#blindingly handsome man

[glassofpumpkinjuice]

pete communing with the 8 ball

(bristow 7/19/24)

[pandoras-box-27]

kiss it when you're done pt 1

max verstappen x reader x charles leclerc

wc: 1445

summary: In 2014, friends max verstappen and charles leclerc watch a race led by y/n l/n, a rising star in the racing world, with whom max and charles become infatuated.

warnings: boners? nothing beyond that yet

a/n: the first bit of my lestappen challengers au! hope it's worth the wait.

“Maxie,” Charles teasingly calls for him. Max stops, rolling his eyes as he watches the boy run to catch up with him. “Can you not demolish me tomorrow?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Max scoffs, sipping water from his blindingly bright red bottle.

“No, look, I’m at peace with the fact that you’re going to win-”

“It’s still the air, it’s not a fact,” Max interrupted, Charles was known to be rather self-destructive and Max wasn’t known for tolerating it.

They’d known each other's quirks since they were just children, battling their disagreements out on the karting track. They’d grown closer as friends but continued playing rivals once they got in the car. They were both prodigies for their age. Max just seemed more confident in his skills, constantly pushing himself to the limits, and it was abundantly clear when he was put against Charles. A smug, charming young boy, who got praise, win or lose. Was Max jealous of Charles’ familial situation and unconditional support? Not that he’d ever say out loud. However, Charles was equally jealous of Max’s genuine skill. It fueled their fighting on and off the track, though it was more like sibing rivalry.

“But, statistically, it’s much more likely,” Charles rambled. Max laughed, practically spitting his water out. Charles scoffed before continuing. “I’m just saying, like… throw me a bone? Let me lead for a moment?”

Max stopped in front of him, turning to face him. “If it matters to you so much, I can just give it to you.”

Charles paused, in shock. “Wow. Okay. Thank you.”

“I’m kidding,” Charles rolled his eyes, which made him smirk. He continued down the path, already knowing Charles was still behind him. “Do you have money on this or something?”

“My mum’s coming.”

——

Max and Charles situated themselves in between the packed bodies in the paddock. They stood unbothered, suddenly thankful they still weren’t famous enough to be recognized, just the occasional local throwing themselves at Charles’ pretty feet. Max just watched, jaw slack, his eyes as he watched each of them have to dust themselves off after being rejected. 

“You don’t want any of them? The last one was pretty hot.” Max guffawed, shamelessly ogling the ass of the last girl as she stomped away.

He scolded the other man, playfully, “Too desperate, it makes me, by proxy, seem desperate.” 

Max nodded along, as if he understood what he was saying. If it had been Max he would’ve ‘disappeared’ to the nearest broom closet with the first girl. Charles was devishly handsome, and was annoyingly aware of it. He knew he had every girl at his feet. Max was charming as well, though. He just wasn’t as confident in them, not as much as he was in his skill. 

Max was suddenly pulled out of his thoughts by the cheers from a nearby garage. His head tilted back up at the screen in front of him. He watches the replay of the moment. 

“What an amazing overtake, once again, by the Y/N L/N!” 

“Wow, in that car? That’s impressive.” Charles remarked, 

“Did you know she already has gotten the team multiple sponsors? Just cause she’s driving it.” Max stated like he had her fact sheet already memorized.

Charles’s eyes flipped back and forth between the screen and Max, his mouth agape. “What? How?” 

“She’s probably going pro in like, a month. I watched her at the last race as well. She could win the real thing tomorrow.” 

Charles and Max stared at the screen with wide eyes and a lethal dose of curiosity. To say that Y/N is smoking the competition would be an understatement. In a car most wouldn’t bet on, she’s making them look like less than karting champions. As Max and Charles watch, both of them steadily. 

Charles glanced down at his crotch after a particularly incredible point. As swiftly as he realized what was happening, he picked up his popcorn from the table next to him and held it over his prevalent bulge. 

Barely a moment later, Max looks down, blushing as he sees his own boner, before doing exactly the same thing. They both looked straight ahead at the race, trying to look as casual as possible, neither of them realizing that the other was in exactly the same boat.

—

“The L/N Foundation,” Charles read slowly from the pamphlet sitting on the table, “Inspiring young women in motorsports.”

“Wow, a foundation in her second year Formula racing?” Max asked, his eyes tracked on her as she glided through the crowds like they were the Red Sea.

“It’s her family’s,” Charles explained, flipping through the pages, “Her mother was in motorsports but it wasn’t as acceptable in the 70s. Her father raced in her honor but it wasn’t the same-”

Charles looked up and noticed Max had drifted away to a table further up, closer to the dance floor. He swiftly came up to the empty space next to him. 

“Did you know she's from a small town just outside France?” Charles pretended to read the small printed text, “It’s near where I grew up.”

Max looked over at him, curiously smirking, “Yeah?”

“Born and raised, she doesn’t know much English,” Max slowly nodded along, his eyes rising back to her. 

“You should read the pamphlet,” Charles teased the blond, poking his side. Max shook his head, not being able to take his eyes off her. The music suddenly changed from something slow and soft to one of the big American ‘club’ songs with lyrics their mothers wouldn’t approve of.

Max’s lips curled into a wide smirk and Charles’ eyes went wide as they watched Y/N's hips sway to the rhythm of the song playing in the background. Her dress was tight around her chest, accentuating her perfect tits, and flowed out over a layer of petticoat that moved dramatically with every swish of her hips. She was the perfect mix of alluring and elegant, just as she had been on the track, which left both of their heads spinning. 

“I’d let her fuck me with that trophy of hers,” Max whispered into Charles’ ear, only making him blush harder as his imagination went wild.

“Oh my god,” Charles muttered softly under his breath. He couldn’t believe it, he’d never seen anyone so perfect. He watched her whisper-shout something to her friends before slowly exiting the dance floor.

“Oy,” Max slapped Charles’ arm, before running over to the couch she was heading towards. Charles followed suit (once he realized what was happening)

Just as she reached the sofa area, they were on her tail. She turned around in shock. Max raced to start and, easily slipping into the little French he knew, spoke first.

“Bonjour, madame, je m'appelle-”

“I’m Charles Leclerc, it’s nice to meet you,” Charles interrupted, smiling widely and eagerly.

“Nice to meet you,” Y/N bit back a smile, shaking Charles’ hand, a firm handshake as his hand lingered just a second too long. She pulled back after a moment, reaching for Max’s as she started to speak again, “Uhm, enchante. I, uh-”

“Don’t speak French,” Max sighed, mentally cursing himself for his stupidity. Charles wasn’t necessarily lying, Y/N was born and raised from a small town just outside France, and it was near Monaco. It was just in Italy. His mistake was immediately apparent. The thick accent laid on her tongue and rang like choir bells in their ears.

“Well, yes, not well. But, I was going to say, ‘I already knew who you two are.’” Y/N shrugged, laughing a little to herself. She plopped herself down on the couch behind her, staring up at the two men. “You’re Formula’s next big thing, my father doesn't shut up about you.

You’re racing in Formula 3 next year, yes?” Charles swears he’s never seen Max’s head move faster. 

“You’re not signing to -”

“Yeah. How did you -- ?”

“Me too.” Y/N says, leaving silence among the group. 

 “What?” Charles exclaimed, excitedly.

“I just accepted the offer, and they mentioned you,” she smiled brightly, they couldn’t tell if she was more happy for Charles or herself. Her head whipped around at the sound of someone calling her name. She sat up off the sofa. “Nice to meet you two,” She stared at Max, and with her best (terrible) French accent, “Au revoir.”

Charles held back a laugh as he watched her leave. Max punched him in the gut, not hard, more playfully, but it still hurt. Charles bent over, holding his stomach simultaneously for the large belly laugh he was letting out and the pain.

“I can’t believe you believed me,”

“You little shit.”

taglist

@ananyasr1bughead @akkklys @meglouise00

[prentissluvr]

you'd dance with me? — sam winchester

for : 200+ followers event [ closed ] ➖⟢ pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : fluff, light angst ➖⟢ cw : reader gets sort of stood up, alcohol, reader is tipsy, swearing, (not) unrequited love, barely edited ➖⟢ wc : 1.4K prompt : telling them they deserve better (and silently wanting to be the one who gives it to them)

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

the man from the bar, james, isn’t your exact type. no one is except for sam, because you’re irrevocably in love with him. but since you can’t have him, and you’re dying to have a fun night without every second being consumed by thoughts of him, how much you love him, and how much you’re sure he doesn’t love you back, you turn to flirting with the nearest handsome single man.

and that means james. james has been nice enough and asked you to call him jamie, because “that’s what his friends call him.” dean gave you an impressed look as you walked past with “jamie” on your arm, and you winked at him, feeling playful and hopeful for a fun night after a tiring hunt. dean grinned back and sam barely gave any indication he noticed you before you settled at the bar and launched into a decently boring conversation with james about his corporate job and the fake life that you spin up for him.

that was over half an hour ago and it’s been at least twenty minutes since james excused himself to the bathroom with the promise that he’d be right back. you know he’s not coming back, but you stay rooted to your seat anyway.

it takes a few more minutes before sam appears, taking the previous man’s spot by your side.

“he left, didn’t he?” you ask, forlorn and not even bothering to look at sam as he settles next to you. sam cringes and nods. you sigh, not having to turn your head to see the movement through the corner of your eye as he confirms your suspicions. sam wonders if he should tell you that the asshole left with someone else. you deserve to know, but he’s hyperaware that it’ll only add to the sting. 

he takes in the look on your face and the empty shot glass that you fiddle with, and he immediately knows that you’re much more upset by this than you normally would be. of course, the situation is completely shitty, for anyone, but on any other day, you’d probably brush it off by looking for someone better or heading back to sit with him and dean for some fun with them (if dean’s still around by then). today, you’re alone and at least an extra shot or two in since the guy left, likely making you more tipsy than you intended to get tonight. more than that, the frown on your lips is easy to see and read, far different from the smile you normally give him when you’re pretending not to care. tonight you don't attempt hide it.

“you okay?” he finally asks. you sigh again and surprise him a bit by dropping your head on his shoulder. this kind of touch between the two of you isn’t abnormal, but these days it feels like you’re avoiding it a little, which sort of kills him. it takes you a moment to answer, but when you do, sam’s heart clenches.

“i just wanted to dance with someone tonight.” your voice is sad and candid from the removal of your filter by the alcohol in your system. for a moment, sam is blindingly angry with the asshole that stood you up, and he has to hold back a vehement curse before recentering his focus on you and the sad pull between your eyebrows. he just clenches his jaw and lets you say what you need to before he lets any of the million things he wants to tell you fall from his lips. “he said he’d dance with me when he got back… then he didn’t come back. d’you think it’s stupid i wanted to dance? think that’s why he left?” 

now sam’s heart is plain-old breaking for you. he wants to ring the neck of the stupid man that made you question yourself like this, made your voice sound so dejected. then he wants to sweep you up in his arms and hold you close and kiss your forehead and tell you that it’s the sweetest, most endearing thing in the world that you want to dance. tell you that he’ll dance with you every night despite the fact that he can’t do much more than hold you and sway with you. tell you that he’s completely and enduringly in love with you. he discovered that recently, though he figures it’s been true for a long while now.

he has to settle for something a little more tame because you’re upset over another guy, because you're a little tipsy, and because he can’t lose your friendships if those words don’t come across well.

sam puts his arm around your shoulders and you sink further into him. “if that’s why he left, he’s an idiot. anyone in their right mind would trip over their own feet to dance with you. no one in their right mind would leave you– someone like you, sitting here alone,” he says your name so soft and loving that he thinks he’s given himself away until he remembers you’re not picking up on everything right now, “he didn’t deserve you. you deserve a whole lot better than that ass.” i’d be so good to you, he thinks.

“yeah,” you agree, still sounding a little despondent.

“if you– if you still wanna dance, you’ve got a willing partner,” sam forges ahead, anything to make you smile.

“mm, where? james probably left with someone else, for all i know.” he doesn’t like that man’s name on your lips, and maybe you’re a little more drunk than he thought, because you’re not getting the hint as quickly as you normally would. if you were sober and trying not to act upset, you’d say that all with a playful tone to your voice to tease him for offering. right now, you just sound sort of unbelieving.

“you know,” sam responds, keeping his voice just as serious as yours instead of matching that tease like he normally would.

this time you let a bit of humor slip into your voice, but it’s still sort of pessimistic, “what? are you gonna drag dean away from whatever girl he’s found just to cheer up my sorry ass?” sam has to laugh a little at that thought, because it’s a silly image and almost funny how you refuse to see him as an option.

“your ass isn’t sorry,” sam smiles all soft when that pulls a half-hearted snort from you. his voice is still gentle as he finally says, “i’m right here, you know.”

when you tilt your head up to look at his face, and finally, finally, he gets your eyes on his, he almost melts to the floor. you’re looking at him, sweet and soft with your eyebrows pinched together like you’re not sure if he meant it. then there’s that little hint of hope and joy swimming around in the pretty pools of your eyes and it sets his heart afire, just like that. you’ve done just about nothing special, but to him you’ve done everything.

“you’d wanna dance with me?” you say it like you can’t believe it, like that’s exactly what you’d really been hoping for all night and it takes everything in sam’s power not to swoop down and kiss you right then and there. he’d wanna do a whole lot more than dance with you, but it’s a wonderful, glorious, honey-sweet way to start, he thinks.

“of course,” he grins at you, and that’s all it takes to pull a big smile over your features too. that’s just about everything sam could ever ask for, and it brings a flood of relief over him. he just can’t help himself when he asks, “that is, if you’d want to dance with me? i’m sure i’m not your ideal dancing partner for the night, but hopefully i’ll do.”

“of course i want to dance with you, sam,” you say, so blatantly honest that it makes his heart hurt, “and that’s not true.” you won’t explain what you mean by that, so sam stands with you and gladly lets you use him for balance. it’s not true that he’s not your ideal dancing partner? is that what you meant? he certainly hopes so, because that must mean, by default, he is your ideal dancing partner, and you wanted to dance with him tonight, not this awful james.

maybe you love him back a little, he hopes, as your wrap your arms around his middle and let him sway you back and forth, all gentle and smiling.

[sammyluvr]

you’d dance with me? — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, fluff, light angst, reader gets sort of stood up, alcohol, reader is tipsy, swearing, (not) unrequited love, barely edited, 1.4K words. requested ! for my 200+ followers event [ closed ]

prompt : telling them they deserve better (and silently wanting to be the one who gives it to them)

the man from the bar, james, isn’t your exact type. no one is except for sam, because you’re irrevocably in love with him. but since you can’t have him, and you’re dying to have a fun night without every second being consumed by thoughts of him, how much you love him, and how much you’re sure he doesn’t love you back, you turn to flirting with the nearest handsome single man.

and that means james. james has been nice enough and asked you to call him jamie, because “that’s what his friends call him.” dean gave you an impressed look as you walked past with “jamie” on your arm, and you winked at him, feeling playful and hopeful for a fun night after a tiring hunt. dean grinned back and sam barely gave any indication he noticed you before you settled at the bar and launched into a decently boring conversation with james about his corporate job and the fake life that you spin up for him.

that was over half an hour ago and it’s been at least twenty minutes since james excused himself to the bathroom with the promise that he’d be right back. you know he’s not coming back, but you stay rooted to your seat anyway.

it takes a few more minutes before sam appears, taking the previous man’s spot by your side.

“he left, didn’t he?” you ask, forlorn and not even bothering to look at sam as he settles next to you. sam cringes and nods. you sigh, not having to turn your head to see the movement through the corner of your eye as he confirms your suspicions. sam wonders if he should tell you that the asshole left with someone else. you deserve to know, but he’s hyperaware that it’ll only add to the sting. 

he takes in the look on your face and the empty shot glass that you fiddle with, and he immediately knows that you’re much more upset by this than you normally would be. of course, the situation is completely shitty, for anyone, but on any other day, you’d probably brush it off by looking for someone better or heading back to sit with him and dean for some fun with them (if dean’s still around by then). today, you’re alone and at least an extra shot or two in since the guy left, likely making you more tipsy than you intended to get tonight. more than that, the frown on your lips is easy to see and read, far different from the smile you normally give him when you’re pretending not to care. tonight you don’t attempt hide it.

“you okay?” he finally asks. you sigh again and surprise him a bit by dropping your head on his shoulder. this kind of touch between the two of you isn’t abnormal, but these days it feels like you’re avoiding it a little, which sort of kills him. it takes you a moment to answer, but when you do, sam’s heart clenches.

“i just wanted to dance with someone tonight.” your voice is sad and candid from the removal of your filter by the alcohol in your system. for a moment, sam is blindingly angry with the asshole that stood you up, and he has to hold back a vehement curse before recentering his focus on you and the sad pull between your eyebrows. he just clenches his jaw and lets you say what you need to before he lets any of the million things he wants to tell you fall from his lips. “he said he’d dance with me when he got back… then he didn’t come back. d’you think it’s stupid i wanted to dance? think that’s why he left?” 

now sam’s heart is plain-old breaking for you. he wants to ring the neck of the stupid man that made you question yourself like this, made your voice sound so dejected. then he wants to sweep you up in his arms and hold you close and kiss your forehead and tell you that it’s the sweetest, most endearing thing in the world that you want to dance. tell you that he’ll dance with you every night despite the fact that he can’t do much more than hold you and sway with you. tell you that he’s completely and enduringly in love with you. he discovered that recently, though he figures it’s been true for a long while now.

he has to settle for something a little more tame because you’re upset over another guy, because you’re a little tipsy, and because he can’t lose your friendships if those words don’t come across well.

sam puts his arm around your shoulders and you sink further into him. “if that’s why he left, he’s an idiot. anyone in their right mind would trip over their own feet to dance with you. no one in their right mind would leave you– someone like you, sitting here alone,” he says your name so soft and loving that he thinks he’s given himself away until he remembers you’re not picking up on everything right now, “he didn’t deserve you. you deserve a whole lot better than that ass.” i’d be so good to you, he thinks.

“yeah,” you agree, still sounding a little despondent.

“if you– if you still wanna dance, you’ve got a willing partner,” sam forges ahead, anything to make you smile.

“mm, where? james probably left with someone else, for all i know.” he doesn’t like that man’s name on your lips, and maybe you’re a little more drunk than he thought, because you’re not getting the hint as quickly as you normally would. if you were sober and trying not to act upset, you’d say that all with a playful tone to your voice to tease him for offering. right now, you just sound sort of unbelieving.

“you know,” sam responds, keeping his voice just as serious as yours instead of matching that tease like he normally would.

this time you let a bit of humor slip into your voice, but it’s still sort of pessimistic, “what? are you gonna drag dean away from whatever girl he’s found just to cheer up my sorry ass?” sam has to laugh a little at that thought, because it’s a silly image and almost funny how you refuse to see him as an option.

“your ass isn’t sorry,” sam smiles all soft when that pulls a half-hearted snort from you. his voice is still gentle as he finally says, “i’m right here, you know.”

when you tilt your head up to look at his face, and finally, finally, he gets your eyes on his, he almost melts to the floor. you’re looking at him, sweet and soft with your eyebrows pinched together like you’re not sure if he meant it. then there’s that little hint of hope and joy swimming around in the pretty pools of your eyes and it sets his heart afire, just like that. you’ve done just about nothing special, but to him you’ve done everything.

“you’d wanna dance with me?” you say it like you can’t believe it, like that’s exactly what you’d really been hoping for all night and it takes everything in sam’s power not to swoop down and kiss you right then and there. he’d wanna do a whole lot more than dance with you, but it’s a wonderful, glorious, honey-sweet way to start, he thinks.

“of course,” he grins at you, and that’s all it takes to pull a big smile over your features too. that’s just about everything sam could ever ask for, and it brings a flood of relief over him. he just can’t help himself when he asks, “that is, if you’d want to dance with me? i’m sure i’m not your ideal dancing partner for the night, but hopefully i’ll do.”

“of course i want to dance with you, sam,” you say, so blatantly honest that it makes his heart hurt, “and that’s not true.” you won’t explain what you mean by that, so sam stands with you and gladly lets you use him for balance. it’s not true that he’s not your ideal dancing partner? is that what you meant? he certainly hopes so, because that must mean, by default, he is your ideal dancing partner, and you wanted to dance with him tonight, not this awful james.

maybe you love him back a little, he hopes, as your wrap your arms around his middle and let him sway you back and forth, all gentle and smiling.

[rowretro]

𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖘𝖘'𝖘 𝕻𝖗𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖈𝖙𝖔𝖗

✧warnings: yandere/toxic themes, stalker won, violence and Gory scenes. 

♡synopsis: Yang Jungwon, the campus crush, tall, handsome, and seemingly innocent to many. Hence no one knew how dangerous he truly was. However you knew, and you couldn’t tell a single soul. The man you assumed to be a sweet social butterfly with dimples like wells you’d find yourself falling through, was dangerously obsessed with you.

✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧

She didn’t hear the commotion at first, as her earphones were on a high volume, but when she saw the crowd of students looking so traumatized, horrified, some even running to the restroom to throw up, Y/n knew something was up. She arrived just as the teachers did, police officers were yet to come and investigate the bloody mess left behind in the science class. Was there perhaps a new serial killer in their neighborhood?!

The victim had multiple slits on his neck, the blade resting in his cold, dead hand. His eyeballs were also stabbed into. She backed away, not wanting to see it anymore. That boy was none other than Xiaojun, one of the seniors who had been hitting on her for a while now. Y/n gripped onto her chest wondering what could’ve happened, a little sense of guilt left behind as she remembered her last words to was to tell him to fuck off. 

Jungwon smirked to himself when no one saw. He was the only one who knew. His father had connections to many gangs, he’s off the hook. He knew what happened. He’s the one who had a strong grip on Xiaojun’s wrists, making him stab his eyeballs for staring at what’s his. He’s the one who forced the dying man to draw bloody lines on his neck, making sure he was out of the picture. Y/n didn’t feel anything for Xiaojun anyway, he was annoying, none of the girls liked him as he was practically a playboy. So not many people really cared too much for him.

Eventually the police took over, taping the scene, securing any evidence and questioning the students. Jungwon was used to these by now Handling them like a pro, the police didn’t suspect him one bit. “Y/n? You ok?... you seem a little upset-” Jungwon asked as he gently caressed the girl’s back. “Oh it’s nothing, just… do you think he’d come back and haunt me???” she asked as Jungwon frowned “Just because you rejected him? I’m sure his ghost won’t even make it on earth- stop overthinking-” he said as the girl sighed.

That night Y/n walked to the cafe, despite it being pretty late at night. Jungwon wasn’t too far behind. His figure and shadow hidden in the darkness. She made his job a lot easier, the way you didn’t turn back once, ignoring the fact that you may be followed. Y/n entered the cafe Jungwon, watched from afar, making sure no one was there to steal her from him. To his luck, she was alone. Heck she even walked out alone, into that dark, alleyway that hand no cameras purely because it was a very easy shortcut to her home.

3 years of stalking his princess and he finally got the chance to take her home, driving his Koenigsegg in the middle, blocking her path. The girl frowned, then saw Jungwon. “I’m taking you home.” he simply said. As y/n just frowned. Why would he offer a ride to her? It’s not like they knew each other well, and she was closer to her home anyway. “No need, I’m only 3 minutes away from my house” she reassured as Jungwon laughed. “Oh sweetheart… I meant OUR home.” he said with a smirk, forcefully yanking her in before pushing a cloth drenched in a drowsy med to her face.

Everything seemed like a blur to her. Y/n woke up in a rather unfamiliar room. Her back met with the comfort of the plush, white silk sheets, and soft mattress, a blindingly beautiful chandelier in the center of the room. She couldn’t move. Her hands cuffed to the headboard. Her uniform was replaced with much more comfortable pajamas, the kind she could never afford. “You’re up darling?” a voice called. The girl stared in shock. It was indeed Jungwon. Yang Jungwon, the sweet, innocent, handsome man, now standing before her, dressed in his gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt.

“Jungwon?... why what? Why?!!!” she managed to ask, though it wasn’t exactly the question she wanted to asked. “Calm down, calm down. Yes yes, I was the one who murderred all those whores, Yes I’ve been keeping a close eye on you and protecting you from all harm, but it seems impossible to keep you safe out there… so I can keep you here, in my palance my princess.” He said with a smile as she just stared in utter shock. However she knew better than to mess with him. This is a new side to him, a dangerous side that no one would ever expect. Y/n had to play it safe with this man, she doesn’t want to end up being his next victim. 

✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧♡✧

[malikat24601]

Errrbody out there with their cool title art and brilliant ideas for the BB... and then there's me <insert hehehe raccoon gif here> Presenting Team 043 with @ghostdeb bringing you: Glory Days A Steddie Alpha/Baseball/Omega fic for the Steddie Big Bang 24! Excerpt: The sun was high in the sky, blindingly bright, and Eddie shielded his eyes as he wandered through the stands, looking for his seat. Nancy’s expectations of him rang loud and clear in the excellent spot she had reserved for him, field level near the dugout, overlooking home plate. Money wasted, he thought saltily to himself, since he wouldn’t be able to see anything past the fucking glare. 

There was a gift bag waiting for him, a welcome package from the team — a bottle of water, a box of honest-to-god Cracker Jack, a little baseball bat keychain with Harrington’s jersey number on it, and a cap with the team logo embroidered across the center in bright reds and golds — the Indiana Mindflayers. Eddie pouted to himself, hemmed and hawed until finally, with a loud groan, he pulled the cap on over his frizzy curls and… damn. Even he had to admit that it brought instant relief to his eyes, shading them and bringing the field into perfect clarity. He sniffed, the smell of the turf bright and green in his nose. I’ll have to start doubling up on the Claritin, he thought, determined not to enjoy it one bit. 

Eddie pulled out his notepad and shuffled through his notes. Steve Harrington was the second baseman; smart, fast, with good reflexes and running speed. By all accounts, he was the favorite to break the base-stealing record last set in 1982, garnering respect for the up-and-coming new team. He was a powerful hitter, an even better baseman, a fan favorite, and, as far as Eddie could tell, a squeaky-clean, all-American golden boy. 

And while Eddie had done the requisite reading on the sport, more of his time had been spent delving into the lore that had built up around the man. The only son of a notorious business mogul, Steve Harrington had led a charmed life. Trust fund baby, sports phenom, the pinnacle of what a good son and alpha should be — right up until he had defied expectations and joined an unknown, fledgling team and been cut off by his family. 

Lucky for him, Steve was handsome, charming, and known almost as well for his prowess off the field as he was on it. He was never seen with the same woman more than twice, never tied down, never mated. Rumors swirled that he had almost been married once, but had his heart broken by some mysterious figure, the identity of whom he protected at all costs. Other than that, it would appear that all there was to know about Steve Harrington was how he played that day and who the new celebrity on his arm was that week. How boring, Eddie couldn’t think of anything worse.

Still, he was a reporter, and there was a lot of buzz around the guy. If there was a story there, he would find it, and then he would go back to Indy and beg on hands and knees for his old job back.

Eddie sat through the first half of the inning before the Mindflayers were up to bat. He waited with as much enthusiasm as he could muster to get his eyes on the man himself. Finally, the familiar sound of Andre 3000 started up, Harrington’s song of choice to play him in, as he jogged out onto the batting mound. 

Don’t want to meet your daddy, just want you in my caddy Don’t want to meet your momma, just want to make you come-a

Eddie rolled his eyes. A little on the nose, he thought, we get it, you’re a playboy who knots ‘em and walks ‘em. And I heard you were actually smooth…

Steve Harrington came up to bat with the bases loaded. It wouldn’t have been hard for anyone to look impressive after the lackluster performance of Tommy Hagan before him, but Steve sauntered out to home plate swinging his bat with the kind of easy confidence that made you just know he was about to do something special. His very first swing connected with the ball with a satisfying crack, sending it sailing deep into the stands.

Steve tossed his bat and ran, a home run. The crowd roared, jumping to their feet; the energy was infectious, and look, Eddie had eyes, he wasn’t immune to those tight little pants, or the sight of dirt on his knees as Steve pulled himself up with a bright, crooked grin and a little wave. The man was hot, he could admit it.

A faint scent of something wafted up from the field, spicy sweet and undeniable, calling to him so strongly that Eddie felt lightheaded. But almost as soon as he had locked onto it, it was gone; the wind changed and with it came the smell of incoming rain. He sank back in his seat, a little worse for wear, looking dubiously up at the sky and the gray clouds rolling in. A shiver ran through him and Eddie was forced to buy a hoodie to go with his new cap as light sprinkles fell over the stadium. He charged that shit on the company card.

The game played on, dauntless of the rain, and Eddie was cold, wet, way too sober, and bored. He tried to get into it, but catching the Cracker Jack he was tossing into the air with his mouth was just so much more interesting. 

After an eternity, finally they were in the last inning, and just as he was silently thanking the gods of sportsball that he’d soon be released from his purgatory, a palpable energy began to grow all around him. People were sitting up, watching a little closer. Eddie sat up, too, unceremoniously dropping the Cracker Jack to the ground.

The field was still wet from the earlier rain, grass glistening under the lights that had come up as the sun went down. It was the bottom of the 9th, the Mindflayers were down by one, and Steve was up to bat again. 

The first pitch was thrown wildly out of the strike zone, a ball. Steve let slip a flash of annoyance, which made Eddie smile to himself. Careful, big boy, that halo is slipping. On his second swing, he hit a double and made it to second base.

Then, before the next batter for the Mindflayers could take his place, the opposing team made a switch, bringing Jason Carver onto the field, their notoriously lethal left-handed pitcher. Steve seemed keenly interested in the goings on, so much so that Eddie found himself watching him more so than the player at bat. 

“Only one out left,” muttered the man sitting behind Eddie, so he wrote it down in his notepad. He could look up the exact rules of the game again later, after he had dried off, warmed up, and eaten something other than stale, too-sweet popcorn.

Lucas Sinclair stepped up to the plate, and while he and Carver sized each other up, Steve took the opportunity to run, racing to steal third base. The crowd cheered and Carver cursed, shouting something and… did Steve wink at him? Carver cursed again, but it didn’t matter, Steve was already safe. Sinclair was laughing; if he could get a good play, Steve would have a chance to run for home, tying the game. Carver spit and turned back to the plate, winding up. 

Sinclair was ready, but Carver’s signature fastball got past him. Eddie’s eyes were still on Harrington, who looked tense and twitchy as he and Sinclair made eye contact across the diamond. Carver smirked; another deadly pitch, another strike. Behind Carver’s shoulder, Steve had crouched low, watching things play out intently. The final swing connected, ball sent flying deep into the outfield and Steve ran. The crowd was on their feet, screaming as Steve slid home, his hat coming off and hair flying. He’d tied the game, standing up with a grin, clay caked down the front of his uniform as he shouted at Sinclair to run. The opposing team’s outfield threw the ball, but it went wide, missing their baseman. Sinclair kept running, past third, and when he touched home, he leapt onto Steve, the two of them laughing and shouting, because they’d done it. The Mindflayers had won by a single point in the final inning of the game.

Eddie found himself standing, too, his hands in the air and his jaw on the floor. He was absolutely helpless to the energy of the crowd. The team poured out onto the field, hoisting Steve and Lucas up onto their shoulders, and Steve threw his head back and laughed. Eddie laughed with him, couldn’t help it, overwhelmed by the magic of the moment. Somewhere on the breeze, he caught the smallest taste of that scent again, hot baked bread and spices, warmth and comfort, and then it was gone. When he looked back out to the field, Steve had disappeared into the dugout. That was Eddie’s cue to make his way down.

He wedged himself into the throng of reporters at the press conference, all trying to get the attention of Steve Harrington, who was clearly preoccupied with teasing his coach, renowned humorless hardass Jim Hopper, while managing to answer a slew of questions seemingly on autopilot without looking up once. “It’s all about teamwork, no one player wins the game,” rolled off his tongue, and then, “everything I learned, I learned from this man here,” as Hopper snorted gruffly. Eddie pushed through to the front and raised his voice. 

“That was a pretty neat trick you pulled there, but couldn’t you have done it sooner in the game so we could have had a bit more action in the middle bit? Or do they just trot you out at the very end to make it seem more interesting?”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the small space, save for a few awkward coughs as Harrington turned to stare directly at Eddie, his dark eyes narrowing. 

“Never seen this scrawny little guy before,” he quipped, leaning back lazily as though Eddie had bored him. “And who are you?” 

“Eddie Munson, with The P—”

“The Pace. I know you. You’re Wheeler’s new boy. Of course you are.” Steve said it like it left a bad taste in his mouth and Eddie gritted his teeth.

“If you could just answer the ques—”

“The reason, Mr. Munson,” Steve interrupted him again, “is that there’s more to the game than just hitting balls and running. Stealing bases requires thought, and it requires the right set of circumstances to pull it off. As soon as I realized they were bringing Carver out onto the field, I knew that I’d have a chance to take third, because as a left-handed pitcher, he’d have his back to me. It’s called game strategy. You may think I’m just a dumb jock, but I do actually have a brain. Next question.”

Eddie was dismissed, clearly. He frowned, staring down at his notepad. Strategy? You didn’t get to be the scariest dungeon master in Indy without knowing game strategy. Eddie twitched with annoyance.

He sulked through the rest of the questions, saying nothing, before making his way down to the locker rooms with the select few VIP reporters allowed in for the meet-n-greet. Eddie milled about, feeling every bit as uncomfortable as he had in high school gym, sweaty ball players shoving past him with towels thrown over their shoulders. Someone knocked into him from behind, and Eddie jumped aside, immediately apologizing.

It was Harrington, of course it was. Up close, Eddie could see that his brown eyes were more a warm hazel flecked with gold, downturned and sleepy-looking, but beautifully expressive. His lips were bowed and pink, far lovelier than a testosterone-ridden alpha male should possess, and cheeks kissed with tiny moles. He froze in place, apology dropping off, entirely unprepared for the reality of Steve. 

The man smirked at him, clearly amused. Steve reached forward and pinched the fabric of Eddie’s Mindflayers hoodie, rubbing it between his fingers. Then he ran his thumb along the bill of Eddie’s cap, almost teasingly. “Love the ‘fit,” he purred, in a wry, gravelly voice, and Eddie shivered. 

Steve was standing so close, sneering down at the gaping idiot that Eddie had become, and for a second he thought he caught that scent again, rising dough, nutmeg. His attention snapped elsewhere as he subconsciously lifted his nose to the air and sniffed. An omega was near, their scent curious and seeking, interested, sending a pulse of want all through him. Steve’s eyes shuttered off, and he looked uncomfortable, taking a step back and rubbing at his neck. Then, with an awkward smile that held none of the fire it possessed earlier, Steve whispered, “see ya around, Munson,” as he turned tail towards the showers, leaving Eddie staring after him. 

[howlingday]

Here's a fun prompt!

Every time Pyrrha apologizes for something Jaune inexplicably gets kissed!

Pyrrha almost trips a mom dropping her kid off at school? Cross guard Jaune catches her and gets a smooch to the top of his head.

Pyrrha sorry for bumping into new transfers? A wet smack is heard, as one of the foreign girls gives Jaune a friendly kiss in greeting.

Pyrrha apologizing to Ren for forgetting to bring his sunscreen to the pool? Jaune almost drowns but wakes up to a smoking hot lifeguard lady giving him CPR!

How long until Pyrrha finally explodes (if at all)?

Pyrrha was... not okay. If she were okay, she was on the border between okay and not okay. If she were okay, she would be at her limit before reaching not okay. But that's not the case. She was not okay.

She was not okay.

Pyrrha must have been a mass-murdering racist who delighted in the screams of children in the past life, because it was the only logical explanation for this cursed life of hers.

She was beyond a mere school girl crush on her partner, leader, and best friend, Jaune Arc. What wasn't there to love anout him? He was tall, handsome, kind, sweet, and honest. All good qualities in a man. Unfortunately, he was also clumsy, which is where her curse begins.

Of course, Pyrrha wasn't perfect either. Aside from warped sense of self-worth after years of training in Argus to become an international sports star, Pyrrha was what her manager, her agent, her mother, her friends, and the janitor called "too nice." Jaune never believed such a thing, but even Pyrrha had to admit that she apologized a lot. And again, her curse begins there.

Maybe the curse did originate from a criminal past life. Someone who refused to apologize for their actions, so now her current life is forced to apologize at every slight thought made. And the curse caught Jaune in it's intangible web.

This morning, Pyrrha woke up and used the bathroom first. A quick, cold shower, but she used the last of the shared shampoo and she forgot to replace it with the bottle under the sink. Nora was next in and she was lividly screeching from inside the shower.

"I'm sorry!" Pyrrha cried.

"Don't worry, I got it." Jaune smiled as he walked in with his footie pajamas. Shut up. He looked cute in them. "Here you GOOO-!"

SMACK-POP!

"Oooh~! Leader~! Such a dirty boy, kissing girls while they're naked~. Why don't I scrub that dirt off~?"

"NO THANK YOU!" Jaune ran out, half-soaked from his shower encounter.

Pyrrha was grateful it didn't go further. The hairbrush in her hand was starting crack from the bending. She still had the rest of the day before apologizing to her mother for breaking another hairbrush.

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

At breakfast, it was the usually chaos. Ren was chattered at by Nora, while Weiss scolded Ruby for this or that. Yang told another terrible pun while Blake read her book. The non-smutty one.

Pyrrha reached for the butter for her toast when her hand briefly touched Jaune's hand. They were freshly calloused hands, a product of his late nights training with her. His thin frame noticably bulked from the exercises, and she was glad to see the physical progress. His hand was warm, and kind, and nurturing, and-

"Pyrrha?"

"S-Sorry!" She stumbled out of her daydream.

Her leg struck the underside of the table, causing a cup to leap and spill over. A cascade of orange juice spread far. Pyrrha reached over with napkins in hand, dropping fabric after soaking fabric for damage control. And each paper was dropped, Pyrrha unleashed a torrent of the accursed word.

"Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!"

"I'll go grab more napkins!" Jaune exclaimed as he ran from table to table. Pyrrha blindingly continued to pull and place napkins as he left.

"Oh, wow." Pyrrha looked up from her task to find a second-year girl kissing Jaune.

"Nice~." And then a third year.

"Seriously?" Even Velvet gave a peck to Jaune's lips in exchange for a napkin box.

"I'm, uh, I'm back." Jaune said, blushing.

"You sure~?" Yang teased. "Maybe we need some more napkins?"

"NO!" Pyrrha slammed the table, spilling more juice. "S-Sorry."

"I'll give you my napkins if you give me a smooch. Whattaya say~?"

"U-Um..."

Pyrrha internally screamed.

[mystverse]

RACERS | ENHYPEN - Sunghoon & Jay

I'm sorry that it took a lot of time to get to it, and it turned very self-indulgent ( T∀T)

Sunghoon picked up racing when he wanted to be adventurous. He liked exploring new things with you, and it was one time he tried it when you were out with him. It was a typical Tuesday outing with you, and one of his friends invited both of you to drop by to watch a race held by his brother. It's started out as casual fun. In a week or so, he was already taken by it. Attending race after race, participating in a few, when you started tagging along, it became frequent.

He loved the harmless bets you both made, showering each other in gifts. This time, it was different. He had not mentioned what he wanted this time, and you didn't ask because you'd give the world to him if he asked. He's your best friend, your ride or die. You knew he never would ask the impossible even if he is known for his silent mischief.

As expected of him, he won. And the way he smiled after he stooped after the line of victory made your heart race. He's blindingly handsome as the lights shine behind him while he walks, running his fingers through the blond hair. It's cinematic, the way he approaches you."So, what do you want?" Your voice is soft when you take the helmet from him. He leans down to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. "This," he whispers against your lips, "I want us."

Jay is more of a sophisticated man, or so you thought. He wasn't going to race just because you, his girlfriend, are a racer. He knew that you loved the tracks and your bikes. He was all in for supporting you and coming to your races. Standing in the sidelines and cheering for you is what he did until the revelation.

It was one fine day it had happened. All because some guy had the nerve to be ridiculing you for dating a "softie" instead of a racer who is tough and protective. You had landed a punch straight on his nose, hard enough to bleed. You neither knew Jay had heard that nor bothered to tell him because it's insignificant anyway. At the end of the day, you loved him for who he was.

After a week or so, you see a bike in front of your shared house, and your first thought was which of your friends had bought a new bike. Jay had been away on business, and a few of your friends had been dropping by to keep you company because let's face it, you were whipped for your man and missed him every second of the day. You trudge to your door when the doorbell rings, and you are shocked to find Jay with the helmet of "JY" in his hand. Everyone knew "JY" because that mystery guy had been tormenting a lot of racers by winning each race he participated in. To see Jay holding JY's helmet with a grin is surprising. What is more surprising is that the way he is dressed.

"Hey baby," he presses his lips against yours in a sweet kiss. "Ready for the race?" You are still not over the newfound information. It's takes a few minutes for you to gather your thoughts and speak, "You are JY?" Jay laughs softly, "Took you long enough to find?" You blink in confusion, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Wanted to surprise you." He kisses your chin, "Shall we go? I have to fuck you against my bike after I win." Your throat dries up and he keeps his word. He fucks you good on his bike after the match. The tradition goes on. He wins whenever you are there and he knows he fucks you dumb on his cock after.

: MYST

[recitedemise]

I think about how much more remarkably unsure Gale is of himself outside the context of magic. He says such concerning things sometimes, undersells himself, and, at times, sounds just this way of thoroughly convinced that he's entirely undeserving. He thinks it's better if he dies. He thinks he's wronged quite enough. But when you get him to cast spells, to pull the Weave, to dance it both with sure hands and a confident tongue... and wow. He just changes. He suddenly becomes this unflagging spirit, a man so bright and so bold and so blindingly devastating. He can call fury from the skies, will sow death onto fields, and can orchestrate a ruin of either ice or fire, earth or thunder, or something else entirely. His eyes light up, and a smile — disarming, alarming, handsome, certain — finds him almost wickedly. He smells like ozone. He tastes like reckoning. He has lightning up his veins and gales swept gentle in his hair, and everything about his insecurities gives way to a nigh on soul shuddering display of force.

Then after that, he's cooking dinner and talking about the Thesis on Conditonal Ruptures that absolutely no one asked about.

[promptthebear]

Dude no way! I dint realise you wrote for slashers! Could I please request Bo Sinclair with 🐰“If I have to tell you again, I won’t be this nice.” Thanks!

Hello!

Sorry this took so long, but congratulations on being my first Bo request! I probably could've done something smutty with this prompt for sure, but did more of like an enemies to lover type vibe? Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

Easter Askbox Event- Bo Sinclair x Reader

CW: ****Toxic relationship dynamic!!!!**** It's Bo so obviously it's going to be unhealthy as shit. Swearing. Misogynistic name calling, but reader is into it. Reader is manhandled by Bo. Dom/Sub dynamic. Use of the word sir. Spicy but not explicit. F!reader, referred to in 2nd person as "you" Again, what it says on the tin, this is darker compared to my usual stuff you've been warned.

Bo was lying underneath his truck when you showed up. He heard you before he saw you, the sound of your flip flops echoing through the empty streets. He grit his teeth as the sound got closer, knowing that whatever you wanted now, it was most certainly going to be a pain in his ass. He’d made it very clear since your arrival that he wanted nothing more than for you to fuck off and leave him alone, but somehow you still weren’t getting the message.

A flash of pink in Bo’s peripheral, your diy pedicure, told him he was no longer alone. He ignored you anyway, carrying on with his repairs as though your presence didn’t make a lick of difference in his eyes. Hopefully, you’d realize he wasn’t in he mood and go bother Lester or Vincent.

“Bo? I know you can hear me.”

No such luck.

“So? Doesn’t mean I have anything I wanna say to you.”

His voice was slightly muffled coming out from under the car, but you could hear the annoyance dripping from every syllable. Huffing softly, you reached out and nudged Bo’s knee with your toe. When no response came, you did it again, a little harder this time.

“Bo?”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

Slowly, Bo began to work his way out from beneath the truck, grumbling and grunting like a bear being pulled from its cave. You took a step back, in part to give him some room and also to give yourself a chance to admire the view. Even in cut offs, busted up sneakers and a filthy tank top, Bo wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes. His toned arms and knife sharp jaw more than made up for his lack of fashion sense. If it wasn’t for his constant scowl, he might have been the most handsome man you’d ever seen.

“If I ever forget my name, I’ll know who to ask” he glared at you from beneath the brim of his ball cap “Someone better be fuckin’ dying.”

You tilted your chin up and squared your shoulders back slightly, before matching his glare with one of your own.

“You said you were gonna drive me into town today.”

Bo let out a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his feet, muttered something you couldn’t make out, and leaned down to grab a grey rag from his toolbox. He began wiping the grease off his hands, and you watched the way the veins in his arms flexed with interest.

“I said if the truck was working, I’d take ya. But it ain’t, so that means you can either go ask Lester to drive you or start walking.”

“Lester’s out on a job” you shot back “And it’s too hot to walk.”

Bo shook his head and grinned, his teeth somehow blindingly white in spite of how much he smoked. You knew well enough by now, though, that for Bo, smiling meant the same thing as a dog bearing its teeth. This was a warning, one he’d be sure to make good on if you kept pushing.

“Tough shit for you then, darlin’”

You bristled visibly, which only made Bo smile even wider. He was toying with you now, and as always, you’d played right into his hands.

Gotcha.

“I told you, do not call me that.”

For a moment, Bo was too distracted by a drop of sweat that trickled down from your hairline to your jaw to answer. He watched as the droplet made its way down the curve of your neck and over your collar bones before disappearing between your breasts. You were dressed in a halter top and shorts that barely covered your ass. Looking at you made Bo feel all hopped up and crazy, like he was a horny teenager again. He wanted nothing more than to slam you into the nearest wall and fuck the sass out of you.

“I’m sorry darlin” he drawled, taking extra care to emphasize the pet name “Snapping your fingers may have gotten that little JV boyfriend of yours to jump to attention, but it’s gonna take whole lot more than the promise of a two minute fuck to get me to pay you any mind.”

“Please, you wouldn’t even last that long.”

Bo’s expression changed so fast, it scared you a little. You’d seen him fly off the handle a million times, throwing shit and screaming abuse at Vincent, but this was different. Something about the way his jaw tightened and the way his eyes flashed told you what you’d tapped into was deeper, darker. This was a whole new side to Bo, and you wanted to see exactly how far down the rabbit hole you could go.

“The fuck did you just say to me?”

His voice was a low and eerily calm, the growl of a predator who’d cornered its prey.

“You heard me.”

Silently, Bo lunged at you. You tried to sidestep him, but he was too quick. He caught you round he waist first, and pulled your body to his so quickly you banged your head off his sternum. While you were still blinking away stars, he grabbed a fistful of your hair, and yanked back, hard. Your eyes stung with delicious tears, and the smell of smoke and spiked sweet tea on his breath made you dizzy.

“I think I need to bend you over the hood of my truck and show you just how wrong you are. Of course, then anyone walking by could see how we deal with mouthy little sluts around here. Would you like that?”

You let out a sound that was between a whimper and a moan. It seemed to excite Bo even further, and he licked his lips before he spoke.

“Use your words, honey.”

You took a shaky breath, your body trembling with fear and arousal.

“N-no.”

A faint smirk played around Bo’s mouth. His grip on your hair tightened, and he brought the hand around your waist up to grab your jaw. You’d been trying to turn your face away, to get what little distance from him you could and now you were trapped. He was making you look at him, his blue eyes almost black.

“No…what?”

You stared at him, pupils blown wide, wondering what the hell he wanted. Then it dawned on you.

“No…sir.”

A deep, rich chuckle rumbled in Bo’s chest. He ran a thumb over your lips, the gesture weirdly soothing considering how tightly he was holding onto you. Then, without warning, he pushed you away. You stumbled and fell backwards onto the ground, your palms stinging where the gravel bit into them.

“Go on now, git.”

You stared up at him, your bottom lip trembling as the tears in your eyes finally began to spill down your cheeks. Humiliation and desire swirled in your gut. You felt hot, bothered and bruised, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to deck Bo in the face or kiss him.

“What the fuck are you waiting for? I told you to git. If I have to tell you again, I won’t be this nice.”

You scrambled to your feet, barely missing the spray of gravel Bo kicked your way. Still crying, you started to run back up the road. You could feel Bo’s eyes burning into your back, but you refused to turn around. You knew if you did, you’d go right back there and let him play out every twisted fantasy he had with you. But there was no way in hell you wanted him to think he’d won.

For now, you’d have to go back to your room, lick your wounds and satisfy yourself with your hand. Come tomorrow, you’d see if Bo was ready to make good on his threat.

[beckiboos]

Lucien- You know Skyhaven may be a bit worse for wear but the gardens are still quite pretty arn't they?

Calliope- Yeah, it's nice place to have a sit down for a minute before trekking all over Skyrim again

Lucien- So what's the plan then? Looks like we can take a little time before getting to the greybeards, any detours along the way?

Calliope- Hmm... I suppose I want to go back to my house. Get it set up properly and explore Solitude a bit? Never did get to tour the palace

Lucien- I see... I thought maybe you would want to go to Riften and see a certain thief you might be pining for?

Calliope- Brynjolf? Gods no... he's the kind you have one amazing night with not the kind you pine over. Trust me I'm an expert

Lucien- An expert at pining? I'm not sure I understand... so you don't have feelings for Brynjolf? But you two seemed-

Calliope- Hmm. It's hard to explain... You know the story how I was disgraced as a court apprentice?

Lucien- Vaguely yes. You slept with a married man and his wife arranged you to leave court without a scandal for your family right?

Calliope- Yes. So while I was at court I was madly in love with another apprentice. He was tall and beautiful and I had a HUGE instant crush on him the moment we met and we became very close friends. But I was so scared to ever do anything about it. Terrified he would find out and it would ruin the friendship, terrified I wasn't... good enough. I couldn't even flirt with him, I was kind of mean to him really, I used to tease him something rotten because if I didn't do that then I would just get flustered. Then one day he tried to kiss me-

Lucien- Ahh! And that's when you slept together and found out he was secretly married?

Calliope- No... I couldn't do it. It was a ball, he had been drinking... I just- it would hurt too much, if he kissed me drunk and then the next day regret it and just want to be friends like he had done with so many others. So I pulled way. Got blindingly drunk. Found a handsome courtier I didn't recognise and slept with him. Easy to flirt with a guy when you're not in love with them... safer. Even though that event turned my world upside down, at least I didn't have a broken heart. Kind of a relief really, having the time away from him finally gave me the space to get over him. Brynjolf's of the world just seem safer than...

Lucien- The Taliesins of the world? I kinda figured... Brynjolf happened after your twos fight in Solitude and you act similar around him. Don't worry though, I won't tell. You're secret is safe with me. But if I could offer some advice? You deserve a chance at love Calliope. Don't let your fear of rejection make you settle for a Brynjolf. Maybe you could talk to Taliesin about how you feel? He might surprise you

Calliope- Ughhh do I have too? Can't I just kill Alduin? I think that's less terrifying than talking about my feelings. Anyway Tally is a huge flirt but he doesn't ever DO anything. I don't think he's really interested in me. He hasn't shown an interest in anyone... except Nazeem and even that is just casual

Lucien- Well you'll never find out unless you talk to him

Calliope- Hmmm I guess. I'll think about it but I'm not sure if I'm quite ready for that yet. Thanks for the advice though. I can't believe you figured me out. You're pretty smart at this sort of thing Luci

Lucien- I know right? And yet no one listens... So to Solitude then?

Calliope- Yeah we better set off soon... lets go get the others

[glassofpumpkinjuice]

😊😊😊

[clandestinegardenias]

Untitled KinnPorsche University AU snippet? [grabby hands]

ASK AND YOU SHALL RECIEVE.

Summary: Porsche is recruited from an underground fighting ring to work as a graduate research assistant for professor Kinn Theerapanyakul, a preeminent criminologist doing an ethnographic study on opioid trafficking in covert mafia-run fight scenes. Porsche quickly gets in way, way over his head--in more ways than one.

Snippet:

“You’re quite the fighter, aren’t you?” Porsche hears over his shoulder. 

The tenor of the voice makes him hesitate for a spare second–it’s deep and seductive and really far too nice for this grim basement smelling of blood and piss and unwashed socks–but only for a second. He grunts noncommittally and continues toweling the sweat out of his hair. 

“Did you ever go to college?”

It’s such a non-sequitur that Porsche forgets himself and turns to look at the man, mouth already forming a smartass retort. Unfortunately, he’s swiftly struck mute because this guy is gorgeous, like, the type of gorgeous that will absolutely, definitely, 100% get him beaten black and blue down here in the gutters of the city. 

He’s also dressed to the nines in a fitted suit that fades from red to a sort of dark gray. Porsche isn’t exactly well acquainted with modern fashion–his white tees and chucks suit him just fine, thank you very much–but even he can tell that the way this man is dressed screams money. 

Shit, this blindingly handsome idiot is about to get his ass handed to him the second anyone other than Porsche gets a glimpse–wait, is that a fucking Rolex? 

Porsche briefly considers robbing the man blind himself, but quickly puts it out of mind. He’s paying his and Chay’s bills well enough with his fighting gig. Mostly. 

Instead, he smiles his sunniest smile up at the dark, mysterious (handsome, handsome, so handsome) man. 

“Community college graduate, at your service.” He sketches a little bow from his seated position. “Also, you’re about to get beaten within an inch of your life, dude. You should probably skate before someone notices you’ve got more money than God.”

There, Porsche warned the guy. He’s officially done his good deed for the day. 

The man smirks at him and shifts his weight, subtly showing off his muscled arms and shoulders under the tight fit of his jacket. 

“Thanks for your concern, but I can take care of myself.”

Porsche raises an eyebrow at him. Plenty of muscle bros think they can hack it against trained and seasoned fighters. They all, without exception, leave in an ambulance. 

“I don’t think vanity muscles play very well in this crowd,” he says, and for some reason he also bats his eyes at the man like some horrible cheesy flirt. What the fuck, Porsche, pull it together. 

“Hmm, maybe we’ll find out. Care to escort me to the exit?” the handsome man asks, and suddenly Porsche understands. He’s being propositioned. Oh, fuck. It’s happened before, but it’s always been easy to turn down. Sure, he’s basically selling his body in an underground fighting ring, but he’s really not interested in selling it any other way.

Still, for some reason, the word ‘no’ is having trouble making it past his lips. Instead, a stream of numbers is flowing through his head. How much would be enough? 

He’s never been so happy to see someone break a door down in his life, because now he doesn’t have to know what his price would have been. Instead, as the thugs bent on robbing handsome mystery dude descend on them, Porsche lands a sweet spinning kick to the first guy’s temple, grabs handsome man’s wrist, and pulls him out the back door.  

[i-did-not-mean-to]

YOTP - April

I've only realised now that this has never been posted! I am so sorry! I am really not super good at keeping track of these things.

Pairing: Caranthir x Finrod

Prompts: pranks, canon divergence, (seemingly) unrequited love, "No, I am not dating your brother", peace, university

Words: 2 205

Warnings: sadness, insecurity, misunderstanding

Caranthir frowned.

His brothers would have qualified his present mood as cantankerous—he would have called it the “status quo”.

As such minor inconsistencies in vocabulary did nothing to dispel the storm clouds sitting heavily on his fair brow, though, he put the thought from his mind and returned his focus to the vexing problem at hand.

Before him, in the middle of his perfectly orderly desk, flanked by neatly arranged stacks of notes and copies, lay a garish flyer, announcing the upcoming spring ball organised by and held at his university.

Usually, Caranthir managed to avoid this kind of overly dramatized, idiotic social gathering, but a strange sense of unease and helpless frustration had kept him from simply throwing away the crumpled piece of paper.

He wanted to go.

Of course, he would rather have bitten off his own tongue than admitted as much to anyone alive, but a part of him was sick and tired of being perpetually alone—undeniably unloved and universally unwelcome.

Nonsense, he chided himself sternly. It would only exacerbate his reputation as an unpleasant curmudgeon and his subsequent misery if he were to turn up alone and uninvited to a party where everyone else was making out in deserted classrooms and unsanitary lavatories.

“Good grief!” he exclaimed softly and pushed the flyer under a stack of homework—he was already late for his afternoon classes, and he’d rather not lose any more time just moping around.

The first thing he saw upon stalking into the much too brightly lit foyer of the university was his brother, winsome as ever, and his mood soured even further.

Leaning suavely against a very old, very valuable pillar, Maglor was entirely caught up in a hushed conversation and thus didn’t notice his younger brother sweeping past dramatically.

Caranthir’s heart sank—for a fleeting moment, he had considered approaching Finrod to find out whether he had any intention of attending the laughable circus that was upon them.

He knew for a fact that his co-student—ridiculously radiant and blindingly handsome—was not entirely averse to mopey, overly serious, and unbearably stiff specimens of his own gender; after all, he had dated Turgon, the only man who could compete with Caranthir’s glowering looks and hostile demeanour, for a while.

Considering how bright-eyed Finrod now looked, though, as he hung on Maglor’s full, sensual lips pointed to another conclusion: the cheery, popular, charming object of all Caranthir’s repressed desires had surely grown tired of men of his calibre. It made sense—unfortunately, that sober realisation did nothing to alleviate the painful twinge in Caranthir’s heart despite the quick onset of gruesome rationalisation and well-rehearsed self-denial.

Huffing an unnerved sigh, he hastened up the winding steps and slammed down his supplies on an old, worn table, determined to lose himself in his statistics class. He’d think of that silly ball and his agonising loneliness no more.

As soon as the class was dismissed, Caranthir slipped into the comforting silence of the library so he could make sure that he’d not meet anyone else, crush or sibling, once he was ready to return to the self-imposed isolation of his childhood room.

There was much work to be done, and he prided himself on his irrefutable excellence. This, he knew he could not only do, but do well, and so he disappeared into theories and long lists in his sullen escape from the bleak reality of wanting.

Every so often, his phone vibrated in his pocket, but Caranthir didn’t feel like reading the updates in the family groupchat, undoubtedly pertaining to the exciting plans of his various brothers to which he was never invited anyway.

The sun had gone down and the world seemed to have been dipped into translucent black ink by the time he re-emerged from his frenzied study session, and Caranthir dragged himself to his locker reluctantly.

A pounding headache was taking root behind his bleary eyes, and it took him a moment to realise that the flash of white he’d only vaguely registered upon tugging at the rusted metal door was a note addressed to none other than himself.

With trembling fingers, he unfolded the missive and gasped. It was an invitation to the very party he’d refused to obsess about all day long, and it was unsigned.

Caranthir was known for having no patience for this kind of childish game, but—as nobody but the mysterious sender—knew about this, he didn’t have to pretend that he was utterly untouched by the instinctive excitement such a communication would have incited in any living soul.

Nevertheless, before his fancy could absolutely get the better of him, he shoved the precious paper under a stack of hefty tomes and went to bed without expecting to find much sleep with the way his heart was pounding, and his mind was racing.

“Lame,” Beren commented as he folded a half-torn flyer into a paper aeroplane and sent it sailing across the spotty lawn. “How about you come with me and Lúthien instead? She’s had a rad plan for…”

“Something illegal?” Finrod interrupted pointedly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be your get-away driver this time—I’ve been recruited by another mischievous rogue for his morally questionable scheme.”

“Oh? Tell me all about it,” Beren exclaimed, suddenly no longer fashionably bored by the mundane and yet deeply moving intrigues of the small university his friend attended. “I truly hope there is a handsome someone involved…”

“Several,” Finrod purred.

“Not your stuffy ex, though?”

Shaking his golden head, Finrod leaned back on his elbows and stared at the sky wistfully—he had no doubt that, once he’d explained the whole ploy to Beren—he’d be mocked cruelly for his fatal weakness when it came to overly serious, lethally handsome men with dark hair and flashing eyes.

“Your stuffy crush, then? A bird has told me that you were seen in an intimate conference with Maglor,” Beren—who somehow always managed to stumble upon the most extraordinary bits of information—drawled provocatively.

“If you know everything already, there’s no point in testing my patience!”

At once, the shaggy-haired youngster lifted his hands—palms outward—in a gesture of apology and goodwill. “No need to be so touchy! My source, of course, misunderstood and speculated that you might go to the ball with the pretty singer. That doesn’t sound right to me, does it? Tell me then, what is going on?”

“He’s asked me whether I’d consider inviting his brother to the party,” Finrod replied anticlimactically. “And I’ve agreed.”

“So, it’s some elaborate hoax?” Beren cocked one eyebrow in unashamed scepticism. “You know that you’re allowed to disagree with people, right? You may say that their idea, at the root, is not a bad one, but also express your uneasiness when it comes to their way of going about things. This sounds like one of those stories that get you into serious trouble only because you were too kind to share your doubts.”

He took a deep breath, the corners of his mouth downturned expressively still, and then shrugged lopsidedly. “So, did you ask the brother out?”

“I’ve sent him an anonymous letter,” Finrod confessed—he’d just been all but explicitly called a coward, which took the wind out of his sails regarding his big reveal.

“Sounds more and more like a prank,” Beren groaned. “You bloody fool. What’s his name again? Cat something?”

“Caranthir,” Finrod sighed longingly. “’Moryo’ to his brothers, hitherto ‘unobtainable’ to me…”

Nodding seriously, Beren pondered the matter for a while. “Say,” he then piped up, startling Finrod out of his own longing thoughts, “how will he let you know whether he accepts or rejects your invitation?”

“I thought that I’d wait for him in the foyer, flowers and all, a banner maybe…” Finrod admitted sheepishly.

As expected, Beren was highly in favour of that ploy, and, strangely enough, his very enthusiasm—earnest and exuberant—gave Finrod pause. He knew that this friend would have broken into the darkest, dankest dungeon or wrestled a wild beast for his girlfriend, but Lúthien was a woman who expected and enjoyed ridiculously grand gestures—Finrod was almost certain that Caranthir was not.

“Wish me luck, man,” he muttered as he changed his mind and cut his timeline in half. “I’ve got to run!”

He’d pick his secret date up at home, he decided, so as to give Caranthir a chance to let him down discreetly without anyone but his brothers witnessing the embarrassing scene. It was a sacrifice, and it left Finrod very little time to make all the purchases he’d planned, but he was now sure that this was the right way to go about his own grandiose gesture.

Caranthir paced across his room nervously; he felt foolish for having gotten ready for a party he might very well not attend after all.

Fingon had arrived 20 minutes earlier and was presently regaling his parents with funny stories while Maedhros was trying desperately to keep from blushing every five seconds—Caranthir hated them, and he loathed his father’s throaty, echoing laughter booming through the whole house.

Celegorm and Curufin had also already left; as always, they had “things to do” before even considering going to the ball, and everybody only half-expected them to make an appearance.

The twins had gone to the cinema with friends, and Maglor was sitting on the stairs, yowling to himself.

Drowning in an ocean of sound and life, Caranthir felt profoundly lonely.

And then, the doorbell rang.

At once, he threw his door open and hastened out onto the landing only to hear Maglor’s pleasant voice. “Ah, finally. I’ve been awaiting you.”

Of course, Caranthir thought bitterly. His brother had secured a date with the most beautiful, eligible bachelor on campus, a fact he’d banished into the remotest corners of his usually meticulously rational mind.

Now, though, the envy and jealousy almost made him black out with impuissant rage—here he stood, in a suit he’d stolen from Maglor’s wardrobe and embroidered in long hours of painstaking labour, to be the only one left behind, again.

Not that anyone would notice, he thought miserably; everyone was so enthralled by their own pleasure and delight that nobody would even remember that he, sullen and unloved, was still puttering around in his room.

“Good evening, Maglor,” Finrod’s chiming voice resounded, followed by a suspicious pause. “Will those do?”

“Carnations,” the gracious host cooed in his most detestable singsong tone. “How adorable!”

Caranthir was already halfway back in his room when he heard his name being called, no yelled, up the stairs for Maglor’s voice carried far and wide, and nobody could outrun it.

“Moryo, for Eru’s sake, tell me you’re ready! Nelyo said you were good to go half an hour ago…”

Leaping down the stairs two by two, Caranthir came to a slithering halt—wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked—in the brightly lit entrance, only nearly missing a stunningly handsome Finrod who was kneading a bouquet of bright red flowers in his slender hands.

“I wasn’t sure you’d accept my invitation,” the latest arrival said carefully. “So I thought I’d give you a chance to politely decline without witnesses present.”

“Ooops, that’s my cue,” Maglor laughed and moonwalked into the living room and out of sight.

“I…But…I thought you were taking out my brother,” Caranthir stammered, his eyes darting between Finrod’s luminous face and Maglor’s retreating frame. “Aren’t you dating?”

Throwing his head back, Finrod gave a merry peel of laughter. “No, silly, I’m not dating your brother. Maglor, as ever fond of dramatics, has graciously agreed to be my confidant in this.”

Caranthir gave a strangled hum of doubt and insecurity, dreading the imminent and inevitable arrival of the others on the scene, laughing at how gullible he was, to share a ride or just to distract their father so someone could steal some liquor from his private cabinet, and rubbed his thumbs bemusedly against his other fingers in a desperate attempt to soothe the contradictory impulses and desires raging within his chest.

“Please, say something,” Finrod pleaded. “I realise now that it was cowardly not to ask you in person, but—after Turgon—I wasn’t feeling quite brave enough to stomach another rejection…”

“Rejection,” Caranthir jeered feebly. “Of course, I wouldn’t have declined. I’m not doing so now—I just need a moment.”

“Certainly,” Finrod said fervently, extending his battered bouquet jerkily as if he’d forgotten that it was there. “Here, these are for you. They compliment your charming complexion.”

“Charming complexion,” Caranthir muttered mockingly. “Sure thing, my man.”

“You’re lovely—you must know that!” Heartened by the quasi-acceptance he’d been granted against all odds, Finrod quickly grew bolder and grabbed one of Caranthir’s pale, trembling hands. “I will make it up to you; I promise. Please say you’ll be my date for tonight!”

“Very well! As you can see, I’m already dressed. Let’s go before Maglor wants us to go over in a big cluster of noise and strangely clad limbs…lest you’d prefer going with my brothers?”

“They’re of no consequence,” Finrod assured him. “Let me walk you to your carriage then.”

And, extending his arm gallantly, he promptly abducted Caranthir from his parental home unnoticed.

How did those two become one of my OTPs? Nobody knows (well one person certainly does)!

Anyway, thanks for indulging me!

-> Masterlist

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Maybe I’m Blind

They swam out into the bay. Swam until their muscles screamed for pause, and kept on swimming until they reached the sleek, pill-shaped vessel.

Metal rungs allowed them to climb onto the submarine. Two men in black suits stood atop the submersible, armed with automatic weapons, and they nodded in greeting to the woman and the girl.

The woman, Evangeline, nodded in response. The young girl, Hien, hid behind her. Without losing a word, one of the armed men gestured down the open hatch into the sub, and the woman and the girl obliged.

More metal rungs, now descending a narrow ladder. Metal clanked and pressure valves hissed. The armed men followed them down and closed and sealed the hatch behind them.

The underwater coffin soon rumbled to life and glided into the ocean. Descending.

And so began their journey west, submerged under leagues of water, occupying quarters in a claustrophobically cramped environment made entirely of metal and plastics.

Hien said nothing but her face was a mask of silent terror. The prepubescent girl fidgeted at every odd sound with eyes constantly wide. Eva spent most of the time distracting the girl with games they could play in the tiny cabin they were permitted to use.

When Hien tried to take a nap—and could not sleep the entire time, twisting and turning and keeping her eyes closed without rest—Eva took a tour of the underwater vessel and learned quickly that it was part of a fleet operated by the Devonlake Company.

Eva had been on edge already, but this just sharpened that edge into a blade.

The Devonlake Company. A mercenary outfit notorious for massacres they had caused in the hotbed conflict zones where they had been hired by Allied Forces. Controversies surrounding their activities forced the Alliance to sever all defense contracts with Devonlake, but the ruthless reputation they earned had made them the number one choice of hire for the ruthless.

Though the crew of this vessel spoke little, their attempts at being accommodating and friendly to their two passengers struck a bad chord with Eva. Hien must have sensed it too. Though the girl had said nothing to anybody but her in the privacy of their cabin, Eva could tell she was instinctively tense around the hired guns in their tight black jumpsuits.

And she was right to feel that way.

The crew’s captain stopped her during her second tour through the sub, and asked her to come alone.

Through a maze of corridors and small doorway hatches where everybody had to duck down to not bump their heads, the officer escorted her into a special control room. There was nobody else there.

He said, “Knock when you’re done.”

Then he closed the door behind himself and left Eva alone in this strange chamber.

There was a smooth black bench and a seat bolted to the floor by it, with a wide monitor mounted on the wall above the bench. A red light rhythmically blinked with a communications icon emblazoned beneath it. Eva took a seat, a deep breath, and then pressed the button.

The monitor sprang to life, almost blindingly bright in comparison to the dim lights throughout the rest of the submarine. The screen’s display was split into four sections and in the bottom right, she saw herself mirrored by a camera feed hidden behind the tiny hole on the monitor’s frame, complete with all the little cuts in her face that had yet to fully heal. The bottom left was black, and in the top right of the screen was a moving image of Huang Chen.

Still holding a phone to his ear and appearing to be listening to someone on the other line, Chen cracked a crooked smile in a quiet remote greeting to Eva, but it was tired, and never reached his eyes. Maybe it carried something nervous.

Her expression mirrored his in response.

The top left quarter switched from black to the image of a man she had never spoken to before. She had seen his picture before—in TV interviews, newspaper photos, and on magazine covers. A handsomely symmetrical face, but with the predatory gaze of a shark, framed by slicked back hair.

Desmond Sharpe.

Billionaire, “philanthropist”, CEO of Sharpe Industries, and the money bags behind its many subsidiaries—including Devonlake Company, she presumed.

Whatever semblance of a smile Eva and Chen had just granted each other, seeing this man wiped any shred of sympathy from their faces. Chen lowered the phone, thumbed it to an ensuing BEEP, and stuffed it into his inner jacket pocket before straightening his collar and necktie.

Sharpe spoke with a voice that lingered on the precipice between silk and smoke.

“Hello, Princess. A pleasure to finally meet you, and always a pleasure to speak to royalty. A shame that it’s not truly in person, but I’m sure we can arrange something if you would do me the honor.”

Not a single word of his sounded sincere. It was more likely a combination of stock phrases that Sharpe was prone to use in his everyday business.

“Mister Sharpe,” Eva replied. “And Mister Chen, thank you for arranging this…”

“Unusual meeting, yes,” Chen added, picking up the slack where Eva’s thoughts trailed off.

“Yes,” Sharpe agreed. “And auspicious, I’d say. It’s rare to have a chance at extending a helping hand to the crown of an Alliance Nation so directly. I must say I’m—”

Eva interrupted. “Can we cut to the chase? What’s your business here?”

Sharpe narrowed his eyes for a split second. Just long enough to relay irritation. Nobody spoke to him like that. There was royalty, and then there was Desmond Sharpe.

“Right, to the point, then. I appreciate that, because I only have so much time in the day to spare.”

“Wouldn’t wanna keep you,” Eva said, unable to fully mask a sneer.

“Yes, well, as you are aware, despite all charity efforts lanced by my family’s estate, I am no charity myself. And the favor I now extend to you comes with quite the price tag to my personal accounts. You would be amazed what the maintenance on this vessel costs, let alone the fuel. Not to mention the rates of Devonlake’s finest—”

“Please, again, get to the point,” Eva said, scowling more with each passing second.

“Yes, the point. One hand washes the other. I have a business proposal for you, Princess. I would appreciate if you accepted—as a token of thanks for your trip back home to our fine country.”

“And what if I say no?” Eva said with a sigh. “We have to swim across the ocean?”

“Please, do hear me out first,” Sharpe said. His hollow use of the word “please” was not a condition, asking for someone to indulge the words that followed. It was an empty word he used to preface an order. “There are no strings attached to your ferry home. You can still say ‘no’ to my proposal—and no hard feelings.”

Eva knew there would be hard feelings between them, regardless of the rest of their conversation.

She just nodded, having had enough of snapping back at Sharpe, and wanting to end this group call as quickly as possible.

“Excellent,” Sharpe said. A cat meowed in the background and the self-important CEO steepled his fingers in front of himself. “I have need of someone with your particular set of skills and your personal motivation—I need someone to infiltrate the M-Tek laboratory and gather intelligence for me.”

Both Eva and Chen arched a brow simultaneously.

“Doesn’t M-Tek belong to Sharpe Industries?” she asked him.

“Yes, that is correct. But I need an outsider for this particular task. I think no person other than someone of your caliber is suited for this. You see, I suspect there is a leak in the M-Tek facility. And I was overjoyed to hear I could help you out because you had just come to my attention recently.”

“Sorry, I don’t do autographs,” she retorted.

Sharpe emitted an abrupt guffaw.

“It just so happened to my reach my radar that you were investigating something at my shipyard in New Port City. Please, allow me.”

His attention turned to something off screen, a loud click followed, and the fourth black panel on Eva’s screen winked on to life.

It displayed the red encircled “M” graffiti on the wall.

“You know what I’m talking about. I believe we have a common enemy,” Sharpe said, returning his piercing gaze to the camera. “I have a hunch you know who this ‘M’ is, and you can help me fix a little problem of my own regarding them.”

“Really? I’m not sure we’re enemies exactly. As little as I know, this ‘M’ hasn’t done anything to offend me yet.”

“The recent news of a shootout on the streets of New Port City—which, according to my observations, involved you on a motorcycle, Princess—well, the circumstances suggest otherwise.”

“Look, if these terrorists are causing you any damages, I recommend you take it up with the proper channels and authorities. Why bother with me?”

“Ah! There’s the word. Terrorists. And thieves. Have you noticed how their graffiti is on grounds of different companies that are all subsidiaries of Sharpe Industries?”

“Your network’s big and it’s easier to evade taxes when the complexity of it borders on the incomprehensible,” she said.

He smirked.

She added, “No, I have not noticed that. Again—what do you want with me that the city’s bureau of investigation can’t solve? And why not just use your trigger-happy rent-a-cops when they’re done moonlighting as a submarine crew?”

Sharpe tilted his head back. Though his expression remained a stony mask of indifference, his irritation with Eva grew to mirror her sentiments towards him.

“There is a high likelihood of a leak in M-Tek, and I want an outsider to pinpoint it and shore up the hole. I cannot trust anybody from the ranks of my own companies with this matter, because they may already be compromised, or part of this obscure terrorist faction.”

He clicked something and the image of the graffiti disappeared, making way to some sort of indecipherable bar graph.

“What you see here are the losses we calculate whenever a disgruntled employee leaks information to the public, our tech goes missing from our premises and ends up on the black market, or corporate espionage from rivals putting out competing solutions ends up affecting our annual gross.”

He clicked again and a second graph appeared below the other.

“And these are the losses we marked in the last two quarters since ‘M’ has been making moves in New Port City.” He paused. “Do you see the difference?”

Just before Eva could exasperatedly remark that she, in fact, could not, Chen interjected with a furrowed brow, “Almost no losses. Curious.”

“Precisely,” Sharpe said. “And that is far more worrisome, my friends. That means that whoever is stealing from my businesses—and I believe it is this ‘M’—they are keeping what they steal to themselves. I should not have to remind you of just how cutting-edge M-Tek’s innovations are. In the wrong hands…”

Eva crossed her arms in frustration. Frustrated because he was selling her on this. Still, she felt the need to play hard-to-get. Sharpe was not the kind of person she wanted to be associated with.

“Alright. So, someone is robbing you of your high-tech toys before you can sell to the highest bidder yourself—someone is hoarding them. What was it you said at the beginning? You’re no charity, Mister Sharpe. What’s your angle?”

He raised a hand, counting down his reasons with a finger outstretched each.

“One—you close a leak for me. Two—I will have you outfitted with the best tech I can provide to help you on the operation, which will serve as a test run for the equipment, as well as a test run for M-Tek’s security. Three—and this one may interest you as much as it does myself—we learn who this ‘M’ is, what they want, and we put a stop to them. I consider the latter a public service because I reckon these terrorists may become an international threat sooner or later. The rest may be selfishly motivated, but I believe whatever affects me and my company now may affect everybody in the future. I prefer getting on top of things.”

“Fine. Enough already. You convinced me. I will need full access to—”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Sharpe interrupted her, wagging a finger. “Here’s the real catch you asked about. This will be a covert operation. Security inside of M-Tek premises is so tight that your arrival cannot be announced. Your esteemed royal status also affords no chance at recognition, and we have facial recognition technology that would alert everybody to who you are in an instant. Anything but going in full-dark may tip off the thieving mole to our little joint venture.”

“Fantastic. Let me guess, the security outfit is authorized to use lethal force on intruders?”

“Yes. I’m afraid—and grateful alike—that your Crown grants us generous extraterritorial rights when it comes to defending company grounds.”

The smile across his lips was thin and sinister.

Eva jutted out her jaw. Her hands itched to punch Sharpe in the face. Unfortunately, it would have only busted the screen in front of her.

He continued, “I understand your concern. But I assure you, the tools at your disposal will give you an edge.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Eva said, “I think I’ve changed my mind. This is starting to sound like a suicide mission.”

“Not really. If things take a turn for the worse, let yourself get identified, and I can prevent any debacle from reaching the media, and my employees will know better than anybody not to harm you in the slightest. They may be a bit… rough when they escort you off-grounds, but you should come out as healthy as you entered. If you are as good as I hear through the grapevine, that is.”

“The same does not extend to the mole. I need to get them out alive if we want to know more about ‘M’.”

“Yes, of course. I agree. I have full confidence in your ability to handle this matter. Don’t ask me how, but I gained access to your service record—the unredacted files—”

“Alright, enough,” Chen growled. “Are you going anywhere with this? Eva, you don’t have to do this. I for my part have heard enough. This is not what we talked about, Desmond.”

Twitching, the corners of Sharpe’s lips curled into another fiendish smile.

“As I said—if you say no, there will be no hard feelings,” Sharpe replied.

Eva was so tempted to turn this rich bastard down just to spite him, but she had learned a lesson recently. She somehow found it in herself to consider cooperation. Mostly, she wanted to get back home and back with all the people she cared about, starting with Hien.

A new lead on “M” would just be a cherry on top.

She sliced through the silence with sharply resolute words.

“I’m in.”

Chen’s face cycled through uncharacteristically expressive emotions written across it. Surprise, confusion, irritation, disapproval, and embittered acceptance.

“Perfect,” Sharpe said, steepling his fingers. “I knew you would see things my way.”

In fact, she did not see things his way. But this may have been several birds with the same stone for her, as well.

“Oh—one more thing,” Sharpe added. “The R&D you may see in the M-Tek laboratory is top secret. I trust that someone with integrity such as yours will not speak of what you see there, even without the threat of litigation. You of all people causing me financial losses would not be a good look.”

Eva squinted and asked, “Why, is there something dubious going on there?”

Sharpe smiled again. “Even if there was, we wouldn’t want that to come out. Given the history between Sharpe Industries and your Crown, I think it would reflect badly on all of us.” He paused and tapped his lips theatrically. “Then again, nothing that my company couldn’t scrub away with some good PR and spin. The reputation of the royal family and the monarchy as a conceptual whole, on the other hand—”

“Enough of this,” Chen snapped. “You’ve made your point. She agreed. I believe we’re done here.”

Sharpe’s smile faded ever so slightly.

“I trust it is an implicit agreement of silence between us. There’s no need to sign anything as far as I’m concerned,” Sharpe said. “Your word is worth more than gold, Princess.”

She finally answered, “Oh, don’t sweat it. I don’t kiss and tell.”

He smirked.

“Then I will arrange for everything. When you arrive in the next port, an agent of mine will take care of your further travel needs, and a man by the name of Ghostwall will provide you with the special equipment. As you will be staying undercover from here on out, what codename do you want us to use in safe transmissions?”

Eva did not think for long.

“Swan.”

“Excellent. I wish you a pleasant rest of your journey. It was truly an honor.”

Still, not a single word of his sounded honest. All calculation. All poisoned.

Nobody said anything in response to that.

“Goodbye,” Sharpe said. His corner of the screen winked out, going dark.

Chen frowned.

“Are you sure about this? You can still back out. He can’t force you to do anything.”

“I’m a big girl, Huang. I can handle myself.”

Now she was lying. She was worried about how this would turn out.

But it was a perfect opportunity to learn more about “M”—and perhaps dig up dirt on Sharpe.

She would not be intimidated by his threats.

All she worried about now were the others.

“Huang, I—”

“Yes?”

“Can you arrange to pick up Hien? The girl who joined me in leaving the DMZ. I want her escorted into Lex’s care before I meet with this Ghostwall character. And I want you to brief Lex about everything we can spare to talk about. She can keep quiet.”

“Still debts to square I see,” he said with a crooked grin, then turned serious again. “I will do that. Anything else?”

Eva nodded several times over, as she pondered the precise words to relay.

“Yes. Please tell Lex that I want to meet her when this is all over. That I will tell her everything in my own words. And that I’m sorry for being a burden.”

Chen stared into the camera for a long while. Then he nodded.

“I’ll pass it on. Goodbye, Evangeline. And… good luck.”

She wanted to quip about not needing luck, but she needed luck more than anything, and luck had been almost consistently rotten lately. She smiled.

“Bye, Huang. Catch you on the flipside.”

His corner of the screen winked out, leaving only a black rectangle.

Eva tapped the monitor’s switch to turn it off. She got up to leave. The only door leading outside this cramped quarter was locked. She knocked.

No answer.

Her fist thumped harder against it.

Finally, she heard something click and then a lock disengaged. The door opened, and the same musclebound Devonlake captain gestured for her to lead the way back to the cabin where Hien awaited.

On the way back, from behind her, he asked, “Your face is awfully familiar. Are you—”

“No.”

She could almost hear the smugness, sensing a shit-eating grin on his face. Eva would avoid talking to the Devonlake crew for the rest of their trip.

Miles and miles away, in the M-Tek building, two security guards dressed in black rode downwards on a long elevator ride.

16th floor.

“There’s this new game show where they have contestants cook off against each other to determine which kingdom’s cuisine is superior,” said one of them, breaking the awkward silence.

“That sounds stupid,” replied the other in a low grumble.

10th floor.

“That’s not all there is to it. See, the contestants also have to dress as royalty of each kingdom, but in outfits that are, like, hundreds of years old? And the cuisine has to be made outta ingredients they would have had back then, too.”

5th floor.

The other guard groaned loudly.

“Come on, man. Do you hate fun? Always bitching and moaning about everything. Don’t you watch TV?”

Ground floor.

“No,” said the other. “TV sucks. I can’t believe you’re frying your brain with that garbage.”

2nd floor below ground level.

“Oh, and what? Practicing on a singing career while you’re whacking off to the lousy training videos here? I bet you’re—"

The access grate from the ceiling dropped like a rock and rattled on the floor between them, prompting confused looks from both security guards, directed at the object and not its source.

A female figure clad entirely in black dropped through the hole left open from the missing grate, landing between them like a cat. Grunts and shouts erupted between the three figures, but the fight was surprisingly short.

A furious kick pinned one of them by the neck against a corner, a volley of punches knocked the wind out of the other, and when the first whipped out a taser rod, she deflected his jab with the crackling weapon and sent it flying into the crotch of the other, who comically wobbled around while getting shocked until he joined the grate on the floor.

The second pushed free from the intruder’s boot but she landed strikes from his shins up to his face, with the final quick one-two punch making him see stars. He flew back into the mirroring wall of the elevator which cracked upon impact, then passed out. She snatched an ID badge from his chest and yanked, ripping some fabric off with it and pocketing the item.

A soft DING preceded the elevator final halt. Its doors slid open at the 7th floor below ground level.

The black-suited intruder slipped out, sticking to one side of the dimly lit corridor, slinking right underneath a camera sweeping the hall. She tossed a tiny green-blinking object up to the camera, and it magnetically clung to the device’s surface with a soft thwup. The camera stopped pivoting altogether.

The intruder sprang into motion and jogged down the corridor, coming to a stop behind a milky-white glass door with the M-Tek logo emblazoned on it, above a sticker sign that warned employees of the consequences of not having their ID badge on display at all times.

Here, she paused and produced a long handgun from the myriads of odd tools on her belt, then pressed the stolen ID badge from the guard against the magnetic reader next to the glass door.

A green light flared up above the door, and it slid open sideways with a soft hiss.

The intruder jogged inside, immediately ducking beneath rows of glossy marble planters which provided an almost sickeningly fake rendition of a jungle, with all manners of ferns and palm trees in this underground lobby. A stunningly elaborate mural on the walls had been painted to make the chamber look even more like another place entirely, with a mountainous horizon and a sea on the opposite side. Red leather couches lined the center square of this recreational lobby.

When the next door opened and some darkhaired woman in a white lab coat entered, she stared down the barrel of the intruder’s gun for a second that felt like forever. Then she slowly raised her hands. The badge hanging from her chest pocket read: Doctor Ida Sverigund.

“Don’t shoot. I’ll do anything you say,” said the scientist calmly.

The intruder quietly ushered her to turn around with a painful clutch on her shoulder, shoving the lab coat-clad woman right back through the door, keeping the gun squarely trained on her back.

This led them down a hallway branching off into high-ceilinged chambers separated by glass windows, containing rows of towering tanks. Each chromed tank had a tiny porthole and bubbling purple liquid behind it.

The whole place thrummed with magic.

Machines belched out steam behind sealed metal doors.

Said Doctor Sverigund, “What do you want? Maybe I can help—"

She was shoved more forcefully.

The intruder’s mask distorted the voice of its wearer when she replied in a menacing monotone, “Shut up and keep moving.”

“I can lead you to the most valuable research if you promise not to—”

Another shove.

“What part of ‘shut up’ do you not understand?” threatened the intruder, poking Sverigund in the back with the pistol. Arriving at the end of the corridor and ignoring all the strange rooms on the way after casting a glance into each of them, she ordered, “Door.”

Doctor Sverigund lifted her badge to the magnetic lock, and it emitted a beep. This next door was made of shiny metal and completely opaque. It swished ominously when it slid open. The badge zipped back on a cord and slapped against Sverigund’s chest, and the intruder pushed her into a security checkpoint with a metal detector and some lockers.

Eyes went wide. A security guard and a scientist had been idling about in this room, their deer-in-headlights frozen body language conveying that they had been flirting with one another before the interruption, surprised by the intruder.

The security guard’s hand went to a submachine gun on the desk, but he took a dart to the neck before he could reach it, then stumbled backwards, tearing down a folding chair behind the desk as he keeled over. The other scientist emitted a clipped but terrified shriek, hands shooting up in the air and trembling like a dry leaf in the wind, immediately begging for mercy.

The intruder said, “Get down on the ground, hands behind your head.”

She complied. Then the intruder shot her in the back with another dart, provoking a gasp before robbing the scientist of her consciousness.

The intruder turned around and grabbed Sverigund by an arm before the doctor could run. Twisted the arm. Though Sverigund’s face contorted in pain, she made no according sound, just gritting her teeth.

“Next door,” commanded the intruder.

“Wait. Wait! There’s a security turret—without Jackson’s retina scan, it will activate if we continue on without his authorization,” said the coat.

The intruder motioned to grab the unconscious security guard but was immediately interrupted by Sverigund.

“No use. The system can tell if a subject is dead or unconscious. It can even—”

“I don’t need the instruction manual. Speak up sooner next time.”

“You shot him with that tranq pistol before anybody could have possibly said anything!”

The intruder pushed her up against the next door.

“What kind of turret? Where is it placed? And open this door. Now.”

Sverigund used her badge to unlock the next door. Something buzzed, but it opened. Every light around them turned red.

“I don’t know! I’ve never seen them in use!”

“Stay down,” said the intruder, wrangling Doctor Sverigund till she dropped to her knees and waited there.

The intruder’s black-helmeted head featured a sinister-looking breathing mask—though all designed for efficiency, the sharp edges and angular shape lent it a vaguely demonic air. She poked it outside the next door. A split-second after she withdrew her head, a machine gun spat bullets at the doorway.

THUM-THUM-THUN-THUM-THUM-THUN-THUM-THUM-THUN-THUN-THWUNK.

The metal door ate the final shot, the rest of the high caliber bullets had chipped away at concrete walls where the intruder’s head had poked out from.

“Stay down,” the intruder repeated. At the same time, she holstered the dart pistol and produced a long cylindrical tube which she screwed onto a second gun.

She tumbled out into the adjacent corridor. Through the thick window, Sverigund witnessed the intruder roll to a stop on her knees—she fired the silenced gun several times.

It all happened so quickly that the turret could not respond with more automated gunfire. A gatling gun drooped into view, hanging in shambles from a mechanical arm that was mounted inside a small metal niche on the ceiling, the secret panel originally concealing it now busted and dangling down. Sparks sporadically jumped from the bowels of the niche.

Returning to Doctor Sverigund before she could run, the fleet-footed intruder grabbed her by the collar and dragged her back up onto her feet.

“How many people work here? Speak.”

She poked Sverigund in the side with the substantially more lethal silenced pistol.

The doctor stammered out a string of broken thoughts and sentences that died on the way out of her mouth, correcting herself multiple times.

“Eight. Eight! No more than eight at all times. Company policy.”

The intruder shoved her aside, kicked in a door, and found an interview room behind it—a windowless little cell with folding metal chairs and a bare table in between them. It was cold and impersonal. More like an interrogation room.

Out of nowhere, someone exclaimed, “What in the damned Hells is going on h—”

A man descending a circular flight of stairs gripped his neck where the needle of a dart was suddenly stuck in it, and he began rolling down the rest of the steps in what looked like a painful series of slow, little falls.

When he landed on the floor in front of them and stopped moving, the intruder pointed to the stairs.

“What is up there?”

“Uh—uh, just restrooms, offices. Lockers, showers,” Sverigund answered.

“Who’s not there right now?”

“I don’t know! I was just on my way home before—”

“Move,” the intruder ordered, shoving Sverigund to go up the stairs instead of following any of the branching hallways.

They took wide steps over the unconscious scientist on the ground and ascended.

In an office, two scientists were focused on a whiteboard. One of them stood in front of the board, biting his lip as he was trying to solve an equation, while the other sat at her desk, shoveling what looked like cold noodles from a plastic cup into her mouth with a pair of chopsticks.

They both slowly turned their heads, dumbfounded, when they saw who was standing in the door. They did not even manage to make any noteworthy sounds before the sedatives in the darts kicked in, one sticking out of the chest of the guy by the whiteboard and one out of the neck of the young scientist eating ramen. The terrified looks on their faces spoke volumes to their surprise. The guy with the whiteboard pen dropped like a sack of potatoes and the other scientist’s head splashed in spilled soup, falling asleep at her desk.

“If you’re not lying, that leaves only two more,” said the intruder, yanking at Sverigund’s shoulder and pushing her farther along.

Clicking and clacking sounds accompanied her reloading of the tranquilizer pistol.

With her hostage at arm’s length and a jab of the silenced pistol between the shoulder blades to keep her motivated in moving, they swept through the locker and shower rooms, finding them all deserted.

“It’s not too late to surrender,” the doctor muttered without turning around.

She flinched when she expected the intruder to hit her, but no such action followed.

“Fat chance,” said the intruder, chortling. The electronic distortion delivered by the mask made it sound raspier, sinister. “I’m only getting out of here in one of two ways. Either walking out with what I want, or in a body bag. Do you understand?”

Sverigund nodded. Then said, “The remaining two people are scientists. Please don’t hurt them. There should be two guards on the way to change shifts with the checkpoint officer and the one you shot on the stairs.”

“No concern now,” said the intruder.

They looped back and descended the stairwell, stepping over the unconscious guard at the bottom and entering another corridor.

A gatling gun rattled away, shaving chunks of concrete off the walls, and tearing up the floor. Before Sverigund knew what was happening, the wind was knocked out of her as she hit the ground, having been yanked back and tossed aside like a ragdoll.

In a lull of the turret’s shooting, the intruder aimed her silenced gun around the corner and blazed away. Something exploded and she ducked back behind the door. Then she grabbed Sverigund and pulled her back up onto her feet.

“You’re not going to kill anybody?” asked the doctor.

“Unlike your employer, whose turrets don’t distinguish between valued employees and armed robbers.”

She grabbed her and shoved her along once more.

The corridor took them to an intersection where numerous labs glowed with bright light, separated by tall glass windows, and sliding doors secured with airlocks.

The intruder swept her weapons back and forth and gave Sverigund another unpleasant push with the butt of a gun to keep moving. One of the airlocks hissed. The intruder swiveled to point her guns at it.

Announcing his presence was a scientist in a lab coat who had decided that day to play hero. Someone who had decidedly seen way too many action movies and possessed far too little training with the firearm in his hands to pose a real threat.

“You’re goin’ down!” he shouted, but his voice trembled as badly as his aim.

Sverigund tumbled back onto the floor behind the intruder—first frustrated when she bumped her head against the wall, then realizing the intruder had pushed her to protect her when the scientist opened fire with his eyes screwed shut.

He shot every bullet from his pistol until it only clicked away ineffectively with an empty magazine.

The intruder stumbled back one step, then paused to look down at her chest. Many shots had missed her entirely—one of them having broken a fluorescent tube on the ceiling, now swinging back and forth where it dangled from an end. But the bullets that miraculously struck true against the intruder’s body had been smushed up like accordions—they clicked as they dropped from her chest and hit the ground, peeling off the intruder’s strange night suit when she swept them away with the back of her gloved hand.

The scientist with the gun began to panic. He turned and ran away, screaming at the top of his lungs, silenced just seconds later by the tranquilizer dart shot into his butt cheek. He tumbled sideways onto the floor in the narrow corridor.

In one of the labs, all sorts of gadgets had created an array of laser beams humming with concentrated magic enchantments, the inner workings of a bizarre machine laid bare, connected to a hulking armored suit by a tangled knot of colorful wires. Nearby, the final scientist cowered in a corner with her hands over her head, shivering and peeking out at the intruder through terror-stricken eyes.

Sverigund obeyed another shove and used her badge to open the airlock to that lab. She passed through with the intruder right behind her, both sprayed by a cloud of disinfectant and microwaved very briefly to destroy any other microscopic contaminants.

The cowering scientist stammered away, “P-please d-d-don’t hurt—"

A silent dart sank into her shoulder and quickly knocked her out.

Things happened way too quickly once more as Sverigund was spun around by her kidnapper and shoved against the nearest counter, knocking over empty beakers, and causing a mess of clipboards and other tools to cascade off the counter, all clattering onto the floor.

The intruder stuck the injector gun’s muzzle right underneath her chin, reminding her that the weapon was still painful even if not lethal.

“What in the hell do you want?” asked the doctor, paralyzed with an impotent anger.

“You are the mole,” said the intruder.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You are the one smuggling tech and secrets out of this place.”

“I don’t—”

With a violent nudge and painfully pressing the weapon harder against her jaw, scraping the skin, the intruder threatened again, “Don’t play dumb.”

“Okay! Shit. Okay, yes. Shit. How did you find out—oh goddess—”

“You just told me right now. I was guessing.”

Sverigund’s eyes went wide. “Fuck—"

“One of the guards even pissed himself. You, on the other hand, Miss Sverigund,” said the intruder, tapping the doctor’s ID badge with the tip of her gun. “If that’s even your real name—you were the only person here who didn’t flinch when I pointed a gun at you. You also knew about the security protocol with the turrets and the failsafe—I’d bet money on that not being in the lab employee guidelines. Besides, what do you care about guard shift intervals?”

“Okay! Shit. Did—did Sharpe send you? Shit. Please don’t kill me. I have family—”

The intruder shook her and shouted, “Don’t lie to me!”

“Please—”

“Damn it, listen. I’m not going to kill you. Sharpe probably wants that. I am here to help you.”

The intruder ripped at a latch holding the mask onto her helmet. The Coil Suit emitted a small but sharp hiss, similar to the airlocks before. The mask folded open from the middle, revealing Evangeline’s face.

Sverigund’s visage rapidly cycled through several stages of confusion and realization, and before she could ask if she was who she thought she was, Evangeline continued talking. “I will get you out of here and do my best to keep you alive. I just want to meet ‘M’ without any bloodshed.”

Chairman Desmond Sharpe sat in his favorite red winged chair in an opulent office. He stroked a hairless gray cat that was sitting on his lap and purring.

With vested interest, he stared at the screen. The tinny voices of the two women talking in the M-Tek lab reached him through the screen’s built-in speakers.

“Aren’t you afraid that he can hear us talking right now?” asked Sverigund.

Evangeline said, “No, and last I checked, the penny-pinching dirtbag has been cutting corners on tracking audio with his security systems.”

Sharpe smiled to himself over just how wrong the princess was about that, then continued to stroke his cat.

While the two women commenced their escape, backtracking through the absolute dead end of a lab complex, he calmly leaned over and pushed a button on his intercom.

“The M-Tek labs are compromised. Initiate omega protocol.”

Then he leaned back and continued stroking his cat, eager to follow their attempts at egress.

“Oh, Mister Mole Rat,” he said to the cat. “You know why I admire Trager’s security system designs?”

The cat purred.

“Exactly. He makes it so it’s far easier to get in than out. You learn more about the intrusion measures, the intruders themselves, and you can upgrade for the next miserable fool who makes the mistake of even trying.”

He chuckled sadistically.

Eva escorted Doctor Sverigund back to the elevator where two guards still lay unconscious. The women boarded the elevator and Eva paused, considering their method of ascent.

The rogue scientist said, “With the industrial elevator locked down, this is the only way up. With the silent alarm triggered, I don’t think they’ll allow the elevator to rise. Or if they do, we’ll be facing a dozen armed guards on our next stop.”

Eva hopped up, grabbing hold onto the edges, and pulling herself up through the hole she had left in the ceiling, vanishing through it in one fluid motion.

Speaking down to Sverigund, she said, “Don’t worry. I got this.”

Then the elevator emitted a DING, its doors closed, and it lurched upwards into motion.

“How did you do that?” hissed Sverigund.

Eva extended a gloved hand through the hole, offering to help the doctor climb up.

“I didn’t. Get your ass up here, quickly.”

Sharpe smirked. He refrained from alerting his personnel of what he witnessed and simply continued to watch the spectacle unfold like someone watching a game show. Mister Mole Rat meowed.

Sverigund took Eva’s arm and scrambled as she clambered up and out of view from the elevator’s camera.

The elevator’s digital display counted upwards.

Ground floor.

DING. Swish.

A chorus of voices shouted almost simultaneously, “Freeze!” – “On the ground, now!” – “Get down!”

Ten armed guards yelled at the elevator, eager to pull the triggers on their guns until they fully registered that only two unconscious guards snoozed away on the elevator’s floor. Their yelling died down.

Then Eva swung into view, hanging upside down from the hole in the ceiling, both guns out and flaring up with shots. A mixture of darts and gunshots ripped through the small crowd, wounding several of the armored guards, stunning others whose body armor protected them, and needling the rest with darts. Few darts did anything, but bullets sent several security officers sprawling on the ground, diving for cover, or keeling over onto the shiny, checkered marble floors.

She swung back up into cover before any of them returned fire. The deafening hail of bullets shook the elevator and littered it with bullet holes. The glass from the already-cracked mirror in the back fully shattered and showered the floor with shards.

Two tiny devices flew out from the elevator and bounced along the marble floors. They exploded into rapidly spreading clouds of smoke, cloaking the vicinity of the elevator doors in a thick black fog, and provoking fits of coughing from the still-standing guards.

They failed to notice the blur of a sleek figure darting through their midst. They missed the flash of a short, curved blade swinging about and slashing left and right. They only noticed something wrong when pants dropped, severed weapon straps and ammunition belts flopped onto the floor, and a flurry of kicks and strikes sent them flying in every direction, followed by several groans and shouts. Stray shots only hit walls.

By the time the smoke had cleared and all ten guards were on the ground in a mixture of unconsciousness or reeling in pain, Eva was already dragging Sverigund behind her towards the lobby entrance.

Halfway across the ostentatiously spacious and decadently furnished hall—

CLANK-CLANK-CLANK-CLANK—

Loud clanking erupted from all around them. The front doors and the entire glass front that framed the lobby’s circumference darkened. Metal shutters unfolded and slammed down, locking them inside.

Eva shouted a curse, distorted through the plas-steel mask over her face.

The thumping of combat boots spilled into the hall, and the guards that approached now were armed with even heavier weapons than the first wave. Immediately upon entering from the far end, they smashed riot shields into the floor to take cover behind them, issuing the same orders for surrender as the ones intercepting the elevator.

Only seconds too late.

The door to the nearby stairwell slammed shut behind Sverigund, where the two women had already run off to. The commanding officer barked orders at the others, splitting to secure every way upstairs.

Halfway to the fifth floor and already out of breath, Sverigund panted between words when she said, “We need to make it to the CTO’s office. There’s a security override there, it’s our only hope of—”

“Forget about it,” Eva cut in. “Keep moving. I will get us off the rooftop!”

“What? How?” Sverigund shouted at her, audibly growing more desperate and fearful for her life now. “The building has an automated anti-air gun that will take out any airlifts!”

“There won’t be any airlift,” growled Eva.

“What? Are you insane?”

Volleys of bullets rained from above, spraying them with sparks where shots ricocheted off metal railings. Eva kicked open the nearest fire exit and motioned hectically for Sverigund to go there, which she did. They escaped the bullet storm and charged down red-carpeted hallways with beautifully warm lighting.

Using a submachine gun that she had claimed from one of the guards, Eva pointed it at a man in a three-piece suit with dark rings under his eyes, who stepped outside of his office to inspect the sudden explosion of commotion.

“Get down!”

His eyes went wide, and he dove back inside his office, slamming the door shut behind him.

A blinding light flared up to their left, forcing Sverigund to shield her eyes, and the rumbling of helicopter rotors made every window vibrate ominously. Over a loudspeaker, the pilot of the gunship shouted at them.

“Surrender now! We are by law authorized to exert lethal force if you fail to comply!”

The two women froze as the combat helicopter hovered just outside the floor they were on. The stretch from them to the other end of the hallway and relative safety of the next stairwell gaped dangerously wide.

Eva hissed at Sverigund, “Run.” Then she added with more ferocity, “Run faster than you’ve ever run before in your life.”

They bolted.

The rotating barrels of the gun mounted underneath the chopper’s nose began to spin until their discordant whine pierced even glass.

The ensuing cacophony was apocalyptic.

Windowfronts exploded, walls were torn apart, desks ripped to shreds, the man in the suit dismembered with screams that were drowned out by the tidal wave of noise. The rapid rhythmic thundering of the gunship’s cannon sliced across the entire floor, relentlessly raining death and destruction.

Sharpe did not even blink while he watched his orders end a life. The kind of cost he had long calculated as acceptable if this meant the leak was liquidated.

Shards of broken wood, brass furnishings, trashed computers—all sorts of debris lay scattered across the seventh floor when the chopper’s gatling stopped firing.

Eva dragged Sverigund up some steps, but there was no way she would survive. The undercover infiltrator disguised as lab scientist had a deadly hole in her belly that wept with excessive amounts of blood pumping from it.

She had not run fast enough.

Eva clutched her and pleaded with her. Shook her in desperation.

“Please, tell me, quickly. How do I reach ‘M’? Please! Tell me!”

One last groan escaped the late “Doctor Sverigund”, ending in a raspy gasp on her final breath.

Nothing of use.

Then her head slumped lifelessly against Eva’s shoulder.

The princess dropped her and jolted into standing, knowing she had no time to lose—the thundering of combat boots quickly closed in on her. She whipped out a third gun and fired it, launching a hook and thin wire upwards. It latched onto a railing and the wire recoiled and zipped at breakneck speed until it stretched taut. With a sudden jerk, it propelled Eva upwards and bullets from small arms began to tear up plaster and metal of the stairwell all around her. With the volatile momentum, she launched herself up several flights, hurtling over the edge with a somersault and painfully rolling into cover in a way that would leave her with many welts and bruises.

Staggered volleys of bullets kept flying up the stairwell, but she did not pause, kicking through the door she had secured for exit upon infiltrating the building in the first place.

She charged straight up a thin metal stairway and emerged onto a rooftop where howling winds cut across the surface, right underneath the gigantic glowing logo of M-Tek.

Losing no time, she took a running start and leapt right off the edge of the rooftop.

In freefall, the coils along her suit hissed and a pitch-black glider unfolded from her back and limbs, connecting and solidifying into a winged kite midair. Like a human rocket, she glided past the rising gunship, its floodlight sweeping every top floor of the M-Tek high-rise in search of intruders, and narrowly missing her. Their instruments would also fail to detect her.

The prototype Phantom suit carried Eva away and her flight path arced in a sharp curve, swooping past other tall buildings until she was swallowed by the city skyline on Sharpe’s camera feeds. He kept tapping a pen to switch from camera to camera until he fully lost track of her.

Mister Mole Rat meowed as he hopped off the CEO’s lap and sauntered around the luxurious office. Sharpe got up and visited his private bar. He helped himself to a glass of the most expensive whiskey in the world, which he cradled in a palm while he returned to his intercom.

He pressed the button and spoke, “Call off the chopper. Your work is done. I trust you can tackle debriefing without me.”

Sharpe awaited answer and killed the transmission after he had spoken. He walked over to the window of his office, where he overlooked the nightly skyline of New Port City. He savored the scent of his whiskey, taking a timid sip from it.

His phone rang.

He sensed what was coming next and smiled to himself.

He tapped the earbud in his right ear.

“This is Desmond Sharpe. How can I help you?” No real question to his words, just a cold and smugly smoky voice that could sell refrigerators to people living in the arctic.

“You slime bag,” Eva spat into the phone, causing him to adjust the headset volume. “What the hell was that? We had her.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific. I am a very busy man, Swan.”

“Oh, spare me!” she yelled. “I know you know what happened, you slime. And you sound exactly like I expected you to sound.”

“Hm? How’s that?”

“I know you’re happy with today’s outcome. But I swear, this is gonna bite you in the ass. I was this close to learning about ‘M’, you homicidal prick.”

Sharpe took another sip from his cup and smacked his lips. Pursed them. Savored the taste.

“Shame, really. But that mishap was on you.”

The silence that followed was filled with the fuming rage of Eva, finding no words of hers to express it other than, “We better never meet in person.”

“I agree,” he said, intonating it almost musically. “I’m glad you see things my way.”

“Fuck off.” She hung up.

Sharpe smirked and sat back down to finish his whiskey as he gazed at the glittering skyline of New Port City, then turned to other matters while Mister Mole Rat pranced about his penthouse-sized office.

The sociopath would be sleeping soundly that night.

[timptoe]

Small Comforts

And my second fic for ShenkoSummer2023 for @palimpsetus on AO3 is pure fluff: her Shepard OC Anna and Kaidan spend a lovely day on a tropical island where the upstanding Canadian gets his ass kicked in beach volleyball and then breaks into a lighthouse. So much fun to write. Read the whole thing on AO3.

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Late night, come home Work sucks, I know She left me roses by the stairs Surprises let me know she cares - Blink-182, “All the Small Things”

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It’s the small comforts, Kaidan thinks, that matter most.

The sound of ocean surf. The gentle heat of the sun. A warm breeze on his bare back as he lands prone in the sand. The thunk of a volleyball as it lands a good few feet away from his outstretched fists.

Maybe not that last one.

“That’s game, human!” comes the nasally salarian voice from the other side of the net.

Kaidan groans, resting where he landed after that last futile dive, the sandpapery grit on his cheek a fitting punishment. Dying of embarrassment has gotta be more humiliating than dying to a husk, right?

This was supposed to be a vacation. A well-earned vacation. A well-earned, relaxing, boring, “thanks for taking out the biggest threat to the galaxy in literal eons and somehow living through it!” vacation. All he wanted was to sit on a beach, hold Anna’s hand, and maybe sip some sort of tropical drink. Fruity. With a little paper umbrella in it. He was even willing to wear sunscreen to keep his pasty Canadian skin from turning the color of a krogan warlord. That’s gotta count for something, right?

“Woo! Good job, babe!” a slightly tipsy, dark-haired woman shouts from the sideline.

He rolls his eyes and tries to sink deeper into the sand.

“Eh, come on, habibi,” a warm baritone says, an outstretched hand appearing in his peripheral vision. “Best two out of three?”

Kaidan huffs, grabbing the man’s hand and allowing himself to be hauled to his feet. Sand is caked on the side of his face and most of his torso, and his hair feels like it’s been styled with an entire sand dune. He’s pretty sure he looks as pathetic as he feels.

The expression on his face must match his attitude, because his erstwhile partner chuckles and claps his back sympathetically. “Cheer up, Kaidan,” Mehtab says, surreptitiously wiping off his now-sandy hand, “you did pretty well for your first time!”

Kaidan, nonplussed, manages a half-smile. “Thanks. I think I’m, uh, gonna sit the next one out.”

“Aw, but we were just getting started, wasiim!” Mehtab says, looking Kaidan up and down and grinning.

Kaidan full-on blushes, drawing a delighted laugh out of the other man. What I wouldn’t give to hear a Reaper horn right now.“Next time, maybe.”

“Next time, then,” Mehtab says with a wink, before picking up the volleyball and cajoling the gathered crowd to produce his “next handsome partner to challenge these two unbeaten salarians!”

Kaidan, for his part, trudges his way back to the beach chairs and the tipsy dark-haired woman in the flowy sundress, stylish sunglasses, and comically oversized wicker hat. “Babe, you were amazing!” the woman calls out, clapping as he approaches.

“We lost by ten points,” he grumbles as he flops petulantly into his chair, scattering sand everywhere.

“Yeah, that’s because you were staring at that guy’s ass more than the ball, babe,” she teases.

He looks across the beach at where Mehtab has pulled some unlucky twink onto the court to be the salarians’ next victim, admiring his bronzed muscles and blindingly white smile. “What can I say? It’s a nice ass,” he says evenly.

“Second nicest one out there,” she muses.

He turns to the woman and arches an eyebrow. “Also, ‘babe’? Really?”

She peers over her sunglasses at him, eyes twinkling with unrestrained mirth. “What? We’re on vacation, it’s a whole tourist…thing, isn’t it?”

Kaidan just harrumphs.

“I could just call you Major,” she sasses.

“You know I still technically outrank you, right?” he retorts, placing a hand lightly on her armrest as he relaxes back into his chair.

She scoffs. “Maybe by Alliance protocol. I’m pretty sure ‘Savior of the Galaxy’ trumps most other positions, Major.”

He entwines his fingers with hers and gives a gentle squeeze. “Mm. I can think of a few positions to test that theory on, Shepard.”

Anna laughs and swats him with her hat, never letting go of his hand.

Read the rest on AO3.