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bytheangell · 4 years ago

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Hanging By a Moment

Whumptober 2020 prompt: held at gunpoint (Read on AO3)

Magnus is standing alone outside the restaurant when, through the thin fabric of his shirt, he feels the distinct press of cold metal against his back. Every muscle in his body tenses at once - he doesn’t need to be able to see what it is to instinctively know what’s happening.

“Don’t move, don’t yell,” a deep voice orders, then waits a few seconds to make sure Magnus is going to comply. He does, remaining silent and still. “Now turn around, hands where I can see them. Don’t try anything stupid.”

Magnus does as he’s told, but very slowly, trying to buy himself time to think. A million thoughts rush through his mind, but two stand out more than the others. The first is that Alec is going to walk outside and see this, and that is not going to go well. The second is that he’s in real danger here. Actual, life-threatening danger, from something so goddamn mundane as a street robbery.

On any other day - hell, even on this day about four hours prior - Magnus could’ve used his magic to easily disarm a mundane man with a gun. But now, after using every last drop of his magic between a demanding spell for a client and a surprise demon attack he hadn’t expected to help the Shadowhunters with, Magnus is tapped out. That’s why he’s walking home with Alec instead of portaling, and why they’re buying food on the way instead of snapping it into the apartment, ready to go.

Magnus isn’t sure he'd be able to flick the weapon away if he tried, and he certainly couldn’t raise a solid enough barrier in front of him if the man shoots.

Apparently, Magnus isn’t turning fast enough: rough hands grab him by the shoulder and force Magnus around to face his assailant. It’s already difficult to see in the dark, with the neon of the restaurant sign the only light between distant streetlamps. Whoever it is only has their eyes visible, the rest of their face obscured by a hat and bandana tied over their nose and mouth - not that Magnus is paying much attention to aesthetics. His eyes are drawn to the barrel of the gun pointed at him instead, and he wonders if this is how his centuries of life will come to an end. Decades of war and battles and standing up against more injustices than he can list, facing down other warlocks, werewolves and vampires and Nephilim and literal demons… he survived all of that, and a mundane being hard-up for cash may be what finally ends the life of Magnus Bane.

“I don’t have much on me,” Magnus admits, which is true. “There’s some cash in my wallet. I can grab it for you-” Magnus lowers his hands to reach for his wallet, only to pull them back up by his head when the man takes a step closer.

“No! Hands up,” the robber says, just as the door behind Magnus opens and he tenses all over again, knowing exactly who walked out.

“Alexander, darling, I’m going to advise you to stay there, please.” It takes every last ounce of self-control for him to not turn back around and look at Alec.

Magnus hears Alec take a step forward anyway, and the gun shifts from Magnus to a spot over his shoulder, which is exactly what Magnus was afraid of. The gunman is jumpy now, outnumbered even though Magnus’ hands are empty and Alec’s are full of takeout bags.

“How about we all take a second and calm down,” Magnus advises, partially for his own benefit considering the fact that his heartbeat has doubled, if not tripled, in pace since Alec stepped outside. At least now the gun is trained back on him instead of Alec.

Magnus isn’t sure if Alec’s strength and speed runes are active from the fight still, or if he’d have time to activate them or be able to beat a bullet if he tries to make a move. What Magnus is sure of is that he’d rather not find out the answer.

He’s very aware that having a gun aimed at him being the best option is not saying much for the current situation.

“Magnus-” Alec’s voice is strained and frightened, and Magnus is actually glad he can’t see his face right now because he isn’t sure he could handle whatever expression he’d find there. He can probably count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Alec visibly ruffled, and every time was over an injured sibling. It’s a look he doesn’t think he could stomach seeing on Alec here and now, because of him, and especially not if Magnus being the cause of Alec’s worry makes him try something foolishly heroic.

“I’m fine,” Magnus cuts in, not wanting the attention back on Alec. “We’re all fine. Just take the goddamn wallet and go,” Magnus snaps, now also on edge in a way he wasn’t before Alec was in danger, too. Magnus nods toward his right side and the man, gun still in hand, steps forward to reach into Magnus’ pants pocket and pull out the wallet.

Magnus is conscious of the sound of bags crackling behind him, Alec’s grip on them likely tightening anxiously. He doesn’t turn around to confirm and instead keeps a neutral, placating expression that never leaves the masked man.

The robber eyes them both, maybe wondering what else he can get off the two of them, when the sound of voices at the other end of the street spook him, and he takes off instead.

Magnus watches him go until he’s certain the guy isn’t going to change his mind and turn back around, and then in a very undignified moment his knees go weak and Alec drops the takeout bags to the ground to catch Magnus before he falls.

“Magnus!” Alec says, supporting Magnus before moving them both to a bench a few feet away. “Are you alright?”

“Physically, yes. My pride, on the other hand-” Magnus tries to joke, but the tremor in his voice gives away how shaken up by the event he truly is.

“Let me call Cat, she can portal us home and-”

“No,” Magnus says, shaking his head. “No, I’m fine. I think that was just a moment of shock. I just… need a minute.”

“You’re shaking,” Alec points out as if Magnus isn’t aware. His hands are trembling as much as his legs even though he’s sitting down. “I should-”

“One fucking minute, Alexander, please,” Magnus snaps, and Alec falls silent and still beside him. Magnus takes a few deep breaths, willing his body to stop betraying him like this.

“I’m sorry,” are the first words he says once his voice is level again, his pulse no longer racing. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed,” Alec dismisses. “What do you need?”

They’ve had this talk before, when Magnus needs a moment to think something through before making an important decision, even if it’s an emergency, or when he’s upset and needs a moment to distance himself from whatever’s upsetting him before reacting. Having people toss out offers and suggestions is too overwhelming - asking him what he needs seems to work best, which is exactly what Alec does now.

They’re both going through an ordeal, and Magnus obviously doesn’t blame Alec for being a little too insistent in trying to help him.

“Nothing. I really just needed a moment,” Magnus promises. He’s fine. Alec’s fine. He won’t miss the wallet or the money inside (though he will miss several of the personal photos kept within). He’s safe, and Alec is safe, and that’s all that matters.

“I wouldn’t have let him hurt you, Magnus,” Alec says, bringing a hand up to cup Magnus’ cheek so he’s forced to look at him, to see the serious expression on his face and the weight of that promise. “I hung back because you said to, but if he made a move…” Alec takes a deep breath to keep himself from getting too worked up over what-ifs. “You know I’ll always protect you, Magnus.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Magnus mutters under his breath, not really meaning for Alec to hear him but the words come out a bit louder than he intends in his bitterness.

“Of course I should-” “I should be able to protect myself! Hell, I should be able to protect both of us, and instead, I was useless back there!” Magnus says, and though his tone is sharp it’s obviously not anger aimed at Alec, but at himself.

“You weren’t useless,” Alec insists. “You de-escalated a situation that could’ve ended with someone hurt, or dead. And the only reason your magic is tapped out is because you came to protect me earlier. I don’t know about you, but none of that seems particularly ‘useless’ to me.”

Magnus knows there’s truth to Alec’s words, even if he can’t bring himself to feel properly comforted by them - not while his fight-or-flight instincts are still on high alert on the city street, half-expecting the man to come back and prove Magnus right by finishing what he started.

Magnus’ eyes drift to the bags of takeout on the pavement, the contents of the broken containers soaking through the bag and spilling out onto the ground. “Looks like we need new food,” he frowns. “But…”

“What is it?” Alec asks.

It feels ridiculous to admit that he’s still shaken up enough that the idea of staying out longer without his magic is seriously distressing. He knows Alec won’t judge, but at this point, Magnus is judging himself. He’s better than this - he should be better than this. He’s been in situations like this before, situations much more dangerous than the one he was just in... but never without his magic, and that’s what makes all the difference. Sure, Alec probably could’ve taken the guy, but it’s the fact that Magnus couldn’t - that he froze in the moment - that bothers him.

“I don't particularly want to be out any longer than we have to right now,” Magnus confesses. “I don’t want a portal,” he adds quickly because as uncomfortable as he is, they're only a few blocks away at this point. Realistically, he knows that standing next to Alec makes the chance of anyone trying to get the jump on the both of them much more unlikely. “But I’d rather not make any detours.”

Alec hesitates slightly, and Magnus knows him well enough to know he’s debating suggesting they call Cat again despite Magnus’ insistence not to. It’d be endearing if Magnus’ nerves weren’t frayed to the point of snapping.

“If that’s what you want,” Alec agrees at length, resigning himself to following Magnus’ lead whether he agrees with it or not. “We aren’t far from the Loft, let’s get back and order delivery?” Alec offers. He doesn’t stand to leave yet, waiting for Magnus to answer first before doing anything.

“Yeah, okay,” Magnus agrees, standing up from the bench. His legs still feel a little shaky, but he doesn’t wobble. “That sounds good.”

Alec wraps his arm around Magnus’ waist and pulls him in close, an action that’s equal parts protective and comforting. For a moment Magnus nearly pulls away, instinctively wanting to prove that he’s fine enough to handle himself again. And he is… except he doesn’t want to pull away.

Instead, Magnus allows himself to lean into the touch, embracing those feelings of support and safety and doing his best not to feel weak for needing them.

#malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #shadowhunters #tsc #tw: gun #cw: gun #IT'S A HAPPY ENDING I SWEAR #continuing to yeet these whumptober prompts from months ago out into the void so I don't look at them every day in my WIPs folder jkfljdskl #long post #elle writes a few deadbeat lines

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pietropatrol · 4 years ago

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Păpuşă (Part 3)

Read Part 1 Part 2

A/N: Fic Friday is back!

Pietro Maximoff liked to get on your nerves and he was good at it because you were annoyed simply at his mere presence. Now Steve has sent the pair of you on an undercover mission as husband and wife. But the mission may have been more complicated then intended, for more than one reason.

Pairing: Pietro x Reader Warnings: language, angst, kidnap Words: 1,800

3 years ago

Pietro Maximoff was accustomed to attractive women, but something felt different about the one who glided across his line of sight. Y/H/C peaked out from your winter hat, tendrils framing your face. A look of ease in your eyes as you changed direction in a split second, weaving in and out of other not so graceful skaters.

"Piet," the voice of his twin sister pulling his eyes away from you. Wanda struggled to stay upright on the ice.

"You know, for someone with superpowers, you can't skate to save your life." Pietro closed the few feet between them and steadied her. She narrowed his eyes at him.

"And you can?"

"I can at least stand, dear sister. Where did Vision go?" Pietro took her hands and pulled her with him around the rink.

"To get hot chocolate, I'm afraid the line is probably long. He's already been gone for ten minutes."

"He'll be fine, he is the most patient of us all." He reassured Wanda in their native tongue.

You skated into his vision once again, accelerating across open space before throwing yourself into the air and landing perfectly on one foot.

Pietro halted and Wanda stumbled back into you.

You quickly caught her and flashed her a sheepish smile. "Sorry, didn't mean to invade your space. I get carried away on the ice."

"No, no. It was my idiot brother's fault, he should be the one to apologize." Wanda gave Pietro a withering look.

Your Y/E/C landed on the speedster for the first time and a small breath caught in your throat. The smirk that seemed to be at home on his face invited you in as he regarded you with intrigue.

"I'm Wanda, and this is Pietro." Wanda stepped to the side to allow Pietro into the conversation, leaving the space in between the pair of you open. He offered out his hand.

"I'm Y/N." You took it, his hand engulfing your own.

“It is… nice to me you, Y/N.” Your name rolling off his tongue sent a thrill through you.

“Hot chocolate?” Vision floated into the group, balancing 3 Styrofoam cups in hand. You recognized the android.

Adrenaline shot through you when you realized who the siblings were associated with. You had been careless coming to New York City. The Avengers had been beginning to target your assignment when you had escaped. They must have known you worked for the Rambovas. Now they were here to get you.

“Long line?” Wand inquired as she plucked the cup from the top.

“I probably could have gone to your favorite coffee shop on the other side of town and it would have been quicker.” Vision passed another cup to Pietro. Vision’s attention turned to you, literally frozen on the spot. You had iced yourself into the skates and onto the rink. “Um, sorry, my apologies. I’m Vision.” He gave an awkward wave.

“I-I ha-have to go.” Maybe they weren’t here for you, but you weren’t going to stick around to find out. There was a loud shatter as you yanked yourself of the rink, cracking the ice around you.

“Wait!“ Pietro made to dart after you, but Wanda held him back. She looked from the fractured ice to Vision.

“That’s not normal.”

Vision frowned. “Indeed, we will bring it up with the team as soon as we get back. We should be able to track her down.”

****

Now

A neat stack of books on your desk by the same author piqued Pietro’s interest. The spines were cracked and frayed like you had read them a million times. Pietro knew you liked to read, but he had never seen you read this series.

He glanced behind his shoulder to your sleeping form, counting your deep breaths to make sure you were not pretending to get out having to explain your past to Pietro. He had pushed you for more information, but you insisted you needed to sleep off whatever they had injected the pair of you with.

“I have nothing else better to do,” he murmured to himself. Pietro grabbed the book off the top, he knew you would have put them in order. The memory of you moving into his room and meticulously organizing your bookshelf was bittersweet. You had trusted him completely and the way you openly adored him made his stomach churn with regret. The past year had only been scowls and annoyance. But it was an improvement from your empty eyes.

Pietro sat on the floor in a corner of the room, keeping you in his line of sight. With a heavy sigh at yours and his predicament, he opened the book to try and not think about it for the time being.

It was an easy read, even for Pietro whose English reading skills still weren’t the greatest. The books seemed to be written for young teen girls, that was what he could glean from the first few chapters. The main character was a 16-year-old girl pulled into a world of teens with special abilities being used as spies. The fifth chapter had him physically pause.

“Y/N Y/L/N?” he traced your name with his finger, trying to make sense of it. Your name was a character in the book. He read further. She was a 16-year-old, experienced spy for the Government, abilities she would not disclose, and closed off to the main character. Suspicion wormed into Pietro’s brain. What was the likelihood you coincidently shared a name with a character in the book who was almost the equivalent of your real life? You weren’t closed off, at least when you and Pietro were speaking terms, and he was very much aware of your abilities. From both a positive and negative receiving end. But you had abilities and worked for someone before the Avengers. Was Y/N even your name? Why had you never told him about any of this?

The suspicion only grew the more he read on. Personality-wise, as Pietro knew you, you didn’t share much in common with the character. But stylistically as she was described and some of her common phrases were too familiar.

You began to stir, still feeling a slight numbness from the sedative. A groan escaped your lips as you pushed yourself up, they had not been gentle transporting your body.

“Piet…ro?” You silently cussed yourself out for almost using his pet name, but not seeing him upon waking up stoked a level of concern you had suppressed.

“Down here.” His tone was flat and clipped. You looked over to the corner of your room by your closet. He met your eyes with a level gaze and he frowned at you. “Care to explain something to me?” He held up a book, his thumb holding his place in the book. He had already read about half of it.

Dread washed over you, but you kept a calm demeanor. “My favorite book as a kid? What about it?”

“Don’t play dumb, Y/N. If that’s even your name.” He dog eared his page, you had to stop from yelling at him for doing that, because that was not an argument he would want to entertain. Pietro’s eyes had narrowed in on you and he was going to focus on what he wanted to.

“Y/N is my name. It’s the only name I’ve known.” That wasn’t a lie.

“You’re omitting, omitting is lying, remember?” Pietro used your own words against you. Goddammit, sometimes he was too good at reading you.

“Oh, I remember. You want to bring that up, right now?” You rose an eyebrow, you didn’t want to bring it up either, but if it distracted from the line of questioning you would stomach it.

“Something tells me you have been hiding something bigger since I met you on day one.” He threw the book back on your desk and closed the distance between you.

“Bigger than you sticking your—” You started to snark.

“Y/N! I am not having this conversation again. I’ve profusely apologized for it and admitted my mistake. We’re talking about you, not me, right now.”

“I don’t know what you want to know!”

Pietro threw his arms up and gestured wildly around the room. “Everything! What have you not told me? What have you not told the team?”

“I didn’t think it mattered!” You defended yourself.

“Didn’t think it mattered? It got us captured. You said you went to boarding school.”

“Technically it is a school and everyone boards here at one point or another.”

“Wow, so I get my ass chewed out by you for omitting, but this whole time y—” Pietro was interrupted by the beeping of your door.

You tensed as Moreau stepped into the room. “Trouble in paradise?” He smirked at you. “You didn’t tell your poor hubby about your accomplishments here at the academy? You’re not ashamed of your family, now are you?”

“You are not my family,” you hissed.

“Tsk-tsk, that’s not a nice thing to say. We grew up together.” Moreau tossed a bag of clothes at you. “Get changed, both of you. The Baroness would like to meet you, Mr. Maximoff.”

Moreau turned on his heel to leave but paused in the doorway. “You better hope she’s in a good mood.”

He just the door, leaving a small crack and you pulled Pietro to you. Your lips hovering near his.

“Y/N, what are—”

“Sh,” you whispered as quiet as you possibly could, “Moreau is probably listening in, possibly spying. Go along with whatever I say from now on. We are married, we met when you were still with Hydra undergoing experimentation, you proposed at the Rockefeller center when we were ice skating—”

“That’s where we met—”

“I know, I know, just…trust me. Okay? Can you do that? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You don’t?” A small smirk appeared on his.

“Not the right time. Do you trust me?”

“I always have until now. But yes,” he nodded and gently kissed you. “We got married on my parents’ anniversary, October twenty-third, in Central Park with just the team around. The leaves were changing, the air was crisp, and you looked beautiful in your dress, sexy even. Goosebumps covered your skin, not from your exposed back and cold, of course, but from the rush of getting to marry me—”

“Slightly smug, but I will let it pass,” you murmured, “Continue?”

“We held a dinner at that hipster Biergarten you love, drank hot apple cider mixed with whiskey, and instead of wedding cake, we had donuts. As we danced, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to have married a woman as beautiful, smart, and cunning as you.”

You sucked in a shaky breath; his words had brought life to a film in your head. Pietro had thought about this before, and it hurt that it had never gotten to be his reality.

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wordynerdygurl · 5 years ago

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Bruises and Baths

Author’s Note: Hello everyone! Something amazing happened over this last weekend. While millions were watching the “Big Game” some of my mutuals came up with a wonderful way to honor the amazing, talented writers here on tumblr. @authorspotlight is a blog for showcasing a weekly author, at random, just to promote their great work and keep the haters at bay! Interested? Follow that blog! We’ve a great little community starting up and I would love, love, love to see you all there!! P.S. Comments, shares, reblogs are appreciated!! I love the love!! P.P.S. shout out to the creator of this amazing gif! >swoon< Summary/ Request: This story came from a request by one of my sweet little followers. After a wild night with Loki, you, dear reader are sore and tired. What does aftercare look like from the God of Lies? Pairing: Loki x Female Reader Warnings: References bondage, rough SMUT, then just fluffy, lovey, romantic SMUT

As the back of your thighs met the supple leather of the conference room chair you nearly cried out. Memories from last night made your knees weak and your panties damp as a jolt of pain shot through you. It had been like this all day, fraying your nerves and your patience.

Biting back a moan, grabbing onto the conference table's ledge, you willed your wayward body to relax. One more meeting then back to your apartment upstairs, a cup of tea and a shower. And Advil. Lots of Advil.

"Everything alright darling?" Loki's voice, honey hot, humming in your ear sent a shiver through your aching body. He knew it wasn't alright. Oh yes, he knew very well, but you weren't about to give him the satisfaction of needling you.

Trying to sound unaffected, "Me? Yes. I'm just fine, thank you."

Refocusing on the paperwork in your hands, smoothing your skirt over your tender bottom, you gingerly sat for the afternoon meeting. Perching on the very edge of your chair, back straight, you struggled to appear professional, giving Loki none of your attention. Could Loki allow that? Hardly!

Sliding into the chair next to you, leaning into your space, "I do love your blouse. High neck line, very demure." Dropping his voice an octave, "Good for hiding behind, I suspect."

Attempts to avoid the handsome God, who was so close that his amber scent was swallowing you, were heading out the window. Loki managed to make your body, your physical being, react to him in ways you couldn't overlook.

Playing with the chunky statement necklace that lay on top of your turtleneck, intent on ignoring the mischievous man at your side,"Go away Loki."

Flashing out a silent warning, your eyes peered into his, almost daring him to continue. With a searching glance Loki settled in beside you without another word. Too tired and too sore to spar with him, you turned your attention to the presentation Steve Rogers was starting, almost grateful for the droning distraction.

Feeling your eyes drop closed, heavy from your active night and lack of sleep, you struggled to follow Steve's sonorous voice. Right now it felt more like a lullaby than life saving information. You realized that this was the most comfortable you had been all day and mentally decided to let sleep claim you. Apologizing to Steve would be easier than staying awake just now.

Reaching past you for a water glass, Loki made sure to rub his arm across your chest, waking you fully. A stuttering gasp left you because your nipples, bruised and abraded, were purposefully agitated by Loki's intentional fumbling. "Fuck, Loki!" Whispering for him alone, you glared at his smug smile, now awake and more than slightly aroused.

"What? Is something wrong?" His innocent act was almost as irritating as the rub of your clothes against your abused flesh.

"You know damn well what's wrong." Steve was staring at you, clearly aware that you and Loki had both checked out of his talk. But it was too late. The meeting was over, as was the workday, and you couldn't have been more relieved.

Rising as quickly as your bruised knees allowed, you scooted out before you could be chastised by your leader, trying to outrun Loki too. It didn't work.

He caught you outside the elevator, gripping your wrists tight, pressing his normally delicate fingers against the bracelet of welts you sported today."Shit, Loki! That hurts!"

Instantly releasing you, Loki pressed the call button, a frown creasing his noble brow. "Did you put the lotion on today? The cream I left for you?"

Tugging at the hem of your skirt, hoping no one could see your purple marked thighs, you denied Loki eye contact. "No. I forgot alright? But, ya know, this… this sucks."

Arriving with a ding, you both boarded the elevator, the conversation on hold. In the privacy of the lift, pushing you into the mirrored wall, Loki's mouth dropped to yours. Denying him your lips, you turned away, pouting a little.

Chuckling darkly, "Hard to get, is that it pet? Isn't this what got you into trouble last night?"

"Don't remind me about last night. How could I possibly forget? Every time I move, every step I take, I can feel it, Loki." Your words are angry but your tone? That's whiny. Loki's just so close to you. And your body, betraying, pushes your chest out craving more connection, even if it makes you bite back a whimper.

Missing nothing, Loki's voice full of sin, "Are you saying that it's my fault you can't sit properly? Or... that I'm the reason you're covered from throat to wrist?"

"Um…" That is exactly what you were saying, but with Loki nipping at your earlobe you were forgetting why.

Humid breath husked across your throat carrying the scent of Loki's afternoon espresso. Tracing your jawline with his talented tongue, Loki tisked at you, "Am I the reason you can't walk straight this morning?" Uh oh. This is exactly what he wanted. Admission of submission.

His hand slid under your skirt, lifting it higher as he nosed against your jaw. "Because I loved sucking everyone of those hickeys on to your body while you were handcuffed to my bed, mewling with need."

"Loki…" You felt your center blaze to liquid life. Nuzzling into your covered neck, Loki's arms course over your own, raising them over your head. Pinning you against the mirrored wall of the ascending elevator, "Those breasts of yours, so soft, so full, are covered in my fingerprints. I can still taste your firm, tight nipples. Licking them and biting them while you cried my name was so enticing, pet."

God, you remembered it all. Each affliction, each sharp touch, roaring to life in your mind. Recalling the sexual adventures of the night before was making you weak willed and warm.

Stopping at your floor, the doors parted on a thankfully empty hallway. Taking you by the hand, Loki pulled you toward the room you shared, causing you to stumble over your heels. "Keep up kitten…"

Holding the door for you, Loki slapped your bottom as you passed by. Somehow your legs kept you upright but you still yelped at the stinging smack. Fresh hurt washing over the embers of yesterday's rough play set you whimpering.

Coming up behind you, wrapping you up in his iron banded arms, "Take off your clothes."

Without waiting for a reply, Loki crossed the floor, shutting the bathroom door after him. Your mind wanted to resist his domineering demand. The rebellious side of your nature needed to, but your body was already flush with want.

Interest piqued by Loki's behavior, desire drawing your hands to act without direct input from your brain, you slipped off your shoes. With a sigh, your sore shoulder stretching, you shrugged off your top, letting it drop to the floor. It was shortly joined by your skirt.

Popping his dark head around the bathroom door, "Darling?"

Seeing you in your underclothes, looking more exposed than if you were fully bare, Loki licked over his bottom lip. Sexy as hell, that's what you were, covered in the lavender and scarlet stains of his passion. Although, if he was honest, maybe he had been too rough on you last night.

Turning as he neared, you noticed his jacket was gone, shirt sleeves rolled up. Those strong forearms, which could hold you down and force your pleasure from you, or gather you into a bone cracking hug, were on delicious display. Loki was so impossibly masculine in moments like this, it was no wonder you let him talk you into realizing your wildest fantasies.

Reaching for the hooks on your bra, Loki saw you wince, and it softened him even more. As happy as he had been to restrain you, taste you, tease you, Loki was now over eager to soothe away your hurts. Good thing he already had a plan in motion.

"Come on, dove." Threading his fingers through yours, you trailed Loki to your shared bathroom, the warm scents of vanilla and coconut filling the space. Almost overflowing, the tub was loaded with creamy lather, tendrils of steam rising from the surface. It called to your weary body.

Brushing his hands over your shoulders, Loki kissed along the nape of your neck, gathering your hair to one side. From behind you, he circled your waist, hands slipping under the waist of your panties. As they slide over your thighs, Loki follows, kneeling in order to help you out of them completely.

With his sturdy size for support you stepped into the scalding water, settling in slowly with a gentle groan. Sitting outside your bath, Loki used the same hands that had spanked your bottom pink to swipe sudsy soap across your neck, releasing the tension you carried all day. Following with a soaked washcloth, Loki began to wash you, worship you, with each soothing swipe.

Shifting slightly, you gave Loki full access to your bobbing breasts, hungry for his touch once more. Dipping under the water, you felt him ghost over your legs, his hands quick, never lingering very long. You were cooing quietly, Loki getting high on the soft sounds escaping you at each pass of his palms.

To him you sounded like a happy cat, purring in pleasure, unwound. Eyes closed, leaning into the back wall of the deep tub, Loki could swear you were melting. "May I… may I wash your hair?"

His request was whisper soft, just shy of timid, and so adorable that your heart fluttered at his sweetness. Biting your bottom lip, nodding, you put yourself completely in Loki's capable hands. "Keep your eyes shut, dove."

"Yes…"

Pouring smoothly, Loki traced the flow of the water, separating your hair with his dexterous digits. Heavily lidded eyes watched Loki, the God of Mischief, as he poured shampoo into his hands. Once he was happy with the lather, Loki began working in slow circles, savoring the sensation of your scalp under his fingers.

"Tip you head back, sweetling." Using a hand to keep soap from your eyes, just like a protective mother might, Loki emptied his pitcher over your head. Shivering as the suds sluiced over your heaving chest, you were overcome by the erotic gentleness of your lover.

After rinsing your hair free of bubbles, Loki kissed your upturned forehead, then shifted so that his folded arms laid on the lip of the bathtub. Watching you like that, resting his chin on one arm, the other playing in the cooling water, he was content.

Reaching for his wet fingers, "I think you missed a spot, babe."

"Hmm… did I?" Breaking through the scented suds, Loki's hand slid over your slippery skin, grazing your thigh. Moaning gently, his light touch thrilling, you tipped your head back. Enjoying Loki's quiet exploration of your body, his eyes never left your face, "Gods, you're gorgeous."

Smiling, "Aren't you the God of Lies?"

"I have no reason to lie to you, kitten. And here, now, you are a beautiful water nymph. Tempting and taunting me from your watery lair."

Laughing lowly, "I am no temptress, Loki."

"I beg to differ." His fingers found your fluid folds, two entering you slowly, as Loki leaned in to kiss you deeply. Skimming over your bottom lip, Loki's tongue licked into you, his free hand tangling in your clean hair. Scented water splashed onto the floor as Loki curled his digits against your sweetest spot, soaking him, making you sing out.

Gasping, you gripped the walls of the tub, letting Loki take care of you as your body shook through its release. Safe in his care, cherished and clean, your body softened, satisfaction making you sag into the deep water. When he withdrew, you sat forward, "Not yet, please?"

Using the ledge, Loki rose, chuckling as he lifted your chin. "Take a few more minutes. I'll be back to dry you off in a bit. Don't want you to get pruney, do we?"

"Hmm… no we don't want that!" Sinking back into your warm, wet cocoon, you yawned and shut your eyes.

Too soon, it seemed, Loki was nudging you awake. "Dove? The water's cold now… come on, let's get you to bed."

Stirring, you saw Loki holding out a fluffy towel, ready to dry you off. He helped you stand and made sure you carefully stepped out onto the wet tiled floor. Wrapping you in the comfort of his big bath sheet, you giggled as Loki dried your tresses, then tucked the towel firmly around you.

Leading you to the best looking bed you had ever seen, Loki unwound your terry cloth covering, "Lay down, pet."

You did, happily collapsing into the comforter, laying on your tummy.

"This might be a little cool at first…" Loki's oil filled palms slipped over the sore muscles of your back. Spending some quality time on your tenderized tush, Loki made sure to rub you in delicate circles, smoothing the liniment into your hot skin.

After sliding over the backs of your legs and each arm, "Very carefully roll over, alright?"

Muffled by the downy softness of your bedspread, "Yes, dear."

It took you a few moments to follow Loki's direction. Your body was like melted butter. Soft and pliant, all of the previous night's precious pains soothed away, you were a mushy marshmallow.

Fingers traced over the bites and bumps that marked you as his. Stroking oil over your thighs, your belly, your bruised breasts, you let Loki work. His magical hands anointing you with his attention.

Certain that you had drifted off during his massage, Loki kissed you lightly, gratified that you were comfortable and content. Straightening, Loki stepped out of his trousers, eager to join you in bed. When you felt the mattress dip to accommodate him, you turned towards Loki's warmth,"Thank you, babe. I feel magnificent!"

Gathering you to his side, Loki curled an arm over your middle, his chest to your back. "That pleases me, kitten."

Twisting around in order to face your mischievous man, "I mean it. You take good care of me, Loki."

Twirling a lock of your damp hair in his fingers, "That was always the difference between Thor and myself. I took care of my toys."

Pushing his shoulder, huffing, "I'm not a toy, Loki!"

"I know, I know, it's just I love playing with you so much… You are my favorite plaything. My darling doll."

Pulling him closer, you pressed yourself to Loki, lip to lip and hip to hip. You both let the kiss deepen, drawing you tighter together, when Loki tucked his forehead to yours. "Sleep now, darling."

Nodding with a deep yawn, you let Loki wrap the thick blanket around you, snuggling into the security of his arms. Arms that could bring you to ecstasy easily. Arms that could rock you to sleep. Arms that belonged to Loki... arms that belonged around you.

To my Minxes: @lots-of-loki @brokenthelovely @vodka-and-some-sass @iamverity @just-random-obsessions @archy3001 @jessiejunebug @nonsensicalobsessions @thefallenbibliophilequote @mizfit2 @alexakeyloveloki @rorybutnotgilmore @procrastinatinglikeabitch @peterman-spideyparker

#loki x you #loki x reader #loki smut #hot loki #loki aftercare #loki dom #loki fanfic #loki #mcu smut #marvel smut

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spiderman-homecomeme · 4 years ago

Photo

kiss you once (and then some more)

🎄The Twelve Days of Promptmas🎄 - Day Three

concept: mistletoe kisses

❆❆❆

when i close my eyes (it’s just you and i)

It’s almost a mystery, why he’d ever agreed to put himself through the torture of end of the semester gift shopping for the mentally and emotionally exhausted teachers at Midtown. It’s mid-December on a Saturday afternoon. The Karens are out in full force. The shitty jazz cover of Baby, It’s Cold Outside has lasted so long, he wonders if it’s just on an endless loop.

But... he figures if it buys him precious time he gets to spend with MJ, then as far as he’s concerned, it’s all pretty worth it.

He’s behind her at a loose follow, his hand shoved into his pockets as he glances around the aisles, trying not to only look at her.

(He’s slightly successful at that.)

It’s funny how he could almost get lost, seeing her expressions shift as she peruses the shelves, her lips twisting in thought as she picks up various pieces of festive art work. It’s all cheesy, of course it is, though none of those seem to draw any sort of reaction from her. But, the dozens and dozens of Meet Me Under the Mistletoe’s get kind of old.

Though she doesn’t make any verbal indication of her dislike, her face says it all. Brows scrunched ever so slightly, mouth pulled back just a bit. It’s subtle, but Peter’s had plenty of experience staring at her face to know exactly what it is.

So, caring and curious friend that he is, asks about it. “What?”

“Eh, nothing,” She says, shrugging, clearly not caring. “Just that the mistletoe stuff is kind of stupid. And a bit creepy, if you think about it. Society only accepts it as a tradition because they think it’s an acceptable way to get someone to kiss you.”

“Oh,” Peter said, nodding quietly. She’s not wrong.

But he’d be lying if he said he’d never thought of meeting MJ under the mistletoe.

Though, after hearing her thoughts, he instantly feels bad for ever thinking that about her in the first place, for ever making her play that role in his overactive imagination.

“But,” Michelle adds, still not taking her attention away from the green and red wall decor. “If there’s mutual feelings, more importantly, if there’s consent, then yeah, I guess it’s fine.”

Of course, he agrees with her. Obviously. But… He’s still in that limbo of not being entirely sure what she means by all this.

“I still think it’s dumb, though,” she concludes.

Peter nods. “Oh, yeah same.” A beat passes, he knocks his hands together, shifting on his feet as his lips purse. He’s not sure why he thinks to open his mouth again, to ask what he’s about to ask, but he does. “So, you’d probably never try it, right?”

She frowns slightly, though it’s not out of upset, only in contemplation. Her brow furrows as she shrugs, and she seems off guard. “Well… I mean—I wouldn’t say… Never…?” Her eyes briefly flick over to him once before training on another interesting sign on the display.

If Peter hadn’t been paying attention, he might not have noticed the slight change in her disposition, the subtle switch from calm and cool to flustered.

And again, he’s a little dumbfounded as to what to do with this. What could have gotten to her?

After a beat, she speaks again, any traces of frayed nerves vanishing just like that. “Yeah, I’d do it with someone I liked and trusted. A friend or something, I don’t know.”

His brain short-circuits for a moment.

“Any of your friends?” He finds himself asking, unable to keep the nervous chuckle from bubbling up out of him.

She tucks an errant curl behind her ear with jittery hands. “Ah—I… I mean. Not just any friend,” she rushes to spit out. “There’s… um—” she swallows, gesturing vaguely. “—one.”

Peter feels his heart jump and skip into his throat, and he just knows that his ears, nose, and cheeks are all turning a bright shade of pink. Though he’s not quite sure if the nervousness he feels is because he thinks she’s talking about someone else—she must be, right?—or if he thinks she’s talking about him.

But, again, as he tries to think of all their friends, it’s a short list considering how small their circle is, and he’s not sure if he’s seen MJ express interest in any of them.

That could also mean jack shit, but it’s fine.

“Ned?” He asks, somehow managing to put a teasing edge to his tone.

MJ huffs out a light laugh. “No,” she replies simply, keeping tight-lipped.

“Cindy?”

She shakes her head again. “Mm-mm.”

“Flash?”

The pointed glare she throws over her shoulder is enough to make him laugh in spite of his overactive nerves. He holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay! Okay! Sorry. Got it. I’ll stop.”

The corner of her lip quirks up into a slight smile, and she shakes her head, biting the inside of her cheek as she goes back to the shelves.

Even though he desperately wants to get to the bottom of this, Peter drops the subject. More than anything, he wants to know who MJ’s thought about kissing under the mistletoe. It fills him with an anxiety he hadn’t known he could feel, the butterflies in his stomach when she looks over at him close to combusting.

He wonders if he’ll ever find out, if she’ll ever feel comfortable enough to tell him. As much as he wants it to be him—God, he wishes it was—he can’t help but feel that it’s gotta be someone else.

After all, it only makes sense.

He and MJ are just friends.

That’s all they’ll ever be, and he’s perfectly fine with that.

somebody waits for you (kiss her once for me)

Flash’s party is like a minefield; a dangerous plane of holly branches hung above every doorway and low-ish railing, all done in the name of his grand scheme to get some holiday action. It works for the most part; he gets a few kisses from willing participants, and merely moonwalks away from those who scoff and turn their nose up at him.

It’s not all that bad, Peter supposes. He just has to watch where he’s standing. Sure, he knows he’s not obligated in any way to kiss anyone, but he’d rather avoid the awkwardness if he can.

The red and green is easy enough for him to spot, just barely visible to where he only has to glance up every few feet.

Though, maybe he’s paying a little too much attention to where the mistletoe is, and not enough to where he’s actually going.

He runs into MJ not ten feet out of the kitchen.

She lets out an uncharacteristic yelp as she tumbles back, but Peter’s quick to catch her, one arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her upright again before she can hit the ground.

“Sorry,” He winces, losing himself for a moment when she doesn’t look away—or pull away, her palm pressed over his heart.

He can’t help but notice how heavily she’s breathing, how fast her heart races in her chest, though he knows that that could very well be from the almost-fall.

“Nice catch,” she breathes, the corner of her lips twitching into half-grin.

A beat passes before Peter realizes he hasn’t said anything, and that he hasn’t let her go yet. Clearing his throat, he yanks his arm away, reaching back to scratch his neck. “You okay?” He asks, suddenly unable to look directly at her.

She stares down at her drink—the one he’s just realized she’d been holding, thankfully not spilled—seeming to bite back a smile.

“Yeah!” She says quickly, nodding. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She rocks back on her heels, lips pressing into a line. Another beat passes. “Where’s Ned?” She finally asks casually.

“With, uh—” Peter coughs. “With Betty.”

MJ gives a single nod, huffing out a single, soft laugh. “Should’ve guessed.” It’s her turn to clear her throat. “Do you wanna… hang out?”

It’s funny that she asks that, because Peter’s sure that’s what his exact wish was just a second before. Neither of them should even have to ask, given their closeness and that they’re already at the same party talking to one another, they’re already “hanging out,” but somehow, this feels different.

Peter nods, and he follows her close behind to a quieter corner of the house—as quiet as it can be, filled to the brim with tipsy, hormonal teenagers and the thumping bass of an aspiring DJ-slash-Influencer.

They stand awkwardly in the corner, Peter finding it harder and harder to keep his eyes off of Michelle; the way one side of her curls is pinned back, her bangs still falling in her face. The way her flowy dress flutters every time someone opens the door to the backyard and a breeze sneaks in.

He realizes after a moment too long of just staring that she’s speaking to him. There’s a shake to her voice, a nervous chuckle under every word she says.

“It’s cool if you don’t want to—”

“No, sorry, I—” He laughs, bashful, feeling a warmth flood his face. “I—didn’t hear you. What did you say?”

Her lips press together as she bites back another anxious laugh. “Um—” She swallows thickly, looking upward. “There’s… That.”

Peter follows her gaze, his mouth falling open when he sees the delicate, but cheesy mistletoe hanging just above them. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Another beat passes.

“I—I um… I made a joke about us. Kissing,” MJ admits, her eyes not meeting his.

“I mean—” Peter lets out a light laugh, blood rushing to his face, ringing in his ears. He feels dizzy, floaty even. “I—I’d be cool. With—with doing that.”

Her eyes flit up to meet his, her lips curving into that cute small smile he’s always liked.

“Oh,” she breathes out, looking down again shyly. “Me, too.”

And then, she leans in, slowly, cautiously. It feels like a million years pass before her lips touch his in the most gentle and softest of kisses, and his head swims at how sweet it all is.

Turns out, kissing his best friend might be one of the best decisions he’s ever made.

maybe we’ll be all the love

The three gentle raps at her window make her heart skip. She swings her legs over the side of her bed as if on instinct, wrapping the knitted blanket around her shoulders as she makes her way to the window—the one that her upside-down boyfriend’s enthusiastically waving at her through.

There’s nothing she can do to hold back her smile, even as she desperately tries to seem nonchalant when she yanks the window open a little too hard.

“Hey,” he says.

She can already hear his dopey smile before he rips his mask off, tossing it in her room behind her, already leaning in—to kiss her, she assumes.

“Hi,” she replies, quirking a brow at him, a hand coming up to his chest, holding him back. “You sure that’s safe to just… show your face like that?” A light laugh bubbles up from her, warmth blooming in her face when he shrugs, clearly not having thought that through, the idea of him being so distracted by the idea of kissing her that he throws all sense of secrecy out the window.

“Eh, I mean—” He chuckles. “You’re the only one who can technically see my face, so…”

She peeks over the window pane, looking up to see that he’s hanging by a web from the above apartment’s balcony.

A shiver ripples through her when the cold December breeze picks up. Her eyes narrow into a glare. “Are you gonna come in? It’s cold. And you’re letting that in here.”

His lips stretch into a cheeky smile. “Can I get a kiss first?”

MJ’s mouth twists, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

“If you come inside, I’ll kiss you.”

“What if I told you there’s mistletoe right above us?”

Her expression is blank. She blinks once at him, not looking up like he wants her to. “There’s not,” she deadpans.

“What if… I’m the mistletoe?”

“Peter—” She almost laughs, wrapping her blanket tighter around her when the cold bites at her skin.

“Web-stletoe…” He muses. “Mistle-web—”

Michelle leans over the window pane, her hands coming to the back of his hand and pulling him to her, capturing his lips into a sweet kiss. It’s awkward at first, with everything being all switched around, flipped upside down, but they quickly settle in to the feeling. She can feel Peter’s lips quirk upward (down for her) into a smile.

Suddenly, she finds the cold not so bad.

When she pulls back, her expression mirrors his own, even as she tries to bite back the dopey grin.

A light giggle bursts from him, making her heart strings swell with a warm crescendo.

“Get inside, loser.”

i’m just gonna keep on waiting

It’s cold out on the deck, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind it. As long as he’s sitting by the fire pit, he can ignore the way the breeze nips at his face, no doubt turning the tip of his nose and apples of his cheeks a bright shade of red. With the fire and a mug of hot cocoa in hand, he’s set for a peaceful night.

His friends are all still inside, no doubt drinking it up while some holiday movie plays in the background. It’s not as if he doesn’t want to be in there celebrating with them, to be listening to Flash tell his likely overdramatized stories about random celebrities he’d met while going to school in LA, to hear Gwen and Cindy drunkenly singing along to every Bublé song that comes on. It’s such an overwhelmingly happy, cheerful atmosphere inside.

So much so, that he felt he needed a moment of just… nothing.

But then, the gentle click of the backdoor opening cuts the moment short, though not that he minds really.

He looks over his shoulder, immediately standing on instinct when MJ walks through and closes the door behind her.

“Hey,” he breathes, smiling slightly.

She startles, not realizing he’s been out here. “Oh, hey.”

There’s an awkwardness lingering in the air, pressing on his shoulders as they both offer half-hearted waves.

Breaking-up can really put a damper on things.

It had happened months ago, but it almost feels like a hundred years; so long since they’d mutually ended things before going off to college. There’s no bad blood between them. Not at all. In fact, he considers MJ to still be one of his closest friends.

Sure, they went from kissing, holding hands, sleeping together—being together—to just friends, but… It hasn’t been so bad. They both knew it wouldn’t last in college, both of them worried about things going south.

So, they ended everything before it had a chance to.

And again. It’s fine. These things happen. People grow apart when they go off to college. It’s perfectly normal.

Plus, Peter’s just glad that he still gets to have MJ in his life at all.

“What’re you… doing out here?” She asks slowly, folding her arms across her chest to keep warm.

“Oh, uh—” He shrugs, glancing around the porch, the awning above them, back at the fire pit. He mirrors her actions, rocking back on his heels. “Just needed some air. You know. You?”

She nods before letting out a faint huff of laughter. “Brad, uh—Brad just can’t seem to take a hint. So…”

A slow smile spreads across Peter’s face. “You’re hiding from him.”

She recoils in defense, brow furrowing. “I am not hiding from him,” she insists, stepping away from the door and closer to the fire.

Closer to Peter.

“I just… thought I’d come out here—” she starts softly, Peter finding himself drawn in immediately as she stops in front of him. She shrugs. “—at the same time he happened to go to the bathroom. Not hiding.”

Peter’s smile grows, and he tips his head at her. “Uh-huh.”

MJ huffs, rolling her eyes goodnaturedly. She glances up to the awning above them, her mouth falling open in surprise at what she sees hanging from the rafters.

“What?” Peter asks, looking up with her, feeling a warmth bloom in his face when he sees.

Mistletoe. Of course.

The two of them laugh quietly, chuckling to themselves.

“Wow,” MJ says, lips twisting in amusement. “Well. I mean—”

“—I guess—” Peter shrugs, scratching the back of his neck.

“—If you want,” MJ offers slowly, her eyes not leaving his, the warmth in them making his cheeks burn. There’s something in her smile that takes him all the way back to that first party he’d kissed her at, makes him want to lean in. “For old time’s sake?”

He chuckles breathily. “Yeah. For old time’s sake.”

It should be harmless, right? At least, that’s what he thinks as he leans in, his hand naturally finding a home on the side of her face, delicately cupping her jaw as he presses his lips to hers.

But it’s a feeling so familiar, a feeling he’s missed more than words could ever begin to describe, and it’s as if the numbness from the past few months has vanished, giving way to the permanent molten ache in his chest. He sighs softly, pulling her closer, an arm coiling around her waist. Her hands come up to wrap around his shoulder, threading softly through the curls at the nape of his neck as she deepens the kiss.

They’ve missed this, so much, their chests locking together like magnets, pulled apart for so long.

And it’s in that moment, as they kiss by the fire, holding each other close, that they both silently thank whoever put that damn mistletoe there.

and telling me, “i love you”

“Honey, I’m hooooome,” Peter calls into the apartment, bags of groceries balanced in the crook of his arms, one propped precariously on his shoulder, supported only by the tips of his fingers as he kicks the door shut behind him.

“Thank God,” MJ groans from the couch, not moving from her spot as she holds a hand up and out for him. “Hey,” she calls to him again when he sets the paper bags on the kitchen counter. “C’mere. Check this out.”

There’s a smile already growing on Peter’s face as he walks over, one bag still tucked in his arm. “What?”

Grinning from ear to ear, MJ lifts the bottom of her shirt, showing her growing bump. It’s not huge yet, but twelve weeks in, and she’s certainly bigger than normal.

“Woah!” Peter’s eyes light up, though he tends to do that every time he looks at her belly now. He puts the bag down, kneeling down next to her, one of his hands coming to smooth over her bump. “There’s a little baby in there.”

“I think we’ve established that,” she jokes, her hand gently patting his. “Probably still looks a lot like a sea monkey right now.”

“In a cute way, right?”

Her smile widens. “Definitely in a cute way.”

His hand stays on her bump as he leans in to place a gentle peck on her forehead, his eyes sparkling when he pulls back to look at her. “What’s the fruit size for twelve weeks?”

“I think the app said a plum?”

Peter awwwws, now leaning down to place a kiss right on her belly. “My li’l plum.”

MJ makes a face at that.

“Fine,” He huffs. “Our li’l plum.”

“You’re such a dork,” she laughs, nudging him gently on the shoulder.

He snickers back before placing another set of kisses along her growing stomach. One spot makes a giggle bubble up from her chest, and she jumps slightly. “If you keep doing that you’re gonna get kicked.”

“By you or the baby?”

“Me. Can’t feel the baby yet.”

Peter closes his eyes, laughing into her shirt before sitting back on his heels.

Her smile is soft as she looks at him. Her dork. She shifts her attention to the bag he’d brought over, finding herself curious. “What’s in the bag?”

Again, his eyes light up as he lets out a gentle gasp. “There’s more in the kitchen, but this bag has all the goodies in it.” He reaches a hand in, pulling out a giant tin of hot chocolate mix and another of loose leaf peppermint tea. “For you, of course.”

“Amazing.”

“I also got some of those Hawaiian sweet rolls,” he says, grabbing exactly that. “You mentioned wanting those the other day, I think.”

She did.

“Then…” His tongue sticks out as he searches the bag. “I got some ice cream. I didn’t know if you’d want cookies and cream or chocolate chip… so I just got both.”

“Thank you. You’re so sexy when you can’t make decisions.”

Peter snorts, playfully shrugging off her hand that’s trying to dramatically caress his face. “And—stop that—and—” He laughs, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he holds out a cheap, plastic mistletoe. “This.”

She rolls her eyes, half-heartedly pushing his hand away. “Peter.”

“It was in the check-out line! I was waiting a long time. I got bored.”

And she shakes her head, smiling fondly. “I love you.”

He throws a wink at her before holding the mistletoe up between them, laughing when she grabs it from him and tosses it aside before pulling him in for a tender kiss.

His eyes are gleaming when he pulls back, one hand moving back to rest on her bump, his thumb drawing soothing lines into her skin.

“I love you, too.”

#spideychelle #petermj #petermjane #promptmas #promptmas 2k20 #mistletoe kisses

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my-happy-little-bean · 3 years ago

Text

The Bookkeeper – Chapter 6

Chapter 6: 50 First Dates

pairings: logicality, prinxiety words: 3369 chapter warnings: mild swearing, mild NSFW content, reference to death chapter summary: and hijinks, do in fact, ensue.

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–

Roman has been on two dates before.

It’s not like he couldn’t get any– oh, he could get many– but he never really considered the several outings he’d been on ‘dates’. He had met a lot of wonderful people, but when the star met the moon, he didn’t need any more stepping stones; he had landed, safe and sound, in the clouds.

And he thought about his first date (he liked to think they had only been on one date before a series of adventures) almost constantly. He thought about it whenever he would travel idly through stories detailing a million first dates. He thought about it whenever Logan wasn’t around to guard his precious books. He thought about it whenever the thought of his first book nook crossed his mind.

Roman has been on two dates before.

His last date was so boring, it killed him.

His first date, however, was in a library.

“That simply won’t do.”

Logan threw yet another argyle vest into the growing pile of sweater vests on his bed.

“What should I wear then, Roman?”

“For a first date? Something else.”

Logan groaned, turning back to his wooden wardrobe and fishing through all his clothes.

“This isn’t a first date, Roman.”

“Riiiiight. On a completely unrelated note, Patton told me that he wanted you to have this!”

Roman flew up to Logan and blew him a kiss. A flurry of red magic hit Logan’s cheek and left a lip-shaped mark. Logan huffed, swatting the magic away as Roman simply laughed, flying into his wardrobe and giving a few clothes a red aura — Roman’s stamp of approval, Logan presumed.

Logan begrudgingly picked out a few of Roman’s selections and began to try them on.

“He is simply accompanying me on this...art-venture,” Logan continued, slipping on a white button-up. “It is in the pursuit of knowledge–”

“Call it what you want,” Roman cut him off, tossing a bit of magic to neatly fold Logan’s sleeves just below his elbow. “But I’m telling you, you’re on a date.”

“And how exactly would you know that?”

Roman narrowed his eyes at Logan. “I’ve had a very full life before becoming your magical librarian, thank you very much.”

“...Right.” Logan cleared his throat. A beat of silence passed. Logan half-expected Roman to lift the mood right back up, but all he did was stare at him.

“I...I’m sorry, Roman,” Logan finally said.

Roman’s aura dimmed. “It’s all good, Specs. I just...I’ve never seen you care about something this much before. I’m just trying to help.”

Logan paused, before hesitantly outstretching his hand towards his wardrobe. A trail of navy blue magic was thrown into the closet like a rope and pulled out a grey blazer towards him.

“Fine.” Logan put on the blazer and went over to the full length mirror leaning against the wall, adjusting the collar. “Say this is– hypothetically – a date. What would you recommend I do?”

“Stand a bit straighter and be yourself,” Roman recited, flying up behind Logan and forcing him to straighten his posture. He eventually rested on Logan’s shoulder and smiled. “You tend to show others a good time when you’re having a good time, Logan. I don’t think there’s much you can do that’s wrong.”

A pause. “Except for wearing ivory socks when they should be eggshell-white.”

Logan huffed, going over to his dresser as Roman floated right off him. Mid-way through switching out his socks, he heard bells chiming downstairs. Logan checked his watch.

“How is he already here?” he muttered to himself, slipping on some black dress shoes and taking one more look at himself in the mirror. Logan sighed, smoothing out his tucked in shirt. “How do I look?”

“...Just fine, Lo.” Logan caught sight of Roman’s smile falling in the mirror. “You look just fine.”

Logan nodded and rushed down the stairs, Roman trailing not too far behind him. When he got downstairs, he found Patton sitting on the armchair, waiting for him. He wore some bootcut, light-washed jeans and a long, grey cardigan over a light blue dress-shirt. In his hair were little, blue and white plastic butterfly clips buried between each curl. His eyes went starry and wide behind his round glasses as he stood up and grinned.

“Hey! You look just– wow .”

Logan felt himself go warm. “Er, thank you. You...you look good...too.”

He could hear the muffled sounds of groans behind him.

Patton giggled, outstretching his hand towards Logan. “Shall we go?”

Logan swallowed down his nerves and took Patton’s hand, wordlessly nodding.

As Patton led Logan out, Logan turned around to face Roman.

“Roman, are you sure you do not want to join us?” He patted his small shirt pocket. “You’re always welcome to.”

Roman’s expression twisted ever so slightly.

“I’m fine here, Specs,” he finally said with a faded smile. “I don’t know, maybe I can really get some work done around here without you.”

Logan stuck his tongue out at Roman before finally turning back around and out the door.

Patton smiled and leaned his head against Logan’s shoulder as they began walking towards the theatre. Logan initially stiffened at the contact, but eventually relaxed his shoulders and let himself melt under Patton’s touch.

Logan took one more look through his shop windows as they passed by it. He caught a glimpse of a blur of red near the shelf behind the front counter. A few seconds later, he saw a brown book floating through the air.

But before he could catch sight of what the book was, Patton dragged him past the window with a smile brighter than the stars above him. And then he was gone.

—

They arrived early at the theatre, settling in their seats with a large bucket of popcorn. Logan watched a few trailers that advertised some of the romantic-comedies that would be playing for the next few weekends. He grimaced.

“Why do these movies...hm, how do I say this – exist?”

Patton laughed. “Maybe someone felt like they needed to exist! Every story means something to someone, Lo.”

The title and tagline of a rom-com flashed on the screen in front of him: " Around Him for 80 Days": Your Hot-Air Balloon of Love, flying soon next week…

Logan stared at Patton with a deadpanned expression. Patton sheepishly smiled.

“Okay, so maybe the answer is money…”

Logan snorted, popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth.

The lights around the two eventually dimmed, and Logan let himself be immersed in the movie, as cheesy as it was.

The film eventually began with bright, blue, all-too-cheery skies. And as the film progressed, the plot, Logan told Patton, stayed fixated in its ‘lightly humorous but completely unrealistic’ nature; which, Patton informed him, was not the point.

The movie followed the shenanigans of Henry falling in love with a girl named Lucy, who suffered from anterograde amnesia. Logan did his best to keep his mouth sealed at every inaccuracy, if only to impress Patton, who was beaming the entire time. He even found himself following in Patton’s laughter like some sort of a strange puppet (though there were some moments that admittedly made him chuckle on his own).

However, against his will, Logan found himself endeared to the story towards the end. He watched the blurry VCR footage of a wedding unfolding in front of him with wide eyes and, for a brief moment, felt himself being pulled into an unknown world that was still similar to his own. The film’s message wasn’t too hard to extract. Two people were able to form a bond that transcended their adversities because of love and...

‘And someone wanted to share what that feeling was like.’

Logan snuck a glance at Patton, who was tearing up at the end (of course). His vision went blurry for a split second, a flash of navy blue flickering in his line of sight; and then, it was gone.

Logan reached inside the bucket of popcorn to see if there was anything left, and felt his hand graze Patton’s. Warmth fluttered in his chest. Of course.

When they left the theatre—and eventually got the ice cream Patton had promised—Patton rambled on and on about the movie, with Logan quietly walking beside him. Logan switched his focus between Patton’s words and the cool, night air hitting his face. He furrowed his brow as he became lost in his own thoughts.

‘ Everything was real, even that story which wasn’t real– but it felt real, it is all real…’

“How about you?” Patton said, snapping Logan out of his trance. “How’d you like the movie? I know it’s not really your thing–”

“No no,” Logan said with a smile, toying with his spoon in cup. “I cannot believe I am truly saying this but...but I enjoyed it.”

A gasp. Patton stopped dead in his tracks beside him. He rolled his eyes.

“Oh come on , you drew this out of me...”

“Logan Fray– the Logan Fray– enjoyed a ‘nonsensical’ romance movie?”

“It was a fine story, Patton, no need to over-sell this–”

“I can’t wait to tell Roman!” Patton’s smile was oh-so blisteringly bright as he danced ahead of Logan, nearly dropping his ice cream cone and singing a song Logan didn’t recognize. Logan chuckled.

The streets felt emptier in Patton’s company, Logan noticed. He wasn’t quite in solitude, but he was not overrun by a crowd of thought, opinions, and expectations held by not only others, but himself — it was just him and Patton; it was just the two of them together.

“What’s on your mind?” Patton asked, suddenly beside him. Logan blinked, then shook his head.

“Nothing, Patton. I am having a lovely evening with you.”

Patton squinted at him. “You have your thinking face on.”

A pause.

“I am just thinking of how I could tie this experience to my research,” he finally responded, a feeble attempt at a lie. Patton’s mouth thinned into a small frown.

“Ah...right.”

Patton continued to walk, now alongside Logan in an awkward silence. Logan, not really knowing what he had expected, followed suit.

“Logan?” Patton asked after a few minutes.

“Yes?”

“...Why do you want to know what the meaning of art is?”

Logan frowned. “I have to, for my–”

“For your speech, yeah,” Patton finished for him. “I know it’s for your speech, but...”

“It could possibly serve as an onset to a prospective publication,” Logan tried again.

“It just seems sad,” Patton blurted out. “Don’t you think?”

Logan felt his heart drop, almost ashamed. Patton seemed to catch on almost immediately.

“Sorry, that was like– wow, so uncalled for–”

“You’re not wrong.” Logan squeezed his eyes shut. “You are not wrong at all.”

They walked in a bit more silence before Logan sighed.

“Sometimes, after what feels like a lifetime of barely-surmountable adversities...you tend to lose sight of the path, let alone what lies at the end of it.” Logan looked at Patton, eyes wide and earnest. “Have you ever felt that way?”

“A little, but not as much as you do, maybe.” Patton shrugged. “I have never really lost anything. Though, I have never had too much to lose, heh.”

“I see,” Logan murmured.

A beat of silence.

“I suppose art has always followed me,” Logan said, voice barely above a whisper. “My grandfather would bring stories to life in front of my very eyes, every single night. And then...well, they died with him. At some point in my life, I couldn’t live without his stories and...and now I can . There...there must be a reason for that, no?”

“I’m not sure.” Patton looked up at Logan. “Do...do you think you have ever really lived without his stories?”

Time seemingly stopped around them as Logan felt himself taken aback by Patton’s question. For a few moments, he thought about the shop, the way the books on the shelves have always been there. He thought about his grandfather and the stories he would bring to life. He thought about his parents and the hazy memory of the summer days he’d spend with them in the backyard, looking at insects with a magnifying glass and a toothy grin. He thought about his magic, the way it was first pulled out of him and into the air above his head in a swirl of faintly-coloured wind.

He thought about Roman, and how he’s always been there. Always.

(And in his chest, Logan felt a puzzle– one he almost forgot was ever fragmented– slowly piece itself back together.)

They eventually find their way back to Fray and Far Fables, with Logan mostly quiet the whole way back. He had reassured Patton that he did nothing wrong; he was just thinking, as he always did. Patton didn’t press on.

“Well, here we are,” Logan said as they neared the front door. He awkwardly shifted in his place in front of Patton, averting his glance to the floor.

“Here we are!” Patton echoed back with a nervous laugh. He smiled at Logan regardless. “I had a really good time, Logan.”

“I did as well.” A pause. Logan hesitantly added, “I...I enjoy spending time with you.”

“Aw, Lo! I like spending time with you too!” Patton smiled, almost embarrassed. “You...you make me think! And I like thinking with you, really.”

Logan couldn’t help but look at Patton. Under the faint lights of his shop, Patton’s eyes looked like a mix of honey and wine, sweet and tempting. And Logan never realized it until now, but his freckles reassembled the same sort of stars he always saw in Patton’s smile.

Logan blinked, and felt Patton’s gaze on him narrow; perhaps he was under similar examination.

“Um...I should get going.”

Patton laughed, even more nervous than the first time.

“Oh! Yes, of course!” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And hey, thank you for indulging me in these silly art-ventures, heh. I know you don’t have to, but...well, it’s nice to know that you’re getting something out of these.”

“I…” Logan took a deep breath. (For a brief moment, he wondered how one would encapsulate this crazy and horrifying feeling in a campy romantic comedy.)

“I get more from being with you, Patton,” Logan finally said. “You...you challenge me in a way that reminds me that there is more than just a...a finite answer. You make me want to seek more .” A step forward. "And...and there has to be more."

And before he could say anything else, Patton leaned forward on the tips of his toes and pulled Logan into a kiss.

—

Here’s what Logan knows.

He knows that despite there being something out there, there is nothing—truly nothing—in this life. There are bonds and spirits and magic that surround the world, sure. But you come from nothing and leave, ultimately, with nothing, because everything you could ever want to have is left behind.

However, he now knows this as well: the very act of creation immortalizes what little space you make for yourself, and everything that he once believed was true is actually—and this is rather unfortunate—complete and utter bullshit.

Logan felt his back hit the door as Patton pressed against him in their kiss. He swore he could feel both their hearts racing through their clothes. And in that very moment, Logan decided that he would do just about anything to be as close to Patton’s heart as possible, as if the two of their heartbeats could create a symphony if they were just a bit closer, closer, closer.

Logan fumbled for the door handle and with a struggled twist of his wrist, he sent the two of them stumbling backwards into the shop mid-kiss. Patton pulled back for a moment to let out a breathy laugh. Logan, almost desperately, ran his hand through Patton’s hair and pulled him into another kiss, and another, and another.

They bumped into a few display tables, knocking a few books onto the floor. Logan jumped back at the noise, then looked at Patton. Patton was still clutching onto Logan’s blazer collar, his cheeks glowing red. He wore the smallest and shakiest of smiles. A few of the butterfly clips in his hair were askew, and Logan didn’t even know when this happened, but Patton’s cardigan was completely undone, as well as a few buttons of his shirt.

He nodded towards the staircase and Patton nodded, seemingly breathless.

As they were heading up, it dawned on Logan that he had never had someone else upstairs since his grandfather passed. It was mostly rather small and, quite frankly, unimpressive. A rush of insecurity flooded Logan’s being, but all too late.

There were two doors when they reached the top: to the left was a small, cramped bathroom; and to the right, his bedroom.

Patton looked at Logan, who sighed and braced himself as he opened the right door.

In typical attic fashion, the ceiling was slanted towards a small window near the back of the room. Underneath the window was a kitchenette with a sink and a few appliances, as well as a rack of pots and pans lining the walls beside the window. His bed rested on the right side of his room, and across from it were rows of shelves filled with old books and picture frames, with some boxes and drawers laying underneath. A string of fairy lights and small light bulbs were strung from each shelf and illuminated the room with a warm glow.

In a small interlude from their intimacy, Patton looked around in awe.

“ Wow. I can’t believe this has been up here the whole time.”

Logan shifted in his place, taking a deep breath.

“I know it is not much, but this...well, this is home. Always has been.”

“I love it, Logan.” Patton looked up at Logan with a small smile. “I love it.”

Logan grinned, a mix of relief and realization settling in his chest. He felt himself become lighter in Patton’s presence as he pulled Patton into another kiss, one that was softer than the previous ones.

And Logan held Patton close as if he was every answer he was searching for, as if their embrace could create a space in the vast world for just the two of them; as if life was no longer empty, but full.

Logan held Patton close in a warm, ‘ thank-you-for-all-of-this’ kiss, and then closed the door behind him.

—

When he heard the sound of the door closing upstairs, Roman decidedly floated up from behind the counter. He looked at the staircase and in his mind, remembered the sounds of Logan and Patton’s hurried footsteps leading to Logan’s bedroom.

Roman flew over to lock the front door and took a glance out the window. He stared at the place where Logan and Patton were standing before he had hidden behind the counter; he recalled the way they looked at each other, the way they held each other in such closeness and warmth. And he recalled seeing something that he knew Logan wouldn’t have noticed: he saw the glow of a pulsing, navy blue aura surrounding Logan when he kissed Patton.

Roman held his gaze with the city outside of the shop, and realized with a shattered heart that he had been in here longer than he had originally planned for; that someone was waiting for him in the same way he knew Logan had been waiting for someone like Patton (even if that someone was there, he was always fucking there–)

At that moment, Roman realized that he held every answer that his new life ever needed, yet everything was out of reach once again.

Fighting back tears, Roman locked the door and quietly floated back onto the surface of the front counter. The brown, leather-bound copy of The Midnight Forest laid open in front of him.

Roman looked up at the staircase one more time, forcing himself to not hear the giggles and the creaking of the bed and the love, love, love.

He steeled himself and silenced it all, before pressing his hands against the pages of The Midnight Forest and disappearing in a flurry of red smoke.

—

next chapter >

#TS Storytime 2021 #gabbie writes things #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfic #logicality #prinxiety #logan sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #logan/patton #roman/virgil #logic/morality #creativity/anxiety

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amayamiyaki · 4 years ago

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Artwork by @emilyisnursebaymax

Characters/Pairing: Shisui x Sakura; eventual Uchiha x Sakura; Sasuke

Title: Bewitched [Part One]

Rating: General

Bewitched

The woods surrounding Konoha are beautiful in every sense of the word.

They lie friendly in the day, with their evergreen needles and their redwood trunks. But at night, they’re darkly ominous. The endearing chirrups of gold-winged sparrows are nonexistent, instead replaced with the trills of crickets and the rattle of cicadas. A low hanging fog settles in, swirling mischievously at Sakura’s feet, while pathetic streams of moonlight dapple through the thick canopy. It's so dark now that the pitiful flames of her lantern are nearly swallowed whole and the only thing keeping her from stumbling are the outstretched hands of the surrounding trees and the unsettling churning in her gut.

To step into the embrace of the woods so close to the witching hour, is to welcome darkness, because these woods are thieves. They rob visitors of their senses—blinds them in exchange for the ears of a wolf and the nose of a rat. Envelops them in a claustrophobic entanglement of shadows and susurring branches. And sometimes, if the woods feel impish enough, the woods take more than that.

Ignoring the anxiety constricting her chest, Sakura carefully reaches for the holster draped at her waist and pulls out her panflute. The woods grow hushed as the first notes of her song carries through the void. There are no more crickets, no more birds. Not even a whistle of wind. Only her footsteps and her melody. Her song is low, ominous like the entirety of the woods, with quivering down notes and eerie high ones, and to the untrained ear, it nearly sounds like true fairy music.

Sakura diverges from the rutted path, turning right then left; her cloak sways with her movements, its frayed ends dancing around her protectively. She can feel the dirt packing between her toes as each step sinks the soles of her feet into the earth, and while jagged roots bite into her skin, it's nothing she isn’t used to. And the deeper into the woods she goes, the more she feels like she’s being watched. Her cloak brushes against bodies that may or may not be there, shadows morph and wings flutter.

She can taste the mischief in the air.

Carefully adjusting her basket and lantern so they dangle from the crooks of her elbows, and with her grip on the flute tight, Sakura allows her free hand to float at her side as she walks. She caresses the outreaching brambles and low-hanging leaves in hopes that her touch will appease the woods’ growing apprehension of her, stopping only when the rocks and dirt make way for fairy rings.

Her melody soon lifts into a more tranquil tune as the woodland fae giggle and sing in approval. Their fairy music joins her own, accompanied by the fluttering of wings and the appearance of squirrels; she doesn’t look down as the fairies breach from the chests of their hosts, fully aware of the danger she’s now in.

Because as beautiful as fae folk are, they’re ten times as dangerous.

Carefully, as not to break her song, Sakura sets her basket and lantern down, exposing the blueberries and quartz she brought as offerings, while scanning the void for any signs of life. A crow watches her, its head jerking curiously as it observes her. Decayed leaves crumble beneath heavy paws. A thousand eyes weigh her down while a million whispers ghost her skin.

She plays on, ignoring the playful tugs to her rose tresses and to the scarlet threads of her cloak, and she doesn’t stop even as magic scents the air. It compresses, fluttering around her with moonlit glitter, kissing her knuckles as she plays. Splashes of watercolor and silk constellate her vision, making her nose twitch and her belly drop, but she refuses to fall to the fairies’ mischief.

It’s only when the flame from her lantern abruptly dies away that she ends her song. Her breath shakes but she doesn’t show her nerves; Sakura stands tall with her chin tilted high and her shoulders straight.

Because the woods has accepted her offering.

“I call upon the gift of air,” She begins, bringing her hands to float at her sides again. A trickle of air intertwines with her fingers. “Gusty winds and breezes fair.”

Sakura smiles to herself a little more confidently as the tails of her hair tickles at her nose, kicked up with the breath of wind that drew by. The leaves shudder overhead, scattering decayed slivers of orange and red amongst the void. She closes her eyes, and says loudly, “Carry this witch’s greeting across distant lands—take flight! A hearty welcome for a familiar, I invite.”

A crow squawks and a wolf howls; the wind picks up, making her cloak lash out with a ferality that comes with an angry fae but Sakura is not deterred.

She furrows her brows and huffs defiantly, brushing aside the amused songs of the surrounding fairies as she continues, “Fae of the forest, hear my plea. Come forth and seek me, and equals we will be. Not master to servant, but familiar to familiar. To protect and honor, always and forever.”

The woods are alive with the presence of fae folk. Gold eyes appear from across the void while fairies creep from the bodies of their birds and the bark of trees. But no one approaches. And in the blink of an eye, the woods becomes just that—woods. Just knobbed trunks and crickets.

The fae are gone. The wolves disappear. The crows are silent.

But Sakura waits. She waits and waits and waits until she can’t anymore and it infuriates her because she knows the spell was correct. The fae acknowledged it. They heard it, responded to it. So then why—

“To protect and honor, always and forever, huh?”

Sakura stiffens, startled at the sudden voice around her and tries to whirl around only to find herself frozen. Hands settle on her shoulders for a moment before one slowly drifts down her arms with a feathery lightness that evokes chills in their wake. It travels to her wrist, encircling it, keeping her just out of reach of the dagger at her hip while the other hand ghosts along the curve of her neck.

She tries to ignore the breath on the back of her neck and the overwhelming scent of caramel and Hellfire that envelops her. “To protect and honor,” She reiterates, calm despite the fear winding down her spine. “Always and forever.”

Whoever—or rather, whatever—is behind her hums. “Forever is a long time, Witch.”

Sakura swallows the lump building in her throat. "I'll have you for however long you'll have me."

His responding laugh and the way he drags his fingertips down to her wrists raises a garden of goosebumps along her arms, and it's not completely pleasant. He opens a hand, palm up just below her own while the other lifts a strand of hair. "Your name?"

Sakura smiles to herself, shoving aside the uneasy shiver that threatens to crawl down her spine. She knows their tricks. She can hear the mishief in his voice. To give her name is to welcome trouble, because who knows what the Fae will do with it?

And the way his hand hovers, waiting like the hand of an expectant child, he's not asking out of formality.

"You can't have my name," Sakura says. "But you may call me Sakura.

The Fae's chuckle is a warm one full of summer evenings and pine trees, thunderstorms and something dangerous. "Oh I like you," He laughs, brushing the pads of his fingers against her knuckles. "Then you may call me—"

He's interrupted by a loud snarl and the beating of approaching footsteps, but neither are human. Quickly, Sakura frees the dagger against her hip just as a large wolf jumps out at her, jaw unhinged and crimson eyes wild; but as quickly as she sees it, its gone, replaced by the heat of a body against her chest.

The snarl of the Fae enveloping her is otherworldly, feral—demonic—alighting Helfire all throughout her body, but it evokes a sort of comfort that Sakura can't say she's ever felt before. She blinks, cautiously moving in the grasp of the Fae to chance a glance at him, only to find her view obscured by a wall of feathers.

Wings.

Entranced by the glossy feathers, Sakura tentatively reaches for them, carefully skirting her fingertips along the jade sheen. The feathers sway, ruffling slightly at her touch, and piercing, scarlet eyes peek through so she pulls back as if burnt.

The wings lower slightly and the arm around her waist loosens, allowing Sakura a glimpse of fangs embedded into black cloth and blood on dark fur. The wolf's eyes meet hers, narrowing, and then there's a pained grunt as the beast's jaws tighten around the arm in its mouth.

"Sasuke," She hears. "Stop."

The wolf is reluctant, its hackles high and body vibrating with its rage, and it gives one last huff before releasing the Fae. Sakura feels him relax, and the softness of his touch compels her to mimic him.

"What the hell are you doing!?"

Gone is the wolf, replaced by a man—a man with skin like snow and hair like a raven's wings. His eyes are sharp, dark like a reflection of the deepest reaches of an underground cavern and sprinkled with red. But what makes her breath still in her chest, are the horns that stand out atop his head. They're tall, curving down once before shooting straight up and spiked on the bend, with scales colored an iridescent shade of indigo that makes her think of a slick of oil. And they're adorned with silver bands.

A demon.

Sakura feels her blood turn to ice, not just at the way the demon spat her title, but at the weight of the older one’s stare landing upon her. Fae are dangerous on their own, but Demons are something in a league all their own.

And she had spoken her name to one.

"Are you stupid?” The Demon-Fae called Sasuke hisses. “Entertaining the call of a Witch?”

She can feel the bloodlust radiating from the enraged Demon-Fae and considers running. She mulls over the incantations in her head—banishing spells, protection spells, binding spells—but ultimately, she finds herself rooted in place, pinned to her Fae’s chest by an arm and feathers.

“Is my baby cousin concerned about me?” He has the gall to tease. “How cute!”

Sakura pushes the feathers aside to look up at her Fae. His expression is calm, with only the faintest down-turning of his brows hinting towards his irritation. But his eyes, dark and murky, glow with mirth. He’s handsome, even more so than the Demon-Fae behind her, with strong features and moonlit skin; his hair falls in devious curls that part around his horns.

He has two sets of them—a testament to his age. One set curves out, then in and up, nowhere near as high as the former’s; while the other set curls down and straight back, their points just barely peeking out from the angle he stands. The shadows dull their color, unfortunately, but she can glimpse where the moonlight catches on the jewels draped along them.

And when he peers down at her, from beneath enviously long lashes, Sakura has to force herself to breathe.

Sasuke’s growl is predatory, so powerful that Sakura can feel it palpate in her chest. “Quit playing around! You know that fraternizing with a,” He pauses, glancing in her direction with his nose scrunched in distaste. “Witch is asking for trouble.”

The Demon-Fae straightens, his shoulders stiffening and chin raising, and then wings that gleam with a hint of jade outstretch. They spread so wide, they eclipse the moon and morph into the darkness between the trees.

“This Witch, Sasuke,” The Demon-Fae begins, and his hands come to rest at the base of Sakura’s neck and around her wrist. “Is under my protection. For always and forever.”

#naruto fanfiction #Sakura Haruno #shisui uchiha #sasuke uchiha #supernatural au #witch!sakura #demon!shisui #demon!sasuke #Uchiha X Sakura #fanfiction #itachi uchiha #madara uchiha #part one of who knows how many

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beholdme · 4 years ago

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All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 8

Chapters: 8/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can’t help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7]

“We shouldn’t go in,” Jon tells his giggling partners very firmly, but they pay him no mind, and he gets dragged by the hand into the storefront.

The girl working the front desk looks up with a vaguely alarmed look on her face, probably because Gerry and Martin look drunk, despite it being 11 A.M. on a Sunday. They are not, although Jon can understand why someone would think that, as they march right up to the desk, faces flushed, still laughing boisterously.

“Is Melanie in? She’s a good mate of mine.” Gerry tells the receptionist.

“Yes, I’ll check with her if she has a second for you.” And she scuttles off to the back.

“It’s Gerry!” He calls off behind her, before turning to grin at Jon. “Don’t hover in the doorway, babe, Melanie doesn’t bite.”

“Melanie is in fact, perfectly capable of biting,” Jon mutters petulantly, as he moves further into the room to eye the art on the walls. “Especially when you used to date her girlfriend.”

“Oh look, my favorite emo goth boy!” Melanie yells, exploding out the back of the store, all 5 feet of her filled with frenzied energy. Her face immediately sours when she catches sight of Jon, hiding behind Martin. “And my least favourite douche bag.”

“Now, now firecracker, be nice to my boyfriend.” Gerry pulls her into a hug, which leads to a headlock and a swift jab to his ribs.

“I’m very happy to be nice to Martin,” She responds sweetly, blowing him a kiss. “What brings you lot over to darken my doorstep?”

“Piercings,” Gerry tells her with an unnatural amount of glee.

“Jon agreed to let me pierce him?” Melanie asks, perking right up at the idea of causing Jon pain.

“No!” Jon exclaims.

At the same time, Gerry says, “Nah, he’s not interested, but Martin and I were wanting something each.”

“Martin?” Melanie asks dubiously, eyeing up sweet-looking, pink-haired, cardigan-clad Martin.

“Yes,” Martin confirms with false solemnity. “Boyfriends who bleed together stay together.”

“You know,” Melanie remarks, grinning at them, “I have heard about that Pagan ritual.”

Jon has slunk over to a wall of healed artwork and concept designs, managing to avoid Melanie's barbs. As far as he is concerned, the art isn’t as interesting as Gerry’s work. Although, he supposes that what you can make beautiful on a canvas is very different from what you can make beautiful on someone's skin.

“I’ve got a bit of an opening now, what do you want to get?” She asks Gerry.

“Well, you know I’ve been wanting to have my nipples done.” He offers, teal eyes looking slightly wild.

“Yeah?” She grins in triumph, “I’ve been waiting for this day.”

“Yup and Martin has been considering something for his ears.”

“Hmmm,” She wanders over to Martin to examine him. “Open for suggestions?”

“Maybe.”

“They’re a good shape. Double helix?” She looks to Gerry for affirmation.

“Definitely.” He smirks, eyes lighting up with satisfaction.

"Two?" Martin looks slightly dubious.

"If you do them together, the pain is only a tiny bit more, and the healing time is two-for-one," Melanie reassures him, and Jon thinks it's the nicest she's ever sounded. "It's up to you though, of course."

Jon steals himself to brave the fray, going over to take Martin's hand. It's slightly clammy with the nerves that Gerry's enthusiasm has prevented up until this point.

"It won't be so bad, love." He presses a kiss to Martin's cheek, offering his support. "Just a small jab, then it's done."

"Let's do it."

***

There's a brief fuss with consent forms, aftercare instructions, and payment.

"I don't know what you lot," Melanie instructs Gerry firmly, gesturing between them, "get up to in the bedroom, but no twisting, no pulling, no biting, no sucking your nipples for 12 weeks."

Jon blushes, but Gerry and Martin aren't bothered. "Yeah, firecracker, I know the drill. This isn't my first circus."

"Kinky little shit," Jon mutters under his breath, but the goth only winks at him.

Martin's care instructions are less suggestive, and Gerry and Jon both promise to help him with it.

“Martin should go first,” Melanie pronounces, patting the piercing chair as she disinfects her hands and gloves up.

“Me?” Martin asks.

“Yup, yours will be a lot simpler, and I don’t want to traumatise you by making you watch nipple piercings before your turn.”

Martin climbs on the chair, looking a little pale, but resolute. Jon stands on the side not occupied by Melanie, gripping his hand reassuringly. Gerry stands slightly behind the chair, hand on Martin's shoulder.

The ear piercings are almost comically quick and easy. Two quick pinches, less painful than bee stings, and then Martin's ear is pierced and adorned with small hoops.

He sighs with relief and oh's with delight when Gerry hands him a mirror to check them out.

"I love it!" He exclaims, beaming at Jon and Gerry. They smile back at him, each taking a turn to kiss him on the cheek or forehead, their own relief palpable.

"It's just you and me now," Melanie grins at Gerry and gestures for him to strip.

He shucks off his trench coat and black t-shirt, and stands in front of her, completely at ease.

Jon takes a moment to wonder if he has managed to get himself into a relationship with a masochist. Not because of the piercings, but because Gerry seems to genuinely enjoy being friends with Melanie.

The nipple piercings seem to be a much more complicated process, with markings and adjustments, but several rounds of cleaning and disinfecting later, Melanie runs a metal piercing bar through first one nipple and then the other. Gerry hisses with discomfort but stands carefully steady.

She steps back to make sure they look straight and even, before declaring it a success.

"Nice," Gerry says succinctly, looking in the large upright mirror, nodding his head enthusiastically. He and Melanie high five, and she condescends to grip him in a firm hug from the side.

"You sure I can't tempt you, Jon?" Melanie asks him sweetly as she starts to clean up her station, Gerry putting his clothes back on close by.

Knowing she just wants to cause him pain, Jon tells her firmly, "No, thank you."

He is over by the wall again, looking at different art this time, including a picture of a tattoo that catches his focus. It's a playing card amid a complex arm sleeve, an Ace of diamonds, and despite a lifelong disinterest in tattoos, it speaks to him.

"I think you'd look better with a spade, love.” Gerry manages to startle Jon slightly, appearing beside him and wrapping an arm around his waist. Jon marvels at his apparent ability to read his mind.

“You think so?” Jon queries, softly. Gerry hums his affirmation. “It's a bit much though, don't you think?”

"You don't need the whole card, for what you want. Just the A and the spade. Small and bold." He picks up Jon's hand, indicating the spot below his thumb on his wrist.

Gently releasing it, Gerry grabs a pen and scrap of paper and rapidly draws out a solid, simple design.

Jon glances over at Melanie, extremely dubious. "Maybe we can go somewhere else to get it?" He whispers.

Gerry laughs warmly, tapping the small piece of paper. "I could do it for you myself."

Jon blinks at him, rather owlishly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I can give you the tattoo. I'm probably a bit rusty, but I did survive a full tattoo apprenticeship. I’ve done about a million over the years, although I had to give up my machine when I moved to London."

"You did a tattoo apprenticeship?" Martin asks from nearby, tone skeptical.

"Yup, when I was living in Edinburgh. All three years." Gerry tells them casually. "That's where I met Melanie, actually."

Jon and Martin exchange a baffled look, but choose to simply file it under 'Things Gerry tells us out of order.'

“Well, if you can do it...” Jon sounds a bit floaty but he is staring at the design yearningly, which Gerry knows is a good sign.

"Firecracker," Gerry yells over to Melanie, "Can I borrow your machine?"

***

Melanie makes the stencil while Gerry reacquaints himself with the tattoo gun, setting everything up and getting used to the weight of it in his hand again. The rhythm is always the same with tattooing and he feels himself fall into the past a bit.

When everything is ready, he gestures Jon over to sit in the chair, smiling beatifically.

Jon is shaking a little as he slides up onto it, and Gerry presses a reassuring kiss to his hand before he starts the prep.

"You ready?"

Jon gulps. "Yes."

Martin comes over to take Jon's other hand and Melanie hovers nearby, wanting to watch Gerry like a hawk the entire time he's handling her machine. ("It's the true love of her life," Gerry had confessed to Martin earlier. "Don't tell Georgie.")

Gerry follows the same procedure with any tattoo: cleanse, shave, cleanse again. Numbing cream, in this case, to prevent nerve twitches, then alcohol rub down. Eventually, he applies the stencil carefully, making sure to get it straight and in the correct place.

He checks with Jon, making sure that it is where he wants it. Jon confirms, smiling to see the design on his skin for the very first time.

As the buzz of the machine fills the space, Jon and Gerry make eye contact for a moment. Jon's earthy green eyes are wide, and Gerry can almost see where his pulse pounds through his jaguar vein. He stills a moment, really checking Jon's energy.

He's nervous, it's obvious to see, but Gerry can also see the real desire in him, and with a wink, turns to look down at his new canvas. He sets to work, the buzzing of the needle filling the air.

***

"I love it," Jon whispers to Gerry later, lying in the circle of his arms, Martin's warm weight at his back.

"I love it too." Gerry kisses his forehead sweetly, almost asleep. "Martin, what do you think of your ear?"

"I think boyfriends who commit to pain together stay together," Martin mutters drowsily, repeating his sentiment from earlier.

"Ah, yes," Jon mutters, "The great cosmic bond of suffering."

They laugh easily, the hot excitement of the day echoing within them, yet another thread in the colourful tapestry of their relationship.

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerry keay #jongerrymartin #fic #also on ao3

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allie1804-fan · 3 years ago

Text

Kerensa Part 2

This is a continuation of Kerensa Part 1 which you can find here

Kerensa (Part 1)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 , Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13

Kerensa (Part 2)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6

Chapter 7, Chapter 8

Warnings: Explicit content.

Chapter 9

It's Really Happening

Keanu tapped his foot absent-mindedly as they waited for their scan appointment time. Kerry placed a hand on his knee to calm him. The truth was, she was anxious too but it took her mind off it to try and soothe his frayed nerves. Fortunately, there wasn’t anyone else waiting as the appointments were well spaced out so they didn’t need to be worried about him being recognised and asked for a selfie!

Finally, the door opened and a couple came out, smiling and holding a string of images of their baby. Kerry and Keanu each crossed their fingers, praying that they would have good news too.

Keanu sat at the side of the examination table and held Kerry’s hand as the sonographer squidged on the cold jelly and prepared to show them their baby.

Keanu let out the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding as a clear image of their baby came into view. Kerry looked over at him - tears were rolling down both their cheeks with the relief that he or she was still there and growing just as they should be. The sonographer took their time doing all the necessary measurements and checks and explaining what they could see on the screen as she did so.

“Look baby’s hiccoughing there, did you see?”

At the end, they were given photos and a recording of the whole thing would be emailed later.

They left the hospital both feeling high on the joy of the moment. Kerry texted her sister the good news and then Keanu took her to the nearest restaurant they could find - Kerry was ravenous!

Over lunch they talked about the return to the US and Keanu shared something with her that he’d been pondering whilst he was away. Instead of going back to LA, he suggested they fly into San Francisco and take another trip down through Big Sur, maybe to Monterey or Carmel by the Sea. Perhaps a setting a little away from the hubbub of LA and somewhere with towering cliffs would be somewhere more like home that they could be based while in California.

After lunch they headed back to their hotel so Kerry could have a nap – she couldn’t remember ever feeling so tired before. Keanu tucked her in and pulled the curtains then headed out on a secret mission to a department store he’d spotted on their walk back. When Kerry woke up, Keanu had stripped down to his boxers and climbed in next to her She saw a small parcel in silver paper and tied with a bow on his bedside table.

“What’s that?”

“Just picked up a couple of things for you” he grinned “while you were sleeping”

“aww let me see”

He handed her the parcel which she tore open, discovering 2 adorable baby-grows -one featuring jungle animals on a white background and the other simply emblazoned with “I love my mummy” on the front!

“They’re adorable, thankyou”

She set them aside and leaned in for a kiss which he returned. She blinked away a tear, seeing so much love reflected in his eyes. He wiped it away with his thumb.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing” she replied “happy tears, you make me so happy,” she said before kissing him again. The kiss started out chaste but soon became more passionate and he eased her over onto her back and started to gently stroke her neck, moving down to her shoulders and towards her breasts.

“This OK?” he asked, unsure if she would feel ready yet, but desperate, after over 2 months, to make love again.

She just nodded and pulled him down into another kiss, moaning as his hands stroked her nipples through her bra. He made light work of removing their clothes, finishing, with her panties which he threw aside before burying his eager face in her pussy.

Kerry’s breath came in short gasps at the sensation of his tongue exploring her folds and teasing her clit.

“God I’ve missed you” she cried.

He looked up and grinned

“Just for the cunnilingus?” he joked mirroring what she’d said to him about her hand-jobs a few days before.

He returned to his task and she stroked his head as he moaned into her, the vibrations of his voice adding another level to her pleasure

“holy fuck” was her next response as he flicked fast over the swollen nub. Sensing she was getting close, he paused and kneeled up for a moment. His chin was covered in her flowing juices.

“Ready to come for me baby?” he said with a teasing look as he licked two long fingers and prepared to push them inside her.

Then he started to lick her again, sliding one hand under her to raise her hips towards his face as his welcome fingers slid inside.

As he began to pump, she thrust her pussy against his hand, she couldn’t get enough of him. His fingers curled with each thrust, seeking her g-spot whilst his tongue was rotating around her increasingly hard and swollen clit. Judging the moment perfectly, he switched to sucking, his whole mouth over her pussy and that’s when she let go - a long, loud moan and a flood of juices accompanying the fluttering and clenching of her cunt around his fingers.

He laid his head on her stomach and kissed it.

“Now that was your mommy cumming baby, she’s loud, isn’t she? And while you’re in there is hopefully the only time you’ll hear that!

Kerry giggled, still a little breathless from the exertion of her orgasm.

Keanu crawled up, straddling her, and kissed her, letting her taste what she’d released all over his face. By now his hard cock was pressing close to her entrance and she let him know she was ready for him, opening her legs and raising her hips to allow his gentle entry. They both moaned as he found his way home. He moved slowly and didn’t push as far as he would normally to start with, but she soon encouraged him.

“It’s OK darling, more, all of you, please, don’t stop”

“Oh god I love you, so much, ah ah, God yes”

Her pussy was already starting to spasm around him and he couldn’t have stopped in a million years even if he wanted to. Her screams took him beyond himself and he came, his face crimson and eyes locked with hers as they shared their joy.

Just 10 days later, Kerry found herself on the terrace of a beautiful cabin-style home on the outskirts of Monterey. The view was breathtaking, stretching several miles along the coast. Keanu stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her, hands gently cradling her small baby bump. He whispered in her ear.

“So what do you think, can you see us here, the three of us?”

“mmmm” she sighed, turning to give him a kiss.

“I love it – and it’s great that we can rent it, gives us a chance to see if it works for you, you know for work”

“and if it does, we can look for somewhere to buy or even build something of our own”

“You’re so generous do you know that?”

“naaaah – you know what I say”

“Can’t take it with you” they said together giggling.

“Right so we should enjoy its bounty OK? You, me, and the baby.”

After a few more days exploring the area, they headed back to LA where there were announcements to be made.

“You’re what?!” his mother said sharply at the news, not really believing her ears.

“We’re expecting a baby ma, in December. Kerry is a little over 3 months along now.”

“Was this planned?”

Kerry looked down at her feet, feeling the piercing gaze of Patricia on her.

“Yes ma, very much and we’re both delighted about it, OK?”

“Well, OK then, congratulations, Kerry how are you feeling?”

“Much better now, the sickness is gone, and having the scan gave us, you know, some reassurance”

His mother seemed to relax then and asked to see the pictures, even getting a little teary as she looked at the images of her grandchild.

“Kim and Karina will be thrilled, they always wanted to be aunties.”

“and you a granny at last” he teased.

“mmm I’ll have to let that one sink in” she laughed.

She was less impressed at the news that they would be renting a place in Monterey and spending far less time in LA but Keanu promised he’d always visit when he was in town and reminded her how often he was out of town with work in any case.

“And you can visit us up there – the place we’ve found has 5 bedrooms so plenty of space for us, the baby, and visitors.”

The news was greeted with surprise, excitement and joy by the rest of their family and friends. Keanu guessed Autumn would find out via the grapevine, but he made no effort to include her.

They also had a meeting with Cheryl, his publicist, choosing to wait until they were asked rather than make a formal announcement. They’d never even confirmed officially that they were a couple, Keanu preferring not to share anything about his private life in a formal way and Kerry being perfectly happy with that arrangement.

For the next few weeks, they stayed in LA but made preparations for the move to Monterey in July deciding what they might want to ship there and what they needed to buy new. Kerry was glad of the distraction this provided.

Distraction was good because of the fear in the back of her mind that this pregnancy wouldn’t last either and on top of that, the film Keanu had shot in Cornwall would have its premiere at the end of June and he’d asked her to attend with him. She was already showing so by then the pregnancy would be unmistakable. The process of being dressed for the event was entirely alien to Kerry and took some getting used to. Karina was her buddy supporting her with it, for which she was eternally grateful. They chose an empire line dress in a light turquoise fabric which complimented her fair complexion. The skirt was full and would accommodate the growing bump and the seamstress would make the final adjustments to the bust the day before.

When the day arrived, Kerry couldn’t quite believe the hoopla around such an event. They couldn’t dress at home, oh no, a suite was booked in a Downtown 5-star hotel where they’d be primped and preened before a limo took them to Mann’s Chinese theatre.

As they made their way down in the elevator with Cheryl, Keanu held her hand, rubbing little circles over it with his thumb.

“Smile” Cheryl encouraged “I’ll be right there the whole time so if he gets pulled away to an interviewer or to the crowd, you’ll never be alone ok. They’ll love you, you’ve made him happy.

That broke the tension a little and Keanu squeezed her hand and grinned.

“Off we go - and don’t forget you get to see your favourite place on the big screen too.”

Happily, there weren’t hordes of press at the hotel so she had time to prepare a little for the pop of flashbulbs and the noisy crowd that they were about to face on the short journey to the theatre. Nothing can really prepare you, but Keanu and Cheryl both worked hard to make it bearable by always talking to her, making her see the funny side of it all.

Kerry felt proud to be by his side and support him in his work, but the aftermath of the public appearance was intense scrutiny. She turned off all her social media and didn’t dare to look at any press. She knew from friends that it was filled with stories that focussed in on Keanu’s previous unhappy experience with Ava and Jen, making comparisons and, she knew, speculating if it would happen again. They were also stalked by paparazzi everywhere they went and were relieved that they would soon be out of the Hollywood glare.

@fortheloveoffanfic @kindainlovewithkeanu @omg-imagine @keanureevesisbae @penwieldingdreamer @paperplanesandwallflowers @witty-wallflower @karlee1225 @bitchyslut99 @toomanystoriessolittletime @ladyreapermc @kissmyromanticquote @tacticalchics @utterlynuts @kylosbitch @thebigbubowski @thelightnessofthebeing @gatsbynouvel @keanuficfiles @fanficsrusz @jardaniswife @cheezbort @mazzylana97 @maggiemoo1892 @girlfriday007 @siriussnape07 @yomnaislame @soarocks @fadingkideclipseempath @franny-banks-world @keanulowe @babylovejongin @lucky134ever @jasmindaughteroftheworld @tomorrowsanotherday @fokinqueen @littlefreya @leftyreea @wheretheriversrunintothesea @iworshipkeanureeves @fics-not-tragedies @ficsnroses @fickenstein @popacherryvisitalibrary @aah8903 @thethirstyarchive @cynic-spirit @australianpsychos @meetmeinthematinee

#keanu reeves fanfic #keanu fanfic #keanu reeves fanfiction #keanu fanfiction #keanu #keanu reeves #keanu ofc fiction

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years ago

Text

A Good Death || Morgan & Deirdre (feat. Lydia)

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @deathduty @mor-beck-more-problems @inspirationdivine

SUMMARY: Deirdre smiled, “And I promise you a good death, Lydia. No matter what.”

CONTAINS: death, gore

“You’ve gone over that spot at least three times now, my love.” Deirdre said, hands steady at her love’s waist as she came up behind her. Watching Morgan clean was entertaining, in some strange way, if only so she could offer her praise and hone her skills of distraction, but she wasn’t sure exactly why nows was the time Morgan had chosen to tackle the dust. There were better things to be done, namely, each other. Deirdre fingers tugged at the hem of Morgan’s sweater, slipping her fingers under to pinch her skin. “I’m nearly jealous of the dirt, you’re giving it so much attention.” She always thanked Morgan for the cleaning, eventually. After her game of distraction, teasing and praise, all wrapped together in a package she had just nearly perfected the art of. She pressed her lips to the flesh between her neck and shoulder, nipping at it. “Have I finally won?” She asked, referring to the battle she waged for Morgan’s attention. She moved her hands from her waist to wrap around her instead, pressed tight as she hummed with simple peace. These moments were not new between them; how many times now had Deirdre fought Morgan’s interest against the allure of household chores? And yet, every time she delighted in the response. There was delight in simply being with Morgan; in doing something as inane as distracting her from cleaning. Deirdre’s peace was so bright, she could sing; sometimes she did. For now, she hummed an old tune against Morgan’s skin—a silly ballad about a leshy that fell in love with a flower. The November chill rolled in through a window they’d left open, beyond them, sounds of life flourished; leaves rustled loose by the wind, the neighbours pulling out of their driveway and off to that cabin trip they’d had planned for weeks now, the pat-pat of Moira padding away to go sleep someplace else. The two of them, bundled up together where everything was okay. “Mhm, can I take you to bed now?” She asked quietly, as if not to disturb the peace of the world.

Weekend mornings were Morgan’s favorite everyday treasures: hours of luxuriating in Deirdre’s company, her boundless kisses and touches and adoring gazes, warmer than any down comforter to protect them against the Sunday that was doomed to follow. Everything would break and Morgan would spend her week putting them back together again, and that was frightening and awful, yes, but this was the prize: arms tight enough for her to feel and a sweet voice singing Gaelic in her ear. “Hmmm, I don’t know,” Morgan crooned, rising up to nip Deirdre’s ear. “I think I should tackle the library. There’s one little spot behind the bookshelf that really needs my attention, which is gonna be a lot of work, moving books out the way and--” She cracked into a fit of giggles and jumped to get her arms around her love’s neck. “I’m teasing. Everything’s done and I don’t want anything else but you now.” She turned her face towards hers, trailing hard, greedy kisses down her jaw and neck. “Take me.”

A pout pulled down Deirdre’s lips, as quickly dissolved as Morgan’s teasing. Their world was one with facets; humour and mischief just as frequent as passion and calm. It laughed with them, carried through the quiet air. It yearned just as they did, heated with their longing. There was peace here, there was— Deirdre quivered.

Her world was broken in three parts. First, her arms failed to hold Morgan. She tried to grasp her, pull her up tight in her arms and carry her off to bed—she had done it a hundred times. But her arms failed her. They trembled, and couldn’t summon the strength to do anything but shove Morgan away. She stared at her hands and wondered if an earthquake had claimed their part of White Crest; she shook too much for one body. Her eyes caught glimpse of the steady outside. The second breaking reaped. Her legs gave in. She fell to the floor with a loud thump as though they’d dissolved—they hadn’t; there was just enough energy left to use them to clumsily push herself across the floor. Her hands, still subject to personal tremor, clasped around her mouth, nearly poking her eyes out in the process. She whimpered in confusion, their house swung back and forth like a chandelier. The last part of her world had not broken yet, and so there was some modicum of peace she held herself afloat on. Her body knew what was happening, but her mind protected her—or had refused to accept it, for what little it could, it wanted to exist in a world where the last piece did not break. Milliseconds ticked in the dissonance of her state. She watched Morgan in the space between her lashes, and wondered what a gift it was to still be in the land of peace. And then what a shame, that for all her cleaning, she’d have to do it again.

The world splintered. It twisted and frayed and like the glass around her as her whimpers turned to shrill cries—like a wounded animal shot in the neck—it shattered until there was nothing left whole. The last part was not one terrible domino falling down, it was flashes and screams. It was a million things, all horrible and all at once. Dark, branch-like veins spread down from her inhumanly black eyes. She hadn’t meant to scream like that, curled into a trembling ball on the floor, but the pain that ruptured inside of her was one she had only felt once before, when Morgan died. That day, she had welcomed the vision to her, because she had it set in her soul that she would defile Fate and preserve Morgan’s life. This time, she tried to reject it out of instinct; she couldn’t believe it was true, she didn’t want to. Of all the people who could die, there was just one she never thought it would happen to.

The world stilled in all of its pieces. Deirdre didn’t think much when she grabbed her phone and started running out of the house, she only knew she had to go. Her mind was still numb with incredulity; she had seen it, she had heard it, she had felt it and she knew it...but she could not believe it. She didn’t consider Fate, she just ran—half-naked in her silk robe, down her neighborhood street. Death would not find Lydia today; Deirdre would.

Morgan understood as soon as she was pushed away that Deirdre had a scream inside her. What she didn’t understand was anything else that followed after. Deirdre fell, whimpering like a frightened animal, curling into herself, and Morgan’s nerves spiked. “Babe, what’s wrong? I’m here, okay? Just--just--” She knelt down and tried to scoop Deirdre’s trembling body into her arms, but then the scream itself came, breaking her nerves along with all the glass besides the windows. Morgan went stiff, sinking the rest of the way to the ground and curling up tight. Her muscles snapped taut, unable to move even to cover her ears. “D-deirdre, Deirdre, please, I’m- h-h…” The world was snapped in and out of focus, ringing with the sound of Deirdre’s pain. When Morgan was able to move again, one clumsy limb at a time, Deirdre was gone.

“Deirdre!” She screeched. She ran for her keys and bolted out the door, barefoot in her sweats.

Her banshee was easy to spot, robe billowing behind her, hair loose and wild as she stumbled and ran. Morgan called her name again, running with all she had to catch up. “Stop and let me help!” Her mind raced as she tore across the road. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck… she didn’t know who this was for or if there was some terrible banshee sickness or crisis going on that she was about to learn about the hard way, but what did it matter? Morgan reached out for her arms and gripped with more of her strength than she had ever dared. “Stop. Talk to me, please. What do you need? What’s going on?”

Navigating to the person Deirdre wanted to call on her phone was easy, actually getting an answer proved to be much harder. She tapped the name—A dheirfiúr—a dozen times as she ran, all she got was ringing and a robotic voice telling her to leave a message, which she did, though she couldn’t muster anything more than “where” and “call me back”. She tried texting, a difficult feat while running and shaking, but couldn’t manage anything more eloquent than her voicemails. She tried the calling again—ringing and robots, ringing and robots. Deirdre wanted to consult her vision, but her mind was stuck on all the wrong facts. It told her again about the pain, the anguish, and the holes, so many fucking holes—in her shoulders, her wings. Her wings, wasn’t that just the worst of it? Didn’t they know how much Lydia loved her wings? Didn’t they know what they meant? Of course they did, that was probably why they did it. But whatever the motive was, however it was going to happen, she didn’t want to think about it. All she needed to know was where and that was the one thing her mind refused to give. She hiccuped a sob, trying another call—ringing and robots. She stumbled, scraping her knees across the asphalt. With a hiss and a curse, she stood up and continued to run. As though emotional turmoil wasn’t enough, her body flared with a strange searing kind of pain. Before she could place it, she was spun harshly around.

“Can’t!” Deirdre didn’t have the time to explain, a second wasted talking was a second Fate marched closer. Morgan had interrupted her thoughts, and she’d lost the place she’d been trying to pick apart in her vision, and which direction she ought to be running. She swatted her hands away, shoving with more force than she ever wanted to. How long did she have? She couldn’t remember; her mind fluttered in panic, her body twisted with pain. She continued to run until, suddenly, she couldn’t. Deirdre pushed herself off the ground to run again, but her body won against her raging mind. She shook, she coughed, she clawed herself across the ground ripping her nails from her skin. She wouldn’t allow her brain the capacity to consider what was happening to her, she needed to get to Lydia, and she’d do it even if it killed her.

With a groan, she shoved herself up and took off again, in less of a run now and more of stubborn limp. She teetered from one side to the other, determined to move, desperate to.

As Deirdre fought her way out of her grip, Morgan relinquished and gave her a count of two before running after again, growling with frustration. “We are not doing this, Deirdre! You are not doing this isolation bullshit and you are not okay!” She caught up to her within a minute, but only because Deirdre had resorted to dragging her body along the asphalt, tearing her skin one stroke at a time. Morgan caught her around the waist as she staggered to her feet and tried to limp away, blood trailing down all her limbs. “Stop.” She pressed their bodies firmly together, hugging Dierdre’s stomach with both arms. “Stop. Wherever you need to go, we can get there without destroying your body. Just stop. Let me help. I’m here to help, Deirdre.”

Whose arms were these around her, holding her back? Deirdre clawed at them with her bloody fingers, which she soon realized didn’t have anything to claw with. So she struggled against the arms, lacking the power in her legs to fight but possessing the great determination to anyway. The world had blurred into simple shapes and colours around her; the houses were two long streaks of white, the sky was a block of blue. It was just her and the road and the arms. She groaned, the pain that blossomed under the arms was blinding, but she clawed and fought and clawed and fought. “Let,” her voice was hoarse, garbled with thick blood spitting out of her in coughs. “Go. Of. Me.” She battled against the arms again, with the last of her power. If the owner of the arms had said anything, Deirdre didn’t listen. She needed to get to Lydia, she didn’t care about anything else. She pushed harder, rubbing the bottom of her feet raw against the road.

“Not until I know what this is! I don’t care about your secret, isolationist bullshit, I need to know what’s happening! ” Morgan said. She wished she’d had the sense to get Deirdre’s arms pinned down in her grasp. She could feel her girlfriend’s fingers digging into her skin, trying to peel away enough of Morgan to slip through. But whatever skin she cut patched over. Morgan held steady, until she heard the now familiar sound of blood gurgling in Deirdre’s throat. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, but I’m not letting you destroy yourself,” she said. She dropped an arm to scoop up her girlfriend’s legs so she could carry her back to the car. She needed her doctor, someone to make this stop, someone who could explain why a scream had flipped a switch inside Deirdre and pulverized her insides. But Deirdre’s legs flailed and kicked and Morgan struggled to walk fast without dropping her. “Just tell me what this is,” she whispered, stuck on a loop. “I can fix it if you tell me what this is. Just tell me and we can make it stop, we can make it stop. Make it stop…”

The arms were strong. Deirdre gave up on her clawing, it was ineffective and hurt her raw fingers more than anything else. Instead, she wrapped her hand around the stranger’s wrists and tried to pry them off. She could scream, but something dull in the back of her head advised against it. She thought about it again, and the more she fought the logic, the worse her pain turned. She would do anything to get to Lydia, she had to. But she couldn’t scream, something else told her not to. “Let. Go.” She hissed, spewing another glob of blood against the ground. Then her body lifted into the air, and her eyes settled on shapes and colours she never wanted to forget. “Morgan?” She coughed, and then the rest fell into place. She couldn’t scream now, she couldn’t flail or shove—the first promise she ever offered Morgan was one to never physically hurt her with intention. “I’ll die,” she explained, “if you don’t let me go.” Because for all the promises she offered, there was one that now struck her as a little idiotic.

A good death was a terribly subjective thing, wasn’t it? And, also, impossible. But she had wanted it so badly for Lydia. She wanted the calm passing, the peace of a bed—devoid of pain. She said she’d do it no matter what it took. Lydia had been so horrified of the drowning, it was the least she could offer her. She never thought she’d have to deliver, she never thought Lydia could die. She never thought about it because she’d sooner die herself, then ever let it happen. Now, she tried to explain this to Morgan, but every time she spoke, she sputtered out blood. As she tried to gesture it out, her body convulsed. A good death was also a terrible thing to break a promise on. “You have to let me go,” she pleaded with what was left of her voice, “please, Morgan, I won’t live if you don’t let me—“ she coughed, her body took with great tremors of uncontrollable force. Pain seized her; she wouldn’t live anyway, and it was just a waiting game to see if the next thing that left her lips was a cough, a garble or a scream. She turned her head; why were they back at the house already? “No…” she croaked. They were too far now. She couldn’t make it even if she mustered the energy. She needed to follow her body’s compass, now there was nothing left.

For one short burst of time, Morgan believed everything was going to be okay. Deirdre saw her, she said her name and went still, and Morgan was able to break into a run. “Yes, it’s me, babe! We’re taking the car. Wherever the hell we’re going, we’re taking the car, and when you stop bleeding, you’re gonna tell me what’s wrong.”

And then Deirdre did. Not enough, not anything Morgan could understand, but she said enough to make Morgan stagger to a halt and nearly drop her with fright. “No.” She set Deirdre slowly to her feet, still holding on. “You can’t just say things like that, if that scream was for you, if this is how we…no.” She tried to pull her to the Subaru. They were less than ten feet away. They could just run up and hit the road. They could go to Lydia’s or Jared’s or the airport for all Morgan cared. As long as it was the place where Deirdre wasn’t talking about dying, she’d take them.

Deirdre sagged in her grip and collapsed to her knees, held up only by Morgan’s arms. “No, babe. We’re going. Just tell me where and we’re on our way. It’ll go by so fast, like you wouldn’t believe. You aren’t… this isn’t it, this isn’t how we’re gonna stop. We’ll fight it. Just get up with me, babe. Get up, please. We can get out of here, we can make this stop, we can be okay, we can…” Her own voice turned hoarse and ragged as she ran out of air. Morgan sank to her knees with Deirdre, eyes pleading as she fought her body for oxygen. “I can’t lose you,” she rasped. With another desperate burst of energy, Morgan tried to lift Deirdre once again.

Deirdre fell over. She didn’t have the strength to help Morgan lift her, she didn’t have the mind to try. She tumbled backwards against the driveway, the shock of the impact eliciting a gasp and then a bout of coughing. She turned her head away from Morgan out of politeness, but it rolled back as if her neck couldn’t spare the energy to hold it up. If she looked straight, blood would pool in the back of her throat, and she began to choke, which she thought she might die from first. But her body had already started to turn cold, and she could feel death coil inside. She was afraid to cough, lest she scream, but she hardly had the strength to stop either. She wanted to tell Morgan not to touch her, she couldn’t control herself if she screamed now, and that’d be dangerous. She wanted to tell her that the scream had been for Lydia, and that she’d promised her a good death. She wanted to ask if Morgan’s death had been good (no of course it wasn’t) and tell her that this one would be okay (no of course it wouldn’t). She wanted to tell Morgan she wouldn’t mind if she made a snack of her brain. She wanted to laugh about that, would Morgan gain an Irish accent if she dug into it? What did that sound like? She wanted to be around to hear it. She wanted to tell her that too. She wanted to tell her that she wasn’t happy about being picked up and carried back, but she understood why she did it. She wanted to explain just how much, how badly, she loved her. She felt dying finally gave her the key to figuring out the right words. But everything she wanted to say came out as incoherent mumbling. She couldn’t string a sentence together even if she could stop coughing and gurgling long enough to say it. But she tried anyway.

I love you, was a cough. We need to get to Lydia, was a long, anguished whistle between her teeth. Her arms flailed at her sides, even now and even then, she had been trying to push herself to Lydia. Part of it was the promise, leading her forwards, the other half was desperation and love—she wanted to be where Lydia was; like a child lost in a crowd, running around in circles in search of her family. It was common sense now, she figured, that she’d want to be by Lydia’s side. She just wished it wouldn’t be like this. Deirdre still wanted that good death for her, she didn’t regret offering it. She turned and slapped her phone--which had tumbled out of her hand long ago--closer to her. She lacked the energy to pick it up and call Lydia again, but she wanted it close. “L-l-l—“ she sputtered at Morgan, using her spasms as movement to propel her closer to her girlfriend. “It—“ she croaked, “okay.” Morgan seemed distressed, Deirdre tried to lift her hand up to smooth away the wrinkles, instead it bounced lamely off the ground—up and down as though she were knocking on the driveway. If she sat still, if she breathed in right, she could dispel enough of the trembling and swallow back enough blood to speak more clearly. “I’m sorry,” was all she managed for her breathing and steadiness. She hadn’t screamed for herself yet, she wanted to say, but that was what made it worse. They couldn’t run away from a broken promise. She smiled, she wasn’t worried about herself, anyway. She thought Morgan’s panic was alarming, and she was horrified for Lydia’s state, and angry that she wouldn’t pick up her phone. But she wasn’t worried. She wanted to tell Morgan that.

Morgan went down with Deirdre, unwilling to let her go. Her head hit the pavement, and Morgan screamed. Deirdre’s blood trailed down her body, staining the driveway a wet, ruddy brown and if everything was okay this wouldn’t be happening. She gathered Deirdre into her arms on the driveway, pressed into her chest as if they were embracing each other. She grit her teeth against the sound of her love choking on her own blood. She remembered the way her body fought and held Deirdre tighter. “You have to stay up,” she said. “You have to breathe. Don’t try to swallow it, babe, do whatever you have to and breathe. You’re gonna be fine. I’m gonna call the doctor and get her here and you’re gonna be just fine.” She kissed her cheek and came away streaked in blood.

Morgan pawed around for her phone. She’d brought it, right? She wasn’t stupid enough to be without her phone in the middle of an emergency? Morgan continued to feel around, still talking to Deirdre in a shrill, steady, stream. “It’s okay, we’re gonna figure this out, okay? I’ve got you and when the doctor’s here she’ll fix you up and we’ll take a bath together and you can sleep as long as you want after…” No phone. Morgan grit her teeth, whimpering like a stricken animal. “No…”

Deirdre was shaking in her grasp, and Morgan couldn’t tell if it was just the pain or if she was still, still trying to tear herself away from her. “No!” She bundled Deirdre’s arms into her grasp. “Please, just stop! Stay with me! Stay with me, please! Please, please, stay with me, babe. Just stay here. Stay here with me.” She caressed Deirdre’s cheek, squeezed her mutilated fingers. Blood dripped down their hands and soaked through their clothes. The driveway drank up the runoff until it was brown as dirt. Everywhere Morgan looked, there seemed to be more, splatters and rivilents and trails from the path they’d made down the block. “Please,” she begged. “You’ll be okay, please…” Her voice keened. The tears she’d been holding in began to fall and Morgan had to take a breath herself before she forgot how to speak. “Please,” she cried. “Please…”

Deirdre’s palms scraped the ground. No, something metal. Morgan blinked back her tears and saw Deirdre’s phone. Stained and a little cracked, but still working. Morgan snatched it up and tried to put in her password. Tried again. Tried again. “Fucking--Fuck!”

It-- okay--

Morgan looked down at the woman cradled in her arms. “Babe--? Hey, I’m here. I’m here.” She brushed back her hair and thumbed her cheek the way she would to ease her awake in the mornings. “I’ll make it better, you just have to hang on for me. For me, okay, my love? You don’t have to do anything else--” Her own words began to garble with sobs and she coughed, trembling as she fought herself to stay in control and get enough sense together to do something.

I’m sorry.

“No, don’t be sorry. I’m not mad, okay? Don’t be sorry, just be here…” She touched their foreheads together and squeezed her eyes shut against more tears. This wasn’t happening. They were supposed to have centuries to make this work, to live dozens of different lives together, to argue about having children. They were supposed to spend Yule together. “I can fix this. Help me…” She cried. But there was no conviction in her voice, only desperation. Her shoulders heaved, aching with the weight of what Deirdre seemed to already know. “I love you,” she whimpered. “Please... We can...we can try…” Morgan shivered, breaking with sobs that tumbled into rapid, shallow breaths, air trapped at the top of her lungs. She couldn’t let in oxygen any more than she could let in the truth.

Deirdre’s breathing had turned to pained wheezing, but the trembling ceased. Under all the red blood and dark veins, her skin had begun to turn blue. With her body’s energy claimed, there was nothing left to stop death from clawing its way around her. She did not fight for herself, but instead for Morgan’s peace and Lydia’s life. With all that was left of her, she spoke again, “you...have to...go…” Deirdre mustered a weak gesture to her phone, slapping her finger over the zero key six times to unlock it. “I...I...lov…” Her voice died, carried away by the wind. She laid still against Morgan’s body, breathing turned slow. She hadn’t screamed just yet, but now she felt like she’d miss it in her sleep. All the better, anyway, at least she wouldn’t hurt Morgan’s ears. But despite herself, despite everything she’d been told about acceptance of Death, she wheezed. She fought with what little breath she had to offer. And though it was slow, she breathed just as Morgan had taught her. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold. Out. In. Hold...

Deirdre’s phone vibrated to life, ringing loud and uncaring. The bright of the screen offered one name: a dheirfiúr.

Deirdre unlocked the phone and Morgan’s heart leapt with hope. “Yes! That was so good, babe. You’re doing so good, thank you.” Morgan started to scroll through Deirdre’s recent calls for the doctor. They had needed the woman’s help for Deirdre’s iron burns only a couple of weeks ago. But her head turned at the sound of Deirdre’s voice, so faint and broken. Her lips hung open, the ghost of her words still hanging on. “Deirdre?” Morgan patted her cheek. She shook her. “Deirdre, I know, babe. It’s okay. I know. You don’t need to say, you just need to stay here with me. Stay here. Stay…”

The phone rang as her voice broke. Morgan looked down. She’d seen that screen often enough to know who it was even if she couldn’t say the phrase in Gaelic. She fumbled to answer, almost dropping the phone. “Lydia! I know we’re not-- Please, she’s dying. It happened so fast, I don’t know what’s wrong or what to do! Please, you have to tell me what’s...What do I do? She wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong and…” She sobbed, out of words and out of time. Deirdre’s breath was so slow, rattling like the fall leaves in the yard. What little of her skin wasn’t stained with blood looked all wrong, too white, too blue. But Lydia, for all her terrible faults, was good at being fae. She knew things no one else in town did. Just holding her voice in her hand, Morgan ached to have hope.

Lydia’s voice broke through her cries. “Deirdr-- Morgan, DEIRDRE, NOW!”

Morgan pulled the phone away and jabbed her thumb on the speaker. “She’s here! You’re on speaker and she’s right here, but I don’t know if she’s conscious, if she’s still…” Morgan whimpered. She couldn’t say it, lest she breathe her death into being.

“I relinquish you,” Lydia breathed.

“Relinquish? Relinquish from what? Lydia, what did she promise you?” But the pieces, so few, so obvious, were assembling themselves in Morgan’s mind. She just didn’t want to see it. The scream that had been personal and horrifying enough to send Deirdre in a panic. The sad timbre in Lydia’s voice. How else had she known to call? What kind of promise would do this to Deirdre except something so sentimental and stupid? “...Lydia, where are you?” She asked, her voice barely more than a squeak.

“I love you!”

“I--We love you too, we both do,” Morgan whispered.

“You’re the best fae in that town, you mean the world, you’re like a sister to--” Lydia’s voice cut off with a gasp.

“Lydia?”

A whimpering sound creaked through the other end of the line, shuddering until it turned into a keening scream of pain.

“Lydia, no!” She didn’t want this. Morgan wanted a lot of things where Lydia was concerned, most of them impossible on account of her stubborn, sickening fae supremacy ideals, but above all of them: she wanted Lydia to die more peacefully than this. “Run. Just run, Lydia! We’ll--” What? A banshee’s scream was fate’s seal. Morgan dropped the phone, held Deirdre closer, and listened.

Out. Deirdre gasped to life, freed from her bind to Lydia. But relief did not find her; dread creaked against her chest. “No…” she whimpered, a quiet sound under Morgan’s shouting and Lydia’s desperation. She wanted to say that she loved her too, but like everything else, it was too late now. She listened to the sounds on the other end of the phone; screams, cries. A good death was not the image summoned to her mind. “She’s not dead just yet.” Deirdre stood, pushing herself away from Morgan as she wobbled to her feet. She wasn’t dying, but her body was far from recovered. Even so, she stood stubbornly as though nothing was wrong with her at all. “There’s still time for a good death. We just have to get there.” It burned to speak, her body felt like a foreign mass of wetness and weight. She reached down and plucked her phone back from Morgan. She had seen more death than she knew how to count; some terrible, some kind. Fae, human, supernatural or not, she’d seen them all go. She delivered her own mercies where she could. For Lydia, she had been prepared to die, she still would. “Get in the car and drive,” she commanded weakly. “I’ll tell you where.” Lydia continued on the other end, Deirdre imagined her phone forgotten in some dark corner. She listened. “We don’t have time.” And then she moved, a limp over to the passenger seat.

Morgan’s mind was stuck in a lag. She saw Deirdre fall out of her arms like the last few minutes hadn’t happened. Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe this was one long terrible nightmare she was trapped in and in a few minutes Deirdre would shake her awake. Morgan watched her rise, more rag-doll than woman. The blood down her robe was so red, and Morgan couldn’t even see her fingers for all the blood clotting them. Whole features vanished just like that, like they’d been melted. How weird. Distantly, there were screams, crackling and in and out, an echo of an echo. Lydia. But Lydia didn’t scream. That wasn’t who she was. Even when she was scared she was brave. Morgan thought she remembered her ears hurting. That had been scary, but they never sounded like this before. Could screams run through you like that? Deirdre was moving toward the car, about to tip over any minute. Morgan knew she should get up and go to her, but the pathways between knowing what to do and doing it were jammed or broken. Morgan couldn’t feel her own feet, much less the ground under her. Inside, she screamed that this was all wrong and why wouldn’t anyone explain to her what was the matter and didn’t this Deirdre know she was going to fall? But maybe Morgan’s limbs had melted in all the blood too. She tried to open her mouth, wait for me, don’t go, I’m stuck, just wake me up already. Only a pitiful wine made it past her lips.

Deirdre pulled the handle over and over again, waiting for it to unlock. They didn’t have the time to be doing this; in her hand, the sounds continued. They ebbed and flowed, moments of little silence followed by horrific scream. It didn’t even sound like Lydia anymore. “Come on, Morgan….” she tried the handle again, giving up with a huff when she figured it wasn’t going to happen. If she thought about it, she might’ve realized that Morgan was prone to shock, but she wasn’t thinking. She left Lydia on the hood of the Subaru and gripped the car as a crutch as she circled around. Morgan was still on the floor; they didn’t have the time. They couldn’t just— “Hey,” Deirdre called out softly, she couldn’t make it over to Morgan by walking (limping) and so she dove at the ground, peeling back wounds that had just started to clot. “Hey,” she called again, slow and careful. She wrapped her heavy arms around her love, unable to muster the strength to hold her as hard as she needed, and hating herself with each second for it. “Lydia is going to die, okay? She’s being, right now she’s being—“ Deirdre couldn’t say it. She swallowed, wincing at the sting in her throat. “I promised her a good death, because that’s what I do. I promised her a good death and I couldn’t do it. So, please, my love, we have to get up and go find her. If we’re quick, we can do something. If we’re quick, we can…” Save her? Get her assailants? It didn’t matter to Deirdre, she just wanted to be by Lydia’s side. Or wake up, find this was all a terrible dream. It must’ve been, Lydia couldn’t die. Lydia wasn’t the type of person that died. Not her. “Hey,” she cooed again, “I’m not strong enough to drive, so I need you to do it, but if you can’t or don’t want to...I need you to give me the keys, okay? I know it’s hard, my love. I know it’s confusing, we can figure it all out together when we get to her, but I need you to decide right now. Can you drive, or can you take your keys out and give them to me?” Deirdre wasn’t looking forward to trying to drive in her state, but she had no ideas of forcing Morgan to try. Caring for Morgan wasn’t something she took lightly, then again, neither was Lydia. She clenched her jaw, the more time they spent like this the longer Lydia was— “It’s okay,” she said again, voice cracking from use. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re okay. I’m okay. I need you to stand for me, my love, my darling. You did so good, you brought us here because you know we have to take the car. You—“ her voice had reached its limit, and she croaked, raw and rough. “Please—“ she sobbed from the pain, from the situation. “Morgan, please…”

Morgan thought she heard Deirdre’s voice, twisted and all wrong. The world was so slow and strange, flimsy in her mind’s grasp. There were questions she’d wanted to ask, but she couldn’t come up with the words. She was all fear and confusion, whimpering as tried to answer. “N-n-no…” she managed, barely a whisper. And then Deirdre was holding her but not, and she was alone and not, on and on two pictures sketched themselves out in her mind, a Spot The Difference game dialed up to grotesque. This wasn’t happening. But if it wasn’t happening, why wasn’t she done already? Morgan pressed in, testing the fabric of the world. Deirdre held, not right, but not the way she vanished in Morgan’s worst nightmares either. “I’m--I--” The car. The car had been important a while ago. She remembered trying hard to get to the car. Morgan looked at Deirdre, her eyes unfocused and full of fear and confusion. Deirdre was telling her things and the words were familiar even if they didn’t make sense. A promise for a good death? What did that even mean? And Lydia, a good death for Lydia… but she wasn’t even that old. That wasn’t right.

On the phone, still open, someone sobbed.

None of this was right. Deirdre was crying, pleading with her. Morgan couldn’t think of what she’d done wrong but she wanted to fix it. She tried forcing her arms to move. “Mm...s-sorr…” Her bones felt stiff and made of air at the same time. They had to do something. She always tried for Deirdre and she’d been desperate to do something before, right? She tested her hands. She couldn’t feel them right, but they looked like they were holding on. Morgan’s breath hissed through her teeth as she tried to stand, her questions dying in her throat in breathless cries. How many times had she been stuck by the roadside, watching her world fall apart? What had they done to make the universe take and take and take? Maybe this was a nightmare, but it was one Morgan had been in before.

Morgan squeezed her eyes shut and brought them up, nodding mutely at the rest of Deirdre’s words. She didn’t realize that she was crying too, or that she was just as likely to drop her love as she was to break her bone with her grip on her body so tenuous. “Do something,” she tried to say, the sounds frail and garbled in her throat. She didn’t know if she believed it, but saying it was how most of her days went, nightmares or otherwise. “We can...do something…”

She reached into her pocket for the keys. She didn’t realize they were red and sticky because her hands were still covered in Deirdre’s blood, she just marveled at them with detached confusion and clicked the button. The Subaru blinked to life. The doors clicked, unlocking. In time she made it inside the driver’s side, buckled and keyed up and ready more from muscle memory than from any sense of hurry. She stared at the console. She knew what came next. Reverse. Steer. Drive. Go. But where? They were going to see Lydia, right? Morgan looked over at Deirdre, who had dragged herself into her seat by now. What now, she tried to say. I don’t understand where we’re going, you never told me. And when do I get to wake up? But Morgan’s hands, knowing better, followed the motions they knew and they pulled out of the drive.

As much as she wanted to soothe Morgan’s worries, they didn’t have the time. She hissed with pain and regret, forcing herself to her feet. She had seen too much death to be startled by it now. Deirdre stumbled to the front of the car, grabbing her phone--still playing the music of Lydia’s agony--and winced her way into the passenger seat. She threw her head back and heaved, the pain in her body was blinding, and she couldn’t tell so much if she was crying or if Lydia was. “Alley.” She groaned, shakily reaching her hand across the console in search of Morgan’s. “Some alley, it looked like. Not any of the one’s downtown, I think. So let’s go to Amity first, and then The Bend, and work our way up. Just drive past them, we don’t need to stop. I’ll be able to tell if she’s there.” They’d get to Lydia because they had to. They’d get to Lydia because she wanted them to. They’d get to her because, even relinquished, she burned to give Lydia her good death.

Morgan clutched Deirdre’s hand, whining softly as relief mixed with panic. If she weren’t already driving, she might have fallen over the console trying to press it to her face. She still didn’t know how to process the shifts in Deirdre, happily holding her, shattering on the floor, running away til she bled, taking her last breaths in her arms, smiling like it was over, and now this. Morgan wasn’t convinced she’d reached the end, and half expected Deirdre to throw herself out the window or simply vanish into the ether. But Deirdre had been clear, and as much as Morgan feared she would vanish again, her instructions were the best thing to cling to. She drove fast down the residential streets Lydia couldn’t be, and braked abruptly down Amity when she felt a jolt of fear that she might speed too quickly and miss Lydia completely. She never stopped except for at the red lights, when she cowered in her seat and begged the universe to wake her up and make this stop happening.

On the phone, metal shook and crunched. A fall breeze picked up over the sound of flesh sucking in a blade and Lydia’s anguished cries. Morgan whimpered at each rising sound, knowing that there were points when even a fae body could hold no more pain.

She cast a guilty, frightened look at Deirdre as they entered the Bend. Was she doing this right? Was Deirdre really here? Would they make it in time? The world was becoming more real and solid and her fear was crystallizing around her along with it. As they turned the next corner, the phone went silent. Morgan flinched, eyes flickering to Deirdre again. Had she hung up? Was it too late? The silence was suddenly so loud and so much worse than the sounds of pain and violence. Morgan hadn’t been told to stop, so she kept rolling from one alley to another. But she had to know. Her voice came out as barely more than a gasp when she forced the words out. “What happened…?” She asked, already shrinking in her seat, fearing the worst.

Deirdre, eyes closed, leaned back against her seat. The world rumbled around her in the hum of the Subaru’s engine, the crunch of gravel under its tires--interspersed with the Lydia who didn’t sound like Lydia at all. And as if her body were a jungle, she cut aside the thick vegetation of her pain--nauseating grip around her innards, limbs that felt fake--and searched for the feelings that went beyond herself. The death, the tug to fae, everything that would bring her to Lydia. The car moved, and in her silence she spoke not here, not there, keep going. At some point, not-Lydia faded into white noise; Deirdre knew those sounds already, she’d seen them ripped from Lydia’s mouth. The phone at least, was her tether to what remained. As long as she screamed and cried and begged, she lived, horrible as that living was. And as long as she lived, they could reach her. It was that way that she noticed whimpers to her left, and opened her eyes to the source. “You’re doing good,” she told Morgan, another hand outstretched to weakly clasp hers. She watched her for a moment, wishing she had more to say. For once, her rabid mind was silent; she thought of Lydia, and felt no space within her to worry about anything else.

She found humor in the sudden silence. As if the world thought her clinging to shattered pieces was too pitiful to let continue. Deirdre turned to her phone, picked it up and stared at the red symbol of an empty battery. She laughed, loud and crude and unlike herself. “My phone died.” Her tether severed again. “Just drive,” she laughed louder, loud enough until the phone was shards digging into her blood-stained hand. She stopped just as abruptly as her phone died. “Just drive.” Her voice lost its warmth, Deirdre finding that there was nothing inside of her after all; she was pain and then nothing. She withdrew her hand from Morgan’s a moment later. “If she’s not here then drive into the outskirts, and if she’s not there then we’re heading out of town.” She closed her eyes again, and waited.

Morgan reached back for Deirdre’s hand, scrambling through the air. “I’m sorry,” she croaked. “I’m sorry...I’m sorry…I’ll...W-we can still...” She pulled on the fabric of her robe around her thigh, her sleeve. Deirdre’s hand had been her stabilizer, and without that tie to this strange, wrong world, Morgan was off balance, floating down and away and into the deep. Morgan drove faster, clinging to the last sounds of Lydia’s screams in her memory. She barely sounded like herself at all. Lydia was so collected and proud, she would never want them to hear her like that. Morgan hated to imagine what her face must be, what must be happening to her, but if she could picture her whole, and only scarred, not bleeding, she could imagine that they might still get there in time. Morgan’s breath hitched, trapped at the top of her lungs again, but still she drove.

The roads grew sparse, and the White Crest City Limits sign came up the horizon, and still she drove. In time, Deirdre’s arms went limp and her hand flopped into her lap, passively open to be held. Still Morgan drove. The sun sank behind the treetops, the stars blinked to life, the road gave way to freeways and bright white lights, and towns with twice as many lights and coffee shops. Then the last light vanished, and there was still nothing, absolutely nothing. Morgan gripped Deirdre’s hand tighter. Morgan veered out of whatever town they were in and back onto the freeway. If it wasn’t here, then where? And how many hours had it been? Only a few cars were driving out in the boonies at night, Morgan sped onto the entrance ramp without disturbing a soul. The Subaru drifted in and out of its lane, signs passed in a tear-coated blur, and there was nothing, only dark, and the echo of Lydia’s scream so distant, Morgan wasn’t sure if she was remembering it right. A sob broke through her. Morgan bit her lip and gripped the wheel tighter. She sobbed again, the sound cracking through her clenched jaw. Still Morgan drove--into a guardrail. Paint and metal peeled off the side,sending sparks down the road. Morgan screamed and slammed the brake. The car stopped. The clock flipped: 10:30 p.m. Morgan saw the numbers, and the crunched metal along the passenger side door. There was nothing. Nothing they could do. The scream Morgan wanted to let out whistled past her throat in a shrill cry. Her muscles tingled with a pain that went beyond her dead nerves, suddenly too heavy for her body. Morgan slumped down against the wheel and covered her head as if all the sobs breaking through her were full of flying debris.

Deirdre thought a clear mind would bring her to Lydia. She didn’t think of her pain, or of Morgan’s, or of where they were driving, really. She thought of Lydia as she was, the curve of her shoulders, the swoop of her hair. She thought of her as she knew Lydia would hate for anyone to see her; crying in her arms, bloody and beaten and tortured without the dignity of a good place to die. An alley, it had to be. She’d be just another stain against brick. Her blood would mix with the dampness. She’d die like she was nothing, like Deirdre didn’t love her. Her body would be ruined by the world, touched by the dirt, claimed by the rats. It wasn’t right. Lydia didn’t deserve to be twisted into something she wasn’t; so much of her life was spent embodying perfection, why should she die like trash, thrown aside? The clear mind didn’t provide any answers, but Deirdre thought it would lead her well to where she needed to go--to the place that would. Instead it broke apart by the shrill sound of metal against metal, and rubber against road. Her eyes snapped open and she was back in the world again, where Lydia wasn’t. Deirdre slammed the passenger side door against the guard rail, trying to open it and hop out. She tried it again and again as if the space for her to squeeze out would magically grow large enough for her to fit. She turned to Morgan to explain her predicament and found her slumped against the wheel.

In another world---the good world, the one that was peaceful and warm and brighter than bright---Lydia was laughing over a glass of wine. She was explaining the process of her latest restoration piece, and though the topic was not interesting or of importance to Deirdre, she leaned up to the edge of her seat and smiled wide as if being told a story. She looked to Lydia with bright eyes, and an expression that was horribly transparent for all the love and awe she held inside of her. In that world, Deirdre explained that she was an only child, and that she didn’t know what it was like to have a sister. She called her dheirfiúr and said she thought she knew now. Then she said she was sorry; for many things, but this one betrayal more than all.

Deirdre turned the car off, the Subaru’s rumbling now dead as the night around them. She crawled across the console, reaching out to push the driver seat back, leaned back just as far as she knew was comfortable. She pulled Morgan away from the wheel and pressed her into the seat. Clumsily, painfully, she fell into Morgan’s lap, and pulled her into her bloodied chest. They didn’t have time. But in the good world, they would have found Lydia already. Deirdre’s curse was not the death she carried, but the truths she knew. “It’s okay,” she rasped, her throat still sensitive to speech. “Let’s take a break; it’s okay.”

Morgan gasped through her sobs, trying to make her words come. She was sorry she’d fallen apart in the driveway, she was sorry she was falling apart right now, she was sorry she’d wrecked the car, she was scared, she thought Deirdre was going to die, she didn’t understand, she didn’t know what to do, and where else could Lydia be? Why couldn’t they just find her, why wasn’t she anywhere? Didn’t they at least get to have a body to bring with them, to shroud and burn the way fae were supposed to be? Why was there nothing? Deirdre’s body pressed into hers, familiar and right and Morgan finally had enough air to scream the way her body needed to. She latched onto Deirdre, shaking her head as she wrapped herself as tightly as her small limbs would let her. Was Deirdre really even here, she wanted to ask. Was she going to vanish too? Was all of this a living nightmare that left Morgan alone in the world? Scattered pieces of her thoughts made it through her sobs, “...so, so sorry...Lydia...please...Deirdre, stay with...please…Lydia...” But just as there was no more Lydia (terrible, thoughtless, incredible Lydia), there were no words to trade away her pain. Like death, it simply was.

Choice was a horrible thing. Maddening, freeing, precious, but terrible. There never was a right one, and Deirdre hated that. She felt sick thinking of how lonely Lydia was, how abandoned by people who said they loved her, and how she was doing the same--leaving her body to decay in some nameless alley. This was her own fault, she should have fought harder against Morgan and just kept running. She would’ve known where to go then, and if it meant she’d die, then at least she’d be where Lydia was. But even for the pang of regret, she couldn’t look at the Morgan in her arms and say what she’d done was wrong. She thought Lydia would understand, because Lydia always did. “It’s okay, my love.” The space she carved out in her numb body for Lydia she carefully dug out and filled anew. She’d make it up a thousand times over when they finally reached her murder scene, where she’d commit to memory every face involved and subject them to the same suffering. She’d make the death good, somehow. But for now, life was for the living, and she tried to hold Morgan tighter. “Don’t be sorry. It’s okay. Look at me---” Deirdre cupped Morgan’s face. She smiled down at her, as warmly as her worn body could muster. The dark veins had long since faded away, and though she was still crusted with blood, some color had flushed back to her pale skin. Her soft brown eyes didn’t reflect any of the agony that claimed her. “Look at me. It’s okay. It’ll be okay. You don’t have to be sorry for anything. I’m here with you, I’ll always be here with you.”

“But...you were gone…I didn’t...But I...” Morgan hiccuped, trembling, confusion wrinkled all over her brow. But Deirdre’s face let no room for question or doubt. She was no nightmare doppelganger or ghost. She was solid and blood caked and soft and she loved her. Whatever had been behind the last few hours, death and everything in between, that much was still true. Morgan nodded, accepting her word as gospel even if she didn’t understand it. The tension between her shoulders crumbled and Morgan sank back against Deirdre, nuzzling her cheek as she burrowed into her comfort. “Tell me how to make this better and I’ll do it,” she whispered, her voice squeaking with pain impatient to unload itself. “How do we heal you after this? You stopped breathing for so long, you must be...and your hands, and your poor feet...and…” And there was another question, too awful to be asked aloud. And how do we get Lydia back? How do we re-balance the world so she can stay here long enough to change? “What do we do for her now?” Was all she said.

Deirdre always felt more like herself when there was a plan to be discussed. Her whole life was plans; she had the mind for it. A good plan always made her forget that she never really believed what she was saying. “You take me to my doctor, and I’ll stay overnight at the clinic. They don’t allow it, but I’ll argue, and you’ll stay the night with me. I’ll heal. I always do.” She had no nails left after scraping them across the asphalt, to try and rake over Morgan’s skin for added pressure, but she didn’t have the strength to anyway, and so she didn’t mourn the loss for long. “We go find Lydia. And we take what’s left of her body, and we worry about your hunger when we get there--but we take her home, and we’ll freeze her. I’ll call her family. We’ll go to her house and pick out a nice dress for her; she’ll want to look good, that’s important. And we’ll take whatever else we can so she can be remembered just the way she wanted to. We’ll take Niamh in, because we have to, and Anya and Moira will just have to adjust. And then I find the people who did this and---” Deirdre swallowed back the anger that roiled in the back of her throat. “---and it’ll be okay. We have to find her first, but we will, and then it’ll be okay.”

#wr deirdre #wr chatzy #wr deirdre chatzy #a good death #wr lydia #wr lydia chatzy #wickedswriting

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starrose17 · 4 years ago

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Wincest fic idea, Battlestar Galactica!AU

Ah yes, my fall back fantasy no matter what fandom I’m in, the Battlestar Galactica 2004 AU, now for wincest! No matter what fandom I’m in I ALWAYS resort to a BSG!AU. Cos there is so much angsty love and darkness and hope potential, and in this one Sam is a sleeper Cylon agent (taking on mostly Boomers role in the series), and he’s gonna have to be an adopted brother for this to work as Dean is human.

So yeah, read below because I always LOVE the love and angst in this fantasy, its not exactly a fic...though it feels like i’ve written one already, this got quite long ^^;

Dean and Sam are both Viper pilots on the Galactica, but it was never Sam’s first choice. He was raised on the Galatica after he was adopted as a baby, along with his adoptive brother Dean and his father, Admiral John Winchester, who runs the ship. He was trained as a pilot next to Dean, but left after a huge argument to pursue his education on the ground. In fact two separate arguments, one very public one with his father on the bridge of the ship, the other privately with Dean, for they had been sleeping together for years and leaving Dad meant leaving Dean, but still Sam turned away, shouting at Dean for being Dad’s “perfect little solider”, and Dean was furious and hurt, but so was Sam.

Two years later the Galactica is due for retirement and for the ceremony Dean plucks up the courage to turn up at Sam’s place on Caprica asking for Sam to come back to fly in the ceremony flyby, for old times sake, that it wouldn't be the same to say goodbye to the ship that raised them both without him there. Neither of them mention they haven’t spoken to each other at all these two years. Neither of them mention their “relationship” before, especially as Sam’s girlfriend Jess was in the room.

Reluctantly, Sam agrees, but makes a point of telling Dean not to tell their dad he was coming.

So Sam heads up to the ship and gets geared up, the other pilots that he knows from before shocked he is there, some greeting him happily like an old friend, others hating him for turning “on the old man”, as the Admiral was often called.

Still Sam gets in a Viper with his brother flying formation beside him, and Dean cannot stop grinning, seeing his little brother back in uniform, back in a viper, because no matter how much he says he hates it Sammy was always the best pilot out of everyone. Except Dean, of course. So Sam does the flyby as he agreed, and sees their father through the large dome window on the ship giving his speech to the crew, memories and regrets and still anger running through him.

“You didn’t tell me you’d made CAG.” Sam says quietly when they’re alone in Dean’s room after the flyby, a cabin not shared with the other pilots as he was now in command of them.

“You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.”

An awkward small smile come on Sam’s lips, “I guess there’s alot we haven’t spoken about in quite a while.”

So they talk, and talk, and get closer and closer as the barriers come down and the forgiveness starts to set in, and when Dean quietly whispers that he’s missed Sam so much, so much, Sam finds himself kissing his brother for the first time in two years, and Dean is pushing him down onto his bunk and getting his hands up underneath that uniform and suddenly everything is as it should be as though nothing had ever changed.

Until the cylons suddenly attack.

So picture the series going on, and Sam finds himself blacking out and waking up in strange places, though he never tells Dean. He also doesn’t exactly reconcile with his Dad, but when he finally finds out Sam is stuck aboard with them all as they FLT their way through space trying to avoid the cylons, the Admiral does give his son the biggest hug, simply relieved to know he is here on board and alive, unlike all the millions of people dead.

Including Jess.

Dean and Sam get closer and basically live together in Dean’s cabin, and despite the strange blackouts, which he doesn't want to worry his brother about, Sam is beginning to find himself happy. He plays cards with his brother and the other pilots, just like they did once before, gets drunk with them, gets in the vipers to battle against the cylons when they make their moves, with Dean constantly at his side, protecting him, protecting each other. He mourns those they loose, getting tired and upset and angry with the universe for what it was doing to their slowly diminishing race, but at least he had Dean. The blackouts get worse, and the latest one he found himself sitting alone in the locker room, dripping head to toe in water, and doesn’t know why.

But then the opportunity to blow up a base ships emerges, using a stolen reader from a captured cyclon raider, enabling one ship to fly into the baseship thinking it’s one of their own and then plant a nuclear warhead there, and Dean and Sam volunteer.

Once on the hanger deck of the baseship they rock, paper, scissor who gets to go outside to plant the bomb, and Sam goes, with Dean staying on the shuttle ready to escape at a moments notice. Sam places the bomb, all set and ready to detonate on a countdown, when he turns around and sees down the large passageway what looks like a small army of cylons walking towards him, but....but this can’t be...he shakes his head, he’s dreaming, a nightmare like those that have always plagued him, and he blinks and blinks again because no, no, and he backs away as dozens of identical cyclons looking just like himself walk towards him, telling him not to be scared, that’s it’s alright, come with them.

In terror and utter denial confusion Sam races back onto the shuttle, they fly off, the bomb explodes and the baseship is destroyed, and back on Galactica everyone is greeting them as heroes, clapping and cheering. Their father walks towards them, shaking Dean’s hand and pulling him into a hug, he goes to offer his hand to Sam, another hopeful brief moment of bonding between them, when with a genuine sweet smile Sam offers his hand back and two loud bangs echo around the room, for Sam’s holding a gun, and has just shot his own father twice in the chest, and suddenly everything is chaos. Dean is on the floor with his dad, hands over the blood pouring from the two holes in his chest, alternating between staring in horror at his dad and horror at his brother, who suddenly seems to snap out of a trance as others are piling on him, grabbing him and holding him, and as he sees what he’s done and the look on Deans face, he screams, and screams, and at the same time a massive explosion rips through one side of the ship, where the bombs that Sam had planted inside the water tanks explode, which explains why he was dripping wet.

So now Sam is in handcuffs and in an interrogation room being tortured, being told he is a sleeper cylon agent and to tell them everything he knows, and where the other bomb is that has been counted as missing but wasn’t one of the ones that blew up the water tanks. Sam’s mental state is a mess, he doesn’t know anything, he doesn’t know what happened, he’s a cylon? Flashes of his identical twins marching towards him flash across his mind, No, NO!! No he can’t... Dean....and they’re punching him cutting him and drowning him in buckets of water as they hold his head underneath as he squirms and flails against the lack of oxygen.

“Why don’t you just turn off your pain? You’re a robot, why suffer like this?” one his torturers asks, and Sam just lowers his head, tired of answering he doesn’t know to every question, and terrified for the state of his father because no one will tell him, and Dean...oh god Dean what must he be thinking....so he asks for Dean, over and over again no matter how much they hurt him, no matter how many tears of agony runs down his face, and eventually one of them tells him that Dean doesn’t want to see him, Dean is having his own crisis.

Dean has stayed in his cabin, pacing up and down, cursing, being told to get out of the medical bay as his father went in for surgery. How could Sam have been a cylon all this time and Dean not have realised?! How could Sam, his baby brother, and who he loved more than anyone could possible love another person, be a cylon? The destroyer of their race? How could he have...touched him, loved him, fucked him, it was making him feel sick and furious and a fool for being led on. Their father was alive if in a critical condition, and now they had a water shortage issue and now his brother was a fucking cylon wtf!!! At this stage he’s too blinded by anger and humiliation and shock to realise of course he still loves him completely, but he’s gonna realise that too late.

Eventually, they have to get Dean in to talk to Sam, because as far as they’re concerned Sam is refusing to cooperate and maybe seeing his “brother”, for they all knew Sam had been adopted and now certainly knew they weren't related with Sam being a cylon, would perhaps spark of bit of so called “human” compassion. And Dean doesn't want to, god he doesn't want to go in there, but he does for the sake of the lives the last bomb may take, so he enters the room. Sam’s face lights up like fireworks in the sky at the sight of him, Dean sitting down at the table between them, refusing to look at Sam

“Where’s the other bomb Sam?” he asks quietly to the table, and Sam just looks at him, just looks, and despite the blood on his face and torn clothing and hair still dripping from being half drowned, he smiles, smiles because he hasn’t seen his brother in he didn’t know how long.

“How’s dad? Is he okay they won’t tell m-”

“He’s not your dad.” Dean will reply, just as quietly, “Where’s the bomb?”

And Sam’s heart is breaking, and he tries to reach for his brother but the chain cuffing him to the edge of the table prevents him.

“I don’t know Dean.”

Dean bits his lip in a held back anger, taking a shaking breath to calm his frayed and betrayed nerves, “If you have any shred of love left for me in that...whatever it is that makes up your brain, then don’t make me sit here any longer than I have to and tell me where the last bomb is. Tell me everything you know about the cylons so I can get out of here.”

Sam is silent for a moment, so sad and terrified for his own life and seeing Dean treat him this way, not even looking at him...

“If you were told, right now,” Sam began, so softly, “that you were really a cylon, Dean. Would you suddenly know all their secrets? Would you know everything about them? I don’t know anything. Please.......tell them to stop hurting me.”

It’s then Dean finally looks up at him, and for a split moment a look of utter shock and terrible caring pain crosses his face at the image before him, cos there’s blood everywhere, even on the walls, and Sam is shaking, his face and body is cut and bruised, his hair lanky and his breathing is laboured. Dean opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t know what, and suddenly he shaking his head and standing up, turning to the door.

“I can’t do this.” he mutters, ignoring Sam’s cry of his name behind him as the doors slams closed.

Getting nothing out of him it’s decided to throw him out the airlock, he has no rights he’s the fucking enemy, not even alive, and now Sam is genuinely terrified and still shaking, still handcuffed, barely able to stand from his injuries as he stands there all alone as the others watch the through the glass window in the control room.

“Any last words?” It’s was Bobby, the XO, the man he’s grown up with alongside his father and brother on this very ship. This place was his home, these people were his family, he didn’t know anything about cylons he still couldn’t wrap his head around that he was one he just wanted to...to...go home! To go...to Dean.

Dean was his home.

So with a voice that barely sounded like his own he asks for Dean, to speak to him one last time, to see him, and the reply from Bobby is that he’s not here, and doesn’t want to be. So Sam stands there, looking up at the green light above the airlock, his heart beat thumping as it starts to flash amber, a warning, and the sirens start to sound.

Bobby can barely do this himself, John was still unconscious, it was his job he ran the ship now, but this was one of his boys...how could he be a cylon?

But he was, and the risk of keeping one on board, no matter who they’ve been pretending to be its entire life,....it shot John, it killed countless people with those bombs....it had to go.

Sam’s last thought is of Dean, his name on his lips in a final terrifying whisper as the light goes red and the doors open, and Sam is sucked out into space.

The fleet jumps away, and it’s just Sam’s frozen body alone in space, until a cylon baseship FTL’s in, and suddenly a new Sam in a new body is gulping lungful's of new air as he fights his way out of that goopy liquid bolting upright, downloaded memories flooding in of Dean, dad, bombs and water and Dean and torture and Dean and fear and Dean and god he’s surrounded by others cylons, some he knows the faces of ones he’d fought and killed before, but it’s the ones that look like him, the ones with his face and his hair and his calming smiles that make him lose his mind, his terrified scream echoing down the empty baseship corridors.

He truly is a cylon.

Back in the fleet time has passed, the last bomb was discovered on a transport and deactivated, and the Pegasus has arrived, boasting of capturing their own cylon agent and keeping him prisoner on board. They’ve got a lot out of him but still need more, and they specially request Dean. Dean wonders why on earth they want him, he has been depressed and angry and moping ever since Sam, and no one really trusts him because of who Sam was, so he supposed this was a chance to prove himself if he could help in any way.

As they take him on board the officers are joking on how much they’ve tortured this one, making into a game, starving it, forcing themselves on it, after all its just a ‘toaster’ you can’t rape metal, laughing at how real and good it feels though. Dean is turning his nose up and telling to shut up, feeling rather bad for this cylon already, they’d all seen how human these models are, perhaps they did feel pain.

They take him into the same cell as in the show, the empty white room with the large glass wall, and in the middle of the floor lays another Sam model, wearing nothing but a white bedshirt that barely covers his backside, and Dean stares.

There are bruises everywhere, arms, neck…thighs…his wrists and ankles are red raw from constant restraints, he’s thin and broken and already shaking in absolute terror at the sight of the officers. His hair reaches half way down his back and its matted with blood and sweat and...something else that’s making it stick together. His once beautiful hazel eyes are wide and red and filled with agony and a wish for death.

Dean is so shocked he can’t even move, he can’t think of anything but his own Sam, he can’t see anyone but his own Sam, and he’s suddenly filled with rage. But, he goes in with a tray of food that they give him, and promises Sam softly that he wont hurt him, hating how this Sam tries to curl in on himself as though waiting for a beating immediately. Dean put the tray near him on the floor, and then backs away, sitting against the glass wall as the officers leave them alone.

“It’s not a trick,” Dean said quietly, hot tears threatening in his own eyes, “I’m not gonna take it away at the last second. It’s yours. I’m just gonna sit here. You don’t have to say anything. I’m just gonna be here with you.”

And slowly, very very slowly, a thin hand and a thin wrist edges its way cautiously forward, crawling its fingertips across the floor, taking a single slice of apple and quickly bringing it back to his mouth, taking small, tiny bites, as though wanting to savour it not knowing if he’d be allowed to take another. He won’t say a word. They beat him if he speaks without them telling him to.

Everything the officers had been laughing at that they’d done to this Sam, it was all flying through Dean’s mind, picturing his own Sam, being raped, beaten, far worse than what had been done to him on the Galatica. This Sam was broken, in every possible way, and he finds himself pouring his heart out to it. At what had happened with his Sam, what that Sam meant to him, how this feeling of anger that had been consuming him he knew now was directed at himself, for not being there for Sam, for condoning him to death when his brother had been confused and desperate for help. He was cylon, Dean accepted that now, and now understood that that fact hadn’t changed a single thing about how he felt about him. It was Sam, his brother the love of his life, and he’d abandoned him, let him be tortured and die, and Dean now sits there in floods of tears, his hands over his face, praying to all the Gods to forgive him for what he’d done.

As he sits there, he suddenly feels the weak grip of the broken Sam on his wrist, and he looks up. This Sam was suddenly kneeling in front of him, his collarbones so pronounced through starvation, his face gaunt and hollow, and so beaten, but he was smiling, and suddenly he was shakily leaning over him, letting his weight cover Dean, hugging him, holding him, and Dean trembles and holds onto him, burying his head at his shoulder.

Even after everything this Sam had been through, he was still kind, still cared, and that is exactly what his Sam had always been.

God he loved him so much, and now he was gone.

The plot follows the series, so the broken Sam, with Dean’s help, eventually blows up the Pegasus killing himself as well, because no matter how much Dean helped him, telling him of what he could be of the good he could do, he couldn’t live with what they’d done to him and wouldn’t let them live to do the same to others. It’s never traced back to Dean for helping, and life goes on, except Dean has a new sympathy. He’s not on the cylons side don’t get him wrong, he never would be, but perhaps there was a way of working together, to stop all this killing. He questioned himself at the time, about letting all those people, all those humans die, but the empty look in his broken brothers eyes, no....no one would hurt any Sam ever again.

HIS Sam, the one in the the new body, is still refusing to act the cylon. There’s no need to tell any of them any information as they got it all when he was downloaded, but that also meant they all knew about him and Dean. But to Sam, he was human, not a cylon, no matter how many of his own face tried to talk to him, he would never be on the side of the cylons, NEVER, and he kept himself locked away in lonely corners of the ship, perhaps having no choice to accept what he was but not meaning he was going to betray everyone he loved, even if....even if they hated him...even if...if Dean...despised him...and that thought hurt more than anything else.

Eventually, a party of various cylons models comes aboard Galactica with the intention of a truce after battles that have exhausted both sides, and the last one to get off the raptor, was Sam. Dean’s Sam. He’d managed to convince his fellow cylons that any truce would be done better with him there, he knew them, not just from a memory but knew them, and they knew him, they had to see not all cylons were going to kill them.

He had to get back on that ship.

Of course no one was expecting a Sam model to step off the ship, and as Sam cautiously gets off the raptor looking around at all these people he knew, he locks eyes with Dean, and Dean can’t breath, because he sees the recognition in Sam eyes. It was his Sam, and suddenly his heart is trying to beat out his chest and the world around them has stopped as it’s just the two of them in an empty hanger, and Sam smiles that gorgeous, sweet smile, and Dean feels whole again.

John Winchester, alive and recovered, looks at his “son” with very, very mixed feelings, and Sam doesn’t fight back when officers put him in handcuffs, although cannot help but feel a pang of pain when his dad says “Put that thing in the brig.” He had shot him after all, this was going to be a long recovery.

Dean visits Sam and apologises so much for not being there for him, and Sam is understanding, he was revealed to be a cylon after all, oh he’s still hurt, terribly hurt, and Dean just wants to hold him, and tells him all this time without him has been hell the things he’s seen he just wants this all to stop and he loves him he loves him so much and will he please, please stay, stay with me, please, when this is all over, and it will be....stay with me, and Sam smiles that damned beautiful smile again and Dean is kissing him through the bars, holding his hands against the bars, and knowing nothing ever again was going to separate them, nothing.

Except it’s soon discovered the “truce” is a lie, unknown to Sam, and there’s a battle on board and all the cylons get killed, expect of course for Sam safe in the brig. But alone in his cell some of the guards decide to take a leaf out of the Pegasus book for revenge on those that were killed and go in with their hands down their trousers and have the terrified Sam held down and bent over the desk before Dean suddenly walks in and fuck everyone is dead in seconds as he bashes their brains in against the walls. He takes Sam’s hand and they run, planning to go into hiding together until a cylon jumps out of nowhere, one that had escaped the main battle, and it’s just at the same time Sam and Dean see their dad coming towards them down the corridor. The cylon goes to fire at him, but Sam jumps on him, wrestling the gun from it’s hand and shooting it through the head.

Having now saved his fathers life, he’s sort of welcomed back, but people still find it hard to trust him, and he has to do everything he can to prove he is on the human side.

When the cylon virus attacks the firewall system he tells his Dad and Dean and everyone on the bridge that he can help, that he can stop the virus, but they have to trust him. Dean looks to his dad, yes, yes trust him, and John nods, and Sam immediately attaches a lead from a console by pushing it into his forearm, and Dean STARES at him asking how he knows to do that, Sam just looks at him, slightly out of breath with adrenaline, “I don’t know.” But it works, he fights back the virus and it goes, and he saves the entire fleet.

From then on, it’s continuing the search for a new home, continuing the battles and attempts at peace with the cylons, and Dean never letting Sam out of his sight again. The first time they make love again for so long, the first time knowing Sam is cylon, Dean just clings to him, whispering that he doesn't care what Sam is, because whatever he is, he is Dean’s, and Dean belongs to him, and they will be together despite any protests, any upturned faces, they will fight them all to be together.

And Sam smiles once more, only ever smiling around Dean. They were together at last.

#wincest #wincestfic #wincestfanfic

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alias-b · 5 years ago

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sins of my youth. 002

Billy Hargrove x OC! Evie Fenny~ Also posted to my AO3

Summary: It was common knowledge that Billy Hargrove hated Hawkins. Hated Cherry Lane. Even loathed the strange girl next door. Evie Fenny wasn’t too fond of the chaotic Cali transfer either. An awful high school tradition sparks a chain of events that changes everything, ultimately bringing two frayed souls together.

A/N: Hello all~ Down the rabbit hole. TW: Teenagers can be the worst. Bullying. Fatphobia. Slut shaming. Cruel boys being cruel boys.

Chapter 2: A Million Dead Stars

All Evie had to do was wait patiently. For Heather to pop out back and for Billy to swoop in and make his bold move.

The goofy grin Heather walked back in with did not disappoint. Not at all.

“Hey, you.” Curls bounced when Evie cocked her head and Heather plopped down with a drink. They tapped red plastic cups.

“So, I just had an...amazing conversation.”

“Yeah...?" Evie sang softer. "Pray tell."

“Just...wow. Billy Hargrove. Him too, huh?”

“We knew it would happen. He was being way too cool around us at lunch when the guy has been nothing but shitty toward me since moving here. He gave me a ride home, it was obvious. And so…?”

“Where to start?” Heather put her arm up on the couch and took a long drink, laughing. Pretty in pink girl. “First he brought up Jane Austen. Said they were studying it in English which was a total bluff.”

“We’re not.” Evie confirmed. “He’s in my second period.”

"You gave up choir for that specific period with Bowers." Heather recalled more so to herself.

"No, I just," Evie scrambled, "I just didn't want to do choir anymore. The teacher played favorites. Got sick of it."

Another longer drink and she went on.

"So, continue..."

“He brought up Pride and Prejudice. Which, okay, but Emma is way better.”

“You’re wrong, but I still love you.” Evie curled up to face her friend. Heather laughed and took her hand, leaned her head on the couch to gather herself in a fit of giggles.

“He said Mr. Dancy.”

“No?” Evie died there. "And I hoped he might learn something."

“Yes!” Heather smacked at her. Music pumped behind them. Teens roaming and making a mess of the nice mansion. "I felt bad because...I snorted about it. In his face."

“You know, I’ll give Billy a point. Go on.”

“Museums. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw, I love you...but I’d soon jump into a pit of alligators before going to a museum for a date. Bowling or mini golf please.” Heather was chuckling. “Ballpark hot dogs are way better than cheeseburgers. Popcorn over cheese fries and a damn milkshake? Slushies or nothing. I’m lactose intolerant. He was trying to bore me to death or poison me, Eve.”

Evie broke to laugh again, barely able to speak.

“I know! That’s why I suggested all of that.”

“You bitch.” Heather was giggling still into her shoulder. Hands clasped. They broke to drink. “Oh! And campy action adventure movies or rom-coms only for Heather Holloway. I don’t get why you even go for horror, you wouldn’t hurt a fly and you squirm.”

“He bombed.” Evie covered her eyes, wiped a tear aside. “I almost pity him.”

“What’s funny is you like all that stuff. I’m not sure if he was faking it well, but he seemed kinda into most of it.”

“I’ve been running out of ideas when your followers scramble. Sue me, Heath.” Evie pushed up. “I definitely need another drink.”

“Fine, fine. Hey,” Heather laced their pinkies together, “teen boys are the worst. Thanks for bouncing another off me. Billy’s cute and all, but hell, I have too much on my plate for a boy right now.”

“Got that right.” Evie weaved between dancing crowds to the punch bowl. Passed some guy puking into a vase and another group cheering on an arm wrestling match. Spooned herself a full cup. Was mid gulp when she turned to a pair of scathing blue eyes. Oh, Billy.

“You fucking-”

“I’m going to stop you right there, Hargrove, and walk that a-way.” She gulped again and passed him.

“You think that shit’s funny?” Billy had a fistful of her jacket collar. Snarling like a mad dog. "She laughed at me."

The humiliation of it seemed to make Billy the angriest.

Evie felt that resonate bitterly because he sounded wounded and oblivious to what life threw her way.

“Funny? Only after the first ten boys.” She shrugged. “Now it’s just sad. I’m not stupid.”

“I’d say jerking me around is pretty stupid.” Billy was clearly smashed. Smelling of beer and weed. Eyes red to hell. “Maybe you’re so fucking single and miserable, you make sure your friend stays that way too, huh.”

Billy knew a nerve was plucked at that by the way she stilled to go colder. Brown eyes molten at him.

“You don’t know me. You’re a fucking asshole, you know that? I think we both know which one of us is miserable. Go show off for the school all you want, you don't fool everyone with those pretty blue eyes.” Evie shoved off him. Wondered if she caught that same frayed nerve.

"Hey, we got a problem here?" A Hawkins football player towered. Couple of his buddies from other schools that weren't Ridgemont made a barricade between Billy and Evie.

"I'm talking to Fenny, dickweed. You mind?" Billy spat. Evie huffed and rolled her eyes.

"You're talking to the girl who kicked Brock Tannen's ass. Show some respect." Another meathead joined in. Evie hid amusement because this was an odd change over the year.

"Guys, stand down, you really don't have to do this for me." It was...weird. Frankly, Billy looked like he was about to take on all of them.

The boy in front gave Billy's shoulder a comical brush and they went off like a herd of happy buffalo.

"The fuck, are you teen royalty somehow?" Hargrove made a face at her tired expression.

"No, just some lucky idol they keep around. I still get stepped on in the hallway and I pass everyone's love notes for them." Evie sipped. "I don't care that you like Heather, I care that you pretended to be something close to kind with me to get at her."

"Don't worry, I'm not interesting in being kind to you again." It came out nastier than he meant it too. Alcohol did that to his old man as well. Disgust welled and Billy had nowhere to put it so it flowed out. "No one here gives a shit about what you have to say, Fenny. Don't count on them trying either just because you're some freak they keep around for one sick story. They're all gonna laugh at you."

Evie blinked a few times. Saw Billy's shoulders sink while they stared into each other, both searching long and hard. Finished her drink in one swig and tossed the cup at his shoes.

“You fucking insecure asshole, check a mirror in five years and let me know if you like what you see. Not like you even do now, I bet, so enjoy denial. And stay away from me, Hargrove.” She went down the hallway beyond a spiral staircase and almost ran into a huge chest. As if this night couldn't get any worse.

Fuck.

Brock Tannen. Poster boy of rich asshole quarterback from their main rival school. Chestnut hair and chiseled good looks covered evil.

“Fat Fenny. Oh, sorry. Old habit. Evie. Missed you around these parts.” He nursed a can of beer and leaned into the wall. “Go psycho on anyone lately?”

“The year isn’t over.” She moved to pass him.

“Look.” He jolted in front of her. “Admittedly, I was a real shithead. I know that now. My folks even got someone for me to talk to. I'm working through all my shit. But, I was an ass to you.”

“We knew this.” Evie tried to go the other way, but his shoulder blocked her. She caught sight of his chain. A silver playboy bunny charm he loved to show off.

“Listen, the year is almost up. I want you to know I don’t hold it against you. You went through some shit at home too. Truce?” No response. A beat before his chin lifted. “You never went crying to your slut mother about me. My dad said she sucks the mailman off.”

"Don't say shit about my mother." Evie was on her toes. Hands clenching.

"Didn't cry to daddy either, oh...my bad. You can't." Brock's laughter rang sirens around her head. He was begging her to go off again. "Why didn't you tell mommy about me? We almost had fun."

“You didn’t get far with me if that’s what you mean, you think I’d give you my tears? Just embarrassed that you bat at fat chicks and get turned down. Eat shit, Tannen.” She got around him, staggered away.

“Maybe I’ll convince you. I just want to be friends. It’s going to be a new year soon.” His voice lingered along the hallways. "Just messing with you cause I like you is all." More chuckles followed.

Guys like Tannen secretly wanted her. Unobtainable and strange girls who didn’t conform to stupid high school stereotypes, it really pissed people off. Exotic, which was truly the worst word. Evie was easy to fetishize.

Billy got over Heather because Evie passed him moments later with his tongue down some Ridgemont girl’s throat.

The boy was all mouth and hands. Sucked face like a fucking giant squid attacking a ship at sea.

"Ick. Fucking Cthulhu." She got away from that, drank more to forget.

Heather pulled her friend into the dancing. Lights blasting all directions. Music pulsed. Couple more drinks and they were stumbling to Heather’s place. Sneaking up the stairs to fall into a queen sized bed.

“Can’t believe we didn’t wake my parents.” Heather rolled to her front, smudged the pillow with makeup. Evie was on her side snickering. “Hey, you’d tell me if something was wrong, right?”

“Nothing is wrong.” Brown eyes blinked. Heather nuzzled her pillow and breathed even, searching.

“You changed last year. After, what happened at home… I know you miss your dad.” Delicate fingertips ran over Evie's arm. Slipped away.

“He left.”

Evie remembered coming home from school. He was just gone. Clothes and all. Mona crying at the table. Pictures down. Like he never existed.

And her mother never really explained why. Just said they had problems and her dad wanted to be with someone else. He never called. Mona cried that day and hasn’t cried since. Evie couldn’t even remember the last thing she said to him.

People vanish. They have that power.

“After...what happened with Tannen. You got all distant with me. I just worry about you a lot.” Heather’s fingers curled into Evie’s sleeve. “Kids are cruel, I don’t understand why. Why they're so mean...”

“Some people don’t know where to put it when they hate themselves.”

“I don't think I hate myself. Sometimes I hate that myself isn't enough, you know? Enough to please my parents all the time and enough to help other people out."

"You're more than enough for me, Heather." Evie heard a sniffle.

"D-Do you hate yourself?” An airy tone slurred.

“I don’t know.” Evie sighed. “I’m fine, Heath, I’m happy. I dealt with it.”

“Happy or pretending to be?” Heather mused, pulling at her hair scrunchie to relieve brown locks. “I just don’t see you a lot, like you’re always with someone else. You never wanted to hang out over the summer.”

“I’m just busy with stuff, it’s nothing.” Evie peered at the walls plastered in their friendship. Felt every smiling version of herself in those old photographs wince at her lies. Stars exploding in total silence.

“You’re going to leave Hawkins and sing your songs for people on a stage. You’re going to be world famous and I’ll get to point and say, that’s my best friend.” Heather grinned. “Keep breaking that shell. I can help you.”

“I’ll try.” Evie scoffed. “You’re so drunk.”

“I am…” Heather hummed. “Just talk to me, okay? I want you to be so happy again. Like we used to be when we’d go to the park. Play on swing sets.”

“I won’t shut you out.” She replied as Heather settled, started to snore. “Goodnight, Heath.”

“M’night.”

** ** **

Billy was still raging into that night. Stumbled out of a bedroom pulling his tee back on, rooting around for his jacket. Most kids were starting to pass out on floors and couches.

“Hey, this belong to you?” Brock plucked up leather so Billy snatched it. “Good to see you, Hargrove. You know, they say Hawkins would have finished out the basketball season with the title if you stayed on the team.”

“They played favorites. Got sick of it.” Billy passed him, lightning a cigarette.

“Come outside, sit with the guys.” Brock cocked his head, square jaw setting when he smiled.

“Hey, B.” Tommy was stoned out of his mind. Looked at Billy like he was trying to find him in a haystack. Not with Carol so they must have had some fight.

Billy eyed the clear covered pool. Lights played up to touch his face before he plopped into a metal chair. Boys from Hawkins and other schools gathered around a glass table, drinking and shooting the shit. A joint was passed. Mostly rich, sporty types.

“Hargrove. Hear you’re the Hawkins Keg King. What the hell happened with Harrington?” Brock faked interest, hands clasped.

“Crashed and burned, man.” Tommy chortled, smacking Billy’s arm.

“Who?” Just play dumb.

“Don’t play coy, man, we all know you beat the shit out of him. Knocked the pretty boy down a few pegs.” Brock only grinned there. “So, you’re in the circle now.”

“Oooh, do I get a medal?” Billy flicked his smoke aside and swiped Tommy’s beer to drink.

“I like this guy, Hagan.”

“We can trust him.” Tommy winked, sitting back.

“You’re not going to hunt me for sport, are you?” Billy inhaled sharper, unworried. Laughter erupted.

“It’s funny you say that,” Brock took the floor, “because we are going to let you in on the deepest secret between the high schools. Something that brings all the boys together. Hawkins. Ridgemont. Hill Valley. Bates. We have this little tradition we do between Homecoming and Prom.”

“Skirt Safari.” Brock’s right hand man chuckled, sucking the joint down. Few boys echoed it with laughter.

“The hell is that?” Billy drank, shaking his hair out.

“Some of us guys throw this big dance party. Rent out a nice place in town, pour some good money into a pool.” Brock shrugged. “You take a girl and we vote.”

“Vote?” Billy puffed. More cruel smiles.

“Yeah, on which girl is the ugliest beast.” Hyena cackling followed. Billy just stared with his brow raised.

“Ah...What the fuck is this? Are you joking?”

“Open season, man.” Another boy chimed in.

“Walk with me, Hargrove, you have something special about you.” Brock got up, swiped the joint to finish it. Billy looked irritated and followed. Fresh air cleared his head. Behind them, teens chattered. “I think you’ll fit right in here. You live on Cherry Lane, right?”

“What’s it to you?” Billy chucked the beer aside.

“Next to that Fenny girl. Kinda cute in her new little outfits if you like something extra to grab onto.” Brock shrugged. Turned from Billy to eye the sky clearing up.

“Didn’t she beat your ass last year?” A sly grin crossed.

“Ah, you heard. Rumors have been exaggerated. Just like you and Harrington I’m sure. Getting booted from the team over a tiff.”

“I left on my own, fuck them.”

“Fenny had a thing for me and I said no because I was with someone, so she got emotional. Girls are like that. They get attached and upset when we don't give them what they need.” Brock stuffed his hands into his pockets. “She’s untouched, you know, so I heard. Flaunting her shit now and not letting us grab the goods. Asking for it man, but too afraid to follow through. I hate that teasing shit. They say the bookworms are wild in the sack. Bet you that musical girl can sing too.”

“You obsessed with her now and her little outfits?” That earned Billy a brief heated expression. The boy was more observant than he was given credit for.

“I just wanted to raise a challenge for you. Get Fenny to go to Skirt Safari as your date. New Years Eve, we’ll give you the address. Kiss her before the clock strikes twelve. She won’t earn you the win, but I’ll bet you money that you can’t get the famous ice queen to go.”

“Man, this is so fucking stupid.” Billy clearly didn’t fit with this crowd of uppity shits. Heels spun to go.

“Is three hundred dollars stupid?” Brock watched Billy skid. Blue eyes shifting to see him again. “Ah, I have your attention.”

“Cash?” Billy could use it. Three hundred would go far for him. Brock Tannen knew that immediately about him.

“I can show it to you if you like.” Brock displayed his teeth, almost glowing and sharp. “Show us that Hargrove charm and break the unbreakable. If you're the Keg King. Prove it. Let us see you in action.”

“I take her to the shitty party and you give me three hundred bucks?" Billy asked carefully, eyes darting. "She doesn't have to find out about this vote shit you guys do?”

“No, not a word from us. I'll even pay your end of the pool as a token. Just an innocent kiss before the ball drops. You don't have to screw her, unless she's your thing. Easy enough?” Brock held out his hand. Billy eyed the campy bunny chain around Tannen’s neck, huffed out his nose.

Took the offer with a hard expression.

“Deal.”

** ** **

Evie rubbed her eyes the next morning and said bye to Heather, raking fingers through curls as she was dropped off. Jacket pulled close while she fumbled for keys and Heather drove off.

Not even a second after, a blue Camaro was pulling up next door.

It was annoying how great Billy looked even with a hangover after a hard night of partying. He stunk of beer and smoke and his hair was ratted, but glowy as always. Evie groaned when he spotted her and got the key in the door.

“Hey, Evie.” Was that her name he just used? “Hey, wait up.” Boots clicked to hurry toward her house. A stronger hand yanked the front door closed and Billy held his ground there. "Wait a second, I'm trying to talk to you."

“Aren’t we both too hungover for this?” Already on the defensive. Makeup smeared around her eyes. She turned, applying some chapstick and sighed out. "What?"

“Look.” Billy pushed his hands into his back pockets, eyes flicking away and back. “It was a dick move. The whole Heather thing.”

“Yeah.” She waited for him to go on.

“And I’m…” Sorry? “It was shitty.” He craned down toward her. "The stuff I said, I was fucking wasted."

"And you're..." She tried to spell the word out with her eyes. Billy blinked innocently.

"An asshole."

Evie flattened.

"Yes, but not what I was...ah, look, it doesn't matter. I was drunk and I jabbed too. And I am...sorry." A shrug before she tried the door again.

Billy pulled it shut once more like this was a game, earning a sigh of irritation.

"I'm still talking at you. I was...I am...a shithead." He couldn't wrap his squid tongue around a fucking apology. Christ.

Evie looked expectantly, leaning in as if more should come.

Billy sucked at this so he decided to jump right in.

“I wanted to make it up to you. There’s this dance up in the city. Real bar. Real drinks. New Years Eve bash. Go with me.” It sounded like an order.

“Go with you?” She blinked in shock. Grew pointed. “Ah, no, Billy.” Evie got her front door open again and pushed by him. Wondered if he was used to rejection in any form. So, she pushed pride aside. “But, Heather thinks you’re cute okay. Just ask her. It’s fine.”

She got around the door and hid half behind it. Billy’s hand went flat to stop it from shutting.

“I don’t want to ask Heather, I’m asking you.” He shrugged with big eyes. Bet ladies fell for it. Evie searched him, beyond confused. She hated confusion. It was too much. “You’re single, it’s this or some lame ass high school party.”

He noted she opened her mouth and decided not to protest the single part. The hesitation was odd.

"I...I happen to like lame ass high school parties." She stammered out.

"Oh, sure." He winked.

"Y-Yeah, I just love them actually because kids our age are very stupid. It's better than public television."

"Right. Right." He sounded not convinced.

"And, you're Billy Hargrove so any girl will jump at the chance, just ask-"

“I’m asking you, Angel. Deal with it.” He lowered his tone and got closer. Flashed a darling smile then bit his lip. Slid that tongue over it. "Don't make me beg. You know I will."

“You...I… Look, I’m...flattered but, I can’t. I, uh, have a thing.” Her voice trailed off. “Sorry.” The door shut.

Billy gave this growl low in his throat.

“We have time, Fenny, I’m fine asking again.” His voice picked up. Silence. "All you gotta do is nod that pretty head of yours."

Billy knew she heard it. He turned and dropped the grin when he spotted Max there on the sidewalk, skateboard in hand. Watching.

"Are you asking Evie out?" She narrowed on him.

"Mind your fucking business, shitbird." Billy stepped off the porch. "She's going to a party with me."

"Sounded like she just said no to you."

Billy swerved to get angry. Remembered a nail bat crashing between his legs. Shut his mouth.

"Whatever." A puff.

"She's nice," Max trailed after him, "you should, you know...ask her to something if you... She's cool. Cooler than you."

He slowed, eyebrow raising.

"Doesn't matter."

"It's Saturday." Max explained, red hair catching the sunlight to flame up.

"I know what day it is, Max, leave me alone." Billy was going up toward their house.

"She probably said no because you stink so bad."

"What the fuck?" He wheeled around again, chest puffing.

Max smirked at him and Billy found himself matching it. Bold little shit.

"I know what I said. And it's Saturday, that means she'll probably be helping her mom at that salon later. You should shower and show up. Girls like spontaneous stuff, it's thoughtful and you suck at that."

Billy scrunched at her.

"Since when do you care about...?"

"About what?" She shuffled there on the grass. Peered at Neil's car in the driveway. "We're family now whether we like it or not. Which means I'm stuck looking out for you. Right, Billy?" Max dropped her skateboard, popping it up with one foot. "I like Evie and I don't want my brother being a jerk to her. Or anyone."

Billy scoffed, near amused.

"Right." He grumbled. Went up and paused to turn once more. "Max."

"Yeah?" She readied to ride off.

"Watch the board around my damn car, will you?" Billy heard her snort. "I got shit to do now, stay out of the way."

"Take a shower and show up. Try asking instead of telling. See what happens." Max rode off with a clatter of wheels on concrete. He only shook his head again. Smiled to himself without thinking before he went in.

Billy decided to take the advise on all accounts. She'd go with him.

Certainty crept the more he looked at himself in the mirror and applied his aftershave. Maybe he forced the feeling so often, it was second nature. Fuck, looking at his reflection was never this difficult. Evie's words rang harder this morning.

He didn't blame her for once.

All these false fronts Billy showed the world. Old photographs flashing like a million dead stars. That was all we ever saw of them. Somewhere else, Evie heard those same stars dying too. Decayed and twinkling too pretty even still. It sounded almost like a cruel fate.

A tongue swept over his lips before he tried something new. Eyes averting to speak quietly like someone might hear. Fingers twisting the silver ring about his middle finger.

"Sorry."

He resumed fixing his curls. Polished up that Hargrove charm until it shined bright.

What Evangeline Fenny didn't know couldn't possibly hurt her, Billy reasoned.

Right?

~~~~~~

Thanks for reading, chat with me if you have time! Tried to push another chp out quick. Imma pass out now XOXO TAGGED: @80sbxtch @nottherightseason @orxhidshavana

#billy hargrove #Billy hargrove x oc #Billy Hargrove imagine #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove fic #SOMY #writing #mine #Angel Fenny #billy x Angel

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tuffduff · 5 years ago

Text

I Think About You (Axl Rose x Reader)

Pairing: Axl x plus sized/tall Reader

Words: 1847

Request: @soggy-enchilada “So I was wondering if you could do one for a tall plus size reader? Reader is a roadie for gunners and has a huge crush on axl but doesn’t tell him coz she feels that she’s too tall and too fat for him, but little does she know he’s super into her. And one night they have an after-gig party and everyone ends up getting a little (a lot) drunk and somehow reader and axl confess their feelings for each other. Reader tells him that she never said anything because she was insecure about being tall and plus size and he just tells her he loves her”

A/N: this is a tiny bit longer (oops) but i really loved writing it! Thank you for requesting this love, I hope y’all like it! 💕

“Nice shirt, darling.” You almost dropped the box of merchandise you were carrying because you knew exactly who’s voice that was.

“Thanks,” you replied softly, glancing down at your Nazareth t-shirt. Axl was smirking at you, accompanied with Duff and Slash as they got ready for their performance that evening.

“Do you need help with that?” Duff offered. Before you could reply, Axl pressed a hand to Duff’s chest.

“She’s a strong woman, Duff—she does this all the time. Haven’t you seen her?” Duff looked dumbfounded.

“No.”

That was probably what most people thought of you, or rather didn’t—you were one of the people that made the magic happen behind the scenes. You had worked your way up working for road crews in the music scene up until this point, where you were a production coordinator. Really though, you helped wherever you were needed. It was a taxing job that often kept you awake and on your feet from the early morning hours until well after midnight, but there wasn’t anything else you would rather be doing.

Axl was the first member in Guns N’ Roses to take the time to know your name. You figured it was just out of politeness when he had first asked, but he remembered it each time he saw you after. He’d always ask you how you were doing, what you were listening to nowadays, making sure you ate something. The conversation would slip deeper, with him asking your opinion on how he sang certain lines, or what you thought of current world affairs, what your favorite childhood memory was. It was your favorite moments in your long days.

“Yeah, get the fuck outta here. She doesn’t want your help.” Slash added in good-naturedly, giving Duff a light shove.

“Hey, are you going to the after-party tonight?” Axl asked you. You paused, balancing the box on your hip.

“Um...I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I better see you there,” for a second you grew hopeful. “You work too hard.” He headed down the hall of the coliseum in the opposite direction after that without looking back, making you sigh a little to yourself. It’s not like you wanted to get your hopes up every time he so much as looked your way, you just couldn’t help it with him.

So many nights you spent your rare breaks of free time just watching Axl perform. He was lightning in a bottle, captivating, strong, and admired, so very admired. Girls in the crowd would lose their minds over them, and you had to watch night after night as those girls made their way backstage. Some of the most beautiful girls you had ever seen. Sometimes, models and actresses would show up at the shows in hopes of bedding a rock and roll bad boy. You always just watched from a far; it’s not like Axl would ever notice you in a sea of extraordinary women.

Slash approached your side and you immediately tried to ignore him, huffing when he nudged you.

“You better come tonight!”

“I’ve got a long night ahead of me with a million more important things to do than get drunk off my ass.” You lied. Slash’s easygoing demeanor remained intact.

“But he wants you to come, you heard him!” You rolled your eyes and shushed him, making him laugh. He was probably your best friend out of the Guns and the only person that knew your fondness towards his lead singer.

“No, he doesn’t. He just thinks I’m some boring stiff that works too hard.” Slash shoved your shoulder now, almost making you drop the box.

“Don’t be such a downer. C’mon, he doesn’t think that.”

“Okay, Slash. You know him; what makes you think he’s interested in me at all?” He stood for a moment in silence. “Exactly what I thought.

“Hey! That’s just because I don’t really know what Axl thinks of anything—he’s fucking weird. Not because he wouldn’t be interested. I think he’s got his eye on someone though; every time some girl tries to approach him lately, he just brushes them off. And besides, that’s like the 3rd time he’s complimented you in the last two days.” You rolled your eyes again, chuckling in exasperation.

“Slash, trust me. It’s not me he’s thinking of. And what, are you keeping count?”

“Axl doesn’t just hand out compliments, Y/N. Yesterday it was your hair. Plus, so what if he’s not interested—we finally have a couple days off. You don’t have anything to do. Just let loose and have some fun tonight, alright?” You pondered his words for a moment. He had a point, and you didn’t exactly have a reason not to go.

So, you went. And immediately, you wanted to leave. There were so many people crammed into such a small hotel room. All the girls were positioned around various members of the band, so much so that you couldn’t even see the boy’s faces. You immediately grew self-conscious—these girls were dressed to kill in tiny skirts and halter tops and leather, petite and slender and dainty little things you could hold in your hand. It just made you feel out of place. You turned on your heel, hoping to just slip out unnoticed, until someone grabbed your arm.

“Look who made it!” You groaned at Slash’s drunk voice. “Hey, where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.” You replied back, trying to get your arm out of his grip.

“But why, Axl was just asking about you.” You froze.

“Axl? Was asking about me?” Slash grinned at you, handing you a bottle of beer.

“Yep, he sure did.” Your stomach did a flip and you downed almost the entire beer in one gulp. God, why did you show up?

You stayed begrudgingly, glued to Slash’s side and guzzling more beer in the hope of finding courage and not finding Axl, at least not yet. The comfort of being Slash’s shadow didn’t last for long—he was soon pulled to the couch by three girls.

You looked around the room, overwhelmed but the amount of people and decided the empty balcony was a much better place to hide and try to get a handle on your emotions.

The fresh air was well needed, enough to calm your head and frayed nerves. You leaned against the railing and looked out below at the sparkling lights, trying to get Axl out of your head. Clearly, Slash had just been trying to make you feel better on account of you hadn’t even seen Axl all night—

“I like it much better out here, don’t you?” You yelped and jumped at the same time, accidentally dropping your half-empty beer to the streets below. Axl was sitting in one of the patio chairs hidden in the completely darkened corner of the balcony. He let out a laugh as you looked back and forth from the streets below, to him, dismayed.

“Axl? What the fuck! Have you been out here this entire time?” He finally stopped laughing and stood, joining your side by the railing.

“Beats all those coattail riders in there. It’s nicer out here.” He was standing so close to you that your arms were touching. You swallowed a little, deciding not to move away. He didn’t even seem to notice your proximity, instead, he merely leaned forward a little, looking down at the street below with an amused half-grin. “I hope your beer didn’t kill anyone...” You chuckled weakly, feeling your heart pound in the silence that followed. “I’m surprised you showed up.” He finally said. When you glanced over at him, he was looking down.

“Why, do you think I’m too boring for parties?” You blurted out. The sober, rational part of you cringed, but it was too far buried at the moment to dwell on it.

“No, I think you’re too good for these parties.” You frowned. “I mean, you’re a smart, responsible woman. I’m sure you’ve got far more important things to be doing with your time that watching a bunch of lousy rock stars party with a room full of people who don’t really care about them.” There was a bitter edge to his tone. You continued to frown.

“If I did, I wouldn’t be here.” You replied back curtly. Now, he frowned. You sighed; the conversation was getting muddled and it was clear you weren’t on the same page. “I don’t really get invited to parties, Axl. I’m not really the girl that guys break their necks over.”

“What makes you say that?” You let out a sarcastic chuckle.

“Well...look at me.”

“I have been. Every chance I get.” You stopped, confused at the way he was beginning to smirk.

“Stop that.” You told him.

“Stop what?” You rolled your eyes.

“Guys don’t like me.” You continued where you had left off.

“And what makes you think that?” He asked, his smirk from before only widening.

“Think? Axl, I know. Ever since I was younger, I was either too tall or too fat in every guy’s eyes.” You snapped. His smirk didn’t fade. “Will you wipe that look off your face?”

“That’s just funny to me.” He mused. You raised your eyebrows at his audacity. “All those men are assholes, first off. Secondly, I invited you here, didn’t I? And third…I can’t imagine being that fucking stupid because you’re the sexiest girl I’ve ever seen.” Your mouth literally fell open and you waited for him to start laughing, but he didn’t. In fact, he just moved closer.

“...What?” You managed to get out.

He smiled fully now, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “You’re also the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, the way you take care of everyone else before yourself. You’re cute when you get embarrassed—which happens all the time—just like right now. You’re funny, you’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever talked to, you listen to me when I have something to say. And I’m pretty sure I fall for you a little more every day.”

“But...I’m sorry, what did you say?” You replied breathlessly.

You felt butterflies set loose in your tummy when Axl leaned in closer to you. His lips brushed against yours as he whispered to you, “I want you, Y/N. I’ve wanted you for a long time.” He drew back a tiny bit, watching to see what you were going to do. Despite the tiny voice in your head trying to hold you back out of fear, you told it to shut the hell up for once and kissed him back. You felt his lips smirk against yours and a tingly little trill go up your spine when he let out a low groan into your kiss.

“I think I’m falling for you too, Axl.” You pulled back to say. He grinned and stepped back a little, his eyes traveling down your body.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” he suggested, taking your hand in his. “Seeing you in that outfit tonight only has me wanting to rip it off.”

#axl rose #axl rose imagine #axl rose x reader #guns n roses #plus sized reader #tall reader #guns n roses imagine #gnr #gnr imagine

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fordanoia · 6 years ago

Text

It’s (Not) Okay

Words: 2,400~ || CW: - || Paranoid Ford and Mullet Stan, but it goes from embittered banter to eventual concern.

The blizzard was too strong for Stanley to leave. It frayed down Ford’s already nervous edges, more time meant more chances for something to go wrong. He had barely gotten to the mention of leaving with the book when he could have sworn he’d heard a noise upstairs. They’d gone up on a brief investigation that led outside.

There was too much snow and ice sleeting through the air making it nearly impossible to see, but Ford went to the edge of the porch with a wary glance before looking around one side of the house.

He heard Stan say something, but the wind, even diluted on the porch, swept his voice away.

“What?” Ford looked back at him.

Stan, with hands stuffed into his pockets, had barely taken a step even out the door, shoulders hunched against the cold. “I said, Ax murderer’s on the other side.” He said, nodding his head the other direction.

Ford scowled at him. “Yes, you’re very funny.” For a moment though, the imagery still popped up in his mind. He headed back towards the porch so he could go the other direction. “I’m going to check around back.”

“‘Cause someone hiked here in the middle of a blizzard.”

He ignored the comment, walking past Stan to the other side. Trudging into the snow, he made it to the other side feeling a slight relief at seeing nobody there. As he turned the corner he could heard the door to the house closed. What surprised him was then hearing footsteps from the porch getting muffled into the sound of crunching snow. He paused, looking back.

Stan came around the corner, a tired and sulky temperament about him.

Turning, Ford continued walking ahead. “You don’t have to stay.” He shouted over the wind.

“Yeah, I can leave and my car can slide and crash into a tree on my way out. That sounds great!” Stan quipped.

Ford groaned, resisting the urge to take a hand off the crossbow in favor of gripping onto his hair. “How did you even make it here in the first place?!” Ford glanced back at him for only a moment.

“Mostly guessing where the road was because it was either that or get stuck in the middle of this.”

Ford continued trudging through the snow, anxiously turning around to see the back of his house, devoid of any life. He supposed the sound could have been... perhaps a large chunk of ice or snow hitting the house. Or someone else really was still out here.

“Look, Poindexter, if there’s nothing back there, come on. It’s freezing.” Stan complained.

“Well you didn’t have to come out here.” Ford snipped, looking back at him again.

“Yeah, maybe I wanted to make sure you didn’t turn into a damn popsicle. I know you don’t want me here-”

“I literally called you here for help!”

“You called me here to take a book away!”

“The book is important.” Ford emphasized.

“I’m your brother, Ford,” he said, taking his hands out of his pocket to gesture at himself despite the cold, “not a friggin’ mailman!!”

Ford wanted to stomp off and ignore the comment, out of sheer exasperation, but everything weighed his movement down. The heavy snow at his feet, the buffeting wind he had to fight against, the crossbow, and even the journal pulling his coat down. All he could do was breathe in the frigid air and back out again, losing the energy to even continue the argument. “We can’t do anything about that now anyway.”

Stan glanced aside bitterly, stuffing his hands back into his pocket, and muttering something. Right now, Ford didn’t want to know.

Ford started walking back in Stan’s direction to the front of the house. “Come on.” He said, raising his voice to be heard.

Stan turned, no objection as he spearheaded back down the path they’d originally made, making his way with relative ease.

Ford, on the other hand, realized how slow he was moving in comparison to Stan. Even pushing himself, he fell behind. Stan paused at the corner of the house, turning back to him.

“Are there any new snow prints on the porch?” Ford asked.

“Seriously?”

He leveled a tired look at Stan.

“Agh, okay.” Stan went over, shortly jumping up onto the porch out of Ford’s line of sight. “Looks exact same it did two minutes ago.”

Stan was barely waiting near the door for him when Ford made it around the corner. There didn’t seem to be any new tracks on the porch, so anybody entering in the house during that short minute should have been unlikely. There was always still a slight possibility though.

Once they were both inside again Ford, reluctantly, set the crossbow back down again before turning back all the locks again. He rubbed his face, walking back into the house. “I’m going to make myself some coffee.”

“Uh, why?”

“Because I’m tired.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Then I’m raiding your fridge. I’m starving.”

Ford waved a hand in acknowledgment, hardly caring. He didn’t even know what he had in the fridge, but it hardly mattered to him right now.

They entered the kitchen. Stan going for the fridge as Ford rinsed a pot that had the remains of some burnt coffee still at the bottom so he could make a fresh pot. He haphazardly poured the grounds into a filter and pressed the button.

“You don’t put science experiments in here, do you?” Stan grabbed a half empty jug of what was presumably some kind of juice.

He couldn’t even remember the last study or experiment he had done. He grabbed the edge of the counter and leaned his weight onto it. “...I don’t think there’s any left in there.”

Stan scoffed.

The next thing Ford knew he heard plastic wrapping being torn open and had to lift his head up from where it was nearly touching where his forearms were resting on top of the counter . Looking over, he saw Stan, now beside the pantry, with a cereal bar in hand.

Taking in a breath, Ford pushed himself back up again, quickly tapping his finger against the counter and focusing on the coffee dripping into its pot.

“If you’re tired just go to sleep.” Stan said.

“I can’t do that.”

“I’m pretty sure you did half a minute ago.” He could practically hear the eyeroll in his brother’s voice.

Ford felt a brief strike of panic. First at the thought that if Stan wasn’t just make a small exaggeration then that had not been a few simple seconds, but a significant window of time. The second, if that was actually a taunt because he was still asleep. He turned, one hand braced on the counter, to warily scan over ‘Stan’ for anything off.

Stan didn’t look any different from how Ford (vaguely) remembered to his arrival. Same haircut, same hoodie, nothing looked out of place --yet--. Stan looked back at him. “Uh, what?”

Ford kept his skeptical gaze on him, half expecting the other to break out into a sharp smile or a cruel taunt that would undoubtedly belong to Bill. The more he thought about how Bill would break the act, the more he expected it and the more determined he became to not let it go.

“Look, Ford, the dead quiet stare isn’t giving me a whole lot to work off of here. What is it?” Stan asked, seriously. It sounded like him, but it could still just as easily be Bill pretending; Ford was sure of that.

As Ford tried to latch onto proof of the dream, he found... evidence to the contrary. His body was as a whole oddly heavy and sore. His fingers burned from being in the direct cold of the freezing wind from outside for too long. He was awake.

Which meant this was actually Stan. The certain suspicion died down along with the panic, though his nerves still hadn’t recovered from the brief scare. Ford shook his head, realizing he still hadn’t answered Stan. “I just ah... misunderstood you for a moment.”

“Oh my gosh, okay-” Stan set down his food and rubbed at his face. “Ford, seriously, just go to sleep.”

“I already told you I can’t do that.”

“We’re in the middle of the woods with nothing to do, you can take a nap.” He argued.

“No, I can’t.” Why couldn’t he just let it go?

“Why are you pushing it off?” Stan asked, frustrated. “You’re tired, I just watched you nod off waiting for coffee. You need to sleep-”

“Stanley, I cannot sleep.” Ford interrupted him, trying to stop the tirade Stan had started to work himself into.

“Why the Hell not?!”

“Because it’s not safe!!” Ford finally snapped, shouting at him as details of the room blurred into smudges of colors at the edge of his vision now.

His fingers curled into fists and uncurled again, clenching on and off, as he gestured about, wanting to tear at his own hair. “It’s not safe, Stan! I’m not safe! You have no idea what-?! If someone could be outside the house then I need to be prepared for that! I have to be ready for that because I can’t afford the mistake of being caught off guard! I have to be ready and I can’t let my guard down and I can’t fall asleep-! And if I fall asleep-!” His mind raced ahead to nightmares, the portal standing tall, shards of bloodied glass, chemical burns alongside bruised skin, and a dozen other flashing images that he immediately shut out before he could process anymore of them.

Ford’s chest felt as though it was cracking open through his rib cage just for him to resume breathing. “If I fall asleep then- then a million things could happen. And I can’t do that.” He felt his thoughts on the edge of what he already knew was downward spiral about all the possibilities. He took a deep breath, trying to come back to his present. He should be trying to get Stan to understand. He wouldn’t understand though. It was a lost cause and Ford didn’t know he fighting for it so strongly fighting now.

Ford’s hands were clenched at the back of his head and he had to uncurl his fingers to let go of his hair. “I can’t do that, Stan.” He emphasized firmly. “I can’t, not again. There’s a universal doomsday machine downstairs that can’t activate and other... other dangers, I have to stay awake.”

“Look...” Stan took a step towards him, the pause giving them both a few brief seconds of respite. “You can’t stay awake forever. You literally can’t do it, Ford.” He pointed out. “You need to sleep.”

“Just for as long as I can then. Not forever.” Ford evaded, pushing away the inevitable and turning again towards the counter.

“Hey, I can stay awake for you.” Stan said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Keep an eye out to make sure nothing happens so you can sleep.”

A disappointing weight dropped in Ford’s stomach. Ford glanced back briefly at Stan and shook his head, mind muddying through the thought process of coming up with a reasonable excuse that wasn’t the truth. The truth was too complicated and messy, among other things.

“Hell, I mean I’m here, aren’t I? Not like I can go on a hike or anything like that right now.” Stan gave a familiar carefree smile that no doubt preempted a joke. “Well, I could, but hey I’m not a big fan of freezing to death.” He said with a shrug

Ford didn’t know why it felt like a kick in the gut. He looked back towards the coffee pot. “It’s just... dangerous.”

“Come on, I know how to hold my own, you know that. Just look at me. I’m a hard guy to get past.”

That wasn’t the problem. He shook his head again. “It’s not safe.” He told him in what was suppose to be a finalizing tone to put the conversation to rest. Instead it came out wearied and with an undertone that just sounded defeatist even to his own ears.

There was a short silence, Stan’s hand on his shoulder flexed momentarily. Ford hoped..... He didn’t know what he hoped for. It would have been better if he

“Hey,” Stan’s voice was entirely earnest now. “It’s okay.”

The words took Ford by surprise, existing above everything else for a moment, firmly hanging in the air like an anchor that refused to move.

“Stanford, it’s okay.” Stan said again in that same tone, insistent now.

Stan made it sound like an unshakeable truth, but it wasn’t and Ford knew that. Every objective fact about his situation was ample proof that it wasn’t true. He couldn’t let himself believe it just because he wished it was true, because he was just so tired of...

“I don’t know.” Ford said, needing to say something before Stan could again. He was already far too close to relenting to something he knew could easily end in a horrible mess. The slightest sliver of a chance that it wouldn’t wasn’t something he should be considering. “I don’t think it is,” he said, looking back at Stan.

“Then we’ll make it okay.” Stan countered resolutely.

A weak laugh left Ford, leaving his body limp. “You can’t just say that like it’s going to be true no matter what..”

Stan hummed. “Mmm, yeah, actually, I can. I’m a lot more resilient than I get credit for, you know.”

A corner of Ford’s lip turned up into a small smile. “I am too, but this is...” He started to sober up again, the smile dropping as he thought back to Bill and tried to come up with apt adjective for his situation. “It’s a lot,” he finally said.

“Just take an hour then.” Stan said. “Come on.”

Ford paused, knowing that if they stayed on the subject that... eventually Ford would convince himself that the nap would be alright purely because he wanted it to be true. He put his hands up before combing back his hair trying to pull himself together. “Give me a couple more hours.” He said, looking at him. “I just need to think.”

Stan held in his breath before letting it go, taking his hand off of Ford’s shoulder. “Suit yourself, but if you start falling asleep again don’t think I’m keeping quiet.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.” Ford said, relaxing. He glanced behind himself to the coffee. At the very least, even if he did decide to sleep putting it off for an hour or two more would be okay. What was the difference in one more delay?

#gravity falls #paranoid ford #my fics #gravity falls fic #stanford pines #c:ford #c:stan #c:paranoid ford #c:mullet stan #*Me; slamming down my fifth au reunion of the stan twins from atots*#this time with *record scratch*#hurt comfort #??#Fic:It's (Not) Okay #I didn't fully proofreaaad #because i don't wanna face whatever mistakes i made on this one #my soul needed to get this one out #i'm letting it be as it is #((i don't even plan most of my fics they just wind up happening))

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pi-cat000 · 6 years ago

Text

MSA time travel idea (part 27)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV 2, 21 , 22, Vivi POV 2, 24, 25 Lewis POV 3

Part 28: here

MYSTERY POV

Mystery watches his youngest charge, Vivi Yukino, strangle her new vehicle's steering wheel and is disproportionately concerned. Human emotional drama is an unfortunately common occurrence and, in his experience, rarely leads to any significant long-term consequences. Usually, its effects are fleeting and far beneath his interests.

When had that changed?

Mystery resists an inclination to climb onto Vivi's lap least he risks distracting her and causing an accident. Instead, he watches, somewhat at a loss, while she glares at the road, tense and obviously worried for her missing friend's wellbeing. The lack of room in the compact truck cab has Mystery squashed between the two humans, giving him a good view of both as they stew in silence, discontent rolling off them in angry waves. Lewis, equally upset by their third member's sudden departure, is staring obsessively at the note Arthur had left behind. Not a habit which denotes a healthy mindset from what Mystery understands. Fortunately, he does not have to worry about distracting Lewis, and he leans his full weight into the other. His leaning gets him a scratch on the head but nothing more. An internal sigh and a minor physical huff of exasperation. There is not a lot a dog can do in these situations aside from offer small comforts. The movement does have the additional desired effect of catching Vivi's attention. Her eyes flick in their direction. A few minutes later and they are pulling into a gas station.

"Lewis. It's your turn to drive," Vivi orders, bringing the truck to a stop next to the appropriate pump. Lewis hastily hides the note and Mystery wonders who he thinks he is fooling with the action.

"Sure. Sorry. Didn't realise we'd been on the road for so long. I would have offered sooner." There is some shuffling while everyone clambers onto solid ground, Vivi waving away the apology.

"Don't worry about it. I kind of like it. It feels like I'm driving a tractor around with how high up it is. You know, when compared to the van."

She holds the door for Mystery to exit. There is a convenient patch of grass adjacent to the gas station, and he knows what she wants of him. One of the few downsides to this dog form is the prerequisite that the humans meet his dog needs. At times such as these, he wishes that the youngest Yukino were aware of his true nature to save her from the additional, unneeded pressure. Luckily, Mystery is probably the best, most well-behaved, dog in existence because he's done and jumping back into the truck before Lewis has finished refuelling.

"Where are you going?" Lewis asks after Vivi, catching her sleeve when she shuts the door on him and turns towards the gas station's attached burger stand. Mystery watches the humans share their small affectionate touches through the closed cab window. There has been a significant increase in this touchy-feely behaviour. Another indicator that all is not well.

"I'm just grabbing breakfast. Lunch. Or whatever," Vivi answers, walking backward a few steps, "You keep filling her up. I'll get the grub."

Lewis nods, "Don't get me anything with meat."

"You're paranoid," Vivi snorts, moving away.

"If you worked in a diner you'd be paranoid too. Not everyone is as clean as my parents," Lewis calls at her retreating form.

"Give a wave when you're done so I can pay for the gas as well," Is Vivi light response. Mystery observes Lewis's dementor deflate the moment Vivi is out of sight. The tall human is staring blankly at the petrol pump, mind obviously far from the task. Mystery places his paws near the window ledge, drawing close to the glass to get a better view. He does not believe he has ever seen the human in such a melancholic state, slumped and drooping. Concerning.

Ding. The pump clicks off, and Lewis does not seem to notice. Mystery, after another mental sigh, gives a loud yip to catch attention. Honestly, these human emotional states seemed to be as much a hindrance as they were a benefit.

Vivi returns not moments later with several packets of fries and three burgers, of which he is fed several meat paddies. All his dog food is gone with the van. It's not a terrible loss, dog food being a close contender for the worst part of being a dog.

As they return to the highway, Mystery can't help but admit that, as much as would criticise humans for their erratic and illogical behaviour, this disturbance has affected him in ways he could not have anticipated. When had Mystery lost that impartial distance, carefully cultivated and maintained over decades of human interactions? When had he started to care for the humans he had long sworn himself to? It has crept upon him like the summer fading slowly to autumn. All those blissful years spent pretending to be a dog and getting showed with attention and affection has blinded him to winters approach. This sense of attachment and concern is more binding than any oath.

Of course, like many of his failures, it is only after the fact and long past the point of return, that he realises his blunder. Mystery cannot deny that he has grown to care. He cares not only for Vivi, a quirk he can attribute to duty, but also for her friends to which he has no obligation. Not only does he care, he cares immensely, about both their physical and emotional wellbeing. It is a grave misstep for a being of his longevity.

Nevertheless, there is nothing to be done now but proceed according to his new priorities. It is a shame that he had not fully realised these priorities before Arthur's flight. Mystery, being the only one to have reason to suspect supernatural foul play, could have perhaps acted to prevent it. After Arthur's bright golden aura had simultaneously doubled in strength while also dulling in colour overnight, Mystery had been on the lookout for some form of interference. The sudden reduction of loving pets, riveting games of fetch-the-stick, and instances of Arthur chattering at him about his current interests, also pointed towards Arthur having realised Mystery's secret. An unfortunate encounter with another being like himself fit somewhat in explaining the sudden aversion to all things supernatural.

Mystery has been biding his time while he worked to discover the extent of the human's new knowledge. He had planned on pulling Arthur aside to offer an explanation, belay any understandable fear, and perhaps find a cause behind his changing aura. Now it is too late, and Mystery is left hoping that Arthur's abrupt exit is a result of human silliness and not something more sinister.

"Viv, can you pull up a map to the hospital. I think that's the sign for the exit," Lewis's deeper voice breaks the silence which has been sitting about them like an itchy blanket for the past several hours. A quick glance at Vivi's watch tells Mystery that it is almost 5 pm and they have been on the road for almost four hours since their last stop. His dog body has gone stiff with disuse. Usually, he would play up his dog persona and whine for a break. Today, he lets the façade rest, if only minimally.

"Oh yeah. Sure," Vivi pulls out her phone and begins typing, "We've been past the hospital a load of times. It's in the middle of town on the far side of Milton High. Near the university and that new research centre."

As she talks, she pulls up the map, and, finding no space for on the cab's cramped dashboard, holds it out for Lewis to see.

"I know," Lewis's eyes flicker to the phone and back to the road. The indicator for the turn signal is flipped on. "But I don't think I've ever actually been to the hospital. And this truck is harder to drive than the van, so there's more risk of me taking a wrong turn and getting lost."

Vivi nods in agreement, exhaling, propping up her arm so she can continue to hold the phone for Lewis, "You know, I bet this truck is close to the same weight as the van when you add up all the crap we carry around, but the van handles a million times smoother. Wonder why that is?"

"Arthur does work on it obsessively. Maybe that has something to do with it?" Lewis points out before lapsing into silence his face pinched up in that strained way it does when he thinks of something unpleasant. Silence once again falls over the group.

A traffic jam only servers to sour already frayed nerves, making Vivi jitterily and irritable and Lewis increasingly dourer. Thankfully, the negative vibes put out by the humans mostly disperses upon Vivi pointing out their destination fast approaching on the horizon. The pick-up truck, being too long for any of the hospital's provided parking, means they are forced to circle the block several times over. They find a rest space outdoors, and a five-minute walk from their destination. Mystery watches in slight bewilderment as the humans take exemptional offence to the setback. More erratic human behaviour. Concerning.

The sooner they find their third member, the sooner all his charges can re-establish an equilibrium amongst each other, allowing his own worry and concern to abate. Then- after seeing to whatever supernatural force is interfering with Arthur-he can begin restoring his distance. As much as Mystery has adored watching this small group grow into a family unit, building their positive emotional bonds and being included among them, these erratically negative mood shifts are a harsh reminder that humans are as fickle as they are short-lived.

Mystery releases a tiered snuff, allowing Vivi to carry him against her chest, to hasten the crossing of several intersections all crawling with various forms of transport. Humans did have a tendency towards packing themselves onto smaller and smaller plots of land.

"Excuse me! Mam! Madam!"

Their entry into the hospital is barred by a thin man in uniform grey. The stranger steps suddenly into Vivi's path and Mystery has half a mind to growl in annoyance.

"There are no animals allowed in the hospital. You'll have to leave the dog outside."

"What," Vivi almost barges straight into the stranger, and Mystery feels her grip tighten slightly in irritation, "Crap. Right. Forgot about that."

She swears again under her breath. Once again, Mystery is reminded of this form's disadvantages. Like the now fretting Vivi, he too forgets that dogs are often not welcome into human buildings.

"You go ahead," Vivi is speaking to Lewis, who hovers to the side, "I'll take Mystery back to the truck."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. Go find Arthur. That's more important. This should only take me ten minutes."

When Lewis hesitates for a second too long she continues with a sympathetic hum, "I'll probably beat you to the room anyway, even with a head start. Hospitals are like mazes and your sense of direction is terrible."

A disgruntled but amused frown follows the joke. Lewis protests briefly, "That's a bit unfair. I only got lost once," turning. He continues into the building while Vivi spins, a few choice words of discontent directed at the still staring security guard, and powerwalks back in the direction they'd just come. They cut across several roads, dodging people and cars alike.

It is not until they are back at the pick-up truck, Vivi having placed him on the ground so she can retrieve keys, that Mystery smells the tangy scent of a human who has had dealings with creatures not of this plane. A quick glance around and it is easy to spot the offending person. The man's aura is warped and stained in several places, and he's watching Vivi from several paces away. Mystery immediately lets out a small growl to alert Vivi to the potential danger. Usually, he would ignore such tainted humans, their presence, while not common, is hardly strange. Humans had an unfortunate tendency towards messing around with forces beyond their understanding. Today, with all the drama, he is on edge.

Vivi's attention snaps to him and then to their surroundings in search of his enacted distress. The man, wearing a scuffed leather jacket and donning an aggressive expression, pushes himself forward upon their combined attention. Mystery notes the wrappings and sling, holding one arm secured, signalling severe injury. The smell of blood and infection confirms his suspicion. With a significant amount of facial bruising, this man is looking awfully mangled in Mystery's expert opinion.

"Hey. You got a moment?" The beat-up human asks in a gruff voice. Mystery growls from down by Vivi's feet to discourage any potential aggression. The action gets him a quick once over and nothing more.

"Saw you arrive with that dude in purple, spotin the purple hair-do. He doesn't work at that weird-ass diner in Tempo, does he? Called 'Pepper and salt' or whatever."

"Do I know you?" Vivi asks shorty, putting both hands on her hips, glaring.

The action gets a grunted, "No. But you might know the guy I'm after. Goes by the name of Arthur. That ring any bells?"

NOTE: Guess which character it is! Just kidding, there's only one supporting character left alive at this point (unless you count Claire the receptionist) so not a huge pool to guess from. Note to self: introduce larger supporting cast in early chapters. Anyway, thanks for the comments on the last part it was genuinely encouraging to see people enjoying sections with heavier character introspection. I wasn't sure about this Mystery POV, so thanks again for giving me the push needed to finish it off. On a somewhat related note, sorry about the wait between parts, it's that time of the semester where everything is due, so updates on this fic are going to be super slow for the next few months. Trust me when I say that I'd pick writing fanfiction over work, essays and exam study any day of the week :(

Part 28: here

#MSA #mystery skulls animated #fanfiction #fanfic #Lewis pepper #Vivi Yukino #mysery #introspective #angst #traffic was the real villain #mystery the dog

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