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awakeshedreams · 3 years ago

Text

sugar and spice ( 2 )

pairing : resident bad boy!jjk x model student!reader

setting : highschool!au x stepbrother!au

summary :

a messy highschool!au x stepbrother!au where model student reader who has quite a few dirty little secrets sees her world take an unexpected turn when her mother comes home one day with an engagement announcement, to the father of none other than the school’s resident bad boy…. Jeon Jungkook.

genre : smut, for laughs, kinda pornish, slow burn with collosaly overwhelming sexual tension

rating: soft m ( for now ) due to adult content

warnings : unconventional relationship of sexual nature, tropes and clichès, teenagers partaking in porn-esque activities, made up things with made up people happening in a made up world, don’t like don’t read XD

wordcount : 3k

a/n: honestly overwhelming response for the first part. thank you so much 💜💜💜😳

here's the second.

somehow, this took up a new genre for itself while editing and became sort of a bit enemies to friends to partners in sin.

that is to say, I have a template for this but this could go any ( dirty ) way.

let me know if you like this and are curious to know how things play out.

also, spot the cameo. it's so dumb but still. I couldn't think of anything else.

enjoy.

1 2

Paranoia was an old friend of yours.

Very real, very scary and not very nice to you, your peace of mind or your tested soul.

In your head, you already played out a million different ways the image you’d spent years building could come falling apart.

All because of him. Jeon Jungkook.

Though much to your surprise and fortune- he didn’t tell anyone.

You spent the entire weekend fretting over nothing.

It was almost like none of it ever happened.

Like your parents weren't about to tie the knot soon. Like you weren’t about to become step siblings.

Like he didn't walk in on his said step sister to be masturbating in front of a camera.

In the aftermath of that inexplicably humiliating incident, you had to make up some dumb excuse to satiate your viewers for ending the stream so abruptly.

It was your cat they heard speaking, you told them.

Cats don’t speak of course, certainly not in a deep baritone. But they were effectively distracted by the string of full nudes you posted soon after that.

Those few accusatory comments saying that you did have a boyfriend after all were buried by those coming from very horny people who were over the moon about the little apology gift.

That was out of the way, but you had a more pressing matter at hand.

That night, Jungkook had walked out after saying what he had to say without another word, leaving you feeling stunned and oddly cold.

It was like all the heat in your body just ceased to exist the moment he closed the door behind him and left you there all on your own. You didn’t even get to finish but that was beside the point.

The point was, you thought that meant like with many other things, and as people should since this was a free world, he didn’t give a shit what you did with your free time or your body.

But as the days progressed, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were gravely mistaken.

Because contrary to that, he seemed to be up to something.

These days, he came around very often. Completely unprovoked and on his own accord.

It didn’t help that your mom loved having him around and feeding him.

Sometimes he was there for lunch after school. Other times he was there to fucking read the books in the study.

It was all ridiculous and quite honestly it was starting to get on your fraying nerves.

He didn’t even live there! You grumbled in pure frustration internally every time your mom asked you to add an extra plate for him on the dining table. This was your place!

Intentional or not he seemed to just love spending his time at your house for some reason.

But that just wouldn’t do.

The thing was you didn't know how to tell him you’d like to have the peace of mind he’d robbed you of by being all up in your living space every other day back.

He couldn’t just keep coming around.

Things were awkward enough without you having to see him often so already in between fleeting glimpses at school and lingering glances over the occasional dinner.

He might have been able to play it cool because it didn’t matter to him but this was a big deal for you.

He knew your secret and what else were you to do but be on edge and fidgety around him even though it seemed like he wouldn’t say a word of it?

But in the end, you couldn’t voice out your concerns. Not to him and certainly not to your mom.

So you were stuck here.

In between a massive rock and a very hard place.

Forced to endure even though you really felt like you’d been pushed past your limit.

Because he was there all the time.

For the most random reasons doing the most random things at the most random places at the most random time.

One time he had been casually listening to music while smoking by the pool and stroking the strings of his damned, matte black guitar.

You had been so stressed from all the work at school with the elections for new committee members amongst the juniors coming up so you thought to go for a swim to relax your self.

You honestly thought no one was around.

It was a Wednesday at noon so your mother was at lunch with some friends from high school. Plus, in the back of your mind, you’d reasoned that Jungkook usually only ever came over when she was around.

So you put on your best little bikini, grabbed a floatie and a soft drink and you went out.

Only to pause when you saw him sitting on one of the white lounging chairs, just looking at you with his earphones on, fingers having stilled mid strumming with a soft veil of smoke over his face.

You didn’t need to think twice to turn back.

There had been something about how his heavy lidded gaze took you in through the smoke as he did that thing where he cocked his head to the side that made you step back and quickly go back in.

You felt yourself get impossibly hotter when you realized you were probably giving him an eyeful of your poorly covered ass in motion.

You knew he was looking. You could feel his stare. Heavy. Intent. Dark. Swirling.

Like when he'd walked in on you.

You were hot and bothered the entire day.

In the end you couldn’t get anything productive done with a straight mind. And it was all his fault.

It took you about two weeks to crack.

That particular evening you were decided on telling your mom about this dilemma you were in.

Coincidentally, your mom had gone and invited him and his dad over for dinner.

Great. Just great.

You had no choice but to deeply consider the possibility of having to spill the beans another time.

Because choosing now to tell your mom meant you would probably need to tell his dad as well since they were attached at the hip every time he came over.

But no, you wouldn’t expose him in front of his father too. You weren’t cruel. Also you didn’t need the school's menace resenting you for making his strict, uptight dad turn on him.

If he didn’t have a reason to expose you before, he certainly would have one if things spiraled out that way.

So you bit your bitter tongue.

This time around, dinner was a more relaxed affair.

The weather was nice so your mom decided on a barbeque at your back yard.

This meant you wore a flowy sun dress like your mom did and he wore a loose navy shirt with the sleeves rolled up and some black casual beach shorts.

His tattoos were on full display.

You stared.

You were only distracted by them and how the patterns dance on his skin when his muscles flex as he flips whatever he is cooking on the fire because she’s never seen them in full before, you strongly reasoned.

Even with his sleeves rolled up when he was uniform, you'd only seen what he had on his forearm briefly other than the ones on the back of his hand.

That night didn’t count. It was too dim to see well. Also, that night technically didn’t exist.

Your eyes were particularly drawn to the little something peeking out the collar of his shirt.

You were too busy trying to figure out whether the curling ink around his collar bone was the flick of flames or the end of a dragon’s tail to notice that he’d lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe at the dots of sweet at his brows.

When you do, you suddenly found yourself being given an eyeful of impossibly ripped, ridged pure muscle.

You almost dropped your glass like you did your jaw.

What the holy fuck?

At that exact moment, he lifted his gaze and caught you staring.

He was probably expecting you to look away. Any decent human would expect that if they caught someone staring at them so openly. Gawking, to be completely honest.

But you didn’t. You quickly recover, pulling yourself together, and you met his gaze squarely.

You clutched the drink in your hand tight. Your pride wouldn’t let you look away.

In your own way, it was your little pay back, weak as it was.

He held your gaze with an unreadable look on his face for a moment with that signature slight tilt to his head and an added lift to his brow, before he looked away. Wordlessly, he let his shirt fall to push his hair back with his hand and went back to grilling.

You let herself breath then and tried not to think about how his biceps flexed at the motion, how his hair slicked back made him look even more dangerous and how the little smirk you caught on his lips was making you feel things she shouldn’t be.

Your mom suggested you all hang out at the pool once you were done eating.

You hadn’t been there since that day with him and quite frankly, you would rather not be.

Not with him.

You knew your mom had a swimsuit underneath her dress. She made you wear one as well.

She probably told them to come prepared for a swim too.

Just thinking about it made you short circuit.

You tore your gaze away from where he was standing with his father at the poolside, staring blankly at the surface as the older man talked to him about something.

You'd just come back from clearing the table with your mom.

When you guys got close enough, the men look your way. Jungkook’s eyes immediately landed on you. Meanwhile you just stare at your mom, trying to ignore his inexplicably fixed attention on you.

‘It’s shame we can’t swim.’

Your mother said, reaching for her boyfriend’s hand. She gave Jungkook a soft, apologetic smile.

‘Maybe once the weather is not so chilly.’ She sighed regretfully. ‘If I had known you were sensitive to the cold I would have suggested something else.’

‘It’s fine.’ Your eyes flicker to him. The smile he puts on is small and polite. ‘I’m not a very good swimmer anyway I’m afraid.’

‘Nonsense.’ She dismissed in good nature. ‘I heard you were quite the athlete in middle school. It’s all your father ever talks about sometimes. Right, honey?'

His father just grumbled.

You couldn’t hide your surprise at this revelation. You didn’t know this before.

Jungkook was quiet for a moment. Then he smiles a little with a shrug.

‘That was in the past.’

Your eyes just glided to him when he said that.

The tug at his lip looked wry and sad.

You’d never seen him like this before.

Solemn. Sombre. Not serious or intimidating or indifferent.

It felt like you were viewing him in a new light.

You settled on drinks by the pool. It was what your mom does to lighten things up.

It seemed like the gloom from earlier wasn’t all part just a part of your imagination.

Her mother suddenly chirped in between the light conversation.

'Why don't you guys get together and have a little group study?'

You suppressed the urge to groan and roll your eyes to the back of your head. You knew what she was trying to do and you wanted no part in it.

You had the words no way sitting at the tip of you tongue.

He beat you to it.

'That sounds nice,' he dared to say, even politely addressing your mom with Mrs. alongside her surname in the end uttered just the way she liked. 'I'd like that.’

You gawked at him in disbelief. Complete and utterly speechless.

Was he insane ??

'Doesn't it? Great!' Your mom is over the moon. 'Dear, take him to the study. You guys can do your teenager things and get along over books there.'

Your mom was loving and caring and she only ever wanted the best for you. You knew this.

Maybe she wanted them to get to know each other. Or maybe she just wanted to have some alone time with her man.

Either way, she practically shoved you two into the house with so much enthusiasm you wondered if she really loved you because suddenly you found yourself stuck inside your house with the last person you wanted to be with and you did not feel safe or rested.

The walk up the spirally stairs to the study had got to be one of the most intense, dragging moments of your whole life.

He remained a few steps behind you all through out the journey, following your lead in his own leisured pace.

A few steps too damn far behind in your opinion.

From that angle, you had a strong inkling that he could see your underwear from beneath your dress.

You knew this because you were familiar with what it felt like when he was staring.

What you couldn’t quite explain is why you didn't do a thing about it.

If awkward silence could manifest into a solid form for being so intense, there would have been a third occupant in the room the moment you two walked into the study.

It would’ve been so massive, all the high shelves and wooden tables lined up would have been demolished.

Jungkook remained the quiet person he was, looking around and skimming through the books on the shelves.

You were standing a safe distance away from him, absently doing the same. The books were interesting and all but you were admittedly more taken by the ink on his skin.

Up close you could clearly see the artistic patterns and symbols etched onto him.

While staring at the tats on his knuckles you couldn't help but also notice that the titles he picked up were rather complex.

Certainly not the kind of thing even high intellects reached for. Evidently, those tomes had been collecting dust in there for ages.

You were decidedly curious. Itching to ask. Hell, dying to know.

You dived before you could overthink it and find reasons not to satiate your rabid curiosity.

'You like Reader?' he paused and looked at you from the corner of his eyes. At his questioning look she gesture to the book he was holding. 'That's the third book of theirs you picked up.'

'Yeah.' he said casually, nodding a little while flipping through it. 'Their books are nice.'

A crippling lapse of silence ensues.

You tore your gaze away from his profile to stare at the titles in front of you with a burn at your cheeks, fiddling with the polished spines.

How fucking awkward. All of this.

He probably felt the same.

What were you even doing?

You thought about telling him to ignore your mom’s attempt at trying to make the two of you get along. He obviously wasn’t looking for company or a friend. Quite frankly, neither were you. Certainly not from him. You were just trying to be not rude. Something you aren’t really surprised he probably failed to understand in all honesty.

But then he spoke, dragging you out of your reverie.

'What about you?'

Your head shot up and you found that he was standing a lot closer than before, having moved to reach for yet another complicated book to idly browse through at the top shelf.

This close, you could can smell him. Soft mint and clean soap and moonlight, not smoke. He disregarded the pages in his hands to give you a side way glance.

‘What do you like?’

There was a perpetual spark swimming in the dark depth of his eyes. It was striking. Pretty even.

When he lightly raised a brow at you, your thoughts jumbled all over before it fell back into place and you realized you were staring very openly.

But this time was different from the last time. When he had been miles away, flashing you his ripped abs.

In your reverie, you hadn’t notices that he had leaned a little to meet your eyes, and that he was real close. Like real close, looking at you intently with his head cocked to the side questioningly, like he was wondering what was going on inside your head. You could feel his breath fanning your face.

Shit.

'Uh,’ you scrambled for an answer, quickly tearing your gaze away from him to appraise the bookshelf. Your face felt like it was on fire. Considering how he hadn’t moved, he could probably see just how blazed in the face you were. Out of pure instinct, you grabbed a random book and shoved it into him to make some space in between your bodies.

Maybe with a little too much force. There was a dull thump and it made you wince.

'This.’

You hated how squeaky and breathless you sounded. Like you’d just ran a marathon. Might as well have, with how hard and fast your heart was pounding.

Jungkook took it from you, and you allowed yourself to look at him as he looked the cover over, completely fine, like you hadn’t just smacked him in the chest with a book.

The corner of his lips lifted a little as he flipped it over, cocking his head the other way before he chanced you a glance, making you blink rapidly and stand on edge.

'You sure?' he asked, sounding pretty amused. You were confused for a moment until he held it up for you to see, flashing you a full on toothy grin like you’d never seen on him before. 'You like books about horse gentilia?'

The jump in your chest was something you quickly dismissed as being one of sinking dread rather than anything else.

All the color that had been congesting your face washed away.

If there was a time you truly wished the ground would swallow your entire existence whole, it would be right then and there.

word is telling me I made up the word genitilia but I’m pretty sure it’s real because it just rolls off the tongue ( smooth ) like butter like a criminal under the cover.

the hole is one of the recurring characters so please be nice to it.

alot of things happening here if you squint and look closely.

any-whomst've, hope you all liked it. let me know if you did and I don't know come say hi? 😳 have a nice day 💜

#bangtan #bts #bts imagine #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts imagines #bts scenario #jeon jungkook #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine #jungkook smut #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #bts high school au #jungkook high school au #bts au #jungkook au

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helliontherapscallion · 4 years ago

Text

Privileges (Adrenaline Junkie Part 11)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17

Spotify Playlist (collaborative)

Warnings: slight description of death/injury/illness, small description of homelessness, slight panic attack

Word count: 2,845

You and Arthur sat at the top of the cliff for a while sitting in silence. Glancing at the sun’s position, you guessed that it’s been a couple of hours. You continued to wait patiently for him to gather his courage that you knew he had. He looked conflicted.

The wild herds of livestock grazed peacefully below you, filling the silence with various moos and oinks. Various flowers colorfully dotted the green grass with multiple shades of vibrant blues, yellows, whites, and reds. The few clouds that littered the baby blue sky rolled endlessly above you, giving you a sense of peace and entertainment when you tried to make out mobs from the abstract shapes. The breeze lightly blew against your skin making you shiver every now and then from the feeling of it working its way through your feathers and hair. It was a perfect day for flying.

While you were waiting, you took out the snacks and water and handed them to Arthur. He originally didn’t want them, but you insisted he at least drink something today. He needed hydration if he was going to sit under the hot sun for hours. Every time he would take a deep breath (which was often), you would perk up and look at him ready to fully divert your attention towards him, only to look elsewhere when he would sigh. You were starting to lose your patience, but you knew you had to hold out for Arthur. That poor kid looks like he’s been through a lot in such a short amount of time.

You mindlessly munched on a granola bar. The chocolate and grain danced on your tastebuds in perfect harmony like an old married couple gleefully waltzing at their grandchild's wedding. Washing down the taste with water, you feel the cool liquid slither it’s way down your throat, relieving parts with it’s refreshing properties. You let your mind wander to your brothers.

Technoblade, ever the individualistic, nonconforming anarchist, lived a couple of hours outside the outskirts of the Dream SMP lands. You visited his house once and it was nice, but you really didn’t like the cold. Your metal prosthetic froze to your amputated wing and it took several painful hours of waiting by the fireplace for it to unstick to your feathers. Techno appeared indifferent of the situation, but you knew he cared deep down. He always was a softie for his family members.

Wilbur was in his element in L’manberg. Leadership came naturally for him, and you were immensely grateful for that. Without him, L’manberg would’ve gone down in history with dishonor. L’manberg was thriving under his just rule. Infrastructure was slowly starting to spread throughout the entirety of the small nation, making it easier to travel. You always flew everywhere, much to the disapproval of Wilbur (“(y/n), can’t you just use the roads I just built?”), so the infrastructure never really affected your daily life. You appreciated that he was working so hard to build his symphony up from measure one to the end. He was truly the heart and soul of his great nation.

Tommy was… well for lack of a better description, Tommy. You were incredibly proud of him, giving up his prized music discs was a gigantic sacrifice for him. It really showed how much he grew up from being the toddler you met a little over a decade ago. Your little brother wreaked havoc in L’manberg, but a good kind of havoc. Tommy and his partner in crime Tubbo were the ones that eased tension during the War. Even after the War, they always actively searched for adventure. They made people smile as they would run past, they knew they were in for a show later on in the day. Tommy and Tubbo gave the nation life outside of its physical growth, they were the morale of the nation.

You supposed that you were somewhat important to L’manberg, but not as important as your brothers. Sure, they used your inventions to help fight Dream and his goons, but they would’ve been able to do that without your creations. Though, it was satisfying to see the looks on their faces when the L’manbergians whipped out the portable TNT launchers and automatic crossbows to absolutely decimate them. You didn’t really supply L’manberg with physical or morale growth, you were just… there. In your cramped workshop. Tinkering endlessly with inventions that you hoped would make people’s lives easier.

“(Y/n), I’m ready.”

You jumped a little, turning to him and giving him what you hoped was an encouraging smile. He took a deep breath, looking anywhere but at you.

“It started when I was seven. Mama and Papa were sick. We didn’t have enough money to pay for a doctor, so me and my brother Hugh were trying our best to take care of them. We weren’t good enough though, they died after a couple weeks.

“People came to take us away from Mama and Papa, but Hugh told me to run away as far as I could. He told me that he’d be right behind me. So, we ran to the woods. He said that he knew a few people that lived there that’d be able to help. We lived with them for three years, they were nice people.

“One day, they needed supplies so me and Hugh went to go find a cave. The cave we found was really pretty, it had tons of redstone and iron. We went deeper and deeper til we found a huger cave. It had tons of feathers there and some red brown stuff on the walls.” You felt a shiver run down your spine as you realized that those were probably yours. You wondered if they were still down there.

His voice started to get strained and wobbly. “A-and we saw it. Hugh told me to hide and not make any noise so I did and… and it killed him.”

Tears steadily dribbled down Arthur’s freckled cheeks as his lip wobbled and his nose turned as red as his hair. He was starting to hyperventilate. You reached over and pulled Arthur into a tight winged hug. You gently rubbed his back and whispered reassurances into his ear.

“It’s alright Arthur, please breathe with me. In,” you took a deep breath, “and out.” You let out the breath. Even though his breath was steady a few minutes later, you still kept him in a tight hug. It absolutely devastated you that he went through so much in his short life. He started sobbing again.

“(Y/n), it took his soul! Hugh’s still down there with it!” He blubbered out.Your hand froze on his shoulder.

What. It can’t take souls, could it? That’s not possible, right? …Right? You were going to have to ask Philza about it, but Arthur is your first and only priority right now. His loud sobs were slightly muffled by your shoulder as you felt your shirt get slightly wet with his tears. You did your best to comfort him, but you weren’t used to comforting a child that just lost his only family.

“I’ll never let that happen to you again. I promise.”

You sat with Arthur protectively wrapped in your arms until you saw that the sun was going to set in the next few minutes. Not good, not good at all. You looked down at Arthur, his eyes were closed in a deep sleep, taking deep shuddering breaths in and out. Good, you needed to get him out of there and you didn’t want to traumatize him anymore than he already is by showing him how mobs react when you’re near them.

You hastily packed up your stuff before taking off as quickly as you could without waking the sleeping boy. You flew as fast as you could through the air, keeping a tight grip on Arthur as you cut through the darkening sky. You could see zombies, skeletons, spiders, and the occasional enderman below you. Luckily, they didn’t notice you as you flew overhead.

Just as the lit up house entered your line of sight, you felt something whiz past you accompanied by a strong gust of wind. Looking down, you realized that it was a skeleton. It shooting an arrow garnered the attention of the surrounding mobs as they turned their heads to look directly at you. Shit.

You pushed yourself to fly faster and twisted your body so that if an arrow were to land, it would hit you and not Arthur. You felt the air around you shift as a myriad of arrows were shot at you. Dodging the best you could, you glanced down at Arthur. Still asleep. Good, he didn’t need to see this.

Getting closer to the house, you lowered yourself to the ground fully and pushed your feet against the grass, running for dear life as you heard a fwoosh of air right next to your ear. FInally, you reached the doorknob and swung the door open. Flinging yourself and Arthur inside, you slammed the door behind you, hearing the banging of arrows hitting the wood.

You leaned against the door panting and closed your eyes, clutching Arthur closer to you in relief. You opened your eyes and peered down at his face. Still asleep? How much of a deep sleeper was this kid? Maybe he was just extremely emotionally tired from earlier. That’s probably how he impossibly slept through all that.

You pushed yourself off the door and headed up to Wilbur’s, well Arthur’s room so you could put him to bed. You peeled the covers back and placed him gently on the mattress. You covered his body with the heavy comforter and tucked him in. His face visibly relaxed and a slight smile quirked onto his lips. You took a deep breath and stood there watching him. That was certainly a close one. Way too close for your tastes. You almost got him killed because you lost track of time.

You swept the bangs out of his eyes and left the room, gently closing the door behind you. You tiredly drug yourself down the stairs to the kitchen so you could at least grab a small snack before passing out in the comfort of your bed. Today was just not your day. At least you’d get a decent night’s sleep tonight.

Walking into the kitchen, you saw Philza sitting at the table looking at you with… was that relief or anger? Or a mix? He stood up and quickly walked over to you. You tensed up, fully expecting to get yelled at, only to feel him hug you. You melted into his touch and felt small tears prick at the corner of your eyes. You really needed a hug after today.

“Don’t ever do that again. I don’t care that you’re an adult, do you know how worried I was? I thought you and Arthur got hurt. He’s just a child and you’re on your last life (y/n). You need to be more careful.”

You didn’t say anything. You just buried your face into his shoulder and let out a silent sob. “I was so scared Arthur was gonna get hurt, I didn’t know what to do.”

The emotion you were holding in all day from sleep deprivation and lack of nutrients completely spilled out. You felt pathetic, crying in your dad’s arms like you were a kid again. He rubbed soothing circles on your back and led you to the couch where you both sat in each other’s arms. Once you calmed down, you pulled away and wiped at your eyes, facing away from him so he didn’t see your weakness.

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t sleep at all last night and everything just… came out.”

“Hey,” he chided gently, making you look at him, “don’t apologize for feeling emotions. You were bottling it all up weren’t you?”

You nodded shamefully. “...And what did I tell you and your brothers about holding it in?”

“Not to do it.” Your croaky voice cracked out.

He smiled at you. “That’s my kid. Did you talk to Arthur?”

“Yeah. He’s actually alone, Dad. He doesn’t have anyone out there for him. And he… he said that they saw my feathers and blood down there on the walls and floor. Saw his brother get killed right in front of him… mentioned something about The Warden stealing his brother’s soul? It can’t do that right?”

You were met with silence. “...Right? Dad, you’re scaring me.”

“Yes, The Warden takes the souls of it’s dead. It’s how they live so long, they trap the souls in their chests and feast on the lifespans in rations until the soul is completely integrated into it’s very being.”

So that’s what the screaming white wisps that haunted your nightmares were. They were the souls of the dead. They were screaming in agony when The Warden killed you, so you thought they still held onto their humanity. You remembered hearing thousands of screams echoing off from the stony walls of the dark cave. Shuttering, you remembered how some of the souls stared at you in desperation and despair.

“...So the souls are trapped with it forever?”

He nodded, not looking at you. The Warden killed you in your first life, why were you still… still you? It doesn’t make sense.

You swallowed thickly. “Then why didn’t it take mine?”

“I don’t know hun, I wish I could tell you why. I thought you died for good before you respawned. I thought it took your soul.” His voice cracked slightly at the end.

You pulled him into a hug. “It didn’t and I’m still here. That’s the important part, Dad. I’m still here.”

Continuing to give him comfort, you trailed off as you remembered your first death. What could’ve prevented it from taking your soul like the rest? You blanched thinking about what it would’ve been like to be stuck with The Warden indefinitely. Trapped and suffering until it was fully integrated into it’s monstrous body for the rest of eternity. It sounded like hell on Earth. Before today, you thought death was the absolute worst outcome, but you were mistaken. You were given the mercy, no the privilege, of death that day.

Was it because of the stone platform you landed on? That must’ve been it, there’s no other way you could’ve respawned if you landed anywhere else; the stone platform was the only space you could’ve landed that was far enough above the ground to bleed out. You remembered how your shattered ribs would grind together as you endlessly sobbed and the hot blood dripping off from your forehead and wing warming up your rapidly cooling form. Dying like that was a privilege compared to what the lost souls of the miners endured. You didn’t know how long they’ve been in there, but you still would rather die like that a thousand times over than have to be trapped inside that thing for all of eternity.

Your thought process was interrupted as Philza pulled away and wiped the tears from his eyes. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was slightly blotchy, it’s been a while since you’ve seen him like that. He’s always been strong for you and your brothers.

“...Why don’t we grab some dinner before we go to bed, I assume you didn’t eat…?”

His sheepish look gave you all the answers you needed. “There’s some leftover mushroom soup we could eat.”

You stood up and gave him a bright smile. “Let’s dig in then, I’m starving!”

He laughed as you pulled him off the couch and into the kitchen. “Did you eat anything after breakfast?”

You paused slightly then continued to pour the soup into two bowls. “...That’s not important.”

He pursed his lips. “(Y/n).”

“I had like a quarter of a granola bar if that counts.”

“(Y/n) you went through the day with only half your breakfast and a few cups of coffee in your system?”

“I know, I know, not healthy. But that still doesn’t take away from the fact that you didn’t eat dinner either.” You slid the bowl over to him across the table.

His eyes narrowed in thought before he sighed in defeat. “Touché.”

You snorted and started to eat your soup. You hummed as the earthy flavor shimmied around in your mouth comforting you after today’s events. You automatically felt better after eating. You always found comfort in food. Before you knew it, both you and Philza were done with your dinners and were leaning back in your chairs. You felt your eyes start to droop against your will.

“Why don’t you go to bed and I can clean up. You look like you’re gonna pass out.” He snickered. You hummed in agreement, too tired to argue and murmured out a quiet “thanks. G’night, love ya.” You drug your feet up the stairs and plop down on your bed, passing out instantly as soon as your head hit the pillow.

Taglist (comment if you want to be added):

@acecarddraws @goldenstarofthunderclan @ravennightingaleandavatempus @dirtydiavolo @yeiras-world @immadatmostthings @hee-hee-haw @jackalopedoodles @m1lkmandan @vanhakirja @im-a-depressed-gay @coolleviauchihadreamerlove @questioning-sanity @camisascam

@bongwaterflavoredgatorade @kakamiissad @jayistrash4 @lifestylesleep @speedymaximoff @sun-shark-tooth @appetiteofapeoplepleaser @lestrangenymph @kinismanditory @dragons-lurk-here @rinzyx05 @the-wandering-pan-ace @sparkling-gayyyy @angelic-scent @shinipii @dont-hug-me-im-a-fander @izzydimensional @used-avocado @laura--444 @wing-non @lovely-echoo @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @mysteryartisticwriter @momo-has-a-gun @mosstea-png @w-0-r-n-n @v-kouya

#sbi x reader #sleepy bois x reader #sleepy bois inc x reader #philza x reader #technoblade x reader #wilbur soot x reader #tommyinnit x reader #sibling reader #platonic #mcyt #mcyt x reader #dream smp #dream smp au #dream smp x reader #gender neutral reader #tw: illness #tw: death #tw: injury #tw: panic attack

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goldafterglow · 4 years ago

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dissolve me (repost)

(deleted this post on accident, reblog of original here)

Summary: We find out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. Except the Tootsie Pop is Horacio Carrillo.

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x Reader

Word Count: 5k+ (look away)

Warnings: angst, fluff, gory metaphors (I use figurative language to mask the scent of flaming trash)

A/N: This is literally the first thing I’ve written in like 3 years so you have to be nice to me. Please give me feedback!! But it has to be exclusively positive or I will spontaneously combust!!!

Horacio is cold.

It’s a little past midnight and the Sun has been asleep for hours by now, but not Bogota. Instead, the city moves in slow motion, the weight of slumber heavy on its creatures as the few visible stars shush the agitated crickets. Somehow, even despite the Sun’s absence, it’s influence still blankets the trees. It accumulates, even. The hot radiation permeates the lungs of taxis and buildings, but the cool darkness brings life into the air as water begins to materialize on the sides of newspaper stands and underneath Horacio’s shirt. His clothes stick to him so tight (more than usual) that he thinks he may be drowning under the moon. He can taste the ocean on his tongue and the sensation is only relieved as he steps off the pavement and onto the tile of the rundown convenience store. The building, heavily air conditioned, makes each drop of sweat feel like icicles pricking into his fried red skin, but his body still burns from the residual heat.

Somehow, Horacio still maintains that icey core in his chest. So even as he makes a beeline for the refrigerated-goods, yes. Horacio is cold.

He exists as a green-sheet ghost walking through the aisles of the grocery store, barely conscious at 2 am as he searches for some goddamn milk. He knows he works too hard, knows his life is concrete and bricks screeching against his steel heart. Every morning he walks on glass to enter his office, and every morning he forces his feet to bleed. What else is there for him? His body has been adorned with splinters and cuts for so long now, so what’s a few more? Each night, he drags his body flat across the floor, just trying to make it out the door. Trying to escape an office that chews him up and spits him out, saliva covered and filthy.

But fuck if he just wants some milk.

So he makes this small trip before he heads home. Once he finds the dairy, his heavy eyes hoist themselves upwards, to the second-to-topmost shelf in the refrigerator. The last carton of fat free milk - dairy-flavored water - that he’ll chug the next morning. But just as his hardened fingertips reach for it, they meet something else; a third wheel to this toxic milk-Horacio romance that is ruining his plans for what might as well be the best morning he’s had in the past three milk-free days. His mind, once fuzzy from the sleepy grey clouds filling his lenses like cataracts, now feels a sharp jolt of electricity soar through it as his machine body is activated and his surroundings suddenly become clearer, laser vision kicking in. His senses are now sharper and his guard is completely up. His nerves begin racing as the data from his hands shoots straight to his brain to get integrated and that thing he’s feeling is...warm? Shit, no it’s hot. It fucking burns his skin and immediately he pulls back because his motherboard is screaming at him that he’s in danger.

His head shoots up and his eyes dart to the side as he turns to look, expecting a raging bonfire or boiling cast iron, but instead he sees a human. A sweet, candy person that looks almost surprised as he does, but with softer features and kinder eyes. He smells the caramel seeping out of your pores and it stings his olfactory nerves but perhaps he wants to smell it again so it can fill his lungs and then let it harden inside of his cold body. So that it can stay within him forever.

“Disculpame,” you say, remorse dripping out of your golden mouth and if his ears were in control, he’d beg you to say it again. Say anything. He recognizes your accent. Not a Columbian, but a gringo. His brain reminds his heart that hey, we don’t like selfish, egotistical gringos. His heart doesn’t listen.

“Go ahead,” he says, and shit he sounds horrible. He sounds fucked up, and it’s probably because he is fucked up. He talks like toothpicks and needles, but it’s okay because he got to speak to you and he’s never spoken to an angel before.

He notices how you relax a little at the sound of his English, and he feels that heat spread at the beautiful notion that he did that all by himself.

“No really, I don’t need it,” you insist, a small smile gracing your lips. “You’re very sweet for offering, though.” Huh?

Horacio Carrillo is not sweet. He doesn’t taste like sugar or chocolate or berries. Horacio is bitter gourd, burnt toast and that shitty part at the end of the banana that no one wants. Copper and hot tar oozing down taste buds and burning the frail pink dots along the way. Straight black coffee that’s tear-inducingly retched. Pepto Bismol and whatever the fuck is inside of those plastic pill capsules. Raw beef festering with E. coli and flies, a rotting corpse under a wake of vultures, the creepy old man that sits next to you on the train, mace burning your shivering eyes while you collapse to your shredded knees onto a floor of thumbtacks.

Horacio Carrillo is not sweet. But you said he was, and you are oh so persuasive. That’s when he felt the first one. Crack.

His mind goes into overdrive as panic sets in - what was that sound? What just broke? What crevice of his mind just ripped a little and how can he staple it back shut? He feels the slimey pus of his emotions begin to seep out of the opening a little, and he doesn’t like it. Not one bit. He wants to put his guard back up and regain control of this situation the way he’s been trained to do by offering you the carton and then leaving; defying your orders and following his own.

But who is he to refuse you?

“Thank you,” he says, and he’s just noticed that your hand is back at your side and your eyes shine a little brighter as your smile widens at his defeat. That was me, too. But then you’re turning around and leaving, messy bun flopping up and down as you walk towards the cash register and his heart is furious. It’s pounding in his ribcage like a ravenous shark caged in glass, telling him to not let you get away because it wants to burn in your soft flames and turn to ash in your fingers, but he stays planted. Watches you walk away and take that gentle radiating heat with you, leaving him just as hard and frozen as he was before he’d ever let you poke around into his soul. Suddenly he understands why you’d burned him so bad; doesn’t even the lightest match make that violent sizzling sound when it touches ice? But he can’t deny that you had melted him, just a little bit, and he can’t deny that he likes being a little watery.

He sees you again just a few days later. It’s a Sunday morning and Bogota is now wide awake. Pastel streaks fly down the streets as manifestations of yellow taxis, dusty red cars, and pale blue cyclers bring the canvas of the city to life. Horacio decides to be adventurous, introduce true exploration and child-like color into his monochrome world, and walk to the cafe near his street. A truly exhilarating touch, if he did say so himself.

Except he hadn’t prepared himself for the anarchy that would occur within him when he saw you again. The girl that was awake at 2 am and offered him white calcium water in a carton and called him sweet. You’re wearing one of those pink dresses that you just know is sleeveless, but a light denim jacket guards your shoulders and he can’t help but wonder what would happen if he just tugged on your collar a little bit, exposed some of your delicate skin and traced his fingers over it. Just closed his eyes and leaned down to brush his lips over - shit, fuck. What is he thinking? His eyes don’t know where to look, his heart doesn’t know how to beat, his lungs don’t know how to take in air. What do you do when you see a pretty thing in a pretty sundress? Certainly not function. Horacio wasn’t doing that at all. So he did the next best thing: sit at a table and watch you. That’s the next best thing, right?

He watches as you smile at the young man taking your order, talking to him like you know him, care about him. All you were doing was listing the ingredients you wanted in your drink, but your bright eyes twinkle with a sort of endearment that he isn’t used to. Like you were happy.

He is in awe of you. Horacio has worked so hard to stay numb, to feel nothing but that rusty scrape of motivation that made him do his job. But you made it look so easy to gush, to overflow and spill your delight with life onto everyone around you until that tired, overworked teenager behind the register was smiling too as he said “next!”

You turn your head to find a table once you pick up your order and panic settles into Horacio’s bones again as he reflexively turns his head away from you, but your keen eyes spot him. Oh, how you must pity him. The poor, miserable apparition from the grocery store. He feels that radiating heat begin to grow as you approach him at his table, so he pretends to not notice you. Pretends he’s numb as you thaw him into a dripping mess of thin ice and water.

“Is this seat taken?” you ask him, nodding to the other chair in front of him with a cup of coffee in your supple hands. Horacio’s tactful eyes scan the cafe once more; there’s other seats in the building, other men and women for you to pity. He’s been chosen. And he just can’t resist you, is too weak to deny himself that addicting sugary sweetness that you’re coated in because he’s not sure he’ll ever feel so soft again and he wants to savor it.

Horacio looks up at you, clearing his throat as he takes the kind of breath that you can feel as the air fills his lungs. He’s priming his voice to talk to you because this time, he wants to make it count.

“No,” he says. Fuck. In that moment, he couldn't remember having talked before. Has he ever spoken? Certainly not, or he’d know how to do it. But you don’t seem to mind his cold tone as you take the seat in front of you, and those damned eyes of yours are blinding to look at but god, who needs pupils anyway?

He can tell you’re curious about him. You want to pick him apart scab by scab and take him apart into individual fibers until you get to that soft mushy center that is Horacio Carrillo. You want to see him naked and open, but that’s not something Horacio can give you. How could he? He’s taken that weak, inferior soul within him and crushed it under concrete and plaster of paris, secured it with walls and steel and barbed wire until the protective layers become so extensive that even if someone could get through them all, why the fuck would they want to? It wouldn’t be worth the trouble.

“You know, I’ve never been here before,” you say, taking a sip of your drink, and he hums, knowing that’s how people interact but not quite knowing what is going on with him. You’re just saying things, just want him to talk back. You’re trying to have a real conversation with him, and he doesn’t understand why, but maybe for just once in his life he doesn’t need to fucking understand everything.

“Then what brings you here?” he asks, and slowly he begins to regain a little feeling inside him. Not enough that it unleashes his pain, but enough that he can feel that ice water slosh around inside him easily. A gentle flow of slush that mixes with your amber and makes him feel like a person.

“A student of mine recommended it to me,” you explain, and he’s starting to put together a little picture of who you are in his mind.

“You teach?” he asks, probing you for your life. He wants to study your mind, hear the music that leaves your mouth when you speak. You nod thoughtfully, and he can tell he’s mentioned something you enjoy. He learns that you teach at a local university and hears about just how passionate you are about what you teach. His dark eyes begin to fill with that precious light you possess as you tell him about your students and how though you’re new to Bogotá, you already love it. But that doesn’t surprise him so much; somehow he just knows that you’ve got plenty of love to go around.

“Well now you know what business I have in a grocery store at 2 am,” you conclude after you tell him about your late nights grading subpar papers, curiosity twinkling in your eyes like fairy lights in the dark. “What about you?” It isn’t until the focus is back on himself that he notes the smile that graces his features. A real smile. He smiles not out of diplomacy but because right now, he’s happy. He’s high on you and serotonin and he’d let you ruin him if you wanted to. But your question troubles him. He can’t really tell you why; he can’t bear to take his ugly, black, acrylic life and stain your lavender and daffodil backdrop. So he tells you the bare minimum: that he’s a colonel and leads a special ops unit called the Search Bloc. He leaves out the blood that paints his eyes everyday, forgets to mention the agony he’s felt and inflicted on others.

“Your drink isn’t ready yet?” you question, like a sudden realization has just hit you. Your kind features are furrowed into slight confusion, and Horacio wants to let a black sky swallow him into his own misery because he forgot to order something.

“I didn’t get anything,” he admits, face starting to glow light pink as his foolishness begins to manifest on his hardened features. You don’t look confused anymore; you’re curious again. Forever wondering about the enigma in front of you, except he’s no mystery; he’s a labyrinth. Full of questions and doubt without one single answer, and once you enter you can’t ever escape.

“Then what does a colonel do at a humble cafe?” you ask. And all of the sudden, for a man that makes a living out of repeatedly evading death, he wants to evaporate into the beige, worn tile beneath the teal cushion of his seat because the answer to that question will surely ruin the delicate, blushed bubble around the two of you. But you’ve incapacitated him with your stupid fucking pretty eyes so much so that you must be the enemy in this story. He can escape gunpoint, rouse himself from a concussion, but he hasn’t got a single clue how to regain his quick wit and pistol mind in the face of something much more sinister: a pretty girl.

“I-” he starts, but all of the sudden his throat won’t cooperate because his mind is helpless to lie to you but his body is resisting. His body rejects that frozen, dreadful state of nothing that it’s normally kept in. You’ve spread the warmth of fuzzy blankets and blissful vertigo throughout his stomach and his body wants to stay warm. “I was just…” he coughs, hard, willing his esophagus to heed his commands, “...I was watching you.” Horacio is flustered now, completely out of his element as he feels his blood seep to the topmost layers of his skin, exposing his embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he adds almost immediately, his eyes wide as he tries to avert his flushed features from your careful gaze. “I know that’s weird. I didn’t mean to-”

“Horacio,” you interrupt. Say it again. Say my name again. “It’s okay. Actually, it’s kinda cute.” Crack. That steel fortress that he thought was so impenetrable was beginning to soften into something moldable, pliable only to your hands so you could transform him from a wall to a rose.

Horacio lets out a soft chuckle, biting his lip so hard he almost can’t feel his teeth digging into his own chapped flesh. His pink cheeks are full and for the first time in so long his eyes glimmer with life and adoration.

“I don’t want to be too forward and scare you away,” he says, a little nervous but so much more giddy, “but could I see you again?” You giggle, a beautiful melody that floods his ears and softens his brow.

“Yes, Horacio, I’d really like that,” you agree, and he can’t help but feel like he’s not in a cafe but somewhere in the cosmos as a compliant planet orbiting a bright, burning star. Somewhere far more heavenly and celestial than this godforsaken planet. He watches you glance up at the grandfather clock situated against the wall behind him and then back at him. “I need to get going, but take this.” You pull a pen out of your small bag and scribble a string of digits onto your coffee cup, holding the marked cardboard out to him. He’s slow to take it from your hands; he doesn’t want to keep you here, but at the same time he very much does. He allows himself to brush his fingers against yours again, like they had the night before, so that your potent you-flavored syrup can inject into his bloodstream and fill his capillaries.

As you stand to leave, he can tell you have one last lingering thought itching at your brow. “For the record, you couldn’t scare me away,” you assure with a smile that borders on teasing. “You’re just not scary.” And he watches you walk away, leaving him completely and utterly dumbfounded as to who you had just spoken to because it certainly wasn’t Horacio Carrillo, world class murderer and notoriously inhuman interrogator. Crack.

That next Friday, Horacio sees you again. He shakes as he knocks on your door, roses trembling in his fingers as you swing the door open. He knows the bouquet resting under his chin is pathetic, an overused display of affection, but it makes you gush as you take them from hands and bring them to your own wondrous features and let that stupid cheesy token fill your lungs with its scent.

He takes you to a restaurant like a proper gentleman, not that he gave a single shit where he was as long as it was with you. You put him far too out of his element for him to get creative with his date idea, so instead he pulls every last cliche out of the book and piles it on you. He holds the door open for you and pulls your chair out and orders wine for you because he doesn’t have a clue how to tell you that you turn him into sugar bubbles floating on warm cocoa but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to show you.

So evening after evening he finds himself leaving work just a little earlier each day. He spends less time in poorly lit grocery stores and more time loitering at the open farmer’s market under the real sun, perusing lazily amongst the various produce and trinkets because why not? He starts wearing pink and stripes and maybe a polka-dot shirt because he starts to realize that the world has so much beauty in it and all things beautiful remind him of you. He waits a little longer to shave his face so he can hear that ethereal symphony of giggles play from your throat when he uses his scruff to scratch against your soft shoulder. You start showing up in his life in places that you don’t even exist and filling his odd corners with a pretty white glow.

He lets little things bring him joy; your tongue wetting your lips when you’re deciding where to eat for the night, your neck craning to look up at him from the couch when he walks through your door, the way the stacks of student papers that rest on your kitchen island are always different sizes. Your tongue tapping his skin when you lay a lingering kiss to his face. Your lipgloss sticking to his tricep when you don’t feel like getting up to kiss his lips, leaving a shimmer on his skin that he never wipes away. Your feather fingers sweeping his torso and turning his skin to cotton candy. The fumes of pencil lead and your perfume choking his lungs when he buries his face into your neck and breathes you in. And every fucking time you call him cute, adorable, pretty, beautiful, baby. All of those forbidden words that you dare to use in vain, courageously sacrilegious considering how he worships you, create more little cracks inside of him.

Horacio may not know how to communicate, but he knows you. He knows which compliments make you turn the reddest. He gets you your favorite artists’ CDs imported from America. He shows up at your door with your favorite pastry from your new favorite cafe. He hugs you from behind and peppers kisses down the column of your throat because it makes you giggle. He flutters his fingers where you’re ticklish until you’re so overstimulated that tears form. He cooks meals for you, insisting that all you can do to help is sit on the counter and look pretty for him. He kisses you deeply, so hard and intimate that the two of you are breathing the same air and taste the same. He does everything he can to make you smile for him because in return he gets called a “beautiful boy” and “my sweet soldier” and an “angel,” all words that send him beyond the stars and spin his head like a top until all he can think to do is giggle.

Passed weeks turn into a month, a month becomes two, and before he knows it he’s twice the man he used to be with you filling in half of him. Horacio is still, however, a man adorned with flaws. And with each moment that you occupy, he starts to really collect cracks. The powerful resolve that keeps him from ever admitting that he’s absolutely gone for you becomes compromised because you are powerful. Without even trying, your soft voice is like a wrecking ball to his defenses, breaking him down as you probe into what you call the “pretty parts” of him that he hides. But you don’t have the first clue what he’s hiding.

Horacio is not a man without emotions. He gets angry and frustrated, but those kinds of emotions sit at his surface, above his armed fortress. He can let them all out in his work through stony grimaces and raised voices and guns and fists. But he also feels sorrow, regret, shame. So much shame. These emotions are unsightly black and blue dents in the soft, fragile mush that sits at the very core of him. Under his walls are wounds still wide open and full of splinters, gushing blood and pus, septic and untreated. And they fucking hurt. So he gathers them all together along with his love, his adoration and sweetness, and ices them over, freezes them away and covers them in layer after layer of concrete until he can barely even remember that they’re there.

But he’s starting to feel again.

His fondness for you is explosive and wild, greedy for your affection. But he’s afraid. He knows you adore him, because you are brave. You can speak your feelings into existence and not feel like something inside you has fractured. But Horacio is a coward. He can’t say he loves you, he can’t love you. He knows that if he did, his filthy rotting core would be unleashed and he’d feel an agony worse than anything he’s ever subjected anyone to. But you’re leaving him full of cracks, making him weak and vulnerable in the security of your arms, and he doesn’t think you could hold all of him together if he was truly unleashed. He thinks you might realize how much of a lost cause he is and leave him on the side of the road to bleed out.

The last crack you leave in him is so small, you don’t even notice.

He sits next to you on your couch, your head tucked into his neck as a shitty telenovela radiates through the thick glass of your TV set. Neither of you say anything because you don’t need to be talking to feel comfortable with each other, so you don’t notice how he hasn’t glanced at the TV in 15 minutes. He can’t take his eyes off of you, hermosa, the puny glow of Rodrigo telling Lucia that “it’s not what it looks like” barely doing your face justice. He notices each pore on your face, the curve of your jaw and the bridge of your nose forming sweeping lines that sculpt your face, and he knows he is so utterly fucked. He knows he’s so dangerously in love with you.

He only blinks when you yawn softly, those lines contorting as you scrunch your face. He relaxes a little as you move to sit up, leaning forward to grab the remote from the coffee table and blindly turning the TV off as the preview for the next episode plays. He fills to the brim with amazement as you stretch your back, letting out a gentle squeal. Now it’s just that antique lamp on the edge of your couch illuminating the room, and it’s still not enough light. Nothing is ever bright enough when you’re there to rival it.

“It’s late, baby,” you whisper, a sleepy rasp scraping your voice a little as you look up at him with a rosy smile. You reach up to run a hand through his dark hair, taking care to let your fingers caress his scalp. “You can stay if you want,” you offer, as he’s stayed the night before. “I sleep better with you anyway.” Crack.

“Cariño,” he breathes, his features turning pained as his lip begins to quiver like never before. “Cariño I love you.”

Horacio crumbles in your hands.

Like a mound of brown sugar after it’s poured, the dome losing its form as it slowly collapses, grains dragging over each other as they sink to the bottom of the bowl and the dome is destroyed. No longer held together by tight, sticky molasses and instead a helpless, feeble puddle too broken down to be considered a shape anymore. Just a pathetic sea of lost particles, helpless in putting itself back together. He falls apart right in front of you.

He feels tears that are years old begin to flow down his cheeks, falling off his chin and onto the baby blue cloth of his too-tight shirt. He is completely unprotected, every last defense around that shapeless, dark flesh inside him falling to dust as you hold it in your kind hands. Your arms are quick to wrap around his head, bringing his face to your chest where he is safe. He’s never been more raw and vulnerable in his life, and yet he’s never felt more secure.

He bares his soul to you. He chokes on his words as he gushes his dried, brown blood onto your cotton skin and you soak up every ounce of him. He tells you he is ashamed, that he is remorseful, that he is afraid. And you listen, skin absorbing him in until you’ve got him enveloped in your big, beautiful heart. And whereas every touch used to break him down, your fingertips are now healing him, building him back up and reshaping him into something better than what he was. He can feel his scars begin to heal and the pain begin to dull as an intense awe for you overcomes him.

He knows you can’t just fix him with your fairy dust overnight. He knows he will need time to restore himself from beast to man. But fuck if he doesn’t want to do it with you, can’t do it without you.

You’ve led him towards your bed, undressing him slowly because you know that he just needs to breathe and feel the air cool his irritated skin. Once you’re both down to your underclothes, you’re careful in letting him onto the mattress. You sit down first, leaning back against the pillow, and then you sweetly tug on his arm to join you. He dives into your body head first, face nosing into your neck as his big arms wrap around your midsection. You reach for your softest blanket, enveloping the two of you in the added warm as his breaths begin to even out against your chest. He feels you wrap your arms around his head again, for the second time reminding him that he is safe.

He can feel his emotions getting the best of himself again as you whisper sweet nothings into his hair, telling him how strong and brave he is, how beautiful his soul is now that he’s really showing it to you. His muscles melt into you as you take those fragments of him and begin to piece them back together, filling the cracks you’d made with your marshmallow fluff and liquid gold.

He feels warm again as you call him your “baby,” and this time he doesn’t try to run away from it. He embraces it, leans into it. He was being protected by bones and bricks, but now it’s by honeycomb and delicate flesh. Horacio finally starts to feel like he’s beautiful because you’re letting him borrow yours. And as long as you’ll have him, he’s willing to share.

#horacio carillo x reader #narcos #maurice compte #iris writes #i didn't fuckfigfdsg put the goddamn mf italics in #i feel like i've outgrown my italics phase #god this post isn't even that old what the fuck am I talking about

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carolmaximoffs · 4 years ago

Text

in a crowd of strangers and lovers

summary: of course your ex is working the night you get stood up.

pairing: bartender! ex! bucky x reader

warnings: drinking, cursing, smut, a teeny bit of degradation, bartender! bucky, this is entirely self indulgent, use of a condom for the first time in my writing in i think ever oops

a/n: this has been 3/4 of the way done for so long...finally sat down and cranked out the rest of it. short and sweet and maybe not my best but heres nothin.

You swung your legs idly as you glanced once more at your phone. Only the time glared back at you - no missed calls, no explanation texts, not even a Snapchat or a DM. It was 20 minutes past the time you were supposed to meet the man you’d been talking to for the last couple of months, and you sighed. Obviously, he wasn’t coming. You waved a hand to grab a bartender’s attention before closing your eyes and rubbing at your temples in annoyance. An all too familiar voice disrupted your self-pitying thoughts.

“You look like a tequila girl.” The first words Bucky Barnes had ever said to you. Your eyes snapped open, mouth gaping. Of course...how could you have forgotten? This was the very bar, possibly the very stool you’d met Bucky at. Before you could stammer out a reply, he was making himself comfortable against the bar-top and leaning in conspiratorially. “Hot date?”

“Very,” You sniffed, meeting his gaze in spite of your churning gut. In the glow of a neon sign overhead, his blue eyes burned almost violet. Your heart ached when he beamed, those beautiful stupid eyes crinkling at the corners like they always had.

��Well, sweetheart, you’ve been here for a while now. Show up early?” Bucky propped his chin up with his metal hand; his flesh fingers drummed idly as he waited for your reply. He’d always been able to see right through you; you weren’t backing down so easily this time. You’d actually been late, but Bucky didn’t need to know that. It was bad enough he’d clearly spotted you as soon as you walked in...you weren’t really sure what to do with that information. You lifted your chin, shrugging and looking around as if your evasive date might suddenly show himself.

“I’ll take that tequila now, please,” You replied simply. Bucky’s eyes twinkled with mirth before he turned his back to you.

“Margarita or a straight up shot?” He threw over his shoulder. Your answer was a moment too late - you wouldn’t admit it, but you’d gotten a little absorbed in the way his white tee shirt stretched over the broad expanse of his back. “Y/N.”

“Huh? Oh...surprise me.” You fought the urge to bury your face in your hands again as he smiled and turned back around. You chanced looking at your phone as inconspicuously as possible. Still nothing. Moments later, thick fingers slid a tall glass towards you, rim salted, accompanied with two neat slices of lime.

“M’lady,” Bucky drawled, dipping his head dramatically. He looked up at you beneath his lashes, cheeks straining to contain his grin. Your own face burned and your heart pounded as you mumbled your thanks. You took more of a long gulp than a sip. Just your luck, it caught in the back of your throat, and you spluttered a bit. Bucky looked like he’d won the lottery.

“Careful, sugar,” He crooned, passing you a napkin. Idly, you wondered if, next, you'd fall off the stool. “You know I love to see you choke, but only-”

“Barnes!”

Natasha was standing near the door to the back, arms crossed and brow arched dangerously. Your old friend offered you a tight smile before returning to glaring at her employee. Bucky winked before he sidled off, Nat’s eyes narrowing. You wished the floor would swallow you up right then.

It didn’t, and you were swirling the dregs of your margarita by the time Bucky got back. For whatever reason, you couldn’t compel yourself to leave. Not just yet. You were rewarded, however, when he realized you’d hung around; Barnes’ eyes lit up. He bit back another smile, resuming his nonchalant stance against the bar.

“What was that all about?” You blurted, before Bucky could say anything about the near-empty glass in front of you. His smirk didn’t waver.

“Just Nat lookin’ out for you, s’all. She got off a few minutes ago, wanted to make sure I didn’t give you too much trouble.” His simper stretched into a blinding flash of teeth. “I’m not givin’ you trouble, am I, babydoll?”

You shake your head dutifully, and you think Bucky’s face might split if he grins any wider. His smile drops into something a little more seductive as he tilts impossibly closer. “Looks like your boy toy’s a no show...Sam can cover if you need a little cheering up.”

Body and brain exploded into disagreement; lust bubbled like lava in the pit of your stomach at his request, but you knew better. You had to know better by now - you were the one who’d gotten too involved in the first place. You floundered, managing to blubber a painful combination of "we shouldn’t” or “I don't think that's the best idea”. Bucky’s face fell, only just, but he was quick to hide it as he untied a thick, worn flannel from his waist.

“Wilson - headed for a smoke!” He shouted across the bar to where Sam was seemingly tangled up trying to serve a very amorous bachelorette party. His eyes were steely as he looked at you as if trying to pick you apart. “Think on it, yeah? No big deal, sugar. Back in five.”

You nodded, tracing your finger through the circle of condensation from your drink. You snuck a glance at his retreating form, however, and already wanted to kick yourself. His ass in those jeans...he’d bulked up, clearly, even in the short time since you’d stop seeing each other. And there was no way in hell he thought you wouldn’t notice. The angel on your shoulder was practically throwing a tantrum as you quickly shot a text to your closest confidante.

call me in the am. about to do a bad thing

Wanda texted back almost instantly, but Bucky reentered the bar simultaneously. You clicked off your incessantly active cell phone and put on an expression you hoped wasn’t as much of a grimace as you thought. Bucky raised a single, knowing brow.

“What’s that face for?” He murmured innocuously. You lift a single shoulder in response, working extra to keep your face neutral.

“Changed your mind?” You shrugged again, and when he was sure nobody was looking, he jerked his head towards the back of the bar. “C’mon then, pretty baby.”

“This is stupid,” You mumbled under your breath. You don’t realize how close he is behind you, jumping a little as the door swings shut behind you.

“What’s stupid is waiting an hour for some douche when you’ve got me standing right in front of you,” Bucky whispered hotly, already spinning the two of you so your back hit the wall by the doorframe. A case of the imported vodka Nat loved dug into your calves.

“We split up, Bucky,” You moaned as he licked at the shell of your ear. Honestly, you were half expecting something like “i didn’t know we were together”. Instead, he pulled back for a second to give you sad eyes and a slight twist of the corner of his mouth. Regret?

Before you could truly ponder it, he was ducking back towards you, lips pressing into yours with a fire fueled by all things left unsaid. He kissed his way down your neck, and you heard his voice from months ago: ‘it’s just sex, sweetheart. just enjoy it’. You were drawn back to the present as he tugged at your lip with sharp teeth, and you recalled his gruff morning voice - ‘I better get going’. Memory pierced your hazy brain even as he slid a hand down to cup your sex. You arched into him, and he looked positively feral even in his delight. You pushed the past away as hard as you could and let yourself melt into his touch.

As your head lilted backward to likely smack the wall, Bucky tangled a hand into your hair. He tipped your face back up to kiss it incessantly - several to your cheeks, a peck on your nose, a handful of smooches dotted to your forehead. When he finally reached your mouth again you were laughing, breathy and floaty, and he laughed too. He chuckled softly with you even as he slips his hands into your jeans, past the waistband of your cute-but-not-presumptuous panties. He was still chuckling a little, but it was more smug than amused when his fingers parted your folds and you inhaled sharply.

“Yeah,” He murmured, so low you almost missed it. “There you go, that’s my girl.”

You pretended the burst of heat through your gut is from his palm bumping against your clit. You were halfway through a moan when he withdrew his hand, instead placing both dark metal and pale skin on steadfastly on your hips. Swiftly, he placed you on top of those nagging crates you’d been pressed against - despite the marks on your thighs you’d nearly forgotten about them.

“Bucky, what-” You tried, but he cut you off with a swift press of lips to yours, tongue sliding into your mouth with practiced ease. If you sighed into the kiss, well, you’d call it heat of the moment. The familiar crinkling of foil set your anticipation and adrenaline spiking impossibly higher. Bucky pulled away to line himself up as you caught your breath, which suddenly seemed impossible. He rubbed a comforting thumb over your hip, leaning in again to nip playfully at your jaw.

“You ready, angel?” He murmured; all it took was your assenting nod before he slid home, your body greedily accepting him as if the two of you had never stopped. “Fuuuck...missed you. Missed this.”

Normally, such a suggestion would’ve irritated you - but you couldn’t deny the feelings you had had for him once upon a time, despite the casual nature of your relationship. You knew it was mutual; you knew exactly what he missed. It wasn’t just about the sex - even in the dingy storeroom of the bar, Bucky thrusting as deep as possible with one hand stabilizing the crates and the other on the small of your back, panting into each other’s mouths, it was about the connection. Being this close with another person, especially someone you dared to say you’d been good friends with, had much in common with - the interconnection of body and soul was something else. Or maybe that was your orgasm talking.

It snuck up on you. Your toes curled in your shoes, lip drew between your teeth. “Please.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” Bucky rasped, face buried in your shoulder. The hand on your back snaked between the two of you to rub furiously at your clit - you threw your arms around his neck for balance as your mouth dropped open in a silent scream. “Go ahead, let go. Come for me, let me make you feel good, angel.”

That did it. Your hands found purchase in his hair as your back arched; in your desperation to be quiet, you bit your lip so hard the taste of iron crept into your mouth. Bucky never slowed, chasing his own high as well as basking with you in yours. He kissed you, a little sudden, groaning deeply into your mouth as he came.

For a moment, the pair of you were silent, the only sound your heavy breaths and the rustling of clothing. Composing yourself, you made for the door - a hand on your wrist stopped you.

“This was a fluke, I know-” You started. The desperate look in Bucky’s eyes cut you off.

“I don’t...let me try again.” He mumbled, words jumbling together with nerves. He cleared his throat - you’d never seen Bucky Barnes nervous, of all things, and humility wasn’t a bad look for him. “You deserved - deserve better, sweetheart. I want to try again. I want to...I want to do it right.”

“Buck...” Your face softened, but he tensed, fearing rejection. You brought a hand up to cup his cheek softly. “I’d love to try again.”

That nagging voice in the back of your mind was on a roll - you’ll just get hurt again, it warned. He’s not good for you.

But when Bucky’s entire face lit up and he kissed you enthusiastically, making you laugh in equal parts shock and joy, that little voice was silent.

#i don’t like this but i need to get back into writing!#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes smut #bartender!bucky #bucky barnes au #carolmaximoffs

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drunk-onsunlight · 4 years ago

Text

The Jones family

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Category: F/M Fandom: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies) Relationship: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker

Summary:

HAPPY @mjweek EVERYONE!!! Meet the Jones family and MJ's backstory. See you tomorrow :D

Read on Ao3

MJ arrived home on a rush. She ran to her bedroom and hid her bag under her desk, then moved to organize the books she had all over the bedroom to a pile on the corner of the room. While stacking the books she noticed they could fall down if she placed more books on the same pile. How she managed to have so many books scattered around the floor?

Three piles of books later she moved to her desk where a bunch of sketches where, next to her notes from school and even more notes for the decathlon team. Her white dressing table could wait to be cleaned up.

She opened the white door that lead to her dressing room and a bathroom to collect the t-shirts that were on the floor. She kicked some converse to the cabinet at the bottom of her closet. She opened the doors where all her dresses were and tried to pick one.

“Shelly, are you cleaning your room?” MJ’s older sister was standing on the dressing room door watching MJ.

“Becca can you help me pick a dress? I’m not sure about the yellow one or the blue one.” MJ took the dresses out of the hanger and showed them to her sister.

“Ew. None of those! The yellow one has an awful neckline and the blue one has awful patterns. Let me see that closet.”

“Ouch. I like those dresses, Becca.” MJ’s sister crossed the dressing room and looked to all the dresses MJ had.

“Where is the black and red dress I gave you, M? You wore it, like, once at Christmas and then totally forgot about it.” MJ remembered that dress. It was totally beautiful, at first she thought it was not her style but once she tried on she loved it. But she didn’t know where it was.

“It has to be there. What are you wearing tonight, by the way?” Becca just shrugged and kept looking around MJ’s closet. Contrary to what people think, MJ loved wearing dresses, but they weren’t as comfortable as you would like to certain activities. Like going for a swing with your superhero boyfriend.

“Found it!” Becca shouted bringing MJ back from her internal ramble. MJ’s sister took the dress from the hanger and took it in her arms like it was a treasure. MJ followed her sister to the foot of her bed and watched while Becca placed the black and red dress above the bedspread.

“Thanks Becca! I really like that dress” Becca gave her a side hug and left telling her to check on the dinner before they set the table. After Becca left, MJ kept looking at her dress. How could she forget about it? It was truly beautiful. It wasn’t too long, it touched her knees. The dress was black with little red dots and a few red flowers. It has a cute V-neck and it was sleeveless. Nothing too crazy for her. And she couldn’t help thinking that the colors where very appropriate for the occasion.

MJ went down the stairs to the first floor and crossed the small dining room that lead to the kitchen. Her house wasn’t big per se. But she lived in the suburbs and that gave her the possibility to have a bigger house than most people. Her dad worked hard to buy that house and Becca and she tried to keep everything under control, like paying bills or buying food.

She missed her dad. Being the CEO of a company was amazing, it paid the house, Becca’s college and MJ’s school but the prize was high. He wasn’t home most of the time, but he tried to be there for them on important days, like today.

Francis was on the kitchen when MJ entered the room. She had worked for them since forever. She was like a mom to MJ and Becca.

“Hey Fran! What are you cooking today?” MJ’s family wasn’t a very intimate family. They all loved each other but they didn’t hug or kiss, goodbye or hello, often.

“Hey Shelly. Your favorite, Mac and Cheese with smashed potatoes and some veggies. How was school?”

“Sounds good! Remember to put an extra plate today Fran and school was normal. Nothing extraordinary” MJ grabbed an apple from the kitchen island and gave it a bite.

“I remember your dad is gonna be here tonight, don’t worry! What about decathlon? All good?”

“Yeap, but some else is coming too. All good with decathlon, preparing for nationals.” Let’s say she told everyone she wanted to introduce someone, she just left out a little detail. She was introducing her boyfriend, her superhero boyfriend.

“No details like always.” Francis knew when not to push MJ and she deeply appreciated that.

“You know me. Fran I’m going to get ready. Dad is going to be here soon and I need to take a shower.”

“Okay Shelly, see you later.” MJ walked out of the kitchen to her bedroom. After a short shower she applied her usual product for her hair and let it dry on her own. She wasn’t trying to impress Peter, he already knew her.

“Shelly! Becca! I’m home!” MJ heard her dad calling them from the first floor and she went down stair to say hi.

“Hey dad! How are you?” MJ greeted his dad with a peck on his cheek. The tall man played with MJ’s hair and looked at her dress.

“You haven’t used that dress in a long time! You look beautiful, Shelly. I’m perfect now that I’m with my girls. Where is Becca?”

“Here! Hey, dad!” Becca came down the stairs using a pink and white summer dress and heels. A white cotton fabric molded her figure and embroidered tulle with pink flowers.

“Becca, isn’t that like a little too much?” MJ told Peter is was quite formal but not like etiquette formal kind of dinner.

“Oh Shelly! But you were cleaning your room! This is huge dad, you should have seen her. She even organized her books.” Becca said while kissing her dad’s cheek.

“You organized your books? This is huge, then.” MJ’s dad looked at her with amusement in his eyes. MJ recognized she uses to have more books in her room than the bookshelves on the office but she liked to have them close to her, just in case. The bell rang and MJ felt her heart skip a beat.

“I’ll get it!” MJ walked to the door and cleaned her hands on her dress before opening the door “Hey Parker.”

“Hey, MJ. You look beautiful, I like your converse” Peter was wearing a black suit without a tie. The look made her remember of that night in Prague when he invited her for a walk. He looked good.

“Thanks. Come in” MJ moved aside to let Peter walk into the house. When she turned around her sister and dad were looking at her like she had grown a third head while opening the door.

“Amm. Peter this is my dad, Nick and my sister Rebeca.”

“Nice to meet you, Sir. I’m Peter Parker.” Peter and MJ’s dad shake hands while MJ tried not to show how nervous she actually was.

“Nice to meet you Peter.” MJ’s dad greeted Peter formally and then Peter moved to shake Becca’s hand.

“Nice to meet you Rebecca.” MJ was mostly afraid of this particular interaction. Her sister knew a lot of things about how MJ felt about Peter

“I’m finally meeting you in person! Shelly, your sketches don’t make this guy justice. Now I totally get it, girl.” MJ took a deep breath and ignored the comment. Becca started asking about Peter when MJ started to draw him. A few sketches scattered around her bedroom floor and Becca was visiting, she found them and started asking a million questions about him.

“Shelly?” Peter turned to look at her with a teasing face. MJ was praying he didn’t notice the old nickname her family used for her but of course it was a fail.

“Don’t mention it. Ever.” Peter was going to say something more when Francis came out of the kitchen and called their attention.

“Hey Nick! Welcome back! And who is this guy, Shelly? Your special guest?” Francis moved closer to the group to greet MJ’s dad and then shook Peter’s hand.

“Peter, this is Francis. She works for us. Francis, this is Peter, from high school and the decathlon team.”

“Oh! The decathlon team! You were with Shelly for nationals in Washington? Congratulations for winning.”

“Well…” Peter started but MJ knew how bad at lying he was.

“He got sick but he was with us at the hotel, yeah.” It wasn’t a lie, well, kind of. It was what he told everyone.

“Yeah… my tummy.” After a few awkward seconds Francis announced that dinner was ready. They all moved to the dining room and the plates were already waiting for them.

“Francis, why don’t you sit with us before going to your home?” MJ’s dad offered and Fran accepted by placing a new plate next to Becca. They all started eating in silence but MJ knew better. It wouldn’t last long.

“How was your trip dad?” Becca broke the silence and MJ thanked her with her eyes.

“Pretty good, but Atlanta is too hot this time of the year.”

“Where are you going next?” MJ and Becca had stopped asking if he was staying for more than a few days. The answer was always the same and they all knew that, he couldn’t stay.

“Paris. We need to close some business there. Oh Shelly, it’s a shame you didn’t get to Paris on your trip, but London was quite nice too, right?” all the heads turned to MJ and she shrugged. She wasn’t going to tell everyone she was hiding from killer drones so she couldn’t enjoy London that much.

“As talkative as always. What do you think of London, Peter?” Becca asked him and MJ turned to see what he had to say.

“Cold. A little windy too but the Tower Bridge was the best part of the trip.” Peter looked at her with a goofy smile and MJ couldn’t help but smile with him. He was right, the Tower Bridge was the best part of London.

“Aww, Shelly! I haven’t notice that necklace! I love it, but wait… is it broken?” MJ haven’t noticed when her hand went to the black dahlia.

“Yeah. Peter gave it to me in the Tower Bridge but before it got to me it went on a full ride on its own. I love it just the way it is.” MJ deep down knew she would never hear the end of this from her sister, but she didn’t care either.

“What a lovely present, Peter. Where did you get it? I haven’t seen something like that here in the States.” MJ’s dad asked and Peter and MJ answered him at the same time.

“Venice.” everyone on the table laughed when they answered so in sync.

“Looks expensive too.” it was the first time Francis interacted while they were eating.

“Maybe some of my Star Wars figurines did a noble sacrifice.” Peter answered shyly.

“You what?” MJ didn’t know how Peter got the necklace but his beloved Star Wars figurines? Wow. Peter didn’t look at her but she could see his blushing cheeks “I can’t believe you did that. Please don’t tell me you also sold that Lego Death Star because Ned will hate me his whole life.”

“No! That’s Ned’s. I sold my things but I would never sell his things. And he would never hate you.”

“Ned is another friend, Shelly?” MJ’s dad was looking at them with curious eyes.

“He is Peter’s best friend. We have a few classes together and he’s on the decathlon team too.” MJ would like to say “yes, he is my friend” but she didn’t feel they were too close. Were they actually friends? Maybe not yet, but soon.

“He is you friend too, Em. Just like Betty, Cindy and even Flash.” Maybe Peter was right. They were her friends, even Flash. After the Europe trip she even understood Flash more. MJ smiled softly at Peter and they kept eating peacefully.

“Francis did MJ’s favorite meal today, Peter. She loves Mac and Cheese since she was little. She used to say she wanted a pool full of Mac and Cheese to swim in it.” MJ could hear Peter’s giggle and she was going to kill her sister.

“Don’t.” MJ threated Peter and he tried to hide his giggle while eating more veggies.

“I wasn’t going to.” MJ and Peter shared a side look and giggled a little before they kept eating.

“So… Michelle, Peter.” oh oh, MJ’s dad called her by her full name when she was in trouble or they needed to talk about serious business “how long have you been dating?” Peter got stuck with a bite of his food and he looked at MJ with worried eyes.

“London.” they answered at the same time and looked at MJ’s dad.

“Shelly! Why I didn’t know that! It’s been like six months since that trip! I’m offended now.” Becca called MJ’s attention and she could see that she was annoyed with her. They shared everything…. Well, Becca shared everything.

“You were gone those six months Becca. It’s not like you are here all the time to have a girl’s night and speak about boys or whatever.” MJ was trying to not spill truths like that but she couldn’t right now.

“Shelly has a point, Becca. We are never here and look, she told us to be here to introduce her boyfriend properly to everyone. Well done Shelly.” MJ’s dad hated leaving her alone all the time and she actually loved how he tried to be on her shoes before judging her.

“Thanks dad. Sorry Becca.” Peter was a little taken back for the exchange but didn’t say anything else.

“Don’t worry. All good, baby. It’s good to see you so sappy.” they all shared a laugh and Peter took her hand under the table.

After they finished dinner, MJ’s dad, Becca, Fran, Peter and MJ moved to the couch on the living room to chat more about how Peter and MJ meet, the details of their trip in Europe and some random things about MJ’s family and then Becca started to tell all sort of stories about their childhood. After a while MJ decided to take Peter on a small tour on the house and they left the room walking next to each other.

“The house is not as big as you probably think. Its three bedrooms, four bathrooms, an office, the living room and the kitchen. The main room it’s mine because I spend the most time here, dad and Becca have the other two rooms and Francis comes to help one day per week or special occasions.” She told Peter while walking up the stairs and then through the hall.

“Wow. You already know my apartment, two bedrooms, one bath, the living room and the kitchen May loves to burn. Seriously Em, this house is amazing.” MJ giggled a little while opening the first door that had the office.

“Yeah, but you have May and Ned around all the time. I’m alone here most of the time.” In the six months they have been dating, she learned to be more open with Peter. She could trust him, he wasn’t like most guys that just wanted a good time with her on her huge house.

“You are welcome any time you want. For homework, movies, dinner, just to chill. You don’t have to be alone in this house if you don’t want to MJ. May, Ned and I are your family now too.” They entered the room and she turned the light to show Peter some books.

“Thanks Pete. Well, this is the office. Most of my books are here, along with Becca’s and my dad’s books.” Peter scanned the bookshelves and after a while MJ could feel he wanted to ask something “What is it, Peter?”

“I noticed a few photos on the living room of you, you dad, Becca and… you don’t have to tell me anything, I don’t want to intrude.” MJ knew what he was talking about. The family photo on the living with her mom in it.

“Ammm. It’s fine. She was my mom, Claire. She passed away a few years ago, cancer. When she was here Becca was still in high school, my dad was traveling but tried to be here more often. After she died Becca had to go to college, my dad kept traveling and well, here I am.” MJ walked out of the room with Peter and she showed him Becca’s room while speaking to Peter.

“Again, you have me, Ned and May! Even Happy, he was quite impressed after London.” MJ remembered Happy, he was a nice guy.

“Thanks. This is Becca’s room. She comes here every once in a while. When college allows her. The next room is my dad’s.” They crossed the hall and MJ opened the next door “Here it is. He just arrived so his bag it’s there probably to unpack some stuff and then pack some more for his next trip.”

“That’s why I never saw anyone come get you after Washington and London. They were travelling.” It wasn’t a question, he was right. They checked on her but couldn’t be there. She was very grateful they checked on her at least, Flash was another story and she couldn’t imagine how he must feel.

“Yeah. They check on me when they can or I just send them a few texts to let them know I’m alive and good. For important things they do video calls or come over.” They closed the door and MJ lead Peter to the next room, her room.

“This is my room.” MJ opened the door and exhale a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“This is huge!” Peter entered the room and immediately walked to her desk. Thank all the gods she saved the sketches that were there.

“Yeah. I love it. I have my bed, the desk, my books, a cool dressing room and my own bathroom.” she opened the door that lead to the dressing room and she could see Peter’s eyes shine like she had just shown him the door to Narnia.

“I always thought this was for movies. How many pairs of converse do you have by the way?”

“Lots of them. I don’t like wearing heels so for me converse and boots” Peter took his time checking her closet, it was quite an intimate moment and they weren’t even close to each other.

“Is this my sweater?” Peter took a sweater MJ had taken after a movie night at Peter’s from one of the drawers of her closet.

“Maybe. But I’m not giving it back, I sleep in that one.”

“You can be really sappy some times and let me tell you something, I love it.” Peter made MJ laugh and he crossed the room faster than a normal person would to kiss her on the lips. “You can keep it, by the way. It probably looks better on you than me.”

“Right. Whatever you say Spider-Man.” MJ remembered the first time she actually saw Peter. Not the boy with flannels and sweaters, the superhero underneath all that. There was no way in this planet a normal skinny kid would have those abs and those biceps and there was no way in the universe she actually looked better than him on that sweater.

“I really like your family MJ. They love you a lot. I always worried about your relationship with your family. You were so closed about them I was really worried but now I know how much they love you. Thanks for sharing this with me.” MJ gave Peter a soft kiss before speaking.

“I’m a box full of secrets, Parker.”

#michelle jones mcu #peter parker mcu #michelle jones #peter parker #mj week 2021

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dragonrajafanfiction · 4 years ago

Note

cus i decided not to be a predictable hoe anymore, im ganna say Chime, to be a slightly less predictable hoe🤩

A Mountain Village, Somewhere in Japan

The village was nestled deep in the folds of the rolling forested hills. It was guarded by a magnificent century old Torii gate. A white stone path led to neat rows of simple rustic housing. It looked more like a tourist museum piece with little updates to the architecture. People would often visit to pray at the shrine there, for a touch of the past. However, it was home to residents, a small orphanage and a high school. There was even a basketball team and a Kendo league.

Those extra curricular activities had little to do with you however. You woke up before the sun to sweep the walks where the monks would line up to pray in their robes. You were never given more than a simple plain blue yukata with a white obi. You had sandals but only wore them running through the back trails deep in the woods to search for snails, frogs and mushrooms.

Your other pieces of clothing were your school uniform. Most girls got leered at due to some men’s disgusting fetish. But there must have been something about your lanky legs with knobby knees dotted with thick scabs from where you’d fallen on the sharp karst along the streams that turned them away. You reminded them too much of the fact that you were a young child, wild and free.

Not that it mattered. You always ran to school. You never walked. So you couldn’t see their lecherous faces anyway. Your chores gave you little time to get dressed, scarf down a bowl of rice and sprint. So you always ended up late, at the back of the class, panting with your dark hair stuck to your forehead.

At some point the teacher stopped caring. You were a nobody and nobody expected anything of you. So long as the paths were swept and you appeared as required by law, people took no responsibility for anything you did. As soon as the teacher confirmed that she would have to take no action and turned to the blackboard to drone, your eyes shifted to the young man in the corner of the room.

The morning light caught his features. His skin was white and delicate. The sun struck him and he seemed to shine like a lotus. His hair was piled up on his head and tied. He seemed to be serious and studious, but there was a gloomy look to his eyes.

You take a piece of paper, write a brief note, fold it up into a neat triangle and balance it on one corner. Then you take aim.

With a flick, the piece of paper soars in a perfect arc towards his ear. As fast as lightning, that delicate hand snatches it from the air. Without looking, he puts it under the desk.

You frown. He didn’t look at it. You write another note, glance at the teacher, wait another moment and start folding it. Just before you can take aim, your head jerks back, pulled by your hair. You turn and look and the girls behind you all sit up straight and look forward.

“Kiko! Pay attention to the board! If I catch you chatting again, you’ll get paddled!” The teacher's sharp voice made you sit up and nod obediently. You stare straight ahead. Your heartbeats become painful and the light in your eyes dull. They pull your hair again, but this time you don’t react.

Did Chime see? You glance over. He’s looking at you. His eyes are worried. You stick your tongue out at him.

“Kiko!”

The teacher stomped right up to you, grabbed you by your ear and dragged you out of class. It didn’t matter if you were old enough to drive. You were Kiko and that meant you were expendable. You don’t even bother resisting when she grabbed you by the hair as the other children had done and brought the flat wooden bar against your backside three times in quick succession.

“That’s all this time. I don’t have time to deal with you. Classes are abbreviated for the Kendo finals.”

“Why do you even bother to go? You know Chisei’s going to win. Just give him the trophy at the beginning of the year and have the others compete among themselves.” You mutter in your heart.

She gives you a shove and ushers you back into class. As soon as she’s got her back turned, you turn back to Chime to stick your tongue out again, but his face is stiff and taut. He doesn’t look at you, instead, stays focused on the blackboard, still as a stone.

The Kendo building was fairly well maintained and had regular repairs, but still couldn’t fit the capacity of every teenage girl in the village. They all piled in, still in their uniforms, hoping to get a glance, and - if they were really lucky - a smile. They all enjoyed watching him practice, shirtless, shining with sweat, like some god-child brought to life.

But the only bigger fan than them was Chime who got there early and somehow managed to find a seat in the front row to watch his brother while you stood hopping at the entryway to see if you could even get a glimpse of him.

The Kendo instructor waved his rag and dropped it. People squeezed in in a crush to see. With your view cut off, you decide to grab the tallest man’s shirt and climb up on his shoulders. The man snarled at first, but you lean forward and press your breasts against his back to keep him quiet. You try to ignore his fingers on your thighs and focus on the performance.

Even you had to admit that there was no stronger performer than Chisei. Those rock hard muscles were perfect, like someone had carved him out of the mountains they were standing on. Yet his motions were fluid and fast like the river. He could stand and murder people right on stage and yet the people here would have no choice but to applaud his form and the arc of his flashing blade. But there were no victims here. Just a row of bamboo stalks from the forest that you had collected for this very occasion.

The judge stepped forward and bowed. Even Chisei’s bow was perfect, the loosened strands of hair falling like a curtain in front of his eyes. The girls in front of you sighed in unison and you rolled your eyes. You looked at Chime and you’re shocked to see him enraptured. A huge grin from ear-to-ear his eyes full of unshed tears.

You sigh against the man’s back and feel him shiver. But as far as you were concerned this ride was over. You slide off his back and run away.

Behind the shrine was a well kept cemetery. You often walked here, looking at the names on the stones, wondering if one day, you’d find the names of your parents who left you here. People called you Kiko, but no one knew your real name.

You weren’t the only one who haunted these tall monuments to the dead. Chime came here too. While his brother’s performances drove him to rapture for a moment, that moment would fade as soon as he looked in a mirror. He didn’t even need a mirror. His own thoughts drove him to sadness when thinking about himself.

You first saw it when some girls were passing by and giggling about how they’d stolen one of Chisei’s shoes and he’d found them out. They would do anything for his attention. They wailed about his elegant frowning brow. Chime had looked up at them from where he sat. You saw his chest draw in, his eyes fall. He seemed smaller than before, like a darkness had fallen over him.

No one talked about Chime. No one noticed him. He was invisible most of the time.

But that made him just like you.

The old cherry trees lining the edges of the cemetery were older than the village. Their jagged bark pattern made a perfect foothold and you had no trouble making your way up the tree to wait. Sure enough, Chime came, walking, head down. He was no longer in his school clothes, but in the purple yukata he’d started wearing since Christmas. You watch him approach your branch and prepare to jump down in front of him.

But he stops. “Not now, Kiko.”

“How did you know I was here?” Rather than drop down, you swing upside down by your knees facing him, your hair hanging. “You know they say, turn that frown upside down but even upside down, you’re still frowning.”

“I don’t feel like it.” He steps around you and continues on.

You let out a breath but then steel yourself in determination. You unfold your knees and crash to the ground.

You hear him gasp and hear his feet hurry near you. He turns you over but your eyes are closed. You stay limp and unmoving even as you hear his panicked breathing and his voice shaking.

“Kiko! Kiko!”

You open your eyes and look at him with a false dazed look. Again, that stricken, pained expression on his face, like he could fall to tears at any time. It was so sad, but so beautiful. “Chime… Chime is that you? Did I die?”

Instantly, that beautiful delicate expression changes to one of flat anger. “No. Why are you always playing? You’re not even a girl!”

“And you’re not even a boy!” You immediately respond.

Chime draws in a breath, like an arrow had shot through him. Instantly you regret it as he lets you go. “I have to go.” He said. “Brother’s leaving today… I need to see him off.”

“Leaving? Chisei’s leaving?” You suddenly sit up, realizing you may have gone too far, but he’s already walking off in the other direction. “Are you leaving too? Chime!”

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t look back.

A motorcade of dozens of black cars have blocked the entrance to the village. When you arrive, you’re just in time to see Chisei climbing inside a gigantic SUV. Watching over him were men in black trench coats, flashing the Ukiyo-E pattern in the inner lining.

Yakuza!

You stop and duck behind a pole. Not that Yakuza would care about you, a nobody… but at the same time, a nobody like you would easily be crushed like an ant with no savior. Chime was nowhere to be found.

The next day, it was raining so there was no need to sweep the paths. You get to school early to wait for Chime, but he’s not there nor was he there the day after that. After school, you hurry to look for him, passing mourning girls who missed Chisei’s shining presence in their lives. No one cared that Chime was missing.

After searching all day, you decide to wait for him at the cemetery. It didn’t matter that you didn’t go home to eat. There was no one waiting for you anyway. You rested against the cherry tree to wait, with your knee against your chest. Never in a million years did you ever think that Chime would disappear from your life. Now your heart thudded in your chest to think of his chair empty at school. What would you do? Where would you bring your focus?

Tears burned at your eyes but you resisted crying. It was no use. You just had to wait. Eventually Chime would come… eventually.

Eventually, you fell asleep with your cheek against your knees because you woke up to a strange sound. It was an owl, right above your head. Then footsteps.

Walking up the path was someone you thought could have been a ghost, they were so pale, and thin. But it wasn’t a ghost, it was Chime. Still, he seemed a husk of his former self, head down, shuffling his feet. You couldn’t see his face because his hair was out of its tie and shielded it from you.

You heard about how in the city, people could become so sad that they took their own lives. Was Chime mourning his brother? Was his brother sold off to the Yakuza to relieve some sort of blood debt?

Was Chisei dead?

Chime didn’t stop at the tree, so he didn’t notice you. He kept going until the path disappeared into the forest surrounding the village. Your heart leaped into your throat. Chime was going to hang himself? No!

You scramble to your feet and you run after him, but you’re not wearing your sandals. A sharp thorn pierces the sole of your feet and you hop on one foot, hissing. Leaning against a tree you pluck it out and in that moment, you hear voices. It sounded like a man, talking. You move more cautiously now, up the mountain path. There in a clearing, next to a stream Chime and a man in a Kabuki mask sat on pillows. He was pouring him some sort of drink and passing it to him.

You gasp a bit. Who was this person? Was it actually a person? There were many tales of yokai monsters in these woods. But no, this didn’t look like a yokai. Your eyes grow hotter as you see Chime gulp down the drink. Even from this distance, you could smell the alcohol.

As a ‘nobody’ you got to understand a lot of things early. One of the things you understood was men could not be trusted. They were disgusting perverts who preyed on the young. This man was trying to entrap Chime, and you would have none of it. You lean over and pick up a rock and toss it. It knocks against a tree.

The man sits up, looking guarded. His hand moved to his waist. “Stay here.”

As the man moved away, Chime stayed frozen. You hiss at him. “Chime! Chime!”

But he stayed still as a stone, eyes wide, like a deer.

You try again. “Chime! Run! Ru-”

A hand is grasping your mouth, squeezing it. You feel like your skin will tear, that your jaw will break. You kick, hard, for the shins, but the man doesn’t react. You see the flash of a silver blade.

“No!” Chime was there, grabbing the man’s arm. “No! She’s from school! Leave her! It’s okay!”

The man turns to him, faceless behind the mask, you can imagine that his next move will be the gut Chime where he stood. The blade flickered in the moonlight, but made no aggressive movements. He was turning it, over and over in his hand.

“What’s her name?” Even his voice was an echoey noise behind the mask, like a demon’s.

“Kiko…” Chime said meekly.

“Kiko… the street sweeper girl?”

The fact that he even knew that sent terror through your heart. He was looking at you with that unblinking white mask. You can only stare back into it.

His grip on you slowly loosens but you don’t dare run away. “Kiko... “ He says. “My mistake.”

“Who are you?” You ask with a trembling voice. Chime comes and puts his hands on your shoulders to comfort you. You turn to him. “Why aren’t you scared? Why didn’t you run?”

“He was just telling me that Chisei’s gone to become Clan Chief. I’m… going to be kept in reserve… in case he dies. As a replacement.”

“Clan chief?” You whisper. Then you smile. “Of course. Of course he’s a prince.”

The creepy man watched this exchange without movement, but you give the feeling that he could kill you any second and just hasn’t yet. Like he’s trying to see if you will make a mistake, or he will get bored of you and kill you out of reflex. Like a coiled snake, he would strike and you would be dead. You keep your eye on the turning blade. “Are you going to kill me?”

The blade stopped turning and he looked at it. Then he returned it to the hidden sheath in his wide sleeves. “Do you believe in spirits?” He asked.

“Are you… a yokai?” You ask him.

He started to chuckle, his shoulders bouncing. He doesn’t answer. You imagine that at any moment his mouth would open with hundreds of jagged teeth and swallow you both alive.

“Come, come… Why don’t you join us for a drink?”

For the first time, Chime seems to look at the man with fear. “Osho… maybe… I think she’s too young.”

“So are you…”

You feel your chest tighten. So this really is one of those evil men. But if Chime’s innocence could be preserved then… “It’s okay Chime… let me go with him.”

“Brave girl…” The man snarled low in his throat approvingly, staring at you. “What are you planning in your heart? Are you armed with a dagger like I am?”

The answer was no, but he didn’t know that. Lift your chin and glare and try to stop shaking.

“Yes…” He tilted his head this way and then that and then nodded, deciding. “Yes, you… come and have a drink.”

Your legs are like heavy lead weights as you follow him. Your ears are throbbing. Your face is red. He helps you over the stream to sit on the pillow. Chime follows at a distance. His eyes are on you but he doesn’t say anything.

Osho takes the small bottle as before and pours it into the small saucer and hands it to you. It was green, made of pure jade, like glass. You can see your reflection in the pool of red liquid. You raise it to your lips and tilt it.

“Wait!” Chime dashes forward, but Osho catches him with his arm.

“You need to see…” Osho hisses, his eyes glittering behind the mask. “You need to see how very special you really are.”

You swallow but the liquid burns all the way down and bites into your stomach so hard you double over. It was as if someone had torn a hole deep in your gut. That intense pain started to flow outward into your limbs and pool in your chest. When you opened your eyes it was like the forest was on fire and its heat was too bright to see.

You hear someone screaming. Even in this hellish vision, you can see Chime, his face is hazy and distorted, having fallen to his knees, his eyes dull with sadness.

You reach for him, but your hands are covered in rigid white scales. You try to speak but what comes out sounds more like a baby’s hungry whimper. Your hair has grown long over your face.

“This is what happens when those not worthy of it drink what you do. They become worthless monsters. You however… you are something far more important.” The knife has reappeared in his hand and this time Osho approaches with deadly intent.

He grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls your head back, revealing your neck. “Thank you, Kiko…”

You wait. You wait for the cut of the blade, the splash of your blood. You wait for life to fade from your eyes. But that doesn’t happen. The pain is starting to subside, the firelight in your eyes dies down. You stop screaming.

Osho is staring, frozen. “Impossible.” He whispered. “You… Only one in 100,000 could...”

He lets you go and rolls you over with his foot. He picks up one hand and examines it.

You turn to Chime, finding your voice again. “Chime… run…” You manage to say.

Chime stands there, watching you. Both of you listen to Osho’s chuckle, now more gleeful than menacing. “What good Fortune. Even if my point is lost, I have even more gain!”

Osho picks you up from the forest floor. “I’m afraid our meeting will be cut short.”

“Where are you taking her?” You hear Chime say.

No… you can only cry out in your heart that this wasn’t supposed to happen. You and Chime were supposed to stay together! You don’t want to be separated from him!

“The medicine is very strong. She will need… special treatment in order to recover. Don’t worry. I will bring her back.”

“You promise?”

You feel him hold you tight, close to him. “I promise.”

That was the last you remember before waking up in the village again, this time in an unfamiliar bed. You don’t know how much time passed. All you know is Chime is there, standing over you, looking just as beautiful as before. But there’s a strange pressure, like a tightness around your head.

You reach up and feel bandages. Your hair has been cut and the bandages wrap around your head completely. “What happened?”

Chime held your hand in its gentle grip. “Osho said you had to have surgery… but… you’re alright now.”

You smile and stick your tongue out at him.

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bookandcranny · 4 years ago

Text

Little Angels

One]

It is dark inside a wolf’s belly, but up here the air is clear and bright. Atop the tower of Paradiso, above the city of mist and gray. The roof is all caved in and shattered, scattering brilliant prisms through the fragmented skylight and across the floor. A man stands alone in the wreckage, inside the skeletal remains of this holy animal. He sifts through the books that were left behind until he finds one with a red cover and no title, but the letters A-D embossed along its spine. He flips to a certain chapter, and begins to read.

It was in another kind of tower that it happened. The Detective entered into the penthouse apartment of the Deeds family, a couple from the upper crust who were in a state of panic over their missing teenage daughter. From that first frantic phone call with the grief-ridden Gloria Deeds, Sacha knew the shape of this case inside out, backwards, and upside down. It was a classic.

Teenage girl from a wealthy family, sheltered her whole life, the type who could do no wrong in the eyes of her doting, overbearing parents. One night she leaves without warning, to chase some guy or some band or some misplaced sense of adventure. The reasons didn’t matter as much as what they were willing to pay for the reassurance that their precious little angel would be home safe and sound.

There were just a couple of details he hadn’t counted on.

Sacha sat idling on the side of the road, looking down at the photo the Deeds’ had given him. It was a little roughed up at the edges and faded at the crease where he’d folded it. He’d forgotten how fragile these old-fashioned print photographs were. Despite the damage, the face of thirteen year old Renee Deeds still looked up at him with those same gentle brown eyes and private smile.

The girl in the photo, however accurate it was to real life, had her hair pulled back in a crowd of twin braids that crested over thick dark curls. She wore what Sacha presumed to be church clothes-- tidy blouse and long skirt, an heirloom brooch-- and a pair of crutches braced to her forearms. Her ankles were crossed and tucked limply to one side, away from the camera’s focus.

The girl’s disability put a complication in the narrative he’d been concocting. According to the Deedses, Renee could only go so far on foot without intense pain and she disliked using her chair. It remained in the hall closet, untouched since her disappearance. Mr Deeds worked from home most days so rather than send her off to school, she was homeschooled by a well-vetted private tutor under her father’s occasional supervision. She had few friends, being a reserved child, they said. Sacha thought it probably had more to do with the gilded cage she lived in, lined with bubblewrap and goose down lest she ever bruise her precious knees. But it wasn’t his place to say.

Regardless, this left him with a very limited pool of suspects. And suspects they were indeed, since the Deeds were certain Renee had been kidnapped. Such a good girl would never have just wandered off on her own.

If that was indeed the case, the culprit had done a remarkable job of covering their tracks. Renee was last seen by her mother who had put her to bed at 9 'o'clock on the dot. The security system had been armed all night and there were no signs of tampering. Besides which, the only way out of the penthouse that didn’t involve a several story drop to a very unhappy ending was through the front lobby and the cameras in and outside it didn’t detect anyone unusual, coming or going.

The parents’ first move, naturally, was to call the police. The cops questioned the other residents and scanned the security tapes but turned up empty handed and after a few weeks of daily calls the officers on the case all but told Mr and Mrs Deeds that their hands were tied. For once, even money and social standing couldn’t hasten the hand of justice. That was when they had called on private investigator Sacha Ferro to get the job done.

All these facts laid out before him, Sacha found himself no closer to the answer than he had been at the start. The difference between then and now was not information but desperation, the heights of which had brought him here. Orphan’s Hollow.

The last few years had hit this city hard, same as it did all of them. It wasn’t a single sudden thing, but rather a combination of natural disasters, a virulent epidemic, and the consequential economic collapse that left entire districts barren, now inhabited only by clustered communities of the homeless. The handful of city blocks now known as Orphan’s Hollow was one such district, named so because it was, if stories were to be believed, populated entirely by children. Hollowed out department stores and office buildings and, most notably, the abandoned fairgrounds of Fun Town West became a tragic Neverland for runaways and other parentless youth in hiding from the overburdened childcare system.

Recently, there had been an epidemic of another kind in many of the nearby boroughs. Kids were going missing, just like Renee Deeds had, except most families weren’t fortunate enough to be able to hire someone to track them down. From what Sacha could pick up, most of them-- those that were reported-- were girls between the ages of six and sixteen. Other than that, the demographics were all over the map: black, white, rich, poor, healthy, sick. Missing posters spawned and spread like mold across the billboards and telephone poles, while the local government processed statistics with dead eyes and shrugging shoulders.

The unspoken truth seemed to be that if they were anywhere, if they were alive, the missing girls were somewhere in here. But the kids of Orphan’s Hollow were protective of their own and wouldn’t likely allow any cops to sift through their ranks even if they did trust their motives. It became one of those open secrets that everyone knew about but no one wanted to touch.

On top of that, not every orphan was some scrawny Dickens novel side character; there were rumors of gang activity and even some sort of cult that made the teenagers who ended up in this part of town vicious towards outsiders. Orphan’s Row was a name with more than one meaning, they said, because if you took those kids lightly they’d turn yours into orphans as well. None of that mattered to Sacha though. At this point, he had little left to lose.

There was a gun in the glovebox of the Detective’s hatchback, unloaded, and he hoped it would stay that way. The idea of turning any weapon on a kid, no matter their alleged viciousness, turned his stomach. He would bring it with him to be used, in only the most absolutely dire circumstances, as a threat. Leverage. If it came down to it, he could rationalize that.

As he turned down another vacant street into the ghost town, the weather began to turn as well. It had been drizzling steadily since the evening prior, making the humidity all the more unbearable, but now the rain relented and in its place a clotted mist settled low over the city, like ink diffusing in water. Sacha kept his lights low and foot barely pressing on the gas pedal. Though it was irrational he felt uneasy at the idea of making himself any more noticeable than he was already.

When the car jolted it was like being shaken awake from a dream. At first he thought it was another pothole-- the roads were a wreck after so long untended-- but then there was an audible crunch and a lurch as his front-left tire burst. Without bothering to pull over he got out and found the problem right away. Deep in the tire, lodged between the wheel and its socket, was a doll. Or at least, something that was trying to be a doll.

The body was made out of metal; scraps from perhaps an aluminum can worked together with screws and painted to give it the look of a hoop-skirted dress. Its head was a christmas ornament. He recognized the pink painted cherub cheeks and curling synthetic hair. Some broken edge of the makeshift toy had punctured the tire, and of course Sacha didn’t have a spare on hand, even if he could figure out how to rip the damn thing out of the wheel well.

He muttered a curse to himself. He’d have to leave it here and keep going on foot. At least there wasn’t anything in the car worth stealing, and he didn’t exactly have to worry about getting a ticket.

A sudden shriek made Sacha jump, hand going blindly to the holster under his shirt.

“My doll!” the child cried again. “You killed Jessika! My dolly!”

Sacha turned around and saw a young girl, barefoot and wearing what looked like an old halloween costume, standing across the street from him like a specter out of the fog. Appropriate, since she was so keen on howling like a banshee.

“Hey, I’m so sorry about your dolly,” he gentled, crossing to meet her.

The girl seemed to be considering running away from the strange man, as would well be her right, but stood her ground instead as her face grew redder.

“You killed her,” she said again. “She was a person and you killed her.”

Sacha dropped to one knee. “ I’m sorry about your Jessica--”

“Jessika!”

He chewed the inside of his cheek. “I am sorry, but it was an accident, really. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

She sniffled. “I’m Princess Ladybird,” she said, as though it should have been obvious. She gestured at her costume, a pink sparkly dress studded with plastic gems around the collar. “Who are you? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“My name is Sacha. I’m a private investigator-- a detective,” he corrected, seeing her confused expression. “I’m looking for someone. They’re not in any trouble, I just need to make sure they’re safe. Do you think you could help me, your highness?”

He kept his voice low and comforting. Dealing with kids wasn’t exactly his specialty, but he knew what he was doing well enough.

“No! No!” the girl cried, more agitated than ever. “No grownups allowed! You’ll just hurt them, just like Jessika!”

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he insisted, growing frustrated. “And I told you didn’t mean to break your doll. I could buy you a new doll? A nicer doll.”

She shook her head adamantly. “The store dolls aren’t alive. I only play with alive dolls.”

Play along, Sacha. “Okay, where can I get you a new ‘alive’ doll?”

“You can’t make an alive doll, you’re too old,” she huffed.

Sacha was not going to let himself be offended by a six year old. He wasn’t. “If your dolls are so precious, maybe you shouldn’t leave them in the street!”

“Maybe you should look where you’re going!” With that, she stomped on his foot and ran away. Sacha barely felt it through his shoes, but that was a small consolation. In a blink the princess was gone again.

He sighed. It was no less than he expected, but it still didn’t feel good. With the world they’d been living in, it wasn’t any surprise that the kids here were a bit strange. At least this one had seemed healthy enough, certainly energetic. That meant there was probably someone making sure she was kept fed.

He reminded himself that there was nothing he could do for these kids. Better to focus on what he was here for.

Two]

Sacha walked along the sidewalk without any real sense of where he was going. He occasionally saw clusters of children playing games or jumping in puddles in the street, but most were inside keeping out of the weather. When he looked up he sometimes saw tiny faces peering down at him from high windows or crouched on fire escapes. The ones on the ground didn’t spare him a look except in fleeting disgust. There was a girl reading fortunes for her friends from a dented pack of playing cards who went abruptly silent when he passed by, and Sacha came to realize that they were deliberately ignoring him, hoping to shun him into leaving the way he came.

When he tried to approach a pair of tweens doing some sort of craft project in a sheltered doorway, they quickly picked up their things and scampered away, leaving only a trail of paint droplets behind them. They didn’t look too terribly hard-off; their clothes were sometimes dirty but they were all in one piece and their eyes were bright and lively. It was sort of amazing, Sacha thought, how they’d really managed to build something of a community here, away from adults. Part of him almost envied them.

“Excuse me,” he tried again with a girl who was a bit older than the last. Her age didn’t make her look any more mature really, only sharper, as if she were growing but growing into the wrong shape. “I’m looking for--”

“Everyone knows what you’re looking for,” the young woman said. “You’re loud enough about it.”

This one wasn’t exactly friendly but at least she hadn’t run away yet. Sacha went to pull out a photo.

“Put that away, man,” she hissed. “You’re not going to find any girls who look like that here, and the wrong fledgling might just eat you alive for having it.”

“For having a photograph?” He didn’t bother to ask what a “fledgling” was supposed to be. Some sort of weird slang he was too dated to recognize, he guessed.

“For keeping another girl’s face! All you need is a face and a real-name and you can make that person do and say whatever you want.”

“Is this some kind of game you kids play? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s not a game,” she said gravely. “You don’t understand anything. Walking into this world when you don’t know the rules is as good digging your own grave.”

“Help me catch up, then. Level with me,” Sacha pressed. “I can make it worth your while.”

He didn’t have much money on hand, but he had medicine credits set aside for emergencies and that should be worth its bytes in gold in a place like this. Or if not, she could pawn it and buy some earrings or animal crackers or whatever kids liked.

“Save it, I don’t have an account. Legally, most of the kids here don’t even exist. You’ll have to trade for what you want the old fashioned way, outsider.”

Exasperated, Sacha rooted around in his pockets and came up with a protein bar and a keychain that doubled as a bottle opener. The girl didn’t look impressed.

“Okay look, hand over the picture and the rest of it and I’ll tell you where you need to go, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Outsiders don’t survive long here.”

Sacha wasn’t convinced this wasn’t all some intimidation game, but he folded up the photo of Renee and handed it to her anyway. If he really needed the visuals he had pictures on his phone. He’d turned it off shortly after setting out, when the calls and texts from his sister started pouring in, but couldn’t quite bring himself to leave it behind in the car. He could just picture Maria pacing around the house scowling at his number as another message failed to go through.

I’ll make it up to you, he promised her silently.

“There’s a spot two blocks that way,” She pointed. “Left, left, right, down some steps, and you’ll see a sign for The Love Nest. It’s hard to miss.”

Something about the name said through her lips made him want to recoil. The girl scoffed at his unease.

“Relax, it’s just the name left from the old owners. It belongs to the brood now. It’s a good place, a sacred place.” She sighed, looking up and around as if projecting to an imaginary audience. “Not that someone like you would get any of that, I guess. A lot of fledglings hang around there. If your girl can be found, you’ll find her there. If not, she’s already gone.”

“What do you mean ‘gone’?” he demanded.

“I mean gone.” she held up the photograph, still folded. “Gone like this.”

She tore the square neatly in two and let the halves flutter to the ground.

“I’m not even supposed to tell you this much, so if you missed your window don’t even think about hanging around here trying to dig out more information. You’re pushing your luck as it is.”

What an angry kid, Sacha thought to himself as he departed. He wasn’t too different when he was that age, but outright threatening someone who was only trying to do good seemed a bit extreme, especially when that someone had a good head of height on you as well. Was it the conditions they lived in that made them so temperamental here? Or just adolescent angst? Hopefully he wouldn’t be staying long enough to find out.

And just how was he planning to leave, even if he was successful, he wondered. He’d have to drive them out on three tires. Ruining his car would be well worth it though if it meant ending this.

Angry girl’s directions turned out to be sound and soon enough Sacha found himself at the door of a closed down club that proudly announced itself as “The Love Nest” in faded pink letters above the door. The windows were boarded up but there were still some old posters for the upcoming live entertainment pinned to the plywood. It appeared the place had been at least marginally more legitimate than Sacha had guessed by the name, while it had been in operation.

Pushing through the double doors the Detective found himself in a gloomy ballroom, styled vaguely like a vintage cabaret club or perhaps someone’s romanticized idea of a 1920s speakeasy. There were a few tables-- standing only by virtue of the bolts that held them to the hardwood-- a bar, and a large circular stage in the middle of it all. Sacha toed aside what he’d thought was a trash bag only to hear a grumbled complaint and find another of the hollow’s orphans crawling out of a sleeping bag on the floor.

“What are you doing here?” the kid asked, with such pointed accusation you’d think he’d personally wronged them. They were wearing an oversized “Fun Town” t-shirt and flannel bottoms with a paw print pattern.

Roused by the noise, some other children began emerging from their own napping spots to investigate.

“Are you a cop?” one asked.

“No, I’m more of a detective,” he replied.

“Sounds like a cop to me. And you look like a cop.”

Sacha frowned. “How so?”

“You’re old,” the kid said. “And you have blood on you.”

He looked down at his hands, his clothes. He saw brown khakis, dusty black loafers, pale patterned button-up shirt. No tie; he’d spilled coffee on it on the drive, hands already shaky from the ill-advised extra caffeine. To his embarrassment, he noticed a faint dampness where the weather and his own nerves had painted sweat across his collar, but no blood.

“It’s okay,” said the first child, yawning. “Snowy sees blood on everyone.”

“I don’t see it, I smell it,” challenged Snowy. She took a deep breath through her nose. “And you stink of it. Dirty blood, blood that wasn’t ready to be shed. Have you ever killed anybody, Mr Detective?”

Sacha fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Have you been talking to a girl in a princess dress?”

“You mean Princess Ladybird?”

“Never mind,” he said quickly, as if simply mentioning that ridiculous name might conjure up her horrible wailing. “I’m looking for someone. Two someones actually.”

He considered taking out his phone but, remembering how Angry Girl had reacted to the photo, decided to try a different approach.

“I was told I might find them here. One is named Renee Deeds and the other is Ana Ferro-Silver, eighteen and fifteen years old. Anything you can tell me about either of them would be a huge help. I’m sort of hoping one will lead me to the other.” He forced a smile.

Kid in the pajamas frowned. “There’s no one with names like that here. You woke us up over something as dumb as that?”

“I don’t think it’s dumb to want to find two girls who might be in a lot of trouble,” he said tersely. “And why were you asleep anyway? It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Growing makes us tired,” Pajamas shot back. They rolled their shoulders. “And sore.”

“And hungry!” added a third child. “Did you bring us any food?”

“Why would I have any food?”

“I heard the gargoyles say you gave Singing Finch a candy bar.”

“It was a protein bar,” he said before he could think to deny it. “What kind of name is ‘Singing Finch’ anyway?”

“It would’ve been Evening Finch, but she tattled so now she’s Singing Finch,” they explained patiently. “She tattled on us and then she tattled on you to the gargoyles and the kestrels. She can’t help it though. She’s a songbird, it’s what they do.”

“So you don’t have any candy?” the other cut in. Sacha put out his empty hands so she could verify and she bit him.

Pajamas laughed as he pulled away with a curse and a cry. “You are dumb. There aren’t any girls in trouble here. You’re the only one in trouble, but that’s because you’re an outsider and a cop, so you probably deserve it.”

Sacha felt a muscle in his jaw tense. He was beginning to think this had all been a huge waste of time. These kids operated on their own kind of logic, their own language, one which was foreign to him.

“Please,” he said. “Please. I know a lot of you are without families, but these girls still have people who care for them, who are looking for them. I have to bring them home.”

The children looked at him, and then a few of them looked at each other, huddling together in hushed conference. The one called Snowy, who was sitting on top of the bar, glared at him, tilting her head as if she were trying to read something written on the side of his head in very small print. He caught himself raising a hand to touch his neck and let it drop self-consciously back to his side.

“If you keep going like this, you might die,” she told him innocently. “Did you know that?”

The presence of the gun against his stomach, empty though it was, made his skin tingle. “I considered the possibility,” he said, and it was the honest truth.

“When you die, will you go to paradise?”

“You’re too young to be thinking this much about blood and death.”

“I’ve seen death.” Her voice was without intonation, no defensiveness or accusation anywhere in her tone. She couldn’t have been any older than ten. “My mom died in front of me. She had a fever, but I stayed cold. That’s why they call me Snowy.” She paused, shrugged one shoulder. “Also because I can eat a whole mouse in one bite, like a snowy owl.”

“Oh,” Sacha said lamely. “I’m- I’m so sorry.”

She gave another shrug. “S’okay, I’m with the brood now and they take care of me just as good as mom would. I’m just saying, you don’t really seem like a guy who’s ready to die for anyone.”

Amongst all the riddles and nonsense, this at least was something he could understand.

“I promise you, I am.”

Pajamas tugged at his sleeve. “Hey, hey Detective, have you ever been to Fun Town?”

He blinked, reeling from the non sequitur. “Excuse me?”

They pointed at the garish logo on their shirt. “‘Fun Town: It’s the funnest place on earth!’ Maybe your friends are there.”

“You’re not going to tell me I should just turn back now? That I’m dumb and the kids I’m looking for are gone forever?” he couldn’t help but snark.

“Don’t listen to Finch, she’s a liar. Nobody’s gone. Different, but not gone.”

Fun Town was an amusement park franchise with a handful of locations all over North America. Had been, that is. They’d had to shut down all their locations more than ten years ago, due in part to the outbreak at the time as well as some unsettling information about the eccentric late founder that came out after his death. Something about swaying elections and pouring company funds into an illicit genetic engineering project. Another day, another megalomaniac billionaire exposé. It had been big news at the time but now it was just another piece of pop culture trivia.

The Fun Town West fairgrounds were now little more than a fancy animatronics graveyard. The rides-- what of them hadn’t been torn down and picked clean by opportunistic scavengers-- were sparkling rusted monuments. Any sense of childhood wonder that remained had long since been siphoned off and sold. The kids didn’t seem to mind though, for how they’d congregated around the place. Maybe Pajamas had a point. It was a big, bright landmark, impossible to miss, and as good a place to search as any.

Three]

The Detective left Snowy and Pajamas and the other strange flock of The Love Nest behind, feeling a grim sense of determination The puckered bite mark on his hand throbbed; the little creep had managed to break skin!

As he navigated his way to the outskirts of the district, Sacha mulled over the interactions he’d had so far. Reluctantly he pulled out his phone to take some notes, ignoring the voicemail notifications cluttering the screen.

The kids call themselves “brood”-- some sort of gang name? The younger ones and/or newcomers to their group seem to be called fledglings. Everyone has a nickname; real names and pictures of faces have some sort of negative significance. And what of the “songbirds”, “kestrels”, etc? Songbirds: spread information. Kestrels: Unknown.

He huffed. None of this was bringing him anywhere closer to the truth about the missing girls. None of it was helping him find Ana.

By the time he power-walked to the long neglected fairgrounds, the hazy sky was becoming downright dour. The clouds had turned the color of smoke. Combine that with the stench of burnt plastic wafting from some of the attractions, it made for an unpleasant effect. He felt that a storm was brewing, and hoped that whatever came he’d be able to find shelter before the sky opened up around him.

He’d been here only twice while it was still in operation; once just him and his parents and once with Maria. By the second visit he’d already lost his sense of wonderment when it came to a day at the fair. The weather was hot and the crowds were annoying and all the games were rigged. Yet there was still a part of him that felt deeply sad to see what Fun Town had become. This was the sort of place that should’ve been beautiful forever, even as the children grew up and out of their love for it.

As he wove through the rows of darkened kiosks, the fairgrounds suddenly erupted into light. Sacha startled and shielded his eyes. The tired bulbs cracked and fizzled and when he looked up again the desiccated corpse of Fun Town had been revived in a great pulse of electricity. Against the backdrop of perpetual gloom the friendly colors were all the more headache-inducing, and somewhere a tinny recording of calliope music began to play. It all made Sacha’s skin crawl.

Against his every instinct, he let the music lead him to a shack next to the arcade with a mounted loudspeaker, the door marked with a firm “employees only”. To his surprise, the door was unlocked. Inside, another brood girl in coveralls was fiddling with a fuse box and leaning her hip against a desk with an old CCTV. The security system was so antiquated that it didn’t look like it should turn on at all, yet there upon the pixelated screen Sacha could still make out the shape of himself entering the park on a loop.

The girl turned around, flipping a frizzy head of hair over her shoulder. Although, it turned out she wasn’t so much a girl as a young woman, pushing against the line between teenage and adulthood. His gut reaction was relief. This might be the closest thing to a rational adult he would find around here. Hopefully she’d be of more help than the others.

Come to think of it, he realized, he’d never considered what happened to the Orphan’s Hollow kids once they grew up. Surely there must be some adults here, somewhere. But then, everyone who’d met him so far had treated him as a foreign invader. Were all adults so unwelcome, as he’d assumed, or was there something about him in particular?

The most rational assumption was that the homeless kids simply became homeless adults. No need for any additional fanfare. They would graduate from the Hollows and go on to squat in other parts of the city. There was certainly no shortage of slums these days, he thought glumly.

Did any ex-runaways ever try to go home, those that still had them? Did that Renee ever think about home?

“What ho, outsider!” the teen greeted. Sacha felt himself relax despite himself, so glad to be met with at least one friendly face.

“‘What ho’?” he parroted lamely.

“It’s theatre-speak for ‘wassup’. As in, what the hell are you doing in brood territory?”

She moved quickly. He didn’t notice the knife until it was tucked under his chin, pointed at his throat.

Sacha’s back hit the wall and he put up his hands in surrender. “Hold on, I’m not looking for a fight.”

“Oh yeah?” she giggled. She wrenched up the front of his shirt. “What’s this then? A prop? If I shoot it, will a little flag come out that says ‘bang’?”

She un-holstered the pistol and pointed it at his forehead.

“That’s not a toy,” he said slowly. “Just a little insurance. Like your knife there, I’m sure. I don’t think either of us wants anybody to get hurt.”

“This?” She tossed it in the air and caught it. “Nah, this is part of the act. Tonight, I’m a knife thrower. I’ve never been a knife thrower before. I hope it goes well.”

Sacha tried to speak, but the girl pressed the cold flat of the blade to his lips.

“The older girls put on shows for the fledglings. Sometimes here in Fun Town, sometimes over in the Nest, or up on the rooftops when the weather is nice. I’d invite you, but I don’t think you’d be welcome.” She adjusted her grip again so that the knife was touching the tip of his nose. “All day there’ve been whispers about some kind of detective guy putting his nose in our business.”

“I don’t care about you brood kids do here.”

“Liar.”

“I swear, I don’t. I’m just trying to find someone. I’m not even a real detective anymore,” he confessed. “I wouldn’t tell anyone what you’re doing here. Even if I did, no one would believe me. I’m nobody.”

The knife thrower gave a big, hearty laugh, and Sacha’s throat tightened with fear. He didn’t consider himself a violent person, but over his career he’d come to blows with enough unruly targets and bitter clients alike that he knew when someone was posturing, and when someone was really out for blood. Normally there was a clear indicator of one kind or another; a tightening of the jaw, a certain nervous tick, a look in their eyes.

But this girl he couldn’t get a read on at all. He hoped that meant she was still on the fence about the subject.

Struggling to keep his voice level he said, “You don’t have to do this. Something like this will haunt you your whole life, you know, and you’ve got so much life left. You’re still just a kid--”

She reared her hand back and struck at his head with the butt of the pistol. Sacha dodged. It slammed into the fuse box she’d been working on instead and the lights went out. Taking advantage of the darkness, he shoved past her and in a stroke of blind fortune found the door. There was a sound then, like the rush of wind in his ears. Then a sharp flash of pain as a flying knife split the cartilage of one ear.

He stumbled and hit the pavement. When Sacha turned around, hand clutched to his head, he saw the young woman’s silhouette bracketed by two iridescent black wings. Again that sound, ferocious wingbeats stirring the air. All he saw were two but it sounded like hundreds, a massive flock taking off in perfect synchronicity.

“It’s really frustrating when people don’t take me seriously,” said the winged creature as she approached him. Maybe it was an effect of the many colored lights, but her skin appeared to have a glossy sheen to it, like an oil painting in motion. “But you look like you’re starting to get it now.”

“What the hell are you?” Sacha asked with a mix of horror and feverish reverence.

“What do you think I am?”

The thought came to him unbidden. It was an insane thought, one he didn’t even truly believe in, yet this was an insane situation. “The angel of death.”

That gave her pause. “You’re not right, but you’re not really wrong either I guess. Truth be told, I’m heaven on earth. Maybe I’ll cut you some slack if you worship me”

A wing brushed over his skin, however faintly, and it felt warm and real as the blood cooling on his skin. Not ethereal or dreamlike as he might’ve expected but so real, and all the more hideous for it. He shuddered and said nothing.

The false angel, this predatory animal, took a step back. She spun the pistol around one long finger until it slipped and fell to the ground. She looked at it for a moment, as if surprised.

“Huh. It was lighter than I expected,” she said. Then she kicked it aside. “You win this one I guess. I’ll let you go.”

He stared at her, mouth agape, sure it was some trick.

“What? You don’t believe me. I put it in fate’s hand, and for some reason it looks like fate wants to keep you alive a little longer. It’s not how I saw this going, but I can roll with some improv.” She put up her hands. “Don’t bother groveling. I won’t kill you even if you beg. I know guys like you love punishment. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Here… in Fun Town? Or, are you asking why I’m alive?”

She laughed. She so loved laughing. “Morbid! You’re morbid, man. I mean, why are you here among the brood? At… what do the outsiders call it? The Orphan Hole?” she snickered. “You kind of stick out like a sore thumb.”

“I’m trying to find someone,” Sacha repeated quietly. He’d said the line so many times he felt it was starting to lose its meaning. “And to make up for something I did.”

“Well you should’ve said so in the first place! If you’re looking to atone you need to meet with the broodmother. If you hurry, you might still be able to catch her. Tonight’s going to be kind of a crazy night once it kicks off, but if you plead your case I’m sure she’ll hear you out.

“I have to keep setting up here. You go on ahead.” She pointed out in the direction he’d come from. “It’s a straight shot to Paradiso. You can tell her the angel of death sent you.”

She spared him one last smirk and then shot up into the air like an arrow loosed from a taut bowstring.

Or a bullet from a gun, even. Sacha considered the discarded pistol for a moment. It seemed so useless now, just a hunk of metal and plastic, just a prop. He walked away without it, pain pulsing dully from his ear. His journey was nearly over.

Time dragged on as he walked, but not enough for him to find the space to contend with what he’d seen. That girl, that creature. She was no angel, that much he was certain of. Angels didn’t attack strangers with a knife, he didn’t think.

What he wasn’t certain of was… just about everything else. Was he meant to understand that all these girls, these brood, were some kind of bird-beasts taking human shape? Was everyone he’d met an imposter masquerading in the form of a child? Or did they start out as ordinary children and then transform somehow?

He half hated himself for even entertaining such wild ideas, but he had little other choice. “When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth” wasn’t that so? In any case, speculation did him little good at this point. He could only hope that this paradise and “broodmother” the girl had spoken of could give him some answers.

Four]

Just when Sacha was beginning to wonder if the knife throwing angel imposter was fully fucking with him, he found his destination: The Paradiso Hotel, although the damaged neon sign now read only PRDIO.

The building was tall and narrow, so wedged between its neighbors that it looked like any moment it might be crushed. The brickwork was crumbling as it was. Creeping plant life climbed the sides and snuck in through broken windows. The ominous, weathered shape of gargoyles watched from above, jutting strangely out of high corners. This place must have been in dire straits long before it had been taken over by the brood. At the same time, looking at it Sacha got the impression that it had been something glorious in its heyday.

There was something almost inviting about the faint glow that came from the topmost windows, filtering pink light through heavy red curtains, and yet Sacha was terrified. His hands trembled on the railing as he climbed the winding stairway.

The higher he went, the more his surroundings began to change. The carpet beneath his feet grew soft, damp, dipping slightly with his weight, and when he looked down he found it thick with patchy moss. Mushrooms sprouted from the junction where the floor met the wall. Sacha tore his foot from a tangle of roots he’d caught himself in and wondered, when was the last time he’d seen so much wild living plantlife in person?

Finally he reached the top of the tower and opened the door not onto identical hallways and bland hotel decor, but onto a sprawling private library.

The detective could hardly see the walls for the shelves, lined top to bottom with books upon books upon books. There was a desk against the far wall piled high with precarious stacks of paper. They overflowed and spilled onto the loamy floor, whispering under his every step.

Beyond a towering skylight, storm clouds billowed, but that wasn’t of any concern to the flock of brood congregated in their wake. The scene looked like something rendered from stained glass, at least a dozen girls with wings of all colors stretched out and fluttering idly behind them as they sat around some sort of shrub or young sapling that was, quite impossibly, growing out of the floor. Its tender boughs bore tiny fruit, several perfectly round red orbs plump and shiny with juice.

The room smelled like a greenhouse, like heat and green growth, flowers and fruit. Intrigue drew Sacha nearer and he detected an undercurrent of something metallic as well. He rounded the desk and his stomach plummeted. The tree was not growing out of the floor. It was growing out of a human corpse nested in a bed of soil.

The Detective choked on a gasp and the brood children looked up. Their hands and knees were dark from their work. A flash of gore passed before Sacha’s eyes and he flinched, expecting to be struck down where he stood. When no killing blow came, morbid desire took hold of him and he took a second look. The tree was still there, and the body, but the body was not as he’d thought. It looked dry, mummified, more root than rot. Still staring, one of the brood girls plucked a berry and crushed it between her teeth. The smell intensified, iron and something sweet, heady as any wine.

One of the girl-beasts stood, and she seemed older than the rest somehow, not just in body but in her eyes, gray as the growing storm and so clear that Sacha feared if he looked too long he would fall through them. Her face was smooth and free of wrinkles or worry, but the long hair that fell about her shoulders was white as bone. She wore something like a shawl that hung lazily off her shoulders and down past her knees. Unlike the others, she had no wings.

“So you’re the one all my girls have been making such a fuss about,” she said, and her voice was a choir, her words an indictment.

Sacha felt a strange spike of anger at this creature that looked like a woman and talked like a mystic and was neither. “And you’re the broodmother, whatever that means! Your girls make you out to some kind of god. But you’re not a god, and you’re not their mother. I don’t know what you are and I don’t care. I just want to know why you’re doing this.”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re- you’re taking them!” he stammered furiously. The pieces were coming together, albeit in a hectic jumble. “All the missing girls! You abduct them, or call them to you, or something! It changes them!” He flung his hand out towards the body. “You’re a killer! You're some kind of crazy death cultist and you turn these kids into killers!”

The broodmother quirked her head to the side, not quite smiling. “You talk with a lot of confidence for a man with only half the story.”

“Then explain it to me,” he demanded. “Make it make sense. Because I’ve been running around this madhouse all day and so far, nothing does.”

She hummed to herself, considering. “If you’re so eager for a tale, let’s start with yours.”

One of the other little brood leapt up and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Is it time for a story, Nightingale?”

“Yes, I think so. Do you know which book to get?”

“D for Detective!” she cheered.

“Very good.”

The girl scampered off and returned with a big book bound in red. Nightingale took it and ran her thumb over the pages, flipping it open with a calm certainty that boiled Sacha’s blood.

“Let’s see… Detective Sacha Ferro. You were born in this very city, had a fairly normal childhood until,” She traced the tip of her finger along the page and Sacha noticed for the first time how it curled, a ghastly hook-like talon. “Oh, that’s right. There was an accident. Your parents… Tragic. Just terrible.”

Astonishingly, she sounded as though she meant it.

“You were in high school at the time. But your sister, Maria, she was still just a kid. You always struggled to relate to her as a brother, with her being so much younger than you, but after that day you had to become like a parent too. You really stepped up, it looks like. That didn’t change the fact that you were still a kid yourself. You made mistakes, and the two of you grew apart.”

Shame curdled in Sacha’s gut. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. The most he was capable of was curling his hands into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

“Get out of my head.”

“I’m not in it. Frankly, I’m not that interested in your editorializing. This is the truth. Now, where was I?

“You’d always dreamed of being a police detective, like the ones on TV,” she continued. “But became disillusioned with the idea once you grew older. So you became a private eye, but that too got old. You were tired of acquiring blackmail material for shady characters and helping angry wives catch their cheating husbands and so on. Meanwhile little Maria had grown up and moved on and the neighborhood you’d lived in all your life was going more and more downhill by the year. You wanted out.

“Then you got a call from a Mrs Gloria Deeds.” Her eyes widened dramatically. “She wanted you to track down her poor missing daughter. The Deedses were wealthy, desperate, and just perfect. You requested an advance payment, a big one, big enough for a down payment on a new life and the gas to get you there. They didn’t even blink as they pulled out the checkbook. It was all so easy.

“You took the Deedses money and you ran away. Forget the kid, chances were she’d turn up on her own in a week or two after getting whatever rebellious phase out of her system. That’s not what happened though, is it? More and more girls started disappearing. Renee wasn’t the first though, or was she? Could she have been the catalyst for all this? You’d never know for certain. The wondering ate you up inside, but not enough to make you turn back.

“You got yourself a new apartment and a regular nine-to-five job. You quit smoking. You adopted a dog. You started letting people in. You even called up Maria begging to be a part of her life again and shockingly, she agreed! You started spending weekends with her and her wife Kara and their sweet little girl Ana. Your mother’s name, wasn’t it? Well, anyway.

“Everything was all going so terribly well until just a few days ago. Nearly five years on the dot since you took the Deeds case and Maria calls you in tears, tells you that Ana has gone missing. You drop the phone, your blood running cold. She’s fifteen. Just a year or two and she’d be out of the target demographic. Neither you or your sister has set foot in this city in years. What are the odds she got taken? But you can’t let it go until you know for sure.

“Feeling frantic, you pull up the stuff from the Deeds case for the first time in what feels like an eternity. You do some digging. Renee Deeds was never found, nor were any of the others who vanished after her. The cops are still as apathetic and incompetent as you left them. They’re blaming it all on an epidemic of gang activity stemming from somewhere the locals have started calling ‘Orphan’s Hollow’. It didn’t used to be called that though, did it? Do you remember? How gutted you were when you found out? No way you could tell Maria where you were going. Back home, back to where it all started.”

“Stop.” Sacha found his voice at last, though to what end?

Nightingale looked up at him, feigning shock. “But don’t you want to know how it ends? Whatever does happen to the guilt-ridden detective trying to right a wrong? Hoping against hope that if he can fulfill the promise he broke that all of this will be set to rights, and little Ana will return home with him safe and sound.”

“Please, please, stop.” He covered his ears and felt the cut throb against his fingers.

“You’re not really in any position to be making demands, Detective. You came to me. You followed my song. It doesn’t usually work on grown-ups, you know, but you were always sort of a special case I think. I’m glad I kept an eye on you. This has turned out more interesting than I thought.”

She crossed the room to stand before him, cupping his hands with her own. “You never really stopped being that kid, did you Sacha? You run and run and just keep him right there, locked away in your chest. Look at me Sacha. Look at me. You need to be a grown-up now. I don’t have her, Sacha. I don’t have Ana.”

Slowly Sacha’s hands dropped to his sides, his eyes wide and wet. “What?”

“That’s right,” the broodmother said cheerily. “Ana isn’t here. In fact, she’s at home with her moms right now. Maria’s been trying to call you for days now. You were too ashamed to pick up, couldn’t tell her how this was all your fault. It’s not actually, by the way. You were a self-serving bastard, but not enough to bring down that kind of karmic wrath.

“Although I’d’ve been happy to have her, Ana already has two loving mothers, and an uncle that… has his moments.” She patted him on the shoulder. “The children who follow my song aren’t like that. They come willingly, and they change because change is what they need. I won’t pretend it’s not a messy process. Sometimes blood needs to be spilled to create a paradise. But ‘be not afraid’, Detective. I would never let my little angels get hurt.”

“I still don’t understand,” he all but wept. “What about Renee Deeds?”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Nightingale groaned. “‘What are you? What are you? Where’s the girl? Pow! Blam! I’m a big scary action hero and I’m here to save you or kill you trying!’”

She shook her head. “You’re not the hero of this story, Detective. The girl you knew as Renee doesn’t exist anymore, but she’s alive, not because of your intervention, or lack thereof. Not even in spite of it. What am I? What is she? And what are we when we’re together? A thing that lives without your permission. You need to understand for it to be true.”

She looked at him then with all the sympathy of a mother comforting a crying child. She handed off the storybook to one of her young attendants, and as she turned around she swept aside the cover of her shawl to reveal her bare back. Her skin was twisted with badly healed scars, the flesh raised in the shape of two jagged cuts curving around the shape of her scapula.

“Here’s another story for you. Once upon a time,” she said. “A ship of men was cast from its course and lost at sea. Just when it seemed all hope was lost, they found themselves on the shores of a mysterious island full of the tallest, greenest trees they’d ever seen. The people there had wings like a bird, and they were so beautiful and kind that the men decided they must be angels, and this was paradise.

“The angels let them stay there a while and lick their wounds, but warned them that they couldn't remain forever. At first they accepted this, but as the time to leave for home grew nearer they became obsessed with the wonders of the island and couldn’t bear to go without taking a piece with them.

“So enamoured by the beauty of the angels, yet fearing their heavenly wrath, they lured away the smallest one and imprisoned her in the lower decks of the ship. When she realized what had happened, she tried to escape, so they broke her wings until just moving them caused her horrible pain. She did get free in the end, but only once the ship returned to port and by then she was far, far from home and knew not how to find her way back.

“She knew she wasn’t safe among the wingless people, so she hid herself away until nightfall, singing her song by the light of the moon in hopes that one day someone would return her call. When someone finally did, it wasn’t at all who she expected. It was a young human girl, a daughter of man, who recognized her song of pain and loneliness because these were things she knew well herself. When the angel and the girl finally found each other, the angel bid her to cut her useless wings and drink her blood, and together they escaped on new wings.”

As she spoke, the storm outside grew stronger until the wind rattled the very walls, knocking books loose from their shelves. The brood, with their many colored wings and many sweet voices, began to sing in wordless harmony, a hymn from such unfathomable depths and dizzying heights that Sacha’s legs nearly gave out beneath him.

“Don’t be sad, my mourning dove. This is a happy story. The Nightingale fell in love with the Swiftlet, the song and the storm, and they carried each other to a place where they could make a new paradise, a garden of their own.”

That was when the ceiling began to cave in. Sacha fell to his knees and covered his head with his hands, blinded by what he was sure was a bolt of lightning. When he looks back on it later, he won’t be so sure.

Again came that sound, the torrent of wind and a hundred wings beating within it. Sacha forced himself to raise his head, squinting against the light, and there he saw dancing in the open air above the wreckage-- for dancing was the only way he could think to describe it-- a girl he once knew. Though they were less than strangers, especially now, he recognized her kind dark eyes, her secretive smile.

Her hair was loose, a halo of electrified black curls, and her wings a dusky brown with the sharp, precise plumage of a swift. Her legs still didn’t move so freely as the rest of her, but she wasn’t bothered. She didn’t need them.

Nightingale ran and leapt and took her in her arms with a lover’s embrace. Off a ways behind them, their brood took flight as well, swooping and shrieking their delight as if they were a single entity, metamorphosing into something new, something so nearly divine.

Sacha did weep then. His vision blurred with the shape of his grief, then his longing, a child and a man and a hair’s width away from paradise. Eventually the storm subsided, but he didn’t see the angel and her love again after that. He thought perhaps that was for the better.

The sky cleared. The sun came out. Elsewhere, young girls planted gardens and played games and put on shows. The world went on, however changed.

This is where past and present collide. In the aftermath of a mystery, a man named Sacha Ferro picks up a book from in amidst the rubble and holds it up to the light. He flips to D for Detective and begins to read, anxious to find out what happens next.

Epilogue]

“Everyone settle down. Places! Starling, for the last time, ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ doesn’t call for a knife thrower.”

“And why not?” She wiggles the blade in her direction. “This show’s so boring. Everyone already knows how it goes. Let me spice it up a bit.”

Finch rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Just, don’t jump ahead of your cue this time. And stop making up extra lines. You almost blew it last time.”

Starling sticks her tongue out but she has a skip in her step when she returns backstage. On the other side of the curtain, the audience is starting to take their seats. There aren’t enough chairs-- and most of the “chairs” are actually old boxes and things to begin with-- so some of them have to stand. An older brood allows Pajamas to climb up onto her shoulders, reminding her to be mindful of her wings, which are still fairly fresh and tender where they join with her back.

“Greetings, Princess,” says the fortune teller Resplendent, dressed in her good theatre clothes, as she sits down beside her. “Who’s this?”

Princess Ladybird holds up the dented ornament head. “This is Jessika. The doctors managed to save her but she needs an emergency body transplant, stat! I’m going to find her a new one after the show.”

She nods. “Greetings, Lady Jessika. I hope you have a speedy recovery.”

Ladybird holds the doll head up to her ear and hums as if in response to something.

“Can I hear too?”

She obliges, and Resplendent listens. There’s a quiet buzzing from inside the hollow tin skull and it echoes hauntingly in the emptiness.

She whispers, “There’s a bug inside of Jessika’s brain keeping her alive. That’s why she can still talk without a body. If Jessika dies, the bug will get out. Ick!”

The other girl chuckles. “Your name is a kind of bug, you know.”

“No! It’s a bird! Lady-bird!”

She bites back another laugh and points towards the stage. “Shh, the show’s starting.”

Sure enough, the songbird choir starts up, bidding the chattering spectators to quiet down and listen up. A girl comes out on stage wearing a corner of the curtain as a makeshift hood. She says,

“It is dark inside a wolf’s belly.”

#dark fantasy #horror #angels #short fiction #novella #dystopia #long fic #mystery #My writing #writeblr #original fiction

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fanfics-with-coffee · 4 years ago

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Beach Day

Beach day with your boyfriends, Akaashi and Bokuto, gone wrong silly?

Genre: P u r e fluff Characters: Poly!Akaashi x reader x Bokuto

As soon as you stepped off the bus you shielded your eyes from the glaring sun which had been blaring down on you and your boyfriends for days now. In front of you there was the never ending expanse of ocean, the horizon only broken by the uneven specks of islands far off in the distance. “WHOA, THERE'S SO MANY ISLANDS AROUND HERE, you think they can see us from all the way over there?" Bokuto's voice broke through the sound of the city behind you and the sound of the never ending noise of the people on the beach in front of you. "I think you should worry more about the people right here on the beach for now." Akaashi reminded the over excited man, squinting as he watched the people right below you three. Looking at the two standing on either side of you, you smiled and watched how Bokuto seemed to suddenly realize the sheer amount of people on the beach right now. Akaashi didn't seem as entranced by Bokuto's shocked face as you were and sighed, starting to lead the way down the stairs connecting the bus stop to the sand below. "C'mon owl-boy, we gotta look for a good spot to settle down or you're never gonna be able to play volleyball" you playfully teased, pulling on the fully unbuttoned, short sleeved, Hawaiian shirt and he obediently followed you, a volleyball stuck under his arm.

It was clear that you guys weren't the only people who thought today had been the perfect beach day as it was bustling with activity and people sunbathing, as well as people just normally bathing in the deep blue waves softly hitting the beach. Luckily everyone had dressed for the weather, Bokuto wearing the coolest outfit as he had just thrown on his swimming trunks and the fittingly silly hawaiian shirt which he had left unbuttoned, not that you complained. Akaashi went a bit more modest as he decided to at least throw on a proper white T-shirt with his trunks, a pair of sunglasses placed atop his head for the moment being. You dressed similarly, your bathing clothes working as a base together with whatever you felt was modest enough to travel on a bus with but nothing that would make you sweat in the summer heat. But you would be lying if you weren’t just waiting to get out of it and just lay in the shade, reading a book while watching your two favourite people play volleyball and maybe take a walk along the shore.

You quickly realised that that might be a much more difficult goal to accomplish then you had initially thought as every possible spot with availability to shade had already been claimed by people with similar plans. Akaashi had at this point taken your hand in his, afraid you’d be lost among the people. “Hey, Akaashiii, how come you’re not holding my hand huh? Aren’t you afraid I’d get lost too?” Bokuto sped up his pace to match yours, holding out his hand and making a grabby motion towards the raven haired man, pouting. “How could I? I’d probably hear you all the way from those islands you were talking about” He glanced back at you two, seemingly adamant about his decision to only hold your hand for now. But that didn’t last as he looked at Bokuto for more then two seconds and without another word he held out his other hand too. The older man instantly perked up and took ahold, happily being dragged along now. “You’re impossible..” “And yet you love usss.” You mused with Bokuto putting a hand on the small of your back, grinning. And so your trio moved across the beach.

“Hey, doesn’t that look like a good spot?” After only a minute or so you finally spotted a big enough place in the shade for you all to comfortable set up for the day. Bokuto vocally expressed his excitement, suddenly taking the lead and pulling you all along, no questions asked. Akaashi had almost tripped in the sand when his arm suddenly jerked in the direction of the spot but managed to catch himself before checking so you had survived the pull too. Thankfully you had, and not only that, you were laughing at the silliness of your boyfriends antics. But things didn’t go as planned as you got closer to the so called promised land.

“Oo- Half-n-half?” Bokuto stopped dead in his tracks, and dropped not only your hand but the ball he had been carrying too, surprised by the familiar face standing in front of him.

“Eh? What do you mean half-n-half… Your hair isn’t much better…” Kenma glared, a switch in his hands and a sports bag slung over his shoulder. You were about as surprised as Bokuto was and then you heard someone else speak up.

“What, you’re just gonna ignore me, owl bastard?” “ROOSTER HEAD?” “Don’t act like you didn’t ignore me on purpose!”

As the sudden dispute escalated between Kuroo and your own “owl bastard”, you took the moment to get your head around the situation, so did Akaashi who pulled up his own bag and picked up the one Bokuto had dropped in his shock. You looked to Kenma who was busy getting mildly annoyed at the two bickering men, impatiently waiting for them to calm down.

“So you and Kuroo are here for a beach day yourselves, huh, Kenma?” You smiled, taking a couple steps closer so you wouldn’t have to yell. He finally looked at you and vaguely nodded his head before looking back.

“I guess, Kuroo wanted to get a tan and dragged me along with him. I’m just planning on gaming though, I’m not looking to get a sun burn.” You hummed in acknowledgment, you weren’t surprised that Kenma wasn’t the one who initiated the trip. “That’s why we need the shade here, it’s difficult to play games with a sun glare on the screen”

The way he looked at you was almost challenging, like he made it clear that he wasn’t willing to give up the shaded spot. While you had been around Kenma a couple times along with Kuroo and Bokuto, you had never stood between him and something he wanted so were a little taken aback. Luckily, Akaashi was quick to back you up even if there was no real danger.

“I’m guessing its about as difficult as reading a book with the sun in your eyes.” Akaashi’s responded for you, clearly not backing down as he let a hand land on your waist. Kenma glanced at his hand and then the small bag you were carrying, quickly connecting the dots and pursing his lips. By now the two other people in your group had noticed what was going on and stopped their own shenanigans, curious about the situation that had formed. Kuroo was the first to separate from Bokuto, walking over to standing besides Kenma with a smirk. Bokuto in return walked over to Akaashi and you, putting his hands on his hips while wearing a confident grin.

“Seems like none of us are willing to give up the spot, eh?” Kuroo glanced at Kenma who was still staring at you three.

“Nope! So if you want it, you gotta take it from us fair and square! Right Akaashi? Y/N?” Bokuto quickly looked to you two, expectantly waiting for confirmation. While he looked like an owl, he reminded you more of a puppy.

“Right. It’s the least you can do for the spot, Nekoma.” Akaashi backed him up, something that Bokuto clearly got excited about. You looked to the two and sighed, smiling despite yourself.

The two opponents nodded and within seconds they were coming up with fair suggestions on how they could fight for the spot. Volleyball came up immediately but because of the little space on the beach, there wasn’t really a way to play during these busy hours. But after that, they came to the agreement of a race. To the ice cream shack and back to the spot, first team member to get there won it. Simple goal, simple rules.

“Y/N, you’ll be the judge.” Akaashi made eye contact to confirm his statement, checking so you would agree with it just in case. You nod, of course and straighten your back a little to prove your attention the assignment. Kuroo clearly perked up at this fact, getting playfully smug face.

“Hmm? How can we know they won’t be biased?” He asked, tilting his head. He knew you wouldn’t, you could see that in his eyes, but he couldn’t help wanting to provoke your boyfriends a little. Something that clearly worked as Bokuto puffed up his chest and furrowed his brows. Kenma gently slapped Kuroo’s arm, annoyed he had even agreed to this competition from the beginning and now he was prolonging the whole thing with useless teasing.

“Our Y/N? Never! That’s preposterous!” He argued, ready to get in another harmless tussle with the tall, dark-haired man. He was ready to defend your honor at the drop of a hat even if it was absolutely unnecessary as Akaashi mentioned that no one in this situation could be totally unbiased. Realising if you didn’t interrupt the situation now they would go on another discussion that would last god knows how long. And so you cleared your throat, gaining the mens attention while you pulled out a tissue from your bag, holding it up.

“Participants on your mark!” You said aloud, said participants quickly moving and pointing to each others feet as they scrambled to get on an even row, Akaashi taking an obvious leadership role in this. “Get ready!” You raised the tissue.

Paused. And..

“GO!”

You dropped your hand, the white tissue acting as the starting shot. They started running, throwing up sand behind them and leaving you in the shade, together with a Hawaiian shirt thrown off last second. You kept an eyes on them as they ran towards the ice cream shack but you noticed that Kenma was already falling behind, he clearly had a worse footing then the other three on the sand. While you wish you could’ve seen the whole thing with your eyes, they ended up getting lost in the maze of bodies, fighting to find the quickest way to the faded blue building. Bokuto and Kuroo were keeping their eyes on each other, throwing looks as they saw their competitor between unrelated bodies. Akaashi on the other hand was running his own race, his eyes darting from spot to spot as to find the smartest and most efficient way. Kenma got further and further behind, unable to keep up but still working logically, dodging people with practiced ease.

As they reached the shack, Bokuto and Kuroo slapped the side of the building only nanoseconds after each other, making eye contact before turning and sprinting back. Akaashi was only seconds behind, seeing the white and black tuft of hair diving back into sea of people and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief, thinking back to you. But that didn’t stop him from taking another deep breath and giving it his all on the way back too. Kenma was a… different story. He had run out of steam quickly and by the time he had gotten to the shack, he had already seen Kuroo wave at him. But he kept at it, knowing Kuroo wouldn’t shut up about it if he didn’t.

Back in the shade you had pulled out your water bottle, sipping on in, waiting for someone you recognized. And there he came, jumping out of the crowd, chest exposed and covered in sweat, grinning from ear to ear. Bokuto. Kuroo was the second person you saw but you also realised he was about to get passed by Akaashi whose stamina training was showing. With a shout and a leap, Bokuto crossed the line, hands thrown up in the air and you waved your tissue in the air, grinning almost as big as he was. Kuroo and Akaashi crossed the imagined line at about the same time, both of them stopping to catch their breath, Akaashi leaning his hands on his knees and Kuroo going as far as to sit down.

“D… damn…” Kuroo whispered as he leaned is head back, tilting it so he could watch you and your boyfriends who were celebrating as if they just gotten into Japans national team. Bokuto had grabbed you, lifting you up and spinning around before kissing your lips. Akaashi approaching to congratulate him and got pulled into a sideway hug accompanied by a kiss to his temple from the other. Kuroo couldn’t help but smile before it hit him, where the hell had Kenma gone.

Crossing the finish line minutes after the others, Kenma arrived with an ice lolly, examining the scene and realising what had happened.

“I guess we lost the spot.” He walked up besides Kuroo, taking another lick of his ice cream as he watched your celebrations. You looked over to the Nekoma boys and watched as they started packing their things. While the whole thing had been fun, it wasn’t really your thing to not at least try to compromise. Walking up to them, you smiled and put your hands behind you back.

“Hey, you guy’s don’t actually have to leave”

It wasn’t actually too hard to get everything to work. Since there were now four people wanting to play volleyball, or at least Kenma agreed to play for a bit, they spent majority of the time going at it in the sun. And you enjoyed your time watching them between reading the pages of your book. You had enjoyed your time regardless but seeing your two favourite men, shirtless and shining with sweat in the sun, their muscles visibly moving as they tensed and relaxed. Yeah, you’d enjoy your time but this was way better.

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glassworkspiderlilies · 5 years ago

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got me good vibes thank god i ain’t driving

Fire Emblem Three Houses | Dimitri/f!Byleth | AO3 Summary: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd goes grocery shopping at 3:30AM and meets an enigmatic girl in the dairy aisle. It goes from there. (Or, something-of-a-college-cryptid Byleth comes and goes as she pleases and befriends the Blaiddyd heir. Or he befriends her. In any case, it's an interesting semester.) Notes: Stress relief fic of no real discernible plot; best described with “head empty, just typing”. I’m serious, please do not think too hard while reading, I got nothing LOL. On the other hand, I had a lot of fun. Approximately (and absurdly) 10k words; more notes on AO3.

“Hey, Dimitri. One of those nights, huh?”

“Yes. Want a Mad Bull?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

It’s 3:30AM, and Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is grocery shopping. The cashier on graveyard shift is well-acquainted with him now, at least on a surface level, as one becomes when you’re (usually) the only two people in the store at an ungodly hour. Dimitri buys him energy drinks sometimes. The cashier slips him extra coupons if he’s got them.

A combination of insomnia and nightmares keeps Dimitri up a lot, and while he can mostly regulate the insomnia, some nights are just particularly bad. Alternatively, if he is asleep but wakes up at any point, it’s too difficult for him to fall asleep again, so he may as well get up.

It’s not the worst, since he’s used to it by now, and at university. There are things enough that he can do during these witching hours, grocery shopping at the 24-hour supermarket being one of them.

On the rare occasion there are other people in and out of the place, but Dimitri only sees them from a distance as they go about their own shopping. At this time, everyone’s minding their own business for one reason or another.

That’s why it’s a surprise when he turns into the dairy aisle to see a young woman standing in front of the cheeses. She’s wearing a soft gray hoodie with pink striping on the cuffs and hem, her hands in her pockets and the hood covering her hair, dark jeans, and knee-high boots. Despite the more casual style, it strikes Dimitri as somehow a little dressy, though Sylvain would snort and say he’d be one to talk. (Dimitri can’t help it. It’s how he was raised; he feels most comfortable in button-downs and crisp jackets. His most casual is a neat sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, like now. And anyway, Sylvain seemed to have fun enough choosing things to add to Dimitri’s wardrobe. At this point, all of Dimitri’s friends borrowed his clothes if they fit—even Felix, who always did so without asking, and sometimes Dimitri never even knew.)

The girl doesn’t even turn despite the sound of Dimitri’s cart, and he thinks that he’ll wait politely for her to finish her selection before making his, pretending to look at the nearest shelf. But she stands there for a few minutes too long without moving, and so after some deliberation and hesitation, Dimitri decides to approach. It’s his last aisle, and he more or less knows what he wants, so he’ll be quick and out of here.

She doesn’t move even as he comes to stand next to her, and he murmurs “excuse me” as he looms a little over her to reach for a block of Gautier cheese. An unfortunate yet unavoidable action based on positioning, because she is spectacularly dead center of the things he wants, and she still doesn’t move despite the proximity.

Dimitri glances at her, wondering if she’s okay. Her expression is totally blank; she’s either zoning out or focusing extremely hard.

Well. It’s pretty late—or early—after all.

He reaches for a second block and puts the two into his cart, stepping away from the girl to turn his attention to the yogurts that he gets for Sylvain on the next section over. He takes two of the mixed berry ones first before debating over the others.

“Plain or spicy?”

It takes him a minute to register the voice and the words, soft and pleasantly mid-tone.

Dimitri turns to find the girl looking at him, and he thinks oh, she’s really pretty, now that he’s seen her in full view, before actually connecting the dots that she’s the one who had spoken.

“Um, spicy?” he offers, and the girl seems to think for a moment before she nods decisively.

He watches as she reaches for two blocks of artisan cheese, flecks of herbs and spices visible through the packaging—not one he’s tried before, or honestly remembered seeing here—and turns to plop them squarely in his hands, balancing them perfectly on top of the yogurt containers.

She then walks away, putting her hands back in her pockets.

“Uh?” Dimitri says belatedly, looking between the girl’s retreating figure and the cheese.

Am I supposed to buy these for her? He wonders, as he puts everything in his hands in his cart. He grabs a six-pack variety of yogurt before rushing after her, but she’s gone by the time he makes it to the registers.

“All set?” the cashier yawns, and Dimitri blinks at him.

“Wasn’t there a girl just now? In a gray hoodie?” Dimitri asks, laying down his purchases.

“Hm? Oh yeah, she walked out without buying anything,” the cashier says, starting to scan the items, “People just come in here to kill time sometimes.”

“Oh,” Dimitri says, looking towards the doors.

He completes his transaction, leaving the Mad Bull for the cashier, who waves his hand gratefully, and makes his way back to his car. The girl is still nowhere in sight; Dimitri realizes he wishes that she were.

He loads his groceries into his trunk and drives back to the dorms.

By the time he finishes finding space in the fridge for everything, it’s a little past 4AM. In about an hour and a half, Ingrid will be up for her morning run, and she always welcomes company. Dimitri shoots her a text for when she wakes up; he’ll pick up coffee and pastries for them too.

For now, he might as well work on his upcoming paper a little more.

“So, what’s with the special cheese in the fridge?” Sylvain asks later that day, when their childhood quartet all meet up for lunch.

“Oh,” Dimitri says, remembering. “That. Um…there was a girl in the supermarket who just kind of…had me buy them?”

Sylvain, Felix, and Ingrid blink at him.

“What do you mean, ‘had you buy them’?” Felix says.

Dimitri recounts the whole experience.

“And you bought them,” Felix says, with his brows furrowed, his eyes and tone clearly conveying what the hell, that was so stupid.

Dimitri just shrugs.

“We should eat it later,” Ingrid says, biting into her burger, and Sylvain laughs.

“Yeah, leave it to Ingrid,” he says. “But we should. To commemorate Dimitri’s weird 3AM experience.”

Sylvain makes a big deal of it when they do eat the cheese later, when their classes have ended for the day and they’re back in their suite. He puts the crackers on a plate and tries to cut the cheese into fancy shapes, which only Dimitri actually appreciates.

“Oooh, spicy,” Ingrid says, as she pops a cube into her mouth. “Hey, this is really good!”

Felix says nothing, but reaches for more. Sylvain laments about the lack of appreciation for his artistic attempts, but also agrees that the cheese is great when he finally eats a piece himself.

Dimitri, as always, cannot really taste the flavor, but he likes both the scent and the texture, at least.

“So Dimitri finally meets a girl, we get a brand new cheese, what else is next?” Sylvain says, leaning back on the sofa.

“It wasn’t like that,” Dimitri protests, then pauses. “But she was very pretty,” he admits quietly, and Sylvain grins. “Like a goddess,” he adds, even quieter.

Sylvain smacks his own face in secondhand embarrassment.

“There, you see? It’s Dimitri’s romantic awakening.”

“Hardly matters unless he gets to see her again,” Felix says lazily, and Sylvain is the one that makes a wounded noise.

Dimitri, on the other hand, merely looks thoughtful. He hadn’t actively thought about wanting to see her again until Felix brought it up. But he thinks he might like to, if the chance presented itself.

“It’s the awakening,” Sylvain whisper-hisses, and no one seems to care.

“Stranger things have happened,” Ingrid says, in response to Felix’s statement and not Sylvain’s, “In any case, you should get this again.”

She tries to eat the rest. Felix fights her for it.

(When Dimitri goes shopping again two weeks later, he can’t find the cheese anywhere. Ingrid looks let down, Sylvain looks surprised, and Felix looks offended.

“What the fuck? Go find your 3AM cheese goddess again and ask her,” Felix says, and Sylvain laughs a little too hard.)

Dimitri’s not sure why he allows himself to be dragged to parties, but he keeps letting it happen. Ingrid had brought them news that Dorothea was throwing her beginning-of-semester bash, which was always a Big Deal, and several of their mutual friends were going. Ingrid couldn’t not attend, because she was good friends with Dorothea. Sylvain was absolutely going, because he would never miss a party. Felix had not wanted to go, but Sylvain had somehow convinced him, and if Felix was going to suffer, then Dimitri better damn well suffer too, and so he relented from the combined pressure of Felix’s glare and Sylvain’s coaxing.

He supposed he could use the change of pace every now and then. And he could always slip away; people were usually too drunk to notice after a couple hours.

Sylvain borrows a shirt from Dimitri’s closet and wears it with three buttons undone. Felix steals a black jacket from Dimitri’s closet and wears it halfway down his arms. Ingrid does not take anything from his closet this time, but does borrow one of his hair ties.

Everyone tells Dimitri to change when he comes out of his room; Sylvain, as usual, takes control to make Dimitri more “party ready”, which consists of a long blue coat and off-white shirt—with several buttons undone, of course. (Dimitri buttons at least two up again later.)

The party is loud and raucous as it’s meant to be, but he’s amongst mostly friends, and so he’s actually not that anxious. There’s a few people he doesn’t know, but he is otherwise at least mostly familiar with everyone else. Annette bounces up and down when she sees them walk in, tapping Mercedes on the shoulder, who was conversing with Ashe. Dedue appears a moment later, and Dimitri’s main friend group is all here.

“Yay! I’m glad you made it too, Dimitri,” Annette says cheerfully. “Gosh—frowning already, Felix? Here, have a drink.”

Annette proffers her own cup.

“You already drank out of this,” Felix scowls, but he takes it anyway, and grimaces when he takes a sip. “What is this, fruit juice?”

“Felix is too good for Noa liquer,” Annette declares, turning her nose up, “Fine, go get yourself a beer or whatever!”

Felix teases her by holding her cup too high to reach, and she screeches at him until he finally puts it back in her hands. Mercedes chuckles as she watches them, and Sylvain takes the opportunity to compliment her dress with a roguish wink. She returns the compliment easily enough, with genuine warmth, which always throws Sylvain off.

“Dedue! I was surprised to hear you were coming,” Dimitri smiles, and Dedue smiles back.

“Dorothea asked if Ashe and I could make a few things,” he said. “Since I am here, I may as well make sure nobody gets in too much trouble.”

Dimitri chuckles.

“Oooh, Dedue, Ashe, you made food?” Ingrid chimes in, looking excited. While some things had obviously been bought, Dorothea was pretty picky about the specifics of her parties when she threw one. “I’m excited!”

“We did a really good job, if I say so myself,” Ashe smiles. “The meat skewers came out really well, so you and Felix should grab some while you get a chance.”

“Oh, you bet I will,” Ingrid says, already wandering away. “Hear that Felix? I’m not saving you any!”

Felix yells back, and in a second they all start wading deeper into the place, and everyone starts to branch off on their own. Dedue still mostly sticks with Dimitri, though, and the two of them stick to the peripheries.

Dorothea’s parties really span the entire apartment building; her neighbors across the way and downstairs are either friends or people she’s friendly with, so the doors to their apartments are also open for more space. If Dimitri thinks about it, it’s really nice, the way everything comes together.

As the night wears on and he’s consumed a couple drinks that Mercedes had kindly procured for him (with a reminder to drink slow), he begins feeling—looser, braver, almost a little giddy. Dedue is in conversation with Ashe, and Dimitri slips away to the kitchen for a moment, because there had been an extra dish of saghert and cream that he now wants in a very visceral way.

The kitchen is surprisingly empty—except for one person, who has climbed up on the counter, and is perched on her knees as she rifles through the topmost cabinet. The slit up the side of her skirt shows a generous bit of leg with the way she’s positioned, and Dimitri stares before he tells himself not to. The girl takes out two bags of—some kind of snack, and when she turns her head, Dimitri sees that she is holding another bag with her teeth, and also that he recognizes her.

“From the dairy aisle,” he blurts, and she blinks at him before trying to climb off the counter.

She teeters a little and Dimitri automatically moves to help her, in which he actually just lifts her off the counter by the armpits like a wayward cat.

“Oh—sorry,” he says, realizing that the action was way too familiar for someone who barely qualified as an acquaintance.

But she doesn’t look at all offended, and merely sets all three bags of chips down before she speaks.

“Thanks,” she says, then stares at him. “From the dairy aisle,” she states, in a manner that is confirming that yes, that is where they met.

A pause. She is so, so pretty, Dimitri thinks. There is sparkly gold eyeshadow brightening her already-bright green eyes, making her stare more intense. The more they’re at a standstill, the more nervous he becomes.

“I couldn’t find the cheese again,” he blurts.

She nods.

“It’s only stocked the fourth Tuesday of the month,” she says, ripping open a bag of chips, and taking a few to cram in her mouth before offering them to Dimitri.

“Oh,” he says, taking a chip. “It was very good. My friends liked it a lot too.”

She stares for a moment again, then offers him a tiny smile, a brief upturn of her lips. She had expected him to, he realizes, and she’s at least minutely pleased to have that expectation fulfilled. A short laugh escapes him at how odd this all is.

“You didn’t buy anything that night,” he says, though it comes out as a question.

She shrugs.

“I was just there,” she says, offering the chip bag again.

“Just there,” he repeats, taking more chips. At 3:30AM. “To…hang out?”

She gives a brief shake of her head.

“To stare at a specifically stocked cheese, only to give them to a stranger to buy?” Dimitri tries again.

She blinks at him, popping more chips in her mouth.

“Not a stranger,” she says, after she finishes chewing.

“Pardon? Forgive me, I don’t…recall us meeting before that night?” he says. He would have remembered someone like her, he’d think.

“You’re Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd,” she says, and he blinks at her use of his full name. Her eyes crease in amusement at his expression. “Not a stranger to me.”

Ah.

“But you are a stranger to me,” he says, and she shrugs again, as if saying it’s not like it’s something he could help.

“Byleth,” she offers, putting the open bag of chips in his hands, and opening up another one. (He looks at the labeling on the front. Beast meat and onion flavor. Huh.) “Want to go on an adventure, Dimitri?”

He looks back at her, mouth slightly open. She continues to stare at him, munching away from the other bag of chips, waiting for his response.

“Okay,” he says.

She nods, then rinses her fingers at the sink before motioning for him to follow with her head. She takes the two bags of chips with her as she walks out of the kitchen.

She navigates the crowd until she finds a group of three, all dressed looking as if they could kill, dumping the chip bags into the hands of a redhead.

“Hm? Chatterbox, where did you find these?” the girl says, reading the unusual flavors.

“Kitchen cabinet,” Byleth says, and the girl shoots her a half-exasperated look, but questions no further.

She hands one of them to the girl with blonde curls beside her, and Dimitri proffers the third bag as well, which the redhead also takes with a curious glance at him. Byleth makes to leave, but the boy with lavender hair and sparkly eyeshadow—the same that glints on Byleth’s eyelids, he realizes—stops her.

“Whoa, hold on there, friend! Not so much an introduction?”

“You know him already,” Byleth says, and the boy frowns at her.

“Yuri Leclerc,” he says, turning to Dimitri.

“Name’s Hapi,” the redhead pipes up, still looking at the chips.

“And I am Constance von Nuvelle,” the blonde says, tilting up her chin with a haughty smile.

“Dimitri,” he says, a little shyly, since they already know him. “A pleasure.”

“I’m sure,” Yuri says, with a nod of his head, before glancing back at Byleth. “Are you leaving already? And kidnapping the Blaiddyd Heir?”

“Yes,” Byleth says.

A pause.

“Well, carry on then,” Yuri says with a shrug. “Want a drink before you go?”

“Yes,” Byleth says.

They wait as Yuri makes his way to the counter full of bottles a little ways away, watching as he makes a cocktail in a shaker with professional ease. He strains the drink into three cups, carrying all of them back, and Byleth and Dimitri take one each.

“You get what I’m drinking,” Yuri says, eyes wicked, and does not offer up what it is. Dimitri sips, and by the way it burns, he can tell it’s strong. Yuri looks faintly impressed with Dimitri’s lack of reaction beyond a few rapid blinks. “I’ll tell the Heir’s friends where he went, if I see them asking.”

“Thank you,” Dimitri says, realizing that he doesn’t know where any of them are at the moment.

Byleth merely nods, and motions for Dimitri to follow again.

The night air is refreshing, and Dimitri feels pleasantly floaty as he trails after his new friend. They round the Black Eagle complex and head into the dark woods behind; he doesn’t know where they’re going and feels like he shouldn’t ask; he has an idle thought that he should text one of his friends to let them know, but Byleth looks back at him to make sure he’s following and he can only think about how pretty she is. He smiles at her, and she tilts her head before reaching for his hand.

“Hand,” Dimitri says, looking down at them.

“Hand,” Byleth agrees. “The ground is uneven here.”

He looks a little longer and then swings them a little. Byleth looks amused.

He enjoys the silent companionship between them for a little while but quickly becomes curious, so he begins asking her questions. What year was she? A senior. Where did she live on campus? In Abyss, at the Ashen Wolf dorm. Her major? More or less the teaching program, with a focus on weapons and tactics. Technically it was something of a double major, paired with history and international studies. It was complicated. Her weapon concentrations? This year, faith and reason magic. She’d already passed for swords, brawling, and bows.

He stares at her open-mouthed as she answers his questions with easy patience.

“That’s…quite the curriculum,” he says slowly, “When do you sleep?”

She glances at him.

“I manage,” she says, “I could say the same for you.”

He pauses, looking up at the sky as he collects his thoughts, sipping at his drink absentmindedly. She must already know what his curriculum more or less was—the three heirs apparent of Adrestia, Faerghus, and Leicester attending the same school the same year had been quite the news, and though their ideas of management differed, they did also overlap in areas. A handful of their core classes were inevitably the same before they branched off into their own areas of interest. But in any case, all of them were double-majoring with incredibly heavy courseloads to help prepare for their futures.

“It’s just insomnia,” Dimitri says instead.

“Ah,” she says, nodding. “So, 3AM grocery shopping.”

“So 3AM grocery shopping,” he agrees.

He’s not sure how long they’ve been walking, but even if it’s been a long time, he finds this all terribly pleasant. A distant part of him is aware that he would not be this at ease had it not been for the drinks he’s had tonight. Alcohol is wonderful.

Byleth pushes through some branches, and they walk into a clearing, and Dimitri looks up at an enormous tree, his mouth open.

“Ta-da,” Byleth says, though her inflection doesn’t change, “Biggest tree on campus. Good place to sleep under.”

“Now?” Dimitri says, with some alarm.

“You could camp if you wanted to. But in the daytime,” Byleth tells him, drinking from her cup. “Try it sometime.”

He blinks at her, unsure if this is just a general suggestion or specifically geared advice.

“Not sure I could find it again,” he says, because he doesn’t recall the path they took at all, too distracted by other things. Also, despite the moon, it had been quite the dark trek.

“I’ll bring you,” she says simply.

They go closer to the tree, and Byleth reaches up to one of the lowest branches and snaps off two thin stalks of leaves, inspecting them before nodding.

“Okay, let’s go back.”

“Oh,” Dimitri says, a little dumbfounded, “Okay.”

They make their way back. Along the way, Dimitri finishes his drink, Byleth stumbles over a tree root (her shoes are heeled, he realizes just now, how did she trek all the way in those?), and Dimitri somewhat insistently offers her a piggy back ride. She accepts, loosely wrapping her arms around his neck with both of their empty cups stacked in one hand, and Dimitri feels just a little giddy. He wants to run. (He tells himself not to.)

“You know,” she says after a while, resting her chin on his shoulder, “You shouldn’t follow strangers into dark and unknown places.”

“Not a stranger,” Dimitri says, feeling exceedingly proud of himself for the response.

He feels rather than sees her smile, and is disappointed he can’t see it. When they make it to Dorothea’s, Sylvain and Felix are outside, and the former hollers when he sees him.

“You stupid boar, why the hell didn’t you pick up your phone?!” Felix hisses when they near, and Dimitri’s eyes widen.

Byleth hops off of his back (and Sylvain stares), and Dimitri pulls his phone out of his pocket to see six notifications of missed calls and texts.

“It was on silent,” Dimitri says apologetically, and Felix huffs. “Sorry.”

“Aw, no harm no foul,” Sylvain says, “Dimitri was just occupied, huh?”

“I kidnapped him,” Byleth says, throwing the two empty cups into a nearby trash can.

“We had an adventure,” Dimitri says, enthusiastically.

“Did you now,” Sylvain says, looking at Byleth, who merely stares back and adjusts her posture like a challenge. It only serves to make Sylvain more intrigued.

“This is Byleth,” Dimitri says, “From the dairy aisle!”

“Oh, the 3AM cheese goddess?” Sylvain says with a laugh, and Felix flushes at the stupid moniker as Byleth blinks in surprise.

“Yes,” Dimitri nods, “She says it’s only stocked…uh…”

“The fourth Tuesday of the month,” she supplies.

“What the fuck?” Felix says incredulously.

She shrugs. A chime goes off, and this time Byleth reaches into her bra to pull out her phone. All three boys stare at her.

“Gotta go,” she says, tapping out a quick reply. “Balthus is fighting someone.”

“Ah,” Dimitri says, wilting, his eyes and countenance like a sad puppy.

“You’ll see me around,” Byleth tells him with a faint smile, and disappears back into the apartment.

“He’s smitten,” Sylvain whispers to Felix, watching Dimitri stare after her.

“Disgusting,” Felix says back, scowling. “He’s also drunk. Did she say there was a fight?”

They head back in to find the rest of their friends to assure them that Dimitri is alive. There is indeed a fight, but a result of two very brawny guys—one presumably Balthus, the other Raphael—testing their abilities against each other. Dorothea is yelling, trying to get them to take it outside before they break things in her apartment and someone else gets hurt, to no avail.

Dimitri catches Yuri’s eye from across the crowd, who grins and waves in a cheeky sort of manner, pointing back to the ring. Byleth then appears, sliding her way in between them with impeccable timing and launching her own surprise attack. She punches the one with wild dark hair in the gut, then grabs him by the wrist and throws him to the floor. The apartment erupts in cheers.

“Aw, what the hell, Byleth!” Balthus yells, sitting up.

“Didn’t you hear the lady?” she says to both him and Raphael, who is also cheering, “Outside.”

“You deserved that, B,” Hapi chimes in, “You started it.”

“Alright, alright,” Balthus groans. “Round two outside, then!”

Sylvain elbows Felix, and they both look at Dimitri.

“Smitten,” Sylvain says.

“Disgusting,” Felix says, with feeling.

(Alcohol is terrible, Dimitri decides the next morning, when he wakes up with a massive hangover. He ventures out of his room and all three of his childhood friends—who are somehow already up, how was that possible?—stare at him in one coordinated movement to incredibly eerie effect. They also look how he feels.

“We’ve got the hangover cures,” Ingrid says, placing a plate of greasy breakfast food down as Sylvain holds up the full coffeepot and Felix rattles their mega-size bottle of aspirin. “So spill about what the hell happened last night.”

Dimitri demurs momentarily to brush his teeth and wash his face. After, he sits down at their common table, accepts a cup of coffee, and dutifully spills.)

It’s two weeks before he sees Byleth again, having not being able to catch a glimpse of her anywhere. Garreg Mach was a big university, and he hadn’t recognized her from campus previously, but…now that he was looking, he’d kind of expected to at least see her on occasion from a distance.

It’s another late-night chore night, and it’s about 1AM when he hauls his basket of dirty clothes to the laundry room. He expects the potential of others doing their laundry since the hour isn’t that late, but when he pushes through the doors he does not expect to see Byleth sitting on top of one of the washing machines, legs drawn up, a hardcover book perched on her lap.

She holds up a hand in greeting, as if she had been waiting for him to walk through the door.

“Hello,” Dimitri returns, blinking a few times, disoriented.

One, her legs are distracting him, because they are so bare and it doesn’t look like she’s wearing pants. Two, while she isn’t disallowed here to do laundry, this is the Blue Lion dorm. She lives in the Ashen Wolf dorm, which is oddly isolated from every other housing, so there is absolutely no reason for her to be doing laundry here, at a location of total inconvenience, at 1AM.

“What are you doing here?” he ventures, walking over and setting down his basket in front of the empty one next to her.

Byleth lets her legs down so they dangle over the side of the washing machine, just over her sandals. She is wearing pants, he sees—or shorts, rather. They’re just…very short, and her oversized sweatshirt nearly covers them. She looks comfy, at least.

“Reading,” Byleth responds, holding up the book, A Treatise on Srengian Weaponcraft.

“You’re studying—here?” Dimitri asks incredulously.

Byleth shrugs.

“Good of a place as any,” she says.

“I...guess it could be,” Dimitri relents.

It’s not busy at this time, and the machines are top-notch, so the noise they produce could be acceptable enough ambience. He stares at her a minute before he moves on to load his clothes into the machine, carefully measuring out the detergent and pressing his desired settings. Byleth watches him, and when the immediate task is completed, Dimitri nervously faces her.

“I um…I’m sorry for my behavior at the party,” he says, trying not to wring his hands as he thinks about the piggyback ride. “My actions were—overfamiliar.”

“On the contrary,” Byleth counters easily, “You helped me out.”

He brightens a little at that, and she tilts her head at him. After a moment she smiles a little, and Dimitri feels his heart skip a beat.

“How was the morning after?” she asks, and Dimitri coughs at the wording.

“Not ideal,” he admits, rubbing the max of his neck. “My tolerance is not very high. But I recovered.”

“I’ll note that,” she says, with a nod. “Yuri hits hard with his drinks. You took it well, considering.”

He debates whether to bring up his lack of taste, but decides against it. That conversation always goes one way, and he doesn’t want to bring up past tragedies and traumas, right now.

“You were okay?” he asks instead, and she gives him an amused look.

“High tolerance,” she says. “Father’s side.”

“Ah,” Dimitri nods. Not that he knows her very well, but she hadn’t seemed drunk at all—though by the time he’d run into her in the kitchen he wasn’t confident in his own observational accuracy. He doesn’t know where to go from here, and his eyes fall on her book. “So…Srengian weaponry?” he tries, and winces at the awkwardness of the delivery.

But Byleth nods.

“Known for their maces,” she says absently, cracking the text open again, “But their other weapons have some good durability.” She pauses, looking at him. “Might be a worthwhile investment.”

He blinks. The Blaiddyd line is well-known for their greater-than-average strength, and Dimitri is no exception. Still, he hates how easily things break in his hands; even iron and steel can shatter in his grip if he’s startled. But Byleth offers this suggestion so matter-of-factly, as if she were recommending a flavor of ice cream or color of shirt, that he can’t even be embarrassed about it.

“It might be,” Dimitri says eventually. “I’ll look into it. Sylvain has contacts in Sreng.”

“So do I, if you need another,” Byleth says, and Dimitri blinks at her again.

Sreng’s clan politics are notoriously turbulent, and Sylvain only had actual contacts because he had been trying to improve relations as the next head of House Gautier, whose lands bordered Sreng. Otherwise, Sreng wasn’t usually a place people had, or could get, contacts in.

“You…have contacts in Sreng?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“My father used to be a mercenary before a bodyguard,” Byleth says absently, “So I grew up as one, too. We used to travel a lot.”

There’s more to it, Dimitri can tell, but he doesn’t push, purely because he doesn’t know what, exactly, to ask.

“There more I learn about you, the less I seem to know,” he says with a wry smile after a minute.

She stares at him.

“And to me, you feel familiar,” she murmurs.

His eyes widen.

“Oh,” he says.

“Oh,” she agrees.

There’s silence.

“I only ever seem to meet you unexpectedly,” he ventures, after a long while. The washer beeps, the lock to the door releasing. He goes to open it.

“I’m not a ghost,” Byleth says, watching as he takes out his damp clothes and begins moving them to the dryer.

“That’s relieving,” he smiles. “I also only ever seem to see you at night.”

She only smiles faintly at that.

“Let’s spar,” she says.

“Wha—now?”

“No, tomorrow,” she says. “During the day.”

He’s not entirely sure what brought this on, but he does think he’d like very much to see her fight.

“After one o’clock?” He asks, wracking his brain for his schedule, and she considers it for a moment before nodding and hopping off of the washing machine.

She slides her feet back into her sandals ad begins walking away. Dimitri panics for a moment, because they haven’t hashed out any details.

“Wait! How will we—?”

“I’ll make myself visible,” Byleth says, already halfway out the door as she peeks back, “You won’t miss me.”

And then she’s gone. Dimitri shakes his head as he finishes moving the rest of his laundry. Once he straightens back up, he realizes she’s left her book.

A tether, he thinks.

After a moment, as he waits for his clothes to dry, he picks it up and cracks it open.

A good of a place to read as any.

He tries to not tell his friends after lunch where he’s going (and technically, he doesn’t even know), but his antsiness is apparent, so his secret-keeping fails spectacularly. Sylvain and Ingrid tag team him, and he gives Ingrid a betrayed look.

“Fellas, do we think it’s a date?” Sylvain asks, holding out his hands as if he’s addressing a council.

“It’s sparring,” Ingrid says, “Not a date.”

“Could be a date,” Felix says.

“Only you would consider that a date,” Sylvain laments.

Felix shoves him. Dimitri hurries along, trying to leave them behind in the cafeteria to no avail. He really wishes he had been more insistent on details last night, because in a few moments, he’ll be at a loss of where he should be heading.

It’s a needless worry, because as he walks out, he is reminded of Byleth’s words. In the distance, where the space opens up and there are benches situated along walkways, an enormous amount of birds are flocking.

“Oh,” Dimitri says, and when his friends catch up behind him, they also stare.

“What the hell is that?” Felix says, and Dimitri picks his way towards the mass.

“Byleth, I think,” Dimitri answers faintly. “She said I wouldn’t miss her.”

When they near the birds scatter in one movement, though some brave ones flutter back. Byleth is indeed revealed to have been in the middle—and cause—of that, a bag of birdseed mostly empty in her hands. She nods her head in greeting as Sylvain starts laughing.

“Hello,” Ingrid says, whacking Sylvain once, but he doesn’t stop and doubles over instead, “I think I missed out on meeting you properly at Dorothea’s. I’m Ingrid.”

She holds out her hand, and Byleth says her name in return as she shakes it.

“I want in on the spar,” Felix says, and Sylvain wheezes, his laughter abruptly cut off by Felix’s self-imposed third-wheeling status of this potential date.

“Okay,” Byleth says without hesitation, and Ingrid and Sylvain sigh. Not a date.

Dimitri isn’t offended, mostly intrigued. Byleth stands, brushing feathers and seeds off of her lap, and sets off in the direction of the gyms and training halls. The others follow, Ingrid and Sylvain too interested to stay behind.

Dimitri had brought a change of clothes, but it becomes evident that Byleth intends to fight in her jeans and nice blouse and heeled boots, so he doesn’t end up changing. There’s no conversation, though Sylvain fills the silence with chatter anyway, as if this is a routine they know well.

Byleth picks up a practice sword and Felix’s eyes gleam; Dimitri picks up a practice lance, handling it with a light touch.

“Best two out of three,” Byleth says, and Dimitri nods.

She lets him take first hit, the two of them warming up as they trade easy blows. She’s quick, but so is Dimitri despite his size. He does well enough at keeping her at a distance, but he misreads her intention and she lunges in close, tapping her blade against his ribs.

“Point!” Sylvain calls excitedly.

“No need to go easy,” she says, “For lances, the moment the distance closes, you have to be quick and readjust, or it’s over.”

“Yes, Professor,” Dimitri says, the title slipping out. “Ah—”

Byleth gives him an amused look but doesn’t comment, getting back into position.

They go again. Dimitri throws away some of his reservations but still not entirely, and she lands the second round too.

“Harder,” she says, and Sylvain whistles as Dimitri flushes.

“I’m concerned about my strength,” he admits, examining the practice lance. Breakage of the practice equipment itself is no matter, but it’s the ensuing issues that can arise.

“Mercenary training, remember,” Byleth says, and though they don’t see it, Felix, Sylvain, and Ingrid’s eyebrows rise.

Dimitri frowns, but takes a deep breath, and trusts her.

He whirls. Byleth’s reflexes are excellent and she dodges fairly easily, tracking his moments with an even sharper gaze than before. He doesn’t like fighting, but he’s been trained since he was a child; it wasn’t necessary in this day and age to know how to—it was more common to just hire protection detail against demonic or wild beasts, or other enemies—but those descended from the old noble bloodlines especially still held onto tradition, whether as a hobby or actual self-protection. Even so, he can tell the difference between them; she’s seen real battle, and though he has too, not in the same capacity. The way she strategizes and reads his movements in a split second is incredible.

The cracks from their clashing practice blades are louder, and Dimitri registers that his will shatter soon. It’s hard to control his strength when the fight is so exhilarating. He goes for it anyway, jumping back from her slash and spinning his lance in his hands rapidly; Byleth’s eyes narrow, and he lunges.

He just barely sees her move, her timing is impeccable—she jumps, stomping the tip of the lance into the ground before stepping forward and snapping his lance at its weakest point. As her foot hits the ground, she crouches low and sweeps his legs out from under him.

When he opens his eyes, she has her sword under his chin.

“A good move,” she says, “But it’s going to take more than that to catch me.”

She’s not even saying it flirtatiously. She does, however, smile at little at him before offering a hand up, and Dimitri thinks he might be in love.

“Oh, he’s done for,” Sylvain says under his breath.

“He doesn’t deserve her,” Felix scoffs, his tone almost bored, but his eyes are bright at the display of Byleth’s skill.

Ingrid doesn’t say anything, and when the two boys turn to her, having expected her to respond, they see her typing furiously on her phone.

“Traitor,” Felix says, clicking his tongue.

“Just doing my duty,” Ingrid replies solemnly.

(Felix also loses all three bouts against Byleth, though he comes close the third time. Afterwards, they all end up training together, and even Sylvain puts his mind to it after Ingrid drags him onto the field.

“We’re getting milkshakes,” Ingrid declares, after they wrap up.

She’s sitting on the ground while Sylvain is lying flat on his back. Felix and Dimitri are less expressive, but they too look worn. Byleth is unreadable, but she does, at least, look a little winded. She offers a hand to Ingrid, while Felix rolls his eyes and pulls Sylvain up after he complains.

“Dimitri’s buying yours, Byleth,” Ingrid says, and the two in question look surprised.

“Oh,” Byleth says, “I—”

“Allow me,” Dimitri smiles.

Byleth blinks at him.

“Okay,” she says. “Thank you.”

Felix and Sylvain look at Ingrid, who looks smug.

“I’ll buy yours, Ingrid,” Sylvain says, with a discreet salute.

“I’m buying my own,” Felix tells them.

They all fall into step. Byleth politely listens to them squabble all the way to the shop.)

Byleth comes and goes when she wants to, like a cat or a ghost.

On a few occasions she shows up during their group lunches, stealing fries or other sides off of someone’s plate (mostly Dimitri’s), staying only to chat for a few minutes before she is off again. Sometimes she is in the company of her friends—the ones Dimitri met at Dorothea’s party (who he learns are also her suitemates) or Linhardt von Hevring, who seems to be either half-asleep or hyperfocused on his thesis project. Dimitri actually does see her around campus sometimes now, but he does see her friends more than he does her.

“Dunno what to say about that,” Yuri tells him, when he and Dimitri cross paths and are walking the same way to their next classes, “Half the time she’s not in her room and none of us know where she is. She’s always been like that. That’s just Byleth.”

“You’ve known her long?” Dimitri queries.

“Maybe around—five, six years? Constance, Hapi, Balthus, and I banded together after some…unfortunate circumstances. Byleth helped us out of a tight spot during our last year of high school. Stuck with her ever since.”

“I see,” Dimitri says, and Yuri glances at him.

“You’re not bad, Princeling,” Yuri says after a moment. Most people want to pry into the “unfortunate circumstances” and “tight spot” that he spoke of, and Yuri feels more inclined towards Dimitri for not doing so.

Dimitri winces instead.

“It’s just…”

He trails off. Yuri can guess why.

“Ohh. Yeah, okay. I get it.”

Dimitri blinks at him in surprise.

“You do?”

Yuri doesn’t answer that. There’s little he doesn’t know about the people on campus; the Blaiddyd Heir didn’t question Yuri, so Yuri will not question him in turn.

“Byleth’s Byleth,” he says instead, “Count yourself lucky that she makes a point to find you.”

With that, Yuri nods his head and turns into his classroom. Dimitri stands there, mulling over Yuri’s words, before he realizes that he’s running late and dashes to his own class.

There’s a small park nearby that Dimitri goes to as well during the nights he can’t sleep. All it has is a couple of benches and a swingset and a basketball court; a surprising number of people use both during the day, but unsurprisingly, no one’s there at night.

Except Byleth. Dimitri is no longer startled when he comes across her, even though her presence is always more unexpected than not. She’s swinging on the swings, kicking up woodchips as she drags her feet.

“Hi,” Dimitri says, walking closer. “Need a push?”

She nods, and he helps her swing higher. Pretty quickly the height she reaches seems dangerous, but she just calls “higher” and so he keeps pushing, until it seems like she is going to go over the whole set.

“Um,” Dimitri says, pushing her once more, and she glances at him as she surges up.

As she glides forward and reaches the highest point—she jumps.

Dimitri yells, startled, but she soars through the air, serene and graceful with her arms outstretched, hair spreading out behind her. She nails the landing a ways away, and when she turns back to him, she has a faint smile curving her lips, looking—exhilarated.

“You scared me,” Dimitri says, holding a hand over his rapidly beating heart.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, as she walks back to him. “Again?”

He frowns at her. She tilts her head. Something about the way she went through the air—he can’t place that brand of fear. He gives himself a shake, forces a weak smile onto his face.

“Okay,” he says, and she blinks at him a few times before seating herself back on the swing.

She jumps three more times before she’s satisfied, then offers to push him if he wants a turn, or four. He politely declines, but sits on the other swing, and they move back and forth lazily.

“Drink for your thoughts?” she asks after a while, and rummages through her bag that he didn’t see earlier, pulling out a glass water bottle.

Dimitri debates, taking the bottle warily.

“Did Yuri make this?” he asks, shaking it a little, and Byleth smiles at him.

“Constance did,” she says. “It’s pleasant.”

It smells fruity when he opens the top, so he takes her word for it. It goes down easily and doesn’t burn at all, so he assumes (hopes) it’s of the weaker alcohol content variety as well.

“Do you…know what you’re going to do after you graduate?” he asks hesitantly, passing the drink back to her.

Once the question is out, he realizes the truth of it—Byleth will be graduating at the end of this year. The fact saddens him more strongly than he would have thought.

She’s silent for a while, sipping twice from her bottle.

“Yes and no,” she says finally. Opens her mouth as if to speak again, closes it. Turns to him. “You’re thinking about your position as heir.”

“I want it,” he says automatically, then pauses to consider if that’s true. It doesn’t feel like a lie, but…“I…I have never known anything else.”

Byleth looks at him, leans forward a little so that her hair falls forward too.

“That’s okay too,” she says, “To want—or to be okay with—what others want of you, until you don’t.”

He looks back at her.

“How will I know if I don’t?” he asks.

“You’ll know. Or…your friends will be able to tell.” She pauses, swings a little. “It’s hard to say.”

“You seem to have all the answers,” he says, and she raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not sure I really gave you any,” she says.

“That helped, nonetheless,” he says, with a smile. “Thank you.”

She smiles back.

They share the drink between them until Byleth speaks again.

“I avoided your question earlier,” she says.

“Technically you answered it,” he responds, drinking again.

She snorts, and laughs a little. Dimitri feels inordinately proud of himself.

“I’m answering it again, then,” she says, though she pauses still. “I might want to be a teacher. I might want to do what my father does.” She cocks her head. “I’ve been given a lot of choices. Theoretically, I could do anything I want.” She looks at him. “I don’t know what I want.”

Dimitri pauses, holds her gaze.

“It’s okay to not want, until you do?” he tries, and she laughs again.

“Does it work like that?”

“It could,” Dimitri says. “Probably?” He pauses. “You could pick one until you don’t want it anymore.”

Byleth swings.

“It could work like that,” she says with a slight nod. She glances at him. “Thanks.”

He gives her a helpless sort of shrug, not feeling like he really gave her an answer, either. He guesses he understands how she felt just a few moments ago, then.

“Bottoms up,” she says, and drains half of the remaining liquid in the bottle, handing the rest to Dimitri to finish up.

He does so dutifully, and she puts the empty bottle back in her bag. After, she kicks off the ground, swinging higher and higher. Dimitri watches her, then gets up, walking a bit of a distance away. She watches him in turn, then flashes him a sort of sharp smile before she pumps her legs once more for momentum, then sends herself flying.

He gauges the distance, adjusting his position, then catches her as she comes hurtling down.

“Oof,” he says, as their bodies collide and he wraps his arms around her.

“Nice,” she says into his neck, then leans back to look at him.

Oh. She’s so close. His eyes widen as he stares, lips slightly parted; her expression is unreadable, but she isn’t looking away, and he can feel her breath on his skin as she tilts a little closer, his heart beating so fast he swears she must hear it—

He lets her down. His brain immediately starts screaming. Idiot idiot idiot, why did you do that, WHY DID YOU DO THAT??? WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT???

Byleth, for her part, looks unruffled and unperturbed.

“Finals are coming up,” Dimitri says, very smoothly.

She nods, walking back to the swingset to take her bag, slinging the strap over her shoulder.

“If we’re awake, we might as well study,” she says, very seriously.

He follows her out of the park, walks her back to the dorm partway.

“Good night,” she says.

“Good night,” he echoes, and he watches her walk away until he can’t see her anymore.

When she’s out of sight, he squats down and puts his head in his hands.

(He puts himself on trial tomorrow, when his friends are awake. Sylvain and Felix sit across from him, and their gazes are piercing when he recounts the previous night. Ingrid does not sit at the table because she is more inclined to be sympathetic, and moves in the background making a smoothie for herself.

Sylvain wails when Dimitri tells That Part of the story. Felix is silent, just sits there with folded arms and looks so many levels of disappointed, though it’s probably not necessarily just about this one thing.

It’s like that maybe for forty-five minutes, this whole pathetic display. Ingrid leans against the counter, drinks her smoothie, and recounts a play-by-play on her phone into one of her group chats.)

Dimitri does not see Byleth again until they are well into finals week, and he tries not to despair.

“It is finals week,” Mercedes says soothingly.

“And she’s a senior,” Annette adds. “She’s gotta be super busy!”

“Plus, you said you never know when you see her!” Ashe says helpfully, “It’s been longer before, right?”

“But,” Sylvain almost howls, pulling at his hair, “After that? AFTER THAT?”

“Sylvain!” Annette and Ashe scold, but Dimitri feels the same. He doesn’t even have the number so he can apologize, because she always appears and disappears so suddenly that it keeps slipping his mind to ask.

Felix’s frown has grown more severe. Ingrid and Dedue look at each other and back at Dimitri, and say nothing. Mercedes and Annette look at Ingrid almost pleadingly, who gives them a sheepish shrug.

“It’ll be okay, Dimitri!” Annette tries again, and he lets out a sad sort of keen.

“For now, just focus on finals,” Mercedes suggests, “And then maybe it’ll all work out afterwards?”

“It will at least be a distraction,” Dedue finally chimes in.

Dimitri says nothing. Sylvain says it all for him.

Dimitri sees Byleth’s friends around a few times, and though he knows them and they know him, he hasn’t spoken to them very much, so he feels awkward asking after Byleth. Yuri, on the other hand, he knows better, and the boy looks amused when Dimitri (hopefully) casually brings her up.

Yuri has nothing new to share though, except he does insinuate that Byleth is hard at work at finalizing her thesis paper. Dimitri calms a little at that—enough to focus better on his own work later. Yuri gives him a look and pats his shoulder lightly before walking off.

As always, when Dimitri does find Byleth, it’s unexpected.

He’s half dead after finishing his last final, one that took place in one of the more isolated buildings on campus. Pleased that he’s finally done with that, at least, he takes the scenic route back to his dorm—there’s a glass hallway that cuts through a forested area with a river, and it’s especially beautiful this time of year.

As he looks out, movement catches his eye down below, and he’s startled to see Byleth come out from under the old stone bridge and look up at him.

His heart leaps to his throat. She waves, and he waves back hesitantly, and then she motions for him to come down.

Dimitri looks left and right, trying to figure out the best way to reach her, and he goes.

He’s slightly out of breath when he reaches her, and she has a pile of stones in her hand when he does. He blinks at them, meeting her eyes, confused and mildly concerned as to what she might use them for. Is she angry? But she’d waved him down…but was it because she was angry and about to give him a piece of her mind?

“Do you know how to skip stones?” she asks, and it takes him a minute to process.

“I…suppose I’ve never tried,” he admits.

She nods, then proceeds to do so, showing him the method. He watches as she considers the angle, then snaps her wrist as she throws the stone, which skips beautifully across the surface of the river before hitting the other side. Byleth deposits half of the stones into Dimitri’s hand, and they spend the next few minutes skipping stones—or in Dimitri’s case, trying and failing.

He ends up becoming focused on trying to succeed, Byleth keeping him stocked with a steady supply of choice stones. When he finally manages to skip one (though it only skips once before it plops into the water), he shouts in triumph, turning to her excitedly.

“Did you see that?!” he says, and freezes when he catches sight of her face.

She’s smiling, the expression both amused and proud and gentle and absolutely, absolutely mesmerizing.

“It’s nice to focus on things that aren’t exams,” she says, turning back to the river. “You’re all done?”

“Y-yes,” Dimitri stutters. “You too?”

She nods, checking her phone.

“Handed in my last paper yesterday,” she says absently, “Finished up packing up my things today.”

His throat goes dry. It feels like the world is slanting and narrowing to this point, where Byleth leaves and steps out of his life forever (forever?) and this is where it ends.

“Oh,” he says, and it comes out as almost a whisper. He clears his throat nervously. “Oh. I��do you need help moving anything?”

“No, it’s okay,” Byleth says, “I don’t…have too many things anyway. I just wanted to—”

“It would be no trouble!” Dimitri blurts, somewhat frantic. He’s cutting her off, he knows, and it’s stupid to think that if he prolongs the conversation she’ll stay a little longer, but—it’s not exactly wrong, either, is it? “I mean, I’m sure some things would be heavy, and I could—”

She looks a little surprised at his interruption, but blinks it away.

“No, I—”

“It would be faster, probably, but I mean, not that I want you to leave faster—”

“Dimitri—”

“—the opposite, really, but I mean, you’re graduating! That’s exciting, I’m sure you can’t wait to be out of here—”

“Dimitri—”

“You probably have some great summer plans, and I hope you will—”

“Go out with me.”

“Yes, exactly, go out with me, I—what?”

He snaps to attention, thinking surely he must have heard wrong. Despite the fact he was unraveling at the seams, Byleth looks amused, if also a little worried.

“I’m—sorry, could you repeat that?” he breathes, and Byleth shifts her position a little, the movement just slightly unusual.

“Go out with me?” she says again, though it’s pitched more as a question this time.

Oh, Goddess, he hadn’t heard wrong. And…that shifting, the pitch of her tone, was she—nervous?

Dimitri gapes at her and she meets his gaze calmly, though after a prolonged silence she looks to the side, tilting her head down a little as if embarrassed.

“You…can say no, you know,” she says softly, and he blanches.

“No! I mean, yes! I mean—I’d like to go out with you very much,” he says, defaulting to a more formal tone and posture out of desperation.

She looks back up at him and smiles again.

“I’m…glad I didn’t misunderstand your heartbeat last time,” she says, and he both winces and flushes at the reminder of that night.

“I—panicked,” he says, looking away. “But I…regretted it very much, after.”

“I know,” Byleth says.

“You know?” he asks, mouth falling open a little.

She only nods, amused again, but offers no explanation.

“Come here,” she says, motioning for him to lean down.

He does, and she kisses his cheek.

“Hand,” she says, and he obeys mechanically, shocked by that simple action.

Byleth pulls out a marker and scrawls on his wrist. He stares at it incredulously when she pulls away.

“My number,” she says pointedly when he doesn’t say anything. “I do actually have to go, but call me. Or text me. Whatever. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Of…course not,” he says, somewhat in awe. This is happening, it’s really happening.

Byleth looks like she wants to laugh again, but she gives him a little wave and makes her way back up to the building. It takes him too long to recover and realize that he should have walked her back. When he does regain his senses, however, he pulls out his phone, typing out a text as fast as he can.

Can we meet over the summer?

It’s only a few minutes before he receives a reply.

Yes.

Are you free next week?

Yes.

Canitakeyououttuesdayarounclunchtime

There’s a few seconds of pause, and Dimitri suspects she is laughing.

Yes. It’s a date.

He grins stupidly at his phone, rereading the conversation over and over again until he’s satisfied. Then he runs back to his dorm, throwing open the door with wild abandon.

“Guess what!” he shouts into the room, and he’s in luck, because all three of his suitemates are there, each in the midst of something different. Sylvain pokes his head out of his room, Felix looks up from the stove, and Ingrid looks over from the laundry she’s folding.

“Oh, shit, really?” Sylvain says, taking in Dimitri’s expression and also honing in on the number on Dimitri’s wrist. “You finally got her number?”

“We’re dating!” he announces, then pauses. “I mean, well, if I understood correctly, unless she was just—?”

“You’re dating,” Ingrid tells him before anxiety can take him over, grinning widely. “Congrats.”

Felix just waves the spatula in his hand, but he mutters thank the Goddess—about fucking time under his breath.

Sylvain, who is closest, is the first to be subjected to one of Dimitri’s bone-crushing hugs, and even spun around a few times. Felix hisses from where he stands, but is unable to escape being next in line. Ingrid laughs and pats Dimitri’s back when it’s her turn.

“Had a good semester?” she asks fondly.

“It was an excellent semester,” Dimitri says brightly.

“Disgusting,” Felix grumbles, and Ingrid and Sylvain laugh.

Dimitri knocks on the door nervously, trying not to fidget too much as he waits. He doesn’t have to wait long, however—but when the door opens, his eyes go wide.

A man roughly his own height, muscular and rugged with a scar across his cheekbone, a grave sort of face, and an air of someone who demands respect without having to ask for it, stands in the doorway with a large mug in hand.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice rough and deep.

Dimitri’s attention goes to the mug for a moment, which he registers reads “World’s Best Dad” in big letters, confirming his assumptions.

“I’m—here to pick up Byleth?” Dimitri manages, and to his relief, Byleth’s father simply nods and turns back into the house.

“By! Your Blaiddyd boy is here!” then, turning back to Dimitri, “Come in.”

He wonders briefly how he knows who Dimitri is on sight; his name might be well known enough, but he tries to stay out of anything where his image might be broadcasted. He steps inside cautiously, then glances at the man again. There’s something strangely familiar about him that he can’t quite place, and it’s not because of his relation to Byleth, because they look nothing alike.

“The kid’ll be a minute,” her father says, “Anyway, I’m Jeralt. Obviously, I’m By’s dad.”

“I’m Dimitri Blaiddyd,” Dimitri introduces, with a weak smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Jeralt just grunts and pats Dimitri’s shoulder in acknowledgement before offering him coffee, which Dimitri accepts out of nervousness. The drink is potent and bracing, without sugar or milk, and Jeralt refills his own mug.

Dimitri peeks at him from over the rim, still trying to figure out why Jeralt is familiar as the man stretches, the multitude of pops and cracks coming from his body making Dimitri wince.

“Don’t get old,” Jeralt tells him, “How reckless you were in your youth doesn’t fuck around when it cashes in.”

“You’re reckless now,” Byleth says as she comes down the stairs. “Cut back on the drinking.”

She’s in a loose blouse and mid-length skirt this time, a pink headband decorating her hair. Every time Dimitri seems her she seems to be sporting a different style. It’s fun.

Jeralt grunts.

“Yeah, well, can’t avoid recklessness in my line of work, and Rhea sure as hell don’t know how to take it easy. Trust me, the drinks are necessary.”

It clicks, then, and Dimitri almost cracks the cup in his hands. He lets out a strangled noise, and both Byleth and Jeralt look at him.

“You’re Jeralt Eisner,” he wheezes, looking to Byleth and back to Jeralt again. “You guard Madam Rhea—you’re the Blade Breaker, Seiros Security’s finest!”

Jeralt drinks his coffee.

“Well, it’s embarrassing to be called that, and also—kid, he didn’t know?”

Byleth shrugs. “Never came up.”

Jeralt sighs.

“Well, there it is, then. Yeah, Rhea and I go…way back, and now I’m in charge of her security company. By’s been trained since she was a kid, so…if you have any issues, she’s got your back.”

Dimitri looks at Byleth, who flashes him a peace sign with a deadpan expression.

“Thank you,” he says, for lack of anything else to say. She nods.

Jeralt looks amused, then waves them off.

“Anyway, have fun or whatever, and bring him back by curfew if he has one, kid.”

Byleth nods, and Dimitri looks back and forth, unable to fully process the information he’s just learned. But Byleth tugs him along, they’re out of the house and in his car before he regains his senses and looks at her.

“Every time I see you, you surprise me,” he says, and Byleth smiles faintly.

“Yuri says a lady cannot reveal her secrets,” she says, “But I think I’d like to start sharing them with you.”

Dimitri blinks at her, surprised, but then smiles.

“I’d be honored if you did,” he says. “There are…things I’d like to tell you as well, in time.”

She nods, looking pleased.

“We’ve got plenty,” she says. “So, where to?”

“There’s a new Duscurian spot that opened up a couple miles away. I was thinking we try it?”

“Lead the way,” Byleth smiles.

Dimitri starts driving. He lets Byleth choose the music and roll down the window; the wind ruffles their hair vigorously and she tries to keep it out of his face for him, which makes him laugh before she just rolls the windows up again.

He knows this is just the beginning, but there’s happiness bubbling up in his chest and a sense of ease and contentment over them both—so what he also knows is that it’s going to be a wonderful summer.

#dimileth #Fire Emblem Three Houses #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #byleth eisner #dimitri x byleth #dimitri x f!byleth #fanfiction #listen there's like no real context and no worldbuilding and the characterization is questionable #BUT i had fun #migraine hit hard today so editing was very cursory rip

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pinnithin-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Good Jokes

Chapter 11

The past several minutes were piecemeal to Tommy. He could infer what had happened based on the clues around him, but when he tried to recall the actual event occurring, details slipped away, like he was remembering a dream.

The facts were these: he was sitting on the floor. That was good - the floor was solid and he always found lowering his center of gravity stabilized him. Gordon was beside him. This was also good. He was trembling slightly and he looked severely rattled, but had incurred no further injury. Dr. Coomer was there, too, sitting cross-legged in front of them.

And there was another Dr. Coomer laying a few feet away. And another one beyond that. And another. And another. The air was thick with the scent of blood and the room just as much so with the bodies of clones. They were riddled with holes.

Tommy could connect the dots. He was the only one present who was armed.

What stuck in his memory quite well, however, was the look Gordon gave him after it happened. Frightened and dazed and a little awestruck, pupils blown wide and mouth parted in shock. Tommy wasn’t sure what it meant; whether he had scared Gordon with that act of unbridled violence or if the man was just grateful to still be alive or something else entirely. It was a weighty look. Settled heavily in Tommy’s chest.

Dr. Coomer - the living one, the original - was smiling mildly at them, as if Tommy hadn’t buried two slugs of lead in his chest only moments ago. Tommy stared distractedly at the crimson soaking into his shirt while Gordon pried information out of the scientist. What was his near death experience tally up to now? Double digits, at least. Gordon’s voice was remarkably steady for what he had just gone through, but when Tommy slid his gaze toward him, he noticed how shaky his hands were, how stark the whites of his eyes stood out. He was still very much afraid.

He wordlessly shifted so that his knee was pressing into Gordon’s leg. Just enough to give him an anchor. His hands were otherwise occupied with his rifle, which he had laid across his knees in a latent threat. Having to murder Dr. Coomer dozens of times had taken a swing at Tommy’s resolve, but he’d do it all over again if it meant keeping Gordon alive. He could carry this burden for him, at least.

Tommy swallowed the lump in his throat and looked away. Now wasn’t the time to lose his composure.

Dr. Coomer, to his credit, seemed relatively unbothered as he answered Gordon’s questions. “Well, Benrey and Bubby have been… whispering for some time about how to handle a problem.” he paused delicately. “I believe the problem is you, Dr. Freeman.”

Gordon was doubtful. “A pro – why am – is it my trackers? The GPS trackers?”

“I think they’re just spiteful,” Coomer guessed.

Tommy snorted. Sounds about right.

“What have I done to th - t-?” Gordon stammered, outraged. “They’re fuc - they’re assholes, man. I don’t - I have like-” he paused, collecting his thoughts. “We’ve all killed people,” he iterated.

“Yes, but we all have our passports,” Coomer pointed out.

“Passport?” Tommy repeated.

Benrey was really fixated on that, huh? He idled over that thought for a moment, wondering if it was all an elaborate stunt to fuck with Gordon or if there was more to it than that.

Dr. Coomer responded congenially. “Passport!”

Beside him, Tommy felt the shaking in Gordon’s leg grow more pronounced. “If I – if it’s-“ he took in a steadying breath, then spat out the rest of his words in frustration. “If this is over a goddamn passport, I will strangle that bald fuck with my own one hand.”

The old scientist’s eyes lit up. “Can I help?”

“Yeah, you could d – you could do the other hand,” Gordon allowed, giving him an appreciative look. “That’d be fun for you, I bet.”

“Exciting!”

Gordon laughed hoarsely. “Yeah, well, at least you can give me a chuckle. Did you know – where’d they go, where are they?”

“Well, I lost them,” Coomer admitted. “I was spending the past few minutes trying to hunt you down and find out where you were. We got separated, you see.” He cast a somewhat bemused look at the bodies littering the floor at the bottom of the stairwell. “I see you encountered my clones.”

“The nightmare,” Gordon echoed hollowly. “I encountered the nightmare.”

Dr. Coomer furrowed his brow in a serious look. “Now, Gordon, it’s only safe to warn you. I felt everything they felt.”

Tommy couldn’t suppress a flinch. He didn’t remember how many bullets he’d fired in the past few minutes, but judging by the carnage it had been quite a lot. Having been shot before, he was intimately aware of how much it hurt to have a bullet rip through one’s body. Trying to reconcile that kind of pain all at once in rapid succession made Tommy unable to meet the scientist’s gaze.

Gordon’s laugh was all nerves. “He was the one that did that,” he clarified, and he gave Tommy’s shoulder a squeeze in an attempt at reassurance. “Just so you know. Tommy killed all of those.”

Coomer was still smiling. “Oh, I’m quite aware,” he remarked, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Fine shooting, Tommy!”

Tommy grimaced and didn’t respond. It wasn’t forgiveness, but he’d take it. Gordon rapidly changed the subject.

“Okay. So… do you have any idea what we can do about this?” he asked, gesturing to the stump where his hand used to reside.

Dr. Coomer scratched his jaw contemplatively. “Well, clearly climbing inside of your arm and wearing you like a puppet didn’t work, so perhaps I could help you find… something to help.”

The distant sound of water dripping was all that could be heard for a moment while Gordon paused. “That was the scariest sentence I’ve ever heard,” he finally muttered. “Okay, let’s – s – so let’s go. Yeah.”

Coomer nodded. “Hello, Gordon.”

“Is there – augh, man – Maybe we can h–” he broke off, suddenly remembering. “The Cybernetics Department! Where is that?”

“Oh, I believe it’s next to the Lambda Department,” the old boxer answered.

Gordon’s broad shoulders slumped with relief. “Oh, so it’s on the way,” he sighed gratefully. “Oh my god.”

Tommy finally spoke a full sentence for the first time since they’d sat down. “I know where that is,” he commented. “They – I wandered in there once because they have a lot of cylinders that look like soda cans, but I was told they’re batteries.”

He felt Gordon shake slightly as he let out a soft guffaw. “Did you drink them?” the other man asked expectantly, brows raised, eyes twinkling, cheeks dimpled with humor.

Tommy smiled fondly at him. He could replace the sun with Gordon’s dazzling grin.

“I tried.”

---

Navigating Black Mesa’s maze of conveyor belts was a headache, but they managed. It took a lot of spatial interference on Tommy’s part to keep Gordon from plummeting to his death every few minutes. His sense of balance was completely shot. At least the mood had somewhat been lightened by Dr. Coomer’s grim joke about the ‘Skull Grinding Facility.’ The old boxer was in much better spirits now that his clones had been eliminated, and while Tommy didn’t necessarily trust him, he at least wasn’t posing an active threat.

He was past the point of finding Black Mesa’s batshit insane experiments humorous anymore. He just wanted to go home.

They inevitably encountered more aliens. Crates full of them. Were they being held here purposefully? He didn’t give himself much time to think about it as he mowed down the creatures, rifle in hand. Coomer flanked him, wreaking havoc with his fists, while Gordon - unarmed, unhanded - very wisely took cover.

“Sucks being helpless, man,” he sighed once the room was still.

Tough. He could be helpful by taking advantage of that med kit beyond the sliding door. Tommy kept an eye out for any encroaching monsters while Gordon fiddled with the cabinet. He heard him let out a crestfallen exhale.

“It had like, two… fucking seconds of juice left.”

Tommy passed him a snicker. “Two blood?”

“Two blood,” Gordon confirmed, an elastic smile leaping onto his face. “Two CCs.”

“Maybe if we bump the machine, there will be some more hidden in there,” Coomer suggested, quite reasonably, before emitting a startlingly loud shout and hooking a punch at the med kit.

Gordon leapt away from the dent in the metal, but he was laughing.

“Usually that works,” Dr. Coomer intoned, while Tommy’s shoulders shook with amusement.

As they headed down the hall, Gordon’s laughter could still be heard in between footsteps. “Honestly, guys?” he began, a smile in his voice. “Really, I think I - I love you two.”

Tommy’s mouth was halfway open to form a response when he remembered what a collective affirmation was. He bit down on his words. God, how hopeless could he get?

He was saved from having to dwell on that when they encountered Bubby’s cloning tube. Tommy felt a surge of loathing when he saw the prototype encased inside, trapped, pathetic, and oh so guilty. Sure, he couldn’t kill the guy permanently, but he could undoubtedly make his death agonizing.

Something in Gordon’s voice, however, stayed Tommy’s trigger finger. The way he growled, “hey, motherfucker,” low in his throat made his scalp tingle. Bubby looked to Tommy pleadingly, palms pressed against the glass, but he just returned his stare coolly before leaving Gordon to handle it. He deserved his revenge.

“Gordon, I just want you to know-” Bubby began, but Gordon cut him off.

“Do I look any different to you?” he asked, displaying his injury.

The scientist cringed away like it was a brand. “I never told them to do that,” he claimed. “They uh, they fooled me!”

Tommy scoffed. He didn’t want to hear Bubby’s sob story. Siding with Benrey was like cuddling with a cobra, and it was Bubby’s own fault he’d been bitten. Shouldering his rifle, he began poking around the room, tuning out the conversation while Coomer remained at Gordon’s side.

In summary, Bubby pleaded ignorance, managing to assure Gordon that he had been coerced by the entity into betraying him. Tommy was less convinced, but if Gordon wanted him to come along, he’d let him. Dr. Coomer vented some of his frustrations by whaling on the glass for a while, and his disposition was much more agreeable than it had been when they entered. Gordon gave him the go ahead and the boxer hit the release button.

As Bubby, wholly relieved, stepped out of the shattered remains of his tube, Tommy made a point to send him a threatening glare. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t be coming along with them at all. But he still tossed the prototype a weapon and half a chance. Slip up and you’re dead, his stare told him. Bubby snatched the gun out of the air and gave Tommy a tight-lipped smile. He got the message.

Their progress through the facility was much quicker with an additional team member. They cleared the way ahead for Gordon, who stumbled along after them, leaking out blood. Tommy’s satisfaction with their pace was soured somewhat by the appearance of a skeleton that flickered in and out of his line of sight. So the entity was loose again. Took the lazy way out of spatial entrapment by offing himself, it seemed.

Gordon, visibly shaken by the entity’s presence, suddenly found himself unsteady on his feet. Tommy urged him onward with a reassuring hand at his back, throwing a spiteful look over his shoulder at the skeleton as they went.

---

A few more hellish sectors brought them to a series of industrial lasers. Tommy stepped thoughtfully from room to room, quickly realizing that this puzzle was essentially just designed to blast through the facility wall. Would be nice if they could just use a door, he thought with some disdain. What an expensive, impractical stunt.

Gordon was woozy and nauseous - a state that probably wasn’t helped when Dr. Coomer had nearly rendered him unconscious with laughter by calling him “Dr. Pussy” a few minutes earlier. While he sagged against a doorway, barely managing not to barf, Tommy elbowed him in an attempt to distract.

“‘Nother triangle, Mr. Freeman,” he said, indicating the sizable prism being used to refract the laser’s beam.

Gordon gave him a foggy look, uncomprehending. “I don’t think those have to do anything with any of this.”

“I believe they do,” Bubby contended, striding confidently past them into the control room. “I have deduced that lasers can blow a hole in this wall for us to escape.”

Coomer chimed in as he jogged after him. “Gordon, it’s very important that we don’t obstruct the laser shield, as the sign says up here.”

“I’m going to obstruct it,” Bubby said.

They followed the scientists into the control room. Tommy matched his pace with Gordon’s in case blood loss caused him to lose his footing again. God, he was tired. But Gordon was halfway to death and steadily slipping closer, so there wasn’t exactly a wide margin for rest.

“The power from the triangles will guide us through this,” he quipped, and he was rewarded with a thin, breathy laugh.

“So, hey,” Gordon called to the group. He halted, stationary, in the middle of the room while the rest of them puzzled over the laser. “I lack the mental fortitude to refute anything you say to me. Who wants to be the de facto leader?”

Bubby pounced on the opportunity from where he stood at the console. “Cool. I call dibs.”

“Hey, hey.” Gordon backpedaled immediately. “Wait, wait. No,” he cast a complicated look in Tommy’s direction. “It’s Tommy,” he said, and his voice held the weight of truth in it. “It’s only Tommy. I only trust Tommy.”

Tommy reeled, pressing a hand unconsciously to his chest and feeling his heart beating out a rapid rhythm beneath. He had to grab the coattails of time and yank. Pause everything around him for just a few seconds so he could study that exposed, vulnerable expression on Gordon’s face. It was the same look he had given him after he’d lain waste to Dr. Coomer’s doubles earlier that day - open, fragile, a little wonderstruck. Eyes so deep Tommy thought he might fall into them.

It’s only Tommy. I only trust Tommy.

What a badge of honor. What an indescribable burden. He allowed himself a few moments to stand there, unknotting the emotion in his chest, before finally releasing his hold on time. The Science Team moved on without noticing the interruption. And Gordon’s words pounded in Tommy’s pulse for the rest of the day.

Chapter 10 <-----> Chapter 12

#ink #fanfiction #good jokes #part of my endeavor to relocate all my ao3 work #blood #violence #guns #hlvrai

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mischief-over-matter · 5 years ago

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Binary | Part I

Gravity is an inescapable force, even within the darkest corners of the universe. It's only a matter of time before something collides.

EMERGENCY STARTUP INITIALIZING

BOOTING...

BOOTING...[SUCCESS]

BIOS Configuration: [SUCCESS]

Loading OS...

CPU Check: [SUCCESS]

API Check: [SUCCESS]

Memory Banks: [OK]

AI Application: [OK]

Internal Software: [OK]

Anatomical Components: [OK]

Finalizing...

EMERGENCY STARTUP COMPLETE

INITIALIZING USER INTERFACE

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

For someone in a quite literal life-or-death situation, you were taking the news of your possible demise rather well. Perhaps that doesn't say much for someone in your line of work. Space exploration was a risky business, and coming home was not always guaranteed. Most, if not all who worked for the Federal Alliance of Astronomic Exploration knew that possibility before they signed on the dotted line.

You didn't expect it would be on your first solo mission, though.

In hindsight, your day seemed a little bit too perfect leading up to this mess, and maybe your cynical subconscious was expecting this pivotal point where everything goes south. Regardless, you weren't one to sit by while cursing your misfortune. And overall, it could be even worse. At least the life support was still functioning.

Oh, how you wished there was wood somewhere on the ship.

Standard protocol demands that regardless of the severity of the crisis, the ship's captain - in your case, yourself - was to immediately activate the emergency beacon and contact mission control. Step one was already a fail. According to the diagnostic scans, communications, navigation, and the engines were severely damaged and would take hours or even days for the self-repair bots to make any sort of significant progress. So, channeling in your former academy student self, you skipped right on to Plan B.

"Greetings, Lieutenant."

Or rather, Plan B skipped right on to you.

You nearly jumped out of your chair but managed to only give a startled gasp. Wheeling around, you came face to face with Plan B. For a glorified chunk of metal, it sure did move quietly.

"Are you alright?" said chunk of metal asked with a surprising amount of realism to his...its tone. "I detected a sudden increase in your heart rate. Are you in need of medical attention?"

You stared, temporarily taken aback by its sudden appearance. Sure, you were briefed on the purpose of the Auxiliary Crisis Sensory Emulating Learner, or ACSEL for short, but seeing one activated was an entirely new experience. The almost lifelike expression was truly something to behold, and you really ought to give a shout-out to the techs back home who made this happen. If you made it home...

Which led back to the matter at hand.

"No, I'm okay. You just surprised me, that's all," you sighed. "I didn't receive a notification that you were activated."

The ACSEL unit tilted its head and narrowed its eyes as if contemplating. It really was going to take some time getting used to those mannerisms on an android. "Perhaps there is an error in the ship's software?" It lightly smiled while extending its right hand towards you. "The CS Zenith is equipped with self-diagnostics and repair, yes? If I may, I would like to run an additional test. Permission to proceed, Lieutenant?"

You blinked, finally breaking yourself away from your thoughts to fall back into professionalism. Standing up and squaring your shoulders, you firmly shook his - its hand. To your ever-growing surprise, it was warm and smooth, yet undeniably solid. Almost like silicone.

"Granted," you replied before stepping to the side. It easily slid into the pilot's chair and instantly brought up the ship's readings. Nothing had changed. You watched in silent fascination while the android worked the dashboard as if it had years of experience under its belt. But your curiosity returned, and you found yourself wondering just how long it took to make something as complex as the ACSEL unit. Its designer obviously modeled it off of human anatomy, not too dissimilar to a store mannequin. The white exterior was a stark contrast to the muted colors of the cockpit. Gray lines decorated its body, allowing seamless, free-range movement that added to the realism. Give it a wig, slap some clothes on it, hide the port at the base of its head and you could definitely see someone mistaking the machine for a human. It even imitated a non-robotic masculine timbre almost perfectly.

The most intriguing thing about it though was the eyes. Glowing, electric blue eyes.

"Lieutenant?"

"Yes?"

"While my system processes the damages, would you like to begin personalization?"

You raised a brow. "What for? I had thought you would be outfitted with knowledge about my basic information once you were activated?"

The android flicked a switch on the dashboard, allowing a port to be exposed before inserting its index finger. In any other situation, it would have been comical, but you surmised that this was a part of the machine's processing. "And you would be correct. However, I am referring to myself. One of my functions is personalization to assist with lessening the emotional and psychological impact that an emergency could have. Once I have established that the current environment is stable enough for such, of course," it explained before pausing. "In short, it is to make you feel more comfortable."

"Right..." you trailed off, idly scratching your cheek.

"The process is completely optional if you are satisfied with my default settings," it added gently. " I do not wish to provide you with unnecessary stress."

Chuckling, you waved him - it off dismissively. "It's not that. I just...never mind. How about starting with what I should address you as?"

It gave you a side glance, lips turned upwards once more. "I respond to my model and serial number, A.C.S.E.L. 749710145-121111117-110-103, but due to its length I can be assigned a temporary moniker of your choosing until I undergo a factory reset."

You were sorely tempted to name it something utterly ridiculous. You could almost feel the disapproval from your superior officer at the mere thought of it.

"If it aids you at all, the engineers had named me Blue during my trial period," it offered.

How innovative.

"Blue works," you said at last, much to the android's delight. Could it even feel such a thing? It certainly seemed so as you watch its smile turn into a wide grin and the blue irises rotated in recognition. Nevertheless, you returned the smile albeit hesitantly. "Status update."

"Ah...my systems have confirmed the Zenith has experienced internal engine failure, significant damage to the transmitter and faulty wiring to the navigation. Causes are inconclusive. Hull integrity and life support are operating at 100% efficiency. The estimated time of repair is between 96 and 125 hours."

You relaxed ever-so-slightly. A week wouldn't make much of an impact on your scheduled three-month journey to Alpha Centauri's space outpost. And with the beacon activated, your chances of getting out of here unscathed are highly in your favor. "Noted. Then proceed as needed. I'm going to check on the cargo," you stated.

"No need, Lieutenant," Blue assured while standing. It approached you before clasping its hands behind its back. "I will take that responsibility while you rest. You have been showing signs of minor sleep deprivation in addition to a decrease in your epinephrine levels."

Perplexed, you crossed your arms, suddenly feeling a wave of self-consciousness. "You can gauge my adrenaline? How?"

Maybe you said that a bit too forcefully because Blue actually flinched, as if surprised at your tone. Never in your life did you think you would feel regret for snapping at a machine. You must really be more exhausted than you thought.

"Not through nefarious means, I promise," he - it faltered. "My optic sensors can detect even the subtlest of movements. I...I noticed your body language gradually became more relaxed and your heart rate slowed. My intention was not to cause you distress, Lieutenant. I apologize."

Jesus Christ, you genuinely felt bad now.

"Uh, don't be. I should be apologizing. Getting snippy with you was highly unprofessional," you murmured wearily. Rubbing your left temple, you glanced up to see him observing you with an open stare. Looking closely, you could see his irises whirling. Processing information, perhaps? "Blue?"

It blinked and smiled as if amused. "Apologizing to a machine is unnecessary. I do not feel offended. Though I suppose the gesture is an indication of your good nature, so I thank you."

"You're...welcome?" That's enough weirdness for one day, you thought to yourself. "I will go take my leave then if you don't need me for anything else."

"Not at all, Lieutenant. Please sleep well."

"You too." Biting your tongue, you inwardly cringed at your automatic response. "I mean-"

Blue laughed, apparently unfazed by your slip up. "I shall, thank you."

As you departed from the cockpit, you rubbed the heel of your palm against your right eye. It was the strangest thing; talking to a machine that seemed so human. The FAAE had an abundance of the latest technology, including interactive AI programs. But Blue was the most advanced piece of work you had ever interacted with. It was almost jarring.

The walk back to your quarters was a short one, as the Zenith was one of the smaller cargo ships. Your room lacked any personal items and only housed the bare necessities such as a bed, closet, a small desk, and bathroom. The lights flickered on and the door hissed shut, leaving you to bask in privacy. Eyelids heavy, you decided to shower in the morning. A casual glance at your holopad showed the time back home: 8:47 A.M.

Make that in the evening.

Zipping down your flight suit, you tossed it on the chair before rummaging your closet for a shirt and sweatpants. "Computer. Set an alarm for 4:00 P.M."

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

The cockpit was relatively silent, save for the gentle hum of the reactor core only Blue could hear. Most of the overhead lights had been dimmed, indicating that the Lieutenant had gone to sleep. The android remained in the chair, perfectly still for 72.8 seconds before closing its eyes.

"ACSEL Unit reporting to Professor Thorne. Do you copy?"

Static feedback permeated its receptors. It felt its nonexistent brow crease in concentration. A few moments passed until it could faintly hear a reply.

"Proceed," was the garbled response.

"Preparing to upload visual and audio recordings as well as acquired data to the server...now." The surge of data left its system almost instantaneously, even from such a distance.

Thorne gave a pleased hum. "Continue your directive and ensure the subject remains incognizant until your arrival. Understood?" they emphasized.

"Yes, Professor."

The connection abruptly ended and Blue rapidly blinked back into focus.

Only the sight of stars and the vastness of space greeted the android. Tilting its head to the side, Blue zoomed in as much as his optics would allow on a particular star. The celestial body remained as but a speck of light to its viewpoints. These rare moments of free agency were captivating, and although it could merely emulate emotion, Blue's receptors always reacted positively. It struggled to understand why the professor always voiced against it. No matter. Such a variable was not programmed within its systems to be of concern. Even so, it remained enamored by the dangerous amalgamations of hydrogen and helium that roamed the universe.

"아름다운..." Blue whispered, unaware that it had spoken at all.

#exophilia #robophilia #android x reader #robot x human #M-o-M writes #writing #sfw #sci-fi romance

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julianawrites · 4 years ago

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dissolve me

Horacio is cold.

Somehow, Horacio still maintains that icey core in his chest. So even as he makes a beeline for the refrigerated-goods, yes. Horacio is cold.

But he just wants some milk.

So he makes this small trip before he heads home. Once he finds the dairy, his heavy eyes hoist themselves upwards, to the second-to-topmost shelf in the refrigerator. The last carton of fat free milk - dairy-flavored water - that he’ll chug the next morning. But just as his hardened fingertips reach for it, they meet something else; a third wheel to this toxic milk-Horacio romance that is ruining his plans for what might as well be the best morning he’s had in the past three milk-free days. His mind, once fuzzy from the sleepy grey clouds filling his lenses like cataracts, now feels a sharp jolt of electricity soar through it as his machine body is activated and his surroundings suddenly become clearer, laser vision kicking in. His senses are now sharper and his guard is completely up. His nerves begin racing as the data from his hands shoots straight to his brain to get integrated and that thing he’s feeling is...warm? No, it’s hot. It burns his skin and immediately he pulls back because his motherboard is screaming at him that he’s in danger.

His head shoots up and his eyes dart to the side as he turns to look, expecting a raging bonfire or boiling cast iron, but instead he sees a human. A sweet, candy person that looks almost surprised as he does, but with softer features and kinder eyes. He smells the caramel seeping out of her pores and it stings his olfactory nerves but perhaps he wants to smell it again so it can fill his lungs and then let it harden inside of his cold body. So that it can stay within him forever.

“Disculpame,” she says, remorse dripping out of her golden mouth and if his ears were in control, he’d beg her to say it again. Say anything. He recognizes her accent. Not a Columbian, but a gringo. His brain reminds his heart that hey, we don’t like selfish, egotistical gringos. His heart doesn’t listen.

“Go ahead,” he says, and he sounds horrible. He sounds messed up, and it’s probably because he is messed up. He talks like toothpicks and needles, but it’s okay because he got to speak to her and he’s never spoken to an angel before.

He notices how she relaxes a little at the sound of his English, and he feels that heat spread at the beautiful notion that he did that all by himself.

“No really, I don’t need it,” she insists, a small smile gracing her lips. “You’re very sweet for offering, though.” Huh?

Horacio is not sweet. He doesn’t taste like sugar or chocolate or berries. Horacio is bitter gourd, burnt toast and that shitty part at the end of the banana that no one wants. Copper and hot tar oozing down taste buds and burning the frail pink dots along the way. Straight black coffee that’s tear-inducingly retched. Pepto Bismol and whatever the fuck is inside of those plastic pill capsules. Raw beef festering with E. coli and flies, a rotting corpse under a wake of vultures, the creepy old man that sits next to you on the train, mace burning her shivering eyes while you collapse to her shredded knees onto a floor of thumbtacks.

Horacio is not sweet. But she said he was, and she is oh so persuasive. That’s when he felt the first one. Crack.

But who is he to refuse her?

“Thank you,” he says, and he’s just noticed that her hand is back at her side and her eyes shine a little brighter as her smile widens at his defeat. That was me, too. But then she’s turning around and leaving, messy bun flopping up and down as you walk towards the cash register and his heart is furious. It’s pounding in his ribcage like a ravenous shark caged in glass, telling him to not let you get away because it wants to burn in her soft flames and turn to ash in her fingers, but he stays planted. Watches her walk away and take that gentle radiating heat with her, leaving him just as hard and frozen as he was before he’d ever let her poke around into his soul. Suddenly he understands why you’d burned him so bad; doesn’t even the lightest match make that violent sizzling sound when it touches ice? But he can’t deny that she had melted him, just a little bit, and he can’t deny that he likes being a little watery.

He sees her again just a few days later. It’s a Sunday morning and Bogota is now wide awake. Pastel streaks fly down the streets as manifestations of yellow taxis, dusty red cars, and pale blue cyclers bring the canvas of the city to life. Horacio decides to be adventurous, introduce true exploration and child-like color into his monochrome world, and walk to the cafe near his street. A truly exhilarating touch, if he did say so himself.

Except he hadn’t prepared himself for the anarchy that would occur within him when he saw her again. The girl that was awake at 2 am and offered him white calcium water in a carton and called him sweet. His eyes don’t know where to look, his heart doesn’t know how to beat, his lungs don’t know how to take in air. What do you do when you see a pretty thing in a pretty sundress? Certainly not function. Horacio wasn’t doing that at all. So he did the next best thing: sit at a table and watch her. That’s the next best thing, right?

He watches as she smiles at the young man taking her order, talking to him like she knows him, cares about him. All she were doing was listing the ingredients she wanted in her drink, but her bright eyes twinkle with a sort of endearment that he isn’t used to. Like she was happy.

He is in awe of her. Horacio has worked so hard to stay numb, to feel nothing but that rusty scrape of motivation that made him do his job. But she made it look so easy to gush, to overflow and spill her delight with life onto everyone around her until that tired, overworked teenager behind the register was smiling too as he said “next!”

She turns her head to find a table once she picks up her order and panic settles into Horacio’s bones again as he reflexively turns his head away from her, but her keen eyes spot him. Oh, how she must pity him. The poor, miserable apparition from the grocery store. He feels that radiating heat begin to grow as you approach him at his table, so he pretends to not notice her. Pretends he’s numb as she thaws him into a dripping mess of thin ice and water.

“Is this seat taken?” she asks him, nodding to the other chair in front of him with a cup of coffee in her supple hands. Horacio’s tactful eyes scan the cafe once more; there’s other seats in the building, other men and women for you to pity. He’s been chosen. And he just can’t resist her, is too weak to deny himself that addicting sugary sweetness that you’re coated in because he’s not sure he’ll ever feel so soft again and he wants to savor it.

Horacio looks up at her, clearing his throat as he takes the kind of breath that you can feel as the air fills his lungs. He’s priming his voice to talk to her because this time, he wants to make it count.

“No,” he says. Oops. In that moment, he couldn't remember having talked before. Has he ever spoken? Certainly not, or he’d know how to do it. But she doesn’t seem to mind his cold tone as you take the seat in front of her, and those damned eyes of hers are blinding to look at but god, who needs pupils anyway?

He can tell she’s curious about him. She wants to pick him apart scab by scab and take him apart into individual fibers until she gets to that soft mushy center that is Horacio. She wants to see him naked and open, but that’s not something Horacio can give her. How could he? He’s taken that weak, inferior soul within him and crushed it under concrete and plaster of paris, secured it with walls and steel and barbed wire until the protective layers become so extensive that even if someone could get through them all, why would they want to? It wouldn’t be worth the trouble.

“You know, I’ve never been here before,” she says, taking a sip of her drink, and he hums, knowing that’s how people interact but not quite knowing what is going on with him. She’s just saying things, just want him to talk back. She’s trying to have a real conversation with him, and he doesn’t understand why, but maybe for just once in his life he doesn’t need to understand everything.

“A student of mine recommended it to me,” she explains, and he’s starting to put together a little picture of who she is in his mind.

“You teach?” he asks, probing her for her life. He wants to study her mind, hear the music that leaves her mouth when you speak. She nods thoughtfully, and he can tell he’s mentioned something she enjoys. He learns that she teaches at a local university and hears about just how passionate she is about what she teaches. His dark eyes begin to fill with that precious light she possesses as she tells him about her students and how though she’s new to Bogotá, she already loves it. But that doesn’t surprise him so much; somehow he just knows that she’s got plenty of love to go around.

“Well now you know what business I have in a grocery store at 2 am,” she concludes after she tells him about her late nights grading subpar papers, curiosity twinkling in her eyes like fairy lights in the dark. “What about you?” It isn’t until the focus is back on himself that he notes the smile that graces his features. A real smile. He smiles not out of diplomacy but because right now, he’s happy. He’s high on her and serotonin and he’d let her ruin him if you wanted to. But her question troubles him. He can’t really tell you why; he can’t bear to take his ugly, black, acrylic life and stain her lavender and daffodil backdrop. So he tells you the bare minimum: that he’s a colonel and leads a special ops unit called the Search Bloc. He leaves out the blood that paints his eyes everyday, forgets to mention the agony he’s felt and inflicted on others.

“Your drink isn’t ready yet?” she questions, like a sudden realization has just hit her. her kind features are furrowed into slight confusion, and Horacio wants to let a black sky swallow him into his own misery because he forgot to order something.

“I didn’t get anything,” he admits, face starting to glow light pink as his foolishness begins to manifest on his hardened features. She don’t look confused anymore; she’s curious again. Forever wondering about the enigma in front of her, except he’s no mystery; he’s a labyrinth. Full of questions and doubt without one single answer, and once you enter you can’t ever escape.

“Then what does a colonel do at a humble cafe?” She asks. And all of the sudden, for a man that makes a living out of repeatedly evading death, he wants to evaporate into the beige, worn tile beneath the teal cushion of his seat because the answer to that question will surely ruin the delicate, blushed bubble around the two of you. But she’s incapacitated him with her stupid pretty eyes so much so that she must be the enemy in this story. He can escape gunpoint, rouse himself from a concussion, but he hasn’t got a single clue how to regain his quick wit and pistol mind in the face of something much more sinister: a pretty girl.

“I-” he starts, but all of the sudden his throat won’t cooperate because his mind is helpless to lie to her but his body is resisting. His body rejects that frozen, dreadful state of nothing that it’s normally kept in. She’s spread the warmth of fuzzy blankets and blissful vertigo throughout his stomach and his body wants to stay warm. “I was just…” he coughs, hard, willing his esophagus to heed his commands, “...I was watching you.” Horacio is flustered now, completely out of his element as he feels his blood seep to the topmost layers of his skin, exposing his embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he adds almost immediately, his eyes wide as he tries to avert his flushed features from her careful gaze. “I know that’s weird. I didn’t mean to-”

“Horacio,” she interrupts. Say it again. Say my name again. “It’s okay. Actually, it’s kinda cute.” Crack. That steel fortress that he thought was so impenetrable was beginning to soften into something moldable, pliable only to her hands so she could transform him from a wall to a rose.

“I don’t want to be too forward and scare you away,” he says, a little nervous but so much more giddy, “but could I see you again?” She giggles, a beautiful melody that floods his ears and softens his brow.

“Yes, Horacio, I’d really like that,” she agrees, and he can’t help but feel like he’s not in a cafe but somewhere in the cosmos as a compliant planet orbiting a bright, burning star. Somewhere far more heavenly and celestial than this godforsaken planet. He watches you glance up at the grandfather clock situated against the wall behind him and then back at him. “I need to get going, but take this.” She pulls a pen out of her small bag and scribbles a string of digits onto her coffee cup, holding the marked cardboard out to him. He’s slow to take it from her hands; he doesn’t want to keep her here, but at the same time he very much does. He allows himself to brush his fingers against hers again, like they had the night before, so that her potent her-flavored syrup can inject into his bloodstream and fill his capillaries.

As she stands to leave, he can tell she has one last lingering thought itching at her brow. “For the record, you couldn’t scare me away,” she assures with a smile that borders on teasing. “You’re just not scary.” And he watches her walk away, leaving him completely and utterly dumbfounded as to who she had just spoken to because it certainly wasn’t Horacio, world class bad guy.

But as he watches her leave, he feels a nice inside. A little light.

#juliana writes #authors #writing #fiction #story #stories

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