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moss-sauce · 3 years

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HEY i really like northstars and, by default, this includes viper’s gal. so i wrote about him and her. this is pure angst :)

AO3 link

The Draconis collides with the ground in no gentle manner.

Metal screeches as it is rendered and wrenched out of position, bent in impossible ways. The sound of glass breaking. The hull collapses, letting out a groan as boulders and trees rip into it like paper.

Viper does his best to hold on.

Holding on is hard to do with one arm and a damaged torso.

Finally, the Draconis rumbles to a stop. He’s thrown forward as inertia carries him, sliding off the ship’s top and landing hard and ungraciously onto the disturbed dirt below.

It takes him a moment to regain his senses. His feed is overwhelmed-- errors reporting his missing limb; multiple bullet wounds in his torso, shredding the delicate mechanics inside; severe trauma to his head. He tries to move, but his body refuses, at first.

Viper is not going to lay here and die.

With renewed strength, he drags himself away from the fiery wreckage with his remaining arm. His legs, at least, seem to be intact, and he uses them to push himself forward as best he can. Once he deems himself safe a fair distance away from the downed ship, he rests.

The remnants of the Draconis remind him of a downed bird. No more wings to fly. Doomed to her end on the ground below.

His mind snaps to his Titan.

He does not know where his Titan is. He hasn’t undergone the trauma of the Link breaking, so he knows his Northstar is still kicking in some manner. Like him, she is resilient. A force that will not be stopped so easily.

“Fang,” he coughs feebly. He hates how weak he sounds. “Fang, do you copy?”

Fang’s end of the comm link fizzes in his helmet. The HUD scrolls warnings and errors alike in an unending stream. TITAN - CRITICALLY DAMAGED. RECOMMEND STRATEGIC RETREAT. PROTOCOL 3.

“Fang!” he barks. “Report!”

Through the static, he vaguely hears her.

“-rror...critical d-damage…-ystems-s failing-g…”

She does not sound good, he decides.

“Protocol 3, Fang.” He hates to use the Protocol to force her into moving to find him, but it is necessary. “I am by the wreckage of the Draconis. Locate me.”

Trusting that the command had gone through, he slumps. The sudden weight of what has happened presses down on him. The other Apex Predators are dead. Any left alive probably think he’s dead. It’s a surprise he survived the landing.

Nobody would come looking for a dead man.

Would he rather Blisk know he’s alive, after failing?

He decides against contacting the man.

All the fight ebbs out of his body. He wants to sleep for a decade. He wants Fang to be alright. He wants to forget today.

Would he have been better off dead?

He snaps his head, shaking the thought out. Viper is not one to give up. A bad day is nothing to lament over. There will be time to reunite and repair, then to go charging back in with the same prowess he knows he has.

And so, he waits.

The star illuminating Typhon starts to hide behind the horizon. The shadows grow longer, reaching and crawling across the landscape before him. The wreckage still crackles and pops, fires refusing to die out with such ample supply of fuel.

With the sinking of the star brings the rising of wildlife. He hears things in the forest behind him. Twigs breaking underfoot. The birds have gone eerily silent. His mind supplies him with an endless barrage of worst-case scenarios.

Maybe a Prowler finds you, and mauls you.

Perhaps a Flyer takes interest in you and carries you off.

He wishes he could quell it. It does no good to him to fret like this.

He pointedly focuses on something else.

Something thumps on the other side of the wreckage. It startles him, making him jolt and whip his head around. Even through the cracked HUD, he can see things approaching on the radar.

Viper would rather not be ultimately killed by wildlife. He deserves an honorable and proud death.

Slowly yet furiously, he drags himself back to the wreckage of the Draconis. Maybe the flames would startle off any curious eyes. If he hides, Prowlers surely wouldn’t expend the energy to dig him out. Flyers have to be afraid of fire, right? They wouldn’t attack an already-downed airship.

Whatever it may be, it lumbers closer. Heavy footsteps that rumble the ground as it nears. He tried to identify it as Fang, but her tracker systems have been shot offline.

While he hopes it is Fang, he braces for the worst, hunkering back under twisted metal as the footsteps round the Draconis.

“Pilot?”

The relief slams through him harshly. It shuts down his thoughts. He stubbornly holds back a whimper.

“Fang,” he croaks. Her stark silhouette comes into view.

She is most certainly worse for wear.

She leans on one leg heavily. He can see the struts bent on the other. Her chassis is riddled with bullet holes from both the damned Pilot’s and their Titan’s guns. Her shoulders and optic spark erratically, spitting orange particles that hazily fall to the ground and die out. Her optic blinks, fritzing. Fang shakes her head to stop it, or to at least try. She is unarmed.

“Oh, Fang…” he laments.

“Pilot-t Viper. Sta-ate your c-condition.”

“Don’t worry about me right now,” he huffs. “I’ll be alright.”

“Protocol-col 3 demands th-that I ensure your s-safety, Pilot. That is-s my top priority r-right now.”

“Forget about the fuckin’ Protocol,” he spits.

“There is-s no Protocol-l for--”

“Fang!” he begs. “Take things seriously here. We’re both on our last legs.”

“Cor-r-rection,” she warbles. “I am techni-c-caly on both pedes.”

Viper lets out a delirious, frustrated sound. His Titan is barely standing and she is still quipping to him to keep him comforted.

“What do we do?” he mumbles quietly. “We’re left for dead. Nobody is going to come looking for us. We’re stranded. Abandoned.”

“Still, w-we are not hopeless-less, Pilot.”

Anger hits him like a punch. Would he rather Fang be as pessimistic as he? He holds back.

“Typhon is heav-vily populated by IMC b-bases,” Fang continues. “It is entirely-ly possible we c-could locate one.”

“Yeah? And what?” he says. “I highly doubt they’re going to take us in if we’ve already failed them.”

Fang is silent.

“What the everloving fuck can we possibly do, here?” he bellows. “We failed! We can’t even die when we’re supposed to! If Blisk finds out we didn’t die, he’s probably going to finish the job himself!”

“I have contacted-d Kuben Blisk-k, Pilot.”

His mind blanks. “You what?”

“I have acquired con-tact with th-the foreman of-f the Apex Predators-s.”

“Why?!” He can’t help but scream. “You gave him our location?”

“Af-f-firmativ-ve.”

He throws himself back against the jagged metal behind him in a fit of rage. His remaining fist balls up and slams into the dirt with a feeble, barely-audible thump. He kicks his legs angrily. “You fucker!” he snarls. “Protocol 3 includes not signaling the only motherfucker that would be the most enraged about our failure! And you’re leading him right to us!”

“Pilot,” Fang sounds reluctant, hurt. “I am doing-g what is b-best for you. Your survi-vial is my priority.”

“You just did the exact opposite of making sure I survive,” he growls. He rips the helmet off his head and throws it at the Northstar, missing by a great distance. Still, Fang flinches, accidentally leaning on the wrecked leg and nearly collapsing. “Leave.”

Fang recoils.

“Pilot--”

“You damn well heard me,” he says. He makes eye contact with her. “Get the fuck outta here.”

Hesitating, Fang shifts from foot to foot. She hangs her head sadly, optic locked on the ground in front of him. “That would-d be dis-disobeying Protocol 3.”

“You’ve already gone and done that,” he responds coldly. “You’ve basically killed us both. Go.”

Quietly, Fang gives him one last desperate glance, only to find that Viper is pointedly avoiding her gaze. He hears her vocalizer spit out some semblance of a whimper as she turns away. He listens as she stumbles to the other side of the ship’s wreckage, settling down as quietly as she can with a lame leg and off-kilter systems.

Immediately, he deflates. His head thumps back against the metal. All the anger fizzles out and leaves him despaired and hopeless.

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He should not have taken his anger and fear out on his Titan. As she said, she is acting in his best interest. She may not understand that Blisk would want him dead. To her, she is contacting an ally for rescue, even if it turns out to be the exact opposite.

Suddenly alone, he feels exposed, even hiding in the wreckage. He knows Fang’s coding would prevent her from going too far--she sounds like she stopped on the other side of the wreckage.

The facade of bravado and skill falters, leaving behind a fearful, distraught husk of...something.

He chooses to not name it.

He has effectively clipped the wings of a once free-flying bird.

#viper #titanfall 2 #titanfall viper #i need a titanfall tag

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philliamwrites · 4 years

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La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Fandom: The Case Study of Vanitas (Mochizuki Jun)

Pairing: Noé/Vanitas

Tags: #vanitas pines for noé, #implied/referenced past rape/non-con, #implied/referenced past childe abuse, #blood and unjury, #angst and feels, #forehead kisses

Words: 3.7k

Summary: Vanitas can’t sleep so he does the only other thing he’s good at besides curing vampires from the curse: harass Noé. It escalates royally and doesn’t end good. No one is surprised.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Moonlight casts slim, silver lines on Noé’s face.

Sitting on the windowsill, Vanitas can see the slow and steady rise of Noé’s chest, a constant rhythm speaking of life. How he has survived until today is still a wonder to Vanitas. Only a few feet separate him from the sleeping, defenceless body—a body he knows all too well capable of pulling tense like a bowstring when ready to strike; an animal equipped with lethal tools to hunt and destroy. But Noé is a paradox of black and white, a pacifist at heart that opens up too easily, too quick. Why else would he be interested in someone like Vanitas?

Their conversation at the top of the bell tower is still ringing all too clear in his head, a memory he’d rather strip from his mind and drop in the deepest part of a vicious, dark sea. Noé is dangerous, because unbeknown to himself, he has worked a strange magic on Vanitas, pulling at invisible chains curling around his neck however Noé pleases. If Vanitas didn’t know better, he’d call it Fate, but she has abandoned him long ago to suddenly return like a sullen lover and beg him for companionship.

“Louis,” Noé murmurs, drawing back Vanitas’s attention, and no, he isn’t jealous, not in the slightest. He just wants to reach inside Noé’s mouth and rip that name out of him. He hates that even though Noé is easy to read like an open book, it turns out its pages are filled with enigmas Vanitas is unable to solve.

A little huff escapes him as he slides down the windowsill, his feet landing eerily quiet on the floor. Watching Noé snore undisturbed, he’s quite sure he’s met what must be the worst vampire of his kind. What else explains his utter lack of awareness of danger? Vanitas imagines slipping right next to him and sliding a dagger across his throat or put the barrel right above his heart, pulling the trigger.

He’s so easy, Vanitas thinks, barely holding back a scoff. In so many ways.

Noé shifts, and Vanitas stops, only noticing then he’s already crossed the room and has almost reached Noé’s bedside. And that’s another thing he can’t stand about Noé: He makes Vanitas do things impulsively, barely spending another thought if what he’s about to do is beneficial or utterly disastrous—no matter that, in most cases he is already moving, already talking, and it’s so aggravating that 80 percent of what he’s saying in a sentence starts or ends with Noé’s name on his lips. Like a blessing, like a prayer. Vanitas doesn’t pray, not anymore. He’s stopped long ago, and no God, Saint or Martyr’s promise of benediction would be enough for a reward to make him resume.

So they punish him, and surely Noé is just another part of what they hold in store for him. Another explanation isn’t possible, because why of all nights in which he has visited Noé, this time he wakes up, his warning only a little hum before Vanitas is met with a sleepy face and white hair adorably ruffled.

No, not adorable, he tells himself. Terrible. Annoying.

“Vanitas?” Noé’s voice is rough on the edges and thick with sleep. “You can’t sleep?”

Vanitas feels challenged to say, “No, watching people sleep is one of my many exotic hobbies!” but he’s tired and sort of really desperate for some form of rest, so defeated, he admits, “No, I can’t.”

Noé considers him with more regard, and Vanitas wonders what he thinks, watching him stand in his room, barefoot and with deep shadows under his eyes. Just the previous day, he'd commented that Vanitas wasn’t looking well at all, and he'd asked if they should rest for a while. Vanitas had pressed on even harder, refusing Noé another good look at his battered form.

The silence stretches before them like a lazy beast, unmoving but still ready to pounce any second. Eventually, Noé offers with a carefully even voice, “Do you want to know what always helped me falling asleep when I was a child?”

Vanitas scoffs. “No, I really don’t.”

“Good,” Noé says, either not noticing or ignoring Vanitas rolling his eyes. “Whenever I couldn’t fall asleep, I’d go to Domi’s room and climb into her bed. Knowing someone was beside me helped, and I can sleep much better with someone warm next to me.”

“My, do I look like a ten year old boy, barely able to fend for myself that I need to share my bed with someone?” Vanitas cocks his head to the side, squinting at Noé from under his black lashes. “And who would want to lie next to a rough sleeper like you, ending up as a body pillow for your serving!”

Noé arches a slim, white eyebrow and lifts his blanket. Vanitas stares at him for a moment, then moves towards him like a moth to the flame and crawls under the sheets, settling right next to the other boy. “What a splendid idea!” no one says, because it isn’t.

Noé is a furnace beside him. Whatever space Vanitas tries to bring between them, he immediately bridges, pressing his arm against Vanitas’s.

“Dominique is going to kill me if she hears about this,” he murmurs into the darkness, ignoring how Noé’s calf feels against his bare ankle. “If you so much as mention it to her, I will haunt you down and slay you.”

Noé hums as he turns around to face him, snuggling into the blanket. Vanitas tries to lie as still as possible. He imagines he is a rock at the bottom of a vast sea where he’s been for hundreds of years and will remain for another hundreds of years. It works until he feels Noé’s warm breath ghost over his cheek and in his imagination, Vanitas sees the rock carried away with the water current.

“She won’t bother,” Noé says. “Like I said, we used to do that all the time as kids. Me, Domi and—” The sudden silence feels like the air sucked out of the room so no sound can travel. Vanitas can feel his shoulders tense, his breath caught somewhere on the way from his lungs to his mouth.

Don’t say Louis, don’t say Louis, he thinks.

“And Louis,” Noé finishes quietly, another breath on Vanitas’s skin.

“Then we must be talking about a different Dominique,” Vanitas says, not indulging at all in the boy that’s written in blood on Noé’s tongue and hands. “But then again, you are her favourite thing, and she would do anything for you. Do me one favour, would you? Don’t invite me to your wedding.”

Noé makes a strange, curious sound, and draws his knees up to his chest. Vanitas tries to accommodate by moving further towards the edge but half of his body is already hanging off, barely covered by the blanket. He shivers and turns to his side, now facing Noé and notices too late what a terrible idea that is with only a few inches separating their faces. His eyes shift from Noé’s ears to his cheekbones and focus on where his lashes throw dark shadows on his skin.

“Wedding?” Noé blinks up at him. “Me and Domi? What makes you think that we would marry?”

“What makes you think you won’t?”

“Dominique is like a sister to me.” Noé hums another little, low note, leaning his head forward. Vanitas leans back. “No, she is the sister I always wished for. I love her as family.”

“Why, go and break her heart like that.” Vanitas sighs, faking a concerned huff. Either the soft fabric just under the tip of his fingers is his own coat or Noé’s pyjama, and he doesn’t dare moving to find out. “Or maybe you’re actually naive enough to believe she feels the same way.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” He can practically hear the other boy frowning. “I’m certain she too loves me as a brother. And should she ever decide to marry, I’ll surely be sad, but it doesn’t matter as long as she’s happy. I just know she’ll be a beautiful bride.”

Vanitas rolls his eyes, unable to believe such gullibility and there’s nothing he wants to do more than claw his way into Noé’s heart and see what makes him tick like that, what mechanics work to produce such a strange specimen like him. But before he can give back a snark remark, Noé suddenly asks, “What about you?”

“Oh, I would make a lovely bride, thank you for asking.”

“No, I mean marriage,” Noé says after a poorly restrained chuckle. “Are you considering to marry Jeanne?”

Vanitas’s mouth forms a little ‘o’ before he barks out a laugh. “What in Heaven’s sake makes you think that?” he says, pressing one hand against his forehead because surely whatever Noé comes up with now will give him the headache that’s asserted itself within him since their first encounter.

Noé is quiet for a moment, then whispers, “Because you love her.”

Vanitas stops laughing. The headache doesn’t come, it’s dulled by the strange tone in Noé’s voice, one he fails to identify. It’s like grabbing mist, the whitish mystery clearly visible but slipping through his fingers.

“That is a very strong assumption,” he starts slowly, hearing the edge in his own voice. “But tell me, Noé, do you see me as someone who is capable of loving?” Noé’s breath hitches, his answer clear to Vanitas before even spoken, so quickly, and with a voice dark and hard, like late-winter ice, he adds, “A vampire of all things?”

Noé’s breath hitches again, this time sounding like a knife stabbed into his side. It does something funny to Vanitas, makes his heart jump a little out of tact, and he feels a smile slowly forming his lips into a crooked line. His hand sneaks up from under the blanket and reaches to grab a white lock, playing a contrast of black and white between his gloved fingers.

“I don’t love, Noé,” he whispers, pushing his cheek into the pillow that smells of Noé. “Not you, not Jeanne. Not humans, and certainly not vampires. I only consume those of value to my cause.” Like you. Like Jeanne and that boy she holds so dear.

Noé seems to understand, but he doesn’t pull away from Vanitas’s touch, which speaks volumes of whatever this connection between them is. No, he slightly turns his head, nuzzling into Vanitas’s hand, and with a shudder Vanitas realises how vulnerable the inside of his wrist is just inches away from Noé’s mouth and those hidden teeth that can easily rip apart his skin.

In this short moment he begs to whatever deities currently punishing him that he would bite him. Because then everything would easily fall into place, and he could kill Noé without second thought; without remorse.

Silver lines return to Noé’s face, and Vanitas blinks up at the window, at the narrow slit showing the moon emerging behind thick clouds, making Noé look like a piece torn out of the night sky: silver and black.

“Ah, but it seems there is someone else who adores you,” he says, his voice rising to a playful, ironic tint. He nods his chin towards the moon, and Noé turns around and away from Vanitas’s hand, blinking into the soft light. Just for a split second, his fingers twitch—toward Noé’s throat, his cheek, his lips?—but he already pulls it back under the blanket, still feeling exactly where Noé has touched him even through the thick fabric of his glove.

“La lune?” Noé turns back to Vanitas, brows drawn together.

“Yes, the very one. But I don’t recommend giving into it. You can only go so far on a roof after all before you reach the end.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know the story? About the man falling in love with the moon. He climbed up to a roof to reach her, but well. I think you can imagine the end of that.”

“It sounds like the moon is a harsh mistress,” Noé says slowly, surprising Vanitas in joining his antics, even following his train of thought. “La belle dame sans merci,” he whispers. “Then you two aren’t so different.”

Vanitas raises an eyebrow. “Beg your pardon?”

“Just as distant,” he says, shifting away from Vanitas for the first time. Good, Vanitas should think. Stay away from me. But instead he goes rigid and demands, Don’t go. “Just as out of reach.”

“Thank you, I try to keep things interesting,” Vanitas says, his voice hollow.

Noé surprises him (there it is again, being surprised when Vanitas has sworn that he’ll never underestimate another person ever again) by giving a soft chuckle. “But that makes me want to get closer to you even more, Vanitas.”

His mouth goes dry. His brain tries to follow up with whatever might rebuilt the wall between them, brick by brick, but instead his mind betrays him and takes over his mouth, babbling, “Did you know Alain Chartier wrote the poem about the merciless belle dame? It’s a little tacky to my taste, but then again, I wouldn’t beg anyone for their adoration. It’s a silly concept, the dialogue between the Lover and the Lady, I mean why would anyone ride out to enjoy a party, only to languish at the feet of—”

Noé groans. He stops the onslaught of words by slapping a hand on Vanitas’s mouth. The sudden silence stretches into uncomfortable territory until Vanitas can’t bear it anymore. He stares at Noé out from the corner of his eyes, and parts his lips to drag his tongue over Noé’s fingers. Noé flinches, and looks back at him with wide eyes. What usually did the trick to gross people out (Dante for example was fairly familiar with this concept and never failed to meet Vanitas’s expectations to draw away quickly) doesn’t work on Noé. He remains transfixed on Vanitas’s face as if all secrets of the universe display on his features, and Vanitas starts to questions his action. Suddenly, Noé shifts. He props himself on one elbow and leans over him, casting a long shadow over his upper body.

Just then, Vanitas realises what a dangerous situation he’s in. Up until this moment, he thought Noé to be shy, but that isn’t right at all. Noé is quiet resolve, and steadfast loyalty, he is the very silence ready to pounce and turn peace into havoc. It’s evident in how he watches Vanitas behind half closed eyes, those ruby mirrors considering him with an unreadable expression. His heart picks up, and before he can ascertain if this is a game he can win, he answers with sultry eyes himself, and mouths “Kiss me” against Noé’s skin.

It’s just out of curiosity, he tells himself. He wants to rile Noé up a little, see how far he can go and where he draws the line. Maybe Noé won’t do a thing and play the blushing maiden Vanitas imagines him to be. They both know it’s a dare Noé will lose because he respects Vanitas’s boundaries too much, and that little victory satisfies him already enough to smile into Noé’s hand triumphantly.

Noé considers him with a blank expression before his eyes slowly drift to his hand where it’s still secured over Vanitas’s mouth. Something changes in his eyes, they grow soft, and Vanitas immediately regrets what he’s done because he can’t bear the warmth in them, the unspoken promise of whatever Noé is willing to give him. He thinks about squirming out of the boy's touch, but he’s started moving his hand already, settling on Vanitas’s eyes. His heart stops. Rotten memories claw at the edge of his mind, hungry hyenas demanding blood and misery that this kind of darkness brings. Before he can lash out and push Noé away, soft moon light illuminates the darkness behind his closed eyes again, and he takes a deep, shaky breath, only now noticing that he’s stopped breathing. His eyes snap open, locking with Noé’s as he brushes black bangs out of Vanitas’s face. The moon shines a halo around Noé when he leans down and kisses his forehead.

It’s perfect.

Vanitas hates it.

He doesn’t move.

Noé’s lips are surprisingly soft. So is his smell, a faint fragrance of sandalwood with the sharp tint of clove and something coppery hidden under the layers, and there’s nothing better to describe it than home. The realisation cuts him in a sharp, painful flash, one that robs him of the air he’s only just now regained. Noé is careful that no other part of their bodies is touching, and it’s the last act of kindness that pushes something in him into a bottomless, black hole.

His fingers splay on Noé’s chest as he pushes him away, staring up into a slightly flushed face. The blushing maiden. Despite everything, it makes Vanitas smile.

“You live dangerous, my friend,” he murmurs, playing with a shirt button close to Noé’s collarbones. “But I will condone it this once. It seems I forgot one gets burned when playing with fire.”

Noé leans back, one hand beside Vanitas’s head carrying his weight, contemplating. Vanitas already knows whatever he’s going to say, it won’t be good.

“I never thought of you as someone who would yield to anything,” Noé says eventually. “Not even fire.” And quieter, he adds, “Ignis aurom probat.” Fire tests gold.

A shudder ripples through Vanitas’s body, stealing his control and causing him to laugh involuntarily because he doesn’t see himself as pure as gold, and Noé is so much more than a simple fire. Noé is a searing blaze, devastating cities and forests and leaving ashes of their self, allowing them to rebuild and regrow and turn away from an unwanted past. Vanitas would gladly sell his soul for such an opportunity, but he’s shackled by the shadow of a little boy half his height with a sweet voice and eyes the fairest blue even the sky envies.

“You’re quite the charmer, but you do know what they say about gold, don’t you?”

Noé hesitates, shifting a little, and even Vanitas with the little imagination that he has, can quite clearly picture how the muscles must shift beneath Noé’s dark skin on his back. He closes his eyes and breathes through his mouth. “Gold gives to the ugliest thing a certain charming air, For that without it were else a miserable affair.”

Noé pales. “I didn’t mean—”

“Shhh.” Vanitas smiles a smile Lucifer must have worn just seconds before God banished him from Heaven. His eyes don’t leave Noé for a second when he lifts a finger and presses it against Noé’s lips.

“I know, you didn’t mean to.” He rolls his eyes, voice in a mocking tone imitating what Noé was going to say because he’s easily predictable. “And you would never hurt me. But that makes us different. Because I will gladly hurt you if you let me.” He follows the soft curve of Noé’s lower lip with the tip of his finger until he reaches the corner of his mouth. There he curls his finger inside and pulls one side into a crooked smile. A sharp tooth grazes his skin, not quiet enough to break it, but a shiver travels down his back nonetheless.

Noé pulls Vanitas’s hand away from his face, looking down at him like he’s a strange animal he’s never seen before. A dull sadness settles over his eyes, but it’s too quick for Vanitas to really acknowledge.

“Not gold then,” Noé concludes with resolution in his voice. “But quicksilver.” And with that, he places Vanitas’s hand carefully back on his chest, and retreats to his side of the bed, laying down so Vanitas is faced with his broad back, his body completely turned towards the moon.

Vanitas blinks, stretching out one hand to follow the curve of Noé’s spine in the air with a finger, imagining what it would feel like to curl against this strong body and hold onto something what won’t break under his touch. He stays like that until he hears calm, deep breathing. Only then he lifts that same finger that’s been inside Noé’s mouth to his lips and sucks slowly until his mind talks him into believing it’s actually Noé he tastes.

I don’t love, he repeats over and over in his head until his eyes fall close and he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning starts just like Vanitas has always feared a morning sleeping beside another body would go. Waking up slowly to a woman’s voice in the far distance, he’s still walking on this slim line between sleeping and waking, a coma really, when his conscience registers a heavy arm around his waist and warm breath in his neck. His body locks up into one painful, tense muscle; all desperate instinct and frightened awareness because No, I don’t want Doctor to touch me, and he starts frantically scrabbling for the dagger below his pillow only to find nothing. Vanitas feels punched back to when he’s eleven and caged under Moreau’s heavy, naked body, a choked whimper like a wounded animal leaving his mouth. The arm moves, allowing the tiniest leeway. Vanitas doesn’t think. He swings his arm as hard as he can and hears the satisfying crack of a bone breaking. The man beside him gives a surprised shout, and Vanitas jumps to his feet, ready to break more than bones as the door crashes open at the same time, a woman storming inside.

“Noé?” Dominique cries, taking in how he's bent forward on the bed, holding his face. It doesn’t stop the blood dripping all over the white sheets, and Vanitas grows cold when her sharp eyes land on him, a furious hate boiling inside them. “What have you done, human?” she hisses, reaching Noé’s hunched form within few steps.

Vanitas is lost for words, a quite frequent reaction whenever he’s in Noé’s proximity. But it isn’t like anything he’ll say can excuse or save him from Dominique’s wrath, so he just stands there, dumbfounded, and watches her valuate the graveness of Noé’s broken nose, wondering if the man who’s fallen off the roof in the pursuit of his love lost as much blood as Noé right now and if that was worthwhile, or if he’d have rather poisoned himself with quicksilver.

Not that it matters.

Both end in a painful, slow death.

I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci Thee hath in thrall!’

[John Keats]

#philliamwrites #ap3 #fanfiction #the case study of vanitas #vanitas no carte #vannoe #vanitas #noe

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gagmebucky · 5 years

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my first steve fic... don’t drag me about the characterization please i did my BEST and that’s all the matters, really 😌

[boxer!steve. size kink. doll.]

His jaw ticks. “It’s not a challenge, doll,” he bites out. “It’s a warning. If I tried to get inside you, I’d split you in half in the process.” His eyes flicker down, and your nipples are pebbles against the thin, easily-rippable fabric—you’re testing him, and he’s failing. “Goddamn it,” he hisses underneath his breath. “That - that shouldn’t turn you on.” Bristling, he drops his hand and pedals backward—he’s on his last thread, and it’s his sole chance to make a clear-headed decision.

in which steve can’t resist what he feels for you. (includes boxer!steve x coach’s-daughter!reader, steve’s pov, dirty talk, mild choking, size kink, grinding, unprotected sex, creampie kink, overstimulation.)

—

Steve Rogers has impeccable self control. He knows how to control his emotions, to maintain a clear head amid the mist of commotion, to command his body to follow his head and not the violent, primal instincts that prickle underneath his skin.

And despite the lifelong effort required to uphold this principle, he’s found great fortune in the endeavor. Most don’t realize it, but in his occupation, there’s a certain level of restraint necessary in order to be successful. He has experienced it on both ends so he’s aware of just how important it is.

Growing up, he hadn’t known better. In the numerous instances where he’d been provoked and pushed, he gave in; consequently, suffering gravelly. Knuckles split, bones broken and face bloodied, his anger got the better of him, and his opponents always got the benefit.

But that’s where your father came in, and showed him the way to fight back and win every time, to redirect his mania into his fists and funnel them in tactful blows that resulted in trophy after trophy. Once Steve learned how to do that, everything became a breeze. It’s more than a combat style but a way of living.

Ultimately, he gets what he wants because he can make logic-based decisions and utilize his visceral drive in executing them. And a wallet fat with unmatched winnings, a house for his family and a luxurious apartment of his own, his name on the lips of the masses, it’s a fucking amazing life—for the most part, anyway.

Except for the one part: you.

The problem with self control, he has come to realize, is that when he truly desires something, he sees the cons of that thing. Usually, if it outweighs the pros, he’ll stop it before it begins. However, in the case of you, that formula isn’t working like it’s supposed to.

You see, he knows he can’t have you, and he knows why. You are the daughter of his mentor, the only child of the single reason that he’s evolved into the East Coast’s Golden Glove Champion three times in a row, and pursuing you is beyond disrespectful.

So why the fuck can’t he get you out of his head?

That’s what he keeps asking himself. Another glorious win, and it won’t stop rattling inside his skull like a hammer on a gong. The crowd is chanting his name but yours is beating a tattoo inside his rib cage. The post-win rush surges through his veins and hits harder than any blows he’s ever received but spotting the proud tilt of your lips amongst the masses is like punch from God themself.

His clean-shaven jaw locks as the referee lifts his right arm and everyone goes wild, losing your face in the fanfare. This is the part where he basks in it, where he loses himself in the victory of sweat and blood slick across his skin; money and recognition, a reminder of the advantages of self-discipline; his reward of what he gets when he uses his brain and not the urges that prickle underneath his skin.

This time, however, it’s not as gratifying as it’s supposed to be. No, it’s fucking agitating because instead of being the thing that gets him what he wants, it’s the obstacle in his way.

He can’t pin-point exactly why the desire is striking him this intensely but he suspects it has something to do with the fact that you’ve just returned after a while, and your father is still gone—which means you’ll be upstairs in the gym’s apartment, alone, when he comes to see you (and he will come and see you, what’s the quote about looking and not touching?).

The tension in his muscles advises his better judgement not to. The wild thump thump thump of his heart to the tune of your name dictates he find some other not-forbidden girl to release the mania coiled inside him before he does; that, it’s not like you’d mind he greet you in the morning—in fact, you’d understand.

Except, he feels like a live wire right now, and there’s a pull inside him that feels like you’re the only thing that can fray his edges back into stability.

You’re on the counter when he walks in. Barefoot, you’re kneeling on the flat surface to reach a high shelf in one of the kitchen’s cabinets. One arm stretched above your head, you blindly search for the contents for a cup, palm slapping against wood as you do. After seconds of failure, a cutely disgruntled noise leaves your throat, and you shuffle up to your toes.

For a moment, he’s entranced by the display. A smile quirks the corner of his lips, running his gaze down the outline of your figure. Adorned in a tank top and ass-hugging jeans, there’s not a flaw in sight; other than his hands not on you, exploring every inch, crushing your body against his. Oh, that and you’re about to fall.

“Oomph!” expels in a feminine grunt when you flail backwards and collide with the cushion of his embrace. His forearm hooks around your waist like an anchor and packs you against his chest before gently sliding you down his body to the safety of the ground. In doing so, momentarily, he’s caught up in how you feel against him, your back huddled into his front like puzzle pieces.

Everything about him is big, and it occurs to him that everything about you is small. His herculean stature dwarfs yours: six-foot of towering strength versus your soft, shorter frame. You barely require an ounce of strength to be lifted, and his blood rushes to his lower region with what he can do with that knowledge.

Subconsciously, he tightens his hold until you tilt your head back to blink up at him with those enamoring big eyes. With that, he snaps out of his daze and relinquishes you with a quiet, “Sorry.” Before you can respond, he reaches beyond to grab the item of your desire and hands it over.

Your lashes flutter. “Thanks, killer,” you breathe cheekily as you accept it, the delayed rise and fall of your decolletage slowly regulating. You step out of his space. leaving him cold in your wake, and pad over to the sink with your back to him. “You did good out there, by the way.”

At the praise, his smile restores, and he inches toward you. “Just good?” he echoes after you’ve turned the faucet on and off and crosses his arms in faux offense.

Lips curled around a drink of water, you whirl around and finish a swig. Droplets glisten on your Cupid’s bow, and he swears you’re doing this on purpose when your pink tongue licks the liquid clean. “Do you really need little ‘ole me feeding your ego?” you tease and lean against the counter.

“You are little,” he agrees with a perfunctory nod.

You roll your eyes playfully and set the half-full cup down. “No. You - you’re just huge.” You gesture pointedly at his broad, muscle-laden build; dragging your stare down his squared shoulders to his defined abdomen to the tree trunks he has for thighs. An airy quality lingers in your voice, almost high pitched, as you add, “I don’t understand how your competitors don’t go running for the hills when they see you.”

Taking another stride forth, head cocking, he observes you. There’s something in your expression he can’t quite explain but it pumps confidence into his blood. He glances at himself, white under armor t-shirt and gray sweats, but there’s no downplaying the physical strength he possesses. “You think I’m intimidating?”

You scoff and shake your head vehemently. “To other people, yeah. Me? Not so much.” A devious grin curves into those alluring lips of yours, and you straighten against the counter (not that it helped any with the height difference). “I could take you better than any of those losers you’ve gone against.”

He laughs, husky and genuine. “Oh? Is that what you think?”

You stand your ground and encroach upon him, stabbing a finger into his chest. “It’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Alarm bells ring between his ears, but he’s too lost in the beautiful arrogance on your face to listen. “Okay,” he says then backs up to the middle of the room where space is more ample and beckons you over with both hands. “C’mon then.”

As he expected, you don’t back down. You smooth your hand through your hair and kick off the bottom cupboard. Rolling your shoulder, you enter his orbit; a friendly competitiveness gleams in your dilated pupils, darkening enough for him to notice beneath the kitchen’s warm-toned luminences.

Your stance is nothing less than perfection (much like the rest of you). Orthodox, you project your right side but spread your weight evenly through both legs; a smidge wider than your shoulders, you bounce on the balls of your feet. Hands in a loose fist, your elbows are drawn together, and your chin tucks, looking up at him through your knitted eyebrows.

There’s no question about your combative ability but his just more developed—given this is what he does for a living—so while you’re fast and your punches twist like it comes straight out of the textbook, he has the upper hand.

In a half-hearted demeanor, he humors you. For a moment, the both of you encircle each other, him with a suppressed smile, you with concentrated brows. Like lightning, you advance on him and push through a superlative jab. But as quick as you are, he’s quicker.

Deftly dodging your knuckles, he catches your dainty wrist. A squeal escapes your throat as he wrenches it behind your lower back. The swift action draws your body against his once again; the dull ridges of your back molds so close to his front that he knows you can feel the hammer of his heart beating an imprint between your shoulder blades.

You wiggle briefly, and he has to bite down on a groan at the faint jean vibrations against his sweats, but you eventually relax with a long whine of, “No fair!”

“You said—”

“Not what I meant,” you interject breathlessly, a salacious underlying in the words that he can no longer play oblivious to—dawning on him in a gut-clenching heat. “When I said I could take you, Rogers, I wasn’t talking about in a fight. Though, I won’t mind if we got a little violent. . .”

His breathing hitches. “I knew it.” A truth he long-buried—the strike of realization he avoided confronting in an attempt to hinder his own feelings—hurtles in his rib cage as he unwillingly accepts the reality you want him in the perverse idiosyncrasy he wants you. That beastly part of him roars in ravenous elation while his practiced erudition advises you in a low and pained plead, almost a groan, “You gotta stop.”

With a breezy laugh, a twinkling song of laughter, you repeat a doubtful, “Stop?” and do the exact opposite. Your body careens into him, specifically your ass grinding encouragement against the hardening bulge in his pants. “Doesn’t feel like you want me to.”

You’re right. “I don’t.” The reply rumbles through his chest and wrenches out strangled. The grip on your wrist increases before vanishing altogether. “But you’re Coach’s daughter, and out of all the things not to do, you’re number one on that list.”

Freed, you twirl around and retain the lack of distance. You look up at him with unwavering seduction. “When you’re looking at me like that, does that really matter anymore?”

Again, you’re right. But that’s not the issue—not the prevailing one, that is. “I’ve thought about you a million different ways but in reality, I’d break you,” he admits in a ragged exhale and licks his bottom lip. Another analytical once-over confirms his deduction; your danity frame clashing with his would be something beastly. “How would your daddy react knowing I ruined his pretty little girl?”

To his pleasure and displeasure, it doesn’t dissuade your attraction. No, it seems to have heightened it instead. “Is that a promise?” you ask, lust scintillating in your eyes like moonlight on the ocean, and he has to recoil away because you’ve got too much power over him with a look like that. “Steve—”

Your hand grapples his before he can get far, an earnest strength he doesn’t have to bat an eyelash at. But it’s that—another reminder of your size differences and how easily he could bend and fold you to his liking—that has a carnal current torrenting from the depths of his soul, demanding an innate action.

On impulse, he lurches forward with an inhuman growl and herds you backward until his hips are trapping yours against the counter edge. His hand wraps around the column of your neck, partially spanning your jaw to tilt upwards.

“In every one of those fantasies, I use you like a rag doll—fast and rough, never gentle. And you wanna know why? ‘Cause you’re fuckin’ small and it’s the only possible way for me to fuck you,” he rasps, strained and serious, imploring you to understand the gravity of his words. “That’s in the case, that I can even fit inside you in the first place. So, you may say you can handle me but the truth is, you wouldn’t be able to take just one of my fingers.”

The speech is to deter you; invoke some common sense in that intelligent brain of yours because all of his is withering by the second. In lieu of his intention, it excites you further. Your pulse races against his palm but the flames in your gaze tell him it isn’t from fear. “You seem so sure about that but. . . but I don’t think so,” you purposely goad that volatile and competitive aspect of him. “Why don’t we try and see who’s right?”

“No,” you state simply, following after him. “I - I think you’re scared. I think you don’t want to admit that someone as small as me could take you so easily—and I mean easy—where everyone else fell to their knees.” A coy smirk upturns the corner of your lips. “Though I also wouldn’t be opposed to getting on mine right now.”

That’s it. The last shred of ascetic lessons from the past six years bursts into ash. The fire ignites an unhinged frenzy, tunneling into his veins and coursing through his blood like the water of a previously dammed river now freed of placating obstruction.

With unrestricted strength, Steve hauls you into his arms, cording underneath your ass and hoisting you high around his abdomen. In a gnashing kiss, he crushes his lips against yours. There’s no delay in your response, returning his passion in a rivaling degree.

That formerly-leashed, hedonistic entity within him preens from its shackles and livens with unhinged reign. Electricity crackles underneath his skin and tingles violently in feral need. Every filthy imagining he’s conjured of you strobes through his mind, and he feels like a man who hasn’t eaten in years, and you’re the delectable T-bone steak he gets to devour.

You moan into his mouth, a pretty vibration he swallows, as he laps up your taste. The musical sound, the way you explode on his tongue, it all goes to his head like a hit off a drug and slithers down his spine to the ache in his cock.

His hips snap forward, and his grasp on you intensifies; clutching your ass, he’s rocking your center into his cotton-clad erection roughly. Shards of pleasure ricochet through him, but it’s not enough—he needs more, needs more of your titillating sounds, more of your body on his, of you coming undone because of him, you making him fall apart.

As you writhe against him with breathy sounds, he sets you on the counter and goes for your pants. Logic evades him at this point—like the fact it’d be the same amount of time with less effort it’d be if he slipped off—and his hands tear the denim material down the middle. Using little effort, he continues to remove what separates you, doing away with your panties next. All the while, you’re gasping in surprise and possibly outrage but he can’t focus on that right now.

“You don’t understand,” he speaks laboredly, shoving his sweats to his knees to reveal he’s gone commando. “How bad I’ve wanted you. How hard it was—how hard you make me—to keep from myself taking you in every disgusting way I dreamed about.”

Slicked with precum, his veined manhood is just as thick as it is long; past lovers have gawked at the formidable steel, shying away immediately after, and he’s always understood that. But you, you look at him starry-eyed, licking your bottom lip like you want him exploding on your tongue.

And as much as he’d marvel at the sight of your cheeks stuffed like chipmunk with his cock— has thought how hot it’d sound when you’re gagging relentlessly around him—he’s got his attention lasered on that tiny prize between your thighs.

A teasing triangle of perfection, daring him to completely abuse and batter as he pleases. You’re glistening like diamonds in the sunlight, effectively blinding him in a bind of corporeal desire—there’s no thinking, only action; no right or wrong, just what he wants.

His hands pinch underneath your knees and slide you to the edge. In tandem, he slots himself flat against your weeping heat, squishing the length of his cock between the split of your slit, burrowing himself there as if it’s his new home.

Mutual moans and shivers expel through you both. It’s better than he’s ever imagined; mentally-created experience has nothing on the raw reality. Soft like silk, the honeyed aperture of your sex is eclipsed by his tanned thickness, barely shrouding a third of him, his tip twitching at your navel, and it’s a snapshot to behold.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he rasps, jaw locking before he reels you tighter and snaps his hips forward, rutting against your throbbing clit. It’s the match that starts the fire, a million sparks prickling all over that has him taking you like a madman.

“S - Steve!” you cry, music to his ears, as he hooks his elbows under your knees, bending them over his shoulders, and works your divided folds up and down the length of his translucent-white dribbling cock. Your arms shoot around his neck desperately while you bury your face in his neck, mewling into his collarbone; the vibration unmistakably his name.

“I am going to fuck you, doll,” he promises through gritted teeth, using his hands palming your ass to grind your little pussy into him harshly, at the same time his hips rock into the assault. “I am going to shove every inch of my cock inside you, make it fit if you can’t. But first—first, you’re going to cum on my cock then you’re going cum around it.”

Your weight is nothing to his hulking strength, bouncing you in undulation like you’re his own personal fuck-toy (somewhere in that darker, aggressive facet of him chides that’s exactly what you are; a wanton toy to use to his desire).

Every upward thrust is grating over your bundle of nerves, coaxing gush and gush of your essence. Mixed with his own liquid arousal, it further lubricates his slippery anatomy and empowers quicker ministrations—filling the room with your crescendos of whimpers and moans.

“Y’like it when I make your pretty lil’ pussy grind against my cock? When the tip rubs over your soft clit?” he says, winded, in your ear as you shake like a leaf in the steel cage that is him. “Or d’you like knowing despite how bad I need to be balls-deep inside you I have to wait ‘cause your tiny pussy won’t be able to take it yet?”

“Oh. God. Steve—” you moan, raking your nails into his flexing back muscles, and he revels in the faint sting. “I - I—it feels good. Fuck, it feels so good.”

Shocks needle down his spine and gnaw in his lower stomach while static nibbles at his limbs; a prelude to a knee-buckling reckoning. “Y’gonna cum for me, beautiful?” He can feel the tautness constricting in your body, the crook of your calves as your toes curl. “Want you to. Wanna know what’s gonna happen when you do?” He doesn’t wait for a response, especially when you’re borderline incoherent. “It’s gonna loosen you up for me. Get your pussy prepared to take all of my big, fat cock. And, you fuckin’ will. Y’hear me?”

At that point, he’s unsure whether you nodded or not because your head does bob, but so does the rest of you. His neck muffles your cry as you buck wildly against him, and if that isn’t telling enough, he can feel your engorged nub pulsating with euphoria.

And he can’t resist it. The threat of his violent upcoming orgasm; the fact that he knows your channel is clamping down hallowly; the earlier declaration of being able to handle him easily, it all overwhelms him.

In a millisecond, before his mind comprehends what his instincts are doing, his hands slip from underneath your bottom to either side of your slit, and his thumbs spread your opening. He heaves you up, and when gravity brings you down, his well-endowed cock drives into your spasming insides.

With an audible wet slush and slap of skin, he powers through your channel harshly until he’s seated to the hilt. In the throes of your orgasm—before he could stretch you first like he intended—inches that outwardly reached your belly button, width that dwarfed your mound invades your walls in one blunt movement.

The orgasm is still flooding you but it’s combined with the convulsions of vanquished hollowness and encompassing fullness. To be perfectly fucking honest, it’s heaven: snug, fervid heaven. And he wastes no time losing himself in you, fucking you through your stimulation while you’re rendered to a babbling mess.

“Oh - oh, my—Steve!” you squeal as your rubber-band-like resistance desperately tries to accommodate the intrusion of his size. “Big—you’re big—I didn’t realize you were so b - big—”

“But you’re going to take it, aren’t you? Said you could, swore you’d handle me like no other before, right?” he croons and continues to decimate your swollen valley. “I told you you’d cum on my cock and around it, and that’s what you’re gonna do.” The order has your strangling heat fluttering in delight. “Unless you aren’t as big and bad as you claimed to be.”

You gasp and cling tighter. “I can - I can,” you whimper, and it’s so cute—he can’t wait to fuck you until you pass out. “Just a minute. I can’t cum yet—n - not yet.”

He laughs huskily because he knows he’s gonna to make you do exactly that. “Yeah, we’ll see about that, doll,” he practically purrs and cinches you closer so with each pass of his hips, your sensitive clit is chafing against his pubic bone; it has the intended effect of forcing your swollen walls to quiver around him.

“Shit,” you choke. “I can’t - I can’t—”

Motivated by your disbelieving insistence, he reaffirms his grip and pistons through your folds quicker. He ebbs deeper and deeper with the combination of his hips ramming in and his hands controlling your body so your channel swallows him all the way.

Rising sensations pulse within him at an alarming rate, numbness climbing up his toes to cover him completely, encasing his nerves with an escalating bliss. In a minute, he’s going to blow and empty the contents of his balls into your never ending, clamping depths—and he can’t wait to see your reaction when he does, what it’ll look like to have his thick white dribbling out of you.

That thought spurs him on, and he abruptly props you on the kitchen counter. There’s no break for your used pussy as he slithers a free hand to fist your throat, laying you flat against the cold granite.

“You are gonna cum for me,” he growls, voice unrecognizable with animalistic carnality. The sheening and flushed exertion on your face, the moans vibrating up your esophagus and the wriggle of your body is mesmerizing and provoking. “And you’re going to make me cum while you do it. Your tiny pussy is gonna milk my big cock until I’m flooding you full of me.”

He ruffles your shirt up and out of the way, giving him a glimpse of the single hottest thing he’s ever laid his eyes on. As his hips jut back and forth, the indent of his bulbous tip prods visibly from your stomach; he can see himself bulging low in your belly.

He releases the unholiest of groans as lightning zaps through him, tactfully shocking his pressure points while his blood pumps to his dick, and he swells bigger inside you. The temperature is boiling to the top, and when your warbling voice breaks into his haze, “Steve—Steve—Steve—!” his eyes snap open.

His gaze drags further down, he’s greeted with the eyeful of your exploited mound: puffy and swollen from his unyielding, punishing onslaught, your clit peaking through faintly as if beckoning for his touch. Of course, he obliges you—he has zero idea how he managed to deny himself of you in the past.

The second he thumbs at the little nubbin, you’re sobbing his name and squelching around his cock. In a domino effect, the lava blasts from the bottom of his gut to your enveloping convulsions; sheathed to the hilt, a visual ingrained in his memory of his cockhead pushing up inside your stomach, he pours all the mania he’s kept locked away into you.

Riding out the wave, he watches how you cream around him when he retreats from you. A ring of clear white contrasts against your bruised sex and his tanned length, the mix of your essences oozing down his balls and onto the floor.

“Fuck,” he says hoarsely. “That’s hot.”

There’s a periodic twitch of you, and he glances up to see you staring at him, glossy-eyed but undoubtedly satisfied. “You. . . that was. . . God,” is all you manage, and pride blooms in his chest—at the fact that you kept up, and at the fact he did you good. “You’re amazing.”

“You did good, doll,” he speaks roughly, the hand around your throat tracing your pulse. “I couldn’t have thought of a better way for this to have gone. . .” Despite his recent orgasm, there’s a hunger clawing back to the surface as he observes the way you’re splayed out like an offering, fucked to the point of limpness. “Or, to be going. . .”

“S - Steve,” you whimper but it isn’t a protest, far from it, he can tell.

So he continues to trail his hand to your clit, encircling it while you give a half-hearted bleat. He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip and maneuvers his hips until his growing semi is teasing your cum-dripping entrance. “Y’said you could handle me, doll,” he murmurs and promptly glides right back into you, and a wanton cry tears from your lips. “Let’s see how true that is.”

[masterlist / feedback]

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you smut #steve rogers smut #steve rogers imagines #marvel imagines #marvel smut #steve x reader #i AM doing the loki one i just wanted to make it clear this is the steve one #my writing #this twas a RIDE BITCH #it would've turned out better but last night i found out that one of my finals was due TODAY so i was scrambling #also... i might b a little ? like i took an extra dose of my anx meds #anywaysies did not mean for it to be THIS long #my bad!#DONT DRAG MY CHARACTERIZATION I KNOW I KNOW #i got lazy at the end rip

2K notes · View notes

oftenderweapons · 4 years

Text

The Power Couple - hyung line

Pairing: hyung line member x reader

Wordcount: 1.2k words circa, each

Genre: romance scenarios/imagine

Rating: suggested 18+

Hello, my darlings, sorry I didn’t post last week but exam season is insane and I’m seriously struggling :(

Anyways, I’ve been working on these and I hope I’ll be able to write and post the maknae line during the next week.

Did you enjoy Bang Bang Con The Live? I watched it with my ARMY squad and since we were still craving BTS material afterwards we did a 5th muster rewatch, YAY!

Okay, now TRIGGER WARNINGS: not much this week really, just mild allusions to smut, (a bit more descriptive in Yoongi’s piece), there are some more explicit thingies (ahem, collar, leash, generic mention on toys, stress relieving quickie) and milder but possibly sexy thingies (slightly revealing outfits), mild angst in Joon’s piece (namely minor harassment, nothing descriptive). Watch out for: one tense, insecure and lowkey (highkey) kinky Joon, one very soft Jin, one very tired, very whipped Min Suga and the usual energy fluff ball Hobi (also kinky, though)

I love you all, please stay safe <3

Here you can find the maknae line

And here you can find my masterlist

Namjoon

“You know we don’t have to do this.”

You offered him the string. “What if I want them all to know.”

"_____, I love you and I repeat, I will only do this if it's what you want. You have to give this to me. I won't take it from you. I seriously don't want to force this on you." He fixed his tie, loosening it a little. He was nervous. The car was slowly arriving to the venue. A couple more minutes and you would be out, photographers screaming for your attention, celebrities surrounding you, women envying you, men wanting you. It wasn't the first time you attended a red carpet as Namjoon's plus one, but the previous attempt had peaked with a cocky rapper putting his eyes on you, flirting inappropriately while Joon was busy and making you deeply uncomfortable. As a consequence, Joon had kept you close for the rest of the night and had to give up on having you beside him for a couple events after that, since you didn't feel safe enough to attend.

However, this afternoon he had come to your room with a hefty velvet box, looking at you with complete rapture in his eyes.

“You look like a dream come true.”

“I hope it’s a good dream,” you replied, waiting for the stylist to finish fixing your hair in a classy bun.

“A very good one.”

You were wearing matching suits. Regular, black silk suits, tailored exactly the same, the only difference was the fact that you weren’t wearing any shirt underneath your jacket.

“Thank you.”

“I have something for you.” He came closer, the stylist done with your hair, bowing kindly as you made a small bow to her in reply, thanking her for her work.

“I thought we said no jewellery.”

“Well, technically…” He opened the box, showing you a collar of diamonds. “You don’t have to.” He said sheepishly. “Wear it, I mean. And I don’t want people to think that I consider you an animal that needs to be collared, or a possession. I saw it and I thought you would love it.”

“Yes. I love it.” You touched it gently with your fingertip. “I’ll wear it.”

He smiled so brightly that you knew all the negative comments would never cast a shadow on the overwhelming joy he was showing in this moment: you would do unspeakable things to make him smile at you like that.

“Can I put it on you?”

“Yes, sir.” It was half a tease, half an admission of his dominance over you. In the secret language you had created together this meant that you trust him and that you allow him to take complete control over you, that he is entitled to do whatever he wants with you. It was also a way to reassure yourself that he would protect you tonight, that he wouldn’t leave your side and that he would take care of you. That no man would ever lay his eyes and hands on you tonight.

He clasped it easily around your neck, the measure just right, and you suspected he knew because of the way he uses his hands on your neck, randomly, sometimes to soothe you and support you, some others to arouse you and gain his own pleasure.

The tension on your shoulders eased a little as you saw your reflection in the mirror. There was no doubt you belonged to him, that you were his. Still, some anxiety snaked in your belly.

“I don’t really wanna push my luck,” he said, looking down, breaking eye contact, “but I had a small thing made to match the… necklace.”

You looked at him curiously. “Can I see?”

“I know you won’t judge me but I feel very vulnerable about this and I thought we should talk it out before you…”

“I love you.” You whispered, calming his gibbering. “Show me.”

He lifted the board where the necklace laid, showing another compartment of the box were a snaky string laid, all coiled up. You took it and unwrapped it.

A leash.

He looked at you. “You don’t have to say yes, we can use it another time, or not use it at all.”

It means guidance, belonging, discipline. All things you needed tonight.

“Yes.” You told him, confidence sparking in your eyes.

That night, when you walked down the red carpet you felt nothing but the cold sensation of the metal around your neck, and the scorching pride in Namjoon’s eyes.

Journalists asked questions, people took pictures, but the only thing that mattered was what you felt: you were Namjoon’s equal, with your identical suits, and at the same time you were his beloved pet, someone he would cherish, guide, defend and protect.

Seokjin

“Ready?”

“Yup.” Seokjin smiled a tight lipped smile and wrapped an arm around your waist.

“God, they won’t take their eyes off of you.”

Tonight you were supposed to attend a film premiere of one of Jin’s friends. It got you slightly uncomfortable, since it was your first official event with him as a couple. Of course ARMY had already seen you a few times since the official announcement of your relationship, once at the airport, as you came back from a quick getaway you and Jin had taken, then then in a bunch of pictures, and then during a vlive, when you had taken a small visit to say hi and introduce yourself, letting Jin lead you through the whole event and giving you the cue when he thought he needed some alone time with his fans. He had been very tactful in the whole revealing, hiding you enough to protect you from harmful stalkers, but also introducing you to ARMY like a single dad would present his girlfriend to his child.

“Is the dress inappropriate?”

“No. You’re stunning. I love it.” He pressed his nose to your temple. “I’m just worried.”

You leaned softly into him.

“There’s so much skin here...” He let one finger slide down the curve of your neck. “Everyone will be looking.” He kissed behind your ear. “You could wear a rubbish bag and they would still be looking.” He wished he had more skin to touch, but he was also grateful your body was pretty much covered up, the delicate green dress exposing nothing but your collarbones, with long chiffon sleeves, the corset decorated with a leaf embroidery, stopping just above your waist and then flowing down in lush emerald waves.

“I’m glad I wore my white suit.” He commented,

“You look incredible, love.” You complimented him.

“I needed to show them I deserve you.”

You laughed. “I’m the one who needs to one-up her game to match you.”

The back of the limo was quiet as you created that special space of communion and comfort you naturally slip in when you’re both silent.

“You’ll be by my side all night, right?” You murmured, worried. “There’s a lot of people and I feel like such an outsider...”

“Right beside you.” He comforted you. “So they can’t snatch you from me.”

You both giggled, his voice betraying his anxiety. “It will take a major calamity to get me away from you.”

“Like a very big magnet.” You frowned. “You know, attraction.” Your frown intensified. “They say I’m magnetic. the only way to beat me would be a really big magnet.”

Your mouth stretched in a tight lipped smile, hoping not to show how much you loved his unusual sense of humour.

“Are you nervous?” You asked him.

“It’s been a long week. I was hoping we could just stay in and chill. Instead we’ll have to go through all of this while I’m tired and tense. I really don’t feel like being among people tonight.” He sighed. “My social energies have reached a new minimum.”

“We can be pretty and silent, hide in the background.” You held his hand and kissed it, careful not to smear lipstick on it.

“I doubt they’ll let us. It’s your first public presence.”

“They’ve seen me on your vlives, on pictures.”

“They’ll want to see you live, up close, see how you interact.” He twisted his wrist to intertwine his fingers with yours.

“Then let them watch. We’ll casually brush them off. ARMY know you, and they will get to know me with time, no need to reveal our whole life to journalists. Plus, it’s not like we’re the main event of the night.”

“As if, darling. They’ve been waiting for this for so long they’ll be like vultures. I wish I could protect you.”

“It’s good, love. We’ll have each other’s back. We just need a secret code to say when to run and hide in the closest broom closet.”

He laughed. “Usually Namjoon is so good, you know, he’s an extrovert, he takes care of all the press and journalists so well.”

“It must be reassuring.”

“He does all the talking, J-Hope drowns them in pretty smiles and positive energy, and Jimin gets flirty and cute, and that’s all it takes. I can stand on the side, jump in when I’m more comfortable. They ease the anxiety a lot.”

“I’ll learn from them. I’ll have them teach me so I can help you," You stated reassuringly.

“Just hold my hand.”

You reached the venue and exited the limo, suddenly immersed in the flashing lights of cameras, Jin extending his hand to you, helping you out of the car. He kept his palm against yours, “I got you.” He whispered in your ear, then smiling brightly at you and inviting you to walk forward, indicating you the red carpet with his free arm, bowing slightly with perfect manners. He charmed you all over in that second.

“Follow the stewards’ lead. They’ll tell you when to stop, when to walk, where to look.” You started strolling comfortably, close to each other. “If you wanna run, just squeeze my hand three times and I’ll carry you to the closest broom closet.”

You smiled at each other. The sounds of camera shutters multiplied infinitely. Not that you really noticed. You were too caught up in your man’s smile. As you promised, you grabbed his hand and never let go.

Yoongi

“How did it go?”

“The interview?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna hate it.” He plopped on the sofa.

“Was it that bad?”

“They kept asking questions about you.”

“Like?”

“Saying my new music really reflected how you brightened my life or something.”

You laughed and sat beside him, passing him a cold beer, your own drink in hand. “They really love the whole ‘love redeems you’ anthem. They can’t stand the idea of self growth and acceptance.”

“It kinda looks like the beauty saving the beast, because of AgustD being a bad boy who met love and found the right path.”

“So dumb.” You clinked your bottles. “Still, congrats for finally finishing AgustD promotion.”

“Yeah, but this means that next week I’ll be in Los Angeles. I need to meet a singer for a collab.”

You huffed. Being his girlfriend is not easy. It’s a matter of carefully planning your schedules, continuously living with two different clocks on your phones set in different time zones, sometimes even wearing two watches at the same time, one at your wrist, the other a nice pocket watch that he had gifted you for your first anniversary, so that you could always “have his time”, as he said.

“Well, then we’ll have to make the best of this weekend.” You nudged him with your elbow. He smiled at you knowingly then took a sip. He zapped through some tv programmes, finally settling on the news. Right in that moment a small clip of the two of you came up, something about his album sales or the fact that he donated a percentage to a school that you had visited together a while ago for a project.

“God, you look amazing, babe.” He licked his lips and stared at you smiling wide at the cameras. They went on discussing your relationship, which to the public was quite new, even though the announcement had come shortly after your two year anniversary, that is about a couple months ago.

“That’s cause you make me look radiant.” You took a sip yourself.

“Really, look at that!” They showed a short footage of your first public appearance, at his side during a music award. “Beautiful.”

You smiled mischievously, brushing his knee.

“You remember that night?” He said. That’s exactly what you were expecting.

“Of course. How could I forget it? You left one-month-long reminders.” You remembered how you had to postpone your regular medical checkups because of the bruises he had left around.

“You were so good.” He praised, his eyes half glazed over, caught in a memory.

You felt emboldened. “I wish we did it more often.” You turned towards him.

“Look how pretty.” He ignored your cue, and it was quite probably intentional. “Showing all those tits to the world.” He gulped a mouthful of beer and clicked his tongue. “The interviewer’s eyes kept going downwards.”

Your dress was not improper at all. It covered everything that needed to stay private, the long sleeved, high neck bodice had just a central stripe of mesh fabric, starting at your collar and hitting a few inches above your belly button, which let the crevice of your breasts be vaguely outlined, just vaguely, and Yoongi had risked losing his manners and self control over it. Photographers had loved your overall vibe, looking adorably ethereal, your hair braided in a crown, your flowy gown matching Yoongi’s lace shirt.

But of course your bodice caused a fuss the day after in the news. Not that you really cared. Yoongi had loved it, clasping your hand like crazy anytime a man came close, but at the same time parading you in front of the cameras, moving you around like a delicate nymph -- which he would undoubtedly claim as soon as the night was over. He swam in the calm and femininity you radiated, your energy matching his. All it would take was a twist of a wrist, a tap of a finger and he would be directing you in posing, your bodies moving simultaneously, as if you were nothing but a puppeteer and his toy, him pulling at your strings.

The whole experience awakened a connection so profound and intuitive, instinctual, that as you reached your hotel room together you still felt those magnets pushing and pulling you to each other, turning your lovemaking into some complicated dance, then into wild, rowdy fucking where no words were needed, your moans and groans saying exactly where to kiss, bite, hit, grope and fondle.

“Are you thinking about it too?” He asked.

“I miss it so much.” You whispered.

“Do you want to?” He kissed your temple. “Need me to?” He used his spare hand to massage your scalp.

Still, you noticed the dark circles under his eyes. “It’s okay. You’re tired.” You leaned into his hand and nuzzled into him.

“It’s been three weeks. Usually you can’t go three days without it.” He kissed you again, delivering eskimo kisses on your cheekbone. The tenderness of it was slowly gnawing at your insides.

“But you’re tired.” You whined. “Let’s just chill.” You grabbed his empty bottle and cuddled beside him. A few minutes later he was deep asleep, his head propped against the sofa and his mouth open. You covered him with a blanket and held him tighter.

Hoseok

“Oh, sweetie! Oh, love! Oh, my god! My girl, so good!” Hoseok cheered you on as you descended the stairs, careful not to stumble on your dress.

“Thank you, Hobi.” You touched your hair, falling in soft waves on one side of your face.

“Seriously, ____, you look so fucking good, baby.” He took your hand to spin you around for him, examining you carefully.

“Oh god.”

“I can change if you need me to, there’s an alternative upstairs and I have time, I can-”

“No baby, it’s… wow.” He eyed again the slit on your gown, starting mid-thigh and exposing the side of your left leg cheekily. His eyelashes batted like crazy, his hands already reaching for your bum, cupping it through the tight, sparkly fabric. The dress had a siren gown, and since it was quite daring you had the stylist prepare an alternative, since Hoseok couldn’t see you in it and you weren’t sure of his opinion. It’s not like you needed his approval, or that he wouldn’t let you wear it, but you weren’t completely sure of it, and you needed him boosting your ego a little. One single sign of unsurety and you would dash to the bedroom to change. But his beaming smile and the way his eyes were glued to your skin made you understand he would be lowkey upset by your change of outfit.

He looked unreal. His baby blue suit was highlighted by silver details, matching the sober sparkles of your grey dress. He looked you in the face, hesitating one second before pressing a blazing kiss on your lips. It was scorching, resembling the usual bolt of energy between the two of you.

“I need more.” He whispered against your mouth, licking your bottom lip.

“You know we’re gonna fuck it up.”

“I feel like fucking you up.” He murmured, a little disappointed that you were resisting him. You could feel his arousal against your hip.

You simply laughed. “They’re gonna pick us up in less than half an hour. We don’t have all that time.”

“We can take way less than that, you know it.”

Quickies with him were… perfect. Hot, messy, reckless. Merciless. His pace could be devilish, ruthless. Still-- “We’re gonna be sweaty and sleepy afterwards.” You grabbed the hair on his nape gently, holding him away from your face.

“So?” His hands, once on your hips, now were on the small of your back and slipping lower.

“I don’t want them to see you all freshly fucked out.” You murmured with a pout.

“Oh, are you jealous or are you worried they’re gonna see you all freshly fucked out?” He asked, nagging you, squeezing your ass.

“I just don’t want you to.” You replied, pout intensifying to the point it dimpled.

“Baby is jealous.” He teased you, his voice doing that cute ups and downs it does when he’s being deliberately cute and bratty. “You don’t want them seeing how good you are to daddy?”

That word. He was playing it dirty, pushing all your buttons: possessiveness, praise and your daddy kink. “Hobi, I swear to God, if you don't’ stop now you’re not getting any later. And I’ve spent the afternoon charging all the toys.” You warned him. And you were pretty sure you would stay true to your warning. Not 100% sure, but sure enough.

“Can I at least see what you’re wearing underneath?” He squeezed your bum once more, as if checking for the signs of undies.

“What makes you think I’m wearing something underneath this? After all it’s so damn tight.”

“Sweetie… Do you really need to tease me like this! Such a bad girl!” He laughed and at the same time he fixed his pants. Your dress wasn’t the only tight indument at the moment.

You headed for the living room, grabbing your shoes in the process, giving him a glance that invited him to follow you.

“You’re wearing those sandals, aren’t you?” He stared at the box, a pair of stilettos emerging from it, their sparkly strings catching his attention.

“Let me.” He motioned, helping you wear and latch them onto your feet.

“You truly are a vision, ____.” He was kneeling before you, looking at you wide eyed, his sweet smile edged with admiration and pride.

“You sure you don’t want to get rid of some tension before we head there?” He caressed your knee with apprehension. His personal pleasure would just be a minor advantage, what he really wanted was to help you with your nerves, since a couple days before you mentioned how worried you were about attending to such a big event.

“I don’t think I could even possibly enjoy it right now.” You put your hand atop his. “But ask me later, and with the adrenaline of the night and the relaxation of being done with it, I might be very interested.” You smiled, faking coyness.

In that moment his phone rang, probably the driver.

“Then let’s pick up from here later.” He let his hand trail along the naked back of your calf, kissing your hand and helping you up.

You couldn’t wait for the event to end. And for your night to truly begin.

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queen-of-my-goofball-army · 3 years

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"Don't say such disgusting words! You CAN or you CAN'T! Don't sit there wondering about maybe's! He said he believed in us! In addition to his trust, so there's no reason to think these things! Everything dies returns to the earth!" (Inosuke Hashibira, Demon Slayer.)

We're reaching the last year people! I consumed so much media content over the last year during COVID-Con that somebody had to become an honorable mention (I'll be doing those the first week of August). But enough about characters that didn't make the cut, we're here to talk about my boar mask wearing, 100/10 man of chaos Inosuke Hashibira my best boi in Demon Slayer.

When I first got into Demon Slayer none of the characters really grabbed me. There wasn't anything in particular that was "wrong" with them or anything it's just that Tanjiro was just your typical good boy protagonist and as refreshing as that is in a world full of hatred, I love characters that are funny. Zenitsu was close but just not my brand of comedy. Then halfway through the series we met Inosuke. A demon slayer that was raised by boars who wears a boar mask almost all the time to cover up his pretty face.

My favorite thing about Inosuke is that you never really know what he's going to do. For example, his dream in Mugen Train had me laughing so hard that both of my parents were looking at me like I was a complete psycho. It was just so *Inosuke* that I couldn't help but laugh until my sides were hurting. He's one of those characters where while you never know what he might do you know that no matter what it will be entertaining. The reason that I chose one of his rare moments of seriousness for his quote was because I loved this moment. It proved that Inosuke could feel something more than chaoticness through every pore of his being. (My mom and called each other "underlings" for like a week after. It was glorious.)

While Inosuke doesn't understand a lot of human manners and tact he still is willing to learn. Or I guess be placated is the more proper terminology. He's like somebody looked at San from Princess Mononoke and thought "Hm let's make it raised by boars and give him the personality of Katsuki Bakugou from My Hero Academia." That's how I would describe Inosuke's energy. It's usually used for comedy but he clearly feels bad when he feels useless or when things just aren't going his way at all. When he is sad I just want to give him the tightest hug and run a hand through his blue hair. He's been through so much and I love Inosuke so much.

Demon Slayer is actually one of the few things that I watched in Japanese. I didn't know when the dub was coming at first to Funimation and I was an impatient bitch at the time (then my show ADD happened and I didn't finish the show until last March.) However, I do know that the voice of Inosuke in the dub just so happens to be one of my personal favorites Bryce Papenbrook. When I was finally able to watch the series and Mugen Train in English I was blown away by his performance. See, Papenbrook does just about the same voice for everything. He's usually type cast for teens because his voice is rather high but still light at the same time. He's known for being quirky characters or flirty characters with a darker side to them like Meliodas in Seven Deadly Sins, Masaomi Kida in Durarara, or one of my personal favorites Chat Noire in Miraculous Ladybug. No matter what capacity he's in or what performance he's required to give I can always count on him to knock it out of the park. But Inosuke surprised me because it's not his stereotypical voice.

Throughout the last year I've really come to treasure Inosuke. His chaotic nature, his sense of wonder at the rest of the world, and his ability to fight for his friends really drove home his character in my opinion.

#demon slayer #inosuke hashiriba #best boi #i love him so much #comfort characters #day 28: Demon Slayer

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afterspark-podcast · 3 years

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G1 Episode 43: Transcript

[This can also be found on AO3!]

[Stinger]

O: This is not an exaggeration, everybody dies.

[Intro Music]

O: Hello, and welcome to the Afterspark Podcast, an episode by episode recap of the Generation 1 Transformers cartoon. I'm Owls!

S: And I'm Specs.

O: And today we're going to be talking about episode number 43: The Golden Lagoon. Let's talk about giant robots today, shall we?

S: Yep.

O: And today we open with the Autobots walking along a beach and Perceptor finding a rock.

S: And proceeding to nerd out about said rock and its unique properties.

O: The rock has both elements of gold and silver in it.

S: We've struck it rich!

O: [Laughter]

S: Blitzwing orders Thrust and Ramjet to attack the group of Autobots looking at Perceptors rock, so, yeah, these guys have been lurking somewhere in the background.

O: I have to ask you- or- do they want the gold and silver? Because my good dudes, you just need to sell some, like, patents and shit and you'd be probably all set money-wise.

S: Bragging rights, maybe? I mean, these guys seem like the sort of dudes that would just go and pick up a mini bot and, like, shake him upside down to get his lunch money.

O: Okay, but you just imagine they basically go back to base they're like, “We stole Perceptor's rock!”

S: Well, possibly, “We stole Perceptor.”

O: Well, yes, I know but I'm just imagining him just stealing the rock. So, uh, Powerglide takes to the air to fight Thrust.

S: Meanwhile, Ramjet can't win in a fight against a hoverboat, as Seaspray both outmaneuvers him and drives him into the drink.

O: Then we get some tank-on-tank action as Blitzwing takes on Warpath.

S: Oh, Preceptor calls for Beachcomber's aid but apparently Beachcomber has bailed on this fight. I mean, the vibes were just getting him down, man.

O: Beachcomber exits some sort of cave that he apparently entered and then basically enters a lush, verdant hidden glade he calls a paradise.

S: I want to know why no one can see this from the air because this is very visible from the air- you can see the sky.

O: Yeah, like there- and I think what makes this even funnier is, like, at the start of this fight there were literally no less than four fucking planes in the air.

S: Yep, so our robotic Dr. Dolittle, Beachcomber, speaks birb, fox, deer, bunny, and, somehow, armadillo.

O: He's even able to pet the deer. I- do you know how skittish those fuckers are?

S: Super skittish. Beachcomber ignores his communicator and investigates a nearby small lake. A small, suspiciously colored lake.

O: There's no good way to be delicate about this, guys. It's urine colored.

S: Beachcomber, throwing caution and common sense to the wind, dips his entire hand into it.

O: It turns gold and he exclaims that, “It's electrum!”

S: We'll get back to this later.

O: [Laughter] Moving right along.

S: Back in the fray, Ramjet gets his revenge coming out of the water underneath Seaspray.

O: The two tanks have to unbury themselves from the sand they have, apparently, inadvertently got buried in.

S: Yep, it looks like everyone's having a pretty bad beach day all around.

O: And then the ground around Beachcomber, in his said hidden glade, begins shaking and he transforms and heads back into the tunnel that he had entered the glade from.

S: Surprised that, uh, things didn't end badly for any of the critters, but I think he would have been very distraught.

O: Probably.

S: As if prophesized, Thrust spots the lake from the air and lands to examine it.

O: He decides he wants to be the shiniest and dives into the lake, turning him completely gold.

S: The Midas touch of robots and also how deep is this stupid thing?

O: Oh, yes, we get- we comment on that later. [Laughter] Beachcomber makes it back and Perceptor is understandably a little frustrated that he had bailed in the middle of a freaking fight.

S: Seaspray is able to shoot Ramjet down but Thrust arrives, seemingly invulnerable, with his fancy new gold coating.

O: None of which stops Perceptor from trying to shoot him with his handy-dandy hand missile.

S: The Autobots attempt different attacks against Thrust but eventually flee, leaving Perceptor and Seaspray behind.

O: Thrust miraculously grows what we can only describe as claws and then scoops Perceptor up while in jet mode and flies off with him.

S: It's honestly pretty silly looking, if I remember right.

O: Yeah, it looked pretty silly.

S: Yeah, Perceptor and Seaspray are brought to the Con base. Megatron gloats and Thrust is like, “Hey, guys, I found a ton of electrum.”

O: And then Starscream says he needs proof of Thrust’s claim but Megatron responds with, “I don't care what you need.” You know, it's been a while since I was- I feel like it's been a while since when you've seen these two idiots bicker like this.

S: Yeah, because they didn't really do it during the, um, shoot, the Constructicon brainwashing thing.

O: Yeah, like, you know, normally, I felt like that was a situation where they'd start bickering but instead Megatron was like, “No, no, no, sweetie, we've got an escape route.”

S: [Laughter] Yep, so, yeah, Megatron and Starscream bicker further as they arrive at the electrum fountain.

O: Megatron volunteers Starscream as the first test subject for the electrum.

S: Starscream seems, you know, quite hesitant, dipping one foot into the water until Megatron tells him to, “Go!” And then Starscream proceeds to jump in like a six-year-old: holding his nose and doing a weirdly adorable cannonball.

O: It is very, very stupidly cute.

S: Mm-hmm.

O: And then Starscream exits and I'm pretty sure Megatron just wanted an excuse to shoot him in the face here.

S: Yeah, yeah I totally agree and, like Thrust, Starscream is invulnerable, even to fusion cannon blasts once he's got his shiny gold coat.

O: The other two Seekers and Megatron jump into the hole, too.

S: And once they're all back out they all proceed to shoot each other to test out their invulnerability.

O: In a shot that truly looks like a rave party.

S: It does- like, there's lots of lasers and glowy lights and everyone's just kind of flailing around like twits.

O: And it really cracks me up because, I swear to god, the first thing that happens when Megatron gets out of the pool is Starscream shoots him in the face and laughs.

S: The poor animals are cowering as all of these shots bounce off the Cons and bounce out into the glade itself doing, you know, lots of damage.

O: As you would expect from giant robot fucking lasers. Elsewhere, a group of Autobots prepare a rescue mission.

S: The group is comprised of Warpath, Powerglide, Smokescreen, Beachcomber, and Mirage.

S: Beachcomber has not told anyone about the electrum spring and is hiding his gold hand. Then, of course, we cut back to the Cons who, we see, have all taken a dip in the electrum.

S: When giant robots go swimming does this count as skinny dipping? Are they now considered to be wearing something if it's a coating?

O: I just have one thing to say to you: GOLDMEMBER!!!

S: Oh god. So all of these, you know, spruced up Cons attack the rescue party.

O: Obviously the Decepticons continue to not take any fucking damage right now.

S: Yep, Mirage turns invisible and heads back for some reinforcements and then, uh, Smokescreen generates smoke and Megatron shows off his problem-solving skills.

O: With enough bullets you can solve anything! Or at least hit Smokescreen in his cloud of smoke.

S: Yep, and the entire group of Autobots is captured, save for Mirage who did make it back to base and rallied reinforcements.

O: The Autobot reinforcements don't seem to be too worried about the invulnerable Cons at all with Sunstreaker's response boiling down to, “Hit them harder!”

S: Yep, he's not thinking with his head there, is he? He's taken out almost immediately and ends up upside down in car mode.

O: So I'd say he didn't hit them very hard, wouldn't you?

S: Well, did more damage to him.

O: So, as their shots continue to bounce off the cons, Beachcomber says that, “They found the Golden Lagoon!”

S: That's not a lagoon. A lagoon really needs to be connected to an oc- to the ocean or some other body of water. I mean, that was a glorified puddle.

O: At best.

S: Yeah.

O: At the Decepticon base, Starscream is mugging for the camera, singing the praises of electrum.

S: Seaspray and Perceptor, as entertainment, are made to fight each other.

O: Soundwave’s like, “Yo, this is not sanctioned by HR,” to Starscream.

S: You did not do the paperwork or get the approval for this, Starscream, at all.

O: Nope. And Starscream just sort of waves him off and doesn't seem to care what Megatron's gonna think.

S: Soundwave leaves the room presumably to report Starscream’s aft for HR violations.

O: The few remaining Autobots then ask Omega Supreme for help while Beachcomber heads back to the lagoon.

S: Perceptor and Seaspray shoot out a wall and attempt to escape but are stopped at the elevator when Megatron exits with Blitzwing and Beachcomber.

O: Because if we didn't specify before, Beachcomber got captured when he returned to the lagoon.

S: Yeah.

O: Megatron gets pissy at Starscream for his insubordination and says that he gets the honor of getting chucked into battle against Omega Supreme first.

S: Even Omega Supreme's blasts are unable to damage the Cons, unfortunately.

O: So, really wasn't much of a punishment. Megatron wants to finish Omega off personally and considering he and Starscream are bickering this episode it's Soundwave that gets the honor this time- go around.

S: Yep, one shot from Megatron's alt mode knocks Omega on his back.

O: When we return from the commercial break Starscream is standing on top of Omega Supreme, like a big game hunter after a kill.

S: Yeah, Starscream does not have much in the way of taste.

O: Taste, tact, subtlety...

S: Yeah, back at the Autobot base, Teletraan I warns the Autobots about electrum and Optimus orders survey teams to be sent out to find it.

O: Powerglide drags his ass out of the water back onto the beach from the beginning of the episode and spots the Cons flying to the Golden Lagoon.

S: He reports back to Prime and then we cut to the Decepticon base.

O: Megatron tells Starscream he can do whatever he wants with the Autobot prisoners.

S: Skywarp enters Beachcomber’s cell but Beachcomber gets the drop on him and incapacitates both him and Thundercracker... Beachcomber: stealth geologist. Because he was- he was, like, clinging to the ceiling?

O: Like, my boy, you got skills!

S: He does, he does.

O: He then releases Perceptor and Seaspray and they attempt another escape.

S: And at this point they have stolen, uh, some null rays or... the guns the Seekers wear on their arms.

O: Yeah.

S: This time they succeed because Seaspray is very well suited to be in the water.

O: And the three arrive back at the golden puddle just in time for Longhaul to dump a bunch of empty barrels on Dirge and tell him to fill them up.

S: Everyone's pushing work on everyone else. Dirge is not happy about being left to guard the electrum by himself but he doesn't get very much time to explain or complain about anything as Seaspray pulls him into the bushes.

O: All the scientists are feral this episode and I, for one, love it.

S: Yup. Perceptor and Seaspray steal both of his guns.

O: Thankfully, Optimus and co arrive just afterwards.

S: Then it's time for the ~Autobot pool party!~

O: As they, too, jump in and get all glammed up.

S: The Decepticons realize they've been duped when the Ark is empty and filled with dummies and not even the interesting moving, clothed dummies that, like, were at the beginning of the series.

O: And, no, not the Dinobots, either.

S: Yep, I think they'd get along with, um, Beachcomber. though.

O: I would hope so, I don't know if we ever really see them interact though?

S: I don't, either, I just- I think they would get along- I think that would be a fun team up to watch.

O: Yeah.

S: Ah, so the Decepticons turn around and head back for the Golden Lagoon only to arrive to find some glammed out Autobots, including a whole-ass Omega Supreme.

O: I don't even know how they managed that.

S: I guess the water must be really deep because he comes straight out of it.

O: I guess?

S: Or crouched in it?

O: It does not make any sense. Uh, predictably, a fight ensues. Of course, no one's shots are doing anything and further bouncing off of them.

S: And lighting the surviving enviro- the surrounding environment on fire, that wasn't already trashed.

O: The electrum on the Decepticons begins to wear off and the battle changes in favor of the Autobots.

S: Yep. Megatron, much like a toddler, decides that if the Cons can't have the lagoon then they're going to blow it the shit up on their way out. Ah, this reveals that the lagoon was pretty wide but honestly not that deep. Like it certainly wasn't deep enough for Omega Supreme to go sit in it or, frankly, I don't even think that, like, Starscream should have been able to like dive in there?

O: Yeah, I don't know what was going on with this, but the Cons retreat and we end with Beachcomber looking very sad in the destroyed glade.

S: And the music that's happening here really does not match the somber mood.

O: Yeah, because it sounds, like, hopeful and kind of happy. You know, normal end-of-the-episode music.

S: Yeah.

O: That's it for this episode so join us next time for Quest for Survival! Where Autobots are in desperate need of a gardener and poor Cosmos is stuck in a very unfortunate situation.

S: Yep, some things need some trimming and poor Cosmos is a bit- a bit caught in the middle, yeah. So, today we have two fanfic recommendations. The first is “Favorable Contributions” by Tiamatschild, which is set in the G1 cartoon continuity. It's rated K, it's Gen (more or less) but pairing-wise: it's a Beachcomber and Perceptor, and our characters are Beachcomber and Perceptor. In summary, “Knowing Beachcomber is fraught with peril. Embarrassing peril.”

O: [Laughter]

S: So, yeah, uh, the theme here is it's Beachcomber in nature! Sometimes embarrassing. And it's a one shot. This was something that I read a while ago and it's- it's cute and it's fun and there may or may not be an alligator involved. Or possibly a crocodile? Giant robots getting treed by a big reptile, anyway.

O: Well, we know- do know giant reptiles are their biggest weakness if the dinosaur episode where the Decepticons were getting mowed down is any indication.

S: Yeah, very much so. And the second recommendation is “One Step At A Time” by one_starry_night. Continuity: it's a G1 cartoon continuity, it's rated K, Gen, there are no pairings and the characters are Beachcomber, Perceptor, Powerglide, Warpath, and Seaspray, though Seaspray doesn't really say anything, he's just hanging out. And this is specifically following the events of the Golden Lagoon. In summary, “Perceptor figures out a way to cheer Beachcomber up.”

And I picked this one because it's an episode follow-up which- Beachcomber getting some closure would be nice.

O: Right!? Right!? Instead of him just being sad.

S: Yep. And this one is a one-shot, so let's go over to Owls.

O: All right! Our fanartist for today is Sarah Stone or Fayren, they do Prime the- the stuff I'm recommending, anyway, is mostly Prime fanart but they are actually an official artist from the IDW Windblade run which is very, very pretty if you have not seen it and I do recommend reading it. Um, Starscream is a bastard but hopefully you're used to that at this point.

S: Yeah.

O: Um, as I said we've only linked some Prime fan arts. Uh, we have a collection of Decepticons in glasses.

S: Nice.

O: And then we have a humanformer Soundwave which might be my favorite humanformer Soundwave design. It's his design from Prime and he kind of looks like a weird sci-fi mage-y thing. It looks neat. Uh, complete with a- with an actual bird Laserbeak. And then, uh, we have Ratchet and, uh, Knock Out in a fight.

S: Knock down, drag out doctor fight.

O: Apparently.

S: Yeah, they just they both look like they're going to trash each other.

O: Oh yeah, she is a fayrenpickpocket on Deviantart and IInstagram. She is just fayren on Twitter and then on Tumblr- her Tumblr is monsterboysandrobots although, be warned, she has not updated there in over two years, so. I think she's still fairly active on Instagram and Twitter, if you do want to follow her, I would check there first. Any other links will be available on our Tumblr.

S: Yep, and just- I would like to note that her colors are gorgeous.

O: They are. I-I was trying to figure out because I couldn't remember if she did the colors for the Windblade run or if somebody else was the colorist. We can't remember but the colors are super gorgeous in the Windblade run. It's part of why it's so pretty.

S: Yes.

O: Um, so if she didn't do it, whoever the colorist was for that one did a fantastic job.

S: Yeah.

O: Also, you know, just side mention, the cutest Waspinator in existence is in that run, I just want you all to know this.

S: She does have a very cute Waspinator.

O: He's a fuzzy boy!

S: And that just about wraps it up for us today. Remember to check us out on Tumblr or Pillowfort as Afterspark-Podcast for any additional information, show notes, or links we may have mentioned. You can also find us on Facebook and Twitter at AftersparkPod (all one word) and various other locations by searching for Afterspark Podcast such as AO3, iTunes, Spotify, and Youtube, just to name a few. And feel free to send us questions on Tumblr, Youtube, or AO3! Till next time, I'm Specs.

O: I’m Owls.

S: Toodles.

[Outro Music]

#transcript #afterspark #afterspark podcast #g1 episode 43

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commander-hanji-zoe · 4 years

Text

Eating Out

So I wrote a Oluo x reader titled ‘Eating Out’ (not a subtle title I know) that ended up being over 8k words... No one asked for this, I just got carried away. Anyway it’s finished and on Ao3 here. I’ll be posting the chapters individually here as well.

(As a side note, in this Oluo’s affections are still very much directed towards Petra he just needs some help. The reader also has an eye for Mike).

Summary - Oluo has been incredibly tetchy as of late, Eld and the others believe he's sexually frustrated. When the reader gets him on his own they find out the truth which leads to an inevitable lesson in love, sex and cunnilingus.

Rating: 18+ due to smut.

Chapter One - The Proposal

“He just seems so worked up all the time,” Petra said as looked up from her food and across the table.

“Where is he anyway?” Eld

“Probably sulking” Gunther added.

“More like bootlicking Captain Levi,” Eld scoffed.

You sat in silence listening to the others, you felt bad for Oluo, sure he was a bit much, pompous and arrogant but there had to be a reason. The constant bickering between him and Petra was kinda cute and.

“What he needs is a good fuck.” Eld remarked.

You and Petra both had to try to contain yourselves from spitting out your drink.

“Yes!” Gunther slammed his fist on the table, “He probably hasn’t put out in ages and is just sexually frustrated.”

You and Petra looked at each other and both rolled your eyes, so tonight was going to be one of those nights was it? Levi Squad were pretty famous for the pranks they played on one another and constant teasing, it seemed in pretty good spirits, at least it usually did… But without Oluo there, it seemed kinda wrong to be speaking ill of him.

Thankfully it wasn’t long before the topic of conversation changed and you found you were able to relax more around the others, still where was Oluo you hadn’t seen him all evening and wondered whether he’d been closer than you all thought in the dining hall and overheard what was being said.

The others slowly left for bed, the dining hall filtering out until you were the only one left scribbling in your diary. You’d found it a constant comfort in difficult times, a way of mapping out your feelings and on that particular evening your thoughts kept returning to Oluo.

As you walked out of the dining hall something caught your eye, “Oluo?” you took a step out into the courtyard.

Oluo was sat on the steps staring off into the distance, he didn’t look up when you said his name and he appeared to be swaying, potentially a little drunk. You moved so you beside him and sat down silently placing a hand on his shoulder. His immediate reaction was to push you away, hardly surprising you thought, he had been rather tetchy recently.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Oluo scoffed and took another swig from the bottle he was carrying.

“Oh come on it can’t be that bad surely,” you said softly, reaching out for him once again. This time he didn’t push you away.

“There’s no point,” he begun and took yet another swig, you took the bottle off him and joined him in drinking despite the fact you’d already been drinking wine that evening.

The two of you sat on the steps drinking together, barely speaking for some time but it didn’t feel awkward like you thought it might have. When you ran out of wine you went to get more and as you passed the bottle to Oluo he smiled for the first time that evening.

He opened his mouth several times as if about to say something and then closed it again. Whatever it was you could tell he wanted to talk but was somehow struggling with the words to say it, it was incredibly unlike him.

“My offer still stands you know, if you want to talk.”

Oluo sighed, but this time he did respond and the conversation soon turned to Petra. You sat there listening to Oluo practically declare his love for her and his concerns over any potential future. The more he spoke the more he opened up and started to enter into territory that you’d never expected to be discussing with him. As you watched him talk so passionately you couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked in the moonlight, he was relaxing around you and as he did so the lines on his face from where he always seemed so serious now appeared to melt to reveal a more youthful appearance.

“It’s just, she’s so beautiful but what if I let her down?” He asked looking at you with concern, his brows were furrowed and the traces of fear begun to seep into the creases of his face once again.

“You could never let her down, not if you’re yourself.” You said in earnest.

He looked up at you and smiled for a moment before the same look of concern, he stared down at another empty bottle, his words were starting to slur now and you wondered if it might be time for the two of you to go to bed.

“In the bedroom you know?” Oluo continued, “I mean not that it would ever get that far,” he gave a nervous laugh and scratched at the back of his head. His voice seemed different now, more genuine.

You blinked several times as Oluo’s stare pierced you, were you really going to talk about this with him? Even if you did, was it okay to give advice and really go into the details, sure you felt comfortable enough round him but would he be okay with that? The pause in speech between the two of you seemed to go on forever, bushes rustled in the wind and an owl hooted somewhere nearby. You took a deep breath and swigged the remainder of the alcohol in the bottle you held. An idea formed. You knew he only had eyes for Petra, that much was obvious to everyone, but you had fantasied about being taken by him, especially with the conversation you were now having and how close you were. Perhaps you could help ease him after all.

Okay so you’d had a few drinks and after what the others had been talking about earlier that evening an idea popped into your head. You could help him right? And it would be fun, for the both of you and maybe Eld had been right all along.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t disappoint her Oluo, you know sex is a two way thing and even if you’re both just figuring it out that’s okay,” you’d placed a hand on his knee and squeezed without even realising you were doing it. Your fingers slowly traced up his thigh, when you saw Oluo gulp and look down at your hand you quickly pulled away.

Unperturbed by your action it appeared Oluo also had a plan, or maybe he was asking out of innocence, either way he left you intrigued, “The thing I really struggle with, the area I’m not so confident with and I’m worried she’ll laugh at me is.”

He paused and looked at you, now you really were curious.

He closed his eyes and spoke so fast the words practically blurred into one, “I am completely clueless when it comes to going down on a girl, I don’t know what i’m doing,” he paused for a second and then added, “The last time it was just awful.”

Now it was your turn to pause, you weren’t exactly sure what you were expecting but it certainly wasn’t that.

Taking a moment to access the situation you offered what was probably a pitiful smile that was meant to reassure him but you were pretty sure it had the opposite effect. “I’ll be right back,” you said.

As you walked back into the mess hall you calculated your options, you needed to make a decision about what to do now. You couldn’t leave Oluo alone and not return, knowing him he’d be distraught and anxious for days which would make his ‘new’ personality even more intolerable. Having a breather away from him was good, it meant you could spend a few minutes weighing up the pros and cons of the situation and how best to attack.

You returned a few minutes later, Oluo was sat in the same place, head in hands.

“Hey it’s okay,” you said as you nuzzled up close to him, “This is definitely not the best fruit to show you with but it’s the best I could find,” you pulled an orange out of your pocket, peeled it and removed several segments leaving the rest in tact.

He seemed confused about where you were going with this.

“I could show you,” you said turning the orange over. “The best way to eat a girl out.”

Oluo’s expression changed like he sobered up in a second, you weren’t sure where the sudden surge of courage came from but all it took was the slightest nod from him for you to slowly kiss the flesh of the orange and then started to move your tongue, swirling in small circles and tracing your lips across the surface before delving in further. Over the next few minutes you continued to slowly show off your moves to Oluo, sat at an angle where he could enjoy the show as you begun to suck harder at the juices, moaning as you did so. As ashamed as you were to admit it, doing this was getting you off especially knowing how close to Oluo you were and seeing a slight bulge in his trousers when you glanced downward.

“There, like that,” you said as you stopped and held the orange out, your eyes glancing upwards at Oluo.

His mouth was agape, eyes hungry and cheeks flushed.

“Well?” you asked coyly as you passed another orange to him, “Give it a go,” you took another orange from your pocket, “or you know, continue working on that one, I’m sure you could work all the juice from it.”

Oluo froze, then slowly went for the orange you’d just been eating. A grin spread across your face, “Well from the way you decided that you are a hungry man, I’m sure you could impress anyone.”

You watched him with keen interest, he was practically following the patterns and moves you’d showed him and slowly he devoured the entire thing. You chuckled just watching him, there was something kind of cute and endearing about how he had been listening to you.

“Now,” you said slowly as you reached out with a handkerchief and wiped the juice from round his lips, “How would you feel about trying it out for real.”

You watched his adam’s apple bob, as he gulped.

“What?”

He couldn’t be that naive surely?

“I could show you what to do,” you purred as you stroked his gold and ashen hair.

“I…” he stuttered, his cheeks now an even brighter shade of red.

“It’s your choice,” you said as you stood up and started to walk away from him. You heard him get up and the sound of his boots as he chased after you.

The two of you were careful that no one was around to see you heading into your quarters together, when the door closed behind you, you were able to breathe a sigh of relief.

#oluo bossard #oluo bozado #auruo bossard #oluo x reader #petra ral #snk fanfiction #nsft

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shapeshiftinterest · 5 years

Text

The ‘Fake’ First Date: rufus x reg (CH 1)

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

mao mao heroes of pure heart valentines day event

prompt mix:

day 3: first date

day 7: one milkshake

big thank you to @ao3zephyrous for beta reading this chapter!!

story under the read more

The ‘Fake’ First Date (also on ao3)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Rufus was sweating. He wanted to kick his past self. Sure this would have been a great con if they’d been partners for a while, but they’d only started working together a few months ago.

Damn it all! The waitress was waiting for their next move. Think, Rufus,THINK!

-Earlier That Day-

“We’re in luck, Reggie,” Rufus said, gleefully rubbing his paws together. “It’s All Heart’s Day, and that means couples discounts galore.“ Reg watched as the fox spun in a circle, throwing his arms in the air and grinning at the idea of all that basically free stuff.

“I didn’t have anyone to do this with previously, but now that you’re here we can put my plan into motion!“

“Whaddaya mean?“

“I mean, my dear Reg, that we can dupe all those store owners into thinking we’re a couple so that we can take advantage of the discounts,” he said, turning to look at the other and slicking his ears back with a paw.

“Ooooh. Wow Rufus! That’s really smart,” Reg clapped.

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

The pair had taken a few minutes to go over their story (first date as boyfriends after being friends for years) before setting off into town. The first few stores had been easy. A hug here, a hand on the shoulder there, and bam! free samples and Heart’s Day couple coupons.

At one point Reg had pointed out a cloth stand (unfortunately no discounts) and distracted the vendor so he could sneak over and swipe a bolt. They decided on cutting some for themselves, turning the cloth into matching scarves and saving the rest to sell later.

Rufus was so impressed at the gesture and the little detail to add to the con that he almost swooned a little. HA! Truly a raccoon after his own heart.

He’d been so giddy about his ploy that he’d forgotten they’d probably need to practice their couple act past just saying they were on a date.

They’d been walking across the street when Rufus noticed the store’s promotional sign.

[Come to our cafe! Heart‘s Day Special: Couples get 75% off if participating in Cutest Couple Photo Contest! Try our free Forever Love Milkshake ($25 coupon for future use if finished in 10 minutes)]

Not one to waste such an opportunity, he alerted his partner in crime with a subtle nudge, nodding his head in the direction of the cafe.

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

~ding a ling~

“Hello, dear customers~ Welcome to Cafe Ruvia. How may I help you today?“ a waitress greeted them. She grinned wolfishly, tail swishing lazily behind her.

“Ah, yes, we’re here for the Heart’s Day Specials-”

“Oh?“

Rufus’s eye twitched, but his smile stayed in-tact. He hated being interrupted.

“But where’s your partner?“ she asked, craning her head to look around him.

“Pssst Rufus,“ Reg whispered behind his hand, shuffling over to tug at his jacket. “That milkshake is HUGE!“

They both watched as another waitress set a Forever Love Milkshake in front of an already seated couple. The glass looked to be about a foot high, not counting all the whipped cream and toppings.

Rufus turned back to the girl in front of them and put his paw on Reg’s back, pushing him forward for her to see. “This is my partner, miss...,” he squinted at her name tag, “Charlotte.”

She narrowed her eyes at the pair. Hmmm. They certainly looked the part. But then again, there were a ton of people pretending to date just for free stuff, especially on Heart’s Day. Her smile widened, deciding to test them a little.

“Haha, my mistake. I thought you were just friends.“ The waitress held up a camera, ignoring Rufus’s scoff. “If you’re participating in our Cutest Couple Photo Contest it’s mandatory to take the picture before coming in. Please step this way sirs.“

-Present-

And now the two were being stared down by a waitress with a camera. Ugh. She was probably trying to test if they were an actual couple or something.

Rufus wasn’t sure what to do. Sure he could flirt and flaunt at a moments notice and Reg was easy to talk to, but it wasn’t like they were particularly close or anything.

“Are you sure y’all are together?“ she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I-“

“Sorry miss, my boyfriend’s kind of shy about PDA.“ Rufus and Charlotte turned to look at Reg in surprise. “I asked him out a few weeks ago. Thought if we had matching scarves it’d make us look more couple-y,“ he laughed, moving in to hug said ‘boyfriend‘ before pulling away to hold his paw.

Rufus’s eyebrows went up. Apparently his new accomplice was skilled at improv, how unexpected!

“Is there anything we need to do for the picture?“ Reg asked, looking up at the waitress. Charlotte giggled behind the paw not holding her camera.

“Just a kiss is all. Any kind is fine though if it makes it easier for your guy,“ she winked.

Rufus’s tail bristled. He didn’t really like being seen as the shy type but he guessed he’d have to suck it up for now.

Reg nodded, lifting his arms in a ‘pick me up’ motion. The waitress adjusted her camera and smiled. “Say Cheese!”

Well this wasn’t too big of a deal. Rufus leaned in for a forehead kiss- only for Reg to grab him by the scarf and pull him down for an actual one. Oh. Oh my.

“Mmph?!” he squeaked, eyes snapping open right as Charlotte snapped the picture. It was a tremendous effort not to chuck the raccoon at her smug little face afterwards.

“It came out wonderfully! I’ll just put this on the voting board and someone will come seat you in a moment~“

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

“Reg that was brilliant! How did you come up with that story so quickly?“ he asked, pulling Reg’s chair out.

“There’s a character like that in the game I’m playing right now.”

They talked a bit more before waving down one of the waitresses and deciding to do the milkshake challenge before eating. It was much bigger in person, about half a head taller than Rufus and dressed to the nines in what seemed to be every topping under the sun.

It didn’t feel like they’d be able to finish it, but halfway through the time limit Reg had gotten a second wind. He practically inhaled the rest of the milkshake.

Unfortunately they didn’t win the picture contest. That was gifted to some kind of snake-orangutan hybrid (did they even count as a couple or ???).

Rufus scowled at Charlotte as she pranced over with a little extra pep in her step. Tch.

“You didn’t win but it’s still a cute pic right?“ she handed the item over to Reg "Come again soon!"

“Thank you!“ he waved back as they left the café. “She seemed nice.”

Rufus huffed and crossed his arms. “About as nice as a cactus.”

“Aw cheer up Rufus,“ the raccoon took something out of his hat. “At least we have some of their silverware.“

He took one look at the stolen utensils and back to Reg before bursting out into laughter.

“Oh Reggie, I think this is the start of a beautiful partnership,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye.

________________________________________________________________

chapter 2 is a year to a few years in the future

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shima-draws · 5 years

Note

Remember that one episode in Gravity Falls where Stan loses a bet to Mabel and does that stan-wrong-dance?? Can you write a drabble where Ford finds the footage pls the imagery is so freaking funny lmao

[[Send me a fandom/ship/prompt and I’ll write a drabble for it!]]

I’M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG BUT I FINALLY FINISHED…I had a total blast writing it tho!!

I kinda took your prompt and went way beyond the original concept anjsakbnda so there’s some angst in here because Stan’s a self-sacrificial idiot and Ford almost loses his shit, but I hope you like it nonetheless :’)

Also this ended up being nearly 4k words so. Yeah. That’s why it took so long LOL but hopefully you got more than what you asked for!

This is also on Archive, if you’d rather read it there!

——————————————————–

Ford is absolutely furious.

Now, he’s no stranger to anger, having fallen victim to it many, many times throughout his life. His bouts of rage usually result in catastrophe if he isn’t careful. A prime example: letting Stan get kicked out of the house forty years ago. Or, when his irritation caused a fight between them that ended up in Stan’s permanently scarred shoulder and his own thirty year trip into the multiverse. It’s never simple and it usually doesn’t end well, especially if Stan happens to be on the other side of the argument.

This time, however, is a bit different.

It’s one thing if his brother has done something to piss him off. It’s another if Stanley does something so unbelievably stupid it scares the absolute shit out of Ford. He doesn’t like being angry. He doesn’t like being angry as a result of him being terrified even more.

And so, he’s taken to pacing in his study, trying to let off some steam. He’d separated himself from Stan after lecturing at him for twenty-five minutes about the very many reasons why Stan shouldn’t have charged right into battle against a particularly violent group of bullasps (an enormous wasp-bull anomaly hybrid, helpfully named by Mabel). Stan had come this close to being pierced by one of their enormous stingers—and if he had, well. The venom they secrete works so quickly Ford doubts he would have been able to do anything about it in time. And that is what had triggered his hysteria.

Mabel sits on one of the oversized chairs in the room, munching on a bag of popcorn. She’d followed him after his frustration had shot through the ceiling, needing to get away before he said anything he’d come to regret. Dipper had stayed behind to admonish Stan further, but not as harshly as Ford originally had.

It’s been almost a year since Ford and Stan left Gravity Falls to travel the world together. They’ve had plenty of arguments and heated late night discussions on board the Stan O’ War II, but they’d never escalated to this level. The two of them hashed out all of their past history and mistakes, and they’ve been attached at the hip ever since—but Stanley’s always had a bit of a reckless steak, and Ford will never admit it, but he’s unbelievably overprotective of his twin, especially after the whole shooting-him-with-a-memory-gun thing. (They try not to talk about that, much, mostly because it makes Ford feel so guilty it brings him to tears, and Stan hates seeing him like that.) This sort of takes the cake for every previous situation where Stan has willingly put himself in danger on their journey out at sea. Ford can’t remember the last time he’s felt so high strung.

“I just can’t believe him,” Ford hisses, his fingers tangled in his hair. His heart is still pounding, fear spiking through his veins and making him as taught as a bowstring. “Out of all the reckless, most monumentally moronic—”

“I know you’re upset, Grunkle Ford, but we took care of it!” Mabel points out, trying to be helpful. She does sound worried, though, if her expression has anything to say about it. “Those things ran right off after I used that cannon to shoot that t-shirt into the woods! Who knew bullasps are actually attracted to red things? I thought regular bulls hated the color red!”

Ford can’t help but smile a bit at her observation. “Actually, regular bulls are red-green colorblind, Mabel. It’s not that they particularly dislike the color red, it’s the action of a matador moving their cape that stimulates hyper aggression in—wait, wait, that’s not the point!” He heaves out a sigh. He turns to her and frowns. “Do you—do you even know why I’m so furious with Stanley right now?”

Mabel makes a funny sound with her mouth, her legs kicking back and forth, and then she answers. “‘Cause he shook his butt at them and told them to shove it where the sun don’t shine?”

Ford groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. Could Stan have any less tact? The children are almost 14 now, but still.

“That’s part of it,” he grumbles. “But it’s his insistence on constantly throwing himself headlong into danger before even considering the consequences of doing so. Stanley is—he’s ridiculously defensive of his family, which isn’t a bad quality to have at all, but…it gets him into unnecessary trouble. A lot.”

Mabel looks truly concerned now, which is good. “Is that why you looked like Dipper in the middle of a Wendy crisis when Grunkle Stan almost got hit by one of those super giant sharp and pointy stingers?”

Ford considers telling her that the venom would have killed Stanley in minutes, but then decides he should probably spare her those morbid details.

“Yes. It would have been…very catastrophic if he’d actually come into contact with one.” Ford slumps, suddenly feeling exhausted. “I’ve come this close to losing him once, I…the mere thought of possibly losing him again, and him ending up somewhere I couldn’t ever possibly reach…”

His throat tightens and he feels pressure building behind his eyelids. Emotion makes his heart feel like it’s being constricted, squeezed tight, and he swallows. He’d gone half his life without his brother and he regrets every single minute he didn’t spend by Stanley’s side. Almost losing him to Bill was a huge wake up call, and Ford’s barely been without him since then.

“So that’s why you’re so frowny,” Mabel chirps. Ford can’t tell if she’s totally oblivious to the seriousness of the situation or if she’s just trying to act upbeat for his sake—but he appreciates it either way. “You were pretty scared for him, huh, Grunkle Ford?”

Ford wipes his eyes and nods wordlessly. In the past he might have brushed her off but he knows better now—his family is the most important thing he has, and confiding in them when times are difficult is usually the best course of action.

The young teen hums thoughtfully, scratching her chin, and then her eyes practically light up.

“Wait, hold on! I have an idea,” she says excitedly. Her smile turns wicked. Oh, no. Ford knows that look. He’s been on the receiving end of it many times before.

“Grunkle Ford, have you seen the Stan Wrong Song?”

Ford tilts his head. “The…what?”

Mabel giggles insanely. “The Stan Wrong Song! It’s a song we forced Grunkle Stan to sing after he lost a bet to me.”

“Stanley lost a bet.”

“Uh-huh!”

“To you.” If Ford didn’t know her so well, he’d think she was lying. It’s extremely hard to believe, knowing how brilliant his twin is in the conning department.

Her grin becomes wider, if that’s even possible. Her braces glint in the dim light. “We bet to see who could make more money—me, taking over Grunkle Stan’s position as a morally ambiguous tour guide, or him on vacation. And I won the bet by a dollar! A dollar, Grunkle Ford!”

“Incredible,” Ford breathes, shaking his head.

“We made him sing it at least thirty-six times,” his nibling tells him. She really could give Stan a run for his money with how mischievous she is.

“Or, wait, maybe it was thirty-eight? Anyway, it was a whole lot! We were all singing it for weeks. The power of catchy made up songs prevailed! Grunkle Stan says he hates it, but I hear him singing it in the bathroom sometimes when he thinks I can’t hear him!”

The older man chuckles at that, amused.

“Anyway,” Mabel sing-songs. “Since Grunkle Stan was a dumb-dumb and almost got speared today and scared the bejeebers out of all of us, I think this is a good opportunity to bust that video out and give him a good ol’ dose of shame!”

“You truly are a peculiar girl, Mabel,” Ford says in wonder.

The brunette beams at this, her smile almost blinding.

“Come on,” she says, grabbing his wrist. Her grip is surprisingly strong, and so is the way she tugs him along with her. “It’s payback time! Revenge tastes sweet, like gummy worms!”

——————————————————–

Ten minutes later they’re seated together in the living room, prepared for the show. Mabel has already plugged her phone into the TV, which can broadcast anything she wants, thanks to a helpful little device Fiddleford had made for the family a while back. (It definitely helped when Ford wanted to show off all the videos he’d taken while he and Stan were out at sea on a larger screen for the whole family to watch.)

Stan is nowhere to be seen—which Ford supposes is a good sign as any. He’d rather not have Stan confiscate Mabel’s phone before Ford even gets to watch whatever the young girl is intent on showing him. Dipper’s probably still keeping watch over Stan, so that’s reassuring. He’s sure that there’s nobody more capable of watching his twin, except maybe Soos.

Mabel is practically vibrating in her seat, posture tense with excitement, and Ford fidgets. He’s honestly not sure what to expect—but when the video finally loads and the first thing he sees is Stan in a neon orange track suit covered with sparkles, Ford blinks in shock. He definitely didn’t expect that.

His twin looks like he’d rather be chased by a horrendous monster of the deep than perform in front of the camera, and the deadpan expression on his face has Ford releasing an amused snort.

Stan glances offscreen, gruff and irritated. “Ugh, l-look, I’m not gonna—”

Mabel’s voice interjects before he can finish protesting. “Do it!”

Stan begins to bounce as a song plays in the background. He looks so goofy doing it that Ford starts to giggle a little, the stress of the day rolling off his shoulders.

“I’m Stan and I was wrong.” Stan sings, dryly, with all the emotion of a desert cactus. “I’m singing the Stan Wrong Song.”

Something in Ford breaks, then—and he’s laughing, incredulously, sort of struck dumb by the whole situation. Mabel sniggers beside him. Stan starts to swing his arms, and Ford wheezes. His brother looks so foolish. Ford is absolutely reveling in it. (He’s so using this for blackmail material later.)

“I shouldn’t have taken that chance. Now here’s my remorseful dance,” Stan finishes, pouty and clearly embarrassed.

“Do the kicks!” Mabel’s voice calls out again, and Stan makes a feeble attempt at performing a kick, to which she demands them to be “Jazzier!”

It’s when Gompers comes in and starts a tug of war match with Stan that’s one for the history books that Ford loses it completely. The entire thing is just so wild and hysterical that he can’t help it, clutching at his side as he laughs and laughs and laughs. The video resets, going back to the beginning, and Ford happily sits through it again.

By the time the video loops for the fifth round Ford is howling with laughter, nearly bowled over by the force of it. His side has a stitch and it hurts and he’s pretty sure he’s crying but he can’t stop, too overwhelmed at the hilarity of his brother in a sparkly suit singing a song clearly meant to humiliate him—and maybe it’s the fact that Stan had had another close brush with death earlier and the built up tension from the incident that has him letting it all out through his chortles. Mabel is giggling madly beside him—whether she’s laughing at Stan or laughing at him laughing at Stan is unclear, but it’s contagious, and Ford can’t stop smiling.

God, how utterly ridiculous this all is. He loves his family.

The video is on its eighth loop and Ford is pretty sure he’s going to pass out from lack of oxygen when Stan bursts into the room, his eyes wide. Dipper follows close behind.

“What’s going on in—Ford?!”

Stan rushes over to him, his face drawn up in concern, and Ford’s heart melts a little. He might still be angry at his twin for scaring him half to death, but really, Stan’s mother hen tendencies never fail to make him smile.

“Ford—Jesus, you’re cryin’, Sixer! What the hell happened?”

Ford giggles and wipes the tears from his eyes, struggling to get his breathing back under control. “I’m—ahaha! I’m fine, Stanley.”

“With all the noise you were making, I thought you were dying,” Stan says with a worried frown. “It sounded like you were in pain or—”

Ford playfully rolls his eyes and nudges him in the shin with his foot.

“Now you know how I feel.”

Once he finally settles down, and when Mabel’s tittering fades, Stan finally registers the video playing behind him. His face immediately goes ash white, his expression quickly morphing into one of utter horror, and if Ford weren’t so wiped out by nearly laughing his ass into unconsciousness he’d probably start doing it again.

Dipper sees what they’re watching and he snorts, covering his mouth to hide any further giggles from coming out.

"Mabel, pumpkin?”

Mabel is the picture of pure innocence, her smile sickly sweet. “Yes, Grunkle Stan?”

“Either I’m having memory issues again or I swear I made you promise me in confidence that you would never ever show this video to Ford,” Stan says, slowly. His grin is wide and almost terrifying. If Ford didn’t know how much Stan loves Mabel he would have thought his twin was seriously considering strangling her. “And what did you do?”

“I showed the video to Ford,” Mabel says, looking shameful. She twirls a piece of long brown hair around her finger. Ford chokes back a bark of laughter at how well she’s pulling this off.

“Don’t be too hard on her, Stan,” Ford soothes in an attempt to curb his brother’s embarrassment. “She was only trying to help.”

Stan simply pouts, and suddenly all Ford can see is a young boy, cheeks bright red from the sun, childishly complaining about having to wear glasses because he thinks it’ll make him look like a nerd. Something warm blooms inside Ford’s chest and he bites his cheek, trying not to get lost in the memory of their childhood.

“How is this helping anything,” Stan mumbles, his cheeks flushing a charming shade of pink.

“It’s teaching you some humility,” Ford states, crossing his arms. “Maybe you should sing it again, Stanley.”

“What?!” His twin barks in outrage.

“He does have a point, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper provides helpfully from where he’s now lounging on the couch with Mabel. The video continues to loop, much to Stan’s chagrin. “You did do something wrong today.”

“Wh—are you still on about that? My god,” Stan groans, throwing his head back. “I was trying to be, ya know, heroic! Live up to my title.”

Ford is tempted to kick him again, but harder. His glare makes the other man wilt slightly.

“You already live up to your title, Stan,” Ford points out. “You don’t have to throw yourself in front of a beast with a toxicity level of 94 percent to prove that.”

“94? Holy crow, that’s high,” Dipper squeaks.

“You’ve already saved the world and paid the price for it once,” Ford continues. He slumps a bit in his chair, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to him. “Please, Stan, you have to understand—there’s no point in trying to protect us if we lose you in the process. It’s just…just…” And he shakes his head, frustrated that he can’t put it into words properly.

“Okay, alright,” Stan says sheepishly, edging closer to where he’s sitting. “I get it. I didn’t mean to scare ya. It’s just habit for me to be self-sacrificial at this point.”

“That’s a terrible habit!” Mabel accuses.

“She’s right,” Ford mumbles. “If you hadn’t…if that stinger had come into contact, you would have…and then I…I…” He chokes up, his eyes watering. His heart clenches painfully, fear making his body feel like it’s encased in ice. “If I lost you…”

“Hey, easy there on the waterworks, Poindexter,” Stan teases lightly. He holds his hands out in a pacifying gesture. “I’m fine, see? Still in one piece. Mostly.”

“This isn’t funny, Stanley! How can you still refuse to comprehend—ugh!”

Ford is nearly tearing his hair out in frustration now, his teeth grinding together. Seriously, how can his brother still be such an idiot? He thought the lecturing and the clear distress the rest of the family is expressing would be enough to make Stan realize, but—

Stan folds his arms, huffing, and Ford notes that his face is coloring again. Mabel and Dipper gaze at him curiously, and before Ford can question his twin, Stan releases a soft, irritated noise from his throat.

“I’m Stan and I was wrong,” Stan mutters.

Ford blinks in shock.

The other man sighs, a deep-sounding one that slackens his posture. “I’m singing…the Stan Wrong Song.”

Mabel makes a high-pitched keen of excitement, and Dipper grins. Ford almost falls right out of his chair.

He isn’t sure what’s more surprising—Stan willingly putting his pride on the line, or begrudgingly singing about his mistake in front of the family, who he knows are more than capable of holding this against him.

“I shouldn’t have taken that chance…”

Stan edges closer until he’s standing over Ford, his cheeks the color of a ripe apple.

“I’m sorry, okay? Now will you please forgive me already?”

Something lodges itself in Ford’s throat, and his whole body feels as if it’s being flooded with warmth. Even after all this time, Stan still puts his want for Ford’s forgiveness over everything else. His heart glows.

“Stanley…”

“Don’t gimme that look,” Stan grumbles, refusing to meet his eyes.

The older twin beams and launches himself out of his chair, scooping his brother up in a hug.

“Wh—Ford?!”

Ford nuzzles happily into Stan’s hair, grinning wide.

“Thank you, Stanley.”

“What! You cannot leave me out of this family hug action!” Mabel cries, leaping off the couch to run over and throw her arms around her Grunkles’ legs.

“Squeeeeze!” She says, squeezing them tight. Ford laughs jubilantly and Stan rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile that refuses to go away on his face.

Mabel presses her nose into Stan’s leg for a moment, and then she looks over her shoulder at Dipper.

“Come on, Dippin Dots, you know you want in on this!”

Dipper rolls his eyes but slides off the couch nonetheless, coming over to circle them before ending up beside Ford in the group hug.

The young girl starts giggling, a happy, wonderful sound that makes Ford’s heart swell like a balloon. He feels all sorts of fuzzy, the euphoria of being with the people he loves the most—and with his twin, his other half, the person who almost gave his life for him today—making him burst into merry laughter as well. Soon enough Dipper joins them, and finally, Stan is roped into it, their laughter too contagious to ignore.

When they finally all calm down, Ford nudges his head against Stan’s temple. So maybe he’s feeling a bit clingy now, so what?

“Next time you do something like that again I will sneak horrifying body-altering concoctions into your coffee,” Ford tells him way too cheerfully for someone who’s threatening possible disfiguration.

“Yikes, Sixer. What sort of crap did you learn how to do on the other side of that portal?”

“I know how to disembody someone in a total of 103 unique ways,” Ford responds brightly while he rubs his cheek against Stan’s shoulder, hiding a grin into his shirt.

Much to his delight, Stan stiffens beneath him, and Ford almost laughs.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Stan gruffs, patting him on the back. He pauses. “…Again.”

“Hey,” Dipper playfully elbows Stan. “Grunkle Stan, you didn’t finish.”

Mabel’s entire face lights up, and her smile is blinding—and devilish. “Oh, that’s right! You didn’t finish, Grunkle Stan! You have to commit to it all the way!”

Stan looks down at them, puzzled. He tries to squirm out of Ford’s hold but Ford just hums and hugs him tighter, his forehead pressing against the man’s shoulder.

Stan promptly gives up on getting free (because he knows from experience once Ford starts clinging it’s all over). Instead, he addresses the younger twins with an air of confusion.

“What are you gremlins going on about? Finish what?”

“Your song, silly!” Mabel chirps.

Dipper nods, his smirk matching his sister’s. “Yeah, you didn’t sing the entire thing. Or even do the dance! That was a pretty lackluster performance if you ask me.”

Stan’s face draws up in horror. “Oh, no.”

Ford leans back, but doesn’t detach himself from their interwoven limbs. Giving Stan another dose of shame, as Mabel put it, sounds thrilling right about now.

“You know, they do have a point,” he says, pretending to mull it over. He can’t stop grinning. “I’d love to see the most recent rendition of the Stan Wrong Song, from start to finish. Wouldn’t you, kids?”

“Abso-lutely!” Mabel almost screams. “I’ll have to go get my camera!”

Dipper nods, a hand on his chin. “Oh, yes, yes. Gotta have it.”

“You are the worst,” Stan hisses, his entire face matching the color of Ford’s sweater.

Ford laughs for the millionth time that day, his body feeling lighter than air.

——————————————————–

After that, they make him sing it a total of seven times before finally giving mercy. Stan swears he’s never going to do anything super dangerous again until he does two days later. Then the whole process repeats. LMAO

I can never get enough of Pines family fluff it makes me weak in the knees and oh so happy

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docholligay · 5 years

Text

False Reality

This is a really old fic, that Rachelle commissioned. It’s silly and goofy and fun, and I think everyone would love that right now! 2,500 words.

Want to support my releases? Thank you! Patreon – Ko-fi

Michiru sighed heavily and folded the map. “Rei, I don’t believe you have the slightest idea where you are going.”

Rei knit her eyebrows in annoyance. That Michiru was entirely right was beside the point--Rei did not appreciate the show of bad faith.

“How is there no cell service?” Rei looked at her phone, as if staring at it one last time would somehow magically make a cell tower appear.

This hadn’t been Rei’s idea, she would remind Michiru, once they’d had a chance to settle in at the hotel. Michiru’s family was the one with the membership to the ski resort, a place Rei had never even heard of, which made sense, seeing as it was on another continent and the memberships were invitation only, and tens of thousands of dollars a year besides. And Michiru was the one who had said they could simply drive, when the private airports nearby had been full.

Yes, this was certainly Michiru’s fault, and not Rei’s, no matter how many turns she had taken down side dirt roads into nowhere.

“I imagine there is no service due to a lack of cell towers.” Michiru looked out the window at the snowy plain, falling away into the distance as the car climbed. “Haruka will be worried.”

“Oh, who cares about Haruka, we’re going to freeze to death.” Rei kept driving, stubbornly, as if driving deeper into the dark would make something appear.

“A more peaceful end than I ever believed might have been possible for us.” Michiru looked at her watch.

And then, the miracle appeared. Rei rounded yet another corner, and there was a light. It was small, a yellow haze against the darkness, at the corner where a road led off the main path. The road was barely illuminated, but one barely squinted,

“See?” Rei gestured proudly, as if she had called it into being. “We’ll ask these people. It’s late, they'll probably let us stay the night.”

Michiru looked at the humming light, unimpressed. “Rei, you’ve just promised me I was going to freeze to death, if you swap it out for an axe murder I shan’t be pleased.”

“I don’t know why I try to talk to you when you’re always so morbid.” Rei rolled her eyes and jerked the steering wheel to the side, venturing down the dark road.

___

It was the sort of place that Michiru generally avoided, for a constellation of reasons particular to herself, but namely her aversion to being murdered in a common way. Rei ignored these protestations, however, and so she chose to simply stop offering them, as Rei trudged up the snowy stairs to the door.

She rapped hard, the response of the wood echoing into the cold night sky, and Michiru could not help but have her attention drawn upwards, following the curl of her breath on the air, staring into the jewelry-store case above her, fates twinkling with each facet of an individual life.

The door swung open, and there was a small redhead in a delicate pink dress, a glass of whiskey in her hand. A TV show boomed from the living room, pressing out into the night.

She looked in her glass, and then back at Michiru and Rei, and then back into her glass, and then back up at the girls once more.

A deep, loud woman’s voice came from the living room. “What the hell, Holligay?”

“I need to stop drinking.” The redhead turned called back into the living room. “Did you dose me with something?”

Michiru stepped forward and extended a hand. “My name is Michiru--”

“Kaioh.” She finished Michiru’s sentence. “I know.”

Michiru and Rei exchanged glances--Michiru’s family was very well known, so it wasn’t as if these things never happened, but out here, in the middle of the wild, it seemed odd. Another redhead, clad in a t-shirt with a bright yellow chicken on it, walked into the entryway.

The four of them all stared at each other for a moment.

She broke the silence, her eyes whirling like the chicken on her chest. “What.”

“Oh good,” the smaller redhead put her hand on her hip and took a swig from her glass, “we’re both hallucinating.” She extended a hand. “Doc.”

Michiru shook her hand firmly. “We seem to find ourselves lost, and in need of a place to bed down for the night. It would appear you’re some sort of...inn, I suppose?”

“Yeah, it’s a tax dodge.” Doc tucked her hair behind her ear, “But we’ve got rooms.”

Rei grabbed Michiru by the shoulder and hissed into her ear. “Why is that one staring at me?”

The woman stood there, hands clasped together, whimpering softly, eyes wide with reverence and wonder.

“Oh don’t mind her,” Doc waved and took a quilt out of the closet. “That’s Jet.” Doc turned to face them and sighed. “So...upstairs we have rooms, I guess. For you to sleep in. Since you’re definitely not hallucinations.”

Jet suddenly found her capacity for speech, and it was in scolding Doc. “Holligay, don't be rude.” She picked up pillows. “You can totally stay here. Why don’t you have a seat at, uh, the table?”

Doc nodded. “Yeah, sure, good as any place.” She ran up the stairs in her normal fashion, without pause or consideration, blankets in hand.

Michiru regarded Jet carefully, and then, perhaps against her own better judgement, took a seat at the table, Rei following her, though she was careful always to keep her eyes at every entrance and exit.

“Sooooo,” Jet drummed her fingers against the table, “How did you...get here?”

“We drove.” Rei looked at her skeptically. “What else are we supposed to do?”

“I mean…”

Doc skipped back down the stairs and landed on the hardwood floor with a satisfying thump, still staring at the women at the opposite end of the table.

Michiru cocked her head, studying them. “Is it truly so incredibly odd that someone might lose their way in this part of the country? I can’t imagine we have been the first, nor that we shall be the last.”

Jet and Doc looked at each other uneasily, and Doc raised her eyebrows at Jet, shrugging at her aggressively. Jet looked back over at the two girls in front of her, so much more fully realized than she ever thought they could be.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Jet shifted in her chair, “But I think we’re… I mean you can't…”

Doc took another slug of whiskey, “You’re not real.”

“Holligay.” Jet looked over at her, scolding.

“What? They aren’t.”

“Oh, well then, more fool me, sitting here on this realm of existence.” Michiru put a hand to her cheek, feigning boredom.

“Well, I mean, if you want to be that way about it.” Doc walked over to a lawyer’s bookcase and lifted the lid, pulling out a DVD and setting it between them. “Behold! You’re gonna need a drink.” She walked into the kitchen, leaving them sitting with a Jet, who had been, briefly, wondering how to bring this up with tact, forgetting that the word itself had little meaning with regards to Doc’s general demeanor. Tact, she con

Michiru studied the DVD case carefully, trying to make sense of the information in front of her. Rei simply grabbed the case out of her hands and scowled.

“I don’t look like that.” She snapped at the case.

Michiru took it back from her. “Rei Hino, Sailor Mars, you’re correct Rei, this couldn’t possibly be you.”

“WELL IT’S NOT!” Rei crossed her arms and slumped back in the chair grumpily.

Michiru sat back in her chair, eyes drifting thoughtfully about the room, never quite landing on anything “Let us say,” she rubbed her finger and thumb together, “That I believe you--”

“Michiru.” Rei looked over at her incredulously.

“I’m simply entertaining an idea, Rei. We are princesses of somehow the both the past and future, tasked with an impossible mission and elemental powers, the time for my mind to live only in the common and explicable is long past,” she looked over to Jet, “ Let us say that. What sort of,” she waved her hand thoughtfully, “enlightenment might you be able to offer?”

“I mean, you die, so.” Doc came back into the room and set the glass of wine in from of Michiru.

“We die??” Rei was enraged at the mere suggestion that she might do anything but win the day, effortlessly.

Jet tried to rush in with a reassurance about Doc leaving out the very important fact of Rei Hino’s resurrection, which was a very Holligay thing to do, and rude besides, but Michiru stepped in before she could begin.

“Why, of course we do,” Michiru took a sip of Doc’s wine, and then looked at the glass, judgment in her eyes, and set it down on the table firmly. “The folly is more yours for imagining that we are meant to do anything else, Rei.”

“Okay, but Usagi--”

“Anything worth having must be paid for in blood.” She said simply, folding her hands in her lap.

Doc’s eyes were wide and sparkling. “I love you.”

Rei crossed her arms and grumbled. “Well maybe YOU die.”

The awkwardness sat between them all as Rei continued to glare at the DVD case, as if she were trying to set it on fire with her mind and might succeed.

“Michiru, judge Holligay’s food next!” Jet practically leapt across the table with excitement. She noticed Doc scowling at her. “What? It’s cooking. You like cooking. I’m HELPING.”

“‘Helping’,” Doc said pointedly. “You're as useless as tits on a boar hog.”

“You’re welcome!” Jet gave her a grin and Doc sighed, pushing herself away from the table. “Fine enough, I spose.” Her mind raced as she tried to imagine what she could possibly have in the freezer and pantry that might fit the bill.

She was drawing up a quick pastry crust when Jet walked into the kitchen, and leaned against the counter. “So how do we--”

“We don’t. This may shock you,” She put a floured covered hand on her hip and looked over at Jet, “But I don’t precisely have any kinda life experience to draw on, for this. You know everything I know.” She looked back to her pastry crust. “For once.” She fluted in the edge and moved back to the stove, pouring milk into a roux.

“What’s that?” She looked into the pan over Doc’s shoulder.

“It’ll be chicken pot pie. Or,” she looked up, trying to draw something classy out of the air, “poulet en croute, avec les carottes et du brocoli. Or something.” She cracked some pepper into the pot.

“Okay enough with the French!”

“This is the first time I’ve used it.”

“Too many times, Holligay.”

“Will you go be entertaining!” She scolded Jet. “To our...weird hallucinatory guests.”

Jet walked out of the kitchen, huffing, and grabbed a bottle of rum as she went. She poured a tipple into a glass of coke, and looked up at Rei.

“Sooooo, why don’t you tell me about your friends?” She sat down across and offered the bottle of Bacardi silver.

Michiru raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Rei, on the other hand, leaned forward explosively. “Why do you want to know? Are you a member of the Dark Kingdom? Well, I won’t tell you anything, Usagi may be a big crybaby but I--WE, HAVE TO PROTECT HER.”

“Stealth at its most satisfying.” Michiru glanced over at the offending wine once more.

“Yes tell me all about Usagi and how you have to protect Usagi I want to know everything do not leave ANYTHING out.” She folded her hands underneath her chin and grinned.

Rei opened her mouth, and Doc called from the kitchen. “In a technical sense, we already know, so!”

There is a certain quality of awkwardness that takes over a room when it is a assured that ne party has the upper hand. In normal times, one would assume it was the reincarnated beings of incredible power, but in this particular case, it seemed to be two women with a DVD.

Over a meal Michiru kindly described as ‘rustic,’ a difficult situation began to unfold in the two’s minds. When you dream of someone being real, you never consider the fullness of them, and you especially never imagine that what they actually think might be different from what you imagined. Jet found herself wanting to correct Rei in things she said and ways she moved, because that couldn’t possibly be right.

She looked over at Doc, who seemed to be having the same thought, that people are never as you imagine them to be, and the longer you had considered it, it seemed, the more you had created them entirely in your own mind, in all the small ways that it is to be human.

To consider them, and to consider how they thought of the other people in their lives: Doc and Michiru discussing the nature of their romantic relationships, Jet and Rei discussing the exact nature of the Inner Senshi’s friendship, and how it worked, or didn’t at times.

As is often the case, they came away with a mix of happiness and disappointment.

“I suppose, then, we ought to be off to bed.” Michiru glanced toward the stairs. “It is late, after all, and I believe we have all had an odd enough evening to last us for some time.”

Rei grabbed the DVD case one more time, as if she could will it to be something, but tossed it back onto the table.

Doc and Jet just looked at each other, saying nothing. What could be said?

___

When she rose, the sun had been up for several hours, even in the dead of winter, and she thumped her way down the stairs, to where Doc sat on the couch, drinking a cup of coffee, reading a book as if nothing had ever happened unusually in her entire life.

“Mornin’ sunshine.”

Jet paid her no mind, shuffling off toward the kitchen where a kettle of hot water waited, that Doc would claim later was almost certainly for something else, and not for Jet’s tea. She poured the water into her cup and stirred thoughtfully, adding entirely too much sugar. It was, on the whole, unlikely that BOTH she and Doc were hallucinating, particularly since it wasn’t the time of year for her to forage unknown items out of the forest, with a simple ‘eat it’ as identification.

She walked back into the living room and stood in front of Doc. “So last night, then?”

“Is a pact we take to the grave.” She looked over at Jet, setting down her book.“Unless you want to explain to Mike how two people from a 90s anime showed up here, stayed the night, and no Mike, I don’t need it to be seen, really, it happened.”

“I took a picture!” She dug her phone out of her jeans, and it shifted just slightly, jumping out of her hands and into Doc’s coffee, fizzling as if in celebration of a final fuck-you to Jet.

“WELP.”

“Yeah no, this is between us, then.”

#We are lost in Corona...#patreon releases

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shireness-says · 5 years

Text

Swan’s Seven (2/?)

Summary: After two years behind bars, Emma’s out, and she’s got a plan in mind. Now to put together the perfect team… Let’s stage an art heist. (A CS Ocean’s 8 AU) ~3.9K. Rated T for language. Chapter 1. Also on AO3.

~~~~~

A/N: And we’re back! With more players, more action, and more razzing on David. It’s a national sport after all. A certain someone shows up this chapter too...

Thanks as always to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan. This doesn’t happen without you, babe.

Tags: @optomisticgirl, @spartanguard, @profdanglaisstuff, @captainsjedi, @thisonesatellite, @thejollyroger-writer, @let-it-raines, @teamhook, @kmomof4, @snowbellewells, @searchingwardrobes, @winterbaby89, @scientificapricot. Shoot me a message if you want to be added/taken off the list.

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Regina has always been good at finding the exact right person for any given job, and it seems that hasn’t changed in the two years that Emma has been away. She somehow knows everybody who’s anybody in this business, like the criminal version of a recruiter or HR lady. She’d probably hate being called that, but it’s an apt comparison.

Only days after Emma divulges her plan to Regina, she’s presented with a short stack of manila folders - Regina’s top choices for their needs.

“I think you’ll be pleased,” she says as Emma flips through the top folder. It’s just a cursory glance, really; Emma trusts Regina’s judgement implicitly after all their years as a pair. “They’re the best I could find.”

“I’m sure they are,” Emma replies nonchalantly. “You’ve got them scheduled to come in for an interview or whatever?”

“Later today,” Regina agrees, before fixing Emma with a stern look. “You’re going to play nice, right? We need these people, I can’t have you getting all demanding or treating them like they’re idiots.”

“Ok, first of all, it’s an interview, there’s going to be questions so I can’t really help the demanding thing. Second of all, why the hell am I the one we’re worried about getting uppity? That’s kind of your thing, scaring people off with a condescending sniff.” Emma really hadn’t meant to sound quite so demanding with that list, but that’s the result anyways. Maybe Regina has a point - though Emma still thinks her partner is the one who needs the warning to “play nice”. Whatever that means. Fuck it all, they’re career conpersons, the nice line has already kind of been blown to smithereens.

Regardless, the warning proves unnecessary, since Emma can tell within minutes that Regina’s first candidate is exactly who they’ve been looking for.

“Emma, this is Ruby Lucas. Ruby, Emma Swan.” With the way Regina makes introductions, you’d think they were having some fancy corporate business meeting, not planning an art heist above a nightclub. Emma has the strongest urge to start offering business cards. “Ruby’s a safecracker - the best on the east coast.”

“Well…” Ruby drawls, her red-painted lips twisting into something wry and just shy of wolfish. Emma thinks it kind of suits the brunette, especially paired with her casual sprawl across one of Regina’s stiff backed chairs.

As much as Emma is amused, however, Regina is not. That eye roll could probably be seen from space. “Fine. The best on the east coast who hasn’t decided to retire to some disgusting fairytale in backwoods Maine like a goddamn schmuck. Better? Satisfied?”

“Better. Satisfied is a whole other thing, sweetcheeks,” Ruby winks salaciously. Not that there seems to be any heat behind it; if Emma had to guess, it’s just a flirtatious habit. There are worse habits to have, really. Her flirting accomplished, Ruby focuses her attention on Emma. “So. I hear you have a plan.”

“I do. Did Regina brief you on the specifics?”

Ruby nods. “Brantley 3900, she said. Digital fingerprint system on top of a trio of combo locks, plus an acid failsafe. I could use some info about the big picture plan, though.”

“We’ll get there,” Emma promises. Ruby isn’t at all what she would have expected of their safecracker in her short skirt and high heels and bright red hair streaks - especially when Emma’s used to dealing with her brother for this kind of thing - but she likes the saucy brunette. That flirtatious energy could really come in handy, if they play their cards right. “You think you can break it?”

“No problem,” Ruby replies with her bubbling confidence. “We’ll just need those prints, and the rest is all tumblers. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Emma looks to Regina, who inclines her head in a subtle nod. Excellent; they’re on the same page, then. “You’re hired.”

Their next candidate - a computer whiz and hacker - might as well be Ruby’s polar opposite. Elsa Frost shows up in a neat skirt suit and heels that only emphasize her pale skin and white blonde hair, dressed for all appearances like she’s interviewing at a law firm. For god’s sake, she even brings resumes in a file folder, the two pages paper clipped for maximum convenience. You can’t make this shit up. Emma wonders idly if their prospective keyboard artist has any idea what she’s walked into.

Surprisingly, reading the resume provided is illuminating. Ms. Frost certainly does know what she’s here for (“And this is an art theft, yes?”), but she cut her teeth, so to speak, in providing network security for major banks. Really, there’s no one better to hack past security systems than someone who made a career trying to prevent exactly that.

Emma still has questions, however. Namely: “How exactly did you end up on the less legal side of things?” It’s more than a valid question, considering the formal interview attire. It seems that Elsa doesn’t know how these things usually play out.

“I have a sister,” Elsa explains. “She’s the only family I have in the world, and she just got engaged. To a Central Park carriage driver. Wants the whole big to-do, which of course is very expensive. You know, the big white dress and the massive cake and the three courses and the specialty cocktail. So I’ve been looking into… alternative income streams.”

“Admirable,” Regina drawls, clearly unimpressed. “But there are plenty of other ways to make money. Legal ones. I’m sure you could make a very generous living just off of consulting with your skills. Why this?”

Elsa flushes, the rush of blood especially evident beneath her pale skin. Still, Regina and Emma wait in silence. They don’t need someone on their team who’s a risk, and that kind of motive makes any con with common sense worry their contact will go to the police when all is said and done. So they’ll wait, as long as it takes Elsa to come up with a real answer or prove herself too much of a risk to gamble on.

She cracks, of course. Facing down two such intimidating stares, anyone would. “Maybe I was bored,” Elsa finally says. Her chin lifts with the words like she’s trying to muster all her dignity - not that it works. “I’d done security for Wall Street firms and major banks for years. Eventually, you tire of trying to close all the loopholes that hackers are testing. Your entire career and your entire life becomes reactionary. Working on the other side… I get to exercise a little more creativity and problem solving and thinking outside the box, which is why I fell in love with programming in the first place.”

Emma makes eye contact with Regina and shrugs. “Works for me.”

Elsa stares back, disbelieving. “That’s it? That’s what you needed to hear?”

“We get boredom,” Emma explains.

“And we absolutely understand thinking the criminal side is a little more fun,” Regina adds. Like she knows anything about fun.

(Ok, that’s not fully true; Emma half remembers a few tequila nights. Regina gets rowdy when she has enough to drink.)

“Where we’re going with this,” Emma finishes, “is that you’re in if you want it. I trust that after all that banking experience, you can work your way around their firewalls and whatnot?”

“Sure can. Check the bar’s accounts if you don’t believe me, I took the liberty of going ahead and transferring my $100 consultation fee.”

Well, that’s one way to prove your point.

“So that’s two down. Who’s next?” Emma asks after Elsa and her business suit depart.

Regina smirks. “Field trip.”

The field trip is to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where they watch a young woman paint a replica of one of the portraits - a particularly unflattering source work featuring a distinctly masculine-looking woman. It makes the reproduction their prospective partner is working on all the more impressive, that she’s able to replicate that particular variety of unfortunate realism.

“Belle French,” Regina explains under her breath. “She should be a rising young artist on the New York scene after graduating from Columbia, but tastes these days run a little more abstract and her style probably leans closest to the romantic or rococo. Instead, she’s stuck teaching intro level courses at a local community college.”

“What a waste.”

“Indeed. She’s absolutely broke and absolutely talented, and absolutely desperate. Teaching shitty freshmen who can’t draw a straight line and want to argue about their grades constantly does things to a person, or so I’d imagine. If we play our cards right, make the right approach…”

“She could be our girl.” Our forger, Emma means, but that’s a stupid thing to say out loud in an art museum.

“She could.”

Emma observes for just a moment longer before nodding decisively and making her move. She’s the one who’s got tact, after all; as good as Regina is about searching people out, she’s a little too blunt for this kind of negotiation.

“That looks beautiful,” Emma comments when she’s standing just behind Belle’s shoulder. “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you!” Where Elsa blushes, Belle beams. Here, it’s a sign of someone who’s been denied warranted validation for too long, and who’s looking to gobble it up even from unusual sources. It’s a good sign for their purpose; even if they’re cons, Emma and Regina can provide the validation she seems to be craving.

“Is this just a hobby, or do you do this for a living?” Emma knows the answer, of course, but that might as well be rule number one of running a con: never show all your cards.

Belle makes a little wistful, frustrated noise. “Oh, I wish. This is just my free time, unfortunately. Hopefully it will help me hone my skills.”

“I don’t know. From where I’m standing, you look pretty skilled already. If this is your dream, I don’t think the talent issue is what’s keeping you from reaching it.”

“Yes, well, my dreams also feature millions of dollars and a functional love life. Some things, unfortunately, just aren’t going to happen, and I’m afraid this might be one of them.”

“I think I can help with some of that, at least,” Emma smiles. “I’d love to take you to coffee, maybe discuss it a little.”

“Like a job? Painting?” Belle’s skepticism is plastered all over her face. Not that Emma can blame her; it probably sounds just a little too good to be true.

“Something like that.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I absolutely am, if you’re interested in learning more.”

It’s a close thing, Emma thinks, but Belle does show up in the back corner of Regina’s favorite little Italian bakery an hour later.

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t exactly a legal opportunity that you want to talk about?” Belle asks right away. Still, she seems utterly unfazed by the idea of it as she calmly sips a cappuccino.

“Probably because it isn’t,” Emma replies, equally calm.

“Hypothetically,” Regina makes sure to add. Maybe that’s what she should have been in another life - a lawyer for the mob. Not that it matters, especially since Emma changes her mind every other time Regina opens her mouth.

“Hypothetically,” Emma makes sure to emphasize, “we’re planning a job that would require someone with top notch artistic skills.”

“And you think that someone is me.”

“Hypothetically, yes,” Regina agrees.

“But why me?” Belle argues. “I’m barely good enough to teach a bunch of college students. What makes you think that I’m skilled enough for whatever you have in mind - hypothetically have in mind?”

“Your style, ironically the very thing that’s really kept you from breaking into the art world, is exactly what we need for our purposes.” Somehow, Regina manages to make it all sound completely reasonable, though Emma knows it’s not. They’re talking about forgery and theft, for Christ’s sake.

“And if I say no?”

“Then this conversation never happened,” Emma replies easily. “Look, my partner may be a little over-enthusiastic with the hypotheticallys, but it means we haven’t actually been planning anything in a way that you could take to the police. Look, I’ll be level with you - we can probably find another artist if need be. They’re out there. But they’re not you, Ms. French, and when we say we want the best, that’s you. For better or worse. The payout - sorry, the hypothetical payout would be more than enough to set you up. No more teaching brats with an attitude. We can help your originals find a way to market - legitimate or otherwise. There’s a lot of doors you can open with the kind of money we’re talking about.”

“Think about it and let us know.” Regina slides a card across the table - blank except for a starkly printed phone number. A burner, obviously, and perfect for what they have in mind. “You’re just the woman we need, and I think we’re just the opportunity you need.”

Emma and Regina barely make it to the end of the next block before the phone buzzes.

I’m in.

Two pieces to go.

It’s a relatively short cab ride to Battery Park, where Regina says they’ll find their next crew member. “This is the pickpocket?” Emma asks as they stroll past a particularly fragrant food cart. Ah, New York.

“This is the pickpocket,” Regina echoes back. “Tink Green. Young, but talented. She could easily break into larger jobs if she had the inclination, though I’m not sure that she does.”

“Tink? Seriously?”

“I know.” Regina rolls her eyes. “But yes, seriously. No idea what her real name is, she refuses to tell. If you have to have a stupid nickname, though, might as well make it a bad fairy fingers pun.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” A crowd is gathered up ahead along the railings bordering the river. “So where is she?”

“You see the blonde weaving through the crowd?” Regina asks, nodding in a general direction. “With the bun and the scarf and the headphones?”

“Yeah?” The woman in question looks utterly distracted - just another twenty-something absorbed in her phone.

“Watch.”

It looks like any other passing interaction - a distracted pedestrian not watching where they’re going, despite passerbys’ attempts to step around her. However, Emma’s a thief. She can spot the way that when the blonde bumps into an unsuspecting businessman, only the hand holding her phone comes up to brace on his torso, while the other steals into his coat pocket.

“Smooth,” she mutters. “I wonder if that’s all she’s got.”

Regina smiles a wicked, amused smile. “Let’s go find out, shall we?”

“Just make sure you don’t have anything valuable in your pockets.”

With the leisurely pace Tink saunters along at - just the right speed to feign distraction and avoid any serious attention - it’s easy for Emma and Regina to catch up along either side. “Impressive show,” Emma comments casually.

She’ll give the pickpocket this - she’s a good faker. Emma only sees the momentary flash of recognition tinged with panic because she’s looking for it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replies. Tink’s accent is unusual; Australian, maybe, or possibly New Zealander.

“That lift,” Emma continues. “Very well done. Practically seamless.”

“Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you’ve got the wrong person. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Tink’s eyes flit briefly to either side, looking for an easy escape like any good con.

“Oh relax,” Regina cuts in with that exasperated drawl she’s perfected. “We’re not here to bust you. We’ve actually got a job. Think of this as your interview.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Regina Mills. This is my partner, Emma Swan.” Tink straightens, almost imperceptibly. “Ah, so you know who we are.”

“Run with a certain crowd, and it’d be hard not to.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Emma replies. “Like Regina said, we’ve got a job. Need someone with light fingers. A little teamwork and big payout.”

“How big?”

“Big enough not to say in such a public place.” Regina produces another card. “If you’d like to know more, come by the Poison Apple the day after tomorrow, around 2pm. We’ll share all the details with the team then. That is, if you’re interested.”

“I might be,” Tink hazards.

“Anything holding you back?” Emma asks. It’s obvious Tink is the woman for the job - talented and just charming enough for a little undercover prep work if need be. If there’s anything they can say to get her on board right now, Emma will gladly do it.

“Who’s the mark?”

Not the question she’d anticipated, but Emma can roll with it. “Zelena West.”

Unexpectedly, the other blonde bursts into a peal of laughter. “That piece of work?”

“The very same,” Regina replies with a wry smile.

“In that case, count me in. About time that bitch got what’s coming to her.”

Who knew it could be so easy - uniting a group of people around hatred of one disgustingly rich woman?

———

The last thing Emma expects to see when she and Regina finally make it back to the loft about the nightclub is a man already waiting outside the door, rocking back and forth on his heels with both hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket. As Regina wrangles the lock, the man springs to attention. “Ms. Mills?”

“Yes, yes, come in.” She’s obviously expecting him, as she holds the door wide open for the man to walk through, though her face never changes from mild irritation. Typical Regina. Though Emma can’t imagine why she’s letting him in to start with.

“This one of your vendors, Regina?” she asks, closing the door. The man has come to stand in the middle of the room, looking around like he’s waiting for something.

Regina scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous, Emma, the bar’s vendors come on Monday. This is our fence.”

Emma isn’t entirely sure what face she’s making, but it’s certainly not good. “Him?” she asks needlessly, earning herself an eye roll.

“No, the other man standing in the corner. Yes, him. This is Killian Jones.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emma,” he says - warmly enough, she’ll grant - extending a hand to shake.

Unfortunately for him, Emma’s not in a mood for warmly enough. “We are not on a first name basis,” she all but snaps before quickly pivoting to address Regina. “Can I talk with you for a moment?”

“What is your problem, Emma?” Regina hisses once they’re a reasonable distance away. Not that they’ve found true privacy; that doesn’t exactly exist in the loft space.

“He’s a he!” she hisses back.

“How didn’t you know that? I gave you the file.”

“It’s not like I read in-depth or anything! You always give me a little rundown anyways. I saw the name and figured they were a her, not a… him.” The last word is practically spat out like a curse. Absolutely melodramatic, not that Emma cares.

“And is that a problem? It’s not like you told me you wanted only women.”

“Yeah, well, I thought I wouldn’t have to when everyone else you offered up was of the female persuasion. Isn’t there anyone else?”

“No. You want the best, I find you the best. That man can find or sell practically anything, like a modern day pirate. Or something less stupid.”

Emma ignores Regina’s denial. “What about Jasmine? She’s great, she’d be good for this.”

Regina shakes her head. “She and Al just had a baby, so she’s out of the game for a while.”

“I guess I can get that. You send something?”

“Gift cards for take out and a card signed with both our names.”

“Oh, thanks for that. What about Kathryn?”

“Went to prison last year. And you hate her anyways after she flirted with your brother.”

“It’s more because she’s a prissy little rich girl who got into the black market because she thought it’d be fun.”

“No, it’s because she was hitting on David. I very narrowly escaped attending a debutante ball, if you remember, so I’m technically one of those prissy little rich girls,” Regina points out.

“Yeah, but I like you,” Emma sighs. “Bet her daddy bribed someone to get her sentence reduced.”

“Oh, undoubtedly. Still doesn’t change the fact that she’s unavailable.”

“What about —” Emma starts, only to be interrupted.

“Look, I’ll go find you someone else if you insist, someone female,” Regina argues, “but they’re not going to be as good as him. There’s no one else out there who’s got the amount of connections in the black market art world that he does, and he’s got strong footholds in advanced tech to boot. Just what we need. So are you going to quit your tantrum and suck it up, or am I going to have to put out feelers again?” She waits for an answer with arms crossed - never an inviting look.

“Fine,” Emma finally grumbles. “But he’s got a lot of ground to make up.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you won’t let him forget it,” Regina mutters back under her breath.

Jones does them all the favor of pretending he didn’t hear any of that conversation when the women rejoin him. “Swan, is it?” he asks, extending that hand again. Today, Emma really feels like the last human on Earth who doesn’t feel a pressing need to follow that particular societal convention.

“That’s me,” Emma replies with as much enthusiasm as she can muster. It’s not much. “Regina says you’re the best around.”

“In more ways than one,” he winks. Mistake.

“Let’s get something straight right now: this flirting, or whatever you’re hoping to pull off? It’s not going to work on me,” Emma replies with venom hiding just behind her voice. “We’re here to stage a heist, and all I care about are results. This is about the job, and if you can’t keep it professional, then you can walk back out the door right now and we’ll find someone else.”

They stare at each other for a moment, Emma hoping to establish her dominance right there and then, before Jones finally cracks a closed-mouthed smile and nods. “Won’t be a problem, Swan. I’m at your disposal.”

“Good. We’ll see you in two days for a full overview of the plan and to get this show on the road.”

“As you wish,” he declares, sketching a short bow. After a last nod to Regina, he leaves again, now a problem for another day.

“I still don’t like him,” Emma declares to Regina. The other woman is smiling like the cat who got the canary, and Emma hates it.

“You don’t have to,” the other woman replies, “but he’s going to make this work. You’d be an idiot to fight against that.”

“All I’m saying is he better be as good as you promise.” There’s something about Killian Jones that makes her nervous, something she can’t quite put her finger on. Not his skills; Emma trusts Regina on that front. Something about his attitude, or his confidence. That’s not important right now, though, when there’s plans to make and details to nail down.

Killian Jones may be an unknown variable, but he’s one she can’t deny they need - and for the moment, that’s more important than any of her concerns.

#captain swan #cs ff #my writing #Swan's Seven #ocean's 8 AU #I've been sitting on these introductions for a long time and I'm just so happy to share them

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