#like you settle into some favorites but you still ACTUALLY swap out jobs in your garment grid in X-2 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

odetojeons · 4 years ago

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No Better Canvas To Paint A Ruined Landscape — Lee Seokmin

request: hii can i request a sub!seokmin x dom fem reader?? you catch him touching himself and then he is super shy about it when you confront him!!<3

tags: soft dom and fem!reader, shy and sub!seokmin, cockring, orgasm control, light bondage, established relationship, praise kink, noona kink, semi-public sex (kind of?), snowballing, unprotected sex, blowjob, fluff at the end if you squint, seokmin being adorable, and potentially killing me with his cuteness

a/n: I’m a whore for sub seokmin. that’s all I have to say. definitely not alive after this. tbh this was my favorite tumblr smut until now all because seokmin. lee seokmin. yeah. bye.

word count: 7202

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin looks like he might combust into a thousand tiny Seokmins really soon.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You keep staring at him in interest, looking with an amused lifted eyebrow how his red face turns to the side to avoid your eyes like it’s some sort of plague. There’s a lonely drop of sweat running down his left temple, a hand coming to swap at it and freezing in the middle of the act when your eyes find each other, the blush creeping in his cheeks burning with an even darker shade as you watch fascinated the bob of his adam’s apple when Seokmin swallows nervously.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

He jumps a little where he’s sitting when you nudge his feet with yours. Seokmin comically widens his eyes at you when you mouth “what’s going on?”, quick to shake his head what it seems like at least fifty times. A frown forms on your brows, your boyfriend being oddly nervous and suspicious is poking on your curiosity, especially when he excuses himself to the bathroom in a hurry.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You stare at his empty seat, the plate of food laying almost untouched on the table. It’s been a while since the both of you hosted a party on your house, so you wanted to make the experience good for your friends — and you know Seokmin does too, but for some reason he’s acting… whatever the way he’s acting —, having even put a lot of effort into dressing up for the occasion. Something must be wrong, so you excuse yourself from the friends who are sitting on the table and go through the little crowd, heading towards the bathroom.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Seok-ah?” you ask softly where you stand right in front of the door. No answers. You knock again, this time a little bit louder. Maybe he didn’t listen to you, the music loud enough to shake you all the way to your bones. Again, no answers. Your frown worsens, gripping the handle and turning it just to be met with an empty bathroom. “Seokmin?”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

He’s not there, and okay, there's definitely something wrong. Seokmin sometimes tends to go through stuff you have no idea about because he keeps thinking he might bother you with his problems, and you just want him to know that you love him so much that it pains you more to see him suffering in silence than hearing him talking about it. Overall, Seokmin is the biggest overthinker ever, your sweet and shy boyfriend, a ball of sunshine despite his little defects you’re so fond of.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You go to the master bedroom, your last hope to where he must be as your house doesn’t have many rooms. Worry settles deep within your stomach thinking that Seokmin might be sick or something.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

He isn’t.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Quite the opposite, actually. Seokmin is more than healthy.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You were not even remotely prepared for what you find inside when you open the door of your room. Seokmin is standing in front of the old escritoire you bought from an antique store, one of his sprawled hands supporting the weight of his body on the desk and broad back dressed in a white social shirt, still turned to you as the music overlapped the sound of your arrival — everything normal at first, and you’re about to open your mouth to question if everything is alright with him when your eyes catch a movement.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin’s arm is working on something really fast, hand going up and down, tiny, soft noises coming from him, and your mind goes blank when the realization that Seokmin is jerking off sinks deep within your core.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

There’s a shiver rocking on your body, head spinning.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Seokmin,” is what you say, monosyllabic and completely flabbergasted.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin snaps his head so fast in your direction you think he might have broken his neck for a second, eyes widening right before he closes them very tightly and moans loud enough that makes you want to close the door in fear of someone listening, but you’re too stuck in the fact that Seokmin almost just came to even be able to move from your spot.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“F-fuck,” he cries out, the grip he has around the base of his cock almost painful, probably there to hold his orgasm back. You’re stunt into silence as he scrambles desperately to hide his beloved friend back into his pants, struggling with the zipper in the process because the bulge is too big.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Seokmin,” you say again, like it’s the only word that remains in your vocabulary. Your mouth goes dry, heat burning on your lower stomach when you look at the notebook in front of Seokmin and sees one of the videos you record to be his fap material when you’re not around, playing on the screen. But you are around. “What are you doing?”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

It’s more than obvious what he’s doing. Even so, you still find yourself asking.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin still hasn’t turned around. You know he must be very embarrassed right now — who wouldn’t anyway —, if the blush spreading all the way down to his ears and neck is anything to go by. His body stiffens when a soft moan comes from the notebook speakers, hands reaching to close the video and the screen so fast he knocks some things off of the table and into the ground.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Turn around,” you tell him, finally finding enough strength to close the door and lock it. Seokmin flinches at the sound, shoulders tensing, but he remains unmoving. “Now.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

He flinches again, this time because of the finality in your tone, leaving no spaces for objections. Seokmin then complies, turning his body to you like every movement pains him deep within the bones, hands coming to cover the front of his pants and head hung low in shame.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You take a sweet moment to admire Seokmin’s figure; his shirt is open until the third button, firm and red chest peeking out of it, sweat glistening his skin to a beautiful shade of gold, biceps looking like it would pop out of the sleeves of his social shirt and lips swollen, probably because he must have bitten them really hard. Fuck, your boyfriend is so hot.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You lift a finger and crook it a few times towards yourself. He gets the message, coming closer lightning fast and stopping right in front of you, still refusing to look you in the eyes. You had enough of this attitude, spinning him around so his back could be against the door and cradling his chin between your fingers to tilt his head enough to look at you.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Aren’t you going to answer?” you question with a pout, voice poisonously sweet. Seokmin’s shiver doesn’t go unnoticed by you, satisfaction licking on your lower stomach.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“I— I-I’m, I was…” Seokmin mumbles intelligibly, a moan escaping his lips when your nails sink onto his shoulder and the darkness swimming in your eyes leaves his legs weak. He can’t shiver, needs to remain composed or else he might embarrass himself further, if that’s even possible, might make you realize the reason why he’s like this, might make him—

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin shivers.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“‘M s-sorry.” he offers, hips bucking slightly when he hears your pleased hum.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Are you though, sunshine?” bodies pressing closer, you watch Seokmin’s arms twitch, not knowing if he’s allowed to touch you. You smile at that, biting at his lower lip. “You were so desperate to touch yourself you came here all alone and jerked off to one of my videos? You don’t seem very apologetic to me.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

He whines at your condescending tone, head hitting the door with a soft thud when you tilt his chin back to lick a hot stripe up his neck, pulling it to the previous position once you’re done teasing him a little. There’s a sound threatening to come out of you when you see how much want is written all over his face.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“I-it’s because you look—” Seokmin’s sentence gets cut off in the middle when he feels the feather-like trace of your fingers on his hands that were still doing a very poor job of hiding the press of his cock to his pants. It brings tiny goosebumps all over his skin, Seokmin needing to take a deep breath before proceeding. “You look s-so hot with these clothes…”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Your touch stills completely, and Seokmin’s heart might jump out of his thoracic cage any time soon, but even so he doesn’t stop talking.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“And, and t-the way you were dancing was just— j-just so fucking sexy,” he mumbles quietly, closing his eyes for a second like he’s remembering how you swayed your hips obscenely to the beat of the music earlier. A flash of a memory runs through your mind, Seokmin sitting on your couch, manspreading as he watches you with one of his legs moving up and down nervously. “Want to f-fuck you so bad.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Yeah?” you tangle a hand on his hair, fisting it so you could pull his head backwards and pleasure yourself with the moan he gives you. Seokmin blinks at the ceiling, like he’s willing himself not to move. “My baby boy got hard watching me dance?”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

The pet name does something to him. It always does. Seokmin bucks his hips involuntarily, the front of his hands hitting your stomach as he ruts against his palms with such a whiny mewl you could swear you feel a punch to your lower stomach.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Yes. So hard.” and his voice, so sweet and beautiful, makes your penties start to soak. His hot breath fans your face, chest heaving with the intensity of it. “I’m so hard for you, fuck.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You slap his hand away. Seokmin turns his head to look at you, eyes big like he has been caught doing something very wrong.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Lost your manners, sunshine?” grabbing at his wrists, you pry them away to take a better look at his bulge, finding endearing how his cheeks immediately go redder at that. It looks painful, the outline of his cock pressing tight against the fabric of his blue pants, and you try not to let the smugness seep through your voice when you notice a wet patch of precum on it. “You’re that desperate you even forgot how to ask?”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You trap his hands behind his back; realistically, Seokmin could break free at any time he wants, with him being almost twice as bigger than you, but you know he wouldn’t do it because right now you got this kind of power over him that surrenders Seokmin putty, and it turns you on so much. He looks so good this way, back resting against the door, hips stuck to the front like he wants you to do something, eyes looking down at you with a hunger, a hunger to take what he wants already, but at the same time with an enormous amount of submission.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

And Seokmin is huge, not even just down there but in the rest of his body as well. Huge, thick thighs, huge chest, huge biceps; he is broad enough to tower over you even if the height difference wasn’t so big. And still, he chooses to give in to you.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Everything about Lee Seokmin drives you insane.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Please…” he says, barely above a whisper. With the door closed, it was more than enough for you to be able to listen even through the loud music going on outside. “P-please.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Please what?” you press further, fingers coming back to make a hot trail on his cock. Seokmin bucks forward a little, whining when you press a thumb on the cockhead.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Hmmm,” is all he answers, face burning with shame when he averts his eyes elsewhere. Seokmin knows very well what you want him to call you, it only happens when you’re feeling extra mean and horny, but he’s always so shy about it even if he has called you that more times than you can count.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Adorable.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You sigh, letting go of his cockhead and wrists to cradle his face with your hands, swallowing the frustrated cry he lets out with a kiss. Seokmin takes a few seconds to react, mind in haze with all of the electrifying horniness shocking his body, and then you feel his hands hold on your waist tight enough to leave marks. He moans, as if having your lips on his is the best reward he could ever ask for, and you yelp when Seokmin turns you both around and slams your back against the door. Seokmin kisses you rough, tongue pressing so hard on yours your head ends up hitting the door with a faint noise.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Fisting a hand on his hair, you hold onto it tight enough to make him hiss at the slight, but pleasurable pain. Seokmin is trying to take what he wants and you’re having none of that, using the hold on him to control the pace of the kiss and tilt his head to the place where you want it to go. You suck at his bottom lip, sinking your teeth in the plump flesh just so you could soothe it later with your tongue — and do that again, and again, and again. It doesn’t take long for him to be putty with your ministrations, knees buckling under his weight until he’s kneeling on the floor. You bend down slightly as he does so, kissing his breath away.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Look who’s getting all bold now,” you scoff when you part away, Seokmin’s eyes half lidded and swollen lips open to take big lungfuls of air. “Yeah, that’s right.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You stare down at him, the sight of your taller boyfriend on the floor making something evil twist in your belly.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Kneel for me like a good boy and I’ll let you fuck me like a bad one.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Please,” Seokmin begs at that, moaning when he closes a hand around his cock. You tsk, grabbing his jaw tightly and squeezing it between your fingers. “Wanna come.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Stop that before I decide to punish you,” you admonish, watching his eyes go wide for what it feels like the hundredth time this night and his hand falls uselessly on the side of his body. “Actually, you know what? Take your clothes off and lay on the bed.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin blinks a few times as if processing the order, walking over to the bed with trembling legs. He looks at you for some seconds, face burning red, and starts to unbutton his social shirt. You keep watching in silence, cooing at the cuteness of your boyfriend, right before the breath is punched right out of your lungs when his toned abs come into view. No matter how many times you see his body, it never fails to make you incredibly horny — the duality between his adorable face and the rest of him leaves you speechless.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You clear your throat when Seokmin covers his chest, embarrassed with being stared so attentively. Not your fault he’s so hot.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Come here, sunshine,” you purr, sitting on the other side of the bed and patting on the space beside you. He nods a little as if telling himself to obey, hopping onto your side and laying on his back after he finishes taking off his shoes. “Take your pants off too.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

This time Seokmin complies faster. It must hurt a lot, seeing the big bulge down there, and his fingers fumble to undo the button and the zipper so fast you’re surprised he didn’t hurt himself in the process, taking his pants and boxers completely off and throwing somewhere neither of you care. Seokmin’s hard cock slaps against his belly with a soft sound, smearing precum on his lower stomach. It’s an angry shade of red for being denied for so long, the wet mushroom tip making your mouth water as his hips kick upwards with the sheer need of touching it.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin looks at you with big, expecting eyes.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Seems like you were so desperate you couldn’t even hold yourself back from jerking off like a horny teenager,” you start, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. Seokmin visibly trembles when you pull away, rummaging through your nightstand’s drawer to find what he knows very well it’s a cockring. “So why don’t you do exactly that for me? And maybe, if you put on a good show, I will let you come.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin stares at the golden thing between your fingers and swallows, taking it when you hand it to him. He looks at the ring like it’s a dessert — you know how he loves being edged even if he won’t admit it, enjoys being denied just so the sensation of his orgasm could be bigger later —, closing a fist around his cock and pumping it a few times before slidding the ring down until it fits tightly at the base. Seokmin’s needy moan drowns your own, sounds like music to your ears, hips thrusting into his hand and he can’t possibly hold himself back.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Hgnnn, fuck,” he whines, pace fast where he does up and down movements on his cock. You lick your lips, mouth salivating with the size of Seokmin’s length. He’s so big, the thickness of him being so much it pleasantly hurts to suck him off, and it doesn’t help that he has such beautiful, veiny hands. “F-fuck, feels so, ah, so good.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin’s eyes catch yours looking at him like he’s a whole banquet being served just for you, the want and darkness in your eyes surrendering him into a shy mess. He blushes furiously, arm coming up to hide his face from embarrassment and legs pressing together to try and cover his cock — of course it doesn’t hide, Seokmin is too huge and too hard for that.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Don’t do that, sunshine,” you admonish, cooing when he shakes his head. Fingers closing gently around his wrist, you pry his arm away to take a better look at your shy boyfriend. You smile at him, endeared with his cuteness. “Let me see you being beautiful for me.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Y-yeah?” Seokmin murmurs, and you nod at him, fingers teasing on his nipple. His back arches softly, eyes closing and a whimper escaping through his swollen lips.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Yeah,” you echo, too entranced on his noises to possibly think straight. Big breaths; you will your impatience down, wanting to see Seokmin pleasuring himself some more. “Such a big cock. Makes me want to suck you off until my mouth hurts.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

The lewd sound Seokmin lets out to that punches a moan straight out of you, fucking up into his own hand as if your words were the ones doing so. He presses a thumb on his cockhead, spreading the precum all over the tip and slipping his fist further down when he concludes it’s wet enough. Seokmin writhes on the bed, unable to contain the hot surge of pleasure coursing through his veins. His free hand flies to his left nipple, pinching it with more strength than you thought he would — it makes his whole body tremble, head sinking back into the soft pillows and fingers letting go of the red bud to squeeze the sheets so hard his knuckles turn white.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Please, ah, p-please, wanna— W-wanna cum so bad,” Seokmin begs, wants your hands on him. Of course it’s smaller than his own, but you know how to flick your wrists just right to make him feel good, and he needs that right now. If they were your fingers, they would warp perfectly around his cock, even if they didn't close all the way around it as you stroke him. Or maybe you’d tease him a little, as you sometimes do to him when you want to be a little mean. It always pulls the sweetest and loudest whines from Seokmin, you saying that his reactions are cute. “Touch me, please.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“I am touching you,” you tell him with a pout, referring to the caress you’re doing on his biceps. You chuckle when he makes a frustrated groan at your retort, knowing very well how you’re going to be today.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin doesn't say anything else — knows it won’t make you touch him anytime sooner —, breath hitching and hips shuddering with pleasure. He continues to slowly rub his finger over the flushed head of his cock in teasing little pats. There’s a bit of squirming on the bed, Seokmin trying to grasp on his own memory the sensation of your hands on him, playing with his thickness with a tiny smirk on your lips and it’s like you enjoy seeing him writhe around in desperation. Seokmin opens his eyes to find you with that exact same expression, moaning when he fucks up into his hand again after he fists his cock, panting heavily.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin lets out a soft cry of relief, knows he should be more invested in putting on a show for you than concentrating on his own pleasure, but you love anything he does anyway. Also, it’s not like he has enough patience to hold himself back, has been hard for such a long time his balls may even start to turn purple soon.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

So he plants his feet on the bed, hips kicking faster, rougher, moans high and wanton as he fucks his own hand. Seokmin watches you intensely, how you look so good with those clothes, lips swollen from the kissing and dark eyes lusting for him. He thinks about your mouth on his cock, how you look so pretty with the girth inside it and holding his hips down when Seokmin thrashes around, too desperate to cum down your throat to stop himself.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Your imagination works on something similar as you enjoy Seokmin falling apart right beside you. What would be his reaction if you pressed your feet on his cock where he sat across the table almost an hour ago? Would Seokmin keep talking with his friends, disguising the way his breath would turn shaky and unsteady? Would he pretend that his girlfriend isn’t rubbing him off right then and there, regardless of who could hear or see the obscene noises of him moaning or the way you move your feet on him?

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“You would love if I touched you right there under the table, wouldn’t you?” you purr your thoughts out, watching the pad of his fingers play with his nipples. Seokmin has always been sensitive there, and honestly it turns you on so much. He nods fast at your question as he pinches the bud, rolling it between his thumb and index finger. “But instead of telling me, you went to our room and jerked off to one of my videos without asking for permission.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin turns his face away, cheeks burning at what you’ve said. You weren’t exactly talking about the video when you said permission, but rather him touching himself. He knows very well he needs to ask you before doing so.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin is nearly on the cusp, but knows he won’t trip over and orgasm solely because of the cockring. It makes him almost cry from frustration, hand jerking himself off furiously and it’s always like he’s on edge, unable to come but the pleasure high enough to make him think that he will.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“I-I didn’t want to, hmmm, ruin y-your party.” Seokmin admits with a small cry, not wanting you to look at his face right now. He struggles to gather words, mind in a haze from neediness. “‘M sorry— s-sorry, please.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Awwww, my sweet baby boy. You’re not ruining anything.” you coo, cradling his face between your hands and turning it towards you, his eyes still not meeting yours even so. You caress his blushed cheek with your thumb, pecking his lips one time and noticing how Seokmin shivers beautifully at the pet name, hand still working fast and rough on his cock. “Honestly, watching you fall apart for me is way better than any party.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin is visibly affected by the affirmation, head sinking further into the pillow and hips twitching where they thrust up into his fist.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“So beautiful for me, so stunning, my pretty baby boy.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Fuck, and he can’t take it.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Noona,” Seokmin moans out, shame twisting his gut along with pleasure, but it feels so good to see what the name does to you that he suddenly is not so embarrassed anymore. “Please, please t-touch me—”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Fuck, Seokmin,” a hand grabs at his jaw, your body trembling with the need sinking deep within your bones. It’s so fast your mind spins and for a moment you think you might pass out with all the blood surging down to your core. “Shit, call me that again, baby. Come on.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“N-Noona— Noona, please, I’ve b-been good,” Seokmin begs, writhing all over the bed, and you think he might start crying very soon if you don’t give him what he wants. “I-I’ve been so good, ah, just— J-just give me what I want, p-please.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“So fucking good for me,” you moan, getting on top of his thighs and kissing him stupid. Seokmin lies plient underneath you, pace not even faltering. If anything, it became faster, the little kicks of his hips making you bounce on his lap. “Want you inside me.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin grabs your waist at that, but you only hold onto his wrists and pin them down beside his head. You move up on his lap until you’re sitting on his hard cock, the wetness of your folds seeping through your panties only serving to remind you how you’re still with your clothes on.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“God, look at you,” there’s a whine, and you’re not sure who lets out, you or him. You move your hips over his cock, like you’re riding it, and the stimulation on your needy cunt makes you squeeze Seokmin’s arms bruisingly tighter. “So desperate… I wanna do really bad things to you.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“T-tease me—” Seokmin starts, words being drowned on a choked out moan, and it has you stunt, him saying something like that since he’s usually more quiet in the bedroom. At least when he’s not crying or pleading, of course. “Tease me until I’m begging for it.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

The smile you give him is dirty and dark, nearly a sneer, and he throws his head back. If there’s one thing you love about Seokmin is how he enjoys submitting to you. He feels pleasure on letting go as much as you feel taking over, especially knowing that if he wanted to, he could manhandle you right now, push your face on the bed, pull your ass up and fuck you until you cry. But Seokmin won’t. He doesn’t want to. He loves having you on top of him, teasing him, touching him, ordering him around.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Yeah? Fuck, such a dirty baby boy,” you roll your hips to emphasize your point, basking in the way he writhes so beautifully underneath you. So ready to be torn apart and pieced back together later. Seokmin presses back, moving himself obscenely. “Stay still.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Reaching to the nightstand again, you move your hand blindly there until you’re able to pull a soft blue silk from the drawer. Seokmin widens his eyes at it, gulping at the implications behind the fabric.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“You’re not obeying me today,” you admonish. To be honest, you would rather get the ropes or the cuffs that are in the wardrobe, but your own impatience and desperation ends up winning and choosing what’s closer. “Touching yourself without my permission, not begging properly, trying to take what you want and now… You can’t even do something as simple as staying still?”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“N-Noona, Noona,” is all he’s able to say, body shaking from wanton. Seokmin let’s you pass the silk through his wrists with practiced ease and ties them up together, and then at the headboard. This way his arms are restricted, biceps bulging due to the position. “I’ll be g-good. I’ll be your— y-your good boy, please—”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you tell him instead, fisting his hair and yanking his head backwards. You kiss his chin, parting away to finally take your clothes off.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin stares all the way through it, dark eyes drinking the sight of your naked body, the faint sound of the music adding to both of your fuels like a dirty soundtrack.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Like what you see?” you tease with a raised eyebrow, smiling at the way his cheeks turn red.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Fuck yes,” Seokmin answers even so, wrists pulling at the silk trapping them as if he’s trying to break free and touch you. The sincerity in his voice makes you blush softly. “Y-you’re so hot, Noona. Can’t believe I have you all for myself.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

There’s something possessive burning at his eyes that has butterflies dancing on your lower stomach. You suck a deep breath, leaning down to capture his lips on yours. It’s far too messy for your own good but you don’t really care, wanting nothing more than to kiss the breath out of Seokmin’s lungs.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You succeed, pleasure swelling up in your insides when you have him panting, mind in a haze and chest heaving uncontrollably. He lies there, pliant for you as you lick one of his nipples. The reaction is immediate, Seokmin’s hips kicking up and his hard cock consequently slipping between your chest. A shiver rocks all over his body, your teeth biting at the red bud and sucking at it until his voice gets an octave higher and so, so sweet it makes you moan.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You bring your free hand to thumb at the other nipple, tongue doing circles all over it. Seokmin is desperate, thrashing on the bed as if he’s being electrocuted. You bite harder for good measure, snatching at his waist with a firm grip and pining it back down on the mattress.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“So sensitive, my cute baby boy” you appreciate with a hum, making sure to press your chest onto his overwhelmed cock. It’s painted in an angry shade of red now, the veins protruding against the length.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

There’s spit obscenely connecting your mouth to his nipple, and the realization coils heat on your blood and pumps arousal all over.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“People might hear you if you don’t keep it down, you know?”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

What you’re not expecting is how he tenses at that, muscles contracting, back arching off of the bed and hips stuttering where it fucked his cock between your chest. Seokmin moans, so loud you instinctively put a hand over his mouth to make him quieter.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

When his body falls limp again, the room is full of silence, other than the sound of his labored breath filling the air after you let go of him. You’re completely quiet though, still processing what just happened, head spinning.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“You came,” it wasn’t a question, the scene that just unfolded in front of you being enough confirmation to your suspicions. “You just had a dry orgasm.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Your tone was full of amusement and unbelievaness. You can’t quite grasp that fact; it’s not the first time he has used a cockring, but it’s the first time Seokmin actually was able to come with it on and also being barely touched. Laughing incredulously, you trail a finger down his still hard cock, watching him squirm violently underneath you.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“W-wait, Noona, I—” his words get cut off by his own moan when you take the cockring off, throwing it somewhere in the room as you hurry to fetch yet another thing from your nightstand. “Ah, f-fuck, I j-just came, N-No— Noona—”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You close a fist on him after pouring lube on his cock, watching in pure ecstasy the look of bliss turn into one of frustration. You feel Seokmin’s body twitch to the touch of your hand and react heavily as you keep going, with no remorse, slicking his cock up and flicking your wrist faster and faster.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“You know what to say if you want me to stop,” you tell him. It’s overwhelming, really, but nothing could ever top the sensation of your fingers around him.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

It makes Seokmin’s brain fuzzy, and it’s too much, his cock already sensible from his recent orgasm, but at the same time he wants to squirm away, he feels the mind numbing pleasure sink deep within his bones. Seokmin moans louder, pulling at the fabric binding his wrists in place, and shaking violently on the bed.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Ah! Fuck! Noona… f-fuck… ahh—” he pleads, swollen lips trembling, abs contracting and relaxing, the blushing red running all the way down to his chest, and legs kicking when he tries to get out of your grip because it feels so damn torturously good.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You take it all in, the burn of arousal lighting a flame on your lower stomach. All mine. You lick at your bottom lip, letting out a soft whine as Seokmin whimpers high in his throat, his hips moving, back arching, head thrown back — beautiful and yours.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Want me to stop, sunshine? Then say your safeword,” Seokmin groans at your remark, feeling tears well up in his eyes, body writhing out of control. He moans again, shaking his head a no as he humps his hips up into your hand.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“A-ah! Ah! Noona… ah! Hgnnn, Noona, p-please…” he begs, hands trembling and he actually thinks he might go crazy soon.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Dirty boy, had a dry orgasm even with a cockring just from thinking people might hear you,” you say, tone soft and gentle despite your ministrations. “Should have tied you up there, on the chair, and overstimulated you in front of everyone else.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You press a thumb on his cockhead, so hard you see a tear finally run down his cheek. Seokmin looks beautiful like this. So beautiful.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Almost came earlier from being caught jerking off too,” you add, brushing a strand of his hair behind his ear. “My sunshine is a little bit of an exhibitionist, isn’t he?”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

The fight has already left him, leaving Seokmin a stuttering mess. He only moans and shakes his head and pleads and you actually feel a little bad for the cry he breathes out when you let go of his cock. It’s short livid though, the hurry to rearrange yourself and sit on his lap making you almost fall on him.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin doesn’t comment on your desperation though, doesn’t even have the strength to, and watches you line him up against your soaking cunt like you’ll die if you don’t get to ride him until sunset, the party long forgotten.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Need you inside, need you,” you moan as you sink on his cock. Today morning you fucked, Seokmin hugging you and thrusting inside you lazily when he was spooning you just after you woke up, but it still feels almost like too much, the stretch of his cock splitting you open leaving you gaping. “So damn big.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You open your eyes — don’t even know when you closed them — finding the prettiest view you could ever have. Seokmin’s fingers turned white from how hard he’s gripping the fabric around his wrists, and you think for a second that he might break the headboard, if the way he’s pulling at the silk is anything to go bye. The sweat goldens his skin, a gorgeous contrast with the redness tinting his face, neck and the beginning of his chest. And it’s stunning, really, his eyebrows frowned from pleasure, tears in the corner of his eyes and lips swollen from all the rough kissing.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

There is no better canvas to paint a ruined landscape than Lee Seokmin.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

He gasps, throwing his head back when you lift yourself up until only the tip of his cock is inside, and slam yourself back down, pelvis flush against Seokmin’s. You fall in a comfortable rhythm from there on; riding him like a pro, making sure to clench as tight as you can just to see him sob and plead and beg for whatever it is that you’re in the mood or willing to give him.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“G-god— I l-lo—” he tries, struggling to get words out with the way he’s bouncing on the bed with the force of your hips fucking down of his cock. “I love— I love y-you, N-Noona, Noona, fuck—”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Seokmin,” you moan, holding his face between your hands. It’s barely a kiss when you lean in to smash your lips on his, more like a moment in which your breath mingles with his and you both become one. “Seok-ah, Seokminnie, sunshine— you sound so, so pretty and sweet, my beautiful baby boy. I love you so much.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“U-untie, please,” Seokmin cries out, pulling harder at the restraints. “Wanna t-tou— ah, touch you, please, I have— h-have been so good—”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“You’re always good, baby,” you reassure him, reaching out with fumbling fingers to undo the knot on his wrists. “Come on, sunshine. Fuck me as hard as you can.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Your brain can’t even process what happens as soon as he’s free; there are big hands on your hips, Seokmin planting his feet on the bed and fucking up inside you so hard you’re not able to support yourself up, body falling limp on top of his. He’s moaning by your ear now, so high and affected, and you think you can actually feel the spit running down from the corner of his mouth and sticking to your shoulder.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“S-shit, shit, Seokmin,” you whimper, louder than you ever had this night, can’t even rock your hips back because Seokmin is holding you tight and pulling you down on his cock, pace brutal and unrelenting. “You’re s-so desperate, fuck.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Wanna cum, w-wanna cum,” he keeps saying, burying his face in the juncture of your neck and shoulder. You feel his lips there, sucking the skin between his teeth and biting at it in a weak attempt to muffle his moans. Seokmin has always been the most vocal between the two of you, but you know it’s useless at this point, the people in your house probably know what is going on by now. “P-please, please, Noona, Noona— Want— N-need—”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Before you can even answer him, the chant of “Noona, Noona, Noona” leaving his lips like a prayer has your orgasm hitting you suddenly. Your whole body tenses, muscles contracting tightly as the mind numbing sensation washes all over you, and you don’t know how much time you spend coming but when you come back to yourself Seokmin is still fucking you like it’s the last thing he will ever do.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You put a trembling hand on his chest and use the other free one to grab at his wrist, signaling for him to stop. At that, Seokmin starts crying. Like really crying.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“N-no— Let m-me come, let me— L-let me come, please, please, please,” he begs, and you coo at him.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Shhh, it’s okay, baby,” you peck his lips gently, wiping the cascading tears with your thumbs. “I want you to come on my face. Can you do that for me, hm, sunshine?”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin stares at you with big wide eyes and you think you might die from how cute he is. He nods what it seems like a hundred times.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Words,” you remind him with a soft, calm voice, and smile when he answers a meek yes, please. “Good boy.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin blushes, sniffing a little and lifting his upper body up to have a better view of your lips descending on his cock. You kiss the tip one time, giving it a kittenish lick, and suckle at it hard enough to prove the salty taste of precum, not wanting to tease him more since he has been so good. Seokmin shivers, hips contorting on the bed, and you feel pride swell inside you when you realize he’s trying to stay still.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You give his thigh a gentle pat, licking at the underside of his cock and bobbing your head a few times. You grab at the base of his length, slaps it on your tongue and look up at Seokmin. A small part of you gets embarrassed with the way he’s watching you so intently, but it’s quickly replaced with a burning need to see him coming.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“G-gonna cum, cum, I-I’m— I’m coming, shit, fuck, hgnnn, N-Noona—” you hum at his cries, the last warning you give him before reaching up and taking one of his nipples between your fingers; you twist it as hard as you can, and then he’s coming.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Seokmin moans, more like screams, and he arches forward, fingers flying to grab your hair so hard it hurts a little. There’s cum shooting out of his cock, your hands helping him out as the white ribbons fly across your face. Most of it lands on your mouth, some on your lashes and cheeks, some on his thighs and abs, and some even end up hitting your hair.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

The thing is that Seokmin doesn’t stop coming. His hips keep twitching, cock slipping and he thrusts on your face, unable to keep himself still as he rides his orgasm. After what seems like a good few minutes of him coming, Seokmin falls limp on the bed, his eyes closed, chest heaving with his labored breath, and looking completely fucked out.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You’re quick to kiss him, his tongue pushing against yours when he tastes the leftover of his orgasm. His hips kick miserably, a little bit of come sliding down his softening cock.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Holy shit,” is what he says after a few minutes of silence, laughing weekly. You follow Seokmin, laying down beside him as you do so. “I think that was the best orgasm of my life.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“I think so too,” you agree, Seokmin moving his body to lay on his side and take a better look at you. He brushes a strand of your hair behind your ear, his heart eyes making butterflies dance on your stomach. The fact that he’s looking at you like that even so you’re dirty with come, sweat and possibly spit makes you want to marry him. “So, you have an exhibitionism kink.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

The affirmation seems to have caught him off guard, his cheeks warming up adorably as he coughs. You giggle when Seokmin tries to turn his back on you.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“I hate you,” he mumbles with a pout.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Nah, you don’t,” you dismiss, and you’re right, he doesn’t. He could never. “Maybe we should try that out later?”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Try what?”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Me tying you up in a chair and making you come in front of everyo—”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Shut up!” Seokmin laughs and yells at the same time, hitting a pillow on you. You just grab it and throw it somewhere in the room. “You’re dirty.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“So is you,” you add with a smile. Seokmin turns around and pulls you by the waist.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Yeah,” he admits, hugging you tightly. It should be disgusting considering both of your conditions, but it only feels right. “Only dirty for you.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

You scoff, mortified.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Now you shut up,” you swat at his — incredibly big and hot — arm, his giggles making all types of things to your heart. “Fucking sap.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

“Hmm hmm,” Seokmin hums, and looks at you like that again. Full of love and respect and content, and there’s no better feeling than this. Together. With him. “A complete sap.”

⠀ ⠀ ⠀

566 notes · View notes

wevegottogetaway · 4 years ago

Text

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone.

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind.

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?"

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins.

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-"

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it.

***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm.

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!"

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before.

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place.

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?"

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me."

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?"

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation."

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order.

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once.

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test.

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in?

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer.

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether.

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides.

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics.

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that.

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence."

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!"

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming.

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go.

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits.

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows.

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place).

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm.

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why.

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes.

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head.

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her.

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building.

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant.

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know.

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be.

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place."

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection.

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’."

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is.

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper.

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n."

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own.

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear.

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink.

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his.

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?"

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words.

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss.

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans.

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right."

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?"

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek.

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead.

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties."

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra. Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach.

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips.

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment.

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways.

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good."

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough."

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths.

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness.

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?"

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering.

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly.

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind.

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell.

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused.

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was."

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference.

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #Harry fic #enemies to lovers #angst #so much angst #smut #I didn't think I could be this filthy lol #uni au #artstudent!harry #art #harry fanfic #harry styles writing #reader insert #harry styles au

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sadachmesarthim · 3 years ago

Text

towers for your honeycomb chapter 3: no i do not condone underage drinking i just think it's a good plot devic-

content: the boys have One Beer Each™, peter both sets and completely ignores his own boundaries, author remembers the communion chapter from "how to read literature like a professor" and bastardizes it, both of them have anxiety but neither say anything about it, smoking

words: 2k song: outskirts of paradise - bad suns

Looking Tony in the eye was like staring at the sun. Peter could barely hold his gaze, always finding an excuse to turn away.

He was sat in front of the other man a few weeks later, sharing drinks and pizza at a new brewery down the road. It’d cost him his liquor license, and potentially a clean record, if anyone found out, but Richie (their most beloved regular) offered to let the pair try the latest house brew if they ever swung through.

Peter wasn’t one for beer, but he’d accepted Tony’s invite anyway.

He wasn’t entirely sure why. Since their fight, they’d worked all of maybe three hours together. No other shifts, they avoided each other at meetings, and neither were particularly willing to reach out off the clock and apologize.

It was like the world was screaming at them to stay away from each other.

Peter wasn’t sure he wanted to listen.

After his shift that morning, Peter found Tony outside, leaning up against the hood of his car & working through his second cigarette. He drummed on the side of his thigh, keeping his empty hand busy as he waited for Peter to come out. Tony jumped at the sight of him, tossing the half finished cig down a storm drain.

“You know those lead straight to the ocean, right?” There was more amusement than anger behind his words. Peter wasn’t entirely sure what Tony was up to, but he was too tired to start shit. He crossed to the passenger side of his car, tossing his belongings to the floor.

“Even if it didn’t go through the city’s filtration system – fuck the fish.” Peter rolled his eyes. Funny as he was, Tony always had to be contradictory.

“Don’t you have, like, a school of them on your shoulder?” Tony’s normally visible salmon tattoos were safely tucked away behind a denim jacket Peter’d never seen before.

“Irrelevant.” Peter rounded the hood and turned, facing the other man. “Did you need something or were you just here to argue about my town’s plumbing system?” He huffed the words out, arms crossing in front of his chest expectantly.

“I, uh…” He suddenly went silent. The ground crunched under Tony’s feet, gravel scraping asphalt under his shoes. They were a rattier pair he owned – more tape than sole, oil staining the canvas.

“I wanted to know if you’d come to lunch with me. Today. Like, right now?” He hesitated at the last few words, like he wasn’t sure he could say them out loud. “I, uh. I’m pretty sure I have some things to say to you, and Richie’s got some good stuff waiting for us at the Pub House…”

Peter was astounded. “Who are you, and what have you done with my Tony?” My Tony? What? “I- why should I trust you? I’m sure as hell not getting in a car with you.”

Tony’s face fell. A bit of- what, disappointment? flew across his face. Peter would’ve missed it had he not been staring, impatient for his answer. Tony, floundering at the rejection, couldn’t give him one.

“Okay, maybe- how about this. I’ll think about it. Give me five minutes to go wash up and I’ll be back.” He turned & headed inside, not waiting for a response.

The cool water felt good against his burning, salt-stained cheeks. Peter hadn’t realized just how tired he was – opens had always taken it out of him, and the early spring temperatures didn’t always prevent the stand from turning into a heater during rush hour.

The soap in the stand was always too fragrant for his taste, but it did the job – it felt good to wash away the day’s work and come back looking like a new man. He smoothed his eyebrows down and dried himself off, wetting his hair a bit as he finished.

He wound up with grind in it again, brushing it out with a comb he found in the first aid kit. One of these days he was going to have to start wearing hats to work. Shampooing his hair every single day was taking its toll on his curls, and he wasn’t a fan of burnt coffee smell.

Stepping back, he squinted into the warped mirror in front of him. Much better.

Back outside, Tony’d lit up his third cigarette of the day. The shakes’d largely abandoned him, allowing his anxiety to drift inward. The sticks only did so much – he missed the higher, stronger hit of his Suorin, but he was trying to quit (ironically enough).

He was actually able to finish this one by the time Peter made his way back outside, looking significantly better without $5 worth of product on his face.

“Okay, some rules.” He came up, stopping just short of Tony. “You’re paying for both of us. We leave whenever I want, without complaint. We go straight there and come straight back - it’s eight blocks, I don’t want any bullshit scenic routes.” His tone was firm – something Tony’d never encountered with him before.

“Yes. Yes, anything. Okay.”

Tony’s car was a lot nicer than Peter anticipated. He’d recently sold his truck, swapping it for a silver Mini Cooper instead. It was a pretty little thing, just up his alley.

It was also fucking obnoxious. He’d bought it with a modified exhaust and had plans to make it even louder. You could almost always hear him coming, little pop pop pops audible for quite a ways.

It was… less clean than Peter expected. Tony was always so well put together, so well-maintained - seeing stray gum wrappers and drink cups littered around the interior was almost jarring. He didn’t realize he was staring until Tony spoke up.

“She’s nice, isn’t she?” Peter nodded. He silently took in his new surroundings, nerves on fire. He’d never done well around strangers, in new places. His mind’d always screamed at him, danger unsafe bad run, overriding his sensibilities.

“Hey, are you good? I can take you back if you need.” They’d barely left the Outback parking lot.

“No- no, I think I’ll be okay. Just… not where I thought I’d end up when I woke up today, y’know?” Peter tried to laugh it off, but he’d always been pretty transparent.

Tony turned a corner, cutting back into the lot they just came from and turning the car off. “Seriously, Peter. If you don’t want to come to lunch with me just say so. I’ll take you back to your car and we can pretend it never happened.” Okay, seriously, who the fuck is this guy and what did he do with Tony?

“No, I- I think I’m okay. Seriously. Let’s just go and get it over with - I kinda want to hear you grovel anyway.” He settled further into his seat, failing to shake away the agitation.

The flatbread was actually really good. It was more of a hipster take on pizza - white sauce and pearl onions definitely making it stand out - but it wasn’t a bad lunch by any means.

The beer definitely wasn’t Peter’s favorite. He was barely sipping by, trying hard to keep a straight face as he swallowed. Damn Richie anyway.

It’d started off awkward enough - discussing where to sit, small talk about their week, the weather. It felt more like a bad first date than an apology, but-

“I really am sorry. For what happened in the fridge.”

Oh.

“Okay. Why?” Peter tightened the hand around his glass, bracing for Tony’s next words.

“I.. I was kind of an asshole when I was younger, too. I figured I could make a fresh start here with a brand new town of people that didn’t know or assume anything about me.

“I was doing okay for a little while, too, but I don’t know man I just.. something happened and I just- I don’t know why I’m a dick to you. But I’m trying not to be. This is that, like, ‘first step’, I guess?” Peter nodded along, attentive.

"So, I don't know. I'm sorry for being a dick to you at work. I'm sorry for being a dick to the girls. I shouldn't yell at you or drag your family into this bullshit - I'm sorry, Peter."

There it was again, that name. His first fucking name.

“I- thank you, Tony. It’s a start, and I certainly haven’t forgiven you, but… thank you. Seriously.” Tony sighed, shoulders visibly relaxing. Peter let go of his glass and wiped it off, standing and walking around to Tony’s side of the table.

“Okay then, time for a do-over! Hi, I’m Peter Parker. I’m 19 and I’ve worked at Outback North Espresso for a little over 9 months. What’s your name?” He stuck his hand out, waiting for Tony to make the next move.

Tony laughed, pushing his chair back and standing to meet the other teen. “Okay, uh, I’m Tony Stark, I’m 18, and I’ve worked at Outback for almost 6. Nice to re-meet you, Peter.” He shook Peter’s hand, awestruck at just how soft it was. He quickly steeled his face and sat back down, releasing Peter and allowing him to do the same.

Once he was sat back down at his side, Peter looked up, confused. “Wait, you’re still 18?”

Tony laughed. “Not for long. My birthday’s at the end of next month.”

“Wow, I can’t believe I’m older than you!”

Tony rolled his eyes. “That’s - it’s literally three months, that barely counts.”

Their debate lasted well into the afternoon, alongside several other discussions. Peter’s childhood in Richland, and what it was like growing up there. What Federal Way was like, and why Tony left. Peter could tell he was remaining intentionally vague, but didn’t push it.

Their beers were warm and the pizza was long gone by the time they abandoned their table. Tony guided him out the back, hand high on his arm.

Once they were back in the car, Peter’s anxiety returned. It was like he’d spent the last few hours speaking to a completely different person, and now that he was sitting mere inches from Tony…

He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t. He wasn’t… sure, exactly. What it was.

Tony spoke up when he noticed the tension in his passenger seat.

“Hey, we’ll get you back to your car soon, I promise. Eight blocks, remember?” His right hand made its way to Peter’s knee, digging soft circles into the denim. Just like in the fridge.

“Please don’t- don’t touch me. Without asking.” It came out harsher than intended.

“Okay, all good. No worries. We’re like, two minutes away.” Tony eased off the clutch, turning right out of the parking lot and onto the road. The windows rolled down and Peter let his head fall back in relief. Fresh air always helped him clear his head.

It really was a short drive - right turn, left turn, right turn - and they were back at Peter’s car. The doors unlocked, and he was out in an instant. A bit too fast to be respectful, if he was being honest, but he knew he needed out. Tony stopped him before he was able to get in his car.

“Hey, for real. Thank you for today. I’m sorry if it was too much.”

Peter looked over and down to meet his eyes. “I- yeah, of course. No, yeah, thank you. For the apology. I’m sorry I freaked out on you. But no this- it was good. Yeah. Thank you, Tony.”

He turned, unlocking the door and closing it before either could say anything else. After turning the key he sped off, without throwing even a glance behind him.

Tony watched as Peter peeled away, reaching for the box of Pall Malls in his cupholder. He lit one, shifting into first and heading in the opposite direction.

Not bad. Not good, but not bad.

lmk if u want on or off the tags list!

@snowstark @kaleidoscopeluli @parkerrbitch @carelessannie @bluestarker @longlivestarker

#starker #peter parker/tony stark #.mine #peter parker x tony stark #ironspider #coffee shop au #.text #.fic

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dreamsmp-au-ideas · 4 years ago

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Oops, I made a plot…

Anyways. Epithet Erased

I love the idea that the Egg was created by someone with the Epithet of Consume. Now an interesting idea I had is that the owner of Consume originally had possession of the Arsene Amulet after Copycat died. The owner of Consume created the Egg and then started using the Amulet to feed Epithets to the Egg. In return, the Egg was able to use these Epithets and temporarily bestow their powers onto those who followed it, hence the whole bloodline wanting to protect it kinda thing. When the original owner of Consume started to reach the end of their lifespan they fed themselves to the Egg in hopes that it would eventually be fed something like Immortal or Rebirth and it could bring back its former master. This is why it’s an Egg, eventually it’s going to hatch into the original owner of Consume if it’s fed the right Epithet

The reason those following the Egg want the amulet is because they want to get back to work again. Everyone else is varying degrees of aware in terms of the Egg group’s plan. The Egg Group also has a process that new members of the Egg Cult go through where they offer up their Epithet to the Egg by being “Consumed” by it and held inside the Egg for a couple days. At which point the Egg leeches out their Epithet as an extra way to force its followers to be loyal. Sure you can still use your powers, and a ton of other Epithets as well, as long as you’re linked up with the Egg. But the moment you become disloyal and break off your Epithet is gone. It belongs to the Egg, you were only renting it.

Of course this takes a lot of time so it hasn’t happened to anyone in the DSMP by the time the actual plot starts except for Skeppy who’s the bartering chip that the Egg uses to make Bad be loyal to it. Bad doesn’t belong to the bloodline that’s been taking care of the Egg, he’s just a victim of circumstance. Techno is part of the family, but he’s a member of an offshoot branch that distanced itself from the Egg. He’s Billiam’s great (however many greats) nephew, but that isn’t a strong enough link, he’s the actual great (however many greats) grandson of the Sheriff which is why the Egg has less of a hold over him than it would a typical member of the bloodline.

Mundies are actually the best people for the job when it comes to fighting the Egg since its mind control powers only work on those who have an Epithet or offered up their Epithet to the Egg. Those who lost their Epithet specifically to the amulet against their wills are also immune. The Egg has the same powers seen in canon because one of the first Epithets it ever ate was Control.

There is a trade off to the Egg taking powers however, since the Epithets can’t “mature” while inside the Egg. Meaning they stay at the same proficiency level their former owner possessed making it advantageous for the Egg to allow Epithets to “mature”. The Egg might even offer an Epithet to a Mundie to let them mature it before harvesting it at a later date. It’s worth noting also there is a difference between getting trapped on top of the Egg and getting trapped inside the Egg like Skeppy, only the latter will get your Epithet snatched while Tubbo and Ranboo who are victims of the former just get their heads scrambled.

Team Pro Omelet eventually learns of the Egg’s abilities and plans and at that point it’s a race against the clock to ensure they 1. Don’t get the Amulet and 2. Aren’t able to shove anyone powerful inside the egg (cough cough Tubbo/Ranboo cough cough). While we could have Tubbo angst with his powers getting yoinked, I don’t think it would mean as much as the angst that would come from him just being normally controlled by the Egg and having his Epithet taken against his will would partially break him out of its control. He might not actually care as much about his Epithet, but him hurting Tommy by accident while being controlled? That would break him, mentally and emotionally.

While I was thinking about the plot, I mentioned with my last post I think that Tommy’s Epithet should have been taken or lost. We’ve had a connection made between Tommy loosing his power to Ranboo causing him to forget which I really like, but what if, and hear me out, he loses it to the Amulet? The last caretaker yoinks it with the intention of giving it to the get, probably at some point a good ways before the plot starts. However, because the former caretaker loses the Amulet before depositing it, Tommy’s Epithet stays pretty much trapped inside the Amulet. Partially because I really like the idea of Antihero Dream having to 180 why he wants to Amulet when Tommy eventually admits what happened. It adds a nice dynamic of character wants.

Originally I purposed Hero as Tommy’s Epithet which is good, but I think I can outdo myself. Meaning I have two other options.

Earlier I mentioned the Egg really really wanting someone with Immortal/Rebirth. Well, it’s a running gag that I keep making Tommy a phoenix in every AU I touch because he never damn well dies. So you could give one of those two words, or heck, even the word Phoenix itself to Tommy and it’d not only be a really good Epithet but it’d be an Epithet currently inside the Amulet, giving even more of a dire air to the story as a whole. If the Egg Squad is able to get that Epithet inside of the Egg, you bet it’s gonna hatch and the results will not be pretty. It also plays well with the fact that Tommy just never seems to die. Even when he doesn’t have his Epithet it’s such an engrained character detail that people comment on it whenever he joins an SMP.

I think it could be an interesting dynamic and it gives Tommy an array of interesting powers from wings to fire to being able to bring himself back to life. Additionally, we can give Immortal or Rebirth to Foolish since he’s a sentient Totem of Undying in canon and it would work well.

Alternatively, and this is admittedly the idea I personally favor, we pull a parallel between Tommy and Tubbo by giving him a seemingly stupid Epithet that’s deceptively strong. And trust me, I spent a lot of time thinking about what this Epithet might be and how it could be misinterpreted. The idea I ultimately settled on was Archetype. Now, this idea is near and dear to my heart because it fits Tommy as much as everything I’ve posted prior and arguably even more so than Hero. Tommy throughout the entire canon DSMP has had role after role forced on him. Being called the Hero or the Villain when really he just wants to be Tommy. I like the poetic irony of his Epithet literally being Archetype when everyone around him seems so desperate to assign him one. Plus, it’s one of those things that requires not just creativity but a certain level of classical or psychological background information to use properly, leading most people to being unable to use it (Egg included if it actually managed to get the Amulet.) So people just kind of brush it off and it lends itself well to the whole do you wanna be a hero thing since Hero is an Archetype.

For this power we’d basically be able to pull some really strong parallels between Tommy and Tubbo. Both have Epithets that are strongest when they temporarily become a different Epithet. Maybe Tommy can not only use Archetype, but he can temporarily transform it into literally any societally recognized Archetype and use that as if it was his Epithet. So he could still technically use the same powers one could come up with for Hero, it would just be while he’s using an Archetype Swap ability. Not only that but he’d be able to change other people’s personalities or Archetypes. He could even imbue others with traits of a new Archetype (i.e. giving a Mundie the powers associated with a Hero Archetype, aka literal actual honest to god plot armor) to act as support, but you wouldn’t think to do that typically. You’d just assume that Archetype is a one trick kind of pony at best. But maybe if we wanna go Tommy and Tubbo childhood friends route as kids they specifically spent hours practicing alone when they figured out their Epithets. Specifically coming up with overpower combo moves, thinking up powers that interacted well with one another to make themselves an actually terrifying menace to society.

Tommy and Tubbo childhood friends also is near and dear to my heart because everyone remembers the scene where Tommy told Tubbo that he’d been the hero and Tommy was the one who was the side kick. Having Tommy’s Epithet be Archetype and the majority of his childhood used to find ways to support Tubbo’s Epithet using his own adds another layer to this. Tommy literally made Tubbo the hero, gave him the powers and assigned him the Archetype. It’s just that they’re the only ones who know that. Plus plus we get a really good queen and knight dynamic between the two when they’re going all out which I just die for.

Also if SBI is canon, it makes sense why Tommy would have learned the word Archetype as a child, he’s related to Techno, what else would you expect? Part of Tommy being stupidly good at his power is probably from Techno reading him mythology as a child and linking up characters to their Archetypes, giving Tommy even more stupidly overpowered ideas for how to use his Epithet. Unfortunately it got yoinked at some point, either because someone saw how powerful it was or maybe Tommy just got unlucky. I think out of the ideas I’ve listed Archetype is my favorite if we go the yoinked route. It also works well with Techno and Dream since, again, Tommy could play a support role to make these already terrifying Mundies even more terrifying. Plus it would be like Tommy to keep having an Epithet secret because Techno is a Mundie and then later accidentally getting it stolen or we can go double angst and have Tommy both forget he has an Epithet and get it stolen.

Obviously Archetype being the Epithet and the plot would still work with Tommy just forgetting what his Epithet was, but also I really personally just like the aching pain of Tommy being forced to describe what it’s like having your Epithet stolen. How much the gap doesn’t hurt physically but emotionally and mentally almost daily, a phantom pain that never goes away. Sweet angst my beloved.

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

Tubbo🤝Tommy

Having stupidly overpowered Epithets

Anyways. Holy shit. This is brilliant. The plot is brilliant and oh god. This could open up so much now. The Arsene Amulet is still relevant in a way.

Oh man, the Egg just consuming Epithets as well? Man. That’s great.

#dream smp #dream smp au #epithet erased au #tubbo #tommyinnit #dream #dreamwastaken #ranboo #technoblade #badboyhalo #skeppy #submission #snapdragon & firefly

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arsenicpanda · 3 years ago

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Hey! You seem to ship fairly similar Riverdale pairings to me, so do you have any fanfic ideas? Unfortunately, I have writers block and I don't have access to any maple mushrooms to get through this one.

So, I do have a few that don't fall under "I actually want to write this myself", you are correct, and I am a wordy bitch, so let's put this under a cut

-Jabitha + Jughead and Veronica friendship post-college au: so, we diverge from canon in 5x03. Betty still leaves Riverdale, but Veronica stays, and she and Jughead slowly bond over film, pretentious references, criminal fathers, and the whole getting cheated on thing. Maybe throw in Reggie and the other Serpents too if you want to. When Jughead becomes homeless (again), Veronica eventually notices and invites him to stay with her, and it's awkward at first, but then they get used to it. They develop a brother-sister bond. So, then when they go off to college, they keep in touch and stay friends. Their friendship keeps Jughead from being supes lonely at college, which means he stays and learns how to actually fucking write, so his book is actually good and not just successful, and also he doesn't take up drinking and drugs. And their friendship also keeps Veronica from dating assholes like Chad, so she never even gets close to that terrible marriage. But after they graduate, Jughead moves to NYC and they live together and she becomes the she-wolf of Wall Street and he becomes a successful author (genre undetermined) and maybe also journalist (look, I am just too fond of this headcanon, and most authors need second jobs anyway), and neither of them pine over their exes. Veronica can settle down with Reggie, Josie, Katy Keene, or someone else or no one else, but she is successful and happy. Also, Tabitha goes to school in NYC, settles down there, works a six-figure job for a while, and then opens a Pop's franchise. Now, it can go two ways from here:

Veronica and Tabitha become friends in college. Veronica keeps trying to set Jughead and Tabitha up with different people she knows to no success (she keeps trying to set both of them up with intimidating women (partial success and bi Tabitha 4 life) and himbos (zero success, they both prefer smart people, and also bi Jughead 4 life), until one day she's complaining about it to Katy Keene or Reggie or Josie or someone and the other person is like "V, why don't you just set them up with each other?" And she's like "ohhhhh" and she does, and they either hit it off pretty quickly or Tabitha is like "wait, are you the guy who mooched off my grandpa for years??" And he's like "pardon??" And she dislikes him until he proves himself/Veronica explains the situation (Jughead was neglected and poor and Pop helped him out). But then they get along and swap stories about Pop and fall into some weird investigation and fall in love, and Veronica is like "Victory is mine!"

Tabitha starts franchising Pop's in NYC, and when Jughead finds out he's like "sus, very sus" and goes there and eats and is like ".....this is actually pretty spot-on". And he becomes a regular (who actually orders food and pays because he can now), and Tabitha is supervising the diner for a time, and they start to chat on late nights when he's the only customer left but the diner isn't scheduled to close for another two hours, so Tabitha could use the company. Jughead doesn't realize she's Pop's granddaughter, and Tabitha doesn't realize he's her grandpa's favorite customer (and known moocher, in her opinion), and when they find out, they're both very shocked. They clear up the moocher thing and keep falling in love, and it's beautiful, and Veronica spends some her spare time prying into Jughead's newest late-night haunt and then teasing him about his crush on the owner and later "of course you fell for Pop's granddaughter, of course".

-Jabitha or bugabitha: Jughead cooks his tired (future?) girlfriend(s) dinner because yes, he does know how to cook because he loves food, so obviously he learned how to cook, and also he notices how much his girlfriend(s) work and wants to take care of them.

-Jabitha: Tabitha teaching Jughead how to cook some of Pop's recipes one late, slow night, and yes, they kiss at the end and/or when he makes her something on another late, slow night or slow afternoon or one morning when he opens and she shows up later

-Bugabitha: Tabitha needs help with a mystery/situation and goes to Betty and Jughead's PI agency to hire them (whether Betty and Jughead are together is up for grabs), and they are both charmed as fuck by her, and Tabitha tags along on the investigation for idk reasons, and they all fall in love and also solve a mystery

-Jabitha: smut/pwp of Jughead eating Tabitha out in Pop's while they're both still in uniform

-Jabith or Bugabith: like three students trip and fall into being way too invested in their teacher's/teachers' love life/lives and become convinced that something is going on between Jughead and Tabitha (and maybe also Betty) and start snooping while also documenting it on a popular "my English teacher is dating his other boss (and also my shop teacher)" or "my English teacher is two-timing his boss with my shop teacher" TikTok series that Jughead and Tabitha (and Betty) don't know about it until it goes viral after the kids finally get proof they're together / find out that it's not that Jughead's cheating with Betty and/or Tabitha's cheating with Betty but that the three of them are dating (see: that one fanart I commissioned of the Elite meme). Told from the kids' pov, very comedy-heavy (more comedy than ship fluff, tbh), includes replies to the TikToks and other social media stuff. Still considering writing this myself, but I don't know if I'm funny enough, tbh

-Bugabitha: how they do or do not celebrate holidays and birthdays, especially if the holidays involving shuffling between/avoiding their families and Betty recounts the disaster that was Jughead's birthday in 1x10, right down to (lovingly) roasting him for the "I'm weird, I'm a weirdo" speech (she will be kind by including how sweet he was in the diner, of course)

-Bugabitha: Alice finally finds out that Betty, Jughead, and Tabitha are all dating when Betty moves out of the Cooper house and into an apartment with Jughead and Tabitha. It includes something like the following exchange, Alice's last-ditch effort to convince Betty not to do this:

"Elizabeth, you cannot think that moving in with your ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend is wise."

"Mom, I'm not moving in with my ex and his girlfriend, I'm moving in with my boyfriend and my girlfriend, and you're making me late for lunch with them, bye." And then Betty leaves before Alice can respond

And then it's very important that Alice freaks out. If you want, you can also include FP and Gladys finding out (v chill) and Pop finding out (the most wholesome and supportive)

-Jabitha: Pop playing matchmaker with Jughead and Tabitha at any age, could be in an au where Tabitha comes to visit Pop every summer and Jughead kinda falls for her from afar as a teen, could be Jughead gets a job post-senior year at Pop’s during the summer when Tabitha is working there that summer, could be during the canon s5 or an au s5, could be any time, idk

- Jabitha, bughead, or bugabitha: Jughead's editor says that his novel needs a sex scene for whatever reason, idk, idc, but his POV character/narrator is a woman, and he's like "how do I write this without finding myself on one of those lists of 'men who can't write women?'" and bemoans this one day, and, idk, somehow his friend(s) Tabitha and/or Betty trip and fall into ~helping~ him by being very explicit and descriptive of how it feels while they bone

I think that’s it? Let’s say that’s it for now.

#asks #polaroid-fangirl13 #Riverdale #Riverdale season 5 #jabitha #bugabitha #fic ideas #fic ideas for sale #my thoughts on Riverdale let me show you them #I guess?

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legionofpotatoes · 4 years ago

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we decided to watch all story cutscenes from the new resident evil village videogame on a whim, since it’s not really our cup of tea gameplay-wise but seems to be this massive zeitgeist moment that made us morbidly curious. And I know how much everyone cares about my thoughts on things I know very little about, so. let’s get into it huh gamers. and yeah spoilers?

for context, I’ve only played resident evil 4 and a small portion of 5. I also read the wikipedia entry for 7’s plot recently. all this to say I was only vaguely aware of how tonally wacky the series was going in

I also completely gave up following the plot of the mutagens’ soap opera, so that paid off in spades here as you might imagine

anyway so that baby in the intro. that baby’s head is just massive. humongous toddlerdome. when ethan finds the baby’s head in a jar later on. there is no way that head would fit into that jar. bad game design. no not even game design. basic stuff. one hundred years in prison for jar modeler

if I see a single functional hetero marriage in video games I will cry tears of joy. I understand their misery is kind of The Point irt them badly working through the hillbilly romp trauma but like. sheesh. at least set that up as an emotional story goal the plot will help resolve. but nope they start off miserable and it goes nowhere

I know I know the mia thing has a huge wrinkle in it but like. not really in terms of dramatic function?? set up a happy end to the re7 nightmare (miranda can keep up appearances for all she cares) and then take that all away from angry griffin mcelroy for manpain. it will still absolutely work to set up the dramatic forward momentum. why throw in this cliche Hollywood Tension in their marriage if you’re not going to address it oh maybe because it’s normalized as automatically interesting because nuclear families are a self-propagating pit of a very narrow chance at emotional happiness relying on social stigma to preserve their empty function oops my baggage slipped in yikes abort mission

I called him griffin mcelroy because I saw his face on twitter and. yeah. I will continue to do this occasionally. my house my rules

... fuck the reason I’m hung up on this is specifically because the rest of the game is so tonally dexterous (which is a shining point to me! more on that later!), and yet they felt weirdly compelled to create the aesthetic trapping of a family-at-odds trope without following it through too well. a sign of both the good and the bad stuff to come

but listen the real reason why I wanted to talk about any of this is to nitpick the fascinating backwards-engineered nucleus of the entire thing; in that this game essentially creates a melting pot of just SO many disparate horror tropes and then makes a no-holds-barred unhinged effort at weaving thick lore to piece them all together. it is truly a sight to behold. like straight up you got your backwoods fright night situation, your gothic castle vampires, your rural-industrial werewolves, and don’t forget your bloated swamp monsters over there, with then a hard left turn into robotic body horror, and the entire ass subgenre of Creepy Doll writ large, and the bloodborne tentacle monsters, and a hellboy angel bossfight, which rides on the coattails of a mech-on-mech pacific rim bonanza, and just jesus henry christ slow down

almost all of these are textural hijack jobs that don’t really get into the metaphor plain of any of those settings but the game sort-of makes an argument that the texture IS the point and revels in it. It is kind of admirable almost. The same reason why the intro felt boxed in and unmotivated is also why the rest of the game just blasts off of its hinges to the point of complete and self-indulgent tonal abandon. I kinda loved that about it. lady dimitrescu made sure to hold her hat down as she bent forward in mahogany doorways and then suddenly she’s a giant gore dragon and you settle in your temp role as dark souls man with Gun to take her ass down. Excellent??

this rhino rampage impulse to gobble up every horror aesthetic known to man comes to head when the game wrestles with its FPS trappings in what is the most hilarious solution in creating visceral player damage moments. Since most cinematics and the entire game is in first person, that leaves precious little real estate for the devs to work with if they really want to sell griffin’s physical crucible. To wit. This dude’s forearms. Specifically just the forearms. They are MASSACRED throughout the story. The poor man lives out the silent hill dimension of a hand model. by the end cutscene he looks like a neatly dressed desk clerk who had decided to stick both his grabbers into garbage disposal grinders just a few hours prior. like in addition to everything else it manages to rope in that tinge of slapstick violence into its general grievous genre collection except this time it IS for a lack of trying! truly incredible

but wait his miracle clawbacks from everything his poor paws go through are retroactively explained away, yes, but far too vaguely and far too late to console me as I sat and watched everyone’s favorite baby brother reattach an entirely severed hand to his wrist stump by just. placing it on there. and giving it a lil twist ‘n pop terminator-style. and then willing his fingers back into motion right in front of my bulging eyes. this game just does not care. it does not give a shit. and boy howdy will it work to make that into one of its strongest suits

cause generally speaking resident evil was THE premiere vanilla zombie content destinaysh for like a decade, right? and as the rest of the world and mainstream media started encroaching and bloodying its blue ocean it went and just exploded in every single conceivable horror trope direction like a smilodon on catnip. truly, genuinely fascinating franchise moves

yeah the big vampire milf is hot. other news; grass... green. although I do love the implication that her closet is just identical white dresses on a rack. cartoon network-level queen shit

apropos of nothing I’ve said there’s also this hobo dante-devimaycry-magneto man, and I can’t believe this sentence makes sense. anyway he made that “boulder-punching asshole” joke referring to chris redfield and it was probably the only easter egg that really landed for me and boy did it land hard. I have not seen him punch the boulder in re5, mind. I had only heard about how funny it is from friends. and here this dude was, probably in the same exact mindset as me, trying to grapple with that insane mental image. with you on that ian mckellen, loud and clear

I advocate vehemently against the shallow pursuit of hyper photorealism in art direction but I gotta admit it works really in favor of immersive horror like this. the european village shacks especially gave me super unchill flashbacks to my rural countryside retreat in western georgia. I could smell the linoleum dude. not cool

faces are weird in this game. can’t place it. nice textures, good animation, but the modeling template is... uuh strange? and the hair. it has that clustered-flat-clumpy look that harkens to something very specific and unpleasant but I just don’t know what. sue me

griffin’s mental aptitude to take all this shit in stride and end every seemingly traumatizing bossfight involving some fucking eldritch being yet unseen through mortal eyes by essentially throwing out an MCU quip is just. What the fuck dude? I mean that was funny how you casually yelled the f-word at a god damn werewolf that you considered a fairy tale an hour ago but are you like, all right?? it was swinging a sledgehammer the size of a bus at you, ethan

oh oh the vampires are afraid of cold and your last name is winters. I get it haha

Pro Gamer Nitpick: boss fights seemed a bit unnecessarily long?? idk why the youtuber we picked decided the ENTIRE propeller man fight counted towards the vital story scenes he was stitching together, but man mr big daddy lite there really had some get up and go huh??

why are they saying dimitrescu.. like that. is it really how you say that word or is the english language relapsing into its fetish for ending every single word with a consonant at all costs

I’m not saying it’s a dramatic miss of a twist in context of all that’s going on, but the “you died in the last game actually and have been DC’s clayface ever since” revelation is low-key. it’s. it’s just funny to me, I dont know what to say. century-old god-witch fails her evil plan after she mistakenly removes heart from what was definitely NOT just some white guy with eight fingers after all

chris realizing he’s about to become the player character and immediately swapping out his tsundere trenchcoat for the muscletight sex haver sweater

the little bluetooth speaker-sized pipe bomb he taped to his knife was nuclear?? really??? I must have missed something because that is just too good. I buy it though I totally buy it. chris just got them fun-sized nukes in his car trunk for, you guessed it, Situations

anyway this is all for now just wanted to briefly touch on how unexpectedly funny and tonally irreverent this seemingly serious game turned out to be. did not articulate any cathartic story beats whatsoever but my god it had fun connecting those plot points. he just fucking put his severed hand back on his stump and it Just Worked todd howard get in here

#text #another one in my bulleted review series with no rhyme or reason #sorry resident evil fans this could be a painful read pls turn away #i know almost nothing about it but i am gonna be super fake familiar and critical of this one hey ho

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zmediaoutlet · 4 years ago

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in support of wildfire relief, @jesusonthetortillas donated $10, and requested pre-series pining!Sam, with diary discovery. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

After his little lesson from Sabrina, the hot librarian's assistant, it's not hard at all for Dean to find what he's looking for. He drops Sam off at the library the way he usually does, and flirts with Sabrina on his way out like he usually does, but instead of going to his shift at the construction site like Sam thinks he's going to, he circles back around, through the library stacks on the main floor, and waits like a dingus by YOUNG ADULT – ADVENTURE, watching the back of Sam's nerdy, nerdy head where he's hunched at the computer banks, getting up to no kind of good.

It wouldn't have come to this, Dean thinks, if Sam weren't so—he doesn't even know how to think about it. He doesn't know when to pin it down. They were doing okay. Sam ran away, a few years back, but since then he's—well, he's always bitching at Dad and bitching at Dean half the time too, but he's done good in school, he's done his part with the hunting. It was sometime at that last school. September in Maryland. Dad was gone a lot of the time, because Dad always was, and Dean went with him on about half the hunts but Sam got to stay behind, got to just call in research tips and last-minute lore checks, and Dean thought he was pretty happy, as much as Sam ever seemed happy. Chill, just doing his homework at the rickety desk, not complaining any more than usual about Dean's usual dinners of fast food or Kraft or Top Ramen. Seventeen and getting tall and mellowing out, and finally hanging out with his little brother was just fine. Dean thought.

That was two towns ago, three months ago. Dean picks his nails with his pocket knife, leaning on one elbow by the Hardy Boys. Sam's still working away on the computer. Anymore he always is. After school he's always angling for Dean to bring him to the library and if Dean won't drive him then Sam walks, even when it's raining, like it is half the time in frickin Washington, anyway. Always finding a free computer and settling in and disappearing onto the internet. Not coming home until the library closes, and moody if Dean's there when he walks in, and Dean just—he thought they were past all this crap. He thought that maybe Sam had—settled. Figured out how things were, how things had to be.

Well. Either way. Sabrina, with the glasses and the sexy dreads and the legs that very much went all the way to the floor under those wide-legged pants she was always wearing—she gave Dean a computer lesson, free of charge, and he's got a way in, now. Sam won't talk to him, won't hardly look at him. Dean chews the inside of his cheek, watching Sam type on the battered public machine. Sam's not the only one who knows how to research a case, in this family. Dean's going to figure this out. He's gonna fix it.

A bell rings, at five o'clock, like the end of a school day. Sam jerks like he's been shocked and looks up at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. He's been engrossed for two hours, typing away, reading. Real frickin' boring, on Dean's end, but he stayed put. Like staking out a house for a job—nothing to do but wait. He takes a few steps backwards, makes sure the shelves hide his face, and there's a general rustling as people leave—a mom and her kid, and tears because the kid's favorite book wasn't here—and when Dean looks again the computer banks are empty, and Sabrina's checking out the last few patrons, and Sam's—gone. Walking home in the rain, little goth that he is. Fine with Dean, if it gives him a few minutes.

When he settles into the chair Sam was in it's still warm. He opens up Netscape Navigator, the library's homepage welcoming him in a friendly kinda way—big yellow smiley face, that's fun. He goes to where Sabrina taught him, in the menu at the top: view, and then History, where it turns out the computer saves all the webpages you went to just in case you need to find them again, and there—oh, jackpot. Gotcha, Sam.

All kinds of crap. A weather website, a bunch of Ask Jeeves searches, something called DiffEQandU. Some mythology stuff, too, and Dean goes to one that turns out to be a history of kitsune. That's something, at least—Sam doing his important homework, in there with whatever other crap he's been working on.

The last bunch of results are all pages from some website called Livejournal, which Dean's never heard of. He clicks one at random and is brought to—huh. A splashy red page, with a big picture on top of kids graduating from high school in those dorky blue robes. He scrolls down, skimming, looking for the important details among the mess, but it's hard to tell what it is. A forum, it looks like. Kind of like the ones Dean's been on where people trade car parts, or swap ghost stories. A square box, dated yesterday, that says WHEN IS HARVARD'S APP REVIEW???, and a panicky paragraph where some chick might die if she doesn't get in. Another, the day before, with questions about the SAT, and a link that says 43 comments that, when Dean clicks it, brings him to a bunch of apparently teenagers all giving each other tips from some test they're worried about taking.

College. Dean's stomach curls into a knot. It's all—college stuff, applications and tests and deadlines. The usernames are all weird shit: tmntpizzadelivery, quistis4ever, willyshakes. Dean can't tell—is one of these kids Sam?

Sabrina's nearly done with her line of book nerds. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth and clicks away, tries another of the Livejournal results in the history. Another forum, this one apparently about—soccer? Jesus, Sam. Another forum, this one about Conan the Barbarian, and that one's at least easy to snort at, with people's shitty drawings of Red Sonja and excitement about a possible remake. There are personal pages, though, too—one titled Delaware Sucks, in which some girl complains about her life—one titled trent reznor rules my soul, featuring a goth kid who won't shut up about Nine Inch Nails and his bitch of a mother. Another, with a plain blue-and-grey color scheme, with the title on the road, and a new post from today—from an hour ago—with the text just reading, I don't know what to do anymore, and six comments underneath, waiting.

"Hey—ready to go?" Sabrina says.

Dean jerks in his seat. Sabrina's raising her eyebrows at him, behind her glasses, a little smile curving her mouth that promises something a little better than book dust and computer lessons. "I'm always ready," Dean says, grinning, and gets her to roll her eyes—yeah, he's in there—but his eyes drag back to the webpage, the posts. He scrolls down, quick—post after post, waiting to be read. "Real quick—borrow a pen?"

She has one—she's a sexy librarian, of course she has one—and he uncrumples a receipt from his jacket pocket and writes down the URL, careful to get it right. rearviewmirror.livejournal.com. He wants to click on the comments, but.

"Come on, the movie's starting soon," Sabrina says, and Dean closes Netscape, folds the receipt very carefully into his pocket, stands up. He's got a date to make out with a hot chick in the back of a movie theater, and maybe a little more, and Sam's whole Eeyore routine has to take a number. Dean will figure it out. He's got an easy way to run a stakeout, now.

December 4

Still can't decide. Anyone else going through this?

current mood: agonized current music: motorhead (AGAIN)

Comments:

teenagehamburger: Yes!! I still don't know where I want to go. Mom wants me to stay close to home, but Delaware sucksssss. Where are you looking?

rearviewmirror: Anywhere. TBH I'm still not even sure I should apply.

teenagehamburger: WTF?? Of course you should!! College is the big escape, remember?

December 1

He's driving me INSANE

current mood: annoyed current music: motorhead (again)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: lol you got it bad

rearviewmirror: right now I just want to hit him with a brick, actually

teenagehamburger: LOL!! Sorry :( :(

rearviewmirror: Sigh. I guess it could be worse, right?

teenagehamburger: Definitely!! He could be the cute cheerleader from 4th period who doesn't know I exist….

coppertonebuttgirl: oh, sorry hammie, that sucks <3

November 29

The thing is, I don't even want anything crazy? I just want to be—me. Just me, without anyone breathing down my neck. Trig teacher says I could get in to one of the top ten, but I just want to go *anywhere that's not here*

current mood: restless current music: Pearl Jam (home alone!)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: i hear you lol. why don't they get that the rules and hovering and all that shit just makes us want to run faster?

rearviewmirror: Exactly! My teacher keeps talking about college like it's a place to expand your mind and stuff, and that's fine, but lately I just want to expand my horizons. Kind of ironic?

bloodofreptile: yeah lol haven't you lived like everywhere?

rearviewmirror: Feels like it.

teenagehamburger: Is You Know Who going to college too?

November 18

I feel like it shouldn't be this hard. Normal people have it easy.

current mood: indescribable current music: silence

Comments:

coppertonebuttgirl: feel free to talk to me anytime <3

November 3

Dad's gone again. Didn't say goodbye. We went to the movies and he gave me a beer, and we watched the stars for an hour in the parking lot even though it was freaking freezing. Happier than I've been in a while. Don’t want it to change but it has to change.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

teenagehamburger: OMG, that sounds so romantic?? I can't believe you were drinking!! Aren't you underage?

bloodofreptile: lol relax it's not a big deal

teenagehamburger: I'm just saying!!

coppertonebuttgirl: wish it wasn't hard for you <3

bloodofreptile: dude you've got to say something

rearviewmirror: I literally can't.

bloodofreptile: ok but it's gonna drive you crazy. do you even know if he's gay? start with that maybe

The posts go on, and on. Reading backwards through time, it's a strange piecing-together. rearviewmirror is active in about ten communities and Dean reads through all of them, that week, bringing an illicit cup of coffee in to the library when he doesn't have a construction shift. He reads with his hand over his mouth and by the time he has to get off the computer he's got a headache, every time, his throat dry and aching.

The journal's been active for six months. Dean clicks through the pages to the very start and reads it in the right order, his heart pounding oddly in his ears. I don't know what this place is. A journal, I guess, considering the name. I just need somewhere to talk where no one will listen.

It's not a pouring-out, like some teenage girl doodling hearts around her crush's initials. He holds back. Never says exactly where they're living, never mentions names. To figure out who it was, you'd have to be one of two other people, and Dean knows that Dad can barely turn on a computer, much less go onto the internet and pore over some teenage angst-fest. Dean spends half his time wishing he were the same. Maybe if he hadn't asked Sabrina for help.

At home, Sam's the same as he always is. Comes home after his own stint at the library, eats the dinner Dean gives him. He reads, most of the time. Does his schoolwork. Dean says, careful one night, "Hey, True Lies is on. Wanna watch?" but Sam only gives him a strange, uncertain look and says, "No, I have a paper due," and he shuts himself into their bedroom with the door very firmly closed, and Dean sits there on the couch alone with a beer and Jamie Lee Curtis being sexy as hell on the fuzzy TV, and he—he doesn't know what to do.

He remembers that day, the looking at the stars day. It was November 2. A nasty anniversary, in their family, and yeah, Dad left. Dean got it. He'd thought Sam did, too, by now. It was better to have Dad gone, on a hunt, than trying to drink himself to death at home in the apartment. At least he was working, that way, and not hurting himself. To distract both of them, Dean picked Sam up from the library and they went straight to the movie theater—the Blair Witch sequel, with Dean providing running commentary about how dumb they were about dealing with ghosts, which at least made Sam grin and elbow him to shut up, even if he was laughing too, the liar—and, yeah, afterward they'd picked up Taco Bell, and then after that Dean swung through the liquor store drive-thru and they parked out, and he let Sam have a beer, and they both sat on the trunk and leaned back against the cold glass or the rear window and didn't really talk, much. The stars, big above them. The night, quiet. Sam was pressed against his side, chilled out and not bitching about anything, and Dean tucked his hand behind his head and he was pretty content with the world, right then. His brother, here, and a six-pack waiting, and nothing happening right then that'd hurt them. Sam smiled at him, that night, before he went to bed. It was sweet—like he used to be, when he was little—and Dean had ended up falling asleep on the couch, watching the public access, but his dreams that night were—good, like they never were on the night of November 2, and it had felt… okay.

do you even know if he's gay?

The college prep—that wasn't a surprise. It hurt but it didn't shock. All his worrying, all his whining, wanting to be 'free'—whatever free meant—it was all part and parcel of the last decade. Dean should've known better. Sam wasn't mellowing out. Sam was a stubborn little shit and he'd always wanted to have a life that wasn't—this.

The gay thing. That hit different. One of the communities Sam followed was for lesbian and gay youth, talking about their coming out experiences. Sam didn't post there much but he commented, asked questions. How do you know? What does it feel like? The hamburger girl was from there, a lesbian chick trapped in some Delaware high school. Encouraging, commiserating. They talked about how college would be their big escape, their chance to go to a big city and find their way. Meet people. Only apparently hamburger girl was crushing on the cheerleader from fourth period, and Sam—

Dean makes an excuse the next day. Saturday: no work for Dean, no school for Sam. Alone in the apartment together, all day, after Dean's week of reading—he can't face it. "Where are you going?" Sam asks, eight a.m. with his hair fucked up and coffee clenched between his hands, and Dean looks at him in his pajama pants and his ratty hand-me-down shirt, skinny and tall and hiding things Dean can't handle, and he says, snappish in a way he doesn't mean to be—"Out, Sam, for christ's sake—" and sees Sam's expression shutter before the apartment door slams behind him.

He goes for a drive, out of town. Cold, threatening rain like it always is, but it won't snow. Out—past the airport, past the suburbs, out to Black Lake. They killed the nymph that was drowning people out here, him and Dad, when they first arrived. Sam stayed home. Sullen on the other end of the line when Dean called to say they'd finished the job, and they were getting burgers for dinner, and did Sam want one. Whatever, Sam had said, like even answering was an imposition. That was November, too.

He sits on the hood, heels braced on the bumper, arms locked around his knees. The lake looks cold. He wants to sink into it, wants to feel that freezing shock, like the polar bear dive he did on a dare back in Illinois. The way the brain just goes blank, tv-static filling up everything and washing all the shit away. All the weird crap you don't want to think about, frozen, and the only thing to focus on just—getting out.

He's not going to dive into the lake. It's nine in the morning and he's wearing his only pair of boots. He hasn't gone out with Sabrina all week. He's been piss-poor at the construction site and McMillan nearly brained him with a hammer yesterday, because Dean wasn't paying attention, and the foreman screamed at him in front of the whole crew. None of that feels close, right now. He breathes the wet-clogged air, cold and mossy, turning his ring restlessly on his finger.

Back at that high school they went to in Raton, Mrs. Encinas in 6th period English told Dean he'd be smart, if he didn't just give up all the time. All he needed to do was take the time to read between the lines, to actually interpret what he was reading and not take things on face value. He made some joke. He doesn't remember what it was, now. Like he didn't know what the fuckin Great Gatsby was saying, when he hoped and hoped and never got what he wanted. When happiness always felt like it was about a thousand miles away, on the other side of a lake he couldn't cross, and hope went out like a snuffed light. Dean can read what's not there. He's done it his whole life.

The problem: Sam's little online journal went back six months. They've lived in four towns, in that time. He never uses names, never puts up anything that'd really identify him. They were in Maryland, August-September-first of October, and it was a comment right at the end of August, on the community for gay kids, talking to the hamburger girl: I like someone, too. He doesn't know. He. The same he that carried forward, through all his journal entries, from Maryland to Washington across whole breadth of the country. He likes classic rock. He drives me nuts. He gave me a beer, and I wanted—

Dean curls forward over his knees, sliding his hands into his hair, breathing hard between his knees. He can read between the lines and he wishes that he couldn't. He wishes—god. What? That Sam would just meet a nice girl and fuck her and get it out of his system? Except how he was writing, it wasn't like it was new. It was something he'd been thinking about. When did you know? had read one of the forum posts, and in the responses, among all the dumb teenage crap about formal dances and jerking off to the wrong person in the music video, there was a comment by username rearviewmirror that said, I broke my leg and he carried me to the car and I wanted to kiss him.

Sam broke his leg in July, the summer he turned fifteen. He'd been trying to stay quiet but he'd had this trapped whimper in his throat that he couldn't stop, and Dad had stayed behind to cover their backs and it had been left to Dean, to scoop Sam up, his whole body quivering with the shock—to hug him close between the trees, humid Georgia night making every place their skin touched slick with sweat—to let Sam cling to his neck, shuddering, and to put a hand on his back and whisper, hey, Sammy, it's not even that bad, huh? no bone sticking out, you did good. we're gonna get you a cast and I'm gonna draw you a great picture, okay, Cindy Crawford with her tits out, right there on your shin and Sam had been so shaky that his laugh sounded like he was crying, but he'd nodded against Dean's neck and chattered out sounds cool, Dean, and when Dean got him to the car Sam hadn't wanted to let him go—so they crawled into the backseat together, Sam still half in his lap and with his arms still tight around Dean's neck. Dad got into the front and frowned at Dean in the rearview, and Dean nodded, and when the car leapt forward Sam gasped and gripped at Dean's shirt when his leg got jostled, and Dean put his hand in Sam's hair and said, it's okay, you're okay, and Sam—wanted to kiss him.

He can't square it. It's like there's some twinned version of his brother, in this place Dean never knew existed. All these secrets he's been hoarding, this other person he's been. These wants that make him a stranger.

He goes back home with stuff for lunch around noon. Sam's reading, in the bedroom. "Got pb&j or grilled cheese," Dean calls, down the shotgun kitchen through the thin-carpeted hall, and Sam calls back, "I'm not hungry," which is a goddamn shit of a lie. He grows like an inch a day, he's never not hungry. Dean braces his hands on the counter and counts to five, in his head. He puts the bread away, and puts the cheese in the fridge. He goes into the living room and turns on the TV and it's college football, which is boring as hell, but it fills the apartment with noise. He wishes Dad were home. He wishes he were hunting.

The Huskies lose. Sam hasn't come out of the room, as far as Dean can tell. He's had—four beers? He looks at the table. Five. It's getting toward dark and it's raining, a-fucking-gain, and Dean's still wearing his jacket and his boots and his ears are cold, because the heater in here sucks, and he's shredded the label of the beer everywhere, everywhere. He brushes it off his knees and that just means it's gonna get ground into the shit-brown carpet, but—who cares. He's got other things on his mind.

He gets the last beer out of the fridge. Should've bought more. "Got some spare cash," he says, to the dark hall. There's a halo of light around the half-closed bedroom door. "Thinking pizza for dinner."

Silence.

Dean pushes the beer bottle against his forehead. "C'mon, Sam. It's not going to kill you to prefer pepperoni or sausage. Just say something."

"Doesn't matter," is the response.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed, slams the bottle down to the counter. It's four steps to the bedroom and the door flies open under his palm. "Just fucking say," Dean says, and Sam's looking at him with big eyes, curled up on the twin bed with his back up against the wall, books spread open all around him. Homework, of course. "Just say it, okay? What do you want?"

Sam stares at him. "I don't care! Get—whatever, pepperoni. Jeez, what's up with you?"

"Sure you don't want sausage?" Dean says, kind of nasty, and Sam frowns, shakes his head. Goddamn it. Dean drags a hand over his face, sags against the door frame. He's—a little dizzy. Oh—okay, so maybe he should've eaten, sometime since this morning. "Damn it, Sam," he says, his stomach twinging.

"What?" Give him this—maybe he's sneaking around, maybe he's lying about half his life, but Sam doesn't shrink back from an argument. He's still in his pajamas. He shoves his notebook away, lifts his chin. "What?"

"Been doing some reading," Dean says, and watches Sam's face scrunch disbelievingly. "Rearviewmirror? You don't even like cars."

It's weirdly satisfying to watch Sam blanch. He's been so unaffected the last little while it's almost a relief to get a real reaction. His mouth parts, his eyes go big. He stares at Dean in total silence except the rain drumming on the roof, and then he says, "That's—private."

"Not that private," Dean says. "You're putting shit on the internet for any asshole to read, Sam. It's not a pretty princess diary with a sparkly lock."

Sam's face is white. He licks his lips, his back rigid against the wall. "How did you—you never—"

"I know how to use a friggin computer," Dean says, and watches Sam close his eyes. "So? Got a lot to say to a bunch of strangers. Might as well say it to me. I mean, I'm your brother, right? Family."

It comes out hard but his voice cracks, on the last word. He swallows and some of the anger dissipates. Sam's jaw flexes and he tucks his hands behind his neck and his knees drag in, like defense. Like he needs defense. Against Dean. Like it's Dean who's wrecking things.

Dean's legs go out from under him. He sits down. Right there, in the doorway to the bedroom, the frame hard against his spine. The rain's loud and he doesn't—what is there to say? "You should've told me."

That's really it. Sam looks at him. Disbelief. "How?" he says, and Dean tips his head back against the wall, looks at the popcorn ceiling, says, "I don't know, it's not my damn secret. But you should've."

"Yeah, that would've gone great," Sam says, sarcastic.

Silence. The rain. Dean drags his hand over his face again, clears his throat. "So. You're—queer." For some reason it seems like the simplest thing to start with.

Sam snorts. "I'm not, like, jerking off to JC Chasez," he says, bitter.

"Who?" Dean says, but shakes his head. "God, whatever. Jesus, Sam, I can't—don't talk about you jerking off. You're not—you don't date chicks, either. Ever. So you're—"

"I don't know," Sam says. Kind of firm. Dean closes his eyes to not look at him. "I don't know, okay? But that's not what—" Pause, while he drags in a breath that's audible across the room. Dean curls over, his forehead between his knees. It's too big to hear. Sam blows out air. "You read the whole thing?"

Frail. Cobweb soft, like if Dean breathed too hard it'd break. Dean folds his hands over his head. "I read the whole thing," he says.

"Don't—" Sam says, quick, and cuts himself off. Dean can't stand it—he looks, peeking up, and Sam's made himself small, there at the head of the bed. His mouth is small, his lips between his teeth—his eyes, big and scared. "Dean. I wouldn't—I swear. I wouldn't—"

"Kiss me?" Sam flinches like from a raised fist, when Dean's all the way over here. Dean licks his lips, dropping his hands so they dangle useless between his knees. "Or, what. Leave? Either way it's pretty fucked up, for me, Sam."

"Oh my god," Sam says, very quietly, and—christ. Looks like he's gonna cry.

"Sam," Dean says, and no matter how pissed he is, that's not—Sam fights back. Sam always fights back, he's frickin' annoying that way. He's not supposed to crack like this. Dean rolls up to his knees and Sam's looking away, neck craned unnaturally so that his face is pointed at the broken-blind-covered window so that Dean can't see, but Dean can—Dean can see his teeth so hard in his lip that the skin there's white, and his chest shaky, and his fist clenched in the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, and, and—"Sammy," Dean says, again, and Sam's eyes close and there is—shit, shit, a tear, running fast out of the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek so quick that if Dean could blink he might've missed it.

Dean's gut hurts, like he took a punch from a werewolf and he's gonna be bruised for the next three weeks. He doesn't have anything to say to make it better, not when it's this screwed up. This isn't Sam bitching about Dad or whining about crossbow practice or pouting about a move. Sam's been thinking about this for two years and he's managed to talk about it with people, online at least. Dean's coming at it with a week's slow raw realization and he doesn't know how to make it—not how it is.

He gets over to the bed, on his knees. Sam won't look at him, like the view of nothing through the blinds is the most fascinating thing in the world. There's a wet shining trail, down his cheek to his jaw. A damp circle on his t-shirt. Dean says, because he can't think of what else to say, "You really—you want—" and even then, can't articulate it. A kiss. Sex. A kind of close they've never been. He says, slower, "Is that why you want to go?"

Sam drags in air. Sounds like it hurts.

Dean drags his teeth over his lip. There are books all over the bed. He pushes them away, and Sam's notebook. He pushes up—knee on the mattress, and sinking down to his hip, and Sam's close enough to touch, now, and he jerks and looks at Dean like he's an alien. A ghost. Something that can't be real, only they both know that it is. Dean touches Sam's hand, fisted there in his pants, and Sam jerks again, his stiff shoulders back against the wall, and he shoves Dean's hand but no matter the crazy growth spurt Sam's been having Dean's still stronger, still has the reach—he grips Sam's wrist and yanks, gets him off balance, and then he's right inside Sam's grapple and has his hand flat on Sam's chest, pressing him harder against the paint, and Sam stares at him wild-eyed with his breath both fast and deep and Dean leans forward and presses their mouths together. It's a bad kiss—he barely hits on center, and Sam freezes—but there's the touch of warmth, Sam's lips—soft—and the shocked air hitting Dean's face—and Dean drags in breath through his nose and resettles, fits his mouth to Sam's soft open lower lip and makes it better, his head tipping, easy pressure there, just the faintest amount of suction so that when he pulls back a millimeter there's a little smooch sound, and that makes it—real.

He kissed his little brother. No getting around that. No pretending. His nose brushes Sam's cheek and Sam's not really breathing, and Dean—fuck, Dean does it again, pressing in and letting Sam's wrist go so that he can get a hand on Sam's jaw, tipping him so it's good. Sam makes a tiny noise and breathes out hard against his mouth, and when Dean kisses him for a third time Sam meets it, his lips moving finally out of that still shock, his fingertips brushing Dean's arm all careful, his heart pounding under Dean's hand.

Dean pulls back. An inch between them—not enough but all Dean can seem to manage. He swallows. His lips are tingling, and his eyes are closed and he doesn't want to open them, and his fingers—jesus, he's got them tangled in Sam's hair like Sam's some easy hot chick he's picked up at a dive bar, pressing her up against the wall in the bathroom hallway, knowing how the night's going to end.

"We can't," Sam says. Sam. His voice, steady and familiar. "We—Dean. This isn't—"

"No," Dean says, god knows why. He pulls back, though—pulls his hand out of Sam's hair, stands up. His legs wobble for a second. He has to open his eyes and so he drags in a breath and does, and Sam's sitting there with his shoulders high and tight and his hands fisted on his knees and his hair a little fluffed on one side, a little screwy. His mouth parted and his eyes—fixed on Dean's face, looking all over it. Like he's memorizing a trail map, for an unknown stretch of land.

"I'm drunk," Dean says. It's not true. Five beers—he's buzzed but he knows what he's doing. Sam doesn't contradict the lie. "Acting nuts. Sorry, Sam. I—"

"I want pepperoni," Sam says. His face isn't white anymore. He's flushed, dark pink in the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are dark, wide and fixed on Dean, and there's still that shining trail on his cheek but it's drying. "Order from that place on Melrose. Garlic knots, too."

Dean backs up a step, pins on a smile. "What, you think I'm dumb? Like I wouldn't get knots," he says, and Sam doesn't smile but he nods, brief and fast like Dean's picking up a play in some con they're running, and Dean snaps a finger-gun at Sam—fuck, what is he doing—and turns out of the room, says—"Okay, dinner in thirty minutes or less or your money back!" and walks through the kitchen and out into the living room and out the front door, and closes it behind himself, and leans against it and stares blindly out into the rain, the setting sun still sparking some tiny golden bit of light out to the west, past the horizon.

He licks his lips and tastes salt, not his own. Sam's hand, on his arm—skimming, brushing light through the thickness of his jacket. Like he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to really touch. He drags in the rain-soaked air. He'll drive, to get the pizza. He'll drive, and he'll give Sam time. When he gets back he'll offer Sam half the pie and a beer, and there'll be some movie on TV that Sam probably won't want to watch, but maybe he will. They'll be—brothers. Dean knows how to do that. It feels like it's all he's got left.

It's—not easy but it's not all that hard, either. There's a brutal week where Dean's torn between walking on eggshells and wanting to wrestle Sam to the ground, and Sam goes perfectly silent—not pouty withdrawal or furious silent-treatment, but as still and quiet as though he's not even there. Dean can't bear it. It takes Dad coming home to break it—Dad, and christ, when he calls to say he's coming back Dean completely freezes and his mind fills up with—with—but then Sam looks at him and takes the phone out of his hand and says, his mouth's full—what's up? and after that it's like things… settle. It's not okay but it's livable.

rearviewmirror.livejournal.com goes quiet. Dean checks, occasionally, over the months that pass. When he's looking up some random piece of lore for Dad, when they're hunting alone and Sam's stuck back at whatever shitty hotel they stored him at, and Dean's on research duty because Sam's in high school and can't answer his phone. Dean types in the address and checks, and it's still that last post. Anyone else going through this? He hopes, sincerely, not. It's too fucked up for anyone else to bear. At least the Winchesters have practice.

They run PT. Sam does his homework. Dean watches TV. Hunting focuses things. There's stuff to kill and people to save and things aren't falling apart any more than they ever are, so—Dean deals.

Sam leaves.

It's January. Dean's in a library, alone. Dad's working a job north of Boise and he sent Dean down to Wendover to take care of a haunting, and Dean's done and Dad called and said two more days and there's this raw wounded spot where Dean should be able to turn, to look over his left shoulder and say—but it's empty there, and so he's in a library.

Sam started posting again, when he got to school. Small stuff. That he was sorry for the long break. That he'd ended up at a university after all. The hamburger girl doesn't respond anymore but the Nine Inch Nails boy does: thought you were dead, he says, no-caps like he's so goddamn cool, and Sam says, Just working some stuff out.

Sam likes his professors. He plays pick-up soccer with some of the guys from his dorm. His roommate snores. He doesn't listen to music at all. There's nothing—real. There's none of the sadboy shit, nothing about what he's feeling, no pondering of what it all means. He picks up a few different Livejournal friends, clearly people from his classes, who crack jokes about Ancient Civ and Linear Algebra. He joins a community focused around civil rights litigation. He might as well not be there.

Dean reads it all. If Sam's not calling then Dean's gonna check in whatever way he can. When Sam left Dean made sure he had at least one good knife in his bag and he said don't forget the salt when Sam hiked his backpack onto his shoulder, and Sam snorted and looked at him like a gunshot but he nodded, and Sam's not dumb, he knows how to take care of himself, but. Dean's the big brother, here. He's within his rights, to check and make sure baby bro's not being a dumbass.

January and it's fuckin cold, in Wendover, but the library's too warm. Dean keeps his coat on anyway, scrolling through the comms. He's kinda turning into an expert, navigating the pages, recognizing the shorthand. He hasn't made an account. Doesn't know why he would. He finishes his scan of the comms Sam's part of and doesn't really see any relevant posts, and no comments from rearviewmirror that he can find. He chews his cheek and goes back to the main page, thinking—okay, he can get out of here. Beer and dinner, and finding a motel that doesn't look toxic, and waiting for Dad to call. Not the worst night he could have. He refreshes, one last time, just in case, and there's a new post. He reads:

January 23

Done with class for the week. Feeling restless.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

lawblog69: we should go out!!

bloodofreptile: go get laid

Dean snorts. At least the NIN kid is consistent. He refreshes again and there's a new comment.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

He takes a breath, sitting there at the computer bank. It's quiet in here—the good people of Wendover aren't much for the library, apparently—but he feels like someone's right there. Like he could reach out and touch, when it's just words on a glowing screen. Still—the speed of the comment—Sam's… sitting there. Right now, on a computer in Palo Alto, looking at the same thing Dean is.

He refreshes.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

bloodofreptile: still holding onto that? very hufflepuff. how long has it been?

rearviewmirror: my whole life

Dean presses his knuckles to his lips, hard enough that he can feel his teeth pressing back. Jesus, Sam. He refreshes—another comment, from coppertonebuttgirl, agreeing about the restlessness but apparently she's off to a date with her boyfriend, and Sam responds and says sounds nice :), and jesus, Sam, Dean thinks. Off to have the big college experience like he wanted so bad, off to have that new shiny life, and after five months away he's still all sadsack, still not actually living.

He clicks the comment box. He types, unaccountably mad. He hits submit, and gets a warning that it'll show as anonymous. He waits, and refreshes, and reads:

Anonymous: Just go hit a bar. Live a little. Thought you were supposed to be smart, college boy.

rearviewmirror: Since when does smart have anything to do with it?

Dean rolls his eyes. He can hear Sam's voice saying it, nettled and trying to sound like he isn't.

Anonymous: You're on here mooning after Cindy Crawford when Claudia Schiffer and Tyra Banks are out there in the real world. Have a beer, get over it.

A pause. Dean has to refresh twice. The librarian walks by with her cart of books and gives him a distracted smile, and Dean's so addled he doesn't actually process and then return it until she's already gone.

rearviewmirror: I don't think it's something you get over. It mattered. It still does, to me.

Dean chews his thumbnail. Sam's face, turned unnaturally, looking out that window at the rain. The wet track, on his cheek.

Anonymous: Matters enough that you're never going to move on?

rearviewmirror: I didn't think you could move on from family. Maybe I was wrong.

The air goes out of Dean's chest. He turns away from the computer, entirely, swiveling the chair so he's looking out at the lonely bookshelves. He flexes his jaw and swivels back around. Hits refresh.

The thread of comments is gone. He blinks, confused. He doesn't think he was hallucinating—been a while, since he was that tired and drunk. But—oh—in its place, a single comment, under the brief conversation with the NIN kid:

rearviewmirror: Tell me if it's you.

Dean licks his lips. He closes out of the browser, picks up his notepad and keys. On the steps outside it's cold, cold, fucking cold, and this town is bleak. He walks down to the Impala, waiting there in the iced-over grey snow, and braces his hands on the hood, and blows out a long purling winter-dragon breath, and then fishes his phone out of his pocket. Another new phone, but he's got Sam's number memorized, and he almost calls before he chickens out. If it's not actually wanted—he imagines that conversation and he's just not constitutionally capable, right now, of facing how goddamn awkward it'd be.

He texts: It's me.

The response, after seconds: Where are you?

The shitty part of Utah. That's saying something. Easier, like this. Like it's not him kicking down a doorway right into Sam's head.

I don't have class tomorrow.

Could be random, if he didn't know who he was talking to. Dean leans his elbows on the hood of the car, looking at the little box of black-and-white text. He chews his lips and thinks. Before he can respond, another message:

I don't want to move on.

Dean tips his head enough that he's pressing the edge of the phone into his forehead. His fingers are cold. He sniffs, his nose dripping in the icy weather, and types, careful to make sure he gets it right: I'm nine hours away.

Less, if he goes over 100 in the boring parts of Nevada, and if he doesn't stop at all for a catnap.

Stop in Reno for a nap. You get weird when you drive all night. Text me when you're close.

Dean works his jaw, standing there in the cold. He's got nothing to do, for two days. He's got most of a tank of gas. He's got—nothing. Nothing. He gets in the car, and he drives.

It's only 9:30 when he gets to Reno. There were parts of Nevada where he drove very, very fast. He pulls into a truck stop, gets more gas and parks out near where the semis are lined up, the drivers early-birding the night away. Still cold here but less so. He twists around so his back's to the passenger door and looks out the driver window at the neon signs of the truck stop, the cars going in and out of the gas islands. He ate a little but his stomach was all twisted up and he couldn't get much down. A beer would go easier but he doesn't want to be drunk. Well. He does. This is insane. This is—completely stupid.

He pulls out his phone, looks at it. Dials and holds it to his ear, and it rings three times—long enough for him to change his mind four times—before there's an answer, and Sam's voice says, "Dean?"

His voice. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cold glass of the window. "Long time, no speak," Dean says. It feels rusty.

Sam's quiet for a second, on the other end. "Not really, though. Right?"

"I guess so. It's not the same." Dean listens to the little acknowledging sound Sam makes. There's silence again, for seconds that he counts—one and then two and then three. He listens to the cooling tick of the engine, through it, and then says, before he loses his nerve, "I shouldn't come. Right? This is nuts."

There's some noise, staticky. Like something passed over the mic on Sam's phone. After a beat, Sam says, "You should do what you want to do."

"Oh, should I," Dean says, and it comes out sarcastic, but he doesn't really mean it to be mean. Sam doesn't take the bait, staying quiet on the other end, and Dean opens his eyes again, watching a huge truck muscle past the gas island, watching the normal world go by. He rubs his eye. "I've been—it's been weird, Sam."

Understatement, but he doesn't know why he says it. That kind of stuff isn't for Sam to worry about.

"Go to sleep," Sam says, instead of responding. "An hour or something, just enough so you won't drive off the road. Text me when you're close."

Same thing he said before. "It'll be like three in the morning when I'm close," Dean says, and Sam says, "I'll be awake," and then the line disconnects, and Dean's left there alone again on the bench seat, but it—feels different.

He sort of sleeps, sort of doesn't. He's got a talent for going to bed wherever and whenever he has to—on spare tires and on forest floors and in a closet, once, with a propane tank as his pillow—but his brain won't shut up. He drifts in and out, for the hour Sam asked him for, and then he gets out of the car and goes into the 24-hour c-store and buys a big cup of coffee and a Hershey bar, and points the hood west, and follows the yellow dashed line home.

He texts from a gas station outside Sacramento. Sam texts back in less than a minute with an address. Dean glances at his map of California and responds: 45 minutes, and it's more like thirty when he pulls up to the—yeah, the motel, and he makes a sound that's sort of like a laugh except it doesn't feel like one. He turns into the parking lot and the headlights flash the building, and there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to a pillar.

Dean parks. Sam has his arms folded over his knees, but he unfurls, stands. Dean gets out of the car and Sam's—jesus, ten feet away, his face totally visible under the streetlight. His hair's a little longer. "Did you get taller?" Dean says, and Sam huffs, his head ducking, and—fuck everything else, it's Dean's little brother, and he drags Sam into a hug, folding his arms over Sam's shoulders even if he has to lift on his toes a little to do it. Sam goes stiff for half a second, but he hugs back, and Dean turns his face in, Sam's hair in his nose like it always is, and feels him—warm, and safe. All Dean ever wanted for him, pretty much.

"You have to get the room," Sam says, when they pull apart. At Dean's eyebrows he shrugs, the corner of his mouth curled. "What? My scholarship doesn't include seedy rent by the hour stuff."

"Oversight much?" Dean says, but he goes in, and he gets a room. Two queens, because that's what the tired miserable little desk clerk says they have available. Means Dean doesn't have to think about other possibilities, and it means that when he dangles the keys off his finger and Sam half-smiles at him, when they've walked down the cold sidewalk side by side, when Dean opens the door and finds the different motel room, same as the first—Sam sits on one bed, and Dean sits on the other, and they look at each other, and it's like it's two years ago and they're just two kids, waiting for Dad to come home.

Sam is taller. Taller than Dean, now. His hair long enough to fall in his eyes, which it does constantly. Newish sneakers, and old jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt, and a denim jacket over the top of that. Not warm enough for the Bay in winter, but Dean bites his tongue before he says anything about it.

"How are your classes?" he says, instead.

Sam's cheek sucks in, like he's chewing it. After a second he says, "You don't want to talk about my classes, man." His head tips. "Anyway. You read about it, right."

It was a mistake not to stop for beer. Dean needs something to do with his hands. "Your algebra professor sounds like an asshole," he says.

Makes Sam smile before he ducks his head, looking down at his lap. "I thought—" He swallows, audibly. He shakes his head, his hair falling down and hiding his face. "Only reason I started posting again was that I wondered if you might still—if you'd check."

It's quiet, honest. Dean hasn't talked to Sam in person for half a year and he's off-balance. Expecting Sam to snark, to be dismissive, to roll his eyes. Small hours of the morning, maybe he's too tired not to be honest. Maybe he's growing up. Dean's not prepared for that.

Sam looks up at him when Dean's silent for too long. His teeth dig into the corner of his mouth and he drags his hand through his hair, gets it off his forehead. "I said I didn't want to move on. You know what I meant, right?"

Dean huffs. "Yeah, I'm not an idiot, Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes tighten. Dean leans back on his hands, tips his head back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. "Thought this was the whole point of getting out. Getting away, making a whole new life. Being someone else."

"I'm still me," Sam says, unseen. "And it wasn't the whole point. I want a life. That part—whatever, that doesn't matter right now. But I never thought the other thing was going to go away."

He stands up, so Dean can see him. Dean looks at him down his nose, and Sam's—god. Tall. That keeps being his first thought. Tall, and maybe not a stranger, even if he's real damn strange. Sam steps closer, in the little space between the two beds, chewing his lip again. He's gonna make a sore there. "Dean," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows in response. "You came."

"Yeah," Dean says, rueful. "Well. I'm Cindy Crawford."

Sam's face ripples—a frown, surprise—and then a huffed little laugh—and then he steps between Dean's knees and touches his chest, his jaw. Leans down, slow, telegraphing like they're practicing a fight, and Dean stays exactly where he is, leaned back on his hands, and Sam's mouth touches his—softly. Not hesitant. Dean lets his eyes close and feels it. Puff of air against his face as Sam lets out a tense breath and then another kiss, the damp inside Sam's lip catching against Dean's, and Dean kisses back then, reaching up and getting Sam's jaw, his jacket, fisting the denim and pulling Sam closer. There's a stagger—Sam's knee landing on the bed by Dean's hip, and Dean gets an arm around his lower back and kisses him again, tasting him. Salt, and when Dean kisses him again and presses his mouth open, licks inside, there's coffee-taste, Sam's tongue—slick, tentative—he stayed up, to wait for Dean—his kiss clumsier now, like he doesn't have much practice.

Dean pulls back a few inches. Sam's half-draped on him, his weight nearly in Dean's lap. His eyes are dark but big with surprise, like he didn't expect Dean to go with it. "Sammy," Dean says, and Sam—shudders, his hands closing hard around Dean's shoulders. Okay, Dean thinks, filing that away. He drags a thumb over Sam's jaw, where he's got a barely-there prickle of stubble. "What are we doing?"

Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. "This," he says, holding the side of Dean's neck. "This."

They peel Sam's jacket off, and then Dean's. Sam's still in that hoodie, soft black, and Dean gets his fingers just under the hem of it, barely grazing Sam's stomach, kissing him again—tangled up close on the edge of the bed, Sam's thigh slung over his. Sam keeps touching his face, his chest. His amulet, swinging forward between them when he urges Sam down to his back on the mattress, a knee between Sam's and his hand still there on Sam's belly. Sam grips the amulet and breathes out hot against Dean's face and lifts up for another kiss, which Dean gives him easy, and it's—god, it's good. The lights on, the room warm, Sam wanting underneath his hand. His mouth, slick and open, learning how to press back, how to give as good as he's getting. Dean kisses his cheekbone, his jaw, settles his hand flat on Sam's stomach to ground him, says, "Sammy, you've done this before, right?" Sam hitches breath, nods. Dean sorta laughs, lifts up so he can actually see Sam's expression. "More than once?"

"Twice," Sam says, and when Dean raises his eyebrows he frowns, vaguely indignant. "Jenny Morrison, just before graduation." He licks his lips. "And—a guy. After student orientation, here."

"Playing the field, huh?" Dean says. There's no reason it should make his stomach go molten hot. He rubs Sam's stomach, feels the rise of his breath. "You like it?" Sam nods, again. "What'd you do?"

Sam's cheeks are dark, brick-red. He licks his lips again and Dean ducks back in to kiss him, knocking his mouth open, tasting inside. Earns himself a small deep noise and Sam's hand sliding through his hair where it's too short to grab. He nudges Sam's nose and sits up, peeling off his overshirt. "C'mon. What'd you do? Didn't put that up on your journal, how am I supposed to know?"

"It was a rush party," Sam says, looking at him. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head, making sure his amulet stays put, and Sam blinks heavily, his lips parted. Jeez—it's weird. Hot. Sam wants him, Dean thinks, and it sends a rush of blood south. "He's—uh. Pre-med, smart."

"Not looking for his biography, Sammy," Dean says, and spreads his hands on Sam's hips, pushing up. The hoodie moves, the t-shirt underneath rucks up—Sam's pale here but still that faint all-over tan, darker than Dean's skin. He licks his lips. "What'd you do? Jerk each other off?"

Sam nods, again, his mouth open. God, Dean can imagine it. On some dorm-room bed, their heads leaned together, Sam's mouth open just like this—panting, his hand fumbling down—fuck, fuck it's hot, Sam nervous and into it and trying, making sure. "You liked it, huh?" Dean says, stroking his thumbs over Sam's bare belly.

"Yeah," Sam says, thin on not enough air, his knee drawing up. "But I—I thought about—when you kissed me—" and Dean kisses him again, groaning. Jesus, Sam's gonna kill him. Thinking about some shitty nervous freaked-out kiss when another guy's got his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam grabs his shoulders, sits up, and Dean accommodates him easy, letting Sam touch him back—Sam's hands sliding down his chest, around to his ribs, grasping. "Dean," he says, panting.

"Let's get this off, huh?" Dean says, pulling, and Sam yanks the hoodie off in a second flat, his hair all ruffling up behind it. The shirt comes with it and there's just Sammy's bare smooth skin, that same pale tan all over. Small brownish nipples, slim muscles. His body. Dean dips and kisses his bare shoulder, licking there, biting, and Sam's nails dig into his ribs so he does it again, swinging a leg over so he's straddling Sam's lap, taking his time. He scrapes his teeth over the swell where Sam's collarbone dips into the arch of his trap, and Sam grips his neck, his back arching. He's hard. Shit, he's nineteen, he has to be hard. Dean slides his fingers down Sam's belly to his belt, tucking under the waist of his jeans, but Sam grips his wrist, then, groaning, saying—"Wait—wait—"

Dean drops his head to Sam's shoulder, groaning back. "We waited," he says, but Sam's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back, making him look. "What?"

Sam's pink. "Have you—with a guy?" Dean rocks back but Sam's holding him close, looking all over his face. "Dean. Have you—"

"Yeah," Dean says, and watches Sam's ears go red. Sam doesn't need to know when, but it was all in the last year. Three dudes, hookups that were way too easy. They were good—turns out that Dean just likes sex, any way someone will give it to him—and he learned what it felt like to have a dick not his own in his hand, how it felt to slip a cock into his mouth and make a man groan. He hadn't thought about Sam while he was doing it, not really, but he's thinking about it now, and Sam's eyes have dropped, his lips between his teeth. Jealous? Dean smiles while Sam can't see and breaks Sam's hold on his wrist, and slides his hand down, and cups the crotch of Sam's jeans where he's swelling them out. Sam jerks, eyes flying open. "Means I know what I'm doing. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and then it's—undoing his belt, and unzipping, and then—god, he's still got his sneakers on. Dean backs off and kicks off his boots, deliberately, and Sam blinks at him hot-eyed with his chest heaving and his jeans half-open looking like a friggin porno, but then he gets with the program, and the shoes thud to the shitty carpet and then they're practically racing, undressing, and when Dean kicks his boxers off to the side Sam's—naked, half on the bed, staring at him. Dean stares back, circling a hand around Sam's ankle. God, to look at him, in the lamplight. Long legs, hairier on the shins and lightly furred on the thighs, and a decent dark bush around a dick that's—jesus, that dick. Big, bigger than Dean's, bigger than—Dean licks his lips and looks up with an effort and Sam's staring right back at him, focused between his legs, his mouth parted. "Like what you see?" Dean says, and Sam doesn't answer, just reaches for him, and Dean crawls up the bed and settles on his elbow above Sam with their legs brushing bare, Sam's dick hot against his hip, and Sam kisses him with both hands on his face, his thigh dragging up against Dean's, his lips almost trembly.

Dean soothes a hand down Sam's ribs but Sam's—fuck. Shaking. They haven't even done anything. "Sammy," Dean whispers, between Sam's needing brief kisses, and Sam shakes his head and kisses him again and then ducks his head down, his nose brushing under Dean's jaw. Dean pulls Sam closer—tips, so they're on their sides—and pulls Sam's leg over his hip, pushes in, and—ah, shit, shit that feels good, Sam's big dick brushing in against his, dragging heavy and hot. "Oh," says Sam, small, and Dean slips his hand further and grips Sam's ass, the muscle tight and small—pulls in, and pulls again, encouraging, and Sam grips Dean's shoulder underhand tight enough to hurt but follows, pushing in with the rhythm Dean's urging. He's breathing fast, hot against Dean's throat, but he's got it—humping in, meeting Dean, making their dicks slide, his cockhead smearing wet against Dean's belly. Dean hums, kissing Sam's temple where he can just reach it, just enjoying the—insane way it feels. He lets Sam's ass go and Sam keeps going—good, good—and he licks his fingers sloppy, and reaches down between them, and for the first time he gets a grip on Sam's dick, feels the heft of it. Sam makes a sound like he's been shot and Dean says shh, easy, slicking his hand down to the base, squeezing hard as he pulls back up, and Sam makes another gulping strange sound, his thigh clutching hard around Dean's hip, his hand crushing Dean's lower back in closer. "That feel good?" Dean says, and Sam—comes. Fast, humping in, spurting up Dean's belly and his own, the slick getting all over Dean's dick, hot and wet, the sensation enormous. Dean squeezes him through it, knowing, and Sam humps in again and grabs his ass, nails digging in. Dean tips his head back, feeling it. God, it's good. Sam. His brother.

He swallows. His dick's throbbing, wanting more, feeling left behind. Sammy shudders and Dean licks his lips, pushes Sam back so his shoulders hit the bed. He flops—boneless, shocked—and Dean drags his hands over Sam's ribs, frames his hips. His dick is still big, flushed and wet, his balls clutched up high, and Dean licks his lips and says, "Okay," to no one, and leans down, and gets Sam's dick in his mouth.

A shock, Sam's body practically lifting off the bed. "What," he says, somewhere Dean can't see him—"What are you, oh—" and Dean thinks, oh, what if no one has done this? What if Jenny just opened her legs and she and Sam humped awkward and teenage in some backseat—what if pre-med only wiped his handful of Sam's jizz on the mattress and passed out—what if Dean's the first one, here, opening his jaw wide, careful of his teeth, slicking down, getting the whole fat length of it in his mouth. Only—he can't, fuck, Sam's too big. He fists the base, pulls off, spits and slicks the wet down. When he glances up Sam's up on his elbows, staring, and Dean grins at him, jerks it again, swallows. He can taste Sam's jizz, leftover from coming before. "Hang on," Dean says, and goes back down, letting the head bust his lips open, slicking tight down to his fist, dragging his tongue hard against the underside, suckling easy. Sam takes his statement as an order and grips his head, his shoulder, his hips cringing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean heaves in air, feels Sam firming up again, thick and needing and good.

He's only done this a few times but he—shit, he liked it. Likes it better the other way around, of course, but like this—his dick pressing into the bed, throbbing—Sam splitting open his mouth—yeah, it doesn't exactly suck. He bobs up and down, making sure to pay special attention to the soft ridge at the head, and Sam's making insane noises, now, up above him, petting his head and his shoulders and gripping, trying to shove up. Dean leans into his hip so he can't, fists his dick, pulls off gasping and licking his lips. Sam's still staring, down the length of his torso, and Dean jerks him through the goopy mess they're making—his spit, Sam's precome, what Sam's already come. "You like it?" Dean says, and Sam—rolls his eyes, the little shit.

"You're smug," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and says, "You're damn right I am," and lets Sam's dick go and goes down, down, no fist in the way until Sam's dick hits the back of his throat and he gags—breathes through it—slurps up with tight lips and then goes right back down, getting his throat used to it, learning the feel of this massive, awesome dick. Sam moans, pushes his hips up, and Dean lets him, rides it—lets Sam fuck up, lets him get a rhythm, like fucking—Sam, fucking his face—and Dean reaches down between his own legs and fists his own dick, finally, groaning in relief and making Sam shudder as the vibration rumbles through Dean's open throat. Sam grips his head with both hands, holding him down, and Dean drags in air through his nose and holds there, filled up with Sam and choking, spit flooding out of his open mouth—the world dark and just Sam's taste, his smell—and Sam makes a little sound—and Dean grunts and lifts off, breaks Sam's hold and crawls up his body, straddling his hips and dragging his dick against where Sam's is all sloppy-hot, dripping wet. Sam gasps up at him and grabs his hips, his ass, fucking up into him, and Dean grips both their dicks in two hands, fucking into the tight wet channel he's making for them both, and Sam pulls at his ass, spreading it, rocking his hips to help, moaning and looking helpless up into Dean's face, and Dean leans down and breathes against him and Sam still comes first, creaming them both, his dick flexing and twitching in Dean's grip, and Dean braces one slick hand on the bed and fists himself seriously, jerking fast, and Sam moans and kisses his jaw and pulls at his ass with those big hands, his fingers slipping low, dipping—and Dean jerks and spills, his belly seizing, his thighs clamping around Sam's hips, Sam's lips open and dragging wet against his throat, his fist gripping the bedspread so hard that his fingers cramp.

Sam's stroking his hips, repetitive and soft, when he's done panting. Dean swallows, shifts his weight. He's slumped on top of Sam, his face buried in Sam's shoulder. Wet between them, sliding, and he releases his dick and slips his sticky hand out, bracing on the bed enough to get some air between them. When he lifts up Sam's eyes are half-closed, but he focuses on Dean's face right away, and his hands stop their stroking and just squeeze, warm and tight. "You okay?" Sam says.

"My line," Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes again, squeezes again. Dean sits up more but Sam doesn't let go. "C'mon, we should clean up."

Sam's eyes tighten, just barely. He sits up, keeping his grip on Dean, and Dean rocks back but doesn't tip over. He gets a hand on Sam's shoulder to keep his balance and Sam says, steady, "Don't freak. Okay?"

"Who's freaking?" Their dicks are still pressed wetly together, though Dean's basically soft, now. Sam's still plump, thick. He swallows. "C'mon, we're gonna get cemented together," he says, and Sam's mouth purses but his grip goes light, and it gives enough room that Dean can lift off, get his feet under him. Jesus, there's enough jizz on him that it's rolling down his belly—he claps a hand to it before it can drop, smearing it over his abs. "You come like a geyser, dude," he says, not really complaining, but Sam's cheeks are red when he looks back up, and he feels—shit. He doesn't know.

He goes to the bathroom. Fluorescent light, pink-painted sink. He wets one of the five-cent washrags and wipes himself up, and he's not turned on anymore so his thought is mainly that it's just gross, and that bed's going to be wrecked, and also, what is he doing. What is he doing.

Sam's hand appears, reaching around him. He jumps. In the mirror behind him, Sam's tall, looking over his shoulder. Looking at Dean, even as he wets the other rag, cleans himself up. Dean chews the inside of his lip and can't really turn away. Sam's got red marks on his shoulder, where Dean was biting him.

"Stay," Sam says. He tosses his wet rag back into the sink and settles his hands on Dean's biceps, squeezing. When he steps forward his dick presses into the small of Dean's back and his chest is warm, damp. "Tomorrow at least. We've got the room. Stay."

"You want your dick sucked again?" Dean says, and that time it is mean and he did kind of mean it to be, and Sam's eyelids dip and his jaw clenches, but he only slips his hands away from Dean's arms to his ribs, holding him. It feels… Dean shakes his head. "Sam," he says, but there's not really anything that can go after it.

A big hand slides up and over, flattening on his breastbone. "It's not just this," Sam says, meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror, and it makes Dean's cheeks go hot.

He covers Sam's hand with his. He shivers, for some reason. He says, "I should take a shower, I've been in the car all day," and Sam says, "Okay," and Dean takes a shower and Sam sits on the closed toilet, watches him through the clear curtain. Gives him a towel when he comes out. Takes his hips, when he's dry, and presses him to the tiled wall, and tips his head up, and kisses him clean.

Five in the morning, or later. There's a clean bed and Dean hasn't slept in a day. He lays down and Sam lays down with him, a few inches away until Dean relents and turns over, and Sam curls up behind him, holding on, his mouth against Dean's shoulder. There's going to be a call from Dad, at some point. Dean's going to have to meet him somewhere, because there's going to be something bad that needs killing. He can't stay. He's wired and tired, all at once.

"Sleep," Sam says, and Dean turns his head against the pillow, knows he will.

"Hey," he says, and Sam makes a quiet noise. "If you put this on your journal, maybe bloodofreptile will finally shut up about you getting laid all the time."

"His name is Dennis," Sam says, and Dean laughs, weirdly glad. Dennis. Yeah, that fits. "And this isn't going on the internet."

"Probably a good idea," Dean says, and Sam says, again, "Dude, go to sleep," and Dean tips back into Sam's warmth, and does, and it's the best sleep he's gotten in a year.

#fffr #wincest #weecest #first time #long fic #my writing #--seriously this one also went too long #but idk it felt right this way

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victoriousscarf · 3 years ago

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You mentioned some time ago that you have moved a lot to find job after you graduated. I find it inspiring considering where I am now in my life. I sometimes think about moving to a new place and seek a new start but have never found the courage to actually do so. How do you make friend in a complete strange city/state? How do you move your furniture (mattress, books, etc) across the country?

Well...

First of all, wherever you are and what your plans end up being, good luck!

I have done some absolutely crazy moves over the past few years and I (so far) have managed to land okay every time despite the absolute hell of stress moving is. My last move I plopped down the entire deposit and cat fee and first months rent sight unseen while still halfway across the country and it's turned out remarkably okay for me (tho I don't recommend that as a rule). One time I moved with four days warning (like I knew I was moving but I got the "go" to actually start Tuesday morning ... Friday afternoon and booked my flight to get down there for Saturday morning, bought a car Monday, and was at work on Tuesday).

I'm saying this to prove that a) I'm insane so this may or may not work for folks but also b) despite stories like this it's always worked out so far. So while moving is scary and stressful as long as you're careful and do some research... You can do it. Seriously I've done things I never ever imagined I would and once you do it the first time I think you can prove to yourself you can keep doing it.

Also I've found most of the time if you're moving for work, somebody is gonna have some good ideas for housing or whatever, and I've always found my soon to be co workers helpful if I have questions about like where in town I should move and other services like that, so reach out and see what you get back. (I asked one supervisor about housing and got, I swear to God, an excel spreadsheet back of places other people have lived and pros and cons of each place. Really obvious that was a workplace of type a personalities).

But! You asked specifically about moving and friends.

The bad news is... My books are to this day still at my parents house. My dad is using them as his zoom background and getting many compliments. I also admit I have ditched more furniture than I care to mention at this point. Like I have my great grandma's dresser and that's also still at the parents house, because I'm lucky enough they're letting me store stuff there. Not everyone will have this. I have several friends who've either put things into storage (one friend just condensed her storage she had across three states into storage in one state ... Across the country from where we're working right now) and some who have simply ... Gotten rid of things. One friend got rid of 98% of her stuff at one point, including ditching her childhood teddy bear and I admit I couldn't live like that. I'm way too sentimental.

But the bad news is moving is expensive. There's things like pods now where you can pack up your pod and someone else takes care of trucking it across country and I'm a big fan of that, but it is not cheap. Or of course there's renting a u-haul truck yourself and going for it.

The other thing is, I've slept on air mattresses for like a month at a time. Ikea is your friend for cheap but will last more than 4 months furniture when you first move. Thrift stores, buy sell and swap pages, and co workers cleaning out their houses are all excellent resources for when you've landed in a new place What you try and take with you is gonna depend on your priorities.

As for making friends ... I've been lucky that I don't usually work at for-profit businesses. I usually work for a government or non-profit and while that may be a weird statement to make, it means most of my co workers have generally been passionate, interesting people, and no one goes into public service for a payday. I saw a post recently saying you shouldn't be friends with co workers because you don't know what they'll tell your bosses and maybe but... I have found many great and amazing and lasting friendships that started at work. It's not always gonna be the case, but it can be the case and I think you should leave yourself (carefully) open to it. Don't trust easily by any means, but take the time to get to know people.

It helps to leave yourself open to friendships with people outside of your age group/class group/whatever group, if you don't naturally do that. Some of my favorite people are the badass older women I know. And it helps to not judge people (which may be getting too philosophical). One friend was this older woman who had just gone through a terrible divorce and was partially disabled and could not, for the life of her, figure out computers. A lot of people sorta rolled their eyes at her or didn't help her, but I would sit with her and walk her through what seemed like really basic computer stuff, but it was a big deal to her. She sent me a care package when I moved. Being nice to people can go a huge way.

So I guess some basic advice is:

By open to friendships in weird places or from people you wouldn't expect.

Consider joining a hobby group because there are probably other people who want to find friends who maybe moved too.

Consider if you can, volunteering somewhere. Volunteering can help you find people who care about the same stuff you do, and it can help you meet other people sometimes in the course of whatever you're doing.

Real, deep friendships take time and it isn't easy. Personally I have a high threshold for being lonely (it takes me a long time to feel lonely) and my dad once described me as "self contained." So I don't mind waiting, and I have all my friends in different places I stay in contact with. Moving by yourself can be big and scary and yeah, lonely, but the reality is a lot of other people are doing it too. They're gonna want friends too. Or even people who have never once moved but are looking around for friends and companionship. Not everyone has settled down and gotten married and had kids, so take the time to put yourself out there. It of course also depends on where you go, because there are definitely some insular little towns out there who don't take kindly to outsiders, but I don't think that's the norm.

Like you've already taken a truly bonkers, huge risk just by moving, so making friends is just taking some other, smaller risks to put yourself out there and see who else is just looking around.

Like seriously one of my friends now is my car neighbor in our parking lot (because we have assigned spaces). She's older, divorced, has moved around a lot too, and keeps trying to feed me while watching Jane Austen movies. She's smart, funny, and we never would have met if we weren't assigned next door parking spaces.

So yeah this got ramblely about like... Moving in general. Friends are hard no matter where you are, so moving is just about making a new start and seeing what happens. And it's expensive to move stuff, but it's not cheap to replace it either, so it depends on what you can do, and how willing you are to let go of some things.

But mostly it just takes some courage to fling yourself into the unknown. Once that step is down, I think at some point the rest just had to follow.

#vs does an ask #i ramble about moving #moving is not easy and friendships are not easy ahahaha im definitely not a friendship expert #also for all the positives im saying here some people just turn out to be assholes #so while you should leave yourself open to new possibilities also know when to scoot the other way

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risingsouls · 4 years ago

Text

Recruited: Chapter 4

[I did it. They did the thing! Their favorite thing! Yee!]

The Saiyan prince only released his exasperated growl once his scouter beeped, indicating the emperor severed the line of communication. In battle, Vegeta responded to the most unexpected changes fluidly and with little issue. Outside of the field in which his very nature, his blood, offered him innate skill in, shifting anything he had grown comfortable with bristled his ill temper. Within a few weeks, he grew used to Nappa’s absence on the jobs assigned to him and Raditz. The oaf would rejoin their ranks when he completed his final session with that new recruit, and Vegeta’s life would return to the normalcy he had become accustomed to over the past few decades.

That was until Frieza graced him with news he didn’t particularly care for.

“Frieza’s really making that woman our fourth, huh?” Vegeta grunted and climbed out of his pod to join the taller Saiyan, deeming words unnecessary when Raditz heard the whole conversation. “I suppose there are worse candidates, especially in looks, but she’s a complete rookie. Won’t she just slow us down?”

“Most likely.” He tapped the button on the side of his scouter. Nappa’s power level flashed across the screen on the other side of the planet, the second nearby no doubt his pupil’s. Their new teammate. Her power level had increased some, though he couldn’t decide if he wanted to attribute it to Nappa’s tutelage in ki control or her own natural competence. "Nappa's reports were...promising for her ability as a warrior, at least. But we both know the oaf is like a puppy and gets excited over even the most mediocre of talents. Not to mention he could be fudging her progress to make himself look like less of a failure."

"I suppose so. Guess only time will tell."

Vegeta fought the urge to roll his eyes. Had he not harbored his own curiosity and desire to see their new addition in action, he would have berated Raditz for his moping and apparent attempt to play on the prince's impatience to convince him to peek in on their training. It wouldn't be the first time he tried to convince him when they returned to base before Nappa finished his session with his trainee. Now they had a viable reason to outside of drooling over her.

His boots left the metal of the landing dock. "Come along, Raditz, I think it's time I take a personal look at this woman's skill." A slight smirk curled his lips as he took to the sky, that innate excitement for a proper rival to his strength tantalizing. The thrill of battle that often fizzled to nothing in the face of disappointment after disappointment in his opponents' overall power and fighting prowess. "Perhaps I will give her a proper test myself. See what she's really capable of. Nappa no doubt either sparred her himself or sicced his Saibamen on her. Neither a particularly telling gauge of what she can do."

Raditz snorted beside him. "You're not going to try and kill her, are you? Poor girl's only been here a month and hasn't even been in the field yet."

"Tch, well I'm not planning on holding back if that's what you're getting at." The prince shot his cohort a scathing glare, then returned his attention to the front. "What would that prove? If she dies, it just shows Frieza wasted his time in plucking her from whatever backwater planet she hails from."

If Raditz had any further protest, he astutely kept it to himself, the rest of their flight completed in silence. Obsidian eyes narrowed when he found Nappa chatting with the woman rather than training her. Typical. The last day to push his student and he sees it as an excuse to slack off. Had he known Frieza would force her onto his team, he would have suggested he train her himself.

“Of course I would find you flapping your gums rather than training like you’re supposed to be,” he scolded Nappa, landing with Raditz behind the pair. Both turned to face him, and the large Saiyan’s incredulous expression amused him. The woman blinked in surprise, her head tilted slightly as her gaze roved from him to Raditz and back again. Her lips curved into a light smirk of her own, and he noted it twitch further upward as Nappa stuttered and grasped desperately for an explanation.

“We were only taking a small break,” he finally settled on, huffing and folding his arms. “What the hell are you two doing here, anyway? Come to see the progress I helped my pupil achieve, or did you just miss me that much?”

"Actually, the jobs have been rather peaceful without your big mouth running all the time," Raditz said, the loose end of his tail thwapping lightly against his armor. Though he addressed Nappa, Vegeta didn't miss how he observed the woman. She was either oblivious or blatantly ignoring him. "We were talking about convincing you to retire, old man. It would be worth the peace and quiet."

Nappa raised a fist and growled. "You little whelp! I could turn you inside out without breaking a sweat!" he shouted. Another huff and a warning glance from the prince calmed the general, his tone returning to as conversational as the blustery Saiyan could manage. "Vegeta would boot your ass to the curb before me, runt, and you know it."

"I'm about to put you both in the ground of you don't quit squabbling." Vegeta rested his eyes back on the woman. Dropping her blissful ignorance, her golden gaze shifted to meet his obsidian, her amusement lingering as a spark in her eyes and the hint of that smile on her lips. Pretty, but that meant little to a Saiyan prince. Power was the language of respect.

He raised a gloved hand and beckoned her to follow him with a pair of crooked fingers. The wave of surprised expressions that spread from her and then to Nappa amused him. "Let's go. I don't care what Frieza wants, you're not joining my crew unless I personally test your skill." He halted in the center of the open space, and his lips twisted upward as he turned to face the trio he left behind. "It's about time someone gave you a proper challenge, woman."

"My name is Nabooru," she asserted, blatantly ignoring Nappa's paling and silent warning. An unneeded one; Vegeta had yet to decide if a strategy of fear would be needed to force her in line. If she survived their spar at all. She followed in his path and halted a respectable distance away, hands on her hips. No hesitation to rise to his challenge, the chance to prove herself, a commendable trait. In light of it and his own nature raring for a decent fight, he could excuse and even laud her boldness in correcting him. For now.

"You must be Vegeta."

"A lot of good our names will do you if you don't survive this," he retorted with a dark chuckle. He sank into a combat stance, arms lifted and knees bent. "Come on. Show me how much Nappa lied in his reports about you."

Her full lips pressed together and turned downward in a frown and he saw the spark of anger flash in her eyes. Good. If he pissed her off, she was less likely to pull her punches, a mistake regardless of her mood. Outside of testing the waters, he refused to go easy on her. The rest of the universe wouldn't, so neither would he. She took his lead and took up her own stance. "I think you're going to find I'm difficult to kill if that's your goal here."

No sooner had the word left her lips did she launch forward, and Vegeta dodged her first punch by a hair, the wind from rushing over his face and ear as he tilted it to the side. She followed up with a flurry of light-speed attacks, bent on forcing him on the defensive with her speed. A trait he underestimated and the half second it took him to readjust to it cost him ground and a rattling strike to his forearm when he couldn't move fast enough to outright dodge it. She was no amateur, certain to be mindful of leaving openings while she attacked. The title of Elite she supposedly held on her home planet, according to Nappa, a meaningful one, at least. How often he found soldiers claiming to be their army's greatest, most elite warrior only for him to tear through them like tissue paper, or their skill in combat questionable at best.

He caught her next punch in his gloved palm, the crackle of her orange energy sparking around the connection. He grit his teeth at the pain, at the effort to keep it from completing its course to his face, revealing elongated canines, but his lips remained stretched upward in a grin. Adrenaline thrummed through his system, that thrill of battle, of a challenge, that evaded him for so long igniting a wildfire within him. Perhaps he would try harder not to kill her after all. When time permitted, he could use a sparring partner like her.

Vegeta took advantage of the halt in attacks he created and pushed back on her with his own. Despite the shift in his offensive stance, she refused to play fully defensive, trading blows instead of only working to block or dodge them to prevent damage while still ensuring she didn't take anything too critical. They used every inch of the battlefield, the sky, a dance of strategizing and re-strategizing, breaking up the high-velocity swapping of melee blows when either of them took a rattling hit that threw them off their groove by being forced to create a pocket of space with a knock back or doing so themselves for a millisecond of reprieve. It was all either of them seemed keen on allowing.

Whether out of exhaustion or a moment of sloppiness, the Saiyan gripped her ankle before the swing of her leg could crash into his head. Surprise ghosted over her features and he wasted no time in taking advantage of it. Laughing, he yanked her backward and flung her back toward the planet's surface. With the speed at which she sailed, her cry was a short one; the Gerudo's body slammed into the ground, a cloud of rust-colored dust pluming above the shallow crater it made. Knowing that wouldn't stop her for long--or, perhaps hoping for such--Vegeta charged ki in either of his palms.

"I hope you had fun with the warm up!" he crowed, laughter continuing as he fired a volley of ki blasts straight downward where she had landed.

A blip from his scouter was all the warning he had, the light from his blasts covering her daring tactic from sight. Orange ki enveloping her and protecting her to some degree from the weak blasts, Nabooru rocketed straight upward through his barrage. He watched in surprise as she deflected a sphere with a swipe of her arm. A distraction, as he failed to see her other arm rise, her hand glowing with energy. With little more than a few feet between them, he had no choice but to cross his arms over his face as the blast struck and sent him flying back from the force. He rolled off of it with a growl only for pain to erupt in his back, his skull, as she brought her leg down on him and sent him hurtling back to the surface. He collided with a grunt and another surge of pain throughout every bone and muscle.

Sensitive ears pricked at the sound of the whoosh of air. He flipped on his back in time to see Nabooru descending on him, knee bent and aimed for his abdomen. Cursing her extended his arms and captured her knee in both hands, the force of her drop forcing him downward into the ground. He growled and powered up himself, the planet quaking around him and energy crackling between them. Grunting, he pushed up to a seated position and threw her off. She somersaulted and skidded along the ground. He sprang back to his feet as she twisted around to face him again.

"You've done better than I thought," he said. A compliment he didn't give out lightly. While still no match for him, at least she had proven she could handle herself in a fight against a powerful opponent. His doubts had been minimized a degree or two, at least, and she offered him a better spar than most could. Something he didn't realize he craved until his first attacks that landed didn't break her. That instead of dropping to her knees and begging him for her life, she was rising to her feet for next round. The only thing keeping his temper in check.

He noted the rise and fall of her chest as she used the reprieve to catch her breath, her eyes alight and a proud smirk returned to her lips. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

Vegeta chuckled, half curious about how long she would last if she were fresh. A test for another time. “Don’t thank me yet.” He widened his stance and pressed his palms together, fingers crooked inward and pointed in opposite directions. Purple energy crackled around his hands, his body, his smirk verging on crazed. He pulled his hands back by his head. He vaguely heard some semblance of a protest from their audience, witnessed the woman’s eyes widened as her scouter warned her of the rapid rise in power level. To her credit, she didn’t freeze, but shifted her own stance and powered up herself, gathering her own orange energy in her hands.

“You’ve been training with ki, right? Let’s see how much it paid off! Galick Gun!” He pushed his hands outward toward her, firing his signature attack. “Fire!”

He felt her blast collide with his, pushing back against his own energy but ultimately matching it and resulting in a stalemate of violet and tangerine swirling between them. His scouter informed him of another surge of her power, the result of it pushing on his and forcing him to dig his heels to maintain his ground. Had this been another situation, he wouldn’t toy with her. He would pour the last of his energy into his blast and watch as it swallowed her and her ki like an insatiable beast. Offering false hope wasn’t usually his style, but he supposed he could reward her promising showing and quick thinking.

The orange-gold ki crept closer and closer until his began to spray outward at all angles the closer it got to the source. Another second and he forced the remaining energy needed to overwhelm her attack, the beam widening with the ki he fed into it. It sped toward her and he heard her wail, the sound of it drowned out by the crash of the blast colliding with a rock formation several meters behind her.

Vegeta lowered his arms and straightened, waiting for the smoke to clear to see how she fared. The dust thinned and he hummed in approval when her standing silhouette came into focus. Upon clearing entirely, it revealed the Gerudo with her arms crossed in front of her, armor chipped and a fair portion of her battlesuit ripped and tattered. Even from a distance, he could see her body quaking with the effort to stubbornly remain on her feet.

He strode over to her and her arms dropped to her side and, as though it sapped her of what remained of her energy, she swayed forward. The prince caught her with a gloved hand pressed to her abdomen. He snorted when she mirrored him, obviously anticipating an attack.

“I’m not going to kill you. This time.” Her knees finally gave out and he let her sink to the ground, her hands catching her and keeping her from eating dirt. How fitting. Kneeling to a prince. Her new commander. The display of his power should have more than cemented that in her mind and serve to keep her in line. If she knew what was best for her and didn’t want to properly incur his wrath.

Still...due to being the only Saiyans left and loyal to the remaining member of their race’s royalty, he never had the need to assert his dominance in their group. He gave orders, Nappa and Raditz followed them with little to no argument. Could he really be sure with her? A stranger with no real reason to be loyal other than to spare her own life?

Spurred by the remnants of adrenaline and the heightened mood the decent spar put him in, he wasn’t quite ready to leave the game on such a simple note. He reached down and rested his hand beneath her chin, tilting her face upward and forcing her to meet his gaze. He smirked down at her. She winced with the sudden jerk and though her eyelids were heavy with exhaustion, her lips remained fixed in a stubborn line.

“Welcome to the team.” He let her chin drop and he flipped around on his heel and returned to his cohorts. “Let’s go.”

Nappa glanced between Vegeta and the Gerudo still on all fours. “Shouldn’t we--?”

“Now, Nappa.” He glared at both Saiyans until they ascended and started back for the base. He cast the woman one last glance, the end of his tail swaying idly at his hip, and watched her shakily regain her feet. A smirk twitched his lips, and he followed after Raditz and Nappa.

He could deal with this arrangement.

#fic: recruited #:: nabooru ☀#// vegeta ♅#vegeta is such a shit tho

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trashboatprince · 4 years ago

Text

I’m working on a main story for my Reverse Omens au, but for right now, I really wanted to do something with Aziraphale the Demon opening up his shop.

So, here’s a little something while I work on the main story for Sour Blessings. I had to do a bit of research for this, so you’re welcome.

Summery: The opening for A.Z. Fell’s Antiquities and More is on Friday, however, the demon Aziraphale may have to put that opening on hold, indefinitely, due to an unexpected promotion.

Not if the angel Crowley has anything to say about it!

Warning: Reverse Omens, the other demons and angels are not swapped, these two fools are in love but they won’t admit it so it’s getting the ship tag.

Aziraphale (formally Azrafel) is a half-deaf, white cat demon, Crowley (formally Samael) is a rainbow boa angel and the one who tempted Eve (There is a reason for this!).

Rewrite of the infamous Bookshop deleted scene.

On with the fic!

Can’t Have That Now, Can We?

Aziraphale, formally known as the demon Azrafel until he stole back his original name, was more excited than he had been in years.

Finally, after so many hiccups, missions, and simply being absentminded about his goal, he was opening up his shop! Well, not officially, he planned on being open to the public on Friday, but he was allowing for guests today!

So far, the only person invited is his dear angel, Crowley, who he knows will be here promptly at a quarter past eleven, the redhead was also so good with time.

Proudly, Aziraphale looked up at the sign that had just been installed this morning. A. Z. Fell’s Antiquities and More, it read with a shine of silver paint on a dark blue background. It was beautifully fitting for the man-shaped being, fitting his color aesthetics. He practically purred in delight as he stepped through the doors, happily hearing a jingle of a bell above his head.

The demon hummed to himself a song from an opera he had attended a few days ago, carefully lining up some of his collection he had noticed he bumped out of place. His shop was going to house his massive collection of antiques, a term he had adored using for the collection since it was first coined during the 1400’s in references to ancient artifacts.

He finally had a place for all his stuff, things he had hidden all over the world, bought, traded, stolen, made himself, gifts from his favorite snake, all in one place now! Sure, it took him centuries to finally settle down, but 1831 was a good enough time, right?

Well, there had been an attempt a few centuries ago, back in the 1500’s, but it had been a bookshop next to a printing shop that had printed a book he really had wanted, but a mission to China had prevented that. And had also resulted in him not paying rent on the shop and having gotten in trouble with Hell for something stupid, he couldn’t pay the rent and lost the first shop.

Anyway, he happily likes to forget that happened and has instead tried again! Same location too, second time’s the charm!

Aziraphale wasn’t finished setting up though, he still had more stuff in storage that he needed to bring in, but his angel had said he’d help up with bringing that in. He wouldn’t help with the organizing though; Crowley knew from experience that Aziraphale had a way of organizing his clutter in a way that worked for the cat. Especially when it came to certain collections, like his massive library and his collection of rare snuff boxes.

As he carefully aligned a bronze statue of a rather specifically detailed and accurate horse he got as a joke gift from Crowley, he heard the jingle of the bell above his front door. He cupped his hand over his left ear, trying to hear who it was, couldn’t be Crowley, it was too early still.

Then he smelled the scent of festering mold and swamp scum, along with other unpleasant things, and he felt his skin prickle.

With a held back sigh, Aziraphale put a fake smile on his face, turning to face his fellow demons, hoping his beard hid the fact that his mouth twitched. “Hastur, Ligur, to what do I owe the pleasure of two Dukes of Hell in my shop?”

The two demons stood by the open doors, dressed in rather shoddy clothing, meant more for the lower class than the higher, as Aziraphale himself was dressed to blend in with. However, it was good to note that this time they actually wore clothing that would help them blend in, rather than how they dressed the last time they ‘visited’ Aziraphale. He would never forget those sins against nature.

Neither of them smiled, they just stared, before Hastur stepped forward. “We’ve orders from Below for you.” He ground out, making Aziraphale raise an eyebrow.

“Orders? Strange, normally Hell just burns a message in one of my books or screams at me from an envelope nowadays, don’t usually send messengers to tell me what my next job is.

“It’s not really… orders.” Ligur spoke up, waving a hand, completely bored of this already. “’s more like you’re getting somethin’.”

Aziraphale blinked, cupping a hand over his ear again. “Come again?”

Hastur made a face. “Think of it as… bad news, but not really bad news, more like good news, but we can’t say that shit, so it’s bad news, but not that bad-”

“I… I got it.” The cat sighed, holding up a hand. “Is it about the second revolution in France?” He had sent in a wordy letter to Hell about how he had helped kickstarted that event, even though he hadn’t actually done so. He and Crowley had taken a trip to the south of France and got dreadfully wasted and somehow ended up on the Isle of Capri.

“More like a bunch of things you’ve done, Azrafel.” The chameleon demon spoke and ignored the face Aziraphale pulled, hearing his old name. It has been centuries, and no one cared that he stole back his angel name, they just ignored him, thinking he was edgy or something. “Apparently, you’ve done your job to such extremes that Hell is oddly impressed.”

This can’t be good.

“And because of this, you’re going down to Hell, promotin’ you back to Downstairs. Heard you might get a cushy job runnin’ the torture department, lucky bastard.”

Aziraphale blinked, trying to register what this meant. “But… I’m opening this antique shop on Friday. If Master Hatchard can make a go of it, then I think I can really…”

“Hm,” Hastur pondered for a moment, “actually, I think that’s an idea, whoever replaces you up here can use this place as a base of operations.”

This got a look of disgust from the cat demon. “Use my shop?” The nerve! No one was allowed to use his shop; this was for him! And maybe Crowley, because he knows that wily angel will also laze about wherever Aziraphale is staying.

Neither demon seemed to give two shits about what Aziraphale thought of this. “You’re bein’ promoted,” the frog demon shrugged, “you get to go back home.”

“Can’t imagine why anyone who wanna spend more than five minutes on this waste of space.” Ligur commented, look at a bell jar on a shelf, containing a taxidermized scene of insects dancing at a ball. The chameleon on his head licked its lips.

“Azrafel’s been on this shithole for almost six thousand years,” his companion replied, “that’s some impressive patience, I can’t stand doin’ tasks up here that take longer than a day. Just plant bad ideas in a human’s head and let ‘em do all the work. Still, gotta give kudos where kudos is due…”

He dug into the pocket of his grubby coat, pulling out a box, covered in stains that Aziraphale really didn’t want to know the origins of. “Apparently, this is for all your bad work.” He said in a tone that clearly didn’t hide his jealousy and bitterness.

Hastur opened the box and Aziraphale stared at a rather lovely, shiny medal. He had seen this kind before, proudly worn by members of the Dark Council.

When they said he was being promoted… oh, oh bugger, this was a Promotion.

“I don’t want it.” Aziraphale spoke without much thought. He glanced up and nearly screamed, because right behind Hastur and Ligur, was a redheaded angel, giving a cheery wave.

The grandfather clock off to the left happily showed that it was exactly a quarter past eleven in the morning. It was the worst possible time for Crowley to show up.

With a skip in his snake-skinned step, Crowley turned a corner down a street in Soho, a box of the finest chocolates under his arm. He had dolled himself up for today, putting on his finest dark gray suit, his pink shirt clear and ironed, and a new hat sat happily on his head, decorated with a gold-plated apple blossom.

It was over-the-top, but the snake-eyed angel was known for being flashy and showboat-y with his appearance.

He spotted the shop at the corner and picked up the pace, mentally counting down the seconds. He loved being exactly on time, but he also loved putting Aziraphale on edge when he was a few minutes late.

Crowley got right up the steps at exactly 11:15, noticing that not only were the doors opened, but two figures were standing in the doorway, with Aziraphale stared past them. And right at Crowley, with a look the screamed ‘oh bugger’.

The demon licked his lips, stammering as he tried to speak to the two strangers, who Crowley hadn’t quite realized were demons. “B-But only I can properly thwart the good deeds of the angel Cr-Samael!”

Crowley stopped smiling, tilting his head, eyebrow raising over his dark shades. He held up the package, smiling, and mouthed ‘chocolates’ at his best friend.

“I don’t doubt that,” the blond-haired demon spoke, “whoever replaces you will be as bad an enemy to Samael as you are. Baphomet, maybe.”

The angel looked horrified and disgusted. He looked towards Aziraphale and mouthed ‘Baphomet?! Baphomet’s a wanker!’ The gray-haired demon shifted on his feet, trying to ignore Crowley to not draw attention to him.

“Samael’s been here just as long as I have, and he’s wily! And cunning, and brilliant, and oh…” Aziraphale was a bit flushed in the face and Crowley perked up, smiling brightly.

“It almost sounds like you like him.” Hastur spoke in a tone that was clearly not pleased with this.

“I loathe him!” Aziraphale shouted, though his face still burned red. “And, despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent! Which he isn’t because he’s an angel, and I cannot respect a demon. Or like one!” He tacked on quickly.

Hastur actually smirked, crossing his arms. “That’s the attitude that Hell likes to hear. I can see why they’re bringin’ you back.” He stepped forward, pinning the medal to Aziraphale’s dress jacket, the shorter man holding his breath at the bad smell coming off of Hastur. A quick glance over the other’s shoulder let Aziraphale know that Crowley was out of sight, hopefully he knew to stay away until these two were gone.

“So…” Aziraphale started, “we’re going straight back, now? Before the grand opening?”

“Ehh… soon.” Hastur waved a hand. “Got a job to do, then we’ll be back for you.”

The job was a simple corruption on, convince a human in charge of a respectable pub to take in bribes, sell illegal content under the counter, and convert his pub into a drug den in later years, that should do the trick.

And to help with that, they decide to plant things in the backroom of the pub for the owner to find, miracled with a temptation to put the pieces together. Ligur stood outside the backroom’s door while Hastur moved to remove the contents of his pockets in the room.

He pauses, however, hearing voices outside of an open window.

“Are you certain that we are unobserved,” it was the voice of the angel Samael, “of glorious being of God’s divine will?”

There was a strange, echoing voice that followed right after, layered as if multiple voices spoke at once. “No one is listening, oh angel Samael, the Lefthand of God.”

Blinking, Hastur steps onto a crate under the window and, using his true eyes, peeks out the window, only the top of the head of his frog looking into the alley behind the pub. He could see Crowley, standing before a cloaked figure in white, the latter having their back turned to the window. He slipped down a bit to not be seen, but still remained close to hear.

“Curses.” The angel hissed. “If only I could understand why my blessed plans are always so brilliantly thwarted! It’s as if the forces of Hell have a champion here on Earth who contaminates my blessings! Who overlaps their own dark influences on my own good ones! Who thwarts me… thwartingly…”

Unbeknownst to the demon on the other side of the wall, the cloaked figure that Crowley was speaking to was actually just a tailor’s dummy from the tailor shop just next door. Crowley was practically tickle-me-pink with delight of how much fun it was doing this. He absolutely loved when he got to flex his acting skills.

He continued the act, putting on the heavenly voice once more. “Why, Mister Crowley, you must not be downcast. I hear news that will bring joy to you and all the powers of Heaven! They do say as how the demon Azrafel, your nemesis, is being sent back to Hell!”

Crowley knew he was acting slightly to broadly, but it was the style of the time, so it was necessary.

“Can this be true?” He continued in his normal voice. “I was going to throw myself into a pit of Hell Fire in my despair at once more being beaten by the demon Azrafel! But such excellent news! Only Azrafel knows my ways well enough to…”

“Thwart them?”

“Exactly. Now, let us retire to church, and pray to the success of good on this Earth, thanks to Hell’s foolishness!”

Hastur heard the other walking off before he moved out of the room, well, he might have to have a conversation with Aziraphale it seems.

“So, I’m… not going anywhere?” Aziraphale asked, mismatched eyes staring at the two other demons, the pupils growing with possible hope.

“Change of plans.” Hastur grumbled. “We need you here, in this shop, battling good.”

Ligur slapped the Aziraphale on the back a few times, nearly knocking him over. “Carry on battlin’ that pain in the ass angel. I’m sure Hell’ll understand that you’re needed here more than down there.”

“Keep the metal.” Hastur poked at it against Aziraphale’s chest, making him wince at the pressure of the jab.

“But I don’t understand…” The cat demon blinked, suddenly realizing he was all alone in the shop now, the scent of sulfur starting to mellow out. With a snap of his fingers, the shop suddenly smelled of flowers, thanks to the lovely potted plant that just showed up next to him.

With a heavy sigh, he shook his head, moving around a shelf to try and return to his previous task of worryingly set up his collection.

“Well, that was fun.”

Aziraphale yelped, jumping a foot in the air as his hair and beard puffed up from the shock. He turned, finding a certain angel, basking happily in a chair that had been swiped from the King of Spain in the late 1300’s. “Crowley… w-what are you doing here?” He asked, approaching the redhead, who just smiled, holding up the box of chocolates from behind.

Aziraphale chirped in joy, taking the box. “Oh, yes, thank you, darling!”

“’s nothin’, kitty cat. I think you deserve them now than you did before those two idiots showed up.”

“How… much of that did you see?”

Crowley shrugged before getting out of the chair, stretching. “Well, I arrived to see that you were stuck dealin’ with two idiots, and that you needed help. So, I may or may not have helped you out of a bit of trouble, again. Nice medal, the Dark Council kind? Wow, that’s a hell of a promotion, kitty cat.”

Aziraphale frowned and removed the metal from his jacket, tossing it towards Crowley, who caught it with ease. “I’ve done so well at my job that I was promoted to join them! I mean, it’s not the worst promotion I could get, in fact, any demon would give up their whole… well… everything to be part of that group! But I must admit, it would be too much, I’d be allowed to do whatever, but I wouldn’t be able to work and stay on Earth.”

“Sounds like a shit job to take, Aziraphale.” Crowley commented, looking over the metal before dropping it into a clay pot. “But hey, you get to stay here!”

“For some reason…” Cat eyes turned, staring directly at snake ones, hidden behind dark lenses. “What did you do?”

Crowley grinned brightly. “Oh, just pulled off some theatrics.” He wiggled his fingers and Aziraphale groaned. “I told you I was good at this! I should join a theater, get my name out there! I’ll even do those boring, sad Shakespearean plays you like so much!”

“Uhg.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes before looking at Crowley, smiling. “Still, thank you for helping me today, darling. Now, how about the two of us enjoy this delectable box of goodies you got me, I have a lovely red that we can drink alongside them in the back, found it while bringing things in the other day.”

“Sounds delightful, kitty cat.”

END

Well, this was a lot of fun to write!

In case you wanna know what they look like, Aziraphale looks like Martin from Prodigal Son (except well dressed in a light gray and dark blue Regency outfit), and Crowley looks like David’s portrayal of Richard II (in a dark gray and pink Regency outfit).

Hastur and Ligur look like characters from Oliver Twist haha.

In case anyone was wondering why Aziraphale owns an antique shop, it was because as much as I love the bookshop still being part of a Reverse Omens au, I also really loved the idea of going off the little fact that book Aziraphale also collects old snuff boxes and it went from there that he just collects all sorts of things.

Oh, and Hastur left Aziraphale on Earth cause if he's really the only one who can 'stop' the Heavenly might of Samael, the angel with the title of Destroyer, well... yeah, might as well leave him to deal with that mess.

Thanks for reading! As always, drabbles are open!

#good omens #reverse omens #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #ineffable husbands #hastur #ligur #john's drabbles

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spookyceph · 4 years ago

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Good Graces Pt. 2

Finally got the second half of this fic together. Find it on Ao3 or the first part here on Tumblr.

Nothing explicit takes place, however, the non-canon talk is of a sexual nature. Also, Dabi is a masochist and likes being ordered around. But we knew this already, didn’t we?

Words: 2,789

Rating: M for language and sexual themes

The wait ended two days later in the same spot. Dabi was in the process of pouring himself his second drink of the night when a misty-edged hole opened in reality behind the bar. From it stepped the tall, elegant form of Kurogiri. Dabi had never really considered what a demon might look like, but the League’s second-in-command/butler/voice of reason provided plenty of inspiration. Impeccable suit. Ability to show up anywhere. Form too immaterial to hurt, but still capable of making someone pay for trying. As always, Dabi gave him a polite nod and fought back memories of how it had felt to unexpectedly be elbow-deep in that shifting darkness.

“Ah, Dabi. Just the person I was hoping to see.” Deep. Smooth as high-end nihonshu. The kind of voice that could talk somebody into trading away their firstborn. Or into joining a half-assed villain ensemble.

Dabi paused with his glass to his lips. He made a sound he hoped came across as Yes, I’m listening rather than Help, I’ve swallowed my own tongue in mortal terror.

“Shigaraki Tomura wishes to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

This was it. This was not a drill. Dabi put down the glass without taking a sip. “Where?”

“He is in his room at the moment. I will open the way, if you wish to go now.”

He’d just slid off the stool when the words registered. The air behind him changed. It was like the faint static charge living things gave off and a feeling of being watched all at once. Except Dabi knew if he turned he’d see only a hazy oval of black floating there, the perfect width and length to swallow him completely.

He didn’t want to use the warp gate. No fucking way. Problem was he’d already gotten up—couldn’t sit back down without looking like a coward or a dumbass or both. And he sure as hell wasn’t about to admit he already knew where Shigaraki’s room was to the person who amounted to the closest thing the guy had to a father.

So, Dabi grabbed his glass again. Knocked back the contents. Pretended it was just like jumping into a cold pool on a summer day as he turned and plunged into the waiting darkness.

Nothing existed anymore. Not time. Not space. Not self. Then something—maybe Kurogiri’s will or just simple momentum—carried him back into being. He returned to reality with a gasp. Catching his balance, he blinked and took stock of his new surroundings.

Shigaraki sat on his heels not a meter away, staring up through the stiff fingers of his favorite fashion statement. Large sheets of paper littered the floorboards in front of him. Maps, Dabi realized, noting the grid lines and coordinate markings. Somewhere way out in the sticks, if all the green and brown were any clue. Turning his head, he saw shelves lining the walls. Books? No, too many the same size and too thin. Cases for games—hundreds of them. More than one person could finish without giving up on everything else in life. Then again, what did he know? He’d never been allowed to have any as a kid. Never been allowed to have anything that might distract him from the glorious future planned out for him since day one. And just look at how well that had gone.

At any rate, the room didn’t seem to have the right ambiance to banish or murder someone in. Dabi let his hopes peek out from the bunker of suspicion.

“What’s this stuff for?” he asked, nodding to the maps on the ground.

Nothing from Shigaraki for an adrenaline-spiking second. Then, he crooked the fingers of one hand. “Sit.”

Dabi obeyed, pacing himself. Step in closer. Let one leg fold under him. Just bend the other so the sole of his boot lay flat on the floor. Rest same side elbow on knee. Prop the whole casual façade up with the other hand behind him.

“You got something you wanna say?” Cool nonchalance despite all the spit having vanished from inside his mouth.

Closing those intense eyes, his boss-and-possibly-more drew a long inhale. Didn’t even gag on the musty museum specimen smell of the taxidermy clutching his face. Then it was Dabi’s turn to suck in a breath as Shigaraki pulled off the gray hand with fumbling fingers, setting it aside.

“I want you to lead the others on their first job,” he said, complete with direct eye contact.

Any pretense of self-assurance abandoned Dabi. His stomach clenched as if braced for a punch. He pumped his brain for something droll, snappy, cocky in response. The well had run dry. He settled for practical.

“What do you want us to do?”

Shigaraki’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, though his stoic expression never wavered. “I was given some interesting information about UA’s precious fledgling heroes. Seems they’re headed to a remote training camp in the mountains for the summer. No one will be looking after them except two of their teachers and four pros who specialize in wilderness rescue missions. I want you to ruin their little retreat.”

Dabi’s spine went stiff and straight as an exclamation point. “I didn’t sign up to kill kids—even baby heroes.”

But Shigaraki was already shaking his head halfway through. “Killing them isn’t the point. That would generate too much outrage, hypocritical or no. The police might actually pry their heads from their asses and make a united effort to hunt us down with that much public pressure on them. Not to mention every third-rate pro in the country would crawl out of the woodwork, looking to make headlines. We’d be finished before we ever got started.

“No, what I have in mind is some training of our own.”

Attention swapped places with apprehension. “Oh?”

“None of us have worked together. Most of us haven’t worked on a team at all. This is an opportunity to test how well your quirks and styles compliment or clash with one another.”

“So, what? We crash their field trip and start fucking shit up? Flee the scene when the fighting gets too heated?”

“I came up with a level objective for you to focus on.” From on top of the maps, Shigaraki scooped up a thick manila folder and handed it to him.

Taking it, Dabi flipped to the first set of pages inside. His expression stayed set in stone while his stomach took a cliff dive.

A pretty girl with skin the color of bubblegum and squiggly little horns peeking out of her cotton candy hair smiled out at him from the photo in the top corner.

Name: Ashido Mina

Age: 15

Quirk: Acid

“You got hold of the students’ profiles? Impressive.” And a potential fucking disaster waiting to happen.

Shigaraki shrugged modestly, lightly scratching a new crop of scabs that had popped up in jagged furrows on both sides of his neck. Scabs that hadn’t been there a few days ago. “It’s just their teachers’ assessments of their quirks and performance during class assignments. Personal information like relatives and home addresses were better protected.”

The vice slowly closing its jaws around Dabi’s thumping heart released. Regardless, he made sure not to linger on any one student as he leafed through several of the profiles. Just focused on breathing normally and pretending to read for what seemed like a reasonable amount of time before moving to the next. He’d wait until he didn’t have an audience to allow himself to register anything.

“What’s this objective supposed to be?” he inquired.

“Capture one of the stronger, more notable students and ask him to join us.”

A muscle in his cheek jumped when Shigaraki reached over and flipped to a report in the middle of the folder. Dabi forced himself not only to look but see.

The boy scowling out of the picture was blonde. Broad-shouldered. Red-eyed, though not as beautifully as the one sitting across the way. Dabi’s pulse evened out.

“Bakugou Katsuki,” he read. “Isn’t this the kid they had to bind and gag at UA’s Sports Festival—even though he won the damn thing?”

“The same.”

“The hell do we want him for? I thought we were full capacity on lunatics already.”

A sigh. “To spook the school’s supporters and society at large, for one. It’s not enough to kill heroes. More will just take their place. We have to convince people to withdraw their support of them. Turn against them, though that won’t come until later.”

Dabi snorted. “This little asshole will never agree to sign on with us. He’s obsessed with proving he’s above everyone else. I know the type.”

A twitch of interest crossed Shigaraki’s face. Instead of pressing, though, he filed the slip away in that mysterious brain of his. “I don’t give half a shit if he agrees. All that matters is he blabs to anyone who’ll listen that we targeted and tried to corrupt him once we let him ‘escape’.”

Tapping his fingers on the stack of papers, Dabi let the big picture come into focus. “Instead of outright attacking the school, we’re undermining their image. Making all the mommies and daddies wonder if a career as a pro is as great as they thought it would be for their precious snot-nosed bastards. Getting donors to think twice before reaching for those wallets. We’re playing the long game. Smart.” A thin smile tugged at one end of Dabi’s mouth. “Which leaves just one question. Why have me lead instead of yourself? People might accuse me of sleeping my way to the top.”

A lovely shade of pink, like the inner coating of a seashell, livened up Shigaraki’s cheeks. “We never—!” He huffed and turned away, pink deepening to rose and spreading to the tops of his ears when he noticed Dabi’s smile had widened to a grin. “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”

“Guilty. Well, on the last part anyway.”

Shigaraki continued to fume, hopes of an answer dwindling with each second of silence. Then, just when an apology was in the works, “Because I’m a shitty leader.”

Dabi exchanged his smile for arched eyebrows. “”And you think I’d make a better one?”

“You take initiative when you need to, and show restraint when you should. You’re able to read people without giving away much of anything about yourself. The others respect you. They like you. Anyway, from a purely tactical standpoint, since your quirk is long range you can attack and give orders without getting swept up in the melee. And…” Blood-soaked irises looked at him through a tangled curtain of white hair for a moment before flitting back to the safety of the maps. “I trust you.”

Every response Dabi had lined up crumbled. With them gone, he couldn’t pretend not to notice what they’d been hiding. Exposed to proper light and air, it bloomed, bright and bold despite the ruin it grew from.

“I won’t fail.” The words were hoarse, but came out easily enough for a promise he’d swore to make to no one except himself ever again.

“I know you won’t. Because this isn’t about winning or losing. I want you and the others to test yourselves as individuals and as a team. Do your best. Find what works. What doesn’t. We’ll figure out where to go from there. Together.”

He’d joined the League of Villains looking for a means to exact revenge. Being told what he’d always wanted to hear made for a hell of a bonus prize.

Dabi pounced. His mouth mashed into Shigaraki’s, muffling an astonished yelp. Cold hands latched onto the front of his shirt. Not Decaying. Not shoving. Clinging. Insisting. He obliged, wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist and shoulders, then letting his weight carry them both to the floor. They rolled across the maps, scattering stolen papers as they went. Lips and teeth and tongue combined in different ways between every panting break for air.

Winding up sprawled on top, Dabi relocated his kisses to Shigaraki’s neck. The whimper that came out of him when just a bit of suction was applied under the corner of his jaw went directly to Dabi’s dick. Shigaraki writhed, supple and strong, yet unsure and overwhelmed. His fingers—three on each hand—clutched hard enough to hurt through a carapace of scar tissue. The scabs crosshatching his neck scraped the tongue and tasted of rust.

He surpassed any fantasy conjured up in the past few weeks. Because he was real. Unpredictable. And, in that slice of time at least, he was Dabi’s.

Shigaraki gasped and arched at the feel of a hand slipping up under his shirt. Dabi became so absorbed in the smooth, cool texture of the skin beneath his fingertips he didn’t think anything of the arm that snaked around his own, or the heel hooked behind his knee until, with a sharp twist of hip, he was rolled. The air rushed out of him in a huff as he hit the floor. Shigaraki didn’t look it, but he was solid, planting himself on Dabi’s chest and pinning both his wrists above his head.

“No,” he said, decisive if out of breath. “We do this my way.”

Dabi kept perfectly still. One wriggle, one shift, and he would’ve cum in his pants right then and there. So, he relaxed one muscle group at a time. Controlled his breathing. Showed his boss what a good boy he could be.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked, already positive he’d like the answer.

Despite his command of the situation, Shigaraki’s gaze wandered off to the side. Unsure. Shy. God, it was going to be fun fucking both descriptions right out of him.

“I don’t have…experience…with this, ah, subject.”

Dabi had to keep his teeth clamped together to keep from laughing. Good. He had to be good or he wouldn’t get any treats.

“So, I thought…maybe we could each make a list. Of things we like—or might like. And of stuff we don’t, or aren’t interested in. Then…pick and agree on an option. Until…until someone gets bored or just doesn’t want to anymore or…whatever.”

The habit of exceeding expectations was quickly becoming one of Dabi’s favorite things about his new boss. “Is that what you’ve been up to these past three days? Thinking about what you want to do to me?”

Shigaraki shifted his weight forward a bit, breathing definitely speeding up a notch. “Not the entire three days,” he muttered.

Dabi rested his hands on slim hips, keeping them still before they sent him over the edge. “When did you want this list?”

He considered, worrying his already cracked bottom lip with his teeth and then catching the trickle of blood with the point of his tongue in a way that made Dabi’s toes curl in his boots. “We’ll need to start meeting regularly to work on the plan anyway, so…tomorrow, at this time.”

Meaning he had already made a list and wanted to see what Dabi came up with. “Done.”

“Well.” Shigaraki cleared his throat lightly. “It’s settled then.” Carefully, he started to slide his leg over. Froze when a soft hiss escaped Dabi. A finger stroked one of the staples in his cheek before pulling back, remembering permission to do so hadn’t been agreed on yet.

“Did I hurt you? When we rolled over?”

Absolutely precious. Dabi smiled. “Not as much as I want you to.”

Red eyes blinked rapidly, wide and startled. “I’m…sorry?”

“Don’t be. Now go on. Let me up.”

Still looking a bit lost, Shigaraki did, sitting with his arms wrapped around his legs. Dabi sat upright on a long exhale. Paused to collect himself. Got to his feet when he was reasonably sure he wouldn’t ruin his last clean pair of pants doing so.

“You’re leaving?”

The note of disappointment in Shigaraki’s tone almost toppled his resolve. He looked over through lowered lashes. “I have something pressing to take care of at the moment. Unless you don’t want to wait for a list to find out what it is.”

One glance below Dabi’s belt transformed confusion into open-mouthed understanding. “Oh.” Shigaraki buried his face in his knees. “Sorry?”

“I already told you. Don’t be.” And before his willpower evaporated completely, “See you tomorrow.”

He’d made it to the door when a final thought sprung on him. Pausing with his fingers on the handle, he peered back over his shoulder. “You didn’t come up with this whole training camp plan just to score some alone time with me, did you?”

The choked sound that came from Shigaraki was answer enough. Dabi finally allowed himself to laugh as he let himself out.

#shigadabi #shigadabi fanfic #dabi x shigaraki #shigaraki x dabi #dabi is touya #dabi pov

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binbons-character-stuff · 5 years ago

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Hell Hath No Fury

My contribution to @daffodilsbucky‘s 1k Follower Challenge! Congratulations!!!

My trope was #12 Body Swap.

Dinah Madani was a woman scorned.

There was more to it, of course. Her career was in ruins. She was a laughingstock among her former co-workers and bosses. Her parents had stood by her publicly, of course, but she saw them, sometimes. They would just look at her, wondering where they had gone wrong with their child.

Her life was a joke – she was a joke. And it was all because of one man.

Billy Russo.

Dinah Madani never looked in the mirror and saw a woman who compromised her own values, used herself and Billy Russo sexually to find out information about Frank Castle and Cerberus. She didn’t see someone who played fast and loose with the law; she saw a victim. She saw a woman who had been dishonored, a woman who had been played for a fool.

A woman who needed revenge.

And she didn’t want revenge from Frank Castle, the man who had pulled the trigger on her partner in Kandahar, or his boss, the man who had actually given the order to murder Zubair. She didn’t want revenge on her boss or her boss’s boss that gave Russo and Castle sweetheart deals for helping to take Rawlins down. Hell, she didn’t even blame David Leiberman for sending her the video in the first place. She blamed Billy Russo, because he had realized her game and beat her at it; because he had been able to compartmentalize dealing with Madani after he found out that she had been using him to get to Frank.

Because he had been able to find love with someone else, when Madani herself had loved him: at least her version of love. More like want, really, but still, Madani owed him. So, yeah, Billy and you were the object of her sick fascination and utter hatred.

It was Billy Russo who needed to pay. And, if things went as she hoped, pay he would, and you right along with him.

Madame Gao had been hard to find, but Madani was determined. When she had found her, Gao had been indifferent to her. Russo and Castle were troublesome but nothing that her Hand members couldn’t handle.

In the end, Madani had pledged herself to the Hand for Madame Gao’s help in getting revenge on Billy. And, in order to be completely certain of Madani’s loyalty, Gao had placed a geas on Dinah. She was now magically bonded to Madame Gao until her death or release.

It was a small price to pay to make Russo’s life a living hell before she finally ended it.

This was going to be fun.

“Honey, I’m home!” Billy called when he stepped into your shared apartment and laid his keys in the bowl that was kept there for general pocket clutter.

“In the kitchen,” you called out, though he had already figured that out from the delicious aromas and the music playing.

Billy tossed his suit jacket over a dining chair and strolled into the kitchen, loosening his tie as he entered his favorite room of your shared home.

Leaning his chin on your shoulder as he snuggled up behind you, Billy pulled you close and kisses your neck a bunch of times until you giggled and turned to kiss him properly, knowing that he would continue to harass you delightfully until he got a proper smooch.

“How was your day, love?” you said after a sweet kiss.

“Not too shabby. Better now that I’m with you,” he said warmly.

You looked into his deep brown eyes and marveled that you had ever doubted this man’s feelings for you. “I love you so much, Russo,” you said sincerely.

Billy kissed your nose with his special crinkly-eyed smile. “I love you, too,” he replied. “Whatcha makin’?”

“Just some quick sausage and peppers with pasta. Wanna set the table while I put the garlic bread in the oven?”

“Sure,” he answered, stealing one more kiss before he went to grab dishes and flatware.

Billy was still getting used to having a woman in his space; you were worth it and he would lie down in a puddle so you wouldn’t get your feet wet, but there was still a lot to get used to, y'know?

This was a man who never lived alone his entire life, going from foster homes to group homes to the Marines. When he finally got out and started his business, he got his first place alone – and he fucking loved it. He didn’t have to worry about his shit getting moved, busted or stolen. Hell, he didn’t even have to deal with Frankie stealing his toothpaste. In a burst of excessive hubris, he had gotten all of the things that he thought would show people how far he’d come in life from the foster kid whose junkie mother safe-havened him at a fire station.

When Bastion Security took off and made it through the government oversight after he and Frank and Curtis had done the CIA’s dirty work and took out Rawlins, he was able to grow the business honestly, not having to worry about Black ops that were too dirty for Feds. His jobs were aboveboard and his money was clean.

Clean money meant less money, though, so the penthouse had been traded for a normal apartment, his closets filled with nice but not bespoke suits and his parking space with the Wraith was now occupied with a Land Rover. After life settled into routine, after all the testifying before the Senate, after he paid back the dirty money he used to start Anvil, well, he realized that while it was nice to have his own space and things, they didn’t have to be the most expensive just for the sake of having the highest price tag.

And now that he didn’t have to maintain strictest privacy at all times lest his not-so-squeaky-clean business practices came to light, he didn’t necessarily love being alone all the time.

You and he were the last of your friends who were still single; Karen and Frank were together, Foggy and Marci were engaged, Curtis had started dating a girl he’d met at the gym and Matt was getting serious with a social worker he’d met on a case where he’d been guardian ad litem for a boy who had lost his parents.

So, after the first few times that you and Billy were the only ones to show up for a group outing, or were the last ones left after everyone went on with their couples plans, you decided you may as well hang out with each other. One thing had led to another, you’d asked him to be your plus one for a work thing, he’d asked you to go with him to a mix and mingle thing so he wouldn’t threaten husbands. You never expected anything, of course; Billy was famously single and you certainly didn’t think you’d be the one to change that.

But you were. Billy finally quit pretending he needed you to accompany him as a friend and told you he wanted more.

“What?” you asked with a nervous chuckle. “Is this a joke?”

Billy looked offended. “No,” he said stiffly. “It was not intended as such.”

“I mean, you’re famously unfunny, Russo. You sure?” you said, giving him an out.

Suddenly Billy was feeling more vulnerable than he had as a kid. He decided to go for bravado. With a half-smile, he said, “Yeah, that’s a pretty stupid idea, huh? I just thought that y'know since we been spending so much time together –”

“Bill!” you interrupted.

“What?” he growled, cheeks a bit flushed with embarrassment.

You smiled and stepped closer, tentatively putting your hands on his shoulders. Looking into his eyes, you whispered, “It’s a great idea, Billy.”

He breathed a sigh of relief and put his hands on your hips, pulling you a bit closer and leaning in to drop a gentle kiss on your lips.

Your eyelids fluttered open and you smiled happily. “Best idea ever.”

Frank and Curtis had known Billy for a lot longer than any of his other friends, and neither of them could get over the change in him. Outwardly, Billy told them to screw off, he had always been the same guy, but inside – well, inside, Billy knew that he was different. You had seen the person who had always worried that he wasn’t worth anything deeper than his looks.

But you looked past his exterior, past his sins and loved the man that he had never before had the courage to be. You became his friend after he lost the money and the car and suits, and you never seemed all that impressed with his looks. Oh, you thought he was gorgeous; you weren’t blind. But that wasn’t enough for you. You’d needed to get to know the real William Russo, not the image he showed the world. Only then did you fall for him.

There was a freedom that accompanied someone knowing the real Billy. He had never known true acceptance before, had never understood that concept because no one had ever wanted what was beneath the facade he showed the world. When he was a Marine, he was the best goddamn sniper there was. When he was a businessman, he was the best bullshit artist and salesman he could be. When he was with a woman, he was the best lover he could be, leaving every partner exhausted and satisfied.

But he had never really allowed anyone to see the man he was before. Only you understood the little boy who had been abandoned that still lived inside Billy, and only you had ever been able to make him understand that it had not been his failing, that his mother had been an addict and unable to care for him.

For the first time, Billy thought that maybe there could be more to his life than resentment and anger; you gave him love and acceptance.

Madani had gathered all of the necessary components for the spell and it was time. She had been very careful not to let Billy see her as she tailed him, learning his and your routines by heart. She had spy training, after all – even someone trained as Billy had been unprepared for the Killing Eve disguises and infiltration shit Madani was pulling. Madame Gao had also loaned her some manpower, so there wasn’t always a small woman around, regardless of her hair color or clothing.

Madame Gao herself was going to perform the spell. Later, Madani would apprentice in spellcraft, but for now she would simply be the subject of the spell.

It had been so easy to get close to you to get something personal to use for the spell component. You were truly and completely a civilian, a trusting fool. What did Russo even see in you?

Madani was currently bound to a sturdy chair, arms and legs lashed down securely. She couldn’t get out of it herself, she had no doubt that it would hold a weakling like you.

Madame Gao began chanting and threw a lit match into a bowl, fragrant smoke surrounding Madani, clouding her vision and making her dizzy. As her eyes fluttered closed, she felt herself drifting away…

You were having the strangest dream. The sounds and smells were completely foreign to you. There was a strange voice chanting and it was as if you were drunk or high. You muttered in your sleep, and the feel of Billy’s heart beating against your cheek was growing fainter, as if you were being pulled away from his embrace.

Suddenly, you gasped as your eyes opened to a strange room where an elderly Asian woman was looking you over with a matter-of-fact expression on her wrinkled face.

“You do not seem worthy of such hatred as my apprentice holds for you,” she said disdainfully.

You were still woozy and completely confused. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“I think the more important question for you is, ‘Who are you?’” she replied, gesturing across from you.

You looked in the direction and saw a woman bound to a chair. Disturbing, but you couldn’t see how it pertained to you. You turned to look at the woman and saw the woman across from you mirror your move. You looked back and so did she – you began to make faces and she mimicked each one. Finally your brain caught up with the evidence before you and you looked down, finding your hands bound to a chair – but they were not your hands!

“What – what the hell is going on?” you asked, panicking and pulling against your bonds. “What is happening to me? BILLY!!”

“You may continue to scream if that is your wish, but there is no one to come to your aid. Ms. Madani was very careful in her planning. Your Mr. Russo should be waking up next to her any time now.”

“Madani? That crazy bitch who tried to kill Billy?” you asked, real fear in your eyes as you looked into the mirror more closely. The hair was short and blond now, but the eyes and face, the beauty mark – you were indeed trapped in the body of Dinah Madani.

And your love was snuggled in bed with a woman who blamed him for every bad thing that had ever happened to her – and had been trained to kill.

Billy woke abruptly, the feel of fingernails digging into his skin jolting him from sleep. He jumped from the bed in fight-mode but saw no threat. “Babe?” he said, half asleep and confused. You usually woke him up sweetly, knowing that he had PTSD from growing up in foster care and serving in the Middle East – startling Billy awake was not a great idea.

“Hey,” Madani purred, “no talking, just make me feel good.”

Billy was wide awake at that, skin almost crawling as he jumped out of bed and away from the hands trying to get inside the boxer briefs he had worn to sleep. “Ah, sorry, no can do,” he said, backing away from what certainly looked like the woman he loved. “Got an early meeting.”

“Ugh,” she practically sneered at Billy. “Fine, Russo. Go to work – as usual.”

Billy visibly flinched and said, “Ah, gonna hit the shower.”

Madani realized that maybe, just maybe she had come on a bit strong. She hadn’t really put any thought into how you and Billy were when you were alone together, and surprisingly, you spent most of your off time alone in your shared apartment. No, she only thought about getting revenge. But Billy had definitely been confused, and though she knew she was smarter and he couldn’t possibly expect this, he wasn’t a stupid man.

She would have to be softer. It just hadn’t occurred to her that Billy Russo would want to be with a rag doll, she assumed that he would be with a woman more…well, more like Madani. She had been his type once, but it seemed that these days he liked his tail with a side of submission.

Billy was in the shower quietly freaking out. You were behaving strangely; it was like you were a different person entirely.

Get ahold of yourself, Russo, he berated himself. So your girl woke up horny and tried to jump you? Most guys would be grateful, and it isn’t like you never woke her up for sex!

Billy shook his head and hurried through his shower. He had no idea what you saw in him, but you were so tender-hearted that you were probably some combination of hurt and embarrassed because he’d run off like a blushing virgin.

Billy came back to the bedroom wrapped in a towel, an apology loaded for his weird exit, but you weren’t there. He perked his ear in the direction of the kitchen and heard you opening cabinets and shrugged. Morning weirdness aside, he really did have an early meeting.

He got dressed and came out to the dining room to find you drinking coffee. He bent over to drop a kiss on your cheek. “Gotta go,” he said. “See you at 7 for Karen’s thing, right?”

“Oh, right!” Madani exclaimed. “You’re picking me up, right?”

“No,” Billy drawled slowly. “We’re meeting at Kashkaval Garden. Remember?”

Madani made a 'silly me’ face and said, “Right, of course! Absolutely.”

“Great,” Billy replied a bit suspiciously. “You OK?”

“I’m fine,” Madani replied. “Weird dreams, feel like I could sleep some more. Better hit the coffee!”

“K,” Billy agreed reluctantly, then sent you the special smile that he deserved for you. “Love you, babe.”

Madani felt her stomach churn. Really? He loved this little Mary Sue? “Back atcha,” she said with a tense smile.

Billy’s eyebrows went up slightly, but then he smiled and said, “See ya tonight.”

“Yup.”

Billy closed the door behind him, actually shaking. You had never failed to tell him to have a great day when he left for work. He’d been called out of bed in the middle of the night and you’d told him to have a great day in your sleep! And, 'Back atcha’ when he’d said he loved you?

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

Madani knew that Billy had been weirded out by her behavior, though she wasn’t sure what precisely she did wrong. He’d liked her well enough when they had been together, how much different could you be? Yes, you were a pediatrician, so you obviously liked children, whereas Madani wanted nothing to do with any ankle biters, even if they were family. Maybe he found something in you that he had missed out on being raised in the foster system? That made sense; it wasn’t you, but what you represented.

What possible other reason could there be for him to be with Madani’s polar opposite?

Billy had been distracted all day. From the first minute of the 7 a.m. meeting where David and Curtis had gone over the company’s quarterly financials and the prospects for the upcoming months, he’d been somewhere else.

“Billy!” Curtis said loudly, knocking on the table in the conference room. “This is where you talk.”

“Shit, sorry, guys. Weird morning,” he apologized. “Ah, we have eight ongoing personal security jobs stateside and I’ve been trying to get us contracts for overseas security, too. If any of that starts looking positive, we’re going to need to hire and train more ground crew. And we could actually use some tech crew now, Micro.”

“That’s…wow,” David Leiberman exclaimed. “I’ll put out some feelers. This is great news, guys!”

“Yeah,” Billy said with a surprised chuckle. “Y'know, I think we might just make a go of this thing.”

Frank slapped the tabletop and said, “Damn straight!” he agreed heartily. “Drinks are on me tonight.”

“It’s your girlfriend’s party, weren’t they already?” Curt heckled Frank.

“Yeah, ya cheap bastard!” David joined in as Billy chuckled at their ribbing of their friend.

“Eh, shut it!” Frank clapped back happily. “Bastion Security Incorporated is here to stay!”

Billy was planning to talk to Frank about your strange behavior, but he didn’t want to bring down the vibe of the partners after the meeting, and he had a lot of work to do around three meetings and two conference calls. I’m probably overreacting, anyways, he reassured himself. Just a weird morning.

Still, the feeling that something was wrong nagged at him all day. To top it off, he had texted you several times and you hadn’t answered him once. You always answered him, even if it was just a few words to say you were busy and you loved him.

He was utterly disgusted with himself for feeling like a clingy teenager, but damn, you were the best part of his life. What if you really had been keeping from him resentment over how much he worked? You always said you understood, even when he had been completely honest about all the stupid, awful things he had done. He was utterly overwhelmed with the grace and forgiveness his found family had blessed him with, but they had already been friends. For them it was a continuance of a relationship and therefore they found good in him to outweigh the bad that he had done.

With you, he had been honest early on; he needed to know that you could bear to look at him with his sins laid bare, because he knew almost from the beginning that you were special. The fact that you loved him knowing what he had done never ceased to amaze him – and he didn’t think he could make it without that love. Your love had changed him, made him able to return love. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t the most important person to him.

Christ, I feel like a twelve year old girl, he thought to himself disgustedly.

He picked up his phone and looked again. Still no texts.

Billy sighed and tried to focus on the resumes in front of him. They needed to hire new employees whether or not his love life was making him weepy.

Billy had arrived a few minutes early, but the hostess said the Garden Room was ready and led him back. Frank and Karen greeted him warmly, Billy congratulating Karen on her book deal. As if being a partner in Nelson, Murdock & Page wasn’t enough to keep her busy, she had submitted a manuscript for a mystery novel to a publishing house and had been offered a contract.

“Promise me you’ll only describe a character based on me as 'devastatingly handsome’,” Billy demanded playfully.

“How about, 'chronic bedwetter’,” Frank suggested.

“Or 'high-maintenance mirror hog’?” Curtis chimed in.

“'Technologically challenged!’” David piped up, loathe to be left out and giving the worst playful insult he could think of.

“Or 'terrible, inattentive boyfriend?’” he heard your voice add in the midst of laughing off his buddies’ roasting.

His eyes went wide and he spun around, and yeah, you looked pissed. “Hey, babe,” he said carefully, leaning over to kiss your cheek, which you accepted stiffly.

“I’ve been sitting out front waiting for a while, babe,” Madani said with saccharine sweetness and a big smile. “If Sarah hadn’t grabbed me on the way in, I’d still be waiting.”

“I mean, I thought you’d come on back,” Billy said quietly, smiling thinly, aware that all of your friends were watching. “Not like this is the first time we’ve used this room for our group.”

Madani looked around and saw the questioning looks pointed her way and let it go. “Of course. Long day,” she said, hopefully placatingly.

“Did you bring the gift?” Billy whispered as people began to mingle again.

“Gift?” Madani replied absently.

Billy’s eyebrows beetled his brows and he frowned as he said, “Are you kidding me? I said that we didn’t need a gift and you spent hours picking things out and paid extra for fast shipping!”

Just as Madani opened her mouth to snap back, Matt said, “Billy, got a minute?”

Billy closed his eyes briefly before smiling and turning to face the group. “Sup, Matt?"

"I heard you were hiring and I have a friend who might be a good fit.”

“You have friends who aren’t here?” Billy said with feigned amazement in his voice.

“Ha ha.” Matt held out his hand and said, “Come over here so we don’t bore everyone?”

Billy was surprised but said, “OK,” and put his arm under Matt’s hand and walked over to the far side of the room.

Matt smiled and said quietly, “Who the hell is that?”

Madani watched Billy lead Matt over to the other side of the room. She had been worried when Matt had asked Billy to talk, but then Billy had served him up snark like he did to the other guys so she figured it must really be normal.

She really was making him suspicious, though. She wasn’t going to be able to drag this out and enjoy torturing him, as much as it pained her to admit it. She had put so much thought into the method of her revenge that she didn’t research the means.

She smiled and joined the crowd, hanging back to learn the names of the people she didn’t know. She regretted letting her obsession with revenge cloud her judgment and keep her from doing better background.

You were actually being treated fairly well. Aside from some self-defense moves that Billy had insisted upon teaching you, you were absolutely not a threat. You were more of a throw-your-handbag-then-run-away-yelling, “Street Smarts” than a hand-gesture-like-Neo-while-screaming, “Come Get A Taste” kinda girl.

The elderly Chinese woman had dismissed you to the care of a group of guards with a full-on bad guy monologue. “The rest of your life does not promise to be pleasant, but it is up to you how you will be treated while you are my guest. Obey my simple rules and you will have the freedom of this room, you will be allowed to watch television and have access to bathing facilities. Your meals will be brought to you and if you are a well-behaved guest, you will be treated as such.

"However, if you get any ideas about escaping, then of course you will be returned to this chair and these bindings. Tell me, child, have you a preference?”

“I will behave until Billy comes for me,” you said, chin raised proudly. “You’re right, I am absolutely no threat, but Billy…he allows himself to care for very few people. You have the misfortune to be holding one of them as an honored but unwilling guest. Let’s hope the insane obsession of an off-balance woman scorned is worth the trouble it will bring to your door.”

Madame Gao smiled condescendingly. “I think we will be able to manage a few toy soldiers, child. Do not worry about my health when yours is in so much more peril.”

Billy smiled tensely at Matt. “What the hell do you mean, man?”

“I mean,” Matt bit out, “that woman may physically be your girlfriend, but somehow, that’s not who is currently inside her.”

Billy was dumbfounded. He knew of Matt’s alter ego and therefore understood that Matt had talents and powers far beyond his experience, but for there to be a completely different person inside your body? The same body, incidentally, that he had been inside on countless occasions?

“Matt,” Billy bit out a moment later, “man, I can’t wrap my head around this. You saying there are two people inside her?”

“No, Billy,” Matt replied ominously. “She’s completely gone.”

Madani figured she should stop staring holes into the back of Billy’s head and mingle a bit. She’d met Karen and Sarah before, albeit in a rather interrogate-y way, but still – she figured she could handle small talk with them.

Madani walked over to the edge of the group of friends and edged in until she was next to Karen.

Karen turned to her a bit and gave her a one-armed hug. “So glad you got here! Boys are so dumb, right?”

“Tell me about it!” Madani replied with an exasperated smile. “I feel like such a dunce, I left your present at home!”

Karen waved her concern away. “You don’t need to get me a present, silly! I just want to celebrate with all my friends.”

“Still,” Madani said ruefully, “happy birthday!”

And there was silence. And it was not good.

Frank cleared his throat. “Ah, we’re celebrating Karen’s book deal, kiddo! Did you pre-game some white wine before you got here?” he joked.

Madani was mortified.

Karen laughed. “Oh, you goofball!” she announced. “This is an old joke, like Frosty the Snowman, we say 'Happy Birthday’ for everything!"

Billy and Matt had returned to the group in time to hear Karen blatantly lie to help fake-you save face.

William Russo had seen a lot of things. He’d been to war, he’d killed men, he’d seen his friends die – hell, he’d almost had his own ticket punched more than a few times. But he had never, never experienced a horror so visceral before in his life.

You had never had an enemy in your life. Hell, when he’d first met you he’d been suspicious as hell, not believing anyone could be so goddamn nice. But the more he got to know you, the more he realized you were simply a caring, kind individual.

And you would have to have one hell of a case of amnesia to forget one of your dearest friend’s birthday.

"Karen, I am so sorry, but I just got word that I have to go into work,” Billy said regretfully. “And I really hate to say it, but I need my team.”

Frank, David and Curtis all groaned at that announcement, but they knew that Billy wouldn’t disrupt something like this for no reason.

“I’m really sorry, Karen” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “I’m so proud of you. I promise I’ll make it up to you.’

Karen hugged him back, whispering, "What is going on?”

“Dunno,” Billy whispered back, knowing she was talking about you. “Gotta find out.”

Billy needed confirmation before he left. He walked over to fake-you and said, “Sorry, lovebug,” knowing that you absolutely loathed that particular term of endearment. He leaned over to kiss her cheek, feeling the anger rolling off fake-you in waves. “Can you get home OK?”

Madani almost snapped at him, but judging by the nauseating nickname knew that you wouldn’t respond that way. “Of course,” she said sweetly.

Billy stood and waited expectantly for a moment, but you never told him to be safe.

You always told him to be safe when he had to go on a job.

By the time the four of them had gathered at Bastion’s office, Billy had pulled his shit together, but there was still a part of him that was reeling. He’d seen a lot in his time on this green earth, but nothing else had come close to this shit.

“What the hell, Bill?” Frank growled as he entered the conference room at Bastion.

Usually the richly appointed room made Billy feel a sense of pride. This was where he brought new clients to discuss their needs with the team. It was a combination of high tech and dark wood, the perfect blend of science and class that said that the company was competent and successful. Now, he could have been sitting in a junkyard for all he cared. “Brother, I’m so sorry to fuck up Karen’s party –"

"That ain’t what I’m talking about, Bill,” Frank interrupted as Curtis and David entered the room.

“I think he means, what the hell is wrong with your girl?” Curtis said quietly.

Billy’s shoulders sagged as his chin hit his chest in defeat. “I wish I knew,” he said quietly, then looked up. “Matt said – he said that there’s someone else inside her? I mean, what the fuck does that even mean?”

Frank whistled. “Matt’s seen some shit,” he commented quietly. “Nightmare shit.”

Billy slammed his hand onto the conference table he leaned against. “What, like some voodoo shit?"

"Ancient Chinese mysticism, actually,” Matt said from the doorway.

Billy jerked to attention. Frank, Curtis and David spun to face Matt and saw two people with him: a young man with curly blonde hair and a young Asian woman.

“This is Danny Rand and Colleen Wing,” Matt announced. “This is Billy Russo, Frank Castle, Curtis Hoyle and David Lieberman. Billy’s girlfriend is the one I was telling you about.”

Billy was quiet for a moment. The girl was Asian, but the white kid? “Ah, pleasure to meet you. But what exactly do you bring to the table?” he asked bluntly.

“I am the Immortal Iron Fist.”

You had been pacing your chamber pretty much non-stop. It was decorated nicely in soothing shades of blue and was much homier than a hotel and certainly better than a dungeon. Knowing that it was your prison didn’t make you appreciate the color scheme, pleasant or not. They could hang silk curtains on the windows, but it didn’t change the fact that there were also bars.

This was so not your thing. Billy probably would have found a way to weaponize the TV remote or built a bazooka out of a toilet tissue tube by now, but aside from making bandages out of the embroidered pillow covers, your DIY skills were strictly decorative.

You had no idea how long you were to be a guest, either. Knowing that your stay would most likely end with either the man you loved more than life or you dead or critically wounded didn’t make you anxious to end your forced vacation with the elderly Asian woman and her silent minions.

“It sounds as though she has been placed under a spell which removes her soul with her body and replaces it with that of another person,” Danny said. “How long has this been going on?”

Billy scrubbed his face with his hand, utterly heartsick and defeated by the situation. “This morning. It was like she was a different person from the second she woke up.” He laughed humorously. “Little did I know she was literally a different person.”

Danny traded a look with Colleen. “There are only a few people in the world that could cast a spell like that, and most of them are in K'un-Lun.”

“What, now?” David sputtered in amazement. “I’m sorry, but are we really talking spells and and and magic? I mean, I know that there are things out there that we can’t explain but –”

“This is not the time to have 'The Talk’ about the world being larger than you know, David,” Matt said harshly. “Our friend is missing.”

“Shit,” Billy hissed as the pain of those words, resisting the need to double over from the gut punch they brought. “She’s missing. Jesus.”

Curtis clapped a hand on Billy’s shoulder and said, “We’re gonna get her back, man.”

“Damn straight,” Frank swore.

You were being punished. Apparently trying to keep the plastic knife from your dinner was not acceptable. You didn’t even know what the hell you were going to do with it; for Christ’s sake, you had literally fallen over when you got your toe stuck in the elastic while putting on your underwear the other day! Still, you felt like you should at least try.

“What did you hope to accomplish?” Madame Gao snapped at you disapprovingly, almost as if she was addressing a naughty child.

You chuckled bitterly. “I honestly don’t know. I just feel wrong sitting here waiting for the man I love to be murdered by his crazy ex-girlfriend while she’s wearing my body like a Halloween costume,” you railed, beginning to cry. “Why are you helping her?”

“She has pledged herself to me for this favor,” Madame Gao said stiffly.

You scoffed. “I guess that shouldn’t surprise me. She practically whored herself out when she worked for Homeland, why wouldn’t she sell her soul, too?”

“You should mind your tongue,” Madame Gao warned.

“Or what?” you sneered. “You’ll kill me? If you let her kill Billy, I don’t really care what happens to me.”

“You hold your life cheap.”

“I don’t. I just hold Billy’s more dear.”

“He wronged my new apprentice,” she said imperiously.

You laughed bitterly at that. “He outplayed your apprentice,” you spat. “She used sex to get information out of Billy and found out he played her back. She just can’t accept that he outsmarted her.”

She stiffened. “Perhaps your information is untrustworthy.”

“Yeah, maybe,” you countered. “But what if it’s yours that’s wrong?”

She paused as if pondering your words and then turned to leave, stopping at the door to say, “Since you cannot be trusted with eating utensils, you will not be allowed them for future meals. If there are any more incidents of pointless defiance such as this, you will be given neither utensils nor food. Do I make myself clear?”

“Abundantly,” you answered coldly.

She nodded once, looking at you consideringly for a moment before turning to leave without another word.

You waited until she was gone to sob in earnest.

“How the hell do we find out what we’re dealing with here?” Billy asked.

“Or who, for that matter,” Matt said. “Who hates you enough to do something like this, Bill? Crazy ex?”

Billy exchanged a look with Frank. “Do you think?” he began.

Frank shook his head in disbelief. “She really hates you, that I know.”

“Who are we talking about?” David demanded. Then, as if struck with the knowledge, he blurted, “Wait, Madani?”

“Hold up, you sayin’ you think a Homeland agent did this?” Curtis said in amazement.

Billy was shaking his head in disbelief. “She lost her job when all the shit went down. You think she’d go this far off the rails, Frank?”

“Hell hath no fury, brother.”

You laid awake, trying to think of something, anything you could do to escape.

Had Billy even missed you yet? Was Madani playing some sick mind games with him? God, had she seduced him? You wouldn’t blame Billy of course – hell, as far as he knew, you were you.

You’d had moments of insecurity when you had first gotten together, of course. Billy was an absolutely stunning man: physically breathtaking, intelligent and charming. He had been around the block so many times you were surprised that the city of New York hadn’t renamed it in his honor.

And that was exactly what he had told you. You had been sitting next to each other on your sofa watching a movie together when he had asked you what was wrong.

“I just…Billy, you’ve been with so many women. How am I ever gonna be enough?”

He smiled sweetly and kissed your nose. “Sweetheart, I have never been a guy to settle down, and yeah, I’ve had my share of sex. I’m not gonna pretend that I don’t know I’m hot. I can get laid pretty much any time I want.”

“Wow, thanks for this pep talk,” you muttered sarcastically.

Billy had smiled at your snark. “So, doesn’t the fact that I want to be only with you tell you that I’m only gonna be with you?”

You’d thought about it for a minute. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“Damn right.”

“Probably doesn’t hurt that Frank and Matt would castrate you if you cheated on me, either,” you’d said with a wicked grin.

“There’s my girl,” he’d said with a chuckle.

You came back to the present, even though you’d so much rather stay wrapped in the warmth of your memories with Billy.

From what you had been told, you didn’t expect to come out of this alive. If you did and Billy had slept with Madani, well, you would forgive him. But, goddamn, you really wished you knew what that crazy bitch’s game was.

And you really hoped Billy realized that she wasn’t you.

Danny and Colleen needed to gather some spell components of their own to divine what magic had been used, and Matt had gone off to see if he could drum up any leads on Hand activities. Billy, Frank and Curtis had changed into combat gear, ready to go at a moment’s notice, while David was digging into Madani’s affairs as deeply as he could.

Billy had been pacing the floor, so much nervous energy that he felt like he was about to lift off.

“Hey, I think I got something!” David called out.

Billy dashed over to where David was peering into his computer screen. “What?”

“I picked up a video of her leaving her apartment a few months ago and have been running a GAIT tracer on her like how I found Frank.”

“And?” Billy said impatiently.

“And she’s been going in and out of this building every day for the last few weeks, until yesterday. She went in and hasn’t come back out.”

“Micro, you brilliant son of a bitch, I could kiss you!” Billy yelled. “Frank, get on the horn with Matt, tell him to get Rand and Wing back here. We have an op to plan.”

You awoke with a start. It was still pitch dark in your room and you didn’t hear so much as a whisper of breath or shuffle of fabric.

“Who’s there?” you said quietly, hating the waver in your voice.

“It would seem I have misjudged you,” the disembodied voice of the elderly woman. “I saw nothing to inspire such hatred in you, but neither did I see the potential for you to inspire such love, either.”

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” you asked, attempting to peer into the darkness and see her.

“You have friends in high places. And I underestimated your toy soldier,” she said, voice almost fading away at the end.

“Billy? Is Billy here?” you asked frantically, but there was no answer, and when you scrambled out of bed and over to the light switch, you were alone in the room.

But the door was slightly open.

You crept out into the hallway, terrified but not missing the opportunity to sneak out. As you moved away from your room, you began to hear what sounded like a fight – and then you heard a gunshot.

“Where is she?” you heard Billy scream.

“Billy!!” you yelled as loud as you could, moving toward the sound of his voice.

You reached a room at the end of the hallway where there was what could only be called a battle in progress. Billy, Frank, Daredevil?, a blonde kid you didn’t recognize and an Asian woman were fighting the elderly Asian woman’s guards, Billy and Frank slashing madly with knives while Curtis stayed behind them with a rifle.

You stayed back so that you couldn’t be used against them by being a human shield, but not running to Billy and being quiet so you didn’t distract them was the hardest thing you had ever done.

Finally, the last of the guards dropped and you stepped out of hiding so Billy could see you.

Billy looked at you and you nodded, ready to face your abductor.

“Honey, I’m home,” Billy called out as he entered your shared apartment.

Madani jumped up from where she had been sitting on the couch waiting for Billy to return. “It’s after 3, where the hell have you been?” she asked angrily.

“Aww honeybunch, were you worried about me?” Billy said with what almost seemed to Madani like…sarcasm?

Just then there was a brief knock followed by Frank, Curtis and Micro letting themselves in.

“Oh, hey, I told the guys you’d make us something to eat,” Billy said with a big smile. “You don’t mind, do ya Buttercup?”

Madani narrowed her eyes and bit her tongue.

“Billy, you know how much I hate sappy pet names like that,” you said in Madani’s voice.

Billy’s voice was cold as he, Curtis and Frank all pulled guns on faux-you. “Don’t move, Madani,” he growled.

“Yeah,” you said as she watched her tiny body emerge from behind the large men. “He won’t kill that body, but I told him it was OK to put a couple bullet holes in discreetly.”

Behind you was Daredevil, of all people, and a blond kid that looked slightly familiar.

Madani looked over at Billy and sneered, “I really didn’t think you were smart enough to figure this out at all, let alone in one day.”

“That’s funny, I always gave you credit for being smart enough to do some investigating before running into a situation,” he said with an icy smile. “I knew something was up before I even opened my eyes this morning.”

You watched Madani’s hateful expression on your face and said, “Damn, babe, do I look that ugly when I’m mad at you or is she just radiating her inner bitch that much?”

“All her, hon,” Billy replied with a small smile.

“In that case, I think it’s time we put her inner bitch back in her outer bitch, don’t you?”

Danny had performed the ritual to return you to your body and then had taken Madani with him, saying he would take her to a place called K'un-Lun to be tried for using dark magic. He assured you that you would never have to worry about Madani coming after either of you for misdirected revenge again.

You had taken a hot shower after they had gone and had been so relieved to feel your own skin, scars and cellulite that you almost cried. But what actually did make you cry in the shower was the fact that while you could tell he was happy to have you back, Billy had made no move to kiss you or touch you in any way.

Had Madani ruined what you had with Billy?

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in a towel, hair dripping down your back and shoulders as you stared into space.

“Hon?” Billy said gently, standing right in front of you. He knelt before you and ran his thumbs over your cheeks. “I’m so sorry this happened to you because of me. I know you’re probably furious with me –”

“What?” you interrupted, surprised. “I’m not mad at you, love.”

“I understand if you are,” he whispered, not meeting your eyes.

“William, look at me,” you said firmly. When his big brown eyes met yours, you saw pain and fear in their depths. “I don’t blame you for this.”

“How can you not?” he whispered.

“Hey,” you said, “this is on that crazy bitch, not you.”

“I brought this home to you. I should have never gotten involved with you, you’re too g–”

You grabbed his hair and pulled him into a kiss, silencing him and showing him how wrong he was. When you pulled apart you were both panting.

“William Russo, I never want to hear you say you aren’t good enough or you shouldn’t be with me, because I love you more than anyone else in the world.” You leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose, then gently said, “So shut the hell up, OK?”

Billy grinned. “Yes, ma'am.”

“You knew before you even opened your eyes, huh?” you asked, part shy and somehow part smug.

Billy chuckled. “Yeah, she might have stolen your body, but she could never be you. You’re beautiful physically, yes, but your inner beauty shines brighter than anything,” he said almost reverently. “So, yeah, I knew something was wrong right away, because your touch just radiates love, and that was missing.”

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Billy,” you whispered,caressing his beard.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Honey, you were the one in danger! I don’t know what I would do without you.”

You threw yourself into Billy’s arms. “You never have to find out,” you said. Then you kissed him and you held one another until you fell asleep wrapped around each other, both thankful to be together and safe.

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