#it's canon in my head the two of you would go 'coffin shopping' just cause you both wanna know what it's like to lay in one

[ghost-proofbaby]

It's summer for you, winter for me. Warm me up with strawberry fluff! As always, my muse, your muse, the one and only, Eddie.

Midsummer's night, because I don't have a lot to inspire you with. I'm thinking something cute but weird? Maybe some human body softness where Eddie is a bit of a freak and we love him for it. And we're told our bodies are lovely, even when they're doing weird shit.

I lalalove youuuuu. xo Rhi

RHI!!!! <3 i adore you. thank you for this prompt - i had far too many ideas for it, but ended up on settling for this one, which coincidentally feels like the most subtle of them all? either way, it definitely turned out being the softest. give me an eddie munson who just wants to sniff me like a dog. this definitely got a bit long but i hope you enjoy, my dear <3

the smell of you

warnings: weirdos in love? idk. i have a skewed sense of what is actually weird i think. mentions of death and coffins jokingly. eddie 'manhandles' reader sort of. not edited.

wc: 2.2k+

come enjoy a sweet summer treat with me <3

“Eddie?”

The entire apartment is quiet – too quiet – as you drop your keys into the old crystal bowl on the counter. The clink resonates through the air, louder than the soft murmur of the stereo static you can hear from down the hall. 

“You dead?” you call out again, slipping off your running shoes and tossing down your headphones onto the counter as well now, “Do I need to call the coroner?” 

Your tone is lilted, teasing with airiness as you continue to wander deeper into the apartment and head straight for the room you know Eddie has to be in. Like the waves pulled by the moon, there’s an incessant string tied around one end of your soul that connects you to his, and you follow it all the way down the hallway. The bedroom door is wide open, and you can hear his mumbled yell of a response without clarity before you even cross the threshold. 

You wouldn’t have even needed him to verbally respond to find him in this tiny apartment. You two could get separated on the streets of a bustling city, of a buzzing New York sidewalk, and you still wouldn’t properly lose him. It’s more than just soul ties and his gravity that keeps you pulled to him. 

Something unspoken. Something homely. 

“Sorry, what was that?” you hum as you spy him face-down in the bed, pillow muting him by the mouthful, “Say it one more time, and this time not into the pillow.” 

When he finally properly turns over, he’s a vision. Sleep lines folded into his skin and a bit of drool in the corner of his mouth, eyes squinting in irritation not at you but the sunlight flooding in through the bedroom window. Messy hair, messy shirt, messy everything. A kind of mess you just want to collapse into currently, curling up in all that he is from the day’s exhaustion. 

He’d mentioned wanting to take a nap before you’d left for the gym. Something about the summer heat draining him, trailing off as he’d rambled about how he’d probably thrive as a vampire. 

“I said,” he huffs, sitting up, the frizz of his hair becoming a makeshift halo, “If you call the coroner, request the comfiest coffin possible.”

“Why do you need a comfy coffin if you’re already dead?” 

“You dare deny me of being buried in tempurpedic memory foam? In my hour of need?” 

You roll your eyes as you huff out a little laugh, forcing yourself to turn away from him long enough to strip out of your socks. But just as you reach down for the pieces of clothing, you catch sight of the source of that stereo static flooding the room. 

Your shared record player, spinning a blood red pressing of one of your more recent vinyl purchases. The album has been played through, but the player no longer had an automatic stop mechanism, probably from years of use. 

The center of the record is probably scratched, and Eddie knows it, from how sheepish he looks when you glance over your shoulder at him. 

“Speaking of death,” you walk over quickly, purposefully, before carefully lifting the needle and cutting the static finally, “Care to explain why you’re burning scratches into my Momento Mori vinyl?” 

“I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, nearly flinging himself off the bed as he scooches quickly to the end, clearly fully awake now, “I put it on and thought I’d just lay down for a quick second, but then the bed was so comfy, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick nap, and then…” he trails off, looking up at you through his lashes with big eyes already pleading for forgiveness, “I’ll buy you a new one. Swear it.” 

It’s impossible to be mad at him when he’s looking like this, inhumanely soft and easily forgiven, “You’re lucky you’re cute, or you really would be dead.” 

He doesn’t respond with words, but instead the outstretch of his hands, fingers flexing as he beckons to you. The needle rests on its perch, the vinyl left behind to gather dust for a few extra moments, as you go straight to him. 

When his palms slip beneath your old t-shirt and meet your skin, they’re pleasantly warm. 

“You were right,” you admit as his knees spread, delegating even more room for you to stand in front of him as your hand wanders to cradle the side of his face, fingers tangling in sweaty curls from his rest. Your thumb mimics his on your own skin instinctively, tracing a large arch right up over his cheekbone, “It’s hot as balls outside.” 

“Told you so,” he murmurs, smiling softly in satisfaction as he leans lazily into your touch. 

“You did,” you agree quietly, half-entranced by his relaxed face, no sight of pride in the room currently. 

He resembles a cat as he continues to preen under your gentle hand, and you almost expect him to start purring right before you find the strength to pull away, removing his hands from where they'd wandered to your lower back. 

One swipe of his finger along your sweaty spine, and you’d remembered what your original intentions had been immediately upon getting home. 

“Wai- Where are you going?” he’s seemingly brought back down to Earth the moment he loses the pattern your thumb had been tracing, the press of your fingertips into his scalp. When he reaches back out to latch onto you again, you take a step back, “Get back here-”

“I need to shower,” you laugh, shaking your head and smacking his hands away as he continues to barter, “I’m all sweaty and smelly, let me go clean up and then we can nap togeth-” 

“You can shower after we nap,” he nearly whines, finally catching your shirt between his fingers and tugging, uncaring for if he stretches the fabric. A small price to pay to have you close to him, “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you’re just as exhausted as I am.” 

You swear you meant to take another step backwards, but somehow, you end up back between his knees, “Did you not hear me, Munson? I stink.”

“Good.” 

He doesn’t give you any time to react – in an instant, he’s throwing his face forward, burying it against your stomach as you let out a gasp and immediately try to pry him away with far too gentle of hands in his hair. 

“Eddie!”

If it were anyone else, you’d probably be mortified. But Eddie just takes a dramatic deep breath in, nose buried just shy of your belly button, and when his shoulders start to shake with muted laughter, you can’t stop the smile from breaking. Your fingers are still twisted in his hair, still pulling back in an attempt to get him away from you, but he’s resilient. 

And all your faux resistance is weak in comparison. Soon enough, you’re back to melting into him. 

Only once you’re relaxed once more, no sign of trying to pull away again any time soon as his hands once more evade the space beneath your shirt to wander up and down your sticky skin without a care in the world, does he lift his face away from you long enough to breathe and speak, “I’ll have you know – I love your stink.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“I’m your idiot.” 

The game of banter is cut short when he goes back to pressing his nose into your clothes that surely can’t smell good. No amount of deodorant or perfume could erase that underlying stench of sweat. Hell, the shirt is still a bit moist from it all: from the walk to the gym, from your workout itself, from the walk home. It’d been through the ringer, and you’re back to tugging him away from you. 

“I refuse to believe you like how gross I smell right now,” you reinforce, eyes darting towards the bathroom connected to your master bedroom, “I promise I’ll be quick with the shower.” 

“Baby,” he fights back, wrapping his arms around you securely, no intention of losing this battle, “You remember that time we went to the fair, and you were complaining about how you were sweating, so I tried to lick your face?” 

Your nose scrunches quickly at the memory, “I do, unfortunately.”

“You really think I’d be willing to lick the sweat off your body but be afraid of you smelling a little bad while we cuddle?” his shoulders drop as he looks up at you, head tilted, almost as if amused with the conversation, “What kind of man do you take me for?” 

“The kind that gets off on annoying me.” 

His jaw drops, putting on a fake look of offense before he dramatically throws himself back onto the bed, laying flat as he makes a fist to mimic stabbing his chest, “You wound me.”

You’ve heard those words a thousand times in a hundred different ridiculous voices. You’ve seen this scene enough to have it mesmerized at this point, down to the over-exaggerated pout of his lips and the lingering of the fist against his sternum. 

You never grow tired of it. You never will. 

“Need me to kiss it better?” you joke as you prop a knee up on the bed, following the same script as always. 

And he hits his queue perfectly when he lifts his head eagerly at the expected response, wiggling his brows a bit. “Absolutely. Doctor’s orders, in fact.” 

“Great,” you see an opportunity, and take it, “I’ll get right to it, after my showe-” 

You don’t even get the final syllable of the word off your tongue before he’s clenching his thighs around your own, knees pressing hard before he wraps his legs the rest of the way around your waist to pull you in. A squeak of surprise leaves your lips as you begin to fall forward, but Eddie is quick to break the fall with ease. Catching you with his eager hands, maneuvering for you to half drop to the mattress while some of you still lands atop of him. 

He has you right where he wants you, turning his head to be face to face with you, noses nearly brushing, “Unfortunately, the doc said you have to kiss it better now, or else you’ll be comfy coffin shopping.” 

“A fatal wound?” you gasp, nearly mocking him. It doesn’t offend him – if anything, his boyish grin only grows wider, “First, I’m smelly-”

“Again, I like when you’re smelly.”

“-And then I inflict a fatal wound upon my lover? Oh, how dare I.”

Slowly, all your insecurity of how you currently smell is simply fading. The entire ordeal has become an art of childlike, whimsical jokes – and Eddie is an artist. A professional at the dance, locked and loaded with his incomparable skill set equipped for disarming you this way. The ability to make someone feel loved, imperfections and weirdness aside. 

He likes you, even when you claim you don’t smell your best. And you like him, even when his hair is tangled beyond recognition and one of his socks is half-hanging off his foot from a nap.

You like him when he’s embarrassing you in public, tongue chasing after you with the threat of licking your sweat away, and he likes you when all you can do in response is a weak palm to his chest (that isn’t even making an effort to push him away) as you giggle relentlessly. 

You like each other on the good days, the bad days, the weird days. 

Disarmed entirely, you don’t even notice when his face conveniently slots itself far too close to your armpit as you two scooch further up into the bed. You’re more occupied with the way your legs tangle up, toeing each other’s socks off properly as he slings a heavy arm across your torso. 

“We’re gonna have to wash the sheets,” you mumble, exhaustion catching up as the two of you finally settle. 

He hums absentmindedly, nuzzling into your skin a bit further as he makes himself comfortable. “And wash away your sweet, sweet stink? I don’t think so, sweetheart.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, unbothered as your fingers start to trail up and down his back over the t-shirt, smoothing out wrinkles along the way, “I’m serious. We need to change them soon anyways, I think I got crumbs in the bed the other night with those crackers.” 

“Bury me in the crumbs of all your midnight snacks,” he almost slurs, clearly drifting back off. 

You snort in response, relaxing and letting your own eyes shut. Matching all your deep breaths with his own, a million different last words crossing your mind to whisper to the boy you’re sure is once again asleep. 

I love you.

I adore you. 

I would like to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me. 

And maybe some of those unspoken thoughts slip out without you realizing, because he squeezes you just a little bit tighter, presses his face just a little bit deeper into your skin as his scruff tickles you. 

The only actual thought you can know for certain that you say, though, is, “Do you think they actually make coffins with memory foam inside?” 

To your surprise, even despite the almost-snores that had been escaping him, he answers in a heartbeat. 

“Oh, definitely. We’ll order two.”

[quirkfics]

spilling whiskey

word count: 4.4k

warnings: tension, Spies AU (..I mean. It could be canon..), smut !! all the smut, mild dom/sub vibe, mild implied age gap (Giran is older than reader, how much older is never specified), Giran spoiling reader

pairing: Giran/Kagero Okuta x Spy!Reader (gender neutral)

The drink tilts, whiskey sloshing, catching the light and turning caramel bright before it spills all over your shirt. It soaks down into the waist of your trousers, burns your nose and the back of your throat when you gasp, tugging at the drenched material like you have any chance of saving it. “My shirt,” you cry, low enough to be pitiful, to sound upset but not angry. It helps that you aren’t, really, that satisfaction and triumph are blazing through your veins now that you know his eyes are on you, that you have the brunt of his full attention.

“Shit,” Kagero Okuta - also known as Giran to his clients - exclaims, righting his glass and setting his cigarette in the half full ashtray on the bar. “Am I clumsy or what?” He says, trying to turn the situation into something to laugh at, something inopportune, but not particularly memorable. He’s good at that, and has been for a while, or so his file says. He fishes a pristine looking handkerchief from his suit jacket, hooking a finger in the belt loop of your trousers to pull you in close. It’s nerves that make your heart beat faster, that make your mouth dry. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. “Let me get that,” he insists, flashing a gap-toothed grin before he nods at the bartender. “Whatever they want, on my tab,” he says quickly and then blots at your ruined shirt, soaking up whiskey with his handkerchief. The warmth of his hand is seeping through the damp material, knuckles brushing against your abdomen.

“Ah, no- no, it’s fine. I think it’s kind of a lost cause,” you say, because it’s the truth and the truth will help build who you want to become. You know for a fact that it will be a lost cause, that the tannins in the whiskey will stain as surely as blood, in fact- well, you’ve kind of been counting on that.

“No,” he insists, eyebrows furrowing as he looks over the mess. He looks a measure too long, eyes tracing the pattern of the spill with a degree of heat most definitely not caused by worry or embarrassment and finally raises a chastened smile. “Let me buy you a new one?”

Hesitant, forcing down the victory of the moment before it can choke you, you try and disregard the inconvenience of a ruined shirt. It’s nothing, you can always get another, but... After a few moments of back and forth, you let Giran convince you - and you accept the drink the bartender brings, careful not to spill a drop.

His file says he likes to take care of people, find wells of untapped potential. You’ll be everything he wants and more.

-

The first evening you’d spent in Giran’s company, you’d drank enough to get buzzed. Enough to loosen your shoulders and your temperament, with that ridiculous stained shirt a constant reminder. He hadn’t been able to stop looking at the ruin of it, hadn’t been able to put the twist of his handkerchief back in his pocket. He’d kept it in hand, watching you talk, rubbing the whiskey soaked mess between his fingers until it was dry. At the end of the night he’d asked to do a further two things. Bemused, you’d agreed to both. The cab he’d called for you had been more than welcome, and another sign of blatant interest. Requesting your phone number was the final nail, poised over the coffin lid. You gave it, and mission parameters hammered the nail home, leaving you sealed in alongside him.

You’d gone home warm, riding the edge of victory and nerves, memories caught on the way he’d pulled at your belt loop, on his fingers twisting whiskey out of your shirt- and you’d gone straight to bed. Your last night of freedom and you’d thrown it away, like a child eager for a morning trip. 

The second time you see Giran, it’s entirely by his design. He’s waiting outside the bar in which you’d met, dressed ‘down’ in a purple shirt and black waistcoat, a gold chain gleaming around his neck. He stubs his cigarette out on the window ledge when he sees you, glasses pushing up with the force of his smile. He’s sentimental, you add to your growing mental file for him. You won’t be able to write a lot of this down, not if you want to ingratiate yourself in his life, not if you want to be given access to things you’ll need to pass along to your handler.

“You came!” He says, like he thought you wouldn’t. He clasps his hand to your shoulder, like he just can’t help himself, thumb stroking once over the arch of you before he lets his hand drop back down to his side. “I worried you might change your mind,” he teases, glasses slipping down his nose as his smile softens. 

Let him take care of you, you tell yourself, covering the spot he’d touched with your own hand, like you’re trying to keep a lingering shred of his warmth. 

“Ah, well, I.. I do need a new work shirt. I can’t exactly go in this,” you say, laughing as you tug at your t-shirt sleeve. It’s nice looking, a step up from something you can get off the rack, but there’s a bit of fray at the hem and your shoes are worn thin. 

It’s important not to throw yourself in head first. Giran is smart. He’s evaded police and heroes for years now, has gotten to the point of arrest a half dozen times and always manages to slip through their fingers like smoke. They suspect it has something to do with his quirk, but nobody knows and you don’t want to tip your hand this early in the game. You’re playing at being down on your luck, stuck in a retail job, mildly unhappy- but not enough to be desperate. Not yet. 

“Let’s fix that then, shall we?” Giran nods his head down the street, waiting until you keep pace and you cross off another crucial step in your mind. 

You spend the rest of the day in his company, dragged from shop to shop, where he tries - and fails - to buy you much more than the shirt he’d ruined. It feels like some kind of test. A non-subtle inquiry about whether you’re after money or after something else. He takes a call in front of you, and though you would love to know who’s on the other end, if it will eventually lead you to high-end targets, you turn away. You walk to the other side of the shop, nodding your head in acknowledgement when he holds up a single finger, letting you know he’ll just be a moment. 

“Work hounding you?” You ask when he returns, because that’s safe, and shows interest without fishing too deeply. You let him reach out to straighten the collar of your shirt, looking away when he takes a step closer.

“Always! That’s just how it goes though. Are you sure you wouldn’t want something in this shade?” He asks, and then the rising tension settles back down.

He takes you out for lunch, which you allow, because it feels like a silent apology for the repetitive questions, for the insistence that this one will bring out your eyes when all you need is something to replace a uniform item. It feels like you may have won this round, that he might be letting down his guard, but then he digs in his waistcoat for his cigarettes, leaning on the table as he lights up.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He asks, as if he’s only half paying attention and then- damn it, you wonder if you’ve played everything too safe. Too mannerly. Or maybe not needy enough?

“Actually, I do,” you interject, before he can turn away or wave down the waitress. 

His smile reappears, and that’s when you know your attention has been lagging, just a bit. Giran likes to take care of people, sure, and the manners you’ve displayed haven’t hurt anything, it’s that you have to want something from him. It’s what he understands, after all, what his business is built upon. 

You, you decide, straightening in your seat and giving a little half shrug of an apology. I want you, and you’re not going to turn me down, are you? Giran sighs, but the smile stays. By the end of lunch, you forget, for just a split second, that you’re not on a date. When you get home, getting ready for the real-but-fake retail job you’ve had for two months, a text lights up your phone:

This was fun - make it a date next time?

Wouldn’t miss it, you send back, along with a blushing emoji.

Giran sends back a kiss.

-

Time slips away from you. You can’t always fight the feeling of comfort, of rightness that follows you whenever you’re with him. Even the litany of: this is work, none of this is real, none of this is real, none of this matters in your head feels hollow.

Reality is Giran taking your hand when it’s resting on your thigh and lacing his fingers through yours. Reality is the clothes he buys for you, the way he likes to find places to touch, to pull: the collar of your shirt, the waistband or belt loops of your trousers, the sleeve of your jacket. Every time he does it, it feels like he’s pulling you off course. Not just from the direction in which you’re walking, but the direction of your mission, your work. Your livelihood and the task that will save people from pain, from trauma

“He’s a villain,” you murmur to your mirror sometimes, trying not to frown whenever you say the words. It shouldn’t make you sad, it shouldn’t make you want to change that, to stick by him and try and help. It should fill you with resolve every time you catch sight of a text from a suspicious number, every time you catch sight of him with a known criminal. You know what many of these people have done, have seen the devastation left behind from the weapons and drugs and the funding of killers with dangerous quirks.

But you like him.

It sounds like such a idiotic phrase when you finally allow yourself to admit it. You like him. The lines on his face when he smiles - and he smiles often - the gap in his teeth, and the way he tugs at his jacket to straighten the collar. You might not like the cigarettes he smokes, but you like the faintness of it, coupled with his cologne on his clothes. You like the way he sounds when he laughs and how he clutches you close if you’re the one who made him do it.

Your mission seems like such a faraway thing, like it’s relegated to memory alone. 

It’s why you’re all the more eager to finish it, why you push yourself. It’s why you wince when you think of kissing him, because you shouldn’t want it with softness or think about the way his stubble might feel. You should be wanting that kiss because it might leave you close enough to steal information. It might get you so far past his guard that you could wipe everything he has his fingers in off the map. But then your attention drifts, and you’re thinking about the way he tastes and what his touch would feel like, stroking over your belly and the tops of your thighs.

That’s when you ask for help, for a life line, to be taken out if you can or pulled away somehow. Just for a bit. Just so you can breathe clean air again, without craving the taste of his cigarettes. You get a hold of your handler a day after you start pressing for contact, legs bouncing in your seat like you’re jittering over too much caffeine. You tell her pertinent information first and then when she asks about your state of mind? You tell her everything. You shouldn’t be here any longer, not if you have these doubts, should you? 

Your handler makes the hard choice to keep you in, to keep you pushing for more, to insist that you need to be closer. “You were correct when you said you needed to look forward to a kiss, or more for the mission. All your instincts are correct. Get closer. Get closer,” she tells you and hangs up the phone. And that’s when you know you’re fucked.

It’s been months, you realize. Of this slow building relationship, of the frequent smiles and the soft way he’ll trace the shell of your ear. You’ve been funneling information to your handler and forgetting you weren’t his- 

“I feel like I’m everything,” you whisper one afternoon, riding in a cab to your doom.

You need to jump the gun, you’ve decided. Push for more in every which way, as soon as possible. It’ll be more like ripping off a bandage that way, than leaving an aching wound. It’d still hurt when they came to take him away, when he found out who you were and what exactly you’d been doing in your time with him, but it would be a fresh pain, ready for someone to staunch it. So you’d invited yourself over, when last you’d spoken on the phone. 

Giran hadn’t seemed perturbed by the request at all, and only mildly curious. More than anything else he sounded pleased, like he’d been waiting for you to give the word. He gave you an address and you’d jotted it down only to give it to the cab driver, not even taking the time to look it up. When the cab stops, you’re in front of a high-end hotel and the sky is starting to dim. Golden lights are flickering on in the parking lot and Giran had said… You glance down at the piece of paper, reading the last 4 digit number he’d added to his address. A room number.

You give the receptionist your name, head held high, and you even get to the elevators, but you freeze in the open doorway of one. You’re.. A little worried about why he’s decided to meet you here. Is it that he still isn’t comfortable with anyone knowing where he lives, or was it that.. He knew about you? If he knew, if he thought you played the assassin end of things, would he really be willing to-

You jump into the elevator when it nearly slams closed on your foot. It doesn’t matter, you decide, nerves making you sweat. If he knows, surely he’d be more willing to hold you and make some kind of deal for information in turn? You’d never seen Giran actually hurt anyone, but- There was still the matter of all the times he’d escaped heroes and police alike. 

You knock on the door when you reach room 1143, heart jumping into your throat when Giran opens it. His glasses are slipping down the edge of his nose and he looks.. Rumpled. He has a whiskey in hand and his shirt is partially unbuttoned, short curls of chest hair visible. “You missed me, hmm?” Giran asks and steps back to open the door wider, to let you by. He puts his whiskey in your hand as soon as you step over the threshold. “I thought we had a date just yesterday.”

You try not to drink heavily around him. Not that you ever thought he would take advantage, but more that you might let something slip, might get a touch too comfortable and give in to the urge to fall into his lap. This time you take a sip of the whiskey, relishing the burn of it, the clarity it gives you so you can harden your heart. You want this.

“I can’t want to see you again?” You ask, taking another sip as you breeze through the room, eager for him to close the door. When you turn around, his back is pressed to it and he’s giving you a quietly bemused smile. 

“That was never the issue,” he assures you. “Want me whenever you’d like!”

You set down the whiskey on the hotel table, right next to the glowing desk lamp. Your heart flip flops in your chest. You’re playing a dangerous game, you tell yourself, not waiting to see what’s really the issue here, whether he’d figured out who you were or not. You turn back to Giran, surprised to find him a few steps back and not close like he usually stays. The distance feels like thorns catching at your ankles - you should stay where you are, slow down, your subconscious says. You cross the carpet instead, breathing deep before you’re yanking on his shirt collar and pressing your mouth to his. 

You’re sharper than you’ve ever been, because Giran makes a little noise of surprise, hands almost slapping onto either of your hips, like he can’t decide if he wants to keep kissing you or he wants to hold you away. Just in case. You let yourself go boneless, nearly melting against his chest, dragging the edges of your fingernails down his middle, catching them on his buttons. His knee presses forward, perhaps to keep from falling back and you groan, rocking your hips against the pressure. His fingers dig into your hips.

Giran huffs, and you wonder if he’s going to stop, going to slow things down or ask where all this is coming from. Instead he catches your chin with his fingertips, taking over the kiss and licking into your mouth. He swallows the gasp you make, stubble catching against your lip and then grinds his own erection against you.

“I suppose you do want me?” Giran asks, voice so rough and tight with wanting that you feel almost short of breath. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” You whisper, pushing his jacket off of his shoulders. Then Giran is pulling you down onto the bed, losing his smile while kissing your mouth. You start out on his lap, still rocking your hips over his thighs, but he laughs after a moment and then tilts you sideways, pushing you onto the bed. He gets to his feet and urges you onto your hands and knees, but his hands pause on your hips, fingers slowing.

“Need to take a breath?” He asks, leaning over your back. You shift, but you can’t feel anything beyond his middle against you. He’s keeping himself at a careful distance. “Or maybe I should be grabbing a cigarette. Are you trying to wreck this old man?” 

He doesn’t know. He can’t. Giran is acting just like you’ve finally decided you’re ready for more, he’s not threatening you or hinting that he knows about anything. He’s- His thumbs have slipped under your shirt and are stroking softly over your bare skin.

“Maybe I want you to wreck me,” you tell him, glancing over your shoulder. It’s as good as saying green light. Giran hums, unfastening your trousers and hooking his fingers into the waistband. He pulls them off of you, slowly, carefully, letting his knuckles drag against your skin, over your thighs and calves before vanishing when you’re left bare. You don’t know what he does with them - lay them over one of the chairs, maybe, but you don’t hear them hit the ground before he’s back in place, one hand splayed in the middle of your back, pressing you down into the mattress. He slips his hand between your thighs, dragging his fingertips over your most sensitive parts and then presses a kiss to your spine. 

“You’re lucky I come prepared,” he teases and then pulls his hand away to pat your thigh. 

You.. aren’t thinking about missions or work. Not even a little bit and definitely not when his hand returns, slicking over you with lube and making you gasp into the sheets. You’re hot, suddenly, blazing and all you want to do is press back against his touch, to keep his hands on you. Giran pushes up your shirt, pressing another kiss to your lower back and then his knee is leaning against yours, urging you to spread your legs a little wider, to shift and make room for him between them.

He kneels on the bed, but you can still feel his slacks against your thighs and you’re only growing warmer, rocking yourself against his touch, repeating his name as his fingers open you up. 

“You can’t rush me to the finish line,” Giran tells you, leaning over you to place his glasses on the nightstand. His fingers curl deeper and your jaw goes slack. “But I like that you try.” For just a moment, you feel his cock pressed against you, the outline of it heavy as he straightens up again and then he changes the angle of his hand. The wet noise of his fingers, the angle- he has you tensing, toes curling as he picks up the pace and then promptly stops.

“Giran,” you choke out, trying to rock back against him, but he only laughs. 

“Didn’t you just tell me you wanted me to do the work here? You can have your wicked way later when my thighs are aching. Right now just relax.” 

It’s easier said than done. Giran knows exactly what he’s doing and every stroke, every time he scissors his fingers inside you, you have to concentrate on holding yourself motionless. You want him to have his fill of touching, but part of you wants to fuck yourself on his fingers, let him sit and sip his whiskey while you do all the work. The thought nearly pushes you over the edge and Giran must notice the difference, must feel you tensing because then he pulls his fingers out, places both hands on your hips. 

“Such an eager thing, aren’t you?” Giran asks and then he’s dragging the head of his cock over you, coating himself with the lube.

“Yes, yes, I am. I want-”

“I know what you want,” Giran says and for a moment there’s pressure and you think he might finally fill you up, but then he resumes that maddening stroke, down and back up, leaving you whimpering. “But you keep trying to rush, don’t you?” He reaches out with one hand, taking your arm and carefully, gently, adjusting it so it’s twisted behind your back. “Try and grab your wrists, or hook your fingers,” he tells you. “If you can’t, just lay your hands there.” As soon as your hands are where he wants them, Giran presses into you. You almost shout, almost move your hands from where they’re resting, but he stops you, fingers curling around both wrists. “Does it hurt?” He checks, grip careful. “Or was that just a little overwhelming?”

“It’s ‘whelming,” you mutter, trying to slow your rapid pulse, words coming out all wrong. He feels so good. You bite down on the noises you want to make, trying to make yourself relax. Giran’s cock slides in another inch though and you’re whimpering. “Good,” you add, “over-overwhelming in a g-good way.”

He thrusts forward and words fail you. “Glad to hear it,” he says, and everything inside you thrills at the roughness of his voice, how low it’s fallen. You want him to keep talking, to keep moving, to keep going, but after every shift forward he pulls back, just a little, still gentle, still slow. “If it’s too much-”

“‘S not,” you gasp, though you want to laugh. It’s not, not right now, but you’re fairly sure your lower back is going to ache in the morning, as well as the muscles in your chest and arms- And then Giran starts to settle into a rhythm and you’re not thinking about anything any longer. His slacks are still on, just pooling around his thighs, the cool metal of his belt buckle brushing against your heated skin every time he bottoms out and his hands keep flexing around your wrists. “Please,” you whisper, though you’re not sure what you’re pleading for. He feels good, wonderful, and his pace is steadily pushing you higher, getting you closer and closer to orgasm but you can’t stop yourself from asking for more, asking for harder. 

“So impatient, you sweet thing. You really want it harder?” Giran asks and then laughs when you shout yes against the mussed sheets and bedclothes. He leans back, sitting on his own calves, but he pulls you with him, grip growing tighter around your wrists. “Then keep moving, hm?”

Your thighs are already starting to burn, but you listen, rolling your hips, fucking yourself back on his cock until every muscle feels like it’s starting to ache. This isn’t a position either of you can hold for every long, but you’re so fucking close, and his hands are starting to tremble around your wrists.

“I suggest,” he breathes, grip gone slightly slippery with sweat, “that you go a little faster, or we’re going to- to have to take a break soon.” The admission only makes you tighten up, which leaves Giran cursing and pressing back against your thrusts and then the world goes a little hazy at the edges. You come, trying to keep fucking yourself through it, to keep bouncing yourself on his cock, but the way you clench leaves Giran falling to pieces right after you. He releases one of your wrists, grabbing hard onto your hip and you try and brace yourself, but your arm feels like jelly. It collapses when you try to catch yourself on the mattress. You fall face first onto the bed, Giran slamming into you one final time and then the room is silent, save for heavy breathing and the very faint, far away noise of cars going by outside the hotel.

“Fuck,” you say, with feeling, turning your face so you’re not mouthing at the sheets. Giran, still half clothed, heavy against your back, chuckles, right next to your ear. Aftershocks make you tremble. 

“I thought we just did?” Giran asks, and his stubbled face brushes against your neck, lips and teeth soft against the tender skin.

“Well round two-” You start, but Giran sits back with a groan, slipping out of you, smacking you once on the ass.

“Round two will have to wait. My quirk isn’t endless stamina or youth.”

That leaves you both laughing as you clean up, and truth be told, the only thing left on your mind is whether you’ll get the chance to wake him later, to stroke your hands over bare skin and whisper what you’d like to do again. Your reason for coming here, for rushing, has completely slipped your mind.  

[justfangstvdto]

Open Coffin 2 | Chapter 03  “Living On Borrowed Time”

Disclaimer: This is a sequel! Find Part 1 here. For some context, I´d advise you to watch The Originals to understand some occurrences.

Chapter warnings:  a little bit of a slow breather chapter, timeline divergence, canon divergence,  Also apologies for the long break in between...I allowed myself time to let it marinate a little, feel free to wait for more chapters to come before reading, 

Word count:  5450

Tags & Author Note at the bottom. Feedback is my lifeblood and keeps the writing coming (eventually...lol).

Open Coffin 2 Masterlist

Your feet dragged over what was left of the road in the cemetery that had been split open by centuries of floods and moving earth. The white paint of a few sparsely placed tombs was so bright you had to shield your eyes from the reflecting light. The trees swayed in the gentle breeze, diluting the light above into a shaded mess. There had never been an English word for the way the sun and wind interplay with each other to create dappled sunlight, but it decorated the entire tree-lined walkway. 

Leaving the shadows, you turned the corner towards the far end of the cemetery, skipping some of Lafayette´s prominent resting places, "Why the hell did I agree to this again?" 

“Because you're taken with my personality?” Kaleb was walking behind you a step or two, taking his sweet time as if he had no trouble wasting seconds to nothing. He had convinced you to not kill him immediately with a promise of revealing his intentions. You agreed, knowing that if he walked you into a trap you could still end him with a rub of your fingers.  It was a win-win, though a time consuming one so far. 

And time was running out. You hid a bloody nose from his eyes when he was unconscious - the second one that day - and it was only going to get worse from here on out.

“You think if I´d be taken with you, I would´ve handcuffed you to a radiator?” You scoffed, ignoring his attempt to lighten your mood completely. 

“I don´t know,” he shrugged, “you might be into that.” 

You rolled your eyes at his comment, progressing further. Passing another set of stones older than dirt, you adjusted the straps of the bag that carried your letters, fastening the metal handler around your shoulder.  It was comforting to know that they were with you again and that they only fell into the hands of the stranger next to you. After a few more steps, the sound of shoes crushing loose stones under his weight grew silent. 

"This is it," he said and nudged his head towards the building on your left.

You looked at the building towering next to you and it took a moment for you to scramble together where you are. Like a squared lighthouse, the second story building had glass windows on the second floor that wrapped around all sides. The first floor was used by the local witches as a place to congregate and meet with each other, while the second floor was full of plants, herbs and other ingredients for all kinds of spells.  You knew the place all too well. Besides plants, it currently housed a newly moved in leech that fed on people's weaknesses. One that was followed by her offspring and one - that despite the meaning of her name - was the worst of them all. 

Esther.  

"Of course you're working for her. I should've known.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, breathing out the weight of uncertainty from your lungs. Finally, the pieces revealing the stranger in front of you fell into place. Esther sends a distraction. Needless to say, you were not surprised. 

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you too are working with her?" He had a smug grin on his face as he replied as if he´d outfoxed your question. Smug Bastard. 

"Let me guess, she's the one that wanted my letters?”You asked, and he confirmed with a nod “Why?”

“To exploit your secrets, I'd imagine." He shrugged, then opened the door to the building and stepped aside “After you.” You brushed past him, brushing against his torso trying to fit into the outlandish small door frame. At least this time you were not wearing any hindering clothes as you did 100 years ago. You remembered that once a part of your coat ripped trying to enter this building and if you'd look closely you might even find particles of the clothing still littering the doorframe. 

Entering the room at the top of the building, you heard Kaleb breathe out in annoyance once he laid eyes on Finn. He- who was still inhabiting a local Voodoo master with the name of Vincent Griffith - stood at the table, ripping feathers from a dead crow that laid on it. 

“Ah, Finn. Just the person I didn't want to see." Kaleb looked at him with such disdain one would have deduced that there was some sort of sour history there. Still, Finn said nothing and blankly stared through his borrowed eyes. 

Looking at him, you wondered if the people underneath Esther´s and Finn's possession had any control left. Did they feel or see too? Or were they gone, totally locked away? You never wanted to find out first hand. 

“Kaleb, Y/N. I see you two have been acquainted.” You heard Esther speaking from an adjoined room before you saw her. But now she wasn´t the teenage witch she had been inhabiting when you met, it was a local shop owner and witch that had been selling witch items not far from Marcel's new place. But even in another body, she remained the most questioned pawn on the board.

 “I guess it was bound to happen since you sent him to steal from me. I don't appreciate you meddling in personal business. That wasn't part of the deal.”

“Did I, now?" She paused and shared a look of disapproval with Finn next to her "Very well. Since Kaleb revealed himself to you, you´ll join forces for the time being. Perhaps then I'll get what I seek." 

"Yeah no, I don't do teams." You shook your head and glanced at Kaleb next to you “No offence.”

“You'll do as you're told," Finn said. His jaw was clenched and he tipped the tip of his finger against the table. Ah, the scolding finger. Another thing he had in common with his brothers. 

"Oh, of course!” Kaleb scoffed, slicing his words in a sudden stern veer “Now Finn, the sycophant, speaks up! Are you gonna grovel at your mother's heels for eternity, or what?" 

Finn dragged his eyes from the table and ogled him down as if he would implode to dust under his gaze  “I advise you to stay your lane." 

You rolled your eyes at their ongoing dick-sword fight, wishing they´d either attack each other for a little entertainment or simply hold their tongue until you´re out of the way.

“We should move this along.” Esther sounded annoyed as she ordered Finn to the back room with a nod of her head. He tore himself away from the hostile conversation with reluctance, yet he complied. “Now,” Esther looked at you with stern expectation “What brings you here? I do hope it is not another empty promise.”

"I come bearing gifts." You said, stepping forward to the table in the middle of the room. You brushed dried up leaves from the roses that grew in the room from the table with your elbow. Kaleb's eyes went wide when he saw what you held in your hands. The white oak stake in all its silver veined glory. You watched Esther's eyebrows ripple with surprise. She wasn't expecting you to bring the white oak to her as you promised. 

She reached out to grasp it, but you brought the tip of the stake to the ceiling to withhold it from her   “I need some repayment first. A part of the spell, an ingredient from the list, something."

"You haven't fulfilled your part of the deal." She stated with certainty in her voice. 

“This is the start of it. You said you wanted to convince Klaus and Elijah to become human, right? But of course, they´re not as easy to persuade as you thought. If you can't convince them, pour salt into their wounds until they can't do anything but listen. You´re their mother. I´m sure you have secrets about them floating around in your head somewhere. Use them.”

“I am well aware of-” 

“I'm not finished. They're hiding something big. Elijah went off like the attack dog he is without me doing anything to cause this, which means that they're hiding something. They have to be. He's too suspicious of me to not want to keep something hidden away. I can find out what it is if you give me something first.” 

“You will give me the white oak stake and I will consider handing you a fraction of the spell” 

So that's how this is gonna go. You're baiting the wrong person here, Esther... 

You considered your options for a moment, going over the possible outcomes of any branch, but all led to disaster. All but one. That meant not playing her game anymore. It would never get to the point where she would keep up her end of the bargain.  But this endeavour trying to gain her sympathies had no use. It was time for Plan B.

"Fine. I'll be back with more soon” You met her observing gaze, looking at her without a glimmer of fear she so hoped to spot. You let her grasp the white oak stake and let it fall into her hands.

“It's not like I'm living on borrowed time or anything." You muttered as you turned to leave through the door you came into. 

What Esther will do with the white oak, that only her twisted mind would now. But at least it will give you time to come up with another plan. Including another obstacle that was your new companion who, if your senses were not completely obliterated, knew too much to not work against you. 

For now, however, getting out of the fire line is what was important, or you´d not stand to see this through. 

--

You stood on the corner, watching as Marcel paraded around in front of his new initiates. He was trying to rebuild his community, the one that Klaus took over with his scheming and intrigues. You never grasped why he thirsted for power as much as he did. Perhaps, you thought, he tried to eliminate the feelings of not possessing any power whatsoever when he was young. Or it was to outgrow Klaus' shadow that has been resting on him and this city. Even now exiled on the other side of the river, he tried to rebuild what Klaus took from him. 

Marcel, similar to New Orleans was a Phoenix rising from the ashes. Burnt down countless times, defeated and broken, yet resilient. You wondered how he kept going after all this time. Possibly he was just better at moving past issues than you were. Or he was nothing but more skilled at concealing it. 

“I'll be right back.” You informed Kaleb, as Marcel announced the end of his drafting process. Marcel spotted you walking towards him out the corner of his eye, smiled and outstretched his arms, waiting for your opinion of his recruits.

“So, what do you think?”

“I don´t know, a little too groupy for me, to be honest.” You shrugged, “But I'm not a team player so what do I know?” 

“Fair enough.” He nodded and let his eyes wander for a second before he spotted Kaleb watching your conversation like a hawk. “Who is this guy?”

“A friend.” You answered, hoping he wouldn´t pester you with questions. You had no time to waste. 

“Since when are you making friends? Especially ones with death stares.”

“Well, guys with death stares are kind of my brand.” You joked, but Marcel was nowhere near laughing. Your smile fell and you cleared your throat before you continued “Anyway, listen, do you still own that cabin out in Terrebonne? I could use a little retreat.”

Marcel cocked his eyebrow “Who do you have to hide from now? I know you´ve been going the extra mile to piss people off lately, but that has to be a new record.” 

“Nobody yet, but there will be soon. I'm just getting the hell out of dodge before that.” You felt bad for only visiting Marcel to get something from him, but you were not exactly running on a lot of time. You were sure he understood. 

 “Cabin´s still there, but  I had it warded against magic a while back, so no zapping in and out of the place. You can disable it if you want once you´re there.”

“Great. So a road trip it is.”  You were not particularly thrilled of hanging out in a confined space with someone you barely knew. But there was no use in complaining.

"In that case,” Marcel continued “you´ll probably want your ride back. It's down at the docks, with all your stuff in it."

“Shit I haven't thought about that piece of metal since-”  You paused, but there was no need to finish your sentence. Marcel understood.

“I assume you have a passcode for the doors? Or do you want me to blow the door up to get in?” 

"Uh, yeah. It´s…" He scratched the back of his head in avoidance. 

The second you knew why he was stalling, your face fell “Don't tell me the password is…password.”

“No, of course not.” 

“It´s password, isn't it? You dumbass.” 

“It's a car, not an atomic bomb! As if anyone's gonna steal that old thing.” 

You slapped his shoulder, shoving him back a step or two “How dare you. You can insult me, but never that car, alright? It's been through a lot.”

He smiled before raising his hands in defeat. “Alright, alright. Call me if you need backup with this one.” He nudged his head to Kaleb still standing where you left him.

“Thanks, but I never need backup.” 

----

You definitely needed backup. Even simply to hurl Kaleb out of the window for how annoying he was. Throughout the first few miles, he flipped radio channels with his magic, whistled along to every song that came on, or bumped his knees on the glove compartment repeatedly. He even asked about Marcel with such vigour, you barely managed to divert the topic. You knew many people had something against Marcel and his supernatural politics, you included, but Kaleb´s disapproval was on the upper spectrum. This only added to his questionable character.

You halted at a rest stop a few miles down the road after Kaleb insisted on getting road trip snacks. He had an extra pep in his step when he found the snack Aisle, you could see his excitement through the smudged storefront windows.You pulled out your phone when he disappeared into the back isles dialling a string of numbers you haven't thought about in the last decades. You tapped your foot throughout the beeping tone, anxiously waiting for the other person to pick up.

You heard a groggy moan before the scruffy voice of an old friend cut through. "Y/N ain't that a nice surprise.” Shank said, “It's been what 90 years?" 

"Yeah not exactly. We saw each other about a year ago in New York. Or have you forgotten?" 

Shank considered for a moment “Oh yeah something seems to brush through my drunken haze. I think. ”

Shank did not drink to forget like most, he drank to remember. He claimed that once he entered a state of non-sobriety, memories he had long forgotten would creep up. You always thought it was nice he even could forget anything at all. 

“Anyway,” Clearing your throat, you continued “I need you to do some dirty work.”

“Dirty work?” He sounded surprised yet elated by the prospect of digging up some dirt by either burying someone or by digging up secrets “What are we talking about? Murder, mayhem? Mayhem with some murder?”

“Not that kind of dirty. I need you to pull up all the records you can find for a guy called Kaleb. I don't have his last name, but I'll send you a picture.” You looked over your shoulder to check if Kaleb was already finished with getting snacks, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

“I see what I can do.” He agreed and you could hear him hammering on the keyboard through the phone “Is he a problem I need to know about?” 

“I don't know yet. I just want to make sure we're on the same side.” You explained, leaving out the details he had no use of knowing about “Thanks for doing this, by the way, I know I haven´t exactly been around.” 

“You can thank me by checking in with the boss.” 

Of course, he would bring her up. How could he not? He was so blindly loyal to her, it was a wonder that he was not killed yet.

“I don't know what Mae told you but I don't want to speak to her ever again.”

“Just call in, kid.” He seemed impatient in his wish, but, you had no intention of following through with it. That chapter was closed. 

“I'll think about stopping by instead.” You lied. You had no intention to go anywhere near the headquarters.

There was silence on the other end, then what sounded like a drink that was poured before Shank spoke once more "You can't. It's all gone." 

"What do you mean it's gone?”

“Haven't you heard? The Guerra Werewolf pack bombed the place. Did the same to the crescents on the Bayou. Whole building collapsed in broad daylight, almost everyone died. Some of them people were dumb as a ton of bricks, but they were family.”

“Shit. I didn't know.” 

"Nobody knows except Boss and I, and our high and mighty Mikaelson's of course."

"If there's anything I can do-”

“Nothing to be done.” He answered curtly, then returned to his task at hand. "I'll get you the info. Take care of yourself, kid.” And without another word, he hung up the phone. 

Entering the car, you leaned forwards after terminating the call, head pressing into the steering wheel. How have you not heard of the explosions? If you had, you would have made the Guerra werewolves suffer longer. Or at least dragged some of them back to the surviving members they could do with them whatever they liked. 

You pushed the thought away when Kaleb showed up at the register. You snapped a photo of Kaleb when he appeared at the register through the windshield, disguising your action as trying to find a signal. 

“Did you find it?” He asked through the opened passenger window before throwing the three bags worth of snacks behind him on the backseat.

“Find what?" You asked him, confused about what he meant.

“The signal?” He said when he opened the passenger door and hopped in   “I saw you from in there.” 

“Oh, yeah I got like one and a half bars at best.” You lied. before reaching out for the key stuck in the lock cylinder. Turning it with the foot on the clutch you started the car, ready to continue the journey.

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

On a lonely stretch of road close to Morgan City, Kaleb had finally resorted to looking out of the window for the first time since leaving New Orleans. Silence at last. Ah, yes. Hair breezing in the wind, soft tunes that played on the radio and some nice peace and...

“So New York huh?”  Kaleb asked and you had to stop yourself from burying your face in the steering wheel. 

...Quiet, yeah not so much.

“Just because we're working together, doesn't mean we have to talk.” You blew him off, “Also, is there an encyclopedia of Y/N somewhere I don´t know about or how do you know where I was?”

He smiled and said "Touchy, are we?”

"I don't know why you're surprised. Do I look like the person that ́is offering free hugs or something?"

"Well, if you ́re offering, I wouldn't say no." He shrugged, flashing a pearly white smile that you figured was deadly to girls' hearts in the vicinity. 

“Fine.” You sighed and turned the radio volume down. “Ask away. What about New York?” You hoped he would be satisfied with a few questions answered.

“You, uh, what do they say.”He tipped the tip of his finger against his lips as he considered “Ah yes dropped off the map. Then years later you resurface in New York. Why that filthy city out of the whole world to choose from?” 

You stranded there, was the short answer. The real answer was much more complicated. “I did it for the Bagels.” You shrugged.

Kaleb almost choked on a corn chip as your words registered “The bagels?” He said through a cough or two. 

“The bagels.” You confirmed, "And I spent some time there back in the '50s, so I knew my way around."

You did not tell him that you just found yourself in New York one night after you tried aimlessly to find something to dull the pain. You did not tell him that you spend weeks feeding through the drunkards that wandered the streets at night. Or how you made the top spot on the wanted list on several covens or small circles of witches for stealing spellwork. You had nothing to lose, and nothing to fear from any of them. You had your goal, and you did not care about casualties. 

So you lied. He had no use hearing any of those things.

“And what about your family? Did they visit you there?” He asked further.

Why do you ask so many questions, Kaleb?

You dug your nails in the fabric of the steering wheel at the mention of your so-called family. You have not seen Stefan or Damon in years. But only thinking about them resurfaced memories of the last time you spoke to Stefan on a lonely winter night in New York, months after everything that happened.

You remembered how cold your hands were from the freezing storm that iced the city overnight. There was another blizzard predicted to roll through in the day to come, but people in New York had experienced harsher winter conditions than that. You watched them drink their mulled wine and cinnamon-spiked coffee from the bench you were sitting on. The snowed-over trees of Central Park were a perfect backdrop for the winter wonderland they were seeking. 

The ring tone felt like an endless repetition of empty promises, each more disappointing than the last. What if he had no desire to pick up the phone? Or perhaps he was in trouble? Maybe you should- But then his voice cut through the silence. He didn't say your name just answered with a standard phrase you´d greet strangers with. You told him who you were and before you could explain that you wanted to make amends, he said: “Whatever it is, I can´t help you.” Then he hung up and left you in the cold with nothing but the light of your phone that remained the sole evidence for your conversation. 

Clutching the steering wheel tighter, you shoved those memories back where they belonged; behind a door and forgotten as so many have been. 

“I don't have a family” You finally said. “What about you? Got any family left?” 

“They're all crazy as loons.” He shook his head “No, my family these days contains of one person. The only one that's never given up on me.”

Huh. So you were in the same boat after all. Interesting...

“Is that the reason you started working for Esther? To be reunited with them?” 

“That's the primary goal, yes." He confirmed and reached for another chip in the bag. “So, New York.” He repeated once again  “What did you do?”

“I'm sure you´ve heard the stories. Everyone has.” 

“I rather get information from the source. Can´t trust chatter these days.”

“I've done what someone like me does.” You answered with the hope he would have the sense to stop pestering you with questions. 

“Well, darling, there is nobody like you, so have to be a little more specific.” The familiarity of the word of endearment made you turn your head and you glanced at him, but he was already staring ahead. 

“Murdered, maimed, pissed people off, you know, the usual. Bad things happen when people like me grieve.” You replied, focusing on the road ahead once more. 

“All that to get your boyfriend back?” 

You slammed your foot on the breaks, halting the car with a loud screech. You leaned over with fury dwelling in your eyes  "Let's get one thing straight, you'll never bring him up. Ever. Matter of fact, why don't we keep our history to ourselves."

"I didn´t-" 

You didn't let him finish. Instead, you turned the radio volume up, ending the conversation in an instant. You felt his stare every now and then and he nervously fumbled with his left hand and outstretched his fingers only to retreat them a moment later, as if he was regretting reaching out.

The song on the radio swallowed the silence as it played on, thick with grief as a man sang on about how he couldn't go on without his special person by his side. How absolutely cliche it was for the song to play right at this moment when you were reminded of him.  

If Kol was here he would point his finger into the air and utter “See there's the universe again. Laughing at us, taunting us, but also telling us we ́re on the right path.”The memories of his smile and the way it would outshine your grimmest thoughts drifted over you, a cruel reminiscence of paradise lost but never forgotten. You relived flashes of memories every day, in the place you dared not to touch nor let go. As long as you remembered, nothing was lost. Kol still existed. You still existed.

The road ended in a mess of mud and overturned ground as the song played out. End of the road for now. And that meant digging through the outskirts of the swamp. On foot. At that point, you started thinking this was a bad idea.

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

Birds settle on a power line across the dirt road leading to the cabin. Most birds gathered as a group, some were scattered, but one was sitting next to them and tilted his head to observe them.  They scattered into the wind when the cabin door behind you fell in the lock. You felt his eyes on you as he stepped forward on the roofed deck. Thanks to an invisible spell Kaleb was unable to see Mikael parading around with a wooden lance on the space before the cabin. 

“I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry.”His voice sounded remorseful and quiet as he leaned against the brittle railing where chipped-away paint chips rained onto the dirt. 

“It's fine. Just forget about it.”You brushed him off. You could have told him that he found your weak point, and that was not the mention of Kol, but the fact that you had forgotten about him for a moment and then Kaleb brought him up. 

“It's nice here. If you ignore the blasting heat.”He was trying to establish some sort of small talk, but you were never one to care for it, and certainly not now.

“Yeah.” You glanced at him through the corners of your vision. 

Above, the birds screeched and tore through the silence, and you looked up to see them retreat into the trees. It was getting dark now, stars had started to crack through the sky, some lighter patches, others clusters of faint and bold light. You gazed at those bright friends of the moon and the midnight blue canvas stole every thought from your mind. The carousel of worries was forgotten for a moment. That was one of the advantages of life outside of the city where stars were put to death every night by the shine of streetlights and suffocated by manmade pollution. 

You turned your head again and caught Kaleb's gaze in the light the oil lamp that swayed in the breeze provided. You had to warn him. Warn him about the danger he put himself in being here with you. People around you either leave or end up six feet under. He at least deserved some cautious words. 

“Listen,” You turned to him “everything I plan goes bad for me usually. And this time it's foolish too, so if you want out-”

“Nonsense. I'm with you. And I don't change my mind.” He said as a matter of fact as if standing by words was such a common thing to do "Besides, what am I supposed to do, play lapdog with Finn?" He scoffed and shook his head, the image alone too ridiculous to fathom. 

The corners of your lips tugged into a smile, an expression which was mirrored on his face. But, when he looked at you next, his face went pale. Before you could ponder about what he saw, you felt the warm liquid run down your nose even before you smelt the copper that taste. 

“Shit, sorry.” You wiped the blood away with the back of your hand which stained the fine lines that covered your skin with the crimson remnant ”You´re squeezy around blood, huh?”

"No-” He shook his head, then paused “that is why you said you´re living on borrowed time?”

You were surprised he heard that “Yeah. I just need to undo some things I´ve done before I kick the bucket. A monster seeking absolution. What a cliche, right? Whoever, be it the universe or whatever, that´s conducting my story has never heard of an original plot, that's for sure.” 

“You're not a monster. “ He said.

“Isn't drinking blood enough cause to be one?”

“That describes what you are, but who you are isn't defined by the things you've done. Nobody can be summed up by the total of their wrongdoings. I don't believe that, and neither should you.” You opened your mouth to deny what he declared, then stopped yourself from saying it. Kaleb noted your silence as a sign to drop the topic “I might be capable to help you figure out what causes this. If you let me.” 

“I have nothing to lose, so why not?” You shrugged, knowing that time would run out eventually. And at this rate, it won't be too long. “But first there's something you should know. I'm not working alone here.”

“I hope not, or I'd be nothing but a figment of your imagination.” He grinned and nudged your shoulder “As flattering as that is, I´d rather be real. Being invisible will drive you mad.”

“You better see it for yourself then.” You raised your hand towards the space Mikael had been training while you spoke, uttering one simple word to reveal him “Invisique.”

You watched Kaleb's expression closely as it dawned on him who remained only a few feet away from where he was standing. 

“Mikael.” He swallowed and withdrew with a few steps backwards, until his back hit the rigid wooden wall. He was scared. Good. That meant he wasn't a fool.

“So you know who he is. Good, that spares me the history lesson.” 

“How is he here?” He sliced his words in a sudden stern veer, and kept his back flush with the wall, not moving an inch. 

“Let's get inside and I'll tell you what you need to know.” Opening the door you went inside first, holding the door open behind you. “Don´t worry, he won't come near us.” 

Kaleb tore his eyes from Mikael and secured the door with his hand. Before entering he looked over his shoulder, suddenly feeling like he was being watched. He scanned the tree lines and the road up ahead but there was nothing to be seen. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something tussle the leaves in the distance beyond Mikael's training ground. And he feared that the storm above and the vampire that hunts vampires was the least of his worries. 

And who or whatever was watching him, he thought, surely agreed.

-----

A/N: And we´re back with another one! This is a little bit of a slower one, but I hope you liked it! If there anything that stood out to you or anything that you liked or disliked, let me know!!  I would love to hear your thoughts.

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[lycorogue]

Meet My OCs: Willow (Part 5 – Stories)

You still with me? You are friggen awesome!

Just two more to go! This post and the next one, which will be a post showcasing some fun wrestling entrances I created for my husband’s WWE13 game.

Before we really get into this post, though, how about a quick recap of this series thus far?

Part 1: Introduction to the series, as well as explanations of the real-world influences that helped me create my two story worlds of Gyateara and Glitches. Part 2: Explaining the inspirations that birthed each of my four main Gyateara characters. Part 3a: Same, but for my four main teenage Glitches characters. Part 3b: How I reworked 6 canonical X-Men characters into the Glitches main supportive cast of six adult characters.

Meet Willow mini-series:

Part 1: Willow’s background, personally overview, and powers. Part 2: Willow’s main relationships. Part 3: Willow’s history on the X-Future game, and how it will translate to Glitches Part 4: Willow visuals; fanart, commissioned art, and fashion design games

Now you get a bit more into Willow’s head via 5 writing samples. Two are adaptations of the play-by-post game itself, and three others are side-story narratives. Check below to read them.

The Set-up: An example of the Willow/Devon dynamic before Devon left to join The Brotherhood, leaving Willow feeling betrayed.

Word Count: 1174

 - Mutual Teasing - 

Labored breaths fell in rhythm with pounding footfalls. The humidity of the summer day settled on the thick lawn that was a few days past needing a mow. Broken blades of grass stuck to two sets of sneakers. Their path was already visible behind them with the wet greenery staying crushed under their tread.

"There!" Willow panted as her fingers brushed Devon's shoulder. "Finally caught your ass." She gargled some sticky saliva and spat it to her side. She braced herself with her hands on her knees as she took a long breath. Moving her hands to her waist, she exhaled and arched backwards before flopping onto the grass. The budding dew cooled her bare legs.

Devon allowed one foot to slide out on the grass and landed beside Willow. He thumbed his nose and coughed the burn out of his lungs.

"Worn out already?" he laughed. "I thought you do street running or fast running or Perk-ore or whatever."

Willow leaned back on her elbows, tossed her short silver hair out of her face, and focused on Devon out of the corners of her aquamarine eyes. She clicked her tongue against her teeth before huffing a sarcastic laugh.

"First: you're an ass. Second: how the hell did you grow up in Brooklyn and not know what Free-running is? Also, it's pronounced Parkour."

"Eh, whatever. You knew what I meant."

Willow let her arms give out beneath her and stretched across the grass. She closed her eyes and flicked Devon in the wrist as her fingers brushed his skin.

"Hey!" Devon pulled away before smirking and skirting around to her head. Kneeling at her shoulders, he pinned her arms. "How am I the ass when you're the athlete who can't handle a quick game of tag?"

The fifteen-year-old opened her eyes again, only to squint them as if she were trying to stare at the sun. It kept her a couple of seconds to adjust to Devon's exotic brown eyes only being a couple inches away. The flecks of color embedded in the cocoa of his irises flickered a rainbow of reds, golds, greens, and oranges as if Devon's eyes were kaleidoscopes.

Abruptly, Willow killed the silence by blowing on Devon's nose. Instinctively, the seventeen-year-old pulled a hand away to rub the itch she caused. With Devon distracted for a couple of seconds, Willow easily slid her other arm free, twisted into a sitting position, and flicked him in the forehead all as one fluid motion.

"You're an ass because your 'quick game' lasted over an hour with barely any breaks. Plus, your mild healing power increases your endurance. No lung or muscle burn means running is easier. Simple science confirms your assness. Boom." She motioned her hand like she was dropping something, and the image of a three-inch atomic bomb appeared, complete with a mushroom cloud explosion when the bomb disappeared into the grass.

"Bah, you're just a sore loser." Devon tilted to his side and rolled onto his back. "So, whaja wanna do now?"

"Sun's down. We should probably start heading back." Willow stood and brushed the moisture off herself.

"Sun's down," Willow's voice parroted back to her, "We should probably start heading back."

Willow turned to see herself lying in the grass, one leg hooked over a bent knee, kicking slightly.

"I hate when you do that." The real Willow tucked her hair back to make sure Devon saw her full glare.

Imitation Willow laughed in Devon's baritone. Her long, slender legs shimmered as they became quickly covered in heavy denim jeans. Her petite chest broadened and her pale skin darkened to an olive-tone. Finally, her heart-shaped face, framed by an asymmetrical bob, shifted into Devon's chiseled jaw with spiky brown locks; his nondescript features returned, again suggesting that he was somehow all races at once.

"Come on," Devon said once he was back to his normal form, "you secretly love having a twin."

Three Willows formed out of the air behind the original. In unison, all four replied, "I could be however many I want. All you do is simple mockery."

One of the false three walked over to Devon and knelt beside him. She rubbed his chest and stroked his jaw with a silky smile across her face. The original Willow stepped to the side of the other two in order to give Devon an unobscured view.

"I can do more than mimicry though," the real Willow cooed.

The two illusions that stayed behind turned to each other and moved in for an embrace and kiss. Before their lips met, they transformed into Devon sloppily making out with himself.

The seductive Willow illusion still stroking Devon's chest burst into laughter. The real Willow joined suit. With a flick of her wrist, the illusionary Devons were only in matching white boxers with hearts on them. One Devon grabbed the other's ass.

"There we go," Willow snorted, "much better. Don't you think? Oh, and a goosing too. You frisky devil."

Devon smirked. "I think I'm damn handsome actually, and would gladly make out with myself given the chance. I also think you secretly want to see me in those." He gestured towards the boxers and winked at the real Willow. He then tapped the illusion Willow on her nose to disperse her; breaking Willow's spell.

Willow huffed as she waved her hand as if erasing the illusion of the making-out Devons. They too vanished, leaving only the original Willow and Devon alone in the field.

"Well, I think you have too high of an opinion of yourself." Willow crossed her arms in front of her and pouted; her fun ruined. "Like I'd want anything to do with you and your boxers."

Devon stood up and chuckled. "Say what you want. Your illusion showed me all I needed to know."

"Shut up! I was trying to mess with you."

"Would have worked if you got some details right." Devon dramatically shrugged with his arms out to his sides. "For starters, you clearly don't know how make-out sessions work."

"Y-yes I do!" She blushed. "I was purposely making it bad to imply that you're a bad kisser."

Devon shoved his hands deep in his pockets before walking over to Willow and leaning in close. "Want me to show you how well I kiss?" He wagged his eyebrows at her.

Willow's face flushed. "No! Gross! I'd probably have to teach you anyway." She stepped back and hugged herself. Her face scrunched up like she smelled a used diaper.

"You also got the boxers wrong. I go commando. Makes the morphing easier with less clothing. In fact, who's to say if I'm wearing any actual clothing right now?"

"Ewww!" Willow shoved him further away from her and started running back to the dorms.

"But I would totally sport only those white boxers with the hearts if that's what you're into," Devon teased, chasing after her. "And when should I expect those make-out lessons?"

"Hate you, Devon!" She playfully called back.

"You love me," he laughed.

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

The Set-up: 

Devon returned to the X-Men after spending two years with The Brotherhood of Mutants. Until the X-Men can decide if they can trust him, Devon is in a holding cell hidden under the Xavier Institute. Willow, feeling conflicted on the return of her former best friend and crush, decided to visit Devon to get some answers of her own. The answer she got was that he wasn't part of the attack on the Xavier Institute; he didn't even know about it until months later, and he grieved the presumed loss of his friends. He had every intention of simply infiltrating The Brotherhood and coming back to the X-Men as a spy to prove his worth to the X-Men. This is a sample from the larger story “Please, Let Me Explain” co-authored by me and Devon's creator Ronoxym.

Word Count: 843

- Can't You Be The Bad Guy? -

She peeked over her shoulder and back at Devon before turning fully around. "I saw what you did in the Danger Room. I was so intrigued by the idea of your first DR run that I made sure to set up shop in the observation deck. I watched the whole thing: wandering the desert, saving Penny, getting knocked out, waking up in what you thought was the infirmary before being convinced that you were going on an actual mission, going up against The Brotherhood again, and taking out Lookout once Pyro offered you info on your parents. It was a mean trick, but it seemed to seal your coffin well enough."

"I really wish you hadn't seen that." He shied away, ashamed at his behavior, but also growing angry at the reminder of the cruel misdirection. That session had ruined his life.

"Yeah, well, I did. I was so mad. I hadn't known you for long, but I thought I knew you pretty well. Even after the thing with Marge in the DR, I tried to come up with an explanation. But then you flee before the place blows? You had betrayed us to The Brotherhood and clearly didn't care about us any longer. My life for the past two years was hating you to no end. Vowing that I'd avenge Hedge. That I'd get payback for the other three lives you took. So, tell me, Devon, if you are as innocent as you claim, how doesn't that make the last two years of my life worse?"

Devon looked bewildered by her question. He had figured that being innocent would always make things better, not worse. Willow didn't miss a beat in informing him otherwise.

"Don't you get it? I just spent the past two years of my life hating you! Despising you! Having nightmares about you! I had a sickening sense of betrayal whenever I thought about you - even the few good times we had. I had emotional breakdowns and loathed my best friend for the past two years over a misunderstanding? That's supposed to cheer me up? I blamed you for four deaths you had nothing to do with? That's supposed to lift my spirits? Do you realize how much I put myself through because I thought I was the one who drove you to it? I mean, I was the one who convinced you to try out the DR in the first place! If I hadn't suggested it to Wolverine then maybe you wouldn't have left. Now knowing that I just might be right about that fact is supposed to perk me up?"

She started screaming at him as she wept. "The amount of time I wasted hating my best friend. The amount of energy I dedicated to hardening my heart to you. The days of self-loathing because I thought I put you up to it, or because - to this day – I'm still pissed off at Cyclops for tricking you like that! You were the enemy! Cyclops was right about you, and he was justified in testing you in the DR instead of letting you betray us in the field. Yet I still hated him for such a horrible ploy. Then I felt guilty for siding with a foe instead of a professor."

She hung her head and her hair spilled from behind her ears, hiding her right eye. It was manic whenever Trish's hair fell into her face, but it was sweet and a bit heart-wrenching when Willow's silvery-white locks drifted into hers. Devon just wanted to brush them away from her eyes, and help dry her tears. It pained him to the core that he caused her such grief.

Her voice cracked as she breathed out the next sentence. "It's just easier on me if you really were the bad guy. So, just- can you just give me that?"

Devon had no clue how to respond. They stood in silence for a few minutes - Devon staring at Willow as she focused on her own feet - before she finally ran out of the room. Mirroring Devon when he left the institute two years prior, Willow didn't bother to look back or say goodbye.

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

The Set-up: Nyssa, Devon, and Zeke just defected to the X-Men from The Brotherhood. Willow has not taken kindly to the trio, and is particularly harsh with Devon. Nyssa, Devon's unofficial girlfriend, decides to take it upon herself to get Willow to chill. This story is a companion piece to X-Future.

Word Count: 1613

 - It Is So On! -

Willow sighed and flopped on to her bed. "What do ya want, Nys?"

The blonde slammed the door closed behind her. "We need to talk about Devon."

Willow squeezed her eyes closed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "No, we don't. We really, really don't."

"Yes, we do." Nys' voice was firm, like a scolding school teacher. "Or at the very least you're going to hear what I have to say."

Willow opened one eye to glance over at Nys. The girl had a stubborn determination. Willow could already tell that she was in a losing battle. She closed her eyes and waved Nys on.

"You need to lay off him," Nys demanded.

Willow loudly drew in a hissy breath. On the loud exhale she rebutted, "How about nope?" She then rolled off her bed and walked over to her desk. "Well, that was fun. Buh-bye now."

Nys bit the inside of her cheeks and folded her arms. "Are you this hostile to everyone?"

Willow swung out her leg as she pivoted on her opposite heel, and then gracefully landed in her chair. "Only potential threats," she said matter-of-factly. "Ya know, like former members of an organization that already blew up this school once."

Nys stormed over to the desk. "That's not fair! First of all, none of us had anything to do with that! We weren't even members back then. Secondly, The Brotherhood had lied to us and kept us in the dark the entire time we were with them. None of us are actually bad people."

Willow cocked an eyebrow. She carefully watched as Nys took a few steps back and sank on to the bed. The blonde's harshness melted as she slumped on the soft surface.

"Look." For the first time Nys' voice was soft and a bit defeated as she studied her woven fingers. "Zeke is a bit simple minded, but he's really just a huge teddy bear. He's devoted and loyal as long as you treat him well, and he really just wants to be a good person. He's actually pretty devastated that he was part of a terrorist group. Well, we all are, honestly. Anyway, Zeke doesn't deserve you or anyone else here harassing him about his past."

"Yeah, okay, don't pick on the humanoid St. Bernard. Whatever." Willow made a display of yawning before she checked her desk clock. "Weren't you invading my room in order to talk to me about the Traitor Supreme?"

Nys vaulted off Willow's bed and got up in the younger girl's face. "Never ever refer to him like that!" she snarled.

Willow leaned back and shot her finger up at Nys. "Ah, there we are. Full circle back to rage. Fascinating how that works." She crossed her legs, and again casually waved for Nys to continue. "Well, if I have to hear this, can you at least move it along?"

"Move it along? Move it along! Are you kidding me right now?" Nys slammed her hand on the desk beside Willow. "Listen up, bitch, and listen carefully. You want this short? I'll make it simple for you then. Leave. Us. Alone. Easy enough for you?"

Willow scoffed and pivoted her chair so she had space to stand up. Nys caught the armrest and swung the chair back to center Willow on her. Holding firmly to each side of the chair, Nys leaned in close. "Don't mess with me, skank."

"Excuse me?" Willow knitted her eyebrows in disbelief and shifted her weight to one side, ready to sweep kick Nys away from her if need be.

"Don't pick on Zeke," Nys continued completely undeterred. "And certainly do not harass Devon. Don't be mean to him. Don't treat him harshly. Don't call him names. And never call him a traitor again! You would be lucky to have a loyal friend like him!"

"Loyal?" Willow's voice cracked as it was torn between yelling and laughing. Her face hardened. In a quick movement she simultaneously shoved Nys away from her and stood up fast enough to kick the chair behind her. "Now listen up here, sweetheart." She spat out the last word as if it were a curse. "I already had Devon as a friend, and let me tell you, it was far from lucky. Plus, he was about as loyal as a pet tiger. So it's time for you to sit down and listen to Teacher."

Nys rolled her shoulders and took a step back so her nose wasn't practically brushing Willow's. The silver-haired girl clenched her jaw as she growled through her teeth. "That jerk caused nothing but chaos when he left. And I certainly didn't feel his loyalty, or feel lucky to have been his friend. You want to know what I did feel? I felt lost. Betrayed. Hatred. So, you can keep him as a friend. 'Cuz I certainly don't want it."

The blonde shifted, gently tilting her head and calculating. "You liked him," she finally guessed after a few heartbeats.

"What?" Willow stiffened her back and glowered.

Nys struggled to keep the smile from tugging on her lips. "You did, didn't you?" She scanned her adversary as she softened her stance. "That's why you're so hard on him. He broke your heart when he left."

The belly laugh filled the room. Hugging her stomach, Willow snorted before she was able to recompose herself. She held up her hand apologetically as she took deep breaths to calm the giggles. "I'm sorry, but Devon? Devon St. James? That punk kid? Break my heart?" She guffawed and quickly muffled it with a hand. "Yeah, alright, ya got me. He intrigued me a little, and I may have thought he was kinda cute. That's it." She fought against smiling and it was killing her cheeks. "Broke my heart. You're so cute. Look, I was with someone then, and I'm with someone now. I wouldn't want Devon St. James ever. Hate to break it to ya." Willow winked at Nys and giggled a bit more.

"Oh, right, dating someone." Nys stared at a patch of wall just past Willow's shoulder. Her voice was distant as she tried to grab at a passing memory. "That Chayse guy, right?"

Half of Willow's face pulled up in a smile as she cocked a hip. "Yeah. Chayse. Someone way better than that runaway douchebag. Yet another reason your little Don Juan scenario would never happen."

Nys' eyes bore down on Willow for yet again disrespecting Devon. Taking a couple long breaths, she calmed herself. Something about the younger girl seemed a bit off balance since it was suggested that she had a crush on Devon; maybe even loved him. Nys decided to take a stab in the dark: that the images Lia had seen during their battle were at least based on truth. "This oh-so-fantastic Chayse guy, he was with that Lia girl before, am I right?"

Willow's chuckles quickly died. She scowled and again stiffened her back. "Watch it."

"Yeah, I think I heard that the two of them were actually a cute couple for a while. Then you stole him away from her with your slutty feminine wiles." Nys smirked and her eyes twinkled.

"Listen here, Tinkerbell," Willow shot forward to get right in Nys' face. She poked the girl in the shoulder to accentuate her point. "Don't go around talking about shit you know nothing about."

Nys casually gave a sideways glance at Willow's poking. As if swatting a fly, she brushed the younger girl's hand away. "I also heard something about you creating unnecessary chaos between that Irish couple."

Willow gave Nys a shove. "I told you to stop."

Nys stumbled back and landed on Willow's bed. She quickly crossed her legs and leaned back as if she had intended to sit down anyway. "Seems to me you enjoy causing needless drama among happy couples."

The slap echoed throughout the room. Nys gripped the side of her face, knowing a handprint would show up in due time. Willow remained in the follow through of her swing. Her breaths were slow but heavy. "I said," Willow growled, "stop it."

Nys pushed Willow out of the way so she could stand up. The two stared each other down for a good minute. Nys was the one who finally broke the silence. "Listen, bitch, I don't care if you despise Devon or love him. He's mine and you're not going to cause drama between us. Try all you want, but keep in mind that I have my own way of getting into someone's head." Glaring, Nys released some of her pheromones and Willow became lightheaded.

After a little wobbling, Willow allowed herself to collapse on to her bed. Nys smirked and let up on her powers. "Just a little taste. You'll be fine in a minute or two. Open the window to help that along." She walked over to the door and stopped with it half open. "Trust me, mess with Devon anymore and I'll make it ten times worse for you."

Nys slammed the door behind her when she left. Right on cue, Willow's eyes refocused. She stared down her bedroom door and imagined the blonde that just left. Her fingers still tingled from slapping the girl. Willow studied them before clenching her hand in to a fist. "Challenge accepted, Nys. Challenge accepted."

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

The Set-Up: The villain Agony managed to force Willow onto a weird sub-set of the Astral Plane in order for the two of them to battle. After a few scuffles, Agony drops some blood onto the “ground” of their battle field, and “crew” three copies of herself. Willow, using her illusion ability, did the same: creating 3 copies of herself. During the four-on-four battle, Agony circled the Willows, who are grouped together with their backs to each other. The Agonies formed scythes in each of their hands, meanwhile, Willow had her and her copies form daggers and shields. This is an adaptation of an actual X-Future role play scene

Word Count: 1358

 - I am a Badass -

Boy, did I screw myself over by not keeping one hand free. I couldn't vault myself like I normally would as Agony and her copies each swiped at us with their scythes. The best I could do was an aerial spin.

I jumped up, pulled in as tight as I could with the dagger and shield, and spun a bit so I was above the high blade. I came down just as Agony's clone's scythe finished it's swing. I managed to land on the blade and push it down to the ground. My illusionary selves mimicked me as we all land on the scythes and pin them to the ground. Unfortunately, I don't know if it was my clones or Agony's that were out of sync, but the duplicate behind me had her left shin badly sliced on her landing. Her balance off, she missed pinning the scythe of her Agony, and she nearly took out the Willow to my right.

My focus shifted for a half-second as I watched the girls tumble into each other. I made a mental note to watch my back for the free scythe. Lowering my weight to make sure the scythe I was standing on was pinned, I smirked at the Agony in front of me, my dagger out towards her throat.

“Your move, Kaiba.” I mocked.

Agony grinned and took a step forward, driving my dagger through her neck. Before I could register that she was obviously one of Agony's illusionary duplicates, blue “blood” sprayed out of the woman's neck; coating me. I guarded my face with the shield, and took an instinctive step back.

I wasn't pinning her scythe any longer, but it doesn't seem to matter as the injured Agony dropped to the ground and 'died.' The other two illusionary Agonys vanished as well, leaving my copies dazed as their fighting partners disappeared. Regaining our bearings, my illusionary clones and I all turn to the real Agony.

She didn't seem to care about her scythe any longer, dropping it to the ground, and letting the psy energy dissolve back into the atmosphere. Instead, Agony threw back her head and laughed.

Even with the shield, the spray had come at me too fast to block it all. I still had some of it on my face and shoulders. I kept my eyes on Agony as I tried to wipe the blood off me. The second I touched the blue goop it started to glow. Its pulsating felt like my own heartbeat pushing through my skin.

“What the hell!?” I chanced looking away from Agony for a moment as I inspected the damage. The pulsating blue blood glowed brighter. Startled, I tossed my shield to the side, and frantically attempted to brush the liquid off at all. I only managed to spread it onto my clean hand, and then down my unsoiled arms. No matter what, the blood won't clean off; like it was attached to me now. My hurried swipes became noticeably slower, and my head grew heavy, as if I were tranquilized. I dropped to my knees, and my head swayed and bobbled as I struggled to stay alert. My only thought was Seriously? This is how I'm going out?

“You. Bitch.” I coughed out; dropping onto my hands as well.

"Soon you will be fully paralyzed, then I'll have you at my mercy." Agony smirked as she folded her arms across her chest, waiting for the inevitable.

My three duplicates stared at me as I collapsed, completely baffled. Morons. That's when I figured that maybe them being dumbfounded was actually in my favor. Agony doesn't seem to be paying much attention to them anymore.

Go! I mentally whispered to them. Move! Help!

I was frozen; pinned to the floor. My body wouldn't move.

Agony took a step towards me, and held out her hand. The weird blue blood finally peeled off of me like liquid metal being pulled by a magnet in Agony's hand. As it pooled on her palm, it solidified into a crystalline dagger.

Help, I plead once more to my illusions. They had to be listening to me, right? Agony kneeled down in front of me, pulled her arm back, and as she swung her arm down to plunge the dagger into my back, my clones finally leapt at her.

“What the hell?” Agony bellowed as my illusionary duplicates pinned her in place, pulling back on the hand with the dagger. “How are your petty illusions moving on their own?” She struggled for a few seconds before smiling down at me. “No matter. This won't hold me for long.” She closed her eyes, relaxed her struggle slightly, and concentrated on her breathing.

Moving on their own? It didn't make sense to me that she'd be so confused by that fact. Oh, right! Her illusions moved completely in unison with her! They could only mirror. She can't create autonomous clones!

I made a mental note to use that fact against her, assuming I survived long enough for that knowledge to prove useful.

“They're not real!” Agony's voice squeaked with a twinge of pain as she started struggling harder against my duplicates again. “They are not real!” She screamed.

Oh, shit! That was it. Agony knew my weakness. Disbelieving in my illusions dispelled them. The only things literally holding her back from killing me would be gone any second now. I was doomed. I clenched my eyes closed and focused on getting my body to move.

Move! Move! Damn it, move your big toe! It worked for Uma Thurman in Kill Bill! Now do it!

“They are not real!” Agony yelled again. Her eyes flew open and stared down her attackers. “You are not real! What is going on? Why are you still here?”

Opening my eyes, I struggled to arch my neck to see. All three illusions truly were still fighting back against Agony as she frantically squirmed against them. I was clueless as to how that was possible. Was there some part of her brain that sincerely believed the clones were there? Was that why she couldn't dispel them?

That was when my eye caught the shin of the copy that was hit by the scythe earlier. Blood was trickling down her leg.

Holy shit! I couldn't believe what I was seeing. They're real? They're really real? Oh. Em. Gee! I'm so friggen hard core!

The blood trickling down my illusion's shin had a purple hint to it. Same as the shading of the actual Astral Plane. That's when I truly realized what happened. The damn things were more psi-weapons! Just in human form! You can't dispel psi-weapons!

I made another mental note: when I'm on the astral plane, any illusion I create is a friggen psi-weapon!

My humanoid psi-friggen-weapons pulled harder back on Agony.

“Get off me! You're not real! You're not supposed to be here anymore! How are you still here?” Agony twisted more against the clones, panic starting to draw onto her face.

The copy that had Agony's wrist yanked harder on her hand to make Agony's grip loosen. My copy leaned in close to Agony's ear.

“We're all still here-” the clone said.

“-because I am-” continued the clone yanking on Agony's shoulders to bend her arms back away from me.

“-a mother-effing badass!” the injured duplicate finished, then sucker-punched Agony in the gut.

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The Set-Up: Willow unintentionally finds Lia hiding in the community bathroom. Lia blames herself for Annika/Judgment's possible death, as well as Devon's death (although technically, he's still alive), and Liam's. This is an adaptation of an actual X-Future role play scene.

Word Count: 1390

 - Check the Ego - 

“Oh, hun, no.” Willow dropped to her knees in front of Lia, who was curled up on the floor, hugging her legs. Willow placed her hands on Lia's to try to get her attention. “No, none of that is your fault. None of it! Do you hear me? You were fifteen when Annika left. What could you have possibly done? As for a last week? She was trying to kill you! You did what you had to in order to survive. If she is dead, it's her fault, not yours!” Willow moved her hands to Lia's face, and pulled her head up so Lia was looking in Willow's eyes.

“And both times Devon left were his own fault. He was the one that didn't want to include us. How could you possibly think you were responsible for that moron's actions? As for Liam? From what I gathered, you weren't anywhere near him. Know who was? That asshole Roscoe. Ya know, the guy who pretended to be Liam's BFF only to literally stab him in the back? Why? Why do you take all of this on? It's not your fault!”

Lia choked down tears in a sobbing hiccup. With the heel of her hand, she blotted away the few drops that pooled in her eyes. Despite Willow still holding her face, Lia refused to look in her friend's eyes, looking down to her arms instead.

“I-I dunno. I dunno why I feel guilty. Why do I feel guilty? What's wrong with me? I- I just can't help but feel like I failed, like I could have done something, like I could have done more. If only I could have gotten through to them. If I were better at understanding people. If I were better at my own powers. But I just keep failing. I keep proving to the world that it got left behind an inferior model. And-” Lia's eyes shoot up to meet Willow's. Her hands whipped to cover her mouth, a loud gasp attempting to suck up the next sentence back into her throat.

Willow's eyes slowly widened as realization washed over her. Abruptly, she ripped her hands away from Lia's face as Willow sprung up to tower over her.

“You're not your mom!” Willow shouted, wildly gesturing, uncaring that Lia's father was waiting for her just outside the bathroom door. He needed to hear this ridiculousness too. “Christ, girl, lower your ego a bit, huh? Is that really what this is all about?”

Lia gasped again at Willow's harsh words, glaring a little at her supposed friend. Willow didn't care, she hoped she was pissing Lia off; make up for how pissed off Lia just made her. “Seriously. Everyone looks at poor, little, emo Lia whining about how useless she is, and we all think 'Why does she have such low self esteem?' I should have known better. I should have known this whole thing was actually because your ego is way too big!”

Lia shifted awkwardly on the bathroom floor tiles, but Willow stepped closer so Lia had no room to rise; to move away from hearing this truth.

“Lia, you have no control over the world. You're not that powerful; you'll never be that powerful, so dial it down, 'kay? The world doesn't revolve around you. These bad things aren't some weird karma directed at you. The world isn't mad at you for not being your mom. Christ, not even your mom was that important to the world. So, come on, get over yourself. You are you. You are as good as you can be; you train hard for that. Learn from your downfalls and improve. Don't mope. Don't cry in your emo corner. No one else cares. No one else blames you. So stop inflating your ego thinking that everyone depends on you. You're not anyone's mom here, you're not even your own mom. So knock it off!”

Willow bent down to grab Lia's hand, and pulled her to her feet. Before Lia could catch her bearings, Willow had her in a tight embrace.

In a softer tone, Willow muttered one last thought in Lia's ear. “So, you gonna go back out in the world and learn? Or are you gonna stay in here and hide some more? Because I still need a shower, and Chayse is probably wondering were the hell I am.” Willow leaned away from Lia and gave her a gentle smile. Patting Lia on the cheek, Willow gathered up her supplies and headed towards the shower stalls.

Lia sniffled, her head hung. Tears spilled over this time, and she didn't bother attempting to wipe them away. “What's the point? You said it yourself, no one depends on me. Probably because they can't trust that I can do any good. What's the point of staying here to learn any more? I'm no hero. I can't help anyone here.”

The tiles squeaked as Willow skidded to a halt. Rage filled her face as she whipped around and stormed back over to Lia.

“Seriously?” Willow screamed in Lia's face, mere inches from her roommate's nose. She then leaned back and crossed her arms, her hip cocked as Willow stared Lia down. “Seriously. Alright. Fine. We're doing this then. Whatever. Sure. Sure, you're useless. You haven't saved anyone. Sure. Ignore the fact that it was because of you that Devon, Nyssa, and Zeke joined the team in the first place. But nope. You don't reach anyone.” Willow smacked her lips to resist smacking Lia. “Ignore the fact that, for the limited time Lincoln was here, he seemed the most calm and at peace whenever he was around you. Nope. You're useless. Right.” Willow took a step away from Lia, rolled her shoulders, and gave up trying to keep her voice low. “We'll also forget that we were able to capture Lighter in the first place because you stopped her single-handedly from turning all of us into fried chicken.” She was waving her arms wildly now, pacing in front of Lia like a lioness cutting off a gazelle's retreat. “Chayse tries to be better not because his parents berate him, but because you do. Ripley found an anchor here - excuse the pun - and rejoined society because of you.” Willow roughly poked Lia in the shoulder before throwing up her hands over her head. “But, nope. Nope. You are useless. No one needs you here. You're just wasting everyone's time. Sure. Sounds about right.”

Willow shook her head and stomped over to the bathroom door. She held it open and motioned to Lia's father standing guard in the hallway.

“Your dad's right here. Do you want to tell him that you want to move back to your old home, or should I? Because I sure would hate for my time to be further wasted by you,” she snapped out sarcastically.

Concerned, Jamie timidly poked his head through the community bathroom door, and glanced over at his daughter. “Lia? Baby, you okay? What's going on between you two?”

“Oh, nothing much, Mr. Madrox,” Willow spat out as she glared over her shoulder at Lia, “just your daughter whining again because she's not a 'hero,' which apparently everyone else in this school is. Cuz, ya know, I've stopped tons of arch villains myself. Same with Crystal, and Tyler, and Colette, and Alister, and Sasha, and dozens more. Yup. We're all big bad superheroes ready to join up with SHIELD and the Avengers; leaving her behind.” She fully turned and screamed back into the bathroom. “Right, Lia? So, what's the point in staying here? Lord, it's all or nothing with your ego, isn't it?” Willow shook her head, and shoved the bathroom door as open as it would go before storming out.

“Ya know what,” Willow muttered over her shoulder, “Screw the shower. It could never clean this grime off me anyway. Such bullshit.” A few stomps down the corridor, Willow pivoted and shouted back to the bathroom. “Just let me know where I'm shipping your shit!” Spinning on her heel, Willow stormed back to her bedroom.

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WOW! There... was... a lot of Devon in there... >_> Hubby doesn’t really write anything terribly in-depth, so most of the Willow/Chayse role play is “off-screen”, things like “They go on a trip to Japan for a couple of weeks” or “They nurse each other back to health after a tough battle” or “He takes her to a secluded place for a picnic of Cajun food he made himself.”

Ronoxym, on the other hand, did a LOT of dialog-focused role play with Willow, and he was the one who came up with the concept for “Please, Let Me Explain” so I guess it makes sense that most of my Willow examples center around Devon....

Anyway, one last post to go! Who’s ready to see some fun wrestling entrance videos?