#like. imagine Silver and Red making a surprise for Maroon

[beeholyshit]

🐞 Big and young brother 🍂

Red already knew Silver but I feel like they didn't talk that much because Silver is not the best when it comes to meet new people, maybe in the past when they first met he only said 'hi' and knew things about Red from Green when she talked about him and Blue. In the other hand I believe that when Red first met Silver didn't try to bother him because Silver seemed too shy so he only tried to be nice and be there if he needed someone, he didn't want to let him behind so he always tried to keep an eye on him and keel him integrated into the group.

But at some point It was going to be inevitable that Red has to talk with Maroon years later about all the Giovanni thing since she can't keep that as a secret from him forever, even less after so many years she finally finds out that Silver was her baby too in some way.

I believe that at first for Silver it was kinda uncormfortable, after all he wasn't used to having a FAMILY (at least a complete and good one), all he had in the past was Pryce, Lance and Green and to be honest, the only one that really care deeply about him was Green who is like a sister to him, they support each other through the years too they didn't have anyone until Green finds her parents and Silver well... That's the other thing, when he finds out that Maroon was going to marry his father many years ago and was the one to take care of him before the ice mask thing... It was sureal, and in the other hand, Red being his brother now... I think Silver felt bad for all the things Giovanni made, especially the things he did to Red in the past because he was now living with him and it was kinda awkward for him to be now in thay situation if you know what I mean (my father tried to kill you haha).

Now on Red's side, I know Red after knowing all Maroon's past, all the things that happened and everything, he felt overwhelmed and It makes sense, too much things his mom was keeping in secret from him for so long would make him feel like that but It was a conversation both of them needed and Red knows that, and he really try to understand his mom, no matter what he loves her with all his heart and she loves him too, that's why she didn't want to tell him all this before when he was too young, he knew that so he tried to be as supportive as he could. He was supportive when she decided to marry Clear because he loves to see her happy and if having her other son back in her life makes her happy then he is going to be there for her and for him, and knowing It was Silver I think he felt ankward at first too, he didn't want him to feel guilty for the things Giovanni did, Red only wanted to make him part of the family even if it was hard.

I believe that Red was super supportive with Silver, after all he is his little brother and he loves him with all his heart, maybe the first months were kinda awkward, Silver not used to so much love and attention and Red not sure how to have better communication but I think Crystal would help them a lot, she is like a sunshine I love that little baby too, I must make a post about her and Maroon tomorrow but now it's time to sleeo mimimi

[moonlightwritesdisney]

YOU. — Wyatt Lykensen

Pairing: Wyatt Lykensen X FEMALE! READER

Requested: Yes / No

Warnings: vulgar swearing. descriptions of blood. unhealthy behavior. mentions of rape.

Author’s Note: please note that you (the reader) and wyatt are both adults in this image. Just to clear up any confusion!

Summary: The first time he saw you he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. He follows you everywhere. He gets jealous when he sees you invite a friend over for old times sake. Things go way to far. You will be his.

HE ALLOWED THE LOUD CHATTER and birds song in the bright summer square of ZombieTown to be slowly drowned out by all his pulsing thoughts. He stood in the distance observing you. Out of all the people that passed by blocking his view, he kept his hard eye on you.

 The way your soft brunette curls laid untouched just inches away from your descending chest. Echoes of your honey dripping laugh rang through his twitching ears. The jealously and anger only grew worse.

Unbeknownst to you, not aware of the wolf watching you had just finished a few hours of shopping, you were making your way down towards the central parking just by ZombieTown’s large water fountain before you were stopped by an old school friend — who was male. 

He was so surprised to see, he complimented you and watched you laugh in sweetness. Both of you stood their for at least 20 minutes catching up on old burnt out memories he was trying to re-flame. He could read your mind. He felt the same as you. He knew you were uncomfortable and wanted to make a fast escape. You didn’t trust this guy but.

“Hey uhm- i was actually wondering if you’d like to have dinner and a movie tonight?” Was this guy serious? After a twenty minute conversation?! You weren’t one to be rude because of your passive personality. “Oh — uhm sure! I’d like that. I’ll be there at seven o’clock”.

 And with that you were off and on your way home. Wyatt watched as you retreated towards the silver Cadillac you owned in the parking lot. He watched all around him. He glared at the young man who was walking the opposite way. That dumb human. He couldn’t stand a chance against him.

Nonetheless, he knew you’d be his one day. He’d let you have the little amount of happiness this human could spare for a while. He’d imagine you helpless crying and running straight into his arms. The way your head laid on his shoulder while he rubbed your back in a calming manner.

 Leaving little kisses on our neck when he was in the mood, the warm feeling of both your sweaty bodies pressed together in pure erotic euphoria. Tingles ran down his spine as he imagines your soft smile in his mind. His heart raced at the thought of your body. Every curve and edge. All the imperfections you could name he’d find absolutely exhilarating.

“Hey man, curfew’s almost up you have to leave”. Another voice snapped him out of deep personal thoughts, he eyed a stern looking officer dressed in a blue SeaBrook uniform, who was very tired and just wanted to go home. He nodded his way respectfully and exited the shopping plaza. The walk to your house wasn’t long. 

The city had separate ZombieTown’s main housing and shopping lot so you had to drive at least a small distance to venture for a desired shopping day. He had taken the path towards your small apartment plenty of times, along with being a wolf came with advanced speed so he made due time. The sky swirled with light pinks and oranges making a beautiful sunset in the small town.

The crunching of grass under his feet made his anxious as he took a deep breathe, his footsteps became silent in worries of you discovering him. He stood calmly in your background his ears twitching hearing you humming to yourself softly — he figured you were in the shower getting ready for you date.

A scoff left his red lips in jealousy, he hated that it wasn’t him. ‘in due time’. He thought to himself confidently as he caught attention to light fogs of steam arising from the running shower. Now, Wyatt was no prude but he absolutely couldn’t resist. His curious brown eyes peered above the brick ledge.

A gasp hitched in his throat. His heart could explode at any moment. Their you stood, pampering yourself in the shower. Looking ever so beautiful. The water dripping down your pale dark skin. Your green textured hair soaking up the moisture from the water. 

He bit down on his lip as goosebumps shot up his back. You were marvelous. Your beautiful voice flowing through his ears as you sung. His eyes grew yellow, his animalistic nature taking full control. Fangs flashed from his mouth.

He tightened his fist in frustration. He wanted to take you right then and there. ‘All mine’. He thought as he found himself skewing up dirty — unholy images in his mind of him senselessly fucking you, clinging to him as you screamed his name. He knew it was wrong. The tightening he felt in his boxers was painful. Too painful to even bear. He wanted you, every inch. 

To him you were everything. All his. After having to agonize through his painful boner he regained composure after zipping up his pale brown pants and moved stalkingly towards the right his eyes casting view into your bedroom window, the soft white shades slightly parted allowing him to see through.

Different collages and pictures of close friends and things you adored plastered all over your walls. Small shelves that held small knickknacks and small plants lightly attracting ray of sunlight bent at the wall. Your bed, freshly made with the soft maroon red and pillows with the dark hues of blue designed with golden tassels laid neatly, untouched.

 You were somewhat messy, but very articulate and decorative. Which he adored. Small white bookshelves filled to the end with large literature of your liking. Pushed up against your light grey accent wall. Posters and cute pieces of art made by yourself were taped just above your bed post.

He adored your room. It was full of positivity, light, and all things that you adored. The sweet vanilla and shea scent from your body streamed into his nose like a running river. Licking his lips in anticipation he closed his eyes and exhaled your delectable scent. 

You walks into the small atmosphere the cold air hitting your bare legs, missing the warmth of the water and steam capture your body in a relaxing shower. It was a sewer green like color to which your full cheeks spread into a large smile ‘perfect’.

After reaching for a pair of distressed and ripped jeans that you had seen in the corner of your eye you pulled down the chain to your light which shut off you quickly threw your clothing on your bed and sat down on the edge freeing the sparkling red cap on your lotion squeezing the lotion onto your hand. 

It smelt amazing, ever since zombies had fought for more equality from the humans. Zombies from everywhere where now able to walk into any store much to the similar human version of their Victoria Secret and others. To which they could by all sorts of cute lipglosses, lotions, night wear, and clothing. The sweet deep smell of cinnamon and rose entered your nostrils as you rubbed the lotion into your calves working your way up to the top of your thighs.

The black pupils widened in arousel and wonder as he stared into the inside of your window without your knowledge — your hands slowly rubbing the white substance on the curve of your plush butt. He was awe stricken, so captivated by the goddess he had known as you. His heart thumped wildly in his chest he couldn’t get enough of you.

 Your finger pulled up the red belt loops of the maroon jeans your legs fitted around, securing the gold buttons of your jeans into the red holes in front. You sighed and fumbled with the thin green fabric you scrunched up the material and pushed your head through, then your arms.

You stood in front of the large white rimmed body mirror that leaned against the back wall with a cute colorful tapestry laid over it with pictures of close friends and fun stickers plastered on the corners of the glass. You loved the way your outfit looked. You felt very satisfied. A huge smile spread across your cheeks. The left of your head swung towards the opening crack of your door — the ring of your front doorbell. 

You drowned in confusion, your eyes reached over to read the square alarm clock on your night side table. ‘6:24’. ‘He is only twenty minutes early’. Which you thought was very weird. You had just met back with your old elementary friend hours ago , and only after having a seemingly awkward conversation for twenty minutes you agree to go on a date but he’s twenty minutes early?!

You pondered at the all the possibilities as to why he suggested this. But nonetheless you shook the feeling away and picking up your towel placing it in your pale green clothing hamper. Stepping out of your room and down into the wide hallway your fingers wrapped around the chilling gold door handle and yanked it open.

 There he stood, bouncing eagerly on his toes. His hair slicked back with hair spray, the clothing he wore was doused with heavy calogne — the foul heavy smell of the body spray stung at your nose the second you opened your front door. Which was something you didn’t find attractive at all. The wide smile he wore seemed like it was too toiled. Like he was trying to hard. His clothes. Ew.

He wore a bright blue and white plaid buttoned, with a black lambskin jacket over it unbuttoned, dark blue low waisted jeans and light brown flats. Yikes. How human of him. You absolutely hated what he was wearing. You knew he was being desperate. You could see it in his body language and his expression. You spotted bright red roses — in front of him you would have scoffed and sent him away.

 If he truly remembered you he would have remembered you like sunflowers instead of basic red roses. How bland. But instead, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. You knew the crippling and heart breaking sorrow of rejection, you were a zombie of course so being cast out was something you knew all to well. Instead you tilted your head to the side and forced your cheeks into a great smile.

“Are these flowers for me?” You asked clasping your hands together. He looked down then up at your a small smirk plastering on his thin lips — ‘ABSOLUTELY NOT SIR PLEASE GOD SO DISGUSTING’. These thoughts screamed in your mind as you watched him with pure unattractive as his licked his lips “yes they are actually”.

 He said with a very man-ly chuckle “they reminded me of you so I picked them up at the zombie market in town on my way here”. As if this dude wasn’t trying hard enough. He truly had to glamorize the fact that he picked the flowers up at a zombie store instead of the regular human one. So he was racist and trying to hard. Great. You let out an awkward laugh and stepped aside allowing him in before the air became filled with his disgusting aroma.

You had retrieved the flowers from his hand and immediately threw them carelessly on the counter. He didn’t question it but instead following closely behind you. ‘I’ll burn them later’. You thought with a pleasing smirk that played on your face. He had already sat down in your living space his flats sprawled on the floor and his feet kicked up on your glass coffee table. Dog behavior. You rolled your eyes he was stupid and too dumb to even understand basic manners.

 Football was playing on your small flat screen, you had taken a seat next to him your feet flat on the floor, your toes curling in the soft plush carpet. “Would you like something to drink?” you asked politely, the man turned his attention towards you, a curl in his lip “hm sure, the finest wine you’ve got?” He requested you stood up and went into the small kitchen opening the oak cabinet next to the sink you had set both wine glasses down on the marble countertop. 

The dark brown hues in your eyes scanned out the closed window above your sink watching the bright pink sky combine with beautiful colors of orange and red cascading over the oval clouds. You twisted the cork out of the bottle of white wine you had just bought from ‘Z’s Gruesome Groceriez” in ZombieTown. 

You wondered if this human had tasted zombie issued wine before, since well zombie wine was a lot more bitter than regular human liquor / wine. It had a hint of brains. You shrugged with a ‘hmp’. ‘He’s too dumb to even notice anyway’.

After filling both glasses to the half point you held both of them in your hands and carefully walked back into the living room where the human sat on your white leather couch his eyes and full attention soaking into the fourth quarter and a fumbling ball. 

You cleared your throat to catch his attention, he smiled towards you and took the wine glass from your right hand and thanked you focusing his content back on the television. “So .. what are you doing for work now?” you asked trying to break the awkward tension to which he perked up after taking a small sip and setting it down.

 “Oh well I’d never thought you’d ask, I work as SeaBrook patrolman, you?” You ignored the sting in your gut “I work as a journalist and a proud activist for the Zombie’s and Werewolves’ against discrimination movement, or ZAWAD, it supports the bright culture of both werewolves and zombies and brings everyone together. 

We try to unite the communities in SeaBrook instead of pushing away and we absolutely do try our best too peacefully speak our thoughts and have mindful conversations without violence.” 

You spoke proudly watching his intense expression burn into your eyes. He nodded slowly and pursed his lips which confused you nonetheless you still tried to ignore the screaming inside your head and gut ‘make him leave’. ‘this is going to end badly’. Chills scattered down your back in anxiousness.

 “That’s interesting and ... very sexy actually, your very passionate about it i can tell”. You internally cringed at that word coming out of his mouth. ‘Sexy’. He definitely wanted something, and it wasn’t a genuine conversation. You froze with disgust his nimble tender cold fingers resting on your knee. “oh uhm, thanks i guess”.

 You spoke trying to give him the hint, you weren’t interested even  if he was the last person on earth you wouldn’t. His hand inched closer towards your inner thigh a evil smirk plastered on his face. “god your so sexy”. He then leaned his lips towards yours capturing you in his grasp. You didn’t give an inch, you squealed in protest.

 You moved your arms to his biceps and tried to push him way from you , he refused now he was on top of you. His rough calloused hands slide up towards your collarbone, you groaned in anger “can you please just stop-- STOP!”  You shouted, his breathe was hot against your neck his left hand slide up towards your neck and pressed down onto your windpipe. 

You gasped gritting your teeth, you used your right hand to try and push him off but his strength held your arm down. You felt helpless, weak, worthless to know that you had somehow allowed this disgusting being to get ahold of you. That is, until you felt him grasping the metal of your Z-band. 

You knew that taking it off could potentially be a very dangerous action, which was only to be taken off in emergencies only. This was a very big problem and it needed to be stopped. His hand gripped the clasp of your band, you felt the dark veins pulsating throughout your body. 

Using the strength to lift your left hand which caused a small chime from your Z-band to sound, it unclasped from you wrist and fell somewhere on the floor. In just a few seconds the light around your eyes had turned a deep purple cracks plunging from under them. A low growl erupted from your stomach then submerged to your throat. 

The man felt you vibrate from below him, he had suddenly noticed you had changed. He gasped and stood up as you growled and snarled, you inched closer towards him as he took steps back defensively. “Stay the hell away from me you bitch!” He shouted sternly but the anger was hot and boiling inside of you. 

Turning into a zombie was something you couldn’t control. It was coded in your genes. Once your Z-band was ripped from you the monster took over inside you, just as it did for anyone. Your vision had turned completely red. The low grumbles and growling roared within you, this is what you were. A monster, and damn, were you proud of it. 

You stepped closer to the cowering man as he flared his arms towards you, which unfortunately, only agitated you more. In this moment you were gone, the zombie inside you was controlling you, and you smelt fear. Which was a bad thing. “Your a waste of human life”. Your normal quiet spoken speech had transformed into a lower deep growl. Using your zombie strength you grabbed the human by his leather collar and bite deeply into his neck, the loud scream leaving the dry of his throat. 

The blood seeped out of his neck like a river, you lifted him to meet eyes with a demon like growl “next time you better stop”. You seethed before letting him drop to the ground, the now scared human scrambled towards his feet holding the gushing wound his hand covered in red. He disappeared out of the living space and out of your life forever. Or at least you hoped he did. Grunting you walked over towards the crack between the couch and the pale wall, getting on your hands and knees you reach down for the metal bracelet. 

After securing it in your grasp you immediately push the clasps together around you wrist. ‘Online’. You let a content sigh slumping back beside the wall the dark veins in your arms slowly recoiled from your arms and legs. Your back ached and your head pounded. The sweet tasting blood of the humans still resting on your lips and along your cheeks. 

Finally, after about a few seconds you steadily returned to your feet. Ignoring the few blood spatters that were now fresh on the floor. ‘I’ll clean it up later”. You let a deep sigh release from your lips as you picked up the two wine glasses and brought them to the kitchen and discarded of the waste in the sink. 

You were fashioned in the bathroom taking a warm cloth and bringing it towards your face wiping off the dried blood. You sucked in a breathe the sound of your beating heart filling your ears. You didn’t feel at all ashamed for what you had done. That bastard human deserved it.

 The overbearing of your anxiety flared, you were worried you might get in huge trouble, since unfortunately, the human is never to blame. You had gone to bed that night in hopes for a better day the next morning -- the only problem was, he saw everything.   

[a-edgar-allan-hoe]

The Last Chthonian

Bucky x Reader, Sam x Reader, Zemo x Reader

Part 8

A/N: Part 8 is here lovelies! Let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list! 🖤🔮🖤

Summary: Imagine being Hekate, the Greek goddess of magic and witchcraft, the night and the moon, doorways and crossroads, creatures of the night, and ghosts and necromancy. You stumbled upon Earth many centuries ago and since then have resided on the foreign planet. During the recent years you created an alias for yourself to hide your true identity, and after the war against Thanos you chose to live out your days in the Scottish countryside, until a certain trio appear at your doorstep one day.

Warnings: language

You and Zemo had sat there in silence in the green house for quite some time, watching the rain slowly die down. And though your eyes were focused on the rain, Zemo’s would occasionally leave the windows to glance at your profile, studying the features of your face and the scar that ran down your eye. It was then he noticed that you had a few others, like the smaller ones across your nose, eyebrow, and lip. These weren’t as prominent as the long one you had, they were older and starting to fade. Your cup was already empty while you stared out the glass windows. Your thoughts still dwelled on what Zemo had said to you earlier. As the sun’s rays started to peek out over the horizon, you let out a sigh, standing up as you did so. You needed to go outside and clear your mind.

“If you’ll excuse me. I should get dressed.” You spoke before leaving the glass room, your robe and nightgown flowing behind you as you went. Zemo watched you leave before getting up, taking the tray of the empty cups with him as he decided to get himself dressed as well.

You went back to your room to take a quick shower before grabbing some clothes from your closet to pack up. You threw on a black mock neck sweater and a pair of dark charcoal grey tweed pants along with your grey plaid blazer that had a black velvet collar. You stopped at your dresser and stared down at the intricate silver metal box that was tucked away in one of the drawers. You pulled it out, your fingers tracing along the floral and vine engraving before opening it. Inside the blue velvet lined box sat a silver necklace. Pulling the necklace out, you laid the pendant in the palm of your hand, it was a little crystal ball filled with tiny stars that had a silver tetrahedron point attached to the bottom of the sphere.

Your mother Asteria had given you this. Her being the goddess of shooting stars and nighttime divination such as oneiromancy and astrology, she had made this pendant for you and filled it with her favorite stars. And engraved on the bottom silver point were the words ‘For my favorite star of all. Love, your mother.’ Your heart sank at the words. She had made you this when you were little, to help you with your nightmares and when you had trouble sleeping. All you had to do was spin the sphere and watch the tiny night sky and shooting stars that were captured in it, and soon you would be fast asleep. The only reason you hadn’t used it, was because you would see your mother in your dreams. And though she had made it where she would be there to provide words of comfort, you couldn’t bear seeing her without breaking into tears. Wiping away the tear that slipped down your cheek you decided to put the necklace on anyways, looking in the mirror as it hung delicately under your collarbone, sparkling against the light in your room.

Lacing up your black docs and throwing your hair up in a braided low bun, you went downstairs and decided to head out to the stables as your dogs followed you out. You stopped by the kitchens on your way out, grabbing a big bag of some krystállinomílos, vegetables and a variety of peppers. You grabbed a few pieces of meat and tossed some to your dogs, laughing as they chowed it down eagerly. “I’ll be back pups.” After you exited the back entrance to your home and approached the stables, a smile broke out on your face as you saw your dark dappled grey Pegasus munching on some oats. Once she saw you she neighed in excitement, jumping around in her stall and stretching out her stormy grey wings.

“Thýella!” You beamed, stroking her forehead as you nuzzled your face against hers. “O pós mou leípeis! (Oh how I’ve missed you!)” You had always admired her and had her since you were but a small child back in Olympus. Zeus had given her to you on your birthday when she was merely a foal and you had named her Thýella, which translated to tempest since she reminded you of a storm. Her muzzle was black and faded to a grey as it went up her forehead. Her mane was jet black, and her tail started as black before fading to a white. Her body was a stormy grey with lighter colored spots throughout her coat before fading into black on her legs, save for her left legs that had a bit of white near her hooves.

“Páme gia mia vólta (Let’s go for a walk).” You told her as you set up her saddle and her reins before hoisting yourself on her back. You exited the stable, strolling through the green of your land as you headed towards the bigger stable you had. Getting off Thýella, you held her reins you stepped into the larger stable. As you peered into the wooden stalls you saw your dragon, his black, maroon red, and dark magenta scales rising and falling as he slept in his stall next to the pile of trinkets he has collected. You smiled once you saw him, he was a gift from your uncle Hades and you had him since he was a wee little dragon in his egg.

You creeped closer, hiding behind his stall before jumping out and scaring him. “Kólasi!”

Kólasi jolted awake, knocking his big horned head into the side of the stall before shaking it off. He stared at you with confusion in his fiery eyes, watching you giggle like you used to when you played with him as a child. He was surprised to see you here at first before squinting his large eyes at you and letting out a disgruntled huff as he turned his head away from you with his snout pointed in the air.

“Oh come on.” You teased. “Min eísai étsi (don’t be like that).” You stepped closer to him, stretching over to look in his eyes only to make him huff again as turned away even more. “Den mou leípses? (did you not miss me?)”

Kólasi side glanced at you, giving you a considering look before nuzzling your face since he was truly happy to see you again.

“Mou leípeis polý paliós fílos (I’ve missed you too old friend).” You chuckled as you scratched his head. “Éla. as páme éxo (Come. Let’s go outside).” You led them outside in the warm sunlight before plopping down on the grass with your bag of food. Kólasi sat down behind you, allowing you to lean back on him as his head craned around to face you. He lifted his wing up above you to provide some shade while you opened up your sacks of food. You handed over the krystállinomílos to Thýella and gave the meat, vegetables, and peppers to Kólasi. You grabbed a krystállinomílo for yourself, taking a bite out of the juicy fruit as you pondered on what the three were doing right now. They were most likely having breakfast since you informed Gudrun and the others to make something for them. You then wondered what they would think once they saw Kólasi and Thýella but decided not to dwell on it any longer since you knew there was only one reaction they would have, and it definitely wasn’t a positive one.

You felt Kólasi nudge his head against you, making you look at him. “Ti eínai aftó? (What is it?)” You watched as he nodded towards the sky and a smile appeared on your face. “I knew you’d say that. Éla Thýella. As páme na petáxoume. (Come Thýella. Let’s go fly.)” You went back into Kólasi’s stall, grabbing the special saddle you had made for him before going back outside and strapping it on his back. With a grunt, you climbed into his back, and considering he was about 16 to 18 feet tall standing on all fours, he always had to lower himself for you. Once you were situated and strapped onto the saddle, you held onto his neck as he flapped his dark red wings before taking off the ground. As you turned your head to look behind you, Thýella had just caught up with you and was flying beside you, your castle became smaller and smaller the higher up you went.

A smile was on your lips as you could see everything below you, relishing in the feeling of the wind against your cheeks as you went higher and higher until you could practically touch the clouds. With a small laugh, you stuck your hand out, feeling the whispy clouds slip through your fingers as Kólasi became level with the ground. Thýella stayed beside you, neighing happily as she soared through the sky. No matter how many times you’ve done this, it never got old. After a few rounds of gliding and loops, it was time you headed back home before Sam got worried. As Kólasi began to descend towards the earth you lowered your body to his neck, the wind picking up speed against you as you dived through the clouds. The clouds around you cleared up and you could see your castle in the distance below you, getting bigger and bigger. Kólasi slowed down as he neared the earth, pulling his body up as he and Thýella landed gracefully on the grass of your backyard.

“Theé mou to échasa (gods I’ve missed that).” You breathed out, your blood pumping with adrenaline from the rush you just had.

“Y/n?” You heard Sam call out for you, which made you curse under your breath.

It was too late now.

“Y/n?” Sam rounded the corner of your home and you saw his face turn into one of terror, his mouth and eyes wide as he tried to process what he was seeing. Bucky and Zemo shortly followed and they too mirrored Sam’s expression. “Is that a dragon or am I seeing shit now?”

“This is my dragon Kólasi, Sam. You’re not going crazy.”

“So......you have a dragon and a pegasus now?” Bucky asked you as he eyed Kólasi. Kólasi towered over the three, casting a large shadow over them as he huffed out smoke from his nostrils while a low growl emitted from his chest. He didn’t recognize any of them and they didn’t seem to be a threat, but with one command from you he would readily light them up in flames. You had noticed this uneasiness in your dragon so you scratched his neck, signaling him that they were most definitely not a threat.

“I’ve had them since I was a kid.” You answered Bucky’s question as Kólasi lowered himself to the ground, allowing you to get off the saddle. Giving Kólasi and Thýella a quick pat on their sides which meant they were free to go, you watched as they wandered off a bit before heading back into your home with the three following you in.

“Y/n isn’t he dangerous? Correct me if I’m wrong but don’t dragons breathe fire?” Sam questioned.

“Yes, they do. But trust me when I say that Kólasi is harmless. Now if you guys don’t mind, I just need to get a few things.”

Sam and Bucky decided not question on it any further, trusting your word, though the thought of you having a dragon still baffled them. They’ve read stories about knights and dragons and now were wondering if dragons really did roam the earth and whether knights had really slayed them. And though Zemo knew you meant what you said about about Kólasi being harmless, he knew that wasn’t entirely true and that you understood the limits to that harmlessness. But despite that, he trusted your word, because if you were wrong about your dragon, the earth would already have burned to nothing years ago.

The men had followed you into your library/study, watching as you went over to a certain section on the wall. You reached towards a candle sconce on the wall, pulling it down slightly before there was the sound of gears turning. Then, as they looked, a book shelf began to open up like a door, revealing a narrow stone staircase that spiraled down to who knows where.

“Of course you have a hidden passageway. Why am I surprised?” Sam uttered which made you glare at him.

“You’re welcome to follow me if you’d like, or you can stay out here, if you’re scared. And don’t touch anything.” You informed before disappearing down the staircase.

The men looked at each other before following you down anyways. At this point they didn’t know what they’d expect to find down there. They were curious as to why you didn’t bother bringing a candle with you down the dark staircase, but as they went in, they soon realized why. There were already candle sconces lining the wall of the staircase, and the candles would only light up as they neared, before going out as they passed it.

Once they reached the bottom of the staircase, they found themselves in a spacious, enormous room, which you had used as an armory and a place to keep your artifacts. The walls were hung with weapons of many kinds from different eras. Armor and uniforms which you had worn from various time periods were displayed near the walls on mannequins, as well as different strange looking artifacts dating back to Ancient Egypt and the Sumerian civilization. In the center stood an open space with obstacles and devices which was where you trained in your combat. In the back of the room, down a corridor was where you had dungeons in case you ever needed them. Next to the dungeons was a laboratory, where you used to make potions and concoctions of different kinds. There were even old paintings of you from different eras, some of them were of just you, and some were of you and other people. But the biggest painting of them all hung in the middle, a painting of your whole family in Olympus. Off to the side, separate from the large room was your underground garage that opened up to your driveway. You owned a collection of many expensive classic vehicles, but the majority of them were classic muscle cars, which were always your favorites.

Bucky, Sam, and Zemo widened their eyes as they took everything in. Just when they thought they had seen everything, they had proved themselves wrong. Letting their feet guide them, they walked over to the paintings you had, staring at the large one in the center. Your father stood in the middle and above everyone else with Hera beside him and his lightning bolt clutched in his hand. On his side stood Poseidon with Amphitrite, and Hades with Persephone. Then there was you, wearing your mulberry purple chiton and deep blood/wine red chlamys with a breastplate over it. A diadem sat on your head and a dagger was strapped to your waist, while a sword and shield was held in your hands as you stood at Zeus’s feet with Athena and Artemis on either side of you. They men stared at the painting of you, you looked extremely regal yet powerful at the same time, an embodiment of a queen. The painting next to that one was of a beautiful looking women with stars in her eyes and hair, your mother. And on her lap sat you as a very young child, your eyes holding that same sparkle as your mother’s arms were wrapped gracefully around your body.

Sam glanced around the area once more before his eyes landed on a golden box that sat on a column pedestal. There was something intriguing about this certain thing and he seemed to be almost drawn to the box as he walked towards it. Bucky and Zemo noticed Sam’s slightly strange behavior, and as they looked to see what he was staring at, they too became transfixed, curious to know what the box was. As they got up close to it, they noticed there were these ghastly engravings of the macabre all over it, of tortured souls, demons, monsters, and evil spirits.

When you had walked back into the room with your bag of armor and weapons slung over your shoulder, your eyes widened at the sight of the men crowded around the gold box. Sam’s hand was reaching for it, about to open it until you screamed at them, rushing over to shove them away. “No! What the hell do you think you are doing?!”

“Wha-what?” Bucky stuttered, shaking his head as he was brought out of the daze and so were the others.

“When I said don’t touch anything, I specifically meant ABSOLUTELY DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING!”

“Wait, what the hell happened?” Sam asked, confusion written all over his face. Even Zemo had no idea what just occurred.

“That is Pandora’s box.”

“Pandora’s box?” Zemo tilted his head as he furrowed his brows.

“Yes Pandora’s box. Do you know what would have happened if you had succeeded in opening it?” You scolded them. “You would have unleashed all the evils into the world! There would have been complete chaos!”

“I’m sorry y/n, I didn’t know. We didn’t know.” Sam apologized, feeling guilty and terrified that he almost managed to open such a vile and dangerous little thing that had seemed so harmless at first.

“It’s fine.” You sighed. “I have what I need. Now let’s go before you guys try to touch another cursed artifact.”

Once you had your things and everything situated, you said farewell to Gudrun and Bjørn and the rest of the workers, giving them each a kiss on the cheek, their faces filled with disappointment in seeing you leave so soon. You said goodbye to Cerberus, Hecuba, Skiá, Thýella, and Kólasi as well, giving them each a hug. You sat there for a while, surrounded by your animals as they whimpered in sadness. With your final heartfelt goodbyes you left your home.

You walked over with the three trailing behind you to your 60s convertible black mustang with the white racing stripes that you had parked out front to drive to the nearest airport where Zemo’s jet would be waiting. After putting your bags and theirs in the trunk and closing it, you stared off at your home and the forest around it for one last time before your eyes caught the centaurs and satyrs that had neared the edge of the forest. You saw as they raised their hands to bid you farewell and luck on your journey, a warm smile formed on your face as you returned the gesture before hopping in the driver’s seat after the others. Making sure everyone had their seatbelts on, you turned your key in the ignition, the car rumbling to life from the sound of the engine that you always loved. Pressing your foot down on the accelerator, you drove off, watching the rear view mirror as your home got smaller and smaller the farther you drove away.

Tag List: @Little-baby-vixen @girl-obsessed-with-things @aerynchromie @sunshinepower17 @viviace @kakimakiloh @thebivirgin @gambitsqueen @spookycereal-s @lulu-yuming @mochminnie @gabitanaka47 @s00nhi @vanteguccir @tomhollandsslilslut @dracoxxyoflam @suchababie @uhhhcrypticbastard @on-my-way-to-erebor @thewinterrbucky

[thebadchoicemachine]

Petting Party (pt 1)

Rundown of dimensions AU: Quackity’s from 1920s dimension called Prowa, Schlatt and Charlie are his business partners *cough found family cough* and they run a casino/speakeasy. Sapnap is a knight from a fantasy dimension called Quarry. Karl is like Dr.Who. 

tw - Mentions of guns and alcohol (1920s mobster dimension)

 This is really just the fluffiest full I have ever written. 

•••

@thecatchat

•••

•••

Quackity walked through his rooms, digging around drawers for his keys. He squawked a little in frustration as he rummaged. He felt so paranoid, like he was already short on time even though he was about half an hour early and it’s not like Sapnap or Karl would mind waiting. He just wanted this to go perfectly. They’d had dates in his world before, they’d even had proper ones where they weren’t running from cops or mobsters or some other guns/knife/bat-wielding foes. Heh, foes. He was starting to think like Sapnap… and he was starting to feel like Karl— where was his damn key? Karl had literal worlds full of stuff to keep track of, it only made sense he got turned around and mixed up, what was Quackity’s excuse? 

Finally, a glint caught his eye and he snatched up the silver piece of metal, stuffing it into his sleeve and practically skipping to the front. Their home was really just the back half of the casino so he just walked through into the back room. Schlatt and Charlie were sitting at a table, various game pieces scattered across the top, counting cards, chips, and cash. Charlie seemed to be in the middle of a failed game of solitaire and was stacking up a house of cards while Schlatt was just old-fashioned sorting, looking rather bored. It was a quiet night for them. Probably a few drinks and catching up till bed after they double-check the games for cheating. Quackity would usually join them but it wasn’t strange for him not to show. He gave them a wave as he walked past, motion enough for them to look up and acknowledge him. 

Schlatt only glanced up before returning to his work. “What’s with the getup?” 

“I told youse, I’m going out tonight.” 

“Doesn’t answer my question.” 

“I’m going out to meet my partners.” Quackity struck a joking pose. “No harm in good impressions.” 

“Hey,” Charlie frowned childishly, “aren’t we your partners?” 

Quackity chuckled, rolling his eyes, “Of course. My new partners, then. Actually, lemme see a cut of that doe, I wanna butter ‘em up tonight.” He snatched a few bills from the table and turned to make his exit. 

“Wait,” Schlatt commanded, still barely looking up from his work. “Partners like you’re out for coffee to discuss getting new tables?” He took a sharp bite of his apple, eyes lazily growing dark. “Or do youse mean partners like I outta trail behind... y’know, keep you from gettin’ lead poisoning.” 

“Uh...” Quackity blinked. “Partners like I’m off to a petting party.”  

Schlatt choked. Charlie laughed while he coughed, moving to pat his back and smiled at Quackity. “Well, good luck.” 

Quackity narrowed his eyes as he was almost certain he caught a ‘all knows you need it’ under Charlie’s breath. He played it cool and simply snapped, “Hey, I don’t need no luck. Certainly not from you.” 

“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to offend.” Charlie held his hands up, grin still plastering his face. “Was just wishing you the best.” 

“Yeah... yeah,” Schlatt nodded, coming out of his state but still red-faced. Whether it was from embarrassment or lack of air Quackity couldn’t tell. He rolled his eyes again, smiling but waving goodbye without giving them a chance to drag him onto another conversation.

He stepped into the front, waiting patiently by the front of the door. Karl had said they’d meet him at the Vidrio, but should he wait inside or out? He paced, routinely adjusting his feathered headband and combing the actual feathers on his wings. He still worried he was overdressing a little but when he tried to lessen his look he panicked about underdressing. He wanted to look good for his boyfriends, a bit of makeup wouldn’t hurt that... would it? In the end, he’d settled on a simple pale blue dress, eyeliner, and a small headband. Nothing too gaudy but he still looked good. He looked good in everything, of course, he had absolutely nothing to worry about. So why was he all jittery? What, was he suddenly a dud? It didn’t matter. It was probably just because of the surprise factor. 

He’d assumed they would come and get outfits at his place (no offense to them, they just really couldn’t go the way they usually dressed) but Karl had insisted they pick him up like a “proper date.” He didn’t know what Karl knew about proper dates or when he’d started to care about them, most of their dates involved some form of running for their lives. Quackity wasn’t complaining but he’d be lying if he said the idea of just being a snuggle pup for a change wasn’t wildly appealing, especially if it meant getting to have Sapnap and Karl got to hang out in his world and not just flee and sneak. There were some nice things here he felt he never got to show them. 

He sunk into himself, suddenly feeling ashamed. It was bad manners, it was. Combining his work and love life to the point he may as well have made chumps out of his own boyfriends. He knew they didn’t mind, it was all new and fun for them and he was pretty sure Sapnap did the same thing. (He wasn’t entirely sure what his job was, like a knight sure but where was the line between work and just regular old Quarrian life?) Still. He should take them dancing more or something. Technically, that’s what he was doing here but he’d like to make a better habit of it, it really sounded like the bees- 

A bright, impossible, but familiar, swirl interrupted his thoughts. He straightened himself, quickly fixing his headband one last time. His heart was pounding out of his chest— but not because he was nervous, because he was excited. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling like a giddy sap as out from the portal stepped Karl and Sapnap. His breath was caught in his throat as he got a good look at them. He wasn’t sure what he expected, nothing bad, but he mentally made a note to give them an apology for being SO wrong. Whatever he’d imagined, they looked a million times better. 

Sapnap was in a white dress shirt. He had on a maroon vest and black tie he clearly didn’t know how to wear but wore well nonetheless. He had his hair slicked back, completely showing his pretty silvery, misty, eyes. Quackity noted the headband he usually wore in his hair was tied in a ribbon around his neck. Sapnap just couldn’t be without it, he warmly mused. 

Karl had on something with colors in patterns like Quackity had never seen before, not in his world at least, which— of course, it was Karl. Beautiful, strange, mysterious, adorable Karl. The top of the pantsuit was made of several pale shades of green. They washed over it like waves of seafoam, a strip of pale purple lace swirled around it, almost mimicking a deconstructed form of his usual crazy attire. A herringbone cap was pulled over his head, shaping brown curls. 

Quackity stared, absolutely gobsmacked, until his brain caught up to his eyes. Sapnap was saying something and waving his hand a little. Quackity blinked, shaking himself out of it. Egad, he was goofy for them. Luckily, Karl and Sapnap didn’t seem to mind his zoning out. In fact, Karl seemed to find it tickling, he clearly held in a giggle as Quackity snapped to. Quackity guessed this wasn’t the first time he’d found himself stunned. It certainly wouldn’t be the last either. 

“Hey, jackpot,” Sapnap gently flicked his forehead. “I asked how you think we look.”  

“You... good. You look good. Mmhmm,” he managed to squeak out, finally remembering to close his mouth. Slick. He was slick. 

“I’m glad you like it,” Karl chuckled. “I know you don’t really trust me to dress myself for nice places in Prowa.” 

“Hey, I never said I didn’t trust you!”

“You never said it, no.”

Quackity gave Karl a small punch in the shoulder. He flinched way more than was warranted, stumbling dramatically, but a broad smile settled on both their faces. 

“Aw, sugar! Did I hurt you?” 

“Yes!” 

“Hey, hey! Sir,” Sapnap stepped between them, also joking. “What is wrong with you, daring to assault my beloved in front of me?”  He threateningly toward over Quackity, grabbing his shoulders and backing him up against the wall. His eyes flickered with playful malice. He leaned in close, expression caught between a smirk and a snarl, completely aware of the growing blush on Quackity’s face. “I’ve half a mind to challenge you, and another half to crush you right here for your audacity.” 

“Aw, my knight in shining armor,” Karl sarcastically patted Sapnap’s shoulder, thoroughly less impressed by the display than Quackity. “Whatever would I do without you here to defend me from this sweet, cuddly, small, duckling?”

“Hey!” Quackity snapped defensively. “I could fuck you up if I-“ 

“Ey, Q! Have you seen-“ Schlatt stopped upon seeing the scene, turning on his heel and walking right back into the back. “Nevermind. Not my business. None of my business. Absolutely not my business…” 

“I-“ Sapnap dropped his boyfriend (who crumpled onto the floor in laughter), instantly turning a shade twelve times redder than Quackity had been. “I am so sorry.” 

“Ah- Schlatt?” Karl called over Quackity’s wheezing. “Schlatt, it’s fine-“

“NONE OF MY BUSINESS!” A shout came from the backroom. 

Quackity dropped his face into his hands, his chortling turned to full hysterics as he sat curled up against the wall. His dress, which he had been so unreasonable nervous about moments before, creased and probably picked up some grime from the floor. He didn’t care at all. Now that his boyfriends were actually beside him he could care less if he was painted green and orange. He had no one to impress, at least no one who would let anything bad happen over a stupid look. “Oh,” he snickered, the burst dying down. “Oh wow.” He wiped his eyes as jubilant tears stung, apathetic as he’d become he hoped his makeup didn’t run. It wasn’t necessary but he’d still like to look nice for the occasion. He pulled himself to his feet, brushing off his outfit and sighing. “Ah. He’s got a point though, really should be saving that for the party.”

“Speaking of which—“ Karl snapped his fingers in a jazzy rhythm. “Are we ready to go?” 

“Yes, let’s!” Sapnap turned with Karl as all three of them began to speed out the door.

Quackity made sure to bump in front of them before they made it out, he was not letting Karl anywhere near the wheel.  

The car ride was bright and lively although quiet. Quackity couldn’t help but grin just being next to these goons, one could practically feel Karl vibrating with excitement in the back, even Sapnap seemed to be enjoying the drive (he’d never quite gotten over the time Karl had offered to drive... Quackity could barely blame him for remaining he cautious and paranoid around automobiles). The blanched twilight hummed overhead as they made their way through the streets. It was relatively empty this time of night, too late for errands but just before everything started to swing. They pulled into the end of the road and all stepped out.

“It’s a bit of a walk the rest of the way,” Quackity explained. “Especially cause ‘s considered… ‘impolite’ to pull attention.” 

“Hmm…” Sapnap nodded, glancing behind them.

“What’s up?” Karl put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Nothing.” 

“You sure?” 

“It’s fine, I just-“ 

“Just what?” 

“Uh, maybewecouldgoseeSchlattandCharlie?”

“Huh?” Karl blinked. 

“Is… Schlatt and Charlie coming? Could we go get them?”

“N-no?” Quackity stammered, surprised to say the least. “This— uh- ain’t exactly the kind of party you bring your family to. Not ‘less they got dates of their own... and you know Charlie ain’t keen on that stuff.”

“Okay, well, maybe we could spend some time with them for a while at the casino? Before we commit here. The night is young!”

“I means, I’m pumped for your sudden urge to hang out with them and all, but I kind of wanted to spend time with the two of you.”

“Ah-“ Sapnap shrunk into himself. “Of course, I- me as well, I’m so sorry to imply otherwise. I was just thinking Charlie may like to hear about the slimes...” He trailed off, fiddling with the headband around his neck, just the slightest hint of panic on his face. He was very good at hiding it but Quackity and Karl knew him better than that. They shared a glance, this had nothing to do with Charlie. 

“Spice, are youse nervous?” 

“N-no!” 

“You sure? We don’t gots to do nothing you don’t wanna.” 

“Yeah, it’s just-“ 

“Chivalry and all that?” Karl chimed in, sympathetic. “I know our courting isn’t exactly conventional.” 

“No. Well, not exactly. Ah... think I’m merely... flustered?” 

“Flustered?” They spoke at once. 

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just… romance in my world is so different. Much more complicated. It involves a lot of the other’s family and specific sets or roles for meetings, it changes depending on how long you’ve been together and what kingdoms you hail from, so such and so forth. I’ve never been a martinet for the rules but, the way you describe these kinds of parties, I- I- find myself… lost.” 

Karl blinked. “So, you’re used to having a bunch of guidelines and, while you don’t miss them, are floundering without the stencil?” Sapnap nodded at the ground. He took a breath and shook his head, clearing his mind before bowing slightly. He held his left arm over his chest, middle knuckle up with his pinky and thumb slightly out, keeping the rest of his hand balled in a fist. Quackity recognized the symbol by now as something like a salute of the Nether kingdom. It was used to show respect while speaking. He stopped himself from rolling his eyes, remembering the formality was only habit. 

“I apologize for my trepidation,” Sapnap held a bashful tone. “I am just not used to courti-“ he paused, searching for the word, “dates being so… open. I don’t mean that as an insult to your world! I only-.” 

“Okay, buddy,” Quackity pushed Sapnap upright by his shoulders. He seemed confused but obliged. “I get it’s polite and nice for you but, if you really love me, please never do this again.” 

“Do... what?” 

“You have a habit of getting all formal when you’re worried you’re messing up with us.” Karl shrugged. 

“I do?” 

“I don’t know.” Quackity tapped his chin. “Let’s see.” Without warning, he grabbed Sapnap by the shoulders and takes him downward, planting a firm kiss right on his lips. He tensed a little as he felt a sudden wave of hotness wash over him (that was to be expected from surprising a demon) but stayed in the moment. As he pulled away, Sapnap blinked a few times, stunned although the faintest hint of a smile shone through. His gelled hair fell just a little messy.

“What the fuck, Quackity?” 

“There we go! Back to normal! You see the difference?”

“I- I guess so!” He nodded, a look of mild surprise mixing his comprehension as if he’d just realized what color his own eyes were. 

“Now, did youse like that?”

“Yes?”

“You want more?” 

“Yes...”

“You wanna go inside?” 

“Yeah.” Sapnap energetically nodded, slamming the car door shut, slicking back his hair again, and holding out his arms. “Yes, I do.”

Karl jumped between them, linking arms on his side before Quackity had the chance, and holding out his own instead. Quackity shot him a look but took it, joined by Sapnap in confusion at the sudden demand to be in the middle. Karl only smiled as they made their way down the street, nearly skipping at the attention until he lowly murmured, “So… do I get a kiss?” Quackity opened his mouth, smiling, but was cut off by Sapnap swiftly swooping in and planting one on Karl’s cheek.

“Oh- you-!” Quackity squawked, envy and agitation peaking his tone. “I was gonna-!” 

“Well, I did.” 

“Boys, boys, I do have two hands… and two cheeks,” Karl half-sang, leaning over to Quackity awaiting his kiss. 

“Oh, no. Fuck you. You’re gonna have to wait for it now,” Quackity pouted. Sapnap let out a taunting laugh as Karl gasped in mock offense. Well, probably mock. Regardless, Quackity only smirked and turned to face a door in the wall next to them. “Besides, we’re here!” He unlinked his arm, rattling out a little pattern into the door. It opened slowly, revealing a dapperly dressed serpentine blocking the view inside. He smiled wildly as the warm smells and colors hit him regardless, it had been a while since he’d been to one of these, long before he ever met them and certainly not while they were dating, but he missed them. 

He couldn’t wait to share this.

[no-droids]

Rough Day (The Mandalorian x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 3.1K

Summary: When you woke up this morning, you didn’t really think it would be a “fixing Mando’s knife wound and then giving him a handjob” kind of day today but hey, who knew that agreeing to babysit a bounty hunter’s weird, green little child would be so full of surprises.

Warnings: Smut, language, handjobs (duh), dirty talk, Pedro Pascal (deserves his own warning), mentions of blood, spoilers for the Mandalorian.

Maker, why is this even a thing?

You don’t know his name.  You’ve never seen his face.  He barely says a word, doesn’t even move much unless he needs to.  If he didn’t have such an obvious complex about droids, you would’ve thought he could be one himself, quietly forged and hidden beneath gleaming beskar armor for an untold number of years.  You know practically nothing about him other than the few things you’ve heard about his culture—most likely either grossly exaggerated or just flat out nonsense.  Everything about him is an enigma, even down to the vaguely impersonal things, such as the technical name for his “poof gun” or what insane percentage of his body weight metal has to account for.

But that doesn’t stop you.  Nope, the fact that you’ve never even seen a strip of his skin doesn’t stop you from nursing a stupid, helpless crush on the quiet bounty hunter.  Stars, it’s ridiculous.  The modulated, low baritone, the intimidating way he carries himself, so stoic and dark and foreboding and tall—

He terrifies you.  You’re absolutely terrified of bothering him, of being too forward or inquisitive.  You sit in the cockpit with him for hours in dead silence, kid perched on your lap in the copilot’s seat to keep him from touching anything, hypnotized by the way his helmet subtly reflects the streaks of hyperspace as they race by and thinking about all the impossible things you want to know but can never ask about.  The last thing you want to do is accidentally test his patience, possibly get marooned on some backwater planet somewhere because you just couldn’t accept something so beautifully mysterious for what it is.

So you ultimately strive to be almost as quiet as he is, always helpful but never in the way.  You troubleshoot mechanical issues with the vessel when they make themselves known, take the baby in one of the secluded areas of the hull and play peekaboo for a bit when he gets too fussy, or just pick up a rag and start cleaning when there’s nothing else to occupy your time.  You sleep occasionally, curling up on the floor of the hull with a blanket to avoid taking up too much space, living out of your suitcase and making a generous ten percent of his commissions just by copiloting and keeping watch over the child while he works.  With the strict schedule he keeps, your pay is always handsome and consistent, even if it is all a bit boring.

Watching him wrestle his bounties into carbonite is admittedly the most exciting part for you, the rest of your days filled with nothing but the interior of the vessel as it either travels through hyperspace or sits stationary on a planet.  He always returns to you bruised and dirty, manhandling and shoving his bounties up the ramp and into the carbonite chamber one by one, not bothering with the fuel needed to collect payment until at least three or four have been retrieved.

You try not to constantly replay the incredibly vivid memory of one of them snarling something sexually obscene at you once and how quickly the bounty hunter whipped his fist out and broke his nose before freezing him.

“Isn’t… isn’t he still conscious in there?”  You remember asking, studying the disgustingly crooked angle of the man’s shattered silver nose, to which the Mandalorian shortly replied, “Yes,” before clambering into the cockpit and taking off.

You had to bite down on the back of your hand to keep from whimpering when you touched yourself later that night.

Maker, you want him.  You want to help him relax, give him something soft and warm to come back to after exhausting days spent in the elements, after not sleeping for who knows how long and toting elusive criminals behind him.  Sometimes you can’t think about anything else besides how hard he’d fuck, how much he desperately needs it, how sexy his voice would sound raggedly gasping your name through the modulator in his helmet.  You want to get on your knees and give him the reward he deserves for putting himself in danger for a living, risking his life time and time again for mere credits.  If he even returns your feelings by ten percent, it’d be gracious and far more than you deserve.

But then one day he comes back limping, dragging a dead body on the ground behind him by the hem of its ankle.  The baby is already fast asleep in the cockpit so you thankfully have nothing better to do but watch as he silently hauls the dead weight into the hull, heaves it upright into the carbonite chamber.  He’s slow—too slow in pressing the button.  He looks at it for too long.  It’s like he has to double-check it’s the right one, adjust his vision until it fully focuses and registers.  Breath coming out stunted and shallow through his helmet, every movement somehow looks like it’s increasingly more difficult for him, limbs heavy and weighed down with iron braces and pure exhaustion.

His silhouette slowly approaches through the thick haze of freezing gas, and you blink rather stupidly down at your hand when an emergency cauterizer is suddenly pushed into it.  Without a word, he turns around and starts working at his chest plate.

You’re… you’re actually kind of worried now.  He usually takes care of these things himself, shuts himself away and tends to his own wounds after capturing unexpectedly difficult quarry.  How serious must his injury be to not bother getting into hyperspace before treating it, much less even closing the door to the ship?

Finally managing to find some sense of urgency, you quickly reach up to fiddle with the complex magnetics below either of his pauldrons.  Once the beskar, utility belt, and underplates are all removed, the Mandalorian abruptly drops to his knees with a loud clang and curls over, reaching behind his gleaming helmet to pull weakly at his cape and tunic.  You lower yourself to the floor and help him, hands trying not to shake as the warm, tan skin of his spine gradually reveals itself from under the dark fabric.

Your heart somehow leaps and contorts simultaneously, soon catching sight of the ugly tear of a knife wound steadily dripping crimson down his side.  “Shit,” you whisper, fumbling with the unfamiliar piece of medical equipment in your hands.  “Shit, Mando, are—are you sure this’ll be enough?”

“Not deep,” he punches out through the modulator.  “Just need… close it.  Be alright.  Sleep.  Set coordinates…”

The cauterizer zaps red and reflects against the gradually dissipating fog in the air, its threatening buzz echoing throughout the quiet hull with impending pain.  

“Try not to move,” you warn, swallowing thickly and reaching your hand out to rest along the smoothness of his bared skin.  He noticeably flinches.

Your fingers squeeze gently, reassuringly as you bring the laser down and start at the very edge of the wound.  The Mandalorian manages to stay remarkably still for being in what you can only imagine must be incredible pain, the skin of his back feverishly warm under your palm as it periodically flickers and illuminates a glowing red.  

You have to bite down on your lip when he suddenly shoots a hand back to firmly grab hold of the bend in your knee, taking slow, deep breaths through the modulator and trying to relax the tensing muscles wrapping around his spine.

Maker, this is like a fever dream.  His skin is so smooth, firm and lovely and bronze under your gentle touch, muscles pulsing with life as you slowly work to stop the bleeding by scarring over the tissue.  It’s so… intimate.  The silence broken only by the zapping cauterizer and his tight breaths, the way you’re both holding onto each other for entirely different reasons.

His grip on your knee suddenly turns to steel and he huffs out a ragged gasp in wordless caution, giving you just enough time to pull your thumb off the button before his body jerks a few inches in pain.  His tunic falls down your wrist with the abrupt movement and nearly touches the sizzling wound before you can catch it, quickly yanking the fabric up his curled back as far as you can and readjusting your hold on him.

You give him a beat to recover like that before softly reassuring under your breath, “Halfway done,” and brushing the knuckles of your other hand down his spine in a small gesture of comfort.

His muted grunt of acknowledgement follows a minuscule little tremor under your palm, the way his body seems to be responding to your touch filling you with some new, radical kind of bravery.  You quietly shuffle closer to him and turn the cauterizer back on, carefully framing his hips with your open legs.

“That little green thing up there is a monster, you know,” you suddenly say, wanting to distract him by filling the void but not wanting to overwhelm him with conversation.  Even small talk is considered uncharted territory here, but you figure it’s better than letting him suffer in silence.  “I saw it eat a live fish today.  A fish.  Grabbed it out of the pond over there like it was nothing and just swallowed the damn thing whole, fins and all.  Most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

You don’t hear him or see him move, but you do feel a subtle shake of his ribcage under your hand.  It fills your heart with air.

“Was twice as big as the little hairball,” you continue on.  “Surprised he’s not still flailing around in there right now, throwing him off balance.”

“Not with…those ears,” a modulated voice returns quietly, his gloved thumb barely brushing a half inch across your kneecap when you suddenly breathe out a laugh in surprised delight.  

“Maker, it’s worse than I thought.”  Your hand soothes gently along his back, trailing over the hills and valleys of each individual rib while you work.  “A Mandalorian just told a joke.”

“S-symptom of… of impend—ing death.”

“Yes, well.  At least the dramatics are consistent,” you remark.  “I deserve a raise, by the way.  Holding that little gremlin over the toilet and having him stare up at me while he does his business is getting real old real quick, tell you that much.”

“Reason…” he breathes out, trying not to wince, “…hired you.”

“Jerk,” you accuse with a smile.  “He’s healing you next time.”

There’s a small huff through the modulator, and his helmet tinks against the metal floor when he abruptly drops his head to rest there.

“Almost done,” you tell him, curling your fingers and softly dragging your nails down his side in hopes of distracting him from the pain.  It works like a charm, his whole body instantly going boneless at the sensation.  “Finish this up, close the door, set coordinates.  Get you clean, then you can rest for a few days.  You work too hard.”

“Mand—lorean…” he barely croaks out in response, as if the almost inaudible word counts as a valid explanation.

“Hadn’t noticed,” you say, finally reaching the other end of the wound.  You turn the cauterizer off and double check your work, hating the deformed scar for marring his beautiful skin but reasonably satisfied it won’t accidentally reopen.  “Alright.  Done.”

He doesn’t move.

“… Mando?”

His body stays completely still, unresponsive to your inquiry and his breaths no longer immediately audible.  Your blood instantly turns to ice in your veins as you drop the silver contraption to reach around his body and shove two fingers under his helmet, pressing them up against his lower jaw as best you can.  Only, the thick fabric of his cape wraps around his neck in layers like a shawl, blocking you from feeling his pulse.

“Shit,” you hiss, your other hand quickly rounding his side under the tunic to travel up the front of his bare torso instead. Pointedly ignoring the way his chest hair tickles your fingers as you wiggle them up firm pectorals and a prominent collar bone, you eventually find and push against a scruffy jawline.

The quick, steady beating under the tips of your fingers allows you to relax just slightly, but then the Mandalorian suddenly grunts and shifts, trapping your elbow under his arm and bringing his hand up to cradle the back of yours over his shirt.

You freeze with your body nearly folded over him on the floor like that, praying you haven’t overstepped somehow.  This is an emergency, surely he wouldn’t think you’re—

Slowly, so achingly slowly, he starts to pull your hand down the strong lines of his neck.  You gasp, fingers trembling under his as he gradually leads you lower, letting you trace the dip in his collar bone, spread out across the solid curve of his chest and feel his heart beat unexpectedly rapidly under your palm.

Maker, this is real—he’s real.  Warm, sturdy, clearly too delirious and lost in the same exact euphoria you are to snap himself out of it.  Touch.  Skin-to-skin contact after so much isolation, so many years spent by yourself.  In other circumstances, you might be worried that you’re taking advantage of him in his clearly exhausted state, but his grip on the back of your hand is so strong—his path so steady and clear as you both travel across the hard ridges of his sternum and abdominal muscles.  If anything, he’s not giving you much of a choice in the matter, and for some reason that fact alone serves to make you incredibly bold.

When your fingers eventually bump into the hem of his trousers, you cautiously lean forward and press your lips to the Mandalorian’s exposed shoulder blade.

He instantly goes rigid at the gentle kiss.  And then his entire back quakes with a shudder.

“Fuck,” comes that dark, gritted baritone through the modulator, losing all sense of composure and frantically shoving your hand beneath the fabric hugging his waistline.

“Maker,” you whisper against his skin, equally as fervent, letting him spread his legs slightly in his hunched-over position and maneuver your palm to wrap around a warm, thick cock.  He groans and gives them both a good, rough squeeze over the thick layers of fabric.

“Fuck—you’re—“ he moans hoarsely, moving to brace an arm above his head on the floor with a metallic clatter so he can slowly start to thrust his hips into your clenched fist, “fuck—soft.  How’re you so f-fucking—sof—oft.  ‘N pr-pretty.”

Your body fills with wildfire, ladling heat into your lower tummy.  “Softer somewhere else,” you admit quietly, brushing your thumb along the tip of his cock and humming when his body jerks with it.

“I—fuck—be-believe you,” he gasps, growing harder and harder in your hand.  “Bet you feel—per-perfect.  S’perfect.  H-home.  Rough—” his breathing stutters, helmet rolling to the side on the floor with a dull scrape, “Ngh, fuck—ro—ough day.”

“Let me handle it,” you murmur, beginning to stroke his throbbing length up and down in time with his cramped, stunted thrusts.  It’s not ideal, of course; it’s dry, probably too dry but for some reason you think he might like it more this way.  He gets to feel every ridge and crevice your fingers catch, gets to use his hand to tighten your grip around him even more and desperately start dry fucking your fist like he’ll never get enough of the sensation.

“Let you do anything,” he agrees mindlessly, the words sounding slurred and distorted as he groans them deliriously into the floor.  “Give you—give you anything.  Fuck.  Sw-sweet girl.  Helpful.  Always—always taking care of things.  The k-kid.  L-look so—look so pretty.”

You press soft, open-mouthed kisses along the heaving curve of his spine, letting your warm tongue come out to taste the thin sheen of moisture glistening there.  He growls low in his throat and freezes, holding himself perfectly still and clenching his hand into a fist on the floor as you flutter your tongue against his skin.

“I like taking care of other things, too,” you say softly into the dip in his shoulder blade.

“Ah—fucking, stars—like it—like it, too,” he grits, his cock pulsing between his legs.  “T-too much.”

“Relax,” you encourage, reaching your other hand down to gently cup his balls.  “Relax.  You need rest.  Just cum like this, I’ll go down on you later if you want.”

And then quite suddenly—so suddenly that you think it might actually surprise him more than you—he does.  

The Mandalorian cums.  Hard.  In your hand, right there on the floor, dark clothes bloody and prestigious armor halfway ripped off his body.

A ragged gasp tears through the modulator and his back straightens, the chin of his helmet lifting off the ground a few inches with it and his balls pulling up deliciously tight under your palm.  Warmth immediately begins to coat your fingers in throbbing spurts as he clangs a clenched fist against the hull, growling the first part of your name before it turns into a savage, wordless snarl.

You bite down on his back and moan with him, caressing the swollen head of his cock as it pulses spectacularly in your hand.  His orgasm is long and achingly slow, draining his body of its dwindling energy with every thick rope of cum you’re able to milk out of him.  He gasps and swears his whole way through it, until he finally exhausts every last reserve he has and collapses weakly to the floor.

With careful precision, you’re eventually able to remove your hands from his crotch.  His back continues to rise and fall with quiet, steady breaths, clearly passed out from overexertion, but it does give you the opportunity and privacy to lick your fingers clean without feeling embarrassed for doing so in front of him.

Nope, no embarrassment, just so fucking turned on that you might actually die.  He tastes absolutely divine—warm and masculine and gorgeously thick coating the shallow hills and shores of your knuckles.  Following your own advice, you manage to stand on shaky legs and close the hatch of the ship, deciding you should probably plot a course for… somewhere, before trying to clean Mando up or dress his wound.

You take a second to look back at him, laying there in a gorgeously disheveled pile on the floor, dead asleep.  It fills you with a surge of pride, being able to reduce such an untouchable, reputable bounty hunter to the level of any other man.  You already want him again, you’re already addicted to the glorious power trip of feeling him let go and fall apart under your touch.

Later, you silently promise yourself, climbing the ladder to the cockpit.  Later.

Edit: Read part two, Heaven in Hyperspace here.

[itsadamcole]

christmas at the strong’s

fem!reader x roderick strong

reader spends Christmas at Roddy's house, surprising him with his present during the gift exchange. little does reader know that Roddy has a surprise of his own as well ...

word count: 1.1k+

warnings: pregnancy, a proposal

— after tomorrow’s imagine, i’m taking a small break from posting until 2021. i’ve posted an imagine (or two) everyday for 25 days and i need a small break. i’ll probably work on requests on my small break —

masterlist || request an imagine here

***

You were against the idea of spending Christmas with Roderick at first. There was so much drama between you and his ex at Christmas last year. Now you're kind of friends with Marina but you still didn't like the idea of her being at Christmas, especially with the present that you have planned for Roddy. But she's Troy's mother and both Roddy and Troy want her there.

You wear a long white sweater dress with a turtleneck. The dress falls halfway down your thighs. You wear black thigh high heeled boots. Only a little bit of skin shows on your legs between the dress and the top of the boots. Your hair is tied up in a messy bun on top of your head.

Roddy told you to be at his house by five but you show up a little late. His present is in your hand as the door opens, revealing your boyfriend. He's in his green Undisputed Era Christmas sweater and you have no doubt that he matches Adam, Bobby, and Kyle.

"Oh, look at you," Roderick says. "The prettiest girl at the party has officially arrived."

Troy comes running from behind Roddy yelling, "Y/N! You're here!"

The three-year-old giggles as you carefully pick him up. Roddy asks, "What's in the box?"

You smile and say, "Your Christmas present. You'll get it during the gift exchange."

Roderick smiles and says, "Ooh, a surprise."

"Did you get me anything?" Troy asks.

You smile at Troy and say, "I did, but you have to wait to see it too."

Troy pouts and you kiss his cheek before putting him down. He runs back into the house and Roddy kisses you sweetly. "Merry Christmas, baby," Roderick says. "Dinner's about to be ready so come on in."

Roddy closes the door behind you and you walk into the house. Adam, Kyle, and Bobby all swarm you when they greet you hello. Roderick laughs. "Wow, I was right. You guys are all matching," you say, laughing and looking at the Undisputed Era boys.

Adam says, "Every Christmas." He playfully winks at you. "Britt is in the kitchen with Brandi and Renee if you wanna say hi."

You smile and nod before walking off to the kitchen. Britt Baker, Brandi Rhodes, and Renee Young all stand in the kitchen eating at the kitchen island. They're eating hors d'oeuvres, little finger snacks.

"Hey, girlies," you say.

Britt looks at you and says, "Hey, Y/N. What's going on?"

You shrug and say, "Nothing much. Just, you know, hungry."

Renee laughs and says, "Me too. Jon isn't very happy that I keep eating all the snacks but I have to eat for two now."

Brandi says, "Amen, sister. Cody's not happy with me either."

Both Renee and Brandi are pregnant, and you can't wait until they find out that you are too.

You and Britt both laugh as Roddy calls saying that dinner is ready.

There aren't a lot of people here. Roddy's parents, the Undisputed Era boys, Britt, Brandi and Cody, Renee and Jon Moxley, Troy, Marina, and you.

Speaking of Marina, you greet her and say, "Hey, Marina. You look stunning in that outfit. I love the color of the sweater."

Marina is wearing a dark red almost maroon sweater with black leggings and black knee high boots.

"Thank you, Y/N," she says. "That sweater dress is so cute."

You smile and sit beside Roderick. Spaghetti sits in two bowls, one at the end of each table. There's a tray of meatballs next to the bowls, plus a bowl of salad in the middle of the table with a basket of rolls.

The group eats while making small talk. Troy makes a mess but Marina cleans him up.

After dinner, it's gift exchange time. Everyone exchanges gifts with someone they were assigned, you asked for Roddy and apparently Roddy asked for you too. He hands you a small box that fits in the palm of your hand while you hand him the slightly bigger box that shaped more like a rectangle than a box.

Now you all go around in a circle. Brandi opens her gift from Britt, and she gets a little onesie for Brandi's baby. Britt goes next, opening her gift from Kyle. Kyle got her a pair of wind up dental dams that make the clock noises. Adam goes next and opens his gift from Marina, which is a shot glass with the Undisputed Era symbol on it. Marina opens her gift from Cody, which is a dog toy for Marina's dog.

Now Roderick is up. Troy helps him open the gift you got for Roddy. You wait in anticipation as Roddy opens the box.

His eyes widen and he looks at you. You smile and Adam asks, "Roddy, bro, what is it?"

"It's a positive pregnancy test with an ultrasound picture," Roderick gasps.

Britt looks at you and says, "No way. You're pregnant?"

You say, "Guilty."

The room breaks out into cheers and congratulations. You look back at Roddy and he's beaming. He has a huge smile on his face and he almost runs over to you, hugging you tight.

Roddy kisses you for a second before he says, "We're gonna be parents."

You nod and giggle, "We are."

He says, "I'm, uh, glad I got you your gift. Open it."

The room gets quiet again as you open the present Roddy got for you. You gasp a bit when you see a little black velvet box in your hand.

"Oh my God," someone mumbles as you open the box. A silver engagement ring with a small diamond is inside the box.

You look up at Roddy and say, "You didn't."

He takes the ring out of the box and gets on one knee in front of you, holding the ring out to you. You begin to cry immediately. Stupid hormones.

Roderick says, "I didn't plan this, I swear, but Y/N. I love you. I've loved you for a while. I didn't expect to do this right after you announce that we're having a baby but, will you marry me?"

"Yes," you immediately say. "Yes, Roddy I will marry you."

The room breaks out into cheers and more congratulations as Roddy slides the ring onto your left ring finger and stands back up, kissing you. You smile into the kiss.

Troy asks, "Mommy, is Y/N's baby my brother or sister since daddy is that baby's daddy too?"

Marina says, "Yes, Troy."

Roddy pulls back from the kiss and asks, "So, I had plans to give you your other present later tonight when we're alone-"

"Yes, Roddy, we can still have sex," you say, laughing.

He sighs with relief and says, "Thank God."

You laugh and kiss him again.

Christmas at the Strong's this year has been the best one so far, and you get to spend forever having Christmas with the Strong's.

[heli0s-writes]

II. Solipsis

Summary: Rogers isn’t stupid. Quite the opposite, he’s incredibly perceptive and remarkably intelligent.

It doesn’t matter how you feel about him or how you feel about this situation; there’s only two weeks to let it go. Both of you must relinquish every individual sentiment to each other and obey the system or else the neural handshake collapses and you’re crushed inside a Kaiju’s maw.

A/N: Video reference for Greco-Roman Wrestling. Please do yourself a favor and imagine Steve Rogers owning your ass. 7.8k words.

Warnings: Language. Bucky angst. Tension.

Trinity Epoch Masterpost

You wake around 0500 and flip on the light—a jaundiced splash of color that makes your skin gleam sickeningly yellow. You shake your head, rub your eyes, and try not to linger on last night’s dream.

Lashing rain. A metal shriek. Your world bursting with red.

There’s movement outside the hall—appreciated distractions to rouse you from your thoughts. Footsteps, wheels on smooth concrete, muffled alarms, all sorts of noises clanging around together in the distance. Small comforts of familiarity; you remember how these facilities work.

There’s always something to improve in a Shatterdome. Data to analyze, parts to product and repair, training to be done. From the highest to the lowest position, every single bit needs to run tirelessly like a well-oiled machine.

You will need to as well. The war clock demands it.

You have a maximum of two months to be combat-ready, but you’re not pitching your hopes on that timeline; Kaiju have been known to emerge earlier than K-Science predicts. Rogers broke it down last night: evaluations and endurance building the first week. Sparring the next. Week three will intertwine both more intensely. Week four will be when you face him in front of Fury in the Kwoon Room—prove yourself well-suited to be his co-pilot.

And you had argued shouldn’t we do that earlier? If we’re already not compatible, why waste anyone’s time?

What would waste my time is you fighting me when you’re not ready and throwing the match. You agreed to this, so start acting like it.

Out of all the rattling noises you can hear, his phantom voice rings the loudest.

Drift compatibility doesn’t happen for just any Dick and Jane, and you’re betting on that—but let me tell you again, we’re compatible. Got it?

Fine. Fine. Fine. You’ll keep your thoughts to yourself, but they’re bitter thoughts, truths that he isn’t keen on facing. No, compatibility doesn’t happen for any Dick and Jane. It doesn’t happen much at all.

Most co-pilots are related or coupled for a reason. The potential for alignment is higher with these pairs because they’ve already established a personal connection and know how one another work. There’s history, trust, and something more. Something deep and intrinsic. Something that binds you until you die.

You used to joke that you and Natasha got lucky finding each other at Kodiak. Two misplaced orphans finally given a home in the shape of Decima Red’s Conn-Pod. It was metal and cold, but it was home, even if it was too brief.

Three minutes after waking and the dread has already settled in your gut like debris floating to the bottom of a lake— another layer on top of all that old sludge inside your body but there’s no time to ponder it. You have precisely one hour after breakfast to let your food settle before he joins you in the Combat Room. You brush your teeth and dress.

-

“Again.”

His voice cracks through the quiet space. Fury’s closed it down for today, keeping the session private. The staff in his right hand hovers above your shoulder before it retreats. From behind a wet curl of hair, you glare.

It’s 2015 and you’re back in Kodiak Island. Except this time, instead of sparring with Nat, Steve Rogers is there in all his effortless glory. Clean-shaven, jaw set, stoic, not a single hair out of place. Ruthless.

And it’s not like you’ve been slacking these past two years; you’ve been on army bases, worked on construction sites, did a short stint in security. You’re in shape and you remember how to fight.

But he is ruthless.

1300 and you’ve been whacked in the head, chest, thighs, ankles, back, and up and down both arms. You’ve gotten a few on him. Some good, most laughable. Only six more hours to go and you’re not sure if there will be lunch in-between.

At this point, you’re too tired to think about your burdensome conscience. Too tired to feel anything but tired. It must be a purposeful tactic from him because the less capable you are to think, the less you’ll worry, and the less you’ll feel inclined to dive into Victoria Harbor and swim yourself away.

“Is this your idea of a partnership?” You snarl when your side contracts in agony, an ache burrowing beneath your soaked shirt. You grasp the staff firmly, ignoring way the muscles of your wrists beg you to stop.

“This is my idea of an evaluation. Focus.” He says it calmly, like you’re supposed to be grateful. “You’ll be better for it tomorrow. In a month, you won’t even recognize yourself.”

Well, you’re not grateful. 

“I’d rather not recognize you.”

His grip falters, features flashing amusement at your comment.

You momentarily ponder a few things: the pros and cons being insolent again on the second day when he’s liberally kicking your ass; that the last memorable thing you said to Steve Rogers was fuck you three times in a row; and suddenly, the way he looks with the corner of his mouth turned upward, lips slanting.

Moment over. You take the opening and the tip of your staff stops half an inch from his Adam’s apple, letting it bob up and down. Then, you press it gently to his throat. His lips part, jaw sliding forward incrementally with attitude and another emotion you can’t place.

“I’m hungry,” you assert.

He stops breathing and closes his mouth. When he opens it again, he takes a shallow breath and says, “Alright.”

Taking advantage of your surprise, he immediately seizes the same opportunity you took. His staff pushes against the side of your neck, the cool, smooth wood landing on the slope connecting to your shoulder. The slant of his mouth grows an inch wider. You gulp at the crescent shape of his eyes, bright with mirth.

“Hit the showers,” he says, passive again, “You have one hour for lunch.”

-

No such luck. Not even twenty minutes pass before someone else fucks up your day.

Across the table, a man sits down with his tray, smile wide and handsome. He’s been watching you from the corner of his eye for a few minutes now, probably wondering if he should come over. Other residents of the Shatterdome have been equally inquisitive, but none as bold.

“Saw you go into the fight room with the big guy. I’m surprised you’re alive.” His head tilts forward as he inspects you playfully, “I’m Sam Wilson.”

You remember your manners, no matter how exhausted you are, and extend your hand, “Good to meet you, Sam Wilson, but I’m not sure about being alive yet.”

An understanding laugh, “Can’t help noticing you’re new. Steve training you for something?”

You shrug, sidestepping his inquiry, “You a pilot?”

Sam Wilson is polite enough to follow your path. “Yeah. Avis Dominion—the flyest girl in the game—that’s me and Riley.”

You know of Avis Dominion. Maroon and silver, propulsion rockets attached to her ankles. She doesn’t fly, of course, but she’s lithe and graceful, the jets giving her quick bursts of speed. Avis has particle dispersal cannons on her back, firing plasma charged ion rails to wound and cauterize. She’s simply incredible, and Sam beams expectantly.

“Think I’ve heard of her,” you respond, lightened by his humor.

Suddenly, a pair of heavy bootsteps pulls your attention sideways. Not even twenty minutes and Rogers is marching forward, hands clenched in fists by his side, mouth pressed into a worried and thin line. Wilson doesn’t even have the chance to greet him before Rogers stops by your hunched-over form.

“He’s up.”

And the partly chewed bite in your mouth threatens to turn sour.

He’s up means he wants to talk to you. And you couldn’t have avoided it forever, but you fantasized that meeting James Barnes might be put off indefinitely.

He’d been in and out of consciousness since last night, lucid enough to speak and question his state, enough to raise hell when he looked down at his left side, and certainly enough to thrash himself open and bloody and needing to be sedated again.

You run your hand through your hair, grip it tightly for a second out of frustration, and finally rise. You’re an eloquent orator in a pinch, so, you groan.

“Fucking fuck me.”

-

Back at the table, Steve’s attention never leaves the way you uncomfortably walk down the hall. To his left, Sam’s leg bounces impatiently because Bucky’s injury still hasn’t been announced and CNN has called the facility every six hours since they landed post-battle. Everyone has questions and suspicions, and Sam’s last three minutes of snooping wasn’t enough to glean a clear answer.

“Steve, man—what is going on?”

Steve looks gravely back at Sam, watchfully inspecting his expression as he admits, “That was Decima Red’s former pilot.”

A beat passes. Sam blinks once, then twice, and then his eyes fly open.

“Decim—shit— Anchorage 2017? Natasha Romanoff?” Sam clamps his mouth shut, at a loss for words, outraged and impressed all at once.

Decima Red’s story is one of those tales Rangers pass around a campfire—or in their case, a boiler room. Natasha Romanoff was a stiletto dagger— elegant and lethal and blood red. She would show up to events like a goddess, always stunning and magnetic and she never took a bad picture. Sam met her once, at some award show where he had too much champagne and Riley asked him to kindly stop drooling on the pretty lady.

He’s never met her co-pilot until now and he’s not sure if anyone outside The Icebox has. Romanoff would laugh it off when reporters would ask. She’d say her partner’s camera shy and doesn’t like crowds. Then her long lashes would flutter, her sly smile glittering, and men would drop like Kaiju in the ocean.

She was extraordinarily skilled and beautiful.

So when Decima Red washed up as a devastated heap on Anchorage’s shore with only one pilot, no one thought it would be her partner who survived. Romanoff handled the right side, after all. She was the dominant one. The stronger one.

Sam shakes his head, “Steve, what the hell are you up to? Where the hell did you find her? How--”

The slew of queries slowly tapers out as Sam lights up in understanding. But it’s a joyless light and he shakes his head again, dismayed. “You’re recruiting her. She’s replacing Barnes.”

“Yeah,” Steve frowns deeply. The truth always sounds worse from an outsider’s point of view but he didn’t expect much else because it sounds bad in his head, too.

“He’s gonna hate her,” Sam mutters, cracking a joke because if Steve’s had to bring in a new Ranger, it means that Bucky’s more hurt than they’d thought. And the two of them? Closest co-pilots he’s ever had the pleasure to meet.

Their drift was immaculate. Absolutely seamless. As if they were brothers—as if they were twins. And that’s not even – look, Sam Wilson knows some twins. There’s a pair here in Hong Kong and even their connection is nothing like Steve and Bucky’s.

From the moment they step into their drivesuits to the very last blow they land in combat, you’d think they were one single person spliced into two like a damn science fiction novel. The simple sight of Rogers and Barnes walking into the Jaeger bay was uncanny and nearly an act of God. They moved the same. They breathed the same.

Sam knows what happened to Bucky, and what Steve must do in its aftermath, must be killing him.

-

James Barnes is upright in bed, sheets around his waist, right fist over his thigh. He hasn’t said anything or even looked at you yet and in the strained silence, you find yourself absurdly craving the fight room. At least you know what to expect in there.

Outside of his Ranger biography—which is public knowledge—you know nothing about him. Barnes is reserved on T.V. and in interviews. Having grown up with his co-pilot, their biographies are eerily similar, and so he rarely slips out from Rogers’ shadow and is rarely anything more than stoic. He smiles for the camera, sure—real big and pretty—but never quite true.

It unsettles you. Here sits some kind of modern-day Achilles, heel pierced and torn through-- still more powerful than you.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other when his eyes flicker over to your boots before darting to your face, a quiet breath leaves him. His left shoulder jerks and you look away, tense and apprehensive, not wanting to stare.

A few curious seconds pass before his right hand shakily rises to run through his hair. His fingers tremble as he pinches dark strands, jaw ticking, and you realize James Barnes just had that moment—that moment—when he catches himself trying to use his left arm.

And you know there will be many more of those.

“Jesus...” he mutters, breaking reticence with a venomous hiss, “Fuck!”

Your tired body takes the impact of his words like a car crash. The fight has fled your heart at the sight of him and you’re left regurgitating all those jumbled-up-worse words every Jaeger pilot vomits sooner or later:

You owe a debt. You need it paid. He can’t take it personally. This is neither about you nor him.

“Look,” you begin apologetically, “I didn’t— this wasn’t my idea.”

“I know that,” Barnes retorts, scrubbing his face with the heel of his palm, the skin of it scratching against his chin and jaw. He’s grown a bit of stubble, his usual smoothness replaced by a grey-green shadow. He props himself up with his right arm, legs swinging over the edge of the bed.

“Maybe you don’t think you can do this,” he snorts derisively, “But you better.”

His line of sight is fixed on the floor, right arm flexing with the pressure he exerts on the poor mattress and you watch the way his muscles ripple up into the shade of his sleeve. When he turns to you after a deep breath, his face—sharp cheeks and dignified brow; tall, straight nose bridge; strong jaw and his distinctly wide lips—is fatal.

“Personally, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about who gets into the robot as long as when your fucking feet hit the rig, you’re one-hundred-percent in.”

Barnes’ eyes are piercingly blue. They’re reflective like frosted gunmetal. Cold.  Hard. He bares his teeth.

“If there is even one tiny bit of you that doesn’t believe you can, and in the middle of the drift you chase that rabbit, and you get him killed?” His mouth is a wide and devastating slant. “I will dig your corpse out of the Pacific Ocean--”

The door slams open with a crash. Rogers barrels inside with a cafeteria tray of food in hand. They stare at each other before Barnes shoots him an annoyed look and suddenly the threat from only seconds ago disappears with a blink of his silver-blue irises.

“You ruined my moment, Steve.” He states plainly, grabbing at the tray. He gives you a look— half of an amused quirk, tongue flicking at the point of his canines— and then tucks into the meal, moving the platter with his knee. You’re staggered.

It’s silent other than the sound of his chewing, rhythmic and carefree. He even folds a square bit of napkin inside the neck of his shirt to catch crumbs and you’re helplessly trying to reconcile that this is the same person who just promised you he’d find your dead body 10 thousand miles underwater.

The more time passes between his verbal gutting and his cheerful eating, the more your sympathy rots.

A pop of his blue Jello container opening and you snap.

“You know I just fucking got here, right? You—” your finger jabs accusingly at Rogers, “kicked my ass all day, and you—” your finger turns to Barnes, who stops slurping midway, “—sorry about your arm, that’s not my fucking fault—"

“Hey—” Rogers warns, stepping forward, hand out to derail the impending shouting match.

“No. Fuck you, Rogers.” He stumbles back with the force of your two-handed push on his chest, stunned at how quickly you leapt from the wall, “I agreed to it already, assholes. Maybe it’ll help your cause a little to not keep pissing off the other half of the fucking robot.”

And because you’re both incensed and starved from having lunch interrupted, you yank Barnes’ Jello from his shocked-slax grip and shake it into your mouth. A loud crinkle fills the otherwise silent room when you fiercely throw it into the trash bin and stomp off.

All the atmosphere gets eaten up by your temper. It’s silent like a black hole, nothing but the receding clomps of your irritation in the distance.

Bucky waits for your footsteps to pass before he begins to laugh, bright and astounded, quick puffs of air passing over his lips. He looks at his hand, still out in front of his chest, fingers curled around nothing. He looks at the trash bin by the door, plastic liner crumpled inward with the force of your arm.

He looks at Steve, standing with his hands uselessly by his side, an array of emotions passing over his face. He’d been calm—really, really calm—kept it pushed down and pacified, but it’s just the two of them now, and Steve looks like he could cry when he sees Bucky’s shoulder. He looks like he could level the Shatterdome.

“I’m fine.” Bucky says, rolling his eyes dramatically, humor gone. “Quit your blubbering.” He tilts his head towards the open door, “She’s tough, like you said.”

Decima Red’s pilot, the one who brought her skeleton back to Anchorage through a storm, of course she’d be. When Steve proposed it— explained it to him, practically wheeled out a chalkboard so Bucky could see his whole plan—Bucky was pissed. He’d just lost a fucking arm, after all. And now he was losing his fucking robot. 

But he slept on it, thought about it some, knew Steve was right.

He trusted Steve. Always have, always will. Whoever Steve decided on needed to be more than just tough. Steve needed reliability. Conviction.

They needed to match that Rogers persistence. Stubborn. Smart. Torn open by guilt and walking around with the world on their shoulders as if it’s their burden alone.

Yeah. It’s perfect.

Bucky looks at the blue specks of Jello clinging to his fingertips and sighs, “You’re gonna have to break her.”

Steve nods. He knows.

-

Time blurs as routine gives way to monotony.  

Your sanity is precariously tethered to lunches and dinners between psych evals and full-body exams. In the two weeks you’ve been here, maybe there’s been one rest day. You hoard what comfort you can from the time you limp from the fight room to the second your back hits the mattress to the bedside alarm blaring. 

Ephemeral relief also trickles in by way of conversations with other inhabitants of the facility.

The rest of Hong Kong’s STRIKE team take to your presence well enough. Co-pilots Wilson and Riley; the Maximoff twins, Wanda and Pietro; cousins from Wakanda, Erik and T’Challa; Odinson brothers, Thor and Loki.

They’re supportive and encouraging, but certainly not naïve. They keep their distance, the entire thing like a caged animal they can view, but not interact with wholly. You’re here as James Barnes’ tentative replacement, still just a prospect before anyone can entertain the idea of becoming attached to you.

Not to mention, you’re a deserter. Fucked off from the Ranger life and went off the grid. Most co-pilots died together—which was the honorable thing to do—and the rare few who are unlucky enough to survive at least come back to their Shatterdomes to continue their righteous work. You understand why they’re guarded.

Sam Wilson is the one person most willing to ignore all that, it seems. He hunts you down in the dining hall, finds you on morning runs, is kind and easy-going. He grabs an extra tray when you’re hobbling into lunch and plays basketball with you when you’re well enough to amble around the court.

He keeps you grounded with reminders: Rogers is a hard ass, but look—past that, he’s just a dude, you know? Trying his best to keep it all together—and there’s a lot to keep. Shit… you seen this place. I couldn’t do it.

The whole world wants to suck his dick, Wilson. You too?

Appreciate you, but man’s not my type. But hey, I’m just sayin’—maybe the world’s onto something.

You get a laugh, and you get to complain to at least one sympathetic ear about how Rogers seems adamant on turning you into a blood bag, or how Barnes is gleefully spectating, or how Fury is willfully ignorant. You get at least one person in your corner when Rogers yells at you for mouthing off—for fighting him in a wrong way—again.

You wish you were jogging the perimeter with Sam now, but this morning there’s only persistent torture.

Apparently today is, once again, exclusively about kicking your ass.

The rules are: no kicks, no punches, nothing below the waist. Traditional wrestling only, which means your hands can barely get halfway around him before he takes you to the mat effortlessly.  

All morning you’ve been pinned. Shoulders and waist constantly under his palms, flipped sideways and upside down. His reach is longer. His hold is stronger.

Barnes stands against the wall, shoulder in a sling, observing with amusement. Sometimes he clucks his tongue. Other times he smirks. He walks in and out like he’s at the movies. Fucker.

You cuss when you land on the mat for the hundredth time. The wet smear of your forehead glistens when you roll over, clutching your side. You’d woken up this morning feeling alright, taking to heart some of Sam’s advice, attempting to be understanding a little more each day, but with the way this session’s going, you’re headed for a backslide.

Your legs are shaking. Too hot all over even with your pants rolled up and shirt knotted at your hip. You plant your feet stubbornly, pacing around Rogers. A touch too soon, a weave too late. He slams you on the floor.

“This is—fuck!” you scream, “—a fucking unbalanced fight, Rogers!”

“I know,” he responds from above you, a single bead of sweat collecting on his placid brow. He gets up, yanking you along, and watches you try again. 

Two seconds pass before he’s hooked, biceps locking beneath your chest, spinning you through the air, and coming down hard on top of your back. Another crash into the mat, another muffled scream of pure, helpless rage.

You’ve had it. It’s been hours of his domination and your humiliation. You’re done with wrestling and done with him. Your knees and hips dig into the plastic, fury stoking the fight, fully intending on throwing him off but he shifts immediately. His chest presses into your spine, thigh flexed diagonal over both of yours.

“Don’t.” He says, shallow breaths heavy over the top of your head.

“Get off me, asshole! You’re too fucking big to wrestle with—I’m not Barnes!”

Rogers only grunts and bears down until you’re motionless and gasping beneath him. The air is hot, too hot. Scorching waves roll from your body, between his chest and your back, scalding with heat and embarrassment.

Your cheek drives into the plastic, burning with submission. Early stinging of pre-emptive tears prickles your eyes as frustration comes to a head, seizing your body and mind, and you feel up to your throat in despair. Anger makes you want to thrash but weakness makes you obedient. There’s nothing to be done but clench your fists and bite it back, swallow the tears, chew your lip bloody.

He is too big and too strong and too overpowering.

It was different wrestling with Natasha; you were closer in size and well-matched. It was a good recreation of what Kaiju combat may be if ranged weapons were to fail. She’d be the Kaiju, you the Jaeger. Then you’d switch. It felt like preparation.

This doesn’t. This feels like a setup for failure. This feels like a lesson.

And suddenly, you shut your eyes. God damn him. God damn him. God damn him.

Allowing insight to cool your temper, you stop resisting and go slack. Your fists unclench, head dropping to lay on your sweat-slick forearm. Surrender vibrates through your chest, tremors undulating to the rhythm of his breathing. 

You’ve figured it out. 

Rogers lets off some pressure and you can finally take a good breath. Slowly, he moves. His weight carries to one side of his torso, then his knees and he rocks off you, rising.

His hand splays over your shoulder blade, thumb pushing gently against the back of your neck before he hoists you up by the collarbone. It’s a delicate grasp as opposed to his previous ones. Calloused finger pads avoid the bruising on your shoulder from old hits.

Barnes looks on as his hand curls over your bicep, melting around the shape of your muscles, vice-like but merciful. The heat of your body becomes indistinguishable from his as he props you securely.

“You understand?” He asks gently, “Why it’s an unbalanced fight?”

His brow furrows, earnest blue eyes respectfully apologetic, searching yours for acknowledgement and perhaps forgiveness. You press your lips together tightly.

Of course you do.

He’s breaking you piece by piece until you’re malleable and pliant, willing to surrender your ego and give yourself over to a force much larger than your personal reality. You haven’t vocalized rebellion since the second day, and many days have passed, but it’s obvious how you struggle against the current.

Rogers isn’t stupid. Quite the opposite, he’s incredibly perceptive and remarkably intelligent.

It doesn’t matter how you feel about him or how you feel about this situation; there’s only two weeks to let it go. You can’t hold onto your pride, your resentment, or your reservations about any of it in the con-pod, and you can’t have one single fleeting thought about failure.

Both of you must relinquish every individual sentiment to each other and obey the system or else the neural handshake collapses and you’re crushed inside a Kaiju’s maw.

Barnes was right: you’re either one hundred percent in, or you’ll get him killed. So in today’s simulation, no, you’re not the Jaeger and Rogers isn’t the Kaiju.

He is the drift. It’s equal parts cruel and effective.

Today’s session is a reminder. When you fight the drift, it will take you down hard and fast, there’s no changing that. Only in silence will it support you, and only in silence will it keep you alive.

“Do you understand?” He says again, in a whisper. His lips are parted, turned down solemnly. “You can’t push back. Do you understand?”

Sam Wilson’s petition for Steve Rogers’ character echoes.

He’s just a dude. Trying his best to keep it all together. And there’s a lot to keep.

You manage a nod despite the aching throb of your skull. Shame crawls up your arms, erupting beneath the clutch of his fist. You nod. You’ve learned your lesson. Of course you understand.

-

After that, everything seem to flatten itself out. You heed Sam’s words, bitterness chipping away in the patient flow of Rogers’ direction until it becomes smooth like a time-worn pebble. You no longer fight the slipstream of your situation and rather become more mindful of his labor-- more appreciative.

You can either be a fatalist and fixate on how much you’d rather not be here, or, like he said, you can get on board.

If Barnes is a modern-day Achilles, Rogers might as well be the Hercules. Some radiant demi-god tasked with backbreaking labours in the form of beast-slaying. Unlike Hercules though, he’s all mortal, burdened even worse with mortal toils.

You might as well not be yet another thing that gets him killed in the end. It’d be further hell on your conscience and Barnes would personally scalp you, anyway.

So you iron out your attitude and grow friendly, and on a Thursday morning, he shows up with his hands tucked into his pockets. Barnes is to his side, matching in posture, his new prosthetic arm gleaming black and gold.

“Ready?”

They walk in conjunction. Left foot, right foot, hips following a perfect cadence.

His blonde head turns back at you with an expectant grin, “You excited?”

A snort, “You’ve dangled it in front of me for weeks. What do you want to hear, huh?”

There’s no offense in your words, only a hint of mischief because you’ve discovered the joy taunting him brings. Amusement in the form of riling him up because he’s surprisingly easy to rile, because there’s many ways to do it, and because you’re a damn fast learner.

Steve Rogers might be athletic and quick, but he’s terrible at guarding his legs. It makes his cheeks flush when you repeatedly strike his thighs and even more so when Barnes cackles from the corner. It’s infinitely better than any entertainment you can buy.

He gets you back, though, biding his time until your jogs, then laps you twice to keep you humble. The best kinds of friendships are built off torment, besides. You’re hopeful.

“I’m not convinced you’re excited,” he sings now, stopping abruptly so that you bump into his back with a grunt of surprise.

Barnes smirks, “He gets you every time. It’s sad.” Cheeky bastards, but they pick up the pace again, threading through the hallways.

They’re finally taking you on a proper tour of the Shatterdome. Four weeks and you still need a map to get around. They’ve kept you from wandering, kept others from being your guide, kept you on your fucking toes because they’re absolute little shits.

It’s friendship.

The first stop is the enormous Jaeger hangar. 

Stretching on and back, it’s a mess of moving parts and electricity. Cranes up and down, engineers and workers in constant motion. They walk you across the main bridge of the perimeter, taking leisurely steps to let you catch your dazed breath and absorb the view. 

The anticipation was clever provocation on his part, created in jest, but the sight of it now in front of you feels like a kick to the teeth. Your teasing demeanor drops.

The Mark-3’s are beautiful despite their conditions. Scratched and dented, wind-bleached in places, but all gorgeous and exclusively equipped to best fit their Rangers. Titanium cores, angel wings, plasma casters. Assault mount sting-blades, K-Stunner warheads, sentry treads. The list of features running on and on and on.

Unique traits for unique pilots.

Pain strikes your heart.

Decima’s Crocus-9 reactor core was uranium powered and instead of angel wings or blades, she had extendable plasma batons. You and Natasha amputated six Kaiju with them. A 1700-ton ballerina, she was created to fit your partnership’s style— brutal but dexterous. The fight was always good in Decima—always, always, good.

You’ll never have that with Orion. You’ll never have that with Rogers.

In the distance, voices shout and echo over gears and metal joints. Forklifts whirr and beep, personnel scrambling like dedicated worker ants.

Two years without Decima and Natasha. Over seven hundred days and each one felt too long, stretched, infinite, miserable. Waking up was just another twenty-four hours to bury like how you buried Nat. But now, here you stand—returned to the front of the continued Jaeger Program that’s moved on without her, and the last two years comes to crush you in a tidal wave all at once.

You feel powerless, distraughtly wishing you were back in your Jaeger. You wish you were stronger than you are— wish you could take on the tidal wave.

“Hey,” Barnes calls, urging you forward his perceptive, sharp eyes. “Stay with us.”

You quell the hurt and keep up.

At the end of the ramp, Tony Stark teeters on a crane. His face is covered by a thick iron mask and he’s welding something tiny on Orion Bravo’s left flank. Over the banging machinery and screeching blades of metal on metal, he yells, “Good to finally meet you, kid!”

You don’t get a chance to holler back. 

“Gotta say, Decima was one of my personal favorites,” and you flinch.

Nobody notices. Life moves on. Tony Stark does so even faster. 

“Still damn proud of her after all these years! I know exactly where she is in Oblivion Bay—if this—” he gestures vaguely to the three of you on the walkway, “—doesn’t work out, let me know and I can go get your girl. Sure, her chest’s all ripped out—” he motions to his pecs, and you recoil each time his blowtorch sizzles past, “—and I’d be breaking my back to get those pieces right— but hey, a little boob job isn’t gonna hurt anyone. If you ask me, people could use more of ‘em!”

You’re speechless. You finally meet the Tony Stark—the genius mind behind every single Jaeger. His endless vat of brilliance designed them, breathed them to life, equipped and armed them, made them perfect, and— boob job?

“What?” You whisper, feeling your entire body drain of warmth.

Rogers tucks his chin to his chest in an attempt to hide his smile. Barnes speaks up, dismantling the silence of your shock with strategic and considerate intention. He snorts a clipped sound at Stark and says simply, “He’s on speed. Don’t listen to him.”

Life is moving on all around you in rushes of sound and color. The noises of the Jaeger hangar blare in your ears. The blues of Barnes and Rogers’ eyes flash like lighthouse beams and you feel yourself ebb and flow in the current of time, like a buoy floating toward the shore, and suddenly— strangely— you realize you’re laughing.

They share looks before grinning themselves. You wipe the corners of your eyes with a final smirk and run your hands through your hair.

-

He was right: you hardly recognize yourself. Monotony has come and pass and now you find comfort in the routine. You’re stronger, too, hitting harder and moving faster, matching his tempo and technique. You parry his every punch, slip from his grasp, deflect his force with your skill.

There’s louder talk in the Shatterdome the closer you get to proving day. Your presence no longer feels uncertain.

“Stop dicking around, Steve.”

Barnes is leaning against the wall, watching the way Rogers pads around you like a panther. Two long strides and the heavy staff comes down an inch away from your forehead. He spins it in one hand like a drumstick, kicking his legs leisurely as if you’re no threat at all.

“Point,” Barnes comments. He’s acting as judge today, another perspective on the potential of compatibility. The Kwoon Room’s got your name on it next to a time slot, the official fight scheduled for tomorrow when you’ll be proving yourself in front of a crowd.

Rogers backs up with a chuckle, goes right too carefully, and you land on his thigh in retaliation. The smack sounds like it hurts. A few feet away, the Maximoff twins pause their sparring to look over in amusement.

“Point.”

A huff, he hisses between his teeth at the sting. “This how you wanna play?”

A return whack on your arm rings out before you can respond- much harder than you hit him originally. It burns. Steve fucking Rogers. Oh, you wanna play.

“Point. Hey, careful.”

You slap his bicep with your staff and it leaves a red welt on his skin.

“Watch it. You’re gonna mark each other up.”

He returns it to your lower back and you hit him next in the same spot. His mouth opens indignantly, but Barnes has had enough of childishness, coming up behind him and yanking the back of his head. Quick as a whip, he kicks Rogers’ knees out and picks up the weapon, aiming it at you menacingly.

His arm glimmers like a warning beacon.

“Drop it, sweetheart.” And you grin. 

Sweetheart. Barnes only says it when he’s feeling fully annoyed, which, both you and Rogers are particularly good at making him. If drift compatibility could be determined by how much two people can piss off another one, Orion would be looking at a new pilot right the fuck now.

You put both hands up in the air in mock surrender and he rolls your staff away with his foot. Rogers is on his back, chuckling and rubbing the back of his knees.

“Isn’t it obvious the two of you are suited?” Wanda speaks up from the corner.

Pietro stands by her side, fists wrapped in bandages on his hips. “Three of you, truly.”

“It’s just formality,” Rogers replies to Wanda, “Fury wants what he wants.”

“What Fury wants is for the two of you to get in the robot.”

From the shadows, because he’s a dramatic son of a bitch, the marshal steps forward. You immediately fix your posture, pulling Rogers up by the hand until he stretches himself tall next to you.

“I’ve seen what I needed to see.” The marshal looks you up and down, standing stiffly next to your awaiting co-pilot. “An estimated three weeks before the next breach and time is of the essence, Rangers.” He pulls his wrist from his sleeve and taps on the leather watch rhythmically, not bothering to give any of you another glance as he sweeps himself from the room.

“Hangar. Suit up five minutes ago.”

In his wake, your harried expression says it all: I’m not ready—I don’t think can. Your eyes frantically find them, emotions spiraling out of control, panicked and shaken. There is a logic to formality—you’re still working yourself up for the fight. You were supposed to have more time to prepare for the next part. Twelve hours or not, that’s still time.

But you’re being thrown into the cockpit now.

They compose themselves for your sake, all hints of levity gone. There’s determination and severity in their expressions.

In unison, because they know each other in ways you don’t yet, because they’ve been in each other’s heads, two pairs of controlled blue reply: You can. You must.

-

Rogers stares at your chin in the Drivesuit room, both stripped down to your underwear. His muscles are sweat-slick, dappled rose with exertion as the two of you shove your limbs into new skin until you’re encased in black circuitry. Technicians zip the first layer up, then retreat to other cabinets with haste.

Your hands are balled into fists, mouth set grimly as you fight the urge to scream or crumble. It’s been two years since you’ve been in battle armor. Even worse, it’s been two years since you’ve been in someone else’s head.

The polycarbonate shell gets snapped on. The spinal clamp sinks its hooks in. 

He steps forward, geared up in matching polished white. The technicians nod and leave the two of you to privacy knowing that in just a few moments there will be none left; the entire hangar will be an audience.

“Hey,” he calls, voice low and rigid, “You’ve done this before—you know how it works. It’s just a test run. No rabbits. No modesty reflex. Got it?”

The biggest setback to the neural handshake—besides chasing rabbits—mistakes made by rookies and greener Rangers, are what PPDC psychologists call the “modesty reflex”. It’s the instinctive shielding of personal information during a drift, cluttering your thoughts with barriers to keep someone out, and the exact thing that will shut down any chance of alignment. 

Simply put, it’s about sex.

“You just eye-fucked me in there. I think we’re past modesty.” A useless attempt at a joke to soothe your rattled mind. Sex is the lowest on the totem pole of things you give a fuck about in the drift. There’s nothing Rogers could learn about you that he likely hasn’t ever thought or experienced for himself. You’re both adults. Sex is merely biology.

He takes the helmets off their stands, holding one to you. Your fingers curl underneath and press tightly into the molding to keep themselves from shaking.

“It’s Tasha,” you whisper with a tremble, “I’ll find her in the drift. And—”

The admission makes him swallow, thick and nervous. You mean to say, and you’ll find Barnes.

It’s a trauma that’s been seared into his brain—a cruel truth to air—but it’s true all the same. The worry is that once you see Nat, he’ll see Barnes, and you’re afraid that after all this time avoiding her memory, you won’t be able to let her go again. Your weakness will dislodge his focus, ruin the drift, tear apart the alignment. Tear yourself apart along with it.

You’re afraid.

He’s still holding onto the other side of your helmet. His grip is tighter and firmer, and it keeps you steady enough.

“You can’t chase her,” he urges, “But if you do, I’ll come find you.”

He sounds sure, and you nod for both your sakes.

-

A hundred people stand in wait, hands on their hips in anticipation as Steve enters the cockpit with you by his side. Sparse clapping begins behind the glass. Engineers, flight crew, technicians, Rangers. Bucky is next to the LOCCENT officer, Shuri, at her monitors, watching electrical impulse levels rise and fall.

He’s spent all month with you, mentoring in some ways, giving space in others. He meant it on that god-awful hospital bed—get Steve killed and Bucky’s wrath would move heaven and earth to wreak vengeance. Steven Grant Rogers, his whole life being Bucky’s responsibility, now placed into two hands that are not his.

He looks at his left arm, the Stark-made prosthetic leering up at him like an excruciating reminder. Not his. Not his. He looks to the blue screen, projecting lines of data. Two bodies slowly arranging into one. One similar, one—not his.

He wants to trust you. He’s learning to trust you. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth.

-

The rig locks in place. Feet, shoulders, arms, backs. It’s comforting and jarring, facing the flickering projections of the heads-up display, seeing the skeleton of Orion Bravo so similar yet so alien from Decima’s. You don’t dare look to your right, don’t dare think about Nat’s face over his.

You miss her, god damn it, you miss her. A panicked breath. A low, quiet, whine you hardly register as yourself.

Shuri’s voice comes over the speaker. Her usual cheery tone has been replaced with firmer speech, all business, “Orion, are you ready?”

Rogers mouths calm down and punches the corresponding buttons. He gives you a nod and you return it in good faith. Calm down.

“Initiating Neural Handshake in three—” Shuri activates the system, “—two—” Electricity shoots up your spinal column.

The first rip of immersion is searing hot and freezing cold. You try to remind yourself you’ve done this before, that you know what to expect. It’s been done—yes—and it’s been done well.

Trust the drift. The drift is silence.

Your thoughts subdue as the first tendrils of Steve’s consciousness bleed into yours in the form of red-bricked alleyway and summertime. There’s a sweet breeze rushing over your face before time slows and the seconds stretch into years.

A silver bicycle. His feet on the metal pegs. Barnes, plump-faced and pink-nosed from sunshine, grinning and whooping. Seven and eight. On top off the world.  “—two—“

Past and present cease to exist. You’re in the sun, too. They’re older now. Thirteen, fourteen. Bruised from street fighting, sharing popsicles as both a treat and an icepack.

All at once, it comes. 

Art school, army, academy. Graduation, first drift, first drop. Barnes by his side every step of the way. They laugh, they cry. Flashes too highspeed to be wholly memory, but you feel it flooding and soaking your brain. You feel it like intuition. It burns. It chills. It’s gone. “—two—”

His hands become your hands. His body, your body. He’s swimming in your every thought. A flash of crimson streaks through your line of vision. You impulsively turn to face it. “—one—”

Hey! Let it go. It’s your voice and his voice blended. You listen, flinching at the abrupt sound, knee-jerk reactions firing off, fear beginning to chew at the center of your brain, spreading out slow and thick.

Don’t chase the rabbit. “—one—”

A figure appears at your side, tall and quiet. He’s half torn open, red like Nat, with big, ghostly irises peering down and you hear yourself calling his name:

Bucky?

Don’t! Steve demands, don’t look, please. I can’t— I can’t either. You quiet your pounding heart at his pleading, forcing the image from your mind.

Trust the drift.

Steve continues to sink in like a palm running from the edge of your temple to the back of your skull, tugging your head toward the blue sky of his eyes. It feels like his hand— it feels like your hand. Your body lifts, weightless, secured only by a single hold. He’s everywhere, inside your muscles, your pulse, your heartbeat, like he’s been a part of you your entire life. Like the way Natasha used to feel, he’s vivid and alive, thoroughly woven through.

Okay?

The two of you look each other without looking at each other. A nod of his head— your head— vaguely registered as real movements.

Shuri returns both of you to time’s fixed pace. Her voice lifts the trance.

“—Neural Handshake complete.”

Steve’s right arm moves forward. Yours continues the motion. Orion brandishes its shield in salute.

The drift is silent, but the entire facility has erupted into cheers.

-

“Yes! It’s good!” Shuri exclaims from her seat. A loud exhale followed by victorious punches at the air and she can’t help grinning so big her face begins to ache.

She looks over at Bucky, standing with a smile, both proud and pained, and places a gentle palm on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says calmly, eyes still shut. “It’s good.”

[angelbabyszn]

Hi I would like to ask if it is not uncomfortable an imagine of sad eyes on my block and theme may be of your preference

Smitten (Sad Eyes X Reader)

Gif by @merakiaes

Requested twice!

OMB Masterlist

smitten

/ˈsmitn/

adjective 

deeply affected with or struck by strong feelings of attraction, affection, or infatuation

"Monse! The chips go in front of the soda. Not before it!" said Ruby and he quickly went to her side and fixed the chips and soda at the food table.

"Ruby. We have been working on this party for hours now. I'm getting tired of doing these parties." said Monse annoyed. 

"We don't need your negativity, Monse. If you want to leave, just gladly leave." said Jasmine as she quickly went next to Ruby and crossed her arms against her chest at her.

"Gladly." said Monse and started to walk out of Oscar and Cesar's backyard.

"There goes Monse leaving mad again and Cesar chasing after her." you said as you sit with your friend you have known forever, Sad Eyes on one of the outside couches in Oscar and Cesar's backyard while drinking sodas.

Every few months, the Santos hold their salsa dance night that was happening tonight. Oh course, Ruby planning everything out and his girlfriend, Jasmine helping him out.

"Yo, why did it take them so long to get together?" asked Sad Eyes looking at you.

"It just did. I'm not 100% satisfied with Ruby's feelings. I feel they're not completely there like Jasmine's." you said as you see Ruby and Jasmine taking a break from planning the party and sitting together in two fold chairs while drinking lemonade.

"You got a good point. I think he has feelings for her the whole time but never acknowledges it." said Sad Eyes and took a sip of his soda.

You like having these talks with him. Sad Eyes was always so understanding and supportive of you. He's honestly a really sweet and loyal guy when he wants to.

 Ever since Sad Eyes protected you from the Prophet$ one night when both of you were young, the friendship bloomed.

"Sad Eyes! Y/N!" shouted Oscar a.k.a. Spooky, the leader of the Santos walking towards you and Sad Eyes.

"What is it Spooky?" asked Sad Eyes as he got up and stood straight with his hand on his gun that was right behind him in his right hand. 

"Both of you need to do some work around the block and make sure nobody ruins tonight. I don't want no shootings tonight." said Spooky

"We're on it." said Sad Eyes. Spooky turned to you and smirked at you while wink before walking away.

-

"Ugh, why couldn't he ask the others to do it? I'm sick and tired of doing this. I know I joined the gang for you but these tasks are just boring." you said as you and Sad Eyes were walking out of the backyard to in front of the house on the sidewalk.

"Y/N, I know but this gang protects us, especially you. You should be lucky because he didn't ask a lot out of you because he knows what happened to your parents and you're raising your sister by yourself." said Sad Eyes.

"You're taking care of my sister too. Honestly, you're the only guy who stayed in my life. Usually, other guys would've left me by now but you stayed. Whatever the reason is...I'm grateful for you." you said and Sad Eyes smiled and gave you a side hug. 

The other Santos that was sitting out in the front lawn started to chuckle a bit as you two hugged.

Sad Eyes didn't care what people think when he's around women. He would always treat a woman with his whole heart and with respect.

Sad Eyes was also grateful that you were in his life. He really likes you a lot and you could tell but you don't really know for sure.

Sad Eyes hopes you would become your girlfriend soon. And by soon, he means before Spooky takes you away for himself and he doesn't want that to happen.

"Sad Eyes, you smitten about Y/N, are you?" asked Joker, one of the Santos and the others started to laugh with him.

Sad Eyes slowly stopped hugging you because he didn't want to and quickly went up to Joker and looked straight into his eyes mad.

"You wanna play games huh? Remember, I'm the co-leader of this gang and I can give you orders too you know? Well it's your lucky day. Cause I got a job for you since you want to joke around, Joker. Are you listening? said Sad Eyes aggressively making Joker surprised and stop laughing. 

"Now, go around the block and make sure nothing happens tonight. Got it?" said Sad Eyes still up in Joker's face aggressively. Joker quickly nodded and then he and his friends quickly got up and left.

Sad Eyes took a deep breath in and walked back up to you like nothing happened.

"Sad Eyes, did you just-"

"Y/N, don't worry about it. Spooky won't notice. What do you want to do now since we are now free until the party?" asked Sad Eyes as he looks at you with a smile.

You smiled back at him in happiness until it turned into a smirk a moment later. He widened his eyes because he knew what that face meant.

-

"You're lucky I'm in a good mood for this." said Sad Eyes, making you giggle as you finished putting on a face mask on his face in your bathroom.

Sad Eyes got up from sitting on the toilet seat and got in front of the mirror to see himself.

You started to laugh as you were recording a video of himself seeing himself in the mirror with the bright gold face mask on his face on your Snapchat.

Sad Eyes turned to you and his lips got big and wide on your camera by the filter on Snapchat making you laugh. 

"Turn that off!" said Sad Eyes. He tried to get you but you ran away out of the bathroom in laughter.

Sad Eyes starts to chase after you around the house as you laugh. Sad Eyes finally got you, picked you up, and put you over his shoulder.

"Dude! Put me down! My face mask is going to fall off!" you said as you start to kick him and bang on his back with your hands but Sad Eyes continues to walk. He softly puts you down on the couch.

After Sad Eyes removes you from himself, you sit up and Sad Eyes sit right next to you while grabbing the TV remote.

Sad Eyes puts on a zombie-apocalypse movie on Netflix and both of you start to get comfortable.

-

Two hours later, you arrive back at Oscar and Cesar's backyard in a maroon short dress with cute high heels that you're able to dance in, your hair down straight, and silver jewelry.

You see people dancing, drinking, chatting, all of the usual stuff you see at a party. It seems like they haven't started the competition yet.

You keep walking until you see Sad Eyes again sitting with Spooky in a red blouse with half of it open on top, nice black pants and shoes. Spooky was wearing a white shirt on with no buttons attached showing his abs, jeans, and his regular shoes.

"Hey boys." you said as you walked up to them. They turned and both Santos quickly went up to you with no hesitation making you stop walking and smiled shyly at them.

"Y/N, you look..." started Spooky but didn't finish as he looked up and down repeatedly at your outfit trying to figure out what to say.

"Beautiful." said Sad Eyes, finishing Oscar's sentence, making you look down and gaining a red blush.

Sad Eyes started to feel heat on his face he saw you blushing making Spooky look annoyed and full of jealousy. 

"Santos! It's time for the competition!" shouted Ruby through the microphone, making everybody start to cheer.

"Let's get started! Hey! Don't touch that!" shouted Ruby annoyed at the last part and the music started.

Everybody started to grab partners and start to dance. Ruby and his friends were judging the competition. Whoever stops dancing or loses the beat will be kicked and whoever is left standing wins and wins a month off of doing tasks.

"Sad Eyes, you want to be my-" you start to say as you turn around but you don't see him there. 

You turned back around to see Sad Eyes dancing with another hyna.

"Come on Y/N! Let's dance!" said Spooky with a grin. Right before you could respond, he took your hand and started to dance with you.

Sad Eyes looked to the side of his dancer to see you and Spooky dancing together and having fun. He was not happy about it. This random hyna took him away before he could ask you. 

-

An hour later, over half of the gang was out of the competition. There were only four couples left including you, Oscar, the Santos hyna, and Sad Eyes.

You notice that Sad Eyes was taking glances at you while he was dancing with the other hyna. 

"SEÑORITA! Get out! You have been tagged out already!" shouted Jasmine at another Santos hyna with one of the guys that was still in after she swapped herself with the girl that he was still in with to stay in the competition.

"Stop being a little puta and let me dance!" shouted the Santo hyna.

"WHAT DID THIS PUTA JUST CALLED ME?!" shouted Jasmine as she quickly took a puff from her inhaler and started to walk over furiously. 

She was about to fight her but was having trouble from Ruby and Cesar pulling her back.

Jamal and Monse continued on and took out another couple signaling they were out of the competition. There was only you, Oscar, Sad Eyes and the Santos hyna left.

"Whoo! Go Y/N!" shouted Jamal with a happy face, making you smile. Even though you didn't dance with Sad Eyes all night, you actually have fun dancing with Spooky.

Another song plays and at the same time without you knowing, Spooky and Sad Eyes spin both you and the Santos hyna. A moment later, you were dancing with Sad Eyes.

"So, you gonna tell me why you were dancing with that hyna all night?" you asked, trying to act normal. 

"I'm sorry Y/N. She grabbed me first before I could ask you. Also, I didn't know you could dance." said Sad Eyes as he looked at you.

Due to this dance competition, Sad Eyes fell for you more because the whole time, he had his eyes on you as you were moving with Spooky that he didn't think you could do.

"Believe it. I saw you checking me out all night. Why is that?" you asked with a grin on your face.

"Nothing."

"Dude, yes it was. I never see you looked at me like that at all. You're looking at me like that now!" you said and Sad Eyes spun you around, ending you with your back against his chest.

Sad Eyes grabs your hips and swung it left and right and you two moved your feet to the music.

"You're so full of yourself." whispered Sad Eyes in your ear and you giggled.

"You're gonna tell me why you were dancing with Spooky all night?" asked Sad Eyes and he spun you around again with your left hand interacting with his right and his left hand on your hip.

"Why are you asking? Are you jealous?" you asked with a grin.

"Should I be asking the same question?" said Sad Eyes with a grin, making you look down at your feet. 

"Shut up." you said and you slapped his face softly after you looked at him again.

"So what happens now?" you asked. Sad Eyes grinned and dipped you. He kissed you right there on beat when the music ended which made everybody stopped and started to cheer.

A few moments later, Sad Eyes stopped kissing you and you opened your eyes at him and smiled as a red blush came on your face. 

"Y/N & Sad Eyes won!" shouted Ruby through the microphone, making everybody cheer for both of you.

Sad Eyes lifted you back up and grabbed your waist to pull you closer to him and you wrapped your arms around his neck.

"I'm falling for you. I hope you'll stay in my life forever." said Sad Eyes while looking into your eyes.

"I hope so too. I'm falling hard for you and I can't wait for what happens next." you said looking back into his eyes. Both of you pressed your lips together at the same time making everybody cheered again. 

[runesfactory]

run cried the crawling | 03

summary: Tasokare Hotel is a place that exists between the real world and the afterlife. A residing place for spirits whose fate has yet been decided. To die or to live on. Aesop has yet to discover the truth behind his own near demise. It was until a stranger walked through the doors of the hotel with an owl head that the horrific truth began to unravel.

pairing: aesop carl x eli clark

genre: mystery, supernatural & gothic romance

word count: 5399

warnings:  mature themes. descriptive writing of violence and blood. body horror. strong angst. equally strong romance. heavy pining. mild profanity. death. tasokare hotel spoilers.

chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | ...

The more time Eli spends at the hotel, he discovers new things every day just by observing his surroundings. He meets odd guests and peculiar staff that he hasn’t met before. Not to mention, he’d get lost through some of the halls that seem to elongate themselves and each curve of every corner lead him to many different places, he wasn’t aware of before. Surely, all with the guidance of Emma herself. He finds her never-ending enthusiasm over the smallest of things to be refreshing.

That’s not to say he’s gotten used to being there. Certainly not. He counts time passing by days by striking a line written on paper each time he wakes up from sleep. Even with seeing the same thing, nothing about the place feels like home. It brings you comfort. It doesn’t help too that the windows of his room show the night sky. It’s quite the sight, but nothing like the barren world he entered when he first arrived.

There’s the faint sound of the train tracks vibrating against the ground. The smell of grass after a day full of rain along with the breezy wind. Not to mention the small freckles of stars decorating the night sky. Looking out his window feels like he’s in a whole different world: reality. It’s nothing like the hotel because it feels real. It’s all real, aside from the fixed night sky. That aspect is very much unreal, though as a night person himself, he doesn’t mind. He takes in the cold breeze with ease in his heart.

Eli looks up at the stars and unconsciously begin to connect lines between each spec.

Like they’re meant to be connected to create a whole picture.

Constellations are fascinating. It may seem like widespread random bits of stars interconnected as a whole, but it’s far from that. There’s meaning to them, even as random or sporadic it may seem pattern-wise. Perhaps it’s the same for our memories. Plenty of it scattered all over our tiny heads like sprinkles on top of ice cream, and each of them holds meaning.

So, when one piece is lost, then it’s impossible to create something whole again.

Eli believes that, at least. But perhaps, it’s all too hopeful since memories can be so fragile. Recollecting certain memories can have so much effect on you and it is so painful that it leads us to our worst points. Having to regain his memories back feels like he’s being tasked to gather the stars, rebuild the constellation again. But without knowing how it looked like, to begin with. An impossible task.

He’s written down things that he remembers, but couldn’t come up with anything significant. It brought everything to a halt. Although Eli maintains a calm demeanor most of the time. However, the moment the door of his bedroom closes, he’s devastated. What happens then if he doesn’t remember? He can’t imagine living the rest of his not-so-alive life in this state of limbo. Not for him, at least.

From the amount of thinking he’s done, he feels he’d be bound for yet a sleep-deprived week. So he’s come up with an idea. An idea that, well, to keep him occupied while doing his own investigation and that idea would be—

“You want to help around at the hotel?” Emma tilts her head to the side, albeit her smile still displayed across her face as friendly as ever. It’s a new day at the hotel and Eli finds himself assisting in Emma’s room with her surprisingly large indoor garden. She’s been staying up all morning making sure every single plant is well-taken care of. It’s quite surprising to see how vastly different other people’s rooms are compared to his, convinced that each of those rooms does reflect the individual. A room is like a heart after all.

“Sure! I don’t see why not! I mean, the manager’s probably not opposed to the idea of having extra hands on board. But can’t say the same for Ms. Nair.”

“Ms. Nair? The bartender?”

Emma nods. “She’s mostly responsible for, well, everything. Ms. Nair is a little bit strict on choosing who gets to help around here. So, it might be harder to convince her.”

Vera Nair. Eli’s only seen her once before while he’s exploring around the hotel. She was quite the busy woman, always rushing from one end of the hotel to the other when there are a handful of guests around. Her appearance is quite distinct. Always wearing a campy outfit dripped in the colour purple, with her sharp heels clicking against the floors being one of the things that will make anyone aware of her presence.

“Then I would need to speak to her to help around here, right?” Eli questions putting one hand under his chin in a fist.

“Yep, but I’d say it’s best to talk to Norton first before approaching her! She trusts Norton a whole lot so who knows he can put a good word to ‘ya!” Emma nudges the side of his arm.

Norton Campbell. He remembers the man from the other day. He’s quiet, almost unhinged by Eli’s presence though Eli can’t quite point out exactly the atmosphere the man exudes. He has a peculiar getup himself. A mask that hides a portion of his face with such refined details accompanied by a dark maroon blazer, accentuated by gold threads sewn in patterns. The red scar over his left eye, the metal piercings over the bridge of his nose, and well, his glare. Uneasy to him, but maybe it’s just him.

“Good luck on finding Norton though. He’s a bit of a fickle to find.” She adds.

“How so?”

“Hmm,” Emma pauses, “It’s like… he’s everywhere, but nowhere all at the same time? I mean, one time I would see him with Naib then the next, poof! Gone! Nowhere to be found!”

Everywhere, but nowhere. He’d agree more on the latter.

He continues to find the figure from every corner of the hotel, but luck doesn’t seem to side with him. Eli finds himself on the unexpected side of the hotel. The indoor gardens, a much bigger one than the one in Emma’s room. Now that he thinks about it, just how big her room is? Oh well, it doesn’t matter really.

The greenhouse has a tall ceiling watching over him and quite the jungle in there. He could only hear the water hitting the surface of a fountain placed at the center of the glasshouse. His steps echo through the empty room as he fondly gazes over the plants around him. An excitement bubbles within him when his eyes land on small critters wandering around certain plants, recognizing them by heart. Unfortunately, he doesn’t bring along his journal.

“Aren’t you a lovely one?” He gleefully says to the squirrel that’s giving him a puzzled look with those large, glimmering eyes. The place makes him feel at ease. Animals do at least. His fingers gently graze over the soft fur, causing the little animal to lean closer to his hand. He remembers about his own lovely bird, Brooke. He misses her. Seeing the empty birdcage in his room becomes a reminder of the empty confinement in his heart. At least he knows being in nature brings him comfort, another thing for him to hold onto in a world full of unfamiliarity.

It doesn’t seem searching through the place bears any fruit after all. He takes the last few glances around as a way to make sure. Then, his eyes catch the presence of a certain silver-haired man. Eli carefully watches him from a safe distance before approaching. Aesop looks down at the golden flowers. Yellow roses. His covered hands touch them gently as if a mere touch would break them. There’s a soft look in Aesop’s eyes that Eli couldn’t describe. Fondness, perhaps. That’s the word he’s looking for.

But while he’s preoccupied feeling mesmerized at the individual, he fails to notice his shifting body. Bump! He trips falls face-first onto the ground. Causing a ruckus, unsurprisingly. “Shit,” He curses to himself. Quite the elegant fall, he hisses at himself internally. A hand appears before him, his face shifts from a painful wince to a surprised one. When he looks up, he sees the same gentle eyes he was admiring just a few seconds ago.

Eli takes the hand, heart beating fast now before standing up. Patting off the leaves clinging onto his pants while chuckling to himself. “My! That was, uh, very clumsy of me! Not surprised. My sense of balance is shaky at best.” He jokes. As if it would lighten up any awkwardness that could come up from him being a creep by watching from a distance.

Aesop’s eyes flutter away, pulling his hand away slowly. He stares at the scratch that appears on Eli’s hand. Probably from brushing itself against the harsh branch. He did fall with quite the impact through the bushes. Not to mention the thorns. Why did he think hiding behind a bush full of roses was ever a good idea? But then, good ideas are not exactly Eli’s strongest suit.

“You’re hurt.” A simple fact stated by Aesop himself, but coming from him, it’s laced with worry. He says it quietly, but it doesn’t hide away the exasperation.

“Oh, it’s fine. This is nothing, really. You don’t have to worry about it. It was my clumsy mistake.” Eli brushes it off with a fling of his hand and a soft chuckle. But it doesn’t wash away the concern now forming on Aesop’s face. Like clockwork, Aesop pulls out a handkerchief and a tiny bottle from his inner pocket. He gently dabs the content of the bottle onto the cloth, letting some sip through before pressing it gently on the wound.

“Antiseptic. So, it doesn’t get worst.” He continues to carefully brush over the wound with the cloth. He does it all with so much care and attentiveness. Eli notices that almost immediately. From their first encounter when he first arrived. Aesop’s mannerism, way of speaking captivated Eli. Some might find it standoffish, but he just finds it riveting. It’s probably because he’s pretty. He thought of that once.

Although to be fair, Aesop is very attractive. He’d be lying to himself if he ever says otherwise. The first encounter they had when he first arrives, he tried his best to not show his nerve-wracking self.

All that aside, Aesop cares about his craft. He’s very meticulous with his tasks. He seems unwavering especially in front of others. “You’re very prepared, Mr. Carl.” He compliments him instead, trying to brush off the very fact that this very attractive man is tending to his wounds. By the gay gods, what will he do? If he says something stupid and makes a fool out of himself, he’s going to—

“It’s simply part of the job,” Aesop replies shortly. Giving the wound a final rub before covering it with a bandage that Eli doesn’t see him pulling out. It’s no ordinary bandage though. It’s a blue bandage covered in some patterns he couldn’t describe. It’s cute. So very cute.

He continues to ask Eli, “What are you doing here, if I may ask?”

“Oh,” Eli stammers, “Oh, uh, I was looking for Mr. Campbell! I’ve been looking everywhere, but it seems that he’s nowhere to be seen.”

Aesop tilts his head to the side slightly. “Norton?"

He nods, a tad bit too enthusiastically maybe. “I want to ask for him to put in a word for me to Ms. Nair. I’m looking to help around the hotel, as I’ve told already to Emma.”

Aesop’s eyes widen slightly but don’t say much. Eli wonders if it had rubbed him in the wrong way from the way the slightly taller man’s expression switches almost in a blink of an eye. The silence coming from the man lasts longer than his own comfort, but he doesn’t say it.

“It’s just that,” He ponders over his words for a moment. “I’d hate to put the burden on you for helping me recover my memories. I thought about it after what had happened, and I completely understand you need some time away from it. Take as much time as you need.”

Eli just smiles at Aesop then continues. “I thought it’d be best to figure things out by mine how things work around here. I must be honest, I’m a little lost most of the time but think I’ll be less confused if I just get the hang of things.” He gestures a thumbs up playfully. Probably embarrassing himself slightly, but it’s the truth. “And again, I apologize for what happened. I don’t think any number of apologies could convey how sorry I am.”

“No, not at all. It’s okay.” Aesop responses come out like soft whisper almost.

Of course, the tension is a little awkward. Eli doesn’t want to scare away Aesop like last time, but he keeps in mind to make sure not to overwhelm him. His mind scatters what should he say then it comes out. “So, how are you feeling now?”

“Much better,” This time Aesop smiles a little. It sends warmth through Eli’s chest. “Thank you for asking, Mr. Clark.”

“Eli.”

“Hm?”

“Just Eli is fine. But feel free to call me anything you’d like, whatever fits your cup of tea. I just thought Mr. Clark would be much too formal unless you prefer Mr. Clark. Then that’s fine!” He stammers. Aesop nods at that.

“Thank you, Eli.” His name slips out of Aesop’s lips like a gentle whisper. It feels just right, Eli thinks. He just can’t figure out exactly why it feels that way, so he brushes it off. For now.

“Well,” Eli takes a deep breath. “I best be on my way to continue my search. Or I’ll just ask Ms. Nair right away, doesn’t seem like Mr. Campbell’s available anyway.” He takes a few steps back, bowing slightly at Aesop. “It was nice chatting with you, Mr. Carl.”

He turns around with his back facing Aesop. The sound of the water hitting the fountain’s surface echoes through the chamber along with his footsteps. All is quiet, until-

A little murmur.

“Hm?” Eli turns his head towards Aesop, who’s now looking down at his feet. Avoiding eye contact it seems. His fingers fidgeting, not knowing what to grasp nor do. “Did you say anything, Mr. Carl?”

“Aesop…” It’s very faint, but Eli catches it in his ear. “Call me Aesop.” Although Aesop is generally soft-spoken, there’s a certain lightness in his tone. A positive one. To that, Eli smiles widely at him.

“Okay, Aesop.” He speaks through his smile, unable to put it down it seems. “It’s nice talking to you.” It feels right and he can’t leave it be.

“Same to you,” Aesop pauses, forming a small smile on his face. “Eli.”

Just as Eli walks away, he finds it hard to control the explosive sparkles blasting within his chest and the churning tickles in his stomach. It feels right, he echoes in his mind. And he can’t let the feeling go.

After their meeting, Aesop feels oddly lighter though unsurprisingly, quite wary. A little less than before though. He feels he’s been walking on thin ice all this time ever since the last memory trigger. Unconsciously always, his hands would reach to the back of his head. His eyes fluttering, confused, and lost. But time passes, so he too must move forward somehow. He’s gotten a little better now, less tense and less frequent visits to the doctor’s office, but there’s always that dread that it’ll happen again. At some point, it will. It has to.

“Focus.” He tells himself through deep breaths.

In the middle of brewing some tea, he’s lost himself in his own thoughts it seems. Only brought back to the present from the ting of the spoon against the ceramic cup. The slight pinch he gives himself doesn’t help besides leaving a red spot. Maybe he needs some caffeine in his system to wake him up, but what good does that do to a barely living soul? He stares down at his hands. The way his slender finger curls up to his palm, but rather than his own skin it’s the white gloves that he’s been wearing.

He gets the sense that he’s always worn gloves. Part of his wardrobe as he worked his days at the morgue. By the looks of it, the habit comes along with him even now. He wonders if he’ll ever be out of there, rather if it’s worth the effort to fight for the life he once knew. There are too many questions, too many uncertainties. It makes him anxious, causing his heart to beat fast at the thought of the unknown. So, Aesop brushes it off. For now, at least. Let him live a moment of peace without dreading the unknown. If the afterlife can grant him that, he’ll live his way here to his end.

Aesop carries the tray full of snacks and tea down the hallway of the third floor. Emma was responsible to assist this guest, however, she has come to him for aid and he agrees. With him, he’s brought freshly baked cookies aside from the full course meal that Naib has prepared. Something about the guest barging into his kitchen unannounced, but mostly Norton is to blame. So here he is. With his feet stomping against the carpeted floor, balancing himself to avoid the tray from wavering even the slightest.

“If it’s not too much, please make sure there’s not another bottle of liquor in there! Ms. Nair has made sure it wouldn’t happen, but I’m just worried.” Emma’s note stuck in the back of his mind.

When approaching the door, Aesop prepares himself. He knocks on the door. And before he could say anything, it opens.

“Ms. Bourbon?” He calls out to her, greeted by the darkness of the room. Now both hands tightly grip on the food tray. He pushes the door further, now the light of the hall shines inside of the room, giving a glimpse of its state. Messy would be one. Plenty of items are scattered all over the wooden floor. Several bottles on the side of the bed, covering almost all its surface. There, on the bed, is a lump. It rises and down slowly and Aesop concludes where the guest is resting.

“Ms. Bourbon, I’ve come with your food and drinks,” Aesop speaks softly, placing the tray on the coffee table that’s placed not far from the bed. Half of its taken over by even more empty bottles and glasses. It’s a wonder that the room doesn’t smell like alcohol.

He takes one last look around the room, observing every corner. Perhaps, he could assist in cleaning it a little, but he wouldn’t want to disrupt her rest.

“Please make sure to eat, Ms. Bourbon.” He says to her one last time before heading towards the door. Just as he’s about to step out, he hears a loud thump. He turns his head towards the source of the sound, and he sees her slipped out of the sheets. The upper half of her body fallen over to the floor, with her legs hanging onto the bed with all their might. “Ow, ow,” she mutters under her breath. He quickly moves to her side, lifting her slightly by the waist with one of her arms over his shoulders.

“Slowly,” He mumbles under his breath. She rests herself back on the bed, now her eyes fluttering open. “Who-”

He takes a few steps back, “I’m Aesop Carl. Ms. Woods has asked me to deliver your food to your room, as you requested.”

“Give me,” Her hoarse voice speaks, sleepiness still lingers. He tilts his head to the side while she flimsily points at the tray. “Food.”

Quick on his toes, Aesop removes most of the bottles on the side of her table and replace them with the food tray. She swiftly grabs the bottle, chugging it down, but quickly frowned. “Water in an empty wine bottle? This Emma’s idea?” She never looks nor glances at him, assured of the answer. He stands there, still. “Well, I am hungry so don’t mind if I do.”

Demi munches down on the cookies first, all in big bites almost she is swallowing them whole. Between bites, she finally looks at Aesop. After swallowing them, “So, you here to help me, right?”

“Assisting you,” Aesop corrects her. “In recovering your memories, yes.”

She shifts her gaze slightly to behind him. “Emma’s not with you?”

“She’s asked me to be here in her stead. She’s told me all that I need.”

Demi snickers, “Oh, all that you need, hm?” She says mockingly, then continues to bite on the cookies. She takes another chug of the water.

“Then shall we begin-”

“I’m tired. Leave me be.”

Aesop simply stares at her, unable to form the right words at her nonchalant respond. But he persists still, as it is his duty there after all. “Ms. Bourbon, we need to recover your memories or else-“

“Or else what?” She cuts him off again. This time taking big bites of the food Naib’s prepared. “That I’ll be trapped here for the rest of my life? That I’ll die?”

He’s silent for a while, but still, maintain an unwavering posture and gaze on her. She slouches over the plate, taking less messy bites of the food. Looking down at it with fluttering eyes, her hair’s tangled up. When Demi looks at Aesop, there is a disdain in them. Full of distrust and frustration, something that he’s familiar with.

“Need to recover memories,” Demi repeats his words bitterly. “What if I don’t want to, hm? What are you gonna say to that?”

Nothing, he wanted to say. Nothing, if he's being honest.. Is there truly a need to recover them? What if you don’t want to remember things? Then what? But he couldn’t say it. Not to anyone, especially to guests who rely on them to move on. He wouldn’t do that.

So he doesn’t say anything.

“Leave me be.” Another pop of a bottle, “I’ll call you if I need anything.”

Demi dismisses him without looking.

It takes a while for him to finally make his move. He wants to say something, but the words never arrive in his mouth. There's no use to confront her in this state, he tells himself. So he leaves the room, leaving Demi alone in her disheveled state and a bottle in one hand.

“What is it with people and asking for jobs here? You’re not even getting paid!” Vera’s exclaims loudly, voice echoing through the bar causing a couple of eyes to turn towards them. “Enjoy your barely living state! Relax! You humans can’t avoid capitalism even in death, it’s tragic.”

The remark’s meant to be out of concern, but rather it’s laced with pity. Eli doesn’t blame her, really. The exchange didn’t go quite so well, as he expected, but now he doesn’t have much to do but dig through on his own. At the very least, now he can stop his attempt to find Norton. Oddly enough, still nowhere to be found. Just how big can this place hide a man. Wrong question to ask, really. Considering, he'd gotten lost several times his first day here. Relax, she says. Funny enough, that’s the last thing he’s able to do here. Such a grand place of this size intimidates him. The chandelier that towers over him, the empty rooms, and hallways. It’s even much more terrifying with this state.

He makes his way back to his room. Slow steps this time, fatigued after spending an entire day of searching up and down through the hotel. What a mystery. Eli hasn’t been successful in his search, not even once he’s able to find him. Not even a glimpse of Norton anywhere. How can someone just vanish like that? He’s quite certain he’d be somewhere in this house. Perhaps he should’ve asked Vera where Norton might be. However, all for naught.

The walk through the hallway is quite daunting. Sometimes, he feels as if the length of the halls had been stretched. Like a never-ending maze that he must overcome. The lengthy red-carpeted floor taunts at him, like a stretching bloody river. He walks and walks, faster with each step.

He can feel his own footsteps. The bottom of his shoe pressed against the carpeted floor. But he can’t shake the feeling of a presence. Someone else’s steps that are slightly offbeat from his. Is there someone following him? He quickens his pace a little. Now the sound is more audible. Footsteps following right behind him. Eli’s heart beats faster and faster. He turns around.

Nothing. Was it just in his head? He could’ve sworn someone, or something was following him. The feeling of someone staring at the back of your neck. Maybe he’s more tired than he thought.

“Should sleep,” He mumbles to himself approaching his door. At the swing of the door, a ring echoes through his room. A telephone rings. There was a telephone in his room? Since when? How come he never noticed it before?

Eli enters his room, closing his door shut, and follows where the sound comes from. And there it is. A telephone vibrating against the side table beside his own bed. There’s never been a phone there. Never. Now there is. He still can’t shake the feeling of another presence nearby. His nerves are scattered, but he tries to maintain a calm demeanor. The phone continues to ring and ring itself into his head.

He tightens his fist, easing the trembles before picking up the phone. It picks up with a click, then he says, “Hello? Who’s this?“

Heavy breathing greets his ear. ‘You,’ A hoarse voice speaks from the phone.

This voice. The air grows too thick for him to breathe, the rapid heartbeat in his chest pounds against his chest. Eli can feel himself starts to lose himself.

‘I’m sure you understand why I’m making this call,’ The person continues, ‘You should know better than to continue the route you’re going. He won’t be going with you. Do you think I haven’t noticed what the two of you have been up to? I know him more than anyone. I know what’s best for him, that is not you. Aesop will stay. Forget about him if you know what’s best for the two of you.’

What have we been up to? What’s best for him? He wants to ask, but no words come out of his mouth.

‘Don’t think for a second I’ve forgotten about you, Eli Clark.’

A sudden pound strikes Eli’s head. He winces, one hand holding against his head while he falls onto his knees. A memory trigger. He crouches, curling his bed as if to protect himself from the pain he was feeling. His fingers tighten around his hair, clenching it as the voice continues to speak through the phone. It hurts, it really hurts, it--

--is soft. Both of Aesop’s hands take hold of his face, with his glimmering eyes sinking into his blue ones. They’re surrounded by glowing, yellow roses. Eli’s hands rest on top of Aesop’s and the man in front of him smiles. A smile so wide, so beautiful. Eli presses his lips against Aesop’s in a deep kiss. He presses further, deepens it while Aesop’s fingers tangle themselves in his hair. Pulling on it. Now, his own hands wander down Aesop’s back, gently caressing his exposed back while his lips travel down to his neck.

He hears a soft gasp. A sound that he yearns for more. So, he bites, earning another reaction from Aesop. He can feel his hot breath against Eli’s ear. He can feel the warmth. Aesop whispers, “I love you. I love you so much, Eli.”

“I’ll go with you,” Aesop tells him. Despite his shaking hands, there is a determination clearly written across his face.

“We’ll go as far as we can. You don’t have to be afraid.” Eli tells him. His mouth moving, speaking words as if it’s beyond his control. “He won’t get to us. We’re in this together, okay? If you’re in trouble, call me and I’ll be by your side in a heartbeat.”

Eli gasps, bringing his consciousness back out. The phone shuts. Click.

He needs to find Aesop.

Aesop makes his return to his room after he was at was the guest’s room. A little later than usual. The hotel’s quieter if it’s possible to get quieter than this. He shuts the door of his room, locking it with a click.

Just as he begins to undress, he felt something. In the inner pockets of his blazer. Aesop’s fingers pressed against the surface of his inner pocket, and he can hear a rustling. The sound of paper. Carefully, he reaches into the pocket and pulls out a… letter.

The letter’s blank. It leaves no trace of anything to identify the sender. Who could’ve possibly slipped this into his pocket without him noticing? All of a sudden, his shoulders become tense as his eyes wander around the room.

Has it always been there? Did someone slip a letter into his jacket?

Frantically, he tugs on the window’s lock. His doors. Opening closets, even drawers, rubbing his hands over shelves. Finding any possible entrance that would have led someone into his room without him noticing.

And, he finds nothing.

There’s a dreadful sense of curiosity rising within him. There’s no harm in reading a letter, right? His fingers trace over the opening cracks of the letter. He lets out a deep breath and rips it open.

He pulls out the piece of paper tucked inside the envelope. It reads…

My love,

His heart stops.

I’ll be there soon. I promise I’ll come for you. I’m sorry that I have to send letters like this. It seems that he’s caught onto us, but don’t worry, we’ll be out of here before he gets to us. I wish you could’ve stayed with me. I’m so afraid that one day I’ll never be able to see you again, especially knowing what he’s done to you. I know you hate it when I bring this up, I’m sorry for making you angry the other night.

Meet me where the yellow roses grow. Same time.

Please be careful.  

I love you.

E.C

My love. The same initials. He’s caught onto us. The very thing he tries very hard to avoid comes back to taunt at him. This letter unlocks new memories. Aesop remembers now that he was trying to run away, but from who? And why? Another pain strikes his head like a bang. As if a wooden bat struck on his head with a hard swing. He winces, groaning loudly before falling on his knees and--

--his heart’s beating fast seeing the words on the letter. He’s caught onto them, as it says on the paper. He’s been careful so far, how could he possibly figure it out? Aesop’s grip on the letter tightens, gripping hard causing it to crumble slightly. He pleads silently that nothing would come to harm his lover.

He reaches to his neck, looking down at the ring hanging on the chains. Their names carved onto the surface. AEC. They’d be together, no matter what.

He looks down at the lifeless body of a client before him. A pale body spread across the metal bed, covered in a thin white sheet. He fears for the worst, and he can’t brush it off of his mind.

The metal doors to his office swings open. A loud slam. A shadow of the figure appears on the ground, in the shape of a silhouette. His sense of fear begins to overwhelm his senses when the figure approaches. Each step echo through the room, like the sound of impending doom making itself known. And he knows. He’s more than aware.

Aesop wakes up coughing out the sudden tightness that has put him on hold. The split in his head is unbearable. A distinct feeling of his head being patched together as if things are beginning to make sense. In the most painful way possible. Another memory.

He needs to find Eli.

[dariadraws]

and my final piece so far for @geekinthecorner‘s @batfam-big-bang fic Bats Of The West, it’s Jason Todd! ngl i think this is one of the ones i had the most fun with, and also the one i crammed the most details into that no one but me will ever know exist, but i’ll share a few of them under the cut, along with the image description. plus, a list of all of Jason’s scars in this au, and how he got them.

also, like i said, this is my final piece so far but i fully intend to come back and round out the batfam, draw all the other characters i havent had a chance to get to yet, so keep an eye out for that, and in the meantime here’s some fun facts!

alright so. first off, just some general overall thoughts on Jason and some of the details i added here.

 his gun in the first pic is super expensive and pretty, but i imagine he doesnt use is as often as some of his other ones, simply because when he’s out in The Wilderness tracking down criminals for weeks on end, it’s not really the kind of place you want to bring your prettiest, most expensive gun. when he’s on the ranch or in town tho, or really just anywhere where he doesnt anticipate needing to rough it for more than a couple days (which isnt the same as not expecting the need to get rough), he’s probably got this gun.

his gun belt and holster are a whole other story tho. he spent exactly zero dollars and zero cents on them, just assembled them from some spare leather they had lying around, which is why theyre in such Not Great condition, and also why the belt itself ended up so long. he could cut it down to a more reasonable size, but it’s not like there’s anything else he could make from those scraps anyways, so why bother.

that big gun in the second image isn’t technically his tho, it’s the Communal Ranch Rifle. mainly it’s just used to scare away coyotes (or, yknow, actually hit coyotes) but it does occasionally see real action as well, tho not often.

also. does it even need to be said? his hat.. holder... bead... thing. with the turquoise inlay. is a gift from Dick

alright and now the fun part! i go through all of jason’s scars, and how he got them. there are quite a few and a lot of them are. Sad. so be warned, and take care of yourselves! (also just for the record, i promise the fic itself isnt actually as dark as this will make it sound. basically none of this shows up in the story, i was just given free reign to design whatever i wanted, and poor jason ended up paying the price)

ok so. scars. 

first off, the claw and bit marks on his arms and shoulders are from getting attacked by some coyotes back when he was still just a kid. to quote my explanation back when i pitched this to Em, “bc as a Young Human with minimal supervision and not necessarily having someone to call him inside once it gets dark, he was unfortunately Very Delicious, if somewhat scrawny, by coyote standards”

next up: a bullet scar on his abdomen, on his lower left side (our right), from some kind of shootout with a criminal. this one is middling-recent; after bruce adopted him, but before the joker thing. i dont really have anything concrete for that one but it was a through and through, and somehow, miraculously, missed hitting any bones, and any organs. just missed his lower rib by like. an inch. that one messed bruce up more than jason, honestly. if anything, he was just surprised it took him that long to get shot, with the life he's had

the ones on his cheek and on his chin were just Regular Childhood Shenanigans scars, no real story.

the one through his mouth is from his time with the joker though. there's also the J brand on his right bicep, also from the joker.

also joker related, hes got a lot of scars on his hands, especially his knuckles and fingertips, from trying to fight his way out of his captivity, and scratching his fingers raw trying to pry open the door to his cell/untie the rough rope he way tied with/whatever the specific situation was. also some minor rope burn scars on his wrists from the same deal.

also some blade scars across his palms from trying to stop/block knives. definitely with the joker, but probably at some point in his youth as well

a few faint lines across his neck from being a temporary hostage a few time while helping Bruce on cases when he was younger, but none of them ever went deep or caused any serious damage

oh and also, whip scars on his back from his time with the joker, which arent too prominent, and mostly cant be seen from the front, except for a couple of spots where they crest over his shoulders and the very tail ends of them can be seen, but they’re there 

and also some kind of straight scar on his left forearm, which was a carry-over from my usual Jason design, that i like but dont really have a story for, so that one’s purely aesthetic, lol

and that’s it! i think? that’s all my notes on that? either way this post is getting Way Too Long, and i still gotta do the image descriptions, so i’m calling it there. 

[IMAGE ID: two images of Jason Todd in old-fashioned cowboy clothing. He has red, curly hair with a streak of white running through it at the front. his skin is pale but sunburnt, has deep-blue eyes, many freckles both on his face and on the rest of his exposed skin, and his body is broad and muscular, and he has many scars. he has small round metal piercings in the lobes of both ears, as well as an additional two in the top cartilege of his right ear.

in the first image, he is facing directly at the viewer with his arms crossed, and a challenging look on his face. he is wearing a maroon cowboy shirt with checkered red accent at the chest and the sleeves rolled up to his upper arms. he has a dark blue polka-dot bandana tied around his neck, and over that pass two strands of red braided cord holding his tan cowboy hat, which is visible hanging off his neck behind him. the cords are tipped with small metal beads, and pass through a large, dark brown wooden bead inset with turquoise, which regulates their length. he is wearing dark-wash blue jeans with prominent yellow stitching, pulled over his cowboy boots up to the ankle until only the foot of each boot is visible. the boots are dark brown with pale seams and red stitching, and light brown heels and soles. fastened around each boot are embossed red spur-straps, with metal spurs extending from them behind the boots. at his waist are two cracked leather belts. one is dark brown, with a pale silver buckle stamped with vine designs, and it is threaded through his belt loops. the second belt is hanging diagonally over his hips and holds his gun and holster. this belt is a reddish tan with a pattern of darker brown, overlapping rings down its length, and has a darker silver buckle. it is long enough that the loose end of it wraps back around itself several times before hanging down. the holster is simple brown leather folded over the gun, with two straps to tighten it. the gun itself is an ornate and expensive-looking revolver, black metal with intricate gold detailing and a mother-of-pearl grip.

in the second image, he is facing slightly to the side, with a long shotgun propped over his shoulder with one hand and an unimpressed expression on his face as he looks somewhere to the right of the viewer. he is shirtless, and his torso is muscled, stocky, and as sunburned and freckled as the rest of him. his cowboy hat is hanging off his neck again behind him, once more held in place by the braided red cord and round wood-and-turquoise bead. he is wearing tan, high-waisted pants tucked into his cowboy boots, which are the same as in the first image but now fully visible, with red pulls at the top. the pants are attached to red suspenders, though they are not on his shoulders and hang down around him instead. his gunbelt is once more around his hips, but the holster is obscured behind him, and isn't visible. the hand not holding the shotgun is down loosely at his side, and has a red and white bandana wrapped around the wrist. END ID]

[inyournightmares97]

All I Want For Christmas Is: Money [Bambam]

Bambam is running the Christmas Raffle for “charity”, but you’re not convinced of his motives. Can someone as selfish as him ever understand the true spirit of Christmas? 

Word Count: 5k

Part of : All I Want For Christmas Is: A GOT7 Collab

One Month Ago

“You know what I love most about Christmas?”

Yugyeom raised an eyebrow. He and Bambam were sitting in a cozy little coffee shop, drinking sugary mugs of hot chocolate to ward off the cold. Christmas decorations filled nearby stores and the holiday season was seeping into the atmosphere. 

“Presents?” Yugyeom guessed. “I’m assuming you like the presents.”

Bambam made a face. “No, man. Let’s be real. People are shit at giving Christmas presents. I think the last time I got a present I actually wanted was when I was ten years old.”

“I bought you a designer jacket last year.”

“Which I loved.”

Yugyeom rolled his eyes. He knew when Bambam was being insincere and he had ceased to care. “Sure you did. You loved it so much that you never wore it. Anyway, I’ll bite. What do you love most about Christmas?”

Bambam grinned. “The spirit of giving.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I mean, not exactly the fact that I have to give,” Bambam clarified quickly. “But that everyone else is in a giving mood. People save up for Christmas-time. Workplaces give holiday bonuses. Wallets are full and purse-strings are loose, Yugyeom. Do you know what that means?”

Yugyeom took a sip of his hot chocolate. “Tell me.”

“When everyone wants to give, there needs to be somebody to take. And I selflessly volunteer to be that person. I intend to be the lucky recipient of all the goodwill that fills people’s hearts during this fine holiday season.”

“How?”

Bambam leaned back in his chair, a smug smile on his face. “Where do people go to spend time and money during Christmas?”

“The White Miracle Market.”

“And what’s the best way to convince people to part with their money without promising anything in return?”

“... I don’t know.”

Bambam held up two fingers. “Number one, charity. Number two, the lottery. These are the ways you convince people to hand over cold, hard cash for nothing in exchange. It requires no investment but I will rake in the profits. Get ready, Yugyeom. I’m going to be rich by the end of Christmas; season of giving be damned.”

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

Present Day

You had a knack for sniffing out bullshit. 

The White Miracle Market was a beautiful place to be during Christmas-time. The enormous Christmas tree, the twinkling lights, the creative stalls and shops and little eateries filled it's visitors with warmth and the true spirit of the holiday season. The streets echoed with laughter, pleasant chatter and screams of delight. 

So why did that clumsy-looking raffle ticket counter give you bad vibes? 

“Let’s go get some chocolate!” your friend suggested. “I heard that there are some awesome homemade chocolate stalls around the corner.”

“Just a second,” you insisted as you made a beeline for the raffle ticket counter. Your friend followed you, confused when  you stopped a few feet away from the counter and squinted at it. The big colorful sign above the stall was handwritten. Standing behind the counter was a painfully familiar face. 

Bambam. 

“Hey. Isn’t that Bambam?” your friend asked with a giggle. “That guy you went on a date with that one time who stuck you with his bill?”

You flinched. There could not be a more unpleasant memory to recollect during the lovely holiday season. You had gone on exactly one date with Bambam; arguably the worst date of your life. The handsome young man had picked you up in his fancy car, driven you to one of the most expensive restaurants in town and nearly charmed your pants off with his smooth talk while he ordered all the priciest things on the menu. 

And then he’d had the gall to ask you to pay half the bill. 

It wasn’t the splitting of the bill that you had a problem with. You would have offered to share the cost even if he hadn’t asked. The problem was that Bambam had ordered three extra servings of the most expensive seafood dish on the menu, and two glass of the most expensive wine, while you’d had a salad and a coke. 

His food had cost four times more than yours but he wanted to split the bill in half. 

For shame. 

Understandably, you’d politely turned down his offer of a second date and then ghosted him afterwards. Part of you wondered if he’d only asked Jackson to set the two of you up because you worked as a veterinary doctor and presumably earned a lot of money. 

So what if Bambam was devastatingly handsome and tall and looked like a male supermodel? 

He was a gold-digger. 

“What is he doing here?” you grumbled. 

Bambam was wearing a dark maroon Christmas sweater that hung off his slim frame and telling some wide-eyed kids about all the cool prizes they could win if they bought a raffle ticket. It seemed extremely unnatural for the man. He looked like a sleazy addition to the colorful, fun environment. 

“Selling raffle tickets?” your friend asked with a chuckle. 

“That’s weird.”

“Why is it weird? Lots of people organize events at the White Miracle Market. I set up a stall to sell handmade scarves last year, remember? Maybe Bambam wanted to organize the raffle. It’s probably for charity.”

You laughed. “Charity? Bambam? I’m not buying it.”

“Why not?”

“It just doesn’t suit his image, okay?”

“You mean it doesn’t suit the image you have of him,” she corrected. “Which, to be fair, is based on only one date that didn’t go very well. You can’t judge his personality based on that. Maybe he’s really a nice person and you caught him on a bad day? Now come on. I want chocolates and I’m not willing to wait!”

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

“What can I offer you ladies? A sweet, sugary delicacy? Or perhaps-something more dark and sinful?”

Your friend giggled. Jackson Wang was charming and flirtatious when it suited him. He had a cheerful smile on his face, but you couldn’t concentrate on the festive-shaped chocolates he was showing your friend. 

“What’s Bambam up to?” you demanded abruptly. 

Jackson blinked. “Sorry?”

“Your friend Bambam. He can’t be serious about that raffle ticket stall, right?” 

“Oh now you’re curious about him?” Jackson raised an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest with a smug smirk. “Sorry, darling, no can do. You can’t come around here and suddenly show interest after ghosting him. You had your chance.”

You flushed. “I’m not interested in Bambam.”

“Then why are you worried about his raffle?”

“I just-well-”

“If it’s really the raffle you’re curious about, go ask him yourself,”  Jackson told you. 

“Maybe I will.”

“Fine.”

“Fine!” you stormed away, barely listening to Jackson calling for you to buy a chocolate first and help him make some money. 

You couldn’t be mistaken about Bambam. It simply wasn’t possible. 

He was a greedy, selfish, conniving little brat and you would prove it no matter what.  

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

Bambam’s dark eyes widened in surprise when he recognized you. You reminded yourself miserably that whatever else the man lacked, he was undeniably handsome. His Christmas-themed sweater was as stylish as it could get, his long legs cushioned in expensive jeans and a silver watch adorned his wrist. Bambam was…

Classy. 

“Hi,” you greeted him. 

“Hey,” he responded with a sheepish smile. The curve of Bambam’s lips was almost shy; uncharacteristic for a man that was shameless enough to dump more than your share of an expensive bill on you. Looks could be deceiving. “I didn’t expect to see you around here. Are you here to check out the market?” he asked. 

“Evidently,” you replied coldly. 

“Oh. Nice.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Selling raffle tickets,” Bambam informed you cheerfully. He pointed to the board behind him that listed out all the prizes in bubbly red and green font. “First place wins a flat screen TV, second wins a new laptop and third an iphone. The next four people win gift hampers. What do you say? Want to try your luck? The proceeds go to charity!”

You raised an eyebrow in disbelief. 

“Charity,” you repeated.

“Sure.”

“Which charity?”

“It’s… a charity for abused animals.”

 “Fascinating. Tell me more.”

“Uh…” Bambam laughed awkwardly but he was saved from having to answer your question by a pair of 7-year old girls that interrupted you. One of them was dragging another by the hand and she pushed past you to the front of the counter. 

“Can you show us the picture of the cat again?” the girl asked Bambam with a pout. “My friend wants to see them.”

“Uh-sure, kids-”

Bambam pulled out his cellphone and handed it to the girls. The other girl gasped as soon as she saw the picture; her hands went to cover her mouth in horror. “Oh no! It looks so thin and starved! What happened to all its hair?”

“The raffle ticket man told me some evil people pulled out her hair before she was rescued! We have to buy raffle tickets so that they can save the poor cats from those evil people!” the other girl insisted. You watched in disbelief as the two girls gave Bambam his phone back, along with fistfuls of coins to pay for their raffle tickets.  

You waited until the kids left before you stared at Bambam. 

“That’s a sphynx cat. It’s not supposed to have any hair,” you stated. 

Bambam laughed awkwardly. “I mean, yeah, but you know kids. They have wild imaginations, and who are we to reign in their creativity, huh?” Bambam noticed the unimpressed look on your face and his smile dropped. “I know how this looks, and I’ll admit the cat was a white lie. But the raffle is really for charity! And you might win something!”

“I highly doubt that,” you replied dryly. 

“But-”

“Because not only is that a sphynx cat, it’s your sphynx cat. Or did you forget that you showed me pictures of all your cats on our first date?”

Bambam bit his plump lips and sighed, shoulders slumping. He was painfully reminded that your first date had been your last date. 

And not by his choice. 

“Yeah, most girls are impressed by cute pets. I guess you’re used to them since you’re a vet? Or are you just not a fan of men who have cats?”

“I’m not a fan of men who take money from little girls on false pretences,” you quipped. 

“But-”

“Hou can be better than this, Bambam. I hope someday you realize that money isn’t everything and there are more precious things in the world.”

Bambam was silent for a moment before he gave you a soft, sad smile. 

“Me too.”

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

Bambam wasn’t sure why he found you so alluring. 

Maybe it was your no-nonsense attitude and the way you never seemed to take any bullshit from anyone. Maybe it was that you were really kind and beautiful and you had this aura about you, one that had captivated him from the very first time he heard you speak. 

Bambam had the biggest fucking crush on you. 

But it didn’t matter, because he’d already had his chance and blew it. 

“I just don’t get it,” he complained miserably. “Most women love me. I’m handsome and charming. How was she so put off by me on our first date?”

Jinyoung sighed. “Come on, man.”

“What? I genuinely don’t understand.”

“Let me put it this way.” Jinyoung reached into his pocket and pulled out an expired ticket, along with a pen. He flipped the ticket over and drew a line on it. “This line is the group of women that are interested in you. And this line right underneath is the group of women that you’re interested in.”

Bambam blinked at the two lines. 

“I don’t get it.”

“They’re parallel lines, Bambam. They never meet.”

“So?”

“So you’re fucked,” Jinyoung replied simply. “Now go away.”

Bambam walked through the market miserably. His raffle ticket stall was doing great and he should have been delighted at the amount of money he was raking in. A little lack of ethics went a long way. 

But he felt uncomfortable. Not because he was doing something wrong, but because of that weird, queasy feeling that you thought less of him. 

Maybe Jinyoung was right. Maybe he was shooting for women that would never like him. 

Women like you weren't easily impressed. 

“Do you want to come play with our kittens?” a small voice asked. 

Bambam stopped in his tracks, realizing he had nearly run over a young boy that was looking at him hopefully. The kid was wearing a vest with a paw print on it and Bambam couldn’t resist the urge to follow the boy over to a stall where a number of little kittens were running around in a small play pen. 

“Wow,” he mumbled. 

“You can play with them!” the kid prompted. 

Bambam chuckled, bending over to reach into the pen as a pair of soft grey kittens instantly leapt onto his hand and tried to nibble on his fingers. They were adorable and fluffy and squishy. 

"Fuck, you guys are adorable," Bambam mumbled. 

"Will you donate to our animal shelter?" the kid asked hopefully. 

Bambam hesitated, one kitten still nibbling harmlessly on his finger. "Uh… I'm sorry, kid. I don't really have any money on me right now."

The kid nodded sadly.. "That's okay. We're just trying to take care of the kittens because we're not sure if we can find them new homes by Christmas and nobody wants to adopt them right now."

"Really?"

"Yeah…"

"Well, damn."

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

Less than four hours after you'd first spotted the raffle ticket stall, you came across Bambam once more. 

He was sitting gloomily on the curb with a box of kittens in his lap. 

You wanted, so badly, to just simply past this man without stopping to ask him what he was doing, but your curiosity wouldn't let you do that. Despite not particularly liking Bambam, you had to admit that he was one of the most unpredictable and unique people that you’d ever met. 

Ah, fuck. 

You just had to ask. 

“What are you doing with those?” you asked. 

Bambam looked up at you, eyes wide and plump lips falling open for a moment. Then he collected himself and cleared his throat. “These?” he asked, gesturing towards the kittens. 

“Yes, those.”

“I… may have adopted them?”

You stared at him. He didn’t offer any more information and you started to wonder if perhaps Bambam was really all right in the head. You took a deep breath and decided that your curiosity was unhealthy. Why did you care so much about the weird guy you’d been on a date with one time? You needed to find something else to think about. 

“I see. Cool,” you replied before walking away. 

You would leave Bambam to his eccentric exploits.

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

Except the curiosity was insatiable. 

You went back to the market the next day to get some presents for your nieces and nephews and inevitably, the path to the wooden toy-shop required you to walk past Bambam’s raffle stall. 

It was closed. 

Why was it closed? It was a Sunday, shouldn’t Bambam know that Sundays were the days when most people came to the market? It was also a great day for his target audience- gullible and helpless little kids who were either convinced they would win an iphone or thought they were rescuing the helpless cats. 

But Bambam wasn’t there. 

“So, uh… how come the raffle stall is closed?” you asked Jaebum casually. He was extremely busy working on something that looked like a dollhouse and he barely looked up at you. The man was the exact opposite of Bambam, you noted. Passionate and dedicated to his craft. 

“The raffle stall?” Jaebum asked absent-mindedly. “No clue. Why?”

You bit your lip. “No reason.”

He finally tore his eyes away from the dollhouse and turned to you with a more friendly smile. “Hey, so I think I’m going to need until tomorrow to complete your order. There’s still some finishing touches that I need to give the toys although I can show you what they look like so far-”

“That’s okay,” you reassured him. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Great, thanks.”

You left the wooden toy-shop and strolled down the market street, looking at all the pretty shops and stalls that were bursting with life during the winter season. 

And then there was the clumsy, deserted raffle ticket stall. 

A small group of kids walked up to the stall, noticed that it was shut and sadly walked away. You frowned. 

Where was Bambam? 

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

He didn’t turn up the next day, either. 

The raffle ticket stall was conspicuously shut while you went to buy some chocolates from Jackson and some pretty handmade Christmas cards for your family and friends. By the time you finally reached the wooden toy stall to pick up the toys you had ordered, you couldn’t stand it anymore. 

“Where is Bambam?” you demanded as Jaebum packed up your toys for you. 

Jaebum blinked. “I don’t know. Maybe you can ask Yugyeom.”

“Is he here?”

“Sure. Hold on. Yugyeom! Come out here for a second!” Jaebum yelled. A tall, broad-shouldered young man emerged from the back with a friendly smile. “Do you know where Bambam is? People have been wondering why his raffle ticket stall is shut.”

Yugyeom blinked. “Oh, him? He’s too busy with the kittens.”

“Kittens?” you demanded. 

“Yeah. He adopted them from the shelter but it turns out that they were sick. All of them. He’s been running over to the veterinary center at the hospital for the last two days. I guess they don’t have many vets on duty since it’s the holiday season so he keeps making appointments to meet different doctors.”

“Oh.”

“It’s his fault, he shouldn’t have adopted a whole litter of kittens at once. But what can you do? Bambam’s not the type to give up on anyone.”

You raised your eyebrows. “You mean he has redeeming qualities too?”

Yugyeom folded his arms across his chest and frowned at you. “Look. I’m only telling you this because he likes you. Bambam had a difficult childhood growing up and maybe life taught him to love money more than his pride. But he also knows what it’s like to suffer. Bambam always helps people in distress, and he never gives up on them.”

Your throat felt dry. “Oh.”

He grabbed the bag with the toys you had ordered and handed them to you. “Will you be needing anything else?”

“Uh, no.”

“Great. Thanks for your business. Merry Christmas.”

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

You walked into the hospital the next day to see one of the receptionists waiting for you nervously. 

“Oh great, you’re here!” she greeted. 

You blinked. “Is everything okay?”

“This guy brought in a box of kittens. They’re suffering from a genetic disease and they’re not likely to live long; we’ve already had two other doctors look at them but he keeps asking to see a different doctor every day because he doesn’t believe them. I told him that you’re the best we have and that if you couldn’t do something then nobody could. Can you take a look at them?”

You bit your lip. “A box of kittens, you say?”

“Yeah.”

That sounded familiar. 

“... Send him in.”

You were not surprised when five minutes later, Bambam entered your office with a small carrier full of grey, fluffy kittens. He looked both surprised and relieved to see you. He plopped down into the chair opposite your desk and gave you a sheepish smile. 

“Hi,” he greeted. “I thought the next vet they sent me to would be you. Apparently you’re the best.”

“I’m pretty sure my colleagues’ diagnosis was accurate, Bambam.”

“No, don’t say that!” he insisted desperately. “I’m sure there’s something that can be done. It’s okay. I don’t care how much money it costs. I just couldn’t stand it if anything happened to these kittens. I took responsibility for these little guys when I adopted them and I’m going to see it through to the end.”

You sighed. 

“I hear blood tests and scans were done? Let me pull up the reports.”

“Okay.”

You pulled up the reports on your computer and instantly noticed the problem. It was evident from the reports that the entire litter of kittens suffered from a genetic illness; one that veterinary sciences had yet to find a cure for and one that would ensure that these kittens lived a short and painful life. Your face fell and consequently, so did Bambam’s. 

“Bambam….”

“Please don’t say there’s nothing you can do,” he pleaded. 

You couldn’t help it. You felt bad for him. The man had clearly formed an attachment to these kittens and he was clutching the carrier tightly as he looked at you with wide, horrified eyes. You hadn’t imagined that the cool, classy and suave Bambam would have such a soft corner for such a helpless group of kittens. 

“Bambam, I’m sorry. I think all we can do is make it so they don’t go through any pain.”

“Fuck.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well that’s a shitty-ass way to start the holiday season, isn’t it? Isn’t there some treatment? Surgery or something? It’s okay even if it costs a lot-”

“It’s not something you can solve with money, Bambam. Veterinary science hasn’t found a cure for genetic diseases like this yet. You could put them in some kind of experimental treatment but it would only prolong the pain and the chances of finding a cure are next to nothing.”

Bambam blinked at you. “Right.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault. I’m an idiot for thinking I could help them, I just…” his eyes were shining with the hint of tears and he cleared his throat. “I guess I don’t know what I would have done with them even if they had been healthy. I don’t have enough room at home for eight more cats. I just didn’t think they should be alone at the shelter over Christmas.”

“That’s… kind of you.”

“Nah, it’s hypocritical of me, maybe I just wanted to feel like I was doing something good to make up for all the shit I do.”

You bit your lip. “Hmm.”

“So can I just…” he cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. “I’m sure the hospital has ways to um… I don’t think I could do it myself, you know?”

“How about you keep them with you over Christmas?”

Bambam blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You can give them a warm home and keep them comfortable for the holidays. And then afterwards you can drop them off at the hospital and um, we’ll find a way to make it painless for them. I promise,” you suggested. 

“Okay. That… that sounds nice.”

“Great.”

“Thanks for your help,” he muttered. He stood up to leave, picking up the carrier full of mewling kittens and walking towards the door. Your throat felt tight as you watched him walk away and you couldn’t control yourself from calling. 

“Bambam?”

He turned. “Yeah?”

“Are you going to re-open the raffle ticket stall?”

His lips curled into a pained smile. “Ah. That. I don’t know if I can. I spent all the money I made so far on the medical tests and scans for these little guys. I don’t think I can afford to keep it running. I’ll have to find some way to make some money and refund people who bought tickets.”

You sighed and folded your arms across your chest. “I’ll get the hospital to waive the fees for you on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You reopen the raffle ticket stall. And this time you really give your proceeds to an animal abuse charity, instead of conning people into thinking that you will.”

Bambam bit his lip and then gave you a small smile. “Yeah, okay.”

You smiled back. “Great.”

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

Christmas Eve

It was late evening when you walked past the stalls at the Christmas Market. Being a vet, you’d had to work through most of the holidays but you’d managed to escape early just on Christmas Eve in time to make it to the market before it closed. 

Bambam was just closing up. 

“Hey,” you greeted him lightly. “Am I too late to buy some raffle tickets?”

Bambam’s eyes widened cheerfully when he saw you, and he waved a gloved hand in greeting. His neck was cushioned in a fancy scarf. 

“Hi! I didn’t expect to see you here! Of course you can buy some raffle tickets. How many do you want?” he asked. 

You shrugged. “Ten?”

“That’s a lot,” he smiled and reached down to rip the tickets out of his little book. “You sure you want to spend that much money here?”

“It’s for a good cause.”

“I guess it is,” he mused as he handed you a bunch of tickets and you gave him the cash in return.  “You made it just in time. I was about to close up and go home to the kittens. They’ve become incredibly naughty. I don’t know how I’m going to let go of them.”

You smiled sadly. “Don’t get too attached.”

“I know,” he muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s okay. I think I’m coming to terms with it. Sometimes that’s how life is. The innocent are the ones to get hurt. But I’m glad I could give them a warm home for the holidays.”

“I’m glad too.”

Bambam nodded before he turned the lights off and closed the shutter of his stall. The street was emptying out; most people were headed towards the huge Christmas tree and the dazzling lights but you’d had a long day and planned to go home. You walked towards the exit with Bambam. 

“Can I ask you something?” Bambam asked hesitantly. 

“Sure.”

“I know… you dodn’t want to go out with me again after that first time,” Bambam explained with a nervous smile. “And that’s fine! I mean, that’s totally your choice. But… can I ask  what went wrong during that date? Did we just not click? Did you not enjoy yourself? Or did I say something to upset you?”

You stared at him. “No. I had a great time during the date. It was a lot of fun.”

“Then what was it?”

“You mean you don’t know?” 

He shook his head innocently. “I’ve been wondering what could have gone wrong but to be honest, I tried my best to make sure you enjoyed yourself. I figured you just didn’t like me.” 

“Bambam. You made me pay for way more than my fair share of the meal. It was a really dick move to pull considering that we were at a really expensive restaurant. If I had known I would be paying for your food too, I would have chosen a cheaper place. The fact that you so coolly asked me to pay was a huge red flag!” 

Bambam blinked at you in confusion. “What? But Jackson told me to!” 

“Jackson?” 

“I was going to pay for the date myself. But Jackson texted me right before the bill came saying that independent women like you were probably feminists and that I should treat you like an equal and that ask to split the bill in half so that you didn’t feel awkward about me paying.” 

You stared at him. “Bambam.” 

“What?”

“That’s a nice thought, but you ordered all the most expensive things on the menu and I had a salad and coke. Don’t you think going halfsies wasn’t a fair split?” 

His cheeks flushed red and he quickly averted his eyes from you. “Okay, yeah. I see it now. I swear it didn’t even occur to me then. I was just following Jackson’s suggestions.”

“Jackson didn’t know what we ordered.” 

“I guess not.” 

“So you weren’t a gold-digger. You were just an idiot.” 

Bambam chuckled awkwardly. “There’s a statement I can’t dispute. I was nervous about messing it up. I really liked you. I still do, I mean. Really like you. But I understand why you’re not interested in me so I won’t push it.” 

You sighed and shoved your hands in your pockets. You couldn’t deny that you had seen a different side to Bambam. A more endearing and innocent side. A side that maybe, just maybe, made up for his faux pas at the restaurant and his failure of an attempt to defraud the general public by misappropriating the proceeds of his  raffle tickets. 

“Do you have any plans tonight?” you asked him. 

“Nope. Just going home to watch the cats.” 

“Can we pick up a bottle of wine and watch the cats together?” you suggested lightly. “It’s Christmas Eve and I don’t have anywhere else to be either.”

Bambam grinned. “Yeah. We could do that.” 

“Then let’s do it.” 

Bambam’s dark eyes were fixed on you as you both continued to walk, and you found your heart fluttering a little. He was a sweet guy; perhaps a little stupid, and perhaps his moral compass was a few degrees off, but deep down you had the feeling that Bambam was a nice guy. 

“Hey,” he suddenly said with a grin. “How about this? How about I give the charity the exact amount of money you waived from the hospital fee, and keep the rest?”

“How about you keep nothing?” you retorted. 

Bambam’s smile fell. “Ok, that’s an issue.”

“Why is that an issue?”

“I don’t have enough money to buy a nice bottle of wine.”

You sighed and resisted the urge to smack yourself in the forehead. “Fine. I’ll buy the fucking bottle of wine.”

Bambam pouted. “You don’t have to get mad, it was only an idea-”

“Here’s an idea. How about once we get to your apartment, we talk about finding you a nice, honest job that you can work at to make money?” you asked. 

“Doesn’t sound like much fun,” he pointed out. 

“What does sound like fun?”

“Being rich.”

You sighed. Maybe it would take some time getting used to Bambam. 

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

[redrebecca]

Effortlessly Endearing

You met at the Met Gala, where you saved his ass and he saved yours.

Warning(s): Just swearing

A/N: Hiya, so this is a little Met Gala fic that doesn’t have Hailey in, at all. I just thought it was a kinda cute idea so yeh. Feedback is always appreciated, have a nice day.

Words: 2.2k

*

“And breathe in.” The woman from behind you commanded. The fabric restricted around your torso as she expertly stitched the material of the dress so it clung to you like a second skin, accentuating the curve of your chest and hips.

You had initially said no to this. A list events such as the Met Gala were never considered fun by your standards, more of a pain in the ass – you would much preferred to stay in your bed, eating junk food until your heart was content. But no. Instead you were stuck in a small, stuffy room being gawked at by more people than you were comfortable with, your internal organs groaning in discomfort at the all-too-tight dress and you wouldn’t dare to think the amount of unimaginable pain your feet would be in after at least 4 hours of walking in those ridiculously high heels that were placed in the corner of the room. You swore your feet ached from just the sight of them.

“Done!” The seamstress exclaimed, the first bit of emotion she’d shown since arriving. You gladly stepped off the pedestal and into your slippers, humming as your toes were finally enveloped in warmth. Unfortunately, your little moment of bliss was interrupted as you were swiftly ushered towards the hair and makeup chair. Your manager scolded you as you accidentally let an annoyed groan slip out of your mouth.

Luckily, or unluckily – you were undecided – the hair and makeup team were extremely efficient. They applied countless amounts of product on your face and put so many bobby pins into your hair you could actually feel the weight of them, in record time. However during this, someone had parted you from your beloved slippers and replaced them with the dreaded heels.

“But they’re custom Louboutins!” Your manager had expressed her disbelief when you had complained about them when they arrived. Like you cared what they were, if you made it through the event without breaking something you would be happy.

Unfortunately for you she didn’t take your request of wearing trainers instead too kindly – in fact she stormed out of the room.

*

You arrived at the event, the familiar buzz heightened your senses as you took in the other celebrities in ostentatious outfits surrounding you.

“Okay so you know the plan?” Your assistant said.

You inhaled and exhaled calming your nerves. You’d done enough met galas that you should be able to do it in your sleep, but nerves still ate away at your composure.

“I’d much rather be at home.” You muttered, wondering how many of these other celebrities felt the same way and which ones craved the attention this served them on a silver platter.

“I know you would,” She pulled you into a hug, granted it wasn’t the smoothest as she had to be extremely careful around the intricate design of your gown, but it was comforting nonetheless.

“You’re an actress right?” She said with a small smile. You nodded. “Then if you need to act, act.” You shoved her lightly, a smile gracing your features at her teasing. “You got this.” She assured you before you turned to walk the red carpet into the huge building.

As soon as you entered through the doors, interviewers began doing whatever they could to attract your attention and the sound of camera clicks increased as paparazzi swivelled and turned their focus from the people they were photographing, to you in your eye catching dress.

Sure the process wasn’t great but the outcome was simply stunning. Everything from the daring neckline to the elegant train that graciously moved behind you, like a shadow following your every move, even the colour – a charcoal grey with flecks of silver that caught the light perfectly – made this one of your favourite dresses.

The raucous caused upon your arrival resulted in many heads turning your way. You straightened your posture and put on your award winning smile before walking over to the closest interviewer.

*

You felt as though you had been here, jumping from tedious interview to tedious interview, for a long time, but, according to your watch, you had been here for under an hour.

Great.

You sped through your interview, deciding it was probably time to walk the carpet – and the dreaded stairs. The sooner you got your hands on that drink at the after party, the better. You politely declined interviewers’ offers that were being shouted at you from every angle and made your way to the buzzing centre of the event.

Several of your past co-stars approached you to have a much needed catch up, granted, it was quick and rushed, but it was always nice to see them.

You walked with Zendaya as you turned towards the long stretch of cameras paparazzi and a sea of very expensive suits and dresses, one man in particular caught your eye. Shawn Mendes. You couldn’t recall seeing him last year, or the year before that. A newbie.

He was talking to Troye Sivan, who perfectly timed scanning the room – just as you looked at him – and pointed towards you, drawing the taller man beside him’s attention to you. You waved, causing the two to smile and wave back. You turned back to your conversation with the actress before she was called over to the side by her assistant, urging you to go on without her.

Your eyes quickly found the maroon suit again, but this time the bright red of Troye’s suit was no longer there. He looked almost lost, certainly unsure. However, you didn’t blame him, you had been to countless events before your first ever met gala but you’d still found it daunting. Your eyes involuntarily trailed down his broad figure before something caught your eye. Your eyes widened when they landed on his crotch area – and not for that reason. You inhaled sharply when you noticed the white that significantly contrasted with the darker tone of his suit. The idiot hadn’t zipped up his trousers.

You panicked, not sure what to do. Should you tell him? You cringed at the thought of approaching a rather attractive human being, who your only interaction with was a brief wave, and telling them that you were staring at their crotch? No thank you. You willed yourself to turn around, after all, it wasn’t your problem. But just as you were about to distract yourself with god knows what – you saw him begin to walk towards the paparazzi. Fuck it, you thought, rushing faster than you thought was physically possible in your heels towards the man who was about to make a huge mistake – whilst wondering how catastrophic yours would be.

You reached him just as he turned towards the first cluster of cameras. Purposefully not giving yourself enough time to overthink your actions you stepped inches away from him, shielding him, and his modesty, from the mob of shouting photographers behind you. His expression morphed into shock very quickly at your unexpected appearance.

“Hi.” You said, the awkwardness of the interaction already had you wanting to hide in your apartment for at least a week, and you hadn’t even addressed the crotch situation yet.

“Hi?” He replied with so much uncertainty it was phrased more like a question than a greeting. You winced. God why did I do this? You swatted those thoughts away. As embarrassing as this was, it was the right thing to do.

“Y/N it’s nice to finally meet you but I-” He started.

“Your fly is undone.” You blurted. You hoped that your foundation was thick enough to hide the deep blush that was unquestionably heating your cheeks.

His eyes widened like a deer in headlights before they quickly left yours so he could check for himself. You looked away to try and reduce the embarrassment, for him and you, only turning back when you heard the hum of the zipper.

His perfectly flushed cheeks had darkened to a shade that almost matched the colour of his tailored suit.

“Thank you so much I- oh my god can you imagine the headlines.” His breaths were becoming more and more shallow with every word he spoke.

“Hey don’t worry about it. Wardrobe malfunctions happen to the best of us.” You nudged his shoulder gently and a beautiful smile grew on his face. To your surprise, he wrapped you in a hug, at first you were worried about creasing your dress, but that thought was erased almost as fast as it had come when you realized just how strangely comforting his hold was.

However you were abruptly brought back to reality by the deafening sound of camera clicks. You pulled away despite everything in you wanting to stay wrapped in his ridiculously strong arms. It was difficult to miss the way his eyes raked down your figure – just like you had done to him – as he too took a polite step back.

“See you at the after party?” He opened and closed his mouth a few times before just settling with a nod. You smiled, your confidence levels thankfully replenishing after that… experience. You turned as attractively as you could to walk away, hoping to ‘flaunt it’ as your assistant would tell you. However when you went to move your foot, it stayed still and you went flying forwards. You closed your eyes and braced yourself for the impact. But instead, before you could physically harm yourself, two muscular arms looped around your front, hoisting you up and towards him, so your back was pressed securely against his chest.

“You okay?” He asked. You tried, and failed, to refrain from shivering as you felt his warm breath on the shell of your ear.

“Yep.” You squeaked, still recovering from your almost-fall. If you couldn’t even walk without falling on a flat surface, your chances with the stairs were not looking promising.

“Just stand still for me.” He said, slowly removing you from his arms, ensuring that you were able to stay upright. He leaned down and you inhaled when you felt his large hand gently wrap around your ankle. “You might wanna hold on for a second.” He said and you just managed to hear it over the chaos that meant a popular celebrity was arriving. Your eyebrows furrowed before you caught onto what he was suggesting. You reached down to hold onto his shoulder. When he felt the pressure of your hand, he lifted your foot up, his long fingers untangling the train of your dress from the heel of your Louboutins. Just as carefully as he had picked it up, he placed your foot back on the ground with so much attentiveness, you felt as though you could melt into a puddle right there and then. He didn’t remove his hand straight away, meaning that when he stood back up, his hand trailed dangerously far up your leg causing you to suck in a breath of air.

Shawn’s eyes had a sheepish glint to them as they connected with yours, as if he was unsure of whether he had crossed a boundary. You smiled gratefully “Thank you.” You murmured.

“We’re even now.” He said with a toothy smile, which subsequently made you grin back.

Around the two of you cameras continued to flash and the obnoxious people behind them shouted different orders at the stars who were posing for photos, trying to show off their best angles

“Hey, um do you have a date?” He asked, bringing your attention back to him. He scratched briefly at his neck, surprised at himself for being so audacious. His signs of nervousness made your heart beat a little faster – he somehow managed to go from having his hand on your thigh to being an absolute gentleman, and easily got away with it.

“No I don’.t” You responded. Not wanting to get your hopes up about the intention of his question. You were never that lucky.

“How about we make a deal? We do this together – you tell me if my zipper comes undone,” He quickly motioned to his crotch “And I will catch you when you trip on those stairs.” He finished, nodding towards the steps which you had been dreading since you had received the phone call about the event.

“What do you mean ‘when you trip’?” You said incredulously.

“Come on sweetheart, we both know you won’t make it up there in those,” he referred to your heels, playfully scrunching his nose up as he pointed dismissively at the designer stilettos. “Without at least one fall.” He finished, a wry smile on his lips.

You gasped dramatically, hoping to draw the attention away from your flushed cheeks which were a result of the nickname that slipped from his lips.

“So is that a yes?” He asked, a hint of insecurity seeping into his tone.

You nodded. “I would love to be your date, as long as you promise not to let me fall.” He grinned from ear to ear, your face no doubt mirroring his delighted expression.

“I promise.” He said honestly, extending his arm for you – which you gladly accepted.

You didn’t fall over once.

[bowieandqueen11]

Not Coming Back / Uris! Reader Angst

Request: Could you write an imagine where the reader is Stan's sister and has to tell the losers club that he's dead? 

Okay, dear anon, my feelings :’( <3 This is an alternate version of my imagine Beep Beep Richie, if you haven’t read it! 

Starting to step into the restaurant, your heart beats painfully hard in your chest, terrified to be back in Derry but glad to be stepping out from the inky darkness of the town’s chill night and into some kind of warmth. As you enter the Jade of the Orient, stalling slightly as you swear you feel eyes burning into the side of your face, you look behind you quickly, searching into the deserted street for some kind of movement but the only thing you feel is a flash of pain in your palm, a reminder of the promise you made many summers ago. Though the street hadn’t heard laughter for a while, there were still the street-lamps stubbornly glowing their off-auburn light against your skin, nostalgic in their feel as they light the red brick buildings under the rainy sky. Shooting memories of pitiless shining summer suns beating its hot rays down upon your face with the promise of a noon of glaring turquoise skies and clouds that flutter by like turtles swimming through the ripples of an emerald ocean flash through your mind, the air hot and oppressive as the squeals and groans of good old Silver filled your ears, bumping and skidding over little pebbles that spray out like rain drops onto this road. The memory of your brother, his little curls hitting against his forehead as he cycled down next to you, a smile twitching on the corners of his frown in his usual fashion as he skidded out of the way or Richie as he brakes suddenly. Bumping into you, the two of you share a small look, rolling your eyes before just silently talking between yourselves for a moment, until the two of you burst out in fits of giggles.

But there’s no hope left here. Derry’s, and your abandonment was no longer a temporary thing, there was no joy, or warmth for you back here. You would never hear your brother complain about the Losers again, would never hear him hark on about all the birds he had spotted near the fountain today as the two of you lie side by side on his bed. You would never again be able to sit down next to him, placing the moving boxes down into his new home as he sighs happily. You would never be able to nudge his ribs as he squints at you, laughing at the faces he’s pulling in his wedding photos as you flick through them, relishing in the memories. You would never again be able to hug him for successfully starting his first accounting job, for all the highs and lows of your shared lives. You would never see him again.

Or so you thought.

‘Hey, Eds, what the hell happened to your fanny pack?’

As Eddie turns away from the fish tank, a little more hyped than he should be both in total terror and the slight relief his heart still feels at having escaped Myra, of having been taken back to the one place he always knew where he belonged, where he was always destined to be, his mouth twitches into a smile as he sees you standing gingerly next to the giant gong, letting out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding in.

‘Y/n… It’s so good to see you’, Mike says with a hesitant and slightly far away smile on his face as he begins walking around the circular wooden table to get to you.

‘Yeah, congrats on b-b-being the f-fourth Loser here, and s-still being early.’

‘When did the stutter come back, Big Bill?’ You clamp a hand over your mouth, wonderment at the old nickname slipping through your mouth that you hadn’t thought about in years.

‘It’s alright, y/n’, Eddie starts, ‘it’s been happening to all of us too.’

You nod gingerly, looking around at the three boys you had spent nearly every day of your childhood with, the boys who look back at you with equally devoted and terrified eyes before a smile twitches at your lips and you run over to them, engulfing them all into the biggest, tightest bear hug you’ve had since the day you left Derry.

As the ripples of the gong fill the otherwise silent private room with a dull thudding beat, it’s final shrill crescendo making you wince back a little into Eddie’s maroon jacketed arm, you’re surprised to turn around and find the shy smile of Richie Tozier glaring back at you, an unholy mustard yellow gleaming into your eyes. You don’t notice Ben and Bev watch the two of you with little smirks on their faces as you just freeze, Richie in fear that seeing all his old friends again would bring on another panic attack, you to try and stop the tears from welling in your eyes that Stanley would never again be with them. The Losers’ Club would never be whole.

Finally, Richie breaks the tense silence by saying, ‘I guess this meeting of the Loser’s Club has officially begun, hey y/n? I have to say, you look just as smoking hot as I remember you.’

‘Oh god, beep beep Richie’ the rest of the guys groan out, laughing timidly amongst themselves as they move to sit down, but thankful for the little sliver of familiarity the moment had allowed them to revel in before the more serious business began, before playtime was over and they had to face up not all of them came here for a pleasant little reunion dinner. Sliding down into the seat next to Big Bill, you smile pleasantly at your old friends, ignoring Eddie raise his eyebrows slightly at Richie as Ben takes a big swig of his drink, everyone noticing but not daring to mention the way your eyes would slide quickly over the one last remaining seat opposite you, a blaring big hole in your heart, and the awkward elephant in the room.

‘So..’, Richie starts, fiddling with his beer, ‘is Stanley really that much of a pussy, y/n? Huh?’

‘He’s a busy guy, Richie, I bet he just had something else on’, Beverly quickly replied, but her fingers slightly trembled against the white tablecloth anyway. Bill nods eagerly in agreement as Mike just stares at you, his smile dropping down into the most heartbreaking frown as you realise he hadn’t told the others yet either. It filled you with a warm flash of comfort, just for a moment, that you weren’t alone in this grief.

‘Yeah, he’s a big fancy accountant now, isn’t he?’ Ben adds.

Eddie elbows Richie slightly in the ribs as he starts spouting again. ‘yeah, Big man Stanley Urine always was going to make it, wasn’t he?’

And that’s when you broke.

You didn’t think you had ever felt such pain before.

‘I’m sorry about the empty seat, y/n, but we all wanted Stanley to be here tonight too. And in a way, he is, he’s with all of us.’ Mike nods slowly at you, telling you it was time.

‘What are you mushing on about now, Mike’, Richie laughs hoarsely, but everyone could tell it was just the nerves.

You weren’t expecting the deathly silence that filled the room, the painful gasps and dropping off glasses onto the floor as you manage to whisper out:

‘Stan...Stan isn’t coming, because Stanley’s dead. He died a few days ago.’

‘Wh-what?’, Eddie breathes out, his breaths coming out short and desperate as he fumbles in his pocket for his aspirator.

‘What the fuck do you mean?’, Richie starts, believing you were joking until he noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks in hot, volcanic gushes, splattering like pregnant blood drops onto your empty plate.

‘It’s that clown isn’t it’, Beverly adds, staring down at the swirling drink in her hand with wide eyes, ‘…Pennywise. He killed him, didn’t he. It’s starting to click back into place now, all the things I wanted to forget. But Jesus, y/n, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I never thought Stan....’

Bill could do nothing but nod at Mike, a faltering frown cracking on his face as he gazes slowly across the oaken table, ignoring Richie’s slight glance over at Eddie, whose eyebrows are furrowed in pain as he stares at Bill. 

‘L-let’s start d-drinking, s-shall we?’

[littlemisssquiggles]

Little Red Headcanons: Ruby’s Big Bad Boyfriend

Imagine if…Ruby gained a love interest who was inspired bythe Big Bad Wolf from the Little Red Riding Hood fairy tale?

This thought came to mind when I considered the idea of Ruby, now that she’s a more mature young lady, being encouraged to start dating by her more nosey peers. Perhaps she’s even set up on a blind date while she’s in Atlas. 

Can you picture that? All of our young heroes; at least all the single ones who are of age (so Renora and Oscar are out) are encouraged to try something akin to speed dating? Perhaps it’s an activity popular with the youth of Atlas, especially the ones attending the prestigious and strict Atlas Academy in need of something to help them cut lose and wind down or what not?

So while in Atlas, let’s say our heroes are roped into trying speed-dating by Neon Katt of Team FNKI? Neon definitely strikes me as the type to do this. I’d even go so far as to say she’s also the type to wanna set up her friends with people she thinks they might kick it good with, y’know what I mean?

 So…let’s say, Neon somehow gets the bright idea to set up Ruby with one of her ‘friends’. I say friends in quotation marks since like the catty person she is, Neon strikes me as the type to possible pick up friends wherever she goes. So she probably has a giant network of friends. More folks to invite to party  with the FNKI, am I right?

Anyways, let’s say…Neon sort of…oh I dunno…convinces or tricks Ruby into going on a date with guy she knows---another huntsman, who she believes in her heart is the perfect match for Ruby. Guaranteed to be her soul mate and all that jazz.

At first, Ruby is of course very skeptical of this. Typical Ruby Rose reacting. But eventually, she caves. What if...while in Atlas, Ruby adopts a new kind of attitude. Since the group have faced nothing but challenges from Beacon to Mistral, Atlas was their chance to finally relax. That being said, Ruby surprises everyone and agrees to the date---albeit she silently regrets it and starts freaking out afterwards. Fortunately she has her teammates, especially her big sister Yang to help her get ready.

Long story short, Ruby meets Neon’s friend. For the sake of this headcanon post, I’m going to dub this Big Bad Boyfriend character as Dante Alarick. ‘Alarick’ means ‘noble leader or a wolf ruler; fierce, supreme ruler of all’.

Let’s say Ruby and Dante hit it off, just as Neon predicted. Ruby finds herself infatuated with the charismatic Dante. However, like the wolf in the story, Dante isn’t the kind of person Ruby thinks he is.

Remember how in Little Red Riding Hood, the Wolf pretended to be Little Red’s grandmother in order to trick her before trying to eat her?

I wanted to envision a character who embodied both the Wolf and event the noble hunter who saved Little Red from the Wolf; and even cut grandma out of the wolf’s stomach in some renditions of the tale. 

In my interpretation, Dante is a huntsman who easily wins over everyone with his charming good looks and equally charming personality but the reality is that he is nothing more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing who looks out only for himself and whenever he sets his eyes on something he desires, he’s determined to get it at all cost.

If I could personify the Dante character in a song, it would be ‘Animals’ by Maroon 5.

Let’s say Dante is the top huntsman at Atlas Academy. The crowned Prince of the school in terms of wealth and popularity who takes interest in a certain silver-eyed rose after she and her friends started to attend the academy after hearing rumours about them from the other students. The instant Dante laid eyes on Ruby, he instantly dubbed her as a rare prize he was determined to obtain for himself and only himself.

But Dante isn’t the type to just forwardly approach his target. Oh no. Instead he silently observes his prey from afar, making sure to sniff them out well  before moving in for the kill. I can picture Dante being the type to worm his way into Ruby’s Inner Circle, starting with Neon Katt (who as I said is friends with everyone, including the Prince of Atlas Academy himself) before working his way down the chain---charming everyone in his wake until he can finally claim his real prize.

I know this is a silly idea for a character but you guys know how much I’ve been talking about wanting to see Ruby act more like a teenaged girl since we’re so used to her being the fierce huntress leading everyone forward. I just thought it would be cool to see how Ruby would react in other social situations---ones that take place off the battlefield. We got a taste of that in V2 with the Vytal Festival Ball in Vale and this squiggle meister would like to see more.

I’d like to see more moments of Ruby coming out of her shell and being ‘just a girl’ for once. No Grimm. No Silver Eyed Warrior training. No ancient relics. No immortal evil that she might one day have to face for the fate of humanity. Nope. She just gets to act like a normal girl with normal knees.

Besides, another reason why I’d like this headcanon to fly is to see how Oscar would react to another guy romantically pursuing Ruby. In the beginning, my first candidate for this role was Whitley Schnee. Still is; to be honest. 

But just in case we don’t get Ruby and Whitley meeting and Whitley becoming infatuated with Ruby so that he and Oscar may clash for her hand. Just in case that doesn’t go down, I think a character like Dante could work.

A big bad wolf who pretends to be a kind-hearted prince charming in order to woo the beautiful red rose into falling for his allures.

It can be a cool take on the Big Bad Wolf character for Ruby since…so far, the only wolves she’s faced are actual ones in the form of the Beowulf Grimm. Imagine if... her wolf counterpart was a human character out to prey on her for his own selfish desires.

Heck imagine if this was a scenario like in Kim Possible: The Movie where the Dante character was someone coersed by Cinder Fall and Neo to get close to Ruby to help them capture her in the end.

It can even be a scenario where the Dante character even sells out Ruby to Cinder and Neo after she refused to return his affections---y’know just to show much of an asshole he is, right?

I mean that’s one way to be a big bad wolf, am I right? 

Again, a silly idea for a Ruby Rose headcanon but...gonna toss it out anyways.

~LittleMissSquiggles (2019) 

[akitokihojo]

In Between: Chapter 9

Here we gooooooooooo! Chapter 10, the final chapter, is in the works. So, hold on to your butts, shit’s getting real y’all!

Previous chapters can be found in my fic masterlist, as well as on AO3 and ff.net.

-----------

Kagome grimaced, leaning over the counter to get a closer look at the bruise on her face in the mirror. Her cheek and part of her under eye were painted scarlet and purple, the intense darkness of the wound saved for the very side of her cheekbone where he'd hit her hardest, shaded navy and shadowed slightly with swelling. Swiveling her head, she pulled her damp hair away from her face, analyzing the cut just outsider her hairline. It was angry and tender, especially whenever she made any sort of facial expression, but it was easy to hide beneath her waves so long as she left them untamed. The marks on her neck, though, were an entirely different story. The splotchy bruising marred a portion of the center and the sides of her throat. She was grateful the marks weren't as dark as the one making up her left cheek; he was hitting her over and over in that spot, whereas on her neck he was controlling his strength so as not to choke her completely. The mauve and rouge colors blended and lined where his fingers had squeezed, hardly sensitive and serving as nothing more than a reminder that he'd had her pinned.

"You okay?" Inuyasha asked from the open doorway to the restroom.

"Why does it look so much worse today?" She moaned, lightly poking her cheek to test the soreness of it. She winced, instantly regretting her stupid action.

"It's usually worse the day after. Here." He held out a cloth-wrapped bag of frozen peas. 

"Thanks." Kagome smiled, happily planting the icy vegetables on the side of her face.

"Come on, I need to get a bandaid on your cut before you start oozing all over my clean floors."

"It's not bleeding, I can do it." She grimaced again.

"Shut up and sit." He pointed behind him to the couch, watching as she rolled her eyes but followed his order. Pulling open the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink, he fished out the small first aid kit and followed her out, sitting on her right and setting the box in front of him on the coffee table.

Kagome dropped the bag of peas on her lap to pull her hair over her shoulder, using her right hand to keep it held back just behind her temple. There was no need to clean the wound since she'd taken a shower less than an hour ago - her third shower since they'd finished cleaning the apartment, and second since they'd woken up this morning. While she was handling the situation well enough, it was understandable that she'd want to try and "wash" the violation from her skin. Carefully, Inuyasha applied some ointment to the cut with a q-tip, spreading it out evenly before grabbing a small butterfly bandage from the box.

"I'm surprised you have those. It's not the most common type of bandaid to see in someone's house."

"Pfft," Inuyasha scoffed, applying the bandage securely and ignoring her little wince. "I'm a cop. I'm a reckless cop. And I've got just enough demon blood to avoid the constant visits to the hospital for a scratch that'll disappear in twelve hours. Put the peas back on your face. How's your head?"

"It's okay." She shrugged, leaning fully back into the cushions of the couch as she did as he said. "I'm more concerned about my face."

"Is it sensitive? I've got some Ibuprofen."

"No, the way it looks!"

"It's not that bad." He tried to comfort

"Are you kidding? I can't go to work like this, I work with children!" Kagome flailed her free hand in the air in exasperation, giving Inuyasha a look like her ailments were common sense.

"Well, it was stupid of you to still plan on working in the first place! You need to take time off!" The half demon argued.

"I can't just take time off, Inuyasha!"

"You literally never take vacations, you've probably got P.T.O. up the yin yang!"

"It's not about how much time I have accrued, it's about the lack of notice I'm giving! I'm a teacher!"

"With a teaching assistant!"

"She can't make teaching plans!"

"It's a preschool, Kagome, have her recite the ABC's and give the kids some coloring books!" He rolled his eyes so hard his head lolled to the side. Kagome scoffed.

"These are vital learning years in a child's life, I'll have you know!"

"Fine, go to work." He shrugged, leveling his expression, a hint of arrogance in the cock of his brow.

"Hello! Have you been listening? I can't go to work!"

"Then it sounds like you need to take some damn time off, you idiot! Two weeks, just for cushion!"

"Two weeks!?"

"God, you just keep arguing." He drawled.

She threw the peas at him. "And tell them what? "Hi, I can't come into work because I've caught the fourteen day flu."" Kagome mocked, holding her finger-phone to her ear.

"How about, and bare with me because this is pretty out there, a family emergency." Inuyasha spread his hands out like he was drawing a rainbow in the air above his head.

"What?"

Inuyasha chuckled hopelessly, shaking his head as he picked up the wrapped-up peas and gently held them to her cheek. "Man, this knock to the head really isn't helping you think straight, is it? A family emergency." He reiterated. "Say you have to fly out because your grandpa's in the hospital and you'll keep them posted, call again in a week and let them know things are worse than you expected. Boom, two weeks covered and no doctor's note needed."

"That's-" Kagome looked slightly stunned, blinking as the tension in her brow faded. "That's actually a good idea."

"Imagine that." Inuyasha nodded.

"God, you're so full of yourself." She snagged the frozen vegetables and pushed the half demon away, ignoring his cocky laugh as she rolled off the couch to grab her phone from across the room. Before she could open her email to prep her excuse, Inuyasha's phone rang right next to her, Koga's name illuminating the screen. She tossed it over to him, unable to hear what the normally-boisterous wolf was saying on the other end, only able to gather that it must have been semi-good information being fed through the line from the way Inuyasha didn't ignite in curse words but only nodded and responded with a simple "okay."

Hanging up his phone, he looked over at Kagome from his spot on the couch, sighing out before speaking. "So, they may have caught your attacker from last night."

Kagome sealed her lips, trying to swallow the nerves that suddenly began to inflate.

"They need you to pick him out of a lineup."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

She hadn't imagined having to see that man again so soon, and the thought was intimidating. She figured it would be through a two-way mirror, just like the interrogation room she sat in last night, and he wouldn't be able to see her, but what if he picked up her scent? What if he gave her that thin-lipped smile like he'd already done so many times? 

"Will you be there?" Kagome asked.

"I can't for this one." He hesitantly admitted, looking half-ashamed. "I saw his profile in the system last night. I know what he looks like. They haven’t specifically told me I can't yet, but I already know Kagura won't let me ten feet near that room. This is just so no one can say I influenced your answer."

"Got it." She breathed with a nod, completely understanding the logistics behind it. "Then, alright. We've gotta do what we've gotta do."

"Come on," Inuyasha stood, walking around the room to gather his necessary belongings. "Let's get this over with."

SVU Precinct

Sango sipped her piping hot mug of coffee, ignoring the sting on her tongue so she could get the caffeine rolling through her system. It had been a long night and she'd only been able to doze off for a quick power nap in the cot room before her busy mind and restless legs demanded she move. It was hard to be still when they had a criminal detained, even more so when he was playing smug and abiding by his right to remain silent. Not once had he asked for a lawyer since they sat him in the interrogation room, though. As fishy as it seemed, it could potentially end up working out in their favor. No lawyer means they had room to play a little dirty.

She looked up from her half-drunk cup as Inuyasha's silver hair caught her peripherals. He walked in at a leisurely pace, dressed down in a thin, maroon hoody with a plain, white tee underneath, loose jeans making up the lower portion. The guy practically lived at the station with how busy he liked to keep himself, so seeing him dressed in his civilian wear was on the odd side of things for her. What was even more odd was how soft his features appeared as he shifted his body to let the woman behind him step in front, his hand not touching, but hovering at the small of her back to keep her near.

It was a suitable change for him, and one she hoped he got to permanently adopt this time around.

Sango rose from her seat, hoping the coffee would hit her sooner rather than later, her muscles feeling heavy and sluggish. Inuyasha's ember eyes landed on her instantly, and he led Kagome down the hall of desks to meet her.

"Hey, thanks for coming." She greeted. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, I'm okay. Don't worry about me." Kagome responded with a pleasant shake of her head. The thick bruise on her cheek crinkled slightly with her controlled grin, the smile appearing crooked so as not to anger the blue and purple mass. Her black, wavy hair was brought to the front of her shoulders, curving and covering most of the marks around her throat, and the only evidence of the nearly-shielded cut on her temple that would catch one's eye was the redness just outside of the swelling that traveled towards the outer tip of her eyebrow. She was wearing a charcoal pullover hoody with the brand name stitched across her chest, the bottom hem hugging the hips of her dark blue jeans.

"I'm glad to hear it, though." There was a brief pause before she continued. "So, I'm sure Inuyasha told you, but we have to have you pick the perp out of a lineup. Think you remember his face well enough to do that?"

"There's no way I could forget it." Kagome said earnestly. "Shouldn't be a problem at all."

Kagome was confident, but Sango couldn't help the pang of guilt she felt that a man's face was so unwillingly etched into her mind. She wondered if she was troubled with nightmares of his brutality as she slept last night, or watched him leap at her whenever she blinked. The way she held herself seemed calm and nicely put-together; there was no evidence of fear or lingering anxiety written in her body language, and Sango couldn't help but think this woman was fantastic at putting up a front in response. But that wasn't it. If Kagome was hiding behind a facade, Inuyasha's protective demeanor would give it away. She'd worked with the half demon for long enough to understand that he feeds off of the reactions of those around him; those he's closest to. Especially victims. If they wanted to shy back, he'd give them shelter behind his broad shoulders. If they were nervous, he'd compensate with his surety. Kagome was temporarily living with him, so it would be entirely too exhausting to keep up a lie all hours of the day until this mess was put to rest. And Inuyasha was undoubtedly synced with the woman at his side, standing close but not smothering, there for assistance if necessary but allowing her to stand tall without a crutch. If she was even slightly nervous, he'd pick up on that emotion like it was broadcasted clearly on a billboard. Sango watched him stiffen a smidge as Kagome took another step forward, a silent indication that she was ready. He was the nervous one.

Sango took Kagome's arm to guide her towards the back, letting Inuyasha know they'd return shortly as he plopped down in his own desk chair to wait. They walked through a small curve in the halls, coming up on an open room, greeted by Hojo and Kagura as they entered through, simple pleasantries exchanged as Hojo did his part to make sure Kagome was as comfortable as manageable. They stood before a two-way, illuminated from the opposite side, the room they watched completely empty aside from Koga standing next to a door on an adjacent wall.

"Koga's going to let them in through that doorway. Everyone will be holding a number, so if you see the man that attacked you, I want you to tell me which number he's holding, okay?" Kagura instructed. Kagome nodded, a note of hesitation finally crumbling her stature.

"He can't see me, right?" She asked, walking up to the window, placing her fingertips on the metal frame at the bottom of it.

"No, he won't be able to see you at all." Hojo steadily affirmed. Again, she nodded. They all stood there silently, giving Kagome a moment of composure. Her brown eyes didn't shift from the brightly-lit room they looked in on, and as she took in a deep breath, there was no more sag to her body, even her chin raising a hair. Hojo gave two deliberate knocks to the glass, and Koga turned to push open his door, ordering the row of men to enter without bark to his tone.

As each man passed through, Kagome quickly studied their faces, all looking slightly similar to the next. She immediately disqualified numbers two and three as they appeared for their five o'clock shadow. The man she'd been attacked by had such feminine features, she didn't think it'd be possible for him to grow facial hair. Number four walked through, shortly followed by number five. Neither were him. As soon as number six walked in, Kagome tensed considerably, her fingers gripping the frame.

"Number six." She announced, watching the man saunter to his spot, the number held just in front of his navel. His nose was slightly crooked, the bridge an off shade of magenta, green and yellow outlining and expanding to the inner corners and beneath his eyes. There was a cut on the side of his head that she swore was twice the size when she'd given it to him, little, angry nicks decorating the skin around the wound. That was her doing. That was the memento she was glad he was stuck with, even if his demon blood hastened his recovery. It didn't matter. She wasn't the only one currently standing marked.

"Give it one more moment." Kagura said, lightly placing her hand on Kagome's shoulder. As soon as all ten of the men were in the room - some detainees, some cops in disguise - and Koga had closed the door, she spoke. "Take a look at all of them. Are you sure?"

"Number six." Kagome stated again, more fervency in her tone. "That's him. He was the man at the coffee shop and he was the man that broke into Inuyasha's home."

Hojo gave six steady knocks against the window with the knuckle of his middle finger, and they watched as Koga emptied the room, the smile on the accused criminal's face growing wide and thin as he was personally led out by the wolf demon.

"You did great, thank you so much for your help." Kagura smiled.

"What happens now?" Kagome asked, turning around to face the lot of them.

"We interview him. Now's the time where we press him for any information he can give. He's our link to Naraku, so we're a step closer to tracking him down, and we're going to make sure this guy works with us." Sango replied assertively.

"Once we catch Naraku and trials begin, he'll be present. You'll have to testify against both of them." Kagura added.

"I'll do whatever you need."

"Good." Hojo grinned, watching Kagura walk off and in the opposite direction of the main office, lightly patting Kagome's upper back to lead her out the door. "Let's get you out of here."

"Wait," Kagome stopped in the center of the hall just outside the room, staring intently into the detective's blue eyes. Her determination took him back a bit as his fingers flinched away from her spine. "What's his name? I deserve to put a name to the face."

"It's Byakuya." He answered after a small moment of hesitation. "His name's Byakuya."

She swallowed the information, biting her bottom lip as she glanced to the floor, then darted her brown-eyed gaze back to him. "Thank you."

They walked out into the main office where Inuyasha sat, tapping his claws impatiently against the lining of his desk, his leg bobbing like a wind up toy bound tight. He jumped up at the sight of Kagome, quickly crossing the distance to meet her more than half way as she greeted him with a smile, her fingers loosely gripping the cloth of the arm of his sweater.

"Was he in there?"

"Yeah." She nodded curtly.

"Good, time for the interrogation?" He asked the detectives behind her.

"You know it." Sango replied.

"Let me see that fucker."

"Woah, woah, woah!" Hojo stepped in front of him, halting his path.

"Come on, I just want to look. I'm not gonna do anything." Inuyasha drawled.

"Why do you want to see him so bad all of a sudden?"

"Well, I had plenty of time to think out here and I've decided I'd get some nice closure if I got to see this man, too.” The half demon feigned innocence, the smile curving his lips only serving to disturb the detectives before him.

"No." Sango crossed her arms, planting her weight on one hip. "No way. You're gonna punch him."

"Just once!"

"Get out of here!"

"I can break him faster than you guys!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure you can!"

"I just have a few words for him!"

"Well, write him a letter and we'll make sure he gets it!"

"Let me through!"

"Go home!"

"I should be part of the interview process! It's a good tactic to bring it down to a personal level, and he could potentially start talking faster!"

"You know damn well you can't do that! You aren't on the case, Inuyasha!"

"So!"

"You'd compromise everything!"

"No, I wou-"

Kagome reached up, gently flicking Inuyasha on the tip of his white ear, watching the appendage jerk to the side in response as his entire body froze and his voice completely hitched in his throat. He didn't look at her, his eyes stunned while facing his coworkers. "Come on," She spoke, her tone simple and level. "It's time to go, Inuyasha. You're in the way." She spun around on her heel, traveling to the door, only stopping to wait for her companion.

Sango blinked, covering her mouth to block the amusement she knew was written so clearly on it. She sniffed and cleared her throat, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible as she noticed her partner struggling to do the same, his lips pressed into a tight line. Inuyasha straightened, his body language no longer radiating defensive but slightly awkward and put off, scratching his temple as was his particular ism, and fixing the sweater over his shoulders to line up neatly.

"So, I'm gonna go." He raised his brows, pressing his own lips together. A small popping sound came as he released them and continued. "But it's only because I don't want to hear shit from you two. Got it?"

"Yup, sure, got it." Hojo nodded, a smug expression foiling his casualty. The half demon squinted his ember eyes in a meager challenge, spinning around and allowing his silver ponytail to fly behind him, following after Kagome and promptly exiting the office.

—

Sango unbuttoned the ends of her dress shirt sleeves, rolling her left up above the crook of her elbow, then swapping sides to roll up the right. She looked in on the man beyond the two-way, his pasty forehead dampened with sweat, the fine, ungroomed hairs of his bangs sticking to his skin. It was an effective tactic of theirs to spike the thermostat in the room. It was one thing to make them mentally uncomfortable with loaded questions, it was another to increase their physical discomfort - all around aiding in their quicker crumbling. On top of that, Koga had gone through and removed some of the bulbs in the overhead lamps before throwing Byakuya to sit alone in the room over an hour ago, the setting dingy and humid and uninviting.

Perfect.

Hojo approached, his button up and tie entirely removed as he prepared for their routine in his black tee shirt. He faced his partner, the back of his right forearm held out to her. "Good cop."

"Bad cop." She winked, tapping the edge of her right elbow to his.

"How long do you think it'll take to crack him, doc?" Totosai asked from the sidelines. Miroku observed the perp before them. Byakuya was tapping his foot against the flooring at a steady pace, his lips curved down in disapproval, his chest raising as he heaved a heavy, throaty sigh.

"Hard to say until he starts talking. He hasn't said a word since he's been apprehended. My guess is he's testy. He's secure, but he's guarded. He hides behind his rooted confidence. Find his weak spot and he'll give. Or potentially snap."

Sango spared Miroku a brief side glance, smiling softly when she noticed their chief wasn't looking. His face was serious, violet eyes captivating her gaze as he discretely mouthed the words, "Be careful."

Hojo stepped through the entry first, expression straight, holding the door open with one hand and a notepad in the other as Sango followed through. It was incredible, she'd been told, how fast her demeanor could change; how she could step into any roll necessary for the part. Next to Inuyasha, who'd rightfully earned his place at the top as lead detective in the precinct - despite his unorthodox practices - she fell just below him for her strong abilities to make perps fold. She was versatile in her tactics, adaptable in the room, and justifiably a force to be reckoned with.

Byakuya tilted his head upward to face the two detectives, his skin glowing beneath the yellow light from the slimy-looking film of sweat on his cheeks. Without the slightest hint as to what anyone should have expected, Sango crossed the room, curved around the corner of the table and demanded the criminal to stand. He did nothing but stare at her, thin brows pinching together audaciously. Again, she told him to stand. There was no degree of malice in her tone, no aggression, no attitude. The order she spoke was with the sincerity of a ship's captain. What she said would be heeded no matter what, and as he chose to ignore her once more, wrists bound close together in his lap with metal cuffs, she flicked her foot around a leg of the chair and kicked it from beneath his seat.

He fell to the ground, clambering up to his feet with dangerous chuckles mixed with growls brushing past his thin lips. Sango made sure the chair was out of reach from him, turning to push the wooden table to the far wall and out of the way. Hojo stood back, leaning against the wall at the very edge of the mirror, his face unchanged.

"You don't want to talk, you don't get to sit."

He scoffed and rolled his eyes, leaning against the wall in back of him.

"You're not looking too good there, woman beater. You tired?" She baited, closing some of the distance between them, stopping with just a couple feet to spare.

Byakuya ground his jaw forward, the muscles at the joint flexing as he brought his teeth back where they belonged. 

"Had a long night?"

His upper lip twitched.

"Hitting girls take a lot out of you?"

His head shifted slightly as Sango took two small steps forward, damn near in his face now, eyes slanted dangerously as she spoke again.

"Or was it the pounding she gave you that wore you out?"

Again, he scoffed, this time hard enough for spittle to fly from his mouth as he dramatically rolled his dark eyes. "I'd hardly call this a pounding."

"Really?" She feigned curiosity.

"Have you seen her face? I'm sure the marks I left have set in nicely."

"Sure, she's looked better. But there's one small detail you're neglecting. She's human. She, like most of us, get bruises from bumping the corner of a table.”

"What of it?"

"Well, you're a full-blooded demon. Your kind is difficult to harm and heals at a ridiculously fast rate, and yet..." Sango took an obvious glance at his wounded face and gashed head. "You're looking pretty worse for wear."

Another eye roll, this time swiveling his head to the side to face the neighboring wall instead of her.

"What's even better is once we lock you in a cell, you'll be labeled a woman beater. A lot of men in there don't take kindly to that."

"What, because a bruised septum and a cut on my head is clear indication of my crimes?" Byakuya chuckled. "How the hell would anyone know?"

"Oh, I'll make sure of it." Sango grinned, cocking a brow. "You think I don't have pull beyond these walls? You think one slip of the lip to the right guard wont spread your little secret of assault like wild fire? You'll have an awful rep before you're even indicted. The moment men see you walk through those doors, you'll be targeted. Your prissy, feminine looks will be scarred and bruised, and your ego will rightfully be smeared in the dirt. Your broken nose will stay this way, because everyone in there will want you to hold onto the little trophy Kagome gave you. Out here, you think you're something big, don't you? You think you're invincible because you hurt an unsuspecting girl, right? You're nothing. Not out here and definitely not in prison, and you'll have plenty of reminders coming your way for years to come."

"You're not allowed to threaten me! I know my rights!" He hissed.

"Who's threatening? I'm only trying to be informative. Hojo, did you hear me threaten Byakuya?" She asked with a smile, irreproachably. Hojo shrugged and shook his head, grimacing as he pretended he didn't hear a thing.

"You guys out there, knock twice if you heard me threaten him." Sango called to her coworkers watching in. Nothing. She turned back to the perp before her, raising a shoulder as she dismissed his accusation. 

"You're all corrupt!"

"What, are you mad now? Are you mad because a woman's in charge? A woman's in your face and you can't do anything about it?" She badgered, finally beginning to raise her voice.

"You don't know shit!"

"Don't I? Enlighten me, then!"

Byakuya stared at her, violet eyes flickering over every inch of her face, studying as his chest rose with an unsteady inhale. As he dropped his breath, he let out an incredulous chuckle, shifting his sights to the side.

"Or, is the only way you know how to teach a lesson-"

"God, woman beater, woman beater!" He drawled, unamused, bobbing his head from side-to-side. Byakuya stood up straight from the wall, leveling her challenge. "Is that all the material you've got? Look, if you think this has anything to do with the "reputation" you're giving me, you're sorely mistaken." He'd made quotation marks with the index and middle fingers of both chained hands, lifting them between their bodies so she'd see.

"Is that so? So, what did it have to do with?"

"Is that a loaded question?" He smirked.

"No, a loaded question would be me asking how much Naraku paid you to attack her." She watched his conceit fade. "I was fishing for you to admit it yourself."

His discomfort notably increased as his Adam's apple bobbed with the thick swallow. He moved to step away from Sango, to create some space, but she clutched the front of his shirt and yanked him back, slamming him against the wall.

"Did I say you could move?"

"Sango-" Hojo calmly warned, dropping his pad of paper on the discarded table as he apprehensibly stepped up beside her. "Ease up a bit."

"What? No." She smiled, shaking her head, the collar of his tee still balled in her fist. "He's obviously the type of guy that likes being told what to do. All I gotta do is smack him around a little to show him who his new boss is, and he'll break."

"This isn't the way to do it. He's talking now, let's just keep the conversation going." He held up his hands, trying to break the two apart. Sango brought her other hand up to grab Byakuya securely, bringing his body forward only to crush him back against the wall, his head colliding with the cement.

"Here's what's gonna happen, princess,” She spoke low, leaning closer to hover inches from his face. "You're gonna tell us everything we want to know, or I'm gonna give you a glimpse of what you have to look forward to in prison! Got it?"

"Sango!"

"Get the fuck off of me!" Byakuya growled.

"Or what? What are you gonna do?"

"It's not even ground-breaking that you know who he is, don't act like you have the upper hand!"

"But don't we? We have his lackey in custody, and he's seconds away from giving us what we need." She patronized.

"Like hell!"

Sango stepped back, the hint of an arrogant grin pushing the corners of her lips up as she crossed the floor and grabbed the discarded chair, dropping it down in the center of the heated room. Hojo created his own space, backing away to the table's new home, his fingers landing on the notepad but not picking it up. She silently commanded their perp to sit with the shift of her eyes that dragged from his body down to the seat. His expression was clearly ambivalent as he stayed put, thin lips twitching, eyes untrusting, sweat crawling down the side of his face.

Finally, he moved, squatting into the uncomfortable chair that only worked to further unease him, eyes inside and out of the immediate area focused on him as one of the remaining working lamp lights flickered in and out three times before going back to burning yellow.

"So," Sango began again, pacing around the room to stand before Byakuya. "How much did he pay you?"

He rolled his violet eyes, cocking his jaw out and in, a small popping sound heard from the grinding motion. 

"Alright, we'll make this easy. We'll come up with scenarios and you can just confirm or deny. Ready?"

No response.

"You're having trouble paying your bills. Or, better yet, you're an addict - that explains the sweats you've got right now. Jonesing. Craving. Your blood must be boiling, poor thing. You met Naraku by pure coincidence, and he offered you money in exchange for your assistance. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into. Money means drugs, so you took the bait."

"No." He plainly refuted.

"You're right, that doesn't make sense. How would Naraku have even a dime to his name right now? It's not like an asylum-escapee could hold down a normal retail job. Unless he's selling-"

"No."

"What about blackmail?" Hojo asked, his tone kind and approachable. "You don't seem the kind of person that's capable of concocting something this dangerous just for the hell of it. I can see there's more to you, and if he's holding something over your head, now's the time to tell us. We can work with you, Byakuya."

"You don't know shit about me." He dismissed with a sneer. "I'm not in this for money, I'm not into hard drugs, if anything I'd be the blackmailer in this scheme considering the way this man's twisted mind works, and I have the sweats because you assholes turned the heat up to eighty-five fucking degrees!"

"Doesn't feel hot in here to me." Sango shrugged.

"So, you're saying he asked you to do his bidding and you agreed? Just like that?" Hojo inquired.

"Basically."

"Did you aid him in the murder of-"

"Oh, here we go again!" Byakuya rolled his head back and around dramatically, landing on his bony-looking shoulder as he laughed. "History's repeating itself, and you're about to chalk up the whole story of how Naraku's some sort of serial killer, aren't you? Don't bother!"

"What do you mean?" Hojo and Sango glanced at each other from the side.

"He didn't kill anyone!" He shouted, fervency in his beliefs, eyes glowing in his defensive hunch. "You guys had nothing, nothing, and you were only able nail him down by planting incriminating evidence that didn't exist!"

"You don't believe he's a criminal?"

"That's not what I said. He's broken some laws here and there, he's built a record. He's just not the criminal your system has painted him out to be."

"A murderer." Sango stated, crossing her arms where she stood.

"Exactly."

"How do you know anything about Naraku? What makes you so sure?" Hojo pulled up a chair, opting now to sit across from Byakuya, sparing five feet's distance between them.

"Let's just say we have history." The demon shrugged, sitting back in his seat.

"That's not the answer we were looking for." Sango declared.

"Well, that's the only answer you're gonna get, sweetie."

"Try again."

"Go fuck yourself."

She grabbed a chair for herself, swinging it around to straddle beside Byakuya who leaned away as she neared. "Big talk for a guy in your position. See, here's the thing, considering you aren't cooperating but have confessed to your affiliation with Naraku, you could be pinned for everything he's done, and the potential is strong here."

"Aside from the assault, you don't have a thing on me."

"How about aiding an escapee?"

"Alright, you've got one thing." He smiled. "I'll do my time."

"How about stalking on two accounts?"

"So he took a few photos. Big deal."

"How about the murder of Abi Phoenix and her unsuspecting mother?" She delivered with more vehemency.

"Now that's where I have to stop you, because he hasn't-"

"He shot her mother in the head and tortured Abi all night until she bled out, you piece of shit! And before you defend his innocence again, he personally left his DNA on Abi by biting her thigh! We have the strongest evidence necessary to prove it was him!"

"Do you have an eye witness?"

"We have his saliva!"

"DID SOMEBODY SEE HIM!?"

"Yes! You! Apparently, you're the only person since his escape that has had any personal contact with him! You seem to know his every move, so you must have known he murdered the two women! Maybe you even helped him! You think the men in prison will be hard on you for brutally attacking a woman, wait until they find out-”

"You're making shit up!"

"We have to work with what we've got, don't we!? This is what you could be indicted for! This is the fire you're playing with, Byakuya!"

"He didn't kill anybody!"

"Sure, he did! He did, and so did you! How strong do your roots run, huh? Did you help him back in the day, too!"

"You mean the crimes you incorrectly pinned on a mentally unhealthy man!?"

"I mean the murders he committed on women and children! He killed a little boy! He kidnapped and murdered him in the backyard of his family's cabin!"

"Our family hadn't been to that damn cabin in three years, and Naraku hated that fucking place!"

Sango's mouth hung agape as she straightened her back, allowing this new information to bleed through. His cheeks went a sickly pale, neck tensing as he stared at her, the hollow of his throat emphasized with his discomfort.

"Our family?" Hojo spoke, leaning in slightly with an air of caution. Their perp was breaking, sweat dripping from his jaw line and soaking through his dirty, white shirt. He was nervous, a noticeable pulse pumping at the side of his neck, breathing elevated and heavy.

"So, you're related. That's how you know so much about him." Sango said.

"So fucking what!?" He spat defensively.

"That doesn't make sense, though. We have both yours and Naraku's DNA in the system and neither were matched to one another." Hojo said, brows furrowed as he reached for an explanation.

"Use your fucking brain, dumbass." Byakuya responded, his confidence raising as he embraced the now-exposed truth. "We aren't biologically related. Naraku was adopted."

"You're his younger brother."

"Ding, ding, ding! My parents thought themselves sterile since they were two clashing breeds of demons. They tried and tried and tried to get pregnant until a professional diagnosed that their contrasting biologics were too unstable an environment for a fetus. Hell, for semen. My mother's uterus was a war zone, you see. So, they adopted. They got my brother before he could even talk and it was a nice few years before I came around. I was deemed the "miracle child," and my brother was officially in the shadows from that day forward. He didn't take it to heart, though. He was... indifferent, I'd say. Indifferent to almost everything, really, but if there was one thing he hated, it was being still. If the house was too quiet or he ran out of things to do, he'd grow irrationally angry; he always had to be doing something stimulating. My brother's mentality began to slip when he was around, I don't know, ten or eleven. I was young, only seven, but I still remember the depthless look in his eyes when he first hurt an animal. Sure, I thought it was terrifying. How could a person do that to a cute, little bunny, right? It didn't take me long to realize Naraku wasn't a normal person, though. He never showed a hint of remorse when he did something wrong, was the biggest pathological liar you'd ever meet, either lacked or neglected control over his behavior, but still managed to be the most suave motherfucker around. That guy could manipulate the pants straight off of someone, but he was so charming not a single person batted an eye. Not even me. He was arrested several times over his teen years for animal cruelty; not the best hobby he could have picked up, even I can admit that. But not once did he ever target people for his twisted gimmicks. Not to mention, the last few times my family went up to that stupid cabin in the woods, Naraku lost his absolute shit! And I wish I was exaggerating! He'd break things, and scream, and curse, and kick, and punch holes in the walls, and demand to go home the entire fucking time. He wouldn't sleep while we were there, and he'd wander off into the woods and disappear for hours on end, which clearly wasn't a good thing considering what he was notorious for. So, we stopped going. Simple as that. Who knows why the hell he hated the place so much; probably because there's hardly anything to do in a secluded area. All I know is, it doesn't make sense that he'd ever willingly go back."

"He was arrested in the woods near the cabin."

"Fake."

"The little boy's body was dug up in the backyard."

"That doesn't mean he did it." Byakuya shook his head. "Hell, my father was more likely to kill a kid before Naraku ever would! He and my mother treated him like he was nothing, even after paying good fucking money for the adoption! I didn't want the limelight! I didn't want my brother to be treated as he was just because I was the one sperm that survived her fallopian tubes' ruthless defenses! For all I care, they caused his mental instability or whatever personality disorder he was diagnosed with! They threw him out on the street when he was seventeen! They kicked him out and moved so he wouldn't be able to find his way back! I was the only one that thought he deserved a little leeway! He wasn't right in the head and wasn't getting any sort of therapeutic help! How was he supposed to cope!? He was accused of all these murders, and it drove me crazy how that ugly, half-breed cop pinned all this false evidence on him like all psychopaths are bad! They aren't! There's this stupid stigma placed on psychopaths, that they're all murderers, but they're not! My brother may lack empathy, but he's not stone cold! He has a heart! He's never done a single bad thing to me! Not once! He lied about a lot of shit he did as a kid, but never once placed the blame on me! He was a good older brother!”

"No, not all psychopaths are killers." Sango spoke. "Not all killers are psychopaths. You're right. But you're brother-"

"YOU SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH!" Byakuya heatedly rose from his seat, cutting her off as he kicked his chair away and raised his cuffed hands to strike. She jumped back, but Hojo was on him before anything could happen, spinning Byakuya around and pinning him against the cement wall. He was gasping for air, struggling to escape the hand Hojo gripped his untidy, black hair with, body weight applied to his core so he was effectively restrained.

Sango held up her hand to the two-way mirror, knowing someone was probably preparing to break up the scene in case things were about to get messy, which she wanted to prevent. That couldn't happen yet. He was finally talking, and if they ended the interview now, the next time around would be twice as difficult. So long as Hojo could calm the detained demon, they could continue.

"There's no need to get angry, alright? Take a deep breath. That's it. One more. Good." Hojo soothed, backing off of Byakuya as his temper diminished. He took the liberty of grabbing the thrown chair and placing it where it was before, allowing the demon to sit and wind down as the tension in the room dwindled.

"He didn't kill anybody." He stated again, staring at the floor. "Abi's just a casualty in your half-demon's twisted game. He wants Naraku back in that hell hole so bad, it's pathetic."

"And how do you suppose he got the saliva sample?"

"Oh, please. Like that's even real. All you guys have to do is say you got it, and the system would take your word for it."

"What if we showed you the proof?"

"Then I'd insist you attained the DNA from his stay at the asylum and planted it.”

“Why would they have his DNA?”

“Who knows, but it’s a possibility.”

"You're very adamant in your opinion. You're incredibly loyal to your brother. It's understandable that you'd fight for him now that he's free; even going as far as running his errands." Hojo leaned in from his seat again, playing up the empathy.

"He's been through enough. I don't blame him for wanting payback." Byakuya's knee started bobbing up and down, growing faster as he tried applying more weight into it to get it to stop. "He justifiably hates Inuyasha, and I'm on board with anything he has planned for him."

"So where does Kagome land in all of this?" Sango asked, her tone notably softer than any other time she'd spoken before.

"Just like Abi, she's a casualty." He smirked. "My brother can be... obsessive. He started following her to spike the half-breed's anxiety and paranoia, but then it evolved into something more. He had a reputation given to him by Inuyasha, kind of like how you tried to pin one on me, so he's decided to live up to it. Polaroids. Polaroids, everywhere. Quite frankly, it was annoying, but who am I to tell him how to get his revenge? In all honesty, though, Kagome deserves the backlash she's getting if she's choosing to stay with the guy."

"I thought he's never targeted people before." Hojo posed.

Byakuya shifted uncomfortably, handcuffs jingling as he brought his sweating palms closer together. "Well, yeah. Before now."

"That's a pretty big leap. And you were ready to kill for him?"

He half-scoffed, half-chuckled. "I was actually under strict orders not to kill the girl. He wanted her maimed, really. He wanted Inuyasha to see the damage he was inflicting."

Sango sunk into her chair a little lower. It made sense. Kagome had mentioned he wasn't cutting off her air supply when he choked her. He was only trying to leave his mark.

"And you still believe he didn't hurt a single living being, human or demon, before this?" Sango tried.

"God, are you not listening!? Your corrupt officer framed him!"

"But why?" Hojo asked. "For what reason would Inuyasha have an innocent man put in prison?"

"Probably because these crimes were really taking place, but you guys arrested the wrong man. Inuyasha seems prideful. Like the kind of guy that doesn't like to admit when he's made a mistake. He couldn't take the embarrassment since this was such a high-profile case, so he made sure all signs pointed to Naraku."

"Don't you think that's a little too coincidental? I mean, Hakudoshi's body was pulled from your family's backyard. If Naraku was falsely accused-"

"Planted. He was planted. Keep up."

"How could Inuyasha have had the time to plant Hakudoshi's body? We have tapes, plenty of eye-witness proof, that proves Inuyasha was here, at the precinct, interrogating Naraku the entire time most of the searches for evidence was happening. The only time he went on the field was when we drove up to the cabin and unburied Hakudoshi."

"Then he had a buddy working with him. All of you have partners, who's his?"

"I understand your stance on this, I do. You want to believe your brother. You probably feel like you even have to because of everything he's been through. There's guilt gluing you to Naraku's side." Hojo said, allowing Sango to pick up where he stopped, instinctively knowing they were riding the same wave.

"But you're looking at this all wrong. Believe us when we say we want to help you. We are not against you here. You need to think of us as deforesters, not landscapers. We're in the business of uprooting every fine piece of grooly evidence, not planting it. Inuyasha was here, and we can show you. Abi wasn’t just some casualty, she was the link that pointed to your brother's arrest. Hakudoshi was innocently slain. He was a little boy. You think your brother doesn't deserve this treatment, but what about Hakudoshi? What about all the other innocent people killed by Naraku? What about them?”

Byakuya’s deep eyes pierced the ground at his feet, face contorted and wet, stray hairs sticking to his cheeks and neck, breathing unsettled as he clasped his hands together but couldn’t seem to hold them steady. He began shaking his head, the rhythm small and barely noticeable, allowing his mouth to part, a drop of sweat flowing over his upper lip and meshing into the line where it met the bottom.

“Show me.” He whispered. “I want to see every piece of damning evidence you have.”

—

The room was sitting at a more comfortable temperature now, the thermostat adjusted accordingly and a water bottle delivered for Byakuya as he sat in the room alone once more. The table was put back in the center, his arms resting against the wood as he stared down at it, waiting.

Sango and Hojo reentered with manilla folders in their hands, choosing their seats opposite Byakuya and placing their items on the tabletop.

"Sorry it took so long." Hojo said.

"Just show it to me." He mumbled.

Sango opened the folder she held, dragging out a glossy, black and white, overhead photo of Inuyasha questioning Naraku almost exactly nine years ago, six days from the date, the timestamp printed clearly in the bottom, left corner. She placed that in front of Byakuya, turning it around so it was right-side up for him. The next was a photocopy of an incident report where evidence was found at Naraku's apartment, dated and timed only eighteen minutes apart.

"In the video, Inuyasha is trying to get Naraku to admit to Hakudoshi's disappearance. No one knew he was dead yet. He was consistently pressing him to get him to reveal his location. He was trying to save the boy. At the same time, Naraku had given just enough information to get a warrant to search his home. Detectives found polaroids on the walls of women and children he'd stalked, women and children that had active missing reports out for their safe return."

"That doesn't mean anything. The time on Inuyasha's picture could have been photoshopped in." He argued.

"You can believe that all you want, Byakuya. You can bathe in your denial for all I care, but this is it. This is the proof you asked for. Inuyasha was in this station, locked in a room with your brother for hours, all while other investigators searched his place. How could he have planted anything?" Sango asked, her frustration slowly hiking.

"Well, where was he before the interrogation began?"

"Arresting Naraku."

"And before that?"

"Oh my god." She could tell it was a never-ending cycle, the huff from her nose heated like a dragon's.

"Look at this!" Hojo instructed, his tone striking critical for the first time. He opened his own folder, slapping down image-after-image of the scene they'd walked in on at Abi Phoenix's residence. Pictures of her mother's lifeless body, of Abi sprawled on the floor, slightly decayed, closeups of her brutally-inflicted wounds, the contusions on her neck, the bite just above her knee, her dark hair matted in dried blood. "See that mark on her leg? That's where Naraku bit Abi! That's where he left behind his DNA! She was murdered by your brother!"

"Bullshit! What reason did he have to get revenge on Abi? They had no affiliation with one another, they-"

"She was his girlfriend nine years ago! She was the reason he was arrested!" Sango interjected.

"That doesn't make sense!"

"When she was questioned by the police, she told them the last time she'd spoken to Naraku, he'd said he was heading to his family's cabin with his nephew!" Hojo yelled.

"No, that's not right! Naraku didn't have a girlfriend, and he doesn't have a nephew!"

"Think about it!"

"I'm telling the truth!" Byakuya shouted, slamming his fists against the table. "He's never been able to hold down a relationship in his life! Hell, he even told me he finds the opposite sex repugnant and never felt any desire to be with them - sexually or what have you!"

Hojo sat back in his seat, the heat fading from his expression, though his lips pressed into a flat line as he allowed Byakuya's words to settle, to cool. He nodded, shrugging his brows as he spoke again, this time more levelly. "Think about it."

"E-even if he did have a girlfriend, we don't have a nephew - he doesn't have a nephew." He shakily said, eyes widened with unclarity. Hojo pulled another photo from his folder, placing it on top of the others in the center of the table. The little boy stood with a bright smile on his face, white hair falling over his shoulders as he held a large basketball between his hands.

"This is Hakudoshi. He was eight years old and his body was discovered in the backyard of your parents' cabin."

"Inuyasha worked for hours to make Naraku slip, and a warrant was finally issued for us to search the premises. He was young, and terrified, and alone when he was killed. You want justice for your brother, but what about him?" Sango added, watching Byakuya's shoulders tremble from the applied guilt.

"You honestly didn't know?" Hojo inquired.

"No, o-of course not. I always believed him when he said he was set up, I-I thought I knew him better than anyone." He replied, the breath heavy against his lungs.

"I find that hard to believe."

Byakuya's violet gaze instantly redirected away from Hakudoshi's image, colliding with Hojo's skeptical, blue eyes.

"You mean to tell me you had no idea what pictures were inside the envelope you handed Kagome?"

"H-he didn't let me see them. The envelope was sealed when he gave it to me, I figured they were the same old thing." He hastily opposed.

"Well, it was; you're not wrong there." Hojo smiled incredulously. One of the remaining items in his folder was the very same envelope, slightly wrinkled, pointed corners of polaroids poking out from the opening. He dumped the contents on the table, tossing the empty envelope down beside it all. "Same old thing, same old Naraku! These are old photos he managed to keep of past victims! Look at them, Byakuya! Take a look at all the people he's stalked throughout the years!"

He did so, spreading them out, confused, taken aback, not knowing what to say anymore, studying, looking through and stopping as he spotted the silver-haired little girl he remembered from third street. Bile was rising into his throat as his stomach twisted and lurched in his abdomen. The temperature was normalized in the room, but his cheeks felt clammy. She'd gone missing when he was nine. Naraku used to babysit her for a little cash. He remembered the sirens blaring as they raced around the bend to her house, he remembered the police coming to their door to question his parents and then moving on, he remembered the incessant rumors about her dad spreading throughout the neighborhood community, the pain he would see on her mother's face when she watched little children walk by, the hint of envy as they went to elementary school - something her daughter would never do. And he remembered them eventually moving away.

"What-" His breath hitched as his nerves began getting the better of him, fingers shaking against one another. "What do you want to know?"

"Is there anyone else working with you two?" Sango asked without hesitation.

"No."

"How did you get Inuyasha's spare key?"

"I have a detachable eye, it's disgusting but one of the quirks of being a mixed race of demons. Stole a uniform from one of your cops and my scent was masked enough to blend with the mess of detainees you have in this building. Set up the eye, saw his combo, came back and got it. I got lucky finding the key in the locker; I was beginning to think he didn't have one."

"And Kagome's?"

"Her landlord is a dumbass with multiple masters in an unlocked office in the basement."

"Your parents, we never located them." Hojo stated, waiting for Byakuya to fill in the gap.

"They live upstate on a ranch. They're fine."

"And your brother," Sango leaned inward, maintaining a careful tone. "Where is he?"

He hesitated, eyes slowly shifting back and forth between the two detectives. His throat clenched, and he didn't know what to do. Naraku was still his brother. How could he turn his back on him after everything - no, that was all a lie. Naraku was the one inflicting pain, not the other way around. He was a serial killer. 

The thought felt acidic on his brain.

Still, as he opened his mouth to speak, his throat clenched and held his voice captive. He tried again, to tell the truth, to give up the headache-inducing charade, but his abdomen tightened like a shockwave had coursed through the surrounding muscles.

What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say? What was right? What was wrong? He was going to be doing time in prison anyway, maybe if he willingly took the fall for his brother, Naraku could start anew.

That wasn't the way it worked though, was it? His brother had grown obsessed with Inuyasha, obsessed with his revenge. He was going to kill again whether Byakuya took the fall or not. His brother was sick.

He deserved a chance.

But he was going to kill.

"I," Byakuya's bottom lip trembled as he hung his head, staring at the wood between his forearms. "I want a lawyer."

Two hard knocks against the mirror behind them rang heavily throughout the dense room, effectively ending the interview.

Inuyasha’s Residence

Inuyasha stomped around the apartment, huffing and puffing as he made sure the windows were secure for the fifth time and counting, rushing out of view for his next task. Kagome sat on the kitchen counter, watching him travel through with his ever-prominent scowl, propped with one hand just behind her butt while the other held the strawberry she nibbled. She knew it would be irrelevant to point out how repetitive he was being. She knew how this time of the month spiked his blood pressure, and with Naraku still on the loose and his teammates hardly communicating anything with him, there was very little comfort in tonight's new moon.

She could hardly blame him. She'd tried calming him down a few hours ago, but he had every right to be high strung. If Naraku has been stalking the two of them for months now, there was a huge probability that he knew of Inuyasha's human night. Not that it would provide an inkling of consolation for the irritable half demon, Kagome couldn't help but hope Naraku had spent his time being more focused on her. He could rob her of every secret she hid from the world, just so long as he didn't take this one from Inuyasha.

He walked into the kitchen, stopping close by, ember eyes dulled with anxiety, staring at her legging-clad legs that dangled from the marble counter. Even though he wasn't looking at her face, she gave him a congenial smile, one she hoped would express her empathy for the situation at hand. With a tense sigh, he turned around and she knew he was about the repeat the entire process all over again.

"Hey," She extended a leg out, barely skimming his thigh with a toe but serving to halt his path nonetheless. "You've got it all, Inuyasha. Everything's locked up tight. We're gonna be perfectly safe."

"One more time." He grunted, still not looking at her.

"No more times." Kagome scooted her bottom closer to the edge of the counter, reaching her foot out to nudge him in her direction. He was reluctant. Rigid. Strained. She nudged him again and he finally gave, glancing at her with an unamused expression as he stepped his left foot back to open his front to her. Using the leverage she was granted, she pinned his hips between both ankles and pulled until he gave her what she wanted and came to stand between her knees.

"What?" He grumbled.

She grabbed his hands and gently placed them to rest on the tops of her thighs.

"Kagome."

She shushed him, the sound quick and gentle, tenderly raking her nails up and down his bare forearms. He huffed again, the sound clenched in his throat, but he didn't try to pull away. Kagome dragged her fingers up to the crook of his elbow, tickling slightly from the way he twitched, secretly enjoying how sensitive his skin became when he was on the brink of transforming, traveling up to his biceps and going inside the hem of his tee so she could skim the faded edge of the tattoo on his arm. He was beginning to ease, beginning to soften, his thumbs rubbing back and forth over the material of her leggings. Kagome leaned in, placing a small and playful kiss on his chin.

"I don't have time for this." He said. It was gruff, but wasn't the least bit convincing. He never moved away. In fact, his hands had moved up to her hips, thumbs now meshing between her pelvis and the softness of her thighs.

"You can check the locks as many times as you want, but it won't stop the sun from setting and I know that's what you're really trying to do."

"Don't get all philosophical on me."

"Then relax. Everything's gonna be fine."

"Not if he tries anything."

"Who says he will? Nothing has happened in the previous months on this night, right? Maybe he doesn't even know."

"I can't take that chance, Kagome. You know I can't take that chance." Inuyasha rebutted, shifting his head to the side, glaring at the drawn curtains of the closest window. "If anything happens tonight, I won't be able to protect you as well as any other night."

"I'm not worried."

"Well, you should be." He said earnestly.

"Well, I'm not! Look - hey, look at me!" Golden eyes shifted, landing on the bruise that had settled into her cheek. The last she'd seen it, which wasn't all that long ago, it was a nasty mixture of green and yellow, outlined with sprinkles of purple. It was healing, but he still stared at it as if it were freshly-inflicted and the bane of the Earth. "I trust you. Nothing will stop me from trusting you, not even the moon. Get that through your thick skull, Inuyasha, because I'm really not worried. And if it makes you feel any better, I'll double check everything for you so you can stop second guessing yourself. Alright?"

He rolled his eyes, giving her a small shake of his head as he ground his jaw outward.

"Alright?" Kagome tried again, this time with a little more fervency, moving her hands to grip the slant in his shoulder muscles, giving a warning squeeze so he'd take her seriously.

"Alright, alright. Whatever. It's your funeral."

"Make sure The Black Parade plays at it." She teased.

"That's not fucking funny." Inuyasha groaned, leaning down to bury his face in the curve of her neck. She wrapped her arms around the nape of his, welcoming him, allowing him to clutch her tighter than normal as he hissed a curse and shuddered. Through the curtains, Kagome could see the night resting in, the orange and pink hues of the sunset vanishing completely.

His hearing dulled incredibly, making him feel stuffed up, his equilibrium swaying slightly as he gathered himself against her. Tucking inward even more, he felt a swarm of gooseflesh travel over his body like tiny electric shocks thieving away his supernatural gifts. Everything was bland suddenly. Plain. Limited. He hated it. It was unsettling to be this vulnerable.

He felt the tips of her fingers caressing over the bumps of his spine at the base of his neck, and he finally blinked open his eyes. Her inner thighs were relaxed alongside his hips, her mouth pressed to the shirt on his shoulders, the hot exhales leaving her nose seeping through the cloth and gracing the skin beneath. She was being so patient, tender, as if the transformation was something painful for him. Of course it wasn't, and he was sure she was well aware. It wasn't the first new moon they'd spent together in all the years they've known one another. Still, that never stopped her from waiting him out, never saying a word until she was sure he was adjusted.

Inuyasha sighed defeatedly, stepping back and standing tall, unable to hide the way he avoided looking at Kagome. Maybe he was sloppy, or maybe it was because he was human for the next twelve hours or so - truth be told, probably the former; he couldn't blame everything on the night of the new moon, no matter how overwhelming his emotions became. -  but his shame was evident, as was his lack of confidence the darkness had graciously provided. He believed her when she said she trusted him, he had no reason not to, but that didn't stop him from thinking she was stupid. So fucking stupid. He had a horrible feeling pooling in the pit of his gut, bubbling, churning wildly, heating his core like his demon blood used to, and it put him on edge.

It had been six days since Kagome was attacked; six days since he initially failed to provide her the protection he promised. If something happened tonight while they were under the same roof and he failed again, he didn't think he could live with himself. But that was selfish, wasn't it? He was only thinking about the way he felt. She wasn't worried, wasn't scared, wasn't even bothered by the diminishing marks on her face. Yeah, she was stupid and he would argue that until the day he died, but she was also way more intuitive than he was. If her gut wasn't telling her to tread carefully, then maybe it was just his human emotions and the effervescent need to protect that was fooling him into thinking something may go wrong.

Kagome pulled Inuyasha's ponytail to the front of his shoulder, combing the stark black ends she'd always expressed she loved so much with her nails. He still hadn't looked at her but, god, did he want to. The sooner he looked, he realized, the sooner she'd stop her ministrations. Selfish, yes, but that's a degree of greed he could accept within himself. She shifted her head, he could see in his peripherals, and her hands slid up his neck, fingers gently massaging the lobes of his ears, the feeling foreign and slightly weird. He didn't stop her. Instead, he subconsciously leaned into it, effectively blowing his cover. There was mirth in her brown eyes as he caught her gaze, her smile scrunching her nose, and her fingers fumbled to the tops of his ears, still rubbing, still foiling his act.

"Move," She said, a giggle on her breath. "I've gotta check the house since you clearly didn't do a good enough job."

"Punk ass." He grunted, stepping out of her way. Kagome grabbed a strawberry from the bowl beside her and put it in his eagerly-accepting mouth before hopping down from the counter and working her way from window-to-window. She pushed up on the borders, making sure they were all stuck securely by the locks, readjusting the curtains she'd pushed aside and moving onto the next. Lastly, she checked the the door, unlocking and re-locking so Inuyasha had the satisfaction of the bolt clicking into place. 

"Everything looks good to me. What about your gun?"

"Loaded and on me."

"You can't sleep while wearing it." She grimaced.

"Makes sense since I'm not sleeping." He shrugged, discarding the top of the strawberry in the trash.

"Oh, that's right. It's the all-nighter. I'll stay up with you.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“There’s no need.”

“Four eyes are better than two.”

“You can’t stay up. You’re practically an old lady with how early you usually fall asleep.”

“Just because you have the unhealthy habit of doing it all the time, doesn’t mean I don’t have it in me!”

“I don’t need to sleep as much as humans!”

“And I’ve been reserving my energy just for tonight!”

“Bullshit! Ten bucks says you don't make it past two am."

"Twenty says you're the one that falls asleep first." Kagome challenged, laughing as he chucked a strawberry at her.

--

Her eyes were heavy as she watched one of the lesser-rated episodes of The Twilight Zone, making sure the volume to the chilling opening theme was low enough that it wouldn't disturb the sleeping man at the other end of the couch. It was surprising that he'd given in to the fatigue, despite how much she'd hoped for it from the beginning. All it took was some simple caressing and he was a puddle on the sofa, melting and dozing off until he couldn't fight it anymore, and she silently thanked his human night for making the guy substantially more sensitive than he’d ever willingly admit to being. Even under the illumination of the television, the black and white contrast bouncing off of his even skin, he looked peaceful. His scowl wasn't dominant, his brows were relaxed, and his lips were slightly parted as he steadily breathed in contentment. For his added comfort, she'd happily stay up all night. Plus, it would be fun to rub it in when he woke up that he owed her some money since it was hitting four-forty in the morning and she was still conscious. 

She leaned forward, minding that the motion was controlled to not alert Inuyasha, going for her glass for a sip of flat soda, fully relying on the small intake of caffeine to perk her up for the few remaining hours she had. As she reached, her phone vibrated against the coffee table, claiming her undivided attention as her hand snagged the device instead. It was the god-awful hours of the morning, who in the world could have been texting her?

The number was unfamiliar, though the area code was the same as her own. She opened the message, a chill rushing down her spine as she read the text three times over.

Kagome, is this still your number? This is Kikyo. I need your help...

The last time Inuyasha had spoken to her about his ex was when he was standing in her living room, telling her the truth she had been resistant to hear for so long. He was naturally worried about Kikyo's wellbeing, considering she'd disappeared from his place without a trace while fighting her addiction, and though he seemed to be masking it all well - maybe for Kagome's own sake - it must have been eating away at him. But why would she message her and not Inuyasha? What could she possibly do for Kikyo that Inuyasha couldn't?

Her phone buzzed again in her palm.

I'm sorry for texting at this hour. I don't know what else to do...

She needed help. That's what she'd said, she needed help. She was last seen in an unhealthy state, what if she never fully got better? What if she relapsed?

Even worse, what if Naraku knew about her too?

It's okay, I'm up. What's wrong?

It was only a small moment before Kikyo replied. Kagome couldn't help the sturdy beat of her heart thumping against her ribcage as she waited.

I got into some trouble, I can explain later. I think I'm by your apartment, will you pls meet me?

Yes! Where, exactly? Are you okay?

It made sense that she didn't know Kagome was currently staying with Inuyasha.

Near the old cafe and pancake house. Idk if you're still in contact, but I don't want Inuyasha knowing. Don't tell him.

She swallowed thickly, glancing over to his sleeping form. A guilt instantly washed over her. How could she not tell him? He's probably been so worried, so afraid. If there was anyone that deserved to know, it was him. Why wouldn't Kikyo want Inuyasha knowing? He would do anything to make sure she was safe. 

Nonetheless, it was her choice. She needed to respect that, didn't she? Maybe if she met with Kikyo, she could convince her to come back to Inuyasha's. Then it would be right on all accounts. Wouldn’t it?

The thought of the two of them together made it feel like a large, dense rock was dropped into her stomach, causing it to sink. It wasn't important, though. Her feelings weren't important right now. Kikyo was in trouble. Choosing not to help to spare her from the sting of jealousy was the worst thing she could ever consider. There was more than just herself involved in this. On top of it all, Kagome desperately needed to get to Kikyo before Naraku targeted her too.

Stay there.

She hit send. Stared at the virtual keypad beneath her hovering thumbs. Then began typing once more.

I’ll be there in ten.

As carefully as possible, she unfolded her legs from beside her, glad she was too comfortable to change from her leggings when they sat down to watch T.V. hours ago. As her bare feet met with the throw rug, she slowly rose, freezing as Inuyasha readjusted his position. Kagome stood in a semi-squat, her quads burning from the power pose as she waited him out, letting him settle, holding it until he gave that heavy sigh of deep sleep she’d been impatient to hear, then fully extended her legs in relief. She took every step with the intention of silence, clutching the notches of her shoes in her hands and deciding it’d be safer to slip them on in the hall. His car keys, thankfully, weren’t attached to an obnoxiously large set of keychains and rings like hers were, so folding her fingers around the three keys attached by a belt clip was easy to do while preventing a loud jingle that would no doubt wake Inuyasha. At a time like this, she legitimately didn’t know how to express how grateful she was that he kept his work set separate, as well.

Unlocking the door, though slow, was simple. The small scrape the chain gave hardly disturbed him, and the bolt was slid open right as a commercial flickered on the tv, so it masked the sound. Kagome twisted the knob, cracked the door enough for her to slide out, and pulled the door shut. She wouldn’t be gone for long - thirty minutes at the most. He’d, of course, be pissed when she got back, but seeing who she was with would hopefully provide some cushion. She had a legitimate reason for leaving.

As she got downstairs, Kagome dropped her canvas shoes to the ground without worry, sliding her feet in and adjusting the heels and tongues as necessary as she stumbled outside and to Inuyasha’s car. The vehicle came to life as soon as she twisted the key in the ignition, and she slid the seat forward and adjusted the mirrors as quickly as she could. She glanced at her cellphone one last time before driving off, checking to see if she had any other texts from Kikyo. Nothing. It wasn’t anything too abnormal for the woman, she was never very good at responding. Nonetheless, at a time like this, an “okay” or a “thank you” would have been nice.

The roads were dark as she stepped out of the car, sunlight still a couple of hours away. The street lamps were few and far between near her apartment, the neighborhoods slightly sketchy. She’d parked behind the coffee shop she used to frequent, venturing around the corner and to the front. The pancake house Kikyo mentioned was most likely the mom and pop shop a half a block down, but as she made her way closer, she realized there wasn’t a single sign of life around.

Kagome pulled up their texts, sending one saying she was here and waiting for a body to pop into her line of sight, but as the seconds ticked away, an uneasy and dreadful sensation made home in the pit of her abdomen. Something was wrong. Something was coming. She could physically feel the undoing taking place. It was getting increasingly difficult to swallow, to stand still, and her eyes were flickering over the streets around her until something told her it was time to go. Now.

Never in her life had she felt more like a sitting duck.

Kagome spun around, speed-walking her way up the street and back to the car, relieved when it was in view. Clicking the second button down on the remote, she unlocked the door so she could slide right in, but as she latched onto the handle and yanked it open, a powerful force slammed it shut, ripping the lever from her grip. The light from within had turned on from the initial open, bringing the face beside her into comprehensible view.

“Long time no see,” Onigumo grinned, the charming glimmer in his ruby eyes as evident as the day she’d first met him. “I’ve missed you so much, Kagome.”

“Shit!” She hissed, instantly running in the opposite direction. She’d made it three steps before a sharp yank to her hair stopped her in her hurried tracks, yelping more from fear than pain. He walked forward, holding her captive with the fist full of locks, pressing his torso flush against her back, curving his calloused, scratchy fingers around her throat, her head firmly tilted back to rest on his shoulder. His breath stank as he chuckled, the sound malevolent all on its own.

Naraku moaned, kissing the bruise on her cheek, his chapped lips lingering in place before the click of their separated moisture rang in the night. Kagome shuddered, gasping with every touch. 

“Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

[hannigramfanfic]

The Pearls in the Sand Collection ( First Story) by Unknownmusing and Vintagefloof

Kiss Me, Hold Me, Taste Me, Fuck Me

UnknownMusing, VintageFloof

Summary:

Will discovers when left alone in Hannibal’s office that the man has a secret. He decides to explore it by becoming a new admirer of the Chesapeake Ripper called “Pearl-Lace,” leaving little presents for Hannibal at every crime scene.

Chapter 1: The Special Box

The box, creme white with a black ribbon tied around it, lies beneath some drawings Hannibal had done long ago. Gently, a pair of hands reach within and extracts it from its hiding place. They place the box on the desk in the soft sunlight which streams through a gap in the curtains.

Sea bluish-green eyes stare at it. A hand lifts the lid carefully and places it to one side. What lies within is a sight that surprises. Fingertips lightly brush the La Perla lace thongs, knickers, tights, and a blue ribbon.

Taking a deep breath and calming his heart rate, a conspiratorial smile slowly spreads across Will Graham’s face. It was time to plan a date with…..the Chesapeake Ripper.

Chapter 2: The Box’s Purpose

Summary:

The deep shade of crimson lipstick is slowly applied to fine, smooth, kissable lips as maroon eyes keep glancing in the mirror to make sure nothing goes wrong. 

Over the top lip, until it is completely covered, then the bottom lip. Then gently purse them together to ensure both are fully covered.

Pleased with the outcome, Hannibal Lecter rises slowly from the ornate chair close to the makeup table. He walks across the plush carpet in the room that no one else knows about and picks up the white creme box with the black ribbon on it. 

After taking out the La Perla collection, Hannibal calmly slips the lace thongs on with simple practiced ease, followed by the clip-on tights. He smooths them so they don’t get wrinkled and reaches for the final item - the light sea bluish-green ribbon. 

Chapter 3: A Body Lying Among Rose, Deadly Nightshade and Sakura Blossom Petals

Hannibal Lecter, exhausted and sated from a euphoric night of hunting, lies under the soft silk covers of the large king size bed, nude as the day he was born, calmly sleeping when a harsh vibrating sound chooses this inconvenient moment to shatter his peaceful sleep. 

Grumbling a Lithuanian curse, he reluctantly lifts his hand from under the soft warm covers, then reaches for the offending object. The illuminated screen of his mobile phone tells him that it is 5:34 a.m. and it is Jack Crawford calling. Pressing the answer button, he brings the phone to his ear. 

“There had better be a good explanation for this call, Jack,” Hannibal growls. 

“I’m sorry, Dr. Lecter. The Chesapeake Ripper has struck again, but with some really strange differences. I think you better come and see." 

 Hannibal finds himself tapping one hand on the leather steering wheel, trying to figure out what had Jack meant by "strange differences" as he remembers last night’s hunt and the prey he was hunting. 

The underground bar is filled with the haze of curling, writhing smoke from cigarettes, while lily-shaped lamps glow softly in ornate sconces on the walls. 

In a far corner of the bar, perched elegantly on a bar stool and sipping a glass of amber liquid, is Hannibal Lecter, unrecognisable with the crimson lipstick and gloss to make it shine - wearing a long black dress adorned with golden ginkgo leaves. 

His hair is slicked back a certain way, and teardrop earrings like droplets of blood hang from his ears, glinting in the faint light each time he moves to look for his prey. 

He finally spots a potential victim, heading up to the barmaid to order some drinks for their mates. Picking up his cigarette in the antique gold cigarette holder, Hannibal brings it up to his mouth to place between fine lips. 

The prey turns to look at him, taking in every detail of his body. Hannibal reaches into his beaded evening bag for a lighter when the flame from a very expensive lighter - indeed, he notices - soon illuminates his face for a brief moment in the darkened corner. 

Hannibal leans close to light his cigarette, flicking his gaze upwards in a certain coy way, and sees how his sweet vulnerable prey is caught between two choices - stay and talk to this lovely cross-dresser, or go back to their mates who are waiting for their thirteenth round of drinks no doubt.

"You…don’t have to go back to them. I do…get rather lonely without any company. I haven’t had any for a long time, ever since my ex treated me so badly for…what I do,” Hannibal purrs out, low and seductive, reaching for the prey’s hand and stroking it lightly with his fingertips. The flirty gesture makes them look down, then back up at Hannibal again. 

“Do you have a name?” they ask him, making him smile softly. With a wave, Hannibal invites them to sit down on the empty stool next to him.

“You can call me…Nimue,” he replies, placing his hand over theirs, already imagining the perfect tableau for them. 

Coming out of the memory, Hannibal pulls the car into a free space close to the crime scene, seeing Will’s car parked up ahead. He breathes slowly in and out to calm his rage that someone had messed with his tableau, then unclips the seatbelt. 

Calmly he gets out of the car, closing the door before he walks ahead and sees Jack, close to the fluttering yellow police tape, arguing once again with Freddie Lounds. Price and Zeller meanwhile are hedging bets on who will win the argument. Hannibal stalks past them and approaches his tableau. 

The prey he had killed last night is still in the same place against the riverbank.

But not in the position he had put it in. 

Instead it has been laid out in a hollow which has been dug for it. Scattered around the prey are many flower petals - roses, deadly nightshade and sakura blossom. 

The hands of his prey have been arranged to suggest they were morbidly enticing someone to come nearer to them and embrace them. The head was turned at a certain angle to bare the pale expanse of throat and one blood red teardrop earring. 

Hannibal recognises it as one of his own. When the prey had tried to escape, they slapped him across the face, causing the earring to come flying off to land in the darkened alleyway somewhere in the shadows. 

It seems someone had found it and used it. 

But…who? 

  Chapter 4: Watching from Afar at What the Ripper Does to Catch His Prey

Pearl-Lace/Will’s P.O.V: 

The underground bar is filled with wreathing smoke that curls and wisps in the environment as I slowly descend the steps leading down to it, seeing Hannibal sitting in the far corner of the bar. 

He is beautiful. Those soft kissable lips of his outlined by the cherry lipstick, crimson teardrop earrings dangling from his ears, then finally the black dress with golden ginkgo leaves on it. 

I’m wearing a lime green dress that splits at the thighs and has a fragile lace piece attached to a ornate choker that also becomes sleeves right down to the hands. Underneath is the corset I had bought after discovering Hannibal’s secret in the drawer in his office. 

I want to go up to him. But instead I head to a corner booth after ordering a glass of absinthe. Carrying it, I walk silently past a bunch of young men who are about to get their possibly thirteenth round of drinks - or maybe not, as Hannibal seductively flirts with their friend. 

One of them manages a quick slap on my ass, making me throw him a slightly peeved look, then wink flirtatiously at him as I head to my seat. 

If Hannibal had seen me, he might have recognised me. But this get-up was my alter ego and something I had wanted to do since I was seventeen years old and living with my father, who had also been a drag queen in his time. 

Mother had quelled all of that by burning his drag queen outfits out in the garden. She was ashamed of what her hoity-toity friends would think if they discovered her husband’s “shameful and disgusting secret,” as she called it. 

I come out of that memory, seeing how Hannibal has enticed the prey to sit down next to him. They begin to chat among themselves. 

I take sip of the absinthe, jealousy and anger surging in my veins when the prey reaches out to place a hand on one of Hannibal’s thighs. They then slip it upwards under the dress, the brazen action causing Hannibal to give a slight hitched gasp. 

They move their hand a little more, making Hannibal lean into them to breathlessly whisper in their ear something I don’t hear. They soon rise from their seats and saunter towards the exit.

I follow them both outside into the cold air, seeing how the prey keeps on incessantly fondling Hannibal, who is still managing to keep up the act as the hand between his thighs feels through the fine lace La Perla panties I can see peeking out slightly from the dress. 

Hannibal soon grabs hold of them to haul them into a darkened alleyway where I silently follow.

I soon stop short when I see Hannibal slammed face first up against the brick wall as the prey starts to rip the dress apart. Hannibal lets loose with a warning snarl. 

I see a glint of something in Hannibal’s hand, silver and metallic, followed by him stabbing into their side, dragging the curved devil’s claw knife downwards to rip the flesh apart at the same time the prey looks at him in shock and surprise as crimson rivulets begin to stream down either side of their mouth. 

I want to step closer to take hold of Hannibal. Pull him back to me and kiss him heavily, smearing both our lipsticks - lime sea bluish-green mixing with cherry crimson. 

I want to be the one to hunt with him, instead of watching from afar. But for I now I must. 

This prey will also soon be my design. 

My courting gift to him. 

Along with a poem wrapped in lace and a pearl on top. 

Chapter 5: Remembering the Hunt Last Night as the Body of One’s Prey is Observed

Hannibal Lecter’s Memory Palace is vast, with memories and places like Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore  in Florence, Italy ingrained into it so that every time he sinks into a deep sense of calm, that is where he goes. 

It is where he is at the moment, exploring the memory of the hunt last night.

The underground bar is filled with the haze of curling, writhing smoke from cigarettes, while lily-shaped lamps glow softly in ornate scones on the walls.

In a far corner of the bar, perched elegantly on a stool and sipping a glass of amber liquid, Hannibal Lecter – unrecognisable with the crimson lipstick and gloss to make it shine – wears a long black dress with light golden ginkgo leaves on it.

His hair is slicked back a certain way, and teardrop earrings like droplets of blood hang from his ears. They glint in the faint light each time he moves to look for the Prey . He finally spots them heading up to the barmaid to order some drinks for their mates. Picking up his cigarette in an antique gold cigarette holder, Hannibal brings it to his mouth to place it between fine lips.

The Prey turns to look at him, taking in every detail of his body. Hannibal reaches into his beaded evening bag to retrieve his lighter, when the flame from a very expensive lighter - indeed, he notices - soon illuminates his face for a brief moment in the darkened corner of the bar. He leans close to light his cigarette, flicking his gaze upwards in a certain coy way, and sees how the Prey is torn between two choices - stay to talk to this strange cross-dresser, or go back to his mates, who are waiting for their thirteenth round of drinks no doubt.

“You…don’t have to go back to them. I do…get rather lonely without any company. I haven’t had any for a very long time, ever since my ex treated me so badly for…what I do,” Hannibal says, reaching for the Prey’s hand and stroking it flirtatiously with his fingertips, making them look down, then back up again at him.

“Do you have a name?” they ask him, making him smile softly. With a wave, Hannibal invites them to sit down on the empty stool next to him.

“You can…call me….Nimue,” he replies, placing his hand over theirs, already imagining the perfect tableau for them.

The Prey is oblivious, even when they stumble into an alleyway with Hannibal being slammed face first up against the brick wall. Hannibal slowly unfolds the small but deadly devil’s claw knife in his free hand. He feels their slobbering mouth, stinking with alcohol, press against his ear as they tear at his dress and growl with disgust:

“I think after I fuck your faggot hole raw, bitch, I’ll just leave you in this alleyway with my cum and your blood running down the inside of your thighs. You’d enjoy that…cockslut.”

They have not sensed it. Hannibal whirls around with a snarl, stabbing into their side, causing a muffled grunt of shock and surprise to come from the Prey who pulls back with blood starting to seep out of their mouth and trickle down the sides of their lips. Then he twists it more effectively, slicing upwards to split the skin apart – like fabric being ripped apart at the seam.

“Hush now. Hush now. Don’t worry. I’ll take…care of you. I promise. And I always…keep my promises.”

  Afterwards he is back in the bar, pretend-weeping as he tells the Prey’s mates what their supposed friend had tried to do to him. He hears shocked and sickened exclamations of disgust while they all insist on escorting him home so it doesn’t happen again.

Hannibal politely declines their offer and allows them to kiss his cheeks lightly, while one of them, Anthony Dimmond – who is leaving tomorrow for Florence - gives him his handkerchief to wipe away the trails of mascara which have stained his fine cheekbones.

He does allow Dimmond to help him walk up the stairs of the underground bar into the cold night air, where the first snowflakes have started to spiral down. Pulling the soft fake fur coat closer around him and the now-tattered dress, he allows the not-Will to walk him to his car.

Dimmond says nothing, only gives him a light kiss on the lips and pushes away the hand attempting to return the handkerchief, indicating Hannibal may keep it.

Hannibal does.

There is now a heated discussion in the morgue room between Price and Zeller, discussing the best way to open the body carefully and gently, as Hannibal, still deep in his Memory Palace , slowly comes out of the Memory.

 If anyone were to look at him, they would just think he was bored and would rather be somewhere else.

Not understanding the concept of what a Memory Palace was.

“Okay, we delicately take the light blue thread out, then get to the other stuff as they watch,” Zeller says, followed by Price rolling his eyes and bringing over what they need to start opening the body.

A cracking noise, followed by a gasp of “What the hell…is this?!!” coming from both Price and Zeller, make Hannibal fully aware of what is happening in reality. He heads over to see, nestled where the heart lies, a special kind of paper wrapped up in…..soft lace.

It is, however, what has been placed on top of it that sets his heart thrumming at a dizzying pace, threatening to escape his rib cage – a pearl, gleaming white, and a real one.

His mother had once told him, before she had been brutally murdered in front of his and his sister Mischa’s eyes, that pearls were a Courting Gift, and someone would one day, when he was older, give them to him – one at different times – until the very last one.

Slipping on a pair of gloves, he carefully takes the lace-wrapped paper and the pearl out of the gaping chest cavity and carries them over to place them in a metal tray as Jack, who has come into the large morgue area, walks over to have a look as well. Placing his hands on the lace, Hannibal unwraps it and gently smooths out the paper, revealing a poem that has been written for him by this secret Admirer of his.

Your heart is aflutter no doubt

Like the soft stirring of butterfly wings as it begins to stretch them out

In the soft morning light

I saw you from afar

So beautiful, hauntingly so

I ache for you

By just thinking of kissing those soft lips of yours

Wondering how they would feel against mine

My gift to you…is my Pearl

And there will be more to come

Until they become a necklace for you

A necklace to show off your inner Aphrodite within yourself

My sweet Ripper

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Chapter 6: The Gift Given in Reply to the Gift One Had Left for the Ripper

A vibrating, humming noise makes Will shift in his sleep, pleasantly dreaming of what had happened in the alleyway, with the added bonus of grabbing Hannibal to kiss him so heavily their lipstick had soon smeared together.

It vibrates again, this time more incessantly, making him flick his eyes open. Rising up slightly like a feline stretching, he reaches for his phone and sees it is Jack calling him.

Had the Ripper already replied to his Gift within the body of their Prey?

His thumb hovering in anticipation, Will answers it and brings the phone to his ear. He hears shouting, followed by Jack shouting something back, followed by Jack sighing heavily.

“Will, it’s him. You need to get down here.”

“Where?”

“Baltimore - the old toy factory.”

“All right. I’ll be there.”

Jack cuts off, leaving Will to lie there looking up at the ceiling, smiling softly at the fact that Hannibal had managed to make sure Pearl-Lace got a gift back from the Ripper so quickly.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he gets up and slowly heads to the bathroom, passing the seven snoozing dogs – Winston, Buster, Cria, Yui, Kisto, Hanto, Yukish – and then looks at himself in the bathroom mirror.

Pearl-Lace, hidden beneath his skin, appears in the mirror for a brief moment. Leaning close, Will places his lips against the cold glass over the reflection, feeling the coldness of it against them.

In his mind he is imagining a different pair of lips brushing against his – Hannibal’s lips.

  When Will finally reaches the crime scene, he parks his car close to Jack’s large Land Rover and then just sits there, looking at the sight in front of him. He feels his heart start to thud against his rib cage.

The Gift.

One that has been given to him by Hannibal.

Unfastening his seat belt, he gets out the car and heads over to Jack, who is waiting impatiently for him. Willing his heart to stop thudding against his rib cage, he looks at the circular tent which has been erected by Hannibal. Placing a gloved hand on one of the curtains, he pulls it back slightly to look within.

Two bodies are displayed in the pose of “The Kiss” by Klimt. Will sees how Hannibal has placed the bodies in such an intimate way. He knows he will have to up the ante in his own gifts to the man he is courting.

Will knows that if they are ever discovered and Hannibal is arrested by Jack, people will say they are in Love and Freddie Lounds will have a field day writing articles about it on TattleCrime’s website.

It was Love.

The kind that only he and Hannibal understood, because the older man can see potential in him. He steps closer, seeing, hidden from sight, that the two bodies have been stitched together. He waits for the rest of the forensics team to leave when Jack gives the order.

He soon closes his eyes, allowing the golden pendulum to swing once, twice and finally a third time, dragging him into the crime scene.

You gave me a gift, Pearl-Lace.

 I return the favour by giving you one back in a way that I know you will appreciate. I choose two Prey who are suited to this Tableau of mine, and after taking what I need, place them in the pose of my intention.

I stitch them together with black thread, sewing them to become entwined like Klimt’s “The Kiss,” and stepping back to admire my work, wish you were with me.

Holding me from behind to stabilise me.

This is my Design.

This is my Gift to you

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Chapter 7: Invited to a Dinner Party by the Ripper, Where Intense Fiery Passion Arises

Summary:

UnknownMusing sez: 100% Smut and just Smut, then later of course the dinner party. But Smut first, then a little bit of dinner party, followed by…mehh…more Smut.

Blame Purplesocrates, my Smut Hannigram Queen and metaphorical Sister.

VintageFloof sez: Hope you’re wearing asbestos knickers

Chapter Text

The letter with Hannibal’s elegant handwriting arrives on Friday, just as Will is returning from taking the dogs out for a long-needed walk. Picking the envelope up from the porch, he allows them to go in ahead of him.

He looks at his name carefully written on the thick creme-colored envelope in fancy Elizabethan script, and his heart begins to flutter in his chest. Heading over to the old rocking chair on the porch, he sits down to slit it open and begins to read, hearing Hannibal’s smoky voice in his mind as he does so.

Dear Will,

I would appreciate your company at a dinner party at my home this Saturday night at 7:00. You need only bring yourself and no one else. Although I anticipate that you and I will desire some time alone together later in the evening, I have also invited Jack Crawford and his wife to the table, along with Alana Bloom and an old colleague of mine, Dr. Donald Sutcliffe, who informs me he is bringing a guest with him.

Hannibal

Will smiles softly at Hannibal’s signature, written with a flourish of the pen in his inimitable style. Will sits back in the rocking chair, still smiling, heart thudding quietly, his gaze unfocused and his thoughts drifting. He is soon brought back down to earth, however, as Winston, Buster, Cria, Yui, Kisto, Hanto, and Yukish insist it’s past their dinner time.

Each dog receives a generous bowlful of Will’s specially prepared homemade dog food, along with many pets and skritches. While the dogs enjoy their dinner, Will goes to the living room and places the letter in the bottom of his chest of drawers, underneath a black box with a crimson ribbon wrapped around it.

    Saturday night arrives with a slow gentle ease, like the opening strains of a waltz, as Will eases into the driveway of Hannibal’s house. Standing on the stone front steps, looking impossibly, effortlessly handsome, is the man himself, waiting for his guests.

Will is glad he is the first to arrive and not the last. It would be rude of him to be last and late. He pulls up neatly beside Hannibal’s car, then nervously smooths down his black leather trousers and wonders what the older man would think if he knew Will was Pearl-Lace.

That underneath his clothes he is wearing La Perla “Crimson Night” lace panties and tights with suspenders on them. Around his throat he is wearing a maroon ribbon choker; his legs are adorned in high-heeled lace-up boots that his father had sent him for his thirty-first birthday.

Unbuckling his seat belt, Will gets out of the car and closes the door behind him. He smiles as he nears the steps and gets a better look at Hannibal, who he sees is wearing diamond studded earrings. Will wonders if underneath the man is wearing one of his many lingerie collections. He ascends the stone steps, his eyes locked on Hannibal’s and his smile growing wider.

“Will, you look….utterly divine,” Hannibal breathes, stepping close to him on high-heeled shoes. He leans close to Will, inhaling deeply the delicate perfume Will had chosen to wear.

Will hears in the process a soft breathless moan – so faint it sounds like a gentle breeze ruffling the tops of the trees.

“I aim to make sure….I provide nourishment for those who like to look at me, Hannibal,” Will says, flirting seductively while wishing that Hannibal would just grab him around the hips to pull him close and smash his lips into his.

Followed by dragging him inside and upstairs where, after cancelling the dinner party, they could thoroughly ravage each other in pleasure and ecstasy on dark blue silken sheets decorated with gold ginkgo leaves.

“Is that……Peach Blossom Sin….you’re wearing, Will?” the older man asks him, stepping closer. Their chests are touching now. Tilting his head back slightly to expose his throat, Will sees how Hannibal licks his lips to wet them at the sight of pale, unmarked skin.

“Why? Do you like it or would you prefer what I get for Christmas?” he teases, suddenly feeling Hannibal grab hold of him to pull him into the house, closing the double doors behind them both. He lifts Will up in his strong arms and slams him against the wall, next to (in Will’s mind, but he is barely thinking at the moment) a hideous, odious painting. The impact of Will hitting the wall sends the questionable work of art crashing to the floor, the glass of the frame emitting a tinkling smash as it breaks into a million pieces.

Will’s hands are seized around his wrists and lifted up to be pinned above his head, where he feels a macabre Gothic candle holder – empty – attached to the wall. A wicked idea begins to form in his mind. Looking up at Hannibal, he sees the man is thinking the same thing. Will hears the clink of a belt being unbuckled, his rapt gaze never leaving Hannibal’s, followed by the belt’s smooth leather being wrapped around his wrists and the rest wound around the Gothic candle holder. The older man lowers his head, maroon eyes dark with passion and want. He wraps his arms around Will, presses him close, and kisses him heavily.

Will kisses back, flicking his tongue over soft, kissable lips. Hannibal accepts the admittance asked for, opening his mouth to allow Will to probe it deeply with his tongue – feeling the enticingly sharp canine teeth, which could easily rip out his own throat or someone else’s, for that matter. Sparks of danger and desire shoot through Will’s blood as they begin to grind their hips into each other, tongues still entwined and breaths growing heavy and hot. One of Hannibal’s large hands slowly slides down to caress Will’s beautiful ass, supple and smooth beneath black leather.

Saliva is exchanged and trickles down the side of their mouths. Through the fog of his desire, Hannibal realizes that exciting as it is to have Will’s hands bound, he would much prefer to have them on his body. Without breaking the kiss, the arm around Will’s back reaches up blindly and releases his wrists from their bond. The passionate kisses continue as hands fumble clumsily to undo trousers. Breathless sighs and moans fill the air, while Will strokes Hannibal through the soft lace panties he wears, feeling the outline of how large, throbbing and pulsating the older man is.

“The….things you do to me, Will. The….way you make me feel. It’s like wicked tongues of flame are caressing me from within and making me so….hot and aching for you,” Hannibal pants out, between kisses, rocking his hips into Will’s hand that cups him.

Hannibal reluctantly breaks the kiss and tilts his head back to breathe. He shudders heavily with a soft breathless moan at the debauched look he sees on the younger man’s flushed face. He slips downwards to place Will’s thighs in the crooks of his arms. Kneeling almost reverently, he pulls the leather trousers further apart and down a bit more with his teeth. His eyes widen and his brain scrambles as he sees the lace panties Will is wearing.

So this is Will’s secret as well.

He leans close, caressing the lace-covered bulge with his lips and upwards to where pearls of pre-cum are beginning to seep from the tip of Will’s cock, soaking through the lace fabric. Hannibal extends his hungry tongue and licks upwards, causing a hitched gasp to come from Will and soon the loud ecstatic cry of his name - “Hannibal!!!”

The taste of Will is like the sweetest ambrosia. Placing his teeth against the lace, he rips it to fully expose Will’s beautiful cock. He then bends his sleek head between Will’s thighs, tasting him intimately. The hallway near the dining room is soon filled with soft moans and breathless gasps that become music to his ears.

A symphony of pleasure and ecstasy.

  Will can still feel the chemical endorphins of sexual arousal running through him, even when he now sits to Hannibal’s right, across from Alana. Next to him are Jack with Bella, and across from them sit Dr. Sutcliffe and a young man called Matthew Brown.

Hannibal is busy in the kitchen, applying the final touches to the dinner he has made. Picking up the glass of fine wine, Will takes a sip to calm himself. Hannibal soon appears, bearing the plates of food for the first course.

“That smells amazing, Hannibal. What is it?” he hears Jack ask. Hannibal replies, “For the first course, oysters in gelée, a dish I was taught by a French cook in Paris when I was very young. Though some would consider the oyster to be… an aphrodisiac. Young men in ancient Greece believed it…spurred their sexual desire.”

 Laughter fills the dining room, while Will flicks his gaze up to Hannibal when the man places his plate down in front of him. They are so close he could lean up, right in front of everyone, to pull the older man into a heart-stopping kiss.

Hannibal moves away, breaking that spell, to sit down himself, after unbuttoning the bottom button of his waistcoat. Knowing it is rude of him to start eating without the older man’s permission, Will takes one of the oyster shells, staring at the viscous fluid of the meat topped with tiny cubes of aspic. He brings it to his lips, tips it down to swallow the meat.

He can feel maroon eyes watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. Lowering the oyster shell back down on the plate, he sees how Hannibal is smiling as he brings his own up, doing the same.

Soon chatter and laughter fills the dining room, while the oysters are either left or devoured by the gracious guests. More wine is poured.

“So, Mrs. Crawford, are you an Annabelle or an Isabella?” Will hears Hannibal ask Jack’s wife – who he can see is not eating at all – and she smiles softly at him.

“A Phyllis. Only Jack calls me Bella,” she replies, making Jack tell the story of how he met her in Florence, Italy, when she was working for NATO. The Italian men would call out “Bella, bella!”(beautiful!) as she walked down the city streets, so he wanted her to be his.

They married a few days later.

Their wedding day had been a beautiful day for them both.

As he is taking another sip of wine, Will suddenly notices, out of the corner of his eye, that Matthew Brown seems to be watching Hannibal with a kind of curiosity. Will leans close to Hannibal, who turns his face slightly to acknowledge him.

“Would you like some help to bring the main course through?” Will whispers, making sure his lips are close enough to Hannibal’s ear to make him give a subtle shiver at the feel of his hot breath on his cheek.

The older man nods, getting up to take away the empty dishes and clear the table for the main course. Heading through to the kitchen, he can feel Will’s burning gaze on his back. Jealous, no doubt, at what he had seen.

    The large kitchen of Hannibal’s home is quiet and peaceful, with a marble kitchen island in the center to accommodate any produce brought in from the herb and vegetable plot outside.

Going up to the double doors that lead out onto the porch and into the back garden, Will can see the shadow of a tall sakura blossom tree near a pond, with small Japanese spirit shrines close to it. Large clever hands wrap around his waist, pulling him back flush against a warm chest.

“The meat will spoil,” Will says quietly, feeling Hannibal nuzzle his nose softly against his cheek and up to his ear to whisper, “There is… a better dish in front of me I would rather savour.” He is turned around to face the older man, who begins to slowly walk backwards, pulling him along until they reach the island.

“Tell me or show me,” Will hears himself saying to Hannibal.

With a quirk of his eyebrow and a half-smile on his lips, Hannibal gracefully turns his back to him and calmly unbuckles his belt. He slips his suit trousers down and off to reveal the fine lace thong and tights, then bends over the polished marble surface to present himself.

Will almost forgets how to breathe at the sight. He slowly walks over and places the palm of his trembling hand on the dip of Hannibal’s spine, feeling the stays of a fine corset. Hauling the older man up – after slipping his own trousers down and off – he unbuttons the fine black waistcoat and the crimson shirt.

Hannibal helps him to slip them off, allowing them to fall to the kitchen floor with a muffled thump. A hand comes up to take hold of the back of Will’s head to sift through his curls, and he unbuttons his own shirt, chucking it to the armchair in the far corner of the kitchen. They fall once again into passionate kisses, savouring the taste of the oysters and rich wine.

Soft wanton moans and heavy breathless panting are coming from them both, while Will remembers that just next door the rest of the dinner party are waiting for the main course – lambs’ hearts in hot sauce, with root vegetables and sweet baby potatoes – and could possibly hear them.

Hannibal, though, doesn’t seem to care about being overheard and releases Will’s lips, a strand of saliva still connecting their lips together. Will gently turns him to face the island, and Hannibal assumes his previous position, heart pounding in anticipation. A warm hand slipping into the confines of his lace thong from behind makes Hannibal tilt his head back and gasp softly.

Fingers already coated in lube (Will had a small bottle tucked away in his inside blazer pocket) rub against his puckered entrance, spreading the lube and teasing gently. The fingers soon press inwards and Will begins to scissor and stretch, as evidence of his arousal, covered by his fine lace panties, presses against Hannibal’s thigh.

Hannibal presses back against the hand, rocking his magnificent ass slowly back and forth, feeling the fingers reach deep inside to rub the wee gland within that makes him gasp and clench around them. Finally they slip out, making him feel bereft of the loss.

After removing his lace undies, Will pulls Hannibal up again and leads him to the narrow end of the island, patting the marble surface with an insouciant smile to indicate Hannibal should hop up and lie down. Hannibal, who would normally be absolutely scandalized by the mere thought of having sex in the kitchen, much less on a food-preparing surface, obeys without hesitation. His breathing stutters as Will lifts his legs onto his shoulders, still covered in the elegant tights. They gaze at one another for what seems like an eternity, the anticipation of this moment holding them in its thrall. Hannibal’s eyes drift closed as Will caresses his thighs. He loses track of time for a moment, only to bite his bottom lip as a long, breathless moan threatens to escape when he feels Will push aside the lace that lies over his slicked and stretched entrance, and slowly begin to slide the head of his cock inside. Will continues to sink into him until he is fully sheathed within.

Will shudders heavily when he feels himself now within Hannibal’s tight, warm insides. Willing his heart to stop thudding against his rib cage, he slowly and gently begins to undulate his hips back and forth. Hannibal grasps the sides of the island, wanting to keep gazing into the wicked depths of Will’s ocean blue eyes, but pleasure overtakes him. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes in bliss, gasping and grunting softly with each thrust.

Will pulls back slightly to look down each time he slides his cock in and out of the warm, clenching, tight and hot rim of Hannibal’s ass, mesmerized by the sight. He is pulled down into a breathless kiss by Hannibal, who is flushed, sweating and looking utterly debauched.

 They are well on the way to losing themselves in fiery passion and ecstasy.

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Chapter 8: The Morning After the Dinner Party

Summary:

Authors’ Note – The rest of the chapters will be written in Hannibal and Will’s P.O.V.

Chapter Text

Hannibal’s P.O.V:

Sunlight filters through a gap in the ink blue curtains of my bedroom to shine a shaft of light down onto the large king size bed as I softly flutter my eyes open, basking for moment in the warmth. I smile sleepily at the still-dozing form of Will Graham under the covers. We are both nude.

He looks peaceful and calm. No nightmare at the moment to disturb his sleep. I hear him give a small “Hmm,” followed by his arms reaching out for me. I allow him to pull me close to him. Sea bluish-green eyes open to look up at me and he smiles, still hazy with sleep, causing me to bend my head down to kiss him lightly.

Our lips gently move against each other. He changes position each time to deepen the kiss, then pulls back to bury his face into the crook of my neck, wrapping his arms around me to hold me close.

“It feels good being in your ar…Oh god!!!? The dogs!!!?” Suddenly panicked, he remembers his dogs have been waiting for him all night back in Wolf Trap. He scrambles out of bed; I pull him back to stop him from going further.

“Will, calm yourself. I brought them here while you were asleep and placed them in the large kennel I have outside,” I reassure him, leading him over to the window to show him the outdoor kennel in the garden.

 Seeing him smile at the sight of all seven dogs napping in the sun and enjoying themselves brings an unaccustomed warmth to my heart. I snake my arms around his waist from behind, nuzzling into his hair as my cock begins to rise against his breathtakingly exquisite ass.

“You…I don’t what to say,” Will breathes, surprised and amazed I had performed such a task for him. He turns in my arms to face me, smiling, while I lift him up and lay him on his back on the window seat. Licking my lips, I stroke his cheek lightly with my thumb.

“I want to make love to you. May I?” I ask him. His bright eyes and wide smile are my answer. I quickly retrieve the bottle of lube from the bedside table. Like the mischievous imp he is, he grins and snatches it from my hand, dangling it in front of my face for a moment before uncapping it and pouring some of the stuff into the palm of his hand. He slowly rubs his palms together as he looks up at me from underneath those beautiful eyelashes.

“Come here, Hannibal,” he purrs, beckoning me closer. I eagerly obey. He slips a slicked-up hand downwards, causing me to arch slightly at the touch of his hand on me. With great difficulty I resist the urge to thrust my hips forward as he strokes me from where pre-cum is already forming small white pearls at the tip, to down below, cupping me in a certain way that drives me wild. I have to place both hands on the glass window to stabilise myself.

His knees drawn up, the other hand is busy between his own thighs, prepping himself for me. He moans heavily, baring his neck in the process, then breathes out “Enter me, Hannibal.” Moving his hands away and kneeling before him on the window seat, I enter him with a single thrust of my hips.

A breathless hitched moan escapes Will’s lovely mouth. He wraps his legs around my waist and I hover so very close above him, my hands on either side of his head as he grips my arms and looks into my eyes with an expression of adoration. I begin to thrust into him, slow and hard. He rocks his hips in tandem with mine, his lovely hard cock caught between us, as I watch every expression and movement he makes.

The way he gasps breathlessly, lips parted in soft moans and cries of pleasure. The arch of his spine off the soft fabric of the window seat. His hands on my ass, desperately pulling me deeper and deeper inside him.

Tensing my muscles, I speed up slightly as I begin to feel the pressure building within me coming to a climax. I press my forehead against Will’s, staring into the depths of his eyes as he whispers my name like a prayer.

It hits so suddenly. I find myself arching my back heavily, distantly feeling Will tighten his thighs around my waist as I cry out his name over and over, whiteness clouding my vision.

I manage to block out every external sound around me, except for the beating of my heart within my rib cage and every beautiful sound coming from Will’s lips. Every fibre of my being tenses as I slowly release my seed into him – filling his warm, tight, clenching insides with it. With a strangled cry Will reaches his own climax, tossing his head back as thick white ropes shoot out to decorate our abdomens and chests.

Euphoric is the only word I can think of to describe my emotions during this time.

  Breakfast at the dinner table is a simple meal of fluffy scrambled eggs, sausages and sliced baby tomatoes that we share together on one plate, giving the excuse that it spares us the bother of washing two dishes. The real reason, of course, is to enjoy one another’s closeness and warmth.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Will comments, looking out the dining room double door windows. Grinning, he turns his face back to me. “Come and walk the dogs with me, Hannibal, please?” he pleads so sweetly, making those (ironically) puppy dog eyes that I simply cannot resist. I glance through the window at the seven dogs, now released from their kennel, lounging on the porch waiting for a walk.

“Anything for you, mylimasis,” I say, smiling back at him and getting up to clear the table. I find myself swaying my hips as I walk, just to hear his gentle laughter fill the dining room. “You’re such a diva, Hannibal.”

Yes. But I’m your diva and no one else’s.  

  Walking the seven dogs - Winston, Buster, Cria, Yui, Kisto, Hanto, and Yukish – with Will’s arm in mine as we stroll down the forest path together, feeling him clasp his hand in mine, feels peaceful and beautiful.

“What are you thinking about?” Will asks me, when with my free hand I throw a stick for the dogs to go after, listening to their excited yips and barking.

“Nothing that concerns you, dear Will. Just happiness that you’re here with me,” I reply, turning to face him. I lean forwards and rest my forehead against his, aching to say the words.

But they don’t come out. Instead I capture his lips with mine to distract him from asking me about the silence, and try not to feel like I am slowly being led into a snare.

Who was luring me, though?

Will, or Jack?

Or someone else, hidden in the shadows?

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Chapter 9: Another Courting Gift, Another Poem, and an Encounter at the Opera

Summary:

Hannibal receives another gift from Pearl-Lace, and has an erotic encounter at the opera while in his Miss Nimue persona.

Chapter Text

Hannibal’s P.O.V:

Monday is a busy day of appointments with my patients. I calmly allow poor, neurotic, bumbling Franklyn Froideveaux to leave through the back door of my office as he tries hard not to burst into tears.

I tolerate him for a reason. He sees me as someone he could talk to about his friend Tobias Budge – one of the violinists of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra - who had recently been acting strangely.

“Dr. Lecter…umm….thank you,” Franklyn says. Just before I move to close the door, he wrings his chubby hands in his handkerchief and tries to catch my eye, as though he wants to say something else.

“Yes, Franklyn? What is it?” I ask politely. He reaches into his suit pocket and hands me a flyer for the Baltimore Concert Opera, which I see is presenting “Carmen” tonight only . Franklyn gives a small smile.

“I saw it and…thought maybe you might be interested. It’s on tonight only, I’m afraid, and leaves for…Okinawa, Japan tomorrow. I’ve already got tickets thanks to Tobias,” he says, sighing heavily at his friend’s name. A knock on my front office door makes me turn my head to look up at the grandfather clock.

“Same time next week, as usual, Franklyn,” I tell him. He nods nervously in reply and heads off, leaving me alone with the flyer in my hand. Closing the door silently, I head over to my desk as another knock, more insistent this time, is heard at the front door.

Smoothing down my suit and waistcoat, I almost wish it were Will in the waiting room. I stroke my neck lightly where, hidden under my shirt, is the first pearl from Pearl-Lace on the sea bluish-green lace ribbon that I had made into a choker. I can feel the smoothness of it through the fabric.

No one had noticed when I had been close to my own kill in the Behavioral Science Unit that I had come back to take the evidence – the pearl and the poem wrapped in fine lace. Moving to the door, I calmly open it.

The waiting room is empty. Before I can step out of my office, I see a large lingerie box wrapped in crimson ribbon on the floor before me. I bend down to pick it up, carry it into my office and close the door. I endeavor to remain calm. I am only partially successful.

I place the box on my desk, untying the ribbon and placing it to one side. Lifting the lid reveals a lovely, long, sea-bluish green dress that seems to shimmer in the dim office lights as I lift it slowly from the box. Delicate silver ferns embossed upon it provide the shimmer. Entranced, I head into the bathroom with the box and slip off my clothing.

At last I am standing nude, the lace ribbon choker around my neck the only thing adorning my body. Under the tissue paper that had cradled the dress are more surprises - crème white stockings with light blue bows around the edges; a corset that laces from the front, the same colour as the the dress; and resting on top of them, the most thrilling of all - two pearls this time, and a poem, wrapped in lace.

Ripper

At night…..I imagine your touch on my bare skin

Fingertips delicately caressing like a butterfly feeling flowers to look for nectar

Your lips…..outlined in crimson and shining like….blood in the moonlight

Predator that you are

Your body…..strong and sleek like that of a panther

You neither hide nor run

I’ve…watched you….

Thought only of….touching you

Holding you against me

While we writhe entwined…..on soft silk sheets or upon a bed of rose petals

Do you not feel the same for me?

Wouldn’t you want to hold me?

Taste me?

Fill me to the point where everything begins to… blur at the edges?

I ache for you.

Do you not ache for me?

Pearl-Lace

    “Who is that?”

“Amazing!!!”

“That can’t be….Dr. Hannibal Lecter, can it?!!”

“No, I think that is Mrs. Komeda’s friend, Miss Nimue.”

“Oh.”

Whispers like snakes slithering over each other to keep warm reach my ears from other patrons attending tonight’s performance as I calmly descend the curved white marble stairs to the large main ballroom of Baltimore’s Engineers Club in the fashionable Mount Vernon district.

Here everyone waits before the opera starts. I am wearing the sea bluish-green dress adorned with silver ferns. My old friend Mrs. Komeda, one of the very few who knows of Nimue’s existence, catches my eye and is delighted to see me “in my element.” She comes to me, smiling and laughing, taking my hand and pulling me into her circle of friends.

I am introduced to them – Mr. Anthony Dimmond, who is glad to see Nimue doing much better than the last time he saw her; a man I already know, Mr. Andrew Caldwell – an independent medical examiner - and finally, a newcomer I have not seen before.

“Now…this is Erisa Ereshkigal,” Mrs Komeda says, introducing the person next to her. I nod politely, murmuring a greeting. My eyes drift to a figure standing a short distance away, their back to me. They seem strangely familiar, even though I cannot see their face. Perhaps they sense my gaze, for they turn to face me fully, revealing to my startled eyes….Will! Or is it Will? With their hairless face, makeup skillfully but rather heavily applied, and chocolate curls in an insouciant up-do, it is difficult to tell. The ocean blue eyes resemble Will’s, at least, and they observe me looking at this new creature strangely.

“You look pale, Nimue. Is everything all right?” Mrs. Komeda asks. I turn my gaze away from Will-or-not-Will in consternation, about to answer her, when a hand slips around my waist and settles on my hip, causing me to stiffen slightly.

“I’m sure Nimue is fine, Mrs. Komeda,” a gentle voice says in reply, causing me to turn my head. Somehow I know that standing beside me, softly smiling with an arm draped protectively around me, is…my secret admirer Pearl-Lace.

They are wearing a soft shimmering brown suit jacket and trousers, with purple and gold flowers stitched onto the fabric, and gold stacked-heel pumps. Beneath the jacket I can see a white blouse with lace ruffles on the collar.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I manage to get out. “Will you excuse us, please?” Mrs. Komeda nods graciously, and I head away with Pearl-Lace and walk up the flight of stairs to the second landing.

Sensing eyes watching us from down below as we do so.

  The high box.

It is quiet and still up here. I step up to the edge, placing my hands on the fabric balustrade, and look down at the large circular opera stage and the seats that will soon be filled by eager patrons of the arts.

“Have you liked my gifts?” Pearl-Lace whispers into my ear. They have come up behind me to place their hands on my hips. They slip one hand beneath the dress to cup me through the white lace thong attached to the silk crème white stockings. I would know the caress of that hand anywhere, at any time.

“You mean…gifts….ohh!….yes, I love them,” I whisper back, feeling their fingertips brush the tip of my hard, lace-covered cock where pearls of pre-cum are starting to form.

Their other hand slips down my spine, hitching the back of the dress up to reveal their Gift to me. I am soon pushed down onto the balustrade. They lean over me, their breath hot against my cheek.

Arching myself against Pearl-Lace, I look over my shoulder at them, fully aware that the lust I am feeling can be seen on my face. They cover me once more as their hand slips downwards, feeling the seam of the lace thong. After a tantalizing moment, the hand slides down within its confines and caresses my hot bare flesh.

I arch fully, spreading my legs more widely apart and keeping my palms spread on the fabric balustrade. I moan softly – hearing slight echoing around the large area where the opera would soon take place – then I am whirled around to face them. They haul me up onto the balustrade which, thankfully, has a metal railing to stop people from falling over the edge.

“Take hold of the railing with both your hands,” a command which I find myself submissively obeying, while they take a curtain tie from one of the high box curtains to tie my wrists to the railing, one crossed over the other.

When they are satisfied I cannot free myself, they take off the fine jacket to place over one of the viewing chairs. They saunter over to me, placing their hands on my thighs, and spread them wide apart. They stand between my legs and kiss me heavily, opening their trousers and letting them and their boxers drop to the floor. A slow hand reaches between both our bodies.

I hear a ripping of fabric, followed by the harsh shove of hips forwards into mine. My head tilts backward, a pleasured moan escaping me before I can stop myself – it echoes around the empty space, barely concealed by the murmur of the crowd below. Pearl-Lace leaves me no time to adjust, entering me slowly but forcefully and with no lube, jolting my body and up down with each thrust.

I writhe uncontrollably, every thrust sending ecstasy running up my spine as they slide in and out of me. I bare my neck and their hot mouth kisses, sucks and bites the pale flesh. They adjust slightly and drape themselves over me, bringing my crème stocking-clad thighs onto their shoulders, filling me so deeply it overwhelms me.

They are…..so deep…..My body….feels like I am burning up within!!!

Trembling underneath them, I suddenly hear voices. I turn my face to see, down below near the double entrance doors, Mrs. Komeda coming in with Andrew Caldwell, Anthony Dimmond – who had told me had missed his flight to Florence - and Erisa Ereshkigal.

It is at that moment when a particularly hard, intense thrust causes me to clench heavily around Pearl-Lace’s cock and give a keening wail of pleasure – which echoes all around - as my back arches heavily off the fabric balustrade.

I have finally succumbed to the pressure that been building up within me. Distantly I can hear from below the shocked gasps of the group, and yet I only pay attention to Pearl-Lace who looks adoringly into my eyes, then pulls me into a deep, breathless kiss in front of them all as I suddenly realise who they really are.

Will!!!?

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Chapter 10: The Consequences that Betrayal Brings When the Truth Comes Spilling Out of the Seams

Summary:

Authors’ Note: Quote – “Betrayal is something akin to love. There is the betrayer and the betrayed.” – Bedelia Du Maurier, Season 3

Chapter Text

Pearl-Lace/Will’s P.O.V. 

Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane is one of those places where I do not want to be right at this very moment. I would rather be at home, relaxing with my dogs or checking up on Hannibal at his office.

My appointment with him wasn’t until later in the evening, and so I would have to make do with Dr. Frederick Chilton talking my ear off once again about my empathic abilities. He was obsessed with interviewing me about it. Pulling the car into an empty parking space, I reach into the glove compartment for some aspirin.

I would have to mention the persistent headaches and hallucinations to Hannibal at some point. I wonder if he could recommend a good doctor for some neurology scans.

Maybe his old friend and colleague Dr. Sutcliffe could help me out?

Swallowing the aspirin down with some bottled water, I slowly feel the headache lessen to a dull residual ache. I just hope it won’t be aggravated again by Jack or even Chilton, for that matter.

  “What has happened here is very tragic. Especially with the death of one of the nursing staff.”

“Dr. Chilton, is it still possible to see the scene of the crime? We need it as fresh as possible.”

��Ahh, yes. Come this way, gentlemen.”

Stepping into the nurse’s room, I see why Chilton had said he already had the Ripper in his clutches. In front of me is a scene that greatly resembles a crime scene called the “Wound Man.” The unfortunate nurse is impaled on the metal I.V. stand, her back arched in a certain way, both of her eyes squished down into her sockets.

Stepping closer, I know immediately that Hannibal didn’t do this. It is sloppy and too trained-looking to be one of his Tableau . I slip my glasses off, placing them in my shirt pocket.

I close my eyes. The golden pendulum swings once, twice and finally a third time, dragging me deep into the reconstruction.

Their voices echo around me as they quickly wheel me to the infirmary because they think I had some kind of seizure or stroke. Fools.

They wheel me into the room, where the nurse starts to set up the equipment as I calmly retrieve the skeleton key from wee Nick and begin to unlock the handcuff around my wrist.

She is still busy with the sorting and placement of equipment, and it is only when she turns that she sees me standing there. She tries to scream or shout for help, but I silence her by punching her in the larynx, effectively shutting her vocal cords down.

She tries to escape, but I grab hold of her to slam her against the shelving and onto the floor, where she lands on her back. I straddle her, reaching up to her face and shushing her. I place my thumbs on her eyelids, pressing down until hearing a satisfying squelch.

Glancing around, I see the I.V. stand and pull it out. I feel her hands touch my shoe as she tries to crawl away. She doesn’t get far. I lift the I.V. stand above her, then bring it down….hard.

Harshly, I come out of the reconstruction, only to suddenly see I’m not in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. I’m in Hannibal’s office waiting room. Moving unsteadily backwards, I sit down in a chair and drag my trembling hands down my face.

I had lost time.

I had somehow lost time in the reconstruction or after it.

“Will, this is an unexpected surprise. Your appointment isn’t until late this evening. Though today has been…rather quiet without you.”

Arriving here unannounced? Yeah, no shit…darling…

I hear Pearl-Lace saying in my head. Hannibal comes to stand before me, concern in his eyes, just in time to catch me as I fall forward into his arms. Flicking my gaze up to him, I allow him to help me up out of the chair and into his warm, almost homely office.

    Fine, rich wine is poured into two glasses.

The light from the lit fire in the hearth is reflected in the polished surface of Hannibal’s desk. He turns to look at me sitting in one of the leather-backed black armchairs with the small glass table next to it. I’m feeling calmer, more settled, but there remains an aura of unease in the air.

I have taken off my jacket, placing it over the back of the armchair, and unbuttoned the top three buttons of my salmon shirt. I preoccupy myself by looking through Hannibal’s sketchbook of the many different artworks he has done.

“Anything you find interesting, Will?” he asks me, just as I turn the page and see a sketch of…me as my alter-ego Pearl-Lace and himself writhing on the balcony opera box balustrade, just as it occurred just a few nights ago.

Thighs clenching tightly around my waist.

Hannibal releasing a keening wail of pleasure, followed by being pulled into a breathless kiss by me.

“The Ripper’s admirer?” I ask, accepting the glass of poured wine from him. I hand him back his sketchbook as he sits down across from me. “Zeller and Price are joking that they’re both plotting Crème de la Passion with each other, because of the gifts being given.”

“Is that what they think?” Hannibal asks, not answering my question. He brings one leg up to cross over the other. His gaze is inscrutable.

 Placing my glass down on the small table, I stand and make my way to Hannibal’s chair. Stepping behind him, I place my hands on his shoulders gently and calmly. I don’t want to spook him and end up with my arm twisted behind my back, or worse, my neck snapped.

“There’s something bothering you, isn’t there, Hannibal?” I ask him, only for him to slip away from me as he gets up from the armchair and heads over to his desk. He picks up his scalpel and begins to sharpen a pencil.

There is only one reason why he is acting like this. He knows deep down inside I am….Pearl-Lace and the one who has been giving him the gifts.

In his mind I have betrayed him. I look around for my messenger bag, retrieve it, then excuse myself by asking if I can use the restroom.

He gives a nod in reply and nothing more. 

  Inside the dimly lit bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror. I start to rip my clothes to shreds until I’m finally standing in the laced up corset – black with red Sweet William flowers stitched onto it; the lace diamond-shaped nylon tights which clip to it; and the lace panties with black ribbons trailing down from them.

Opening my messenger bag, I take out my shaving and makeup kits and place them on the bathroom counter. I look one last time at myself - my old self - then begin to shave and apply the makeup that will transform me….into Pearl-Lace.

There will now be, from now on, only…Pearl-Lace for the Ripper.

No Will Graham. Will Graham no longer exists.

Only Pearl-Lace and nothing else.

Madness shared by two.

Pearl-Lace and the Ripper.

  I step out of the office bathroom in my blue sleeping kimono that is decorated with koi fish and ginkgo leaves which seem to float on the surface of water. I look over to Hannibal’s desk; he is nowhere to be seen.

The pencil is sharpened. The scalpel, however, is missing; this tells me he has taken it with him. The glasses of wine have been cleared away. I exit the bathroom and quietly shut the door behind me.

A creak above my head on the landing of the mezzanine library brings me to a halt, and I stand very still, listening quietly for more. No further sounds are heard, suggesting the person above was waiting for me to make a move. It reminds me of the game mahjong – one player plays the white side, the other the black. I step forward and look up.

There is no one there - or, if there is, they are hiding from my sight. I remove the kimono, placing it over Hannibal’s desk chair in case he returns looking for me. I am grateful I had brought a change of my everyday clothes in my messenger bag - trousers, shirt and jacket. I zip up the jacket to ward against the sudden chill. I walk toward the ladder, slowly ascend it and step onto the landing.

I can feel a draft coming from somewhere I cannot immediately locate. I walk toward the draft, frowning, and idly place my hand on a book that is out of place on the shelf. I jump back, startled, as the entire section of shelving silently slides back to reveal a long black tunnel, with stone steps leading down into the darkness. A small flashlight hangs on a hook on the wall; I take it, turn it on, and with dread growing in my chest, slowly begin to descend the steps.

  The flashlight is surprisingly adequate for lighting my way through the dark tunnel. I imagine the tunnel was built in colonial times, judging by the stonework surrounding me. I continue walking, the only sound the clicking of the high heels I wear echoing off the walls. Just ahead of me I finally see a faint pinprick of light.

I switch the flashlight off, tucking it into my corset for safekeeping. As I near the light source, I can see it is coming from far above me. Iron rungs embedded in the wall are the only way up. Some are corroded, others look extremely fragile. Taking a deep breath in and out to calm my nerves, I begin to slowly and carefully climb the rungs, wishing I had thought to bring a change of shoes.

Reaching the top at last, I push the hatch open to reveal a small arched storage space. I clamber out and fully take in the sight before me.

If I had harbored any doubts in my mind, at that instant they vanished. I now knew beyond the shadow of any doubt that Hannibal was the Ripper.

That the serial killer was sadistic and always killed in sounders of three was common knowledge, available to anyone with access to TattleCrime.com. But seeing this, here, now, spotlit in harsh reality… A wave of intense nausea almost fells me as I realise I never knew what he was actually doingwith his victims.

Bile and vomit splash onto the floor, and I tremble in horror. Dear God, he has been forcing me to eat… I shake my head to side to side, trying not to think about it and failing miserably. Somehow I manage to quell the nausea, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and reach for a sharp hunting knife hanging on the rack.

    Alana Bloom’s laughter and Hannibal’s voice coming from the dining room give me pause as I come out of the underground cellar into the kitchen. I place the hunting knife in Hannibal’s knife block, hoping I will not need it (but keeping it accessible if the need arises). Taking a bottle of wine from the rack, I take down two glasses from the wine glass holder.

I pour myself a drink and another for him, when the sudden sound of Jack’s voice makes me want to strangle Hannibal for doing this to me.

All the players have now been brought onto the mahjong board. I pause to think for a moment. Making my decision, I slip out of my normal clothes, placing them on the armchair near the clock on the wall. I retrieve the flashlight from my corset, placing it in his kitchen drawer. I can see that an unused tube of lipstick is in the drawer.

It is called “Black Ochre Sin”. Unwrapping it, I walk to the mirror to apply it, observing how it shines black in the moonlight coming from the kitchen windows behind me. I blot it by pressing my lips together and pick up the two filled wine glasses.

I head to the dining room, hearing Jack still talking and another voice piping in – Abigail. I take a deep breath, then step around the corner into the dining room. I can hear shocked, surprised gasps come from Jack, Alana and Abigail.

Hannibal, serene in his rightful place at the head of the table, is the only one who is silent. He glares at me, then immediately gets up, stalks over to me and slaps me across the face, splitting my lower lip. “Hannibal!!!?” a now doubly shocked Alana admonishes, as I calmly turn my face and look at him.

“Oh, darling…is that really the way to treat me? I was only bringing you some more wine, though it seems you….don’t want any of it,” I say. There is a pause. Suddenly he pulls me flush against his chest with such force I drop the wine glasses. They shatter on the hardwood floor.

We stare deeply into one another’s eyes – sea bluish-green into maroon – and the tension rises to near boiling point. It is Jack who places a hand on Hannibal’s arm, saying evenly, “Hannibal, that is enough. Can’t you see you’re frightening Abigail?”

I turn my gaze at the same time he does, seeing she is pale and wide-eyed at the sight before her. Hannibal composes himself and slips away from me towards the kitchen. Alana follows him, eyes flashing, throwing her napkin onto the table with a muffled thump.

I feel her brush past me, eyes glancing with apparent disgust at what she no doubt considers to be Hannibal’s Prostitute or Slut or Whore. I quietly follow Alana to the kitchen, leaving Jack to comfort Abigail. At her request he helps her upstairs so that she can rest, away from the chaos.

Seeing that Abigail is now safe, I stop just short of the door frame, peeking in to see Alana glaring at Hannibal. He has poured himself a glass of brandy, swallowing it down in one gulp.

“I cannot believe this, Hannibal. You….invite myself, Jack and Abigail to dinner, and suddenly, out of the blue, that turns up on the doorstep,” she hisses, pointing at me. The jealousy, anger and shock in her trembling voice are unmistakable.

“Alana, what I do in my private time….is actually none of your goddamn fucking business,” Hannibal spits out, barely containing his rage. The obscenities spilling from his usually refined lips surprise me. I had always thought him above such vulgarity.

Who knew Hannibal had such a filthy mouth on himself.

“You!!? So, was sleeping with me…..just a one night stand, then? Just a passing amusement?” she hisses. Something in me rises up, fearless. I step forward and begin to stride into the kitchen. But Hannibal - the devious bastard - quickly catches my eye and with a malevolent glare, stops me in my tracks.

He steps closer to Alana, hemming her in. As if in slow motion, I see Alana’s right arm raise, her hand clutching something that glints softly in the light. I throw myself between them, saving Hannibal from getting his throat sliced by the knife in Alana’s hand. Or…is it a knife? It looks like… I feel a sting across my cheek and stumble backwards. Blood drips down from the wound on my cheek, splashing onto the polished floor.

“There….see how you care for your slut now, Hannibal,” sneers Alana. All at once my legs give out from beneath me; Hannibal moves quickly forward and catches me before I can hit the floor.

His gazes down to see blood dripping onto the snow white brocade of my corset. It dawns on both of us with horrifying clarity just who has been leading him into a snare all this time.

“It wasn’t you who took the scalpel?” I ask Hannibal as he crouches beside me. He shakes his head, never moving his eyes from Alana. I slide my gaze over to her. I can now see that the glint in her right hand is Hannibal’s scalpel, gleaming with my blood.

Anger surges through me, forcing me to rise and stand defiantly straight, feeling my breathing come in laboured gasps. In one swift movement I turn and grab the hunting knife I had left in the knife block and lunge forward. A shot rings out, sending me stumbling backwards into the armchair with a thud. It feels like all the remaining breath in my lungs has been knocked out of me.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Hannibal has been sprayed with my blood from the impact of the bullet hitting my shoulder. He is looking at me, dazed. It is as though he is experiencing some traumatic memory where he had been covered in blood, as he is now.

The hunting knife slips out of my grip to hit the hardwood floor with a muffled thunk. Alana rushes forward as Hannibal suddenly collapses like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Still dazed and a bit weak, I manage to kick my shoes off, get up, knock Jack out of the way and run past him, out of the dining room and up the stairs. I can hear Jack chasing after me.

  The upstairs sitting room in Hannibal’s house is quiet, the only sound the ticking of the grandfather clock. Yet something is telling me I’m not alone in the room where moonlight is shining through the large window.

Blood is still dripping from the wound made by Alana onto the carpet where I stand near the window, staining it with small crimson petals. Trembling heavily, I hear a noise behind me. I slowly turn to see it is… Abigail…not Jack, standing before me. Her gentle, sweet eyes are red-rimmed and it is clear she has been crying.

“Abig-” I begin to say, reaching up with my hand, only for her to march forward and shove me with such force I cannot even react when the glass of the window shatters all around me.

Time slows down into slow motion. I can see her watching from the shattered window frame as I float down through the air. At last I hit the pavement with a sickening, bone-crunching thud, followed by blackness.

I remember nothing thereafter.

I remember nothing at all.

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Chapter 11: Epilogue – The Aftermath

Summary:

PLOT TWIST!!

Chapter Text

Hannibal’s P.O.V.

“Thank you for coming in, Hannibal.”

“Any…news on….Will’s condition, Jack?”

“I’m sorry, Hannibal, to have to tell you this. Will has gone into some kind of coma. The doctors predict he…may never come out of it.”

“Thank you for the information, Jack.”

Coming out of the memory of the conservation I had had with Jack at Johns Hopkins Hospital, I walk to the fine leather chair and sit down, feeling Bedelia’s gaze on me. I lift my head to look at her.

“It’s…difficult to find words today,” I manage to get out, voice breaking slightly. She notices this, seeing a crack in the “person suit,” as she calls it. She rises from her chair and walks to the liquor cabinet, retrieving two tumblers.

She pours some whisky for the both of us. I feel like declining her offer, and yet when she hands it to me I happily take it from her. I bring it to my lips and take a sip, savoring the burn as it glides down my throat. I deserve the pain.

“Has something happened that has deeply affected you, Hannibal?” she asks me. I turn my head to gaze out the windows of her office. I watch the trees, just beginning to display their autumnal finery, slowly swaying in the wind. I am reminded of Will’s curls ruffled by a passing breeze.

“Nothing has happened that will concern you, Bedelia. It’s just….I’m leaving for Florence tonight,” I reply. She places the tumbler down on the small table next to her chair.

“Then I guess you do feel emotions. He made you feel…different, and now you’re leaving him behind,” she states. She turns her face to look at me with confusion as I rise from the chair, slip on my coat, and head toward the door. “Hannibal, what are you thinking right at this moment?”

A question which makes me look back at her, sitting there in her fine dress with one petite delicate leg crossed over the other. Opening the door, I leave it unanswered.

There is no need for her to know.

  20 DAYS LATER

The heart monitor attached to Will beeps steadily with each beat of the young man’s heart, his chest rising and falling. An oxygen mask has been placed over his face.

A shadow peels itself away from the far corner of the room.

The shadow walks toward the bed. It leans over. A hand comes up to stroke a strand of hair from Will’s forehead and gently tuck it behind his ear. Lips bend down to his ear, moving as they calmly whisper something so quiet it is like a gentle breeze ruffling the top of the trees.

The shadow pulls back with a whisper of “I’ll be waiting, mylimasis. My sweet, darling….Pearl-Lace.”

The shadow slinks away until there is only the sound of the heart monitor with its steady beep. The beeping rises slightly, only to go back down again. It rises again three times and back down again. At last it rises and does not falter, growing steader and stronger with each passing moment.

Within Will’s body his heart is waking from its deep slumber, beating stronger and faster, until finally sea bluish-green eyes shoot wide open and lips curve into a…seductive smirk.

Will Graham….no longer exists.

Only……Pearl-Lace….remains now.

À SUIVRE (to be continued…)