#i want to move traffic to ao3 if possible :)

[leighsartworks216]

Angel, Please

Zayne x gn!Reader

Went shopping with my roommate thinking it would be really quick, and then spent like an hour in there just pushing the cart for them and losing all energy and ability to think. This is the result of that

Title is from the song "Angel, Please" by Ra Ra Riot

Warnings: sensory overload, anxiety, avoiding a mental breakdown, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship

Word Count: 2,103

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You stare down at the shopping list in your hand, written in a mix of handwriting. Some items listed were written down by Zayne, others were added by you. A culmination of a week or so worth of groceries. It’s harder to read the words than it should be.

You have milk, cereal… You look back and forth between your cart and the list, but you can’t connect the dots. Nothing is clicking together.

Milk. Check.

Cereal. Check.

Your skin feels uncomfortably hot and itchy, but you don’t take off your sweatshirt and you don’t scratch. Your chest is tight, and you can’t seem to get a deep enough breath in. You zone out while staring at the list, urging your body to get a hold of itself.

“Excuse me,” someone scoffs as they invade your space to reach for something on the shelf behind you. They give you a look, judgemental and cruel, and walk away with a huff. Their basket bumps your cart with a clang that makes you twitch.

God, could they please turn the music down? The lights down? You just- You just need everyone to disappear. You just need to disappear.

You bite your cheek long enough to suffer through a self-checkout. You rapidly scan whatever you do have - more than just milk and cereal, but you don’t even process them anymore - and pay as quickly as possible, conscious of the eyes of other waiting customers trying to check out boring into you, judging you, urging you to just fucking move already.

The cool autumn air doesn’t soothe you enough. You throw everything into the trunk of your car. The pavement of the parking lot vibrates your hands as you push the cart to the nearest return. You rub them on your sweatshirt desperately.

You have to keep it together. You can’t break down in a parking lot at a grocery store just because all of your senses were freaking out. You are a Hunter! You fight Wanderers! You put your life on the line every single day! Why are you losing it here of all places?!

Your hands shake as you find Zayne’s number. It connects to the bluetooth in your car and you pull out of the parking space.

Are you really 100% fit to drive? No. But you need to get away from here as soon as possible. As tempting as it would be to ask to be picked up, you don’t want to be a burden.

“Hello?”

You swallow thickly. Your hands rub restlessly at the steering wheel. “H-Hey.” You clear your throat. “Hey. I’m heading home now.”

“Are you alright?” Zayne asks.

You want to put your head on the wheel and cry. You feel pathetic.

“Did something happen?” You picture his frown. The way his eyes sharpen when he tries to pick apart a little mystery. You want him with you right now. “Please answer me.”

“I-I’m fine,” you answer quickly, a knee-jerk reaction to the question. You know you’re trying to convince yourself. You know he doesn’t believe it for a second. “Just… Just stay on the phone with me until I get back. Can you…? Am I bothering you?”

He hushes you softly through the phone. “You’re not bothering me, darling. I’ll stay with you.” You sigh shakily. His voice sounds so nice right now. Your left leg bounces restlessly. “What do you want to talk about?”

You scramble to think of anything. You anxiously wait for traffic to clear enough to let you turn out of the parking lot. Your mind is taking in too much and too little information at the same time. Cars are just colored shapes, but you know where every single light source is around you. They keychains hanging from the key in the ignition rubs your leg like someone is drawing fire across your skin with a paintbrush. You try batting them away, but the jingle grates in your ears like it’s been amplified.

You pull into the flow of traffic, at last.

“Why don’t we talk about that show you enjoy so much?” he offers carefully. “The one with the girl caught in a love triangle? What was her Evol again?”

“She…” You swallow and check your speed. As badly as you want to get home, you don’t want to get pulled over either. “She can feel other people’s emotions. And, and in one episode she changes them, too.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Does she feel the attraction from the other characters? The men from the love triangle. What are their names?”

“Joseph and,” you turn on your blinker and wait at the stop light, “Damien. She can, but she feels bad because she’s not interested in either of them. So she pretends she doesn’t feel it.”

“So if she’s not interested in the prospective love interests, who does she like?”

You slowly pull up as a yellow arrow blinks, waiting for a gap in traffic to pull through. Once you’re driving steadily again, you answer. “She has a crush on her bed friend in the show, Melina. It’s really sweet, actually. But Melina has no clue, even though Therese, the main girl, keeps hinting at it, because Melina thinks Therese is interested in Damien.”

“That would be a tricky situation to be in. Who do you think she’ll end up with by the end?”

You laugh, but it’s slightly airy and strained, like someone punched it out of you. “I hope she gets with Melina, obviously!” You turn your blinker on again at a stop sign and turn after a second. This road doesn’t get too busy. “There’s actually some hints that Joseph and Damien will end up together. Everyone online thinks they’re competing for Therese’s love to try hiding their own feelings for each other.”

He doesn’t respond for a second. “Are you almost home, darling?”

You blink, and just like that, you’ve been snapped back into your body, aware once more of your surroundings. You’re in the middle of pulling into the apartment’s parking lot. You don’t even remember the drive to get there. “Y-Yeah. I’m here, actually,” you murmur.

“Okay. I’ll meet you down there. Do you need me to stay on the phone until then?”

You fiddle with the keychains, considering it. Everything doesn’t feel so itchy anymore. Your eyes hurt, but it feels more like the sting of exhaustion. Your head still thuds with a headache, but the noises that fueled it before feel more bearable now. “I think I’ll be okay.”

“Call me again if you need to. I’m on the way.”

The call ends and you turn off the car, pulling the keys from the ignition and holding them in your lap. You feel surreal, like your brain hasn’t quite caught up to your body now that it’s not screaming about every little thing. The parking lot outside your window doesn’t feel real. The bike you parked next to, your bike, feels out of place.

You groan and rest your head against the steering wheel, shutting your eyes tightly. Why can’t you just feel normal already?

A finger taps on the glass. You look up and watch as Zayne opens the door for you. “Are you alright?” he asks again.

You bite your tongue to avoid answering automatically. But the real answer eludes you. You don’t think you’re gonna freak out if your sweatshirt happens to brush your neck in a weird way, but you’re not exactly sure you could just calmly ignore it if it did happen either.

You slip out of the seat and out of the car. Zayne has that concerned look on his face, like you’ve just told him you haven’t slept for a week straight, but he doesn’t say anything, just shuts the door behind you.

He opens the trunk and begins gathering messily thrown-together bags of groceries. You grab one of the lighter ones that he leaves for you, and close the trunk. The car beeps when you hit the lock button on the fob.

Once you’re inside, you sit at the kitchen island and watch as he puts away everything you got. You find the crumpled list in your pocket. You have the clarity now to see just how many items you missed, including things you needed to make dinner tonight. You want to crumple yourself up into a ball like this paper.

Zayne’s hand comes into view as he slides the paper over to where he stands. He has a notepad and a pen, and he goes down the old list to write out what you missed.

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t answer until he finishes the list, clicking the pen and setting it down. Then, his full attention is on you. “Can you tell me what happened now?”

You can’t meet his eyes. It’s hard enough admitting actual health issues to him, let alone stupid shit like this. Logically, you know he’s seen this happen to you before, know he wouldn’t think it’s stupid like you do. But it’s still difficult.

“I just got overwhelmed,” you mutter. You trace shapes into the marble countertop. “Everything was so loud and bright and… And I panicked, that’s all.”

“How do you feel now?”

You sigh and cross your arms on the counter, resting your chin on them. “I’ve got a headache, and I’m tired. But I’m not? I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like I’m in a dream. Nothing feels real right now.”

He hums in understanding. “I can think of several treatment plans that may help.” You finally look at him and he shoots you a wry grin. “First, I suggest you take some pain medication for your headache, before it gets any worse. After that, you have a few options. You can go take a nap or spend some time alone to decompress. You can put on your noise-cancelling headphones and listen to music or a podcast. Or we can watch that show you told me about, and I can make you some tea.”

“That’s a lot of choices, doc.”

“It’s in the patient’s best interests to have a lot of options,” he says. “You’re not beholden to any one choice.”

You look away as you think about it. What do you want right now? What do you need? “Can I mix and match?”

He nods. “Of course you can.”

“Tea sounds nice,” you start. “I don’t want to sleep right now, but I can listen to music, I think. But I just want to be with you.” You look at him again. “Is that alright?”

He smiles, answering you without words. Instead, he moves around the kitchen to fill a kettle with water and sets it on the stove. He disappears down the hall to retrieve two pills and your headphones, setting both on the counter in front of you. He fills a glass with some water for you to take the meds. You grab the headphones and slip them on, and head over to the couch to get comfortable. They connect to your phone once you turn them on. You scroll through your playlists for a while, but the more you look, the more unappealing it sounds to you.

Zayne comes in with a steaming mug of tea, prepared how he knows you like it. You hesitantly take off your headphones. “Actually, will you read to me?”

“What would you like to hear?”

You shrug. “Anything. I just want to hear your voice right now.”

He browses the bookshelf nearby. You set your headphones down and blow on the tea to cool it down. He slips one of the books out and carries it over to the couch. You curl into his side the second he’s sitting down.

The book is one of your favorites. You’ve never seen him read it before, but he’s seen you pull it out lots of times ever since you moved in together. You smile. A comfortable warmth emanates from your heart.

The paper slides gently from one side to the next as he turns the pages. It’s not grating. It doesn’t send shocks of discomfort through your body. You cradle the mug close as you rest your head on his shoulder, letting your eyes relax as you skim the familiar words. His shirt on your cheek isn’t scratchy at all. It’s nice and soft.

He begins reading and you close your eyes. You breathe in deep the cool scent of his cologne, the fresh smell of his body wash, the slightly bitter, rich essence of the tea.

You can relax here. You can exist here. This feels real.

---

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@the-golden-jhope

[lilacxquartz]

Those Late Summer Nights | Chapter 21

satoru gojo x f!reader x suguru geto

plot: moving to the city from a small town was no easy feat, especially to start teaching as a jujutsu sorcerer.

summary: everyday was exactly the same but then satoru dropped a heavy truth onto you.

trigger warning: noncon in this chapter, approach with caution, it’s quite bleak. disclaimer, i don’t support these behaviours irl.

masterlist • ao3 • chapter directory • < previous chapter • next chapter >

21. Purgatory

Ignoring Satoru for a beat, you thought about where it all went wrong for you to have ended up in a place like this.

It was hard to imagine let alone comprehend due to the absurdity of the situation. As far as you understood, you were securely tucked away in a small pocket of space underground deep within the Gojo clan estate. Far from the prying glimpses of the residents who roamed the surface, with only passing flickers into the above stolen whenever he made his way down.

You didn’t know all that much about the estate he snuck you into, but given Satoru’s influence and power, you calculated that your chances of escape were slim.

Satoru very likely had you lodged somewhere within the confines of his personal chambers as a result; perhaps it was a space that had been custom-tailored to include a secure underground space for your impending arrival. Maybe those who worked on such a spot had just assumed that he wanted privacy in case people came looking for him, or at least, that’s where your mind drifted to when considering the location. Wherever you were, this place was a secret. You knew that much, especially evidenced so by your fits of desperation manifested as endless wails and screams and begging only for the cries to fall onto deaf ears (if any at all).

Such consideration of your circumstances however left you in a recurring grave predicament.

If you were perfectly contained in a place that nobody else knew about, then your initial fears were surely correct.

You were done for.

You glanced up at Satoru who had your head idly resting on his lap, talking about the traffic on the way back home. You tuned in and out of his words selectively, only picking up on the details you deemed to be important. He often drawled on about the little things, playing pretend with you as the doting lover, so ready to sit back and listen to his words that held onto a darker charged meaning. Maybe he knew that you weren’t truly listening, maybe also, he just didn’t care. Delusion was a powerful motivator, after all.

You considered the possibility of escape again.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried, it was just… that the odds were highly against you. The only way out was up and try as you might, you never once breached even a crack. The basement was impenetrable and your chances, as long as Satoru was around, were unfortunately slim. Besides, had there been such a route way out, then you would have known by now. You searched for it countless times, at least. Whatever work he put into the basement, whoever he had paid to design the damn thing had ensured to seal off every single exit, with the only way out seeming to be from the above.

So yes, to think that this was your reality was a devastating thought and you could never accept it. You could acknowledge it, sure, but you couldn’t accept it. You refused to and yet, he was always there for you when you didn’t want him to be, ready to not quite poison you as Suguru did, but latch onto the whittled-down aftermath of your broken-down psyche, holding onto whatever remained.

“It’s better this way for us both,” Satoru continued to say, combing his fingers through your hair, “you’ll learn to accept all of this one day.”

You closed your eyes briefly if only to imagine what the sky must have looked like; what the air must have felt like, what the warmth of the sun was like—you missed the outside a lot, strangely enough—you were always more indoorsy but now the opportunity was simply just stolen, with no such chance to even try.

Oh, how you missed the side of Satoru that you got to know before he turned… into this.

You’ve had time to process your anger, so it wasn’t like you could become any more resentful than you already were, but the time that had passed, the stagnant resolve of it all—left you depleted and depressed, making you lose your appetite for all things worthy of living. Of eating, of drinking, of moving and simply just… surviving. Living had become a chore and you were alive only out of necessity. It was to the point where you truly had come to believe that being dead must have been more exciting rather than remaining locked in a slowly aging purgatory like this.

And, due to all of the days blurring seamlessly together otherwise, your only break from the monotonous flow, was when you both had the chance to exist together. So all of those silent protests you took when you refused to move from the spot, when you refused to eat, or when you laid awake as he slept and the like—none of it ever had an impact, nor ever mattered at all—not when he continued to touch you the way that he did.

It wasn’t the fact that he repeated it that was the grounding part either, but rather that instead of shutting down all displays of hope, rather than immediately silencing all forms of attempted protest, he would simply… let the situation build. He would the tension rise and would simply just ignore, ignore, ignore. The delusional resolve would push through and it was back to you being simply just ‘stir-crazy’ as he put it, often joking (albeit not promising) to take you out, if even just for a bit when he later had some time spare and whenever you thought that just once, that there could be a break from the usual, you were always wrong. Satoru was dedicated to his schedule, towards his nightly habits; it was just different how he did it every time. Sometimes he would talk before and sometimes he would talk after, but he would always get with you. Always.

There was never a break and truth be told, you were going insane.

It felt surely insulting too, to listen to him prattle on and on about his job that was supposed to be your job, too.

Satoru, after all, like you were supposed to be, was a Jujutsu teacher and he seemed to be good at his job, which was such a difficult thing to grasp. He loved to tell you all about what was happening on a day-to-day basis, often with your head resting just above his knees or against his shoulder while his hands roamed around your body, no matter how much you resisted.

“Come on, [name],” he predictably said, sitting up as he pushed you back up to his level with his eyes pointed at the breakfast table (or that’s what he called it), “you need to eat to live, you know.”

You gulped dryly, watching as he rummaged through the bag he brought back with him, taking out something from way down at the bottom. Takeaway? Your memories recognised it as the very same type from the first time you had split that exact meal with him, Shoko, and Suguru. Your mind raced back to when he did something nice for you and made you feel included as a result, so you wondered what significance there was for today to be a reminder of such memories—or if there was any such resemblance at all—it wasn’t that likely that you were overthinking, especially given how limited your circumstances were.

“You have to take better care of yourself, you know,” he added, nudging forward a plastic container of food towards you, the food being exactly what you tried back then. There had to be something behind this action, surely. You weren’t reaching.

This wasn’t just a usual meal; he was planning something—but what?

“I can’t have you completely wasting away,” he added, reducing his voice to a concerned murmur as he propped the lid off, sliding the chopsticks across to where you sat, “not when we have so much time left together.”

You blinked at the meal and then glanced up at him, wondering what exactly he was planning on pulling. With a weary tone, you cleared your throat before bringing it up, “I’ll eat, but… what are you doing?”

Satoru, being as stubborn as he was, didn’t reply to you right away. He simply watched for you to get started, his intentions unwavering and pushed without pause; he would have you do as he wanted before informing you of anything at all, no matter what it was. Perhaps this was why you both collided so often; you were both equally stubborn against one another but for different reasons. He could maintain his gradually crumbling facade for as long as he claimed able to do so, but the surface he hid under was visibly cracked and it was obvious that, he too, was struggling. You’ve had plenty of time to learn how to read him, and his barely-contained impatience was far from subtle.

All of those smiles he would crack to convey a casual display of ease only to be clenched away by the grinding of his jaw or his fist squeezing as he struggled to hold onto the slipping semblance of control that drifted in and out of his reach. The way he would talk in strained bursts of barely contained anger, going as far as convulsing from the stress that dared to boil away from the stress bubbling within. His life wasn’t easy, that much you could emphasise, but he wasn’t being fair to you when you now had to take on the role of someone who unconditionally supported these parted bursts of lapsing sanity.

Sometimes, he would succumb to these moments of turmoil, letting out punches of barking laughter—something that unsettled you and at other times, he would break himself on purpose and cling to you, just because.

Satoru Gojo may have been the strongest, but you often got to see him at his weakest, so perhaps that’s why he had to hold onto you as tightly as he did.

“Eat,” he repeated, tearing you away from your troubling thoughts and replacing it with something even colder, the mask slipping back on. Satoru was seldom violent, rather more so just… forceful. Thankfully he had never raised a hand at you, even when you bit and kicked and clawed away at him, but his restraint seemed worse than usual today—as if he was at last, finally just as worn down as you were.

This was his own fault though, you thought. You wanted to tell him that lovers, particularly spouses or whatever he was forcing you to take on the role as, didn’t keep their feelings bottled up and locked away from each other. That much you did learn from Suguru, who at least told you the importance of learning to communicate, because sometimes, that was the only thing that could work when nothing else did.

How… peculiar was it that you learned something useful from him?

You sighed as you plucked the to-go chopsticks apart from one another, fitting them into your hand and digging into what he had gotten you. You ate slowly with your eyes flicking on and off at him, who watched you with unsettling focus.

“Good,” he clapped his hands together once, seemingly soothed by the sight, “I’m glad you are still capable of listening to me, because like I said, I’d hate for you to grow unhealthy down here. I can’t have you become sick.”

You nodded wearily, biting back the urge to tell him that you would be healthier if he at least you have even fifteen minutes of outside air a day, knowing that suddenly his careful demeanour would drop and you would be the hypochondriac instead.

Satoru led you back to the sofa when you were both done, helping you settle back against his shoulder. He offered you those crisps that you once, in passing, mentioned you liked, but you didn’t reciprocate his offer. Something was off about how much he was giving you—with how much he was paying attention to you—it was beyond the usual level of care, so you wondered what actually must have happened on the surface.

You didn’t get a fresh flow of news from him, anyway. He was selective with what he disclosed to you and you weren’t too trusting of the information he did reveal on the occasion that he did. Shoko? Suguru? Utahime? He would hold their names hostage to you, taunting you with the occasional slip of a promise that they weren’t completely lost from your life. He knew that you still cared about them, even the one who had hurt you, not quite understanding why didn’t say his own name with the same sort of chime, despite the pain that he inflicted upon you, in his mind, being equal.

He bit his tongue, refusing to find out why.

Instead, it was easier for him to punish you for having feelings that you couldn’t control.

For not making sense, for not existing in the same way that he built you up to be in his head.

“You’d like to see them all again, I’d bet,” he repeated, having already said something similar before tonight.

“Huh?” you blinked, barely catching on that he was addressing you directly that time.

“I said…” Satoru repeated himself, letting the reminder of his words hang in the air before continuing, “That you’d probably like to see them all again, huh? If you behave, that is.”

You sighed again, swallowing away the resentment once more. What even was ‘good behaviour’ anymore, anyway?

“If I behave…?” you half-scoffed, unable to resist a jab at his words, not caring for formalities anymore (yet another habit picked up from Suguru, maybe also Shoko, too), “maybe if you didn’t keep me locked up.”

“You—“ Satoru began before cutting himself short, prompting you to narrow your eyes at his barely contained composure, “—you don’t get it, you… you don’t understand,” he strained, laughing somewhat at what he believed to be a naive response on your end, “I had to do this for your own good, you’re safe down here, don’t you get that?” he asked, seeming to hint at something new, something that he hadn’t yet shared. “You think that I didn’t notice that little stunt that you and Su… that you both, pulled?”

“What are you talking about?” you sighed, trying to sink back into the sofa, finding that he didn’t let you.

Satoru snorted again, sounding amused, “That little stunt of yours back at your hometown,” he replied, keeping his voice eerily calm as he tucked a strand behind your ear, “did you really think you could continue to walk free after murdering a civilian? Even as a witness… you’d be an accomplice, an accessory to a crime,” he hinted, likely referencing Yui.

Remaining sceptical, you glanced up at him briefly before back at the wall. “So you know?” you asked him in an unsurprised tone. “Why bring it up now, though?”

Satoru scoffed before continuing again, “Because, you keep thinking that you have a right to a way out when all I’m doing is keeping you safe from the higher-ups,” he said, relaxing his voice for some reason, “they can be quite harsh, you know. I’m keeping you safe down here along with your little secret. Wouldn’t want that to get out, now would you?”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” you replied instead, “it’s been months since you brought me down here.”

He sighed, realising your point. For a moment, he relaxed but then his features creased into something serious again, as though having a revelation of some sort. “Because, I’ve been keeping something from you, to protect you even further.”

“And what’s that?” you asked, taking the bait.

“…Why do you think he did that for you?” he asked.

“Suguru?” you asked, watching something else glint in his icy blue eyes when you spoke out his friend’s name the way that you did. “He was helping me bury the past, or something like that.”

Satoru clicked his tongue and sucked at his teeth before leaning back, letting you readjust to him or not as you preferred. He unwrapped the bandages around his eyes, tossing them off to the side. “I thought as much too, but then I did some digging. I couldn’t let my once-good friend just commit something so rash without at least trying to understanding why, you know?” he asked you, building up to some sort of unspoken truth. “He used you, [name]. He used you to justify his own issues, because if he actually did so to help you, then he would have stopped at Yui.”

You paused. “What do you mean?”

Satoru let the silence between you build for a moment, letting the implications fester and rise. He brought you down to lay on his lap again with one hand holding rather firmly over your shoulder and the other against your skull. He then took a deep breath, as though he was about to share something heavy with you. “Yui wasn’t… the only casualty, [name]. He took care of your parents, too.”

“Say that again?” you asked, feeling your eyelids flutter as you couldn’t quite process what was said.

“Not long after,” Satoru continued after about half a minute of stagnant silence, “he did the same to his own parents, too. I suppose we should have all seen the signs, especially given what his attitude was like towards non-sorcerers, convincing himself that they were all part of a deeper issue, but…”

You tried to sit up again, finding that the position he kept you anchored down in was impossible to get out of. You wanted answers, but he kept continuing with more and more new information, not letting you process anything at all.

“Wait, though…” you struggled, “what did you say before?” you pressed again, still not having processed the first part of his claim.

“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” Satoru continued instead, smoothing your hair with his palm in a soft, affectionate gesture, “but you still seem to holding onto something that shouldn’t be there with… him, when all he did was just use you to further his own selfish ideology. Don’t you get it, [name]? I’m just looking out for you down here, I’m keeping you safe. So why not… just…have a little trust in me?”

You stared straight ahead, feeling many things all at once. The words finally settled into your mind, not quite believing the extent of what he had claimed, and yet, accepting his words with violent clarity. He was your only source of what went on beyond the surface, after all, so your weakened state of mind accepted his words as truth, even if deep down, refused to believe it. You felt angry, upset, confused, and numb all at once—yet, Satoru still dared to ask for your trust—after everything that had transpired over the summer, after keeping you in the dark both literally and figuratively, he claimed to still be doing this for you.

You shuddered a breath down, letting your tears spill over his clothes. You didn’t argue with him, knowing that whatever he revealed wouldn’t change a thing. Deep down, you wanted to believe that Suguru wouldn’t go that far, but then you remembered the look in his eyes when he regarded Yui being the very same as when he met with your parents—so maybe, just maybe, Satoru’s claims weren’t too far from the truth.

Maybe he did do the unthinkable.

“But, this can’t last forever,” you finally whispered.

Satoru seemed to relax again, his voice growing calm once more, “You underestimate me,” he said, repositioning you once more so that you now laid your back over the sofa, the inevitable finally taking place.

You locked up as he inched towards you again like clockwork, hovering over your body in a way that was almost longing, caging you in between his arms as though you had somewhere to run off to. You blinked up at him, wondering just how he could be in the mood at a time like this, after such casual admission of a grave confession, that his friend, your former lover, abuser, whatever, had inflicted something potentially devastating as the right time to continue with touching you.

“Not today,” you tried to mumble out, unable to focus.

Satoru ignored you, leaning forward instead. His lips ghosted over your neck as he pressed coaxing little damp kisses along your collarbone, his voice growing low and heavy as he took advantage of your disoriented state, having you right where he wanted you.

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” he murmured, pushing his knee in between your legs so that you couldn’t close off his advances, “you don’t have to do anything,” he continued, “just let me take care of everything—of you—I’ll make sure you feel good, too.”

You sighed, feeling exhausted. Maybe he would let you drift off, or maybe if you zoned out with enough focus, you could quicker go back to blurring all of the days together again.

Satoru continued at usual, trying to ensure that the experience was as nice as he could make it (with all things considered), but otherwise repeating the staleness yet again. It was messed up, but you were bored of it—of him. You hated to admit it, that even right at this minute, you missed how Suguru… never mind, you couldn’t do this to yourself just yet. Not now. Instead, you gritted your teeth and screwed your eyes shut, pretending that you were somewhere else.

Satoru in the meantime moved down the sweatpants he had you wear, his hand fumbling to reach and pull at his own trousers. He was already hard; evidenced by his straining arousal that pitched against his underwear, tearing out from the second he let his clothes drop. He used to participate in foreplay, but since then grew lazier, which you supposed guiltily again, that Suguru at least never skipped. You grunted instead as Satoru pushed himself into your hilt, feeling the consequences of his impatience rub painfully within you.

“You’re so tight today, huh?” he commented, finding it difficult to push into you from your lack of arousal given the heavy moment. You struggled to take him in properly, feeling his girth stretch you out, but it was far from pleasant and likely not that nice for him either.

Pulling out of you briefly, Satoru spat down onto his tip, using his hand to rub the saliva and coat his shaft before driving himself back into you. He rocked his hips forward with strained fervour, keeping your knees pried far apart with his hands, wrangling them into all sorts of positions as he wrestled to keep your attention.

You winced as you felt him spear into you, feeling the entirety of his length kiss against what felt like your cervix, causing you to recoil in rhythmic pain. Ragged gasps rolled out of the slip of your tongue as you tried to keep up, finding that you couldn’t do so as fluidly with his gradually increasing momentum, finding that both the coiling pain, as well as his pressing tempo, left you sorely breathless.

Letting your legs fall, he hovered over you by keeping himself steady with his arms anchoring parallel over on the sofa cushioning. Satoru continued to rut his hips, sawing relentlessly into you as time went on, hoping for a better reaction but all that you could offer was strained whimpers and barely choked-out cries, growing frustrated at the result. A chorus of “come on, come on, come on,” could be heard in mumbled-out mutters, understanding that the only time he ever got a response from you was when he surrendered into being rougher than he was more comfortable with doing so.

Wanting desperately to feel wanted back, by the only person that he ever sought out with such intensity and then not hearing those pretty little sounds that he once heard coming from Suguru’s apartment was difficult for him. Such a recurring memory sent Satoru into a resentful stupor, almost, as he too, tried to replicate what he once heard, only for you to never give up in the same way.

His fingers clamped down against your hips, his fingernails bleeding scratched crescents into your soft skin as he grew closer to his release. At last, you whimpered, moaning in pain instead of pleasure, but it was enough to go on; enough to pretend with. His own words fell silent as he too, was brought to pain from pushing, kneading, straining himself into your cunt in a hurried attempt to de-stress, until finally—…

Satoru slowed down in a stuttered thrust, releasing at long last. He ground his hips into you with lazy, languid pumps before he slumped over you in an exhausted daze, feeling completely and utterly spent, barely pulling out of you.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he murmured into your neck, “but one day you’ll see and appreciate it,” he continued, just barely coherently muttering out words that blurred into one another, not quite making sense at all.

All the while you at long, long last, sighed. You were finally able to relax.

Another thing weighed heavily on your mind though.

Even with the heavy truth that Satoru dropped on you, you still found yourself missing… him.

Why?

(Was there something actually wrong with you, after all?)

[gloomwitchwrites]

By the Belt (2 of 4)

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: established relationship, undressing, talking through it, praise, vaginal fingering, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, cowgirl position

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: Part of the Imagines & What If Series

Gaz tells you to take what you want.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // by the belt masterlist

The light on the bedside table is on. Its warm glow rolls out across the bedroom, illuminating the room enough to cast long shadows against the wall.

Kyle stands just shy of the end of the bed, his black suit jacket tossed onto the sheets. Tugging on the tie at his neck, Kyle’s gaze is focused on the phone in his hand. He’s tapping away, his cheeks slightly flushed with a rosy hue from the amount of alcohol the two of you have consumed this evening.

The top two buttons of his white dress shirt are open, revealing skin and the faintest fluff of chest hair. He sighs, tapping again, sending something out before opening up another message. It’s likely all work related, an aspect of him that never seems to shut off.

Slowly, you stalk from the bathroom doorway to Kyle in nothing but your lingerie. You’re already out of your dress and heels, only wanting for him to put his phone aside and relax. The moment you walk up to him, Kyle reaches out almost on instinct, his gaze still on his phone but his hand seeking you.

His palm makes contact with your bare skin, and you slide your fingers into the belt loops of his perfectly tailored dress pants. Pulling taut, you draw Kyle against you, bodies pressed close together.

Kyle’s gaze immediately shifts to you, the concern in the middle of his brow softening to affection. His mouth stretches into a smile that he only ever gives you.

“Baby girl,” he croons, the backs of his fingers tenderly skimming along the edge of your jaw. “You can have whatever you want.”

The two of you stand in the middle of the bedroom, pressed close, your hands between your bodies. It’s late, and the flow of traffic is almost non-existent. It’s unusually quiet, just your breath and his.

Kyle is the handsy one. He loves touching you, reaching for you at every possible moment. Sometimes it’s blatant, squeezing thigh and hip, while other times he is subtle with just passing touches.

“I want you,” you murmur, because it’s the truth, and you also want Kyle to relax, to be present in this moment. The entire evening has been a whirlwind.

Sometimes Kyle reaches for you and almost isn’t aware that he’s doing it. You are not nearly as generous or bold with your touches as he is, so sliding your fingers into the belt loops of his pants to pull him closer might come across as forward.

But Kyle doesn’t seem all that surprised. The sultry smile on his face is enough to send heat racing to the space between your legs.

“You want me,” he repeats back. Kyle doesn’t need to question your motives. His is aware of just how much you love him; of how much you like to just linger in his presence.

“I’ll always want you,” you murmur, tipping your head back as a silent invitation.

Kyle locks his phone and tosses it onto his suit jacket. “But how do you want me, love? Be specific. You can take what you want, but you need to tell me.” The fingers brushing at your jaw rotate, tracing the curve of your bottom lip. “Direct me,” he murmurs. How do you want it?”

The way he’s speaking to you doesn’t make the dominance in you flare. If anything, it drives you toward submission, to lay on your back and welcome him in until you feel him for the next few days.

Slowly, your fingers slide out of the loops, travel upward to undo the buttons on his shirt one at a time, revealing chiseled chest. Kyle does not move. He waits for you to help him out of it, to toss it onto the bed before transitioning to the front of his pants, undoing buckle, removing his belt, opening the front only to push it down his legs and hips. You stay down there, unlacing his dress shoes and rolling off his socks. They’re kicked off. Tosses to the side. Entirely forgotten as you return to standing.

The moment you’re staring into his face again, Kyle moves, sliding his arm around your waist, head dipping like he’s about to kiss you but pauses at the last second.

“Where do you want me?” he asks softly.

“On the bed.”

Kyle shakes his head. “Be specific.”

“Reclining,” you answer.

“That’s it, love.”

Kyle teasingly clips the underside of your chin before he picks up his phone and suit jacket, bringing them to the dresser and returning to the bed. He slides into the middle, leans back against the array of plush pillows, spreading his arms wide.

He is entirely naked. Completely bare. And Kyle hides nothing from your gaze. He is displaying himself, knowing that you’re absorbing it all, taking notice of the hardening length of him.

You crawl up the bed to straddle his lap. Kyle keeps his arms outstretched, not touching until you give him the next instruction. Your hands rest on his chest, pressing into him, lips coming together in a slow kiss.

“Touch me,” you murmur against his lips.

“How?”

You reach out and guide one of his hands between your legs. “Touch me here.”

Kyle lightly rubs his palm over your pussy through the fabric of your delicate lace underwear. He sighs deeply, one finger sliding underneath and then another before pushing it to the side.

He plays with you at first, exploring like he’s just now learning your body. Then, he isn’t. Then he is circling your clit in little swirls that draw up the gentle roar that sits low in your belly. Already, you need him, and Kyle knows this.

He moves away, testing to see how wet you are. Kyle moans softly when he finds your excitement dripping onto the tips of his fingers. One finger easily slides inside, and Kyle begins to pump casually, simulating sex, lightly curling the very tip to draw against that perfect spot inside you. His thumb takes up residence against your clit, moving in time with his pumping finger.

Your eyelids flutter, then shut as your back arches, moaning loudly.

“Is that what you want, love?” he murmurs, coaxing an answer from you with a perfectly placed stimulation of your clit.

“Yes,” you manage to breathe, the word stuttering out.

The orgasm is sharp and quick, giving you the release you need and yet driving your desire even higher.

Kyle slowly continues to pump his finger. “More?”

You shake your head. “I want something else.”

“What?” he asks, automatically.

Leaning back a bit, you reach behind you to grasp his cock, stroking him gently. Kyle groans, his hand not occupied between your legs reaching out to grasp your thigh, fingers digging into your flesh.

“You know what to do,” he says through gritted teeth.

With one hand around his cock to guide, you flex your hips up, slowly sinking down on him. You roll up, and then back down, hands returning to Kyle’s chest as you seat yourself entirely on him. The head of his cock sits deep, and your fingers dig into his chiseled pectorals.

Kyle’s eyelids and brow are soft as they gaze on you. Whimpering, you come up and go right back down, the angle hitting that sweet spot.

“Good,” he breathes. “Doing so well, love. Just like that.” You repeat the movement and Kyle fails to stifle a groan. “Fuck—oh, fuck. That’s right, sweetheart.”

His praise warms your skin and blood. Sliding your hands upward, you hold onto his shoulders, using them as leverage to rock and bounce back on him. Kyle’s breathing lengthens, nostrils flaring as he tries to retain control of himself. Kyle’s grip on your thigh changes. Moving closer toward your pelvis, Kyle finds your clit with his thumb, stroking it in just the way you need to, causing the muscles in your legs to quiver.

He sends you over the edge in moments.

“Kyle,” you groan, his name dripping from your lips to stain the air.

“Fucking hell, love,” he moans, his other hand sliding up to grab the back of your neck, keeping you anchored against him.

“Fuck me, Kyle. Please. Please.” You need to feel him everywhere, to remember the stretch of him inside you for days after.

Kyle answers by meeting each roll of your hips with an upward thrust. The two of you come together repeatedly until his own thighs tense beneath.

“Inside me. Please, Kyle. Please. Please.”

You’re begging at this point, the words falling into bursts of air that Kyle pulls from your body with each thrust of his hips.

He holds you flush against him as his release hits him. No words are spoken, just sounds that speak to pure contentment and bliss. Collapsing against him, Kyle wraps his arms around your back, holding you close, sinking further into the pillows and bedding, your bodies sticky and sweaty.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @thewulf @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @jade1605 @miaraei @contractedcriteria

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

An Acquired Taste

A fluffy coffee shop AU for Day 4 of @paynelandpromptfest. You can either read it below or here on AO3.

Prompt: handmade

Pairing: Edwin/Charles

Rating: T

Warnings: none

Word count: 3k

Summary: When Edwin ducks into a coffee shop to avoid an awkward run in with his ex-boyfriend, he meets Charles, a charming barista with a penchant for terrible latte art. Edwin can’t stand coffee, but that doesn’t stop him from returning again and again.

***

It’s the laugh that draws Edwin’s attention on a busy London sidewalk, the sound cutting through the rush of passing traffic, the tube rumbling beneath their feet, and the chatter of voices around him. It’s loud and braying, with an edge of meanness, and Edwin is sixteen years old again, listening to that laugh as he stammers his way through a presentation. On instinct, he clutches his messenger bag more tightly, as if preparing to have it knocked out of his hands.

Simon Mould is crossing the street about ten meters ahead of him, talking on his phone and smiling the smile that Edwin once found charming before he realized it usually meant Simon was about to say something cruel. He’s wearing a poorly tailored, but undoubtedly expensive suit, with a gaudy watch glinting on his wrist. Most likely, he spends his days doing very little work in a cushy corner office in his father’s company. For his colleagues’ sake, Edwin hopes he’s grown up in the decade since St. Hilarion’s.

But Edwin isn’t in the mood to find out today, not when he stayed up too late preparing for this morning’s lecture and woke up to yet another passive aggressive email from his mother. The last thing he needs is a run-in with his ex-boyfriend.

He should go straight to continue his walk to the university, but that will take him right by Simon. Simon hasn’t noticed him yet, but he will soon enough. His feet moving before his mind can catch up, Edwin heads right at the intersection, keeping his head down as he walks. When he glances over his shoulder, he sees to his dismay that Simon is behind him, still oblivious to Edwin’s presence as he continues his phone call. Simon always did love the sound of his own voice.

The door in front of Edwin flies open and a young woman in impossibly high heels shuffles out, balancing two trays of coffee precariously. Without thinking, Edwin slips through the door before it can close and is hit with the scent of brewing coffee. He’s found his way into a small, cluttered coffee shop packed with mismatched furniture and walls covered in an eclectic mix of artwork. The nearest painting is a downright unsettling one of a young woman whose face and torso are covered in eyeballs of all sizes and colors.

“What can I get you, mate?”

Edwin turns and blinks. Standing in front of him is quite possibly the best-looking man Edwin has ever clapped eyes on. He’s never been one to get starry-eyed over a pretty face, as he learned years ago that pretty faces are often more trouble than they’re worth. But there’s something about the barista’s bright, beaming smile and his warm brown eyes that leaves Edwin unable to look away.

The barista tilts his head questioningly and Edwin blinks, realizing that he’s been staring too long. Frantically, he looks at the menu, his eyes falling on the first thing he sees. “A latte, please?”

“What size?” Charles, the name tag pinned to the front of the barista’s uniform reads. It’s surrounded by a variety of colorful badges. 

Edwin’s frazzled mind takes the opportunity to remind himself that he doesn’t actually like coffee, but there’s no turning back now. “Small.”

“Whole milk okay?”

“Yes.”

“Any flavor shots?”

Dear lord, who knew ordering a cup of coffee that he doesn’t want would be so complicated? “No, thank you.”

“That’ll be four pounds.”

As Edwin fumbles for his wallet, he chances a glance over his shoulder in time to see Simon strolling past the coffee shop, still laughing into the phone and oblivious to Edwin’s presence. He passes by without sparing the shop a glance.

“Been here before, mate?” Charles asks as Edwin hands over his credit card.

“No.” Edwin still feels a little dazed under the force of that smile.

“Thought so,” Charles says. “Figured I’d remember you, wouldn’t I?”

“Are small, plain lattes an unusual order here?” Edwin’s voice comes out more acerbic than he intends.

But instead of bristling or snapping back, Charles laughs.

“I took a detour on my way to work today.” Edwin isn’t sure why he feels compelled to offer information about himself. Surely, Charles is just being friendly to a customer. He doesn’t actually care if Edwin has been here before.

“Well, I’m glad you stopped in. Coming right up, mate.” Charles grins at Edwin and turns away. With heroic effort, Edwin manages to not ogle his backside.

“What do you do?” It takes Edwin a moment to realize that Charles is still speaking to him while preparing his latte.

“I’m a linguistics professor.” Edwin expects that to be the end of the conversation, as very few people want to know what being a professor of linguistics entails.

But Charles’s expression brightens. “That’s awesome.”

Edwin’s cheeks feel warm. “I think so. My students would disagree.”

“What’s your favorite language?”

In his years of studying linguistics, no one has ever asked Edwin that question, but he doesn’t have to think hard about his answer. “Aramaic.”

Charles arches an eyebrow. “Aramaic?”

“It’s a Semitic language that originated in Syria. It’s something of an endangered language in modern times, but it’s fascinating…” Edwin trails off. “But if I get started, I’ll be here all day and I’ll miss the opportunity to give this lecture to a group of bored university students.”

“Save it for next time, yeah?” Charles slides the latte across the counter.

Edwin picks up the cardboard cup and gazes down at the foamy surface. There’s some kind of shape there.

“It’s a bow tie.” Charles points to his own neck. “Like yours!”

“Ah.” Edwin reaches up to tug at the bow tie around his neck.

Charles shrugs, looking rueful. “Doesn’t really look like a bow tie, does it?”

“It definitely doesn’t,” the other barista says without looking up from the drink she’s making.

“Oi!” Charles scowls at her, the expression belied by the twinkle in his eye. “Not all of us are famous artists.”

“If I was famous, do you think I’d be up at 8 AM, making fucking flat whites?”

Charles turns back to Edwin, leaning his elbows on the counter. “Crystal over there is a latte art magician. I’ve been trying to learn.”

Edwin looks down at his drink. “It doesn’t look entirely dissimilar to a bow tie.”

“Cheers.” Charles says with a laugh. “Hear that, Crystal? Not entirely dissimilar. Just for that, mate, you get a discount next time you’re in.”

Edwin is smiling as he leaves the coffee shop. A glance at the sign tells him it’s called Live A Latte, which is an absurd name for a business. He shouldn’t even remotely be tempted to return. Especially because when he takes a sip of his drink, he finds it just as bitter and unpleasant as coffee always is. Certainly not worth four pounds. His modest salary doesn’t give him much room to be wasteful.

But when he glances through the window, he sees Charles laughing with Crystal, and he feels a pleasant little swoop in his belly.

For the first time in his career, he’s late to his lecture. He can’t bring himself to care.

***

Edwin does not intend to go back to Live A Latte, because it’s absurd to go out of his way to get a coffee that he won’t drink, just because the handsome barista was kind to him. But he finds himself thinking about turning every time his morning walk to work takes him past the street the shop is on. Perhaps he could develop a liking for coffee if he drinks enough of it. Many people seem to like it, or at least find the caffeine worth the bitterness. His friend, Niko, who developed a coffee habit while completing her thesis, calls it an acquired taste.

He lasts just over a week before he gives in and returns to the coffee shop.

“Welcome back,” Charles says as soon as Edwin steps in the door, smiling past the three people in line in front of him. “Small latte, yeah?”

And Edwin was going to peruse the menu to try and find a drink more to his liking, but he nods, feeling his face flush. Because it’s been over a week since he was in here and Charles has undoubtedly made countless lattes since then, but he remembers Edwin’s order.

Charles does indeed only charge Edwin two pounds—the “proving Crystal wrong discount”—and when he goes to make Edwin’s latte, he says, “So, tell me about Aramaic, mate.”

No one except Edwin’s colleagues in the linguistic department have ever asked Edwin to talk about Aramaic to them, and then usually only under duress. But Charles nods along and asks questions as Edwin talks, seeming genuinely interested.

“Of course, if you ask Dr. Dolls, only the Latin languages are worth studying,” he says as Charles hands him his latte. “He has a shameful disregard for the Semitic and Germanic languages, never mind the thousands of other languages spoken worldwide.”

“Sounds like a wanker,” Charles says.

“Indeed. He was my thesis advisor. It was hell.” Edwin glances down at his latte and sees a smiley face grinning up at him. “Well done with the latte art, Charles.”

“Thanks, mate.” Charles beams at him, just as lovely as he was the first time Edwin walked in. Edwin has been hoping his memory exaggerated. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Was the third eyeball intentional?”

“Oh, bollocks.”

***

It keeps happening. Edwin keeps taking detours to Live A Latte on his way to the university. He eventually upgrades his small latte to having a caramel flavor shot, which makes it no more palatable, but does cost him an extra fifty pence. He also adds a blueberry scone to his order, which is at least very good and gives him something to snack on in between sips of coffee.

Quickly, he learns that Charles works Tuesday through Friday mornings. If any of the other baristas notice that Edwin never stops in on Mondays, they say nothing. In the few minutes it takes Charles to make Edwin’s latte, they talk about a variety of things. Edwin learns that Charles is something of a jack of all trades, moonlighting as a bartender, a boxing instructor, and a youth cricket coach when he’s not working as a barista.

“If you like cricket, you should come see my team play sometime,” Charles tells Edwin. “We always need more people cheering in the stands.”

Edwin, who has never understood cricket and gave up trying years ago, asks, “Are they any good?”

“Nah, bloody awful. But most of them are eight, so who can blame them?”

That day, the latte art is a cricket bat, which just looks like a square with a line, but Edwin still praises it.

They talk about cricket and linguistics and Charles’s attempts to learn Hindi so he can converse with his mother’s relatives back in India. 

“I’m pretty shit at it. Afraid I’m going to tell one of my mum’s aunties to fuck off accidentally.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Learning a new language just takes practice and patience.”

“How many languages do you know?”

“I’m only fluent in six.”

“ Only six. Bloody slacker, you.”

They talk about St. Hilarion’s and the state school where Charles went and Edwin’s tabby cat, Thomas. They talk about the flat Charles shares with Crystal and Niko’s continued attempts to set Edwin up with every eligible bachelor at the university.

“The last one was a professor of economics,” Edwin says. “And he told me five minutes into the date that he doesn’t see the point of linguistics when Google Translate exists.”

Charles guffaws. “What’d you say to that?”

“I told him I didn’t see the point in economics when I could just Google stock prices. There was not a second date.”

“Shame, that.” Charles’s eyes sparkle. “Good-looking bloke like you probably doesn’t need to be set up.”

“Try telling Niko that,” Edwin says dryly. “She’s worried that I’ll die alone.”

“Nah, that’s not going to happen,” Charles says with perfect confidence that Edwin feels is entirely unearned, but still leaves him with a spring in his step all day.

Every time Edwin stops in, Charles adds some kind of art to his latte. Sometimes, it’s nearly recognizable, like the leaf, and sometimes, it’s a mishmash of incomprehensible shapes, like his attempt at a giraffe.

“You can tell it’s a giraffe! Because of the neck, see?”

“I thought it was a snake.”

“Snakes don’t have legs, mate.”

“Neither does this.”

It’s not really a friendship, Edwin keeps reminding himself firmly, nor anything else. Charles is being friendly to him because he’s at work. But for Edwin, whose only real friend is Niko, those few minutes of being smiled at every morning are as addictive as the blueberry scones. He’s aware that, much like coffee, he’s an acquired taste: always a little too awkward and snappish for most of his family, colleagues, and students. And given his continued failure to develop a taste for coffee, that’s not an encouraging thought.

But he cannot help but want, just a little, watching the way that Charles’s hands move deftly as he makes Edwin’s latte and drinking in the sound of his laugh. Every time he tells himself that he needs to stop wasting his money on a hopeless infatuation, he walks into Live A Latte, is greeted by Charles’s beaming smile, and knows he’s doomed.

***

He’s been a regular at Live A Latte for about three months when he stops in one day and finds Charles behind the counter, his smile edged with nervousness.

“Already got yours made, mate,” Charles says. “It’s on the house today.”

“Ah.” Edwin doesn’t know whether to be flattered or disappointed. A free latte and scone is a nice gesture—his wallet is feeling the effects of all these barely touched lattes—but this means he has no excuse to linger for a few minutes of conversation. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“Anything for my favorite customer.” Charles slides the latte across the counter with a wink.

Flushing, Edwin picks up the latte and glances at the shapes in the foam, frowning. “Is that… a three? And an eight?”

“Bloody hell, no, that’s supposed to be a six.” Charles grimaces and scrubs a hand through his curls. “It’s supposed to be my phone number.”

Edwin stares at him, because he cannot have gotten that right. He must be missing something.

“In case you want to call me sometime,” Charles, who now looks like he wants to sink through the floor, says. “But like, no pressure, mate. You’ll still be my favorite customer, even if you don’t.”

Edwin blinks. “I…”

“Oh my God.” Crystal leans around Charles. “He’s finally asking you out so I don’t have to keep listening to you two flirt about fucking Aramaic.”

“Enough of that, thanks.” Charles steps in between Edwin and Crystal, shielding her from view. “But, uh, yeah, I am.”

His eyes are warm and hopeful and Edwin realizes that this is actually happening. Charles, who is kind and charming and lovely and can make Edwin’s entire day with only a short conversation and a smile, wants Edwin to call him.

“You’ll need to just give me your number,” Edwin says. “Because this is gibberish.”

Charles laughs, bright and happy, and something in Edwin’s chest goes warm. “Yeah, fair enough.”

***

Edwin wakes to the smell of coffee. He stretches luxuriously, finding himself pleasantly sore in several places where he hasn’t been sore in a long time. Glancing around Charles’s bedroom, he takes in the sheets that needed to be changed at 2 AM and are now discarded in the corner and his own clothes strewn about with no regard for wrinkles. Under the mess, the room is very much Charles, with a shelf full of old records, an overflowing closet, and a cricket bat propped against the wall.

Since Charles is already up, Edwin slides out of bed only a bit reluctantly. Since his own clothes from the night before are a wreck, he finds a t-shirt with Live a Latte’s logo on the front that looks like it should fit and heads into the kitchen, where he finds Charles puttering around in nothing but a pair of pajama pants and a white undershirt. His eyes linger on the trail of bruises he kissed into the side of Charles’s neck.

“Morning.” Charles turns to him with a sleepy smile. “Sleep okay?”

“Very well, thank you.” Edwin crosses the room to him, smiling as Charles pulls him into his arms.

“I made coffee. Want some?”

Edwin is still half-asleep and drunk on a night of excellent sex and the feeling of Charles’s warm arms around him, so he’s not thinking when he says, “No thank you. I don’t care for coffee.”

Charles pulls back, eyebrows shooting up. “What?”

Too late, Edwin realizes his mistake. “It’s too bitter for me. I’ve been told it’s an acquired taste, but I’m afraid I never acquired it.”

“What about all those lattes I’ve been making you for months?”

Edwin desperately searches for a change of subject. “Is that the time? I really should be—”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Charles’s grip around Edwin’s waist tightens. “It’s Sunday. You already told me you have no plans today.”

“Well.” Edwin tries to adopt a look of haughty dignity that’s surely belied by the fact that he can feel his face turning beet red. “You wanted to hear more about Aramaic.”

“So you just kept coming back?” Charles’s smile widens, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth.

“The scones are quite good.”

“Admit it, it was for the latte art.”

“Your latte art is terrible, Charles.”

“Oi. You liked that kangaroo I did last week.”

“I thought it was a bloated mouse.” At Charles’s giggle, Edwin’s lips tug into a smile. “I will admit, you may have been something of a draw.”

“Was I, now?”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Already has. You’re bloody adorable, you know that?” Charles pulls him into a kiss. His mouth tastes like coffee, which isn’t exactly pleasant, but Edwin thinks he’ll get used to it. “But, mate?”

“Yes?” Edwin nuzzles into the soft spot under Charles’s ear.

“You know we serve tea, yeah?”

***

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving kudos or comments on AO3.

[ohbo-ohno]

Kinktober Day 1 - Leather & Latex

Ghost x Soap - 4k (on ao3)

summary: Simon goes to a kink club looking for a masochist to beat. (Ghost POV)

cw: dom!ghost, sub!soap, sadist!ghost, masochist!soap, heavy painplay, undernegotiated bdsm because i didn't want to write it all out sorry lol but everything is 1000% safe sane and consensual

note: this is really not one of my faves of the month and i hate to start out on a not so strong note but oh well 🫠 hope you guys enjoy!

Simon leans against the bar, scanning the crowd for a potential play partner and swirling his glass of water lazily.

There are a few displays, but they rarely match Simon’s severity. He can hear Valeria whipping someone on a public stage, but her subs can never handle more than one session a night. Valeria’s as mean as he is - she puts on a good show, but always manages to get to the real painsluts before Simon can.

He needs someone who can take a few hits. Tonight his fingers twitch with the need to beat a pretty thing black and blue, he craves the pained cries and tears of a sub suffering so beautifully for him. None of his usual play partners are free tonight, all either coupled off already or busy, which means he’ll have to test drive someone new.

Always risky. In his experience, subs have a tendency to overestimate their pain tolerance when it comes to him. He tries to make his expectations as clear as possible going in, but it’s a coin toss on whether or not the sub will actually understand.

He’s contemplating moving to another club, listening as Valeria’s sub goes from shouting to screaming, when someone sidles up beside him.

The man is big, standing taller than almost everyone around him but barely eye level with Simon’s chin. He’s muscular too, defined abs and pecs displayed by his lack of a shirt. He’s got a chest harness on, one that wraps just under his tits and between them, a leather strap crossing across his collar bones and over his shoulders. There’s a little d-ring in the center - Simon imagines it’s for a leash to be hooked onto, considering his collar-less neck. He’s got something covering his groin at least, just a tiny and tight pair of leather shorts that Simon would bet money let his ass cheeks hang out. 

He’s wearing an orange band on his right wrist - submissive, everything goes. Simon’s black band burns on his left - dominant, S&M

He raises his eyes back up the man once he’s done with his perusal, lets them linger appreciatively on his body. Simon’s always liked bigger subs, the ones who look like they can take a few blows and come right back for more.

The mohawked man smirks at him when they make eye contact, leans into Simon’s personal space with an elbow on the counter. “You’re not so bad yourself, handsome.”

Simon only cocks an eyebrow at that. He’s wearing his own leather pants and a tight latex top with a surgical mask over his nose and mouth, meaning there’s very little skin left uncovered for this sub to see. “Cocky, are we?”

The sub hums a little more, moves even further into Simon’s space. Surprisingly, he finds he doesn’t quite mind the intrusion. “Aye, I know I look damn good tonight. You lookin’ for someone to beat?”

Ah, right to business. Simon finds he likes this sub more and more every minute.

“Yes,” he replies, turning his body fully towards his potential partner and straightening up. “Need someone who can take whatever I decide to give. You gonna give out in the first twenty lashes?”

That gets him a snort, the smaller man moving so close they’re nearly bumping chests. “I hope that’s your warmup. Takes a lot to hurt me, I’m a right painslut. You up to the challenge?”

Simon gives the man another long look, assessing him a bit more, trying to gauge how much of his tone is bravado and how much is genuine. “What’s your name?”

“Johnny. Yours?”

“Simon. But you’ll call me Sir. Are you good with the traffic light system?”

Johnny perks up, like he hadn’t expected such an easy agreement. “Aye. You want to do this in private or on a stage?”

Simon shrugs, already abandoning his water and stepping away from the bar. “Up to you.”

“Showroom, then.”

Simon smirks at the decision, somehow unsurprised that this little sub is a bit of an exhibitionist. He strides off to the showrooms, doesn’t bother to glance over his shoulder to make sure Johnny’s following along.

There are already several people sitting in the audience for the impact-play room, watching another Dom carry their sub out through the one-way mirror. Simon holds the door open for Johnny once they’ve both cleared their intent with the dungeon monitor, confirming that they’re using the traffic light system as safe-words and that they’re going inside with no intention of having sex, just of beating and being beaten. Johnny’s antsy through the whole discussion, nearly bouncing on his toes in anticipation. It makes Simon’s lips curl beneath the mask, makes him want to grab the boy and force him still.

He pulls the mask off once they’re alone in the room, uncaring about their small audience seeing his face.

“Och, you really are handsome,” Johnny flirts, sliding up to Simon’s side and eyeing him like he’s his next meal. 

Simon wraps a hand around his throat, has him pinned against the wall before Johnny even realizes he’s been moved. “That’s not how you refer to me, Johnny.”

The smaller man smirks, licks his lips and leans forward so Simon’s nearly choking him. “You really are handsome, Sir.”

That earns him a backhand to the face, gets Simon a sharp exhale and wide eyes in return. “Watch the attitude. You’re already getting the beating you want so badly, bratting won’t get you anywhere with me.”

This time, Johnny’s “Yes, Sir,” sounds far more sincere. 

He pulls him away from the wall with a hand on his shoulder, sends him stumbling towards a Saint Andrew’s Cross in the middle of the room with a smack to the ass. “Stand there, back to me.”

Johnny swings his ass as he walks, sends a sultry look over his shoulder. Simon is careful not to give him anything, just crosses his arms and stands tall.

He moves forward once Johnny’s leaned on the cross, straps his ankles and wrists into the attached cuffs and double checks he’s not cutting off any circulation. He stands in front of Johnny for a moment, cups his chin and stares deep into the sub’s eyes to try and get a feel for his headspace. His eyes are clear, sparking with anticipation.

Johnny smirks up at him. “You’re gonna beat me black and blue, aren’t you?”

Simon can’t help the twitch of his lips. “Oh, I’ll break you, boy.”

“You’ll try.”

That gets Johnny his second slap of the night, an open-palmed crack against his cheek.

“Watch it. You okay with being naked, or you wanna keep those little shorts on?”

Johnny snorts a laugh. “Take ‘em off, they’re hardly covering much anyway. Get the harness off, too?” 

Simon scowls at the expectant tone when he steps around Johnny, yanks his zipper down and leaves the shorts hanging loose around one ankle. He gives Johnny a few harsh blows to his ass, goes until his own palm buzzes pleasurably at the sting. If they were doing anything more than a little painplay, Simon would take the time to work on Johnny’s attitude.

“You just naturally a brat, is that it? You’ll speak to me with respect if you want your beating.”

That gets a moan, has Johnny shifting in his bindings. “Sorry, Sir.”

Simon gives his cheek a smart tap, then a squeeze. He’s got quite the ass, this Scotsman. Simon can’t wait to paint it red. He steps back after a moment of feeling him up, scans his options for the night where they hang against the wall.

He starts off with a flogger. It’s a lightweight thing, with thin leather tresses that’ll make for a nice but decently intense warmup to see if Johnny’s as much of a painslut as he claims. It’s light in his palm, and he swings it in the air a few times to stretch out his wrist and build up a bit of anticipation.

He starts laying strikes when Johnny starts wiggling again, paints them across the boy’s shoulder blades and a bit lower to turn him a light pink. His skin is tanned, so it takes a bit of work on his part. Johnny’s silent at first, still squirming around like he can hardly feel anything, so Simon increases the force of his swings at just a bit of a faster pace than he would’ve with another sub.

Johnny lets out a little sigh, like he’s relaxing into something pleasant, but he stays stiff and upright on the cross. No flinching, no cringing, no whimpering or whining.

Simon smiles to himself. First test, passed.

He continues his warm up, lays harder and harder strikes along Johnny’s shoulder blades and mid-back until he’s painted a nice rosy color, watches him settle a bit as the sting starts to sink in a bit more. By the end of the warm up, Simon loosened his dominant arm and wrist nicely, and set the tone well enough for Johnny to stay quiet and still.

At least, that’s what Simon thinks. Until he steps away to set down the flogger and pick his next tool, when Johnny looks over his shoulder with a confused look.

“That’s it?”

Simon raises an eyebrow. “That’s your warm-up.”

Johnny almost looks disappointed, resting his chin on his bicep. “Oh.”

Simon doesn’t speak, let’s Johnny stew in his own silence until he decides he’d like to finish his thought. It doesn’t take long.

“Are your twenty lashes gonna be like that?”

He fights down a smirk. “It’s a warm-up, Johnny. And you’ll be taking far more than twenty lashes, don’t start getting greedy.”

He doesn’t look fully mollified, but Johnny’s lips tilt up in the corner and he turns his head back to the wall. Simon rolls his eyes at Johnny’s back - God save him from bossy subs. If they were any more committed to each other, Simon would lock Johnny’s little prick up for an attitude like that. He’ll have to settle for humbling him with a few whips. Not the least fair trade-off in Simon’s mind.

He picks up a cat-o-nine with particularly thin leather tails, the type that should leave Johnny hissing if Simon uses it right.

He repeats his process, swings the tool through the air a few times to let Johnny hear it move, let him try and guess what’s coming. Again, he only makes contact once Johnny starts his squirming again.

He whips across the already pinked skin. Johnny sucks in a sharp breath at the first hit, releases it loudly and seems to steel himself for what’s coming. Simon can’t help his smirk now, laying lashes noticeably harder than he might with another sub.

There are clear markings across Johnny’s back where the tails hit, little raised red lines making a nice addition to the base color he’s already got going. It takes Johnny a bit longer to go still this time, takes a bit to settle into the pain but taking the whipping nicely once he does.

The color looks good on him. Johnny’s an incredibly muscular man, and the way he stiffens in anticipation of Simon’s next swing - the way his back muscles spasm a bit against his own will when he hits a particularly sensitive spot - has Simon chubbing up in his pants.

He lets out occasional little sighs at the sting, noises that seem entirely involuntarily as he starts to truly lean into the pain.

Simon adjusts his cock and gives Johnny a break after nearly 30 lashes, doesn’t say anything as he waits for whatever smart-ass remark he’ll get. He shifts back to the wall of tools as he waits, picks his next instrument.

Johnny doesn’t disappoint. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder this time, stays nice and still, loose, like the pain is starting to get to him.

“They got anythin’ more intense back there? No offense, Sir, but it’s lookin’ like your bark is bigger than your bite from this end of the leather-”

Crack!

That gets a loud cry from Johnny, his head thrown back and his spine arching away from the pain. The bullwhip feels good, familiar, in Simon’s palm, and he turns it a bit as he watches Johnny blink wide-eyed, watches him sink back into the correct position with a stiffer posture.

“Still think you can take your twenty lashes?”

Johnny huffs, hangs his head and shakes out his shoulders as best he can in his bindings. Simon watches as he slowly unlocks each of his muscles, smirks at the sign of an experienced painslut. Johnny knows damn well that the tenser he is the more he’ll hurt, and as much of a whore as he might be for his whippings, twenty lashes with a bullwhip are hard to take even loose-limbed.

Simon lets the whip drag on the floor, then cracks it through the air next to Johnny’s side. He laughs when the boy nearly jerks himself off of his cross, let’s his voice echo menacingly in the room to work Johnny up a bit more.

“Gonna have to be still if you don’t want to hurt yourself, Johnny. Be good now.”

Johnny drops his head a bit, groans as he clearly talks himself into going still. He does so a moment later, body nearly deadweight against the cross.

“Attaboy,” Simon rumbles. He snaps the whip, watches the sharp stripe of red form on Johnny’s back and nearly smiles when he cries out again. “Start counting.

Crack!

“Ugh, fuck, th-three.”

“Nope, you didn’t count the first two. Start over.”

“You’re fucking kidd-?!”

Crack!

“Fine- shit, one!”

Crack!

“T-two, Christ…”

“I don’t think I like your tone, Johnny. Start over. With respect this time.”

He really does smile at the agonized sound Johnny lets out. Poor little maso, doesn’t even know what he’s got himself into by baiting Simon all night.

“We’ll do twenty-five, just to make sure all that nasty attitude is properly beaten out of you. Remember to watch your tone.”

Crack!

“One, Sir!”

“There you go, Johnny, good boy.”

Crack!

“Two, Sir!”

The lashes look very nice along Johnny’s back. Simon almost wants to step forward and trace them with his tongue, watch Johnny cry out at the sting soothed by the soft muscle, whip him across that same spot and watch him wail…

Crack!

“Five… five, Sir!”

Simon’s careful not to let the whip wrap around at any points, lands his lashes in firm safe-zones to avoid any serious injury. It’s got the extra perk of layering his lashes on top of each other, making Johnny scream when he gets one after the other in nearly the same spot.

Crack!

“Seven, Sir… fuck…”

He doesn’t allow himself to fully sink down as he whips Johnny, he knows he needs to stay alert in case his sub’s tone shifts to anything that indicates real danger, but he lets himself float into Domspace just a bit. He feels powerful as he whips Johnny.

“Ten, Sir!”

Johnny’s shoulders quivers, and Simon adjusts himself in his pants again. There’s something so satisfying about bringing such a large, strong, masculine man to his knees (metaphorically, of course, seeing as Johnny couldn’t fall to his knees if he wanted to, tied up as he is). Johnny had walked through that club like he owned the place, head thrown back and showing off every piece of his body he could get away with.

“T-Twelve, Sir!”

It feels good to put him in his place. To metaphorically grind his heel firmly onto Johnny’s back, have him literally writhing and shouting while tied to a cross, taking his lashes like a good boy. The sight of such sharp red lines over all those hills and valleys of muscles…

“Sev… seventeen!”

“Seventeen what?”

“Sir! Sir, sir, seventeen, sir!”

Crack!

“Ei-Eighteen, Sir! I’m sorry, so sorry, Sir…”

“That’s alright, you’re still doing good, Johnny. Check in with me - you alright to keep going?”

The look Johnny shoots over his shoulder is almost offended, and surprisingly put-together considering his previous cries. “Course, Sir. Am still green. Will let you know if am not.”

Simon almost snorts. “Back around. You’re not done taking your lashes.”

There’s a smile on his lips when Johnny obeys his command. “Yes, Sir.”

“Hm. Keep counting.”

Crack!

“Nineteen, Sir!”

Simon’s surprised Johnny’s as coherent as he is at this point. He’s never pushed quite so far with a play partner on the first night, but Johnny’s eyes had been nearly clear when he’d glanced over his shoulder, only a few light traces of tears down his cheeks.

Crack!

“Twenty-two! S-Sir!”

His last three lashes are the hardest, even though Johnny’s already taken so much. He wants the boy broken down to pieces, wants him sobbing and unable to control it, wants him trembling and gasping for air in Simon’s arms.

Johnny nearly screams the final numbers, each of them laid one over the other.

“Twenty-five! Twenty-five, S-Sir!”

“Hmm, good boy, Johnny. Took your lashes well for me.”

Simon lays the cruel whip back in its place, steps around in front of Johnny and cups his chin to raise his face and make eye-contact.

Those last few lashes did their job, Johnny already looks far more fucked out than he had only minutes earlier. The stream of tears down his face is constant now, but his brow is smooth and his lips quirk up into a little smile, giving Simon all of his weight and trusting him to hold him up.

Simon strokes his leather-clad thumb over Johnny’s chin. “Color?”

Johnny doesn’t answer right away, clearly focuses on cataloguing himself and the pain now that it’s not coming so consistently. Simon’s glad to see him take the time to answer truthfully, continues to stroke across his chin for a bit of comfort. Eventually, Johnny blinks back up at Simon and says, “Green, Sir.”

He can’t help but smile a little. “Want to go a little longer, then?”

That gets him a smirk. “If your arms aren’t tired yet.”

Simon backhands him, lets his chin go so he jerks into his own arm and muffles his groan into his bicep.

“Never met a brat who’s quite as much of a painslut as you. It’ll be fun to watch you beg.”

Johnny’s canines peek out behind his lips when he grins. “Do your worst, Sir.”

Simon gives him a sharp little tap to the cheek, another to his ass when he walks away. “I’ll make you regret that, Johnny. You’ll be sceamin’ yourself hoarse by the time I’m done with you.”

The gloves Simon slips on after taking his off are heavy, a little warmer than he’d usually like for daily use, but the sharp spikes down each of the fingers are what really matters. He tests one with a fingertip as he talks to Johnny, smirks at the sting.

“You wish. Haven’t had a Dom make me cry like that in years, you think you’ll be the one to break my streak?”

Simon smirks as he hovers just at Johnny’s side, feels the heat emanating from the sub’s body and watches sweat drip down his back.

“Oh, I know I will.”

He lands a sharp smack against Johnny’s bared ass, makes sure to curve his fingers just so to make sure Johnny feels each and every barb.

He yelps, jerks away from the sting and squirms a little in his binds. Simon bites his tongue to keep from laughing as he watches Johnny’s face go from teasing and a little dazed to shocked, wide-eyed and mouth gaping.

He doesn’t wait for another response, only begins to rain down smacks on Jonny’s ass. He’s careful not to slam the spikes too deeply - doesn’t know how Johnny is with blood, doesn’t want the dungeon monitor to make it his business when Simon is so close to bringing Johnny down - but that doesn’t blunt the impact any. With the spacing of the spikes and his own fingers, it’s nearly impossible for him to not layer the hits over one another.

Simon angles himself just a little further forward, to get a better look at Johnny’s face as he starts to writhe, starts to try and run from the pain. His face is scrunched up beautifully, tears dripping down his chin and to the floor. He grits his teeth against moans.

They go like that for a bit. Simon moves himself fully behind Johnny to land slaps with both hands at once, spends some time with just Johnny’s upper thighs for a bit so they don’t feel neglected. His whole back is red, from shoulders to thighs, and the sight gives Simon that rush he’s been itching for all day.

When Johnny goes from moans to whimpers Simon moves to the front of the cross, places his gloved-hands lightly over Johnny’s chest to get his attention.

“Look at me, Johnny.” Simon waits, gives the sub as soft a smile he can when Johnny’s teary eyes meet his. “Color?”

It takes a moment, but Johnny stutters out, “G-green,” with a breathless pant, his body loose against the cross.

Simon hums as he wraps his arms around Johnny, presses his elbows tight to the boy’s ribs and places his hands firmly on Johnny’s shoulders. “Good boy.”

He drags down over the lashings, watches with rapt attention as Johnny screams.

His face goes red with it, veins popping in his neck, spit dribbling down his chin, body fighting to get away from the pain even tied as firmly to the cross as he is. Simon smiles, strokes his hands up and down in uneven patterns without easing the pressure.

“F-fuck, fuck, oh my God, sir- sir, I- fuck!”

“That’s it,” Simon chuckles, gives a few harder presses into place he knows Johnny’s more sensitive and relishes in the sound of his scream cracking. “Scream for me, boy, c’mon.”

He follows commands beautifully, Johnny. Simon’s not sure he’s ever been so satisfied watching a sub break down, watching them lose all control and go into the pain completely.

He lets himself indulge in Johnny’s pain-filled expression for as long as his boy can bear, drags his hands up and across his most sensitive spots, squeezes his ass a few times to reignite that sting.

Eventually Johnny manages to blink hazy eyes up at Simon, murmurs, “Yellow, Sir,” softly, tears still dripping down his cheeks and his breath hitching.

Simon can’t hold back his smile as he takes the gloves off, unchains Johnny and eases his limbs down. The Scot is all dead weight in his arms, but Simon’s more than strong enough to carry one subbie out of a showroom.

He’s careful with the way he carries Johnny so he doesn’t aggravate any painful spots - he hefts him over his shoulder, keeps a hand behind both of his knees to hold him steady and resists the urge to stroke his glowing ass, to feel how the heat emanates from it. There’s a little drunk giggle from over his back when he flips Johnny up.

The previous Dom and sub have cleared out the aftercare room just outside of the showroom, meaning Simon’s got free reign to coax his sub for the night down to planet Earth.

He lays him out, stomach down, on a long leather couch. The furniture’s upkeep cost must be insane considering how many sweaty bodies have laid across it, but it’s in pristine condition as Simon sits.

He tucks Johnny’s head into his lap, turns his face to the side and gives him long, slow pets down his mohawk. Johnny hums a bit at the contact, burrows his face deep into Simon’s stomach and reaches his free hand down to wrap around Simon’s ankle.

He’s endearing when he’s blissed out, his little face peaceful and his limbs loose, his back covered in Simon’s marks and his sub seemingly all the happier for it. He’ll have to get some soothing cream in a few minutes, have to properly take care of Johnny’s body when he’s not conscious enough to do it for himself.

But that can wait. For now, Simon leans his head against the back of the couch, continues his soothing motions through Johnny’s hair, and thinks about how he’ll coax the sub into another session sooner rather than later.

[iboatedhere]

It's been exactly 1 year since I posted my first RWRB fic, Baby, All At Once (This Is Enough) , and I've been so overwhelmed by the lovely comments and support on not only that fic, but every fic I've posted since. I really appreciate everyone that has showed me love this past year and I can't wait to see what the next year will bring, starting with this fic! Inspired by a request from @pragmatic-optimist from so long ago I can't even find it anymore :)

--

“Fuck,” Alex mumbles as he checks the live traffic radar on his phone for the hundredth time. A solid red line all the way to Heathrow. “Fuck. Hey,” He calls up to his Uber driver as he zooms in on the map. “Could you get off at the next exit and then take side roads? We’re cutting into my three-hour cushion time.”

The driver twists all the way around in his seat and then gestures out the window at the bumper-to-bumper traffic, which is being made worse by the heavy rain hanging over London for the past week. “What exit, mate? We haven’t moved in thirty-five minutes. Where exactly am I getting off?”

“I don’t know,” Alex groans. “I’m sorry. I'm stressing the fuck out because Heathrow is built above the gates of hell, and I thought I gave myself enough time to navigate it. It hasn’t stopped raining in a million years, and if I miss this flight, I’m royally fucked because there isn’t another flight until tomorrow morning. I really don’t want to spend another grand on a ticket plus whatever a hotel room would cost, so I just really need to get to the airport as fast as possible.”

The driver blinks at him.

“Also,” Alex continues, feeling more than a little pathetic, “I didn’t have a chance to get coffee this morning, so that’s fucking me up too.”

The driver eyes him warily before he turns around. “Pal, I think coffee is the last thing you need right now.”

Read More on Ao3

[bluenet13]

A Very Marry Christmas - Read on AO3

Tim's plans to propose are repeatedly thwarted by Lucy's busy holiday schedule. Desperate to make it happen, he decides to take a chance during the team's gift exchange. A @chenfordsecretsanta fic for @mamadoc

'Twas two weeks before Christmas, and all through the house, the sound of Tim Bradford's footsteps echo steadily. Outside, Christmas lights twinkle brightly as Tim paces in his living room. Fifteen steps to the coffee table, ten more to the door. Another fifteen to the stairs, and finally twenty back to the opposite wall. He's counted them certainly once, possibly thrice, but most likely he's into double digits. Anything to distract himself from the small box burning a hole in his pocket.

Lucy is half an hour late. It happens often and Tim usually accepts it without complaint. But tonight, it makes him restless and so he paces. The food is getting cold in the kitchen, because it was either cold on the table or burnt on the stove. That also happens often, because one of them is almost always late, and because Tim is nowhere near a chef and dinner has been burned in more than one occasion. But not tonight. Tonight, Tim followed the instructions Genny sent to perfection, wanting the evening to be equally perfect.

It's another half hour later when keys jingle outside. Tim stops and stares, eyes wide as his hand inadvertently moves to cover his pocket.

A moment later the door opens, and Lucy is right there. She drops her bag and catches Kojo as he comes barreling down. She kisses him in the head as Tim continues staring. If he was a less confident man, he would get offended at his girlfriend kissing their dog hello before him. Instead, he patiently waits for his turn, and a minute later Lucy is back in his arms where she belongs.

"Hi Lu," he breathes into her hair, letting the familiar scent sooth the butterflies dancing in his stomach. "How was work?"

"It's been a day," Lucy sighs, "Had to break a fight at Best Buy, almost arrest a teen and treat the mall Santa Claus he brought to tears and help with a traffic accident after a poorly tied tree slipped off a car's roof in the middle of La Brea."

Tim grimaces and gently turns Lucy around so he can massage her shoulders and neck. "The joys of the Christmas season," he says sarcastically. Yet, he smiles to himself. Hoping tonight will make however many Christmases together life gifts them the most joyful of seasons as they celebrate their anniversary year after year.

Lucy nods and relaxes into Tim's touch. She closes her eyes and is nearly asleep on her feet when her phone buzzes in her pocket. Picking it up, she shoots Nolan a quick reply and turns to look at Tim apologetically. "Yeah, about that… The day is about to become a little more joyful."

Tim deflects at the inflection in her voice because they have been here before. "What did you do?" He almost tacks on a now at the end of the sentence, but he doesn't want to start the rest of their lives together with petty comments and unnecessary arguments.

"I sort of got volunteered for a community event tonight," Lucy explains, then breaks for a kiss to soften the blow. "And I sort of volunteered you to come with me."

To Tim's credit he manages to muster a tentative smile and almost convincing nod. "That sounds great, Luce."

"You're not mad?" Lucy asks, finally catching the delicious smell coming from the kitchen. "You made dinner?"

"I did, but it was nothing special. I can pack it, and we can reheat it tomorrow at the station." He fails to mention how dinner was Lucy's favorite dish as a child that she's mentioned a few times she hasn't eaten since the falling out with her parents. If she asks, he can just say he bought it, no need for her to know he spent hours cooking and start suspecting he's up to something.

"Okay, I'm sorry." Lucy smiles and it's so infectious that Tim finds himself smiling back even if his plans are completely ruined. "Let's go change into something more festive. I promised Nolan I would be there in an hour at most."

Making a silent note to have a conversation with Nolan, Tim follows Lucy into the bedroom. But not before making a stop at the highest shelf in the kitchen and depositing the ring safely inside.

-x-x-x-

Three days later, Tim puts the disappointment of the failed proposal behind him and tries again. He's just finished wiggling Kojo into a Santa costume, complete with beard and hat, when his phone rings.

He cringes when Lucy's picture pops into the screen and silently begs the universe that she's just calling to tell him she's on her way home.

The universe in turn laughs at his face, and keeps going on uncarily, as Lucy explains in his ear.

"I'm sorry, Tim. I know we had plans to go on a hike with Kojo but two of Harper's detectives called out and she needs help with an open case."

Tim sighs and lets the disappointed show on his face while masking it in his voice. "Isn't there anyone else that can help?" He tries, not wanting to read too much on the universe yet again conspiring against him.

"Yeah, but Harper asked me first. She knows I've been trying to make up for the detective's test and everything else that happened."

Tim hates that Lucy is still trying to atone for things she shouldn't be atoning for, but that's just the nature of the world and he promised himself he would be supportive. God knows he's the one that will be trying to make amends the rest of his life and it still won't be enough for what he put her through.

"It's okay. We can go on a hike another day," he says dutifully, silently beginning to get the costume off Kojo. "Be safe, I love you."

"Love you too, see you later tonight." Lucy blows him a kiss and the line goes dead.

Tim's heart sinks at the silence but he smiles down at Kojo and pats his head softly. "What do you say about going on a walk with just daddy?"

-x-x-x-

It's three nights before Christmas when Tim decides to try yet again. This time he's picked a day when they are both working so he can make sure they both end up at the restaurant like they're supposed to.

When the clock on his small office ticks five in the afternoon, he checks his phone and smiles upon seeing Lucy's text. She's just finished her last call and is on the way back to the station. Perfectly on time.

A few minutes later, Lucy pokes her head through the small gap he left open on the door and gives him a blinding smile. "I will go shower and get dressed and we can be on our way."

"Sounds great, Luce."

This time, Tim picked the fancy restaurant where they had their first date after getting back together. He almost picked a new place to signal a new beginning, but instead he chose the one that reminds them that even in life's darkest moments, when destiny or each other pushes them apart, they're still stronger together. 

He reserved a cozy corner table, ordered Lucy's favorite wine in advance, and rehearsed his speech more times that he knew were necessary. Trying his very best to keep things on track and his plans in motion.

But as seconds then minutes start ticking by and Lucy still hasn't returned, Tim starts to get antsy. He glances at the small velvet box he's been holding and curses when he sees his sweaty hands are getting it damp. He dries it on his jacket and puts it in his pocket, so he doesn't oust himself when Lucy comes in.

When the door finally opens a few minutes later, it's not Lucy, but Angela. Tim curses softly, unclenches his hands, and settles on his chair. He forces his tense shoulders to drop and focuses on his best friend. She has that funny look on her face that he hates, and he just knows his plans are about to be ruined again.

"Sooo…" Angela begins and Tim cringes.

He waits and cringes some more when Angela raises her hands apologetically without having said anything that needed apologizing for. She glances at his attire and decides to sit down.

"I was talking to Nyla when Lucy came in to change and she heard us talking," Angela finally explains and Tim already doesn't like where this is going. "I was telling her how the latest case forced me to take overtime three Fridays in a row and I missed Wesley's birthday, plus the anniversary of when he proposed."

"Okay?" Tim prompts, trying but failing to wait calmly for the rest of the story.

She takes a deep breath and explains everything so quickly that Tim misses half the words, but he still gets the gist of it. Lucy felt bad so she offered to babysit the Lopez-Evers siblings so Angela and Wesley could take their reservation to make up for their missed celebrations.

"I'm sorry, Tim. Lucy looked so earnest when she offered that I really thought you guys wouldn't mind, but seeing you now…" She trails off, looking him up and down and taking in the freshly pressed suit and expertly combed hair.

Tim's shoulders slump but he nods anyway. He loves Lucy's big heart, he really does. Yet still he wishes her big heart would stop getting in the way of his.

Angela coughs and Tim realizes his silence has stretched too long to the point of suspicion. The last thing he wants is his detective friend to start detecting so he grabs her hand and squeezes supportively.

"It's okay. Don't worry about it and just enjoy the evening with Wes." He tries not to sound too annoyed, but the way Angela's brows furrow makes him think he's just failed spectacularly.

"Timothy, is there something you're not telling me?" Angela asks sweetly, in her most dangerous voice.

Tim opens his mouth to try to form an excuse when Angela lifts a finger silencing him.

"Wait, I got it." She starts ticking fingers as she goes. "You made reservations on a Friday night to one of LA's busiest restaurants and one I know for a fact you have only visited once before, when I helped you finally get your head out of your ass and ask Lucy to a first date, again. You are wearing a suit that I also know for a fact you didn't own before because I've been in your closet, and I know I would have picked this one for my wedding had it been there. You combed your hair in a way that I last saw… Never, you have never combed your hair to make yourself look like a Hollywood star and not the guy that catches people pissing on the Hollywood Stars."

She pauses, takes a big gulp of air, and goes for the killing blow. "And you're really trying to be inconspicuous, but you have been staring at the ring box-shaped lump in your pocket ever since I came in."

Tim has known Angela long enough to know that lying would be pointless, so, uncharacteristically, he decides to open up without her having to threaten him first and tells her everything. She spends about ten minutes squealing, demanding to see the ring, and hugging him to his dismay, before quickly sobering up and starting to plan with him.

-x-x-x-

In the week leading up to Christmas, Angela dutifully helps Tim plan perfect proposal after perfect proposal. They end with Tim in a Santa costume delivering gifts at the local children's hospital, Tim and Lucy babysitting Lila and Leah, Lucy volunteering them for an extended patrol so another officer could finish gift shopping, and party after party that was fun but too crowded for him to propose.

Out of ideas, and time, Tim decides to propose during the gift exchange Nola and Bailey organized for the team at their home. There are a million things that could go wrong, but everything has already gone wrong when it shouldn't, so he figures there's not much more he can lose.

With Angela's help he wraps the engagement ring as Lucy's Secret Santa present and manipulates the draw in a way that he knows for certain Lucy's name will be the one on the last paper left for him when he's purposely late to the drawing.

The evening goes well for the most part, but he's nervous as hell so Angela keeps topping his whiskey glass to keep him relaxed. He's a little tipsy by the time Bailey declares dinner over and the exchange beginning, but at least the gift is still where he left it, Lucy hasn't volunteered them for anything that would cut the night short, and no one has realized what he's planning.

As planned, Bailey opens the first gift from Celina and rejoices at the LAFD onesie. Then Nolan fist bumps James, smiling at his new tool kit, and Tamara squeals at the blouse Angela got her.

The rest of the exchange proceeds in controlled chaos but things take a turn when it's just Harper and Lucy left, and Harper grabs a box that looks suspiciously like Tim's box, same wrapping paper and all.

Tim turns panicked eyes at Angela and silently begs her to do something. Always smart and quick-witted, she clears her throat. "Harper, wait! I think you might have grabbed the wrong gift," Angela says, trying to sound casual. "Unless you have a secret admirer that's not James?" She pointedly looks at the box that clearly contains jewelry and at Nolan's gift from her husband. "I think that one is for Lucy."

Harper pauses, a skeptical look on her face. "Nice try, Lopez. But the name tag says it's for me."

She slowly unwraps the gift and by the time the lid comes off, revealing the sparkling ring inside, Tim has fully stopped breathing. Harper gasps and the room falls silent.

Harper's eyes widen in shock, and she looks around the room, confused, her eyes finally settling on Tim, then Lucy, then Tim again. "Uh, Tim? I think there's been a mix-up."

Lucy, equally shocked, looks at Tim with wide eyes. "Tim, what's going on?"

Tim's heart drops. This is not how he imagined it at all.

Still, he stands up, his face flushed with embarrassment even as his eyes shine with the determination to make this right and finally propose to the love of his life. He steps forward, takes the ring from an apologetic Harper, and drops to a knee.

"Luce," Tim begins, his voice steadying as he looks into her eyes as if they're the only two people in the room and the whole damn universe. "I had this all planned out, quite a few times actually, but life and your big heart had other ideas." He laughs and recounts every failed attempt that preceded this day, gently shushing her when she rushes to apologize in the middle of his speech. "Lucy Chen, you're the most incredible person I've ever met, and I'm the luckiest guy because for some reason you chose me, over and over again, even when I didn't deserve it. We've been through so much together and it's all taught me that life is not worth living without you. I know things haven't gone exactly as planned, tonight and before, but maybe that's just our way. Nothing about us has been traditional or easy. But through it all, we have stuck together, and it's only made us stronger. Will you make me the happiest man on the planet and marry me?"

Lucy, her eyes filled with tears, nods. "Yes, Tim. Yes! A million times yes!"

The room erupts into cheers and applause as Tim slips the ring onto Lucy's finger. He pulls her to her feet and captures her lips in a kiss that promises the future he's always dreamed of but never dared believe would happen to a guy like him.

When they break apart, their friends are right there.

Nolan clasps Tim on the back. "Congratulations, man. That was a rollercoaster."

Tim laughs, relief and happiness flooding through him. "You have no idea."

"Well, it wouldn't be a Mid-Wilshire proposal or wedding without a little drama," Wesley jokes.

Bailey grins, shaking her head. "Don't forget honeymoons, those can go awry too."

After every member of their little family has congratulated them, only Angela remains. Her familiar cheeky grin is gone and there are tears in her eyes as she smiles at them. "Congratulations, you both! I couldn't be happier." She pulls them into a hug and saves the rest of her words for later when she's writing her co-best woman speech.

Tim and Lucy forgo the rest of Secret Santa and steal a moment alone on the porch, the cold night air a stark contrast to the warmth they feel inside.

"I can't believe you did all this," Lucy says, looking at Tim with adoration. "And I can't believe I ruined your plans so many times that you had to propose in front of all our friends." Lucy grimaces and buries her face on Tim's shirt. "That's very un-Tim-like."

Tim nods, a sheepish smile on his face. "It wasn't my first choice, but it makes sense for us."

He spares their friends a glance and his mind's-eye flashes with countless snapshots of moments together. The near misses and the relief afterward, their concern after the breakup and joy when they got back together, the countless times they’ve supported each other through thick and thin. Every trial, every laugh, every moment that has led them to this point.

"Let's make a promise," Lucy says, her voice barely above a whisper.

"What's that?" Tim asks, swaying slightly with the wind in tune with the soft Christmas music coming from the living room.

"Let's promise to always find time for each other, no matter how crazy things get. To always support each other, even when plans go awry."

"I promise, Lucy. Always." They lean in, sealing the promise with a kiss, the world around them fading away. When they pull back, Tim holds Lucy's hand, the engagement ring catching the light and sparkling brightly.

"I love you, Tim. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Lucy," Tim replies, pulling his fiancé close.

They stand in comfortable silence, the sound of laughter and celebration drifting from inside. Tim gently brushes a stray hair from Lucy's face, his touch warm and reassuring. "Should we go back inside or call it a night and move the celebrations somewhere more private?"

"Let's go back inside," Lucy suggests, squeezing his hand. "But only for a little while. We have a lot to celebrate."

Hand in hand, they walk back into the house, greeted by their friends' cheers and smiles. The night continues with stories, laughter, and joy, each moment a precious memory in the making.

When they finally announce they're going home, Angela pulls Tim close and raises her glass in a toast. "To Tim and Lucy, may your love continue to grow, and may you always find happiness in each other."

"To Tim and Lucy!" everyone echoes, their voices ringing with genuine affection and joy.

Tim and Lucy thank their friends and leave the house, their fingers intertwined as they step into the night. The sky above is clear, the stars shining brightly in their honor, each one a distant reminder of the infinite possibilities that await them.

"Ready for our next adventure?" Tim asks, his eyes twinkling bright.

Lucy smiles, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Always," she whispers in the night.

And thus begins the next chapter of their lives.

[julysn]

what’s your eta? || 04: like a baby

ship: kyle broflovski x fem! reader

synopsis: Chaos ensues.

wc: 3800 something

high school au, canon divergence (based off of doubling down / season 21 episode 7), y/n is not heidi turner, slightly ooc

read on ao3 | prev | masterlist | playlist

a/n: sorry the intro is real butt half of it was written back in september 2023 and i honestly didn’t know what to do w the paragraphs LMFAOO theyll gget better i promise

Morning had finally arrived, and you were awoken by the sun’s rays gleaming through the blinds of your bedroom window, casting a warm, golden hue on your walls and floor. The sound of the harmonious chirping of the birds outside filled your ears, their melodies embracing the beauty of the sunrise. As you sat up and stretched, you couldn't help but appreciate this brief moment of serenity before the chaos of the day began.

What day is it? You threw a glance to your alarm clock, seeing “Monday” written on the LED screen, Fuck. Time for school. You sighed, rolling out of bed as the cold floor greeted your senses.

You stepped over to your closet, pulling out a set of clothes. Your fingers moved on autopilot as you picked out your outfit. You wanted an outfit that was cute, nothing like what middle school boys would wear, like red shorts and a neon-green shirt. After a few minutes of browsing your closet like a retail store, you pulled out a comfortable pair of sweats and a hoodie that would protect you from the chilly weather.

You let out a deep sigh, walked out of your bedroom, and quietly stepped into the hall. Once you had reached your bathroom, you applied some toothpaste to your toothbrush and began brushing your teeth while looking down at your phone and replying to several texts from your friends and classmates. Some had asked for help on assignments, while others were just texting about the latest pieces of drama.

As you began to get ready for school, you felt yourself becoming more awake and alert with each passing second. Time seemed to quicken as you slipped on your clothes and slowly, yet sleepily, stepped down the staircase and over to the kitchen. Your two siblings sat at the kitchen island, one finishing some homework and the other just sipping on a cup of iced coffee.

“You haven’t finished?” You asked, stifling a yawn as you walked over to the pantry and picked out a box of cereal. Dallas looked up from his work, giving you a nod as he scribbled away on a sheet of paper.

“Algebra’s hard. Mr. Wyland keeps giving us homework.” He sighed, leaning forward and placing his fingers up to his temple. He stared down at the many scribbles of work that he had left on the sheet of homework, the look in his eyes full of misery.

You poured some cereal into a glass bowl, pulling a drawer and picking up a spoon. Soleil looked up from her phone, taking a sip of her coffee as she tilts her head and watches as Dallas buried his head in his hands.

“Algebra isn’t that hard. You just have to pay attention.” She shrugged nonchalantly, pausing to take yet another sip of her coffee before continuing. “Need help?”

“Yes, please!” Dallas answered almost immediately, head jolting upwards from his palms, his eyes pleading for the assistance of someone who was more capable than he was. You chuckled as you began to eat out of your cereal bowl, watching as Soleil began to help Dallas.

You sat down at the kitchen island with your cereal, sitting away from your two siblings so as to not accidentally spill the contents of your bowl onto Dallas’ algebra homework. He’d be pissed. Despite the early hour and the grogginess that clung to you and your expression, the presence of your siblings and the familiar morning chatter made you feel a bit less exhausted.

…?

You and your friends stood before your locker, just relaxing and talking before class started. The hallway was a bit crowded, but not unbearable as it was still possible to get by — the hallway traffic seemed calmer this time around. Although your school was bigger than the average small town high school, it was nothing compared to the schools in Dallas that you had seen on social media.

Your eyes squint lightly as you look at your reflection through the small mirror on Bebe’s locker door, checking for any flaws in your appearance. You ran a hand through your tousled hair and sighed, brushing off some hints of lint from your pants, wanting to be as presentable as possible–you didn’t want to look like the school air had clearly gotten to you.

Standing to your right was one of your best friends, Bebe, who was talking about random pieces of drama. Her long, perfect golden curls cascaded down to her shoulders beautifully, complementing her bright eyes. She wore a denim miniskirt with a pink, rhinestone-adorned belt, her pink crop top enhancing her appearance.

To your left was one of your other best friends, Wendy, who was listening and discussing the drama with Bebe. She had a softer appearance compared to Bebe, her gentle eyes making her look angelic. A pink beret sat atop her black, tousled hair, while she wore a casual tank top and flared jeans. Her outfit was simple, yet she pulled it off effortlessly, no traces of makeup on her face except for lip gloss.

Almost zoned out, you were pulled back into reality as Bebe spoke up, tilting her head. “Have any of you seen Nichole?”

You looked over from the mirror to Wendy, your eyes meeting as you shared a glance before the two of you shook your heads.

“I think she rides with Tolkien.” Wendy adds, shrugging as both of you broke eye contact and she went back to looking through her locker, grabbing the books she needed for class and stuffing them into her backpack. You envied her locker, it was so organized and clean, while yours was a complete mess.

“Yeah, they’re in another situationship.” You just shrug as well, opening up your own locker and looking helplessly as you scrimmaged through. After a mere 20 seconds, you finally found the appropriate books and papers you needed for the class you had to rush off to, stuffing them into your backpack and stifling a yawn as you turned back to your two friends. Tolkien and Nichole were in a “situationship”, or, in other terms, they had a weird friends-with-benefits thing going on. They’d go on dates, have sex, like what couples usually do, but weren’t a couple. It was weird.

“When is she getting here?!” Bebe complained, quickly slipping her phone out of her purse as she began typing, her eyes darting down to her phone occasionally as she continued to inspect her visuals through the mirror placed on her locker door. She was a swift typer, even with her nails, and you couldn’t help but be impressed.

After a good thirty seconds of peaceful silence, or, rather, silence between the three of you, Bebe perked up with a response as her phone vibrated in her hand and she glanced down at it. “She says she’ll be here in 5.”

“Damn. Did you ask if she’s riding with him?” You asked, raising an eyebrow as you shut your locker and tossed your backpack over your shoulder, shoving your hands in your pockets.

“It’s pretty obvious that she is.” Wendy chimes in, letting out a soft giggle as she pulled her beret off and stored it in her locker. “We don’t have to ask.”

As the three of you all collectively giggled, you suddenly heard a loud, booming voice at the end of the hallway, snapping everyone out of their thoughts.

“Kyle!”

Everyone’s heads immediately span, turning to the source of the loud, booming voice. It was none other than the one and only, your ex-boyfriend, the one who terrorizes SPHS with his mere presence, Eric Cartman.

This is about me. There’s no way it’s not. You sighed awkwardly, ready to watch the two of them fight over you. Ever since you had been dating Eric, your social status had boosted, but ever since the breakup, you were more popular than ever. Some might say it was more impactful than Watergate, but you digress.

Your hands immediately searched your pockets for your phone, just in case a real fight was about to happen. Holy shit. After a few seconds of rummaging, you quickly pulled it out and kept your camera app ready, just in case. A few other students were recording already, not even waiting for any punches or hits.

“Oh, I should’ve known. You lying snake!” Eric growled, walking stomping down in anger. Each and every step caused a loud rumble, and you weren’t sure if it was the weak school floors, if he was really mad, or if he was just fat. The hallway instantly fell silent, before hushed whispers began. You and your two other friends stood there in shock, barely able to process what was truly going on.

Kyle grimaced, biting his lip anxiously as he slammed his locker shut and turned his head to face Eric. “.. Cartman, I didn’t mean for things to happen the way they did-“

“Did it bother you that I was happy?!” Eric seethed, gritting his teeth as he walked down the hallway, one hand balled up into a fist. “You think you can just walk in and ruin everything I made for myself? You’re wrong!”

“Cartman, you weren’t happy.” The ginger sighed, crossing his arms as he watched Eric approach angrily.

“He’s gonna crack the floor if he keeps moving like that.” Bebe whispers to you and Wendy, a little too loudly, resulting in scattered giggles from across the hallway and a short-lived glare from Eric. He threw his hands up, flipping her off before walking up to Kyle, attempting to enter his personal space to intimidate him yet failing.

“Shut up, Kahl! I was happy!” Eric growls once more, cracking his knuckles. You sighed, rolling your eyes. He wasn't happy, and it took you a while to notice that. He was everything but happy whenever he spent time with you.

“All you did was bitch about Y/N all the time-“ Yet again, Eric interrupts anything Kyle wanted to say.

“You’re not gonna talk your way outta this one! This is the end, Kyle! It’s you or me.”

“… Cartman, I-“ Kyle gets interrupted again, with Eric slamming him against the lockers. He winced, grimacing uncomfortably.

Eric ignores his discomfort and annoyance, shooting a glare at Kyle that was so angry, you could barely decipher anything in his eyes other than pure rage. “You took everything from me! Everything!”

You were not Eric’s everything, that’s for sure. Maybe in an alternate universe. His everything was most likely his food.

“Stop it.” Kyle narrows his eyes, pushing Eric away only for him to slam him against the lockers once more. You wondered if a fight was gonna happen, and who’d throw the first punch. Would it be Kyle? Or Eric? Or maybe they’d start fighting at the same time? You scooted yourself to the front, trying and succeeding in getting the best angle as people stepped out of the way to let you through. You felt like a celebrity.

You held your phone securely in your hand, watching quietly. It seemed as if the two boys were unaware that you were watching the altercation. The crowded hallway seemed to only get denser and denser once people began to circle around the scene unfolding before them, intrigued. Curiosity flowed through the air as students from all walks of life united and created a circle, one that had formed just to witness the true strength of the two men in-front of their eyes.

Not much could be heard besides for the chatter and whispers of the many on-lookers, while the two boys bickered and spoke over each other.

It felt weird to see this unfold just before your eyes—two people fighting about you, hell, over you. But this was very entertaining.

“All you’ve ever done is work to ruin my life! Well, now you’re gonna pay the price!” Eric snarled, his voice deep and raspy unlike how he’d usually be a bit more whiny and irritating. Instead of his voice being annoying, his voice was annoyed.

“Fuck him up!” A voice from inside the crowd rang out.

Immediately, after that indirect encouragement, Eric steps forward and screeches, ready to punch Kyle when he himself gets hit first, the ginger dodging and throwing the first hit. As Eric falls to the floor, his cheek bruised, he growls and stands up, cracking his knuckles threateningly.

“I’m surprised he didn’t crack the floor.” Wendy comments absentmindedly, one hand adjusting her hair subconsciously and the other hand gripping her phone. You and a few others giggle, and luckily, Eric didn’t hear the remark.

“Fuck you, Kahl!” Eric hisses, attempting to throw another punch yet missing as Kyle dodged and slipped out of the way. He was slim and athletic, unlike Eric, giving him a higher chance of winning the fight as he used his agility to his advantage.

“She’s moved on! Stop it!” Kyle seethed, his anger evident as the two boys began to fight and brawl in the middle of the hallway. You watched with both excitement and anxiousness as punches and hits were thrown, chaos ensuing within the confines of the high school hallway.

And for once, you felt special, even during the midst of everything.

…?

The sun stood up in the sky, beaming down through the windows of South Park High. The winds outside were as chilly as ever, but nothing unexpected for a small town in the mountains of Colorado.

A light blanket of snow covers the buildings and ground, slowly melting as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, the sunlight wiping away the trances of snowfall from the previous evening. The clouds had parted to let the star shine through, scattering out into the sky like drops of paint on a canvas.

Kyle sits in the driver’s seat of his car, one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding a cup of hot coffee from Tweek Bros. It was a peaceful morning, nothing much to bother him except for his very annoying brother, little Ike.

He brushes his irritation away, letting a soft smile grace his lips as the music floated from the speakers and through the car. It was a good morning, and nothing could change that.

Monday, you can hold your head Tuesday, Wednesday, stay in bed Or Thursday, watch the walls instead It's Friday, I'm in love

The drive was short yet soothing, relaxing his nerves. Maybe it was just the fact that he was alone for a brief moment, or that driving was truly relaxing, but it was one of Kyle’s favorite parts of the day.

Kyle reached the parking lot of South Park High, parking his car and getting out as the aggressively cold breeze hit his face. His steps were light and quick, wanting to escape the cold he was so used to and go inside.

He walked, running a hand through his curls and fluffing them up to give his hair some volume. Ever since he had stopped wearing his hat, Cartman had begun to tease him more for being a ginger, but he didn’t care. He was used to the other boy’s remarks by now.

Stepping into the lobby of his high school, Kyle heaved a sigh and brushed off some lint from his jeans as he made his way through the hallways and over to his locker.

He turned the padlock to the right, to the left, again to the left, and lastly to the right, before finally pulling it open. His locker was simplistic and slightly plain, with a picture of him and his family on the door, a few stickers and a post-it note reminding him to study for some quizzes and exams.

Kyle’s eyes shuffled through his locker, looking for the appropriate supplies he needed for his first class. He sighed, grabbing a few pencils and stuffing them in a pocket of his backpack.

He pulled his phone camera out and looked through his appearance, making sure there wasn’t anything weird on his face before quickly shoving it back into his pocket, when suddenly, a loud, booming voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Kyle!”

He whipped his head around, his eyes meeting the flame within Cartman’s own, Holy shit.

Kyle’s eyes widen immediately as everyone in the hallway looks back from him to Cartman, looking between him and Cartman, glancing over from him to Cartman. The unfiltered, unadulterated, untainted rage in his eyes was absolutely terrifying.

Kyle was stronger than him. He knew that. Everyone knew that. But the look in his eyes, the anger, it almost sent a shiver down his spine. He watched anxiously as Cartman moved towards him, a loud stomp, stomp, stomp echoing down the walls and hitting his ears.

“Oh, I should’ve known. You lying snake!” Cartman’s snarl echoed down the hallways, intriguing the ones who weren't already paying attention to the chaos. Everyone’s attention was locked onto the two boys, eager to see the chaos unfold.

Kyle took a deep breath, glancing around to see a few people with their phones out. He couldn’t embarrass himself. This could easily spread around the school, and even worse, get over to North Park. If he lost the fight, which, there was a pretty low chance of that happening, but with Cartman’s sudden interest in wrestling, there was a possibility..

He would never live it down.

“Cartman, I didn’t mean for things to happen the way they did—” Kyle’s desperate attempt to diffuse the situation and restore peace was interrupted. Of course, he knew that there could be no peace with Cartman, so why even try?

“Did it bother you that I was happy?!” Cartman seethed, his voice deeper and raspier than usual. “You think you can just walk in and ruin everything I made for myself? You’re wrong!”

Anger, anger, anger. It boiled in Cartman’s veins like a kettle on a stove. He needed to let this out, to let out all of the feelings that he had built up over the weekend, and it was finally time to do it. To inflict violence on the one who caused this. It was going to be quite therapeutic, really. He needed to hit Kyle at least once, to ease his emotions and invoke gratification.

“Cartman, you weren’t happy.” Kyle sighs, rolling his eyes at the obvious lie as annoyance grew within him. His irritation built up, the building bricks stacking onto each other from head to toe.

“Shut up, Kahl! I was happy!” Cartman snarled, his frown deepening as he cracked his knuckles, invading his personal space.

He wasn’t. Kyle knew he wasn’t. From the way Cartman’s mood dampened whenever he was around Y/N, to him complaining about each and every thing Y/N did when she wasn’t around. Cartman never expressed happiness around her, it was only disdain and irritation.

The two boys quickly forgot about the fact that Y/N was right there, watching their argument, watching the way she was indirectly mentioned, watching the way that her decisions and existence alone had indirectly caused this argument to go down.

“All you did was bitch about Y/N all the time–!” Kyle argued, his annoyance beginning to show as his voice deepened in aggression. His breathing got heavier, heavier, heavier, anger slipping into his body language as his eyes narrowed.

“You’re not gonna talk your way outta this one! This is the end, Kyle! It’s you or me.”

“Cartman, I–” Not letting Kyle speak, Cartman steps forward and slams him against the lockers, wrapping his trembling fingers around the other boy’s jacket. He wasn’t shaking in fear, rather, pure rage. Pure, unfiltered rage.

His eyes narrow dangerously, little slits instead of seeing his irises. “You took everything from me! Everything!”

Kyle rolls his eyes, sneaking a glance over at Y/N before looking back at Cartman. He knew damn well that Y/N was not Eric Theodore Cartman’s everything. Food probably was.

The crowd only seemed to grow in size, any school faculty somehow not coming to investigate or deescalate. Phones were tilted and angled at the two, everyone wanting to get the perfect video of what was to happen. Even Y/N herself stood there, her hands tightly gripping her phone as she watched in slight disbelief and intrigue.

“Stop it.” Kyle hissed, shoving Cartman away only for him to slam him back into the lockers again, the noise echoing down the hallways.

“All you’ve ever done is work to ruin my life! Well, now you’re gonna pay the price!”

“Fuck him up!” A voice from inside the crowd yelled, encouraging Cartman as he stepped forward, raising his arm and throwing his fist at Kyle, only for the redhead to quickly punch him first, causing Cartman to fall to the floor with a loud thud.

Kyle looked down at Cartman on the floor, the two of them panting for breath as pearls of sweat began to form on their hairlines. He breathed heavily, eyes widened as the pain of the punch began to register and the bruise on his cheek was starting to grow.

A few seconds of silence.

Then, he slowly stands up, getting off of the floor and growls, almost trembling from pure hatred. Cartman takes a big deep breath, cracking his knuckles in a desperate attempt to be intimidating, letting out a loud screech roar. “Fuck you, Kahl!”

He attempts to punch Kyle again, his fist slamming into the locker instead as the other boy effortlessly dodges the attack. The crowd began to spread out a bit, leaving room for the two of them to fight as phones all pointed towards the chaos.

“She’s moved on! Stop it!” Kyle seethed, adrenaline pumping through his body as Cartman wrapped one arm around his neck, cracking his knuckles yet again and slamming his fist into the redhead’s cheek.

The strength was enough to break some teeth, but luckily, it didn’t, and before he could strike again, Kyle slipped out of his grasp and slammed him against the lockers, a loud bam echoing throughout the hallway as he punched him.

After a good minute or so of fighting, suddenly, Kyle stops, pulling back as sweat dots his forehead. He’s panting, out of breath, face slightly bruised and the adrenaline rush coming to a stop as he drops Cartman and lets him fall to the floor, ending the fight, ending the chaos.

“You’re an asshole, Cartman.”

kyle’s pov was meant to be the fifth chapter, scrapped it though so… also. never written a fight scene. sorry it was mid.

lemme tell you. i had NO fucking idea how to wrap up the chapter i was stuck bro

[spirit-mail]

Fresh Meat

rai_viz on ao3

König × M!Reader - 1.2k -

C1 - C2 - C3

___×× follow n send asks so I can write more

"Double foam caramel macchiato for Savannah?"

You grumbled maybe your thirtieth order of the morning out, sliding the warm cardboard cup across the counter to the nearest customer. Stomping back to your station just to find another overload of orders, with only two people working including yourself. Your coworker, Farah, taking orders and desperately trying to make a dent in the sudden influx of people, rushing in and out of the medium-capacity store. 

"Is Derek dead or did he just decide not to call in today?" Farah breathed out as the rush finally calmed down. The two of you leaned against the counters, taking maybe the most useful makeshift break you could.

"If anything, I should be the one missing work.."

She instantly quirked an eyebrow towards your tired figure, wiping down the counter and looking at you intently. 

"Do you remember when I told you that my friend set me up on some stupid date?" 

The bell, notifying the both of you that someone entered the store rung as soon as you finished your sentence, and you both were quick to pretend you were hard at work making orders. Farah standing right in front of the register once again to take the customers order, and in that second you thought you really were just being punished by god simply for existing.

“Just a bagel, please..” Your stomach churned and you froze in front of the coffee maker, and you desperately wanted to run out from behind that counter and onto the street into oncoming traffic. Hoping maybe there was just someone with the exact same voice and speaking mannerisms as the guy you hooked up with just last night. Deciding to just “be the bigger person”, you reluctantly turned around to face König. Your lips pressed firmly together in the awkwardest expression you could possibly come up with. You waved, watching as his eyes widened and he opened his mouth to say something, ultimately staying silent. Farah could clearly see the weird tension between you two and instantly put two and two together, covering her mouth with her hand as she tried not to laugh (fucking sadist).

And then it got worse. Maybe your saving grace- maybe the reason you’re stuck here in the first place, but the man, the myth, and the legend himself, Derek, opens the door, the sound of his footsteps amplified due to your previous silence. “Sorry I’m late, guys!”

_

“Soo judging from your face it's safe to say you didn’t go out of your way to track me down?”

You chuckled awkwardly, sitting across from the much larger man with a bright red drink in front of him with the bagel he asked for. “I’m really sorry, I honestly never expected this to happen..” He began, eyes darting around nervously as you sighed, resting your elbow on the table and staring at him intently. “You didn’t need to get me this..”

“It’s fine, I figured you’d like it. It’s cherry.” He honestly might have just died right then and there. A million thoughts flooded through his head and suddenly it was hard for him to even move, but the one thing that was clear to him was that you remembered. It sounds stupid, maybe- but you didn’t just go off and toss him out your brain like any other person would do, and that meant enough to him as he took a sip of the lemonade, smiling softly. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so I did a bunch of shit I’d never usually do and now its all coming back for me..” You groan, realizing now that you weren’t scared of seeing him, you were scared of having to talk about it. Yeah, you could just pretend it never happened and you two are just strangers who have a hard time looking eachother in the eye, but thats a billion times worse than what you’re doing now.

“The note you left me..”

“Do not bring that up- please. It was impulsive!”

He laughs, tilting his head back as the red on his cheeks becomes more visible. “Alright. My work isn’t far from here, but I should probably be leaving about now.” He stands up, still towering over you even after you stand as well. You’re quick to open your arms out wide, clearly asking for a hug before awkwardly switching to a handshake and then back into a hug, his cheeks still a bright red as he carefully wraps his arms around your form, enveloping you into what might have been the longest hug ever.

“See you around.. Maybe probably?” You pat his back and finally let the hug go, feeling both of your coworkers nosy eyes on you. 

“I’ll call you later.” He does the little telephone motion to the side of his face as he walks out the store, leaving you there practically foaming at the mouth. You would have collapsed on that tile floor right then and there if you didn’t have to work, Farah and Derek passing jokes and bombarding you with questions about him and your relationship. You reluctantly answered most of them, pleading the 5th for all the rest. 

The day finally ends and you end up walking out of that coffee shop alive at 6 PM sharp, your head filled with scenarios of bumping into König on the street, or- unrealistically enough, right in front of your apartment. You made it home successfully, no awkward surprise meet-ups. Lying in your bed desperately trying to distract yourself from the anxiety that he unknowingly caused you with just one four-word sentence. From constantly checking your phone to groaning and rolling around your bed in anticipation. 

You nearly screeched when you heard your phone ringing beneath your pillow, unknown caller ID. Assuming it was spam, you answered, managing a lazy and drawn out "Hellooo?"

“Hi, [Name]!” You could hear him grinning ear to ear with excitement, his voice booming through the phone and practically rupturing your eardrums. He seemed way more outgoing over the phone. 

“Have you been well today?” He asked, you leaned your head back onto your bedframe and sighed. “I’m fine, you?”

“I’m great.”

The silence between you was dreadful. The occasional sound of you breathing or him moving around a bit made you want to slam your head into the wall, and when you both tried to say something but ended up interrupting eachother you really just wanted to hang up and go to sleep forever. Finally, after a little less than 5 minutes of crippling silence, he finally spoke and you were too distracted with your own thoughts to interrupt him.

“I hope I didn’t disturb you or anything like that today, I truly did not intend for that to happen..” He chuckled awkwardly into your silence.

“I uh- really liked the drink you gave me, by the way. Thank you.” 

“If you’d like.. Accidentally walked in tomorrow I could give you another one.” You responded, finally feeling more comfortable.

“I’ll make sure to accidentally show up, then?” He was all giddy now, like a highschool girl talking to her crush. “See you tomorrow, then? On accident?” you grinned, reassuring the joke that it would just be another mistake.

“On accident.”

[spinchip]

NEVER THE DARK

CHAPTER 13

Read on Ao3

Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12

!WARNING: refrences to ancient, non graphic child loss!

NO ONE HAS EVER BEEN LOST. // ALL IS TRUTH AND WAY.

“Gravis, Griffin, and I just arrived on scene, Pix.” Skylors voice crackles through her radio, “The civilian reports weren’t exaggerating- there’s a giant, er, slug-like animal here. In fact, ‘giant’ might even be an understatement.” Her girlfriend sounds openly bewildered.

Pix frowns, “Is it hostile?”

“Not on purpose. It keeps picking up cars and uprooting traffic lights, but it doesn't seem aware it’s doing it. It’s just bumping into things and they’re sticking.” Skylor reports, “The trail of slime it’s leaving is smoking, though, but it doesn’t look like it’s eating at the road.”

“Have Gravis move it to a less densely populated area- out of town completely would be best if at all possible.”

“Already on it. I’ll call Warden Nobel and have him bring us another containment cell.”

Skylor was always on the ball in the field, and Pixal was grateful she was by her side, “Thank you, Sky. Can you alert Commissioner McLane to the possible hazardous materials and have him block off the street until we can have Tox examine it?”

“I’ll send speedster over now.”

At Skylors affirmative, Pixal sets her radio to the side and continues looking through her extensive set of videos pulled from all over Ninjago city. She trusted her father had done what he could to get a hit on Dixie with his facial recognition software, but she wanted to be extra certain she couldn’t find the other woman the same way. She’d started with the cameras around the museum in an attempt to find the escape route the other thief had taken after defeating the ninja, but had come up with nothing. Despite having the technology to feed these videos into and get results in a matter of seconds, Pixal chose to go through the cameras with her own eyes. Her pattern and facial recognition was leagues above any of the market value programs, and if anyone was going to catch the woman’s face in the background of a walmart CCTV feed it would be her. The woman was incredibly skilled at avoiding cameras, apparently, because Pixal was coming up with nothing, nothing, and more nothing. She even had video archives open from years and years ago, hoping to comb through them all and find a facial match for her, to at least give her something to go off of. No luck there, either.

The last set of camera feeds on her upper set of screens is current security footage from several different vantage points throughout Ninjago- these weren’t monitoring for the thief. She’d tapped these in order to monitor the streets of Ninjago which were quickly becoming overrun with monsters she’d never seen before. The slug incident today was the latest in a long line of beasts that seemed to just… appear and begin wrecking havoc. The other elemental masters had been up to their ears in emergency situations, evacuations, and damage control. Today, it was a slug, a skittering weevil-like creature that crashed into several storefronts before dying in downtown Ninjago with no warning, and a flock of birds with bony protrusions on their back and acid spit. The past week has been much the same.

It was sheer good luck that Kryptarium prisons' deeper, more fortified cells were able to contain these animals.

As Pixal flicks through the camera feeds, there’s a familiar chime from her phone. She snatches it up and punches the answer button before the second ring, “Ronin.” She greets briskly, keeping her eyes on the screen as she leans back and crosses her arms.

“You called?” He drawls through the phone, and she can clearly envision him leaned back with his feet propped upon his desk. The very picture of relaxed.

“I need you in Ninjago yesterday. Your expertise is required.” She says immediately, not bothering to beat around the bush.

“Yeah, Yeah, I got your voicemail.” There’s a shuffle on his end, as if he’ sitting up in interest at the topic, “What’s in it for me?”

“You will have a hand in saving Ninjago.” She says flatly. He makes a noncommittal grunt and she barely resists rolling her eyes, “Fine.” She slaps her keyboard and pulls up his criminal record, “You have three unpaid fines here that have put out a warrant for your arrest for- really? Those are huge fines for… illegal parking?”

“I know!”

“Consider them paid off… if you come to Borg tower.” She bargains.

There’s another grunt, this time a winded cough of exertion as he gets to his feet. “What do you need me for anyway?” He grumbles, yawning into the phone.

Pixal slumps a little, “There is a new villain in town- he is working with bounty hunters. I need your help identifying one of the girls working for him.”

“You know not every bounty hunter knows each other, right?”

“I am aware that you and her have spent several years in this profession at the same time.” She says coolly, “If anyone were to know her, it would be you. Will you come?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming to Borg tower. It’ll be a few hours.” She hears the jangle of keys on the other line, “Don’t forget to take care of my fines.”

With one hand, Pixal infiltrates the police database and erases the marks off his criminal record entirely. There was no hint that he’d ever so much as looked at an illegal parking space. It takes ten seconds at most,  “Done.” She says simply, and hangs up the phone.

Another hour of nothing passes by, with a brief update from Skylor about the slug and no further activity on the cameras to be concerned about. She checks her email a few times and shoots Wu another text that he doesn’t respond to- he’d gone out to Misakos current archeological dig site to discuss the gauntlet with her, and was completely off the grid because of it. Or he was ignoring her texts. Pixal has a niggling feeling in the back of her mind that he was hiding something, but there’s no proof other than her gut feeling. She wouldn't start anything over a bad vibe.

She does another useless search for the gauntlet and once again comes up empty- there was nothing about the artifact on the internet or in any digitized academic databases she checked. There were mentions of gauntlets or sets of armor, but nothing that matched up with the powers they’d seen so far. The longer Wu went without checking in, the more certain Pixal became that he’d hit a wall too. All Misakos encyclopedic history knowledge, and even she hadn't heard of this thing… Where were they supposed to go from here?

She’s so lost in thought that the sudden screech of the red panic alarm above her head causes her to launch up out of her chair and to her feet, staggering with the surge of pseudo-adrenaline that floods her processor. She scrambles for her radio and flips it to the correct frequency just in time to hear Dareth's panicked voice shouting from the line, “-taking him to the roof!”

“Dareth! What’s going on?” Pixal demands, reaching out and turning off the alarm with the keypad next to the wall before taking off towards the elevator.

“The thief is back, and she’s stealing your father!” Dareth wails through the radio.

Pixal punches the elevator call button four times in a panic despite the fact the extra pushes won’t will it to get here any faster. This is exactly why she advocated for stairs in the ninja's private penthouse- a project the others continually put off. (“We can just jump out the window and airjitzu down. No big deal!” Well what about if you need to go up!) Stupid! “What?” She demands, squeezing through the elevator doors before they’ve fully opened.

“I’ll explain later- right now you need to get to the roof!” He says urgently, his cartoony voice uncharacteristically serious.

“I am headed that way now. I will meet you there-”

“Sorry, Pix, but you’re on your own here.” His voice comes through with a wince, “I’m down for the count.”

She feels a cold chill sweep over her body, “Are you okay?”

“I’m not dying. Get to the roof, save your father, and we’ll worry about me later.” His voice comes through firm and gentle- there’d been a time where Pixal had written Dareth off as someone she’d always need to protect, but moments like this remind Pixal that Dareth was steady and solid. He’d been training ever since her Father asked him to stay by his side, his skills had grown and he’d become a formidable opponent. It had to have been someone strong to put him down- and he definitely didn't get benched without putting up a fight.

She had to be ready when these doors opened.

“Call Skylor.” She orders, the act of taking control offering her a calm she desperately needed, “She was on her way back to the tower, she can get to you quicker than I can. Do not die.”

“Ten-four, Boss.”

There’s no more time to talk. The elevator doors open up to the roof with a ding! And immediately Pixal is assaulted by whipping wind and the loud roar of helicopter blades slicing the air into pieces. She rushes out onto the tarmac, sprinting straight for the group of people loading her struggling father into the helicopter. Standing out from the black clad ensemble is a shock of bright pink hair. The thief, the woman who took her friends away, looks back at her with a bored, neutral expression. Pixels coolant feels like it’s boiling. The other woman turns towards another member of her crew and says something Pixal can’t hear through all the noise and motions to the sky as if to say shoo!

Then, without a second of hesitation, she spins around and charges at Pixal in return. She’s fast, putting a significant amount of space between Pixal and her father when the two women meet in a clash of fists on the middle of the roof. Pixal has to keep her head on straight, but she can feel her calm, controlled mask rapidly deteriorating each time she catches a glimpse of her father getting strapped into the Helicopters back seat.

He’s looking at her with fear in his eyes, but there’s a calm reassurance there- he knows she won’t get to him in time. It’s okay, Pixal.

A pang of heartbreak bruises her power core. She feels her fighting turn vicious, jabs and punches hitting and hitting hard, until she finally slams the woman face down against the roof. She whips out a set of cuffs from her jumpsuit and slaps them on her wrists- They activate with a hum and Pixal jabs the power button frantically. The cuff link beeps and Pixal slams the woman's wrists down on the rooftop beneath her, the cuffs latching onto the roof and rendering her immobile.

Pixal leaps to her feet and spins around- the helicopter is off the roof, probably has been for a while, and it’s flying across Ninjago faster than Pixal could feasibly catch. She’d have to race down the stairs to the sub basement, gear up, and then give chase- they’d be gone by then. They were already gone.

Her chest feels like it’s caving in. Why? Why can’t she save the people she loves? Why is she always on the sidelines, just a second too late?

Pull yourself together. She takes a deep, shuddering breath just to move air through her circuits. The thick smell of asphalt brings her mind back to the current issue- she turns around to find the thief still cuffed to the roof, her mouth and nose covered with blood and that infuriating bored expression on her face.

A ringing fills Pixal head and she feels disconnected from her body, pushing away her despair so hard she distances herself from her own processor.

Pixal hauls her up and takes her down the stairs to the ninjas level, not caring when she stumbles to keep up with Pixals rapid pace. She can’t care about anything right now. They rarely use the actual interrogation room, but Pixal fishes out the key for it now. On one side is the classic one-way glass and a few metal chairs seated at a metal table securely fastened to the floor. Pixal uncuffs the restrictive suppression bonds and switches them out for classic metal cuffs, weaving the chain through another padlock and chain attached to the table so she doesn’t get any funny ideas. She’s moving on autopilot, clicking locks together with practiced, robotic movements. She has to keep herself together, everyone is relying on her. Once she’s secure, Pixal washes her hands. After that she politely hands her a box of tissues so she can mop up her bloody face and gets her a glass of water and an ice pack.

She doesn’t say anything to the thief, who matches her silence quietly. Pixal observes her behind the one-way glass for several long minutes.

The bubble around her pops, and reality rushes back in. She sucks in a sharp breath and turns away, whipping her radio out and hitting the button frantically, “Dareth?” She questions. No response, “Dareth, status report.”

A long pause.

The radio crackles, “He’s alright, Pix.” Skylor’s voice comes through from Dareths radio, “He’s with the medic now. A few broken bones, but nothing life threatening.”

Pixal closes her eyes and presses the radio to her forehead, relief so deep she can almost feel it in her circuits. “Stay with him, please, and ask him what happened once he is cleared for visitors.” She glances over at the pink haired woman, who looks completely at ease as she balls up a blood soaked tissue and sets it on a clean tissue to avoid getting blood on the table top, “I caught our mystery thief from the museum break in.” Two mismatched eyes glance up and seem to meet Pixals green ones before skating away to look around the empty room, “I’m going to see what I can find out.”

The woman smiles serenely and settles back, unconcerned.

“Good luck. Call me if you need me, okay?”

“I will.”

The room is still deafeningly quiet when Pixal goes back inside. The click of the door closing behind her feels harsh on her audio processor. It’s sterile, with gray floors and white walls and fluorescent lights strung across the ceiling. Pixal sits at one of the available chairs on the other side of the table,  “My name is Pixal borg. I have a few questions for you.”

The woman smiles wider.

“Hello, Miss Borg. Ask whatever you like.”

She spends the next hour asking questions to a brick wall. The thief is listening and attentive to every one of Pixar’s words, but at the end of each question or statement is pointed and resolute silence. She doesn’t rise to any bait Pixal sets out- she doesn’t get angry or scoff when Pixal slips in subtle insults, she doesn’t preen over praise, she doesn’t even look tired or annoyed as the questioning continues on and on. She’s the picture perfect image of poise, and Pixal can’t gain an inch.

Her phone rings at the hour and fifteen minute mark. She answers it with a palpable relief to have something else to do other than fail at questioning her only lead about this kidnapping, “Pixal speaking.” She greets briskly, stepping out of the room and rolling imaginary soreness from her shoulders.

“What’s with all the blood on the roof?” Ronin asks curiously.

Pixal winces- she’d handed out a few good left hooks during their scuffle, “The thief I needed you to identify made an appearance today. I caught her.”

“Damn, did you break her nose or something?”

“Her employer kidnapped my father.” She reveals bluntly.

Ronin sucks a hiss of air through his teeth at that, “…Okay, well, send me up the elevator and I’ll come down.”

Pixal calls the elevator and once it arrives she steps inside and rides it back up to the roof. She’s beginning to hate this thing. She clicks her radio just to be doing something, “Any news, Sky?”

“Dareth is sleeping off anesthesia right now, sorry.”

“Thank you. Ronin has just arrived, I believe he will be able to help.”

“Keep me updated.” Skylor says pointedly.

“I will.” Pixal holsters her radio, staring at the closed doors in front of her. She felt so useless- she couldn’t get a peep out of either of their two leads, she was stuck inside doing futile research while random monsters were running wild through Ninjago, and she couldn’t stop her father from getting kidnapped from right under her nose.

The doors open to Ronin leaning casually against the wall waiting for it. He whistles low, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, “You look like shit.” Are the first words out of his mouth.

“It has been a rough week.” She says tightly.

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Get in the elevator.”

He obliges and she takes them back down to the Ninjas floor, filing him in on the situation as they ride down. He’s rubbing his scruff in thought as the doors open up and they step out, thinking hard, “There are two possible options I’m thinking of, Maybe Milena or Raven. Both of them color their hair regularly, and they’re sloppy enough to get caught like that.” He muses, “I’ve never heard of a Dixie Samson though, which makes sense if she’s a rookie.”

Pixal heads straight towards the interrogation room, feeling an inkling of dread- part of her is convinced the woman would have vanished in the time it took her to bring Ronin back here. She feels a line of tension leave her shoulders when she walks back inside to see her still sitting there casually on the other side of the glass.

Ronin stops dead in his tracks, “By the first master- You have got to be kidding me.” He groans, reaching up to run a hand down his face. He looks back up at the woman and does a full body wince.

“Do you know her?” Pixal cant help the amused curve of her lips at Ronins dramatics.

“Do I know her…” He grumbles darkly, dragging his feet up to the window, “She’s my ex sister in law.”

Pixals checklist of questions on the woman is immediately derailed in surprise, “You were married?”

“Everyone makes mistakes.” He defends.

“Who would agree to- no, it is not important right now. What can you tell me about her?”

“I can tell you she’s only in those cuffs because she wants to be.” He grimaces, “Her name is Stella and I doubt there's a set of restraints good enough to hold her short of strapping her down like Hannibal Lecter, and I’m skeptical if even that would work. If she’s still here, she has ulterior motives. She wants something from you, or she wants something in this building.”

“She already took everything.” Pixal barely resists baring her teeth. She sighs, “I need to get information from her.”

“Sorry, but you’re out of luck there. I can promise you she won't speak a word of her employer. You couldn’t waterboard info out of her if she doesn’t want to tell you.” He delivers the bad news bluntly.

“So this is another dead end.”

“Not exactly.” Ronin crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the glass, “Stella isn’t cheap to hire and if we throw in who exactly she’s dealing with- Borg, the ninja, you- that’ll only make this job that much more expensive. So we can confidently narrow down her employer to Ninjagos one percent.” He grins at Pixals shocked expression, “She does damn good work- the best work- but it’ll cost ya. That big paycheck is what ensures her loyalty. As long as her employer is supplementing her bank account, her lips are sealed- even in the face of torture.”

“She’s all about money…” Pixal turns that over in her mind, looking for the piece she needs to unravel Stella's loyalty.

Ronin shrugs, “All mercenaries are, Stella just has the status and reputation to be bought out by the richest of the rich. With that amount of cash backing her up, You wouldn't be able to even threaten anything out of her.”

Pixal holds up her hand, stopping Ronins words as she carefully considers his words. “I don’t need to threaten her.” As if she’d had an epiphany, Pixal immediately takes off around the corner. Ronin ends up scrambling after her, Following her into Stella's interrogation room just barely before the door closes.

Stella looks relaxed and unconcerned, that same bored expression she's always wearing on her face. She’s got her chair kicked back and her feet on the table, her cuffed hands folded over her belly as she observed them come inside. She raises a brow at Ronin and opens her mouth to speak but Pixal beats her to it.

Pixal yanks out a leather wallet from her jumpsuit and grabs a pen from her from breast pocket, “I am aware you will not speak against your employer, and I am also aware he is paying you a lot of money to keep his secrets.” She sits down in front of Stella, slamming her pocket book and pen to the table, “But I’m Pixal fucking Borg.”

She opens the book and pulls out a stack of checks, signing one and sliding it across the table blank, “Are you interested in new employment?”

Heartbeats pass. Ronin is staring at the check so hard Pixals half sure his eyes are about to pop out of his head, but Stella looks as cool and collected as ever. If Pixal had to breathe she’d be holding it, praying that the gamble works. Stella carefully takes each foot off the table and sits up straight, scooting her chair forward and resting her elbows on the table. She studies the check for a long moment before her lips twitch, the scar at the corner of her mouth pulling her lips into a pleased smile.

“I don’t want your money, Pixal Borg.” She gently, strangely respectfully, tears the check in half and slides the pieces across the table towards the two. Ronin makes a sound like a wounded animal at the action.

Pixals heart plummets.

“But there is something I do want.” Stella continues before Pixal can feel the full weight of failure. Stella looks at Pixal with a firm, intense furrow to her brow. “I will tell you everything I know if you do me a favor. I don’t know what or when that will be. This is what I do know: You are the most powerful woman in Ninjago, Pixal Borg, and I want you to owe me.”

“Deal.” Pixal hold out her hand for Stella to shake without a second of hesitation. Her friends, her family, her father- everyone was relying on her, and she needed this information because right now they had nothing.

But as Stella takes her hand in a firm grip, Pixal can’t help but feel like she’s made a deal with the devil.

Sella sits back, bored expression sinking over her features once more, “His name is Broden Voss, the CEO of Voss Technologies.” She gets right down to business. Pixal recognizes the name in flashes of memory- a place card at a table during a charity event, investors threats to take their money elsewhere when her fathers quarterly review is lower than expected, a flash of red hair and a shark-like smile as a towering man shakes her hand at a high brow cocktail party, “He hired me to infiltrate Ninjago Citys Museum of History after his previous hire, Dixie Samson, failed. I was tasked with finding and retrieving a gauntlet forged by one of Voss’s ancestors, a warlord by the name of Utano whose armor had mystical powers. I was paid to do whatever possible to return this gauntlet to him, and as such I used one of the abilities in the gauntlet to send the ninja to another Realm. The only other ability I've seen... I have witnessed Voss change the gauntlet configuration with a thought. Essentially shapeshifting, though I can't be certain how far that particular gift goes.

“Voss’s plan always centered around Cyrus Borg. Ever since Voss Technology was usurped as Ninjagos main technology company by Borg Industries, he’s felt cheated and wronged. Now that he has this powerful artifact, he intends on using it to tear Ninjago apart and rebuild it with Voss tech, installing himself back in the forefront of tech manufacturing,” She pins Pixal with a pointed look, “He’s obsessed with defeating Cyrus Borg- but your father is not in any immediate danger.”

Pixal feels a bit of tension leave her shoulders, “I have time to save him?”

“Voss wants Borg to have a front row seat to the fall of his empire. He wants Cyrus alive to see the rubble of Borg Tower and after that, I don’t know. Now that he has Borg, though, his plan will be entering the final phase. He will use the power of the gauntlet to open portals throughout downtown ninjago- I know several of the locations he’s planning on placing them that I can pass along. He’s targeting centralized, high traffic areas so he can flood the streets with monsters as quickly and effectively as possible. He is aiming for the absolute maximum amount of destruction in every inch of the city.” She steeples her fingers, “Evacuate the city. Now.”

She doesn’t hesitate on this, raising her Borg radio to her mouth, “Sky, I am officially ordering a full evacuation of the city. I will explain everything later, but right now I need you and the others mobilized.” At Skylors confirmation, Pixal turns her attention back to Stella, “Monsters from where, exactly? Where do these portal lead?”

Where did you send my friends?

Stella pauses on this question, aware the answer will not be one Pixal is thrilled to hear, “The Realm of Madness.” She reveals. “What’s going to come through that portal are some of the most terrifying monsters Ninjago has ever seen, and if I’m any good at reading people- and I am the very best- I can tell you that Broden Voss will not be able to control the chaos he creates. If you can’t stop this, it could lead to more destruction than Ninjago has ever seen.”

“Well,” Pixal says tersely, “Maybe I would have a better chance stopping him if the ninja had not been sent to the Realm of madness and unable to help.”

“Yeah, my bad.”

Ronin trails Pixal as she goes back to the computers, sitting down roughly and opening up a new tab to start another bout of research. Now she had a name- Utano, a great warlord. Pixal could work with that. She pauses and glances at Ronin, curiosity picking at her, “Your sister in law, eh?”

He lets out a put upon sigh and crosses his arms, “Ex sister in law, I’ll remind you.”

“Who became a bounty hunter first?”

“...She was,” He admits grudgingly, “She’s been in the game longer than most.”

Pixal frowns, “I went through countless security feeds and crime reports- That long and she hasn’t gotten caught on camera anywhere? Not even during a trip to the grocery store?”

“Oh, she definitely has. You just don’t know where to look.” He sits down next to her, “She changes her appearance just as seamlessly as Chamille- hair dye, prosthetics, contacts… her eyes aren’t actually blue and brown, you know. She’s evaded any and all facial recognition with clever makeup and smoke-and-mirror tricks.” Pixal opens her mouth, “-And no, I am not going to tell you what to look for. Even if I wasn't a fellow mercenary following the mercenary code, Stella is not an enemy anyone wants to have.”

“Okay.” Pixal relents, “Do you know what this favor could be?”

“No clue.” He shrugs and peeks over her shoulder, “You looking up that warlord guy?”

“Girl.” Pixal corrects as she scans over the basic wikipedia page she’d pulled up. There was… little here, “No parents listed, no spouse. She had one child later in life, but there is no information on them, Not even a name. She was married to a powerful lord in her twenties, but he died a year after they wed. She rose to power through extremist political lobbying and strategic battles with her personal militia until she had conquered over half of ninjago.”

Ronin quirks a brow, “No mention of her magic armor?”

“None here. All it says is she was killed by the elemental masters of creation during her final battle.” Pixal goes back to her original search, “But that was just wikipedia, I’m sure there’s more information somewhere.”

Spoiler alert: There was not more information anywhere.

Pixal scours the internet, following dead end academic papers and documentaries- she even got desperate and checked reddit, of all places. Even after using her status to get into parts of the internet usually barred from the general public, she still came up with nothing. “There are scrolls referenced in all of these papers, but I cannot find the scrolls. They were never digitalized, and apparently no one knows where they went.” She sits back roughly, pushing herself away from the monitor so she doesn’t have to look at it anymore.

Ronin startles awake where he’d fallen asleep on the couch after he got bored, peeking up at her over the arm of it, “Maybe Stella is lying about Utano.”

It’s at that moment that the elevator door dings open and Misako comes striding out with Wu trailing slowly behind her. She’s dressed in thick pants and a button up covered in a thin layer of sand and dirt, her hair much the same in its bun sitting on top of her head, “Did I hear you say Utano?” She asks, shrugging off her satchel and tossing it aside with a cloud of dust, “I came straight from the dig site once Wu informed me of the situation. If you already know about Utano, then we’re on the right track.”

“Misako!” Pixal stands with a smile, moving to hug the woman, “It is good to see you. We know the name, but there’s not much else on the internet to go off of.” She admits.

“I know.” Misako says with a wince, “When Wu told me about the gauntlet, I had a feeling I knew what it was. The scrolls that had any record of Utano were all under the Explorers Club’s lock and key- When I called Cecil and asked about them, he confessed that several artifacts in the clubs collection went missing the day they were all transferred to the museum's custody, apparently lost in the shuffle.”

Pixal feels her expression darken, “He is saying the explorers club lost artifacts? I find that difficult to believe.”

“I looked into it on the way here. Underhill sticks out as the most suspicious- he took off to the other side of the country and bought himself a nice, expensive house on the beach, but the rest of the club members all seem to have come into some money with similar luxury purchases as well.” Misako confirms grimly. “That doesn’t matter right now. What do you know about Utano?”

Pixal relays all the information Stella had told them and what little else she’d gleaned from the internet. Misako nods thoughtfully, “Her reign over Ninjago started hundreds and hundreds of years ago, before we were even aware the sixteen realms existed- She was part of Ninjago and the Cloud Kingdom, a parent from either realm. We refer to her armor in modern times as the Allied Armor of Azure, said to call on different realms to aid its wearer, and scholars presume she received a gift from her Cloud Kingdom parent that allowed this type of enchantment. The only pieces that were meant to survive the armor's destruction were the Helmet that we passed on to the Cloud Kingdom, and the chest plate, which we studied.”

“Is there a way to neutralize its abilities?”

“If there was a way, it would be in the stolen scrolls. As I see it, there is none.” Misako says apologetically, wincing. “Even the Elemental Masters were not able to defeat her at her most powerful.”

Pixal frowns, “The elemental masters did defeat her.”

There’s a pause, “Yes… they did, but it… wasn’t a fair fight.”

“What does that mean?” Ronin pipes up, “Did they get her while she was sleeping or something?”

Misako sighs, “You said you read she had one child, yes?” Pixal nods and Misako shakes her head, “She had three. We have private scrolls written by Utano detailing her three children and how much she loved them. The Elemental Masters of the time made a decision. They needed leverage- They needed bargaining chips. Only one child survived, and Utano was defeated.”

a heartbeat passes.

Pixal swallows down her horror, “The only way they stopped her was by going after something she cared about.”

“And from what Stella is saying, it sounds like Broden Voss doesn’t care about anything-” Ronin snorts, “Except maybe killing your dad.”

“You are not helpful.” Pixal snaps immediately.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any good news.” Misako bows her head.

“Thank you for coming, Misako, but this has been a huge waste of time.” Pixal says bitterly, turning away.

Misako doesn’t flinch at the words, knowing what stress Pixal must be under. She almost doesn’t want to say what she needs to say next. She takes a step forward and opens her mouth anyway, “I didn’t come here to tell you about Utano. Wu could have passed along that message for me.” She says softly.

Pixal looks back at her with a questioning frown, “What did you come here for?” She asks.

Misako steps to the side so Wu is standing in front of Pixal now. He looks miserable and ashamed, staring down at the floor, “I came to make sure he told you.”

Pixal feels a lightning flash of alarm go through her, “Told me what?” she swallows roughly. From where he’s laying on the couch, Ronin sits up in curiosity. There’s a pregnant pause, “I do not have time for this.” She says sharply, refusing to let her voice shake. She turns back to the computers, moving away from them. The tension in the room feels different and wrong- She doesn’t want him to say anything.

“It’s about Zane.” Wu manages to whisper, still looking at the floor.

Pixal freezes in her tracks. Her core seems to tighten painfully, icy fingers wrapping around her insides and tangling her carefully sorted wiring into knots. She slowly spins on her heel to face him again, “What about him?” She asks carefully. The question is laced with grief.

He’s going to break her heart.

Misako makes a go on gesture with her head that Wu sees out of the corner of his eye. He takes another moment to build up his nerve and looks up, meeting Pixal eye for the first time since he’d walked through that door, “Three years ago-'' He begins.

“Master Wu, I don’t need a recap,” She says tightly.

“Three years ago,” He presses on, “After we caught Aspheera, I went to see her in Kryptarium. There were questions I needed answered. When I saw her, I asked why she chose to kill him when I was the one-” He swallows and pauses for a moment, “She told me he was not dead.”

Pixal stares at him, “She did not kill him?”

Wu takes a tentative step forward, “No, she merely banished him… To the Never Realm, a realm impossible to return from.”

“He is… alive?” She breathes softly, shock rendering her dumb for several long moments. Joy and hope bubbles up her chest, “Zane is alive. We can bring him home. We just need to figure out a way to get back to Ninjago- there has to be some way to make it back.”

“Pixal…” Misako’s voice is heavy with sadness.

“Why did you keep this from us, Master Wu?” She’s trying to be angry, but the happiness spreading through her fights the frown on her face, “We could have figured it out together, all of us, and brought him home!”

Wu looks at her with wet, sorrowful eyes. Pixels smile dims.

“There is a way back from the Never Realm,” He says gravely, “The fruit of the travelers tree, high in the mountains.” Her circuits tie themselves together, she can tell another shoe is about to drop, “I discovered it three years ago, when I traveled to the Never Realm to get him.”

She’s not smiling anymore. The room is silent. The glow from the computer monitors illuminates Wu’s robe in pale blue light. It’s so, so quiet.

Her voice is steady, “Why is he not home?”

“Pixal…” He begins.

“Do not patronize me!” She shouts, tears springing to her eyes, “Why tell me this? Why bring up the past and get my hopes up just to crush them again? I have already accepted that he is dead, I did not need you to yank my feelings around like-”

“He’s not dead.” Wu cuts in, and Pixal stops mid-rant, her hands loosening from the fists she’d balled them into.

“I do not understand.” She says blankly, slumping into herself. She tries to put the pieces together, to fit the tragedy into a story that makes sense in the absence of an explaination, “He… chose to stay there?”

“No,” Wu says sadly, and then proceeds to tell her about the worst moment of his life. He tells her about coming to a land unnaturally cold and barren, snow drifts and ice that suffocated the crops and froze people whole. He tells her about the handful of towns still alive who lived under constant fear of their supernaturally powerful emperor, a man who controlled every snowflake in the land. He tells her about making the trek across the mountain and stumbling upon a species of beast hunted to near extinction by the Emperor's samurai, and finding the travelers tree. He tells her about finally coming upon the palace gates, through the Emperor's throne room doors, and who he’d found sitting atop the dais.

“It was Zane, his body, but the man we know and loved was gone.” He tells her, voice thick with pain, “He was violent and angry, and passive to the struggle and pain of others. He did not respond to my voice, he did not react to reminders of who he once was, and he did not hesitate to attempt to strike me down.”

Pixal is silent, leaning against the communications console as if her legs had no strength. She says nothing, face twisted up in aching raw grief and sadness.

“Zane… I believe he was gone, truly. He would have been horrified at what he’d become… You must understand, I did what I did to respect the man I loved as my own son.”

“What did you do?” Pixals voice cracks.

“I could not kill him,” Wu closes his eyes, “I used the fruit of the travelers tree to open a portal to the Realm of Madness… where I banished the Ice Emperor, and freed the Never Realm from his grasp.”

She bows her head, hiding her face in shadows.

“I told you all of that to tell you this… the longer the Ninja haven't returned, the more I fear there is something… or someone keeping them there. They should have made it to the Mountain of madness by now. I have the utmost faith in them, but not only am I afraid of what they might find there, I am afraid of what- or who- may find them. The Ice Emperor was a formidable foe-”

“Stop talking.” Pixal interrupts him icily, voice hard as steel.

He goes silent, staring at her.

“Master Wu… for all of your age… for every ounce of wisdom you have… you are still one of the most foolish people I have ever met.” She looks up at him and her eyes burn, hot pinpricks of fire and pain and rage. “You should have dragged him home. We would have helped him- we would have helped him! We could have saved him-! And- and you better hope the ninja run into him, and do what you failed to do and bring him back to Ninjago- or else when this blows over I am dragging you to the Realm of Madness myself and we are combing every inch of that realm until we find him ourselves!”

He shrinks with shame and guilt under her ire as she advances upon him, rage making her fans kick into high gear, “You knew he was there, you knew the- the Ice Emperor was in the Realm of Madness and you knew he could have posed a serious threat to the ninja, yet you told me they would be okay! That there was nothing to worry about! And now- I cannot go after them! I have to stay here and protect Ninjago, I cannot leave these innocent people behind like I could have a few days ago when my friends first vanished-!” She chokes on a sob, swiping hot tears out of her eyes.

“Pixal, I didn't know-" He looks gutted, "… I’m so sorry-” He starts, reaching out, but she takes a step away from him and bares her teeth.

“Do not-” She snaps, jerking a hand down to keep him away from her, “-Apologize to me. Apologize to Zane when we get him back, apologize to the ninja for keeping this from them, and then never speak to me again. That’s the only thing you can do for me, Master Wu. We’ll work together now because the city needs everyone it can get, but after that... “ She shakes her head, condemnation in her eyes.

He nods, cowed, “If that is what you want… I understand.”

She takes a deep breath, centers herself, and picks up the communicator again. She needs to talk to Skylor, Her face is grim as she raises it to her lips.

“Pixal?” He hesitantly says, before she can speak, “What are we going to do about the ninja?”

“We are going to trust they can make it home,” She says, “And we are going to do our best to make sure there is still a home to come back to.”

The first thing Cyrus smells is the thick scent of designer perfume- he was born into money, raised in the lap of luxury, expensive colognes have always been a part of his life. With the blindfold wrapped around his eyes, the smell becomes stronger and sharper. He narrows the other occupant in the room to a handful of other high society socialites. If he were in the upscale, posh parfumerie in downtown Ninjago he could appreciate the sweet earthy scent of tahitian vanilla, ylang-ylang, rosa centerfoils, italian cinnamon, jasmine, osiris root, and rose oil. An expensive bottle worn only for special occasions- he might even recognize it. As a recently kidnapped prisoner trying to figure out how to untie his wrists from the railings on his wheelchair, some of the intricacies of the scent are lost on him.

“You’ll won’t get away with this.” It feels cliche the moment it comes out of his mouth, but he can’t help but break the silence. The other person in the room is just… staring at him. Cyrus can feel the satisfied, smug gaze weighing on his shoulders. He knows he’s being watched.

“Yes, I will.” The voice is deep and smooth, effortlessly confident.

He doesn’t know what to say.

Shifting sounds in front of him, then the soft click of a wooden box closing. The sharp flick of a lighter. The smell of burning tobacco and whiskey seeps into the air.

“Would you like a cigar, Cyrus?”

“I never acquired a taste for them.” He responds stiffly. He knows that voice, doesn’t he? From where?

“Oh, I’m sure you’d like these if you tried it. Two thousand dollars, retail.” He pauses to taste the smoke, probably. Cyrus can’t see him to tell, “Could I offer you a drink, then? What’s a man of your status’s drink of choice?” He humms in thought, gravely and low, and taps his fingers on a table (desk?) in front of him. It’s more for show than any actual thinking, “Louis XIII cognac? Chateau Cheval Blanc, 1947? Or maybe you go for something a bit pricier, hm? D’Amalfi Limoncello Supreme?”

“I’m not thirsty.” 

“I recommend the cognac, personally. It’s a celebration, after all.”

The hair raises on the back of Cyrus’s neck, “A celebration of what?”

“My victory, of course.” He laughs like that was a silly question, “I won.”

Swallowing thickly, Cyrus tries again to wiggle his wrists out from his bindings. “The ninja-”

“-are gone.” The man responds and Cyrus freezes. The voice was no longer across the room, but right in front of him. He’d move silently across the floor, crouching down to speak directly to Cyrus, “The ninja are gone. No one will be able to save you.”

He leans in, his breath hot on the shell of Cyrus’s ear, “I suggest you have a glass, Cyrus. It will be the last drink you ever have.” He promises.

Cyrus jerks back and slams his head forward before he can think about it. There’s a sharp crack and something warm and wet splatters on his cheek. The man swears loudly and he can hear him stumble away.

“You son of a-” He snarls, smooth confidence immediately bleeding into red hot rage.

“That- ow- Well, that hurts.” Cyrus winced, head pounding.

“I am going to enjoy destroying you!” His voice is thick with hatred.

Cyrus doesn’t know what to think. Who are you?

His wheelchair is kicked roughly and he tips over. He falls hard and he could have braced himself and been just fine if not for the edge of a coffee table sitting perfectly at concussion height.

The world turns black.

[sisterspooky1013]

Gaslight, Chapter 22/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Ellicott City, MD

Don’t know how you do what you do, I’m so in love with you. It just keeps getting better.

I wanna spend the rest of my life with you by my side, forever and ever.

Every little thing that you do, baby I’m amazed by you.

She snaps off the radio, then pulls Tiffany’s scarf off her head and tosses it onto the passenger seat. What is she supposed to do now? Where is she supposed to go? Her instincts tell her to run, but what about the children? She is the reason they’re involved in this in the first place, and guilt sinks heavily from her heart to her belly as she imagines what might happen to them now that the jig is up. Will they be discarded like trash? Will they be leveraged against her, used as pawns in an even more disturbing way? She wants to protect them, but to this point it’s her very proximity to them that has put them at risk. Though it goes against every maternal instinct in her body, she comes to the conclusion that the best thing she can do for them right now is to get as far away from them as possible.

Eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, she digs around in her purse for her cell phone, finally pulling it free and flipping it open with her thumb. Her hands are still trembling, but she manages to dial. Lunch hour traffic means she hits every red light possible, and she can’t stop looking at the vehicles and sidewalks around her, waiting for another black suit to appear.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” she mumbles to herself, checking the rearview mirror obsessively.

“Dana?”

“Cal,” she says, relieved to hear his voice. “I’m on my way home, and I’m going to need to go away for a little while,” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“I’m already at home,” he says in a small, fearful voice.

“What? Why?” she asks, checking her blindspot before she switches lanes.

“I couldn’t—I just couldn’t,” he says tightly, and she realizes that he’s crying.

“Cal, I’ll be home in ten minutes, okay? Wait for me, and don’t open the door for anyone,” she says, finding confidence she didn’t realize she had within her. “Is your car in the garage?”

“Yeah,” he says in a near whisper.

“I need you to move it to the driveway so I can park in the garage, can you do that?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Okay, move the car, and then go inside and lock the door. I’ll be home soon.”

Twelve minutes later, she pulls into their driveway and jumps out to open the garage before parking Tiffany’s car inside it. When she enters the house, she finds it stonily silent and still.

“Cal?” she calls out, half expecting the smoking man from the hospital to appear instead.

“Over here.”

She follows the sound of his voice to the stairwell where he is sitting mid-flight, his head in his hands. She approaches slowly, sitting on the step just below him and laying her hand on top of his knee.

“Hey,” she says softly, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“I’m all fucked up, mija,” he whimpers, followed by a wet sniff. “I’m just—I don’t know what to do.”

She moves one step up, wedging herself between his body and the bannister, and wraps her arm around his shoulders. He leans into her, and she rubs her palm up and down over his upper arm comfortingly.

“What happened?” she asks.

He sniffs and swipes his hand across his nose, composing himself.

“Everything is off,” he explains. “Nothing feels right. I couldn’t remember the PIN for my debit card to get gas, and then I got to work and I sat down at my desk and—it’s like it fell out of my head, Dana. Like it’s just gone.”

“What is?”

He sits up and looks at her. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen, his bottom lip quivering.

“Everything,” he says gravely. “I don’t know how to code. I can’t even fucking understand the code I wrote yesterday.”

“Oh,” she says, understanding.

“What’s happening to me?” he asks, and the pain in his voice makes her heart ache.

“I can only tell you what I was told, and I can’t be sure that what I was told is entirely accurate,” she says, her hand resting on his back.

“Just tell me, please,” he begs.

She looks away, running her tongue across her bottom lip as she decides how to explain it. She suddenly understands how challenging it was for Alex to relay the same information to her.

“I’m not your wife,” she says evenly. “You’re not my husband. Abby and Peter aren’t our children. This whole thing,” she says, gesturing to the house around them, “is a lie. A farce. Whoever did this to us…they went to very great lengths to make us believe that this life is ours.”

She pauses and turns to look at him, finding a somewhat vacant expression on his face. She can empathize, and knows that the questions are too numerous to even begin asking them. She has to keep talking.

“The chip in your neck contained memories. Memories of how we met, Abby and Peter’s births, your training in software engineering. Every single detail since 1992. And whatever they did to us, and whatever was in that medication, helped ensure that we wouldn’t remember what really happened. So that we’d believe it, the lie. And by removing your chip, I also removed those memories. That’s why you can’t remember how to code.”

“Or that pancakes are waffles,” he says absently.

“Right,” she confirms.

He stares off into the middle distance for a moment, allowing this new information to sink in.

“They’re not ours?” he asks, turning to look at her with a kind of disbelieving hurt on his face.

She shakes her head gently, her lips pressed together sympathetically.

“Not biologically, no. But they don’t know that. They still have their chips, and as long as they do, all they know is us,” she tells him, and he nods, looking away again.

“I don’t think I’m a good guy, Dana,” he says after a moment, and she narrows her eyes at him.

“What do you mean?”

He drops his head, staring at the carpeted step between his feet.

“They were cleaning the windows in the office and the smell of it—kind of like ammonia, maybe? It did something to me,” he says hesitantly.

“What did it do?”

“It made me remember something,” he says very quietly. He lifts his hands, forming loose fists. He moves them closer to his face and she realizes that he’s miming smoking from a pipe. “It wasn’t pot,” he says shamefully.

She sighs and moves into the space between his knees, kneeling on the step just below him. She grabs his hands, holding them in her own and looking him straight in the eye.

“Listen to me,” she says sternly. “I don’t know who you were or what you did before they did this to you, but it doesn’t matter. To me, you are Cal. You’re a good man, and a wonderful husband and father.” She feels her throat constrict and she swallows against it. She needs to be strong for him. “Whoever did this is looking for me, Cal. They came to the hospital, and it’s only a matter of time before they show up here. I’m not safe here.”

His eyes widen and his mouth falls open, but she stops him before his mind wanders too far.

“This isn’t about you,” she explains. “This is about me, and a man I used to work with. You and the kids were used to distract me, to make me believe the lie. I don’t have any reason to think they’ll harm you, unless they think they can use you to get to me.”

“What do we do?” he asks.

“I have to leave. I’m not going to tell you where I plan to go because you can’t be forced to provide information that you don’t have. I need you to take care of the kids, okay? You can call my mom for help if you need to. She has no idea any of this is happening, so just tell her that I had a work emergency or something. If anyone asks, say that you’re taking the medication, and do not tell anyone that I removed your chip, okay? Can you do that?”

He nods, but it’s lacking confidence.

“Will we see you again?” he asks hoarsely, and her chin puckers.

“I hope so,” she whispers, and he opens his arms, pulling her into a hug.

She hastily packs a bag with a few changes of clothes and basic toiletries, plus the Sam Cooke CD and the rest of the Numerol. She wishes she could take Cal’s chip for evidence or eventual analysis, but if Alex was right that it can be used to track her movements, it would be unsafe to do so. She remembers finding $800 cash stuffed into a cookie tin during her initial investigation of the house, and she takes that too. She loads her bag into Tiffany’s car and then turns back to Cal, who is standing in the doorway between the house and garage.

“Where did you get the car?” he asks, and she smiles thinly. “Never mind,” he says with a sigh, realizing that it’s the least of their worries.

They stand there for a moment, looking at one another. There’s so much she doesn’t know about him, so much he doesn’t know about himself, but he is still the person she trusts most in the world right now. The only person she trusts, really. She wishes that she didn’t have to do this alone. She suspects that he wishes the same.

“I’ll be in touch when I can,” she says, and he nods. “Give the kids big hugs and kisses for me, okay?”

His face crumples and he looks at the floor. She turns to get in the car, but then changes her mind and walks the handful of steps to where he is standing. She grabs his hand and he lifts his head, absolute agony in his eyes.

“You’re going to be okay,” she assures him, and his jaw jerks to the side.

“What about you?” he asks, his shoulder jumping.

“I hope to be,” she says, forgoing empty promises.

She pushes up onto her tiptoes and presses her lips to his cheek. Before her resolve can crumble any further, she climbs into the car and starts the ignition. Cal walks slowly alongside the driver’s side window as she backs out of the garage, and then follows her down the driveway. Before she turns the corner she takes one final glimpse in the rear view mirror at his tall, trim frame silhouetted against the backdrop of a suburban neighborhood.

It was a beautiful lie they created for her, and part of her is sad to leave it behind. But she chooses to look forward in hopes that she might be able to find her past, and the missing piece that she’s been mourning since the moment she woke up in the hospital.

He. Him.

Mulder.

She heads south, flipping the radio back on so she doesn’t feel so lonely. Her chest aches in the persistent, heavy way that only loss brings, and she hates just how familiar the sensation has become to her.

She’s worried about Cal, about the kids, about herself. She wonders if Mulder has any idea what’s happening, or if he is blissfully ignorant. She starts to think about the most effective way she can explain it to him, if she has the chance. And if she does explain it, and he doesn’t believe her, then what? Or, even worse, what if he does believe her but chooses his new life, his wife, over whatever they had and lost?

Scar tissue that I wish you saw,

Sarcastic mister know-it-all.

Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you, ‘cause

With the birds I’ll share

She feels slightly lightheaded suddenly, and she blinks rapidly and shakes her head back and forth to clear it away.

With the birds I’ll share this lonely view.

With the birds I’ll share this lonely view.

She flips on the turn signal and pulls off to the side of the road, her heart racing. She feels like she might be having a panic attack.

Push me up against the wall,

Young Kentucky girl in a push-up bra.

I’m fallin’ all over myself

To lick your heart and taste your health, ‘cause

It slams into her like a punch to the gut, making her head ache above her left ear. She can physically feel the synapses reaching out, connecting, pulling it up from the depths. Memories, unearthed like buried treasure.

“What are you saying?” he asks, flashing his eyes between her and the road with a haughty little smirk on his mouth.

“The song,” she answers, pointing to the radio.

“Sing it for me,” he requests, and her cheeks burn.

“I know I’m a terrible singer, Mulder, you don’t have to rub it in,” she grumbles, turning towards the window.

“I’m not making commentary on your vocal stylings, Scully, just tell me what the lyrics say,” he insists.

“With the blood that’s shed, it’s a lonely view,” she says flatly, and he chuffs a laugh. “What?”

“That is definitely not how the song goes,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s ‘with the birds I’ll share this lonely view’.”

She pauses, listening to the final chorus of the song.

“Hm,” she says.

“Hm?” he repeats. “Hm, you’re totally right, Mulder? Hm, those lyrics make a lot more sense?” he teases, reaching across the console to poke her arm with his index finger.

She turns her head sharply and gives him her very best irritated glare.

“Gloating is extremely unattractive,” she informs him, and he laughs.

“Does this mean you’re not coming over tonight?” he asks cheekily. “‘Cause I had plans for you, Scully.” He looks at her until she meets his eye, then adds, “Big plans.”

She rolls her eyes and looks out the passenger side window.

“Shut up, Mulder.”

She grips the steering wheel so tightly that her fingers go numb, her chest heaving and her heart pounding. Slowly, slowly, she returns to earth, to the shoulder of US-29-S, to the driver’s seat of Tiffany’s Escalade. As soon as the panic subsides, the tears come, running in torrents down her cheeks and keeping her stationary, unfit to operate heavy machinery in her current state. She wants more, so much more. She wants it all. She wants him.

Eventually, she feels ready to return to the road. She finds a seedy motel just outside the city that she’s confident won’t ask for ID, and lays clean-smelling towels over the top of the questionable-looking sheets before she curls up on the bed and begs for the respite of sleep. It’s early, but she’s exhausted, and feels like she needs the freshness of a new day in order to think clearly.

Tomorrow, she will return to the city she left behind against her will and try to find the torn edges of her stolen life. Tonight, she will pray that he meets her in her dreams, at least until the day she can return to his arms.

Tagging @today-in-fic

[thewhumpcaretaker]

The Broken Veil: Sneak Peak of Chapter 1

I will hopefully be releasing this fic (my first ever released) on AO3 soon, but I'm waiting for my account invite, so enjoy this preview in the meantime. This will be a highly indulgent 18+ fic focused on whump, hurt/comfort, and dacryphilia. TWs for this chapter: grief, crying, nightmare

Summary: John Wick has just agreed to kill Santino’s sister, Gianna, repaying the marker that gave him a life with Helen. However, Helen is trying to contact John from the afterlife, to show him that it is possible to stop the cycle of violence – not by forfeiting his own life, but by creating a fundamental shift in international systems and perhaps even the balance of good and evil in this world. But he doesn’t have to do it alone. She’s coming back.

Autumn evening in New York reels between gold and grey. A pale white sky bruises over with grey smog. Even the sky is beaten in New York, and yet even the sky sparkles. Golden streetlamps and distant red flashes hang as earthly stars between the glassy black voids of skyscraper walls. Airport whiskey sparkles amber in John Wick’s grasp, and his inward body buzzes faintly against its motionless exterior. Not drunk, not tipsy, not that it would matter. He knows himself drunk, drugged, tired, bleeding, the way the machine of his body handles in every state.

On the street below, a child in a woolen pea coat grabs onto his mother’s hand as they step up into the queue to check luggage. From the bar, John can’t see their faces, only the knit caps crowning both their heads. The boy has a backpack as his carry-on, and it’s too large for him. He shifts uncomfortably. At his movement, the mother fusses and leans down to adjust it. John’s eyes are fixed on her. They begin walking again and the child, excited by something on the far side of the taxi line, dashes towards oncoming traffic.  She pulls the little boy back from the street as a car swings recklessly close to the curb. John flinches away from the scene. It was hardly a close call – the kid had a long way to go before reaching the road, and even then, no doubt the car could have swerved at that speed. But it’s the sentiment of the thing, her tenderness…another swig of whiskey so he can’t finish the thought, and he turns from the window.

Drifting, playing the businessman without effort, scanning the crowd, uneasy with this moment of peace between wars. Stay in the moment anyway. Black wingtips clicking too crisply on grimy tile.  A glimpse of his reflection in the storefront of a candy shop, an impeccable mask. First class is boarding at JFK Gate 11, direct to Rome. No threats among the passengers – not that he expected any, but an enclosed box in the sky is a bad place to run into an enemy. It’s an opportunity he’s exploited himself in the past. A cordial smile to the flight attendant.

Now there is no more moment to stay in. Only the trans-Atlantic stretch of night, brutally alone.

He doesn’t want to be here. He knows how the machine of his body handles in every state, and right now he handles it by tricking it into doing what it’s ordered to do. Don’t think about doing anything, don’t think about killing. Just sit still, stare straight ahead, and don’t talk yourself out of this job. The job right now is to stare at the blinking light on the wing of the plane and not move, that’s all.  He remembers Gianna in their youth. She didn’t want to be a part of all this. She never had much in common with Santino. His ruthlessness, sure, but it was in service of something other than a desperate grasp for authority. She lived her life her way, pursued pleasure quietly between business, on her own terms. Don’t think about it. He thinks about how to do it instead. It’ll be right to give her a moment to face her death. Worth the risk. He owes her that much. Or is that the body rebelling again? Don’t think about it at all. Go to sleep.

He leans back and shuts himself down.

***

He’s making coffee for Helen. The bag crinkles as he scoops rich grounds into the machine. This feels so vivid, he can even smell it. He freezes. Feels vivid…this isn’t real. Lucid dream. They are always so fragile, they don’t have much time. Where is she?  Movement, out of the corner of his eye. Between the kitchen curtains, he can see her outside in the garden, her back to him. The way her hair falls above the cotton of a simple sundress, the way it just touches her shoulders…she is before him, he is ready to do anything to get to her. “Helen!”

She turns towards him and her face flares with a mirror of his own desperation. She points to the front door and disappears to the left, and he runs to meet her. There is a strange vastness to the entryway, he can’t reach the far end, but the door is already open. Only the screen is locked, and she’s trying the latch, silhouetted in light. He can feel his racing pulse all the way through his wrists now. She’s looking at him with so much urgency, his heart rattles almost sickeningly with each test of the latch and she’s saying over and over, “Rome, John, Rome! The moment is coming. Let me in.”

***

When he gasps awake, his lungs are already heavy with tears. There’s something darkly gorgeous about the disoriented longing still raging through him like an adrenaline shot and he lets it linger. Hope.

It takes him several minutes to even become irritated with that final twist. A play on words, a stupid, too-obvious, unoriginal trick of the unconscious, lacking the elegance she deserves. “Home, John, home. The moment is coming. Let me in.” If I ever can, I always will. Believe me. But I can’t. He crushes a sob against his rib cage with a deep inhale, swallows, and buries his face in his hands for a moment. Don’t even go there, don’t even imagine the impossible. Then he watches the sun make sheens of silver over the jagged European coastline, still basking in the memory of how she fought to reach him.

***

From the edge of the finite, a form withdraws, regathering strength but burning with the lingering sight of him.

[qfitpac]

Tips for sharing your ao3 fanfic with the world

Part 1: ao3 mechanics

So you wrote a fanfic. Or made some fanart. And you want to post it on Ao3 and you want people to see it and read it, and maybe kudos/comment, and maybe even read your other stuff too. What do you do?

(This is kinda qsmp specific but can be applied to any fandom if you want. This is specifically to explain what Ive found to be the best ways to share your fic with people, so no info on archive warnings, ao3 rules/guidelines, etc)

Let's assume you're starting from 0. No subscriptions, you don't have fandom friends to boost ur numbers, nil. There are 3 main ways that someone will see your fic: in tags, on your user page, and linked on another website.

Tags

Tags are essential but it is possible to both under and over utilize them and both can affect your reach. People tend to avoid fics with 100 tags that take up their entire screen, or fics that have like 2 tags where they don't know what's going to happen in there.

Popular tags get more traffic but people tend to be more picky: when you're looking in a tag with 15 fics, you may as well read them all even if it doesn't sound like exactly your thing. In a tag with 1500, you're a lot less likely to give every new fic a chance. If you only tag with fandom, character, and pairings, people may skip over since they don't know what they're getting into. That's why more specific tags are important.

If you have too many tags, such that they take up an entire phone screen or more, that may be a turnoff to some people. If you don't know where to start, choose your tags like this:

Fandom

Main characters (I go by "do they have more than one speaking role)

Main pairings (if a ship is mentioned in the background like once, I tend to not tag it)

Tone/genre (angst, fluff, smut, crack, etc)

Situation (café au, canon compliant, fix it fic, prison, pwp, etc)

Maybe a funny custom tag (eg "don't ask me how they got in prison ok just go with it")

Now when people are searching through bigger tags they can find yours more easily: in the qsmp tag, an angsty prison fic, with fitpac as the main pairing. That narrows it down a lot more than just using general tags.

Although ao3 does include people's real names in their character tags, it doesn't have to be this way. When entering a character or relationship tag, write it out the way you prefer and hit enter. It will still (eventually (ty tag wranglers)) be included in that main character tag, but it will not be displayed with their full name. I usually do something like FitMC (QSMP). Note that capitalization depends on the very first person to use that exact tag. If typing FitMC changes to fitmc every time you post, that's why. This same principle works for relationship tags as well.

User page:

The second way ppl might find your fics is via your user page.

A quick authors note at the end of your fic like "don't forget to check out my other works!" (and maybe even a link to one) can help you share your Fics with more people.

"But lev!" I hear you cry. "This is my first fic! Why would anyone visit my user page at all?"

Well, although ao3 is not specifically a social media, there is one place where users interact: comment sections.

"Uh, lev, I'm not going to go self promote in other people's fics?" I hear you say. Well first of all, thank GOD, and second of all, you don't have to.

When you're reading, esp in the fandom you write for, leave comments! Compliment people, give second kudos, point out lines you love and moments that move you. Fandom is a community and by participating positively in that community, the more likely people will engage positively with you in return. I've found some great authors just by looking in the comments on my own fics.

Linked on other websites:

The third main way ppl might find your fic is via links on other websites. As much as it is disrespectful to self promote in other people's spaces, don't let those feelings follow you to your own space. Your own account or blog is the PERFECT place to self promote. Post a link to your fic! Post MANY links to your fic! (over time, perhaps) Tag for qsmp fic, fic recs, pairing, and characters. You can also use a personal tag (mine is #levlies fic)

People might just scroll by a link, so make sure to add something to let people know that oh, this might be something they'd like to read. A short excerpt, a tag list, or a summary can all be good options although if it's getting to be long, consider paring down or adding a readmore.

If you're part of fandom discords that have a channel for fanfic or for self promo, don't hesitate to send a link there as well.

If you keep promoting your fics, people who like your fics will be more likely to stick around to see when new updates are posted. You can even make some friends!

*****

Part 2 will be about summaries and authors notes. Part 3 will be about comments. I'll edit this later to link them (or follow me 😶)

[cynicalone94]

Left For Dead

Read on AO3 here.

Jay walks out of the grocery store.

He and Hailey don’t usually have a lot of time to do their grocery shopping which means that they tend to stick to late night runs on the way home from work.

Tonight’s his turn.

“Hey man.” a guy calls out, and he turns to see a man walking toward him with an uneven gait. “You spare a couple bucks?”

Jay groans internally.

It’s so hard to know when these people legitimately need his help and when they’re just looking for their next fix.

The unsteady gait could be a sign that he’s intoxicated but it could also be a host of medical issues.

He shifts his keys to his left hand with the bags and reaches for his wallet.

The sharp stab of pain in his lower back catches him off guard.

He looks back to see a knife sticking out of his side, the hilt still encased in the man’s hand.

“What…”

A van screeches up next to them, the door flying open and then Jay is being shoved into the back.

He cries out as he hits the floor of the van and the knife shifts.

And then he’s being rolled onto his stomach and the blade is ripped out.

He screams but they just grab his head, slamming his face against the floor.

His arms are jerked up behind his back and secured with a zip tie.

What the hell is going on?

“W-what do… you want?” he chokes out.

“Nothing from you.”

Before he can attempt another question, they press duct tape over his mouth.

Then a knee is pressing into his back, keeping him down.

He’s closed his eyes, trying to tone down the nausea that the movement of the vehicle is uncharacteristically causing him, when he feels the van slow.

And hears the door slide open. And then he’s being moved.

He opens his eyes, looking around in alarm and scrambling to try to find something to hold onto.

Trying to kick their hands away.

But it’s a hard fight in close quarters with his hands tied.

And then he’s airborne.

He hits the ground with force on a slope, crashing and tumbling all the way down to the bottom.

When he finally comes to a stop he can just lie there for a while, gasping for breath.

Everything hurts and it takes a long moment before he can zero in on anything in particular.

Ribs, right shoulder, left leg, lower back, and head. Everything else is minor.

But he’s losing a lot of blood from that stab wound and he needs help, now.

He looks around, seeing nothing but pitch darkness. He knows there’s a hill to his right, knows if he can just get to the top of it, there’s a road.

And if he can get to that road, he can get help, can flag down a car.

But he also remembers how long he’d spent tumbling down that very hill.

And he has to get out of these zip ties before he can even really try.

Every move as he searches for something he can use to cut himself free takes his breath away but he finds something and manages to saw through the plastic.

He rolls onto his back, lifting his shirt to try to feel at the stab wound on his side.

He tries to pull his shirt off, hoping he can bandage it to slow the bleeding but his shoulder won’t cooperate.

Giving up on that, he rolls back onto his stomach and starts crawling up the hill, dragging himself inch by painful inch with only the use of his left arm.

“Jay doesn’t just not answer his phone, Sarge.” Hailey says and he can practically hear her pacing.

“No. He wouldn’t.” he agrees. “How long?”

“He went to the store after work.” she says. “I expected him to be home by eleven, we hit quarter after I started calling.”

It’s just short of midnight now which means Jay has been missing for over an hour, with the possibility of an hour and a half.

“What store?”

“Danny’s market.” she tells him. “It’s the only place close to our drive home that’s open that late. We take turns stopping to restock essentials when days off get farther and farther apart.”

“Well even they’re closed by now.” he tells her. “I can try to drag the owners out of bed to get access to the cameras but we don’t even know if he made it to the store.”

“I can check traffic cams.” Hailey offers. “Maybe get eyes on the truck and see if he did make it that far.”

“And maybe get eyes on any vehicles that were in the area at the time he would have been.” Voight says. “I have a CI I want to check in with. He’s got the pulse on the neighborhood and might know something.”

“Okay.” she says, taking a deep breath. “Okay.”

“We’ll find him.” he promises before ending the call.

But Tanner doesn’t know anything about the abduction of a cop in the neighborhood and Hailey’s search of the cameras doesn’t turn up anything.

She can get a single glimpse of Jay’s truck approaching the store but there wasn’t a single other vehicle that passed the traffic cameras within the thirty minute window afterward.

Without getting access to the store cameras they’re dead in the water and Jay’s already been missing for nearly three hours.

His phone rings and he looks down, expecting to see Hailey’s name on the screen.

But instead he gets Jay’s.

“Halstead?”

“He’s already dead.” a voice says coldly. “But I thought you might like to recover the body before the animals get to it. Get a clear look at the cost of your actions.”

“Where is he?” he demands.

“Old Route 66 where it goes through Douglas Park. Near the tennis courts.”

The call ends and he scrambles back to his car, contemplating whether or not to call Hailey.

If whoever this is is telling the truth and Jay’s already dead, maybe she shouldn’t be there when he finds the body.

He parks next to the tennis courts, drawing his weapon and starting the search.

It’s miles more specific than he’d had an hour ago but its still a lot of ground to cover.

He reaches a hill, spotting disrupted brush and following it down the hill. Halfway down, he sees a glimpse of boots in the beam of his flashlight.

Hurrying toward them, he drops to his knees, pressing his fingers into the side of Jay’s throat.

The pulse isn’t as strong as he would like but it’s still there.

He calls for an ambulance and rolls Jay onto his back.

“Jay?”

To his surprise, eyes flicker open.

He wouldn’t say that Jay is conscious and completely with it but he’s definitely not dead.

“It’s okay, kid.” he says gently, searching for injuries.

He finds the stab wound on Jay’s lower left side and presses his hand over it.

“Just keep breathing.” he urges. “Stay with me, kid.”

Jay is more of less still with him when the ambulance arrives and sticks it out through the ride to Med.

Hailey rushes up to him in the waiting room, staring at Jay as he’s wheeled past him.

“What happened?”

“I got a call.” he says. “With a location.”

“And you didn’t call me?” she demands. “What you didn’t think I should be there?”

“No.” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t.”

She frowns, eyes narrowing in confusion.

“They said he was already dead.” he tells her. “You didn’t need to be there if that was the case.”

“But he’s still…” she trails off.

“He hung in there the whole way here.” Voight tells her. “And who knows how long out on that hill. Don’t give up on him yet.”

She sinks into a chair.

A few hours later they’re sitting on either side of Jay’s bed, watching him sleep.

The stab wound had come close to serious damage that would have caused him to bleed out long before Voight had arrived but luckily the wielder of the knife had missed their target.

The repair had been easy and once they can replenish his blood volume he should make a full recovery.

He has other injuries, ones that Voight suspects had come from being thrown down that hill.

A broken ankle, dislocated shoulder, broken ribs and a concussion are all painful but also expected to heal.

But that doesn’t mean that Voight won’t be visiting some serious pain on whoever had done this to him.

The suggestion that this was revenge for something that he’d done in the past is the only lead he has right now.

“Don’t worry kid.” he says, leaning down. “I’ll find the bastards who did this to you.”

[schrijverr]

I Dig You 4

Chapter 4 out of 8

Robin is tentatively excited for her first internship: an archaeological dig in the Netherlands, where she has been studying. However, when she gets there, Steve is there too. The dick of their uni that she now has to work with. Great. But being stuck digging for six weeks makes people bond and maybe he isn’t too bad. Maybe he can be her friend.

AKA an archaeology interns, modern, enemies-to-friends stobin au

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: none

~~~~

Chapter 4: Visitor

Week four starts them off in put seven. Put seven is different than the ones they’ve worked on before, since they were very much part of the construction site before. However, put seven breaks ground on the other side of the road, where construction hasn’t reached yet. So, they’re more in sight than before, along one of the roads out of the town.

Since it’s a rural area of the Netherlands, the road itself doesn’t get much traffic and the traffic it does get are people on bike rides or people with dogs.

Jeroen warns them about the dogs, since they’re a bitch when they get into the trenches. Dogs tend to not have any regard for the delicate finds and coups or about the fact that the surface has to remain neat to remain legible.

“If possible, try to get people to put a leash on their dog if they want to ask questions,” Jeroen tells them with a sigh that shows them that archaeologists are often not too successful in that.

Indeed over the next few days, they notice people looking curiously and a dog does run through their trench, which sucks, because they hadn’t taken the photos of the trench yet, so they have to shave the top carefully again to clean it up.

Most people just walk by. However, there are some that stop and ask questions. Robin and Steve leave that to the others, who have more experience and can actually speak the language.

Still, it happens on Thursday that most have moved on further in the trench, leaving the two interns to finish off the last few coups alongside the road, that they get another visitor at the dig. It’s a young boy, a teen with a pitbull that’s luckily on a leash. He asks: “Wat zijn jullie aan ‘t doen?”

It’s a short sentence and Robin recognizes wat as what, zijn as are and doen as doing, filling in the gaps easily. Though she’s surprised that Steve answers first: “That depends, how good is your English?”

“I’m great at English,” the boy exclaims in an indignant tone and accented voice. “I’m already in my third year, you know.”

The kid looks closer to fourteen than seventeen, but then Robin remembers the Dutch schooling system is different, so he likely is fourteen. It surprises her how well Dutch people speak English, sure most she met were good at it, but they were also adults, who studied at university, which is a different demographic.

“Great,” Steve smiles. “I’m Steve, that’s Robin.” Robin waves and says: “Hi.”

“Oh, I’m Dustin, this guy’s name is d’Art,” Dustin introduces both himself and the dog.

“Nice to meet you,” Steve goes on in a kind voice that has Robin giving him a glance. “What did you want to know?”

“Just what you guys were doing, I guess. You don’t look like builders,” Dustin shrugs.

“We are not. We’re archaeologists,” Steve says, making sure to talk slowly and clearly so the kid can follow, since it isn’t his native language. “We are getting all the information, before the building can destroy it.”

“So did you find anything cool? Like gold?” Dustin asks, pulling d’Art’s leash closer as he squats at the side of their put, trying to see what they’re working on.

Neither of them have been digging long enough to be truly annoyed with the question about gold yet, but Robin mentally notes that none of their professors had been lying about it.

“No, archaeology isn’t about gold. We found a lot of pot pieces though,” Steve laughs.

“Then you found just pots? That’s boring,” Dustin informs them bluntly.

Robin wants to protest that, but Steve is quicker, managing to be more patient than her as he says: “Oh, but it’s not at all boring. Look,” he steps to the side and points at a coup they still have to finish. “You see how the sand is darker here?”

“Yeah?” Dustin replies with a voice that asks why he should care.

“Well, this is a spoor, it tells us that someone – likely hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years ago – dug a hole here. It could have been to put a pole in to built a house or to bury something or to get some sand or to have a place to throw stuff away,” Steve explains. “This right here used to be a house.”

“A house?” Dustin asks, a little more awed now.

“Yup,” Steve nods. “We found multiple of these kinds of sporen, all circles, all poles, in the shape of a house. Isn’t that cool? I’m standing in a house right now.”

“That is pretty cool,” Dustin agrees. “How did you know it was a house? Just the shape?”

“A combination of the shape of the sporen and the shape they are in, yes. But we often don’t spot them in the field. Usually we see them later when looking at a map of the sporen, since they are easier to spot like that, but we got lucky here,” Steve says.

“So why’s the ground a different color?”

“Well different layers of the earth have a different color. If you come over here, I can show you,” Steve says pointing to the corner of the trench. “D’Art can’t come near the put though.”

Dustin looks excited at the prospect and ties d’Art to a nearby tree so he can come take a closer look at the profile Steve is cleaning, which is a fancy way of saying that he’s scraping the dirt of the side so you can see the different horizons in the soil.

Steve looks excited as well, happy to explain it. Robin also likes talking about archaeology, but she often just talks about bones. She isn’t good at all this and her explanations get rambled and complicated, filled with terminology, but Steve doesn’t seem to have that problem.

She decides to continue working, but keeps listening in as Steve continues to talk to Dustin about their dig.

“See how you have all these different colors here on the side?” Steve asks and Dustin hums. “Those are soil horizons. They come from different times. This yellow sand I’m standing on is from the Ice Ages.”

A gasp: “Really?”

“Uh-huh, it was windy here back then and nothing grew, so sand was put down here,” Steve says. “Later things grew, rivers flooded and new layers got put over the old ones. So, the top layer here is the youngest and the one on the bottom the oldest. Get it?”

“Yeah, I do,” Dustin says, beginning to sound excited.

“So, if you have an older layer with a hole in it and a new layer gets put over it, what do you think happens?” Steve asks.

“Uhm, the old layer gets covered by the new one, so the hole gets filled?” Dustin answers.

“Indeed,” Steve says excitedly. “So if that new layer is a different color, what do you see?”

“Oh! You see the spoor, because it’s a hole that’s filled,” Dustin says.

“Hell yeah, you got it, dude,” Steve cheers and Robin hears a high-five.

“So what are you doing then? Like why is she digging at that one? Don’t you already know what you need to know?” Dustin asks

“Well, we are digging them, because then we can know what shape it is, so what it might have been. Like the pole I showed you,” Steve says. “But also, because we find stuff in them.”

“You do?” Dustin asks.

“Yup,” Steve answers. “If it is a trash pit, then people threw stuff away in it, but they also left things in holes on purpose. We think they could be offers to the house or a ritual of sorts.”

“That’s pretty cool, but it’s just like pots, right? Not that thrilling,” Dustin comments and Robin rolls her eyes, taking a break from her digging to drink some water.

“First off, pots are very cool. Second off, there is other stuff too,” Steve says, sounding less annoyed than Robin would have been, had she been the one talking to the brat. No, Robin, not a brat, she forcefully reminds herself, just a young teen, annoying is part of the age. Be nice.

“Oehh, what other shit are you finding?” Dustin asks excitedly, clearly not interested in the pots.

Steve sighs and Robin looks up, ready to come save him if he looks like he’s done. But when she looks up, she sees him shake his head with a smile, before he answers: “Well, there is the skull cult, but that is in the Near East, so I don’t know much about that, but there have also been cow skulls found in house plans.”

“That’s cool! I’m gonna google that when I get home,” Dustin tells Steve.

And Steve sounds very happy about that as he says: “You totally should, man. It is really cool. Just like pots can be if you are curious enough to find out how.”

Robin looks up, because that is a different tone than she’d heard so far. Where Steve has been patiently explaining everything before, that last part sounds a bit gloating. And indeed when Dustin exclaims: “Hey! I’m curious,” Steve looks smug, like he knew he’d hit a button by saying that.

“You are?” he asks, like a little shit and Robin realizes he is manipulating this child into caring about ceramics, which is crazy, because not even every archaeology student is interested in ceramics.

“Yeah,” Dustin is practically pouting now.

“Want me to tell you more about them?” Steve asks, back to the genuine voice from before. Dustin nods enthusiastically. “Alrighty,” Steve cheers, before calling over Robin asking: “Robs, do you have that sherd from S7123?”

Robin doesn’t know how Steve seems to remember that, though, maybe because he’s the one that dug it out and wrote it down on the card and took a photo of it for his report later. It takes her a second to locate the find bag and bring it over to Steve.

“Ah, thank you,” he says, looking excited to continue his conversation, before he realizes that Robin has been digging this whole time. “Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t been really doing my part, have I?”

“It’s alright, dingus, I call first dibs on the shower and then we’re even,” Robin assures him. He looks too excited and she’d feel bad if she asked him to stop. He can do more of the work later, she decides to count it as pay back for when she was drawing while he had to dig.

“Alright,” he smiles and Robin knows she made the right choice.

“Is she your girlfriend?” she hears Dustin asks.

“Nah, man, we just don’t wanna deal with the train every morning.”

“Oh, yeah, my mom says de NS sucks,” Dustin says. “But I think she’s into you.”

“Rest assured that she is not. Now, want to hear about the pots or not?” Steve gently but firmly puts a stop to that conversation, which Robin is grateful for. He doesn’t even out her – not that she would have minded, but Steve doesn’t know that and it’s nice he’s not presuming.

“Alright, tell me why pots are cool,” Dustin sighs, like he’d rather have the other conversation.

“First, you got to stop thinking of it as just a pot sherd,” Steve starts out with a little bit of grandeur in his voice. “This right here, is the basis of archaeology.”

“It’s a piece of pot,” Dustin tells him.

“It is, but do you know what this piece of pot can tell us?” Steve asks in return.

“That there were people who made pots here?” Dustin replies.

“I mean, yes that too, but not necessarily. Sometimes the pot sherd we find is from somewhere else, maybe traded or taken by someone traveling and, suddenly, this piece is part of a network, part of a bigger story,” Steve says.

Robin looks up again to check on them, Steve is a better storyteller that she’d thought, because Dustin is hanging on his lips. She’d always thought he was just pretty and a little charming, but he actually knows how to talk with people.

“You see, a pot and other pieces of ceramic – uhm, I think the Dutch word is aardewerk? – are part of people’s lives. A part that survives where other things do not,” Steve says. “This sherd right here, is likely from the Iron Age, so it’s at least over 2000 years old and I’m holding it right now. This is made by someone, a real life person. And we’re the first ones the hold it since it got lost.”

“Can I hold it?” Dustin asks.

“I’m sorry, if it were up to me, you could, but we still have to process it,” Steve says apologetically. “Pots in relation to the soil that I just showed you is used most often to date a site. But that is not the only thing a pot can tell us.”

“No?”

“No,” Steve confirms. “Pots also say a lot about what was considered stylish or trendy, like fashion today. A lot of cultures are named after their pots, because they are shaped and decorated differently.”

“But we can also analyze where the clay came from to make the pot, so we know if the pot is made here and how far people went to get the clay to make it or if they traded the pot and it came from far away,” Steve says.

“We can also see how a pot is made, you probably know pots are thrown on wheels, but those weren’t invented yet when pots first arrived and there are a lot of ways to hand make a pot,” Steve continues on. “Can you guess how to make a pot without a wheel?”

Robin notes that Steve has a good way of keeping Dustin engaged, balancing between giving the kid information and forcing him to think for himself.

“Just, like, smash it in shape with your hands? That doesn’t sound right,” Dustin answers, seemingly frustrated at the idea of not knowing something.

“Yeah! That’s one,” Steve says excitedly. “Hand shaping. Though it’s more pinching it into shape than smashing and it limits the size. Want to guess more? Or want me to just tell you?”

“I can think of more,” Dustin protests, sounding offended at the idea that he couldn’t think of more ways.

“Well, take it away, smarty-pants,” Steve encourages him with a teasing edge in his voice.

Dustin is quiet for a moment and Robin looks up to check on them. Dustin hasn’t walked off yet, but is deep in thought as Steve waits patiently for him. In the background d’Art is peeing on his tree, seemingly content to snuffle about while Dustin talks to Steve.

“Can you just built it up with like, uhm, like- I don’t know the word for it, but flat pieces of clay?” he finally answers after a moment.

“Yeah, totally,” Steve nods with a big smile. “Want hints for another technique?”

“Maybe,” Dustin says, but it looks like it hurts him to admit that.

“It’s more obvious as a method for pouring something that hardens,” Steve says.

Dustin thinks that over for a second, before smugly exclaiming: “Moulding, that’s not that hard to guess, really,” like he hadn’t struggled with it. Kids are pretty hilarious, Robin realizes.

“There is another common method, want me to just tell you or continue guessing?” Steve asks.

“Just tell me,” Dustin demands, obviously done with feeling like he doesn’t know anything. Robin pegs him as one of the smarter kids in class, who can be a bit obnoxious about their intelligence, though not maliciously.

“Coiling, when you roll out a worm of clay and roll it up to form a pot by smushing it together into a shape,” Steve says, not commenting on the tone.

“They really do that?” Dustin asks, sounding surprised. “That seems… childish.”

“Hey, if it works, it works. It’s not more childish than moulding or hand shaping and it actually takes a lot of patience,” Steve tells him. “You have to let the clay dry enough between each new row or it’ll collapse.”

“Guess I never really thought much about pots,” Dustin says.

“That’s okay, neither did I until I started studying, really. And I have only touched the tip of the ice berg here. Though it’s not my interest overall, I like humans and the lives they lived. Pots are just a big part of that,” Steve says. “It’s more about what pots represent.”

“And what do they represent?” Dustin asks curiously.

“Well, for me, I like neolithisation, uhm, the introduction of farming,” Steve says, for the first time forgetting not to use lingo in his excitement. “Pots first appear with farming, since moving with pots is a hassle, you know. Though there are debates about that, but archaeologists can debate about anything and everything. However, farming changed everything. It’s less good for your health and more work than hunting and gathering, yet people chose to do it and we still live in a food economy that depends on farming. People then made choices that impacted today. I think that is really cool, you know, how we’re all connected through time in space. Like me and this little bit of pot.”

“Huh,” Dustin says thoughtfully.

Robin also pauses. It seems like she had totally pegged Steve wrong. He has a genuine interest in what he is doing and a passion like hers for the subject. The idea that he hadn’t, had already been fading, but this just hammers it home again.

Before the conversation can pick up again, Astrid arrives at the other end of the trench, yelling out: “Lunch break.”

“Coming!” Robin yells back, while she hears Steve says: “Guess I have to go, but it was nice talking to you, Dustin. Hope to see you around.”

“Yeah, it was cool. Didn’t think this would be as interesting as it was,” Dustin replies seemingly not noticing that that could be considered rude, before softening it a little with: “Oh, and, uhm, thank you, for, you know, talking me. Can’t have been the most useful thing.”

“I don’t mind doing it, it was fun,” Steve smiles at him. “I’ll be more than happy to talk to you again about all this stuff.”

“Then maybe I’ll come by again,” Dustin smiles, before going to untie d’Art, so he can continue to walk his dog.

Meanwhile. Robin and Steve make their way back to their little headquarters to eat lunch. As they walk, Robin asks: “Have fun?”

“Yeah,” Steve says happily. “I love doing outreach, I think it’s so important to involve local communities and educate about archaeology.” Then he dims a little: “Sorry for ditching you.”

“It’s alright, it wasn’t much anyway. I finished the coups just fine and it’s not like they needed us or they would have come to ask for help sooner,” Robin shrugs. “Besides, I liked listening to you. You’re really good at explaining stuff. I’m not really interested in any of this, I like bones, you know, but you made it interesting.”

“Really? Thank you,” Steve grins. “I’m horrible about bones, you should totally tell me more about it sometime.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Harrington,” Robin grins right back. “Maybe if the squirt comes back I can give him some bone facts.”

“Me and the squirt both,” Steve jokes, shoulder settled in a relaxed manner. Robin laughs at that, it’s nice to joke around.

~~

A/N:

Also Dustin’s English is not a lie to make plot easier, not everyone is as good as English, but I headcanon him as a gymnasium third year nerd, so he’s probably pretty well versed in it. I know I was already writing fics in English at that age (not very great ones and not many that have seen the light of day, but you know, they exist)

And yes, this whole chapter is an excuse to talk about archaeology, because I am passionate about it and I like talking about it <3 (replace pots with ceramics pls, I used pots as a simpler word for Dustin, but ceramics is more accurate)

Also im sorry if Dustin seems OOC, but I think he is genuinely interested and is willing to listen more patiently when not trying to figure out the whole Upside Down tomfoolery, ya know?

[themculibrary]

Barista!Steve Masterlist

Coffee Shop Love (ao3) - inukagome15 steve/tony G, 4k

Summary: Tony Stark did not like coffee shops, but he could make an exception for the one with the cute barista who had smiles that were to die for. If only Steve wasn't so unattainable...

During Business Hours: A Filthy Coffee Shop AU (ao3) - samanthahirr steve/bucky E, 25k

Summary: Unemployed artist Steve takes a job managing the worst coffee shop in Brooklyn, where the floors are greasy, the coffee beans have expired, the espresso machine’s been sabotaged, and the owners might be Russian Mafia. But the job comes with a few perks, like a generous paycheck, reasonable hours, and one super-hot customer whom Steve can’t resist having dirty, filthy, bad-idea sex with in the bathroom.

Steve is pretty sure this job is going to kill him. But what a way to go....

Espresso Memories (ao3) - Infinitywrites steve/tony G, 4k

Summary: Steve smiled as he heard the door of the almost empty coffee shop open at 2:00 in the morning and there’s only one person comes by now.

(AKA)

Steve is a new barista at the coffee shop near the Tower and Tony is his 2 am regular

Every hour has come to this (ao3) - BladeoftheNebula steve/tony T, 6k

Summary: Tony's given up on finding his soulmate. His words are weird, he's getting older and really who needs to soulbond anyway?

how to get steve rogers approval: a guide by bucky barnes (ao3) - haveufoundwhaturlookingfor G, 3k

Summary: Bucky Barnes is the new employee at the coffee shop that Steve has been working at, and Steve doesn't like him from the start, but Bucky is determined to get Steve to like him one way or another.

Iced Americano (ao3) - firelord_zutara steve/tony T, 1k

Summary: Based on the prompt from tumblr user jonahryan: "I’m a barista and you’re the obnoxious customer who comes through and orders a venti macchiato while talking on the phone the whole time so I misspell your name in increasingly creative ways every day AU"

Jack-o-Lanterns and Kittens (ao3) - captain_wintersoldier steve/bucky, clint/natasha, jane/thor, darcy/loki T, 9k

Summary: Steve works at a Coffee shop. Cue attractive customer named Bucky Barnes. Steve falls in love and ends up embarrassing himself, but scoring a date anyway. Yay relationships.

just the right amount (ao3) - wearing_tearing steve/bucky T, 2k

Summary: “Yes?” Steve looks up at Darcy. “Is everything okay?”

“You tell me,” Darcy smirks, eyes glinting. “Is writing personal messages on coffee cups something we do for all of our customers now?”

Mama Rogers' (ao3) - Perlmutt steve/tony G, 2k

Summary: A CEO walks into a coffee shop.

Ménage à Latte (ao3) - ashes0909 bucky/steve/tony M, 2k

Summary: Steve wasn’t waiting for them. He wasn't. It’s just that…at some point, during every single one of his shifts lately, the two of them walked through the door. 

peter's stars (ao3) - IronPengu, parkrstark steve/tony T, 175k

Summary: Steve and Peter lose their apartment and are kicked out on the streets. Steve has to juggle between jobs to earn whatever money he can, take care of his son while resfusing to let him realize how much they're trouble in, and keep them warm and safe on the city streets in winter.

So, he really doesn't have time to date the billionaire that flirts with him everyday as he buys his cup of coffee. Even if he did, he can't let himself fall for the man. Because if he knew that he lived from a backpack and showered in a public bathroom there's no way he'd still want him...right?

Reject Your Reality (and Substitute My Own) (ao3) - dapperanachronism, Robin_tCJ steve/tony G, 74k

Summary: Single parent Tony Stark’s son is the most important thing in the world to him – the ONLY important thing in the universe. A hipster Brooklyn coffee-shop owner & veteran doesn’t even rank on the list – even if he is hot and funny and kind.

When he hears about the possibly-high-traffic-and-therefore-dangerous coffee shop moving in next door to Casey’s preschool, he does the only sensible thing he can think of – he confronts the owner and tries to convince him to open his shop elsewhere.

Of course, Steve Rogers is stubborn as hell, and it turns out he can make a mean cup of coffee.

It sounds like an ordinary kid-fic coffee shop AU, but look a little closer and nothing is quite what it seems.

stale conversation deserves but a bread knife (ao3) - tinyysnark steve/tony G, 2k

Summary: “Steve, when you’re here, the coffee is just better.”

or: five times Steve didn’t give his recipe away and the one time he did

Steve Rogers: Always Surprising, Never Delightful (ao3) - powercrow steve/bucky T, 7k

Summary: aka a coffee shop-prank war AU wherein Bucky is beleaguered and long-suffering and Steve is a shithead with the emotional maturity of a five year old.

Triple Espresso (ao3) -FestiveFerret bucky/steve/tony E, 72k

Summary: Everything is going great for Steve. He loves his boyfriend, his apartment, his pets. He finally has some opportunities to share his artwork, the coffee shop he manages is doing well, and Bucky is about to finish his exams, which means no more night shifts. It finally feels like life is on track.

And then Tony Stark walks into the cafe and everything goes off the rails.