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caelum-in-the-avatarverse · 7 months ago

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Fandom can do a little gatekeeping. As a treat.

So I finally decided to archive-lock my fics on AO3 last night. I’ve been considering it since the AI scrape last year, but the tipping point was this whole lore.fm debacle, coupled with some thoughts I’ve been thinking regarding Fandom These Days in general and Fandom As A Community in particular. So I wanna explain why I waited so long, why I locked my stuff up now, and why I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a-okay with making it harder for people to see my stories.

Lurkers really are great, tho

I’m a chronic lurker, and have been since I started hanging out on the internet as a teen in the 00s. These days it’s just cuz I don’t feel a need to socialize very often, but back then it was because I was shy and knew I was socially awkward. Even if I made an account, I’d spend months lurking on message boards or forums or Livejournals, watching other people interact and getting a feel for that particular community’s culture and etiquette before I finally started interacting myself. And y’know, that approach saved me a lot of embarrassment. Over the course of my lurking on any site, there was always some other person who’d clearly joined up five minutes after learning the place existed, barged in without a care for their behavior, and committed so many social faux pas that all the other users were immediately annoyed with them at best. I learned a lot observing those incidents. Lurk More is Rule 33 of the internet for very good reason.

Lurking isn’t bad or weird or creepy. It’s perfectly normal. I love lurking. It’s hard for me to not lurk - socializing takes a lot of energy out of me, even via text. (Heck it took 12 hours for me to write this post, I wish I was kidding--) Occasionally I’ll manage longer bouts of interaction - a few weeks posting here, almost a year chatting in a discord there - but I’m always gonna end up going radio silent for months at some point. I used to feel bad about it, but I’ve long since made peace with the fact that it’s just the way my brain works. I’m a chronic lurker, and in the long term nothing is going to change that.

The thing with being a chronic lurker is that you have to accept that you are not actually seen as part of the community you are lurking in. That’s not to say that lurkers are unimportant - lurkers actually are important, and they make up a large proportion of any online community - but it’s simple cause and effect. You may think of it as “your community”, but if you’ve never said a word, how is the community supposed to know you exist? If I lurked on someone’s LJ, and then that person suddenly friendslocked their blog, I knew that I had two choices: Either accept that I would never be able to read their posts again, or reach out to them and ask if I could be added to their friends list with the full understanding that I was a rando they might not decide to trust. I usually went with the first option, because my invisibility as a lurker was more important to me than talking to strangers on the internet.

Lurking is like sitting on a park bench, quietly people-watching and eavesdropping on the conversations other people are having around you. You’re in the park, but you’re not actively participating in anything happening there. You can see and hear things that you become very interested in! But if you don’t introduce yourself and become part of the conversation, you won’t be able to keep listening to it when those people walk away. When fandom migrated away from Livejournal, people moved to new platforms alongside their friends, but lurkers were often left behind. No one knew they existed, so they weren’t told where everyone else was going. To be seen as part of a fandom community, you need to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known, etc. etc.

There’s nothing wrong with lurking. There can actually be benefits to lurking, both for the lurkers and the communities they lurk in. It’s just another way to be in a fandom. But if that is how you exist in fandom--and remember, I say this as someone who often does exist that way in fandom--you need to remember that you’re on the outside looking in, and the curtains can always close.

I’ve always been super sympathetic to lurkers, because I am one. I know there’s a lot of people like me who just don’t socialize often. I know there’s plenty of reasons why someone might not make an account on the internet - maybe they’re nervous, maybe they’re young and their parents don’t allow them to, maybe they’re in a bad situation where someone is monitoring their activity, maybe they can only access the internet from public computer terminals. Heck, I’ve never even logged into AO3 on my phone--if I’m away from my computer I just read what’s publicly available.

I know I have people lurking on my fics. I know my fics probably mean a lot to someone I don’t even know exists. I know this because there are plenty of fics I love whose writers don’t know I exist.

I love my commenters personally; I love my lurkers as an abstract concept. I know they’re there and I wish them well, and if they ever de-lurk I love them all the more.

So up until last year I never considered archive-locking my fic, because I get it. The AI scraping was upsetting, but I still hesitated because I was thinking of lurkers and guests and remembering what it felt like to be 15 and wondering if it’d be worth letting a stranger on the internet know I existed and asking to be added to their friends list just so I could reread a funny post they made once.

But the internet has changed a lot since the 00s, and fandom has changed with it. I’ve read some things and been doing some thinking about fandom-as-community over the last few years, and reading through the lore.fm drama made me decide that it’s time for me to set some boundaries.

I still love my lurkers, and I feel bad about leaving any guest commenters behind, especially if they’re in a situation where they can’t make an account for some reason. But from here on out, even my lurkers are going to have to do the bare minimum to read my fics--make an AO3 account.

Should we gatekeep fandom?

I’ve seen a few people ask this question, usually rhetorically, sometimes as a joke, always with a bit of seriousness. And I think…yeah, maybe we should. Except wait, no, not like that--

A decade ago, when people talked about fandom gatekeeping and why it was bad to do, it intersected with a lot of other things, mainly feminism and classism. The prevalent image of fandom gatekeeping was, like, a man learning that a woman likes Star Wars and haughtily demanding, “Oh, yeah? Well if you’re REALLY a fan, name ten EU novels” to belittle and dismiss her, expecting that a “real fan” would have the money and time to be familiar with the EU, and ignoring the fact that male movie-only fans were still considered fans. The thing being gatekept was the very definition of “being a fan” and people’s right to describe themselves as one.

That’s not what I mean when I say maybe fandom should gatekeep more. Anyone can call themselves a fan if they like something, that’s fine. But when it comes to the ability to enjoy the fanworks produced by the fandom community…that might be something worth gatekeeping.

See, back in the 00s, it was perfectly common for people to just…not go on the internet. Surfing the web was a thing, but it was just, like, a fun pastime. Not everyone did it. It wasn’t until the rise of social media that going online became a thing everyone and their grandmother did every day. Back then, going on the internet was just…a hobby.

So one of the first gates online fandom ever had was the simple fact that the entire world wasn’t here yet.

The entire world is here now. That gate has been demolished.

And it’s a lot easier to find us now. Even scattered across platforms, fandom is so centralized these days. It isn’t a network of dedicated webshrines and forums that you can only find via webrings anymore, it’s right there on all the big social media sites. AO3 didn’t set out to be the main fanfic website, but that’s definitely what it’s become. It’s easy for people to find us--and that includes people who don’t care about the community, and just want “content.”

Transformative fandom doesn’t like it when people see our fanworks as “content”. “Content” is a pretty broad term, but when fandom uses it we’re usually referring to creative works that are churned out by content creators to be consumed by an audience as quickly as possible as often as possible so that the content creator can generate revenue. This not-so-new normal has caused a massive shift in how people who are new to fandom view fanworks--instead of seeing fic or art as something a fellow fan made and shared with you, they see fanworks as products to be consumed.

Transformative fandom has, in general, always been a gift economy. We put time and effort into creating fanworks that we share with our fellow fans for free. We do this so we don’t get sued, but fandom as a whole actually gets a lot out of the gift economy. Offer your community a story, and in return you can get comments, build friendships, or inspire other people to write things that you might want to read. Readers are given the gift of free stories to read and enjoy, and while lurking is fine, they have the choice to engage with the writer and other readers by leaving comments or making reclists to help build the community.

And look, don’t get me wrong. People have never engaged with fanfic as much as fan writers wish they would. There has always been “no one comments anymore” wank. There have always been people who only comment to say “MORE!” or otherwise demand or guilt trip writers into posting the next chapter. But fandom has always agreed that those commenters are rude and annoying, and as those commenters navigate fandom they have the chance to learn proper community etiquette.

However, now it seems that a lot of the people who are consuming fanworks aren’t actually in the community.

I won’t say “they aren’t real fans” because that’s silly; there’s lots of ways to be a fan. But there seem to be a lot of fans now who have no interest in fandom as a community, or in adhering to community etiquette, or in respecting the gift economy. They consume our fics, but they don’t appreciate fan labor. They want our “content”, but they don’t respect our control over our creations.

And even worse--they see us as a resource. We share our work for free, as a gift, but all they see is an open-source content farm waiting to be tapped into. We shared it for free, so clearly they can do whatever they want with it. Why should we care if they feed our work into AI training datasets, or copy/paste our unfinished stories into ChatGPT to get an ending, or charge people for an unnecessary third-party AO3 app, or sell fanbindings on etsy for a profit without the author’s permission, or turn our stories into poor imitations of podfics to be posted on other platforms without giving us credit or asking our consent, while also using it to lure in people they can datascrape for their Forbes 30 Under 30 company?

And sure, people have been doing shady things with other people’s fanworks since forever. Art theft and reposting has always been a big problem. Fanfic is harder to flat-out repost, but I’ve heard of unauthorized fic translations getting posted without crediting the original author. Once in…I think the 2010s? I read a post by a woman who had gone to some sort of local bookselling event, only to find that the man selling “his” novel had actually self-published her fanfic. (Wish I could find that one again, I don’t even remember where I read it.)

But aside from that third example, the thing is…as awful as fanart/writing theft is, back in the day, the main thing a thief would gain from it was clout. Clout that should rightfully go to the creators who gifted their work in the first place, yeah, but still. Just clout. People will do a lot of hurtful things for clout, but fandom clout means nothing outside of fandom. Fandom clout is not enough to incentivize the sort of wide-scale pillaging we’re seeing from community outsiders today.

Money, on the other hand… Well, fandom’s just a giant, untapped content farm, isn’t it? Think of how much revenue all that content could generate.

Lurkers are a normal and even beneficial part of any online community. Maybe one day they’ll de-lurk and easily slide into place beside their fellow fans because they already know the etiquette. Maybe they’re active in another community, and they can spread information from the community they lurk in to the community they’re active in. At the very least, they silently observe, and even if they’re not active community members, they understand the community.

Fans who see fanworks as “content” don’t belong in the same category as lurkers. They’re tourists.

While reading through the initial Reddit thread on the lore.fm situation, I found this comment:

[ID: Reddit User Cabbitowo says: ... So in anime fandoms we have a word called tourist and essentially it means a fan of a few anime and doesn't care about anime tropes and actively criticizes them. This is kind of how fandoms on tiktok feel. They're touring fanfics and fanart and actively criticizes tropes that have been in the fandom since the 60s. They want to be in a fandom but they don't want to engage in fandom

OP totallymandy responds: Just entered back into Reddit after a long day to see this most recent reply. And as a fellow anime fan this making me laugh so much since it’s true! But it sorta hurts too when the reality sets in. Modern fandom is so entitled and bratty and you’d think it’s the minors only but that’s not even true, my age-mates and older seem to be like that. They want to eat their cake and complain all whilst bringing nothing to the potluck… :/ END ID]

“Tourist” is an apt name for this sort of fan. They don’t want to be part of our community, and they don’t have to be in order to come into our spaces and consume our work. Even if they don’t steal our work themselves, they feel so entitled to it that they’re fine with ignoring our wishes and letting other people take it to make AI “podfics” for them to listen to (there are a lot of comments on lore.fm’s shutdown announcement video from people telling them to just ignore the writers and do it anyway). They’ll use AI to generate an ending to an unfinished fic because they don’t care about seeing “the ending this writer would have given to the story they were telling”, they just want “an ending”. For these tourist fans, the ends justify the means, and their end goal is content for them to consume, with no care for the community that created it for them in the first place.

I don’t think this is confined to a specific age group. This isn’t “13-year-olds on Wattpad” or “Zoomers on TikTok” or whatever pointless generation war we’re in now. This is coming from people who are new to fandom, whose main experience with creative works on the internet is this new content culture and who don’t understand fandom as a community. That description can be true of someone from any age group.

It’s so easy to find fandom these days. It is, in fact, too easy. Newcomers face no hurdles or challenges that would encourage them to lurk and observe a bit before engaging, and it’s easy for people who would otherwise move on and leave us alone to start making trouble. From tourist fans to content entrepreneurs to random people who just want to gawk, it’s so easy for people who don’t care about the fandom community to reap all of its fruits.

So when I say maybe fandom should start gatekeeping a bit, I’m referring to the fact that we barely even have a gate anymore. Everyone is on the internet now; the entire world can find us, and they don’t need to bother learning community etiquette when they do. Before, we were protected by the fact that fandom was considered weird and most people didn’t look at it twice. Now, fandom is pretty mainstream. People who never would’ve bothered with it before are now comfortable strolling in like they own the place. They have no regard for the fandom community, they don’t understand it, and they don’t want to. They want to treat it just like the rest of the content they consume online.

And then they’re surprised when those of us who understand fandom culture get upset. Fanworks have existed far longer than the algorithmic internet’s content. Fanworks existed long before the internet. We’ve lived like this for ages and we like it.

So if someone can’t be bothered to respect fandom as a community, I don’t see why I should give them easy access to my fics.

Think of it like a garden gate

When I interact with commenters on my fic, I have this sense of hospitality.

The comment section is my front porch. The fic is my garden. I created my garden because I really wanted to, and I’m proud of it, and I’m happy to share it with other people.

Lots of people enjoy looking at my garden. Many walk through without saying anything. Some stop to leave kudos. Some recommend my garden to their friends. And some people take the time to stop by my front porch and let me know what a beautiful garden it is and how much they’ve enjoyed it.

Any fic writer can tell you that getting comments is an incredible feeling. I always try to answer all my comments. I don’t always manage it, but my fics’ comment sections are the one place that I manage to consistently socialize in fandom. When I respond to a comment, it feels like I’m pouring out a glass of lemonade to share with this lovely commenter on my front porch, a thank you for their thank you. We take a moment to admire my garden together, and then I see them out. The next time they drop by, I recognize them and am happy to pour another glass of lemonade.

My garden has always been open and easy to access. No fences, no walls. You just have to know where to find it. Fandom in general was once protected by its own obscurity, an out-of-the-way town that showed up on maps but was usually ignored.

But now there’s a highway that makes it easy to get to, and we have all these out-of-towner tourists coming in to gawk and steal our lawn ornaments and wonder if they can use the place to make themselves some money.

I don’t care to have those types trampling over my garden and eating all my vegetables and digging up my flowers to repot and sell, so I’ve put up a wall. It has a gate that visitors can get through if they just take the time to open it.

Admittedly, it’s a small obstacle. But when I share my fics, I share them as a gift with my fellow fans, the ones who understand that fandom is a community, even if they’re lurkers. As for tourist fans and entrepreneurs who see fic as content, who have no qualms ignoring the writer’s wishes, who refuse to respect or understand the fandom community…well, they’re not the people I mean to share my fic with, so I have no issues locking them out. If they want access to my stories, they’ll have to do the bare minimum to become a community member and join the AO3 invite queue.

And y’know, I’ve said a lot about fandom and community here, and I just want to say, I hope it’s not intimidating. When I was younger, talk about The Fandom Community made me feel insecure, and I didn’t think I’d ever manage to be active enough in fandom spaces to be counted as A Member Of The Community. But you don’t have to be a social butterfly to participate in fandom. I’ll always and forever be a chronic lurker, I reblog more than I post, I rarely manage to comment on fic, and I go radio silent for months at a time--but I write and post fanfiction. That’s my contribution.

Do you write, draw, vid, gif, or otherwise create? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you leave comments? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you curate reclists? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you maintain a fandom blog or fuckyeah blog? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you provide a space for other fans to convene in? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you regularly send asks (off anon so people know who you are)? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you have fandom friends who you interact with? Congrats, you're a community member.

There’s lots of ways to be a fan. Just make sure to respect and appreciate your fellow fans and the work they put in for you to enjoy and the gift economy fandom culture that keeps this community going.

#ao3 #lore.fm #fanfiction #fandom history #gift economy #caelum rambles

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sigma-alpha-writer-chad · 2 months ago

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Grow Up, Would You? [Josh Washington]

“I don’t know if you’ve changed any since middle school but I really hope you’ve learned the difference between pranking somebody and just being a fucking bully.”

You can also find this story on Ao3!

Prologue / Chapter One / Chapter Two

[Italicized chapters are sort of like,, flash backs? Stuff in the past, whatever.]

[CHAPTER ONE]

I’d never been one for parties.

Yet there I stood, staring up at the house of the address I was given, the windows flashing a multitude of colors as the muffled music blared. People were scattered around the front lawn, holding their drinks and talking happily amongst themselves as laughter filled the cool night air. I felt a sense of midding as I slowly made my way to the front door, a small smile formed on my face.

I opened the front door to be met with the loud, hot air of the party. It wasn’t packed, but it was close. Immediately I started looking around for the one who invited me, gently pushing my way through the groups of people. There were faces I recognized, and ones I didn’t. I hadn’t seen anyone in the area since I’d changed schools years prior. But none of them were who I was searching for. Until finally, I saw him.

He was tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes behind a pair of thick black rectangular glasses. He wore a dark green sweater that fit his broad shoulders snugly and blue jeans. I especially knew it was him when I spotted his hiking shoes.

Who wears hiking shoes to a party?

“Chris!” I called. M y cousin, Christopher Hartley, leaning up against the wall and talking to a girl with red hair. He turned to me and smiled.

“Jordan! I didn’t think you’d show,” he said. He took a step towards me and pull ed me into a tight, familiar hug. Chris took a step back as if to get a better look at me. “You look great!”

“Yeah, well, y’know,” I grinned. I tucked a hair behind my ear. It was Chris’s friend group’s graduation party, and it was a big one. A smaller celebration had been held prior by the adults for Chris , a nice outdoor barbecue with baby photos tacked onto the walls and various cork boards. But once that was over and everyone had left, Chris begged me to go with him to a much larger, run by the teens grad party the next week.

“Let me introduce you to my friends!” Chris was practically yelling into my ear to be heard over the blasting music.

“Uhm, no! I’m good, actually, I’ve met your friends!” I’ d met his friends. Mean girls, meat-heads, and -

“C’mon, Jordan, please! You haven’t seen them in like 4 years, they’re totally new people now!” Chris insisted. He grabbed my wrist and began to pull me back towards the red-haired girl. I recognized her then.

“Hi, Ashley,” I waved meekly.

Ashley Brown. Despite the people she surrounded herself with, Ashley seemed like a nice girl. She had red shoulder length hair and hazel eyes under thin eyebrows. Her makeup was subtle and suited her well. She was a very conventionally pretty girl and one that Chris had a huge crush on. Even back in elementary school I remembered seeing her and Chris, nervously sitting together at lunch. Their crushes on each other were so obviously mutual it was sickening to know they were both oblivious to the other’s feelings.

“Hey, Jordan.” Ashley smiled sweetly and waved back at me before glancing back at Chris with a look that screamed “get me out of this.” I decided to get her out of the situation myself while escaping the prospects of having to re meet Chris’s friends. As far as I knew, the group was entirely made up of the same people as it was when I’d changed schools 4 years prior. “Actually Chris, I’m going to go…” I paused. “To the bathroom.”

“But you just got here,” Chris’s face dropped. He knew me well enough to know I was just making an excuse.

“I drink a lot of water, and -”

“Jordan. Don’t ditch me,” Chris said. “Please.” At that moment I despised him for being a sweetheart. I couldn’t say no to Chris, no matter how much I’d wanted to.

Chris spent the next hour or so introducing me to his posse. Just as I’d suspected, it was exactly the same as it had been previously. Emily Davis, Jessica Riley, Matthew Taylor, Michael Monroe, Samantha Giddings, and Hannah and Beth Washington. I noticed there was one missing, but I didn’t dare ask in fear of reminding Chris of th at final person.

“ Sam seems nice,” I commented. “She’s probably my favorite out of everybody that you’ve introduced me to.” And I wasn’t lying. Sam stuck out like a sore thumb compared to the people she ran with. She was active, vegan – not passive-aggressive.

“Yeah, Sam’s great. Hey, I’m going to grab a drink. Do you want something?”

“A water bottle?” Chris gave me a look.

“Really?” I nodded and he left to go get the beverages, leaving me by myself near a fireplace. I took a moment to really look around at the house I was in. It was large, just short of a mansion, and old. The architecture was somewhat gothic.

“ BOO!” I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sudden scare. Someone had grabbed my shoulders hard as they shouted into my ear. I knew immediately who it was, and I was as far from happy as someone could have ever possibly been. I heard a familiar laughter as I turned around to face him, taking deep and steady breaths.

“Joshua Washington,” I said blankly. “Still fail to grow up?” Josh’s smile fades.

“Whatever your name is,” Josh repeated my tone. I couldn’t tell whether or not he had actually forgotten my name or didn’t care to use It. “Still can’t take a joke?”

“Guess not,” I shrugged. Josh stared at me, his shit-eating grin slowly returning to his face. “Or maybe you should come up with some new jokes. ‘Boo’? So last year.” I held eye contact with Joshua for what felt like an hour.

“An oldie but a goodie.” Josh’s brow twitches in frustration. He still held onto his smile but I could tell it was a struggle.

“Not a goodie if nobody fucking likes it.”

“I like it.”

“Hey, Josh! I see you’ve re-met Jordan!” Chris chimed in. Whether he knew we were about to start fighting or not was a mystery, but I was grateful for the interruption nonetheless.

“ Right, Jordan, that’s what it was,” Josh said. “I didn’t remember her at all other than the amount of crying she did.”

“The amount of crying you made me do.”

“All in good fun.”

“You tried to get pig’s blood to ‘Carrie’ me.”

“Like I said, just jokes.” Chris finally interjected.

“C’mon, Jordan, he didn’t mean anything by -” I hold my hand up to stop Chris there.

“I’m not doing this. You were in on a lot of those, Chris, you know how they hurt me.” I didn’t expect him to be on Josh’s side, but then again it wasn’t that surprising considering the amount of torture he helped exact. Chris looked down at the floor in defeat. I turn to Josh.

“I don’t know if you’ve changed any since middle school but I really hope you’ve learned the difference between pranking somebody and just being a fucking bully.” I huffed at him. I could barely see him under all of the lights but I managed to catch a glimpse of expression other than snark. For half of a second I could’ve sworn it was remorse.

It didn’t last.

“ Well. I’m not a bully, so… whatever.” Josh turned around and walked away, leaving Chris and I. I was shocked to look at Chris and see him glaring at me.

“Did you have to do that?” He asked. I raise my eyebrows in surprise.

“Do what?”

“Start a fight, just like that?” I could feel my heart sink.

“Chris, no, I didn’t -”

“Why can’t you just get over it already?” I could smell the booze on Chris’s breath. I knew he was drunk, he didn’t mean it. He couldn’t. He watched me cry enough growing up to know what kind of effects Joshua Washington had on me and my mental health. I chose to say nothing, my eyes full of tears threatening to spill over. My throat felt tight, and I knew if I said a word, all eyes would be on me as I cried in the middle of the room. So I just shake my head and shrug. I took my water bottle and headed out onto the back porch of the house – where Hannah and Beth Washington happened to be.

They noticed right away that my expression was negative. Something I’d apparently forgotten was how different from their brother the twins were, as they came to me immediately.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Hannah asked as she took my hands into her own. I swallowed.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” I sighed, looking over the balcony and into the woods.

“Was it Josh?” Beth asked. My eyes flickered to hers. My silence was all the answer that she’d needed. “He’s an ass, for sure. But he’s not as bad as he makes himself out to be. When it comes to you we don’t know what’s wrong with him.” I’m surprised at what Beth was saying. “Have you heard that dumb stuff about ‘he’s only making fun of you because he likes you’ from, like, grade school? I think it’s like that.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at that. The twins ignore the obvious attitude and continued to chat with me. There was absolutely no way Joshua harbored any feelings for me other than disdain, and there was no way in HELL that it could have ever been romantic.

“Girl, don’t worry. You can hang with us.” Hannah grinned at me as she hopped excitedly. “He’ll leave you alone if we tell him to, or whatever.” I smiled at the girls. Just as I had with Chris, I could smell the booze on them and could only assume this kindness and promise of friendship was temporary. Once they were sober, they wouldn’t remember this at all. And if they did, I was sure they would regret it.

“Sure, that would be nice,” I admitted. Even if it’s just for the night, I would never complain about having friends – even if they were related to my sworn enemy.

“Great! Give me your phone!” Hannah insisted. I did as she’d asked, and next thing I knew I had their contact information. “We’ll hang out after tonight, we promise.” I nodded. I would be lying if I said that I hadn’t hoped it would happen, that these two would somehow integrate me into their lives.

It was severely unfortunate that it didn’t last long.

#until dawn #until dawn x reader #josh washington x you #josh washington x reader #josh washington #joshua washington #enemies to lovers #enemies to friends to lovers #this is an x reader just didn't want to write “y/n” a lot

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aspirationalpeony · 11 months ago

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Dark Horse

Summary: As a cameraperson on the Abbott documentary crew, you've always had a good working relationship with Melissa Schemmenti. One flirtatious night at her home sends you spinning as you try to figure out if this is really real—not to mention how everyone at Abbott seemed to know about Melissa's crush on you, long before you ever did. (See author's note at the end for prompt credit.) Content Warnings: Lots of smut, a bit of emotional confusion, and me having absolutely no idea how filming anything works. I just faked my way through it, very horribly. Oops! :) AO3 Link

It all starts with a late shoot.

It's just you and the mic guy and one other crew, and your camera trained on Melissa Schemmenti. She talks, in a way she's done rarely so far. A season and a half and she's always conscious of the stare of the lenses, quick to dart around a corner or cut herself off if she knows the opps are listening.

She takes big sips, almost gulps, from her wine glass. She leads you back and forth across her house, reaching over tables or pointing along walls to find a photo here, another there, and talks. "Me'n Kristen-Marie... This one—" pause for more wine—"from my college graduation." It's the two of them, almost mirror images of each other at that age, with a tall man whose lean face makes you think he has to be their father; on the other side of the girls is their Nana.

There's no trick in this photo: no wedding dress, no blood, no hint of drama between the sisters at all. They just look hopeful and desperately young. This feels private, that Melissa could have been so young—something that shouldn't be content for the show—and you feel an impulse to duck the camera away, hide her secret. When you look at Melissa again, she’s watching you; there’s a glitter in her green eyes you can’t interpret: not hostile, and not the look she gets when she’s hustling someone, either. The gaze she’s giving you is strangely soft.

“Whaddaya think?” she says, to you, not to the camera.

You swallow. Nothing you say will make it to the final cut, but the editors will hear your answer, so you can’t tell her she’s beautiful in that picture. “I think I’m lucky you’re showing me this,” you say at last.

Her eyes move over your face. You feel it almost like a touch, intimate and slow, and you aren’t making it up: her gaze stops at your mouth and hovers there. She bites her lower lip before she lifts her wine glass again for another pull. “Maybe I like ya,” she says. “Maybe you’ll get luckier.”

You’re still blushing when you wrap for the night. You sit on your couch at home—you’re always insomniac after shooting at night, your brain and body still buzzing with the work—and put on Netflix on low volume and you don’t watch, just feel your cheeks still burning, thinking about her lipstick on her wine glass.

Of course, the whole crew knows the story by the next morning. When you turn up, Pedro, your best friend on the crew, says, “Look at you! Dark horse!” and it makes your face sear with heat all over again. He lowers his voice, leans in and nudges you. “C’mon, nothing in the contract about that. You deserve a little fun. Let your Italian mama take care of you.”

You cringe. “Please,” you say, “never say ‘Italian mama’ to me again. Okay?”

“Just sayin’,” he says, and leaves it alone.

Of course, it doesn’t leave you alone. You’ve learned the best way to sneak up on a conversation with Melissa and Barbara is to come at it around a corner, so you’re hovering down the kindergarten hall, camera on the two women, when you hear your name, making you stiffen.

“You said that?” Barbara’s voice is incredulous, sharp. “What did she say?”

“Nothin’, really,” Melissa says, “she was on the clock, y’know.” The smile starts in her voice before it grows on her face. It’s a Cheshire smirk bigger and deeper than you’ve ever seen. “She got all flustered. It was cute. You think she knows I was shootin’ my shot?”

“I think you could have ‘shot your shot’ with a little more dignity,” Barbara says crisply. “Like an adult does. Politely. Pleasantly.”

“Soberly,” Melissa says. “Listen, if it works, it works. I just gotta find out if it did, y’know. Work. She’s kinda shy.”

“I didn’t know you cared for that.”

"What, the quiet ones?"

You have to pull away. You're going to miss the rest of the conversation, but your face is burning again, your heart is pounding, and you're grappling with the reality that Melissa and Barbara are talking about you, that you're subject enough between them to be chatted about so casually, that all this footage is... God, are you ever going to live this down?

You'll go shoot some Janine and Gregory. That's always a crowd-pleaser; the audience loves the sweet tension between them, the way the space between their bodies turns tangible the longer their eye contact holds. You try not to think about Melissa's gaze on yours last night. You try to do your job.

That goes as well as you might expect. Fifteen minutes into some uninspiring quiz-grading ("oh, I never fail anyone," Janine says, "I just give 'em a different colored star—they like the gold ones best, so—") Pedro comes to find you.

"Hey, listen," he says, "I need you to come take care of your Calabrian chili pepper."

"What?"

"You know, your spicy linguini. Your Italian ma—"

"Stop." Your head whips toward Janine at her desk and then back to Pedro. The only thing you can think of to say, your heart thumping all over again, is "She's Sicilian, not Calabrian."

"She's giving us nothing. You got to come do her talking head. She keeps trying to square up to Kai and he doesn't wanna fight her."

"What makes you think she won't fight me?"

He gives you a look over his glasses.

The change in Melissa is instant when she sees you approach. Those folded arms, her squared shoulders, her broad, foot-planted stance—it all melts. She leans into the wall, her head tipping, one booted foot lifting for her toe to play in idle lines along the floor, and, yeah. Whether you picked her or not, this is your Sicilian chili pepper, and you swallow hard as you approach.

"Heya, hon," she says, "who's this clown they got me workin' with? Don't they know I only do this with the professionals?"

You mumble a little as Kai looks between the two of you, rolls his eyes, and backs off.

"We were talking about her Friday night plans," Pedro says. "It's school game night and she's not going."

"Yeah, the kids are too easy to hustle," she says, "it ain't even fun. What, do I look like I wanna spend all Friday winnin' their, I dunno, their Yu-Gi-Oh cards?"

Now's when Pedro should prompt her, ask a question. You glance at him; he nods his permission. "Not sure those are a thing anymore," you say.

"Their Pokemon cards," she says. "Whatever. Point is, it'd be like taking candy from a... Jacob."

You don't look at her; you focus on the camera. It's easier than holding her green gaze. "Is that where you draw the line?"

"Gotta draw it somewhere," she says.

You can't help it. Cautiously you look up, try to make your voice neutral: "So how are you going to spend Friday night?"

She lolls her head to one side and looks at you. She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Prob'ly practicing tricks," she says.

"Tricks?"

"Yeah," she says. "With my magic wand."

You don't really remember the rest of the interview. You sure you babble some other questions, and she gives you some smirking answers, but your head is full of white noise and a singular image: Melissa Schemmenti with a vibrator between her legs.

You're sure other things happen that day. Pedro definitely ribs you some more, you and Kai go get lunch and he complains for a while, Gregory and Janine have one of their not-flirting conversations where he draws up a tightly-plotted itinerary for game night, trying to prove it's possible to run a children's event without delays (it all goes back to his father, of course), at some point you go home and numbly resume your post on the couch in front of your TV screen, trying to make sense of it all.

That picture won't leave your head. You think of the look she gave you that night at her house—intimate, caressing—and how she'd look deep in her pleasure, drunk eyes half-open, her face pink, her hair wild. Does she get naked when she touches herself? She seems too impatient—more like a jeans around her thighs kind of woman—but for a night she's planning ahead—a night she's set aside, just for her pleasure...

Your head drops back and you shut your eyes to see her more clearly. You can imagine the scattering of freckles over her shoulders and chest, the shift of her heavy breasts and the hard peaks of her pink nipples—how does she like to be touched there? Maybe she grabs one breast while she uses the vibrator, plays with a nipple, imagining the rough, confident hand of a lover. You can see the soft field of her belly, the abundance of her hips, her thighs, picturing her cunt, the head of the vibrator against her clit—she doesn't tease, can't tease herself, you imagine, not Melissa.

You can almost smell her sex, you think, until you realize it's yourself you're smelling. Your cunt throbs. You could shove a hand into your underwear now and just take care of it, but...

Your small toy collection lives in a box under your bed. It's nothing fancy, but you do have a small wand vibrator. You peel off your trousers and underwear and drop onto your bed, back against the pillows, holding the purple toy in one hand. Does Melissa have one this size? Or a big, classic one, the kind that could buzz your clit right off? You click the toy on and draw it up your thigh. As it nears the sensitive crease between your leg and your sex, your thigh twitches without meaning to, your clit aching, and you think, okay, no foreplay.

You can't help but wonder as you delve the thrumming head between your folds: does she know you're doing this? Was that the idea—plant herself in your head, grow over everything, including your common sense and your inhibitions, until your whole world flowers Melissa? Could she be doing the same—getting a head start on Friday's plans—thinking of you, right now? You're normally quiet when you do this, but that makes you groan aloud. Your clit pulses.

How does she do this, on a school night, like tonight? Back to the image of her with her trousers halfway down her legs, her hand and her toy crammed into the space between the fabric and her body. You can't help but see her in the outfit from today, that green, clinging top, the black blazer discarded somewhere, slacks caught just above her knees, her hair mussed and tangling against the pillows as she works the vibrator over her clit. No playing games for her, either; just getting the job done, hard and fast.

You come, watching her in your head, her name on your lips; you hope she comes tonight, too, thinking of you, of what she’s doing to you.

The next day, Janine, Gregory, and Jacob are in hushed conversation by the supply closet. You pick an angle from just inside the nearest classroom and train your camera on the slight crack of the open door and you can hear them, even though they think they’re being quiet—classic them.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” Janine is saying. “I think it’s kind of nice.”

“I think,” Gregory says, “it’s like…” He pauses, picking his words. “Like watching a dog shake a chew toy.”

“I think it’s very brave of Melissa,” says Jacob, and your heart drops into your stomach. “Considering the historical era in which she grew up and started her teaching career, being openly bisexual in the workplace must be a very—”

“Please don’t let her hear you call her ‘historical’,” Gregory interjects.

“It’s cute she has a crush on the camera lady,” Janine says. (“Cameraperson,” Jacob corrects.) “I just want it to turn out nice. You know, the vending machine guy didn’t work out, so. And now he doesn’t stock Gushers anymore.”

“Maybe she’ll be a little more relaxed,” Jacob says. “A little more… Open, fun—”

“She’s not going to start liking you because she’s dating somebody.” Gregory, with characteristic bluntness.

“One can hope,” Jacob says.

“The camera lady—person—is so quiet, though,” Janine muses. “Melissa is so intense.”

“Bet that’s what she likes,” Mr. Johnson says, making them all jump. He steps out from the supply closet; he’s holding a Teachers Without Borders coffee mug you know has to be Jacob’s. He takes a long, slurping sip, making sure everybody sees the logo on the cup. “Melissa gets a sweet little thang to take care of. Camera lady gets an Italian mama.” He says it eye-talian. (Where is everybody getting this phrase from?)

“Please don’t say ‘Italian mama’ again,” Gregory says, giving you a little flush of vindication.

“Why not?” Mr. Johnson says. “When I was on tour in Rome—”

That’s enough for you. You decide the rest of the conversation can go unrecorded. You check the time and it’s nearly lunch—thank God, because you don’t want to make eye contact with any of them for a while; you don’t know how to feel about them all talking about you. You know it’s not you, really, they care about. It’s Melissa, her caginess at odds with how boldly, openly she’s been flirting with you, an attraction so obvious even the younger teachers that she’d never confide in can see it.

Something light and effervescent swirls in your stomach, but there’s a leaden weight there, too. Nerves. And desire. You let Pedro know you’re taking lunch and leave your camera behind, finding Kai a block down, away from the school, hitting his vape. He passes it to you and you take a pull, letting candy-scented vapor out of your nose. You don’t really smoke anymore, but anybody would need a little comfort under these circumstances, you think.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks.

“What?” You didn’t know Kai cared about that. “I mean, I guess I’ll talk to her, maybe give her my number, then see—”

“For lunch.”

“Oh.”

You get hoagies together, eating them over a public trash can, standing up. Back at the school you scrub your hands clean in the bathroom and duck Pedro and your camera and you find your way down the second-grade hall to the classroom that's usually the noisiest. It's quiet now: the kids are at the library doing a reading circle with the librarian. Maybe it says something that you know their schedule.

She's in there, glasses low on her nose, working. You pause just on the threshold of the open door. You try to piece together everything you know about her, to make it all fit into the person you see, just a small woman with a love of pleather and a never-ending supply of high-heeled boots, a baseball bat taped under her desk (you've seen it), a guitar propped in one corner of the classroom (does she ever play?), how now she's focused and reading with scrupulous intensity, doubling back on a sentence from time to time, her manicured hand coming up to twitch away a lock of red hair.

You knock on the open door. You see her hand pass under the desk toward the bat before she realizes who's standing there. She cracks a grin, lifting her glasses up to the top of her head. Her eyes travel up and down your body in another look that feels like a touch.

"I was wonderin' when you'd stop by," she says.

You give a little hum. You cross the room to lean against a student's desk, just opposite hers.

"No camera?"

"No," you say, "I wanted it to be just us."

"Huh." She taps her pen on her paper a few times. "You here to let me down easy?" She lifts her chin. The look she gives you isn't intimate now: it's far-removed and challenging, like the gaze of a duelist across a plain. You've seen this before, the way she starts closing herself off, armoring up.

You shake your head. There's a shift in her expression, but the walls don't quite come down. "I guess I wanted to ask what you want."

"That ain't obvious?"

"I mean..." Your arms come up, folding over your chest. "You know, I was here last season, when you were dating that guy... Hulk Hogan."

It surprises a laugh out of her. "Yeah, Gary."

"You asked him out and it was... Different. I mean..." You can't think of how to say it. At last, you say, "Do you take me seriously?" No, that's not it. "I mean, are you just trying to hook up with me? Because, I..." You're starting to burn up again. You rub the back of your neck. "That's not the kind of... Listen, you're beautiful, and sexy, but that's not what it would—I mean, to me, it—"

"You're so cute when you're all shy," Melissa says, sounding equally mystified and amused. She stands. "Look... Maybe I did this all wrong." She circles the desk. "Kinda treated you like a piece of meat."

"Just a little bit," you say.

"I take you serious, hon." She doesn't cross the gap between you two, but mirrors your pose, leaning on the edge of her desk, arms crossed over her chest. "Look, Gare was a nice guy. But he didn't have, you know... He didn't make me wanna..."

You think of Gregory's metaphor. "Shake him like a chew toy?"

Another laugh. "Yeah, that. And I guess I felt... You know, I'd kinda uncorked the bottle, datin' him, when I thought all that part of my life was done, and when you were at my place the other night, you just looked so good, and I just wanted..."

You smile, eyes down. The cold uncertainty is trickling away and there's warmth pouring into the spaces it's left behind. "Okay," you say.

"Okay?"

When you look up, she's moved a little closer. You can smell her perfume again, warmed on her skin over the course of a long day. You've had the privilege of seeing her in detail, so many times: the fine, thin skin around her eyes, the creases at the corners of her mouth that forecast her smile, the tiny hint of gray growing in at her temples, the mellow warmth of her green gaze, the slope of her nose crooking slightly to her left. It's different with no lens between the two of you, when you're close enough to touch.

"Yeah, okay," she says to whatever she sees in your eyes. She lifts her chin and drops her gaze to your mouth. It's a clear request.

You answer it. You dip your head; there's a moment where your noses nearly bump, but you change your angle, catch her lips with yours. There's a tackiness from her lip gloss and an incredible softness underneath. The warmth of her almost shocks you, vivid past your imagining. Her hand pets at your jaw; you feel the other curl into the collar of your shirt. She pulls you closer by the fabric and you gasp.

You renew the kiss, lips sliding over hers. Your hand rubs down her lower back. You can feel the divot in her spine where it meets her pelvis, just above the generous curve of her ass. Before you can overthink it, your palm is gliding over that curve, your fingers digging into its lushness, Melissa gasping against your mouth as you squeeze.

"Oh," she says faintly when the kiss is over and you're catching your breath. "Huh." Her look is glazed and a little bewildered.

"I, um, I don't want to send mixed messages," you say, "but about Friday..."

"Friday?" she echoes.

"Yeah." You bite down on your smile, watching her try to remember what the hell you're talking about. "I was thinking... I know a few magic tricks of my own."

"Oh," she says again. You watch her eyes spark with understanding, her smile appear slowly, then all at once. "I guess you could come over and show me your stuff." Her hands tighten in your shirt and pull you back in for another kiss.

"Hey, gimme your phone," she says, much, much later, when you're wearing more of her lip gloss than she is. "I want to give ya my number." You don't think before you're unlocking it and passing it into her hands. She lowers her glasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose and thumbs her way around your phone, creating a contact for herself.

You have a flash of nerves—what if she opens your Instagram and sees all the stupid accounts you follow? A vision comes of her seeing all the dog-using-buttons-to-talk videos you've liked, her libido instantly withering... Then she's giving you back your phone and smirking at you, wiping at your lip with her thumb. "Might wanna stop in the bathroom before you get back to work, hon," she says.

When you leave her classroom, it's like floating; you've never felt so light. You stop in the bathroom and you wipe all the lip gloss off your smiling mouth. You catch yourself humming as you and Kai catch some footage of Ava pretending to organize game night, Gregory trying to involve himself, Janine admitting to a little competitive streak.

Your phone buzzes, chimes. "Sorry," you say to Janine and Pedro, who's leading the interview. You wait until you can lower the camera lens to check the notification. You always keep it silenced during the day—did Melissa turn the ringer on?

Italian Mama iMessage

Your face burns. You take a corner away from Pedro and unlock the phone.

Italian Mama You made me real happy

Your blush intensifies; something flutters in your chest. The phone vibrates in your hand as another message comes.

Italian Mama Don't know how I'm going to wait until Friday

The echo of your own thought in her words makes your heart flutter again. You bite your lower lip and type back, Me neither. An electric spark of daring moves you, makes you send her, Maybe I'll practice some magic just to make sure I'm on top of my game.

Is that too much? You hope not. You've basically made a sex appointment with her for Friday—sex appointment, you think, and wince at yourself, your own awkwardness; it's a date—and you don't—your breath hitches as three dots appear on your screen, showing that she's typing.

Italian Mama Oh yeah?

Italian Mama Better practice hard

You feel a pulse low in your belly. You're ready to type a little more flirtation when another message arrives and makes you gasp aloud, quickly clamping your hand over your mouth before Pedro or somebody else can hear you.

She's sent you a photo. It's herself pulling down the scoop neck of the hot pink blouse she's wearing today. You can see just the tip of her nose, her chin, the proud line of her soft neck, her freckled sternum, and, holy shit. She's showing you her breasts cradled in a bra made of black lace. And you stare. And you stare.

Italian Mama Little incentive for you

Your mouth is watering. You can see the rosy shadows of her nipples against the lace. You barely register yourself typing back, You're perfect.

Italian Mama Thought you'd like em

You're typing before you can stop yourself. All I'll be able to think about now is what I'm going to do to you.

Three dots appear, then disappear. Appear, then disappear. Your confidence wavers.

Italian Mama I want you to tell me

You've never imagined you'd be turned on in the halls of Abbott Elementary, but suddenly you're so aware of your cunt, you can't stand it. You're throbbing. You peer around the corner; Pedro isn't even looking your way, he's talking something over about the schedule with another producer. You have time. You glance up and down the hall; nobody except an aide going into a room at the far end.

Your fingers fly over the keys. If you stop to think, you'll psych yourself out, so you blurt out every thought, the iMessage equivalent of babbling—what you'd be doing in Melissa's ear if you could have her right now, in your arms, again...

You're so fucking sexy

I've thought about you so much

I touched myself thinking about you the other night

I'm going to kiss you until you go crazy and you're so turned on you can't take it

I'm going to undress you and I'm going to kiss every fucking inch of you

I'm going to play with you until you're begging

Do you like it rough or gentle?

Three dots.

Italian Mama Little of both

You're typing again in a flurry. You can feel your heart pounding, your breath coming in harder. You probably only have a couple minutes left to really make her feel it.

I'm going to be so gentle with you until you beg me to be rough

I want to bite you

Do you like being bitten?

Italian Mama Yeah

I know you do

On your neck, on your breasts

I'm going to bite your thighs before I eat you out

"Homie, you coming?" Pedro says, with the best and worst timing—and phrasing—he could possibly have.

"Yeah, one sec," you say, and you're proud of how your voice doesn't wobble at all. "Let me just send this. Sorry."

I have to get back to work

Italian Mama Fuck you

Italian Mama How am I supposed to teach like this

Italian Mama Come here and finish what you fuckin started

You laugh, breathless and surprised. You text her, YOU started it! If she hadn't sent you that picture... You scroll back up and look again. In the bit of her face you can see, she's smirking, because of course she is. The luscious curve of her breasts—you can almost feel them, what it would be like to drag your nose down between them, mouth at the soft skin...

Pedro's waiting. You send her a bunch of blowing-kiss emojis and put your phone away again. You're still buzzing with arousal, but you feel a strange satisfaction, knowing that Melissa is a few halls away, squirming behind her desk, thinking about all the promises you've made.

The day passes, somehow. It's a strange mixture of slow, syrupy boredom and electric, frenetic activity as more preparations are made for game night, and your phone periodically buzzes with another message from Melissa. Thankfully (for your pussy—you think it might fall off if it keeps aching like that), the two of you leave the subject of sex, and just talk.

She asks you your birthday, your favorite food. Where did you grow up? What's your favorite color? Each one makes you smile. You feel like you're on the receiving end of a Schemmenti interrogation, a mob boss with her goons behind her. You get her answers back in turn: July 19. (You respond in shock, You're a water sign??? and you can almost hear her voice when she dryly responds, I got no clue what that means, hon.) Pasta con sarde. Grew up here in South. Pink.

Your heart flutters with every new thing you learn. Even though you go home (and rub one out) alone, she's a presence with you, not just in your fantasies; you find you're texting her until you fall asleep, phone sliding out of your hand onto the bedspread. And when you wake up the next day, preceding your alarm by a bit, you find a text from her waiting for you, just a few minutes ago: Good morning, baby.

You levitate all the way through Thursday. You spot Melissa a few times that day, but it's a packed day for her two classes, so mostly it's in the hall as she marches lines of students to and fro. She gets you back for yesterday, though: pauses in the doorway of her classroom as she's filing the kids in after lunch, and gives you an up-and-down look of such searing intensity that your body heats, scalp to toes. She smirks before she vanishes into her room.

She makes you crazy. God, she's incredible. You're texting her every chance you both can get, though she's sparser while she's with the kids; it's all light stuff. Get lunch here today, she tells you, Shanae made beef patties, and when Shanae slips you a couple of golden-crusted pastries, you bite into them, smelling warm, floral curry, savory beef on your tongue, and think of how Melissa it is, feeding you from a distance.

That afternoon, just after dismissal, she calls, "Hey," to you from her classroom door. You try not to jump to attention. "I gotta do a lot of work," she says, playing with the strap of her Apple Watch, "or I'd ask you over, but..." Strangely, her eyes drop. It's a hint of shyness and it makes your heart patter, tenderness and affection for her pouring into your chest. "I was thinkin', why don't we go out and get, like, food or a drink or somethin' tomorrow? You know, before you come over."

"Okay," you say. Her eyes flick up and as soon as she sees your goofy grin, her shyness melts away, turns back into the smirking self-assuredness you're more familiar with.

"You pick the place," she says, knocking the wind out of you at once.

Oh, crap. You remember what it was like with her and Gary: he tried to take her to a shitty spot for their first date, and she flicked him away from her like a bug. She's challenging you, you think, asking to be impressed.

You can do that. Dark horse, right? "Okay," you repeat. "I'll pick."

She leans back against the doorframe. All at once she's in that lolling, casual, flirtatious posture that she assumes for you and only you, her face tilted up, gaze intimate and a little sly. "You headin' out? I get a goodbye kiss, or what?"

"Okay," you say a third time, and you can barely kiss her, you're smiling so widely. You take your fill of her, in every sense, one more time before you leave for the day, nerves and excitement and that thread of arousal all tangling together, like a knot of live wires.

You're texting her later, because of course you're texting her later. Do you want it to be a surprise?

Italian Mama I dunno

Italian Mama Surprises never seem to work out for me

That gives you a little twinge. You find yourself running the tip of your finger up and down the side of your phone, the way you'd touch her hand or her cheek, if you could. How about just this one? you ask. And if you hate it, I'll never surprise you again?

You wish you could see her face. It would help you know if she's resigned or wary or scared. You don't want her to be antsy or nervous going into tomorrow; you want her to feel like she makes you feel: like you've got balloons and not bones, like a wind could catch you and carry you off, you're so light and so happy.

Italian Mama Ok

Italian Mama I'm gonna trust ya

It makes your heart do its now-familiar flutter in your chest. It's like there's a bird in there, some delicate fledgling thing eager to start flying. It wants to soar, holding its precious cargo: Melissa Schemmenti's trust.

The next day. Friday. Friday. Somehow, the school day rockets past you. Game night preparations have gone disastrously, and it's time for a patented Ava save, with the help of Janine and Gregory.

"Wow, who could've guessed," Kai mutters to you, and fidgets in the pocket you know holds his vape.

Your hand fidgets in your own pocket, around your phone. You and Mel exchanged good morning texts, a few kiss emojis, promises to meet up before dismissal to solidify your plans, but you haven't had a chance to see her at all.

"I don't know," you say, "I think they'll get it figured out."

"I think she's probably going to use it to mine Bitcoin somehow," Kai says.

Honestly, that sounds plausible. You shake your head anyway and make an excuse and scoot past Pedro. He's not encouraging Ava to stream game night live on Instagram, per se, but everybody knows that will guarantee some Coleman-style silliness, so he needs to get her there somehow. (Can you mine Bitcoin through Instagram?)

You don't need to send any directions to your feet; they're already walking you toward the second grade classrooms. Mel doesn't have lunchroom duty today, so you know she'll probably be catching up on two classes' worth of quizzes, or restocking art supplies, or prepping the next lesson's props and tools. Her door is shut and you peek in through the window.

She's writing on the whiteboard, looking back and forth from a worksheet in her hand, glasses on her nose. You knock. When she sees you, the narrow-eyed look of interrupted concentration melts away; she gives you a smile that shows her teeth, the kind that changes her whole face, turning her girlish, almost a little goofy. It makes your heart melt.

You open the door. "Hey," you say as she puts her glasses on top of her head and caps the marker. Being in the room with her, after not seeing her all morning, feels like coming out of the cold to a blazing fire. "Uh, hi. You look beautiful today." Then, for the third time, stupidly, adoringly, "Hi."

"You missed me, huh?" she says, putting down the marker and paper. "C'mere."

As soon as you're in grabbing distance, she takes two handfuls of your ass and pulls you in for a kiss. You're lost in it for long, long seconds.

She pulls back after giving your lower lip a bite that makes you squeak. She tucks her hands squarely in the back pockets of your jeans, holding you against her. "You look beautiful today too."

"Thanks," you say, barely registering the compliment, the way you're chasing more contact, kissing the corner of her mouth, nosing at her cheek. She's so warm in your arms. She's wearing one of her tough-girl outfits, a blazer and matching top in military green, and you sneak your hand under the jacket, finding a little stripe of bare skin between her shirt and her slacks. You touch her there with a teasing trace of your fingernail.

She shivers. Is she sensitive on her lower back? You file it away to investigate later tonight. The thought of being able to have her all to yourself tonight—hours and hours—sends sparks skipping through you. You have to kiss her again.

"You think it's unprofessional, doin' this at work?" Mel asks you breathlessly when you part again.

"I don't know," you say, "but whatever Gregory and Janine have been doing is worse, kind of."

"Yeah, that's for sure," Melissa says, and gives you a third kiss; this time, the delicate muscle of her tongue laps at you, little frissons of heat that go right between your legs.

"I came to talk about dinner," you say at last, when you think you can survive without kissing her.

"Oh, yeah," Mel says, "right. What am I wearin'?"

"Uh..." You hadn't considered it. You're just going in your usual date outfit—a button-up, a nice pair of trousers. "Business casual?"

"Okay, easy. Do I get a hint where we're goin'?" One eyebrow goes up. Her gaze acquires a competitive glint, one you've seen a hundred times through your camera. "I bet I can guess it."

"Here's your hint," you say, "it's not Italian."

"Smart cookie," Melissa says, which leads you both into another kiss, and then another. "It ain't a sandwich shop, is it?"

"No," you say, "I can't beat cousin Rocco."

"Soul food," she says.

"No. I'll come pick you up, is that okay?"

"Yeah, come, like, at five. I gotta change and do my face and stuff." She leans back, giving you a squint-eyed look of scrutiny. "Tell me it ain't French."

"It ain't," you promise, and seal it with a kiss. "I have to go. I'm pretending to be in the bathroom."

"Oh, shit," she says, eyes going wide, "we gotta catch up on this freakin' math unit and I forgot, I haven't peed in, like—"

"Go, go," you say with a laugh, letting her extract her hands from your pockets.

When you return, Kai narrows his eyes at you. You shrug at him and you're ready to get back to work, when he reaches across and plucks something off your shoulder: a single red hair. Crap.

"Damn," he says. "Dark horse."

"What's up?" Pedro glances over at you two. Fuck, you don't know if you can take his teasing today—you know he'll want all the details, and you love him, but you want to just get through work and get to Melissa...

"Nothing," Kai says, and drops the hair. He gives you a nod.

You nod back, warmth and gratitude making you smile. He doesn't smile back—you don't think you've ever seen him smile, actually—but you think you see the corner of his mouth curve up, just a little, as he peers into his camera.

Dismissal, a quick goodbye kiss with Melissa, home to get ready. You're normally an all-black kind of girl—it's just easy—but you pause in your closet and find a pink button-up. It's a mellow, soft shade, the same color as a silky blouse you've seen Melissa wear.

You put on your cologne, you style your hair. You look at yourself in the mirror. It’s funny: this is the same face you’ve always had, but three days of Melissa have done something to you. Your eyes look larger, softer; there’s a smile on your lips, small but persistent, that’s been there all day.

You haven’t always been lucky with women. You have love in your heart—God, a lot of it. Sometimes it feels like the water of an ancient lake, going down almost infinitely deep, and yet somehow about to overflow. You spent years going around offering it to anyone who would take it, and once they’d drunk their fill, they just moved on, satisfied, never giving a thought to you, never thinking you might want something back, even just gratitude.

So you pulled away. You just hurt too easily: keep them at arm’s length, never close enough to bruise. The quiet one, the shy one; that’s who you became over time, knowing that if you gave out of your abundance, you’d only be depleted. No one’s ever filled your cup.

You find yourself chewing your lip, staring at yourself. You want this to be different. You want this to be something else. Can it be?

You park your car in front of Melissa’s and find yourself wondering: text, or knock? You’re starting to get out of the car when the front door opens, and a rush of surprise and pleasure comes at the thought of Melissa waiting, watching for you. Then your breath catches hard in your throat.

She’s wearing a little red dress that… “Wow,” you say, before she’s even close enough to hear. The square neck of the dress is cut lower than her usual wear, and shows an abundance of skin that makes your mouth water. There’s a princessy quality to the cap sleeves, a delicate detail that’s perfect for Melissa: blazing, challenging red, with a hint of sweetness. The hem stops just above her knees. The fabric shows her body in intimate detail, the delicate rounding of her stomach and the flare of her hips, straining across the perfect shape of her thighs.

Her hair is down. Even late in the day it has a bit of curl. Her green eyes are like gemstones in the early evening light. Her heels have got to be four inches, but she walks with the steadiness of a queen. She’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.

You circle the car to get the passenger side door. “Hey,” she says, surprised, coming closer, “it’s pink,” and touches your sleeve. It’s not even contact with your skin, barely contact, period, but it sends tingles up and down your arm. “That’s my favorite color.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, grinning like a fool.

Her eyes drop—that hint of shyness again, that tenderness that makes your heart strain against your chest, trying to reach her—before they flick back up. “How do I look?”

“I could look at you for hours,” you tell her honestly.

"I'd kiss ya, but you'd mess up my face," she says. "Here, you get one." She turns and offers her cheek.

You're smiling as you lean down to kiss the offered skin. She's soft and warm, and you get the powdery scent of her makeup, the richness of her perfume.

"Now, c'mon, feed me," she says, and you laugh and open her door.

You drive. She's exactly the kind of passenger you expected: "Hey, check it," every time she sees a car nosing out past a stop sign, or "On your left," when you're trying to merge. "Hey," she barks when somebody cuts you off, a gesticulating, accusatory hand in the air, "cazzo, you wanna watch where you're fuckin' going?"

Melissa. Abrasive, loud, bossy, and you don't feel bulldozed at all. You feel charmed. The smile won't leave your face. You don't know if she could be more herself than right now, in your ancient Volvo, wearing the sexiest outfit you've ever seen on her, looking simultaneously bold and delicate and delicious, and hollering out the window like an angry truck driver.

She's checking her phone as you pull up outside the restaurant, and doesn't look up again until you're opening her door. "Oh," she says, surprised, looking at the place: it's a red brick building, no sign; just a single hanging red lantern beside a white door. You can see her trying to puzzle it out, glancing at you and back to the door.

"It's a bar," you explain. You open the door to your favorite izakaya. Low, golden light and warmth spill out with the Jrock playing over the speaker system.

Melissa cocks her head and looks at you curiously. You only notice that her hand's in her clutch purse when she draws it out again; you hear the rattle of her keys dropping back to the bottom. "Thought you might'a been about to take my other kidney," she says. "I was gonna fight ya."

You blink. It's one of those Melissa-isms, delivered in her dry voice, that you think might be a joke, but it might not be, either. "I wouldn't win if you did."

"You sure as hell wouldn't, baby," she says, and lets you hold the door for her as she steps inside.

You love this place. It feels a bit like your first apartment after you left home, a lot of exposed brick, shoddy white paneling creating an accent wall, and decor that's a little vintage, a little silly: a big, ornate mirror that might have once decorated a cheap theater, brass sconces for lights, Gojira posters in the style of classic ukiyo-e. There's booths on one side of the room and a mirrored bar on the other, with a wall of sake and Japanese whisky.

The hostess recognizes you, waves hi, gestures toward the room for you to seat yourself. It won't start filling up until a little later, so you have your pick of the booths; you take the side that puts your back to the door, letting Melissa have the sightline to the exit.

The low light flatters her. Any light flatters her, but there's something about the dim, intimate, golden warmth of it that makes you stare as she studies the menus, first the drinks, then the food; her eyelashes cast delicate shadows on her cheek, the curve of her lips carving lines there.

She looks up and catches you. The thoughtful twist of her mouth turns into a smirk. The question, though, isn't what you were expecting. "What made you pick here?"

Huh. "I..." You rub the back of your neck, dropping your gaze. "I really like it." That's a start, but not all of it. "I thought you might not have this kind of food all the time. I never see you eating it and I wanted you to have a nice change. And..."

"I come here alone a lot." You shrug. "I have... Good memories here." They are good memories: people-watching, trying new drinks and food, chats with the bartenders, a karaoke night where you fell in with a group of laughing, drunk women who all worked at the same office, who tried to persuade you to bar-hop with them until last call.

But it's always been you, alone; sometimes folded in with somebody else out of goodwill, sometimes noticed for your familiar face and your generous tips, spared a few more minutes of a busy mixologist's time, but always a separation, a glass wall between you and the rest of the room. No one's been on this side of it with you before.

"I wanted you to have a good memory," you say, finally. "I wanted to share it with you."

You glance at Melissa. She's watching you with a look you recognize. It's the one she gave you that night at her house—just earlier this week, but it feels like a lifetime ago. It's tender and intent. It's encouraging. Like she's watching a flower bloom.

"It's already a good memory for me, hon," Melissa says. Something nudges your ankle. It's her foot in its killer heel, gently insinuating between both of yours. You feel her knee against yours, your calves aligned together. She smiles at you. "We're here together."

Your heart does one of its aerial flips.

"You sure get shy for somebody who was talkin' about suckin' my tits before, though," she says.

You choke on nothing. Your face and ears burn. She laughs, her head dropping back, the light glinting on her saints' medals.

"Biting," you squeak, when you can get air. "We were talking about biting."

"Biting," she says, "right. How come you can say all that to me but you're nervous tellin' me you like a bar?"

It's not a bad question. You trace the grain of the wooden tabletop for a second or two, eyes down. "I'm used to giving other people what they like," you say. "I don't mean—it's not that I was lying or faking. No way. I meant it, I mean it, everything I say to you. So much, Melissa." You dart a look up to make sure she understands. "I mean, it's easy for me... For other people, I can express..."

Her hand finds yours on the table and stills it. Her manicured finger gently swipes along the curve below your thumb, down to the sensitive inner skin of your wrist, and traces slowly there, back and forth. She's giving you that look again, gentle and focused and intimate. "I get it," she says simply.

A rush of relief fills you, settling the rattle of your anxious nerves. You turn your hand over and hers settles into yours.

The server appears for your drink orders. You order the house sake, and Melissa says, "Yeah, me too." With your small glasses of sake, the two of you pore over the menu, picking a few things Melissa knows, a few things she's never had before.

The first few plates come out: shumai, hamachi, a bowl of spicy pickle. She gets pieces of toro, unagi, and salmon, and you get a roll and a plate of chashu buns. She gives those a look of pure lust.

"Take one," you say, and push the plate toward her.

She doesn't hesitate. At her first bite, she lets out a guttural moan that goes right between your thighs. You're suddenly much more aware of her ankle still caught between both of your own.

"You think I could get this recipe?" she says of the chashu after the bun has vanished.

"I think you can get whatever you want." Especially from you, especially if she keeps making those noises.

"I sure can," she says with a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes.

You've seen Melissa eat before, scraping the last bite of salad out of a tupperware or sipping from a Stanley Tucci mug, but it's different like this, sharing a meal. You love watching her small, plump hands with her chopsticks, her drinks; you love her expressive eyes, the way they widen or flutter shut at a perfect bite. Everything she tries she makes you try—insistent, "Here, you taste," like you're not the one who's had the whole menu before, and you oblige, trying to taste it for the first time, like her, letting each one blossom over your tongue, letting yourself fall under her spell.

The bar is packed by the time you're through and she's nibbled her way through a couple of frozen mochi. "We gotta come back here," she declares as the two of you leave, hand in hand. "I wanna try more. You got good taste."

"Yeah, I do," you say, looking at her. It's full dark now, but the streetlights and the moon illuminate her, outlining her red hair in silver, the shape of her hips.

"You gonna take me home now?" she says. She moves closer. "You made a lotta promises, you know."

"I know." Your hands settle on her hips. She tilts her head up; you catch her lips, tasting the plum wine you two shared. It's your first real kiss of the night, and she's mellow, soft, delicious. Still, you tell her, "We don't have to, tonight. I want to, but I don't want you to think..."

"I know," she says, and gives you another kiss. "If I thought you were buyin' dinner to make me put out, I would'a had way more food." Another kiss. "Come on, let's go. Or maybe you don't wanna get lucky?"

You drive back to Melissa's place, her hand on your thigh the whole way. Back over the welcome mat that reads GO AWAY, into the picture-lined place where it all started over a glass of wine.

Melissa takes your coat and her own and gives you her back, hanging them up in a closet by the front door. "I can get you another drink," she's saying, but all you can see is the back of her dress: the silver line of the zipper running from collar to hem, almost invisible.

You move closer and she stiffens when she feels you there, your chest to her back. You gather her hair, move it aside. Above the collar of the dress you can see the line of her nape and the muscle where her neck and her shoulder join. You lean down and kiss it.

Breathing in, you can smell her perfume again, her makeup again. Now, her skin. It's a scent you couldn't begin to describe, something living and animal and sensuous. And her hair: warm, intimate, a little bit of hairspray. You kiss the side of her neck.

"You have no idea," you say quietly. You nose against the shell of her ear. Its soft cartilage is cold from the night air outside, but warming quickly, flushing pink as you kiss it. "You have no idea how gorgeous you are. You don't know what you've been doing to me."

You lift your hands and find the tongue of the zipper. Her breath hitches. You slowly draw it down. The rasp of it is loud between your bodies.

The band of her bra. Red lace. Down her back to the luscious curvature of her hips. You're holding your breath. Her panties are red lace, too, a high-waisted thong that hugs her belly and hips but, oh, fuck: leaves her ass almost totally fucking bare. Of course, in that clinging dress. Couldn't risk panty lines.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you say, and slide the dress fully off her body. It's a puddle of red fabric on the floor. You push her chest-first against the closet door and drop to your knees.

"Oh my God," she says weakly as you hold her hips and kiss your way up the back of one thigh, then the other. The flesh here is dimpled with cellulite, a mark of her perfect abundance. You nose over the curve of her ass and bite one cheek and she squeaks and gives a weak, "Huh," afterward, like she'd surprised herself, and you bite the other cheek and her hips rock back into you.

She's still in her heels. You're starting to smell her sex. You think about having her bend over and put her hands against the door and let you eat her from behind until her knees shake and give out. Fuck, you want to, but you've been making promises; you have plans.

You straighten back up, brushing kisses up the line of her spine. "I want to see your bedroom."

"Fuck," she says dizzily. "Okay. Uh..." She starts to step away from the closet door and for the first time all night, she wobbles in her heels. She gives a little growl of frustration that's so Melissa you can't help but laugh, making her glower your way as she toes out of the shoes.

She leads you up to her bedroom. The big bed is made, but there are plenty of signs of life: the vanity against one wall, scattered with makeup; the bedside table with a dog-eared book and a pair of her glasses; there's a bra tossed over the cracked closet door.

She turns to face you, unself-conscious, and grabs you for another kiss, deep, dirty, her tongue licking into your mouth. "Can't believe you wore my favorite color," she says breathlessly, and starts fumbling with the buttons of your shirt. "God, you look so hot."

Your shirt's halfway open when you get your mouth on her neck. She groans, hands loosening on the fabric. Soft, right along the line of her jaw, under her chin, down her throat where you feel a moan vibrate through the skin. "Harder," she says.

You stay soft. The hollow of her throat, her clavicle. You nose one strap of her bra. She whines, "Harder," and grips your hair.

"I told you," you say. "I'm going to make you beg." She gasps. Your cunt pulses. You wonder if the same thing happened in her classroom that day, if she sat at her desk squirming, little hitches of her breath betraying her.

You squeeze her ass and she sways into you. Your hands shape her hips, up her sides, over her back, feeling the landscape of it, the valley of her spine. You trace the band of her bra. It's so pretty, you almost don't want to take it off.

"Where's your vibrator?" you ask.

"Huh?"

"Your vibrator," you patiently repeat, and lean back. You see in her eyes when it clicks. She leans away from you toward the nightstand, pulling open the top drawer. Inside, there's a pack of melatonin gummies, a lavender and chamomile room spray, a mini bottle of Jack Daniels, and a hot pink wand vibrator. Her sleep aid drawer, you realize.

You pick up the toy. It has a good weight, and the silicone is almost as soft as her skin. You find the power button, click it on, and cycle with a few presses through the three strength settings. You settle back on the first one and test it against the inside of your wrist, feeling the rumble against the sensitive skin there.

You look up again and Melissa's sitting on the edge of the bed. She's breathing hard, staring at you, and she's blushing.

"Lay back against the pillows for me, baby."

She scoots back, gives you a challenging look, and spreads her legs. You can really smell her, a thick, rich, saline scent that makes your mouth water. The drawer's still open and you spot a small bottle of lube; you take it out just in case, then slide the drawer shut.

"You gonna get naked?" she says as you join her on the bed.

"Not yet," you say and kiss her again. And again. The vibrator sits on the mattress, turned off, and you want to make her forget it's there. You take your time, licking at the serrated edge of her teeth, sucking on her lower lip until she's whimpering.

You couldn't have imagined that sound coming from Melissa Schemmenti. You chase it, have to have it again. Her lipstick is smeared, almost gone. She keeps tugging on your hair as you kiss her, starting to squirm beneath you, saying things like "More," and "Harder," but not please—not yet.

She slides down against the pillows, laying herself more fully under your body, and the motion makes the vibrator roll down the mattress to bump her side. Her breath speeds up all over again, and her eyes flick from it to you.

You pick up the toy and click it on. "Keep your legs spread."

"Oh, fuck yes," Melissa says, then whines aloud when you touch the vibrator not to her clothed pussy, but to the inner crease of her thigh. "Fuck, c'mon."

"C'mon, what?" You trail the vibrator up the inside of her thigh, toward her knee, and back down again.

"You know—" her breath stutters when you switch legs. "You know what I want."

"And you know what I want."

That makes her moan. Her head drops back, her chest heaving. You lean down to kiss her sternum, to finally nose against one perfect breast, the way you've hungered for it since that photo. The lace of her bra scratches your cheek. You can feel her nipple through the cup, taut against the fabric. You bring the vibrator up and tease its rumbling head over that peak, making her shudder, then replace it with your mouth, letting her feel the heat and wet, just barely, still separated from you by her bra.

"God, fuck," she says, "fuck you," and you switch breasts, teasing her other nipple to aching stiffness. You nuzzle the skin that her bra offers up, the plump perfect roundness of her breast, part your lips, drag your teeth over it. She's so soft here, so much, and it's perfect. Your hand drops with the vibrator and you trace it over her hip toward her sex, making her squirm, as you busy yourself with soft bites and sucks.

You change your angle a little, propping a hand against the pillows so you can lean over her. Your body casts a shadow and her green eyes look up at you from beneath it, somehow both pleading and mutinous. You idle the vibrator back up along the waistband of her underwear and then slowly down toward her cunt, playing it over the plumpness of her mons.

"Fuck," she says, "fucking fuck you, okay, please," and you smile. "Please, I said please, will you fucking please—"

You bring the wand down over her pussy. Her head rolls back and she groans, starting to squirm. "Pull down your bra for me," you say.

"What?" Her voice, face, are foggy and vague, but after a few seconds she understands, lifting her hands to tug down the bra's cups, showing you her perfect breasts. They're begging for your mouth, and you promised her you'd give her what she wanted when she begged, didn't you?

You drop your head. Kiss over one breast, then the other. Mouth at the flesh—so fucking soft, so good against your lips, sucked into the wetness of your mouth. The tops of her breasts have a small scattering of freckles that you have to dust in turn with adoring kisses. Her hard nipple brushes your cheek and you draw it past your lips as you trace the wand vibrator up and down, from her clit to the entrance of her cunt, back again, never letting it linger.

You switch to her other nipple, leaving her breast damp and reddened from your mouth. Her head tosses back and forth against the pillows as she whines, squirms, moans, says, "Fuck," and, voice breaking a little, "You're still fuckin' teasin' me—please, please, I said it, please—"

The words, her need, are electricity surging straight to your aching clit. Your voice is a rasp to match her own when you lift your head and breathe in her ear, "You sound so good like this, Melissa." She gives a broken whimper. "You're so perfect. I'll give you more. I promise. I'll take care of you. Take your panties off for me, sweetheart."

With a grateful sob she lifts her hips and shoves her underwear down her thighs, no further. You flash on that fantasy you had of her, getting off after a school day, slacks and panties around her knees as she fucked herself. Looks like you were right.

"You might need," she starts to say, but you're already reaching across to pick up the bottle of lube. You click off the vibrator and let her watch you drip the lube over your fingers, slicking them up. She's panting harder and harder just watching you.

With your other hand freed from the vibrator, you can pull the thong all the way off her legs, leaning back on your knees to do it. You push one thigh then the other wide apart. Her pussy is plump and gorgeous, red and swollen, her own wetness gleaming from between her spread labia. You add to it: the softest touch of your fingertips against her sex, trailing up and around the peak of her clit, not touching it directly.

She makes a noise you can barely describe, a groan of misery and arousal and desperation. Sliding your fingers back down toward the heat of her cunt, slipping one slowly inside, watching her as you do it. Her eyelashes flutter, her lips parting. Once you're sure she's wet enough, you add a second finger. The lube and her own gathering wetness makes a slick, dirty sound as you begin to stroke inside her, all delicacy, all torment.

"Oh, fuck," she says, "don't stop, Jesus Christ, please, don't stop, I need it, I, I..." Now she's babbling, the way she's made you do, one hand fisted in the bed covers, the other grabbing your wrist. "I need it so bad, I need you to fuck me, I've been waitin', please..."

"You've been waiting?" It occurs to you that this version of Melissa, already begging, might be willing to tell you some embarrassing truths. "How long?"

"Since we met," she gasps. "Since—oh, fuck..."

Since you met? That was the very first day of shooting—getting all the establishing shots, the very first moments and interviews. She intimidated you—her and Barbara both did—but Barbara, at least, gave a little, showed a bit of herself to the camera. You remember how Melissa was, arms folded over her chest, cool and hostile with Pedro as he tried to coax her out, get her to introduce herself.

Her eyes had moved from him to you, looking past the camera. "You Sicilian?" she'd asked you. She smiled at you that day and it transformed her sullen, cagey face, turned her, however momentarily, sweet. "Italian?" she'd continued, then her eyes darted from you to Pedro, over to the boom mic guy, trying to get a read on all of you. "You from South?" Her smile vanished. Her voice tightened up again: "Okay, you guys workin' with the cops? 'Cause you gotta tell me."

You reward her for the honesty with a press of your palm against her clit. Her hips jerk up. "I remember that day."

Her head drops back again, her eyes squeezing shut. The words leave her in a breathless rush: "You were so cute'n I hated the cameras but whenever you were there I would just—and you were always so, you were gentle, and—I always knew when you were lookin' at me—"

"I was looking at you every chance I got." You watch her face as you begin to ease a third finger inside her. This one has to burn a little; you can feel her body, resistant at first, starting to stretch to take it, and you don't push; you wait to see her eyes open again, their needy, yielding look. She lets go of the covers to grab one leg under her knee and pull it wider apart to help you. You add a little more lube, just in case, not wanting to hurt her.

"I was always looking at you, Melissa." She stares up at you. There's a crease between her brows, her swollen lips parted; she looks stunned, overwhelmed, face pink, as you slide that third finger inside her.

"I was always looking at you," you repeat, and begin to gently fuck her. Her cunt opens for you and desperately clenches against your fingers, grasping and irregular, trying to keep you. "You're so beautiful. I always wanted you. I thought you were the sexiest, meanest—" that surprises a panting laugh from her—"woman I'd ever seen. You were so smart, so funny—you protected everyone, and you took care of everybody—" her eyes squeeze shut. "Let me take care of you now."

You reach over and pick up the vibrator. You click it on. Her eyes open again at the sound of its buzz. You press the button again, then a third time, bringing it to its strongest setting. Melissa's eyes are huge. She's panting, staring, knowing what you're about to do, and the look of vulnerability and desire on her face, her smeared lipstick, her messy hair, she's perfect, so perfect, and you need to make her come now.

"I need it," you tell her, holding her gaze. "I need it. Let me feel it, Melissa." You bring the vibrator to her swollen, begging clit.

A moment of nothing but her breath caught in her chest and her wide-eyed gaze on yours. Her pussy clamps down around your fingers and you feel the ripples of her orgasm start before she drops her head back and gives a wounded, animal cry.

You chase the waves of her climax, fucking her through them, coaxing them toward you; you rub the head of the vibrator along her slippery clit. Her head tosses back and forth on the pillow like it's too much, but her hand still grasps your wrist, keeping you right where you are, and her hips are working, riding your fingers.

"I can't," she starts saying when she can heave a breath back into her lungs, "I can't, I can't, oh, please—" you click the vibrator off and throw it aside; it nearly rolls off the mattress. You spread the lips of her pussy wide and you lean down and bite one shaking thigh, then the other, then seal your lips over her swollen, tender clit.

Fuck the vibrator: this is your new favorite toy. You play with it and play with it and Melissa comes again, or keeps coming, you're not sure which. One leg goes over your shoulder and her hips twitch and writhe until you have to hold her down.

"Oh my G—oh my God, oh, baby," then, just chanting over and over again, like you could ever tell her no again, like you can deny her anything in the world: "Please, please, please..."

Anything she wants. The whole fucking world, if it were yours to give. You suck and lick at her cunt as her hands find your hair and yank.

How long can she go for? How many times can you make her come? You want to know. You want to fuck her until she faints. But that's not for tonight—not without planning, not without her consent—so when she starts making airy noises that are weak and almost pained, you ease off, slowing your mouth and fingers, letting her come down.

You rub her hips and thighs and her soft belly, and give light kisses to the mound of her pubis. She stops pulling on your hair, grip going slack at first; then, as she comes back into herself by slow degrees, she scratches her nails gently against your scalp.

Kisses for her stomach, her ribs. "Here, baby," you whisper, and reach under her body; she lifts up so you can unhook her bra, sticky fingers brushing her skin. You ease it off and drop it to wherever her panties went. She's nude under you now, flushed all over, body loose and relaxed against the mattress; you pet every inch of her you can reach.

You cup her cheek. Her head turns into the contact. There's sweat gleaming along her hairline and her upper lip. Her eyes, mascara and liner blurred, open to meet yours; her gaze is bleary at first, then sharpens.

You expect another fuck-you, or a joke, or even a "thanks, I needed that," but what she says is, "Now you sit on my face."

Your mind whites out. It's possible you forget the English language for a second or two. When you're back from wherever your soul departed to, she's pulling on the buttons of your shirt, brow knit and wearing an impatient little scowl, yanking the last ones open. "What?" you say weakly.

"I said," Melissa says, fully herself again, no longer the begging, needy, squirming creature of minutes ago, "now you sit on my face. C'mon. Get this off." She grabs the buckle of your belt and works the tongue out of it with a metallic clink.

"I," you say, "I," and she drags your trousers down your legs. You have to lean back off her to get them and your underwear all the way off. Your shirt still hangs open, showing your bra, your bare stomach. She leans up to kiss your sternum with an open mouth, tongue flickering hot against your skin.

"I told you," she growls against your neck, "to sit on my fuckin' face," and there's no more of anything in your world but her, you scrambling up onto your knees, spread wide, her sliding down the bed to get under your cunt.

You falter for a moment; she grabs your hips and yanks you down. There's no playing, no teasing. She drags the flat of her tongue up the folds of your pussy and takes your clit into her mouth and sucks. Her green eyes are open and staring up at you and you see your own dazed pleasure reflected in them.

It takes about five embarrassing seconds before you come in her mouth. She moans loudly against you and tries to hold you where you are, but your legs are shaking badly; imagine if you broke her nose the first night, God—you lift one knee so you can get off of her and drop onto your back.

She follows you. Clambers on top of you intently but unsteadily, still wobbling from her own orgasms, and kisses sloppily down your stomach to get back to your pussy.

"Melissa—" you're gasping, and she's putting her tongue inside you, angling her head to get it in as far as she can. She licks, sucks, wraps her arms around your hips and holds you against her as you try to buck away. The wet noises of her mouth against your cunt are obscene.

You come again, and maybe one more time, you're not sure; your mind blanks again. When you can think, feel, process again, she's giving little kitten licks to your sensitive sex that send shudders up your whole body.

"Okay," you say. Your throat hurts a little—how much noise were you making? You clear it. "Okay. You win." You tap out on the mattress like a boxer. She's wearing a look of supreme satisfaction as she lets you go, her face covered in slick wetness, her makeup a disaster, her hair a messy tangle. She's so beautiful. Your heart does a now-familiar backflip.

She crawls up your body and flops onto her side next to you, curling onto your chest. There's long minutes of just you two breathing, the sound filling the room, a tingling starting in your pussy that you know is the herald of after-sex soreness, her damp fingertips tracing idly on your skin.

You start to smooth out her hair. It'll take a shower and a comb to really fix—maybe you'll suggest it. You trail your fingers down and follow the freckled curve of her shoulder, the roll of flesh on her side along her ribs, the dip of her waist before it opens onto the perfect field of her hips and ass.

Her eyes flick up to yours. They're softer and happier than you've ever seen them; the look on her face is gentle and content. You bring your questing hand up to cup her cheek. She kisses your thumb.

"I'm hungry again," she declares.

A laugh bursts out of you, full of affection. "What?" she says, clearly about to be offended, but before she can go any further, you pull her fully into your arms, wrap around her and squeeze.

You press your face into her neck and inhale, smelling her sweat and skin and sex. "You're perfect for me," you say into that warm curve, muffled against her skin. "You're just perfect." You peck a kiss onto her jaw and lean back to touch her cheek again. "Should we make something? Do you want pasta?"

She grins at you. It's that big, Cheshire smile you saw on her face a few days ago, telling Barbara about how she shot her shot, full of preening satisfaction. She leans in and brushes your nose with hers.

"I knew I picked right," she says, simply, happily. She laces her fingers with yours. "Come on, I got a robe you could wear. You like carbonara?"

She leads you off the rumpled bed. You can see you've left a blurry pink bite mark on one cheek of her perfect ass. She brings you a fuzzy shortie robe ("I like your legs, baby, lemme see 'em") and puts on a silk one herself, and takes your hand again as she opens the bedroom door.

You feel good. You're happy. You realize as she brings you to the kitchen, to the very heart of her home, that you're not alone anymore.

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

Author's Note:

I received the following prompt from an anonymous reader on Tumblr:

"can you write some fluffy smut for Mel x reader where everyone thinks Mel would be in charge in the bedroom because she’s so tough and reader is so shy. but actually reader takes care of Mel."

Back when Season 2 was airing, I saw a few fan posts saying that Lisa Ann had suggested there was a cameraperson on the crew that Melissa thought was cute, which led to the rare scenes where Melissa opens up to the camera. I'm not sure if this is accurate to what she said, but that idea has stuck with me. When I received the above prompt, it went into a blender with that thought, and this is the smoothie that resulted.

I hope I've done justice to this lovely prompt!

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti #as an FYI: this is my longest fic yet and may be easiest to read on AO3 :)

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shmothman · 7 months ago

Text

Defying Fate

Pairing: Casper/Reader Rating: Teen and up audiences Words: 991 Read on AO3

Summary: Finally, you and Casper are together in person, tangled together with your feelings laid bare. Still, there are some things that he needs to ask.

With your head resting on Casper’s bare chest and his fingers smoothing over your hair, you don’t think you’ve ever felt quite so happy, so in love. You’ve been making good use of the past hour or so since he showed up at your door in person, and you practically feel like you’re walking on air.

You can’t believe he’s real.

You can’t believe any of this is real.

But you’re so, so glad that it is.

He calls your name softly, his voice like heaven, and you hum a questioning tone back as you’re pulled from your thoughts, loath to move from your comfortable spot against his chest.

“I…” he starts, and you immediately hear that he sounds nervous, so you look up at him, eyes brimming with all the feelings swirling in your heart. “I am certainly not complaining, but… I… I need to know…”

Your brows draw together in confusion as he seems to gather his thoughts. “Know what?”

He meets your eyes, and his gaze is… sad. Remorseful. “How… how are you okay with this?”

You blink. “What, having sex with you?”

His cheeks flush that pretty pink you adore so much. “N-not that,” he rushes to say, before growing serious once more. “I mean… with being with me. After I have spent the last several years trying to kill you. Doesn’t… does that not bother you? You act as if it’s nothing.”

Oh. That’s what’s on his mind.

You settle back into his arms, laying your head next to his so that your noses almost touch. His gaze is so open and honest, it almost makes your heart hurt. “Well,” you say quietly, “no harm, no foul, I guess?”

He exhales through his nose in something that’s almost like an amused little laugh. “You are so… cavalier about things, Sunshine. Is that truly all you think of it?”

For a grim reaper, Casper sure does wear his heart on his sleeve. Not that you’ve met any other reapers yet—maybe they’re all like this.

You bring your hand to cup his cheek, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone and watching the way his eyes flutter closed. How do you love him so much when you’ve only known he exists for a week?

“I… don’t know, honestly. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about it. All I know is how I feel about you.”

He blinks his eyes open, and the look on his face is so very hopeful. Like he needs to hear you tell him that it doesn’t matter to you, that it doesn’t change how you feel about him.

“It’s like… by the time that I realized you’re, y’know, actually the grim reaper and everything, I already felt like I had known you for ages, and that was only after like, two days. And then I get this massive revelation that every weird thing that’s happened to me, everything that people say is crazy but is just my everyday experience, that’s all you? That’s all the doing of this pretty boy on my computer screen?”

He pouts slightly at being called a pretty boy, but you continue.

“But, I mean, I’ve never taken my constant near death experiences seriously. You’ve been watching, right? Have you ever seen me react in any way that isn’t just… a shrug?”

“I suppose not,” he says. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve been the one trying to end your life.”

“You said it yourself, Casper. If it wasn’t you, it would be another reaper. Normally ‘I was just doing my job’ would be a terrible excuse, but given that we’re in the realm of like, fate and magic and the balance of nature type shit, I can’t fault you too much here.” You grin. “I just happened to get lucky, and they assigned me to the one reaper who would fall head over heels for me the minute he decided to break protocol and talk to me.”

He’s blushing again, and you think he’s about to protest the idea that he fell for you that quickly, but instead, he leans in to touch his forehead to yours and says, “any reaper would have fallen for you. I’m the one who got lucky.”

Your heart flutters happily in your chest, and you sound rather breathless as you say, “okay, maybe we’re both lucky,” and you lean in to press your lips to his.

You feel him melt beneath your kiss, as he has every time so far, like he’s turned to liquid: quicksilver at your touch, shimmering and cold. If he says that you’re like sunshine, then you say he’s the moon: something beautiful and bright in the darkness, the light by which you find your way home.

As you pull back slightly, there’s a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Or,” you say, “maybe it’s just fate.”

He’s been made breathless by your kiss, but he still smiles back. “Perhaps,” he replies into the scant space between you. “Though, I’m growing fond of the idea that this is in defiance of fate itself. That we are making our own destiny.”

You hum, as if thinking deeply. “Well, clearly we both love breaking the rules, especially for each other.” With a sudden grin, you shift, rolling yourself atop him and watching those pretty red eyes go wide. “Whaddya say we defy fate all night?”

That vivid blush crawls up to his ears, then down his neck to splash across his bare chest. Unable to summon words, he simply nods.

You waggle your eyebrows, only just getting started with your terrible jokes. “Wait, wait, I got another one: how’s this for destiny?”

He rolls his eyes with a huff that doesn’t mask his clear affection, and opens his mouth—probably to call you annoying or something, but he doesn’t get that far, because you’re already kissing him again.

And that’s something he won’t defy.

#a date with death #casper adwd #adwd #casper x reader #x reader #grim reaper adwd #sef writes #waaaugh im so. he's so. babygirl #so excited for beyond the bet #gotta write fluff about it #crossposted on tumblr and ao3 #<333

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undertheopensky · 7 months ago

Text

Extinction

Whumptober Day 27: I misread Alt Prompt #7 Examination, so I guess this is now a Skies-specific prompt of Extinction. Though if you wanted to get poetic about it, I guess ‘Scars’ would also work.

Characters: Sky, Four, everyone’s kind of there especially in the first part

Trigger warnings: Panic attacks, grief, dehumanisation, it makes sense in context

Read on Ao3!

–––

“No, see, wolves are to wolfos what unicorns are to horses,” Hyrule is explaining to a perplexed Wild. “And rabbits to a pols voice. Y’know, the non-monstery version.”

“Out of curiosity, what the fuck do you think a unicorn is?” Legend asks, visibly fascinated by the whole conversation.

Hyrule thinks for a moment. “I’m pretty sure it’s like a horse with fairy wings? That doesn’t want to kill you.”

“Okay, I think we need to introduce you to more horses than Twilight’s monster.”

“Oi!” Twilight protests, looking up from his leatherwork.

“Last week she stomped and then ate a deku baba,” Legend says flatly.

“So?”

“Oh my god,” Legend mutters. Then, as Time walks up, his patrol apparently finished, “Hey, old man! What’s a unicorn to you?”

“Horse with a horn,” he replies easily.

Wild wrinkles his nose, clearly struggling to imagine it. “What’s the horn for?”

“For stabbing people, obviously.”

“What?! No!” Indignant, Four looks up from his book. “They cleanse water and purify poisons! There are no legends associating them with the battlefield, except for one country that uses them as the heraldry device for medics!”

Time shrugs, clearly unbothered.

“No wings, then?” asks Hyrule, slightly crestfallen.

“Nah, that’s a pegasus,” says Warriors.

“Like the boots?” Legend squints at the wings on his own.

“I think so? It’s a horse with, like, bird wings. One of the noble families back home uses them in their heraldry. There’s a lot of mythical creatures on heraldry, actually.”

“Rabbits ain’t mythical,” says Twilight.

“I’ve never seen one before.”

“Wait, back up – what’s a rabbit?” says Wind.

“A non-monstery pols voice.”

Wind isn’t pleased with Hyrule’s answer. “And what the hell is a pols voice?”

“It’s like…” Hyrule is stumped by the question. “It’s like… a, a blob with whiskers and long ears, except then it opens its mouth and it’s ALL mouth, and all teeth, and –”

“Oh, those! Huh, I never knew what they were called. I only came across ‘em once. And a rabbit is…”

“Smaller and less evil,” says Legend dryly, which which for some reason makes Twilight sputter with choked laughter.

“Oh, yeah - Sky,” Hyrule turns around to address him, “Sky, you’re the earliest -”

“I have never seen a unicorn,” Sky interrupts. “And I’m not sure what a rabbit is, but there’s a lot of flora and fauna on the Surface we’re still struggling to figure out, and I haven’t seen much of it that’s familiar while travelling with you. Things must change a lot through the eras.” He feels his face fall as his heart does. “Like loftwings, I guess.”

“What are loftwings, anyway? You’ve mentioned them before.”

Sky’s brow furrows. “Have I not explained loftwings yet?”

“You got partway through and then we were attacked by those chuchus and got distracted,” Wild offers.

Sky pulls a face. Right, and then cleanup had taken forever, because chuchus. Of all monster species, why were those ones so universal? They were barely even functional! “Okay. Loftwings are… huge birds, I guess is the easiest way to describe them. Each Hylian gets a loftwing partner when we’re young, and we grow up together. It’s - everyone has one. It’s been really weird to me that none of your eras have them. Since we’re on an isolated series of islands - or, well, we were - loftwings are essential to carry us from place to place.”

“They carry you? How big are they?”

“Pretty big.” Sky squints for a moment. “Crimson’s wingspan would stretch between that log and where Twilight’s sitting, easy.”

“Giant birds?” Wind screws up his face. “Like the Helmaroc King? Don’t like that.”

It’s Hyrule’s turn to make a face. “What’s a helmaroc king?”

Wind shrugs. “Massive bird monster. Oh, hey, maybe that’s what happened to Loftwings?”

“Hm?” Sky blinks back from where he’d been imagining Crimson sitting between Twilight and Warriors, sneakily tugging the captain’s scarf whenever he looked away. Goddess, he misses him. “Sorry, what was that?”

“You said it was weird that they don’t exist in any of our eras, right? Maybe it’s because they turned into monsters over time, like wolves and rabbits!”

Sky doesn’t know what noise he makes at that, doesn’t know what his face is doing. He feels cold, and sick, and horrified, because no no no that can’t be what happened please tell him that’s not what happened -

But why did the loftwings disappear? Left behind only in heraldry and insignia, not even their names left to history? How could they have been forgotten so completely?

“No,” he chokes out, “no, that can’t be. Loftwings aren’t monsters.”

“But sometimes animals can become monsters when they’re exposed to lots of dark magic over many years, like with wolfos. It would make sense why we’ve never heard of them, right, if they all became, like, kargarocs or something.”

The voices of the others die away to an indistinct hum. Sky thinks he should be concerned about that, except he’s already occupied with the sudden chill against his skin, the way his heart feels simultaneously too large and too small for the space it occupies, straining and racing, the way his lungs burn when he tries to breathe and ache when he doesn’t.

His head hurts.

His heart hurts.

Slowly, the buzzing fades.

“If we find a unicorn, do you think we can smuggle it back to my Hyrule?” Hyrule is asking.

“The hell do you want one of them for?”

“If they can really purify water, then –”

They’ve moved on from the conversational bomb that had rocked Sky to his foundations. Accepted the explanation without comment or question. To them, it’s just another strange fact about the world, like the way monsters in Wild’s Hyrule will all spring back to life when the moon turns red, or that there’s magic trapped in music. Over time, animals can turn into monsters.

And Sky just – doesn’t know how, doesn’t have the vocabulary to explain to them that loftwings aren’t animals – they’re people.

(He’s never had to explain it before. On Skyloft, everyone knows this, from the smallest child to the most forgetful elder: loftwings are your partner, the other half of your soul. They’re people.

When they can’t even understand that much, how does he even begin to explain how horrifying it is to think of them becoming nothing more than monsters, over the millenia?)

–––

Maybe this time, Sky thinks. Maybe this time the portal will take them home.

To his home, at least. He’s never been away so long before. And his jaunts to the Surface had in no way prepared him for the loneliness of being eras and countries away from his friends and his family and his loftwing. And maybe - maybe with it all close to hand, the feelings at his fingertips - he’ll be able to explain it better to the others. Explain it so they’ll understand.

The saturated colours and faint burr of magic through the earth raise his hopes briefly, but - no. This isn’t Skyloft. Isn’t even the Surface beneath it. It’s - it’s easier to define it by what it isn’t. The Surface has lain untouched by Hylian hands for centuries, ancient and wild. This place - it feels tamer. Steadier. Young, almost, but not in the sense of age - in the sense of, of rawness in its magic. It feels new.

And for all that - he knows the days of Skyloft and her Knights are long behind this place.

“Mine,” announces Four, unknowingly confirming Sky’s thoughts. “We’re not far from Lake Hylia, from the looks of it. Anyone wanna watch Wild go fishing again?”

“Hell yeah!” Wind cheers immediately, over Twilight’s groan of frustration.

“Cub, really -”

Wild brightens. “We should compete! See who can catch the most fish for dinner!”

“Now that’s jus’ not fair, Wild, yer explosions will scare off any fish they don’t kill -”

Always happy to stir the pot, Legend says, “Sounds like a skill issue,” and grins at Twilight’s dark look.

Sitting at the base of a tree - or slumping, more accurately - Sky watches their antics with a quiet gaze and no interest in joining in himself.

He’d known it wasn’t likely. The number of times they’ve gone to a familiar Hyrule are far outnumbered by the times no one can identify, and even then, there’s eight other time periods they could land in. He can’t help the disappointment, is all.

Is this what homesickness feels like?

It kinda sucks. No wonder Wind was so miserable.

He’s drawn from contemplating the pooling unhappiness under his ribcage by Four inching closer, hands tucked behind his back. He looks - nervous. Not like he’s going to try to drag him into the water fight now happening on the lake’s shore, at least. Just uncertain. The smile Sky musters for him is probably not a very good one. “Something up, Four?”

“I, um.” Four rocks on his heels, looking almost uncertain. “I… wanted to show you. Something.”

Sky doesn’t actually want to be left alone with his thoughts, so he nods agreeably and hauls himself to his feet. “Lead the way, then.”

Four takes him far enough into the forest that the shouts and laughter and echoes of Wild’s small explosions fade entirely, before choosing a wide clearing to pause in. “I, um.” Four spins, clasping his hands behind his back again. “I noticed that you - well. When the others were talking about loftwings the other day. You got really upset when they were talking about them becoming monsters, or going extinct.”

Ice shoots through Sky’s heart, freezes over his throat for one critical moment. “Yeah,” he finally rasps. “I don’t - it’s - they don’t -”

Four shakes his head. “It’s okay. You don’t need to explain it. I just wanted to show you -” He fumbles with his pouch, pulls out a child-sized ocarina that’s not quite too small for his hands.

The tune he plays sounds almost like a birdcall.

It’s pleasant, if mournful. Sweet-toned and piping like wind instruments tend to be. Sky wonders why Four had moved them so far away just to play him a short song, and then -

Wingbeats. Loud and unmistakeable.

He startles and looks up as a shadow passes overhead - a shadow too large to be any of the birds of Four’s era - and all he can see is a half-silhouette framed in the sun, but his heart leaps at the familiarity.

And when they land -

A loftwing.

Small, but distinctive: the beak broad and long and golden, the curl of their crest and their tail. Pure white, save the bars of colour across the feathertips - Sky’s never seen one like them and he’s never been so relieved.

“Her name is Zeffa,” Four says, from where he’s half-wrapped around the loftwing’s neck in a hug.

“You never told me you had a loftwing,” Sky breathes, stepping forward to greet them - to greet her, as she reaches out in curious welcome.

Four shrugs, feathers ruffling against his back. “I never knew what they were called. She was always just Zeffa, to me. She came to me when I was eight, in the middle of my first adventure. She saved my life,” he adds, snuggling his face into the side of hers as she ducks down and croons at him.

Sky takes the opportunity to look her over more closely. Definitely smaller than average, but with Four as her rider they’re perfectly proportioned. Her feathers are all clean white, no countershading or freckles or markings except the traditional wing bars, the gold fringed by something he’s never seen before. He’d thought it was a simple deep blue at first but it keeps changing colour as Zeffa shifts and the light hits it in different ways. Green one way, red another; a rainbow trapped in keratin fibre.

Sky can feel the grin creeping across his face; wouldn’t dream of trying to stop. “She suits you.”

Four grins back. He looks so comfortable, standing in the shade of Zeffa’s beak and leaning up against her. “She does, doesn’t she?”

Her mind is different to Crimson’s, all shades of cool water instead of open sky and cloud, but it’s still crystal clear. Greetings, Chosen Hero.

“Been a while since I heard that one.” Been a while since he’d last spoken with a loftwing, for that matter; he hopes he’s not rusty. Hopes she can sense his delight and fondness and gratitude, for the care she shows to Four.

She clacks her beak at him, pleased.

“Do all the loftwings call you that?” Four asks, riveted, and Sky’s heart swells at the knowledge that Four can hear her too.

“Usually just the ones who don’t know me personally, or the ones who are making fun of me.” He steps closer, with her approval.

The top of her head barely clears his own. Taking that into account, Sky thinks her beak is a little smaller, too. She smells of feathers and ozone and rain. She smells like home.

“So loftwings do still exist.”

She regards him with something like sorrow, and his heart drops.

I am the last.

I was born towards the end of your reign; the last true loftwing born to Skyloft. And I knew even then that I would be waiting a long time for my beloved. I was born knowing it.

You grieved that, even then. I was too young to tell you, but I will say now, in hopes you will remember: I do not regret the waiting. They were worth waiting for. She tugs Four’s headband playfully, making him shout in protest when it slips over his eyes.

“How long did you have to wait?” Sky whispers, heart aching. Even if she says - he knows it’s a long, long time between Four’s era and his own.

She shrugs, wings settling back against her sides. Who can say? What is time, and how does it pass? Is it truly waiting, to simply live?

And oh, her personality is shining through - mischief hidden under patience, the glee of being deliberately and annoyingly cryptic. No wonder Four didn’t know what she was. Every attempt to ask was probably met with a riddle until he gave up. Sky finds himself smiling again. Even though it hurts. “You still had to be alone, and for that, I’m sorry.”

There is no fault to claim. All things change. From the kikwi to the zora - as the world changes, all must change with it, or be left behind. She runs her beak through his hair, an attempt at comfort.

Sky buries his face in the side of her neck.

I am the last. But do not grieve us.

Four tugs on his sleeve, breaking the focus of his connection. “C’mon, I wanna - I’ve still got something to show you, Zeffa’s not all of it.”

Sky glances back towards the lake. “Is it far?” They’ve been gone long enough as it is, really, and he doesn’t want the others wasting their time searching for them in a panic.

Four shrugs. “It’s fine. I told Time where we’d be going. C’mon, hop on, it’s not far by air but I wouldn’t wanna walk.” He follows his own advice, clambering up Zeffa’s side with ease and sitting across her shoulders, legs in front of her wings. He doesn’t even seem to notice the lack of saddle.

Why would he? Sky thinks with another pang. Loftwing saddlers haven’t been needed for centuries. Does Four even know they existed? “Are you sure she can carry us both? I’m pretty heavy.”

Four looks offended on Zeffa’s behalf. “She’s not that small! And she’s taken multiple people before!”

I will be fine, your majesty. Zeffa clacks at him, amused.

Sky deliberately does not pay attention to that last part. “If you’re sure I won’t hurt her…”

“You won’t,” says Four, and he’s so confident with him that Sky believes him.

There’s nowhere to jump from so like Four he mounts up on the ground, Four in front and Sky behind. It makes him nervous, riding without a saddle - not because he thinks he’ll fall off, but because what if he hurts her? Crushes her feathers the wrong way, clamps down too tight without leather to buffer the force? And is Four sure she can take off from here, getting airborne is hard enough without carrying so much extra weight -

She turns her head to laugh at him with one large, dark eye.

Her wings spread wide. They’re beautiful in the sunlight, red and green flashing at the edges of her primaries. There’s even some purple in the shadows closest to her body, all four of Four’s tunic colours shining through her wings. Goddess, she fits him so beautifully.

Two steps and a powerful wingbeat and then the air is rushing up around them, catching them like they were already falling, and they’re in the air. It can only have been magic but Sky doesn’t know where it came from; can’t bring himself to care, when the forest is getting smaller and blurrier under their feet and the wind is streaming ice-cold against his face and neck and ears.

Goddess, he’s missed this.

The sky looks so much more beautiful from up here; the clouds like they could be solid enough to walk on (though he knows that’s not true). Laid out beneath them is the kingdom, in lines and squares and patches of colour, abstract and strange. Could he draw a map of this, Sky wonders? Could he figure out where things used to be, if he can find the right landmarks?

Four grins at him over his shoulder, delighted by Sky’s happiness.

True to Four’s word, they’re not in the air long before Zeffa is banking, beginning a descent that for the first time in years makes a pang of disappointment rise in Sky’s gut. Goddess, he wants to go home.

Four lets him jump off when they get close, but doesn’t follow. Sky has a moment of panic before remembering Four definitely has a gliding item, he’s not trapped up there, and then Zeffa’s actually landing with the Hero of the Four Sword still perched on her back. There’s another blast of definitely wind magic as she touches down, cushioning what might otherwise have been a heavy landing. That explains it. Does that happen every time? Is it something Zeffa learned, since there are no sky islands to jump off of here? He’ll have to ask her, later.

“Where are we?” Sky says as Four swings off the loftwing’s back. The ruins they landed in are ancient and unfamiliar, but he thinks - he can almost understand the text carved into stone, if he tilts his head and squints. He doesn’t know this place - it just - echoes, somehow.

“The Fortress of Winds,” Four says. He hasn’t moved from the centre platform, still pressed up against Zeffa as he watches Sky move around. “This is where I first met Zeffa.”

“Uh huh?” Sky’s listening, he swears, but there’s something about the letters on this stone tablet, almost but not-quite the same as his own. If he squints just a little - no, maybe this way -?

Four comes over to tug on his sleeve again. “C’mere, I think you’re moving too much.”

They both sit in the shade thrown by Zeffa, as she spreads her wings to sunbathe.

“Are we waiting for something?”

“Shhhh,” is all Four says in response.

Sky gives up and settles in. With Zeffa’s wing breaking the worst of the wind, and her dusty feather-smell surrounding him, Sky’s the most relaxed he’s been in weeks.

Then he starts to hear something.

High-pitched chitters and whistles, the beating of small wings. Four had said there were no monsters left in the fortress, but that sure sounded like keese to Sky. Slowly, so as not to attract attention, he turns his head to peer around the edge of Zeffa’s wing.

His heart leaps into his throat and stays there.

Birds. Brightly coloured, greens and blues and oranges, perching on the rockwork and hopping around the lichen-covered floor.

Their beaks are short and sharply curved. They’ve lost the long, flexible tails that streamed out behind them in flight, replaced by a fan of feathers that seems impractically small. The feather banding is missing, the white and gold of the goddess and the contrasting partner flashings.

And of course, they’re tiny. Small enough to sit on an outstretched arm; the smallest could sit on his hand.

But the crests are still there, three wispy, curling feathers on the back of the skull that flex and stretch as they chatter amongst themselves. There’s still a flash of intelligence in their small, dark eyes. The nearest hops closer and chirps in greeting, and he feels a press of joy! and welcome! and sneaky, mischievous play? Play! Play with us!

Sky doesn’t realise he’s crying until the tears spill over in hot rivers. Four shoots him a worried look.

“They’re still here,” he chokes out, and smiles.

After everything, the loftwings are still here.

#whumptober 2023 #skies writes #linked universe #lu fic #lu sky #lu four

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fxckn-sxck-fr · 1 year ago

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𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 — 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈

Yandere Dick Grayson x GN Reader

❥ Part I >> Part II >> Part III >> Part IV

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐗𝐓: Wanted to write a platonic older brother Dick Grayson story, but depicting his spiral into yandere-hood. Tumblr can’t handle my swag AO3-length writing, so multiple parts it is!

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒: platonic sibling yandere content, older brother Dick Grayson, younger sibling reader, non-vigilante reader, adopted reader, slow burn yandere(?), the pacing is very a-day-in-the-life-esque, kind-of stalking, unsettling build-up, Dick isn’t a full-blown yandere yet, starting off tame, biblically accurate Batfam, CLIFF HANGER!!

❥ 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. 𝐁𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃.

Richard Grayson didn’t really like you.

He never told you outright, but you knew. It was painfully obvious during your initial meeting (one that was “long overdue,” according to Bruce), back when Alfred dropped you off at his Blüdhaven apartment with all your belongings. Though he offered a welcoming smile with complimentary dimples, something dark swirled in his sapphire eyes, a stony cold stare contrasting with his warm greeting of, “nice to finally meet you, (Y/N).”

You didn’t know that much about Richard Grayson, other than his role as your pseudo older brother (and the fact that he was Robin, and now Nightwing, but you were still wrapping your head around the idea of your filthy rich adoptive father being fucking Batman, so… there’s not much you could say on that). He seemed friendly enough in all the gala interviews you’ve seen, but you were starting to realize to not take someone’s press persona as gospel: after all, Bruce Wayne seems much more put together in front of the cameras than he does in the manor. So, while unsettling, you couldn’t say you were too surprised by this official first impression.

Maybe he was just tired, you told yourself. He probably doesn’t get much sleep, with the whole crime-fighting thing and all.

(Yeah… crime-fighting thing… y’know, cuz your pseudo older brother is Nightwing, and your filthy rich adoptive father is fucking Batman.)

However, after getting all your things settled into his spare bedroom — Alfred being a big help, as he always was — you were getting the sense that your gut intuition was right; Richard Grayson didn’t really like you at all. He may have acted all cordial, giving you a tour of his apartment and making polite jokes, but as soon as Alfred left and he excused himself to make a phone call in his room, his true feelings on your collective predicament became painfully apparent, as thin walls did nothing to hold in his heated argument with Bruce.

“B, why the hell are you doing this to me?! ……. No, they’re in their room. Getting all their stuff settled in right now. ……. I know I did, but now that they’re here, I just—!! ……. No, they’ve been okay so far, it’s just— come on, B, I know you’re an empty-nester, but if you weren’t ready to take in a kid, why’d you—?! ……. Really? So adopting orphans is just a hobby now?! ……. Yeah, and it’s really unfortunate what they’ve gone through, but you can’t just pick up every stray you see, especially if you’re this fucking paranoid about them wanting to—”

This was the only time you could understand Bruce’s response over the phone; “I DON’T WANT ANOTHER DEAD CHILD, DICK.”

… Ah.

There was a beat of silence before Bruce continued, though his softer tone made it impossible to make out what he was saying. He went on and on until Dick sighed. “Bruce, I want them to have a happy home. And, yeah, I sure as hell agree that the manor might not be the best choice, but I’m off doing my own thing just as much as you are. At the very least, Alfred— ……. What would’ve been good for both of you was to not sign the papers in the first place. You’re still healing, and they need someone who can be there for them. ……. No. No, they’re already here. I’ll stay true to my word, B, but they can’t stay here forever; you know that. It’s just not healthy for all of us. ……. Yeah, I know. I’ll do my best. Look, I gotta figure out what I’m gonna make this kid for dinner.”

And then, without a single goodbye exchanged, the call went dead.

So, yeah. Richard Grayson didn’t really like you.

Which was fine. Really, it was. You weren’t even his sibling by law, as you learned from Alfred that Bruce technically never even adopted him, yet here he was being asked to take care of you, a reminder that he can’t escape Bruce Wayne or Batman no matter how hard he tries. While you were still learning the full situation (again, your filthy rich adoptive father is fucking BATMAN), what you already knew didn’t paint a pretty picture. Honestly, you didn’t blame Richard Grayson for being a little spiteful towards you. It did make sense.

You just wish it didn’t make you feel so… unwanted.

“How was school, kiddo?”

A questioning hum was startled from your vocal chords. The car ride had been so silent, you found yourself lost in your own thoughts, almost forgetting that you were buckled into the passenger seat of Richard’s — Dick’s, rather; he told you to call him Dick the day you moved in — older, copper-colored car. After taking a few moments to collect yourself, you threw your temporary guardian a glance only to find he was pointedly staring at you (which was concerning, as he was driving).

“Uh…” your voice faltered a bit, forcing you to cough in your fist. “It was alright.”

His eyes lingered on you for a bit longer before returning to the road ahead. You thought that was the end of the conversation, but then he spoke up again. “Did you learn anything?”

A bit of an awkward thing to ask, but at least he was trying. “Factoring in algebra. And I guess a little about the Mongol Empire.”

“Factoring,” he said with distaste. “Wasn’t a fan of that. Though it didn’t really help that I had the worst algebra teacher. Ended up with a 70 in that class by some miracle.” A small beat of silence. “Do anything fun with friends?”

You grimaced. Though you tried your best not let it show, you knew Dick probably caught it through the rear-view mirror. “I, uh, haven’t made any friends yet.”

“It’s already October,” he skeptically stated with a quirked brow.

“I know. It’s just…” you clutched your book bag closer to your chest. “It was my first day here, so… gotta make new friends.”

“… Oh.”

As much as you wanted to dryly chortle at his reaction, you refrained. It probably wasn’t his fault he didn’t know about being transferred from Gotham to Blüdhaven Academy, since Bruce apparently had a habit of keeping people out of the loop with things. For all you know, Dear Ol’ Daddy Bats just gave Dick an address and said, "drop off at 9, pick up at 3:30," leaving your pseudo-older brother to fill in the blanks from there (“this is an address to a school, so I’m assuming this is where they go to school,” or something like that).

So, all you could do was shrug. “Yeah.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see his jaw tighten. He seemed to be deliberating on something, eyes burning holes through his windshield as he let out a sigh. “So, guessing you have no one to stay with for the night?”

“Stay with?” You furrowed your brows. “What do you mean, stay with?”

“Well, I’m gonna be out tonight,” he explained, his tone sounded a bit exasperated. “Can’t just leave you on your own. Do any friends from your old school live near by?”

You were at a loss for words. He wanted you to stay with someone? For the entire night? “Wait, hold on… you just wanna dump me at a friend’s house anytime you do your hero shit—?”

“Not sure if you’ve noticed, kiddo, but we’re in Blüdhaven,” he spat at you. “And my apartment isn’t exactly in the nicest part of town.”

“But— it’ll be fine, ‘cuz you have a Bat-level security system,” you protested.

His grip got tighter on the steering wheel. “Doesn’t matter. You’re used to the manor, not street-level crime, kid.”

“I grew up in Gotham,” you retorted. “I’ve known street-level crime way longer than I’ve known the manor.” Before he could say something to that, you beat him to it by following up with, “and besides, all my friends from Gotham live in areas that are just as bad as your apartment. Wasn’t all that popular with the socialite kids with mansions, you know.”

No response for several seconds. Dick’s expression was far from pleasant, and you were starting to worry if you were getting yourself into some sort of trouble. Eventually, however, he let out a frustrated sigh, his cold eyes snapping towards your figure. “You make one hell of an argument, kiddo. But listen. We’ve gotta go over home-alone rules when we’re back to the apartment, alright? I don’t want anything happening to you under my watch.”

“Fine by me,” you shrugged.

The conversation was then dropped.

A small smile started to bloom on your face. He really thought he could rid of you like that, didn’t he? You knew he didn’t really like you, but using it’s not safe as an excuse to a Gothamite? Really? Yeah, that’s a bunch of bogus.

… Though, you had to admit, it was nice that he at least sounded considerate.

You woke up to the sounds of disgruntlement coming from the living area.

It wasn’t too loud, as you couldn’t exactly comprehend what was being said, but it was loud make you realize the disgruntled party was extremely ticked by something. Getting out of bed, you put your ear to the door for better listening.

“I already told you, I can’t. I’ve been leaving this kid home alone far too often for my liking. ……. Where, Roy?! Where can they stay?! Bruce isn’t in the right headspace to have another kid in the manor, and— ow, fuck— it’s not like they have any friends to crash with for the night! ……. Transferred schools. Would’ve been nice if Bruce said something about that, but— ……. Said their Gotham friends live in areas just as bad. Besides, there’s no way in hell I’m letting them step foot back into that hellhole without me being there. ……. ‘Cuz it’s fucking Gotham, Roy! It’s only city in the world that has a death by killer clown statistic!!”

Ah. Another phone call. Dick had been making a lot of those, recently. You never knew who was on the other line, except if it was Bruce or (by rare chance) Alfred, but you had a general idea that it was always one of his super hero friends. Not very many people casually talked about beating up thugs and criminals, after all.

“No— absolutely not. Bruce would be pissed if he found out!! He’d think I’m trying to make them into my sidekick or something, and god knows what happens to them after that. I’ve been through the system, Roy. While I’m not too keen on keeping a kid around, putting them back there is not an option. ……. They’re just— safer in my apartment than anywhere else right now. I can’t have anything happening to them. Not after Jason. Bruce would never forgive me, and I— I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. ……. I’m sorry, Roy. Maybe next time. ……. Yeah. Tell the other Titans I’m thinking about them, okay? ……. Yeah, good luck tonight. Try not to show up on the news. ……. Yup. See you.”

Your ears picked up on a low beep, heralding the end of the call. As Dick let out a string of curses, you couldn’t help but feel… empty. You were more than just a pain in the ass for Dick; you were a full-blown problem. It wasn’t just the fact that you were keeping him from having hero fun. Even if he wasn’t all that fond of you, he still considered you his responsibility, and seemed genuinely worried about your safety when he wasn’t there. You were under the impression that he went out at night to forget you existed, but…

Jason…

Jason was a name you were only vaguely familiar with, usually used as a heavy blow in a Dick v. Bruce argument. While you don’t exactly know the full context, Alfred did make mention once of a kid who lived in Wayne Manor before you (the one who is “no longer with us,” as the butler solemnly said), and upon stumbling into the Batcave by accident, some of the only coherent mutterings he offered were, “Jason,” and “no, not again.”

Again, you didn't know the full context, but it's easy to put together the pieces from there.

A particularly loud curse from the other side of the door brought you back to reality. You at first wondered if you should go out there and make sure your current guardian-figure was okay, but you decided against it, as A.) he was probably just patching himself up from a particularly rough skirmish, and B.) he didn't seem like he was in the mood to see you. Besides, with your thoughts on this Jason kid, you didn't know if you had enough self-control to keep your burning questions locked away on your tongue.

So, instead, you decided to lay back down in your bed, brainstorming ideas to get Dick to talk about Jason.

This was… kind of a terrible way to ask.

Sure, you were curious. The thought had been haunting your thoughts since Bruce’s breakdown, and being out of the loop was slowly eating away at your mind. But maybe you could’ve been less… abrupt… and given Dick a little bit more time to be mentally prepared. It was an extremely sensitive topic, after all, and you knew even he was healing from the aftermath.

You hoped he understood your question wasn’t just morbid curiosity; Jason’s death is in-part the reason you’re here, after all.

Dick stared at you across from the dinner table. His fork had a few pieces of macaroni skewered one the prongs, half-raised to be shoveled into his mouth. Blue eyes stared right through you, blinking owlishly as he presumably tried to process what the fuck you just asked him. All you could do was hunch into yourself in your seat, mentally scolding yourself for how fucking rude your question probably was. Painfully long seconds ticked by with no sort of response, and you eventually decided that the best course of action was to do some preemptive damage control.

“You— actually, you don’t have to answer,” you weakly sputtered. “I’m so sorry, that’s— that was so uncalled for. I’m really sorry, Dick.”

He set his fork down. “No, it’s fine. I’m just… did Bruce not— he never told you?”

You shook your head.

“… Ah,” was his reply. His eyes wandered towards the window, an unreadable expression falling onto his face. He seemed a bit… lost. Which was understandable, as you didn’t exactly give him prep time for a conversation like this. You gave him as much time as he needed to put his thoughts in order.

Finally, he gave an answer. “Killed in action. Ended up in the hands of the Joker, and… well, he didn’t come home. No Robin ever since.”

The flat tone that carved through his words caused your hair to stand on end. He kept the details vague, but you didn’t find yourself minding all that much. If the Joker was involved, it probably wasn’t that much of a lovely story. “So, he was Robin after you?”

A hum of confirmation came from Dick. “The mantle was open, since I took up a new name. After finding out that Bruce was Batman, he practically begged to be trained as Robin.” He slowly brought the fork to his mouth. “That’s what Bruce said, anyway.”

It was then you noticed the silverware rattling from some sort of rhythmic thumping. After a few moments, you realized it was from your knee hitting against the table, causing you to will your legs to stay still. “Um…” you cleared your throat. “Were you… close with Jason?”

“I mean, we were friendly.” He still neglected to make eye contact with you. “I tried to be a good example to him, but I was busy doing my own thing here.” His gaze dropped to the linoleum floor. “Didn’t spend enough time with him.”

A heavy pressure crushed down on your chest. While you didn’t know Jason personally, you were no stranger to the concept of loss, and the more you learned about his death, the more your current situation was starting to make sense. Jason discovered Bruce was Batman. He wanted to be Robin, and Bruce let him. Then he died as Robin. Bruce’s adopted son died on the field, in the costume.

So, after you found out Bruce was Batman… it probably felt all too familiar.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you practically whispered.

Dick only sighed. “It’s alright, kiddo.” Finally, he raised his eyes to look at you. “Say, how are you doing in that chemistry class?”

… Huh?

The abrupt change in subject was… interesting. But definitely understandable, as talking about Jason’s death probably wasn’t all too pleasant. Guilt started to eat away at your conscious, the thought of making Dick uncomfortable by reminding him of his grief and regrets making your heart feel heavy. So, you merely offered a shrug and said, “uh… I’m doing fine.”

“Thought you were having trouble with valence equations,” he mused.

You could only dumbly stare at him. Okay… this was new territory. Sure, he always asked how school was while picking you up, but this was the first time he’s talked about it at dinner. Then again, this is the first time you two have talked at dinner period, since most dinners were spent eating in total silence, so maybe he was just trying to cleanse the awkward air that you created from randomly inquiring about Jason (because you can't do anything right, apparently).

So, ignoring the warmth that swirled in your chest at the thought of him actually caring about your life outside of the polite, seemingly obligatory after-school exchanges, you indulged.

Blüdhaven nights weren’t all that different from Gotham’s. They could get noisy, the sounds of the city mixing together into one cacophony. You’ve learned how to sleep through it all, and it’s not like it’s all high energy for the entire night; around 1 in the morning, there’s a lull in activity that yields little to no sounds to disturb your slumber. Some would even call this hour the most peaceful that places like Gotham and Blüdhaven can get, despite all of the dubious activities that are probably happening.

So, something like the sound of a window sliding opening is enough to disturb this peace.

It was your window. It sounded like it was right in your room, so it had to be your window. You stayed as petrified as a statue in your bed, the fog of sleepiness immediately airing out of your brain from your nervous system screaming, holy shit, someone is opening my window. Well, maybe, if you continued to stay still, they wouldn’t recognize the obvious lump in the bed, take whatever the fuck they wanted, and be on their merry way. With any luck, Dick was done doing his hero shit, and the unfortunate sap breaking into the apartment would have a run-in with Nightwing.

That’s when a your bed began to creak from a new weight being added to it.

… Ah, shit.

You didn’t move. There was no way in hell you were moving. Even if the intruder seemingly knew you were there, you could do nothing else but stay stagnant in place, waiting for them to make the next move. Maybe, if they touch you, you could swing your arm to hit them and catch them by surprise. That might give you enough time to run, find Dick’s room, and pray to god he’s home. If not, then you could at least lock yourself in his room and hold out until he does.

Your thoughts were cut short when a familiar voice rang out.

“You didn’t lock your window.”

… That bastard—!!

Relief crashed through your body like a tidal wave. A heavy breath tumbled out of your lips — one that you didn’t even know you were holding in — which alleviated the growing pressure in your chest. Now that you could feel your limbs again, you willed away the shiver that wanted to travel through your body as you turned to face this so-called intruder. “Kind of an unconventional way to come home, don’t you think?”

Your eyes met the pearly white lenses of a domino mask. The shadowy figure sitting on your bed had his arms crossed over the unmistakable azure symbol of Nightwing, which, oddly enough, had an intriguing iridescent shimmer under the moonlight. Huh… none of the cameras really pick up that detail, you mentally noted, glancing back and forth between the contrast of matte black and shiny blue. You were no professional superhero costume critic, but it was a nice little touch.

Dick’s tired sigh snapped you out of your thoughts. It was a grim reminder that — oh, yeah — you’re about to get chewed out by your vigilante kind-of-older-brother… at an ungodly hour. “Kid,” he began, the chastising tone you were becoming more and more acquainted with lacing every word, “you can’t keep forgetting to lock everything like that. What if I was some crook, or kidnapper, or worse?”

“Good thing it was just Nightwing coming through my window to give me a heart attack,” you humorlessly mused.

Though you couldn’t see underneath the mask, you knew he was giving you that one unamused stare you’re all too familiar with. “(Y/N), I’m serious. This is about your safety, your life, even. If something bad happens while I’m out, I won’t be able to protect you. For god’s sake, kid. I could be on the other side of Blüdhaven while you’re getting taken, or murdered, or whatever!!” He took a moment to heave another sigh. “Just… promise me you’ll lock your window next time, alright? Please.”

All you could do was wordlessly nod. After taking some time to process what he was saying, you admittedly felt bad. He was right; neglecting to lock your window like that could very well mean death in Blüdhaven. It’s not like growing up in Gotham is any different, so you knew this fact very well. Maybe your time at the manor caused you to become less careful, as it’s unlikely any criminals are hitting up the Wayne residence anytime soon; and it’s not like any of them know about the Bat-level security, either.

A springy click echoed through your room, and you looked up to see Dick inspecting your window (you’ve long stopped questioning how he just teleports like that). After deeming it to be safe, he softly padded towards your door. His hand was on the knob, but he seemed a bit hesitant to turn it. Then, almost as an afterthought, he looked at you over his shoulder and said, “goodnight, kiddo.”

“… Goodnight,” you mumbled.

He was out the door.

Click.

Now alone in your room, you could finally replay what just happened. Dear Big Bro Dickybird just gave you the scare of a lifetime, chastised you about being irresponsible, and left to assumingly go to bed (though you’re not sure if that man actually sleeps or not). The conversation — well, more like lecture — played in your mind, repeating on loop like a broken record… because of course your mind wanted to make you feel guiltier than you already did.

That’s when something weird stuck out to you.

“You can’t keep forgetting to lock everything like that.”

… Keep?

As far as you knew, that was your first time actually forgetting…

So... how did he know?

Thwack.

Before you could even begin to register whatever the fuck just hit your forehead, a teasingly dry voice rang out from above. “Your handwriting really sucks, y'know."

With furrowed brows to showcase your confusion, you forced yourself to sit upright on the couch. A small notepad fell from your chest to the floor, the pages sprawled out from the metal spiral to reveal your list of things you wanted from the store. “I was writing fast,” you grumbled.

"Sure you were," cooed Dick with a less-than-friendly smirk. He then cocked his head to the side, arms crossing over his chest. "Wanted a change of scenery or something?"

You felt your face scrunch up. "What does that mean?"

"You usually watch your dumb little YouTube videos in your room," he explained. "Not sprawled out on my couch."

Honestly, you weren't even going to question how he knew that. Maybe it was that dumb Bat-detective intuition, or the fact that you probably need to start turning the volume on your phone down a notch (thin walls, remember?). Rolling your eyes, you situated yourself so that you were once again lounging comfortably on the couch. "Trying to tell me something, bucko?"

"Yeah, actually." Before you knew it, you were being ripped away from the cushions, an indignant yelp leaving your lips as you dangled mid-air from your legs. You had to adjust to your new upside-down view in order to throw Dick an incredulous glare. The bastard merely offered a shit-eating grin, simply stating, "get off my couch."

"... Could've just told me that," you spat out.

He began to walk you out of the living room. "You wouldn't of listened."

"Wha-- I totally would've!"

"Somehow, I doubt that."

Whatever retort you wanted to throw at him dissolved into a heavy OOMF as he dropped you onto the floor. You found yourself glaring up at him once more as he swiped invisible dust off of his hands, giving you a champion smirk before heading back in the living. You managed to orient yourself into an awkward squat just in time to see him confidently throw himself into the couch cushions.

That asshole just kicked you out of your spot.

You were not about to let that slide.

With an animalistic yell, you began to gallop — yes, gallop; it was a weird mix of running and crawling, as you were already on the floor — at him full speed. He barely had time to react to your charge (as you victoriously noted from his surprised OOF as you pounced on him), and within seconds, the both of you were locked into a fight to the death. Dick might've had the upper hand when it came to combat technique, but what you lacked in experience, you made up in dedication as you tried your damned hardest to push him off of the couch.

"Hey," he wheezed out. "Quit it, you little freak!!"

"You quit it," was your breathy reply. "I was here first!!"

"But it's my couch!!"

"Didn't see you using it!!"

"Just 'cuz I was getting your dumbass groceries!!"

"You were out for a whole-ass hour!!"

Despite giving it your all, the battle was beginning to turn against you as Dick managed to wrestle your upper body between his forearm and bicep. He eventually managed to pin your viciously kicking legs under his arm, and looking back on it, the scene probably looked reminiscent of a zookeeping holding down a trashing crocodile. This didn't deter you however, as you began to gnaw at his forearm, drawing a sound of disgust from your captor. "I had to spend, like, 30 minutes trying to decipher your shit handwriting," he scoffed. "Now can you just accept defeat and stop biting me!?"

You tried to respond with something along the lines of, "not until you give me my spot back," but it came out as garbled nonsense with your mouth full of his forearm. He aggressively told you to repeat yourself (probably under the pretense that you were giving him some major lip), and during the time you relieved his skin of your teeth to say something much worse than you initially did, a cheerful little tune began to play from Dick's pocket.

"... Hold that thought," he murmured.

Respectfully, you kept still and allowed him to use one of his hands to fish his phone out of his hoodie (you thought about using this as an opportunity to escape, but that would go against the unspoken rules of battle). He squinted his eyes to read the caller ID, only to heave a frustrated groan. “Bruce,” he curtly informed you. You were about to ask if he wanted some privacy, when he suddenly released you from his hold and sent you careening towards the ground. So, taking that as an answer, you scrambled off of the floor and headed towards your room, phone somehow materializing in your hand in the process.

From your room, the call sounded so faint.

… Maybe the walls weren’t as thin as you initially thought they were.

You let out a jet of hot air through your teeth. “The hell is taking him so long?”

The time was 3:50, but Dick’s old car was nowhere to be seen in your school’s parking lot. You shot hit a text 5 minutes ago that has yet to be read, and if you were being honest, you were more anxious than annoyed. Dick was never late to pick-up. Late to drop-off, sure (there was one time you showed up to school at 11:25 due to him sleeping in from a late-night drug bust, and you got the pleasure of making up an embarrassing excuse at the expense of Dick’s pride to the front office), but never pick-up.

So, this meant one of two things; he’s finally forgotten about you, or there’s an emergency.

Just as you were debating on checking the local news, your phone buzzed in your hand, screen lighting up to reveal a message from Bastard. You could feel your apprehension melting away as you unlocked your phone to read his message:

robbery going on

… Ah. That explains the spike in police siren activity going on around you.

You were about to shoot him a classic, “what the fuck” text, but his typing bubble popped up. After a second, another message followed:

gonna be late

Okay, now you decided to send your, “what the fuck.”

The read status under your text didn’t show up until a few minutes later (because that’s what you needed in this moment; more anxiety), and he immediately got to typing.

sorry kiddo

stay put

be there in a sec

Your shaky fingers managed to type him a message along the lines of, “be careful, good luck,” which was left unread by him. A snake of apprehension began to squeeze at your lungs, making it harder and harder to breathe. You had to force yourself to suck in a good bit of air to calm your nerves. Maybe he was just busy kicking some ass, that’s all. He’s stopping a whole-ass robbery from happening, so it’s not like he can keep up with your messages. Besides, he told you he would be there “in a sec,” so he’s probably wrapping everything up now.

Calm down, (Y/N), you scolded yourself. Your brother is Nightwing. He’ll be fine.

That’s when you witnessed an explosion light up the sky.

It was distant, but big enough to send a low rumble through the ground. You watched in absolute horror as the violent orange and yellow dissipated from behind the cityscape, leaving an inky trail of smoke behind as its calling card. More and more sirens of different origins — police, fire, ambulance — were overlapping in a terrible harmony, though it was hard to process from the brazen ringing in your ears, clogging your brain out from the outside world.

Oh, shit.

What if that was—?!

You desperately fumbled with your phone, unlocking it to reveal your still unread message to Dick. You were hoping for some sort of sorry about that text, or at the very least to see his typing bubble, but you were met with radio silence. Apprehension became pure fear when your thoughts began to race. Something bad happened to Dick. There’s no way in hell an explosion happened coincidentally, so something bad just happened.

Not good, not good, not good at all…!!

It took longer than you wanted to get your fingers to type something:

Dick??

Dick, you okay??

I saw that, are you okay??

Dick??

… Nothing.

You resorted to calling him.

… Beeeeeeeeep…

“Come on,” you muttered. “Come on, come on, come on, pick up—!!”

… Beeeeeeeep…

…

“Hey, you’ve reached the voice mail of Dick Grayson, just shoot me a text and I’ll—”

You hung up.

This was bad. This was so bad. Something bad is happening, and you’re not even sure if Dick’s okay. Hell, you saw how big that explosion was. Is he even fucking alive?!

You couldn’t help but utter a watery, “no…”

You’re not going through this again.

Without a second to spare, your legs began to carry you forward in a full sprint. You weren’t exactly sure where the explosion went off, and it’s not like you’re all that familiar with Blüdhaven just yet to know where any possible candidates for a robbery could be, but you followed the smoke pillars like a beacon, gauging how close you were based on the surrounding sirens. People stood like statues on the sidewalks to ogle at evidence of destruction wafting through the sky, and no cars dared to run you over as you cut through the streets.

“Come on, Dick,” you said between huffs. “Please— please be okay..!!”

He had to be okay.

You couldn’t lose someone else in your life.

#❥ TW: YANDERE #❥ LIFE WITH OLDER BROTHER #❥ YANDERE CHARACTER #❥ PLATONIC YANDERE #❥ YANDERE DICK GRAYSON #❥ YANDERE DICK GRAYSON X READER

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eepyuii · 1 year ago

Text

frostbite — pt. 1

pairing ; childe x gender neutral!reader

content ; childhood friends to “rivals” to lovers, slowburn-ish

cw ; some swearing, mentions of wounds & medical stuff, dottore warning (?) he doesn’t exactly do anything but y’know- it’s dottore, sort of proofread

note ; i am so scared, i’ve never posted anything like this on tumblr or at all LMFAO this is my first fic ever and very self indulgent. ive already posted 5 chapters of this on ao3 but i was curious as to how the tumblr ajax kissers would react to it. im sorry if this sort of info tab isn’t very descriptive, im just basing it off what i’ve seen from the viewer’s perspective.

ALSO, for context- tetya= aunt and dyadya= uncle in russian!

constructive criticism is appreciated!

next part | masterlist

“hey, watch your step! snow’s gotten harder and slippier these days…”

“yes, sir!”

“yes, father!”

just as the warning rings out, it’s followed by the dry crunch of heavy boots against snow. it’s not the same soft sound as it was a month or so ago, rather it sounds almost as if the ice gnashes aggressively at the leather boots.

it gnaws at your ears painfully, though you’ve been sensitive to such sounds for as long as you could remember, yet you still flinch.

ajax notices right away. he always does.

“here,” he goes, the cloud of his warm breath visible. turning your head toward the boy, you see that he’s handing you his earmuffs.

a sheepish grin invades your lips as you wordlessly take him up on his offer. mind rid of the god awful crush of the snow, you come up with a brilliant idea.

“last one there’s a rotten catch!” you charge onwards with a laugh.

“ah, n-not again!”

ajax’s father only watches from behind as his son hurries to catch up, a defeated sigh leaves him. “these kids…”

said kids were already reaching the lake clearing at that point. the frozen water already has its own layer of fresh-fallen snow, making it seem like an entire new tundra- that is, until you and ajax brashly create footmarks and snow angels on the surface while his father is still yet to catch up. if he’d been closer you would’ve heard the old man’s grumbles about having to carry all the fishing gear.

thankfully, there were no rotten catches that day.

your best friend’s laughter and your very own echo in your head like bells in an empty chapel, uninvitedly. the entire memory is instead invited by the sight of a father on the street with his own children, he carries a bucket and fishing rods as the youngins run ahead excitedly. you conclude that you should’ve left for zapolyarny palace earlier today.

this morning cannot start off on a bad note, not when the doctor had meticulously scheduled an operation for this very day with your presence prerequisited.

you’re acutely aware of this.

you’re still acutely aware of this when you slam your work bag onto the desk with such force that even the fatui guard monitoring the palace hallway jumps.

and you’re still acutely aware of this when you almost bump into one of your boss’s segments on your way to the operation room, a most certain death that would be if you did bump into him. even as you break your stress fueled stride, the segment blocks the path forward.

“if i didn’t know any better, i would assume this is your first day on your first job. ever.”

you furrow your eyebrows confusedly while the segment coldly scrutinizes you top to bottom.

“even the lowliest of fatui recruits know that the first thing one should do after clocking in is get into the proper uniform.” he indicates with a snark in his tone.

ah- your lab coat.

“yes sir. my apologies.” with a haste in your step previously thought impossible to achieve without actually sprinting, you beeline straight to your office, which is conveniently on the other side of a very long hallway from the operation room. so long, in fact, that it gives enough time for a certain someone to slink into the office room without you even seeing it.

you don’t notice him even as you’re already inside the room. well, how could you with such tunnel vision, powered by your early-morning frustration and innate fear of disappointing the doctor. you’re practically out the door with lab coat in hand when he finally quips.

“uhm, doc?” the voice is shaky but still impossible to not recognize.

god dammit.

the tsaritsa was truly not on your side today. with a deep inhale, you do your best to keep a neutral expression as you turn around to face the head of red hair that haunts your dreams. or rather nightmares.

“how may i help you, lord tartaglia?” you still hated that title.

“well heh… this is the head nurse’s office, i believe you can help me by exerting the very function of this room?” the harbinger puts on a friendly front, acting like he can’t feel your burning glare. within it, you start to gauge at what’s brought him here, few surface-level scratches and even fewer cuts that are ever so slightly deeper present on him.

“i’m afraid i’m running late for an important appointment with the doctor, you’ll have to ask one of my subordinates.” you state matter-of-factly and start turning to leave again.

“w-wait, please!” he reaches out to stop you and the hand lands on your bicep, rather than your wrist which would’ve been a quicker latch. huh. “let me talk to him afterwards, he’ll understand. plus, i’m your boss as much as he is.”

“you’re quite literally not.”

“yeah, i’m not. still your boss though.”

childe is not of as high authority over you as the doctor is, afterall you’re one of the doctor’s assigned assistants, but the way he talks so casually and… playfully makes him seem even less bossy. but you don’t allow yourself anymore time to dwell on it, instead you roll your eyes and give in. your boss almost giddily sits on the examination bed.

the sterilized silk gloves slide snugly onto your palms as you look your patient up and down.

“how did you even manage to get yourself roughed up so early in the morning?”

“it’s never too early in the morning for a spar! though- hah… even i didn’t expect to take this many free hits.”

“who were you sparring?”

“eh, some junior lieutenants at the northwest wing. there were some new recruits there too so i figured i’d set an example for ‘em.”

northwest wing..? you visibly pause at the revelation.“that’s… on the other side of zapolyarny palace.”

“so?”

“so there’s nurses there too.”

childe himself seems to pause then- you were catching onto him. he realizes he must think about his next actions as carefully as humanly possible.

“ahah… a-are there?”

good one, ajax.

you look down at the alcohol-soaked cotton ball sitting snugly between your tweezers and then up to a scratch right above childe’s eyebrow- seems like the perfect time to treat your patient. the sting comes before the harbinger can even react and much to his dismay, you keep the cotton ball on his forehead even as attempts to lean away from it.

“childe tartaglia,” you start, voice menacing and low. “did you orchestrate a sparring session with low-rank officers and get yourself injured on purpose to come see me?”

“a-ah ouch!” childe hisses. “surely you w-wouldn’t commit medical malpractice over something as trivial as this?” clearly he forgets who you work for, or pretends to at least.

“start talking.”

“okay, okay! yes, i did all that…” the red head sulks with a defeated sigh. pleased by the confession, you move away with your alcohol cotton ball of doom and give him space.

you watch the tsaritsa’s weapon of war crumple into himself, looking off into a meaningless corner of the room.

“i… i’m being stationed to liyue tomorrow.” his voice is entirely different from what it was when this entire ordeal began- quiet, hesitant.

“and?” is your response before you can even think about how douchey it sounds. it’s already too late when you see childe deflate even more and feel like you just kicked a puppy.

“and i wanted to come and give you the news.”

really? that’s all he wanted from this?

“then why go through all this effort of sparring newbies at practically the ass crack of dawn and lose? why not just come here and tell me at once?”

he scoffs bitterly. “like you’d talk to me under normal circumstances.”

the regret you were feeling from your cruel response from earlier quickly bleeds out into incredulousness.

“you haven’t talked to me under normal circumstances since we were fourteen.” you stab back and childe bites his tongue, he won’t retaliate this time. the rest of the appointment is spent in the deadliest of silences as you finish tending to his “injuries”. neither of you ever look up to face the other.

you pack up quickly as to haul ass from the office room as soon as possible. but not before you mutter stoically- “have fun in liyue.”

and childe is left to sit pathetically on the bed and contemplate his astronomical failure.

—

what a wretched week.

the days seem to take a thousand years each to end, the laboratory feels stuffier, the people less tolerable and you swear the pen in your hand feels heavier than a lead ingot.

“are you done sulking?”

oh yeah, there’s also the ruthless fatui harbinger you work under and the equally insulting bajillion copies of him. you know bajillion is a gross overestimation but you also gave up keeping track of how many segments the doctor has a long time ago, they’re bossy all the same.

“not sulking, sir, just… thinking.”

“thinking about the medical records you’re supposed to be overseeing surely?” he taunts and you can only scoff non-committedly.

said medical records were mere reports on several of the doctor’s past experiments and operations, arguably not worth such a commitment of your time or worth a hackling from your boss. either way the words and paragraphs had merged into blurred lines and incomprehensible messes in your eyes about ten minutes ago, you were only pretending to be doing something at this point.

the irresistible force of your boredom drives your gaze to anywhere but the papers in front of you, eventually settling onto a corkboard hung up on a farther wall of the doctor’s laboratory. tired retinas struggle to focus on the blueprints that are stuck onto the corkboard but they seem to have rough sketchings of… body parts? they’re definitely not human, no, instead the drawings indicate they’re robotical. on another blueprint is an unfinished rendering of the full robot body. the shape language is unconventionally stylized, to a point where they almost resemble traditional inazuman patterns or even… the patterns on scaramouches robes-

“l-lord dottore!! i have an u-urgent matter sent by lord pierro himself.”

huh?

“out with it. quick.” the segment doesn’t even bother to face the stammering officer that had bursted through the door right then.

“u-uhm… some of our liyue informants have reported t-that rex lapis suddenly p-perished during the rite of descension,”

huh?

“rex lapis, dying? well,” he drawls amusedly. “that would certainly be a sight. but how exactly does this development concern me? is the banker not available?”

“w-well y-yes… lord pierro specifically requested for your word on the matter a-and perhaps see if one of your s-subordinates could… be on-site?”

dottore’s segment lets out an exasperated sigh while a gloved hand goes up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “unfortunately it doesn’t surprise me that the collective surplus amount of agents we have stationed in liyue harbor proves to be utterly incompetent to the point where the jester himself would come to me for help.”

a feeling of dread settles in your chest as you try to digest the insane information you’ve been given-

rex lapis, the oldest of the seven archons of teyvat, is dead.

pierro, the head of the fatui harbingers, is requesting dottore to send one of his subordinates to investigate the scene.

that’s you, you’re dottore’s subordinate.

which means you’ll be sent to investigate an archon’s death. in liyue.

that’s where he is.

your head feels like it’ll explode any second now. the segment, ever so brilliantly clever like his prime version, seems to have the same idea as you and beams a sharp-toothed sadistic grin.

“why my assistant here does seem to be available, wouldn’t you say?” he turns a serpentine stare over to you.

“err… i don’t think i could leave my post here, sir, i am the head nurse after all-“

“nonsense, i doubt the bumbling idiots of this palace will find themselves into anything more troublesome than a papercut while you’re gone.”

oh the irony of hearing that after your… situation the other day. you huff defeatedly, standing up to start packing for your impromptu trip. the mysterious blueprints in the laboratory long forgotten.

—

morepesok hasn’t changed a bit since you left.

which, as much as you love your hometown, isn’t saying much- morepesok is as uneventful as it gets. in such a small seaside snezhnayan village, the only points of interest are the painfully traditional values of fishing and family.

the visit to your parents’ house is brief but comforting, some teary goodbyes and heartfelt words about how pleased and proud they are of what you’ve accomplished for yourself- achieving such a high position in the fatui ranks by merely helping people. you don’t even consider telling them about the doctor.

but what makes you feel worse is the visit to ajax’s family home. it’s like the house has been frozen in time, the place where you spent years of your childhood is intact and unchanged- except for some newer family pictures, of course.

teucer, tonia and anthon are the ones to greet you first, then ajax’s parents come along. huh… ajax. you hadn’t even noticed the switch your brain does whenever you’re back home. here, he’s ajax but in zapolyarny palace, he’s childe or tartaglia. but there’s no time to dig yourself a deeper hole in that topic because you’re presently being pampered like a very own daughter of the house by his parents.

“my dear, look at you! you look so grown and mature… have you been eating well?” his mother walks up to cup your cheeks with the most genuine parental love. she, like the rest of the environment, looks exactly as you remember her, with a few newer white strands betwixt her bright orange curls. well, remember is a strong word.

“tetya, it’s only been a few months since we’ve seen each other, i’m all the same.” you laugh and she reciprocates.

“yes yes, i know… and- oh! as a matter of fact, we saw ajax just this week, said he was being transferred to a northland bank all the way in liyue!”

and when you thought you could not feel shittier about this.

“it is a shame to have our ajax so far from home so suddenly but at least we still have you, dearest!” she grins, pinching your cheek with more vigor than you’ve seen apparent in fatui sergeants.

“hey!” the three younger siblings call out in unison.

“yeah, a-about that, tetya…” you start hesitantly. “i’m… also being transferred to liyue. there have been some unexpected developments and i’ll just be on field to check up on things.”

ajax’s mother huffs incredulously. “by the tsaritsa’s name! they must hate mothers over at that palace!” she shakes her head with disappointment. “speaking of which, have you gone to see your parents yet?” you only nod. “good good… well anyhow, are you in a hurry, dear? i could make you some hot chocolate and then you’re free to be on your way.”

how could you ever deny your tetya’s hot chocolate?

the rest of your stay in the household is spent chatting with the family and playing games with the younger kids, as well as drinking a cup of hot chocolate so delicious you almost cry. the afternoon is nearing its end when you’re walking out the door and teucer is bawling his eyes out at your departure, or maybe he’s just tuckered out.

“have a safe trip, kiddo.” ajax’s father pats you on the shoulder firmly.

“thanks, dyadya, i will.”

“oh! and take care of ajax, make sure he doesn’t get in over his head.” this time it’s tonia who pipes up and the rest of the family nods in agreement.

“bye bye, everyone!” you’re already at the house’s front fence, waving back as fiercely as you can.

the only thing you don’t notice is the knowing look that is shared between tonia and her mother when she mentions ajax.

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hopepetal · 1 year ago

Text

Part One | Part Two | Part Three (you are here!)

Read on ao3!

Masterlist

Reblogs and comments are much appreciated! :)

@applestruda

Impulse had never really had any trouble getting to sleep.

Sure, it was a different story during the occasional “sleepover” with the rest of the knights, when they talked for hours and then passed out under the stars, but for the most part, Impulse was a good sleeper. A light one, but he had no trouble getting to sleep at all. Spending most of his day out and exercising consistently had its perks, after all.

Over the past week or so, however, Impulse had been having a bit of trouble. Not with falling asleep, or even staying asleep as he sometimes did. He found himself falling asleep and waking up at the same times as he always did, but with one issue.

Impulse was exhausted.

He would wake up from a long rest and feel as though he’d hardly slept a wink. The exhaustion would continue throughout the day, clouding his mind and pulling at his limbs like a lead weight. At first, he just chalked it up to overdoing it in his training, or maybe not going to sleep early enough. But as the days went by and the exhaustion got worse and worse, Impulse found that he was beginning to fray at the edges, breaking down bit by bit.

Finally, after nearly falling asleep during lunch time, Impulse asked the rest of the knights for help.

“I just…” He gestured helplessly at nothing in particular. “I don’t know what to do. Nothing seems to fix this.”

Pearl shared a concerned glance with Grian, who had actually woken up early for once. Not that he had been very happy about it, but nonetheless, here he was. “And you’ve tried going to bed earlier, yeah?” Pearl asked, to which Impulse nodded. “Hmm… this could be a real issue, mate. That’s not good.”

“Do you think it’s insomnia?” Grian asked, and Impulse shrugged.

“I’ve been falling asleep perfectly fine,” he explained, “and I’ve had no trouble at all staying asleep. It’s just… my sleep isn’t good.”

Scar leaned forward. “I was gonna go visit Cub today, if you’d like to come with me,” he offered, “he’ll probably know what’s going on, and have something for you.”

Impulse let out a shaky sigh, and nodded. “Yeah. That sounds good. Thank you, Scar.” It had been a while since he had seen Cub, as well. It would be nice to say hi, maybe catch up a little. “When were you thinking of heading out?”

Scar smiled. “Just after lunch! Not that we have to rush, of course, but I’d like to get there before the night falls,” he joked, “we all know that you and I would be defenseless– defenseless, I say!– against the big baddies of the night.”

Mumbo looked very concerned for a moment. “Don’t you have a bow, Scar?”

“Of course he does,” Grian piped up, “he’s just being silly.”

Pearl sighed, though she was smiling. “I hope everything goes well, Impulse. Sleep is very important, y’know.”

“Well you would know that, wouldn’t you,” Grian muttered, squawking when Pearl smacked him with one of her wings. “Oh, you–!”

Pearl jumped back from the table and took off into the air, Grian following close behind. Impulse watched them with raised eyebrows and a smile, before glancing over at Scar. “I think that’s our cue to head out.”

Scar giggled, nodding in agreement. “Take her out, Grian!” he shouted up to the two, before Impulse decided now was probably a good time to drag him away before he got involved as well.

They left Mumbo, who looked rather terrified to be in this whole situation, to keep watch over camp and make sure Grian and Pearl didn’t accidentally destroy everything. It probably wasn’t going to happen, but better safe than sorry.

The horses were unusually vocal as Impulse and Scar approached the stables, and Impulse’s horse even backed away from him before he was able to calm it down.

“Maybe the storm last night got them spooked,” Scar pointed out, “or maybe there were mobs around last night.” He sounded a little more unconvinced on the second one, and Impulse didn’t blame him. Not only were the stables a well lit area, but Grian and Pearl seemed to have a secret sixth sense when it came to knowing when mobs were around.

With that little setback out of the way, Impulse and Scar set off to Cub’s house. He wasn’t very far away from them– far enough to warrant needing a horse, especially when one was exhausted, but not far enough to make the trip unbearably long. Still, Impulse wasn’t exactly feeling the best, and his responses to Scar’s idle chatter weren’t very interesting.

Finally, they made it to their destination, and left their horses in the same place they always did. Scar didn’t even bother knocking, announcing his arrival by throwing the door open and calling out, “honey, I’m home!”

Impulse followed Scar in, making sure to carefully shut the door behind him. As soon as he walked into the small, cottage-esque type building, he was hit with the smell of drying herbs and greenery. It always managed to astound him how Cub lived in such a dry environment but kept his house and the area around it so lush and vibrant.

Everything looked to be relatively the same to how it had been when Impulse had last visited Cub. The wall where he kept his dried herbs was plastered with even more recipes than the last time, with notes scribbled on the papers in unintelligible handwriting. The desks were just a little messy as always– Cub was never one to leave his work for long, so he really never saw the point in putting it away. The only area that was truly immaculate was the area where he made his potions, and the cozy spot he always kept available for patients, should the need arise.

Cub appeared from around the corner, holding some books. “Hello, Scar– oh, Impulse, too. What’s happening?” he asked almost immediately after, suspicious.

Impulse laughed wearily. “Hi, Cub. Can’t a man say hello without needing anything?”

Cub sighed, placing down his books on the desk. “Mm, not when it comes to you knights.” His small smile told Impulse he was only teasing, and he leaned against the desk. “Also, you look terrible, man.” He looked Impulse up and down, his smile dropping slightly. There was something akin to concern in his eyes, but something deeper there as well.

“Thanks,” Impulse muttered, before glancing over at Scar. “Is it really that bad?”

Scar grimaced slightly. “Let’s just say you didn’t always have bags under your eyes.”

Cub hummed softly, already looking through some of the herbs on his wall and going through the recipes stuck on there. “You’ve been experiencing insomnia?” he asked, not even turning back to glance at Impulse.

“Not exactly,” Impulse clarified, “I’ve been getting sleep, but I always wake up feeling exhausted. It’s been happening every night for the past week or so, and I just… I don’t know what to do anymore. Scar suggested coming here for help, so…”

Cub nodded. “Mhm. Okay, I getcha, I getcha. There’s quite a few things that could cause this. High stress, not drinking enough water, a nutrient deficiency… the list goes on.” He began to gather some herbs, having clearly found the recipe he needed. “Say, Scar,” he said casually while placing ingredients into his brewing stand, “would you mind summoning Jellie? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

Scar grinned. “Of course, my good man! I’ll bet she’s been missing you, too. C’mere, Jellie!”

As soon as the blue furred familiar was summoned into existence, something in Impulse screamed “danger, danger, get out of there” with such ferocity that he sucked in a breath and stepped back. Clearly, the feeling was mutual for Jellie, because the minute she saw him, she hissed. Something that Impulse was almost certain she had only ever done to those she considered a “threat”.

Scar instantly scooped Jellie up into his arms, scolding her. “Bad girl! Bad Jellie! That is a friend! We don’t hiss at friends!”

Cub said nothing, but Impulse felt his gaze rest on him for a moment before he went back to making the potion. “I’m going to give you enough to last for a week. I want you to take some before you go to sleep every night. Come back after a week, or if things get worse.”

Impulse was still on edge, but hearing that did help to ease his nerves. “Thanks, Cub.” He glanced over at Scar and Jellie, who was still very displeased with his presence. “I’ve just been feeling so awful lately. I really hope this works.”

“Of course man, of course,” Cub responded absentmindedly, finishing up the potion. “Alright. Here it is.” He handed the potion to Impulse, who carefully stored it in his bag. “Scar, has everything been alright?”

“As well as it has been!” Scar answered cheerfully, still holding Jellie close. “I’m doing great, really. Mostly came here just to say hi and help out Impulse over here. And I missed you, of course.”

Cub just gave Scar a smile. “You could visit more often, man.”

“Very good point, very good point…”

Impulse excused himself to step outside while the two chatted, feeling much better once he was outside and away from… whatever had happened, inside that house. He could feel the demon lingering in his mind– it wasn’t speaking, but it was there, and Impulse wasn’t sure if that was something he liked.

Eventually Scar did come back out of the house, Jellie nowhere in sight. Impulse assumed Scar had dismissed her, but didn’t bring it up. They said goodbye to Cub and then mounted up, beginning the ride home in silence.

“I’m sorry about that whole… Jellie thing,” Scar eventually said, “she’s never… I don’t know why she’s acting like that.”

Impulse shrugged. “Don’t worry about it, really. I promise I’m not taking any offense to it. Cats are finicky, you know.” But Jellie wasn’t a normal cat. Impulse tried to forget about that. “Thanks for coming out with me.”

“Of course!” Scar chirped, “glad to be of service!”

When they got back to camp, Impulse was glad to see that Grian and Pearl hadn’t destroyed anything– though Mumbo was looking a little more frazzled than usual. The sun was just beginning to set, and Impulse and Scar had their dinner together while they caught up on the day’s events with Grian.

Right before bed, as instructed, Impulse took a dose of the medicine Cub had made for him. The exhaustion that had been weighing him down all week came crashing back into focus, and Impulse was hardly able to keep his eyes open long enough for him to put away the bottle and lay down.

That night, he dreamt of falling from a great height.

–

The medicine did not work.

At first, Impulse thought maybe he hadn’t taken enough. So he took more the next night. And the next. Until finally, the medicine that was supposed to last him a week was emptied in four days.

It got to the point where he slept in later than Grian after falling asleep earlier than Pearl. When he woke up, feeling as though he hadn’t slept a wink, Impulse could barely stop tears of frustration from welling up in his eyes and spilling over, anxiety and anger sitting tight in his chest and making him gasp for air.

He had lost the will and the energy to train, just barely able to pull himself out of bed and get something to eat. Not that he could even eat much anymore– food was unappetizing, and Impulse found himself eating less and less.

The other knights were more than a little concerned, particularly Pearl. She’d asked Impulse if he needed any help, or wanted to talk, or if there was anything she could do. Impulse had just shaken his head and told her it wasn’t anything she could help with.

On more than one occasion, Impulse considered going back to Cub. But something about that made every fiber of his being recoil in a mixture of fear and disgust. Impulse wasn’t sure if it was directed toward Cub, or toward himself for being so weak.

He was almost certain it was the latter.

–

Scar was definitely worried.

I mean, who wouldn’t be? His friend was clearly going through something really difficult, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. What he thought was going to work clearly wasn’t helping, and Impulse was just getting worse by the day.

…the fact that Jellie had hissed at Impulse was also cause for concern. She had never done that before– not at Impulse, or any of Scar’s friends. Only at those she deemed untrustworthy and dangerous. Honestly, Scar wouldn’t have been surprised had she hissed at him, even. He was dangerous!

But still. The fact that Jellie had even hissed at Impulse at all wasn’t something Scar was going to take lightly. Especially not when Impulse had clearly not been himself for the past… however long it had been. Almost two weeks, maybe.

When things got a little too crazy, Scar usually ended up sitting on the ground and staring out at nothing, lost in his own thoughts. Sometimes he stood up, if he was feeling a little restless. Today was one of those days where he was too restless to sit, and decided that standing was a much better option.

It was a nice day out. Warm, with a breeze coming from the south that promised rain later that day. Scar liked the rain, but knew Grian and Pearl weren’t all too pleased. Which, fair, wings getting wet was a nightmare, but it wasn’t like they were going to melt! Now that would be scary.

Caught up in his thoughts, Scar was too busy thinking about whether it was possible for people to melt to pay attention to the world around him. That was, until a visceral feeling of panic shot through him, and Scar tensed up. He could feel the vex magic swirl around inside him, rising up in a reactive response to the pure bloodlust coming from someone, something.

It was right behind him. He had to– had to run there was no running no running from this you can’t escape you can’t hide– had to fight impossible you stand no chance it’s hopeless you’ve lost the minute it’s seen you you’re dead–

“Hey, Scar?”

Scar whipped around, fear striking like lightning and setting his mind ablaze with panic. Vex magic roared in his ears like a war cry, and Scar felt himself start to shift…

…when he saw Impulse standing there, exhausted and confused and too human to be able to hurt him.

Impulse frowned, gesturing at his hair. “Uh… are you okay…?” he asked, and Scar looked up to see that his hair had just begun to turn white, though it was slowly fading back to the normal brown.

Scar carded his fingers through his hair, trying to pull it away from his face and cover the still white strands. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, I… don’t? Know? Why that happened? I guess I just got really spooked.” Liar. And not even a good one at that.

Impulse didn’t believe him. Who would? Scar could deceive and manipulate and swindle, but he crumbled in the face of his friends. “...yeah. Uh. I just– nevermind. I’m…” He took a few steps back. “I’m gonna go.”

Scar watched Impulse walk away, and was left with the lingering feeling that he messed something up big time.

Which is why he found himself back at Cub’s house, later that day, as storm clouds gathered over the sky as an omen of rain.

“I just don’t know what it means,” he complained to Cub over a cup of tea. “I felt some weird awful feeling? But it was just Impulse, and Impulse is like… he’s Impulse!”

Cub hummed softly in thought. “I wouldn’t exactly…” He stood, walking over to his desk and picking up a book. “Do you remember the last time you were here?” he asked, sitting back down and opening the book, flipping through the pages. “I asked you to summon Jellie.”

Scar frowned, nodding. “Yeah. And she hissed at Impulse. I’ve been thinking about that, actually, and I don’t really know what it means.”

Cub continued flipping through the pages, not looking up. “Can you summon her again?” he asked absentmindedly, “I’d like to see something.”

Scar summoned Jellie, and she curled up in his lap, purring happily. He looked up at Cub, who was staring at Jellie with a contemplative gaze. “She’s perfectly fine now,” he explained, “it’s just…”

“Just around Impulse? Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’ve been seeing.” Cub stopped flipping through the pages of the book, fixing his glasses on his nose before running his finger down the text. “Has Impulse been acting odd recently?” he asked. “How about animals? Have they been reacting poorly to his presence? Nervous, wary…?”

Scar thought back through the past two weeks. “...now that you mention it, yeah. It… the horses, they were pretty spooked when we tried to ride, and obviously Jellie…” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh! I don’t think we mentioned this, but we kinda figured out why Impulse was feeling so restless? Or, at least, we think something’s the reason?”

Cub’s eyebrows furrowed. “Mmhm?”

“Grian saw Impulse out sleepwalking, and we’re pretty sure this has happened more than once,” Scar explained, gesturing vaguely with his hand as he spoke. “I don’t… think… anyone has mentioned it… to Impulse himself…? Which, now that I’m thinking about it, that’s kinda weird.”

Cub leaned forward. “I see, I see. Perhaps you felt an instinctual push to stay away? Something that told you that there was danger nearby?”

Scar nodded. “Yeah, exactly that!” He paused. “Wait, do you know what’s going on?”

“Not quite.” Cub closed the book. “But I have an idea. I want you to keep an eye on Impulse for me, alright? Make sure he doesn’t do anything to hurt himself. And be careful, alright? I don’t want to see you get hurt again, man.” Not when the scars from last time have just barely healed.

“Will do, mister!” Scar gave Cub a mock salute. “I promise I will not die!” He paused. “...or let anyone else die!”

Cub laughed softly. “Alright, alright. I trust you. Best get back to camp before the storm sets in.”

Scar mounted up and rode home with the promise of rain lingering on his mind.

–

Impulse was upset.

And not the kind of upset that came from a slight mishap, or something inconsequential like a match not lighting the first time it was struck against the rough side of the matchbox. It was the kind of upset that began with one thing going wrong, which led to another, which led to another, and became an infinite loop of things not being right.

And he was almost certain of who was to blame, too.

“What are you doing,” he practically spat out through grit teeth and barely held back tears, “why is this happening? You didn’t– I wasn’t told about this. You lied.”

Impulse, please. Control yourself. I told you that the magic folk don’t mix too well. As I’ve grown stronger, so has my presence. It’s only natural they’d be able to sense me, even if I hadn’t done anything.

“But you did do something,” Impulse pressed, “that’s the thing. You let them know you were there! You–!” He shuddered at the mental image of Scar, hair streaked with white and eyes glowing ever so slightly blue. “You hurt my friends.”

I did nothing. You decided to stick around them.

“I…” Impulse trailed off, not knowing how to respond. Glancing around the tent, something caught his eye– the book, left unread and opened, thrown into the corner of the tent and forgotten. “Well, you’re clearly not giving me the answers I need,” he began slowly, “so I guess I have to find them on my own.” He reached for the book.

Ahhhh. I’m afraid this is where I must draw the line.

And Impulse

couldn’t

move.

With a voice that swelled loud enough to need to be silenced, the demon spoke. Forgive me, but I am afraid that I can’t let you read that book.

Impulse could do nothing but watch as his body moved on its own, puppeted by an outside force he had so stupidly allowed inside. He picked up the book and stood, stepping outside and looking around to make sure no one was nearby. With a gait that was not his own, Impulse began walking towards the area where the knights had their occasional campfire.

He couldn’t move. He was completely helpless. There was nothing he could do except watch and he was so scared, he was so scared and he should’ve asked Scar for help he should’ve reached out he–

Impulse– no, this wasn’t him, this was the demon– finally made it to the campfire, and found the box of matches the knights used to light their fires in a small chest. “Perfect,” the demon murmured in his voice, and pulled out a pile of the old newspapers placed in the chest for kindling.

The first few drops of rain began to fall, and Impulse bitterly thought of how poetic that was. Almost like the sky was crying for him, as if it even cared for him at all. Maybe it was a feeble attempt from the universe at an apology, for forgetting about him all these years.

The demon struck the match, failing to light it on the first strike. It burst into flame on the second attempt, and was tossed into the kindling. The flames took to the paper splendidly, and were soon licking up the wood. Wood that had been used in the past for the campfires all the knights sat around to chat and laugh and be happy.

Impulse could only watch as the demon used him to toss the book into the flames, which burned defiantly against the rain that began to fall more heavily.

And with that, the last of his hope burned away with it.

#my writing #boatem knights au #impulsesv #pearlescentmoon #grian #goodtimeswithscar #mumbo jumbo #cubfan135 #hermitcraft fanfic

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yallthemwitches · 5 months ago

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Catch the Wind, Ch. 10: The Answer

I love it when my useless headcanon finally finds a home in a fic! Super Fluff! Sirius! Finally some wizarding war info (oops)

Finally for info, yes, The Virgin Witch is a real movie. I highly reccomend you check it out ( or at least the poster)

AO3 Link Here (PS I love reviews and comments! Please tell me what you love and what you hate or any other feelings! Really it helps!): https://archiveofourown.org/works/57047455/chapters/147366346

“Take it down.”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“It’s inappropriate.”

“It’s my little reminder of you.”

Lily’s eyes were slits. James laid strewn over the Heads’ office couch with parchment littering around him. Just above the bureau, a static muggle film poster had appeared earlier this morning. It sported a thinly clad woman on her knees, holding a dagger mid-ecstatic moan. Inlaid in wavy lettering was the title The Virgin Witch.

“Take it down—I swear I’ll hex you.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time, Evans…”

Lily really contemplated hexing him. She wouldn’t be so angry if it wasn’t for his last comment. In fact, the only reason James knew the film existed was because he had seen the same poster up in her room back in Cokeworth.It was a good laugh to have it in the comfort of her own home, but here in the Head’s office it was a bit much.

James yawned and leaned back on the couch, his shirt rose up a bit and some of his abdomen peeked out between the fabric. Lily turned away before she could be distracted—the train ride to Hogwarts had only been yesterday and between new duties and feeling rather unsatisfied –she felt like a bomb waiting to go off.

Lily walked with her back to James towards the bureau, knowing he was following her with his eyes.

“Fine–keep the sodding thing up. But it’s hardly fair to say it reminds you of me when it's your fault—”

James shot up out of his seat and crossed the room to her. He cornered her against the bureau, placing both hands on the desk either side of her. His face was dangerously close.

“My fault huh,” He took her jaw in his hand and brushed her lips with his thumb. She knew he could feel her shiver under his hands. He was incorrigible.

“You just say the word Evans.” She expected him to kiss her. After a beat she opened her eyes to see his were tightly shut and his face was scrunched up in concentration. He made a long sigh then dropped his hand and turned away. A wave of disappointment washed over her.

“I better go get changed. My first quidditch practice of the year is soon.” He picked up the parchment off the ground and without looking at her, walked out the door.

Lily sat in the library and looked out the window. She had sat there with the intention of studying, but had found that this side happened to have a good view of the quidditch pitch. He was the size of an eraserhead, but she could spot him from anywhere. Darting back and forth on his broom, stopping midair to have a chat with the team, laughing at something with his head back and mouth agape...

She let out a loud groan and slammed her book on the table.

“Whoah, Evans. Less noise. This is a library you know.” Sirius loped his way over and pulled the seat back next to her to sit.

“What do you need Black,” it came out meaner than she had intended.

“Hmmm. Just checking in on how long you plan to torture my friend for.” Lily whipped her head up. Sirius was balancing his wand upwards between his pointer finger and the desk, smiling at her crookedly.

“I'm not torturing him. He’s torturing himself.”

“Hmm. I beg to differ.” Sirius took the book that Lily was feigning to still read and closed it.

“Look Black I—” but Sirius cut her off.

“He’s going mad, y’know. He talks about you in his sleep–I swear it, ask Peter or Remus– they are witnesses. You know he made some sodding pitiful excuse this summer to fuck off somewhere on his own? At the time I was happy for the bloke—mate needs to get his rocks off somewhere seeing as you’ve been stopping them up since 3rd year—but then he comes back and you know what he does? He sits around, whining and moaning about you. About how you won’t give him a chance. About how you are the only bird for him. Look I know I deserve hell in this world but—-”

“Wait what?” Lily was incredulous. She had given James carte blanche to tell his best mate everything, and he still didn’t know?

“Evans, keep up. Do I need to start over? Lily put a hand on Sirius' mouth.

“Jesus stop talking.”She felt something slimy and wet touch her palm.

“Fuck Black. You licked me.” She removed her hand.

“Don’t tell James he will be so jealous.” Sirius winked at her and she mumbled disgusting under her breath.

She couldn’t believe he hadn’t told him yet. Anything. She looked out the window again at the pea sized James zooming around the field. What is he playing at?

“Yoohoo, Evans. For someone as smart as yourself you have a terrible attention span.” Sirius folded his hands on the desk and leaned on them with his chin.

“To get to the point: I know you two are gonna have to be all buddy buddy now, but can you please, for everyone's sake, try to do something to make him more, I don’t know, manageable. Maybe try cutting your hair or eating a bunch of onions or something.”

Lily snorted.

“Also stop taking the piss out of him, I think he now equates it with some fucked up type of foreplay between you too.”

He’s probably not wrong. Lily said to herself, thinking about the poster incident earlier.

Black started to get up. “Well Evans, its been a pleasure, but I need to go fuck off away from you now.”

He feigned a salute and turned away from her. Lily rose from her chair.

“Black wait.” She didn’t get it. James had even said to himself how hard it was to keep things from Sirius. Why was he still doing it now that he had full permission to do so? How did that serve him in any way? Isn’t that what he wanted for them— to be a real couple?

But instead of saying all of that, she said, “You’re a good mate, y’know.”

Sirius squinted at her and a smile cracked on his face.

“A compliment? Very suspicious Evans.” He was about to turn away before two boys walked beside the table.

“Hey mudblood in chief! Who’d you shag to get such a shiny badge?” Avery called and Crouch sniggered next to him.

Sirius looked up. All of his casual ease had disappeared and he had the distinct expression of a dog on a hunt.

“I’m sure the Dark Lord will spare you for a while if you fu—”

Lily started to pull her wand, but no sooner Avery slammed against the nearest bookshelf. Crouch only had a moment to look at his friend before his eyes started to drip with blood. He let out a cutting scream. Lily hadn’t even seen Sirius move, much less perform the spells.

He turned to Lily and beamed a smile.

“Do I get the honor of first detention of the year from our esteemed Head Girl?”

Lily knew she should do something about Crouch and Avery who were in a state of panic. Blood was dripping on the ground. Mme. Pince was yelping and calling for someone to get another professor.

“I don’t know what you're talking about Black. Everything seems fine here.”

Sirius gave her a wink. “Groovy.”

________________________________________________________

Lily sat in the common room with Marlene. The word had gotten out about what happened in the library with Avery and Crouch and Lily was all but hiding from the general public in order to not field any questions. Already she had passed groups of students who were clearly whispering about her. What did they expect giving a muggleborn seniority?

“Fuck, I hate to say it but, maybe Black is a good bloke after all?” Marlene offered.

“Dunno if I’m allowed to publicly condone his behavior, but yeah—generally I’m not upset about it.” Lily tugged at her hair. She had known that when she was given the Head Girl badge, it was going to cause issues. She wasn’t an idiot—most of the Slytherin house at this point was clawing at the chance to join the Deatheaters after graduation and there was talk of the other houses starting to look away from any pro-Voldemort propaganda. Even the ministry was starting to consider once scandalous laws that could bar muggleborns from certain rights.

“Dumbledore is off his rocker if he thinks he can just sit and do nothing while students are being targeted—I mean I know you can take it Lils’ but fuck if any of those blokes start going after first years—”

The portrait hole swung open and Lily had hardly time to look up before she saw a blur of red and gold running at her. He was still in his quidditch kit and had thrown his broom to the side the second he saw her. He dropped to his knees in front of her and took her into his arms. She could smell the sweat from practice still on him.

He pulled back and cupped her face in both his hands.

“What did they do to you? Are you alright.” He kept holding her head but his eyes searched her face and upper body for injury. Around them, most of the common room had gone silent.

“Potter, people are staring,” Lily whispered.

He didn’t hear her. “I’m going to murder them, this is bloody ridiculous.”

“It was just talk–” she started, but he was too far gone.

James removed his hands and started for the portrait hole again, disregarding his broom left on the floor.

“Hey, where are you going?” Lily called after him, but he didn’t turn around. His shoulders were set and his hands clenched.

Lily got up and ran after him out the portrait hole, not taking the time to see the reaction from Marlene or any of the other Gryfindors. She sprinted to catch up with him. He was already ascending the staircase towards the transfiguration corridor.

“James, calm down—nothing happened. If anything they were worse off.” She had hoped using his name would snap him out of it, but it was no luck. He threw open McGonagall’s office door without knocking.

McGonagall sat at her desk in front of the fireplace looking at a stack of parchment. She hardly flinched as he entered with Lily close behind.

“Mr. Potter, I am well aware you know better than to–”

He cut her off.

“When is it going to be addressed? Are we just going to let them get away with it?” His voice was raised. McGonagall placed her quill down calmly and clasped her hands on the desktop.

“Would you be so kind Mr. Potter to elaborate on—”

“Can we quit the bullshit? You know who. There are students who are actively becoming death eaters–Attacking students. How am I supposed to do nothing? I’m Head Boy, I should be able to do something.”

McGonnagall raised an eyebrow. “And who was attacked? I was very clear that a teacher needed to be—”

“Lily—Evans!” He roared. “I heard what they said—others did too. If we don’t do—”

James was cut off by a cough at the door. Dumbledore stood in the doorway with a twinkle in his eye.

“Mr. Potter, Miss Evans–would you two like to sit down? Minerva, how would you like some tea? I think some peppermint tea would calm all our nerves a bit.”

He tapped his wand and some tea cups flew from the bureau. They instantly filled on

the table.

“Professor Dumbledore, it's fine—I’m ok. Avery and Crouch were just trying to get a rise out of me and—” Lily was cut off.

“It’s not ok. It's not. Sure they said something now, but what about tomorrow? What about the first year muggleborns who don’t have any power or say?” James looked at her, his eyes were burning.

Dumbledore took a sip of tea. “Yes, I heard Mr. Black made sure to show his disdain as well. Sounds like Avery and Crouch were worse off by the end of it.”

“Professor, I don’t know why James burst in here. I’m fine. I can handle it.” James whipped his head to her. He looked pained—like his body was laying on hot coals.

“But what happens when the day comes when you aren’t fine. You’ve seen it yourself—what the Slytherins can do—you saw your own friend–”

“Potter, Stop.” Lily screamed. It was ok to be angry at what Avery and Crouch did, but she didn’t want to hear about Severus. It was too much.

Dumbledore looked at McGonagall and clicked his tongue.

“If you are worried about Miss Evans' safety, we can place you to do the majority of the patrols and leave her with the paperwork.” Lily felt like she wanted to vomit.

“What and give them what they want? Her to step down? Fuck off.”

Lily sat frozen. McGonagall started to object to James’ tone but Dumbledore held up his hand to her. Then nodded to let James continue.

“What I’m asking for is to make sure they know that she demands respect just as much as I or any of their other pureblood friends do.”

Lily looked at him stunned. She had wanted to be angry about his “knight in shining armor” act when he first barged into the office, but now she felt something else entirely.

“Miss Evans, it's your choice. I want you to feel safe—if you would like Mr. Potter to take over most—”

“No. I’m not going anywhere, but I agree with James. People are going to start getting hurt, if we don’t do something.”

Dumbledore nodded, then looked at Mcgonagall.

“Until we can find a better solution, all prefects must do patrols together with no exception. I will speak to the other professors and come up with a more long term solution. But be aware, these are dark times on the horizon—I do not expect the situation to get easier before it gets worse.”

James nodded, then excused himself. He walked out without saying another word. Lily stood to leave also, but Dumbledore stopped her.

“Miss Evans, you should know I did not make you both Head students to create a challenge. Beyond being the brightest in your class, I think you two have a singular ability of carrying the other even when you don’t realize it. Keep that in mind, even if you might be upset with his outburst this evening.”

Lily nodded and walked out of the office.

She didn’t find James until hours later in the Heads’ Office. He was still in his quidditch kit, laying on the ground with his eyes closed. Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon was blasting through the room from the small record player they both had agreed to station in the corner.

Lily went and sat on the couch and watched him for a bit. He hadn’t heard her come in—she could tell he was awake but his breathing was slow and every once in a while his brow furrowed at some thought. He blinked his eyes open and jumped at the sight of her.

“Merlin Fuck, how long have you been there.”

Lily held up her hands in surrender. “Literally seconds I swear.” James rubbed his face under his glasses. He smelled the side of his shirt and made a disgusted look before pulling off his jersey and laying back down shirtless.

“You think taking your shirt off will make me forget what just happened?” Lily smirked down at him.

“No—but now that you said it, is it working?” He raised his eyebrows at her.

“Bad luck Potter.” James tugged at her ankle and she slithered off the couch to lay beside him on the ground. They laid on their sides looking at each other.

“I wasn’t trying to say you were weak,” he started. “ I just—I can’t imagine if those pissers did something to you.” Lily sighed.

“I know you don’t think I’m weak. But you don’t need to be protecting me—or Black for that matter.” James snorted.

“Yeah, I’d say sorry about what Sirius did—but no, actually I don’t think I’d ever apologize for it, I’m happy he did it,” He reached out and touched her nose with his finger, making her flutter her eyes open.

“Sounds like you weren’t sorry either—-he was very grateful to not scrub trophies this evening.”

Lily laughed. She pushed him over onto his back then sidled up next to him to lay her head on his chest. He ran his hand through her hair. There was a lot more to be said about the Slytherins, but for now she wanted it to melt away—they hadn’t had a real moment together since yesterday, and even then it had been a charged interaction.

“You didn’t tell him about us.” She felt James' heart quicken a bit.

He waited a moment before responding.

“I think if I tell him, it will become too real.” Lily propped herself up on her elbow and gave him a quizzical look.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, I’ll get too excited about us, then get hurt when you decide you never want this to be more than what it is now.”

“Oh.” The record scratched to the end of the side and started to make a static hum into the room. Neither of them moved to change it.

“I didn’t know you liked Pink Floyd.” She laid her head back down on his chest.

“I didn’t—I found it in your collection—if you don’t mind me looking,” he sighed. He was aware she changed the subject, but was too spent to do anything about it.

“Fun Fact: Some muggles believe if you play this album with the film The Wizard of Oz they will sync up.”

James cracked an eye open at her. “The wizard of what now.”

Lily let out a giggle. He wrapped his arms around her. “Sometimes I think you make this stuff up just to take it out of me.”

Lily leaned her chin on his chest. “You think too highly of me. I can’t make this up.”

They sat there and listened to the static a bit longer. James' arms tightened around her and she sagged her head so her cheek was resting on his chest.

She felt herself drifting off to sleep. Despite still smelling like sweat from practice, he still had that musky scent she was used to. His body felt warm and calm—a vast difference from how he seemed when he was storming into McGonagall’s room earlier. Perhaps he thought she was asleep, but he leaned his head down and kissed her temple very lightly, then pushed some of her hair out from her face.

Despite it all. Despite him being an absolute git for years, despite his arrogance and how he treated the castle like his own playground, despite that he was bloody fit and one of the most sought after boys in the school, despite that it was going to cause a thousand headaches for her, surely, in the upcoming future, despite all that and everything else: she never wanted to be anywhere else than right there, at that moment.

“James.”

“You’ve been using my name a lot today—I like it.” He mumbled back, passing his hand through her hair.

“James, are you going to Hogsmeade this weekend?”

There was a pause. “No,” he sounded unsure. “---are you?”

She could feel his heart start to beat rapidly. Fuck it

“I could be,” she said slowly, “but I’d like this git to take me and he’s too thick to ask me out.”

He flipped them over so fast, the wind was knocked out of her. He pushed his forehead to hers. His eyes were round and glittering.

“Oh please, Merlin. I hope that git is me.”

“No Potter it’s not, would you mind letting Peter know that I—”

“Oh piss off.” He wiggled his fingers around her waist making her laugh. “You’ll go with me, really? Like a real date?”

“Like a real date, Potter.”

His mouth was on hers in an instant. She could feel all of his energy soar into the room—it was infectious. He picked her up and cradled her into his lap as she laughed before putting her mouth on his again.

“Is this the answer then?” His eyes were brilliant. They shone so bright, it could be mistaken for tears.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Potter. What if you're a bad date? I mean you don’t even know the Wizard of Oz for god’s sake.”

“Evans, I’ll learn every fake muggle wizard in the world if that means spending just one day with you.” Lily put her hands around his neck and pulled herself up to kiss him. She could feel his smile against her lips.

“Deal.”

#Jily #james potter #lily evans #hp #hp marauders #jily fanfiction #marauders era #marauders #sirius black #jily fic #james x lily #CtW

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flowerpotmage · 6 months ago

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Tight Grip, Broken Dam (16)

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You don’t question it anymore, when Miguel appears in your bed at night. He’s not there for sex, no, you’ve never even kissed—though you would be lying if you said you weren’t open to the idea of kissing him. He’s there for comfort. For rest.If only it could stay so simple.

Pair: Miguel O'Hara & GN!Reader

Notes: for chapter: feelings? slight timeskip at start of chapter. someone remembers a sex dream. A/N: if you're still reading, thanks for waiting so patiently!!

Word Count: 2k

Read this chapter on Ao3 here. If you like my work, please consider leaving kudos there as well! You do not need an account to do so.

Gwen stays, and goes. You stay in your own dimension more often, going into the city as Spider and writing for the paper. You find yourself spending even more time with your new friends, Karen, Foggy, and Matt. They don’t say anything about your odd hours or frequent bouts of ‘illness’ when you get a bruise or scrape you can’t easily hide and won’t heal in time for you to make an appearance. You begin to notice that you’re not the only one with odd hours or mysterious injuries—Matt has more and more frequently been appearing with mysterious bruises, stiff movements, and the rare split lip. You’ve caught Karen and Foggy whispering quiet concerned words to him once or twice, hushed voices silenced when they notice you.

Despite these odd occurrences, life continues pleasantly on its way.

“Do you want to go out for breakfast tomorrow,” you whisper quietly one night, raking your fingers through Miguel’s hair and back away from his forehead.

“Tired of my cooking already?” he whispers back, all sleepy half lidded eyes and the corner of his mouth tilted in a smile.

You huff a quiet breath through your nose, amused. “Don’t be dramatic. I just thought you might like to see some of my neighborhood, since I’ve seen some of yours.”

His brows furrow, his mouth opening slightly.

“The headquarters,” you roll your eyes. “Don’t look so concerned. Everyone knows you practically live there.”

He sighs, body relaxing back into the mattress, eyes closing as you continue on with his hair.

“I do.”

“Do what?”

“I have an apartment on the upper floors,” he explains.

You frown slightly. “So you really spend all your time there?”

He smiles again, cracking his eyes open to look at you. The cherry amber red hue of his eyes takes on the rich depth of red velvet cake in the dark, and you smile back.

“What?”

“I’d say I spend plenty of time here too,” he says, and you chuckle. He closes his eyes again. “Breakfast out sounds great.”

“Great,” you repeat, your smile softening.

The next morning when you leave the apartment the air has that liminal just-before-fall and just-after-summer feeling to it. The shade would be just barely too cold if you were any sort of normal human, the sunlight just a bit too warm, and when you look you see that the green leaves on the city trees have just barely started to change.

“We’re a bit behind here,” you say, hands in your pockets to resist the urge to hold Miguel’s hand in your own. You nudge him playfully with your elbow when he looks at you, the furrow of his brow asking you to explain. “Y’know. Our cars still have wheels,” you grin.

Miguel chuffs at that, amused. “Flying cars are overrated. Sure, it creates a whole lot more lanes, but it also creates a whole extra spatial plane to have accidents on–”

You happily listen to him criticize his home dimension, walking along to your favorite nearby spot for breakfast. Happily enough, anyway, given the odd sensation of a far too empty palm.

You struggle to swallow the fluttering down again when you’re sitting across from Miguel at a little table away from the windows, watching him curiously read the menu and then later carefully using the too small silverware that feels just right in your own hands.

You’re out on a rooftop in the late hours of the night, chill air blowing across your suit. It's quiet, the city surprisingly sleepy for one that supposedly never sleeps, and so you’re left with a muddy whirl of thoughts and feelings and no distractions.

You’d be lying if you said you—

“You seem deep in thought.”

The voice pulls your attention away from the hypnotizing whirlpool you’d been staring down into the center of, and back onto dry land.

“Daredevil,” you greet, turning to look at him over your shoulder. “I didn’t realize I was back in your kitchen.”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “You’re not. It's just over there,” he says and points at the stretch of buildings across the street with his thumb and a little smile. “Noticed you over here and thought I’d say hello, make sure there’s no trouble bringing you this way.” This last part is polite with a hint of concern: he wants to know if he needs to keep an eye out for something suspicious entering his little neighborhood.

You shake your head. “No, just… thinking.”

“Ah,” he nods, and walks closer, all straight lines and friendly air. “Mask, or personal?”

You pause, watching him approach to stand a respectful arm’s length away. You turn away and exhale, crossing your arms loosely, leaning your weight on one leg. “Both.”

Daredevil nods in your periphery, a quiet “Ah” of understanding leaving his mouth. “Someone who knows?”

You nod. “He knows.”

Daredevil pauses, tilts his head to the side in that way he does. “Must be complicated.”

“You have no idea.”

He doesn’t pry, but instead keeps you silent company for the next long moments of night. It's pleasant, really, the quiet company of someone presumably living nearly as strange of a life as yourself.

“I should head home,” you murmur after some time has passed, and he nods.

“You know where to find me, if… well. If you need a hand. Or an ear.” He seems slightly unsure about offering the latter, but there's no doubt in your mind about his commitment to offering the former.

You smile. “Thanks. I’ll swing by again sometime, just in case you need a hand sometime.”

He smiles, gives a short nod, and you swing off into the night.

Peter B. Parker watches Miguel with narrowed eyes across the table. MJ suggested they invite him for dinner again, sans you, for one of the casual nights together they used to have more frequently. But something is off.

Miguel is distracted.

Normally present, somewhat conversational, and at the very least engaged with May, today his mind is somewhere else. He asks MJ to repeat herself not just once but twice, and seems only three-quarters aware of May’s babbling and reaching hands. Peter shares a look with MJ and they separate off into different rooms; her upstairs with the baby, and Peter in the kitchen with Miguel on cleanup.

“So,” he begins, putting away tupperware while Miguel helpfully rinses plates in the sink.

Miguel spares him a glance, eyebrow lifted.

“What’s new?” Peter asks with exaggerated nonchalance.

Miguel’s second glance is bemused. “With what?”

Peter shrugs, crossing his arms and letting his eyes wander around the room lazily. “With, I dunno, whatever.” His eyes snap to Miguel, who is finally focused and slightly suspicious.

“I feel like you are trying to imply something, Peter, and I’m not sure I follow.”

Peter purses his lips slightly, holding back a smile. “You just seem distracted, is all. Something on your mind?”

Miguel shakes his head, turning back to the sink.

Peter sorts through his own thoughts, through the roulette wheel of ways he can needle his friend about his life.

“Someone on your mind?”

Miguel’s shoulders tense, but he continues on with his small helpful task. “Don’t be ridiculous, Peter.”

He’s hit the nail on the head.

“There’s nothing wrong with being happy. With having a life.”

Miguel is silent for just a heartbeat too long. “Whatever you think is going on—”

“Come on, Miguel–”

“Leave it. There’s nothing.”

Peter leaves it. For now.

“How did you meet?” you ask the other Miguel. You know you shouldn’t, but… curiosity is crawling everywhere your mind turns. You try to rationalize it away — you’re just getting to know a friend, you’re curious about your alternate reality self. Everyone else here has gotten to compare lives, so why shouldn’t you?

He smiles, eyes taking on that faraway look of reminiscence. “I was getting my master’s degree. I wasn’t… I wasn’t Spider-Man, yet,” he shrugs, a small smile creeping over his lips. “We had a conversation on campus, in a library. I was looking for a paper referenced in my reading on the genetics of pain tolerance, and y– well, the other you,” he gives an apologetic, rueful smile before continuing: “You were in the last year of your bachelor’s, and totally lost. The student librarian gave you the wrong directions, so I helped you figure out where you really needed to be.”

You smile softly. “How nice of you.”

“Well, not really,” he laughs. “I was trying to be friendly, but I had this… this sarcastic know-it-all thing going on. We didn’t see each other for a year after that, and then suddenly you were a paid intern where I had just gotten a job.”

“Alchemax?”

“Alchemax,” he confirms.

As he tells the story of how he met the other you, the way the two of them slowly became friends and then more at the end of the internship when the dimension-209 version of yourself left for a different job, the way they fell in love, and he became Spider-Man but you figured it out together and still got married, the way he loved the living version of your aunt and….

You listen, and can’t help but picture yourself in this life. One where you finished school and never got bit by that spider, where your aunt never died, where you live a normal life with—

Shit. You might not be able to ignore this for much longer, after all.

“It sounds like you had a good life together,” you offer, when 209 falls quiet.

He nods, smiling sadly. “We did.”

It’s after dinner and you’re watching Miguel clean up the dishes from your seat on the couch. He’s long since relinquished total control of the kitchen and now includes you in the process of cooking, even if the space is a little cramped. But he refuses to budge on cleanup, insisting on doing it on his own.

“Are you sure I can’t–”

“Don’t even think about it,” he says firmly, shooting a stern look over the counter before he loads the dishwasher.

The dishwasher. The–

Whatever noise you let out would embarrass you beyond belief, if it weren’t for the hand now snaking down your front.

“Dishes,” you say, breathless. That’s right—you had been loading the dishwasher before this.

Your face heats, stomach flipping, as the memory of a dream from much too long ago comes rushing back. You swallow, averting your eyes from the kitchen, unable to stop the careening train in your head that’s rebuilding the dream from scratch, the roles reversed.

Miguel, standing in the kitchen. You, this time behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist and letting your hands wander–

“Alright, sheesh,” you finally say. “My apologies, Kitchen Lord.”

You don’t have to look to know that Miguel is rolling his eyes.

As he finishes up you escape down the hall to the bathroom, closing the door behind yourself with a hard click. You don’t know why you’re so… whatever the hell this is. It’s not like you’ve never had other dreams about him, it’s not like you’re completely unaware of the steadily growing feelings you secretly harbor. It’s just… it’s just…

It’s just what?

You flush the toilet, wash your hands. Miguel’s toothbrush—how long has he had a toothbrush here?—sits innocently in the cup beside your own, staring back at you.

It’s just that now it doesn’t feel like harmless attraction to a friend. It’s just that now, when these moments happen they send you fleeing into the bathroom. It’s just that now it’s—

Shit.

You dry your hands on the hand towel, open the door, turn off the light. You stand in the darkness of the hallway, though it really isn’t all that dark with your slightly enhanced vision, heart pounding.

And then Miguel steps into view at the other end of the hall, the light behind him casting a soft glow on the hard angles of his face and the soft curve of one side of his mouth.

He opens his mouth, and you can see the gentle frown in his brow before you cut him off. It comes out before you can stop it, before you can think through what it is you’re asking and what might follow.

“Can we talk about something?”

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#x reader #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #i dont wanna say we're so back. But. we are somewhat back

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vixensofsorrow · 7 months ago

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Demolition Lovers - Ⅴ the moon follows me home

DISCLAIMER: This fic is a long slowburn with multiple chapters, still being updated. also on AO3 my masterlist (all the chapters are linked there) PAIRING: young!Carol Denning/fem!reader OVERALL SUMMARY: An exploration of your and Carol's relationship through the years. CHAPTER SUMMARY: Law mandated Halloween chapter (or in this case summerween). Carol gets to spend more time with your friends. CHAPTER TAGS: fluff, jealousy, Halloween, very coming of age methinks, slight angst (?) A/N: I AM SO SORRY THAT IT TOOK ME THIS LONG TO UPDATE BUT THIS FIC BURNED ME OUT BADD. tysm to my friend for beta reading it. also this is more of a filler chapter but there can't be action all the time!!!

Carol came to school for the first time in three days, and you decided that you should officially introduce her to your friends, at least the ones you share lunch with — the only time for proper socialization during school hours.

You were concerned about her. The bruises haven’t left your mind since you had that one look at them; but at the same time, you decided that it was best not to pry. She would tell you about them when she was ready.

The cafeteria lady carelessly served your portion of the mashed potatoes, and you exchanged a look of disgust with Denning as the line kept moving. You paid for the food, and Kristen waved as she saw you both approaching. The blonde greeted Carol, who took a seat next to you.

“Hey, Kristen.” She gave a sheepish smile, capturing the attention of your friends.

Nobody spoke. You cleared your throat, breaking the awkward silence. “Carol, this is Gina Hardy and Rachel Sullivan, Gina and Rachel, this is Carol Denning.”

“I probably should’ve introduced myself at the party, but nice to finally meet you.” Sullivan grinned slightly, opening a can of Coke, meanwhile Gina nodded.

“Yeah, same here.” Denning muttered as she turned her head. She swiftly turned it back around, groaning, and furrowed her eyebrows so low that you could see them clearly behind her huge glasses. “Fuckin’ hell, I can’t even catch a break from her at lunch.” She whispered to herself as Kristen pulled out an orange flyer from her backpack. You had seen it earlier being handed out by Nancy — one of the Valley Girls.

“Are any of you coming?” She laid it on the table; but before you could take a better look, Hardy immediately snatched the paper, crumbling it up. Carol let out a giggle at the look on Kristen’s face, and you and Rachel couldn’t help but follow.

“What’d you do that for!?” Kristen raised her hands in annoyance.

“Wolfe, it’s Nancy’s party.” She leveled the blonde with a stern glare before walking off to throw away the flyer. Everyone sat in stunned silence.

Gina sat back down, and Kristen stammered, trying to apologize.

“It’s fine, really. I do have an idea, though.” The defensive midfielder smirked, and you raised an eyebrow at Denning. “We can just hang out at my place! You haven’t even seen the renovated basement yet! I have a sick TV set-up down there, and if we get bored we could go trick or treating. Or just… scare the kids, y’know, or whatever else we want. Oh, by the way, this includes you too, Carol.” She chewed on a chocolate bar.

Carol flashed her dimples, looking grateful. She gave Gina a quiet “Thanks.”

You’ve been sitting on the curb in front of your house dressed as Laurie Strode, looking like a lonely loser while you waited for Rachel; watching kids joyfully running down the block, everything lit up by Halloween decorations.

The sight of so many people outside simultaneously was strange — it was truly a once in a blue moon occurrence. Many different groups of middle schoolers came up to you demanding candy, most likely thinking that your parents forced you to be the keeper of sweet treats this year; but every time you disappointed them by saying that they needed to use their scrawny legs and walk over to the house behind you, that to them, seemed like miles away. The more confident kids asked about your costume, and to your surprise, some even knew who you dressed up as.

Your head shot up to the sudden sound of tires screeching, music blaring, and honking in the distance. People scattered to the sidewalk as the red, janky car approached closer.

You got up, your knees producing a crack not unlike a grandma’s knees would, and waved at the vehicle.

Finally, Rachel pulled up to the sidewalk. You sat in the back and rubbed your hands together for warmth. Veronica was squeezed in the middle, separating you from Carol, who was in a Michael Myers outfit. The two of you decided on wearing matching costumes for Halloween, just like when you were kids. In the passenger seat, there was Erica Cervantes — Sullivan’s closest friend; a very skilled and highly ambitious player on your soccer team.

You firmly shut the car door as Rachel drove off towards the dimly lit street leading to Gina’s house.

“Hey, Blondie or The Clash?” Erica turned her head to the girls in the back, holding up two tapes. You looked over to Vee and Carol, attempting to read their expressions, trying to tell which one they wanted to pick. The latter caught you staring and smiled while adjusting her glasses, and you couldn’t help but return the gesture with a shy grin of your own.

“Come on, obviously The Clash! Speaking of — Rachel, you oughta give me that tape back someday, I swear.” Veronica complained, but as soon as Erica inserted the cassette, she began to sing along loudly, while tapping her fingers to the beat on the car door.

Carol chuckled, rolled the window down, and lit up a cigarette. The fresh, cold wind mixed with tobacco smoke hit you in the face and you exhaled, admiring her reflection on your side of the glass. You had a feeling that tonight would be a lot of fun — certainly better than that disaster party at Nicole’s.

Denning passed the cigarette around. To your delighted surprise, she joined in on the singing, although softly. It was good to see her in a better mood after the last couple of days, especially after she confided in you about her feelings of alienation and isolation. You hoped that given enough time, she would begin to feel comfortable with the group. You couldn’t help but think that slightly pleased expression suited her.

Your train of thought came to a sudden end as you reached the Hardy residence — a wide, split-level house only separated from the car lane by a patchy front lawn.

As you were waiting for someone to answer the door, Carol stuffed some candies from the plastic pumpkin bowl left out on the porch in her pockets. The sound of Gina’s hurried steps approached closer, along with shouts directed at her mother. She finally let you all inside with a big, welcoming grin plastered all over her face, and led the way toward the basement with a spring in her step.

The first thing that caught your attention were the Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling — the only source of light. Gina wasn’t lying — she had a huge TV, probably 22 inches, placed in the center of a huge, old, wooden cabinet. Next to it was a shelf containing a massive collection of movies, ranging from B-class horror to Oscar-winning dramas. In the cabinet below the TV was a VHS player, covered in stickers with designs based on a bunch of underground punk bands that a maximum of five people had ever heard of. On the very bottom, on opposite ends from each other, there stood two huge speakers. The rest was cluttered with various books, vinyls, jewelry cases (that most likely were used for other purposes), and other paraphernalia.

In front of the cabinet stood a worn down, brown, leather couch upon which sat Kris; her legs stretched out on a very cluttered coffee table. Piles of pillows had been placed on the layered, Persian rugs. The cigarette smoke-stained yellow walls have been covered in a bunch of posters. Candles had been put in every possible nook along with other cheap decorations, but with the amount of boxes scattered around the place, it seemed like Gina still wasn’t done with the renovations.

Cervantes took a seat on the couch while you and Carol sat on a pillow pile and leaned against it.

“So, thoughts?” The hostess asked, leaning on the handrail. Everyone talked over each other, excitedly complimenting the space.

Kristen pulled out a vanity case and a few magazines from her bag, then laid out the makeup on the table.

“Who wants to go first?” Kris held up the magazines in front of her face. “I can do something scary… like the deadites from Evil Dead, or you know, something pretty like…” She flipped through the pages of a Glamour issue. “…This! This is cute, or I could do that one!”

Erica chuckled quietly, snatching one of the papers away from the blonde girl. She browsed through it, showing some pictures to Veronica, who just sat down next to you.

Gina exchanged a look with Carol that read something like ‘Hope you’re ready for the ride’ as she walked over to choose a selection of movies for the night.

“I’ll bite.” The goalkeeper sat down cross-legged in front of Kris.

“Rachel, you should try this one out.” Vee teased, pointing at an extravagant, high-fashion editorial look, and Erica laughed at the idea.

“Yeah, right.” She scoffed. “Mmm… I wanna be Carrie.”

“Carrie? Why, ‘cause she’s also a ginger?” You nudged her leg.

Carol drew her eyebrows together. “Dude, Carrie’s not even ginger.”

“Yeah, I don’t know where you got that from, Enge.” Rachel sneered, as Gina set tapes down on the table and went on to grab some beer. Kristen picked up her palette and applied light pink eyeshadow on Rachel’s eyelids.

“Oh, shut up, her hair’s ginger when she’s covered in blood.” You argued, checking out the cassettes as Veronica rested her head on your shoulder. You could feel a heavy, cold gaze relentlessly probing at your clavicle, but it immediately went away when you faced Carol.

The punk girl came back and handed out the bottles to everyone except for Rachel — your responsible chauffeur.

After a discussion that went on for way too long, you finally landed on a movie to watch — The Silent Scream, but after about 40 minutes, the film turned into background noise for multiple rounds of bridge; a game that Erica and Vee were masters at, and that Carol seemed to enjoy even though when you played against them, the two of you kept on losing. With time, you also lost interest in that, and noticing it was getting late, you were considering the prospect of going home — but ultimately decided the night was still young and full of opportunities.

Armed with a repurposed pillowcase that served as a candy bag, some toilet paper, a few eggs, and shaving cream you all squeezed into the car. Your collective weight would definitely grant Rachel a ticket for overloading the vehicle if she were caught, so you hurriedly headed towards the wealthy neighborhood.

All the bright, flashy lights and tacky decorations which adorned the rows of McMansions along with children and some of your peers yelling and running down the street collectively manifested in your head as an ache that made it hard to think. Your friends, walking in front of you, were deciding on whose home to vandalize, meanwhile, in the back, you and Carol were reminiscing on the times when you would walk down the same streets, trick or treating.

The memories quickly turned bitter, as the realization of all the time you lost hit you like a truck. Sure, you eventually made new friends, good friends that you enjoyed hanging out with, but it was nothing compared to the bond between Denning and you. In the midst of your brooding, an orotund, female voice brought you down to earth.

“Hey, Y/N? What do you think about Tonya?” Erica questioned, to the discontent of Carol, who put a big Jawbreaker candy in her mouth.

Well, that caught you off guard — Tonya was the newest girl on the team, who quite frankly you weren't fond of. You felt that she wasn’t putting in enough work, and her attitude pissed you off too, but you never brought it up.

“Uh, why’d you ask?” You furrowed your brows.

“I just wanna know. Be honest.”

“I mean, we definitely have better players on the team.” You made eye contact with Denning, whose eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Right, right.” The other midfielder crossed her arms, as she bit her lip and focused her gaze on you. The three of you walked in awkward silence, and you could tell that she wanted a more definitive answer.

“Fine, okay. I don’t like her.” You threw your arms in the air, and she gave you a quick smile of satisfaction, breaking the tension.

“Girl, me neither. Anyway, thanks.” She said, catching up to speed with the rest of the group, without further explanation.

“The hell was that about?” Denning asked, her speech distorted by the candy she swished around in her mouth, and adjusted the Michael Myers mask to the left side of her face.

“I’m not even sure? Something about whether I like this one girl on the team or not.” You put your hands inside the pockets of your jeans.

“I mean, I fuckin’ heard that, but I’m just confused as to why, y’know.”

“Yeah so am I, Care—, uh, Carol.”

Suddenly, the girls stopped in their tracks and turned to you, describing their mischievous plan — trashing the house of Gina’s ex.

Rachel handed out the necessary items to each person. You stashed yours and Carol’s inside the shabby pillowcase and dashed after Hardy as the sweets Denning stole from her house fell out of her jacket.

You hid in the bushes of the plastic, way too perfectly mowed lawn, trying your hardest not to burst out laughing, and waited for the “go” sign as Cervantes kept watch. After a while, Kristen and Veronica rapidly nodded their heads and chaos ensued; toilet paper flew everywhere, draping off the orange and brown trees, white beams, windows, the balcony, the freshly built gazebo, and the roof. You dodged the eggs that gracefully cracked when they hit the walls and bumped into Carol, whose face turned tomato red from trying to hold back the laughter. She gave you the two other cans of shaving foam and grabbed your sweaty hand, rushing closer toward the house. You smeared the cream all over the kitchen windows as Vee and Gina threw around even more paper. You could hear a commotion starting inside and knew the residents noticed what you were doing. Right as she was flinging the last egg, Rachel gesticulated aggressively that it was time to dip.

You all made a run for it, cackling like maniacs and talking over each other, leaving the beautiful, messy scene of the crime.

Unfortunately, the Halloween shenanigans had to eventually end, since everyone had school tomorrow. All the fun you had left was scaring some kids while on your way to Sullivan’s car. You chased each other with a prop knife, letting out the most convincing terrified screams you were capable of while running down the block until your legs couldn’t handle it anymore.

“I thought my stamina was better than this.” Veronica panted, resting her hands on her thighs, while she stopped to take a breath.

You chuckled. “In that case, you need to up your game before the championships, Vasquez!” You imitated your coach, half joking, half serious.

You didn’t exactly know why you were putting so much pressure on yourself — and your teammates this year. What if, unconsciously, you were trying to impress Carol? No, no way. You acted like this, way before she moved in.

“God, don’t even.” She rolled her eyes, slightly leaning against you. You started to pick up the pace again. “Oh, by the way, did Eri…” Vee began to talk about something, but your mind drowned her out as your attention suddenly tunnel-visioned to a strangely giddy Carol, conversing with a guy, a few of his friends trailing in the background, all of whom you recognized from school.

No matter how much you wanted to, you couldn’t stop looking at them — the two of them. Your narrowed eyes filled up with tears from the lack of blinking, and you could've sworn that you forgot how to breathe. Denning turned her head and stared at you like a statue at an exhibition. Her smirk burned through you, amplifying your emotions even more after she focused back on him.

You hadn’t even noticed when she grabbed your shoulder, slightly shaking it to get your attention. “Hey, Y/N. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Carol gesticulated, pointing at the three teens that were waiting for her.

You blinked rapidly, as her words rattled you back to reality. “What? Hold on, what are you talking ‘bout? What?”

“I’m just gonna hang out with Travis and his friends. I’ll see you.” She waved to your group, taking her leave.

“Right… Yeah, have fun.” You lied through the teeth that gritted so hard, you could almost feel the enamel peeling off. The jealousy inside stirred even more than before, as the two of you observed one another while walking off in opposite directions.

#oitnb #orange is the new black #carol denning #fanfiction #lesbian #carol denning fanfic #fanfic #carol denning x reader #ao3 fanfic #lesbian fanfiction #carol denning fanfiction #x reader #female reader

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chronic-ghost · 1 year ago

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title: nose as long as a telephone wire

rating: M (just for language)

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

word count: 4412

summary: you get too caught up in a phone call with your favorite DEA agent and accidentally let slip something very personal.

warnings: light angst, language, mentions of the cartel, mentions of drinking, obnoxious intros, comedy? i think i’m funny, part of a series but you can read alone

a/n: song lyrics come from Bad, Bad Leroy Brown by Jim Croce, and the last ones come from Tom Waits’ Yesterday is Here. Hope the anon who requested the series likes this - sequel to Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

🤍Series Masterlist | Previous | Next🤍AO3 Link 🤍Masterlist

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

A girl walks into a poker hall in Florida.

She joins the game.

She wins. Everyone asks, ‘well, how’d that happen?’

Girl says, ‘I got magic powers that tell me when you’re lying.’

Wide-eyed, they all ask, ‘really?’

She says, ‘yep, and now you owe me fifty grand.’

They all laugh and easily hand over the money.

And then they try to kill her.

Okay, sorry, that one isn’t all that funny.

What about this one?

A girl walks into a diner in Texas at two in the morning.

She’s scared, tired, and hungry. She solves most of these problems by ordering the biggest burger on the menu and pouring five shots of Crown Royal in her milkshake. And because she’s a lie detector and a lightweight, it all goes straight to her head.

She starts to tell the guy next to her about her little situation in the poker hall. Guy’s nice, sympathetic, asks enough follow up questions to make him appear interested.

And then he goes and lies to her.

Girl says, ‘please don’t kill me, sir!’

And the guy says, in a gruff and very serious voice, ‘I’m not gonna kill you, I’m DEA.’

Oh, and, like, this guy is smokin’ hot. Like just come off the grill hot. Like you pick him up and you burn your fingers – ay, caliente! Like danger and sex all wrapped up into one. Oof, Mama Mia and the rest of the cast in Greece, y’know what I’m saying?

So, DEA agent wants to help.

They flirt, they fight, and just as it seems, this one thing is going well, this only bright light in her life may actually hold a candle, she knows what she has to do.

She TASERS his ass. And all six feet of hotness drops, like a sack of potatoes.

Girl drives off, knowing he’s better off without her.

. . . oh, you were expecting a punchline?

Sorry, folks, this ain’t that kinda story. That girl just ain’t that kind of girl.

Truth is . . .

Funny little word, truth. It’s implicit that truth and trust come in the same bag. When you tell someone you trust them, you expect them to tell you the truth. Is it possible to have one without the other? If the truth is what we believe it to be, then how fragile is our trust?

If you taser someone and leave them literally by the side of the road, what have you broken? Their trust or their understanding about the truth of who you are?

But what about –

“Okay, that’s enough philosophizing to my ten-year-old. I gotta get her ready for school then I gotta vacuum this rug before the day rush. Scoot.” Maria knocks your boots off the end of the bright red couch in the lobby of the Motel 6 on route 22 and you grin sheepishly up at her.

“Aw, c’mon, Mare, this is good for the kid. She’s learning so much.” You glance over at Maria’s daughter, Rio, ready to have her defend your proselytizing – when you meet her heated and leveled glare. You’ve never seen such a small child radiate such annoyance.

“Your jokes suck.”

With a scowl, she stomps to her feet and lets her mother lead her off down the hall to one of the other empty hotel rooms, glaring at you over her shoulder.

You wave a hand to her as you go, smiling flatly. “Thank you, Mare! I owe you one! And thank you so much, little girl, I’ll be here all week.” You dig into your coat pocket and pull out your half-way empty packet of smokes. “Everyone’s a friggin’ critic.”

“Hey, you there! You can’t be smoking in here!”

Birdie, another maid whom you promised to stay out of her way if she kept your “hideout” in one of the second floor empty rooms a secret, snaps at you over the counter. The hotel phone at the front desk rings and she answers it with one hand as she shoos you off. “Go on, take it outside!”

Groaning, your body aching from the toll of driving forty-eight hours straight, you stand up, the unlit smoke between your lips. “Alright, alright, I’m going. Might die before I get there, but I’m going.”

But the other maid barks at you again, asking your name.

“Monologue McQueen, that’s you, right?” She has the red handle pressed against her shoulder. “You’ve got a phone call.”

The toll of outrunning the law and the cartel had taken its turn on Baby as well and the call is no doubt the mechanic calling with an update. You could have kissed Maria all over her face when she let you in at midnight and slipped you a key to a room at the end of the complex. She did owe you one after you proved her brother didn’t kill his boss – but that’s a story for another time.

“Just send it up to my room, alright, Birdie? I’ll take it there. Thank you.”

You trudge out of the hotel lobby in the bright Colorado sunlight and take a deep breath. Colorado is markedly different from Texas. More mountains. More green. Less roads . . . and even less mouth-watering DEA agents.

You stretch till you hear something crack and you shake out your head. Things had been going pretty well since Texas too. Made some money here and there – legally this time. You still hadn’t decided what to do with the fifty grand in your trunk (which had since been removed while Baby went to the doctor’s) but having it nearby was nice. A parachute if things got bad – or worse-r than they had been. But, counting no more run-ins with any government men or better yet, a complete lack of presence from the cartel – it seemed like everything that had happened since Florida was finally fading into the background.

You light the cigarette as you bounce up the concrete steps. Using Maria’s master key, you let yourself into the small dark room that looked heaven-sent after days on the road. Dark wood paneled walls, orange carpet, a lime-green tiled bathroom, a rug that could make you dizzy if you stared at it for too long. Perfect. And you can smoke all you want. You breathe out into the low sunlit room and smoke wavered white then gray as it swam through the shadows.

Sighing and realizing you should probably eat soon if you were going to pick up Baby, you toss off your jacket onto the bed. There’s a blinking red light over the phone as you pick up the receiver and sit down on the mattress.

“Yellow.” You slip your cigarette into the ashtray and wait.

“Hey there,” the deep masculine voice drawls, “it’s Baby Cow Eyes. How’ve ya been?”

Either your knees buckled or the mattress dropped you but you hit the ground with a thump.

“What was that?”

Eyes level with the window, the glass covered by a gauzy white curtain, you inch down to the floor, one vertebrae at a time, the plastic phone shoved tightly against your ear. You think you can hear him breathing on the other line but that might be your own frantic panting. Shitshitshit.

“Nothing,” you mutter. If you can get underneath the window, he might pass your room by. “Nothing at all.”

“Why are you whispering? I’m not literally in the room.”

The phone cradled by your shoulder, you slither, one arm at a time along that nauseating carpet, as far as the cord will allow. This is perfectly normal behavior for an adult woman.

“And what room would that be?” You breathe, softly. “Huh, Agent Pena?” You think you see a flutter of movement on the other side of the window and you jerk back against the door, toes clenched, eyes shut, and bottom lip bitten to the point of pain.

“I don’t know.”

Your eyes pop open. “What?”

The bastard actually laughs.

“If you know what hotel I’m at,” you hiss, jerking the curtain to the side from your protected corner to peer out into the open hallway, “why aren’t you kicking down doors and swinging around that big, thick badge?”

“Why do you think?” You think you can hear the chunk of a gas pump turning off.

“Psychological warfare. You’re gonna nuke the motel from space. Who knows?

You had to drop off Baby at the mechanics and one of his crew gave you a ride back to the motel. That was this morning and since then, not another car had pulled into the motel’s parking lot. Crouching on your knees, you spare a glance into the parking lot below. Still empty.

Over the phone, Javi’s sigh is garbled. “That sounds like a lot of work, sweetheart.”

Your fingers tightened around the plastic. “But you are coming for me, right?”

He inhales and, in the space, you hear the car door slam shut. “That’s right.”

You put the receiver against your chest and, as silent as a church mouse, you mouth:

F U C K

“You still there?” The vibrations are muffled in your shirt.

“Where are you?” you ask, shoving the phone back against your ear. You scan the parking lot one more time just in case of a surprise attack. “At least do the sporting thing and give me a head start.”

Javi huffs over the rumble of the engine as it overturns. “Oh, hell no. You got your one and only head start two days ago. When you tased me.”

“Okay, see, you sound mad about that. My concern about psychological warfare doesn’t seem so crazy now, does it?”

“I’m not mad.” You could almost picture the frown, dark eyebrows drawn in, glaring at the phone like it had personally offended him.

You grimace. “How’s your face?”

There’s a pause, as if he wasn’t expecting that question.

“It’s fine. Had worse,” he grumbles. “Barely even feel it any more.”

“When you growl like that, it makes me feel like you’re still mad.”

“I’m not –,” He cuts himself off and you grin. If you were keeping a tally, which you definitely weren’t, then you just got a little tick next to Javi’s zero. “What are you doing out in Colorado?”

“This feels like entrapment.”

“I’ve got about eight hours ahead of me,” he sighs and you can see his broad fingers tighten over the steering wheel. “This isn’t entrapment, it’s conversation.”

Eight hours. That gave you enough time to get Baby back and . . .

Unless he is . . .

F U U U U CK

See, there’s one little problem with your gift and the government goon is toeing dangerously close to finding it out. Shitdumb, bad fucking luck.

“A conversation, huh?” You rub your forehead with your fingers. This is going to end so badly. “Alright. You start. How did you find me?”

“Mhmm, I was hoping we’d play twenty questions.”

You pull back and stare at the holes in the receiver. Was he flirting with you?

But he continues, “After I came to and found my phone shattered, another thoughtful parting gift from you, I think it was safe to say you were spooked. Route 22 was the closest highway. Giving your headstart, I had a guess where you might be.”

“So, what, you started calling all the motels along route 22?”

“You mentioned you liked places with pools. Started with those first.”

Parts of that night were very clear in your mind – the way he looked at you at the counter, the way he chuckled, his hands on you when he hauled you off the back of Baby’s hood.

When he said you were smart, funny, resourceful.

However, there were other things that were decidedly not as clear.

“I never said that.”

“Yes, you did. You talked about pools when you held me hostage for an hour relaying your life’s story.”

You scowl and stand up, uneasily convinced he wasn’t about to burst your door down. You loop the cord through your fingers. “I said I stayed in places with pools because they needed a maid, not because I liked going there.”

Again, Javi laughs, deep and relaxed, and the world flares brightly for a minute.

“Sweetheart, you and I both know there isn’t a goddamn thing on this earth that could make you do something you didn’t want to do.”

For a second you could see it. Clear in your mind. Bright, gold sunlight. Open road, warm desert sand, the roar of Baby’s engine –

– his hand over your knee and he laughs –

“You know, I don’t think I ever said sorry about your face.” You swallow, sitting back on the bed and taking up your cigarette again. You take three long puffs in the silence, appreciative that there is quiet to steady your nerves. The room smells like clean cotton and ash. “And . . . I’m sorry for tasing you. You were nothing but nice to me and I . . . I shouldn’t have done that.”

Leather squeaks as if he’s adjusting in his seat, the engine humming over the line.

“I got close to a woman with a history of cutting and running. You wouldn’t be alive right now if you weren’t a little bit . . . shifty.”

Despite his familiar teasing, you glance at the window, fearing something else scarier than your DEA shadow. From the beginning, he said he wasn’t going to hurt you or kill you and he hadn’t lied about that.

It had been too long since you felt the barbs of that night in Florida but now you can feel them prickle under your skin.

“S-s-shifty, huh?” You can’t fight the sting in the back of your throat. You wrap an arm over your waist and clutch the phone tighter. “The way you say it, it sounds like a compliment.”

“It is.”

“So you’re not mad about your face?”

He sighs and you swear you can hear his teeth grinding.

“I’m not mad about my face, I’m mad you got the drop on me, alright? Shoulda seen that comin’ a mile away.”

You scoff. “Hey, pal, that shit’s original. No one expects the secret taser.”

“How many of those do you have?”

“Why? Planning on making them standard issue?”

“No, sweetheart, we have actual guns for that. I just need to know how many to search for.”

“And give up my one defense? Now that wouldn’t be very shifty of me.”

He chuckles again, the sound pulling a smile from you. “Smart, babygirl, smart.”

With the cigarette between your fingers, you kick off your boots and they land with two loud thuds.

“What was that? Sounds like you’re moving.”

“Darn, you caught me.” You lean back, your spine propped up by the scratchy pillows, your feet stretched out in front of you. With the hum of Javi’s car, as tinny and distant as it might be, you can almost picture yourself in the seat next to him. He’d have the windows down, enjoying the air in the late afternoon. Maybe the radio is on. And he's bad, bad Leroy Brown

The baddest man in the whole damn town. You flex your toes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your arm, your thigh. “I’m sneaking out the back right now. I’m hunkering down and slipping into the night.”

“Ah, I’ve been thinking of all the ways I can say this to you: bullshit. It’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Try again.”

Your heart squeezes, but in a good way, like you’ve swallowed bubbles and they’re making your lungs all jittery.

You glance at the empty spot next to you, looking for his jeans, his wide hands.

“You’ve been thinking about me?” It’s breathless, surprised. You don’t mean to sound so pleased. You realize the cigarette has been burning untouched and is in danger of collapsing. Cursing to yourself, you reach over and tap it out.

“Just how to be one step ahead of you, sweetheart.” His words slow you down. The half-smoked cigarette, burnt and ashen, tumbles from your fingers as you let it fall into the ashtray. You pull your legs up to your chest.

“But things are getting serious out in Florida, in Bogota,” he continues, the teasing lilt from his voice gone. “We really need your testimony. Could save a lot of people’s lives.”

You watch his sunglasses slip down over his nose, just enough to catch yours and really stick in the knife. The engine roars as he guns the gas.

“Javi,” you begin slowly. “I’ve made a lot of enemies. Not just in the cartel. I mean, those are probably the baddest, but I can’t show my face in certain places. You can’t protect me every second of every day.”

“What makes you think I can’t?”

He won’t look at you now and you stare blankly. How many times were you going to hurt this man?

“You couldn’t see me coming, for one.”

“Ouch.”

You grimace, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m sorry, Javi, I–,”

“You’re right.” He visibly swallows, and he switches his grip on the steering wheel. “I broke your trust.”

You try to smile to comfort him, but know he wouldn’t appreciate your pity. You pick at the torn thread on your jeans. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t trust anyone.”

“Well, I guess for someone who – how did you phrase it? ‘Gives trouble a little wink and blows a kiss as you drive by’ – you’ve got to be a little paranoid.”

Your mouth falls open and he smirks, his aviators back high on his face.

“I did not say that.”

“You definitely did, sweetheart. From your lips to my ears. Gotta make up for the fact that I got accused of not listening last time.”

His hand is on the gear shift. The light hair on the back of his wrist and forearm glows in the late evening sun. You think about what it would be like to touch it.

“How’s Steve, by the way?”

Javi snorts and rolls his eyes. “That dumbass? He’s fine. Been duck hunting while on leave. Goddamn Deliverance shit.”

“An activity he shares with Mrs. Steve, I’m assuming?”

“Nah, Connie’s too good for that. Too good for him, as I like to remind him.”

“What’s he like? What’s Connie like?”

He pauses, thoughtful. “Connie likes cats. Blonde. They both are. He’s a good agent. They’ve got a little girl, actually. Adopted her, in Bogota.”

“That’s nice. They sound like good people.”

“They are. Steve’s lucky to have her.”

The car slows, the ringing warning of an oncoming train has him stop before a long stretch of railroad tracks. He taps the wheel with his fingers. The wind comes in and ruffles his hair. He’s handsome in a way that is almost overwhelming. Like you wouldn’t know what to do if he actually looks at you with intention.

The train roars as it passes, the blinking red lights like cosmic stars across his face. You pick at lint on your sock because he can’t be blamed for it, and you should try and make nice. So you open your mouth and ask,

“So is Mrs. Javi still planning on taking me out by the kneecaps? I’ll give her at least two free shots.”

He makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He adjusts on the seat and cracks his neck.

“Oh, yeah, you really got Mrs. Javi all worked up.”

“Then send her my regards. How should I fill out the card with her flowers?”

There is silence on the other end. The train whistles and the lights flash. The car rumbles from the force of the train, the weight of gravity. The heavy sun is hovering just above the horizon, going red against the mountains. Like a cracked chicken egg with a smear of blood.

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me.”

You sit up higher on the bed and cross your arms.

“What do you mean?”

Javi glances from the train, to you, the red lights hiding any blush on his cheeks. He frowns.

“I’m– I’m not married. That . . . was a lie. There’s no one waiting for–,”

Fuck. Fuck fuck shit. Of all the ways for him to find out. Goddamn it. You lean forward onto your knees, groaning, as you wait for it to sink in. He twists in his seat to you, rabid delight on his face.

“Hang on a fuckin’ second, you’re telling me that little trick of yours doesn’t work over the phone?”

You shake your head. Why, why did you bring up the wife? That’s, like, rule number one.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you sigh, admitting defeat, and pick at your socks. “Over the phone just isn’t as good as the real thing.”

He laughs in disbelief. There might be some red in his cheeks after all. “Uh, yeah. I’d have to agree with that.”

He sits back in his seat, mouth agape, as the last of the train cars rumble through. The ticking of the warning signs slows and the barrier raises. Javi distractedly puts the car into drive and it shudders as it goes over the tracks.

“So what other limitations do you have?”

“I don’t know,” you answer truthfully. “I’ve never put it to the test. As far as I can remember, it only ever makes me money or gets me into trouble.”

“Really? You’ve never been curious.”

“People like me aren’t afford the luxury of being curious.” You glance out the window, at the darkening farmland rushing by. “We just hope to get by. See one day after the next.”

“I know what that’s like,” he murmurs. “Now knowing if you’ll make till sunrise. It’s a bad way to live.”

“Yeah,” you agree, eyes shut. “It is.” His spine is straight, gaze forward, but his knuckles around the wheel are white. Sunlight is fading fast. “How’d you live with it?”

“Didn’t. Not well, at least. Dealt with the worst of it by drinking. Met with people I shouldn’t have.”

Your stomach clenches as you try and decipher his meaning. People, being other agents, the cartel itself, or even women –

There’s no one waiting for me, he was going to say.

“It’s lonely,” you say. You see him nod in the silence.

You bite the inside of your inner lip. “You don’t have to agree with me, you know? I really can’t tell if you’re lying or not right now, so you –,”

You don’t have to pretend to care.

“I’m not lying,” he soothes. You wonder if he could be this kind in person. “Someone once told me starting off a conversation with a lie is not a good way to make a friend.”

You smile out of the corner of your mouth. “That’s good advice. You should keep her around, whoever said that.”

“I’m trying.”

You can feel the shake of the car over the road. Twilight has come, purple and heavy, drawing shadows where there used to be light. Javi takes off his sunglasses and drops them in the clutch of his front shirt, but in the faint light you can’t quite see his eyes.

“I did watch Dr. Pole,” he offers, “had to see what all the fuss was about.”

“You liar.”

He laughs and his fingers bump your knee. “Just making sure.”

You want to stay here with him, but you know you can’t. You squeeze your eyes shut and open them to the dark, warm hotel room.

“Javi, I – I have to go.”

“I know,” he says, his voice running thin through the phone line. You twist away from the headboard, your feet touching the orange carpet. The street lights outside your window have come on, leeching the color from your room. It feels sterile now, less welcoming. Another moment of peace, gone. Another location burned. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

You huff a laugh, in spite of yourself. “That’s not the comfort you think it is.”

The car hums, swallowing up anything he might have said.

“But there is something I wanted to say, before you go. Before you tased me, which was a one time thing by the way, I, uh, actually had a nice time with you. I wouldn’t call it a barrel full of monkeys, but . . . you, uh, surprised me.”

You can almost picture the way he curls around the plastic handle, broad shoulders folding in on themselves as if to make his joy as small as possible. Protect it from prying eyes.

“Of course, you did. Chocolate waterslide and all that.”

You can feel his smile, even if you can’t see it. You slide your shoes back on, and gather up your jacket. It wouldn’t take you that long to walk to the mechanics and you remember seeing a diner on the drive back this morning. You wondered if they’d let you sleep for a few hours in a booth.

“Oh, uh, just one more thing,” you say, the cord around your fingers. “You still haven’t told me your real name. At the diner, you said it was Javi, but that’s just a nickname, right? What’s your name?”

“You gonna frame me for murder or something?”

“Or something, sure.”

“My name’s Javier. Javier Peña.”

“Nice to meet you, Javier.”

“Call me Javi.”

You don’t really know how to end it, can’t really speak with the knot in your throat, so you click the receiver back into its cradle. You hope he won’t think you’re rude for not saying goodbye.

The mountain air has turned cool without the sun, night curling around the motel like a lazy black cat. You lock the door behind you and leave the key on the doorframe, with a note inside on the bedside table thanking Maria for her kindness and explaining why you’re leaving.

There are still no cars in the parking lot, but the light to the lobby is on behind the closed curtains. You wonder if the maids are playing poker in there.

You begin to whistle, the canvas bag with fifty thousand dollars in cash slung over your shoulder, as you walk down the road, gravel crunching beneath your feet, wondering where he’s going to eat tonight, what music he might like, and if anything he said today was true. You whistle and listen for the sound of his engine.

And the road is out before me

And the moon is shining bright

What I want you to remember

As I disappear tonight

Today is gray skies

Tomorrow is tears

You'll have to wait

Till yesterday is here

#javier peña #javier peña x y/n #javier pena x y/n #javier pena one shot #javier pena fic #narcos #javier pena x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x you #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters

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jafndaegur · 8 months ago

Text

laugh away the sadness in the summertime

Rating: Teen

Ship: Lan Xichen x Jiang Cheng

Song: Woven Fates by Holostars Tempus

Word Count: 5.1K

Gift for tuples on AO3 for the @mdzs-mixtape

Summary:

“Perhaps, though I can't say I'm any less angry than I usually am. Just better at not unleashing it wantonly.” Jiang Cheng kicked an offensive clump of grass. “I've learned though, on matters that were purposefully kept from my knowledge that I can't blame myself for not knowing, y’know?”

Lan Xichen regarded him quietly without answering. Could it really be that simple?

“At least that's what I think. But perhaps I'm not making much sense.” Jiang Cheng winced.

“Not at all,” Lan Xichen smiled gently. “If anything, you’ve given me something to ponder. Something that makes my previous involvements less…bleak.”

Jiang Cheng smiled. “I’m happy I could help, Zewu-jun.”

Lan Xichen found himself taken aback. Jiang Cheng's smile wasn't something sardonic or sneering like he'd seen in the past. But once again, it was a hint at a youth he'd seen long ago. It was hesitant and boyish, a refreshing sight after so many memories of fox-curled lips plastered to the sparks against snow.