretty accurately summed up his life a few weeks ago. The abduction and torture that was. He felt like this was a pretty normal thing nowadays, much to his loathing.

But not anymore. There was no token human. No easily kidnappable sidekick. There was the boy and his wolf. The spark and the omega.

Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale.

- -

This was planned at 1k-2k words. Then it became 5k. I completely blame the prompt but I honestly had so much fun with it ;)

(if you enjoy my writing, consider supporting your underpaid student writer? You can also request a prompt if you’d like!). https://ko-fi.com/rh27writer

#sterek #teen wolf #derek hale #stiles stilinski #all the angst and bamf #staffofoppression #prompts #ficlet

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thanksjro · 5 years ago

Text

More Than Meets the Eye #3- Robots in the Vents, Because It’s Not a Roberts Story if It Doesn’t Happen at Least Once

So, the duobots are having a hell of a day.

Shock, our resident obligate belly-sleeper and newly-single robot, laments the passing of his buddy, leaves a vial of innermost energon by his body- a practice that will be expanded upon later- then covers up any and all traces of their having worked with Prowl. These are the inside guys Prowl called after he flipped that table in issue #1.

As Shock tracks down the tracer Ore was supposed to be planting instead of being eaten by the quantum drive, he comes across that sparkeater that got mentioned last issue.

That is his brain.

Then he explodes.

Which brings us to the scene we left in issue #2. Sparkeater on board the Lost Light, which is full of sparks that probably would prefer not to get eaten.

Holy shit Cosmos is huge. I don’t remember him being that goddamn big.

Rodimus thinks that this whole sparkeater thing is really neat, and he’s happy to be a part of it, but he’s not so thrilled about the prospect of subjecting the others to this event, so he orders everyone to find a friend and go to their rooms until he and his select few sort this whole thing out. He doesn’t tell them about the sparkeater, because that’s some scary bullshit to throw out there less than a day into the trip.

Everyone files out, Swerve having forgotten about Tailgate, who’s having a minor wardrobe malfunction. Since he doesn’t have legs at present, he calls out to the one other guy he knows on the Lost Light.

Tailgate really knows how to pick ‘em.

Over with the dead body, everyone stands what is probably unadvisedly close to the scene of the crime and Ratchet performs a quick and dirty autopsy. The boys discuss the validity of Red Alert’s theory that this was caused by a sparkeater, with the mention of Rewind’s grainy footage making the creature seem like the Cybertronian equivalent of a cryptid. Probably less Fresno nightcrawler and more chupacabra. Ratchet tries to get everyone to focus for two goddamn seconds, when Trailbreaker picks up Shock’s brain module, knocking everyone right back off track again with the discussion of Rossum’s Trinity, the idea that the spark, brain module, and transformation cog are all interconnected, and damage to one can cause the others to shut down.

Ratchet’s had just about enough of this lot, but he gets through his examination.

This is the issue Alex Milne started drawing the insignias in himself as opposed to the previous practice of IDW having them put in in post.

Rodimus, however, wants to show off his new toys as it were, and asks Chromedome to take a gander. Chromedome wearily obliges, having Ratchet pop the brain back in Shock’s head so he can do his thing. Every other person on this fucking ship is a doctor, you see, and Chromedome is no exception- he’s a mnemosurgeon.

(Yes, my spellcheck DOES lose its mind every time I type that.)

Chromedome takes his terrifying pointy hands, jams them into the eye sockets of this corpse, and gets a brainfull of Shock’s final moments.

This is such a cool panel, and I went and ruined it for myself by realizing the upper left portion shouldn’t be visible, seeing as the brain is already outside Shock’s head, without any sort of cord connecting it to his body.

Back upstairs, folks are moving into their rooms for the surprise lockdown. Cyclonus is being a pal and is carrying Tailgate, because I’m pretty sure the little guy is just about the only person who’s talked to him in a non-hostile fashion in the last couple of months, and that really gets old after a while.

Those legs sure are something, Hoist. Is it just, like, a rule that a certain percentage of Transformers designs have to be at least somewhat unintentionally horny?

The two find a room, and then Cyclonus remembers that he’s not supposed to show things like empathy until later in the series, and drops Tailgate on the floor unceremoniously.

Meanwhile, over with Skids and Swerve, the pair’s found something truly wonderful- a fully-stocked bar. Swerve’s always wanted to run a bar, and this just might be his chance to chase his dreams.

Swerve is the punching bag for MTMTE, in case you couldn’t tell.

While Swerve is not-so-subtly crying for help, Skids is busy enacting another Roberts writing-staple- the robot in the vents. See, Skids has hit his bad boy phase; he doesn’t play by your daddy’s rules, so he’s gonna sneak out and do generally whatever pleases him, because he’s got a big honkin’ chunk of memories that just aren’t there anymore. Apparently that’s all he needs to go AWOL.

As Skids lifts himself up into the ceiling to fulfill his destiny as a vent-pest, he asks Swerve if he listens to music, which is met with a negatory. Odd, given his later characterization, but maybe he’s more into contemporary works.

The ass poking worked! Swerve is now the proud owner of one whole entire friend!

Back with the corpse crew, Chromedome’s finished his assessment of the body, and agrees that there’s a sparkeater amongst them. This is a huge fucking problem, to put it lightly, both in the sense of actual, physical danger, and the metaphysical space of the Lost Light itself.

Are we sure this thing didn’t just see this ship full of over 200 war veterans and say “that’s some good eatin’ right there” and snuck on board? Because if I were a horrific monster that was drawn to pain and emotional trauma, I’d absolutely consider the Lost Light a gold mine.

As Chromedome lays his head in Rewind’s lap, the others weigh their options. Sparkeaters go after the brightest sparks, then work their way down, so this thing is probably on the move as they speak. The thing’s eaten recently, the sparks haven’t completely digested, and that means they can’t just shoot it, because then it’ll explode, and we’ve had enough of that for one day.

Rodimus has everyone else go to hunt the thing down, while he and Drift hang out here in the basement. When Ultra Magnus questions this plan of attack, he’s brushed off, though Rodimus appears to imply that he thinks he’s got the brightest spark on the ship. Probably all that Matrix nonsense he went through.

Back upstairs, Animus gets shot with the irony gun and gets his soul vored.

This is what happens when you tell lies, kids. Your lemon-lime flavored soul gets eaten by the mecha-Krampus.

Whirl, who had locked the door to the habsuite, which is why Animus was out in the hall to begin with, realizes that something seriously messed up is happening, and does what he knows best, i.e. shooting first and asking questions probably never.

Good thing Trailbreaker is there to keep Whirl from exploding the entire ship, employing the help of his forcefield ability to contain the barrage.

In the resulting chaos, the sparkeater escapes, having triangulated its next meal, and it’s not Rodimus.

It’s this dweeb.

You can tell he’s in his office, because he’s got a landscape painting in there. Landscape paintings are pretty much the only decor allowed in doctors’ offices, I’m pretty sure it’s, like, a law or something.

Luckily, Rung decided to get threatened by a space-cryptid directly under a vent, so Skids can save his skinny little butt. Good job, Skids. Proud of you.

Back with Tailgate and Cyclonus, little dude’s just finished explaining his whole deal. He’s still trying to figure out what the hell happened during his dirt nap, so Cyclonus tries his best to fill him in on the several million year war. Keep in mind, Cyclonus wasn’t exactly there either, so his whole explanation probably isn’t the best. He wonders out loud which side Tailgate would have gravitated towards, had he been around for the massive mess the Autobots and Decepticons made.

Meanwhile, back in the GODDAMNED DUCTWORK, Rung and Skids are crawling as fast as they can to escape the sparkeater, though they can’t be that worried about it, seeing as Rung answers a phone call on his weird body-harness phone setup. Rodimus tells the two of them to head for the engine room, so that the sparkeater follows them down. Rung doesn’t seem too thrilled about this plan, but what’s he gonna do, argue with a potential space-pope?

Skids punches through a vent into the elevator shaft, then uses his grappling hook- which I want to say is never seen again after this issue- to lower them down in one of the most well-known crotch shots in the entire comic series.

Iconic.

They land on top of the elevator, and Skids yells at Brainstorm to punch the "E for Engine Room” button. The sparkeater bursts in through the ceiling, and Skids and Rung book it out of there, leaving Brainstorm to his inevitable demise.

Or not.

Rung and Skids have made it to the engine room, so now it’s time for the next portion of Rodimus’ plan, which is really only a small tweaking of what Rung was doing earlier- instead of being a moving target, he’ll be playing the role of stationary bait, as Rodimus holds him like a fucking crucifix made out of people, urging the sparkeater to come take a bite.

Up on the bridge, Perceptor gets ready to kick on the quantum engine, as per his captain’s request. Sure hope this plan works, because if they lose Rung, I don’t think they’ll ever find another therapist, thanks to the apparent ratio of 1:1/3 of the entire population of Cybertron.

The sparkeater lunges, Rodimus throws Rung off to the side, and he and the beast wrestle, Crocodile Dundee style. Perceptor initializes the jump, and, because they’re in the danger zone for the quantum engine, they get sucked in.

Rung seems a little miffed, but I’d say this is a win for Team Rodimus, even if those arms of his are toast. It’s cool though, he can get new ones.

Smashcut to Rodimus and his sick new arms, as he finishes explaining just what the hell happened to Magnus. Magnus isn’t quite as jazzed about the whole “used our therapist as a worm on a hook” thing as one would think, surprisingly, but Rodimus isn’t in the mood for a lecture. Off in the background, Tailgate’s getting his butt fixed, curtesy of Ratchet. Tailgate’s talking up a storm, regardless of Ratchet’s rather cool reception to the chatter.

Tailgate did some thinking while everyone was locked in their rooms, and he’s made a decision, based on his limited understanding of the Autobot/Decepticon war.

I guess Cyclonus forgot to mention the fact that there isn’t a single Decepticon on this ship for a reason.

#transformers #jro #mtmte #liars A-to-D #issue 3 #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #comic script writing

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asmobunn · 5 years ago

Text

It was a few months into her stay in Devildom, and finally, she was allowed to cook. It might have been because of what happened during the retreat at Diavolo’s Castle. Ever since Solomon was given the option to cook– there was a bit of apprehension when it came to possibly being her turn to cook. Nil was excited to officially cook for them all for a day. She was going to go shopping with Satan later for supplies since he knows how to get a good bargain, and well– he had invited himself.

At least Beel knew better, he had expressed to her his discontent personally that the dishes she helped Barbatos make was not her own cooking. Though, nevertheless, he was pleased with the food. Solomon was the first to cook and as soon as Barbatos had tasted his dish – he took over the rest.

She hated to admit it but they were all dear to her and how they may react to her cooking meant a lot to her. More than she cared to admit. If the reaction was going to be the same as when Solomon cooked, well, she didn’t think about how she would feel in that case. Then again – that could have just been due to the ingredients used – she didn’t know how demon taste buds were but even the angels found it to be peculiar.

His cooking wasn’t that bad but compared to the Devildom and Celestial dishes – there was a very high bar that was set that was really hard to break.

Nil went ahead and tried to be adventurous, eating what she could that was of the Devildom variety that didn’t cause too much ill-feelings; no matter how much it made her stomach turn. She still couldn’t quite stomach eating a medium portion of assorted brains but… she could taste it enough to figure out what would go well with it in a human dish.

Nil made it to her demonic artifacts level two class quite early and took a seat in the back, left of the classroom. She brought out her notebook and started to plan what she was going to make. Between Beel’s increased portions and Asmo wanting the food to be nutritious and well-balanced, she knew she had her work cut out for her.

She glanced forward at the door as Solomon walked in, she waved briefly before going back to deciding what the morning should be– should it be purely breakfast, or more brunch-themed? Either way, she may have to go to the human realm to acquire some of the more specific ingredients that would be too pricey or wouldn’t be able to acquire in Devildom.

“What are you so focused on?” Solomon asked her, he sat his things down on the seat next to her. He brushed her hair– that was getting in the way of her vision, behind her ear and she felt her heart skip a beat.

Nil knew he was doing it on purpose. Though it truly was getting in the way– she just kept blowing it to the side.

“Breakfast, or brunch?” She counterasked.

“Brunch.” He said and sat down at the desk next to her, “Why do you ask?”

“I’m going to be on cooking duty in the House of Lament.” Nil said, “I’m…pretty happy to finally get my turn. Might be because of the food you made when we had the retreat.”

Solomon hummed, “I don’t know what you mean.”

She laughed, “Sure you don’t.”

The silence that befell them was a calm one. It lingered for a minute until the next person arrived, it was a small group of demons chatting to themselves.

Her attention turned back to the notebook,

Nil and Solomon had been bonding on occasion. He was in enough of the same classes as her – group assignments and such, along with the random unfamiliar demon or two. Though when it came to texting him – it was more along the lines of schoolwork, if they were grouped together. Or a homework problem that they both found exceptionally hard and brainstormed about.

There was some human specific humor that the two of them particularly indulged in; that would require quite a bit to get a demon to understand. It wasn’t just that– she did enjoy his presence and that little stunt he did back at the retreat was what drew her in slightly. Nil just found it easy to joke around him and be herself– oh, oh.

‘Am I really getting a crush?’ She had thought to herself– she glanced at him who was reading a little before class started but she felt nothing weird that would indicate anything.

“Hey. Solo? If you can… you should totally have… breakfast or dinner at the House of Lament with us– for what I’m making.” Nil finally said, ‘Or be my taste-tester.”

Solomon glanced at her and gave a rather boyish smile, “I’ll see what I can do.”

She still needed another demon to do taste tests as well, and someone who wasn’t in the Lament dormitory. There still weren’t that many other demons who she was that friendly with to suggest someone off the tip of her mind. She thought of who, until a pink haired demon came into view. She’d ask her later.

Nil noticed that Salem didn’t quite speak with her when she was around the student council, which was fairly often – but she had also noticed that while she did speak with Solomon, it was usually straight to the point and brief. If the lesser demon in question couldn’t be around the human taste-tester this meant she had to figure something out.

She did have the perfect venue, more or less where she moonlight as a bartender for the grimm. There was a kitchen that she could use inside but the matter of the question was if she would be given permission to use it and she shuddered – would she have to suck demon dick, or eat someone out to use it.

“It would mean a lot if you could.” She said, smiling at him.

“Now it just sounds as if you’re asking me out.”

“No– I’m not, I just want to… it’s been a while since I last cooked something nice.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Asmo snaked his way into the conversation, and sat down to the left of Nil. Which naturally meant that Mammon, if he was going to come to class. Was going to sit behind Asmo and probably kick his seat if he flirted with Nil.

“This is an A, B conversation. C your way out Asmo.” Nil snarked back.

“Only if you agree to the D.” Asmo quipped.

Nil tried not to laugh, but her own humor was not on her side, “That was so shitty and you know it.”

“It made you laugh, so I–”

“Hey! What are you doing, flirting with my human.” Mammon interrupted, marching over to Asmo and sitting down behind him.

“Of course, it’s like you to ruin something nice.” Asmo sighed, hugging himself.

Nil and Solomon shared a look at the approaching bickering that was starting.

It was the start to a long few classes. A class that she had shared with Asmo and Satan was one of the better classes of the day, and the last one, except for the fact that Asmo wouldn’t stop flirting period and not just with Nil. He had specifically tried to see if she would get jealous.

All Nil did was pat him on the shoulder and tell him to have fun; and not to raw dog too much. Which made Satan turn a brilliant shade of red that she had never seen before.

“Oh. Satan, I need you for an important mission.” Nil said.

“Do I have a choice?”

“You’re being voluntold, meet me…” Nil thought briefly, “after school. Okay?”

Asmo side eyed them, “Why don’t I ever get picked?”

“Don’t you have things to see, people to do and places to be like… all the time?” Nil inquired.

“I can clear my schedule for you, and only you. I’d have all the time in the world for you if you ask nicely.” Asmo said, he was staring off into whatever perverse filled abyss that occupied his mind.

“Satan can you back me up here?”

“You’re on your own.”

“Fuck you, Satan.”

“Now that’s the spirit!” Asmo giggled, electing a sigh from Nil.

Class was already over, so Nil didn’t know why she was still hanging around when she had things to do. Still, she found it a little bit upsetting that she very much enjoyed their company. Despite their very extreme faults. She intertwined her fingers with Satan’s and pulled him along with her as they exited the class,, “Sorry Asmo, I’ll make it up to you.”

“So what is this mission you speak of?” Satan asked.

“Well… we are going to the food library–”

“Grocery store?” Satan said.

“Yes. The food library.” Nil repeated, “Human-side because there are quite a few things I can’t get without going topside and I already cleared it with Lucy.”

“If you insist. What’s in it for me?”

“I dunno.” She said, “Spend time with me? Pick up a few new books? You get to experience my cooking later.”

“Are you bribing me now?” Satan teased her.

“No.” Nil stated, he did help her with a few classes. Though she thought it may have been a little inappropriate to tell a demon– or rather, a fallen angel. That the act of helping her deserves a type of reward, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Finding Lucifer wasn’t too hard. He had sent her a text via the D.D.D. stating that he’d meet up with them outside of Majolish, and that it would take him some time to get there due to a meeting. That had been the time she killed chatting with Asmo and Satan. Besides, Nil had barely seen Lucifer relax so far during her time there.

That was one cause of why she enjoyed being a troublemaker, and there was more– her status and key to Diavolo’s program granted her a certain immunity to be as carefree as she wanted. Within reason, she wasn’t going to disappear on a bender.

“Oh. There he is.” Satan crossed his arms.

“I trust you both won’t get into trouble?” Lucifer questioned them both. He looked a little worried, but knew that she’d be okay with Satan.

“We will be on our best behaviour Lucifer.” Nil said, “Right Satan?”

“Of course, after all, we’re just getting a few specific groceries.” Satan agreed.

“Are you sure you can’t get these items in Devildom?” Lucifer said.

“I’m sure.”

“Very well… I would have gone with but I am needed to finish up some reports back at RAD. So, Satan. Nil. I will come and get you two later. How long do you need?”

“Depends on traffic… could be four hours could be six.” Nil shrugged.

“Five hours. No more, and I will find you at your human residence. Alright?”

“Of course, can you just send us now?” Satan quickly said.

“It’s nice to go shopping without being involved in a murder-mystery, you know?” Nil said to Satan, he chuckled at that.

She had been getting so used to Devildom that she found it odd stepping back onto the humanly counterpart, and with Satan in tow no less. It felt like the start of a joke. She pondered on the first couple of things she needed to get; which, she had hoped was still in the secret compartment. It was still very jarring to her to be on a street in Devildom and going straight back to the place that she was living in.

It was untouched and there was a thin layer of dust, but otherwise it was as immaculate as when she was haphazardly thrown into Devildom. Nil relaxed considerably, Satan had tilted his head in interest as she pushed a couch out of the way, and pulled up a floorboard to show a safe. It wasn’t necessarily large– but it also wasn’t small. The home she had been living in was after all, was being invested in as a Void Venture.

She pulled out a black card with a highlighted purple trim. The expenses were normally used for more blackmarket purchases, ammunition and the occasional thing needed for mission fundings. This was the occasional thing that she’d have to no doubt write a report about– a large chunk of the funds of it was from missions she’d already been through.

“A black card, really?”

“Yeah. I know… Don’t let Mammon know.” Nil asked of him, she was terrified of the thought of Mammon finding out and spending so much– how would she explain that to her superiors.

“Just what are you going to buy for groceries?” Satan changed the subject slightly, as if agreeing to her.

“You’ll see soon enough.” She grabbed a bottle of scotch from the bottom and opened it, it was an old vintage that could only be found in a different part of the galaxy– “Do you want some? It’s outta this world.”

She shook the bottle slightly, it was still filled but it was one of those types of liquor with alcohol content so high that a sip or tasting is only what was needed. Anything more than a shot might have unintended consequences. She learned that the hard way.

“Why not?”

“Good choice.” She said.

She went to get two shot glasses and placed them on the counter, she only poured it halfway in each shot glass.

“–What? You don’t even know what it tastes like.” She argued, “It’s strong stuff.”

“Laurae. I’m a demon.”

“Fine. Suit yourself.” She topped off his shot glass and screwed the top back on, she was curious to see the effect it would have on a demon. Though she wasn’t so sure about being around Satan, drunk, Lucifer might end up coming to retrieve the both of them.

First, Satan smelled the liquor after observing it’s color. The longer the air hit it, the more it oxygenated, the color was dull at first but then it started glowing a type of red. The smell that it gave off was a slight cordial cherry, a caramel and a peanut butter scent.

She watched as his eyebrow went up as he smelled it then he threw it back, his face scrunched up slightly at the taste before normaling out and she took a few sips of her own glowing liquor.

“That wasn’t so–” Satan’s own speech was interrupted by himself coughing, and then putting his hand against his chest. He grabbed a napkin and held it against his mouth, as he did so.

“Bad? You’re probably going to really feel it in a bit. I hope you can still help me.”

Satan threw the napkin away and sighed, “I’m fine. It was just overpowering, I don’t feel a thing.”

Nil didn’t seem convinced by that– but she put the items up and secured the card on her person, “Well then, let’s go.” She said, giving the item a pat as it was nestled in her pocket.

Satan was without a doubt as plastered as could be. She had already gotten the most… extravagant ingredients which were at home and now, she just needed to get the more basic things.

She grabbed Satan’s hand and placed it on the cart, “Are you okay?”

“Do I seem okay Nil?” He said, though it was more of a slight whine.

“Not really but I did warn you.” He was already slouched on the cart and his face was flushed red.

“You did… didn’t you.“

"Quite.” She smiled softly at him and looked towards the herbs and spices.

Nil reached and grabbed an herb container from a shelf and laughed to herself. “Hey Satan?”

“Yes?”

“Did we run out of thyme?” She asked him.

“Thyme?” He looked over at the container and groaned in exasperation.

“Are we gouda cheese or do we need more?”

“Please stop.”

“Only if you’re feeling egg-itated.”

“No.”

“Well then Cayenne ask you a question?”

“Laurae!”

“That’s my name.”

Puns were belted at Satan until they gathered everything and with Nil’s help they were able to tell Lucifer they were ready to be taken back to Devildom. Satan had uttered a very quiet, but small enough please. In hopes that Nil didn’t hear.

Though she did. And was all too pleased with herself.

Since Beel was quite busy with after class sports, that left the matter of putting up and locking the specifics with a matter of ease. Lucifer looked over at Satan in question but he didn’t say anything.

He just sighed. Nil wasn’t sure if it was in disappointment or not, Satan did hurry albeit a little drunkenly to his room. She was quite surprised that the shot was still quite heavy in his system.

Oh. He’s a lightweight.

Nil giggled to herself in a very hush way.

But it was back to business. While most of the items were put up there were a few she needed to take back to the venue so she could do some trial runs. She had brought enough for it.

“I know that look.” Lucifer crossed her arms, “What are you plotting?”

“Huh? What.” Nil said, “Oh… nothing devious, okay. I have a favor I need to ask. It’s really important.”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow, “Go on.”

“I’m going to want to practice before I serve you guys. This means a lot to me, so I’ll be out later than usual. I probably won’t turn in until even later. If… that’s okay with you.” She was genuine with her request.

Regardless of his answer, Nil was still going to go do it. It was just the difference between sneaking out and freely leaving early and staying out until late.

The Avatar of Pride thought about it for a moment, she looked at him expectantly before sighing, “Yes, you can but–”

His words were cut off as she wrapped her around him and held him tight, laying her head against his chest.

“Thank you for this, you won’t regret it!” She said, before releasing him and running off.

He had meant to say something but his words were lost in the gesture. If she had looked back, Nil would have seen how stunned and in awe he was, he blushed and half-heartedly attempted to call her back.

“She will be the death of me.” Lucifer muttered, as she had already disappeared from view.

By the grace of the void, she didn’t need to do any favors to use the kitchens. They were closed for the night, Nil just needed to make sure the place was clean before they left. So, she slipped on her jacket and went there earlier than usual. Flicking on the kitchen lights and such as she opened up her phone. She glanced from the screen to the utensils and sighed, she was knowingly setting herself up to be a bit vulnerable and was starting to regret the decision.

Nevertheless, she went ahead and sent a text of the location to her two tasters-to-be. She put the phone down quickly as if it could attack her at any moment – then the next thing she did was: take her jacket off, put on an apron, set up the kitchen and started prepping the ingredients. The first item was something she really wanted to avoid trying again – but she couldn’t, because well… it was brains. At least she knew the difference between a good batch and a bad batch – she just needed to make sure it was okay.

Nil grabbed a simple fork– and deftly cut off a very small piece and took a bit out of it. She immediately grabbed a handkerchief and spat it out. Resisting the urge to dry heave into a bucket, instead she grabbed the nearest bottle of alcohol from the shelf and poured her a shot to wash back the taste– she hated the texture too. Quetzalcoatl brains. It was definitely good–in terms of quality but to her– it wasn’t so great.

She stared at the wall for a moment to gather her bearings and sighed deeply. Checking her phone quickly once it beeped. It seemed Solomon was going to be a bit later. Before moving onto prepping other ingredients. She had brought excess with her own human funds which hurt her wallet but she hoped it was worth it; if anything she’d be eating purely ibérico ham for the next few days. Albeit, a lot of it was in large amounts for the test, Beels portions and to fit the balance that Asmodeus wanted.

For the next several minutes, she had started moving like clockwork that she didn’t notice that someone had come in. She had jumped as she was grabbing the ibérico ham from a secret compartment in the cabinet; she hugged the packaged meat for dear life.

“Salem!” She breathed out, relieved that it was a familiar face and not some random demon coming wandering into the place, “Could you warn a girl next time?”

Salem laughed lightly, and nodded her head. “I’ll make sure to remember.” She paused momentarily, in thought for a slither of a moment. “I’ll remember too.”

“What did you want me to do again?”

“There is a specific dish that I need specifically a demons’ help with, and you’ll be my little test subject. Feel free to drink– just don’t grab the top shelf stuff, I don’t feel like sucking dick to repay the cost.”

Nil said, jokingly, as she placed the ibérico ham on the counter. The first thing she did was turn the stove on and oiled the pan with olive oil – it was a specific brand that she had tried that was of the devildom variety, and next she added some spinach that she had washed during the ingredient prep time before Salem had entered.

“This is something I remember how to make… for special occasions and…” Nil commented on her own process, biting her lip as she started to concentrate on getting it done just right.

She started to gently saute the spinach until it was bright green and wilted, and then sat that aside. Nil picked up a stick of butter and dropped it inside of a saucepan, she waited until it melted before putting an equal amount of flour into the pan. Quickly, she grabbed and opened some milk and started pouring some in while whisking the concoction inside of the saucepan.

Once that was set inside, she started to season the spinach with a good deal of salt and pepper before adding some of the sauce that was made before and mixing the bechamel sauce in with the spinach. In rapid succession, she left that in a place to not get cold, warmed up some more butter and started to make some hollandaise: putting two egg yolks into a blender and squeezing lemon on the top.

The hand blender whirred to life briefly until she stopped it to add in the melted butter, and started it back up. She made sure the sauce was of the right consistency and smiled to herself.

Nil then warmed up a few artichoke hearts and fashioned them into two even circles atop of the creamed spinach on a plate. She went to grab a mesh sieve from the counter but couldn’t find it. She hummed to herself, before spotting it hanging with some other utensils– before grabbing it, and going to crack open an egg.

She made some poached eggs and put them onto the artichokes, then placed half a good amount of ibérico ham and– some smoked quetzalcoatl brains with it. Next she grabbed the black truffle that she brought and promptly felt like crying due to the cost of it, as she grated it atop of the concoction and then poured the hollandaise sauce over the entire plate nearly the had made.

The last bit of the dish was a tiny pit of paprika, kashmiri saffron and a spoonful of beluga caviar. Again seeing the perpetual loss of money from buying such ingredients leave her pocket; all brought with human cash. That caviar has always been the hardest sought but most expensive caviar she had ever had the grace of purchasing, one that she felt a little guilty for buying even. It was with slight sadness that she then slid the plate over to Salem.

“No, no! It’s not bad. It’s good it’s just so…” Salem quickly says, “So rich.”

Nil’s face turns into that of a pout, “I can understand that.”

“Really I like it."

"Feels like your saying that to make me feel better.”

As if to prove a point, the pink haired demon forks another hearty bit and continues to eat it.

“Salem, no!"

Nil wouldn’t be surprised if Salem fell asleep not long after eating the dish at the rate she was attempting to go, one mouthful became four more and then Nil saw the look she was dreading. It was one of someone attempting to keep something down but they’d overestimated their intake.

The human put a plastic bag inside, and slid a black bucket over to the demon.

"Awh. Come on,” Nil said, a worried tone in her voice, “Don’t stuff yourself. It’s a heavy dish.”

Salem choked into the bucket and Nil patted her back, Nil was heavily concerned about the state of her friend.

“Sorry…” Salem uttered an apology, there was still a lot left. She hadn’t made a sizable dent into the concoction, “It was a lot. I should have listened to you.”

“Hey. No. You’re a–” Nil sighed, “As long as you’re okay.”

“It actually is really good though.” Salem said, coughing once more.

Nil moved to go pour Salem some more demonus, a little of the more stronger brand. In her mind, she needed it probably. Helped with the food.

“You put… Quetzelcoatl brain in there didn’t you?”

The plastic cup of demonus was transferred from Nil’s hand to Salems and Nil nodded.

“Of course.”

Salem’s D.D.D vibrated, and she went to go check it. She sighed. “I have to go.”

Nil frowned, “Oh. That sucks, um… if you still want it.”

Nil secured the rest of the food in a container and slid it over to her. There was a dull sound from the oven, as the beef stew had finally finished the last of the simmering.

“Thank you.” Salem said, genuinely and her gaze switched to the door that was opening as Solomon came in. He waved at them both, entering the room and walking up to them.

“Hello Salem.” Solomon greeted the spry demon, Salem seemed hesitant for a moment with her packed food in hand.

“Goodbye Solomon.” She blankly said, before heading out the door, “And, I’ll see you later Laurae!”

“Take care.” Nil said, before turning to Solomon in question. He looked a bit sheepish, a smile adorning his features and then back to Salem.

Salem left with packaged food in hand as Solomon settled in. Salem had left in such a hurry that it was almost hilarious.

“Okay then.” Nil turned back and her full attention was on Solomon.

He sat down next to her and was helping himself to some of the human liquor that was already out from earlier.

“So this is where you sneak off to?” Solomon asked her, already pouring himself a shot of bourbon.

“Yeah, I get paid decently too… more than what I get from sending one of the brothers to work.” Nil admitted.

He chuckled to himself. He had heard rumors but to hear them confirmed, it was like an early christmas. The average human sending the big seven to respective jobs. “You have some talent.”

“I don’t see how that’s talent.” Nil countered, and started to mix herself her own drink. “It could just be because of the pact?”

“If I told Asmo or Barbatos to work at Majolish…” Solomon trailed off, shuddering at the thought. The less powerful demons? That would be interesting.

She finished mixing the drink and took a swig of the concoction. Sighing as she plopped a sliced lemon in her mouth. There was a calm silence between the both of them as the clock ticked, and she waited for the other food to finish.

“I thought you said this wasn’t a date.” Solomon teased her, she puffed out her cheeks.

“Graced void, it’s not!” Nil frowned, she held the glass up to her lips and sighed, “It’s not Solo. I just want you to try something.”

“Relax. I’m kidding.” Solomon smiled.

A ding resounded in the kitchen and Nil sat down her glass, to go to the oven. She was sure, they’d both been a bit tired of eating nearly only Devildom food. From what she remembered he didn’t like hellfire mushrooms and neither did she.

“I hope you like beef stew. Simple, yet flavorful.” Nil said and nodded her head.

“It smells great.”

“Thank you. I made enough for you to take some to purgatory hall with you, us humans should stick together right?”

“Of course.” There was a slight blush on his cheeks, he might have been expecting something but not exactly this.

“There is also this–” She grabbed and uncovered a plate of poutine. “Though it’s mostly for myself, you might like it.”

Solomon hummed and reached out to grab a few of the loaded fries and his eyebrows went up. “These are nice and savory. It should go well with the stew.”

Nil beamed.

A little over half an hour had passed by and they were both packed up and ready to go, Solomon had decided to wait for Nil until she got the kitchen back to its spotless state and was just looking at her.

“What?” She questioned him, she was a little inebriated from the drinking too and he didn’t seem any better.

“Nothing.” He smiled, “I’ll walk you home.”

“Cool. We could do that or, do you wanna break into some place? I can lockpick.”

“Yeaaah, no. It’s time for you to go home Nil.”

“Wait, no. I was joking. I probably do need to sober up a bit. I told Lucifer I’d be out late…” She checked the time, “It’s getting pretty late but I don’t need to stumble in plastered. I can see him now.”

Nil did her best Lucifer impression, “Do you realize how much danger you’ve put yourself in, you can’t go out with me or my brothers ever again as long as you’re here.”

She ended her impression as she laughed, Solomon laughed with her. Nil was fond of Lucifer but really, he could be a bit too much at the time. She had enough experience dealing with things for roaming around at night to actually not be as much of a danger as it should be. If this had happened five years ago, however… she suppressed the thought.

“Well…” She drawled out, “Let’s go, shall we?”

“We should stop by Purgatory Hall first, so I can put this up.” Solomon suggested to her, she nodded in agreement.

Against her better judgement, she made and a drink for herself to go and finished with the substance by the time she was at purgatory hall. She threw the cup away and was surprised to bump into Simeon, as Solomon was storing his food.

“Oh? What are you doing here so late at night?” Simeon asked Nil.

“Mm… I’m with Solomon.” She mumbled, before realizing how it sounded in her mind. “Not with Solomon but like, I was hanging out with him.”

She felt like she was burying herself in a hole in front of this angel. Nil felt herself start to flush red in embarrassment until she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s fine. I know what you meant.” Simeon laughed softly, and for a moment Nil didn’t know what to do besides giggle in kind.

“Are you coming?” Solomon said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.

“No, but I’m breathing fast.” Nil managed to say between laughs.

She watched Solomon roll his eyes but nevertheless, she followed him and waved goodbye to Simeon.

The next day had gone by quickly and the one that followed was the one Nil had been waiting for. True to her plan, she woke up early. Two hours earlier than she usually did– and it was at that time that everyone was still asleep. Lucifer, slept late and woke up early… but even he should be up an hour from now.

The only worrisome thing was Beel waking up to the smell of food cooking, and her having to jade his appetite by another means until it’s ready. She tried to fight the smile that was on her face and hurriedly put on the apron as she entered the kitchen. Nil rolled up her sleeves and was ready to start. She got the ingredients ready, and prepped. Then began the food in order of longest to cook and then shortest time it takes to cook.

The first person to wake up besides her and come down to the kitchen had gotten shooed out of the kitchen. Lucifer had given her a look, which she promptly ignored for her own look. He sighed before shaking his head slightly and smiling to himself–and at her as she got back to cooking. While she didn’t get as much as she wanted– she truly loved cooking, though not enough to make a career out of it.

Nil preferred cooking for people that she cared about, so she always took what they said to heart. If it was too seasoned, she’ll turn it down a notch next time. Even if it makes her take longer or separate portions–it was something she did because she cared.

More often than not, she never quite had the time to cook–but in Devildom? She had the leisure, she just preferred bartending. She was most worried about Beel. She wondered if the Eggs Woodhouse that she made was dense, rich enough– could it make him full? Just one poached egg with the same stuff would be enough but she had made sure to purely have his portion had at least eight. His plate was heavy and it was easily thousands of dollars of ibérico ham and beluga caviar that went just to him. That she really hoped he appreciated it. Belphie’s plate wasn’t as huge but it was still a concern.

In compasion, the rest of the food was fairly simple. French toast, frittatas, a specially made omelet for Asmo— it was not too late, not too heavy and just the right amount of healthy without sacrificing taste. Nachos for herself– though it was arranged with breakfast items and baked just how she liked it. Everything might have taken several minutes longer than to get out there but it was worth it to her.

Though–despite not knowing how the reactions were going to be to her dishes. She had suddenly felt quite shy and small. Beel wasted no time in digging in– he seemed shocked at first, he didn’t quite know where to start with his own dish but eventually he found exactly how to eat it. For a moment she thought he was going to just bite the entire plate. It wouldn’t necessarily have been the first time she witnessed him eat a plate.

She’d seen him eat a clock that was made to look like a hamburger and that was a way to bypass the time. Satan was the next to start eating. He looked at Nil in a certain way, he still didn’t forgive her for letting him get extremely wasted back on Earth.

“This is divine, Nil.” Satan complimented her dish, and her heart fluttered.

“T-thank you.” She struggled to say, before swallowing air and she looked at Asmodeus, “Asmo, for you. I was sure to make something… well-balanced and yet delicious.”

A wave of embarrassment and heat suddenly swept over her as she heard a chorus of pleased sounds. Nobody else truly had a specific preference for what they wished to eat for her to fulfill. She looked entirely too bashful.

“Laurae?! Are ya okay?” Mammon abruptly said, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Your ears are very red.”

“…Amazing.” She heard Belphie say, she bit the inside of her lower lip. She had made sure Belphie and Beel’s dish had the Quetzecoatl brains.

“Here, eat some too! Say ‘aaah’.” Asmo said, forking a portion to feed her with.

Nil took a bite. She was satisfied with her own cooking but somehow that simple action made it test all the better.

“Asmo, no! Stop flirting with Nil.” Satan said with a blush, beating Mammon to his own saying.

“Yeah. Yeah! Back off!” And there it started, dissolving into chaos.

Lucifer looked at her with a rather fond look, a soft smile. Mouthing the words thank you amongst the chaos. Nil felt her heart waver, and realized that maybe she had found her place among them.

Levi had scooted his plate of food away from Beel although Beel wasn’t quite finished yet, and still focusing on his own thick and rich dish. He was looking at his food with a blush, Nil had arranged the food in a cute way. Something she knew he would like.

“I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”

“I’m going to eat it Beel!” Levi cried, scooting himself and his plate over some more, “It just reminds me of that one time on I’m The Foodie Reviewer and I Got Reincarnated Into A Kings Court.”

She dug into her own baked Nachos and decided to fan the fire, “Hey Mammon?”

“Y-yes?”

“Want to try these Nachos?” She said, holding out a chip for him to bite.

He immediately went flustered before taking the chip in his mouth and she heard Asmo gasp.

“You didn’t feed me…” He pouted.

“It’s not healthy Asmo.”

“I don’t care.” He huffed, and Mammon laughed a little too hard.

“Here.” Nil said, shoving a cheesy tortilla chip into Asmo’s mouth. “You like that, huh?”

Lucifer barely suppressed a cough, “Laurae!”

“What? Do you want a chip too?” Nil retorted.

“Me next!” Belphie had said, he was moved next to her quite quickly.

“Hey!” Mammon growled at him.

“Have a chip Belph-a-roo!” She grabbed a chip and shovelled a particularly spicy mix into his mouth.

Belphie half-heartedly glared at Nil for using the nickname but just sighed, he thought it was damn good for a human chip.

“hEY!!” Mammon said, a little louder this time.

“Hmm? Oh Levi, did you want to try one too?”

Levi’s face was as red as hers was at the prospect of being fed by her, instead he grabbed a few chips for himself and quite enjoyed it.

“it’s so good.” He said, “why is it all good? I can’t not on Ruri-chan…”

#n.: nil went down to devildom #a special thanks to nosyhuman for adding a read more #this sucked some life outta me

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eunahfmdarchive · 4 years ago

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so-so - full lyrics credit, full composition credit, full production credit. date: january 2021-ish. word count: 1,813, not including lyrics. as per usual, this sucks <3 but also it was kind of fun. did i write it well? no, but it was fun. uHH don’t bother reading this, and beth i’m really sorry that you have to. CW: very brief mentions of sex.

what’s her sound? eunah laments over the question for a long time. is it problematic for her to investigate her musical identity so closely? does it make what she writes less sincere? or on the contrary, does it make the end product more thoroughly thoughtful? last year, eunah spent a lot of time questioning her style of songwriting. it mostly came as a result of appearing on our songs, where the different assignments pushed her out of her comfort zone. and since then, the music she writes has become more varied. even so, eunah feels an urge to return to her roots, to write something with more theatrical leanings. over the last year, she’s become a lot more concerned with writing songs that will sell, trapping herself within walls of dimensions entertainment’s design.

it would be nice to write something just for her, for a change.

rather than settling down in front of her piano with her notebook to write another generic love song, eunah decides that, for once, she wants to be as honest as she can in what she creates, instead of dressing up her feelings inside of another song for dimensions’ approval.

it’s not like nobody’s good enough for me i just don’t quite feel like it i meet guys once or twice or maybe a few days but the awkwardness is always there

when it comes to romance, the last couple of years have been ... interesting for eunah. she’s happy where she is right now, contented in her singleness, but things haven’t always been that way for her. only a handful of weeks ago, she was seeing someone, and entertaining the idea of making it official. a lot of boys have come and gone with surprising fleetingness, all of them usually inspiring a song or three. nowadays though, when she thinks back on them and their relationships, she doesn’t feel much. she remembers their dates and kisses in a largely neutral fashion, and finds that, even without those guys by her side, she feels just fine. it’s sort of disheartening to realise that maybe she’s still the girl she was three or so years ago, back when she was so much more emotionally distant. she doesn’t seem to be able to make any romantic relationship last. or maybe, it’s just that she’s become less dependent on others. maybe, she’s more independent than she thought. she’d like to fall in love for real one day, to let go of her inhibitions completely and feel freely, but the idea of that is scary as well. as happy as she is right now, maybe it’s safer for her to maintain a certain amount of distance in her romantic affairs. perhaps this is just the way she loves -- neutrally, carefully, awkwardly, but sincerely.

she still isn’t confident enough to have sex with the lights on.

no matter who i meet so-so being alone is just so-so not so exciting but not all that bad (so-so) i’m starting to forget what love is supposed to be like i can’t even remember

though i’m jealous of couples (how lucky) i’m not that lonely being alone (it’s quite alright) my phone never rings and I’m free on weekends the only thing i hate is myself in front of the tv

so-so is just the right way to express it. the song, she realises, isn’t just only for herself in the context of thinking too hard about what the company wants, but it’s taking back at least some of her creative agency from her exes. she loved them, truly, but it’s freeing to write as eunah -- just eunah, rather than a version of herself connected to someone else.

there’s a desire for companionship underlying it all. that’s unavoidable. people are desperate to rid themselves of loneliness more than anything else, she thinks. but eunah isn’t lonely. being alone isn’t an issue for her, but non-action is. the image of herself reflected back at her on a darkened television screen makes her wrinkle her nose. it makes her feel like she isn’t being productive, or that at the very least there should be someone sitting next to her, arm thrown around her shoulder. or, when she sees herself on the screen, singing about love, or, more recently, acting in love. is it normal to feel jealous of her on screen self? maybe.

but there’s no prince and princess ending for hong seol either. that’s a refreshing aspect of the show, of the character.

she supposes though, that that’s part of her motivations too. if she isn’t attached to someone in her personal life, she’s attached to someone else via her profession ... she likes that, she thinks, the ability to slip into a second skin. she likes the time she has alone too, though.

once again, everything is just so-so.

the lyrics come together easily enough, a rare blessing for someone like her, who usually pieces scraps of sentences together for weeks until she finds an order that she likes, habitually swapping things around at the last possible chance, ten minutes before stepping into a recording booth. with the actual music itself, eunah’s a lot less finicky and fickle. sitting in front of her piano, eunah thinks about let me in -- she’s come a long, long way since then, but she’s still that girl. she spent a lot of time trying to recover a previous version of eunah, but she came to the conclusion, eventually, that she’s not going to be able to go back there. she’s changed, and that’s okay. maybe this won’t be the song to show her progress through its lyrics, but she thinks it could be a song to call back to let me in in a stylistic sense. a song with a musical sort of tone.

it’s a self indulgent decision to return to her roots, in much the same way that choosing to write an uninterested, bored-with-love love song was in the first place. the songs she’s written most recently have taken her out of her comfort zone. dancing cartoon, count you out, painting and seattle alone all forced her to use a little more brain power than she’d usually put into coming up with melodies, and twice as much brain power again for the ones she produced for. eunah doesn’t consider herself to be that good at production yet, so she focuses on making a type of song that she could hopefully work with easily. eunah’s hands pause atop the keys of her piano. she wasn’t sure at what stage she’d mentally committed to producing the song herself as well, but she apparently had.

her progress on the song is quicker than usual. writing this song -- she thinks she’ll call it so-so after all -- isn’t as strenuous as writing some of her others. eunah’s never been the type to believe that a song’s worth directly equates to the amount of blood, sweat, and tears shed in the process of making it. in fact, she finds it relaxing, as she constructs a mid-tempo, largely cheery tune for her lyrics. the melody still turns somber at some points, to fit the more contemplative parts of the lyrics, but the music quickly picks up again for the chorus. she wants the song to really be something that highlights her voice and her abilities. the music, she decides, will ultimately be an accompaniment in a very true sense. a lot of the songs idols put out nowadays have instrumental heavy choruses rather than vocally focused ones. it doesn’t even stop there, extending to pop songs from overseas too. eunah doesn’t mind that to listen to, or to perform in 7rophy, but she doesn’t think that she could pull off something like that by herself.

when she pushes back from her piano, all of her notes scribbled down messily across a handful of pages, eunah breathes out a tired sigh -- tired, yes. sad? frustrated? no, quite the opposite. she hums her new song to herself as she drifts off to sleep.

once the melody is pinned down and she records the vocals, eunah plants herself squarely in her studio at dimensions headquarters, essentially living out of there for a handful of days and leaving crys’ care to her roommate. it’s not officially her studio or anything, but it’s the one she uses nine times out of ten that she needs somewhere to work on her music. she’s grateful for the space, and for the agency she has over her solo music. she knows, however, if the finished product isn’t what dimensions want, they’ll make whatever edits they want. that’s why this stage, the final one, is so important. she’s busy these days with press junkets and promotional material for cheese in the trap, and this is the first chance she’s really had to toy around with the song’s production properly. there were moments that eunah could have stolen before, but she wanted to wait for a time in her schedule when she was able to consistently work on it. she’s made some amendments to the tune and lyrics since, the last of which happened right before recording the version of her vocals that she went with. she realised after how the lyrics might be read or interpreted more sadly than she initially intended them to come across. she leans into it though, pleased to see her song taking on somewhat of a life of its own. with that in mind, recording went smoothly.

it is sad, she ultimately agrees, even as she arranges the background instrumentals in a decidedly happy leaning order. acting through her voice is something eunah has always prided herself on. it’s her strongest skill -- some would probably say it’s her only skill. if that really is the case, eunah thinks that it’s a fine skill to have, if she can really only have one. it’s a good thing too, because after countless edits and a spread of versions with only slight differences for her to choose from, the one that eunah likes best is the one where her voice does most of the work. the arrangement of the instruments isn’t particularly interesting or unique, but it’s pretty and listenable, and does exactly the job she wanted it to. it’s a perfect accompaniment for her voice, climbing in just the right spots to support her belts, and lulling into silence just after her vocals softly peter out. there’s backing vocals added throughout, layers of her own voice propping her primary self up, appearing in just the right places as echoed confirmations of the lyrics’ lamentations. eunah likes a song that comes with all the bells and whistles as much as the next musical theatre fan (professional? she supposes she is) or noise music performing idol, but she think a song like this is what suits her best. though she set out on a well-intentioned but always doomed quest to define her style by returning to her roots and making something theatrical, she ended up with something simple. something that, in its difficulty level, might be described by its own title -- so-so. maybe she’s just less dramatic nowadays. her emotions have definitely been reined in, in a good way; in a manageable way. worrying about her music’s sincerity won’t get her anywhere.

and anyways, it’s fine, she thinks, for me to be so-so about things. i spent too long losing myself to my emotions already. eunah figures that, to some extent, life is good if life is boring. submitting it with a slight, but satisfied smile, eunah can only hope that the title isn’t predictive of the song’s reception.

#fmdverification #ok now onto ... idk doin stuff on my other muses #( * self para )

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obeymematches · 4 years ago

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AAA, hi I'm that first anon ( /w\)

I'm glad you're doing well ❤️ Thank you so much for the content you're making. I've been kinda losing interest in Obey Me but I'd like to request a match-up, maybe it'll help me rekindle my love for the game.

So, hmm. I'm 18 and a bit of a short gal, 4' 11 since I last checked (aaaa, Asian genes. But hey, cute size difference).

I'm an INFP-T, so I kinda suck at socialising hahah. But I make up for it by showing a cheery exterior. It always feels good to leave a good impression.

I usually like to try keeping a soft image, but will also be a loud memelord if I ever get comfortable enough.

I'm about to study HUMSS next school year, dreaming of becoming an arts teacher or prof, if I can manage. But I struggle with anxiety, which kinda clashes with my dream career, since a teacher requires confidence ,w,)

I tend to put others' needs before myself, I always want to make sure my friends are happy. The world is... horrible, so I really try my best to ensure they're smiling. It just gives me good serotonin if I know I made them feel happier.

My brain is horrible at keeping stuff, meaning I'm really forgetful. And oof, not really the smartest tool in the shed. No thoughts, head empty. Only love and escapism✌️😔 My dumbass brain is another thing that clashes with my dream job.

I like drawing, listening to music (distracts me from bad thoughts), video games (my most favs are rpgs and open world), horror stuffs, and crying whenever I see frogs and dogs. I also like plants. Ohh, and shiny rocks, heck yea.

Tho, I'm not really taking care of any at the moment, but I dream of having my own garden. I love the cottagecore aesthetic.

A thing I should add I guess is that I used to be a total weeb, so my behaviour and speech is heavily influenced. I'd sometimes casually drop a 'hai?', 'nani', 'nande kore' and etc. in convos. Kinda makes me cringe, but dang I can't stop.

Even if I don't enjoy watching anime as much as before, I do like anime movies. All ghibli films, Kimi no Nawa, Weathering with You and A Silent Voice are my favs.

I just love the soundtracks so much qoq

My worse flaws are I'm hella sensitive, a huge procrastinator, childish, and easily jealous.

But despite me being a lazy dumbass, if I put my mind into something, I will not stop until I finish the thing. Which means I also tend to overwork myself.

I know it's unhealthy but it really keeps me motivated, aaa-

I also seem to like acting as if I know a lot? I mean, I come across as that but my real intention is I just thought to share my knowledge of the subject.

I just say a lot of stuff because I tend to blabber and jumble my words.

I guess my love language is words of affirmation. Compliments, I love you's, heart memes, cheesy pick up lines that my sleep-deprived self thought of at 4am- all of em!

These are the weapons I torture my friends with o(○｀ω´○)9

But ahh, the thing is I've never dated anyone before. I find it so difficult to fall for someone irl, or even gain crushes. Mostly fictional. So I have absolutely no experience in the dating business.

Something to do with my self esteem and trust issues, ekk-

Oof, that's long. I hope that's not too much. Again, thank you so much if you happen to get to write this. Take your time, hun ^w^ ❤️💕 AAAA, and congratulations on reaching 100 followers!

----------

Hi!

Noooooo i’m so sorry it took me so much time to write this ;; I hope you like the result though! thank you for your patience!! 💕 💕 💕

I decided to match you with Mammon!

Here is why:

Okay so obviously there is a bit of a height difference, I mean he is not even near to being the tallest but thats exactly why he thinks you are the best height - it makes him feel taller and that is good for his confidence.

Mammon is known for going out and socializing a lot - even if more often than not he ends up in some kind of unusual situation. He is good at taking the initiative in case you have trouble. Just don’t always follow through his ideas he suggests to bond, because most of the time it will end up getting both of you in trouble. I mean it’s not like Lucifer would punish you too badly because of something stupid Mammon got you to do (besides you having to listen to a lecture about why the thing you two did was dumb), but poor friend of yours is not so lucky. :(

I like to think of him as a positive, rather optimistic, maybe naive person but I think your cheerful attitude goes well with that. I mean think about the aura you two would spread!

He would definitely be surprised to learn about your loud memelord side, but that would fascinate him so much because you can open up to him sooner than to his brothers and that also makes him more proud to be with you! I think that would also help him grow some real deep feelings for you

I think you’d be a great influence on him to help motivating him to put some more energy into his education. Although the only reason he would care more about that is the study times he can have with you, and it is up to you to decide if those sessions are actually studying together (read: you tutoring him and him staring at you in awe when you don’t look but can’t grasp the material) or if there’s an attempt but a couple minutes later he is talking about how to earn money fast and both of you try said method.

Helping him study sometimes would definitely help your self-esteem! I think he can come off as rather confident, so hanging around with people like him would definitely boost your confidence!

I think he would literally melt if someone put his well-being before themselves. Theres no going back now he is lovesick. I mean just think about all the times his brothers make fun of him.

I’m prettysure he is the best at making people laugh! He has no care in the world even if he has to do something dangerously dumb to make you smile!!

He can be rather forgetful too so thats something the both of you have to work on if possible, but relationshipwise that should not cause conflicts. Sure he might forget about some stuff but it’s never your bday or a date with you because both of you are in love.

I think he can try your hobbies to impress you or just to have another topic to talk about, but he will probably never be the best at drawing. I think the amount of music you listen to would drastically decrease as he is very good at occupying your mind - with positive thoughts!

It is confirmed that he alsp enjoys videogames and he is good at them, so thats something you two can do together when you don’t really feel like going out.

If you show him horror movies he will scream and will not be able to sleep well for 2 weeks but he is going to deny that with his life so good luck!

I think he would find it cute that you like frogs and rocks and stuff, he might tease you a bit about it at first but if he sees a frog on sale he will spend his money to give you a surprise frog! it will probably be some live magical frog (either poisonous or some weird demon magic frog that will have everyone in the house of lamentation end up in a comedic situation). So that was the last time he got you something he has no idea about without asking you first.

Oh he would definitely tease you a lot about your vocabulary, but Levi would catch on you because you might not actually be a normie... And thats how Mammon gets too jealous to ever tease you again about something like that - how can he allow Levi to hang out with you :(

And that brings us to both of you being easily jealous. In some cases that might end in conflicts because one person gets annoyed but in this particular case you just need to have a conversation about it. Set some boundaries both of you are okay with, and no issue!

I think to make sure your time alone with Levi is more limited he would totally watch anime movies with you!

He definitely adores your determination! If you ever ask him what he likes about you, he will probably mention this as one trait.

Hmmm as I elaborated before, you knowing more stuff about things will probably prevent situations that would be caused by Mammon not being informed about some stuff.

Okay so he is definitely one who sends you memes at ungodly hours and you can’t stop him. He is awake, lying in bed, too in love to do anything besides think about you and smile and face the issues of being the local tsundere. And then you send him a meme full of love and he can not fall asleep for the rest of the night, feeling butterflies and imagining soft things with you like he did with nobody else before.

Okay so I’m not sure about his dating experience, but as far as a know he doesn’t really have much either? in that case both of you could explore this new feeling together!

So in conclusion this boy is very much in love and he can only hope that you feel the same. Both of you are a good influence o the other and that helps the two of you to grow together. He might have slightly more experience but that’s okay. I see no conflicts here, maybe the only exception being the fact that he can be rude towards you and you are sensitive, but he is quick to stop being rude once he sees why he is so wrong. And that will be the best decision of his life so far because not long after that he is very much in love for the first time in forever. Both of you are loyal to the other and jealousy means no issue. Well, after some conversation, that is. Both of you experience life together and theres always something to do, to see!

#obey me #om!#obey me!#om! mammon #mammon om!#mammon obey me #mammon #obey me mammon #obey me matchup #obey me shall we date #swd obey me #obey me swd #submission

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chickensarentcheap · 5 years ago

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Sanctuary - Chapter 17

Warnings: slight mention of sex, profanity

Fandoms: Extraction, Tyler Rake

Tagging: @alievans007, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @valkyrie-of-the-light

“I don't know why I have to do this,” Ovi grumbles, as feels the toe of Tyler's boot against him, kicking his feet further apart. The gun range is the last place he wants to be. He hasn't held a gun since Dhaka, and he'd be more than happy never have to hold one again.

“Because I said so, that's why,” Tyler retorts.

He's on edge today; his tone gruff, patience thin, relying a little more on the painkillers than usual. Little to no sleep finally getting the better of him. Even long after Esme had fallen asleep next to him on that tattered and torn couch in the garage, he'd done nothing more than stare up at the ceiling. Her warm, soft body wrapped in his arms, her hair tickling his skin as her head lay against his chest, her breath soft and slow. A million and one thoughts and worries plaguing him. Normally a job wouldn't have him this worked up emotionally speaking. He usually was able to hold things together and prevent himself from dwelling on everything that could go wrong. But things were different. He feels it. An overwhelming sense of doom that he just can't shake.

“Open your stance up,” he orders, once again using the toe of the boot to push the teenager's feet apart. “Put your shoulder in a bit more. Not that one. This one...” he places his hand on the kid's shoulder and makes the adjustments himself. “And hold it with two hands. Not one. Like this...” he stands behind him and reaches around to fix Ovi's hands. “Better control of it that way. Better aim.”

“I still don't know why we're here,” Ovi says, as Tyler hands him a pair of protective ear coverings. “You don't wear them,” he frowns.

“Mate, do you realize how fucked my hearing is after all these years? The noise doesn't bother my ears anymore.”

“I always thought it was just selective hearing. That you just pretended you couldn't hear when Esme was bitching you at.”

“Sometimes I legitimately can't hear what the hell she's saying. Other times I just act like it. Every now and then I even do it because I know having to repeat things drives her insane and it's hilarious to watch her get all worked up,” he steps to the shooting area beside Ovi, and snaps a magazine into place on the rifle that Esme had fixed the night before. “Just don't tell her I said that last part, yeah? I'd like to see my next birthday.”

He flicks off the safety and raises the rifle to his shoulder, expertly releasing five rapid shots that hit the target in the distance in the head. “And that's why we're here,” he says, and nods in the direction of his handiwork. “So you can learn how to do shit like that.”

“It's going to take me forever to be that good at,” Ovi laments. “You've been doing this forever. This is only my second time holding a gun. It's been five years.”

“And now is as good a time as any. I'm leaving you alone...with my family...for a week. Maybe less. Probably more. I want you to be able to at least hit someone to kill them if you have to. Would you move your feet further apart...” he sighs in exasperation. “...loosen up a bit. What are you so worked up about? It's not going to jump up and bite you.”

“Just bad memories,” he says. “The last time I did this...”

“The last time you did this, you saved my life. Both our lives. So just take a breath and relax. The targets can't shoot back. That's the only time you really have to worry. If someone's on the other side shooting back at you. Then you just have to make sure you're quicker than they are. Now just take a deep breath, line up your shot, and pull the trigger. It's not that hard.”

Ovi sighs heavily, then briefly closes his eyes and deeply inhales.

“Let the breath out as you pull the trigger,” Tyler instructs. “Both hands tight, but not too tight. Arms steady, but don't lock them out. Got it?”

Nodding, the kid opens his eyes and releases the breath just as he pulls the trigger. The gun is light in his hands, yet packs a punch, and offers an impressive recoil.

“Not bad,” Tyler nods in approval. “Pretty much got 'em in the centre of the chest. You just have to remember to stay calm. Freaking out isn't going to do a damn bit of good. Only thing a case of bad nerves is going to do is cause you to fuck up.”

“It's hard not to be nervous. The last time I did this...”

“The last time doesn't matter. That was five years ago. You did what you have to do. You saved my ass. And your own. Stop second guessing yourself about that. There was nothing else you could have done.”

“It sucked. Having to do that. Having to kill someone.”

“As bad as it sounds, it gets easier.”

“When? The second time? The third time?”

“I don't know. One day I woke up and I realized it didn't really bother me anymore. I might have been a week into my first tour in Afghanistan.”

“So you were still just a kid. When you first killed someone.”

Tyler nods. “I was nineteen. Just turned it a couple of weeks before. I did what I had to do. I didn't have a chance to second guess myself. I mean, that’s what I was there to do, right? Kill people if I had to. Same thing I do now. I kill people that deserve it. I do what I have to do to get my client out alive. To get myself out alive.”

“Do you feel anything? At all?”

“Not really. Maybe I've just never sat back and thought about it. It's not like you get the chance in the middle of shit to sit back and consider what you're doing and if there's another way of doing it. You just react. You're on autopilot. You've got all this adrenaline going through you and you just go with it. Sometimes I'm not even aware of what I've done until afterwards. When I get to chance to look at it or think about it later.”

“Like the men in the apartment? The ones that took me?”

Tyler nods.

“It scared me. After you untied me and I walked out there. When I saw all the dead bodies. I couldn't understand how one person could do all of that by themselves. I thought, if he can do all of that to them, what is he going to do to me? What is he capable of doing to me? And then you threw me in the trunk...”

It's the first time in over five years that they've talked about it. With all of Ovi's struggles with his mental health issues, it was a part of the past that neither of them felt need to be revisited. Both of them had been concentrating on the present; on getting healthy both physically and mentally. Tyler had his own shit to deal with; PTSD never disappears and there are days when it rarely affects his life and others when it seems to consume him. The monsters and the demons of the past may be at rest, but it doesn't take much for them to stir.

“Technically, I didn't throw you in the trunk,” Tyler says. “I pushed you towards it and you got in.”

“Because I was afraid you were going to kill me if you didn't. I saw what you did to those guys. You killed them. All of them. By yourself.”

“Well I had to get you out someway,” he reasons, and selects another weapon from the military issued ruck sack behind the safety barrier. “I did what I had to do.”

“Some of them you even killed with your bare hands.”

“Yeah, and I'd kill them again if I had to. Here...” he takes the handgun off of Ovi and holds out a semi automatic rifle. “Try this one for size. Be careful though. That one does bite. Has one hell of a kick back if you don't know what you're doing.”

The kid's eyes widen as he reluctantly takes the item offered to him. “Would you have killed me too?” he inquires, as Tyler cracks the seal on a bottle of water he pulls from the bag and takes a sip.

“I wasn't hired to kill you, mate. I was hired to take you home.”

“In the forest. You threatened to kill me and Saju.”

“I just wanted you to shut the fuck up and listen to me. Funny how some things never change, huh?”

Ovi smirks at that. “But would you have? Killed me? If there was no other choice?”

“It's been five years, kid. It's all over and done with. Why...?”

“If you had no other choice, would you have done it? Kill me?”

“There would have been no reason to. I wasn't going to leave you in the street or just hand you over to Asif. I didn't listen to Nik when she told me to ditch you and I didn't listen to Gaspar when he wanted me to give you up for five million. There would have been no reason to kill you.”

“Just humour me,” Ovi says. “Just say there was a reason.”

Tyler sighs, his eyes on the kid as he gulps down water. “I would have killed myself before I killed you,” he admits.

Ovi blinks.

“I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I left you behind. Or gave you up to Asif. I would have put a bullet in my own brain before I would have done anything to you. You've got to let this go, mate. It's been a long time. I know sometimes it feels like just yesterday, but it wasn't. It was five years ago. Almost six. You can't keep letting it fuck with you like this.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Look, I've spent ten years dealing with my own crap that I keep holding onto. Things in my past that I can't seem to let go.”

“Your son?”

Tyler nods. “Trust me when I say that nothing good comes of holding onto things for that long. It just causes even more problems. Don't make the same mistakes I did. Don't keep holding onto the past. It only drags you down. It eats away at you and it breaks you down and it kills you. Slowly. Don't do that to yourself. You're young. You've got a lot to live for still.”

“So do you,” Ovi points out. “You have Esme. And the kids.”

“And believe me, there's days where I'm only alive because they need me. Because I know how badly it would fuck with them if I was no longer around. Get your shit together, kid. Before everything you have right in front of you is gone. Like this girl you're seeing. Or dating. Or whatever the hell you want to call it.”

“Dating,” he confirms. “We call ourselves boyfriend and girlfriend now.”

“How cute,” Tyler smirks. “She going to start wearing your glass ring around her neck and your football jacket?”

Ovi frowns. “What?”

“Never mind. It's dumb shit we used to do in high school. So things are serious between the two of you, yeah? If you've got titles and all that now.”

“I'm crazy about her,” Ovi admits with a long, content sigh. “She's incredible.”

“Yeah, I recognize that look in your eye, mate. You're fucked now. I had that same look in my eyes five years ago and now look where I am.”

There's a smile on his face as he says it. No matter how many wisecracks he makes, cheap shots he gets in, or no matter how many times they fight, there's no doubt in Ovi's mind that Tyler is wildly and crazily in love with his wife. That he's perfectly content and at peace with where he is; a husband and a father.

“You still have that look in your eyes,” he points out, and a slow, wide grin spreads across Tyler's face.

“Maybe I do, mate,” he says. Maybe I do.”

****

They lay together on the backyard hammock; Esme's legs between his, her eyes closed as her head rests on his chest. Both of his arms draped around her slender body, one hand on her hip, the other on the small of her back, a leg hanging over the side as he uses his foot to move the hammock back in forth in a slow, controlled motion. She smells amazing, a mixture of coconut shampoo and sex. Her hair still damp from the shower they'd taken together; using all the hot water up as their hands and their mouths languidly explored each other's bodies. Sharing long, slow, toe curling kisses until he'd picked her up and pinned her to the tiles, her legs wrapped around his waist as he took her hard and fast.

It had been the second time that afternoon. When Nik and Yaz had announced that they were taking the kids in the next town over to see a movie -”So you two can spend time together”- they car had barely made it out of the driveway before their mouths and their hands were all over each other; hungry, demanding kisses, greedy and desperate fingers. Clothes being dropped in a path that led from the front door to the living room, where he'd made love to her on the couch. Languid, tender. Long lazy kisses and roaming fingers as he moved above her; their bodies slick with sweat, muscles trembling and aching from taking things so slow. A far cry from the usual hard and rough that she seems to prefer. But beautiful and intense in all its own right. Her hands in his hair and her entire body arching off the couch when she came; his name leaving her lips in a long, breathy whisper that he felt to his very soul.

Afterwards they'd showered, and with that came round two. Then they'd thrown on whatever clothes they could find and retreated outside; eating a spontaneous lunch that she'd thrown together with the leftovers from the night before. It reminds him of the days when they were first married and living in their old apartment back in Australia. When he was still attending rehab four times a week and sometimes has to use a walker to get around when the pain became just too much to bear. Life didn't exist outside of that apartment; save for the meals they'd share together out on the little balcony. They'd been newlyweds then. With barely any furniture or other personal belongings, surrounded by unpacked boxes and various in home therapy equipment that had been sent for him, making love as often as possible on that mattress on the floor.

Life had been so much simpler. Even with the agony and exhaustion that came with his lengthy recovery. Even when he had to swallow his pride when it came to abandoning his control over even the day to day things. Falling more and more in love with her every time she trimmed his beard or cut his hair; the tender and adoring way she'd look at him, the way one hand would gently cradle his face. In awe of everything that she'd given up and everything that she did for him. She did it all without question; never complaining, never losing her temper when his emotions and frustrations got the better of him and he took it out on her. By his side every step of the way; whether it be waking up in recovery rooms after surgeries to see her napping in a chair, or how -once he'd been transferred into a ward- she'd climb into bed with him ever so carefully, falling asleep next to him. And then she'd started getting bigger with child...his child...and that awe in her only increased. Watching the way she not only took care of him but made sure that life they created together thrived inside of her.

There was no way she could ever known just how much he appreciated everything she did back and then and everything she continues to do now. No words that could ever adequately express just how grateful he is. Not for just the things she did, but for the way she made him feel.

She moves against him, giving a little yawn as her hand comes up to rest against the side of her face, her knuckles repeatedly along his jaw and against his beard. “What are you thinking about?” she asks, as she places her chin on his chest and looks up at him.

“Nothing really,” he replies, running his palm up and down her back. “Just about our old place. How we moved in there with nothing. How you used to cut my hair and trim my beard and never once complained about it.”

“Remember how we used to sleep on the floor on just a mattress?” her hand slides across his shoulder and down his arm, fingertips tracing the tattoo on the inside of his bicep.

“That's not all we used to do on that mattress,” he grins, and presses a kiss to the top of her head when she giggles. “I remember the night that the baby kicked for the first time. Before we even found out it was a girl.”

“You had the goofiest, cutest grin on your face. You were so proud of yourself for putting that baby in me. You used to always talk to her, do you remember that? Because you wanted her to know your voice. She'd be quiet all day and then you'd put your hand on my belly and talk to her and she'd start to squirm around. You were her favourite even then. You're always so cute. When I'm pregnant. Always so pleased with your handiwork. The way you always brag to people about your wife having a baby. Always touching my stomach. Just so sweet and cute and fluffy.”

“Did you seriously just call me sweet, cute, and fluffy?”

“Your abs aren't as hard as they used to be,” she teases, and squeezes his stomach. “There's a bit of a middle age spread coming along.” Her hand slips up the front of his tank top, fingertips tracing each dent and ripple of muscle that still exists there. Even if there is a little bit of 'fluff' as she likes to call it. “Look at me. I'm not the same person I was five years ago. I'm heavier now.”

“You're beautiful. I don't care about this extra weight you keep complaining about. I never see it.”

“My boobs are bigger. And my butt.”

“Your boobs and your ass are incredible.”

“And my hips are wider.”

“You've had a baby. Four babies. My babies.”

She smiles at that, her hand moving further up his shirt, fingers explore the various scars that mar his skin. She knows them all by heart, every smooth or jagged edge. “I was thinking about Dhaka,” she admits, and he frowns. “Not the bad stuff,” she quickly adds.

“Wasn't it all bad?”

“Not those first five days.”

“Yeah...” he grins. “...those first five days were pretty damn good.”

“That room was nasty though. It was so weird because the sheets were always so fresh and so white yet the rest of the place was so disgusting. How many times do you have to try and fix the toilet so it would flush properly?”

“Too many.”

“Remember the shower?” she has her chin on his chest again, eyes sparkling up at him. “Remember how there was barely any hot water and the nozzle was so low you couldn't even stand under it properly? And I'd laugh at you and make fun of your height and call you a sasquatch?”

“I can't believe you shit talked me like you did and I still put out.”

“It's not my fault you're absurdly tall and your shoulders are absurdly wide. And you're the one that would always tease me about my height. Especially about our height difference. About how I was short enough that I didn't even have to kneel.”

“Well, I wasn't lying about that,” he chuckles. “It's close. You almost don't have to kneel.”

“Is it weird I kind of miss that room? Not the room itself. But what went on inside the room. Is that strange?”

“No,” he wraps his arm even tighter around her, fingers continuously brushing against her shoulder. “Sometimes I miss it too. Just what went on in that room. None of the bad shit that happened after.”

It wasn't just sex. Although that had been the biggest part of it. But it was there that they'd begun the journey of not only getting to know one another, but the process of healing and opening up to others. It was the first time he'd ever told anyone about Austin. They knew that he'd had cancer and passed away, but they'd never known the other part of the story. Esme had been the one that he'd confessed to. Telling her about he'd left voluntarily for a third tour in Kandahar while his son lay suffering and dying in the hospital, simply because he couldn't stand to watch. And she hadn't judged him; not for his admission of guilt and the profound grief that came pouring out of me. She'd simply sat and listened; quietly, intently. And then had used her fingers to clear his tears away before taking his face in his hands and kissing him.

The softest, sweetest kiss he'd ever experienced in his entire life.

“I remember how the manager came up the third day,” he recalls. “Because the people next to us complained about how noisy someone was being.”

“Well if they didn't know your name after the first night, they sure knew it by then,” Esme laughs. “And you told him that I was screamer and you didn't know how to get me to stop, other than put a hand over my mouth.”

“Yeah, and you responded how kinky it was and we should try it.”

“And we did,” she laughs even harder now. “And it was kinky. And so fucking hot. Isn't that the same time you discovered my fetish for having my hair pulled?”

“That and how much you liked to bite. I even have a scar right there...” he points to his right trap muscle. “...from your teeth. You're nasty for a little thing.”

“Nasty in a fun way or a bad way?”

“Both. But mostly in a fun way.”

She smiles, then slides along his body and kisses him. Pushing a hand through his hair, fingers entwining in the longer strands at the top, his hand moving from her hip to join the other at the small of her back. Their mouths moving against one another; lips, tongues, even teeth. Soft and slow. Deep and easy. Then breaking away and exchanging several small pecks before she nestles her face into that favourite spot hers; between the side of his neck and his shoulder.

“I wish you weren't leaving,” she says, her fingers still combing through his hair.

“I know,” he presses his lips to her forehead, and moves his arm up her back so it lays along her shoulders.

“Remind me again why you're doing this?”

“Because he needs my help. Because he doesn't have anyone that he trusts to get the job done properly. And because I'd want someone to help me if it was you and my kids.”

“But what if it's all bullshit? What if you get there and it is some elaborate ruse to get you away from here? So that you're there where they want you but we're here alone where they also want us and...”

“Babe...” he tightens his hold on her. “...don't let your mind go there. Please. There's no reason to think that something like that is going on. I saw those videos of his wife and his kids. With my own two eyes. They were real.”

“Or he and the wife are sickos and they're using their kids to make it more believable. What if...?”

“It's real,” he insists. “Nik already checked into it. Everything he said is the truth. Right down to being in New Zealand on the job when he met his wife. There wasn't one thing out of place. Not that she could find anyway.”

“It is just so weird. That he'd just track you down out of nowhere. And why did he wait so long to actually talk to you? He said he'd even been following you in Guatemala. Even you have to admit that that is super weird. How'd he even know you were there?”

“I honestly don't know. Maybe he found that all out when he got a hold of my file. Or whoever gave him the file knew where I was and told him.”

“But following you? For what? I don't get that part.”

“He said he was just trying to make sure that no one else was following me. He didn't want to approach me right away in cause someone else was tailing me. That happens. We get people tailing us all the time, reporting shit back to their people. Try not to worry about it, okay?” he rubs her shoulder comfortingly, places a kiss on her brow. “It's all on the up and up. I promise.”

“So how long?” her fingers slip from his hair and move to his ear, a nail tracing the outer edge . “Do you know how long you'll be gone for?”

“A week. Two at the most. If I haven't found them in two weeks, I'm coming home regardless. I already told him that. Fourteen days and that's it. I told him I already promised that to my wife and I wasn't breaking that promise. I've got important shit to do here. I've got a baby to make.”

She laughs against his throat.

“Although I'll be really surprised and disappointed in myself if I didn't get the job done some time in the past four days. I've been busting my ass here.”

“Oh what a hard life you've been living in the past few days. Getting laid at the drop of a hat. What a burden to have to bare.”

“I'm willing to take one for the team. It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.”

She gives a little snort and shakes her head.

“Ovi's going to stay in the house. I'd rather him be really close if something goes wrong and you need him.”

“I already told that I'm perfectly capable of using a gun and protecting myself and our kids.”

“And I already told you that I wasn't comfortable with that. So he's going to stay in the house. And you're going to call Nik if you think there's something weird going on. If you hear anything or see anything or you get any weird calls or messages. She'll come and stay here if you need her too. Yaz will be coming with me and manning the tech front. So I won't be there all alone.”

“You'll be doing all the heavy lifting,” she points out. “And before you say 'I work better alone', I've heard it a thousand times and I still think it's bullshit. I'm just worried about you, Tyler. I can't help it. I can't just turn it off because you want me to. I'd just feel better if someone was with you. Even this McCann guy. I mean it is his wife and his kids after all.”

“They're being held in separate places. And I don't need someone constantly looking over my shoulder or slowing me down. I've never worked with a partner. Ever.”

“You worked with me.”

“That's completely different. We weren't doing the same job. You were there to get the information. I was there to make sure nothing happened to you while you did. That's not the same thing. Everything will go a lot smoother if he just does his own thing and I do mine. I've got Yaz on standby if I run into problems. Everything's going to be fine. I'll get the job done and I'll be home before you know it. Leaving the toilet seat up and my dirty socks on the ground and driving you nuts.”

“Is it weird I'm going to miss the dirty socks and the toilet seat being left up?”

“No. It's not weird. I'm going to miss all the stupid shit you do too.”

“Like what?”

“Talking in your sleep. I can carry on whole conversations with you and you don't even remember them the next day. How you always buy shampoo that smells like flowers and girly shit like that.”

“You'd use dish soap if I let you. So you're one to talk.”

“Hey, if it's good enough for those baby ducks in the commercial it's good enough for me.”

She laughs at that.

“And the way you make me eat kale. What the fuck is kale? It tastes like grass clippings and the tears of baby animals.”

“First of all, I don't make you eat it. I put it in smoothies that you actually drink while you're working out. And it wasn't until the kale that you started to really bulk up. So...”

“The kale has nothing to do with. It's the fact I've been eating like eight thousand calories a day. The kale has nothing to do with it.”

“Just watch. You'll probably miss the kale smoothies while you're gone.”

“I definitely will not miss the smoothies. But I will miss watching you make while you're wearing those little yoga shorts and one of my t-shirts. Now that I will miss.”

“Just for you, I will wear those little shorts when you video chat with me tomorrow.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Just the little shorts?”

“You have to make sure you call when the kids are in bed though. Or you're getting a baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants. Those are your only options. It's either little shorts or sweats. So make a wise decision. It's the difference between having a study partner or studying alone.”

“You're never going to let me live that down are you,” he chuckles, and carefully rolls over onto his side, so they're chest to chest. Then brings his other leg up onto the hammock and laying it across hers. Both arms wrapped tightly around her, their noses touching.

“Never. But if you're going to solo study while you're away, you should at least let me watch.”

“Yeah?” he grins, sliding one hand down to her ass. “Then that's not really solo studying is it.”

“Maybe I'm just a kinky bitch who thinks it's totally hot to watch her husband get himself off.”

“Do I get to watch you?”

“Maybe...” she pecks his lips, then his chin, around to the side of his throat. “...why? Do you like watching?”

“I definitely like watching. What do you think about when you're doing it?”

“What do you think about?”

“I asked first.”

“I think about lots of things,” she admits, as her tongue travels over the scar left behind from the shooting on the bridge. “I think about the way you use your hands, the way you use your mouth, the way it feels when you're inside of me,” her hand slides down his chest, over his stomach and down onto his crotch. Palm coming in contact with the beginnings of his erection. “What do you think about?”

“The way it feels to be in your mouth,” he swallows heavily when her tongue passing over his Adam's apple and her hands cups him through the fabric of his shorts. “The way you always look at me when you swallow. The way it feels to be inside of you.”

“You don't get tired of it? Always feeling the same thing all the time?”

“It never feels the same way. Ever,” he assures her. “It's amazing every time. Why? Do you get tired of it?”

“I could never get tired of you,” she says, and shivers against him as his hand slides up the front of her t-shirt. “Ever.”

“Even when we've been married for fifty years?”

“Even then,” she declares, her teeth biting into her bottom lip when his hand brushes against her breast; palm cupping it as his thumb flicks over the nipple. “Are you going to trade me in for three twenty year old’s when I turn sixty?”

“Wait...” his hand stops its ministrations. “...that's an option?”

“You're such a dick,” she laughs, and then gives a small sigh when his free hand grabs a hold of her ass and pulls her tight against him; his now rock-hard cock pressing into her.

“You're stuck with me,” he says. “I'm not trading you in or getting rid of you. Ever. It's just you and me, babe. Until the bitter end.”

She smiles, then pushes her hand into her hair and kisses him. “I think I can live with that.”

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fic #tyler rake fan fiction #extraction #chris hemsworth character #sanctuary

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