#it's the consistency in each of his whatever-phases that takes my breath away | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thevioletjones · 4 years ago

Note

31, because I can’t see it fitting Ian/Mickey easily and know you’re a good enough writer to prove me wrong ☺️

Thanks! I tried. 🙂

Prompt 6: “I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you.”

Ian’s Box of Crap

Being currently unemployed, Mickey didn’t have much of a leg to stand on when attempting to deflect Ian’s demands that he get chores and household tasks done while his husband was out earning an honest paycheck. He wasn’t even allowed to shake people down anymore, let alone pull robberies, or get back into the drug trade. Ian had made it clear that divorce wasn't off the table if Mickey deliberately did something stupid that got him thrown back in prison for a long stretch.

He didn’t much like being told what to do, but what he liked even less was not having Ian in his life. He’d had to go too many years without him in the past, and nothing good ever came during those times. Unfortunately, Ian Gallagher was it for Mickey Milkovich. That meant that he actually had to stay in line and put in the work if he didn’t want to lose him again. Ian wasn’t as soft as he used to be. Never really had been at his core, but the maturity of age had cemented his backbone rather rigidly, and Mickey was actually loathe to piss him off too badly these days.

So he did the bullshit grunt work requested of him, just to keep the peace. He was tired of fighting every day of his life, and what was the point of marrying Ian if they weren’t going to try and make each other happy?

In the past couple weeks, Mickey had done everything from laundry and dishes, to vacuuming and mopping. He’d patched up a couple of big holes in the wall that Frank had made, and fixed the loose parts of the wooden outdoor steps and banisters, both front and back. He’d even gone so far as to babysit the tiny, helpless Gallagher spawn a few times, which had been interesting and somewhat terrifying. Then Ian had given him this look when he caught the scene one afternoon, eyes shining, smile beaming. It reminded him of that brief time they’d helped take care of Yevgeny, which made Mickey’s head spin. He didn’t need Gallagher getting the whole ‘having kids’ thing back in his head right now. Mickey was in no way ready for all that. Hadn’t been the first time, and they’d all seen how that turned out.

Today, he was supposed to clean out the attic. He told Ian that asking someone outside the family to do it sounded like a bad idea. How was he supposed to know what shit the Gallaghers wanted to keep, and what they wanted to get rid of? What if he made a mistake? If anyone had asked him what to keep from the hoarded piles of shit in the Milkovich house, he would’ve laughed in their face, then set everything on fire. Mickey wasn’t the sentimental type. So did Ian want him to just toss everything?

Ian had rolled his eyes, clarified that Mickey was a Gallagher now, and given him a run-down. Anything that had obviously been made or cherished by a Gallagher kid, any family photos and albums, or small boxes of keepsakes, those stayed. Anything that wasn’t being used by anyone, but could be of use and handed down to the youngest or recently shacked up of them, set them aside to be put in rotation. Anything that worked, but they already had one of or didn’t need, donation box (because apparently they actually sometimes donated shit to the local shelter). And anything that looked completely unnecessary for anyone, throw it in a Best Choice trash bag, but don't take them to the curb yet. Ian would go over everything when he got home to make sure it was sorted correctly.

“So you’re gettin' me to do all this boring-ass grunt work, then you’re gonna have to go through it anyway? What the fuck, man?” he’d asked.

“It'll make the whole thing way easier on me, so can you just shut the fuck up and do me the favor? I’ll blow you later for your trouble.”

“Like you wouldn’t be doin’ that anyway.”

Ian had shrugged. “If you don’t, I won’t.”

“Threatening to withhold sex? That’s a bitch move if I ever heard one.”

“Whatever, deadbeat. You want me to support you, gotta help out when I ask. A blowjob would just be a bonus, because I’m generous of spirit.”

“I’m not gonna forget this hardcore manipulation, Firecrotch. I’ll get my revenge eventually.”

Ian merely kissed him on the nose. “Sounds like a plan. See ya.”

And he was out the door.

“Asshole,” Mickey’d muttered under his breath.

And now, a few hours later, here he was; sitting on the dusty, hard planks of the weird-smelling Gallagher attic, sorting through the memories and forgotten things of the family he’d married into less than six months ago. He’d dawdled as long as he could on the couch, eating junk food and watching his favorite daytime game shows, judge shows, and salacious ‘who’s the baby daddy?’ shows. The only hint of fun left in the remainder of his day was in the bong and the beer he’d brought with him up the rickety ladder. After every box sorted, he’d take a rip or two and chase the smoke with a long swig of cheap alcohol.

The most interesting things he’d found so far were some old pictures of Ian when he was little, his hair a curly mess, and his pale skin covered in dark freckles. His smile was too big for his face, and he looked goofy as all hell. Nothing like the hot hunk of man he was today. It was the Ian Mickey remembered from Little League a million years ago. And maybe he’d set one of the photos aside to keep for himself and taken some pics of others with his phone, so what?

Mostly he’d had to sift through little Debbie’s ridiculous girly shit, and Frank’s completely random assortment of insignificant trinkets with a side of what looked like bondage gear. He’d since moved on to a group of boxes obviously labeled by Carl when he was younger. He recognized the scrawl, occasional backwards lettering, and lack of possessive apostrophes. The words were short enough not to be atrociously misspelled, and consisted of a Gallagher first name in plural, followed by: ‘box of crap.’

Everybody had one, including Fiona, who hadn’t taken it with her when she’d left Chicago, and the kids she’d raised as her own, behind. The most scandalous item in there was a dildo of decent size that Mickey definitely would’ve packed in his suitcase if he’d been the one moving away as a single chick. The thought crossed his mind to pilfer it for his own collection, but he figured that Ian would be weirded out by the association. Sex toys were probably the only thing Gallaghers never shared between them.

Carl had a box of his own, semi-well-hidden compared to the others, and Mickey discovered why when he’d managed to get the copious amount of packing tape off. It was full of straight porn mags with big-tittied women and shaved pussies, underneath an array of dangerous weapons the family had forbidden him to have when he was underaged. He found everything from nunchucks, to throwing stars, to switchblades, to brass knuckles. No guns or attempted homemade bombs, thank fuck. He chucked the porn in the trash pile, cuz nobody needed to see that shit, and set the switchblade aside for himself, deciding to give the rest to Ian to sort out.

He saved Ian’s box for last, opening it up to find a grab bag of old army decorations, tattered paperbacks, comics, a bunch of loose paper covered in scribbles, and a stack of notebooks.

Mickey didn’t realize Ian was such a huge nerd that he’d kept his high school notebooks, but giving a quick flip through the first two revealed they weren’t school-related at all. He remembered Ian going through a phase when he was always writing shit down, ranting about having great ideas he needed to save for posterity. Before he went to the hospital. A manic phase. Probably one of many he’d cycled through, yet Mickey had missed some of those extremes.

Everything had been so chaotic then. He’d pushed Ian away, then gotten the same treatment in return. Their typical messiness pervaded everything back then. And now, he had in his hands Ian’s unfiltered thoughts about what happened back then.

“Fuck,” he said to himself, setting the notebooks down and going for the beer/weed combo again.

There were exactly two ways to go about this: he could put the notebooks back into the Ian box and not invade his privacy, or he could skim through them and hone in on the interesting relevant bits and maybe get a few long-pondered answers. On the one hand, Ian would probably get pissed if Mickey read them. On the other hand, Ian never had to know about it, did he?

It really wasn’t much of a choice… he’d always been curious as to what the hell was going through Ian’s head back in the day. They’d never exactly been great at talking things out, and he didn’t have it in him to try and make Ian relive some of the lowest moments of his life just to give Mickey some peace of mind. Plus, they were always facing some new bullshit obstacle head-on, so the past always just kind of got lost in the shuffle of their present difficulties.

Mickey took a deep breath and opened one of the notebooks again. The pages weren’t dated, and a lot of it didn’t make much sense. There were many lists with lines crossed out, but they didn’t describe things ‘to do,’ more like an endless inventory of concepts and feelings. The thought patterns were totally abstract, and Mickey couldn’t really make heads or tails of them. It hit him sharply in the chest when he realized that when Ian had been out of it, he’d really and truly been fucking out of it. These seemed like the crazed rantings of an unmedicated schizophrenic babbling on public transportation. It pained Mickey to the core, and it scared the shit out of him too.

He flipped through it fairly quickly, then opened the next one. It seemed to be calmer, more legible, and less unintelligible. It was more like a diary with bad poetry sprinkled in, and it only took a few pages for Mickey’s own name to jump out at him among the wall of words. It must have been written during Ian’s lost months, after going AWOL from the Army when he was 17.

He described running away from Chicago, scamming his early enlistment, crashing and burning his way out of bootcamp, shaking and selling his ass as a club boy, snorting, smoking, and swallowing all manner of substances, and crashing anywhere from penthouses to flophouses with sexual favors sprinkled in liberally. It was like the chronicle of a person going mad and coping in all the wrong ways. It surprised Mickey how emotional it made him to read these things in vivid detail. He’d completely forgotten how worried he used to be about Ian. When he was gone, when he went missing again, and when he started doing irrational things that could’ve ended so much worse than they did.

Ian was the one that had to live out all the drama and trauma of his disorder, but Mickey was the one caught on the sidelines, not having a single clue what to do or how to fix it. He’d never felt so useless or helpless in his entire life, even through all the bullshit he’d suffered growing up with Terry as a father. Maybe it was because of his age, or how Ian made him feel a certain way he’d never felt before. He just remembered hating it, and being so fucking sad.

These pages reminded him that through the mania, Ian was a bottomless well of sadness himself.

It was tough text to get through, and more than once, he felt like maybe he shouldn’t be reading it at all. Ian had never intended for other people to see his innermost thoughts, even Mickey. But it was impossible to stop now that he’d opened that floodgate. It was like reliving a part of their shared history through the eyes of his partner in crime. It was too fascinating.

After countless pages of dark tales from the void, Mickey came upon a page that was actually addressed to him. Surely, Ian had never intended to hand it over, but it was his nonetheless.

Mickey— I never had the balls to tell you this, But you’re the only boy I’ve ever loved. I thought you loved me too, But now I’m not so sure. I’m so confused and I go back and forth, Never really knowing what to actually think, Or what the truth is. All I really realize now is that I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you. It took you forever to let me, And now I just do it with anyone, Cuz I don’t fucking care. I just miss you, And I wish you were here. But also, I don’t, Cuz I don’t want you to see me like this. I’m having a great time on my own adventure, But also not. You shouldn’t be a part of it right now. You’re on your own strange journey, I guess. Maybe one day we’ll be on the same road together again, And also for the first time, since we never really were.

Mickey barely had enough time to sniff and wipe away the stray tear that had fallen, when his husband’s voice startled him out of his reverie.

“You’re still up here?”

“Jesus Christ!” he cried out with a visible jolt of his body.

His head snapped toward the attic hatch, where Ian’s dumb red head was surveying the musty space. Mickey let the notebook fall from his grasp, but Ian was already climbing the rest of the way in before it occurred to him that he was about to be caught red-handed with journals that were supposed to be deeply private. He could only flip it closed and grab his beer to polish it off, before Ian was crouching in front of him and taking a seat.

“Can’t believe you actually did this for me, to be honest,” Ian said with a chuckle, glancing at the bong. “Anything left?”

“Baggie’s right there,” Mickey replied nodding his head to the left.

“Nice.”

Ian got distracted with loading a bowl, so Mickey very subtly tried to nudge Ian's notebooks aside with his foot, like maybe if they were slightly farther away, he could claim complete innocence as to knowing what they were.

He watched Ian take a couple hits before passing it to him, and Mickey welcomed the opportunity to temper his suddenly sullen mood.

“How was work?” he asked between hits, before passing back to Ian.

Ian snickered and furrowed his brow. “You never ask me about work.”

Mickey shrugged. “Don’t mean I don’t care.”

“Uh huh.” Ian looked even more skeptical, and finally glanced around at what Mickey had in his vicinity. That sent his brow up high, in a decent imitation of Mickey’s usual expressiveness. “Oh. That my box?”

Mickey gulped and nodded. “Yeah. Just sorting it out. Should’ve just left the whole thing for ya. Sorry.”

Ian’s gaze snapped to his face. “You read stuff.”

It was a statement rather than a question.

“Just a little,” Mickey admitted. “I shouldn’t have. Fuck, I’m an asshole.”

But Ian only shook his head. “Nah, it’s okay.”

“You don’t have to say that. I’d be pissed.”

“I’m not. I promise.”

“Really? You’re not mad?”

Ian shook his head again. “No. Actually, I’m kinda relieved.”

“How the fuck so?”

“It's all stuff I wanted you to know. I mean, part of me used to be really ashamed, maybe still is, but… another part of me always just wanted to be totally honest with you. In a way I haven’t ever been with anyone. Even Lip. But I didn’t have the words to say it, you know? And I know a lot of it is just scary rambling. I don’t even understand what some of it means, but the stuff that’s real… the lucid stuff… it’s depressing as fuck, but it’s the truth. We didn’t always tell each other the truth, but we showed each other. And this was something I couldn’t really show you. So maybe you were meant to find these. Do my dirty work for me.”

“Damn, Gallagher, that’s kinda heavy. These were… kinda heavy. Made me feel shit I’d forgotten about, you know?”

Ian nodded. “Yeah. I haven’t read ‘em in years, but I remember. It’s why I wanted to put ‘em away, I guess. Plus, I didn’t want someone else snooping around and finding out too much. I mean, you never know in this house. It’s possible every fucking Gallagher already read them, but I hope not.”

“Ian…” Mickey started, but didn’t know exactly what he wanted to say. Words of reassurance? It was all in the past, and Ian was doing so well now. He was diligent about his medication, and he hadn’t spun out of control since before prison. Anything Mickey said now would just be cold comfort, since that notebook version of Ian barely existed anymore. Ian was always afraid that it would recur, but Mickey wasn’t. They were truly in it together now, and he’d never let Ian cross the threshold into the uncontrollable. “I wish I coulda been what you needed me to be back then. However impossible it was. Some of it was my fault.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t even my fault, really. It was some shitty shit that happened to me. I reacted the only way I thought I could. There’s no use in either of us wishing we’d done things differently now. At least we got the right outcome, right? We’re together.” He clasped their left hands so that their wedding rings touched. “Forever.”

Mickey couldn’t help but snort. “Okay, you didn’t have to get that gay about it. I already had to suffer through a buncha your faggy teen poetry. I deserve a break from the high drama of it all.”

Ian laughed, kissed his hand, dropped it, then smacked him on the cheek. “Fuck you.”

“Just say when,” Mickey responded with a smile.

“After we go through all this shit, Romeo. Explain the piles.”

“Well,” said Mickey, pointing to the nearby corner, “Carl has a shitload of contraband in there. Weapons, not drugs. Frank has some shit that might be S&M gear, not sure, then aside from your lunatic journal ramblings, everything else is boring as shit. Oh, and Fiona left a big blue dildo.”

#ian x mickey #fanfic #gallavich #fanfiction #asks #answers

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halinski · 5 years ago

Text

Red Light, Green Light

I lost the original ask when I tried to post the other day but thankfully I had this saved! Thank you to the anon who sent this!! It was a great challenge and obviously it took me a long while (so I hope you’re still around!) but I’m actually quite happy with it :D I might finally be gaining some confidence with writing hehe lots of thanks to @kcfriedchicken for always putting up with me and cheering me on, and also to @livinginfictions for the thorough beta!! <3

[Read on AO3]

Derek blinked lazily at the clock on Stiles' desk, wishing he could close his eyes and keep dozing, pretend he hadn't seen how late it was getting because that meant putting an end to this. But...an alpha missing out or being late to his own pack meeting would not do. Especially if he popped up around the same time as Stiles, both of them smelling distinctly of each other.

No. This...whatever it was—well, relationship, yes, in a way—it was just theirs for now. Stiles’ and his. They hadn't put a name to it, mostly because Derek feared to bestow a cursed title upon Stiles. Connections like this generally ended badly. But this was something that was just theirs, safe and secure behind four walls, or car doors. For now.

Another minute ticked by, striking Derek's ears, drawing attention to the impatient little black hands, swinging further on and on, tempting Derek to dig his claws into the plastic and tear it apart, as if that would eradicate the concept of time so that he could continue to lie here with Stiles on his shoulder. If that was all his life consisted of from this day forward, Derek wouldn't mind. He'd always seen himself bleeding to death at the hands of an enemy, enduring inexplicable pain but now...

He could spend eternity here in Stiles' room, on his tiny bed, and not be bothered at all, or alternatively, and more realistically, die happy on the spot in a good way.

He was half tempted to go public with their...relationship but it also made the fear of vulnerability stir inside his chest. It was one thing to have Stiles see his cracks and edges: to let him soothe them like balm in privacy, but revealing this thing with Stiles would mean letting the rest of the world know about his weakness. He knew the pack didn't mean him any harm, and yet...

Derek was working on giving the softness inside him space. It was a work in progress.

He sighed, another tick and tock of a minute having gone by, the planned event creeping closer. Stiles snuffled against Derek's shoulder at the sound, rubbing his scent into the worn grey shirt. His arm re-adjusted around Derek's torso.

"If you keep up with that all my shirts are gonna be shoulder free - but only on the right side," Derek said, amused and hell, proud even, at how quickly so many wolf-like behaviors had grown on Stiles; faster than anyone else in the pack, when he wasn't even a wolf. It spoke volumes of Stiles' understanding. Sure, he had been tactile from the start, searching for contact, and Derek had seen the hugs and shoulder pats he shared with his dad but this...it just felt right.

Derek was glad the human's eyes were closed because the smirk he was wearing may have been closer to a smile, and he didn't dare encourage Stiles’ ideas further. If he gave his cheesy thoughts too much room he would ruin their balanced give and take. They both found a necessary challenge in the other. Derek couldn't just surrender.

"You can buy new ones," Stiles mumbled, not caring to lift his head even the slightest bit. "Shit, it's not like you're poor. Don't be stingy. Let a guy enjoy himself."

Derek let out a light snort. "You've enjoyed yourself plenty. It's time we get ready."

Stiles just whined, slightly high pitched and grating, but a wordless communication Derek appreciated, if only for the fact that Stiles didn't necessarily need his words around him anymore. When he didn't want to, which...wasn't very often.

"Come on, let's go," Derek said, giving Stiles' a vigorous little back rub to try and get his system going, after which he managed to pull him up into a sitting position with him.

"This sucks. I'm going to excommunicate from the pack. Both you and me so we never have to deal with any responsibilities ever again," Stiles said, blinking unhappily into the room.

Derek swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, stretching his back. "And then I'll whisk you away and we'll live in a cave like real wolf-men for the rest of our lives," he quipped.

"Exactly!" Stiles exclaimed, a grin splitting his face. "This is why I'm dating you."

"Yeah, yeah. I get it. You only want me because I'm a werewolf." Derek let out a put upon sigh after slipping on his shoes and grabbing his jacket. Stiles joined him then, taking hold of Derek by wrapping his fist in the hem of his shirt.

"Come here, hot wolf-man," Stiles mock-growled, pulling him in. Derek went along easily, lips finding Stiles' blindly and letting himself sink into the warmth. Stiles' hand stroked over his cheek with the tenderness of a sunlit daisy.

God, Derek was a goner.

Derek gently nudged Stiles back, righting his head. Stiles followed his movement with a subtle lick across his lips, pupils all wide and open, as if he had a whole world in there for Derek alone to make his home in. But he couldn't let himself get distracted by Stiles again.

"I'll race you," he blurted out to shake himself out of this delirious high. A challenge: one of the strongest motivators for Stiles. On cue, Derek watched the spark ignite in his eyes.

"I'm listening." Stiles smiled at him defiantly.

"I bet I can make it home, shower and be ready before you are."

"On foot? No way! I'm so going to win this."

"Oh yeah?"

"You're a goner, Hale." Stiles was right about that on one count.

Derek met his gaze with equal glee. He held the moment just for a second longer, fingertips brushing against Stiles' nape. Stiles' pulse jumped beneath his thumb and Derek couldn't put the feelings in his chest into words, nor actions. The most he was capable of was resting his forehead against Stiles', just breathing him in.

Resisting the tangible temptation to give in to Stiles once more, Derek merely parted his lips to whisper, "Go!"

He ripped himself from the human and fled, holding fast to his next objective.

"Hey!" Stiles objected after a heartbeat, but Derek was already out the window.

--------

Stiles screeched into the parking lot, foot on the break and hands pulling the steering wheel for a sharp left. He skidded to a halt next to the familiar figures at the entrance to Derek’s building - he still couldn’t believe his boyfriend had bought a whole building just to maintain his social isolation. Then again, having to listen to your neighbors do literally everything couldn’t be great. It would drive anyone insane. Stiles yanked the emergency break as he parked and left the car running, jumping out in one smooth move.

Isaac could shut it, he was totally smooth.

“You asshole!” Stiles ranted, pointing at Derek in frustration. “You cheated.”

Derek did nothing but smile smugly, eyebrows openly laughing at Stiles.

“I don’t cheat,” he declared, arms crossing over his chest, now wearing a nice bright blue shirt. There was a light, earthy cologne crawling up Stiles' nose as he stood in front of this man of brawn. Stiles knew intimately how solid and strong Derek was beneath that sturdy dark blue top but instead of indulging said train of thought he had to expel it. The pack was probably used to his hormonal responses to Derek but he was supposed to be growing out of that phase.

Thank goodness for strong deodorant, Stiles thought,watching Derek's nostrils flare. He breathed in relief at the small nod that deemed him clean enough. Any lingering scents of each other scrubbed away, and a change of clothes. Dating a werewolf on the down low among other werewolves was a pain in the ass. Especially when assholes like Jackson would sneer and complain about the "ghastly stink" of artificial scents only when it came to Stiles. Naturally, he didn’t dare talk smack about Derek in his presence.

"There's no way. You absolutely cheated," Stiles insisted and jabbed at those abs, just under Derek's elbow, where he knew he was ticklish. Then he bit his tongue lest he let anything incriminating slip and whirled around, grinning to himself at the quiet wheeze behind him.

"You done?” Lydia asked with an audible eye roll. How was it that all of Stiles’ favorite people had perfected that movement?

“Yup!” Stiles declared, making a beeline for Erica to hook his arm into hers. Erica was bound to try to interrogate him about what kind of cheating Derek had done but Stiles was a sheriff’s son, and he had all his evasive techniques down. Of course, Erica had her own theories about him and the alpha, which may or may not have resulted in him confessing to her about his crush. Despite not being able to tell her about any of the developments, he found comfort in the fact that he could be sure she was rooting for them. “C’mon, bestie. Let’s go!”

Stiles didn’t miss the grin Erica sent Derek’s way before they turned and headed up into the loft, making a pit stop at the still running Jeep. The rest of the pack slowly shuffled after them.

--------

Somehow... no matter how organized Derek tried to be before a pack meeting or how sternly he glared and attempted to keep the pack in line, pack meetings always resulted in chaos and headaches. Right now, there was a discussion going on about cats and full moons that weren’t based on any scientific (or supernatural) evidence and Derek couldn't even recall when the conversation shifted.

Even Stiles was getting tired at this point, rubbing his forehead vigorously as he hung over the laptop. Derek hadn't heard him typing for the past 15 minutes and it hadn’t been long after that Stiles had stopped sending sullen looks his way and started stubbornly picking at the permanent stain on the table.

"Okay, let's wrap this up and get something to eat before I start tearing out throats," Derek sighed.

Stiles' laptop snapped shut before Derek finished the sentence.

Boyd smirked. "We haven't heard that one in a while," he commented.

"So, we're done, right?" Lydia declared, already packing up her things and slipping her shoes back on.

"We're done when I say I'm done," Derek said. "Any other questions left?"

Erica raised her arm from her lounged position.

"Yes."

"Are we done?" she asked, without as much a hint of amusement, and Derek was. Derek was 100 percent done trying to deal with these teenagers.

He gave her a long blank stare. Just to prove how much he meant it, before he turned from where he had been pacing and pointed at Stiles.

"Patty's. You're driving."

Then he marched upstairs to his private bathroom, just to buy himself some alone time, hanging out the tiny window and staring out at the tree tops.

He loved his pack, he did. Sometimes it was all a bit much and he needed to breathe, though. He'd been the same even as a kid.

He waited until everyone had made their way into the stairwell before taking a deep breath and following. A small part of him was hoping Stiles would linger behind so they could have a moment but he quickly buried that thought with logic. They would be heard and how could he even already miss Stiles when they had just spent hours together?

Grabbing his jacket, wallet in the pocket, he pulled the door shut and ambled down the stairs. He didn't bother locking it. There was nothing to protect, and Derek made sure to chase off any stupid teens who wanted to screw around and vandalize the place. Any supernaturals wouldn't be bothered by a lock anyway.

The only exception was, of course, when Stiles was around.

Of course, the kids weren't even close to figuring out a seating order by the time he joined them. What did Derek even expect?

But upon approaching the Jeep, he found one seat occupied. The passenger seat. Derek stopped short.

"Erica." Because of course.

Her curls bounced as the young women turned to look and flash a grin at him.

"Derek, hi! Would you look at that, we're matching," she said, shimmying in her own leather jacket, just as black as his, but newer and shinier. Derek wouldn't really say they matched, because Erica was a fashion statement in herself, a force of her own, and Derek was just…wearing a memento because it was comfortable. Whatever.

Derek crossed his arms.

Stiles came over to his side, leaning on him and in toward Erica. Stiles let his fingers tap lightly against Derek's pec. Thank God Stiles had always been reckless with physical contact and there was no sudden change in intimacy that could cause suspicion. Derek just had to make sure he didn't preen too much.

"Eyebrows basically mirrored, matching, with only a slight degree of tilt, I would say maybe like a good… 19%. And then we have a non-flared nose but alert ears and oh, dare I say… that freshly trimmed stubble really drives the point home,which is…Erica, I think you better move," Stiles warned, voice lifting from dramatic broadcaster to a cartoonist sing-song tune.

Derek chose not to acknowledge Stiles, because encouragement would surely only escalate this situation. Either in the manner of Stiles' antics, or instead with the fondness trying to bloom in Derek's chest.

Erica only proceeded to lean further into her seat, eyes flickering between the two of them with a certain glint.

"And why's that?" she challenged.

"Because I say so," Derek muttered.

"And he's the alpha," Stiles finished for him, straightening with pride.

Erica gazed back between the two of them, lips pursuing with evident consideration of pushing further. Then she sighed.

"You know it's really not fair when you gang up on me," she said, but a smile still snuck its way onto her face. She turned towards the middle console and hiked herself up to clamber into the back. Halfway there, she stuck her hands out and called for Boyd's assistance, who gave a small shake of his head but quickly came to his girlfriend's aid.

Derek bit back a comment while Stiles laughed at his side, and then detached himself from him. Before Stiles left to go grab his own seat, he left a gentle pat on Derek's back.

--------

Two and a half hours, 12 burgers, 7 large fries (4 regular and 3 curly), 2 cartons of onion rings, some chicken, multiple stacks of pancakes, 4 waffles, 8 milkshakes, and a juicy mixed berry pie later, they were back in the cars, making the 20 minute drive to Beacon Hills. Sure, there were plenty of places to eat in town but after discovering Patty’s diner one early morning while dealing with some kind of manticore-like creature nearby, they had deemed this the best reasonably close diner. Now, it was a regular thing.

Jackson led the way in his Porsche, of course, with Lydia right at his side and Scott and Allison in the back, while Jeep tailed them with Stiles at the wheel. Erica was splayed out in the backseat with her head resting in Boyd’s lap, quietly humming along to the radio. Isaac was smooshed over on the other side and yet still somehow found a way to rest his head on Boyd's shoulder and close his eyes.

Hungers sated, stress digested and drama enacted all through dinner, everything was starting to slowly settle. Even Derek's restless soul found sanctuary in the familiar scents of his pack and the rhythm of Stiles' fingers against the wheel as they corresponded with his heartbeat. Derek allowed himself to find comfort, sinking further into the seat and stretching his arm casually out to rest on the back of Stiles' seat.

He watched Stiles' eyes flicker his way but halt and return to take in the sight in the rear view mirror. A small smile tugged at his lips and Stiles hummed along with Erica as if the swell of affection radiating from him was not at all related to Derek's action.

Derek followed his gaze back out to the street in front before he could get lost in retracing the slope of Stiles' nose and the starry path of moles down his cheek. The Porsche was growing ever smaller, occasionally disappearing from view entirely.

"You're going to lose them," Derek remarked. Not that it really mattered; everything still felt safe enough. As safe as it could, that was.

"If Jackson wants to flash his bougie car as some sort of compensation even though he didn't even buy it himself, he can be my guest. I'm not pushing my darling today," Stiles said, making a show of stroking the wheel. He smirked. "Unless you want to pay for a full on “Pimp My Car” session?"

Derek snorted. "In your dreams."

"One day. Just you wait. You'll see."

"Upgrading anything about this—this—" Derek reconsidered calling Roscoe a piece of crap whenStiles threw him a warning glare, "—hunk of metal…would cost more than buying a brand new SUV, including A/C and all the good stuff."

"You know, if you give me that in cash, I could totally start saving up for that upgrade." Stiles gave him an impish little smile.

"Absolutely not."

"C'mon, Hale. Fork over the cash," Stiles sang, holding up a hand and rubbing his fingers together. "Otherwise I might have to start charging by the mile, along with a service fee."

Which Derek had absolutely offered Stiles before. Well, not payment by the mile but he had happily suggested taking care of all charges for the usage and maintenance of the Jeep. He had repeatedly insisted and it was Stiles who, more often than not, refused.

"I think we might have to switch over to transport by taxi. That'll be cheaper as well as a smoother ride," Derek countered.

"What are you, 50? Have you ever heard of Uber? It's what all the—"

"Eyes on the road, Stiles."

"I am paying attention. Jeez, relax."

"And both hands on the wheel."

"Stop acting like my dad—"

"Oh my God, Stiles. I am not that old. Stop comparing me to your dad, of all people."

"Then stop acting like it. You're out here lecturing me like I don't always get you right where you need to be. With special bodyguard services, if I may add, which you will never get from any carpooling service."

Derek shook his head at the smug smile on his mate's face. There was time for sweet praises to be whispered into burning ears from within warm embraces in bed later. For now, he just preened at the familiarity of the interaction. Nothing like some good old bickering to help digest a feast.

"It's red." Derek pointed out to the street light ahead.

"I have eyes," Stiles said, easing down on the brake a little harder. The Jeep eventually rolled to a stop before the empty intersection, the hanging mist seeping from the tall dark trees radiating a gleaming red.

Derek loved it when the world made it seem like time stood still.

Stiles turned to him.

"Red light," Stiles proclaimed, voice suddenly open and unguarded. It was like the silvery shine to full moon nights when they encased Derek in protection. He reacted to the words on instinct, habit pulling him forward. Derek leaned in without hesitation.

Letting his lips meet Stiles' didn't require any guidance. He'd probably find his way home to Stiles' soft touch blindfolded from the opposite side of the world. Kissing Stiles was sweet like honey and warm like a fireplace in the dead of a Siberian winter.

It wasn't a peck, definitely a longer interaction, but it was still soft and sweet. They were encapsulated in their own little world until they finally parted. Derek found those beautiful amber eyes and smiled.

"Green light," he said softly, having registered the quiet click and the now lightened fog outside.

Stiles breathed out between parted lips, a corner of them hiking up. He was just about to shift the car into motion when—

"What the ever loving fuck was that?!" Erica burst between them with a shout, nails digging into their sleeves. "What? I mean, this! You kissed!"

Stiles brought his foot down on the brake again hard, but he forgot the clutch and killed the engine instantly. He'd let out his own shout that fell quiet as the car came to a rocking stop.

Derek winced at the volume before he could register what was going on and then… froze.

"Erica! What the hell," Stiles breathed out, throwing his hands up to his hair. His discomfort couldn't solely be attributed to the surprise from the backseat, Derek figured, chancing a look over to see the blush climbing up Stiles' face. Derek knew all too well how it started; with the pink gleam budding just beneath his collarbone before it expanded like smattering star dust all the way up his neck that found its heart in his cheeks. Right where Derek found the source of his happiness when they tugged up and bunched around Stiles' smile.

"No." Erica shook her head. "Not me. What is going on right here?" She tugged at their arms. "When did this start? How long has it been going on?"

"And how in hell did you manage to keep this a secret, Stilinski?" Isaac threw in, his head popping up beside the bouncy curls.

Stiles looked over at Derek cautiously. His heart was clearly doing double time and well, so was Derek's. They had always avoided discussing the possibility of an involuntary reveal so, honestly, it served them right. Derek should've known the universe would have a trick up its sleeve as soon as he relaxed.

But…this wasn't necessarily something bad. He was pretty sure that the pack wouldn't mind about this development. Chances were, it would bring them all closer together. Somehow.

Still, doubts remained. Fear crept through him on spindly legs, ready to strike with its black widow fangs at any moment. There was so much that could go wrong. So much-

There was a deep intake of breath from beside him.

"It's not what you think," Stiles said then.

"Oh, so Derek wasn't just shoving his tongue down your throat?" Erica hummed, and she leaned forward to place her chin on Stiles' shoulder.

"There was no tongue involved!" Stiles exclaimed, throwing up an arm.

"There was a kiss though," Boyd intercepted.

Stiles glared at him through the rear view mirror. "You too? Betrayal."

"I am pretty curious about this," he replied, gazing over at Derek as best as he could past Erica's and Isaac's heads.

"Oh my god," Stiles breathed. "It was just…a game! It was—it was just a game."

"A game?" Erica had nearly perfected the signature Hale eyebrow lift.

Stiles was not fully successful at covering up his jealousy.

Nor the shame and upset at having to play the incident off. Derek wasn't having it.

"Yes, a game. The red light game. You spend hours on your phone. How have you not—" Stiles started.

"No," Derek interrupted. There was a quiet hitched breath as all heads turned to stare at the Alpha. He tried to remain calm, and turned to look at his mate.

"It's not just a game. It is our game but we're also dating." Derek swallowed, keeping his breath and words steady. "He's my boyfriend."

Erica's squeal almost drowned out Stiles' beaming joy, but all Derek could see was Stiles; and the unfiltered, sunshine-bright love shining off his exhilarated face. There was surprise there, and some hesitance, but it was overrun by excitement.

"I fucking knew it!" Erica laughed loudly, smacking a kiss to Stiles' cheek and quickly infecting him with her laughter.

It wasn't long before most of the car had joined in, searching for touch all around. Derek felt both pats on his shoulders as well as a grip near his neck, grounding him to pack amidst all the congratulations. It seemed funny now, worrying about the reception of this news. Derek ducked his head to hide his burning eyes.

Relief, happiness—he wasn't even sure what to feel first, but he almost felt like he didn't need to name it. All he had to do was let himself feel it for now. Stiles put his hand over his, squeezing it lightly. Derek took it.

"Wait, so this is why we found you two cooking together that one time!"

Derek smiled, looking up to the road ahead with a lighter soul.

#eternalsterek #sterek #eternal sterek #sterek fanfiction #fanfic #derek hale #stiles stilinski #secret relationship #prompt fic #anon #ask #red light green light #i wrote this

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livingmybestfictionallife · 4 years ago

Text

What If?

Request from @chanandlersstuff: Hii, it's me, again. I want to request another Mgk imagine. Something like he goes to a new bar in the city and discovers that the owner is his childhood sweetheart or his first crush, the reader, and they can kiss or something like that. I love how you write and that's why I will ask you for a lots of requests

A/N: Thank you so much for your support! :) I hope you enjoy this one! Also, idk where Cassie and her mother reside. I assume it’s Cleveland, so that’s what it’s going to be in this story. ALSO, a bit of Pantera/Damageplan trivia is included as part of the plot of the story simply because I was listening to it and realized this takes place in Ohio--you’ll see why it’s important if you don’t already know. Hope you enjoy!

A/N part 2: If you ever want to be tagged in something, send me an ask or a message! :)

December 8th, 2004 was always a day that stood out to Colson, simply because it was the biggest ‘What if?’ in his life. He’d experienced too much heartache in his youth and would continue to face pain and anguish throughout his adolescence and early adulthood, and he had so many things that he would reflect back on and wonder what could have happened to make things go differently? What could he have done better? What kind of divine intervention would have been needed? What if he’d just gone home? What if he decided to hang out with someone else?

It seemed that as he reached thirty, he became more enamored with laying these what if questions to rest. He could spend the rest of his life wondering about what would happen had he not fucked something up or had something just gone a different direction, or he could accept that each of those mishaps had led him to the man he was today. He was happy with his life, and for the first time in a long time, he could admit that he was truly happy; he had a beautiful, happy, and healthy daughter that was the light of his world, a successful fifth studio album that blew away the punk and rock charts, and he was in what had to be the healthiest relationship in his life with a gorgeous woman that he loved. Yet still, there was one what if that refused to escape his mind: what if December 8th, 2004 went differently?

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

Cassie had told her father over a thanksgiving dinner in Los Angeles about her school’s Winter Talent Show, and that she would be performing a song off her father’s album as a tribute to her late grandfather. Colson couldn’t refrain from tearing up as his daughter told him this and promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

He’d shown up to Cassie’s talent show with a bouquet of flowers and a couple of friends he bothered to still talk to after all these years. His eyes glistened with proud, sorrow-ridden tears as he listened to the angel he had for a child sing his lyrics--with school appropriate revisions made--about the struggles he faced with his father since he was about her age. Of all the what ifs that passed through his mind, a lot had to do with his ability to be a good father for Cassie, and every second he spends with her reminds him that she is so much better of a person than he ever was at her age, and it was in that pride that he allowed a solitary tear to fall. He knew his father was proud of Cassie as well as she sang Lonely for her school, and when the show was over, he wrapped his daughter in the tightest hug he could, terrified of the fact that someday, he wouldn’t be around to hold her anymore.

It seemed death was always prevalent in his life; after all it was a death that caused the biggest what if in his mind to continue to pester him.

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

(Y/N) paced around the densely populated room and watched not only the patrons, but the employees as well. She’d never even thought of opening a bar, in fact, she never considered being an entrepreneur of any sort, but when the opportunity came, she realized she’d have to be a fool to turn it down. Music had always been a passion of hers; she’d performed in small garage bands with friends, played local shows throughout high school and college, and she even got a degree in music production in hopes of working with a recording studio or record label. (Y/N) had followed this dream and worked at a Bad Racket Recording Studio since 2012, about three years after the studio opened.

It wasn’t until about a year ago that a friend got her in contact with someone who was looking to co-own a bar and turn it into a music venue for local bands. She loved the idea of promoting local bands and musicians, especially since she’d spent the past seven years watching people bring their dreams to life through recording. Maybe it was time to help them realize another dream, the dream of performance.

The reverberations of heavy guitar and drums pulsed through her heart and bones as the performing artist tonight began a cover of Damageplan’s ‘Breathing New Life’. Her heart skipped a beat inadvertently as her mind became lost in the music that electrified the air around her. As an early teen, she’d found solace in music of all genres, but her favorite had been the rock/grunge/metal scene. Pantera had been one of her father’s favorite bands, and so she grew up with a fondness of the musical stylings of the two Abbott brothers from Texas. A lot of kids her age couldn’t understand what was so appealing about Pantera to her--they assumed that just because her parents listened to it she was forced to as well and therefore didn’t know what good music was--but there was always one kid who understood.

One blonde boy would always make sure to ask (y/n) what new music she’d found, if she’d heard of the drama that was going down between bands, and if she’d wanted to listen to CDs together after school. She always responded with a smile before any words left her mouth to continue the conversation, and over the course of middle school, that blonde kid, who she’d known only in passing before, became her closest friend.

As (y/n)’s eyes continued to drift over the crowd, images of her childhood friend’s face flashed through her mind as her gaze came to rest on a tall man dressed in all black, with unruly blonde hair. Had he not been wearing his jacket around his waist and a short sleeved shirt that revealed his tattoos, (y/n) would have glossed over the man’s presence without a second look, but the I-71 North tattoo that was half-visible beneath the rolled up sleeve had given away the man’s identity. With a smile on her face and confidence in her stride, (y/n) approached the bar.

Colson had been in town for a few nights before he’d had enough of his old buddies bugging him about trying out a new bar called Panther’s Den. They continued to swear up and down about it having a nineties feel, and how maybe he should see about setting up a small performance for old-time sakes there. After about three days of this continuing pestering, he gave in and agreed to go to the bar. Together, the small group sat huddled together as they waited to order drinks when a woman approached them with an unforgettable smile pulled across her face.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” she called out over the band as she shifted her weight from one foot to another and waited for the man to bring his eyes to hers. She half expected to see the bloodshot, sleep-deprived, almost hallowed out expression he had worn from time to time in his youth, but when those bright blue eyes turned to face her, (y/n)’s smile grew as she looked into the healthy face of her long time friend.

“(Y/N),” Colson was quick to exclaim as he stretched out his arms and pulled the woman into his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Just running my business.”

“You manage this place?” Colson asked as he looked down into the woman’s eyes. She’d always been mesmerizing to him, although he could never put his finger on it. Maybe it had been how little she cared about what other people thought about her in school, or how badass her taste in music was to him. Maybe it was how supportive she was in him when he said he wanted to rap, or the way her eyes seemed to light up whenever a good riff stood out to her. Maybe it was the way she couldn’t help but nod her head to the beat of every song, the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating on a specific lyric, or the fact that she was his earliest supporter. Whatever it was that captivated him at thirteen was doing the same thing to him at thirty.

“I own it; well, co-own, technically, but I picked the name.” With a smirk, (y/n) lowered herself into the barstool beside Colson and watched as the posse that had surrounded him began to disappear.

“I definitely see the connection now,” he laughed as his eyes traced over the woman’s features. There was a lot that was different--she had less of a baby face that she had in school, seemed a bit more kind and lighthearted than when she was so doom and gloom back in the day, and wore a smile that used to take him what felt like hours of coercing to bring to her face. “How have you been?” Colson hated the question. Often he thought people would think he asked it just to compare his success to their current phase in life, but with (y/n) it came with a different kind of awkwardness that he would have to face.

“I’ve been doing well. My business partner and I got this place up and running last year and it’s been going pretty smoothly,” she admitted. “I was working with a recording studio for a long time before this, but nothing too exciting.” (Y/N) loved what she did and often didn’t have much to talk about with other people besides her work. Her personal life consisted of watched re-runs of TV shows that haven’t been on the air in years, entertaining herself and her pets at home, and not really making an attempt of finding new relationships--friendly or romantic.

“No guy in your life?” Colson found himself asking with an insecurity swelling in his chest that didn’t die down until she shook her head and dismissed whatever fears he didn’t realize he had.

“What about you? Dating Megan Fox must being something,” (y/n) said as she nudged Colson’s ribs with her elbow.

“Yeah,” Colson muttered as he tried to hide his face from (y/n) as he spoke. “She’s great, and I’m really happy.” His words were truthful in every sense of the matter, but that what if still tugged at his heart.

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

At twelve and thirteen-years-old, there’s no way to know what love feels like, so Colson tried to ignore the knots that came into his stomach or the words that got caught in his throat whenever he would hang out with (y/n). He ignored the burning in his chest whenever their faces touched while sharing the cheap headphones they used to listen to (y/n)’s CD player with, and buried the jittery feeling he had whenever he knew he had plans with (y/n) and was counting down the hours until seeing her. The only thing that forced him to come to terms with how he felt towards (y/n) was another boy in her class that offered his headphones over to her one day before school to listen to the newly released, Volume 2 box set from Motley Crue, which had just announced they were reuniting.

His blood boiled as he saw her hand brush against the other boy’s as she accepted the headphones and bobbed her head to the beat of whatever song was flooding her ears. It took Colson all of the courage his young self could muster to ask (y/n) to go on a date with him, and all of the money he had earned through small, odd-jobs to pay for the perfect date for this perfect girl.

He’d tried to ask two of his older friends who could drive to take him and (y/n) to Columbus, but wasn’t able to bribe them with enough money for them to agree. Eventually, he had to ask (y/n)’s father for help. His own dad was too busy working to be bothered with a middle school date, so he hoped the man who gave his daughter her love of music would be understanding. (Y/N)’s father found the young man’s idea heartwarming and fun, and agreed to take the pair to Columbus under the stipulation that he stayed to keep an eye on them. At that point, Colson was so relieved the date was panning out, that he didn’t care if her dad came along.

Excitement had overwhelmed both (y/n) and Colson as they embarked on the two hour drive from Cleveland to Columbus, but the time passed quickly through their loud singing, enthusiastic conversation, and (y/n)’s wild anticipation as Colson revealed to her that they were going to Columbus to see Damageplan perform live. He remembered an early conversation he’d had with (y/n) about how she’d love to see Pantera live, as well as the disappointment she had a year ago when the band broke up. Although it wasn’t the exact same as seeing her all-time favorite band, he’d hoped Damageplan, which the founders of Pantera formed after their breakup, would be a close second.

Had they not been caught in traffic, they would have gotten to the show on time. To this day, Colson and (y/n) were both sure the traffic had been a blessing in disguise. They wanted to be front and center for the first song, but that came with the possibility of losing their lives.

They pulled up to the venue about fifteen minutes late. “The show is hours long! We won’t miss much in fifteen minutes,” (y/n)’s father had continued to reassure the teenagers that sat together in the back seat of his car throughout the drive. However, as they pulled up to see ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars flooding the scene, he realized that they may have missed everything. After her father got out and talked to a few people who had remained at the venue--either to give statements to officers or simply because they were in too much shock to drive--he returned to the car where Colson and (y/n) waited, put the vehicle into drive, and pulled away from the scene. It was about twenty long, agonizing minutes of silence before he pulled over through a fast food drive through to order the teens food. With his voice low as they waited for burgers and French fries, he delivered the news to the pair sitting in his backseat. Dimebag Darrell was dead, and their lives had been spared by some traffic on I-71.

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

“Do you ever wonder what would have happened with us if we actually made it to the concert?” Colson found himself asking (y/n) as his fingertips picked at the label on his beer bottle.

“The possibility of getting shot crosses my mind,” (y/n) responded dryly as she leaned against the bar on her elbow.

“I mean, what if we made it to the venue and that guy didn’t show up--he never got on stage and killed all those people. What would have happened--with us?” Colson’s eyes never left (y/n). The question had plagued him since that night, followed by a million subsequent questions, such as, Why did I never ask her out again? Why did I see that as missing my shot?

“Well,” (y/n) began with a smile playing on her lips. “That would have been the best date of my entire life. Hands down, nothing could have ever topped it,” she said as her genuine smile curled even higher into a beaming grin that made Colson weak. “I would have probably found a way to give you a kiss whenever my dad wasn’t looking, just to show you how much I appreciated not only your plan for the date, but also you as a person, my best friend, and my biggest crush back then.”

“If I would have asked you out again would you have said ‘yes,’ even after what actually happened?” He was hesitant to receive her answer; he didn’t want to know he had wasted so much time wondering if he missed out on the relationship he was meant to be in by being too cowardly to ask. As his eyes met the soft smile of the woman that stood beside him, his heart sank into his stomach and his stomach turned to lead.

“Yeah, I would have,” she admitted. “You were always there for me, Colson, and I kind of anticipated you asking me out again. You were my favorite person to be around, and I’m so proud of you for chasing your dreams.”

“But how much different would my life be if you were beside me the whole time?” He seemed defiant in his question, as if his tone could change the past and alter the present so he could see the difference in his life like comparing two ‘find-the-difference’ pages from a Highlight’s book.

“You wouldn’t have Cassie,” (y/n) stated with a matter-of-fact tone, “and I know how much you love that child.” Colson smiled at the mention of his daughter, and knew her statement to be true. If (y/n) was around, he would have never met Emma and Cassie would have never been born. “You would have still gone off on your own and done what you wanted to. Having me as your girlfriend wouldn’t have changed you wanting to be with models, I couldn’t ever keep you from something you set your mind to, so the drugs would have pulled us apart. In your own opinion, would I still be your friend if I saw everything you’ve done?” With a smirk and a chuckle, Colson reached out for (y/n)’s arm and gentled rested his hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t know if I would still be my friend. But I’m turning around from a lot of the stupid shit I used to do. You know, mellowing out with age,” he laughed and earned a small smirk from the girl that got away. “What about who I am now? How do you feel about him?”

The words came from his mouth with a solemn look on his face as he scanned the woman’s appearance. He still loved her, and a big part of him knew he would never stop loving her. After all, how could he? He never got the opportunity to see where he and (y/n) would have gone. Would they have a child of their own? Would he have listened to her if she pestered him or threatened to leave when it came to the drugs? Would he have even felt he needed them? All they could do was speculate, and speculation wasn’t enough for him. He wanted an ending on their relationship, one way or another, he needed to know. This open-ended bullshit was eating at him every waking second of his life since December 8th, 2004, and he needed to have her tell him it would have never worked, then he could move on.

“You’ve always been incredible to me,” (y/n)’s softened voice admitted as she gazed up at the man she’d loved since her youth. “And you always will be, but you have Megan, and I know you--you’re happy. Don’t ruin what is a great thing over something that could have been, regardless of how either of us feel.” (Y/N) could feel her heart sinking and her eyes ache as they threatened to fill with tears.

All she’d ever wanted was for him to walk in here, admit his feelings for her, and live some fan-fiction reality of a happily ever after, but the real world was much more cruel. People move on, and even if they don’t fully move on emotionally, they don’t sit around waiting forever. Colson hadn’t remained single in the sixteen years between their first almost date, and she never expected him to. The least she could do was wish happiness onto him and be happy for him when he found it. “I think you may have had a bit too much to drink, Col,” she sighed as she pushed the glass of liquor that sat in front of him aside. Throughout their reminiscing and conversation, he continued to order drink after drink to drown the anxiety of seeing her, and (y/n) could tell it was getting to his head. “You don’t want to do something you’ll regret when you sober up.”

“I need to know, (y/n),” he stated in a firm and exasperated gasp as they pair disappeared into her office so that he could sober up while she collected his friends to take him back to wherever he was staying.

“Colson--”

“Please,” his gentle blue eyes were staring down intently at (y/n)’s soul, a soul filled with hope and warmth clouded with traumas of her own, a soul that always felt tethered to his. With a deep breath and gentle sigh, she pulled herself onto her toes, gently rested her hands against his chest and shoulder, and closed her eyes as her lips found his.

Their kiss was simple, something a pair of middle school kids would have become so giddy over having done, but as adults, it was damn near impossible to ignore her heart jumping into her throat, the way his hands felt on her hips, how soft her lips were against his, how desperate he was to deepen the kiss, to sweep his tongue across her lips and lean her against a wall to feel her pressed against him. (Y/N) had pulled away from Colson before he could find the courage to do what he’d always wanted, and the pair stood toe to toe with electricity buzzing in their heads as they continued to reflect back on the past few seconds. Neither had felt that way with another person before, and neither were certain they would ever feel that way again, because Colson was happy, and Megan didn’t deserve to be thrown aside over the possibility of all the what ifs he had in regards to (y/n).

She gently bit down on her lip and stared at the floor in a desperate attempt to avoid looking Colson in the eyes, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to contain herself if he decided he wanted more. Thankfully, he took the hint and pulled (y/n) into a gentle hug before he turned rather clumsily on his heel to catch up with his friends.

“You’re always welcome here, Colson,” (y/n) called out before he left her sight, hoping he would understand her on the deeper level they always were able to converse with one another on.

“Thanks, (y/n),” he said in return as he held the door to her office gently in his hands. “I’ll try to come back again when I’m not so busy.” A coy smile played on both of their faces once the door was placed between them, and hope continued to spring from both of their chests.

Colson left the Panther’s Den feeling even more confused by the what ifs than he had initially been, and the sensation of the kiss had left him feeling even more light-headed and puzzled than any alcohol or overthinking could cause. In their silences and stolen glances, in the touch of their lips and how each other felt beneath the other’s hands, Colson knew whatever electricity between them, whatever spiritual connection, or tethering of souls would never go away. It was a matter of timing for the pair, thirteen wasn’t the right time for them to get together and it was deflected in a gruesome way, but whatever the temptress of time was planning for Colson and (y/n), he knew he was ready to fall, so he placed their fate in the hands of life, and continued down the street with the gentle graze of her lips pressing like a phantom against his own.

#colson baker #colson baker fanfiction #colson baker fanfic #colson baker x reader #colson x reader #machine gun kelly #machine gun kelly fanfiction #machine gun kelly fanfic #machine gun kelly fluff #mgk #mgk x reader #mgk fanfiction #mgk fanfic #mgk request #machine gun kelly request #colson baker request

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gravelyhumerus · 4 years ago

Text

Criminal Minds College AU - Chapter 7

Title: “I may just take your breath away”

Relationship: Jemily

Summary:

Hallowe’en chaos.

Slow-burn Jemily college AU where they live across the hall and despite all odds, the universe pushes them together. AKA they’re silly gay babies who pine after each other for months.

Read it on AO3

Tumblr: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, (bonus scene), Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Epilogue

After trivia night, Emily Prentiss found her world had shifted slightly.

For the first time in her life, she had a friend group: a consistent presence of not only just Derek and the occasional Hotch, but also Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia and most importantly, Jennifer Jareau.

Emily noticed it most in the dining hall. Most mornings this semester, she would grab coffee and maybe an apple on her way to class. Now, she was invited to breakfast in the caf. And everyone was also invited, so the six of them began eating not only breakfasts together when their schedules lined up, but soon that melded to include dinners and the odd lunch between classes. While Penelope initiated at the beginning, soon this became a routine.

While they were all busy, and driven people, all with full course loads, extracurriculars and miscellaneous commitments, they managed to get the whole team together multiple times that week.

A few times, extra faces joined them. Penelope’s friend from class, Kevin… something, joined for a lunch on Wednesday. He sat shyly as Derek stared him down the entire time. On Thursday, somehow Hotch convinced their Criminology TA, David Rossi, who was part time Masters Student and part time weed dealer, to have lunch with the bribe of them using their guest pass so he could get a free meal. He reluctantly acquiesced, but seemed to enjoy himself. On Friday, the day before Halloween, Emily brought Tara Lewis, the MC from the Trivia night that was two years ahead of her in criminology, they ran into each other in the quad, recognizing each other. This open door policy made these dinners fun, with new faces alongside their team.

This was all new for Emily. Not having friends, that is, because Emily could always muddle along with some friends, and when she was younger she shaped herself easily into whatever the popular kids wanted her to be. No, it was new because it was so easy. The team, as they now called themselves as a shorthand, had fallen together so effortlessly.

Today was Halloween and they had plans at Dave’s student house, the shabby place that she had ran into JJ, Penelope and Spencer all that time ago. Had it only been a month? She felt like she had known them all for lifetimes by now.

It happened that way with Derek last year, the whole living together thing sped up that connection. Intimacy comes fast when you brush your teeth next to someone.

Emily was sitting at her desk, finishing up her makeup. She was aiming for a vampire, which wasn’t hard given her previous fashion aesthetic.

Yes, Emily did have a goth phase. She will admit it. Not to her new friends just yet, and Derek had been sworn to secrecy. She was now a much more toned down goth, more alt than goth, wearing mostly black but significantly less chains and make up.

Tonight, she wore her fishnets, a short black dress and a cape that was already tied around her shoulders. She had put a slightly too pale foundation on her face, down her neck, and was currently working on her eye liner. She carefully created elegant swoops over her lashes, coming to sharp points.

Next, she added a deep red lipstick. Blood red. It was all very spooky.

Finally, she struggled to test out the fake teeth insert that she had ordered online, slipping it over her top teeth. It fit surprisingly well.

“Happy Halloween,” she said to herself, testing out whether or not she had a lisp. She did. She didn’t care. It was perfect.

Emily did a couple of spins in the mirror on the back of the door. Turning off the overhead light, she looked at herself in the glowing light of her string lights.

She was satisfied. She looked like a hot vampire.

She grabbed her tote bag, which was filled with six miscellaneous beers and coolers that she had leftover from the last few weeks, knowing that she hated the cheap hoppy beer that Rossi would have at his party.

Emily was picky about her alcohol.

She glanced out the window, considering taking an extra layer. It was dreary outside, with the sky an eerie green and powerful gusts of wind rattling the window. Emily grabbed her leather jacket.

Hoisting her bag onto her shoulder and draping her coat over her arm, Emily peeked out of her door, looking out into the hall. In both directions were students in costume; she spotted a Frankenstein, a couple of cats and even someone dressed up in an inflatable t-Rex suit.

She made sure her door was locked and then walked down the hall to Derek’s room, who was at the very end of the hall, as he had lucked out and got a massive room with lots of windows, across from the showers.

She opened the door, finding just about all of their friends already there, sneakily drinking out of mugs, cups and water bottles.

Reid was a zombie, wearing tattered, bloody clothes and a full face of makeup that Emily assumed that Penelope did for him. Sitting next to his computer, queueing music for their pre, was Derek, dressed in a baseball jersey and hat, apparently as a baseball player. This was expected, he wasn’t big on Halloween. Hotch was… a devil? He wore all black and simply had devil horns on his head. Low commitment but the spirit was there.

Emily hoisted herself onto Derek’s bed and greeted her friends.

Spencer was sneaking up behind Derek, peeking his head over his shoulder. Derek, at that moment, seemed to be texting, squinting down at his phone.

“I’m going to eat you!” Spencer yelled into Derek’s ear, causing the larger man to jump to his feet, swatting at the boy in his fright.

Emily laughed at her friend’s distress. He really didn’t like Halloween that much.

“Are you ready for a spooktacular evening?” Spence asked, making his voice wobbly as he put on a dramatic effect. He shone an orange, pumpkin patterned flashlight under his chin.

“Of course,” Emily lisped, “In fact, I vant to drink your blood!”

She lunged forward, and Spencer hid from her behind Derek. It was silly but she could tell how much he liked Halloween, he had talked about it all week, and she couldn’t help but adopt a lispy vampire voice to go with her costume. Though the boy was only two year younger than them, his thin frame and wide eyed expression made him seem much younger.

“Your teeth are excellent,” Spencer pointed out, “Very realistic.”

“I don’t get the hype about Halloween,” Derek said, “Disguises? Pass. Horror movies? No thank you.”

“Booooooo,” Emily protested, “Don’t be a buzzkill, Morgan. Let us have a little fun.”

The door opened again, and Penelope, followed by JJ, joined them.

“Is my statuesque god of sculpted chocolate thunder being lame again?”

“He barely dressed up,” Emily complained.

“Neither did Hotch!” Derek said, gesturing to Hotch’s devil horns.

“Hey, at least I bought these at the party store,” Hotch said, “I’m sure both of those are items from your own closet.”

Derek did not confirm or deny this. Emily knew he wore the same get up last year.

“So when should we be there?” JJ asked.

She was dressed as a witch, with an oversized pointy hat perched on top of her head, her blonde hair falling around her shoulders in perfect curls. She wore a purple dress and tall boots to go with her witch look. She and Penelope joined Spencer on the floor, sitting with their backs to Derek’s closet and cracking open a beer for JJ and a fruity cooler for Penelope.

With large wings, glittery make up and an adorable skirt, Penelope was clearly dressed up as a fairy, which was entirely apropos to who she was as a person. In fact, it was not entirely dissimilar from her normal outfits.

“Rossi said to come by eight,” Hotch said, “So in party talk he means nine-thirty earliest.”

“It’s, what?” Derek checked the time on his laptop, “Eight fifteen now, so we can pre here for an hour or so then start walking over.”

“Yeah,” Hotch said, “His house is just off campus.”

“The weather is crazy out,” Penelope said, looking out the window. The trees were swaying and the leaves were blowing everywhere.

“We could take a cab?” Emily offered, “I’d rather avoid getting leaves in my hair tonight.”

There were some nods, then they got back to preing, playing a few rounds of King’s Cup to ensure that all of them were sufficiently drunk before they left.

Morgan put on his new playlist, not “For The Boys (and emily)” this time, but one titled “Team Vibez” that Emily had seen him make during their lecture on Thursday. It had a lot of his normal songs, some top hits, but a few fun pop songs that Emily knew he added for Penelope, and even some classic rock for Hotch.

At this point, Emily was feeling buzzed. She had two cans discarded in the bin, both hosting lipstick prints from her dark red vampire lips.

JJ was currently chatting with Hotch about some student government scandal that was happening at the time. While politics gave Emily the heebie jeebies, she had reluctantly joined the Criminology Academic Society. It would give her a leg up on grad school applications, for one, and so far, even as a low-level member, she found she was actually making a difference for her classmates. This meant that Emily, despite her deepest urges to not touch political scandals with a ten foot pole, knew exactly what they were talking about.

As the two discussed the student politicians—there were some minor accusations of nepotism, embezzlement and coverups by the undergraduate executive—Emily looked at JJ. Her brows were furrowed in concentration and she was gesturing wildly with her hands as she talked about how badly they were handling their crisis communications.

Suddenly, interrupting this discussion, their phones blasted out a siren, followed by a chorus of the same robot voice announcing an emergency alert.

“National Weather Service: TORNADO WARNING in this area until 10:15PM EST,” the robot announced, “Take shelter now in a basement or an interior room on the lowest floor of a sturdy building.”

They looked at Derek’s three, large windows, and watched as large gusts of wind sent leaves barrelling down the street.

“If you are outdoors, in a mobile home, or in a vehicle, move to the closest substantial shelter and protect yourself from flying debris,” it continued. “Check media.”

Then, their phones went silent and Derek’s music continued unheeded.

“A tornado?!” Penelope said, “Here?”

The window rattled. Derek stood up and hesitantly moved away from it.

Penelope grabbed Derek’s computer, her hands moving in a flurry.

“Ok so,” she began, “from what I can gather from the good old Internet, we’re in a region of extreme winds and the meteorologists are thinking that funnel clouds and tornados are possible this evening.”

“So much for Halloween,” Spencer whined.

“Party is definitely off,” Hotch said. “We should probably take shelter. Is there a basement here?”

“There’s the laundry room?” Emily said.

Adrenaline started pulsing through her veins. She’d been through some severe weather before in her life but never a tornado, nor did she expect one. They were in the north east, nowhere near tornado Alley.

They all stood, making a move for the basement, when the lights flickered once, twice, then shut off entirely. Rain begin to fall down, hard onto the windows, and the boom of thunder filled their ears.

“Shit,” Emily said. “Anyone have a candle?”

---

Ten minutes later, the six of them were seated in a circle, on the strange carpeted floor of the laundry room, with the severe weather making the wind howl outside. Between JJ’s two candles, which were very against the rules, and Derek’s laptop screen, they had enough ambient light to see, but it was all very spooky.

The room smelled damp and earthy, with a strange combination of laundry soaps and dryer sheets. They had to move a spare sock to form a circle around the candle. It looked very much like a séance, so that did fit the Halloween spirit.

“Well,” Hotch said, “At least this is festive.”

Derek was still queuing his music, filling the silence with his DJ skills.

“Aren’t you worried about your battery life?” JJ asked, “What if the power doesn’t come on in the morning.”

“Then I have a great excuse not to finish my essay,” Derek said with a shrug.

“Fair point.”

“Anyways,” Derek continued, “No sense giving up on our party. We have drinks, we have music and thanks to JJ we have illegal candles.”

“They’re not illegal!” She protested, “Simply very against res rules! I like lighting a candle while I study.”

“It’s lucky that there was no one left in res because of Halloween,” Emily said. “Or we would've had a bunch of party crashers.”

“This is better,” Penelope, “Team bonding!”

“What should we play?” Hotch said, “we don’t really have much to work with.”

“This is all very high school,” Penelope said, “A couple of kids, in a basement, sitting in a circle on the floor…”

“With a tornado tearing through our city…” Emily quipped.

“Statistically speaking for this region we are more likely to experience dangerous winds rather than an actual tornado. Worst case is that fallen tree branches hit power lines, or fall onto houses or cars.”

“So you’re saying that we’re in the worst case scenario right now?” Hotch said.

“Yup.”

Hotch frowned.

“How about we play truth or dare?” Penelope changed the subject.

“I’m down,” Emily said, surprising herself. “If everyone else is.”

“I’ve never played!” Spencer said.

“Never?” JJ asked. “Not at any sleepovers.”

“I didn’t get invited to many sleepovers.”

“Neither did I,” Emily admitted, “Some parties I went to played it too.”

JJ looked at her, there was a brief look of sympathy, and then understanding on her face. Emily made note of that.

“I guess we’re playing,” Hotch murmured.

“Derek,” Penelope purred, “Mon cher, truth or dare?”

“Truth,” he said defiantly, bracing himself with a swig of whatever was in his water bottle.

“Who is the prettiest fairy in the basement?”

“You, of course,” he replied with a wink.

“Gross!” Emily exclaimed, “Truth or dare is not for flirting. Hotch: truth or dare?”

“Dare,” he said with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“Show us the… most embarrassing photo of you on your phone.”

He frowned.

“I don’t take many photos.”

“Try,” Emily urged with a laugh.

He fumbled in his pockets, grabbing his phone and scrolling through his photo album for a few minutes.

“It’s from high school,” Hotch said with a sigh. “I was in a play.”

He held up a photo of him in a pirates outfit, he looked smaller, younger than he did now. His hair was shaggy and his face rounder. He was pointing the sword at the camera.

“Who’s the girl?” JJ asked.

“My girlfriend Hayley,” Hotch said, “we’re long distance now. I joined the play to get close to her and it seems to have worked.”

“That’s not embarrassing,” Penelope said, “that’s adorable. Try again.”

“Oh I have one!” Emily said, pulling up her Snapchat memories. She had a photo of him conked out in a lecture last year. His mouth was open and his head conked back, fast asleep in a dimly lit lecture hall. Emily had taken a series of these photos before waking him up.

“Now that’s what i'm talking about,” Derek said.

“How can you fall asleep during lecture?” Spencer asked in horror.

Hotch shrugged.

“I was tired, we had a game the night before,” Hotch said. “Morgan: Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“I don’t know any dares,” Hotch looked around for help.

“He could play the tinder game?” Emily said.

“What tinder game?”

“Oh that’s a good one,” JJ said, “Derek opens tinder and we randomly tell him which way to swipe and see who he matches with.”

Derek groaned. Opening the app and placing it down onto the carpet.

“Right!” JJ said to start.

A match.

“Left?” Hotch said, it came out more like a question.

“Right,” Emily said. Another match.

Left, right, left, right. New message from a recent match, left, right, right, right, right. Derek looked on in horror.

“Ok I think he’s had enough,” Emily said with a laugh.

“Derek it’s your turn,” Penelope said.

Derek sighs in relief.

“Uhhh, Pretty Boy,” he turned to Reid. Thinking for a moment. “Have you ever smoked before?”

“Smoked what? Cannabis, tobacco? Something else. Be specific.”

Emily’s jaw dropped.

“I dunno man,” Derek said, “I was talking about weed but go off.”

“I have.”

“How?” JJ said, “You’re like sixteen! I haven’t even smoked weed.”

“Me neither,” Penelope said, sounding outright disappointed.

“I believe it,” Hotch said. “He has a Juul.”

“Seventeen now,” Spencer said. “Kids in my first degree found it funny when I performed actions that they deemed mature for my young age.

“What?” Penelope said. “But you were sixteen last week.”

“It was my birthday on Wednesday,” he said.

“And we missed it?” JJ asked.

Emily decided not to inform them that her birthday had been a few weeks back as well.

“It’s no big deal,” Spencer said, “I don’t really do birthdays.”

“Well I do birthdays!” Penelope said, “and you’re getting one.”

Emily could see the gears turning in Penelope’s head.

“Wait you haven’t smoked weed?” Emily said. She didn’t mean to sound so surprised, but hell, it was college.

“I’ve never been offered,” Penelope said with a shrug.

“You have a Juul, Spence?” JJ said.

He shrugged.

“Anyways,” Derek said with a laugh. “Reid it’s your turn to ask.”

And the game continued roughly the same for a few more rounds, with some truths, some dares, a lot of drinking and a fair amount of laughter.

Emily learned that JJ likes some angry rock music when she’s upset, that Penelope has committed several federal crimes, that Reid used to coach basketball in high school, that Derek has been posing nude for art classes on campus for extra cash, and that Hotch has never successfully completed a word search in his life.

The dares were limited, because frankly they were basically hiding out in a basement during what might actually be a tornado. Emily was dared to do an impression of Hotch, which wasn’t good and involved a lot of eyebrows and frowning. After, JJ was forced to leave her snapchat at Garcia’s mercy for the entire night. Other dares involved dancing, attempting gymnastics, and seeing whether or not Reid fit into the dryer. He did.

The game finally had played out when it was Hotch’s turn again to ask.

“JJ, what’s your greatest fear?” Hotch asked.

“Mr. Serious over here,” Derek said with a whistle.

“Probably the woods,” JJ replied.

“Why?” Spencer asked, tilting his head.

JJ grabbed a candle, holding it under her chin much like Reid did earlier.

“I used to be a camp counselor, when I was a teenager. In the woods up in Vermont.”

She leaned forward. Emily didn’t know she worked at a camp. It made sense. She pictured her in a camp t-shirt making a bracelet. It suited her.

“I had the night shift. I tucked the girls in, turned off the lights. The typical drill. Everything seemed fine; all the kids were asleep. You know, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.”

Another dramatic pause, both Spencer and Derek had leaned in, invested in the story.

“Until I noticed there was some blood, on the hallway floor. So, I followed the blood trail out to the camp director’s cabin, walked up to his bed and he was just lying there, underneath his covers. Dead!”

Penelope gasped. The room was silent.

“Someone stabbed him. I ran out of there so fast, out the door, down the hall. I just remember it… being really dark. Once I got to the door, there was another counselor there. I guess she heard me scream.”

JJ set the candle down, looking at the flame flicker. This couldn’t be real, Emily thought, this had to be a joke.

“They caught the caretaker on his way to town, I guess he still had the knife on him.”

“Anyway, I guess that’s probably when I decided I didn’t like the woods.”

“You’re serious?!” Derek demanded.

“No!” JJ said with a laugh. “You bought that! I’m kidding!”

“So are you afraid of the woods?” Emily asked.

“Yeah,” JJ said, “They’re spooky I don’t know.”

They all laughed at that.

Emily glanced at her phone; they had been down here for almost two hours. According to Penelope’s intermittent checks on the status of the extreme weather, most of the city was experiencing black outs, but there was no sign of an actual tornado. They were still supposed to take shelter for the next hour or so, just in case.

In this time, Emily was close to five drinks in, with only one left in the basement. A growing pile of empties had built up around them, and Hotch had pulled out a small bottle of whiskey in addition to his beer, passing it around the circle. Having recently turned 17, the group had officially decided to give Spencer a beer, which he nursed slowly, wincing at the bitter taste.

“Emily,” JJ turned to her and looked mischievous. “Truth or dare?”

She felt her heart flutter.

“Truth.”

“Hmmm…” JJ said, “Where was the weirdest place you’ve ever had sex?”

Emily found herself blushing at the memory.

“Oh god,” Emily buried her face in her hands. “IHOP parking lot.”

“What?”

Emily nodded, downing the last of her beer.

“No further questions,” she proclaimed as she opened her next drink.

“I think that should conclude Truth or Dare,” Penelope said, “It’s time for another sleepover classic, since some of you are sleepover virgins.”

She grabbed Derek’s water bottle, plopping it down onto the carpet and spun it.

“Spin the bottle!”

Emily went pale. What was Penelope doing? She stared into her drunk, not daring to look at anyone else.

“That doesn’t seem very sanitary,” Spencer said.

“Boo,” Penelope, “You’re no fun. It’s a classic! And we’re all friends, it’ll be fun. Hotch you spin first.”

He looked horrified, but took the bottle. There was no getting in the way of Penelope Garcia’s will.

“The rules are simply: kiss or you have to finish your drink?,” Penelope said, “Got it?

Hotch nodded, he spun the bottle. It went around the circle, once, twice, three times, then landed clearly on himself.

“How do I kiss myself?” he said, deadpan.

“Drink!” Emily told him. He downed his last beer.

Derek spun next, rubbing his hands together nervously as it went around and around. It landed on Penelope.

“Come here, chocolate thunder!”

Derek took his baseball cap off, turning it backwards. Penelope pulled his shirt towards her, tugging on him as their lips met. They both closed their eyes, she could hear JJ giggle at the sight.

“Was that the only reason we’re playing this?” Spencer asked, “So that you could kiss Morgan?”

“Maybe?” Penelope, “What’s it to you, boy-genius!”

He put his hands up in surrender, it was his turn.

He spun the bottle awkwardly, so that it rocked back and forth in addition to spinning. It went around once before landing on JJ.

Emily wasn’t sure what to think about that. On one hand, he was just a kid and the kiss wouldn't be anything, but on the other hand, Emily was jealous that she didn’t get a kiss.

“Come here, Spence!” JJ said, making a grabbing motion at the boy and laughing.

He leaned in with his eyes closed, Emily wouldn’t be surprised if he told them he hadn’t done even this before. JJ put a hand on his face, turned it gently, and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Derek clapped him on the back and made a comment about it being ‘pretty boy’s first kiss,’ and Reid simply sat and blushed as he busied himself with drinking some of his beer.

Emily’s turn. She tried not to cross her fingers and pray for JJ, but it happened anyways. It landed on Derek. Emily sighed dramatically.

“Ewwww,” Emily mock protested.

“Come on, princess,” Derek jeered, “You know you want some of this!”

He lifted his t-shirt up and rubbed his hands down his abs.

“Put that away sir!” she covered her eyes.

“Oh come here,” she said, leaning in. They kissed on the lips with a loud ‘mwah!’ noise.

“That was cute,” Hotch commented.

Emily fake gagged, while Morgan tried to wipe her red lipstick off him.

Last was JJ in the circle. She spun it casually. Emily tried to read her facial expression, wondering if JJ, too, wanted it to land on Emily.

See, Emily was starting to believe that JJ liked her back. She was single, and for all Emily knew, she was straight, but the more Emily got to know her, she got queer vibes. She played soccer! Her nails were short and-

Emily couldn’t think of any other things that moment, as she was currently freaking out about the spin the bottle situation that was presently unfolding.

The moment in the bathroom, Emily thought, that was something! The way she looked at Emily… she was sure that she felt JJ’s eyes on her linger.

The bottle landed on Emily. They had to kiss. It was part of the game.

Holy shit.

Penelope squealed and Emily could feel the entire room's eyes on her, except JJ whose eyes were on the ground.

Emily could hear her heartbeat. She desperately wanted to kiss JJ but did she want to under these circumstances? For a dare?

JJ looked at her. Blue eyes staring into brown. She could hear her blood rushing in her ears. She found herself leaning forward, only slightly. JJ did the same. Her lips parted, her eyes hungry.

Emily shifted forward, she sat with her legs tucked under her, bracing herself with her arms. JJ was cross legged, her arms free to grab at her face. JJ’s hands tugged her forward.

Their lips met.

It was uncertain, chaste, soft. Then, JJ’s hands pulled her closer. They were pressed together, heads tilting so that their noses didn’t bump.

Jennifer Jareau was kissing her. They were kissing!

Emily’s brain short circuited. JJ filled her senses; the blonde’s vanilla perfume and soft lips and the taste of alcohol on her tongue.

Oh god, her tongue.

Emily did not want it to end. Their mouths opened and their tongues slid against each other, feeling so perfect and sending Emily’s blood racing away from her face and noticeably south.

JJ was incredibly hot and Emily desperately wanted to do more than kiss her. Or kiss her like this forever. Her ams were caressing her cheek and tangled in Emily’s hair, pulling her closer.

The lights flickered on; they had power, again. JJ pulled away from her, sharply.

Emily sat back, sitting up straight. The room was luckily too distracted by the lights to notice how out of breath Emily was. Or that they probably shouldn’t have passionately made out on a dare.

JJ wouldn’t meet her eye, but Emily could see her own lipstick on the other girl’s lips. Emily blinked at the bright light, started by the sudden return of the electricity after she had become accustomed to the dim light of the candle.

“What impressive timing,” Spencer murmured.

Taking the lights as a good sign, Penelope checked on the emergency alert. It was over and they were safe to go back upstairs. She found out that a few downed trees were the cause of the outage and there was never an actual tornado. No one was hurt but there was a bit of property damage throughout the city.

Without the atmosphere of the candle light, and the likelihood of a RA doing a check of the building, they decided that that was the end of their party. They gathered up their empties, and blew out the candles.

As they finished up cleaning, all making sure not to leave any trace of their illicit affairs, Emily tried to quell her racing heart and blushing face, completely unable to look anyone in the eye.

The door opened, their RA was there. Erin Strauss. She was a hardass.

“What are you all doing down here?” she demanded.

They all stood, stock still, jaws dropped, smelling of alcohol and clutching clinking tote bags.

“Erin,” Emily said, trying to sound as sober as possible despite the five plus drinks in her system, “We were simply following the directions on the emergency alert.”

“Yes! It said to seek shelter from the storm and the basement seemed the best for that,” Penelope said.

“Uhuh,” Erin said, “What’s in the bag?”

The bag clinked.

“Oh just some garbage,” Emily said, lying through her teeth. “We had some snacks.”

“Sure,” Erin said, not believing them.

Emily tried not to sway, but did not feel steady on her feet. She wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or her recent kiss with JJ.

For a second, Emily was sure that their RA would bust their asses, but the girl simply sighed and told them to go to bed, muttering about how dealing with non-existent tornadoes wasn't part of her job.

The six of them scurried upstairs, all freaked out about their near-miss with a write-up.

Reid disappeared up to his room, then JJ and Penelope walked down the hall to their’s. Emily slipped into Derek’s avoiding Erin Strauss’ watchful eye, helping Derek steady a very drunk Hotch.

Hotch, who had probably had a little too much of that whiskey, stumbled into Derek’s room and decided to sleep on the floor. Emily placed a water bottle next to him, and placed him in recovery position, glad for the distraction from the blush that refused to leave her face or the lingering taste of JJ on her lips.

She walked slowly down the hall back to her own room, the events of that evening playing back in her mind. She threw herself onto her bed, dazed by her situation.

Emily fell asleep with vampire make up still on her face that night.

#criminal minds #cm #criminal minds tv #jemily #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #gravelyhumerus cm college au #prentiss x jj #jemily cm #fanfiction #fanfic #criminal minds fic #my post #my writing #this is such a chaotic chapter!!!#enjoy!!!!

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 5 years ago

Text

Witcher of the Night (Chapter 13.1)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

UPDATES FOR WITCHER OF THE NIGHT WILL BE PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY NOW IN MY TIME (GMT +8)

CHAPTER 13

WITCHER OF THE NIGHT MASTERLIST

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Geralt could feel what you also feel and he was cursing the Djinn for making you both feel this way because it was a feeling that was certainly irresistible for one man to ever control. You were in heat, and it doesn’t seem to be such a good idea for the witcher to try and resist.

Warnings: This is just a filler chapter for the smut in the next chapter. Ahonhonhon! Kind of Jealous Geralt too? Lowkey? Hehehehe. A cute bard and Cirilla having the period-syndrome (I’m having it too rn and I’m thirsty for Geralt or any of Henry’s character. DAMN IT) I’ve given a name to the Djinn they’ve found because I’ve tried searching but found no name for every Djinn they find in the witcher? I think? Reader being so needy and in heat. (The animal type of heat for reasons..) Also, reader is...a virgin.

Words: 4.5k

A/N: You probably want to strangle me so hard right now, bb’s. I’m in the phase of a writer where I’m procrastinating stuff but not exactly a writer’s block. Just want to do things besides writing all day or I’m prolly just sleepy with no damn reason since last week. 😅😒

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! Sorry for the grammatical errors and such because English isn’t my mother tongue!

Disclaimer: PNG’s used in edits are not mine even the GIF’s too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi. Characters, places and said monsters aren’t from moi as well. GIF’s INCLUDED ARE CREDITED TO THOSE WHO MADE THEM! I DO NOT OWN THEM!

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

"Well, you're in a greater bad mood right now, rat." Jaskier frankly stated, wiping his lute with a cloth.

The night was serene with your heart strings balled up in a yarn. Your emotions consisting of woe with a face as if you lost a shit ton of money. You sat together with Jaskier in the middle of the vast leigh, knees touching against each other as the bard quietly sat with you in silence.

A bright purple evenfall draws nigh along the sky, stars finally becoming visible as you admired how beautiful their skies were. Less pollution and more aesthetic, though a lot more eccentricity happening around more than earth.

You've exhaled one last sigh, mouth in a tight frown as you took notice of the moon that was in replete. A perfect shape of a circle as it shines bright.

"Is the witcher being an imbecile again?" the bard ceased his cleaning, giving you his sole attention as he watched your face contort in utmost upset. But, you chose to just let the sorrow go for a moment, admiring the stars and skies like it wasn't laughing back at you from how delusional you were for having strong feelings for the witcher, "Don't start, Jaskier."

"Your cantankerous attitude shown in your cherubic face tells me that you are gradually adapting Geralt's crabbiness because you accepted the position in being his lover---," Jaskier has managed to bluntly say, carefully placing his lute on the grass as he narrowed his eyes at you, "---Though, it does seem like a sacrifice, small rat. Your kindness shall be missed. I would like to see you try and let Geralt adapt to your naivity and sweetness. The vision is pretty hilarious, if you ask me!"

Your frown even grew tighter when he mentioned the word 'lover', shoulders falling from how dismayed you were from hearing it.

"I'm not his lover."

The bard couldn't help but raise a skeptical brow back at you, remembering what he saw last night. He knew he wasn't hallucinating nor daydreaming, "Oh, so kissing under the moonlight is considered as a friendly gesture in my era now? If so, then this means you wouldn't mind kissing me too!"

He puckered his lips, making smooching sounds as slowly tried to teasingly close the gap between you both as Jaskier pouted to act as if he was about to give you a kiss on the cheek when you've yelped and immediately had your palms over his mouth, gently pushing his face away from you, "Jaskier! What are you even---?!"

He comfortably sat back down and had his knee over his chest prior to the position he had now, which was in criss-cross as he playfully shrugged. His pretty baby blues looking at the darkening sky, "A shame. I've been told by countable lads and lasses that I do kiss like I take their breath away,"

You tutted at that, shaking your head from his teasing and tried to send a hostile sally, "You suck then. Do you want them dying because of lack of breath?"

Your animosity has been curved by the bard. He seemed like he was acting like he didn't hear you as he let his eyes flicker to you again; going on with his jests, "Thank you by the way. I've been sleeping much soundly since the couple of days and you seemed to be having such wonderful dreams every night,"

Bawdy indications were hinted in between Jaskier's words; making you give him a glare that obviously made him grin like he won the lottery; thinking that your previous rendezvous back in Geralt's room when he wasn't around had some provocative explanations.

He didn't know your symbol was hurting a lot more on those nights where Geralt wasn't around.

You brush off his ribald comment, "I didn't do it for you,"

"I thought you were actually asking for forgiveness by calling me a horse's arse minutes ago? You're knowing the blasphemy of our language but totally naive of every monsters and places we have here. It doesn't seem to be such a thing to be proud of,"

Jaskier continued his blathers without even letting you talk, freely letting you give him death glares because he seemed to be more mouthy as days go by. You turn a deaf ear to exhale an exasperated breath, "I'm taking it back. You're still annoying as heck," before unabashedly laying your head down on his lap.

His yakking has been brought to a halt when he'd felt your head fall on his lap, the bard suddenly uttering quizzical gibbers that you continued to ignore as you felt the bracing wind hit your body; appreciating the eventide in quietude.

"Alright, alright! I'm not complaining...Ughm," Jaskier cleared his throat, anxiously scratching his head as he tried his best not to look at you.

The fullness of the moon has been drawing you in again. In a tranquil night, it was as if the stars began to whisper sweet nothings, lately realizing that their soft whispers has actually been your wishes; albeit, you've broken them down together, your whims willing and having no desire for you to actually come back in earth.

With only one thing in your mind, it was to stay with Geralt and his family.

But, do you really mean it? If you would choose earth or their dimension, were you serious that you wanted to stay?

Though, for him; you weren't that sure if he also wanted the same thing. If Geralt wasn't around, you were probably already dead, have been sold by noblemen or eaten by their monsters.

But, the stars seemed to jump out of the sky when you've heard a loud thundercrack of a door that came from the inside of their house, snapping the bard quiet as the noise tugged you out of your happy place; a place that you hoped Geralt came with.

The night has went slower, time ticking a lot more deliberately when one person is probably upset with another. Especially, when the person you were upset with lived in the same house as you and even was the owner of the bed you sleep on.

You were beginning to feel rickety as seconds pass by while Jaskier tried worming out whatever he had asked to Cirilla whom was feeding Kolby with a basket full of obsolete bread.

"Tell me why the back door is now broken off its hinges?" he asked in incredulity, hands on his hips as he had seen the brown, wooden door hanging with all its life, trying hard not to fall.

Hence, as they continued their talk; you couldn't help but massage that aching part of your chest, the one where the symbol laid upon the valley of your breasts as you heavily breathed.

It was attacking again.

The weight and fiery phantom of fingers grasping your heart more severe rather than the nights you had it felt like a rabid monster wanted to come out of cage. Their cold weather suddenly all swelter; as if you were walking on burnt out coals with one person clouding your mind.

Geralt.

You needed him, wanted him and yearned for his presence.

Cirilla gave a blatant shrug of her shoulders; sounding completely phlegmatic as she answered, "I don't know, bard. I didn't scream if that will make you any less more worried,"

Jaskier had his eyebrows furrowed as he keenly pondered as to why their door was broken all of a sudden, "Has there been a beast?" his slim, calloused fingers moved restlessly; dwelling onto what has raided their own home. The bard looked anywhere, continuing to be in distress while Cirilla patted the Hirikka's head with utmost care as she watched him devour everything in the basket, "You mean, Geralt?" she gave Jaskier a once over before turning back to look at Kolby, thoroughly undisturbed that it was the witcher's doing, "---He went out for a second and then came back, breaking the door off its hinges. But, he promised to fix it,"

Jaskier's head veered to where she was crouched in the middle of the living room, his baby blue eyes full of concern as he opened his mouth to tell all his inquiries but was instantly shut closed when he'd seen you hunched in his peripheral vision, palms on your knees as you were breathing like you were being chased by another Alghoul.

The latter took heed of those sweat drops falling on the side of your face as you were heaving deep breaths. Your head was darkening in assailing images of those familiar amber eyes you've grown to be thoroughly fond of; longing to be consumed by those glowing golden aureate.

You've heard someone walking closer to where you stood, seeing Jaskier crouch to give you a scrutiny of his baby blues. Bright azures. You didn't yearn for that. All you wanted was golden. His golden and you couldn't help but whimper, your chest has giving you agony as if you were being pricked in the heart by small needles, "You're sweating like a rabid---rat, are you alright?"

Another deep inhale of your breath; you breathlessly muttered, "I am Jaskier---It's just---" nevertheless, those train of thoughts couldn't be completed by the excruciating pain that ignited a troubled mewl. You straightened your back, making Jaskier stand up as well to scan your face for any signs as to what was happening to you, but only had seen your face painfully contorted in a way that tells him you were in agony.

"It's hot. Too hot," pause. You swallowed the tight knot of confining sensations wanting to be let out, "---Abnormally hot. Hot in two different ways; like I wanna be impaled or something!"

At your most forthright honesty, your statement has made the bard blink rapidly from how blunt it sounded, being taken aback by how outspoken you suddenly become; a thorough change of your bashful self, "You're actually revealing lewd facts that should be kept to yourself. You are certainly not alright!"

You could feel yourself grow hotter, the heat being scorching and aching at the same time. Your legs began to weaken and you can't help but fold like a paper, squat down and the position was utmost impuissant; totally vulnerable with your palms on your ears as you tried to shut down the restless whispering that went on and on; ceaseless as you had no power over it.

Jaskier began to panic; his face brimful of dread, "----GERALT? WE HAVE A PROBLEM DOWN HERE!"

The soughing of breathless whispers were relentless, no matter how you tried to cover your ears; they just keep coming. It was incessant, never ending despite of how they were giving your chest a pain that seem to be unyielding as they went on and on.

Witcher. You wanted the witcher. You needed him, you longed for him.

"Stop saying the word witcher, Jaskier!" you abruptly scolded, sounding too jarring and ear-piercing; void of kindness as you could feel the aggravation going to your head with the additional non-stop rustle of voices. The bard eyed you skeptically as he added, finding your rebuke rather surprising and odd because he never said anything about it, "I wasn't even uttering a word!"

Warm, slender fingers fell on your shoulders; trying his best to comfort you while the witcher wasn't coming down from his chambers yet. Nevertheless, from the moment he'd touch you, the toubadour has received a harsh slap of his hand being pushed away.

"Jaskier!" you harshly spat, your nose scrunched from how discomforting you were feeling.

He was quick to haul his arms up in surrender, stepping a foot away as he looked at you in horror, "Alright---I'm not touching you then!"

Another strained bleat left your lips as you were now fully sat on the floor, holding your chest as you continued to heave, shaking your head from the perpetual torment that tries its best to scream blandishments that sounded abridged. Some were incomprehensible and other words sounded lucid.

Destiny has it's price. It sounded just like a rustle of the winds as the shushed voices continued its onslaught. Two souls, together as one. Bound for eternal rest or a life forever. Zephyr shall protect. You cannot outrun death.

Your whimpers started to gradually increase, mewling in the process when you've exhaled a sigh as the needles seem to turn bigger, "It hurts, I swear it really hurts!" you screeched, body feeling like you were dropped in hot, molten lava as you were hearing foot steps treading in haste, "Geralt's coming, don't worry, rat."

Kolby prowled to where you sat; eternal mewls never ceasing as sexual, pent-up aggression was starting to travel to your head, but you tried to fight them off. Though, it ignited more pain as you struggled. Cirilla suddenly snapped her head to where you were, a tight lipped frown etching her face as she jogged to where you sat.

"Is she okay?" the pretty child asked in worry, watching you battle with something they couldn't see nor feel. Jaskier raised a brow; looking sardonic as he acknowledged, "No, she certainly isn't, Princess Cirilla."

She gave him a lour as she snarled; her riposte sounding a lot like the witcher because of how harsh it sounded, "I'm not in the mood for your sarcastic nonsense, bard."

Jaskier was unfazed as he took her retort like it was nothing, "Ooooh, is this how period--is it called period---does to a lassie?"

They're retaliations had them unaware of Geralt's presence who came marching down the stairs with an unfathomable expression on his face; the trepidation never seen in his features as it was emotionless, never giving anybody the panic that Jaskier, Cirilla and Kolby has been feeling when you've suddenly began bawling your eyes out from the thumping pain.

The witcher hurriedly crouched before you, his glowing amber eyes thoroughly scanning your features if there was anything weird happening; but to his discontent, Geralt noticed none.

He felt everything. Your frustration, pent-up aggression; venereal desires or not, the twinge of scorching ache that can't be relieved due to constraints given from the latter himself when he'd chose jurisdiction over his carnal wishes that you also wished.

But, he'd been bull-headed for his reasons; Geralt was not bargained for the repercussions held because of having no permanent proof that you were also suffering every night.

Just like him. Hence, the both of you needed relief. Corporeal appetites released for the betterment of both.

"She's in heat," Geralt rasped, trying to hear what you've been begging for and he sensed that you were hearing voices that continues to assault you, paining your chest as you were unaware of his presence that loom before you.

"What? Oh, Geralt! Cease the utter balderdash!" Jaskier exclaimed, eyeing the witcher who squat down in front of you.

Geralt's amber eyes has been searching for yours, but you've never let him see as you continued your hushed begging. He had his chiseled jaw clenched so tight, every breath he takes was also giving his chest a potent congesting pain that he can somehow resist. His medallion was vibrating wildly, alarming him that there was magic surrounding him.

Therefore, he knew the pain wasn't just one to disregard because he knew your pain has explanations that is needed to foresee.

Was the Djinn still in there? Keeping you as a host?

No. Impossible. The witcher thought at the back of his head because there were times that his medallion doesn't vibrate whenever he's around you, it only happened now and back then when you were possessed.

It was impossible that the Djinn was keeping you as its master as well. You could die if that ever happened. The seal was gone and never found back in the swamps, meaning to say it was already gone; broke free from its confinement because you already had three of your wishes.

Jaskier couldn't help but notice how clean and fixed Geralt's hair was. Hence, he'd started to acknowledge the aesthetic difference he claimed, "Also, did you just braid your majestic chalky white hair all by yourself?! Or did you do it, Princess Cirilla?" he bargained, utterly stunned from Geralt and his hair being braided, dubiously eyeing the lion cub of Cintra.

But, she only gave a nonchalant negation, "No."

"Oh, the rat did! She did a great job at making you look so feminine tonight, Geralt!"

Geralt paid no heed to Jaskier's teasing compliments, wanting nothing but to roll his eyes but ceased to do so as your fingers began to shake, his mind now in a perturbed fret as his gaze shifted anywhere to see what was causing your whole situation because he sees nothing. A tight furrow of his eyebrows tightly creased his forehead, "---The Djinn has given her effects for whatever the symbol does to her, bard."

Jaskier crouched beside where Geralt is, receiving a truculent glare that made the bard move away for an inch because his bellicose aura was radiating off him too much, "Symbol? What symbol?"

"I'm not showing you her chest." he bluntly chided as a low growl vibrated through his chest, giving Jaskier a hostile look in his glowing peepers.

The toubadour did a double-take, his mouth turning into an offended 'O' as he held a palm on top of his chest as he gestured to your squatted form, "I wasn't even asking you if I could see her breasts!"

"Then, shut up and stop asking."

Jaskier huffed, sulking beside the witcher because of how he'd suddenly become such a grump.

You've muttered a soft mewl, tightly closing your ears with your palms as you suddenly talked out loud, "I need Geralt. Where's Geralt?!" it was the only name you could hear, echoing inside your head as the heat traveled through your veins, searing and extremely scorching all of a sudden.

Your heartbeat was loudly drumming out of your chest. Sweat dripping down your face as the pain and heat was starting to make you feel lightheaded, his scent crashing through your senses. Earthy, pinewood and a mix of mannishness.

Geralt.

"Don't touch me!" It felt like you were burning; but also finding some aid to the ache as it soothed your heated skin like ice to the fire. You've felt his thick, rough fingers fall on your shoulder, making you jerk back as you looked at him; completely mortified for a second, "I'm here, midget." before the witcher tightened his hold on you, those fingers clasping around your feeble arm as he gazed upon you in deep concern.

"It's alright. Calm down, it's me." Geralt gently hushed your frantic state, softly grabbing the side of your jaw to make you look at him.

When he did, your eyes were dark and dilated, filled with carnal.

"You're having a hot spell," he roughly forced the words out of him, heavily swallowing whatever you were feeling because he's also having the same problems, but chose to restrain himself; doing a better job than any most men would, "A--A literal spell?" you didn't catch his drift and feel yourself breathing deep, his scent soothing your nerves as it also does the same for him.

Geralt shook his head, his fingers strapped on the side of your neck making his hand feel the pleasuring jolt. You've felt his fingers slightly tremble as your eyes were beseeching, those dilated pupils of yours tormenting him, "No. You're in heat, midget." pause. he lowly growled in displeasure, amber eyes pooling in keen, "---which explains your cravings for touches and the need for coition,"

Your face scrunched in pain and a mixture of pent-up frustration, the voices inside your head slowly dying down as it was now drowning in the witcher's unique, baritone timbre of his that was making you feel giddy before a jolt of pain rose up your chest again, "What am I---an animal?! Geralt, make it stop!"

Jaskier and Cirilla listened in silence. However, the bard fidgeted with the hem of his tunic; his mindless frets seeming to come up with such suggestions that will make everyone's mind boggle.

He raised a hand, not before taking a good look at you who had eyes pure of anguish and need which now focused at Geralt before he'd loudly cleared his throat, turning his head to see the witcher in distress from what other methods he could think of other than the impaling, "I have a proposal and an utterly brilliant idea to make the pain stop!"

Cirilla hushedly snorted, "His ideas are always nonsense. Don't listen to him, Geralt."

Jaskier placed his hands on his hips, pointing a finger at the princess, mouth opening before he was immediately ceased by Geralt himself.

"The princess is right, bard."

The sonneeter noted his lukewarm response, sounding like he actually opposes what Cirilla has reprimanded because all Geralt ever wanted and what clouds his mind is having his way with you, "---Give the small rat what she wants, Witcher. What if the pain carries on as nights go by? Give her the rumpy pumpy since that is always the answer to why an animal is in heat. It wants coitus, or if you've become one soft, romantic witcher; then I suggest to use the word, 'make love'." he emphasized, quoting the word 'make love' with both hands, his middle finger and index one folding as he said the last word with ardor.

Geralt was quick to scowl at that, exhaling an exasperated breath out of his nose as he hummed in protest; giving the bard his meanest glare, "You're saying she's an animal. You want me to take advantage of it?"

"No?" Jaskier quickly shook his head, groaning out; palms faintly hitting his forehead as he tried to act as if he was slapping it from Geralt's unreasonable assumptions. He continued, languidly blinking back at the frowning witcher, "---I didn't even say you would take advantage of the idea, you nincompoop! Then, do you want me to mate with her?"

It took him a second before he'd seen the latter started giving blazing daggers that had fire in it, his words seething as Geralt gruffly barked, "Absolutely not, bard!"

His glowing, amber eyes were boring holes at Jaskier before he lowly rumbled; more so to himself, trying to convince himself that there was another way.

He was dithering the idea of having you; not because he didn't find you pleasant, fetching, alluring or beautiful. Geralt found you in many types of wonderful adjectives he could tell, though mostly was kept inside his mind. The idea of having you, only to himself; ravishing you in ways that he ought to please kept him faltering because of one thing in his mind.

Vulnerability.

The witcher was thoroughly cautious of vulnerability because whenever it happens; once the walls have been broken down, there was always hindrance coming in his way and with the person he'd promised were important, or a person he loved because he knew that once he has you, Geralt was done for no matter how unstable he was.

You'll be seeing things you've never seen nor felt from him as he does the same way.

Especially, that you never came from their dimension and that the feelings he had for you was too strong to even control. But, the voices at the back of his mind was pulling him away from even pouring those emotions down because firstly, he didn't know how to show and second, there was a huge chance that you would also leave.

What if you leave? a person he'd treasured so much begins to leave him again?

Geralt mindlessly gritted his teeth together as he grumbled and grouched, avoiding the bard's eyes as he watched you shakily grab onto his palms that tenderly rested on the side of your face; leaning onto his touch as you looked at him; utterly lovestruck, "We'll find another way," pause. "---There has to be."

Though, it seems like the bard hasn't heard his beseeching and continued with his witful suggestions, "The only way is to impale her to cease the sufferings that the spell has cast upon her by the Djinn," Jaskier promptly stood up on his feet, his anxiety making him blurt out mindless blabbers he could ever think of, "---There is nothing to lose on this one, Geralt. Especially that you're...no offense---"

Geralt cut him off in haste, surly spitting out his words, "There is, Jaskier. Her purity."

Jaskier pointed back at the witcher, completely looking taken aback as he opened his mouth like he was stunned, "Oh." was the only thing he managed to say for the first few seconds before he quietly muttered, "OooooOh. She's a?"

The Ivory haired man gave a brief nod, "Untouched." he frankly informed as Cirilla quietly listened in the background with Kolby howling loudly in the middle of the night like a wolf in disguise, "---Oh! This is an unorthodox for the series of women that you have had, Geralt! Also, she's a rare one indeed!"

Jaskier couldn't help but feel dumbstruck from his suggestions, shamefully scratching the back of his nape as he has given the whole responsibility to Geralt because he could never help. He always never does because of some sorts that he couldn't explain, probably because he wasn't taught with these magical phenomena that Geralt expertly knows.

When the witcher has given you his attention, you've abruptly attacked him in a bear hug, arms tightly wrapped around his thick neck that you wanted to softly pepper kisses. As you were caging him in your arms, his delicious scent wafted through your nose, welcoming how it was indeed mouthwatering for your blazing appetite or carnal greed.

"I want to have you, Geralt. I--I need to have you! These thoughts inside my head...It needs you, I--I need you," you begged, softly pleading like there wasn't anyone around you; not noticing Cirilla, Kolby nor Jaskier as there was only one person in your mind. Geralt of Rivia. Your Geralt. Your witcher. The only person who gives you fluttering butterflies and wild ants inside your stomach and chest.

You've tucked your face in between your arm and his braided hair, breathing the back of his ear like a wild woman as Geralt stood still and heard your whimpers that went straight to his stronghold, his will in finding another method to help suddenly wavering from how soft and provocative it sounded that clouded his mind.

He turned relaxed in your arms, accepting the bear hug and probably loving how close you both were together after hours of not talking to each other. You've felt his calloused palm caress your clothed back, soothing your pained mewls that came after your sensual whimpers as it was unstable. Geralt gently unlatched your arms that surrounds him, his golden peepers meeting your baffled ones before he had no problem in scooping you up in his arms, like newly wed couples.

"We'll think of other ways, midget. Come. Let's help you with the heat,"

Cliffhanger before the smut? I’M SORRY, BB’S. LOVE MEEEE STILLLLLL!

Taglist: @alyxkbrl @himarisolace @barkingbullfrog @ayamenimthiriel @hellodevilslittlesister @vania-marie @spookypeachx @grungelovebug @fangirl-inthe-us @nympeth @amirahiddleston @gabethelobster @dreaming-about-starfleet @uncoolcloudyhead @melaninstylezz @psychosupernatural @missjenniferb @dance-dreamer @marvelousell @kingniazx @angelias134 @tapismyforte @chook007 @covid-donotenter @winter-moons @cheesecakeisapie @silverkitten547 @angelofthorr @carrieannewaywardson @plantingmum, @stuckupstucky, @shesthelastjedi

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stefciastark · 4 years ago

Text

Hallucinations ~ Webpril Day 19

A/N: WARNING (briefly mentioned graphic violence, but nothing extreme, just putting a warning in case). After a hallucinogenic gas explodes in Peter's face during a mission, he is plagued by nightmares and flashbacks. Tony steps in to help. Apologies for any inconsistencies or general bad flow on this one, I had to write in a bit of a hurry before an early A.M class tomorrow and I haven't had a chance to give it a once-over. Hope you guys enjoy this one :) x

~Read it on AO3

~Read it on FFN

“Kid, kid! Stop!” Tony grasped Peter’s wrists as they flew once more towards his face, and he staggered forwards with an ungraceful jerk, almost falling onto the bed. How the hell was the kid this strong?

“Get off me!” Peter thrashed on the bed wildly, eyes open but looking feral and petrified. Peter’s response was purely instinctual, and nature had chosen ‘fight’ as his defense mechanism. It was too bad Tony wasn’t in his suit to help contain it.

After an incident a few days prior involving a gaseous compound that caused vivid hallucinations, Peter hadn’t gotten a good night's sleep since. Neither had Tony. The kid had been caught right in the face with the gas during the few seconds that his mask was down, whilst Tony was lucky enough to have his built in air filtration system save him from the hell that ensued.

Peter didn’t talk about what he experienced. At least not to Tony, but Tony couldn’t quite think of anybody else that Peter would go to. Tony really wished the kid would open up to someone.

The dim light from the ensuite bathroom cast light on Tony’s forearms. They were covered in bruises that looked like scattered wine stains with the varying shades of deep red and purple.

Peter’s struggles dissolved in intensity, and his eyes slid shut again. The poor kid was exhausted, and each - almost - sleepless night was taking its toll.

Once Tony was sure Peter was asleep once more, judging by the now even breathing, he slid to the carpet below, back leaning against the side of the bed. Feeling powerless to help the young Avenger, he stared blankly into the wall, suddenly transported back to a time when he suffered much like Peter was.

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

“Good morning, Peter. It is currently 9:30 A.M. Today it will be slightly overcast with a high of 73.4 degrees. You have no upcoming events. Enjoy your morning.”

With a groan, Peter rolled over and covered his head with an adjacent pillow. This was the first time in a long time that F.R.I.D.A.Y had woken him up. Closing his eyes once more, he prepared to re-enter the world of sleep.

That plan immediately was foiled as “Thunderstruck” blared over his room’s speakers.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y…” Peter whined, sounding more like a spoiled toddler than he cared to admit.

“I apologise, but this is part of Mr Stark’s ‘Couch Potato’ protocol. If you do not leave the bed in the next thirty seconds, I will have to initiative Phase 2, which involves-”

“Okay, okay!” Throwing the sheets to the side, he swung his legs off the side of the mattress. As soon as his feet touched the floor, the music stopped, and he sighed in relief. At any other time he would have loved the sound of classic rock, but he felt overstimulated and irritated by almost every sound, sight, and whatever else assaulted any of his senses.

The rational part of his brain told him that Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was a probable culprit. Maybe it was spending so much time around Tony “I’m Fine” Stark, but Peter didn’t particularly want to address the issue. He was strong, he could brute force his way through it, no problem. As far as he was concerned, none of the other Avengers were getting psychological help - although in all fairness they needed it - and he didn’t want to be seen as weak. He didn’t want it to seem like he couldn’t handle the mental duress that went with being an Avenger.

Half-conscious, he went through the automatic routine of having a shower, brushing his teeth, and throwing on a basic outfit. Today’s choice consisted of jeans and a Hawkeye T-Shirt that Clint had unironically bought him last Christmas. Blearily shuffling into the kitchen, Peter considered taking up drinking coffee in the mornings; it seemed to be universally known as the almighty bean juice that provided a form of liquid Carpe Diem.

He half expected the whole Avengers team to be in the common kitchen area. They usually were in the mornings, but today it was dead quiet. Dead quiet except for Tony, who was flicking through the latest issue of Wired magazine. In his left hand was a mug that said “World’s Okayest CEO”. Peter had to guess that that mug was courtesy of Pepper. If it were up to Tony, ‘okayest’ would have been swapped with ‘best’.

“You know, these photos don’t really do me justice. I’m much sexier in person. I mean look at this,” Tony flipped the magazine around, showing Peter an article that summarised Tony’s latest successes and blunders. The photo Tony’s finger was tapping on was of Tony at the Stark Expo a few months ago. His smile blatantly looked like he would have rather been anywhere else.

Peter opened his mouth to send a smart remark in response, but instead he froze in place, air stuck in his lungs, his throat jumping as he struggled to get words out. The sound of percolation coming from the coffee pot dredged up the memory he was trying to forget: the dripping of blood - Tony’s blood - creating a macabre mosaic on the pavement as he hung suspended by cables and wires. Steve’s hand had been wrapped around Peter’s ankle in a silent beg for release from life, a large shard of glass having punctured through his chest. The worst of all of them was Aunt May, eyes staring open and lifeless, neck bent at an unnatural and gruesome angle that was burned into Peter’s retinas for the rest of time. On all sides, marching towards him, had been an army consisting of Doombots, Chitauri, and the remaining Avengers. Those he had come to trust had come to betray him.

“Whoa, whoa, you’re alright, c’mon.” Tony’s brow was furrowed, and although his voice sounded distant and miles away, it was gentle and full of understanding. Peter shook his head, shaking the visions away with it.

“Grab your phone and wallet, kid, I’ve made you an appointment.” Tony swept up his sunglasses - this time tinted orange with a silver frame - off of the coffee table and tucked his phone into the inside of his jacket pocket.

“An-an appointment? For what?” Peter was taken by surprise, fully expecting - and hoping - to vegetate on the couch that day. The TV turned his mind off, the white noise drowning out the visions that replayed in his mind over and over again.

Placing a comforting hand between Peter’s shoulders once Peter had returned from a quick phone and wallet retrieval mission, Tony guided him towards the elevator. Pressing the ‘down’ button, he turned towards Peter. “Taking you to a psych. I don’t know how to-” Tony gestured vaguely, lost for the right words he wanted to say. He sighed, and started again. “I didn’t exactly deal with my stuff the right way. Didn’t think I ever needed a shrink, but let me tell you, one conversation with Bruce and it changed my mind completely.”

“Isn’t he not that type of doctor?”

“Don’t interrupt, I’m trying to have a heartfelt father-son moment with you here and break the whole cycle of shame about…” Tony trailed off again, seething internally at his inability to string a semi-coherent sentence together. “My dad didn’t really believe in that kind of stuff,” Tony continued, eyes darting to the elevator display and then returning back to Peter. “Anyways, you’ve been having nightmares. You can’t sleep. I can’t sleep because you can’t sleep, and,” Tony winced, “I don’t think the whole counselling shtick is my forte.”

As the elevator doors chimed open, Peter stepped forward and promptly wrapped his arms around Tony in a heartfelt hug. Clenching his eyes shut against tears that threatened to overflow, he murmured, “thanks, Mr Stark” into the fabric of Tony’s jacket.

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chipper9906 · 3 years ago

Text

Heal The Cracks Within My Heart - Chapter 2: Rubble and Ruins

<- - - Previous Chapter

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR LOKI SEASON 1 EPISODE 6 ‘FOR ALL TIME. ALWAYS.’

Pairings: Loki/Sylvie

Rating: General Audiences

Chapter Word Count: 12,627

Overall Word Count: 24,700 (In Progress)

Status: Multi Chapter Fic - In Progress (2/?)

Chapter Preview:

“You know what would be nice? If we at least once got to kiss without either of us crying. Two for two’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”

He had thrown the joke out there in some sort of an attempt to lighten the mood. That’s not to say that he wanted to divert from this conversation, but more because of the way he could see that Sylvie was sinking back into her memory of that day, and he knew that would lead to no good. Nothing but self-blame and a whole lot of regrets - as seemed usual for nearly every decision a Loki has made in their life.

But the attempt at a joke did not get a laugh out of Sylvie. Not even a smile. Instead, he felt his heart leap into his throat at the way her eyes - that were still boring deep into his soul - flickered down to his lips, lingering there for just a moment before returning back to his intense gaze.

“We’re not crying now.”

Link To Fic

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Miiphus was one of the smaller planets that existed within the universe. At least, smaller than most other planets from its neighboring systems, to the point where the entire population of this one planet was probably equal to around the population size of one city on any other planet.

It had its charms, though. For one, those that were born and lived on this planet got to experience the whole ‘small town’ vibe that was lost to time to many civilizations as time went on and the population grew and grew. That kind of scenario where you personally knew everyone in the village, almost as well as you knew your own family. Hell, everyone practically was family. It was vital for this kind of small community for everyone to help each other, for everyone to treat one another like family. It was the only way to survive.

This… was not the impression the two of them received as they first stepped onto Miiphus, however. At least, certainly not for Loki. The very first moment he stepped out from that Time Door, he had to pause to take a moment and absorb the horror of what they'd walked into. Sylvie was striding on ahead, apparently with a destination in mind and, apparently, not being phased at all by what surrounded them.

It was… complete and utter destruction. There wasn’t a single step he could take without stepping on rubble, of whatever remained of a family’s home that once stood proud and tall, sheltering its occupants within. Whatever the city once was, was now reduced to nothing but smoldering debris, and — to his horror — the occasional charred body laying about, their clothes now pieces of blackened rags that clung to soot covered bones and whatever bits of burnt flesh that hadn’t completely succumbed to the heat. The white color of their bones stood out amongst the debris, shining in the dark night as the glow of the five moons over their heads shone down.

“What is this place?”

“Miiphus,” Sylvie answered dutifully from ahead of him. “Fourth planet in the Dioscuri System. This is -- was -- pretty much the only city it’s people had built.”

“Are you sure the Apocalypse event hasn’t happened already?” Loki called out to Sylvie, resuming his pace and chasing after her once he realized how far ahead she had gotten already.

“Certain,” Sylvie asserts, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was keeping up. “If you think this is bad… just wait.”

Loki didn’t know where to look. He didn’t even know if he wanted to look. There’s only so many tiny, child-sized corpses that were holding onto the remains of their parents — families frozen in that one moment of terror — that he can take before his violently turning stomach threatens to empty its contents.

Which, now he thinks about it, would probably be nothing more than bile. He couldn’t even remember the last time he ate…

Billows of ash were kicked up into the air with every step they took, careful not to tread upon a loose skull here and there. His lungs burned with every inhale, not just for the soot that was starting to cover them, but with the knowledge he was breathing in more than just soot. How much of this ash was compromised of the remenants of this planet's people? How much peeling skin, flakes of bone, and burnt organs were filling his lungs?

“Don’t think about it,” Sylvie’s voice, thankfully, snaps him out of his thoughts. He had seemingly come to a stop without realizing it, and Sylvie stood watching him with a knowing look. “It’s not worth dwelling on. There’s nothing we can do.”

Loki swallows thickly, his throat feeling tight and restricted. He tries his best to follow Sylvie’s advice, keeping his gaze from wandering over to his surroundings. He keeps his eyes focused on the back of Sylvie, following her lead as she guides them out of the ruined city. Despite his attempts not to let his eyes wander, he can’t help but take the occasional glance whenever they entered a new street. The consistent level of damage inflicted upon each building was almost impressive when he thought about it from a different viewpoint. Or, at least, the viewpoint he once had. Turns out, all it takes is to be imprisoned by an overwhelmingly powerful organization that dictates all of time and decides that you don’t have the right to exist in their universe for him to change his mind about the allure of control over others.

It’s of a great relief when he sees the buildings around them becoming sparser and sparser, appreciating the lungfuls of fresh air he was breathing in as the city landscape gradually changed to flattened farmlands. “Do we even need to hide in Apocalypses anymore?” Loki asks, jogging forward to reach Sylvie, walking side-by-side. “I mean, what with everything going on, I doubt us being in the wrong place is going to show up on their radar anymore.”

“Maybe not,” Sylvie agrees — or so Loki thinks. “Or maybe now that there’s an infinite amount of TVA’s out there, it might be best to assume they could know more than we do — especially if He Who Remains is in charge of them — and He himself could be doing all he could to hunt us down, and kill us; just like we’re trying to do to him.”

“Right…” Loki mumbled awkwardly, scratching at the back of his head. “Um... if that is the case, then… what if some of the TVA’s have already figured out that we’re hiding in Apocalypses? I’m sure if I could figure it out, then-,”

Sylvie came to a sudden stop with a tired-sounding sigh, holding out an arm to stop him mid-stride. He did so, looking around to see if she had spotted something he hadn’t noticed. “You could be right. Thing is, we really don’t know. We don’t know anything, it feels like. Everything that could happen, could happen; it’s already happened, or it’s about to happen, or… or…. or I don’t know. But what I do know is that hiding in Apocalypse’s has worked in keeping me alive for the past thousand years or so, so I’m going to keep doing that until it doesn’t.”

Sylvie didn’t even wait to hear his reaction, carrying on forward and leaving him standing there for a few seconds staring at the space she just was. Loki shakes his head, bringing himself back to reality and chasing after her once more.

“I’m going to apologize in advance for all the questions, because I know they’re annoying-,” Loki begins, and it at least gets a huffed exhale of laughter from Sylvie. “-And I don’t mean to sound like I doubt your navigational skills but… how do you know where we’re going?”

The mostly flat farmland had given way to more of a hilly, uneven terrain, spotted with the occasional stubby tree that probably provided hikers and nearby farmers with much-needed shade in the heat of the day.

“Because I’ve been here before,” Sylvie’s voice comes out breathy, the two of them slightly winded by the up and down climb of the land. She had come to a stop at the top of the hill, taking the time to catch her breath as she waits for Loki to reach her side. He reaches the top only a few moments after, bending over to place his hands on his thighs and take in deep lungfuls of air that his body was demanding, the cool night air freezing as he inhales sharply through his teeth.

The movement of her hand out of the corner of his eye catches his attention, glancing up to see her gesturing at the valley below them. Not that he needed for her to point it out; it was kind of hard to miss the multiple rows of tents that were nestled into the valley, stretching as far as the eye could see. Small campfires were dotted between the tents, and he could just about make out the sight of people milling about the place, evidently enjoying each other’s company despite the late hour.

“What am I looking at?” Loki asks, slowing straightening himself back up to a stand.

Sylvie turns her head to look at him, a sad smile on her lips at his question. “The last of this planet’s people.”

This was… this was it? All that he could see, to the ends of the horizon… an entire planet’s population reduced to numbers that could fit in a single area he could see from a few miles away. The quiet of the night had never seemed so eerie now, looking down to what he knew was likely the last night of an entire planet’s existence.

“Come on,” Sylvie says softly, the delicate touch of her fingers against his hands a welcoming comfort. She gives his hand a light pull, a request to keep moving, and he follows after her without much thought. He wasn’t too sure why, but the idea of going towards all these people and intermixing with them felt like… like they would be intruding. The TemPad wrapped around Sylvie’s hand was a guarantee that they’d get out of this, that they’d hop away to yet another world and leave this one far behind. But for these people, it was their very last night. It almost felt like… like they were mocking them.

They closed the distance far too quickly for Loki’s liking, the glow of the multiple campfires growing stronger and stronger as they approached. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Loki whispered lowly to Sylvie. “Won’t they notice us?”

“They won’t care,” Sylvie assured him. “They’ve already lost so many people; the idea of strangers doesn’t exist to them anymore. They’re just happy to see someone that's…”

“-Alive,” Loki finishes her sentence grimly, grimacing as he looks around to the last of the survivors.

Sure enough, as the two of them weave through the small gathered crowds of friends, families, neighbors, everyone, people barely bat an eyelid at them. There are a few occasional curious glances, accompanied by whispers of a language he does not know, but they soon turn back to the fires they were huddled around, absorbing the warmth the flickering flames provided.

Loki feels some of the tension building in his shoulders drop away as they manage to find a somewhat secluded spot at the other end of this refugee settlement, sitting just at the edge between the mass of makeshift tents and the seemingly infinite stretch of wilderness beyond. It seemed that whatever group that had been situated around this fire had retired for the night, the last of the flames flickering pathetically in the blackened pile of wood and ashes left behind. Loki gives a quick glance around to their surroundings, making sure no one was watching as he guides his magic towards the fire, encouraging its flames to become rekindled.

“Impressive,” Sylvie remarks at the sight of the newly born flames that roared to life, their color briefly a light shade of green as they’re created under the effects of his magic. It lasts for less than a second, though – not long enough for anyone lingering nearby to notice the strangely green-colored fire before it’s returned to its usual comforting orange glow.

“It’s a neat little party trick,” Loki comments with a sly smile, taking a seat on one of the logs that had been rolled over to the fire. It felt as uncomfortable as it looked. “I might have set fire to Thor’s cape a few times while I was learning it.”

Sylvie rolls her eyes at him, though the small smile pulling at the corner of her lips gave away her amusement. “And they were entirely accidents, I’m sure.”

Loki grins unashamedly at her as she drops down next to him with a tired-sounding huff, rolling her shoulders back in an attempt to alleviate some of the built-up tension. She grimaces at the soreness of her muscles –particularly in the stiffness of her neck – bending it left and right to try and work out some of those knots.

She nearly jumps to her feet at the feeling of hands on her shoulders, making the pain even worse as she whips her head around to see who was touching her. She supposed she shouldn’t be too surprised to see it had been Loki, who looked about as startled at her reaction as she had felt at his touch, already having removed his hands from her as if he had touched a boiling hot stove.

“Sorry,” He says, eyes wide as saucers as he holds his hands out in front of him in a clear message that he wasn’t going to touch her. “I… probably should have asked first.”

“What were you even trying to do?” Sylvie asks, placing a hand on the spot of her shoulders where his hands were moments ago.

“...Trying to give you a massage?” Loki states like it were obvious – which for most, it probably would be. “It’s just, you kind of looked like you needed it, and I thought maybe you’d…” Loki trails off awkwardly, clearing his throat as his gaze drops away from her inquisitive one. “Never mind. It was a stupid idea-,”

"No, don't apologize, it's..." Sylvie begins to explain. “Sometimes, it’s just… hard to switch off that paranoia. Nearly every close call I had running from the TVA was because I let myself relax too much — let my guard down in times I thought I was safe.”

Loki nods in understanding, but the guilt still had yet to leave his face. He held his hands in his lap like he wasn’t too sure what to do with them now, tapping his fingers against his arm in a nervous repetition.

Sylvie sighed quietly to herself, wondering how exactly it is that they managed to find a way to make every single quiet moment between them awkward in some kind of way. Then again, in their defense, this wasn’t exactly something they had done before. Flirting with strangers she had no intention of getting to know was something she had learned quickly as she grew older within apocalypse after apocalypse. Truthfully, it was easy. Turns out it doesn’t take much coercing to get someone into your bed when the world is crumbling apart around you. A few looks, a few suggestions here and there, the constant reiteration that this would be their last night on the planet, and BAM — yet another mark to add to the tally of her body count. The non-murder one, she means.

But… it wasn’t like that with Loki. She had no plans to seduce him, get her fill, and be gone before they even got the chance to know her name. What she had with Loki was... something she had never had before. Something didn’t know she had even wanted before. Whilst there was no denying that the most physical side of her attraction to him resulted in the same kind of, um… cravings that were just as prevalent as all her other romantic endeavors, she had never felt this… this more emotional attraction. He understood her like no one ever could — more than she understands herself, it sometimes felt like. And as much as she feels she too understands him, she’s overtaken by this desire to know more. She wants to know everything about the man sat by her side, down to the pointless stuff like what his favorite color is. She wants to know what it feels like to have his hands on her body, and for her to welcome it, not jump three feet in the air and have to fight back the urge to take a swing. She wants to know what it’s like to open her eyes every morning, and feel her heart race not from fear but from exhilaration and contentedness at the sight of him laying next to her, instead of yet another stranger.

She wanted… him. Every part of him, from the good to the ugly. Long ago, she had accepted that she would live her life with only herself for company. And now? Now, she found it next to impossible to envision a scenario where he wasn’t by her side.

Except now, it seemed that she had knocked any and all confidence that Loki might have once had, and the moment was fading from view before it had even gotten the chance to start. She bit down the frustrated groan she wanted to release, feeling like she had just kicked a puppy with how dejected Loki looked.

“Promise me this won’t stop you.”

Loki glances up in surprise at her words. “Promise you… what?”

“I know I’m not…” Sylvie’s face scrunched up as she tried to think of a way to put this. “I’m not the easiest person to get along with. And I know that it’s even harder when we’re…” She struggled to find the right word, opting instead to gesture between them with a flail of her hand.

Loki stared back at her with one rather judgemental-looking eyebrow raised. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a bit more concise than that-,”

“I’m trying to say that I don’t want you to stop trying,” Sylvie got out in a rush, the flush of heat to her cheeks a sensation she hadn’t felt in quite some time. “All of this is super new to me, and yeah, it might take me some time to get used to it. But I will. So long as you-,”

“-Keep trying,” Loki finished for her with the subtlest twitch at the corner of his lips. “I think I can do that.”

“Good,” Sylvie sniffled, trying not to act as awkward as she felt, playing off the redness that had spread across her face as heat rash from the fire. “Just so we’re on the same page.”

Loki couldn’t help but chuckle softly to himself at her failed attempts to act nonchalant, not withering In the slightest at her light-hearted glare. “So… do I try and give you a massage again, or…”

Her glare only strengthened. “You can be an incredibly infuriating man at times, I hope you know that.”

“Oh, I’m very aware,” Loki replied. “But I also feel it adds a bit to my charm, don’t you?”

“Hmm… I’ll have to get back to you on that one,” Sylvie said, stretching out her limbs in the direction of the fire, savoring the warmth that radiated from it. What she didn’t notice was that, as she stared into the beauty of the flickering flames and spitting golden embers, Loki’s eyes were still fixated on her, enjoying a different type of beauty — though one that was no less mesmerizing: the light from the fire bouncing off her face, casting shades of soft oranges and reds that battled with the shadows of night and the sharp bright light from the moons overhead.

“Sometimes I can’t believe you’re another version of me,” Loki wonders out loud, resting his chin in his hands as he continues to drink her in.

Sylvie cocks an eyebrow at him, regarding him out of the corner of her eye. “And why’s that?”

“Because you’re just so…” Loki paused, and the trailing end of his sentence was enough to arouse Sylvie’s suspicions - though she still waited patiently for him to finish his thoughts. As someone who prided himself on his choice of words and rather extensive vocabulary, he suddenly found himself devoid of words. Really, there was only one word echoing around in his head as he looked to her, and… and maybe he was overthinking all of this. Maybe the simpler option was the best.

“Because I’m…?” Sylvie tried to get him to continue his sentence, the playful smile on her face hinting that she was expecting Loki to say something insulting here in an attempt to rile her up.

“Beautiful,” Loki’s voice was soaked in a softness he didn’t even know he could reach. It was clear Sylvie wasn’t expecting this answer, the teasing smile on her face dropping away to a look of genuine shock. “Although, I’m sure you know that already, and I’m sure I’m not the first person to tell you that, but-,” And there he went, rambling away again. She just seemed to have that effect on him.

The touch of her hand on his knee was enough to bring his ramblings to a stuttering stop, effectively drying up any words he were to speak - or, at least, any words that actually made some sort of sense.

“It’s the first time I’ve heard it from someone that matters,” Sylvie tells him.

Loki smiles, placing his hand atop hers on his knee. “Then I’ll be sure to say it more often,” He says it like a promise — one he fully intends to keep.

There was that part of her, a part she’s sure will always be buried deep within, that was telling her to stop all of this. It was one of self-preservation, needing to be cruel to prevent the heartache later down the road. It was hard to shake off the years of saying goodbye to every person she’s ever crossed paths with, only getting to know people for the briefest of times before they’re obliterated from the universe. She learned fairly quickly that it was better to stay away and live a lonely life than one of single-day friendships and infinite, painful goodbyes.

Even now, after all that’s happened, it still remains there. It was all supposed to end with her sword plunged into the chest of whoever ran the TVA, and she had done that. And yet… here she was again, running from the TVA and creating yet another plan to take out their leader again. Oh, and there were multiple versions of him somewhere out there, most likely already out on a quest of conquest. There was even a chance that He already knew of them, from where some form of the TVA out there hot on their tails having reported these two stubborn variants in possession of TVA equipment to their all-powerful leader

Well… at least she didn’t have to go it alone this time. Even with that voice screaming at her to get away from Loki as fast as possible, to separate herself from him before those already messy, judgment-clouding feelings only grow all the more messier, and all the more stronger. No, this time, it was different. This time, she would not listen to that voice. She would allow herself to have these moments, of his touch on her, and she’d…. she’d let herself want this — because God’s help her, she does.

“Wait, hang on a minute,” Sylvie starts, narrowing her eyes at him in amusement. “What you just said… are you insinuating you don’t find yourself beautiful? You? You’re a Loki -- narcissism is what makes us!”

“Well, I’m not sure if beautiful is the word I’d use…” Loki said. “Perhaps ‘dashingly handsome’ or perhaps even ‘dapper’, or something along those lines. But… it’s also ‘beauty in the eye of the beholder' and all that, is it not?”

Sylvie somehow manages to pack a whole lot of sarcasm into her hum of agreement. “Kind of sounds like you’re just trying to fish for compliments now.”

“Is it working?”

“Afraid not.”

Loki ‘tsked’ with a click of his tongue, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “You should know better than to lie to someone who does it professionally, Sylvie.”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“I saw the way you looked at me back on Lamentis,” Loki said, getting a confused eyebrow raise from Sylvie. “In that little mining cabin? I couldn’t quite figure out if you were going to threaten me to get the TemPad, or seduce me.”

Sylvie’s snort of laughter chipped a tiny bit of his ego off. “I was trying to enchant you. Needed to find some way to get close enough to you without getting a knife in my throat.”

“And seduction was the best way to go about that?” Loki exclaimed.

Sylvie shrugged her shoulders. “Worked before.”

Loki wasn’t too sure why the thought of Sylvie looking at others in the way he had looked at her made him feel quite so bitter. Actually, that was a lie. He knew exactly why he was feeling like that. He just didn’t like to admit that the claws of jealousy had dug in quite so deep.

“Well, now I feel like I owe you a compliment, what with you looking so downcast,” Sylvie said, giving his shoulder a playful nudge with her own.

“Only if you mean it,” Loki grumbled, flicking out a hand to cast a bit more of his magic to revitalize the dying flames of the fire.

“You know, there’s a reason I kissed you back in the citadel-” Sylvie began, only for Loki to quickly interject.

“Oh, well I had assumed it was due to me pouring my heart out to you; unless me becoming a crying mess suddenly made me irresistible to you-”

“Would you at least let me finish what I was saying?” Sylvie shoved his shoulder perhaps a little bit harder than she should have, nearly sending Loki sprawling off the log. “Look, I could give you the usual compliments, with the -- what were the ones you used? Dashingly handsome and what not?”

“But… you won’t?”

“No, I won’t. But not because I don’t think them, but because… because whatever this is-” Sylvie gestured with a hand between them. “-It goes deeper than all that.”

“Ah…” Loki said quietly, looking away to the fire with a nod of his head. “You know, the whole ‘beauty is on the inside’ thing is what people say to ugly people.”

Sylvie did all she could to bury down the urge to shove him into the fire. “All right, you want the truth?”

Loki perked up at that, looking back over to Sylvie in anticipation.

“Have you ever heard the term ‘the eyes are the windows into the soul?’” Sylvie asked, getting a somewhat confused-looking nod in response. “You’re a very skilled man, Loki. Especially in the art of manipulation, and deceit. You somehow find a way to twist everything you say, to turn serious conversations into a game – one where somehow you always end up on top, knowing everything you set out to discover, without the other person even realizing they’ve lost. I’ve seen the sharp wit of your thoughts reflected in your eyes when we first met, and you were trying to play that very same game with me. I’ve seen the… cruel humor shining in them as you fight, the enjoyment you find in inflicting that kind of pain.”

Sylvie’s eyes were boring deep into his as she spoke, and Loki wondered what exactly his eyes were giving away in this very moment.

“But when we were in that citadel? When you were begging for me to stop, and I had my blade held to your throat? I saw none of that in your eyes. No ulterior motives, no trickery. Just… you. You, bearing the entire truth, and it didn’t even matter how much conviction your words held. I saw it all in your eyes, anyway. And that’s when I knew, I…” Sylvie huffed out a quiet laugh. “I was doomed. I couldn’t kill you. And I didn’t want to hurt you, either. But I knew that I was going to have to if it meant keeping you safe. Even from me.”

“And so you kissed me,” Loki said.

“And so I kissed you,” Sylvie echoed softly. “Because I knew I needed to say goodbye, and because… because it was the only way I knew how to say that I felt the same.”

Loki looked down to the ground, sliding his tongue across his upper lip unconsciously before he spoke. “You know what would be nice? If we at least once got to kiss without either of us crying. Two for two’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”

But the attempt at a joke did not get a laugh out of Sylvie. Not even a smile. Instead, he felt his heart leap into his throat at the way her eyes — that were still boring deep into his soul — flickered down to his lips, lingering there for just a moment before returning back to his intense gaze.

“We’re not crying now.”

It was as clear an invitation as any. And yet, the thought of leaning in and closing the distance between them still filled his body with uncertainty and hesitation. Not because he didn’t want to — in fact, just how much he did want to was all kinds of terrifying with how much it overwhelmed him — but because… truth be told, he was scared of messing this all up. Both times they’ve kissed, he had let her take control. She had been the one to make that first step, to reach out to him and let their lips slide together. She had been the initiator, and he had been the eager and willing participant.

Now though, that didn’t seem to be the case. The tension was building between them with every passing second, and he knew full well that Sylvie was doing all she could to say ‘Kiss me, you idiot’ without actually saying anything out loud. And yet, that fear remained that he’ll step over the line, push her boundaries too much, and… that’d be it.

But he’d made a promise to her. He said he’d keep trying, no matter what.

So he kept his promise.

Loki leaned forward, pausing a hairs-breadth away, their lips barely brushing against each other. He gave her that opportunity, that moment where she could decide if she wanted to pull away. He gives it a beat, a single breath of anticipation against his mouth. He thinks she may start to say his name - most likely to call him an idiot - but then he swallows up her words with his lips. There was no rush to it. No in the moment, emotions on a knife’s edge, desperation to it like there had been the other times. It was just… them. She wasn’t kissing him because it was a goodbye, or a distraction, and he wasn’t kissing her in the fear that he may never see her again. It was simply because they wanted to, and because they can.

Loki’s hand drifted up to her face, caressing the side of her jaw and leaning deeper into the kiss. Heat seemed to burn through his veins, almost as if he was actually sitting in the roaring fire nearby instead of being sat next to it. It felt like his entire body wanted to sink into it, into their kiss, into her. And, judging by the way her hand had latched onto a patch of shirt by his chest, scrunching it up so hard that he could feel the scratch of her nails against his skin, she wanted it just as much as he did.

And… that’s when the cheering started.

They both startled apart, ripping their hands away from one another and instinctively reaching for their weapons. It appeared that a small group of the locals had wandered over, curious to know who the newcomers were, and had walked into quite the sight. Both Loki and Sylvie wore matching red faces at the sounds of their cheers and hollering, not understanding a word of what was being spoken but understanding the teasing in their tone nonetheless.

“Seems we’ve attracted quite the audience…” Loki murmurs to Sylvie, leaning his head towards her to keep his voice unheard from the locals.

“They… they didn’t do this last time,” Sylvie whispers back. “No one took notice, or came over to see who I was.”

“Well, it’s not like last time, is it?” Loki spoke to Sylvie, but his eyes were cautiously trained on one of the locals who had stepped away from the group, approaching the two with a big smile on his face and an object in hand that he couldn’t identify from here. “You weren’t with me.”

They both still kept a hand on their weapons as the man approached. The man didn’t seem to take notice — and if he did, he didn’t seem to care. Like the others of this planet, he was dressed in a long robe that cut off just after the ankles, it's likely once strikingly turquoise color now covered in a layer of dust, with various rips and tears slashed into the silky looking material. The smile had yet to wipe from his face as he arrived at their fire, babbling away in whatever language it was that these people spoke. Neither had any clue as to what the man was saying, but the friendliness of his tone seeped into his words, and whilst the two of them remained somewhat wary, it did help to relax some of the tension that had been building since the man arrived.

“I’m sorry, we… we don’t speak your language,” Loki tried speaking slowly and carefully, enunciating every syllable clearly.

The man did look slightly taken aback by the strange language they spoke, and for a moment, the two of them wondered if they were going to have to use their blades after all. There was a good chance they might be mistaken for these people's enemies, and trying to claim your innocence when both parties don’t speak the same language was going to be quite tricky…

Thankfully, however, it didn’t seem to be the case. The man seemed to brush by the issue of them speaking an entirely different language quite quickly, plastering the beaming smile straight back onto his face after he got over his initial shock.

“Yalti,” The man spoke one word, enunciating just as carefully as Loki had prior. He pointed a finger to himself as he spoke, prodding at his own chest. “Yalti,”

“Yalti?” Loki repeated the word, pointing at the man. It seemed to do the trick, the man’s smile somehow brightening even more.

“Yalti!” Yalti, apparently, proclaimed, jabbing himself in the chest with even more enthusiasm. Yalti then pointed his finger to Loki, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

“I think he wants to know your name,” Sylvie craned her head towards Loki to speak quietly, as he had before.

“Oh, um,” Loki cleared his throat, mirroring the man’s previous actions and pointing a finger to himself. “Loki.”

“Loki?” Yalti spoke his name with great care, as if pronouncing his name wrong was of a great rudeness. “Loki!”

“Yes, Loki,” Loki repeated himself with a small chuckle, the man's enthusiasm rubbing off on him.

The two of them startled once more as Yalti shouted something to the group nearby, followed by the yell of Loki’s name. The sounds of the people’s cheers were something odd to hear, especially as they were then followed by a single word, yelled out to the night sky.

“ LOKI! LOKI! LOKI! ”

Loki could only turn his bemused gaze over to Sylvie, who looked just as flummoxed with what was going on as he felt.

“Perhaps they know me?” He offered, looking between all the people, that who were of a species he did not recognize. “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing…”

As the cheers began to die down, Yalti started to speak to them once more. Of course, they still didn’t know what he was saying, and whilst Yalti looked a tiny bit frustrated at the lack of communication, he still seemed to be having fun with what was going on. He reached out a hand, this time pointing his finger towards Sylvie.

Sylvie gave the man a polite smile, pointing to herself as she answered his silent question. “Sylvie.”

“Sylvie!” Yalti gave her name the same treatment as Loki’s, passing on her name to the crowd. And, just like with Loki, they returned her name in a chorus of cheers that tugged at something within her heart. She hadn’t had many people to tell her name to. In fact, until meeting Loki, there hadn’t been that many times she had even heard it being spoken to her. And now here she was, listening to a group of survivors chant her name like she was their savior. Like she had done something good, just by being here.

“ Sylvie! Sylvie! Sylvie!”

“This is… surreal,” Loki said, unsure whether to keep his eyes trained on the — now clearly — inebriated crowd as their cheers slowly drifted off with them as they dispersed into the night, or on Sylvie, as she watched them leave with a look that somehow both made him want to smile, yet comfort her at the same time.

“That’s one word for it,” Sylvie utters gently.

Whilst the rest of the group had disappeared back to wherever it was they had come from, there was one lone figure who had chosen to remain. They both watched as Yalti dropped down onto one of the other logs grouped around the fire, taking a long swig from what Loki now recognized as a canteen. Yalti took deep gulps from it, appearing to savor every last drop. Loki almost made the joke to calm down; it wasn’t the end of the world. Except… it was, and the joke didn’t seem quite so funny anymore.

Yalti catches their stare, pulling the flask from his lips with a friendly smile. His hands go into the interior of his robes, pulling out another flask and offering it to them. Not one to pass on such a kind gesture, Loki reached out to take the flask from him, hoping the smile he gave in return showed his appreciation.

“Really hope this isn’t poison or something…” Loki half-jokes to Sylvie as he unscrews the lid, taking a precautionary whiff of its contents. Whatever it was, it smelt strong, strong enough that he could almost taste the bitterness of it just from its smell. It was accompanied by a musty, sweet kind of odor though, the two opposites clashing yet, oddly, complimenting one another.

Loki throws caution to the wind with a shrug of his shoulders, bringing the flask to his mouth and taking a tester sip. The beverage was, indeed, bitter overall in taste, burning as it slipped down his throat. But when he let it settle on his tongue for a moment, he could taste the hint of something sweet that he had smelt before, something almost like… honey? Something rich, with an earthy and kind of smokey taste. Some type of whiskey, perhaps? Or, the closest thing to whiskey that this planet had. Whilst he was more of a wine kind of guy, even he had to admit that the smooth flavor of the drink had its charms.

“You’re not going to get ‘very full’ again, are you?” Sylvie teases him.

“Only if you join me,” Loki challenges her, offering out the flask for her to take with a flash of teeth.

He hadn’t really been expecting for her to rise to his challenge, and so it filled him with a strange sort of delight when she took the flask from his hand, taking a deep drink from the flask herself. She caught his enthralled yet shocked face from the corner of her eye, handing the flask back to him with a shrug.

“Nothing happens until daybreak,” Sylvie tells him, enjoying the warmth of both the fire and the drink as it settled in her belly. “Can afford to have a bit of a rest until then.”

“Right…” Loki almost forgot that they were in the middle of an apocalypse. It seemed much too calm for it. “So... you’ve been here before?”

“Just the once,” Sylvie says, her mouth twisting into a grimace. “I try not to go back to an apocalypse I’ve already been in. Less chance of the TVA figuring things out that way, and…” Sylvie trails off, her grimace deepening even more. “I suppose it’s easier to watch strangers die, than faces you’ve seen before.”

“And… and what of home?” Loki asks timidly. “I don’t know if you knew, but um…”

“I know,” Sylvie’s voice came out as nothing more than a whisper. She brings the flask back up to her mouth to take another much-needed drink. “Ragnarok, right?”

Loki smiled sadly, giving a small nod of his head. “I… where — or when, I suppose — they took me from, it was before then. I only found out myself not too long ago, when I was searching through the TVA’s files on apocalypses to… well, to find you.”

“Then you probably know more than me,” Sylvie said.

“You never went there? I would have thought, of all the apocalypses you could go to-,”

“Loki, I already have to live with the knowledge that Asgard — my Asgard — is gone; wiped away from the timeline, and dumped into that dreary hole. All that were on my timeline: my people, my family? They’re… they’re gone. Probably devoured by Alioth,” Sylvie’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her obviously distraught voice catching the attention of even Yalti, who had mostly been politely ignoring their conversation that he didn’t even understand. “So yeah, funnily enough, I didn’t really fancy having to actually watch it be destroyed with my own eyes.”

“Okay... okay...” Loki said gently, the sight of her pain reflecting itself onto him. “I get it, okay? I just… I wasn’t really thinking about it that way. I was… I was just thinking of home, and… and how much I miss it.”

“ ‘Least you have more memories of home than I do,” Sylvie huffed miserably, holding out the flask for Loki to take. He does, and she crosses her arms across her stomach, leaning against them atop her legs. “Sometimes I wonder how much I remember of home are actual memories, or… dreams of what I think it was like.”

Loki swallowed down his mouthful of whiskey nervously, shuffling in place on the log. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but…. do you remember what happened when the TVA took you? Any idea what your Nexus Event was?”

Sylvie gave a slow shake of her head side to side. “Wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, really. I was just… existing. Playing with my toys, I think. I had this…” Sylvie paused for a moment, a genuine smile of nostalgia creeping onto her face as she lost herself in her memories. “-This beautiful hand-carved boat. I think father might have even crafted it himself, I’m… I’m not too sure.”

Loki found her smile infectious, feeling the corner of his lips tick up in response to the glazed, lost in thought look in her eyes. The smile didn’t last long, however. Not with the implication behind her words. Had she really been that young when the TVA took her? Just a child, playing with her toys, and that was enough for the TVA to deem her unsuitable for the timeline?

“That’s when the TVA came,” Sylvie said, the hardness returning to her eyes once again. “It was her: Judge Renslayer. She wasn’t a judge at the time, though. Still had to work her way up the rankings — no more than a hunter back then,” Sylvie let out a humorless laugh. “Think I might have delayed her promotion a bit when I escaped under her watch.”

“Ah… that’d explain why she seemed to have it out for you in particular,” Loki connected the dots, thinking back to the fog-filled chambers of the Time-Keepers, of the vicious look on Renslayer’s face as she prepared to wield her weapon against Sylvie.

“I hope Mobius got her,” Sylvie spat. “Stabbed her with her own damn pruning stick -- give her a taste of her own medicine.”

“She was his friend once,” Loki pointed out. “He might think twice about sending someone he cared about to the Void,”

“She didn’t think twice about pruning him.”

“I’m just saying,” Loki continued. “Mobius, he’s… he’s got a good heart. He trusted me, even when everything else told him not to. Maybe you’re right, and he went straight back to the TVA, walked into her office, and pruned her. Or… maybe he saw the face of someone who was a friend, and found he couldn’t do it — even when he knew she would turn against him if given the opportunity. Maybe put her in a time-loop-,”

“Alright, I get it,” Sylvie huffed in annoyance. “You’re comparing him and Renslayer to me and Mobius -- other Mobius. Are you trying to say that I should have killed the other Mobius?”

“What? No-! ” Loki spluttered. “I’m saying that there’s a chance that Renslayer might still be out there. Whether that be with her still in charge at the TVA, or one of their prisoners, or… I don’t know. I’m still not entirely sure what her role is in all of this.”

“She didn’t even know about the Time-Keepers,” Sylvie brought up. “She was in the dark as much as we were, and yet… she didn’t care. She still wanted to stop me --stop us -- and protect Him.”

“Are we sure she didn’t know about He Who Remains?” Loki asked. “It seems odd that she’d be so desperate to protect Him, when she doesn’t even know who he is.”

“Maybe she won’t be the only one to react that way to the truth of who their leader really is,” Sylvie said. “Maybe some, like Mobius, will want to tear it all down. But others like her? Maybe they just… can’t deal with the thought that all their work was for nothing. Maybe they cling onto the idea that they did something of importance, and that He Who Remains did what they did for a reason.”

Loki groaned softly, barely resisting the urge to bury his face into his hands. “It’s… it’s all going to be such a mess. I don’t know if Mobius will have taken over, or if the TVA broke out into civil war, or…” Loki shook his head, leaning his head back with a heavy sigh. “We need to find a way back, Sylvie. Mobius is going to need our help, and… as much as I hate to admit it, we’re going to need the TVA’s help with this, too.”

For a moment, Sylvie said nothing. Loki could only sit, waiting awkwardly for her reaction, wincing in preparation for the argument that’s about to come.

“I think you might be right.”

‘Well, that’s a first,’ Loki thought.

“Come again?”

“Don’t start,” Sylvie shot him a look of warning. “I was thinking about it earlier when I made the Time-Door to this place…” Sylvie held up her arm, the two of them watching the mesmerizing glow of the golden cracks streaking across the TemPad. “This TemPad, it’s… it’s nothing like the ones I’ve used before – the ones all TVA workers have. I’m still learning how to use it, but it’s… confusing, to say the least. I can just about select a place and-or a time with it, but… clearly I don’t know everything, since I accidentally sent you to the TVA in an entirely different timeline.”

“Is there any way to select a certain timeline?” Loki asked, glancing between Sylvie and the TemPad.

“I don’t know,” Sylvie said. “With the TVA’s Tempad, there… there wasn’t a need to jump between timelines, because there was only one available to them. They weren’t exactly jumping into different branches, rather… they were jumping to the time and place the branch originated from and pruning it out of existence before it could develop into a separate timeline.”

“But… that’s not a TVA TemPad,” Loki pointed out the obvious. “It’s ‘He Who Remain’s’ TemPad. He said it himself didn’t he, that his first variation in the thirty-first century discovered technology to open up Time-Doors between multiverses? Surely he then used that to jump between the different timelines and… prune them all until only his was left.”

“Maybe,” Sylvie says, dropping her hand back down to her lap. “There’s another problem, though.”

There was always a damn problem. “What is it?”

“I’ve got no idea how much charge is left in this thing,” Sylvie gestures lazily to the TemPad with a twitch of her hand. “Maybe ‘He Who Remains’ found a way to give it infinite charge -- or maybe it’s stuck with the same limitations the TVA’s TemPad’s have.”

“So… there’s every chance the next Time-Door we open could be the last?” Loki guessed.

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

Loki leaned back on the log, taking in a deep breath through his nose. “Then I suppose we better make every one count.”

Sylvie nodded her head in response, looking down to the TemPad as she dragged her fingers leisurely over its smooth surface. It responded to her touch, leaving a glowing trail along the golden cracks that followed wherever her finger went. It seemed almost… alive in the way it responded to her touch.

“What exactly happens here?” Loki brings her attention back to him. “What causes the apocalypse?”

“War,” Sylvie answers, her eyes trailing off to the ruined city that was now no more than a shadowy background displayed on the night sky. “Some other civilization in this solar system that had left these people alone, for the most part. Not too sure on the specifics, but… there was some sort of disagreement between the two planets. Whatever it is… let’s just say that the other planet is much more advanced than this one. These people… they stood no chance against the power they hold.”

“And so… what, they just decide to wipe out the entire planet to win the war?” Loki asks.

“Apparently so,” Sylvie answered. “At first light, the other civilization sends down a warning. One last offer for them to surrender, and save what remains of their people.”

Loki glances over to Yalti, who had been watching them converse in complete and utter silence. Despite not knowing what they were talking about, the look on Yalti’s face was that of a haunted man. Strangely still, whilst it was Loki that was looking to him, Yalti had his eyes fixated on Sylvie, who shuffled uncomfortably under his peering stare.

“I’m guessing they don’t take the offer?” Loki asks Sylvie, tearing his gaze away from Yalti to look to her.

“No,” Sylvie is unable to look away from Yalti as Loki did, feeling a strange bundle of nerves begin to rise at just how intensely he seemed to be observing her. “No, uh… they don’t.”

“Why not?” Loki asks, even though he knows Sylvie doesn’t have the answer. “Their city is destroyed, it seems like they barely have enough resources to survive, let alone to rebuild. What’s left here that they’re willing to die for?”

“Pride?” Sylvie guessed. “Stubbornness? An unwillingness to leave their home?”

Yalti slowly stood from his place on the log, the movement catching both Loki and Sylvie’s eye. They watch, ready to leap into defense at a single wrong move as Yalti somewhat stumbles towards them, having a difficult time walking in a straight line with all the alcohol that was running through his veins.

His hands go into his pockets once more, and Sylvie and Loki look to one another, waiting for the inevitable moment a weapon is pulled on them. Yalti’s hands slide back out of his pocket, now clutching a small, square-shaped device that appeared to be made of some sort of sleek and shiny metal, with a smoky glass screen sat on top. Yalti slurred out a few words in his native tongue, gesturing to the device as he does so. When they only blink blankly at him in response, Yalti gives a bit of an annoyed huff before running his fingers across the metal square. A dull light emits from the screen on top, and it’s only a few taps of his fingers across it later that a holographic image bursts to life above the device.

It was… a picture of a young girl. Maybe around eight, ten at most. It was more than just the glow of the screen that lit up Yalti’s face as he looked to the girl with a fond smile stretching across his face. He glanced over to Loki and Sylvie, and they both were somewhat startled to see the tears that had begun to build in his eyes. Yalti pointed to the little girl, then pointed his fingers back at himself, jabbing himself in the space above his heart multiple times to try and get his point across.

“It’s… his daughter,” Loki breathed in realization. “And she, um… Sylvie, she kind of looks like-,”

“-Me,” Sylvie finished Loki’s sentence for him. “She looks like me.”

Loki was starting to understand why Yalti had been staring at Sylvie as much as he had now. The image of the girl, whilst somewhat grainy and flickering, still showed a striking similarity to Sylvie — or, at least, how he could envision her to have looked when she was a young girl herself. Sure, there were a few minor differences here and there: such as the girl's eyes being a tiny bit wider, or her nose having a slight downward turn to it that Sylvie’s didn’t, but… for Sylvie, it still strangely felt like looking back in time at herself.

Yalti pressed atop the screen once again, and the image burst to life. What was once a still picture changed to a moving image, displaying the little girl out somewhere amidst this planet's countryside. The girl giggled with delight as she ran through the long grass of a meadow, being chased by Yalti, whose own booming laughter rang out into the cool night air around them. Yalti reached out a hand towards the holographic video, as if trying to reach for his daughter within. But of course, his hand only passed through the displayed images, and the smile slowly dropped away from his face.

The hologram flickers, sending the video into a mess of glitches, becoming almost recognizable as it struggled to continue playing. Then it flickers again, and again, and all three can only watch as the hologram disappears altogether, sucking away its bluish light until they’re left in nothing more than the orange and reds of the fire. Loki and Sylvie exchange looks as Yalti keeps his eyes fixated on the powered-down device. He closed his eyes, the movement squeezing out a single tear that sluggishly trailed down his face, leaving a clean line through the dust that had caked his skin.

When Yalti opened his eyes again, he seemed almost relieved to see them still sitting there. Perhaps, when you’re going through the end of the world, not many people are willing to listen or share in your individual grief, especially when they’re all going through grief of their own. Yalti caught their eye, raising a hand to point in the direction of where the image of his daughter once was, before pointing over his shoulder to the remains of the city. He then raised his hand into the air, whistling a long note that dropped in pitch as he lowered his hand down towards the ground. They hadn’t needed his mime-like explanations of what happened. There was only going to be one reason why the girl on his holographic device wasn’t with him.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvie says, hoping that the meaning of her words comes across in the gentleness of her tone.

Yalti gives her a shaky smile, taking a single step towards her — probably the most steady movement he’s made since he joined them by the fire. He lowers himself down onto his knees in front of her, raising one hand up to her face and tenderly cradling her cheek. Loki sat in silence, not wanting to interrupt such a moment, yet also wanting to step in, knowing that Sylvie would likely feel uncomfortable with a stranger touching her this way. And yet, Sylvie did not shove Yalti’s hands off of her, nor did she look all that disturbed by what was happening. Yalti speaks to her again, and the raw emotion packed into his voice as he got out those few trembling words was enough even for Loki’s chest to clench in sympathy. The two of them could only stare at one another – this poor, unfortunate man haunted by the vision of who his little girl never got the opportunity to grow up to be, whilst Sylvie was haunted with her own visions: the vision of the happy life, and the caring father she never got to experience.

Yalti’s hand dropped away from Sylvie’s face, bowing his head to her in what Loki could only assume was either some form of respect, or perhaps even their way of saying goodbye. He gets clumsily back up to his feet, clumsy enough that Loki briefly wonders what the chances were of him falling straight back into the fire was. Fortunately, they didn’t have to witness such a thing, as Yalti seems to get his feet under him.

“Sylvie,” Yalti says her name, one of the only pieces of their language he had learned from them. He then turns to Loki, repeating the same bow he had given to Sylvie. “Loki,”

Loki found himself mirroring the bowed movement without much of a thought, tipping his head towards the ground. “Yalti.”

Yalti shot them one last grateful smile, lifting his hand and giving them a kind wave — a gesture they at least recognized. Then, just like that, he had turned away from them, walking off in the direction of the tents and the welcoming town’s people within.

“You okay?” Loki made sure to ask Sylvie as soon as possible.

“-‘M fine,” Sylvie tried to brush his concerns off, but Loki could easily pick up on the little sniffle she made after saying this. “Bit of a shock, I guess. But I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Loki said, trying to catch Sylvie’s gaze as she stared blankly into the fire. “But if you do… I’m here to listen.”

Sylvie glanced over at him, managing to force out a somewhat strained-looking smile. “I will. Someday. Just… not today.”

‘I will’ was better than just a ‘no’, Loki supposed. Not that he could blame her for not wanting to talk about what had just gone down. He picked up the flask from his side, offering it out to Sylvie again. She looked down to it, looking moments away from reaching out for it. She seems to think better about it though, shaking her head in a ‘no’.

“Probably a good idea,” Loki said with a soft chuckle, tucking the half-drunken flask into his shirt pocket. Sylvie seemed to be lost in her own thoughts, eyes unfocused and glazed over as she played absentmindedly with her fingers in her lap. Loki watched her quietly, content to sit here in the comfortable silence they had found themselves in.

But the silence didn’t last long. They almost didn’t notice the gentle notes being sung from somewhere within this planet’s little make-shift town, being crowed out by what must have been a fairly decent-sized group. The beginnings of the song at least seemed to snap Sylvie out of whatever thoughts she was trapped in, the two of them perking their heads up simultaneously, listening out for the direction of the sound.

Then, another chorus of voices joined in. Whatever this song was, it seemed to be known by all of this planet’s inhabitants. And then another group joined in. And another. The voices just kept adding to the song, the soft undertones of the song growing louder and louder as more people add their voices to it.

It was… it was beautiful. They didn’t know the meaning behind the lyrics of the song, but they didn’t need to. The power behind it seemed to vibrate through their chests, chilling and somewhat haunting in sound, yet… undeniably beautiful to hear. It was not a song of hope, nor was it a song that was sung to inspire defiance in the face of almost certain death.

It was a goodbye.

“How do you do it?” Loki asks, his voice no more than a murmur amidst the chorus of voices that filled the air. “All those different apocalypses, so many civilizations you’ve watched be extinguished… How did you keep going?”

“Because I had to,” Sylvie answers woefully. “You know, every day, I would ask myself the same kind of thing: What’s the point anymore? What is there left to keep fighting for? Everything I ever knew was… gone. My life was nothing more than endless running, trying to keep one step ahead of an organization that knew everything that was ever going to happen. I would dream of the day I finally came face to face with the Time-Keepers, and I tried to grab hold of the feeling I imagined I’d experience as I sunk my sword into their chest.”

Sylvie frowned, almost as if she was annoyed with herself. “I could never imagine it, though. But I kept chasing for it, because… it’s all I had. I didn’t want to think about what came next, because once I earned my freedom… I didn’t know what to do with it. What would there be to keep me going?”

“A new chance at life?” Loki offered. “The opportunity to do whatever you wanted, and not have to worry about the TVA deciding you weren’t allowed it?”

“That’s what should have kept me going, yeah,” Sylvie said with a shrug. “But it wasn’t. Every time I opened up another Time-Door, and I watched the last moments of the world I had come to know for the shortest of times… I told myself that that was why I was doing this; because my mission wouldn’t just free me. If I ended it, then… I would end all of that misery. Their worlds wouldn’t have to be put through an apocalyptic event, just because some all-knowing dickhead wrote it into his story. People wouldn’t have to lose their daughters, their sons, their family, everyone they love, because one man thought they would need it to ‘be changed by the journey’. That’s how I did it, that’s why I forced myself to watch the ends of a thousand worlds. Because without that anger, that desire for revenge on other’s behalf? Then…”

Loki already knew what she was going to say, but in no way did he want to hear her say it.

“Then one of those days, I might not have bothered to open up that Time-Door.”

He might not have ever wanted to hear such words from her, but that wasn’t to say he didn’t understand. He glanced down at where the flask of whiskey was peeking out from his pocket, fighting back the temptation to take it out and drink from it once more.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but, um…” Loki began awkwardly, eyes darting between the ground and Sylvie’s waiting gaze. “I’m glad that you went through all that, if it meant that… you, uh… you chose to keep fighting.”

Sylvie huffed in disbelief at his words, lightly tapping her boot against his leg. “Yeah, I’m sure you're grateful that I stuck around long enough to single-handedly screw up every single timeline by creating an infinite amount of ‘He Who Remains’, whose only desire is to rule over them all.”

“We both fought to be stood in that office at the end of time, Sylvie,” Loki reminded her. “Don’t go and place all the blame on yourself.”

“You’re not the one that held that sword though, are you?” Sylvie countered. “I killed him, and I can’t share that blame with anyone else.”

“You did what you thought was right,” Loki tried his best to counter her self-sabotaging efforts. “And you’re here now, aren’t you? Trying to set it right?”

“Doesn’t mean I should have done what I did.”

“Maybe not. But what’s done is done. Yes, there’s… there’s an unfathomable danger that we’re now going to have to face. But just think about how many lives you changed with your decision. All those people who made one change in their life, perhaps one to try and better themselves, and they get to continue to live that life without one single ruler deciding that it doesn’t fit into the story he’s crafted.”

“I know, I just… I can’t stop thinking about Him. I don’t even know how much time we have left before he - whichever version of Him - makes his first move. Maybe he already has, and we just don’t know it yet. How long before the war he starts stretches out across every timeline I created by killing him?”

Sylvie brings her hands up to her face, rubbing her fingers across tired eyes. “All of this… because one man decided he should be the master of everyone’s destiny…”

“Well… at least he did one good thing,” Loki claimed, much to Sylvie’s confusion. She dropped her hands away from her face, looking to Loki with an almost wary frown as she waited for him to elaborate.

“And what’s that?”

“He weaved the strings of fate together that led me to you.”

“That was awfully sappy,” Sylvie lied straight to his face, pretending she didn’t feel the bubble of warmth that filled her chest and was trying to force an embarrassingly giddy smile onto her face - which still crept onto her face, despite her best efforts to contain it.

“Ah, you love it,” Loki said, and a part of Sylvie hated that it was entirely true. The sight of the abashed smile on her face brought out a tender one of his own, enjoying this brief moment of something good that they got to share; something he had a feeling came few and far between when living a life composed of the ends of others.

The songs of the people had long since died off, leaving them with nothing more than the sounds of nature around them, and the strangely pleasing sounding cracks and pops of the fire as it continued to burn away. The night was quiet, but not in an eerie way. It felt like the world was inviting them to rest: the blanket of warmth from the fire washing over them, combined nicely with the cooling breeze that brushed over their skin; the reassuring feel of the other pressed against them, sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, knowing that the person next to them would keep them safe.

The touch to Loki’s shoulder surprised him, glancing down to see that Sylvie was resting her head against his arm and using him as her own personal pillow. Which, he found, he did not mind in the slightest. She had closed her eyes, looking the most at peace he thinks he’s seen her be since… never, now that he thought about it. Even in the brief nap she got aboard the train on Lamentis, her sleep did not look particularly restful; almost like she was sleeping with one eye open, ready to defend herself if the need arises, never one to show a single ounce of vulnerability to anyone.

‘I can’t sleep around untrustworthy people’

The warmth of her skin bled through the thin cotton material of his TVA shirt — a sensation he’s not particularly used to. In fact… he’s fairly certain no one has ever used him as a pillow before. There certainly weren’t many people he would let rest against him, or even be as close to him as she was. It was insane when he thought of how much had changed in such a short amount of time. How much he had changed. His perspective had shifted entirely, becoming the kind of man he used to laugh at. Love was weakness. Love was giving someone else the opportunity to take advantage of you, distract you from what truly mattered. Love was something that turned you soft, that made you think twice before doing what needed to be done.

Oh, how he was wrong. Love was… power. Love was giving yourself to another person -- not relying on that other person to make you whole, but to better one another, to strengthen the weaknesses you thought were buried and hidden.

Love was… everything that she was.

For a while, Loki just… sat. It felt like his eyelids were being weighed down, and his entire body felt ready to sink into itself and fall into that deep, dark nothingness. But he knew that, even in a place like this where everyone seemed friendly, that it was important for at least one of them to keep on guard. Especially when said place is the location of a fast-approaching apocalypse. But as the minutes ticked by, and the effects of drowsiness seemed to dig its claws in, it didn’t take long before he found his head leaning to the side, resting against the top of Sylvie’s head where she had finally fallen into somewhat of a restful slumber as she laid against him.

The minutes that passed by seemed to last for hours, time slowed down as it mocked him in his efforts to stay awake. Even now, as he looked up at the impressive expanse of stars sprinkled within the night sky, it almost looked as if some of them were missing. Huge chunks of space where stars should be simply vanished, left with nothing but a blob of pitch black.

Actually… it looked more defined than a blob. There was… a certain shape to the missing spots, kind of thin-looking with large appendages sticking out from either side. And… and now that he looked at them… were they… were they moving?

“Sylvie…” Loki regretfully whispered to get her awake, not wanting to interrupt her much-needed rest. “Sylvie, the stars are gone.”

The strangeness of his statement roused Sylvie from her groggy state, blinking blearily up at him as he stared transfixed at the sky. “The stars are… what?”

“There’s so many of them,” Loki tore his eyes away for just a second to tell her, before they snapped back to the various different spots of emptiness. “It… it looks like someone punched out holes in the sky…”

It took a few moments for her blurry vision to focus onto what Loki was referring to, squinting up at what did in fact look like splotches of the sky that had been reduced to nothingness. It wasn’t until she saw smaller, almost impossible to see black blurs of movement that looked to be falling from the missing spots that the reality of what was happening crashed into her. Loki could feel her entire body go tense next to him, shooting up from the log with the most frantic and downright panic-stricken look he’s ever seen for her, frightened enough that his body seemed to instinctively react – jumping up from the log as adrenaline shoots through his system, looking wildly between the falling objects and Sylvie.

“What? What is it-,”

“They’re not holes in the sky,” Sylvie stated the obvious, fumbling for the TemPad. “They came early.”

“Who did?”

“The other civilization,” Sylvie answered, her fingers shaking as they swiped across the TemPad. “Those are space-crafts, Loki. And that’s not a warning. This is it; this is the end.”

It was only then that it sunk in for Loki. Other people nearby had also taken notice, a confused murmur rippling across the fields. People had begun to leave their tents, taking a look for themselves to see what was going on. It didn’t take long after that for the screams of terror to break out, erupting into chaos as these unfortunate souls scrambled for cover that did not exist.

That's when the bombs hit. Or, he assumed they were bombs. Not that he could hear the explosion. At least, not from here. Not yet. But he could certainly see it. He could certainly see the multiple waves of blistering fire as it erupted upon contact with the ground, watched as the wall of destruction was forced towards them. There was nothing he could do, no magic he could use that would shield them from the force of the blast that was about to hit them.

"Sylvie-,"

"I'm working on it!" Sylvie was still frantically tapping at the TemPad, and the reminder of their early conversation about how much charge might be left in the TemPad came rushing back.

This could very well be it. This could be their last moments, once again stood side by side, watching as the end of a world, the end of their time, approaches. Unstoppable. Inevitable.

They were met with the horrific sight of the night sky set aflame, watching as this tidal wave of death washed over the little town. It kind of reminded him of Alioth: of the time it barrelled towards them, intent on swallowing them up and reducing them to nothing. Loki could on watch on in horror, taking in the sight of these people’s little make-shift homes disintegrating from the intense heat, those sheltered within barely able to get out a scream of agony as they’re burnt to a crisp with it-

And then the ground under their feet turned into a rectangle of gold with a familiar-sounding blip, only able to meet Sylvie’s relieved eyes for a split second before he once again found himself falling, sinking down into the Time-Door manifested below them. His last view of this singular world — one he knows he will never forget, whilst being yet another average day for Sylvie — rushing by as he dropped.

He knew now why Sylvie did all she could not to get attached to anyone. For when he thinks of Yalti, he won’t think of the kind stranger that offered them a drink and shared his memories with them. He’ll think about how he knows what the smell of a person's skin boiling off their body is like, and the gurgled scream he gave as his body began to melt.

He could only hope that somewhere out there — whether that be in a separate timeline, or in some semblance of an afterlife — that Yalti will get to see his daughter again.

On the bright side… he now had more fuel to fan the flames burning deep in his stomach. He knew that finding a way to eradicate ‘He Who Remains’ from the timeline — from every timeline — is a task made from necessity. But after witnessing something like this? Knowing that he may have to watch many, many more?

He might just take pleasure in watching the light leave the last variation of ‘His’ eyes as they bring him to his end.

Next Chapter - - ->

#sylki #sylki fanfiction #sylki fanfic #pro sylki #loki/sylvie #lovedagger #enchantricks

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charlthotte · 4 years ago

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Breaking Through The Iron Wall - Aone Takanobu x Reader

Chapter 4

The squeak of trainers stubbing themselves on the gym floor echoed throughout the massive establishment. Around a dozen boys in volleyball uniforms were scattered around the court, spiking and blocking balls with ungodly strength. It was truly mesmerising seeing a spherical piece of foam being smashed around the court at an immense velocity, even when their hands met with the ball - the force didn't phase them one bit. That was truly amazing.

Futakuchi must have noticed myself and Aone entering the gym through the corner of his eye, he immediately dropped the ball he held in his hands. Soon, his annoying smirk regained its composure upon his face. "What is their highness doing here? We are but a simple sports club, after all." That boy seemed to poke bucket loads of fun out of messing with people. Tired of his jests, I folded my arms and sighed, feeling rather ticked off my his words. At that moment, Aone must have sent him a look, as Futakuchi soon came to his senses and asked me a question. A question that was certainly very out of the blue. "So... Your highness, it seems that our team is in need of a manager; seeing as though our last manager - Nametsu - is in Greece because of a foreign exchange program."

"And what am I meant to do about that?" I replied curtly.

"Well, pretty, pretty please could you be our new manager?" He spoke in the voice of a little girl, furiously batting his eyelashes whilst swaying from side to side, with his hands cupping his face.

"I'm sorry but I don't know much about volleyball. Wouldn't someone else be better at the job other than me?" I inquired, seriously confused.

"However, I do see that Aone was the one to bring you here, and you wouldn't want to disappoint him, would you? Futakuchi's face switched from that of a child to his devilish smirk, knowing the right buttons to press in order for me to accept his offer.

"Wouldn't you need the captain's approval first?" I asked, trying to worm my way out of being the manager in any way possible. "Or the coach?"

He snickered, "I see what you're doing. Moniwa! Coach Oiwake! Come here!" He belted across the gym, beckoning his hands towards himself. A boy with choppy, black hair wearing the number 2 and a man with his hair slicked back with a stern disposition made their ways towards Futakuchi. There weren't going to be any chances for escape after that.

The captain seemed as if he didn't want to entertain Futakuchi and what he was going to say. Everyone was probably thinking that too.

"Captain..." Futakuchi cooed, falling into his childlike state again, "Don't you think it'd be great if this person here became our manager, they've already met Aone and myself?"

"Don't ask me leading questions, Futakuchi. It is their choice to join anyway." The captain turned towards me, shooting me a look of compassion. I did need to join a club, but none I had came across interested me. If I did want to join, I would have already known people, which was obviously a bonus. Pondering for a little longer, I wondered what clubs Hiroko and Rea did? Surely they'd be less demanding than being a manager. Futakuchi also wouldn't be a part of their clubs. Seeing his grimace each day, would have surely drained me.

I nodded in appreciation towards the captain. "Thank you. I'm not acquainted with the rules of volleyball, so I don't think I'd be the best fit."

Once again, Futakuchi started to open his mouth, "But Moniwa! There hasn't been a single other applicant for the position, and we could teach them over time." I could tell he wasn't going to give up anytime soon, the thought of that and how draining his consistent begging would be, I began to cave.

"Maybe you could give me until tomorrow to think about it? I think I'd make the better decision if I think it over properly" However, I knew all too well that no would probably still had been the answer.

"Yeah, that's completely fine. I'm Moniwa Kaname by the way." He held out his hand before me.

"Thanks, (L/N) (F/N)." I then took his hand in mine and shook it, and his grip was certainly more intense than any I had felt before. "Goodbye, I'll see you tomorrow." I swiftly turned around and headed for the outside, wanting to be out of that situation.

And of course, Futakuchi had one more thing to say, "You better say yes, your highness!" Turning around again, my face met his and glared at him, and I ushered him away with a curt wave of my hand. That thing was infuriating. I tried to keep my walking at its fastest pace possible so I wouldn't be in view of the gym anymore. From checking my watch I noticed I had a decent amount of time before my train came, so maybe I'd do a bit more reading when I arrived at the station.

Walking down, my velocity was set at a mere saunter compared to the jog this morning, the afternoon air hitting my face making me feel somewhat refreshed. My head remained empty for the rest of my stroll, there was no need to think, I was walking down the path solitaire - just admiring whatever new things came into my view. Seeing as though, I didn't really get the chance to that morning. This place was just a completely different world compared to my last hometown.

After arriving at the station, I set my bag down beside me and fumbled around inside it for my book. I had read quite a large portion of its contents earlier, the new page about the oak-leaved geranium. Giving it to someone would mean that you believe that your friendship with the recipient was true, so true that your bond could never be broken. It could also mean that you believe that your friendship outshines every other one in existence. Once again, I thought how beautiful it was that something so powerful could be expressed with something so delicate, something that could easily die if not taken care of. Maybe that was the whole concept behind the language, if you let the flower die - the meaning of the flower would die with it. I sat in thought for minutes more, contemplating the meaning of things we can and could say.

Not so long into the future, the train pulled up. Sparsely packed and there didn't seem to be anything wrong with the vehicle's integrity, quite a pleasant situation - given the shenanigans of the earlier hours of the day. I plonked my body down onto a seat by myself, gazing out the window, this time my thoughts interrupted by the choice I had to make. 'Should I join? But what if there's a person better fitted to the job and they don't get the chance. After all, their original manager was still joined onto the club, she could still come back. But that meant my job wouldn't last that long." I thought to myself, waffling on and on inside my head - almost panicking in a place where nobody could hear. I just couldn't seem to calm my subconscious down by even one peg. I regret to say that the rest of the journey, my mind stayed locked in the state of internal pandaemonium.

I hopped off the train, my head still stirring inside of me. I didn't even acknowledge my parents when I came through the door, I simply clambered up the stairs and flopped straight onto my bed, my head drowned into my pillow. Only coming out for air when I realised what I had said to myself earlier. I'd simply ask Hiroko what clubs her and Rea were in. Propping myself upon my headboard, I typed the digits I had been given by Hiroko.

"Hey Hiroko. It's (Y/N), just a quick question. What clubs are you and Rea in?"

It barely took her thirty seconds to reply.

"Hey!!!!!! I'm with Rea right now! She is in the computing club but she ditches everyday :( I'm in the rowing club but we can't take anymore members. Why'd you ask?

"I've been asked to manage the boys' volleyball team, but I don't really want to."

"OMG!!! That's so cool! Imagine managing a team that's practically famous!"

Famous? Why would a public school like Date Tech be famous? I thought that was a little weird, so I questioned Hiroko about it.

"Famous?"

"Didn't you know?!?! They're basically famous in Miyagi for their iron wall of blocks!!"

"Oh, that's pretty cool I guess. Sorry for troubling you."

"No problem! See you later!"

I thought that it may be cool to manage a 'famous' team, and I wouldn't be the one playing the sport everyday. All I'd have to do was put little things together and keep players like Futakuchi in check. After all, my plan of joining a club with Rea and Hiroko wasn't going to work at all, maybe I'd even get to miss school to go to their matches. I did have to join a club at some point, and there weren't any that caught my attention. Even if I didn't like it - I'd only have to stay until their actual manager got back from Greece.

Didn't Futakuchi say something about disappointing Aone?

"However, I do see that Aone was the one to bring you here, and you wouldn't want to disappoint him would you?"

Did he really mean that? I hadn't even known Aone for 24 hours - wouldn't disappointing him in that way seem strange? But, from what I'd seen Futakuchi do; he was probably just trying to pull my strings for himself. But why was he even trying to do that in the first place? Was he really that desperate for a manager?

I took one deep breath in, attempting to not let the questions drown me again. But other than the grimace, were there really any negatives that came with being their manager? Maybe being their manager would be a good thing to me...

And that's exactly what I was going to do.

#aone #aone takanobu #aone x reader #aone x gn!reader #aone takanobu x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader

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shhhhhskars · 5 years ago

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Dating Phase Goodness.

Soft Alex. Dating Phase. Snoh Allegra. The City. Words: 2,041. Dating phase goodness.......I have so many feels for it. As always, I hope you enjoy♡ (The ask: Do u listen to snoh aalegra? I keep imagining them in the dating phase but they’ve gone to her gig with their own friends and meet up unexpectedly and end up having a romantic night of just swaying to her music at the low lit club and exchanging soft words 😭 thank you for sending this in and ruining me)

There’s something so wonderfully enigmatic about summer-time in New York City. The tarmac is glistening from the heat, the day-time sun is hot, enough to keep the entire city pulsating and breathing through the night. There’s something in the air- this thrilling, wild energy, this feeling that anything can happen. Friends gather unexpectedly, running into each other in the streets, small taverns revive their outdoor terraces for the season. The parks and beaches stay open later, and they’re usually bustling throughout the evenings. People are happier than usual, neighbors greet each other for the first time in months.

The August days are long, but the sun had finally set, and she stripped down, eager to get out of the damp clothing. A cool shower can change anyone’s mood, revive the most exhausted. She stepped out refreshed, smelling like rose water and sandalwood, a nice change from the stale deodorant and sweat that clung to her before. She slipped into her tiny, short black dress that cinched snuggly at her waist, and hugged graciously on her curves. The familiar chime rang out as she dusted a earthy blush on the apples of her cheeks, signaling a stream of texts from the heinous group chat that she’d been tempted to put on mute for the last hour.

Snoh Allegra found her way to the city and is playing at The Highline Ballroom tonight, the turn out is delicious. The entire place just feels sexier, from her aura alone. Voice so strong, but soothing, like tea sweetened with milk but just enough honey, to make it yummy to drink. Drinks are flowing, weed smoke floats through the air, and everyone is laughing. Everyone in her friend group is...oddly, getting along, for once, and there’s not much that could make this moment better. Except......maybe Alexander being here?

Oh fuck- who the hell was she turning into? This is why she was hesitant to begin this…thing, in the first place. Alexander was hard to keep out of the brain as of late. Ever since their chance meeting in the East Village, he kept her phone warm, unashamed to make his presence known. She was grateful that he wasn’t the slightest bit clingy, but could instantly sense that he valued consistency, and taking up space. He frequently checked in on her, sending dumb little shit to her phone throughout the day, memes or whatever the fuck he saw that amused him, or just straight up goofy shit he saw around the city. The whole damn thing was all still exceptionally new, this idea of seeing each other. Most of the time it was just enjoying each other’s company, nothing too crazy, and was lovely this way. Experimental and new.

A familiar arm circled around her waist, pulling on her frame. She could tell by the smell alone who it was. A manicured hand lifted against the rigid chest. “Jim, you’re about one drink away from me cutting you off, again.” It was a joke, mostly. Naturally there would be that one friend who had one too many, too friggin’ early, and tonight it was Jimi’s turn. Completely harmless, but utterly annoying, and touchy-feely when he drank, he ignored her comment, staggering lightly. “Let me buy you another drink, fam. We’re came here to see Snoh, and your ass is sober?” And of course, the other motherfuckers that surrounded had to affirm his slurred words, urging her, ‘get another one; it’s on his dime.’ She huffed at the dramatics of her friends, she was certainly not sober, but she snatched his credit card out of his hand anyway and he winked at her. This earned brief eye-roll and she was off, away from her toxic little group of friends.

The bar on the opposite side of the room glowed like a beacon of hope as she made her way there, shuffling through pockets of people focused on the opening acts. She ignored a few stares to push her way to the counter, determined to get her drink before Snoh came on. She snickered when they asked if she wanted to open a tab, and obliged- Jimi’s karma for earlier. She waited for her drink, elbows propped on the counter, and she stared around the club, which to no surprise was getting packed out as the lady of the hour was about to come on soon.

It was the feeling of a warm hand gripping on her upper shoulder, close to the nape of her neck, that made her jump, and she turned, face already fixed and ready to give whoever the fuck it was touching her a good dose of her mind. Expecting to see one of her boys- she felt her heart lurch down into her pit of her tummy, realizing who the firm grip belonged to.

Alexander grinned at her, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. He looked good, as per usual, sporting a white linen shirt, and crisp dark denim. He leaned himself nimbly on the bar, his body flush next to hers, pressing comfortably. He smelt like whiskey, and tobacco and she inhaled his familiar scent unintentionally, which only gave her more butterflies in the very low part of her stomach. Even leaning, he still loomed over her, nearly casting a shadow, from being so giant. “What are the odds?” he asked with a simple, mischievous smile. She got a hint of the freshness that masked his breath, like he was sucking on a mint just before approaching her.

Muscles stiffened, moisture seeping through her pores, she could gag at her luck right now. She wanted to clutch her pearls and scream, but the liquor running through her calmed her nerves, a bit. The bartender slid the jack and coke her way, right on time, and Alexander’s face was turned away from the counter, focused in on completely her. She nodded a thanks for the beverage, buying herself a few seconds, before turning her head towards the Swede, pressing back comfortably against his side. They were shoulder to shoulder, or, body to body, in a sense, because she was too short to be perfectly aligned with his shoulders. “Are you following me, now, Skarsgard?” she said trying to mask the happiness she felt creeping all over her face, eyes slightly glazed over as she gazed back at him. He laughed, his cheeks covered in blush from smiling so hard. “Nahh,” he said in a casual tone, then he added a goofy little, “..Maybe,” tilting his head with a little shrug, jokingly. The close proximity of his face next to hers made the club feel so much smaller, and it was already quite intimate on it’s own.

For a brief moment she wondered if this was even real, or if someone had dropped something in her drink earlier, because it was so wildly random. “Are you really here, right now?” she questioned, narrowing her eyes and bringing the tip of her finger to to the bridge of his nose. She lightly glided her small finger down, wiping away the moisture that had accumulated, a smile creeping over her lips that traveled all the way up to her eyes, the same thing mirroring in his his. He chuckled, but went quiet at her touch, the blush in his cheeks burning brighter now. “I didn’t know you were into Snoh.” she said, her chest tight and heaving lightly. There was a hell of a lot more things that she didn’t know about the man, so it was a comical thing to say, but he just nodded, that small smile still playing on his lips. “She’s good,” he admitted earnestly, “And I’m here with people. My best friend Dada, he’s here. And a few others.” He paused briefly, his eyes traveling down her face, falling on her lips before going back up to her eyes. She took a long sip from her straw, her nerves shot under his gaze, heat crawling all over her skin from it. “Are...you here...with people..?” he started, wetting his lips. His voice was gentle, anxious, a little softer. She touched his arm instantly, a slightly alarmed look taking over he face as she nodded, a little too eager to reassure him that she was not here on a date of any kind, His eyes instantly softened, eyebrows that were knitted together, finally relaxing. Truth was...lately, that was reserved for him.

Gaze casted down and fingers intertwined so they wouldn’t lose each other, he led her back to his section at the very top level of the club. He was stealing her away from her friends, but she felt eager to be whisked away. She always had butterflies around him, but this scene was different, the dimly lit, crowded club, the music that was swallowing up the room, the buzz of it all. Alexander introduced her to everyone, and he was unable to hide his delight as he did so. Dada wrapped her into a huge, bear hug, and she fluffed his golden locks. “Heard a few things about you from this one,” he said with a goofy little wink, beckoning towards Alex. Before she could question him any further, Alexander was pulling her away and wrapping her up in his arms, groaning at his friend. “Snoh’s on.” he muttered in her ear, and she shivered from his breath on her neck. The lights turned a delicious hazy, rosy color, dimmed a few notches, and the goddess herself was on the stage, belting out the most gorgeous melodies. She sounded even more magical live, which was so satisfying. Ugh. Those feels again, right, Snoh?

‘It's not that I don't want you here. It's somethin' 'bout the way you stare into my eyes.’

Snoh pulled everyone in, but she felt captivated by her steady, smooth voice, and her statuesque frame, and of course- her beauty. She was in a bit of a trace from her, sort of stuck, and jumped a little when Alexander wrapped his arms around her small waist. His large frame came flush with her body from behind, rigid chest pressed sturdily against her back, and she instantly settled into the cozy embrace. She felt her tension fading, from being against him, but nerves still beamed in the depths of her tummy. She just fit in his arms, and he cradled her waist with precision and care, she could swear she felt a territorial vibe from the way he held onto her, shielding her from the rest of the group. He tucked his head near her ear, coming real close. “You good?” His voice was a low murmur in her ear, and she felt her intimacy twitch, but she just nodded, affirming that his touch was absolutely perfect.

She would genuinely be upset if he let go, and she raised her drink to his lips, and he took a small sip from behind her. They swayed gently to the soft songs, finding their rhythm, adjusting every now and again, and it didn’t take long for her nerves to melt away entirely. It was natural and seamless being with him, and the moment was to be enjoyed without restraint. “She’s perfect,” she murmured to him, convinced the woman on the stage was some form of angel. Alexander chuckled lightly and nodded, but it was brief. “This is perfect.” he challenged into her ear, nuzzling into her hair. “Being here with you. This is going to be hard to beat.” She had to pause, to mull over the fact that she was completely fucked, charmed under whatever...Swedish magic he sprinkled on her. And, he told no lies, the moment would be hard to beat, the soft light, the ambiance, the way Snoh was serenading them with her sweet, melodies. She turned her head towards his face, leaving a soft, lingering open mouthed kiss on his lips, squeezing tightly on his hands wrapped around her waist. He breathed her in, hungry for her, tightening that grip on her waist. She had to stop herself from squeezing her legs shut completely when she felt his soft tongue touch hers, and she felt herself getting flustered, blushing all over. This was bliss- pure, serendipitous, bliss.

‘Come through, I think I need you here.’

#alexander skarsgard imagine #alexander tings #alexander skarsgard x reader #alexander skarsgard fan fic #alexander skarsgard drabbles #askarsgard imagine #askarsgard drabble #askarsgard x reader #skarsgard fan fic

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unremarkable-house · 5 years ago

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Polaris by unremarkable_house

The X-Files, MSR, Rain King

Mulder and Scully attend Holman and Sheila's wedding in Kroner, Kansas.

Tagging @today-in-fic

Part One: Mulder and Holman

“Platonic intimacy is the foundation of my relationship with Agent Scully, Holman, and risking physical intimacy affects both parties. I don’t want to take that risk unless we are both willing.” There is a condensation of intent that settles around the patio of the Kroner Prairie View Ballroom and Suites where Fox Mulder and Holman Hardt - weatherman, meteorologic anomaly, crack relationship analyst, and now very newlywed - share their conversation during a small break in the matrimonial festivities.

It is also something Mulder has never admitted out loud, his desire for something more, and he feels the uncomfortable humidity of it fill the blissfully mild Kansas air. Holman has made it vexingly clear that he expects him to dish on the so-called Mulder-and-Scully-relationship while the blushing bride and redheaded FBI agent were otherwise occupied. Apparently, he and his buddy the weather wizard had a special affinity for these kinds of chats.

“Are you really worried that you wouldn’t be compatible in bed with someone who looks like your partner?” Holman is projecting a bit of his newfound sexual confidence with Sheila, but he doubts he’d have any trouble if Agent Scully came to bed instead. Or both. Holman’s eyebrow quirks appreciatively.

Mulder is not worried about his level of attraction to his long-suffering and comely partner, he does get to look at her every day after all, but he is worried that the weight of their traumas could make the next level of intimacy challenging. He didn’t need a degree in psychology from Oxford to figure that out, he need look no further than his own baffling sexual history. Plus, he knows how much energy she puts into maintaining their professional distance, especially since Antarctica. And Diana. As always, part of how he shows her he cares is by respecting that.

“There is something to be said about the fact that it’s been six years and no one has even mentioned sex. With each other or otherwise. Maybe she’s just not that into me.” He shrugs, also thinking that really isn’t the case. Although it had been not-so-helpfully suggested by a Gunman or two before. As if any of them had any real experience with women outside of chat rooms and computer labs.

Because Scully hasn’t left him either. Hasn’t ever expressed an interest in a life outside the X-Files. Hasn’t ever, ever let him down. She stands entirely too close to him on elevators and drinks from his coffee cup when she’s in a rush. She waits up for him in the middle of the night, she lets him watch her sleep. She rises like the Phoenix time and time again. She touches the stars and toils in the basement. And she kissed him on Tuesday.

Though she would be seriously perturbed if she heard him acknowledge any of that out loud. Especially that last part.

But he was allowed to acknowledge it, right? He had to, or else they were never going to get past this bizarre phase where their relationship was even a secret to themselves. Will they or won’t they? Are they or aren’t they? Damned if he knew.

They didn’t even have the X-Files anymore. The entire pretext for their relationship hovered over the razor’s edge, completely unprepared for Salt Lake Cities and Diana Fowleys and meaningless days spent tracking down literal piles of shit. He made it clear he wasn’t ready to handle anything personal and then they RSVP’d to a wedding together.

Polaris or utter chaos. Scully had once called him unfathomably capricious.

“Yea, but don’t you want to just take her in your arms and kiss her?”

Holman’s aggressively simple advice is reflective of a man who got everything he wanted. Easy words from someone who finally found safe harbor.

Three months ago, he was offering Holman dating advice. Now Holman was freshly married and all Mulder’s gotten were a few chaste kisses he wasn’t supposed to think about. Cosmic justice or just complete fucking irony?

Sighing, Mulder looks back through the windows where Holman and Sheila’s wedding reception is just getting into full swing. Dazzling lights, disco balls, even a few novelty lasers spin dizzily over the guests as they start feeling the liquor and therefore, the groove. Scully is in there somewhere and his eyes scan for her instinctively, but he doesn’t see her red hair in the crowd. She must still be in the bathroom or surely she would come to find him out here, right? Mulder couldn’t believe the amount of insecurity he had been feeling since she came out in that dress and asked him to help her zip up the back. He needed a drink, big time.

“It’s not just about kissing her -” Above them, the full moon is in dazzling brilliance. Not a cloud in the sky, not a hint of chill in the breeze, downright perfect humidity. On Holman Hardt’s wedding day at the end of April. Figures. “I don’t sit around and pine for Scully the way you did for Sheila. We are in a relationship, have been for years, I guess. We are not just partners, I know that. And not just friends. But it’s about being with her all the time - forever - I think. I want to keep that possibility alive.”

At whatever the cost, he doesn’t add, an onslaught of near-misses hurtling past them like a vengeful comet wrought by some dissatisfied god. The weight of the knowledge that he would follow her anywhere - and she, him - whether they liked it or not. Something that was beyond what a ring or social status could ever symbolize, objectively speaking.

It was as simple as wanting Scully like air to breathe, simple as obeying the laws of gravity. A purely biological necessity. No need to complicate things. And no need to scare her off by being as lousy a lover as he was a friend. If all she ever needed from him were chaste yet unforgettable kisses, he would be honored to provide. Ad infinitum, if that’s what it took to keep her in orbit. No need to define the bonds that connect them. Just the need to stay connected.

A light in the sky from which he could chart his course.

Mulder looked hungrily back into the pulsating throng behind him, seeking his personal universal invariant. As much as he wanted her to return so he could end this candid and hyper-intimate conversation, he especially did not want her to overhear how pathetically punch-drunk he was after just the smallest morsels of her affection. He was supposed to remain coolly and Mulder-ish-ly aloof. It was part of their unspoken agreement for partaking on this exclusive jaunt they had both surreptitiously cashed in their vacation days for.

“I’ve kissed her a couple of times, though.” Except for that, of course. Holman gives him a high five. Then he says in the wistful way he’s been saying everything tonight:

“You know, I’ve been in love with Sheila since I was in high school; I was completely infatuated.” Mulder knows, but not really. Who could be in love with someone with a voice like that? Who consistently kicked you under the rug to date the people you detested the most? To him, the sexiest thing about Scully was that she willingly spent time with him. That and she smelled like a secret garden and her skin was as soft as a petal. His own luscious Atropa belladonna; look but don’t touch. It was a fitting match considering his life was rotely defined by his personal, unattainable longings.

“I think it's different, Holman. I love Agent Scully--” more of that condensation settles. “I have for a long time. As a friend first. But I'm not lovesick. I'm not…” he trails off because to say he’s not also in love with Scully isn't the whole truth. But it’s not the same. “I'm still working on being in love with her in a way that is most fair for her. For us.” He looks up into the starry night and grips the edge of the stone wall that he is perched on. “I tend to be a bit overbearing and unpredictable.”

And incomprehensible and dog-headed and nebulous and borderline unreliable - but he’s not really interested in listing all the ways he’s failed Scully or why he knows he’s badbadbad for her. The reasons why she shouldn’t be wearing a short navy blue dress at a private and completely voluntary event with him tonight. Why he should have done the gentlemanly thing years ago and convinced her to get out and save her reputation, to save herself from a lifetime of pain. Should have resisted the tender, irresistible way she always pulled him back to her. Should not have RSVP'd to this damn wedding, at least.

Instead, he spirited her away from the world living into the world of the half-dead and always searching.

Then again he’d probably be dead ten times over, considering the numerous occasions she’d saved his ass over the years. But life without Scully would be a fate worse than death.

He’s seeding the rain cloud, he knows. These are the kinds of words phrased in such a way that he’s been avoiding admitting - let alone thinking - for years. It’s admissions like these to people like Holman that will force him to pay the piper. He envisions Holman and Sheila forcing them to slow dance beneath the dizzy lights to Fools Rush In. He’d prefer a Whiter Shade of Pale, himself. Something a bit more subtle.

“Loving someone isn’t about being fair, Agent Mulder. My life has basically been at a standstill until I finally got my chance to be with Sheila. I wasn’t willing to move forward with any decision in my life if it meant missing a chance I might have with her. I accepted a job in the same town I grew up in, for Chrissake, because she was here! And yes, there were times when I resented the fact that she refused to see me as more than a friend and instead chased after the people I liked the least.

I have a few buddies from high school who got pretty sick of my laments for a woman - who you will probably agree - is completely out of my league.” Mulder resists reacting, different strokes and all. “The fairest route would have been to save myself the drama of Sheila’s many romantic interludes and settle down with someone else - you might not know it but I’m quite the catch in a small town like this - but I was determined to wait until it was my turn. Now those same guys from high school are here dancing at our wedding!

Look at me! I’m married to the most beautiful woman in Kroner! In all of Kansas, probably! And we are already talking about starting our family right away!”

Holman, glowing with pride like the light of the moon with his arms outstretched, has a nostalgic, faraway look on his face, back to his days as the awkward teen in love with the prom queen. Indeed, Holman had received his just rewards for patience, diligence, and the honor of a respectable life.

Scully is his reward too, Mulder knows. Has always known, since the day she walked back into his basement office after spending thirty-six hours hiding in the rain forests of Puerto Rico with no food or water and scared to death that the kill squads were going to find them and use extreme force. He was constantly falling in love with the versions of herself that she shed with each tragedy - always a moment too late. Always under her sharp and disapproving eye. She wore her newfound vulnerabilities with a sign that read: “Danger, Stay Back”. That she refused to be worshipped just made her easier to love. He’d had no clue dignity was such a turn on.

Mulder was just worried he hadn't paid his dues with such noble qualities as Holman’s. His many wrongdoings play with a sad soundtrack in his head, as sad as the desperate way she always looks at him when they’ve cheated death yet again. She had been particularly unzipped by his recent near-drowning and nick-of-time rescue in the Plantagenet Bay. The Gunmen published it in their quarterly and referred to Scully as the Babe of the Bermuda Triangle. He still felt kinda bad about that one.

Was it just Mulder or was the moon shining a little more brightly right now?

“One of the best days of my life was when Sheila started working at the station.” Holman gets another dreamy look upon his face as he recalls the day. Mulder remembers too, it was chronicled in the local paper. That and a portfolio of other newsworthy weather events Holman was responsible for sat neatly collated within his X-Files. And now including their invitation to the blessed Hardt-Fontaine nuptials. It wasn’t every day he got to hang out with one of the curiosities from his wonder cabinet.

Unless he counted Scully which he explicitly and vociferously did not.

“May 11, 1992: residents of Kroner, Kansas, report witnessing a rare quadruple rainbow,” He recites.

Mulder has a similar best day of his life, but he doesn’t recall any meteorological event that marked the moment. It wasn’t even a full moon. Just a regular March afternoon that he had been antipathetic about.

Holman grins. “Some reported seeing a fifth arc as well, but it was never substantiated.” Then his face grows cloudy. “That same day, while we were catching up, was when she told me she was moving in with Darryl Moody and that they were ‘engaged to be engaged.’” He spits the last words out like venom. And that would explain the subsequent supercell lightning storm that knocked Kroner off the grid for three days (also in his files).

“She just wanted to be friends,” he bemoans before becoming annoyingly cheerful again, “but being her friend was the next best thing because here we are! Sheila recently told me that the best relationships are rooted in friendship so if that’s what it took to get here, I wouldn’t change a day.”

Mulder, dipping his chin to his chest, was appalled he found that so pathetically endearing. And a little bit wounding. Were he and Scully not rooted in friendship? For someone who was so quick to believe, he knew he was certainly wanting for a little more faith in the matter. Because here we are, he thinks, together, in other lifetimes, always.

In this particular lifetime in Kansas, there might be drinks and dancing and more than one excuse to touch her companionably and then maybe a little more familiarly, as soon as she finished up inside and he could end this awkward conversation with the groom.

“Don’t let some bad luck cramp your style, Agent Mulder,” Holman says, reaching the end of his proselytizing. “The future will be as bright as you make it.”

Following Holman’s gaze up into the night sky, Mulder finds that the heavens are now alight with the ethereal trails of meteors, dainty and otherworldly, glittering their way across the universe.

Mulder sighs again, equally entranced by and indifferent to Holman’s bizarre skills. “Easy for you to say, Holman.” But Holman just laughs the contented and mirthful laugh of a man in love. To him, everything is limitless: life, love, the weather, and now the entire galaxy.

And though there was once a time where Mulder would have imprudently coveted the ability to touch the unthinkable like Holman Hardt, tonight he is content to reach only one star.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24564760

Notes:

WIP, I hope. There should be a chapter for Scully + Sheila and another for Mulder + Scully. Fingers crossed! Mad love to my favorite fanfiction of all time, Parabiosis by Penumbra. This story includes some loving references to that masterpiece. Made with the utmost respect. Thanks for reading.

#if you read this #THANK YOU!!!#xf fanfic #the x files #msr

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cannibal-wings · 4 years ago

Note

👀

Send a 👀 and I’ll share a piece of a WIP! Content warning: Blood, body horror, transformation, mild gore. From the Outlast Wing AU I’m writing:

Miles tossed and turned that whole night. He couldn’t get comfortable, his whole body felt tight, hot, and itchy. Like it was too small and yet bursting at the seams. His back burned each time he rolled over on it and his chest muscles flared up in pain every time he tried to take a breath deeper than a shallow gasp.

He was dragged awake several times by the sensation of rolling muscles, of his back splitting down the middle, but each time his hand flew to it he felt nothing but sweaty skin. He moaned low and groaned as he shifted again in the uncomfortable bed.

Miles wasn’t stupid. They injected him with the same solution that mutated and twisted the other people in the cells around him. It wasn’t a question of if he would meet the same fate, but when and into what? Desperately he wished that it would just happen already, waiting was nearly as excruciating as the pain. He also wished he could take that previous wish back.

The night dragged on, and sometime near dawn a trigger point was reached. Miles shot straight up and gasped for air that hurt to take in. He curled forward; his forehead pressed against his legs. “Holy shit,” was all he said through clenched teeth. Then it happened, his body began to twist and contort like someone was pulling him in different directions.

He tried to get out of the bed but his limbs didn’t want to move in the ways his mind was telling them to. Instead, half tangled in a thin blanket, he fell onto the cold concrete floor. He curled up and gasped as it felt like his spine was unlocking, the muscles shifting under his skin. It wasn’t so bad, he thought, until the skin started to split. Then he screamed.

Through the haze of pain, he could hear one of the guards say, “Someone wake Annapurna up, we got another one.” A pause, then, “Yeah, the new guy, cell nine o’ four. Hurry up, and tell him to bring a bucket or two.” He heard footsteps moving away and then he couldn’t hear anything because someone was screaming.

Miles rolled onto his stomach and dry heaved. There was nothing in his guts to throw up and even they felt like they were twisted into knots. He reached to his back and his hand came away slick with blood. He placed it on the ground, palm down and attempted to push himself up, but the movement only triggered another round of spasms that left him flopping on the floor like a beached fish.

There was more movement from the hall, through the darkness he could see three people now standing by his cell door. They were blurry, his eyes weren’t able to focus on anything through the tears. One of them entered his cell after the door was opened. He dropped two buckets nearby and knelt down. He couldn’t feel the hand on his shoulder, he couldn’t even feel that he had a shoulder. He looked up at a face he couldn’t see, the figure was backlit from the light of the hall and his face was shrouded in darkness. “It’s only just started,” the figure said, the voice was masculine in sound. “It’ll be a while.”

Miles gasped out, “J-Just? What? Am I ok?” His words were slurred, he wasn’t sure if the other person even heard them.

Then there was a piece of fabric shoved roughly into his mouth. “Don’t try to talk, you’ll only bite your tongue off.” Miles could feel it be tied behind his head. “Buckle up kid, you’re in for a rough few hours.” The hand returned to his shoulder in what must have been meant to be a comforting gesture.

David Annapurna had seen many transformations during his time at Mount Massive. Some were while he worked for Murkoff first as an orderly and then as a nurse. Most were seen while he was a patient. One he got to witness in person. The hand he rested on the shoulder of the man beside him was rough and covered in scales. His other hand consisted of two fingers and a thumb, it was all he had left after the arm was mutated into a wing. He kept the feathers clipped to maximize use of what remaining digits he had.

That remaining, mangled, hand gripped a pair of scissors and cut the shirt off of the man’s back. He was told that his name was Miles Usphur, he wasn’t sure that mattered, but it could be comforting to hear your name during the process. “Miles,” he said, “stay with me.”

The man only cried in response. His back arched, his head hung below his shoulders, while his body rippled like water on a once calm pond. David kept his hand where it was as the whole shoulder blade shifted under his touch, moving downward while new muscle uncoiled and snaked over it, shoving it down. Bones snapped and cracked audibly as the man screamed in agony. Miles continued to scream as another round of body shaking spasms overcame him. Then David watched as his back split open, the flesh parting like Red Sea. Blood poured down onto the floor and the man shrieked so loud David thought he might tear out his vocal cords from the effort.

One of the guards outside turned on the room light. David was quick to bark a command, “Turn it off! Their eyes are oversensitive during the process. Keep it off and stay out of the way.” Even though it was only on for a second, it was enough for David to catch the sight of two bald appendages that pushed up from either side of the spine. They were nearly white, new pale flesh that sat just behind a thin layer of connective tissue.

“What’s he turning into?” The guard asked from outside. His voice was uneven, this was likely the first time he had ever witnessed a transformation.

“Too early to tell,” David replied curtly. “Could be anything at this point,” but that wasn’t entirely true. He had seen more than his fair share of transformations, and he had a pretty good idea that the man was growing two more forelimbs. And unless this was a backdated serum, the limbs wouldn’t be human, they wouldn’t be for walking either. They were probably wings.

Murkoff had been spending a lot of money and dumping ridiculous amounts of effort into the avian blends. He would know, he was one of the first lines. But there was a chance they were trying for mammalian wings, like a bat, something that might blend better with the human base. Like he said, it was a little too early to tell.

Miles was still screaming as his back jerked up then fell down. Like a pulse. With each one he could feel something give way, break free. Like he was giving birth through his back. He slammed a hand on the ground and squeezed his eyes shut tight. Something snapped, a thick wet sound, and his vision went white from the searing pain. The more his body contracted and expanded the more whatever it was was heaved from his back. He could feel his skin peel away like a banana. He tipped and fell to his side, the figure beside him moved out of the way slightly as something plopped onto the floor. Miles hoped it was his organs and that he would be granted the peace of death. The funny thing was, that through all the pain and terror, whatever it was that fell upon the floor felt the cold concrete.

David was now certain that the limbs he saw crawling out of Miles Upshur’s body were avian wings. They were bald, the pin feathers wouldn’t sprout for another hour, but he recognized the naked form anywhere. The first wing had already fully emerged, it sat limp on the floor in front of him. It was slick with blood and tissue. The second one was still inching its way out of Miles’ body. He continued to whimper and cry with each painful roll of muscle and snap of bone.

Very gently he pushed the man’s black hair out of his sweat coated face. “You’re doing fine,” he said, “you’ll survive this, you’re stronger than the others, I can tell.” Unfocused eyes tipped up to meet his. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. I’ve got you.” David was never sure if his words ever really reached the others, but he hoped they did. He hoped they provided some comfort to them during this phase.

Blood continued to leak out of the gaping space between wings. The skin was torn and open muscle laid bare. The second wing was now mostly outside of the body. David used his good hand to give it a sharp tug. Something popped into place and Miles screamed and heaved.

The guard at the door yelled, “Hey! Are you supposed to do that?”

“The wing has to be outside the body before I can begin to stitch and clean him up. It was mostly out; I was just helping it along. Think of it like pulling a calf out during that final push.”

Miles had fallen deathly still and silent. “Is-Is he dead?”

“No,” David said and slapped a towel into one of the buckets. “Just exhausted. He probably passed out from the pain. I haven’t lost a patient yet, and I don’t intend to start now.”

“Yeah, because Murkoff wouldn’t hesitate to put you down for losing-”

“They pay a lot of money for these trials. But there’s more invested in me,” David said calmly and began to apply pressure to the open fissure that was Miles’ back. “There’s a reason you’re instructed to call me and not the doctors.”

“I thought that was because you’re all animals. Beasts.”

“It’s because I’ve seen more completed transformation processes than everyone here combined and provided aftercare to eighty percent of them. They call for me because they know the trial will survive with me watching over it.” He produced a thick thread and needle from a bag by his side. “It also helps that I’m one of them, when they wake up and see me, its comforting.”

David made a cooing sound deep in his throat. “Lucky for him he’s Avian. My specialty.”

#Outlast #rollinwiththepunches

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no-name-mutt · 4 years ago

Text

And (Working Title)

Mostly unedited here. Probably many mistakes.

Ji-Woo Suzuki was six generations removed from her ancestor Shimazu Nariakira, a galvanizing feudal lord of Japan during the Meiji Restoration. Shimazu Nariakira’s most famous quote was words that Ji-Woo worked to install firmly into her life.

"if we take the initiative, we can dominate; if we do not, we will be dominated."

After years of war, scheming and destructive cajoling, Korea was annexed by Japan in 1910. Korea was considered a part of Japan until the end of WWII and subsequently, the fall of the Japanese Empire in 1945.

During this time, Ji-Woo’s great grandmother, Jeong-Ja was forcibly betrothed. Jeong-Ja (ji-young ja) was eleven years old. Jeong-Ja was arranged to marry Sora Nariakira. Sora abhorred the thought of marrying a Korean woman. Sora, as with most other Japanese people during this time, saw Koreans as second class citizens to the Japanese. In their marriage, Sora took every opportunity to order Jeong-Ja like a slave. One late night, Sora forced himself upon her and Jeong-Ja became pregnant.

A daughter was born, Hina Nariakira. While Korea was under Japanese control, it was initially illegal to change your name. As it were, Koreans that refused to change their names, were unable to enroll in school, receive mail or even receive meal rations. Eventually the colonial bureaucracy allowed the changing of names, and as much as 84% of Koreans changed their names. Speaking the Korean language was banned and Korean newspapers and printing houses were forced to close. Nearly 200,000 ancient and historical documents were burned. Korean youths were volunteered and conscripted into the Japanese army. Shinto shrines were built, and became places of forced worship. Japanese colonial policy became a clear policy of unlimited cultural erasure.

Hina attended school and became a voracious reader and journal keeper. Hina, as a product of her environment, became fluent in both Japanese and Korean. From an early age, it was evident that Hina was highly intelligent. Her vocabulary in both Korean and Japanese quickly surpassed Jeong-Ja’s and Sora’s respectively. Though Sora was quick to forbid speaking Korean in the household, Jeong-Ja taught her in private.

Sora frequently had Hina recite aloud his military orders. If there was ever a word that he didn’t understand, he would strike her. This was a sign to make the order as comprehensive as possible, though his reasoning was always, “Do not waste my time with pointless words!”

Life for Jeong-Ja and Hina was of unceasing malaise. Their only solace was in each other.

From reading Sora’s military orders, Hina became familiar with impending military movements, encampments and strategies. Hina learned of an upcoming landing of US Ships to discuss treaty possibilities. Hina devised a plan in which Jeong-Ja and her would flee their home to seek refuge with the US Navy. Somehow, discovering their plan, Sora attempted to stop the two from fleeing.

In a frenetic haste, Hina jumped on to Sora’s back, holding on to him with an arm around his neck. He drew his Manchukuo manufactured pistol, the Sugiura, and started firing wildly. Hina kept a dull pen-knife for protection and stabbed him three times in the chest, and twice in the neck. In a matter of seconds, Sora had fired every bullet in his pistol, one of which struck Jeong-ja in the head. She died instantly. Hina fled to the US Navy ship, covered in blood and alone.

The Korean peninsula has been in an imperial theater of war since the late 1800s. It remains a strong strategic naval position and is between three of the strongest and most hostile countries; Russia, China and Japan.

Hina found herself as a refugee, aboard a US battle cruiser. From Hina’s journal, we know that while aboard the ship, she was raped multiple times by a Japanese-American Navy captain. Hina became pregnant. Clinton James Suzuki was a rising star among the ranks and arranged his marriage with Hina. He thought that having a baby out of wedlock would be detrimental to his military career. Hesitant, and silently unwilling, Hina agreed to the marriage. Through this, Hina became a US citizen.The wedding was expedited and facilitated onboard the cruiser. As her belly grew, so did her hatred for Clinton Suzuki.

Hina silently imagined his death in whatever setting they found themselves in. If he choked while eating, she wouldn’t save him. If he had fallen overboard, she wouldn’t call for help. If he slipped and fell down the stairs, she would elect to simply walk away. When the two arrived back in the US, there was to be a Navy welcoming parade in port. All of the seamen were to be standing with their wives (if they were married) on the dock as the Navy cruisers came back to port. Though Hina’s husband would have preferred to not be seen with his very young and very pregnant immigrant wife, he thought it would be a great opportunity to rub shoulders with those higher in command.

As the ship was coming into port, the anchor was dropped, and four inch thick mooring lines were lashed from the anchor to the ship to the dock. Hina’s husband was the first one out on the dock behind the commanding officers, hoping that it would impress a lieutenant, admiral or anyone with any sort of authority. She happily let him stand as far away as possible from her.

As the last mooring line was being lashed, a massive and potent rogue wave rocked the ship, and snapped the thick cable. The cable whipped downward and cut him cleanly in half from the right collar bone, down through the groin. His body fell apart like a sliced melon. Hina was silently imagining him drowning in the bay, but she never could have envisioned that. For a second she was stunned, and then started to laugh hysterically. She was finally free.

Hina easily found translator work. Although Hina adhered to strict ideals of frugality, she made enough as a single mother to comfortably support her newborn son Kaito Suzuki. Kaito Suzuki stood an average five foot nine inches. His hair was short, poofy, and straw like. His arms and legs were thin and underdeveloped, though his torso was somehow, rather round. Kaito had a round face, unremitting acne and eyebrows in need of a good trimming. He attended public school. He was unremarkably below average. He found little interest in extracurricular sports and clubs; instead, he spent most of his time skipping class, smoking pot and hanging out with his like-minded friends. After barely graduating high school, Kaito was given an ultimatum, either find work or attend college. In the end, Kaito decided to move out of his mother’s house and found work as a second shift janitor at night and weekend garbage collector.

Kaito Suzuki and Ji-Woo I(the first) first met when she decided to stay late at the commercial real estate office where she worked. Kaito was just starting his shift, starting by collecting the garbage around the office. Ji-Woo I was a quiet, mild mannered individual. She came from a good home and an affluent community. Ji-Woo I was going through a “rebellious” phase and began making a flurry of short-sighted decisions all revolving around Kaito. The two developed addictions to different drugs and made small time scams in order to fund these new habits. Ji-Woo I unexpectedly became pregnant. The night they found out, Kaito grabbed her car keys and said he was going out for cigarettes and never returned. Hina was the only person in the delivery room when the daughter was born. Ji-Woo I was emotionless. She stared emptily at the crying newborn girl. Ji-Woo I looked to Hina in silent disdain. Hina nodded in affirmation. When Ji-Woo I was released from the hospital, Hina drove her to the airport and handed her some money. Neither Hina nor the newborn baby girl ever saw her again.

Hina decided to name the baby Ji-Woo II, after her mother. (Whom despite the situation, actually quite liked.)

As a baby, she cried constantly. Even in sleep, she murmured and wept in unsilence. Ji-Woo would stop crying only momentarily if she were fed pureed sweet potatoes or ripe apricots.

When Ji-Woo was six months old, she stopped breathing for nearly two minutes. Hina panicked, rushed to the emergency room. But by the time Hina arrived at the the hospital and Ji-Woo was breathing again and after that point, Ji-Woo never cried again. It’s as if she were an entirely different baby. Ji-Woo excelled in school and surpassed all of those around her. She had few friends throughout her youth. It wasn’t until her mid twenties when she learned how to simply “get along” with those around her.

Ji-Woo took a master’s degree in Japanese History. Then continued on to get a doctorate in Korean History. After a few bored years of teaching, Ji-Woo left to attend law school.

Everything about Ji-Woo was professional. Her skin was fine, with a healthy touch of melanin. She had high cheekbones and slightly sunken cheeks. A slightly upturned, pointed nose, symmetrical eyebrows. A single asymmetrically placed mole populated her face. She was beautiful. Equally strong and delicate, like the skeletal system of a great predatory bird. Her hair was long, to her lower back, though it was always pulled taut into a perfect braid. She wore simple, gold Tiffany earrings. She purchased them for herself. Ji-Woo’s wardrobe consisted mostly of well-fitting dress suits that obeyed her movements like a harshly conditioned army. There was never a loose thread out of place. Not even so much as a single piece of lint dared to adhere itself to her. She had an athletic, hidden, muscular build that I couldn’t help but to admire.

As a lawyer, Ji-Woo was ruthless. She constructed such pithy arguments, the opposition was often left speechless. And on a few occasions they were left literally stammering. Ever professional, Ji-Woo never showed any form of celebration or elation in victory. She spoke clearly, with seriousness and a dose of harnessed emphasis. Ji-Woo’s days were neither ‘good days’ nor ‘bad days’. She took on the day’s obstacles as if she had rehearsed them wholly the day before (though probably didn’t need it.).

The first time that I saw Ji-Woo Suzuki I was somehow dragged into a meeting of which I had no reason for being in attendance. I was struck by her. Though I prayed I could stay hidden, as a fly on the wall. Ji-Woo Suzuki led a team of class-action specific lawyers. Without ever speaking with her, one would simply assume she was the unquestionable leader. Only after an introduction, Ji-Woo Suzuki would offer to call her “Ji”, as a favor to you. It was not uncommon for people to reply to this offer by thanking her. Though, they were often left deciding whether to continue calling her Ji-Woo out of respect or interpreting her offer as an order. Most people continued to call her Ji-Woo or Ms. Suzuki.

I was staring at her. She was unpacking her case notes. People in the room started conversing. She uncapped a Montblanc rollerball and began to write. Just then, she stopped writing, wrinkled her brow in confusion and looked up directly at me as if to ask, “Who are you, and why are you here?” Her look was sharp, piercing but gentle. A needle and thread.

She looked right through me. And that was the first time I knew,

I was going to marry Ji-Woo Suzuki.

The meeting must have ended. I assumed so because the room had started to clear out. I hadn’t really been paying attention, not that I should have been. I wasn’t even supposed to be there in the first place!

I pretended to collect my things slowly trying to match Ji-Woo’s pace so we could incidentally leave the conference room at the same time. This was quite difficult because I had no belongings to pack up, nor a briefcase to put them in. So I took out my phone from my pocket and pretended to reply to an email. I looked up again and she was already pushing her chair in (when did that happen?!). She moved with intent. I hurriedly shoved my phone into my pocket and jumped up to meet her in the doorway.

“Hi”, I said, giving my best impression of someone far more casual than myself.

Ji looked at me quizzically, replied dryly with “Hello” and continued past me. Just like a fighter-jet breaking the sound barrier, she was gone, leaving only a potent echo. I must’ve blacked out, because the next thing I knew, she was already halfway down the hall. A paper came loose from her briefcase and she didn’t seem to notice.

This

was

chance.

I fast-walked down the hall as coolly as possible, “hey wait!” I called out. But she was already rounding the corner down the hall. I picked up the piece of paper, in perfect cursive writing it read,

I see you, do you see me?

5:00pm

My temple wrinkled in confusion. I looked up again and she was gone. The heart in my chest reminded me of its presence with a mighty thump. I felt myself sweat. Was this meant for me to find? I returned to the copy room and returned to my work.

But all I could think of was one Miss Ji-Woo Suzuki. One moment she was there, and then she was not.

In the periphery,

of where I wanted to be.

I felt invigorated. Anxious and curious.

Piqued.

I got back to the copy room and looked at my digital casio watch, 2:04pm.

My inbox of “to be copied” was now spilling out. I assumed position in front of the plastic, off-white monstrosity.

First, I’ll take the source material in my left hand! Then! I read the copy instructions and made the proper adjustments and number of copies. After the copies were completed I placed a single paper clip on the ream and set it in the pick up box. Organized alphabetically. To most people, the job would seem boring, though I would argue that there are quite a lot of nuances to it. For example: Eighteen copies of pages one through three, six copies of pages four through ten, and that’s an easy one.

A page goes in, the scanning light travels from right to left, and left to right, pages come out. I know the machine inside and out. I know because I have had to take it apart and reassemble it, not without hiccups, of course. I went home that day with a black ink stain on my chest. Like I was blasted by a shotgun, and bled black. The skin on my belly was still stained where the ink and bled through the shirt.

Occasionally pieces of dust or folded paper would cast a shadow on the rest of the page. It caused a ghastly, black, pixelated shadow to print on the copies. Sometimes the shadowed copies were fine to pass along, sometimes, they were better discarded.

At five pm, I stood outside of Ji-Woo’s office. I was nervous to enter. She sat behind a sleek mid-century desk with her legs folded. Her slate gray dress suit and Mac Pro reminded me of a brutalist era sculpture I saw once as a teenager. I didn’t understand the sculpture then, though maybe I do now.

She had nice legs, I absolutely understood that. I caught glimpses of her toned calf muscles through the gap of her desk as I paced as casually as possible in front of the open doorway.

After a few paces back and forth, I heard her call out to me, “You can come in, you know.” I froze. Then somehow came to find myself sitting in the chair across from hers. The desk remained between us. I didn’t know what to say, at that moment, I couldn’t be sure if I knew how to speak.

“I noticed you today in the Carter vs. Amadeo-Hastings meeting.” She said.

“No… I mean, yes, I was there. Just trying to learn what it’s all about.” Do you think she bought it?

“Are you interested in practicing law?”

“Uhm, yeah, interested? Definitely.”

I actually had only worked at the office for about a month. I was still fairly unclear on what business the office conducted, let alone the ‘partners’. Before, I worked at the busiest copy center in Seattle. I got let go after I yelled at a customer, “Stop breaking my shit!” and in my defense, they were going to break the

Konica Minolta c754e! Those things aren’t cheap, and the replacement parts take three weeks to get to the states.

“Would you like to go to dinner with me?” She asked.

I felt a draft in the back of my agape mouth. Ji-Woo liked a breeze in the office. I found that out later that night when she told me at dinner.

We continued to see each other after work every Tuesday and during the day on Saturday. This was when Ji-Woo allowed herself recreational time. I learned a lot about Ji-Woo’s schedule during this initial period of dating. I found her structure and stoicism quite sexy. She made all of the reservations at restaurants. And not just nice restaurants, she even made reservations for tacky hole-in-the-wall places that she knew I would like. A few times she would order for me. Like a mind reader, she would always order exactly what I wanted yet never in a demeaning way. She seemed to know exactly when I wanted to speak for myself and when I was comfortable with her ordering for me.

After about a month, midday on a Friday, she sent me an email. The subject line simply read,

“Tomorrow Night 4/16/2019”

Hi Kentaro,

Please meet me at my house tomorrow night at 6:00pm. We’ll go to dinner. I’ve made reservations at 7:30. Casual attire.

This was more or less the usual date query. Though, interestingly, she signed it at just Ji. Futhermore, she would usually ask to meet at six with reservations about the time it took to get to the restaurant. Surely we weren’t going somewhere that was an hour and a half away.

That night, I was talking to an old friend of mine, Leo, on the phone. I was telling him about Ji-Woo and I. About how I eagerly awaited those Tuesdays and Saturdays. And about the one time I asked her out on a whim on a Friday night. She declined. I was upset for a while. But respected her need for personal space, and strict schedule. “It’s just how she is”.

I told Leo that we hadn’t had sex. “That’s good dude, she’s probably a Sazae Oni” he replied sarcastically. I didn’t understand his reference, but as his tone implied, it was a snide comment I’d best ignore... but didn’t.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked sharply.

“Sa-zae Oh-ni!” He said louder and slower in syllables, as if it were common knowledge. He continued, “They’re these folk tale snail mermaids that preyed on Japanese pirates. They would pretend to be in distress, but when the pirates brought them onboard, the sazae oni would chop off their balls and hold them ransom for gold. They’re like, obsessed with gold or something.” A weird silence filled the phone line as I looked around the room, waiting for him to finish.

He started again, “ok, it doesn’t matter. You’re the Japanese one, should you know what a sazae oni is?”

I held my lips taught, annoyedly.

“Well, is she someone you’d bring home to meet your mother?” He asked me. I thought about this for a while. I imagined a cartoon caricature version of my mother asking me, “Why would you want to be with someone that is so serious all the time?”

Up until this point I had never even seen the inside of her apartment. Whenever I was to meet her there, she would already be outside the gate waiting for me.

That Saturday night I took a cab to her apartment building as I usually did. It started to rain on the way over and fog grew in density the closer I got to the apartment. I didn’t check the forecast beforehand, and I didn’t have an umbrella. I arrived at the gate and Ji-Woo wasn’t around. I checked my phone for any missed messages from her, but there were none.

I buzzed her intercom. “Hi, I’m here. Are you there?”

“Still getting ready, come up.”

She buzzed me in. This was it, I was finally going to see where(and how!) she lived. 6th Floor, apartment 6F. Embarrassingly, I panted a bit when I got to her floor. I stood on her doormat, it said ‘Welcome’. I was slightly damp, everywhere. I wore an old grey knit sweater. I had washed it so many times the collar was getting tiny holes. Faded blue jeans and shabby sneakers. I checked my casio, 6:00pm exactly. “Yes! Perfect timing” I exclaimed silently as I clenched my fist in victory, then knocked on the door insouciantly. “Come in!”, I could hear Ji-Woo shout from behind the door. I opened the door, slowly. I floated in like an astronaut, opening the hatch to an alien planet. I opened it to a small foyer. There was a modern-looking coat rack which I hung my soggy jacket on. To the right was an inviting, lamp-lit living room. There was one of those long arched floor lamps spilling its light on an Eames Lounge chair. I imagined Ji-woo perched on it, with a warm beverage, reading a dense book. Floor to ceiling bookshelves and floor to ceiling windows lined the rest of the room, I realized it was a top floor corner apartment. Black and white photographs and pen drawings hung on the wall. There were blankets draped on the modern couches. It felt uncharacteristically cozy. The furniture all flowed perfectly, like it was a team of designers’ life’s work.

On the left there was another closet. Then further down, it opened up to the dining room. “In here” She shouted, from that direction.

I kicked off my tattered sneakers and the uppers deflated like popped balloons. I took one step toward the kitchen and I was struck with the most extraordinary smell. It was rich, minerally and spicy. I let my nose lead the way.

She stood at the stove. She was wearing a loose knit navy sweater that was well loved and jeans. Her sleeves were pushed up. She was wearing a nice apron. Her hair was pulled back, not in a braid, but in a perfectly round bun.

The dining table was set for two. Plates, silverware, a wine glass for her and a beer glass for me. There were two candles and a decorative bowl. The bowl was filled with some unknown liquid that looked like molten gold. I wanted to stick my finger in it but didn’t.

She turned and saw me, and I saw her. “I didn’t mean that casual.” she said jokingly. Lately she has been making more and more jokes, but only during our dates. It was comfortable, and usually pretty funny.

“It smells so good, what is it?” I said. I walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter by the stove. She leaned over and planted a kiss on my lips. I was so surprised that it was over before I could react. There was a battle in my head between the heavenly smelling food and the thought of the kiss.

“It’s almost ready. Get us drinks from the fridge.” She instructed me. The fridge was filled with different sized glass containers. They all stacked neatly, each with a label of what it was and a date. There was a bottle of white wine and a fancy looking beer with today’s date. I took them from the fridge and opened them. She looked as though she were a professional chef. She moved with tempered urgency and precision. “Budae-Jjigae. Budae is ‘army’ or ‘army base’, jjigae is ‘stew’. It’s a recipe my grandmother taught me... a long time ago.” She stopped what she was doing and looked off into space.

A few seconds later, she regained consciousness from her memory and started to plate the food. It was finished.

It was delicious. It was perfect. It was obvious that Ji-Woo had made this dish many times and was able to recreate it perfectly. “How many other romantic interests had she made this for?” I wondered, but quickly spurned the thought. I wasn’t shy, and got a hearty second helping.

I wiped my mouth and leaned back in my chair, and polished off the last of my beer. I wanted badly to unbutton my pants and relieve the pressure on my waistband. Instead, we got up and cleaned the kitchen together.

Later on, we found each other on the sofa near the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. I was elated. Warm, with a full belly. Calm, sleepy, but present, I closed my eyes and relished.

“Do not fall asleep.”

Ji-Woo instructed me. “I will be right back.” She said.

Insubordinately, I was falling asleep when from down the hall, I heard her call me, “Come here, I need to show you something.” I sleepily approached the room at the end of the hall. A bedroom. As I got closer to the doorway, I could see a mirror’s reflection in the bedroom. It truly was a bed-room. A queen size mattress and two small side tables with lamps were the only furniture. Warm, golden light spilled out of the bedside lamps that reflected off the polished hardwood floors and floor-to-ceiling mirrors. A single, brand new candle was lit on the nightstand. But there was no lighter or matches anywhere. How was it lit?

Ji-Woo lay on the bed, one leg crossed over the other. Her right arm supported her posture. Her hair was down. It was now I could fully realize the length and volume of her hair. It flowed down her back and fanned out perfectly behind her like a ginkgo leaf. The low lighting in the room accented her dark makeup. Her eyeshadow shimmered subtly.

She was wearing a lacy bodysuit of lingerie so scant, it could hardly be described as clothing. A lacy and delicate fabric choker connected to thin straps perfectly obfuscated her nipples. Ethereal panties suspend a pair of elegant garters. The fabric adhered to her slender, toned body as if it were made custom.

She eyed me fervently,

And I was very awake then.

After it was over I felt euphoric and peaceful,

Unburdened.

I turned over, towards her in bed.

I put my head on her chest.

And I heard nothing.

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