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mlm-writer · 3 years ago

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Rutterly Filled (Omega!Wei Wuxian x Alpha!Male!Reader)

Pairing: Omega!Wei Wuxian/Wei Ying (The Untamed ver.) x Alpha!Male Reader (NOT trans-friendly) Rating: Explicit Words: 3416 POV: Second Summary: You have not had a rut ever since you have been captures with the other Wens. Now things are going well on Burial Mounds, your body decides it is time. Unfortunately, your prolonged period of being rutless meant your next one was going to be extreme. Fortunately, the Yiling Patriarch is secretly an omega and you two have been flirting ever since you met. Notes: This is 200% self-indulgent. I saw the twink, I fell in love, I wanted to wreck him. Do I need an excuse? Tags: Omegaverse, a/b/o dynamics, ruts, idiots in love, being in a relationship without realising it, reader is a himbo, loss of control, magical restraints, breeding, knotting, multiple orgasms, does Wei Ying have a dick and a pussy or a dick and an ass? up to you!, self-lubrication, fingering, blowjobs, facials, handjobs, gēge kink and fuck or die

There was no qi flowing anywhere. The only thing that filled your ‘internal stream’ was utter rage. “I told Wen Qing this would not work without a golden core!” You exclaimed as you got up and started stomping around. The alpha pheromones were rolling off you in waves and you were low key glad you were the only alpha present on Burial Mounds or you would have started a fight the second you caught a whiff of any other alpha.

“It was still worth a try. I do not think there is a way to stop your rut now.” You stomped around Wen Qing. You did not want to lash out at her. Were it not for her concoctions, you would have gone into rut a few days ago without a backup plan at all. Your hands clenched and unclenched at your sides. “There is one thing I have not yet told you.” You let out a grunt, indicating you were listening. “Wei Wuxian is an omega and has offered to help you through your rut.”

You stilled for a second. The Yiling Patriarch was an omega. It only took a second for you to process. Wei Wuxian was not known to adhere to any stereotype or standard. It was not crazy to think that the Yiling Patriarch, a figure that induced fear and hate in many cultivators, was a fragile omega. He may carry himself around like a big figure, but truth to be told, he was skinny like a twig and if he was not such a good fighter, anyone could snap him in half. It all made sense, it was not a crazy thought.

“Master Wei has saved my life. I am already indebted to him. I will wait out my rut in the tent Wen Ning set up in the woods.” You were already walking to the door of Wen Qing’s humble hut, but she stood in your way. Sometimes you suspected her of being an alpha as well. One never knew, when cultivators could just simply suppress their second gender, making them all appear like betas.

“You have not had a rut in a long while due to the poor conditions we have been under. Your first rut in a while may be much more intense than you are used to.” You clenched your fist, digging your nails into the palm on your hand. Your eye twitched. “Wei Wuxian can defend himself against you, should there be any need. He is also the only omega on the whole mountain. His only condition is that you do not mark him.” You violently shook your head before you could agree to it. The man was the prettiest boy you had ever laid eyes upon and while you two had been flirting, you had not yet confessed that every flirty word you shot his way was truthful. The thing between you two, unnamed and not yet romantic, was too good to risk.

You walked away from the door, before you were going to physically lash out at Wen Qing. “I will not take advantage of master Wei. I owe him too much already.”

“Your excuses are so weak, I’m starting to think that you don’t think I’m attractive.” Your whole body whipped to the door, where the omega in question had appeared with a pout on his face that made you want to kiss him. His lips were pink and glistening. They looked so full and soft. Wen Qing told him to get out, but you already caught a whiff of the omega scent you had never noticed on him before. Before you had any control of your tongue, you had agreed to spending your rut with Wei Wuxian, the Yiling Patriarch. Want bubbled up from deep within you. There was no way back now.

You followed him and his scent like a blind puppy, as he let you between trees to a tent Wen Ning had set up earlier in case you could not suppress your rut. You saw the dark red fabric in the distance, when suddenly you were caged against a tree by Wei Wuxian. “Scent me,” he whispered into your face and he did not need to say it twice. You rubbed your nose all over his neck and down to where it met his shoulder. You took deep breaths, letting your lungs fill with the sweet and spicy scent that you from now on would know as Wei Wuxian. You didn’t know how long you were rubbing yourself on him and smelling him, but after a while, the fog of alpha hormones cleared and you had a bit more grip on what was going on and what was about to happen. “Better?” Wei Wuxian giggled as he rested against you. You held him close and slowly breathed in his scent.

After a few slow breaths, you nodded and took his hand to drag him to the tent. It was big enough that you two could stand inside and there were supplies inside, mostly food and water, but also extra robes. You didn’t hear the sound of a lake behind the tent, as you dragged Wei Wuxian inside and pushed him down onto the straw mat on the ground. You crawled on top of him, but as your eyes met his, you were awfully aware of how you were acting. “Sorry, maybe we should talk about what I can and cannot do, before I lose all my patience.” Wei Wuxian laughed and shifted so you two were sitting on the straw mat, facing one another. His robes had fallen open a little and the sight of his chest threatened another frenzy to make itself known.

“You can do anything, but try not to claim me. It is a little early in our relationship for that.” You almost choked on your own saliva and started coughing. Wei Wuxian handed you a waterskin, but you needed a solid minute, before you had enough breath to actually attempt drinking anything.

“I’m sorry, but… relationship?” You watched Wei Wuxian through teary eyes from your coughing fit. He seemed to turn red in an instant, his face now matching the ribbon in his beautiful silk black hair.

“Yes? I mean I thought… we always flirt? And we drink together and you sometimes feed me at dinner? We also cuddled when we were drunk? I know we never talked about it, but we are in a relationship or something… right?” You stared at him, a little dumbfounded. He did not lie; those things happened. You just took all those things for things Wei Wuxian would do with anyone.

“I didn’t think of it that way,” you immediately regretted your words as you could see Wei Wuxian’s heart breaking all over his face, “but! But! But!” He looked at you, hopeful in a way that seemed plainly desperate. “I want it to be that way! I just didn’t realise what we were, but I want to be…” There was a flare of hormones and you shuffled forward to bury your nose against Wei Wuxian’s scent gland. “I want you, even when my rut is over, but also now. Right now.” A slight shift and you noticed you were hard between your legs.

Wei Wuxian might have noticed it too through your robes, because he was shoving at your clothes. You stood up, ripping everything off in a hurry and grabbing Wei Wuxian by his ponytail. You pulled at it until his lips were around your hard cock. You let out a moan of relief, as he immediately started sucking on the length. He resisted when you tried to get him to swallow more of you. Wei Wuxian only took the tip, but with the way he was sucking and licking, it was enough for now. You threw your head back, grunting into the air, while Wei Wuxian sucked you off. His tongue cupped the head of your cock and played with the ridge between the head and the rest of your length. The wet sounds of his mouth seemed so loud in the small space. Before he even took more of you in his mouth, you grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. Wei Wuxian took the hint and with a wet pop he pulled his mouth off your cock. You would have protested, were it not for the hand on your hard length.

The cultivator squeezed the knot at the base of your cock, everytime his hand was at the bottom of your length. You looked down at him, seeing him with his tongue out, a smile hinting behind that lewd expression, cheeks a beautiful rosy colour that matched his spit-glistened lips. You let out a groan and kept a firm grip on his shoulder. Ropes of cum spilled from your cock. Wei Wuxian’s face, hair and robes were painted white with your seed. When he finally let go of your cock, your face heated up at the sight of him. A mixture of embarrassment and arousal swimmed inside your belly. “I’m sorry,” you whispered out of breath, but Wei Wuxian just smiled at you and started taking his soiled robes off, wiping himself off with a sleeve. When he was mostly clean off your cum, he laid himself down on the straw mat, completely naked and stretched out like a meal for you to devour.

“Don’t apologise, I want this too,” he confessed with flushed skin and a hard omega dick twitching between his legs. You kneeled down and hoisted his legs onto your shoulders. Your tongue automatically fell from your lips at the scent of omega slick filling your nostrils. Lapping up the slick that had escaped his wet hole and trickled down his thighs, drew a gasp from Wei Wuxian’s lips. “Don’t tease me.”

You huffed out a laugh at the annoyance in his voice. “Or else? Will the Yiling Patriarch haunt me like a ghost and eat me?” You didn’t let Wei Wuxian reply. You held him up with one hand and pushed your tongue inside, the other hand touching his cock. The omega mewled and moaned as if he was putting on a show for you. Maybe he was. When was Wei Wuxian not making a scene? “Wei Wuxian sounds so perfect,” you growled as you licked the slick off your lips.

“If you are going to knot me until I can’t walk, at least call me Wei Ying,” the demonic cultivator huffed, his eyes ravishing your body. You smiled as you put his legs around your waist and lined your cock up with his wet hole.

“Wei Ying is perfect.” And with those words, you slid into his heat. Wei Ying gasped as he stretched around your thick alpha cock, the slick making the slide easier, but he was not in heat. You got halfway, before the resistance became too much. “Wei Ying needs to relax,” you grunted as you rutted inside him, micromovements trying to make further entrance possible.

“You’re too big,” he complained, hands on your arms and squeezing your biceps. You leaned down and caught his lips in a biting kiss. Soft, pink lips turned red under your onslaught. A hand made its way to his throat and he gasped deliciously against your wet lips. Wei Ying squirmed and gasped for breath as you frantically fucked his hole open until you were slipping in deeper. “So big, too big, I’m going to tear in two!”

You would be more concerned for him, were it nog for the thick cloud of alpha hormones clouding your judgement. Instead of sounding fearful, Wei Ying’s voice fuelled the fantasy of a helpless omega at your mercy. “Pretty omegas like you can handle this,” you growled in a voice no one woud have recognised as your own. Both hands landed on Wei Ying’s hips and you sat up, so you could thrust inside him with vigour.

Wei Ying’s voice would have been audible from miles away as he screamed mostly in pain. Coherent thoughts had long left your mind and all that was left was ‘mark’, ‘claim’, ‘fuck’, ‘knot’ and ‘breed’. Pleasure was all on your mind as you closed your eyes to fully enjoy the stretch of Wei Ying’s walls around your cock. That was until you found yourself unable to move. “No! No! No!” You growled as Wei Ying slid off your cock. He pushed you onto your knees and sat down across from you.

“I’m sorry, alpha, but don’t worry I will not leave you like this,” he croaked out as he struggled with sitting down comfortably. His chest rose and fell in deep, but ragged breaths. You now noticed the redness around his eyes and the wetness on his cheeks. Worry paved a little clarity in the lustful fog dominating your head.

“Cruel bastard,” you found yourself snarling back, in spite of the seed of worry Wei Ying’s image planted deep inside you. Before even the last syllable left your lips, Wei Ying had his hand tight around your cock and stroked, drawing a guttural groan from you. “That’s not enough, I need more,” you breathed out at the torture that was the grip of Wei Ying’s hand. It felt good, but his omega hole had felt so much better.

“And I need more preparation, I am not in heat,” Wei Ying huffed back as he reached behind himself. You could hear the wet squelch of him fingering himself and it drove you into a frenzy. You demanded being released, so you could once more claim your omega, but Wei Ying did not release you. He let you cum with his hand. Once he needed a better angle to shove more fingers inside, he switched his hand for his mouth, so he could support himself with one hand while he tried to shove his whole fist inside. His mouth felt better than his hand, but you already had had a taste of paradise and this was not it.

“You’re open enough, please, I feel like I’ll die,” you whined, shortly after you covered Wei Ying in your fourth load. No matter how often you came, it would not be enough until you knotted the omega in front of you. Wei Ying seemed to take mercy on you and he turned around. Wei Ying lowered himself onto your cock. The mercy got you moaning. You could see where you entered him as he bounced on your cock, his hole gripping your length visibly. “Yes, you feel so good omega,” you moaned as he rode your fat length. “Release me and I’ll pound you so good. I will knot you and fill you with my cum and then pound you again.” Wei Ying gasped, a hand moving to his cock to stroke it. The smell of his slick as it dripped down your cock was intoxicating.

“Gēge, you talk so indecently when you’re in a rut.” You wanted to pin him down and fuck him so bad when he called you ‘gēge’ and Wei Ying seemed to know. The glint in his eyes as he shot you a look over his shoulder was quite telling. “But I’m afraid gēge will break me if I release him. Gēge is such a strong alpha and I’m just a frail omega,” he spoke dramatically, knowing fully well he was far from a frail omega. His words would have made you cringe were it not for the fact you were in a full-on rut. The idea, the thought, the image of him being so fragile and breakable and at your mercy suddenly got something flowing in you. The feeling was unfamiliar, as was the strength it brought.

You had no mind to think about it, but enough instinct to use it. With this new-found energy, you broke yourself free from whatever was holding you in place and grabbed Wei Ying by the back of his neck. A hard shove and Wei Ying was face down, ass up on the ground with your cock plunging into his wet hole. “Maybe they are right, the Yiling Patriarch is cruel,” you drew a loud moan from the man below you with a hard thrust, “and evil.”

Wei Ying did not move from where you had him. Instead, he took your punishing pace with the prettiest moans you ever had the honour of hearing. His voice filled the tent with a symphony of pleasure, which only grew louder when you pressed inside and your knot slipped in. Wei Ying screamed in pleasure and pain as you slotted the two of you together and filled him up with your hot seed.

Still, it was not enough. He was beautiful, had the most breedable body you ever laid eyes upon. How could it be enough to only fill his slick hole once?You only stilled for a minute inside of him, before you pulled out until the knot pulled painfully at the inside of his rim. Then, you pushed back inside, as deep as you could go. Wei Ying whined as you fucked him like that, the knot dragging against his walls and drawing out the melody of pain mixed with pleasure. He moaned and screamed about how he was stretched to the limit, but there was no urgency in his voice this time.

Everything was a blur from there. Somewhere between rutting inside him and fucking him with your knot, Wei Ying had gone near-silent. His ass had become so open that your knot no longer served its purpose of keeping you inside as you spilled your seed. You didn’t know how many rounds you went, how often you filled the Yiling Patriarch with your load or how often the omega came himself. In one final mind-blurring explosion of pleasure, you passed out. Whether it was on top of him or if you managed to fall beside him was out of your control.

When you woke up, however, you found Wei Ying on top of you. The smell of sex still hung heavy in the air, mixed with pheromones, both alpha and omega. A groan left your dry throat as you lifted your head to take a look at the man to whom you were indebted with your life, twice. He looked like he was not going to wake up for another 100 years. You tried to brush the hair out of his face, but your fingers got tangled in the silk black strands. Guilt filled your heart at the sight of bruises on his hips and sides. A respectful look down revealed there was still cum dripping out of his hole.

You untangled yourself from him. It took you a good hour to get Wei Ying cleaned up and placed on a clean towel; the straw mat was completely ruined. You had him on his side, still sleeping peacefully, while you tried to comb the tangles carefully out of his hair. You were almost done when you noticed him stir. “Wei Ying?” You called out softly, hand shooting for the waterskin. You held it to his lips. “Don’t move; drink first.” To your surprise, he obeyed. He tried to sit up, but winced. You took the hint and helped him sit on your lap, the gap between your legs perfect for his ass to rest between with no pressure on it. “I’m sorry. I lost control.”

Wei Ying blinked at you and then reached for the jar of wine in the corner. You chuckled and handed it to him, still cradling him close. He took a few gulps, before speaking up. “I thought I would die,” he pouted in a somewhat playful way that gave you conflicted emotions about his words. “Gēge, you were such a monster. Next time, I will use a stronger talisman to keep you down.”

You inhaled sharply. ‘Next time’, he had said. You licked your dry lips and nodded, agreeing with him. A signature smile painted the omegas lips, before he snuggled closer to you. “Gege is adorable when he is worried about me. I’ll be fine, I swear. Just don’t make me do anything for a few days.” You let out an empty laugh, relieved and still worried. Another nod as you put a hand on his head, holding it close to your shoulder. You twisted your head, placing a kiss upon Wei Ying’s temple. He hummed happily and closed his eyes.

“Wei Ying! You need to eat before you go back to sleep!”

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stiltonbasket · 4 years ago

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art theif!verse LXC and NMJ and their gazillion kids. $2 says one of them is trans so some of the kids are their bio kids, and they adopt some. NMJ takes the kids to court to watch their dad kick ass and take names. Also NMJ making handmade wooden cradles, highchairs, etc.

“A-Die’s mad at that man,” four-year-old Lan Jingyi observes, peering through the glass walling off the courtroom and down at Lan Xichen on the floor below. “Papa, why’s he mad?”

“Your A-Die is angry because the hair combs in that collection were stolen from his client’s ancestral graveyard,” Nie Mingjue tells him. Xichen doesn’t look agitated yet, but that’s because he has a baby in his arms; Jueying still doesn’t do well being away from him, so Lan Xichen has taken his last several cases to court with their daughter at his side. “And the museum’s proprietors are not willing to sell or return any of them.”

“That’s bad!” Jingyi pipes up. “And that’s why Jiujiu steals them back.”

Nie Mingjue slaps a hand over his forehead. “A-Yi, hush,” he hisses. “You’re not supposed to know that.”

Jingyi blinks. “But jiujiu said it out loud when he took me to the bakery,” he points out. “There was a nice man there who gave us free soup, and jiujiu told him everything!”

For about the thousandth time that month, Nie Mingjue laments the fact that his primary role in Xichen’s art repatriation scheme (besides refinishing and disguising pieces of artwork, which enables Huaisang to sneak their loot offshore without detection) mostly consists of wrangling his younger brother and brother-in-law, both of whom take more risks in action than either he or Xichen are comfortable with.

“Wangji should be finished by now,” Nie Mingjue mutters, yanking his mobile out of his pocket and hitting the contact button labeled A-Zhan. “Sit tight and watch your A-Die, Jingyi. I’m getting to the bottom of this.”

Wei Wuxian was having a peaceful morning at Lotus Pier Bakery until the clock struck half-past ten, which was when sirens started blaring on the intersection just around the corner.

And when the sirens started blaring, Lan Zhan appeared.

(But this is how he usually encounters his maybe-crush, so it wasn’t exactly unexpected.)

“Lan Zhan,” he gasps now, as Lan Zhan walks into the bakery in a set of pitch-black heist clothes. “You can’t stay here, you’ll get caught, I don’t have anywhere to hide y--”

“Not necessary,” his friend dismisses him. He walks up to the counter like a prowling leopard, with a distractingly powerful stride that makes Wei Wuxian weak in the knees--and then he lays one hand flat beside the cash register and vaults straight over it, landing as gracefully as a cat before he tears off his black coat and mask and throws them to the floor.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian chokes. The dark pants are the next to go, slipping down Lan Zhan’s legs to reveal a perfectly normal pair of slacks, and then Lan Zhan reaches into his abandoned thigh holster and pulls out a tiny screwdriver. “What are you doing, they’ll see--”

But Lan Zhan is looking at the refrigerated display case, not at him, and then he drops to the ground and unscrews the ten small screws that secure the long vent cover. Two seconds later, the vent cover falls free, revealing the dark space that contains the condenser coils and drainage pan--and then, with hardly a moment to spare, he sweeps his dark clothes under the display case and slaps the vent cover back into place, re-installing all ten screws and wrapping his arms around Wei Wuxian’s waist right before a black-clad police officer pushes his way into the dining room.

“Have you seen a man with a mask come by here?” he barks, casting a suspicious glance at Lan Zhan. “Or hear anyone running?”

“No,” stammers Wei Wuxian, as Lan Zhan turns his disconcerting golden gaze on the policeman and holds it until he looks away. “Um, now--now’s not a good time? Maybe check next door?”

And with that, the policeman turns on his heel and departs, leaving Wei Wuxian to slump against Lan Zhan’s shoulder and try to catch his breath as his friend begins to chuckle.

“What did you steal this time?” he demands. “Lan Zhan! You promised to wait for me!”

“I reclaimed sixteen square meters of twelfth-century brocade,” Lan Zhan murmurs in his ear, with a soft laugh that trails over his neck like a kiss. “But no one will be able to prove it, and the shipment should be on its way back home by the end of the day.”

The blood rushes up to Wei Wuxian’s head as Lan Zhan backs him up into one of the supply cupboards. “They could still be looking,” Lan Zhan explains. “I must make it convincing for them.”

It’s too much, Wei Wuxian wails to himself. Lan Zhan, you’re going to kill me!

Lost in the feeling of Lan Zhan’s arms around him, Wei Wuxian fails to notice the sound of a mobile phone ringing out under the display cabinet.

It is only later that Wei Wuxian discovers the consequences of that missed call, or how the police had managed to track Lan Zhan down in the first place.

#wangxian #nielan #the untamed #mo dao zu shi #art thief au #my fic

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big-wet-cas-eyes · 4 years ago

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AUs: day 2 of @starrynightdeancas 's 2k followers celebration ✨ (ao3)

I didn't know what I wanted to do for this AU prompt so I had @vaxilddan send me a random job and @pixelhanzo send me a random trope and thus the monstrosity "dog groomer + enemies to friends to lovers" was born

(wc: ~1700)

The little bell above the door dings right as Castiel hangs up the phone. Mrs. Tran is running a little late picking up her golden retriever, Alfie, but she assures Castiel that she'll be there soon. He doesn't mind much; Alfie is a polite dog, and he's been napping quietly in the corner while Castiel tidies up his grooming salon for the last twenty minutes. The front door closes loudly, causing the bell to ding again, and he looks up to see a tall man walking through the door with a scruffy ball of fluff tucked under his arm.

The man might be handsome if he didn't look so exhausted. Strong, stubbled jaw, sandy hair, green eyes… exactly Castiel's type. But the deep purple circles under his eyes make it look like the man hasn't slept in a week. He doesn't get a good vibe from the guy.

Castiel frowns slightly. Alfie was supposed to be his last appointment of the day. He glances down at his schedule, seeing nothing after Alfie. They do take walk-ins, but he was hoping to close up early. Business is business, though, so he pastes his customer service smile on his face.

"Hello, sir. How can I help you?" Castiel greets as the man reaches the desk.

"Hey, uh, you guys do nail trims right?" the man asks as the fur under his arm wiggles.

Castiel eyes the dog warily. It's filthy and matted. He can't even see its eyes. "Just a nail trim?" he asks, unable to stop the skepticism from dripping into his voice. He's trying not to judge, but if he just does a nail trim, this dog is going to leave his salon looking like it's never had a bath in its life.

"What?" The man looks up, surprise in his now wide eyes. He glances down at the dog and grimaces. "I guess she is pretty dirty. Do you have time for a bath? Or I could make an appointment for another day if you're busy?" He sounds unsure, looking around Castiel and probably noticing Alfie, who is awake now and watching the new arrivals.

"No, Alfie there was my last appointment for the day and he's just waiting to go home. I have time to do a bath." He watches the little dog wiggle even more, desperately trying to free itself from under the man's arm. "Who is this?" Castiel asks as he comes around the counter to get a better look at it.

"This is Baby. She's a, uh, pomchi," he replies, moving the dog to grip her under the arms, holding her out in Castiel's direction like she's a bomb. Castiel raises an eyebrow. The combination of dog breed and name don't exactly match this guy's rugged appearance, but he's heard weirder so he shrugs it off.

"Hello, Baby," Castiel says, reaching forward to pat her on the head. His hand snaps back immediately when the dog starts snarling.

"She's a little nervous around new people," the man says sheepishly.

Castiel frowns. He's seen a lot of nervous dogs, and they don't normally react quite this angrily. "I'll just go grab a leash for her." He grabs a clipboard from the desk and hands it at Dean. "Please fill this out."

He sends the man — Dean, according to his paperwork — on his way five minutes later with a promise that he'll call as soon as Baby is ready.

And that's how Castiel meets his least favorite dog grooming client.

Dean brings Baby into Castiel's grooming shop about once a month. She is absolutely, without a doubt, the meanest dog he's ever met. He's taken to muzzling her the moment Dean is out the door because he nearly had his hand ripped off one too many times during her first visit. She snarls and snaps and honestly just looks pissed the entire time she's there. And while she seems slightly more comfortable with Dean, he's caught the dog snarling at her owner a few times too. The dog is tiny, barely six pound soaking wet, but she's pure, concentrated evil.

This dog clearly got no training or proper socialization. He blames her Dean for that. He has no patience for irresponsible owners.

After six months of grooming the literal devil, Castiel finally decides to confront the guy. He doesn't care that it's unprofessional. He doesn't even care if he loses a client or gets a bad review. He's sick of this entitled dick bringing his asshole dog in. Baby has been snarling at him under her muzzle for a full hour, even now that he's completely done with her grooming and she's sitting in the bed in the corner. She sits and glares at Castiel, murder in her eyes. Castiel glares right back at her, and when the bell above the door dings, Castiel shifts his glare to the man walking in.

"Hi, I'm here to pick up B— woah, are you okay, dude?" Dean clearly takes in his glare and stops dead in his tracks, only making it halfway to the front desk.

"Your dog," Cas grits out through clenched teeth, "is the devil incarnate." He knows the anger is clear in his voice. He waits, eyes still fixed on Dean.

"I, uh," Dean stammers, hand rubbing the back of his neck, "I know she's a pain in the ass, but look man, I'm doing my best." He's looking at the floor now.

"I have to muzzle her. She's been snarling at me nonstop for an hour," he almost yells. He points behind him at the dog, not taking his eyes off Dean. "She's still snarling at me! I haven't touched her in fifteen minutes!" The dog growls slightly louder in the background, as if to prove Castiel's point.

Dean looks up, eyes wide. He looks horrified, and Castiel is actually starting to feel a little guilty. "Look, Cas, I'm really sorry, I had no idea. I can start taking her somewhere else. I'm not really a dog person—"

Castiel cuts him off. "Why the hell do you have a dog then?" He can tell that he's being too harsh, but he's just so angry.

The look on Dean's face shifts from embarrassed to sad. "She belonged to my neighbor. She passed away about six months ago, right before I started bringing Baby in to see you. She was always a little uneasy around people, but she seemed okay with me when I visited. That's why Mildred made me promise to take care of her when she was gone, but without Mildred around, Baby completely hates me." He looks Castiel in the eye, finally, eyes pleading. "I'm trying so hard to train her, but she's already eight years old and so, so stubborn. I have no idea what I'm doing."

And all of a sudden Castiel feels like a piece of shit.

He learns a lot about Dean in the next few months, and it turns out the guy isn't so bad now that Castiel doesn't feel obligated to hate him. He brings Baby in more frequently now that winter has come; apparently Baby makes a habit of walking through muddy, slushy piles of snow. Baby still hasn't warmed up to him, but he's more willing to work with her now that he feels guilty for yelling at a guy who was just trying to do the right thing.

Castiel and Dean start chatting more and more whenever Dean drops her off and picks her up, lingering a little longer with each visit. The conversation usually centers around Baby, but Castiel has learned a little bit about Dean's life as well. Dean clearly cares about Baby, even though the dog looks at him like she might kill him at any moment.

Castiel is starting to consider him a friend when Dean asks if he can help train Baby.

"I'm not a dog trainer, Dean," Castiel says, feeling sorry for the words when he sees the look in Dean's eyes. Disappointment.

"I know, but, and you're not gonna believe this, she likes you better than she likes almost anyone else," Dean says, holding up his hand when Castiel opens his mouth to protest. "I swear, it's true. And you're actually a dog person, so I thought maybe…" He sighs loudly. "You don't have to."

Cas takes in a deep breath. He ignores Baby growling behind him and says, "I'll do it."

The bright smile that breaks across Dean's face makes it instantly worth it.

That's how Castiel finds himself at Dean's house every Friday night after work. Baby actually is a little more bearable to be around when she's at home. The disdain she shows in the grooming salon shifts to mostly disinterest as long as Castiel keeps his distance. Dean's not sure that they'll ever get any training accomplished until she trusts Castiel, so they mostly just sit on the floor in the same room as her, scooting closer to her occasionally to get her more comfortable with his presence. Castiel figures that she doesn't need training as much as she needs to get used to human contact, so he's fine with the approach. Luckily, it gives them a lot of time to talk and get to know each other beyond the short conversations they've been having for months.

Things with Baby are slow-going, but after a few weeks she lets them sit within arms reach without snarling, at least until they try to pet her. It's not much, but it's progress. And he feels the progress in his relationship with Dean, as well. The first few times Castiel comes over are a little awkward, but eventually it feels as if he's known Dean forever. Maybe they had a rocky start, a slow progression toward friendship, but Cas doesn't regret how things played out. He doesn't mind that it took some time and effort to understand Dean (and Baby, for that matter). He doesn't mind that it wasn't easy.

And if sometimes Dean reaches across the floor and holds his hand, or kisses him on the cheek on his way out the door… Cas doesn’t mind that either.

#dailydestieldelights #destiel au #deancas au #deancas ficlet #destiel ficlet #my writing

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goose-books · 4 years ago

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whoa, it sure is about time around here for a post, huh!

today i offer you 1.7k words about cressida and rory simply being soft. that’s all. this is the happiest thing i’ve ever written in the darkling canon and making this moodboard reminded me that it’s because these two are the only kind and friendly people in the entire book.

more details about cressida and rory’s home WIP, darkling, can be found here! (short version: it’s a speculative fiction king lear; there’s magic but it’s weird about being magic; half the characters are gay trans and neurodivergent because i said so.) this takes place about a year before the story starts; the two of them have just turned sixteen and seventeen, respectively!

also, i wrote all of this while listening to “kentucky” by hippo campus on repeat. the lyrics aren’t quite as relevant as the vibe. if you catch me yearning on main mind your own business /j

Lorelai Rory Flowers is afraid of thunder.

This is a bit of an embarrassing thing to admit, as they’re seventeen (“at least seventeen,” they like to tell people, “maybe two hundred, who’s to say?”) and generally wise beyond their years, or whatever it is that adults say about kids with too much psychological baggage. Being afraid of thunder is not a very wise-beyond-one’s-years trait. And yet the state of affairs remains: loud noises make Rory want to melt into the earth. Back when they still went to school, even the fire alarm sent them scuttling under their desk to hide.

Right now, in the elevator, all they can do is shrink into their sweater.

They haven’t let go of Cressida’s hand yet.

Beside them, Cressida is soaked, long golden hair and long white dress dripping. Rory rocks up onto their toes and back down, anxiety worming along the back of their neck like an itchy coat. This was not the plan. The plan was not “get caught in the rain and run through a storm for two blocks.” The plan was for the two of them to go walk by the river and - who knows, talk about Joan of Arc or the Kennedy assassination or something. Swap special interests. Maybe swap spit. Probably not, though. It’s not a date. It’s not not a date - but, like, Rory still does work for Cressida’s dad, so who knows how awkward things could get. Plus Cressida’s hard to read. She doesn’t really make facial expressions, and that’s usually fine, because Rory can’t really read facial expressions so it’s about the same to them, but in this particular situation -

“I trust you,” Cressida says, squeezing their hand, “but where are we going?”

The rain’s left Rory’s glasses fogged up enough to render them effectively blind. They take their glasses off and squint at the elevator buttons. They are still effectively blind.

“Is that a five or a six?” they say, pointing.

Cressida peers over their shoulder. “Which one do you want?”

“Five.”

Cressida presses the five button with her free hand. The elevator, which is about the size of a broom closet, jerks into unsteady, fitful motion.

The thing is that the apartment building is kind of - well, not a dump. It’s not horrible. There aren’t cockroaches. But Cressida lives in a manor, literally. Stayer Manor. Capital S, capital M. And there was never any sort of plan for today, even in the wildest of circumstances, that involved Rory bringing the city’s golden girl to a building the size of a shoebox. But then it was raining, and Cressida kept saying she didn’t mind the rain despite clearly minding because if she ruins her dress her dad will go rabid-dog on her, and Rory’s cognitive wheels were spinning like they were powered by a well-greased hamster, and none of the restaurants close enough to duck into were appropriate places for them to safely freak out about the thunder, and their apartment was only two blocks away.

So.

Here they are.

“Sorry,” Cressida says. “Where are we going?”

Rory attempts to dry their glasses on their soaked-through sweater, to little avail. “We are going,” they announce, “to a world of pure imagination.”

Outside, thunder cracks the sky. They know Cressida sees them flinch, because she squeezes their hand again.

The apartment is 505. Cressida waits as Rory digs around in their jacket pocket, shuffling past loose coins and two pairs of headphones and four melted Starbursts and way too many scraps of paper until they finally unearth their key. Their lock sticks - their lock always sticks - so once they’ve turned it, they have to drop Cressida’s hand and plant one wet Doc Marten on the wall and yank. The door swings open.

“Voila,” Rory says, performing jazz hands. “Willy Wonka wants what I have.”

Their apartment is purple. Not startlingly purple. Gently purple. Purple like it creeps up on you. Purple like you don’t realize exactly how purple it is until you realize everything - walls, gauzy flower-patterned curtains, plushy armchair, compass-rose-shaped clock, old-fashioned record player on the table - is the same shade of soft lavender.

There is at least one nail sticking up out of the hard-wood floor. Rory snags a sock on it every time they dance around with their headphones in.

Two people have been inside since Rory started renting the place a year ago. And that’s them and the landlord. This is their place, their safe haven, their nook, and it’s the size of Cressida’s bathroom, and rich pretty Cressida Stayer is standing, dripping, in the threshold.

“Don’t touch anything,” Rory says. Cressida draws her hands in like the walls might electrocute her. “That was a joke. You can touch things.”

“This is your apartment,” Cressida says.

“Indeed.”

“You live here.”

“That succeeds the first!” They give her an encouraging smile. “Subsequent statements! How cogently lucid of you!”

Cressida looks down. The hem of her dress is dripping onto the floor. “I don’t suppose you have a vent I could sit on…?”

“In fact I do!” Rory directs her, aircraft-marshall-style, to the heating vent on the floor. They’re jittering. They’re using way too much arm movement. They can’t get their heart to stop skidding around, because normally! They do not! Let people in here!

They stand and drip. Cressida sits and drips. She gazes around, and Rory gazes with her, trying to see it through her eyes.

“Where’s your bed?” she says.

Rory skips over to the closet and pulls the door open, with the grand gestures of a magician presenting a trick. The inside of the tiny closet is lined with a thick downy comforter; there are sheets and pillows scattered around atop it, and there are glow-in-the-dark stars stuck up all over the walls and ceiling.

Cressida gazes at it. “On purpose, right? Not because -”

“On purpose. Yes. I could have bought a bed. I just think it’s cozy.” Oh, Rory is going to lose it right here. Their foot is tapping the floor at about a million miles an hour. Granted, being in their apartment helps the overstimulation a little - just being where it’s safe and everything’s always the same and they control their space. That always helps. But it’s not like they can just curl up in their closet with their headphones in and the door shut, because Cressida is here -

Cressida, for her part, looks a little impressed.

“It’s nice,” she says, wrapping her arms around her knees. “You just live here? By yourself?”

Rory shrugs. “I’m emancipated,” they say, which isn’t strictly true, but they work for the most powerful man in the city, who has their back if anyone actually looks into their files, so it’s as true as it really needs to be - and then thunder roars outside again and Rory skitters sideways and falls over their armchair.

“Oh! Oh my God -” Cressida jumps to her feet.

Rory scrambles up from where they’ve tumbled to the floor. “Sorry sorry sorry!” they say, except really they yell it because they have their shaking hands over their ears. “Sorrysorrysorry, I - I really don’t like loud - I d-don’t -”

“Can I -” All of a sudden Cressida’s in front of them. Rory doesn’t move away, just stands there, chest heaving, and Cressida slides her still-damp hands very gently up both of their arms, and she very gently pulls their hands off their ears.

The thunder, again. Like a cannon blast. This time Rory yelps a little. Cressida pulls them in close to her and sits both of them down on the vent, which, at the very least, is warm and also on the floor, so Rory can’t really trip over anything when they flinch.

“You don��t like loud,” Cressida repeats. She’s a good deal taller than they are - Rory’s exactly five-foot in their Docs - and so it makes logical sense for her to settle down with her chin on their head, probably.

“I don’t. I don’t. I really don’t.” They’ve started fluttering their hands a little; their voice is getting that shaky tilt it gets when they’re in sensory overload. “Fun story, back in high school we went on a field trip to this play where they used gunfire blanks for sound effects and I had a full-on crying-and-screaming public meltdown. I like to tell fun stories from high school like it wasn’t actual purgatory, because I cope through humor!”

“I know,” Cressida says simply, and she wraps her arms around them so they can lean back into her chest. The next thunder crash comes, and she tightens her grip. “Is this helping?”

“Yeah. Uh-huh. A lot. Like a weighted blanket.” Rory tilts their head back to give her a shaky upside-down grin.

They don’t like making eye contact, so they don’t, but they are aware that Cressida’s gaze is resting pretty solidly on their face, which is - fine, and normal behavior for friends, and the fact that they’re cuddling on a vent and they can feel her heart beating against their spine is, like, normal also, probably -

“Rory,” Cressida says tentatively, “can I…”

Rory tilts their head. “Can you what?”

Cressida hesitates; then she leans in. It is a very very gentle kiss, almost hesitant; she pulls away after a second or so, to find Rory staring at her dumbfounded.

“Whoa,” they say, face assembling itself into what they’re fully aware is a stupid doofy grin. “Whoa. Hi. Hey. I - yeah! You can do that!”

They both cling to each other’s hands for a second; they both let out a breath that is, Rory thinks, equal parts relief and euphoria.

Then Rory leans in and kisses Cressida again, and this time neither of them pull away, and when the thunder crashes overhead Rory thinks they’ve never felt safer than they do right now.

#max.txt #darkling tag #lorelai flowers #cressida stayer #fun fact about this: i wrote it for my school creative writing class and we had to do peer feedback circles #and of the three people who gave me feedback only ONE of them got rory's pronouns right #while the other two played choose your own adventure i suppose?#(i'm not; like; pissed off i just think it's funny.... cis people let me study you /j)#max actually writes

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connorandersons-blog · 4 years ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Connor/Gavin Reed Characters: Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Gavin Reed, Jeffrey Fowler, Hank Anderson, Gavin Reed's Cat, Doa Gavin Reed's Cat Additional Tags: Injury, Stitches, Injury Recovery, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Enemies to Lovers, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has a Vagina, Trans Character, Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Gavin Reed Needs a Hug, Gay Disaster Gavin Reed, Masturbation, Cunnilingus, Blow Jobs, 69 (Sex Position), Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human) Summary:

Gavin Reed wasn't one to throw himself into danger unnecessary. That's actually a lie but don't tell him you know that. Its still a shock when he throws himself in front of danger for Connor, the android he supposedly hates with a passion.

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

"What?! Why me!" He looked out at the precinct, surely someone more qualified would be better for this job. Taking care of Reed, the resident asshole, who got shot and then stabbed? That wasn't Connor's job even if he felt guilty as hell.

Fowler surely would have groaned in annoyance if it was acceptable, instead, the vein in his head seemed to grow larger to the point Connor was honestly worried. That man needed a vacation badly, maybe he should just go along with this terrible idea. "You were there when he got fucking injured and he needs to rest. The last time he got hurt he tried to come back the moment he could drag himself out of bed."

Connor could see that Reed was stubborn to a fault and incredibly dedicated to his work. Not that he admired that stupid human. Nope.

He still should have been able to protect Reed, he should be the one with the bullet yet… yet Gavin had pushed him out of the way and then took the knife wound as well. Why he did that Connor wasn't sure, but Reed had made him promise not to let anyone know what really happened. So Connor had simply said he outran Gavin and couldn't get back to him on time when the killer pulled a knife.

"Alright, I need his address." He could see the surprise on Fowler's face when he gave in so easily, but he still rattled off Reed's address. Connor nodded, filing it away before waiting to be dismissed.

"Let Hank know, but you're free to go for the rest of the week. You haven't taken a single day off and I'm tired of seeing your face." Fowler waved him off and Connor nodded.

He'd still have Hank send him the files, he couldn't take a full week off. He just couldn't sit around and do nothing. Maybe Markus would have something for him to do too, he doubted Reed would even let him check in on him.

He stopped by his desk, grabbing his jacket and informing Hank of his fate. He let out a long huff when Hank burst into laughter, and he flipped him the bird before leaving. Some help he was.

He went by his place first, changing to more casual clothes that consisted of a forest green-tipped pique polo shirt, and a pair of distressed skinny jeans. He didn't have a pet to say hello and goodbye to, so he went straight to Reed's place, taking a cab.

For some reason, he imagined Reed living in a shitty apartment, but instead, he found an adorable-looking Tudor-Style house. It had the normal features of one: steeply pitched roof, prominent cross gables, decorative half-timbering, and tall, narrow windows with small window panes. It was a small two-story, but from what he could tell it had a large backyard, and the front yard was nothing to scoff at either.

He came up the walkway but stalled when he got to the door. He didn't want Reed to get up given his injuries, but he couldn't walk in unannounced. So he knocked on the door listening for any movement. "Detective Reed, it's Connor. I've been sent to help in your recovery."

There was some shuffling and perhaps the sound of a cat meowing. "Fuck off Tincan!" Reed yelled before it went silent again.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that. I must make sure you become fully recovered, and you getting up prematurely will hinder that." Why did he even have to be this stubborn? It wasn't like Connor would judge him, he had no right to given that it was his fault.

"I said, FUCK. OFF." Reed screamed before starting to let out a terrible hacking cough.

Connor only paused for a second longer before opening the door, a bit shocked that it was unlocked. He didn't focus on interior design, just on the figure laying on the couch convulsing slightly.

He dropped into a crouch, scanning over Reed and grimacing at the sight. "Fucking hell Reed, you pulled your stitches." He wanted to swat at him, to tell him how he should be more careful but that would have to wait.

He ignored Reed's squawks of protest as he lifted his shirt to expose the bloody gauze wrapped around him. "A bed would be better, and where is your first aid? I may need to restitch this." He hadn't moved the gauze yet, especially if he planned on moving Reed.

"Fuck you, bedroom is upstairs and the first aid-" Gavin let out another cough, wincing when it pulled at his injuries, "-first aid is in the bathroom joining it."

Connor nodded, only now seeing the very adorable cat that blinked at him with curious eyes. "I apologize in advance as this will hurt." He mumbled, putting an arm under Gavin's knees and the back.

"Hey, hey, Tincan wait!" Gavin hissed as he was lifted up, Connor ignoring his protests again. "Fuck! Connor." His name came out like a whine as he made his way over to the staircase.

The cat followed along behind, keeping pace but making sure not to trip Connor up.

There were only two rooms upstairs, the bathroom and bedroom, and the bedroom was completely open, with no door to close it off from the stairs.

The Abner upholstered sleigh bed looked soft enough so he placed Gavin on it carefully. The cat jumped up and laid down beside Gavin letting out a low purr. Connor went to the bathroom, and just like the bedroom, it was modern in style.

There was a little built-in shelf that held different supplies along with a huge first aid kit. Connor grabbed it, making his way out to see Gavin cooing at his cat. "So good, you're my good girl."

Connor set the kit down, opening it up and thankfully finding it fully stocked. It had more than enough supplies, he could stitch him up here without worrying. "She is very pretty, what's her name?"

Gavin glared at him before he let out a sigh. "Doa, her name is Doa."

Connor nodded and helped him out of the shirt fully, gently pulling off the gauze. They both winced, but Connor bit down on his lip to stop from worrying out loud.

He grabbed a swab and the alcohol, hovering over the bloody skin. "This is gonna hurt." He warned.

"Nah dip." Gavin glared before tensing and letting out a long whine as Connor started to clean the area. Thankfully the bullet hole was alright, but he still made sure it was clean.

"Sorry, sorry," Connor mumbled, throwing away the swab. "Alright, time to close it up again. You doing ok?"

Gavin sagged back onto the bed, panting slightly. "No thanks to you."

Connor nodded, glaring at the wounds. This was his fault, but now he was helping. "You are the one that jumped in front of me. You didn't have to." Not that he wasn't appreciative, he saved him a lot of trouble and pain.

He applied some ointment to help numb the area before grabbing the needle. Gavin winced slightly but stayed still otherwise. "I did you ass. Can't have the DPD golden boy down for the count."

Connor kept his eyes on his work but he wanted to look up at Gavin. "Humans are far more fragile, I could have taken it. Now you're suffering because of me." He could get repaired and be back the next day if he was lucky. It would hurt but he'd be fine and with minimal lasting damage. Gavin could be left with even more scars.

His fingers brushed over one that was close to the wound, wondering how he got that one. Was he protecting someone else or himself? Gavin let out a small gasp and Connor pulled his hand back, biting down on his lip.

He finished up the stitches in silence, ignoring how his hands wanted to linger on Gavin's warm skin. It was stupid to want to touch, he hated this stupid, reckless, foolish, good-hearted human. Fuck.

"There," Connor said once finally done. He put on new gauze, content with his hard work. His hands didn't shake so the stitches were perfect, now Gavin had to not agitate them.

"Thanks, I guess." Gavin didn't move except to keep petting Doa who hadn't moved from her spot either. "Not your fault, though."

Connor rolled his eyes, closing the first aid and putting it right back where he found it. "I should have seen it coming and reacted accordingly, you shouldn't have even had to do that. I don't see how that's not my fault."

Gavin let out a groan as he tried to sit up, but Connor was quick to help, putting pillows behind him. "Shit, that burns. Really though, and I'm not going to say this again so don't let it go to your head, ok? It ain't your fault, you don't gotta be perfect, and without you… without you, the DPD wouldn't be the same anymore."

Gavin stared at his cat, cheeks getting a nice dusting of pink. Connor blinked, mouth falling open slightly. "Gavin…" he had no idea what to say.

"Whatever. Just fuck off or whatever. Actually, since you're here can you make me some lunch? I uh, haven't been able to move since I got home." Gavin still couldn't look at him, but Connor couldn't seem to keep his eyes away.

He hated how good Gavin looked, even with his injuries. His hair was ruffled, and his sweat pants looked a little too good on him hanging so lowly on his hips. The rings attached to Gavin's nipples, and he could see scars of where other piercings would be. Connor could see the v of his hips and he wanted to lick his way down, take Gavin's co–oh fuck.

He nodded and all but ran back downstairs, glad that the inside was open-concept and modern in style so he didn't have to go searching for the kitchen.

He went through the cabinets, finding some canned soup and grabbing it. Heating it up and making sure it wouldn't be too hot, along with getting a cup of water gave Connor enough time to get his body and mind under control. He still shifted, annoyed at how easily he got wet.

He wanted to take more time, to reach down and rub at his cunt until he came but that would be highly inappropriate. He couldn't get off to Reed even if he was very attractive and had saved Connor.

He took the bowl of soup and water up on a tray, placing it on Gavin's lap. "Here you go. Maybe I should look after you, you should have someone here given your injuries." If Gavin couldn't even move to get food then he'd need someone there.

Gavin started eating his soup quickly, half-heartedly glaring at Connor. He didn't argue, though, but Connor just assumed that was because he was too focused on eating.

Connor sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out towards Doa. She sniffed at his hand before pushing against it, her purr only getting louder. He ran a hand through his thick gray fur, letting out his own little hum at the softness.

"Slow down, you don't wanna choke." He mumbled.

"Screw you, I'm hungry. Maybe I like being choked." Gavin snickered, but he did eat a bit slower after.

Connor's face felt like it was going to melt off with how hot it was, and he kept his head ducked to hide the blush. He did not need to start imagining things again, especially when he couldn't do anything about it. Even if he thought Gavin would reciprocate for a one-night stand or… or more, he couldn't with Gavin's injuries. He wasn't supposed to do any strenuous activity and Connor was absolutely certain sex counted as that.

"You're cute when you blush," Gavin mumbled and set the bowl off to the side. "Fuck, wow these pain meds are strong."

And that, Gavin, wasn't even in his right mind. The meds would keep it all foggy so the pain wouldn't become overbearing. That still didn't mean Connor didn't blush harder and put a hand over his face. "Gavin, maybe you should get some sleep?"

"Can't. I feel dirty, haven't been able to take a shower. I can't though, and I can't take a bath. Don't know what the doctor expected me to do. Not like I can just get a sponge bath from my cat." Gavin started chuckling at the mental image of that but stopping when it became too much.

"I'll do it," Connor said without thinking. He wanted to slap himself but he couldn't take it back now.

Gavin raised an eyebrow but shrugged. "You know what? Fuck it, why not. Already took a bullet for you, might as well let you see it all. Not like I'm shy. Towels are in the bathroom too."

Connor found what he needed easily, returning to the bed and laying out a towel on it so the sheets wouldn't get dirty. He helped Gavin onto the towel, laying on his side, and then stalled. "Um, I can do your top first? Or just your chest, if you want."

Gavin huffed and started wiggling, trying to push his sweatpants down without bending. Connor grabbed his hips, keeping him still. "Hey, hey stop. I just fixed your stitches, don't make me do it again."

Gavin was facing away from Connor, but he turned his head to glance back at him. "It's alright, really. I don't care if people see me naked, it's just a body, right?"

Right, just a body. Just a very good-looking body that he was going to be rubbing and soaping up. He was careful pulling the sweats down, looking past Gavin before folding the pants.

He took the wet rag and dragged it over Gavins back, completely ignoring Gavin's ass or anything lower for now. He was careful with the rag, grabbing the soaping one and working on that silently. Gavin's back was toned and he had a small tattoo of the word Alive that Connor brushed his fingers over. It seemed like a promise to himself somehow, but Connor didn't ask about it. It seemed a bit too personal as ironic as that was given their situation.

"You still ok?" He asked as he started to wash the soap off his back. Gavin had been oddly quiet, but he didn't seem tense.

Gavin gave a low hum, nodding his head. He still didn't make a noise, but perhaps he was just tired. He grabbed the rag for just water and hovered over Gavin's skin. He rubbed at the small of his back before going down to his ass, trying to make it quick.

He switched to the soap and this time took more time. He really did try not to get caught up in it, but his thighs pressed together as he washed Gavin's ass. He dipped the cloth between his ass and froze when Gavin shivered, letting out a choked-off moan.

Shit. Fucking hell. "I… Gavin." He didn't know what to say, he would stop but part of him wanted to keep going.

"Sorry, sorry. Uh, you don't have to stop if you don't want to." Gavin bit out, voice sounding strange. Oh, that's why he wasn't talking.

"Ok." He kept cleaning, taking his time even more now that he knew it was definitely alright. His own breathing became a little labored biting down on his tongue to keep his interested sounds at bay.

He finished Gavin's back before helping him lay on his back. Gavin's hand covered his cock and Connor tried not to look.

"Um, shit weird question…" Gavin trailed off, staring up at the ceiling. "Do you have a… um, you know."

Connor started on his chest, specifically those pink nipples that had rings hanging from this deliciously, pausing at Gavin's question. "I do not have a penis if that's what you're wondering."

"Huh. Nothing down there… isn't there like parts you can get?"

"Oh, I never said I had nothing. I came with a vagina, and I haven't thought of changing it." He gave a small shrug, taking Gavin's right arm and cleaning it with gentle circular strokes.

Gavin finally looked over at him, both of their faces flushed but with different colors. "Huh, wonder why they did that. Is it, like–uh, reactive? Or does it act like a human one?"

God how he wanted to take Gavin's hand and show him how reactive he is. How dripping wet he can get, and how wet he already was just from this. "Yeah, sometimes I think it's more sensitive than humans."

"Cool, yeah, yeah makes sense." Gavin looked away, and Connor took his other arm, fully exposing him but Connor did not look down. He kept his eyes on Gavin's chest and arms.

"Should I… or maybe you should clean your penis?" Now he did glance at it and felt himself drool a little bit. It was nice and thick, not too long that would be uncomfortable though. It was hard and standing at attention, and Connor really wanted to wrap his lips around it. "Uh…"

"You can? I'm sorry, I didn't know I'd react this way? It feels really good and I guess I just, I'm relaxed and, yeah." Gavin stumbled over his words, but he didn't try to cover himself again.

Connor cleaned around first, not trying to tease the man but he was definitely stalling. Gavin let out a huff when Connor swiped over his hip again, reaching out to cover Connor's hand and guide it to cover his dick. He gasped, his hand tightening over Connor's and therefore Connor's hand tightened around his length.

He swiped up then down before pulling his hand back. His hand dipped down, very briefly swiping over his balls and letting out a long exhale when Gavin outright moaned.

"Sorry, sorry. Just gotta do your legs then you're good." Connor murmured, peeling his eyes away from the appealing sight.

"Fuck, it's ok, I should be the one apologizing." Gavin subconsciously spread his legs and Connor took the opportunity to wash his thighs. Damn those thighs could crush his skull and he'd say thank you.

Connor shook his head, even if he wasn't attracted to him he wouldn't blame him, bodies reacted even when you didn't want them to. "There's no need, I'd be a bit worried if you were stimulated and didn't achieve an erection."

Gavin snorted, eyes falling closed as Connor all but massaged his legs. His erection still stood proud but Gavin didn't reach for it and Connor tried to ignore it.

"Right. All finished. I'm going to put this away and maybe even clean myself up in your bathroom if that's alright?" He said once Gavin was cleaned off and patted dry.

He didn't really wait for a response, escaping into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He tingled with want and after putting away the supplies he turned the shower on but didn't get in. Instead, he sat on the toilet and shoved his hands in his pants. If he did this fast then maybe he wouldn't feel so guilty.

He rubbed his fingers in quick little circles, pressing down just enough to have his legs twitching to close around his hand. His whole stomach tensed as he sped up, already slick with want and he had to bite down on his knuckles to keep from crying out.

He wouldn't finger himself, this would be the fastest and cleanest way, not that he wouldn't need to wash his hands anyway. He’s pulsing and wetter than he can ever remember being in his entire life, and he can't help but imagine the man in the next room.

Would he eat him out? He probably would, Connor would lay back and Gavin would tease him endlessly with his tongue. Connor would want to touch everywhere, that tattoo, those soft but firm muscles, those fucking nipple piercings that he'll never be able to forget are there.

He lets out a small gasp, head falling back as his hips trying to lift off the seat and into his own head desperately. He wants more, he wants Gavin's fingers inside him and he wants his cock to fill him up.

He throbs, even more, fingers working faster as he lets out a suppressed moan. Fuck it felt good, and he was so close. He'd take Gavin into his mouth like he wanted. He'd let Gavin fuck his throat until his vocal box was completely destroyed.

His thighs start to tighten and he can feel the pressure of his orgasm start to rip through him. He lets out a strained moan as he convulses and his thighs constrict around his hand.

He has to pull his hand away when it gets too much and he's left panting. His eyes closed from pure bliss, but after a few seconds, they blink open. It hadn't taken long at all, he was pretty sure that was a personal record.

He cleaned himself up and washed his hands before shutting the shower off and opening the door. He should have knocked, he should have not done what he just did but all he can think about is the hiss of pain.

His eyes widen as he sees Gavin on the bed, his cock in his hand as he strokes himself quickly. His body is clenched tight, curling forward and Connor can see the stitches being pulled.

He rushed over and without thinking covered Gavin's hand, using the other to push him flat against the bed. "Stop, you're gonna hurt yourself." He scolded.

Gavin whined, hips bucking up into their hands. "Please, shit please I'm close, let me finish. I'm so sorry, I thought, shit you aren't wet. You didn't take a shower?"

Now it was Connor's turn to flush, having forgotten to actually jump in to make it seem like he'd showered. "I–you can't, you're bending forward and agitating your wounds."

"Either let me and stay, let me and leave, or do it your damn self but I need to, you fucker." Gavin growled, trying to move his hand but Connor swatted it away. This was his fault too and he'd take care of it.

"Alright, lay flat and try not to move, I'll take care of you." Even after just coming he could already feel that tingly want for more. He truly was insatiable, but that wasn't anything new.

Gavin nodded eagerly, hands going to grasp at the bedsheets under him as Connor slowly stroked up and down. It would be better if Connor did this, he knew that if he left Gavin would do it so that was the better of two options. He could make sure Gavin didn't strain himself, and an orgasm would be good for his pain.

The hand that had pushed Gavin down trailed to his nipple, twirling the jewelry around before tugging ever so slightly. Gavin whimpered, dick twitching in Connor's hand so he did it again but harsher.

His own hips sought out friction but he denied himself, he needed a hand to keep Gavin down and one to pleasure him. He licked his lips in thought before grinning widely.

He leaned forward, licking over the head before taking it into his mouth and sucking. Connor's hand on his chest kept him from jolting him but he couldn't stop his hips from bucking up. Connor whimpered at the length in his mouth, sinking all the way down.

"Fuck! Your mouth is so warm." Gavin said in awe, his voice husky and raw already. "Sit on me."

Connor pulled back with a pop, licking over his lips again. "Sitting on your chest could injure you more."

"No, sit on my face. It'll keep me down and I wanna taste you. I wanna get you off, please." He sounded so pretty begging like that, who could say no?

He stood to push his pants off, tugging off his shirt and tossing it to the other side of the bed. He preened slightly as Gavin's eyes raked over him with clear lust.

Connor carefully climbs onto the bed, positioning himself right above Gavin's face. He can feel the heat of his breath against his dripping cunt and Gavin kisses his thigh instead, making his shutter. He kisses his way down to Connor's wet slit. He pauses to breathe the scent of him in, before reaching up to spread his lips and lick him from cunt to clit.

Connor dips his head down to take him back into his mouth, but instead gives the head kitten licks, his tongue dipping into the slit, and Gavin's moan spurs him on.

Gavin wraps his lips around Connor's hard clit, and sucks, letting the vibrations seep into his skin. Connor's own whine is amplified when he takes him fully into his mouth, barely holding himself up.

Gavin's hand comes up, and two fingers easily slide in. Gavin licks into him, tongue dipping into his labia, toying at the sensitive folds of skin surrounding his clit.

Connor bobs his head desperately, licking and sucking and every inch of Gavin's length. He lets out tiny moans, the friction against his tongue absolutely delicious. His hips bounce slightly, the pleasure too much and not enough at the same time and if he needed air he'd be breathless.

Gavin pushes in a third finger and curls them, pushing against that sweet spot. Connor pushes down hard against his mouth, swallowing around Gavin with a small cry.

Gavin sucks on his slit hard and Connor can't stop himself from coming. He fucks his throat until he can feel Gavin tensing but the man hasn't stopped. His fingers only press in harder and the tongue brings him close to the edge again.

Connor doesn't pull away, he swallows down every last drop as his own body convulses with his third orgasm. The taste of Gavin in his mouth is addicting but the man needs to breathe and Connor needs to make sure he's ok.

He climbs off just as carefully as he got on, scanning Gavin. Other than what he expected, elevated heart rate, flushed body, pupils dilated, and the likes, Gavin seems perfectly fine.

Around Gavin's mouth is a little messy with Connor's slick, so he takes it upon himself to lick it all up before finally kissing him.

Gavin gasps, but it turns into a happy little sound so Connor doesn't pull away. The kiss is oddly sweet and tender, but they can both taste themselves and they like it a little too much.

Connor only pulls away to let Gavin breathe, fingers dancing over the human's heated skin. "You're amazing at that." He says with a small giggle.

"What, eating you out or kissing?" Gavin asks, looking at him with too fond eyes. Maybe Connor does know why Gavin jumped in front of the bullet. Connor would do the same if given the chance.

"Both, but we can't do the first again until you're better." He waves a finger at him like he's a naughty child, and it gets a genuine laugh out of Gavin. It's truly a beautiful sound and Connor almost wants to beg for more of it.

"I'm glad we can both agree there will be more. You know… you looking after me might not be a terrible thing." Gavin smirks up at him.

"Well, I was given the week off. I'm sure we can find some creative things to pass the time that won't hurt you." He already had a few ideas and was dying to try it out.

"I've never been so happy to have been shot and stabbed in my life," Gavin said before pulling him back down into a kiss.

Connor wished he wasn't in pain, but he honestly couldn't agree more.

11 notes · View notes

cryptidshuffle · 4 years ago

Text

the less we say about it the better - chp 1

ao3

Rating: Teen Fandom: Half-Life VR But The AI Is Self Aware Relationships: Tommy Coolatta & Gordon Freeman, Tommy Coolatta/Gordon Freeman (pre relationship) Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Temporary Character Death(its benrey dont worry hes ok), meta about deaths and respawns, arguing about the rules of uno, gay pining, Mutual Pining, fellas is it gay to comfort ur friend who u love and are both boys?, also fair warning it'll eventually be a poly ship with benrey, Autistic Character, Autistic Tommy, ADHD Gordon, everyone is gay and trans, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Summary: “after everything we’ve been through we deserve a few mental break downs.” they are trying to recover after black mesa, but recovery is hard. especially when one of you is still dead

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

They had been out of Black Mesa for a few weeks now. It was difficult trying to acclimate to life after the incident, but they were all making it work.

The science team had gotten together for some sort of game night, something cathartic about being around others who share the same trauma. Anyways, snacks and Uno was just as chaotic as one would imagine with this group of chucklefucks, with competitive tensions high on the last round of the night.

“You can’t stack the draw 4 cards, Gordon,” Bubby argued, smacking Gordon’s hand just as he placed the card.

“Says who?”

“It’s literally against the fucking rules of the game,” Bubby said back.

Tommy agreed with, “It is in the official rules, Mr. Freeman, they- Mattel confirmed it on Twitter.”

“But that’s dumb!” Gordon argued back, “I’ve always played where you can stack those, why change that now?"

Bubby retorted, “Well maybe you’ve always been playing wrong, huh? Ever thought about that, smartass?”

Dr. Coomer chimed in with, “Well on the official page for Uno (card game) on Wikipedia, the free online encyclopedia that anyone can edit, it states that

The following official house rules are suggested in the Uno rulebook, to alter the game:

Progressive Uno: If a draw card is played, and the following player has the same card, they can play that card and "stack" the penalty, which adds to the current penalty and passes it to the following player.[4](Although a +4 cannot be stacked on a +2, or vice versa.)[6] This house rule is so commonly used that there was widespread Twitter surprise in 2019 when Mattel stated that stacking was not part of the standard rules of Uno.[6]”

“Well, there you have it,” Gordon exclaims, interrupting Coomer’s Wikipedia infodump, “Just because it’s a house rule doesn’t mean it’s not a legitimate way of playing."

“What if I don’t want to play with that rule, that’s fuckin stupid,” Bubby grumbles.

“Jesus ok, I'll play a different card, happy?” Gordon says dejectedly, taking back his controversial draw 4 card for a more innocuous one. “It’s your turn anyways.”

Bubby throws down his last card onto the pile. “I win fuckers!!!! Ahahahahaha!"

“You wouldn’t have won if you let me stack the fucking cards,” Gordon said as he threw his losing card pile onto the coffee table.

“Don’t fret Gordon! Bubby is just extremely good at card games,” Dr. Coomer replied.

“You're forgetting I’m a goddamn genius, that extends to my sick-ass Uno skills,” Bubby bragged.

Gordon chuckled, watching the two older scientists get up to leave, and watching Tommy remain, quietly cleaning up the uno deck into neat piles to place in its box.

“Well gentlemen, it’s been fun, though I think it’s time Bubby and I better get going!” Dr. Coomer said.

“No problem, don’t want you two to be late for your old man early-bird breakfast at Golden Corral tomorrow!” Gordon teased.

“Shut the fuck- I’ll kick your ass,” said Bubby.

“Hello Gord- Actually our old man breakfast is not until Saturday! It’s the one day a week I let loose and unhinge my jaws at the buffet like a Burmese Python!” said Dr. Coomer as Bubby grabs his coat and keys.

“That sounds absolutely horrifying,” Gordon laughs.

“It really is,” says Bubby. “Well, see you later asshole,” Bubby says, herding himself and Coomer out the front door.

“See you guys later,” Gordon says.

“Goodbye, Gordon! Goodbye, Tommy,” Coomer also says, before they leave Gordon’s apartment.

Tommy had yet to get up to leave, he stayed sitting in his seat staring into space, and fiddling with the Uno card deck.

“Hey Tommy, you alright man?” he asked gently. At the mention of his name, he was shaken a bit out of his stupor.

“Y-yeah I'm fine Mr. Freeman, why do you ask?”

“I mean you were kinda just staring into space for a bit, and you didn’t say anything when Bubby and Coomer left.”

“Oh shit. Sorry about that, I’ll get out of your hair,” Tommy said, starting to move to leave.

Gordon placed a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Hey, if something’s bothering you, just know I’m here if you wanna talk about it,” Gordon comforted.

Tommy blushed slightly at the contact and nodded.

“Thank you. I-uh… I’ve just been thinking about things that happened back in Black Mesa and, you know,” he pauses to think for a bit, and sighs, “honestly I’ve been thinking a lot about Benrey.”

Just at the mention of him, Gordon felt his stomach drop with the weight of too many emotions.

“Yeah...I uh… I understand,” he responds with a sad sigh, “anything in particular you’re thinking about him?”

“I don’t know just kind of- Earlier I started thinking about how much he would enjoy game night. And then I started to miss him and realize that- that he’s not here. I feel guilty about killing him and upset at what he did. He was still my friend and I just- I want to know why he did what he did. I just want to understand,” Tommy said.

Gordon looked away as he thought about his own emotions regarding Benrey. He was undeniably angry with him, for getting him ambushed by the bootboys, for getting his arm cut off, frustrated with the constant taunting. Yet… he also felt guilty for some reason and he couldn’t quite place why. Gordon really didn’t want to feel guilty.

“Yeah…” Gordon sighed, “I'll be honest I do feel guilty about it too. I don’t know why because I feel like it should be justified since he did try to kill us. But there were times when him pestering me about my arm felt like… like sincere questioning? I still… I don’t know.”

“Yeah… I think-” Tommy cut himself off, staring at a fixed point in his vision, trying to decide whether or not to bring this up.

“I don’t think Benrey understood how human mortality worked.”

Well, that wasn’t what Gordon expected. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he was from Xen, Mr. Freeman, he wasn’t human. It was different for him. You remember he did die several times, but he came back eventually. He had to wait for his form to regenerate.”

“Wait-” this time Gordon cut Tommy off, “Oh shit, that wasn’t a joke? For some reason I just assumed his talking about respawns and shit was part of his Epic Gamer bit?”

“I mean it was a little but I think… there’s probably a reason Benrey attached himself to video games so much, yeah? He can see himself in the structure. Like, uh- something he can relate to.” Tommy says. “It doesn’t excuse what- what he did, but I feel like knowing why things happened makes- makes them more understandable.”

Gordon leaned back on the couch blown away by the revelation. In hindsight it wasn’t that surprising but it took him a few seconds to come to terms with the reality.

“Yeah, when you put it that way, I guess it does make a lot of sense. Wait though, I swear to god all of you have died at least once, but you guys aren’t from Xen?” Gordon said, now confused about the seeming metanarrative of the mortality of his friends.

“Yeah, but those were weird Black Mesa things, Mr. Freeman,” Tommy said, not elaborating any more than that.

Gordon waited a beat for Tommy to explain more but he said all he needed to.

“I will ask you more about that later, but I do not have the energy to unpack all that right now,” Gordon said with a gentle laugh.

“Wait, getting back on topic real quick, why couldn’t Benrey just... respawn now? Did we really get him that good?”

Tommy looked incredibly sad when Gordon said this, and he regretted it immediately. ‘Damn it Gordon, Tommy’s clearly upset about Benrey, you don’t gotta be an insensitive dick.’

“Well Mr. Freeman, that’s kinda why I’ve been thinking about him,” Tommy said, “I’m not sure. It shouldn’t have taken him this long to respawn. Depending on the amount of damage it takes longer but… It’s been a while and what if- What if he is back but he is mad at all of us and that’s why we haven’t seen him? Or what if it is taking a really long time because we hurt him a whole lot. Or what if we…”

Tommy got quiet for a few seconds, the silence in the room was deafening. For an instance Gordon felt as if making a sound would shatter the air like glass.

Tommy finally said with a whisper, voice thick with choking back tears, “What if we killed him for good? And I don’t- I never see him again?”

It honestly broke Gordon’s heart how distraught Tommy was. Pushing his own complicated Benrey feelings aside, he was gonna focus on Tommy here and now.

“…Tommy, is it ok if I hug you, man?” Gordon couldn’t think of the best way to comfort the other man with words, but physical comfort he could do.

Tommy looked a little surprised at this ask but nodded. Gordon leaned in to hug the other scientist and Tommy collapsed in his embrace, completely breaking down.

Gordon just sat there and held him as Tommy sobbed into his shoulder, trying to comfort the crying man by rubbing circles into his back.

Gordon’s brain processed the things Tommy had said. Was Benrey really gone? Why did he feel guilty about the idea of having killed Benrey, he was fine with the concept during the final boss fight on Xen but now… the thought made him feel… sad? Regretful? Even his seemingly rational justifications didn’t seem as clear at the moment, only thinking of his fonder memories with Benrey.

‘Fuck this,’ he thought as he felt his own tears well up, ‘this isn’t about me, I need to focus on being there for Tommy,’ pushing his own feelings to the back of his mind to be dealt with later.

Tommy eventually calmed down enough where his sobs turned into sniffles, and he started to pull away from the hug.

“S – sorry for having a – a breakdown on your- on your couch Mr. Freeman,” Tommy said, the post-crying mental fog making his stuttering more noticeable. Tommy didn’t really have the effort in him to care.

“Don’t worry about it, man, after everything we’ve been through we deserve a few mental breakdowns,” Gordon joked trying to lighten the mood.

“Oh, that was nothing, Mr. Freeman, in terms of mental breakdowns that was as mild as a first-grade pizza party in the eye of a hurricane,” Tommy compared in a way that made little sense to Gordon, yet ridiculous enough to cause the man to burst out laughing.

“Alright I’ll take your word for it,” Gordon said, still laughing.

“I’m serious Mr. Freeman, once you have a meltdown so intense that you accidentally teleport yourself to an inter-dimensional void, the rest is a cake walk at the school fair,” Tommy said.

“Waitwaitwait- teleport?” he leaned back to look at him in surprise, “Since when could you fuckin teleport!” Gordon asked caught off guard.

“You know, learned some things from my Dad,” Tommy said, again failing to further explain himself.

“…Well alright. Yeah that tracks.”

Gordon was quiet for a moment before responding with, “You know, Tommy, I want you to know I’m here for you if you need anyone to talk to. You were there for me when I was at my lowest in Black Mesa, and I wanna be that friend to you if you need it,” he said giving the other scientists hand a comforting squeeze.

Tommy smiled, “Thank you, that means a lot Mr. Freeman.”

“You know you can call me Gordon, you don’t have to be so formal all the time Dr. Coolatta,” he teased.

Tommy blushed, ‘dammit why did he have to be so cute?’

“Wow Mr. Fr – Gordon are you really gonna make fun of my doctorate that I worked very hard for,” Tommy teased back, still a bit sniffly from crying.

“Dude, I cannot imagine you in college for some reason, what was your doctorate even in” asked Gordon, semi-jokingly, but still a bit serious.

Tommy laughed a bit, wiping the remaining tears away with the back of his hand. “Bio-chemical engineering. Creating Sunkist was for my thesis project.” Normally Tommy would be more then willing to infodump about the topic but he found his energy to be draining fast.

“What the fuck, that’s cooler than mine was. Us nerds in the Theoretical Physics department didn’t do any crazy shit like that,” Gordon said.

“Bold of you to assume I was a nerd, G-Gordon. I was the craziest guy in the frat house,” Tommy said.

Gordon’s memory vaguely recalls Tommy’s insistence that he “do something crazy” when drinking Darnold’s Potion of Grow Gun Arm.

“You know what, yeah, surprisingly I can see that image vividly in my head,” Gordon said. “Real talk though…” he said changing the subject and putting his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, “Are you- uh, ok? Like feeling better?”

Tommy was quiet for a second, eyes flickering down to look at his fidgeting hands in his lap, before replying with, “I’m ok. N-not great, I don’t think, but I will be.”

Gordon nodded. “Tommy, if there’s one nugget of wisdom that I have to share, it’s that healing takes time, things usually turn out to be ok in the end. No matter what’s going on with Benrey…it'll be alright, I’m sure.” Gordon patted his shoulder for emphasis, “not the best advice out there but it’s the best I can come up with straight off the dome. And I don’t wanna seem like I didn’t try to help you out."

Tommy laughed gently, “Thank you Mr. Fr- uh, thank you Gordon. You did help. Even if- if your advice was a bit cheesy.”

“Whatever man, you can’t blame me for trying,” Gordon laughed, playfully shoving Tommy where his hand had previously rested on the other man’s shoulder. Tommy laughed in return. He only noticed the warmth of Gordon’s touch once it was gone.

Tommy absentmindedly noticed the time on the wall clock in Gordon’s apartment. Jesus, 11:30? When did it get so late? The older scientist really hoped he wasn’t overstaying his welcome; While he would love to just stay here and joke around, he had already bothered Mr. Freeman enough and was already exhausted.

“I- I’m probably gonna head back home now, I didn’t realize how late it was,” Tommy said, standing up from his spot next to Gordon.

Gordon nodded. He had the passing thought of offering for Tommy to stay but… maybe that was a step too far. ‘Tommy probably wants his space,’ Gordon rationalized to himself.

He nodded, “Alright, don’t let me keep you,” he said, getting up as well to help Tommy gather his belongings. Which, to be honest Tommy didn’t bring much but some snacks for the group, but Gordon just needed an excuse to do anything.

Gordon walked Tommy to the front door of his apartment, like the good host he was, opening the door for him.

“Thanks for coming over Tommy,” he said.

Tommy nodded. “Thank- thank you again for letting me talk about Benrey, I know it was kinda rough there at the end, but if you ever need to talk about anything… I'm here for you as well.”

Gordon smiled, “Thank you Tommy, I'll keep that in mind.”

Tommy smiled in return, “Have a good night G-Gordon,” he said turning to head to his car.

“Goodnight Tommy.” Gordon turns to head back inside, but before he does, he can’t resist one more jab.

“Thought you could teleport?” he calls out teasingly.

Tommy flips him off, which causes Gordon to laugh harder. “Gives me a headache,” Tommy called back, trying and failing keep a straight face.

Gordon laughs as he waves a final goodbye, turning back inside and closing the door after Tommy waves as well. His thoughts race as he gets ready for bed, trying to ignore his fluttering heartbeat as he lays down for the night.

Tommy shuffles his thoughts in his head as he drives home. The emotional rollercoaster of his already draining social interaction meter from the science team, his Benrey guilt, and his small crush on Gordon was just too much for one day. His hands clench and unclench the steering wheel, looking forward to collapsing in bed for the night, hoping his dad won’t notice he'd been crying.

Somewhere, in an interdimensional void far away from this reality, someone begins to shift awake.

#fanfic #hlvrai #half life vr but the ai is self aware #freelatta

6 notes · View notes

schmokschmok · 4 years ago

Text

omnia mutantur, nihil interit

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Georgie x Melanie

Characters: Georgie Barker, Melanie King, Jonathan Sims, Martin K. Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James

Wordcount: 10.000

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Alternate Universe - College/University

Romantic & Platonic Soulmates

Minor Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Brief Jon/Georgie & Melanie/Sasha

Amicable Breakups

Trans Melanie King & Martin Blackwood

He/Him & They/Them Pronouns For Asexual, Nonbinary Royalty Jon Sims

Summary

Melanie is lucky, that's what everyone says. She's blessed because she's got the name of her soulmate etched into her skin. For her, the name is many things: a blessing, a curse, her Damocles' sword.

A "the first words your soulmate says to you are written on your skin"-au but with a twist, i guess.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25056415

Complimentary Jon/Martin Fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28395876

CN: Mild Internalised Homo- and Transmisia in #6 and #7, Food (mentioned in #9 and #10); Alcohol (mentioned in #10)

It’s rare for a person to have the name of their soulmate as their mark – or at least that’s what everyone says.

They congratulate her when they see the loopy script on her ankle, cooing at the roundness of the O and the little bow of the H and the wrongly weighed Ss. They see the tilt of the script and tell her, it must be an optimistic soul writing with the future in mind, looking forward to all the things the future could hold.

They tell . her she’s lucky, oh so lucky to know the name of the one she’s waiting for, that she doesn’t have to strain her ears every time she meets someone new for faint, trivial words like “hey, what’s your name” or “look out!”

They tell her she’s blessed for the simplicity of her soulmark – words written by her soulmate themselves instead of little marks she has to find on the body of her loved one, or a string tugging on her finger and connecting her to a heartbeat she may never see the face belonging to, or a countdown leaving her to grasp for straws in the middle of Trafalgar Square staring at thousands of faces and possibilities rushing away. She’s blessed for having two clues to find out the identity of the person who’ll love her the most. That she could be one of the forsaken that see everything their soulmate writes on their skin. That she could have been in pain when she’s away from her soulmate – bound to them by fate and chance.

No, she’s got a name, loopy and bubbly and inked into the skin underneath her left ankle.

“Jonathan Sims,” she whispers sometimes while brushing over the name with her thumb or the tips of her fingers, wondering what kind of person he will be. And she doesn’t know who he is, but she’s so young and the only thing she truly knows is that she will love him dearly.

She wears his name in pride, presents it like a trophy, wants everyone to know: She’s not afraid of bearing her soul right on her skin for everyone to see.

She shoves her feet into black, clunky boots and she begs her mother to buy them, because she needs them so much. Never, she thinks, blinking away the hotness and the burning behind her eyes, never again will she look at those cursed letters, at his name that she wanted to hear so desperately for the longest of times.

Until she found herself lying in bed next to Sasha like the thousands of times she did in the past. Until darkness ascended upon them, their faces illuminated only by the glow of the full moon. Until Sasha reached out, intertwining their fingers and whispering softly that she loves her; that she always has, that she always will. Until Sasha comes closer and closer and almost closes the gap between them – if it weren’t for Melanie closing it first.

“Jonathan Sims,” he says absentmindedly as if it weren’t the most important name for Melanie, a curse and blessing at the same time. He doesn’t even look her way, just scans the page for their assignment, underlining a few words in preparation.

She stares at him, takes in the sharp line of his mouth and the prominent cupid bow that should soften the hard look but really doesn’t. Her eyes roam his face, the long bridge of his nose that’s interrupted by a crook indicating he broke it in the past. She stares at his wide forehead and his thick eyebrows, at his long eyelashes and the brown half circle of his irises. His profile is composed of sharp angles and straight lines, his skin of a deep, dark brown, scattered with circular scars, his face framed with rich, brown wavy hair that came free at some point from the messy bun nestled on top of his head.

He’s not attractive, by any means, but she can easily see he’s got a presence and a certain kind of charm. He looks like a college professor on the wrong side of the classroom.

And it is his name on her ankle, hidden beneath layers of tights and soft socks and the thick material of her boots. And it is his name that sends a shiver down her spine and makes the hairs on her neck and arms stand up.

She stares and she stares and she stares and she stares – until he’s looking at her, too, brows furrowed and a look of annoyance on his face. And the only thing she can do is releasing a shaky breath and softly saying: “Oh no.”

His eyes widen a fraction and his hand shoots up to his clavicle on instinct. Then the expression on his face shifts into a scowl and a heavy coldness sinks into her stomach.

“The feeling is mutual,” he spits through gritted teeth, quickly scanning her face, finding something she can’t even name. Subsequently, he averts his eyes and shuffles through the papers in front of him. “I’d prefer to split the work evenly and propose a meeting a few weeks in to compare notes and draft a first outline for the presentation.” He clears his throat. “If you’re interested, we can exchange numbers for research related questions.” He eyes her. “And research related questions only.”

Her jaw’s locked and cracks worryingly when she opens her mouth violently to retort: “I’m not interested in anything other than our presentation, jerk.”

Maybe she’s imagining it, but her insult seems to loosen his shoulders just an inch and the scowl softens into a less sullen look.

This man, this crabby looking man, is her Damocles’ sword.

They’re sitting in the institute’s library, knees knocking into each other every once in a while, their table littered with notes and papers and books. The pen behind Melanie’s ear slips further down when she shakes her head vigorously.

“Did you spend even a minute thinking about that take?” She barks out an incredulous laugh. “Ovid was not ‘too self-absorbed’ and ‘incapable of eradicating his failures.’ Who are you? Seneca’s sycophant?”

“It’s a well-known fact that Ovid never surpassed his early stages. His texts had potential and even though they received the criticism needed to fix them, he was never capable of revising them and tapping the full potential,” Jon shoots right back, pulling multiple notes out of the mess on the table. “It isn’t only Seneca, you know that full well, Quintilian provides anecdotal evidence as well. His writing is shallow and superficial, and I should say it.” Melanie huffs agitated.

“What you should do is shut your cakehole and read some fucking books.” Melanie wrings her hands in frustration, before reaching over the myriads of notes and papers for a book that’s half-buried underneath two other books. “Is the only book you ever read about Ovid by Fränkel? Because that is some seriously prejudiced fuckwart and he should never have been allowed to write about Ovid in the first place. Otis’ work was published in the same fucking year, you could have read that instead.”

He bristles, reminding her of a peacock fanning out its tail feathers. Swallowing a triumphant laugh, she readies herself for the next round to come.

“I’ll have you informed that I read every single thing you forwarded to me, but I know they’re wrong.” He stares into her eyes, unwavering.

“That you’re wrong,” he clarifies. “You will never convince me that Ovid knew what he was doing.”

“We can’t do this presentation if you can’t admit that you’re wrong!” Her voice is probably too loud for the library, but Oliver doesn’t mind them as long as they’re alone and Professor Lukas is out of the building.

“Is there anything you’re ever right about? We don’t have to agree about the history of research to present it,” he argues because of course he does. They’re project partners for five weeks now and despite the fact that this is their first meeting vis a vis, he disagreed with practically every single thing she sent him over the past weeks. If she says Ovid’s Metamorphoses are a composite epos, he tells her it’s a collection of loosely connected stories. If she says Ovid’s been exiled for political reasons, he tells her Ovid’s probably never been exiled and it’s all a nice story he drafted to write his Tristia and that’s it.

“I know we don’t have to agree on anything,” she says and she’s about to raise her voice again to continue arguing, when a voice startles her, and she freezes up: “Jonathan Sims!”

Jon rolls with his eyes and says, without turning around: “I’m in the middle of something, Georgie, can you get back to me later?”

“Can you get back to me at all?” She plops down next to them on a chair and Melanie’s breath gets caught in her throat. She’s beautiful, but in a preppy hipster kind of way. Her hair falls in tight, natural curls over her shoulders almost onto her back and frames her round face. Underneath her wide nose glistens a golden, sun-shaped septum, accentuated by the deep red of her full lips. Both complimenting the warm undertone of her black skin. Despite the cold outside she’s only wearing a thick knitted cardigan over a white top with a floral pattern and a mustard yellow skirt. “I messaged you three times today and yet you refuse to answer me.” The colour of her nails and outfit are geared to each other and she lays her hand on his elbow to finally catch his full attention.

Jon looks up to her at last, ignoring her hand on the sleeve of his light brown button-down. In spite of his deadpan voice, the corners of his mouth curl upward into the smallest of smiles.

“If I would have wanted to answer you, Georgie, I would have done it. As you can see, I’m working on a project with Melanie right now.” Two pairs of brown eyes land on Melanie and she feels scrutinised all of a sudden. Georgie smiles at her, dimply and revealing the golden shine of a labial frenulum piercing resting against the top of her bunny like front teeth.

“Oh, you’re Melanie!” The way she says it is equally anxiety inducing and thrilling, like she wanted to meet Melanie, like they could be friends. “I’ve heard so much about you!”

And the only proper response that comes to her mind is: “Oh god, I am so sorry.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” Georgie rushes to say, then she’s backpaddling again, correcting herself: “Well, maybe Jon wanted it to sound all bad, but I think you sound like a lovely person.” Jon scoffs but he doesn’t interject. They share a look Melanie can’t decipher.

And suddenly, Melanie grows aware of the way she looks today. She is a wall of black clothes and silver accessories and white skin contrasting the warmness of Georgie and Jon. Like an old-timey photograph next to a polished fall edition of the vogue.

Georgie and Jon make a beautiful couple. She’s chubby and soft where Jon is lean and sharp, she’s lively and welcoming where Jon is still and reserved. They balance each other and share these little smiles and glances of contentment. And Melanie is a washed-out copy of a copy of a newspaper picture of welcome to the black parade with the name of this man engraved into her very bones.

“I think, I need to go,” she forces the words to tumble over her lips. As she’s trying to gather her notes without stealing Jon’s or knocking something off the table, Georgie as much as sprawls herself over Jon’s lap and snatches her wrist mid-air and forces her to a halt.

“No, no, please,” Georgie pleads. Lowering her voice as if she didn’t want Jon to hear, she adds: “Don’t leave me alone with this guy, I have to listen to him go on about fungi for way too long. And I cannot take it anymore.”

“I feel kind of attacked,” Jon interjects and Georgie waves him off, right in front of his face, almost hitting his nose, and says: “Good.”

“You should go and get a coffee or tea with us,” Georgie turns to Melanie again and smiles, dimples violently digging into her cheeks. “You both seem tense, maybe we should go right now.”

“We don’t have the t–“ Jon doesn’t get much farther in his rejection, before Georgie interrupts him: “You don’t have a say in this, you owe me for ignoring me, Jon.” His mumbling could be interpreted as a fine and Georgie obviously decides to do so.

Melanie only stares at them, at Georgie mostly, clutching her paperwork to her chest and thinking that life’s unfair. That she’s condemned to have his name on her forever, while he has the most gorgeous woman as his girlfriend and no interest in her at all.

She shouldn’t agree and she knows that, it’s a simple fact of life that Georgie is a beautiful goddess and Melanie is a tiny lesbian who has no control over her lizard brain. She will crush on Georgie and it’s only a matter of time. If the past few minutes are any indication, she will crush so hard, the only pieces left of her will be scattered by the storm that’s already starting to brew.

“Yes,” she says in spite of everything she knows to be true, “That sounds lovely.”

The look Jon sends her expresses almost comically her previous thoughts. Ignoring his pained face, she shoots Georgie a loop-sided grin, the dreadful realisation of her fuck-up finally sinking in. Unbothered by both Jon and Melanie, Georgie sits back in her chair and clasps her hands in front of her chest, while saying: “Perfect, gather your stuff and off we go.”

Full of vim and vigour, she pushes herself out of her chair and stands up.

For a moment, Melanie can’t look away from her. She starts comparing herself to Georgie and if it weren’t for Sasha and that faithful night, she’d still think she only ever wants to be the beautiful women she sees when in reality she wants to be with them, with the picture she painted in her mind, so badly everything inside her aches.

melesbian: things i should have told you long ago – a complete list by melanie king

melesbian: i met my soulmate and he has the most beautiful girlfriend of all time

melesbian: that’s it. that’s the list.

sashaway: ghgfhlsd

sashaway: you made me keysmash, I hope you’re proud of yourself

sashaway: is that list really complete?

melesbian: no

sashaway: thought so

sashaway: what are you going to do about it?

melesbian: continue not talking to that pompous twat and silently pine after his girlfriend

sashaway: as much as I love your dramatics, I need more information to really get a grasp on that situation

melesbian: it’s not a good story. it’s not even a story

melesbian: i’m taking this class on greek and roman epic (for the credits tbh) and one jonathan sims is my project partner

melesbian: we worked in the library on our first draft today

melesbian: and suddenly

melesbian: a goddess ascended from mount olympus (to keep the theme) and plopped up right next to the guy that said in no uncertain terms that he’s not interested in talking to me at all

sashaway: oof harsh

sashaway: are you interested in talking to him?

melesbian: lol no

melesbian: i know it’s late but i’m in front of your door and … you could open up?

“We broke up,” she says matter-of-factly, she doesn’t sound too stressed about it, however. Georgie’s head lies in Melanie’s lap and she’s painting her long, almond shaped nails in a soft baby blue. Almost constantly, her hair moves due to the light breeze and tickles Melanie’s bare arm. But she doesn’t want to move because she’s quite comfortable and Georgie would probably move too, if she thought she’d inconvenience Melanie in any way.

Normally, she wouldn’t pry for more information because the only person she feels close enough to know how to deal with the aftermath is Sasha. But she’s curious and she thinks that there’s no reason in the world to dump Georgie Barker, so she probably left him and – even though Melanie doesn’t want to acknowledge it – Jon and her, they are somewhat friends and she doesn’t want him to feel too bad. (Only ever a little, as a treat.)

So, she shoots for nonchalant and distant interest, but misses the mark by far: “Why did you break up?” Georgie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We mutually agreed he’s an insufferable twat and I’m the burden of his very existence,” she replies, stretching her arm as far away and then pulling it as close as possible to inspect her painted nails. “We not so mutually agreed that he’s got a big, fat, massive crush on someone else.”

“Who could he have a crush on if you literally exist??”

Melanie didn’t mean to say that out loud, oh fucking hell, this is bad. This is real bad. She can’t have Georgie knowing about Melanie’s big, fat, massive crush on Georgie.

Georgie laughs.

“Oh, Melanie, you’re lovely. I always feel special talking to you,” she says as if it wouldn’t set Melanie on edge; as if it wouldn’t make her heart race in her chest, loudly pounding and pumping blood through her veins. She suddenly feels light-headed and dizzy. Georgie continues, nevertheless. “You know, he says it’s not a crush, it’s ‘active disdain’ but he didn’t listen to me at all when I tried to explain to him what ‘active’ in this context means.” She sighs. “It’s a bit pathetic, but that’s Jon for you. And I don’t think I’m one to talk because,” she makes a show of looking inconspicuously to the left and right, “maybe I’m projecting my own crush onto him.” She looks up at Melanie, tentatively. “But you can’t tell him that.”

“I would never,” Melanie rushes to say, not quite processing the fact that Georgie’s already infatuated with someone new. Someone who’s probably not Melanie, because Melanie is never that lucky. She inhales shakily. “So, you’re still amicable?”

For a moment, Georgie seems contemplating, a bit unsure almost. Then she says slowly: “I think so, yes. Jon’s my best friend, I would never forgive myself if I lost him over something as trivial as a breakup.” She shrugs dismissively. “How about you? Anyone caught your attention?” A heartbeat passes, Melanie freezing up like a deer in headlights. “Or are you aro? We’ve never talked about this, when I think about it now.”

“Not aro,” Melanie forces the words out through her teeth, trying to sound like she’s got still air in her lungs to speak. “I’m a lesbian, actually.”

She readies herself for Georgie to get weird and regret lying on Melanie like Giorgione’s Sleeping Venus on a divan. But instead, Georgie’s face lights up and she coos: “We could have talked about girls for months, Melanie, we could have truly lived that LGBT+ solidarity!” As if it’s an afterthought, she adds: “I’m bi. It’s pretty obvious because every time I leave a room, I announce that very fact to the whole room but somehow people think I’m just really enthusiastic about getting away.” She laughs, and that, paired with her trashy joke, lets Melanie lose a bit of the tension that coiled in her stomach.

She doesn’t say We’ve got three letters present then, because even though she’s got the most impressive crush of all times on Georgie and Georgie labelled herself bi just a few seconds ago, she’s not quite ready to open up that much. (Pride’s approaching fast and maybe in a few weeks she’ll be ready to brandish the trans flag, but for now she wants to feel proud of herself for saying I’m a lesbian out loud for the first time since she came out to her parents. She doesn’t get much opportunity to tell people she’s gay and the only ones outside of her family that know are Sasha and Tim – because they were the only ones important enough to tell.)

“Biii~ the way,” Georgie continues, showing off a smirk that would look like a smile on any other person, “you didn’t answer my question. Anyone caught your attention?”

Well, there’s this girl I really like but she’s been in a relationship with my soulmate until very recently. And I also thought she was straight as an arrow, so I didn’t really entertain the thought she could be interested in me in any kind of way, is what Melanie wants to say. (Well, not really wants to but perhaps should and definitely feels the need to.)

“There’s this girl I fancy,” is what she says instead. “Stunningly beautiful, breathtakingly kind.”

“Do I know her?” Georgie’s voice doesn’t change, not really, but it feels like there’s an edge to it that wasn’t previously present. Maybe it’s because of the softness of Melanie’s voice or the distant, unfocused look on her face that she always gets when she’s trying to not give in to the urge of fucking everything up – both unknown to Georgie until now, because, even if Melanie likes to think otherwise, they’re not that close.

“I don’t think, I know her, really,” she settles on. Because it’s true. And it stings. It stings to think that the gorgeous woman in her lap is just the ex-girlfriend of the guy she did a project with for one of her classes and whose name is part of her life for longer than she can remember – and that they hang out from time to time but that it’s more on a superficial level. Hell, she can’t even name the most basic things of Georgie’s life: Is she an only child? What’s her favourite colour? Is the skin of her hands as soft as it looks?

“That’s unfortunate,” Georgie replies softly, “maybe you should get to know her.” The tip of her finger suddenly boops Melanie’s nose, and she smiles encouragingly. The smell of nail polish lingers in the air. “And when you know her and still think she’s that nice, you should introduce her to me so I can make sure you’re not wasting your time.”

And Melanie thinks that maybe she should introduce Georgie to Sasha so Sasha can tell her that she should stop wasting her time.

However, for now she’s going to be a little selfish, so she holds up her hand in front of Georgie’s face and says: “Do you think blue would suit me?” Enthusiastically, Georgie sits up, sunshine reflecting on her septum, and her labial frenulum piercing exposed in a wide grin.

“This blue would suit you very well!” She reaches for Melanie’s hands and her nail polish bottle. “We’d match!! And it would distract me from the fact that my nail polish doesn’t match my outfit.”

“Why’d you paint them, then? The pink was nice,” Melanie asks and watches Georgie uncapping the bottle and getting to work on Melanie’s nails.

“Jon asked me to accompany him to an outing tonight and I wanted to wear a blue dress, so the pink had to go,” Georgie explains while finishing Melanie’s third finger. It looks so easy when Georgie paints nails – when Melanie does it, she always paints over the borders of her nails and on her cuticles, the polish ends up a bit uneven and streaky in places. But it suits her overall aesthetic, so she’s not too stressed about it. But this is different, isn’t it? It’s Georgie holding her hand like a precious object, like a restaurateur may hold a vase or plate while trying to glue the smallest of bits back together. It’s Georgie applying her own nail polish that’s the softest of blues instead of Melanie’s usual blackest of blacks. It’s Georgie being a considerate friend for Jon despite their recent breakup. It’s the domesticity of sitting on the grass in the middle of the Magnus’ University’s campus, ready to be seen by anyone that passes by. It’s Melanie not being disgusted by and anxious because of affection and touching and overall close proximity. – All in all, everything is too much. So, she stills.

“If you wanted, you could join us.” Georgie’s voice is timid, as if she’s testing the waters. And Melanie wants to say yes, because Georgie asked her and she wants to spend time with her, get to know her, but she also promised Sasha to meet up with her because they have to start planning Tim’s birthday. So, she says as much and adds: “I’m sorry. But next time I will come, I promise.”

“You can bring Sasha and Tim. I would love to get to know them,” Georgie says with a hint of disappointment and a spoonful excitement.

“Yeah,” Melanie says, “I think that would be nice.”

They fall silent after that and Melanie thinks she could get used to this. To learning all the little things about Georgie. And she begins now with the dry softness of her hands against her own rough palm.

Melanie inhales shakily, counts to ten, and exhales slowly. A hesitating hand reaches for her own, startling her and making her eyes snap up to land on Sasha’s smiling face.

“You okay?” Sasha’s voice is soft and only meant to be heard by Melanie. “It’s not too late to go, if you want to.” Just as Melanie opens her mouth to retort that she doesn’t actually want to go, because she wants to be here and enjoy this, a familiar voice calls her name. Before turning around to face Georgie, she gives Sasha a quick nod and forces something akin to a smile on her face.

“Finally! I was afraid we wouldn’t find you,” Georgie says, a little out of breath and through half a laugh. “It took a bit longer, but the boys are to blame, I reject all accusations that my make-up is at fault.” She looks gorgeous as ever; it’s the first time, Melanie has ever seen her with braids instead of her natural curls. She’s wearing a pink top and the mustard yellow high-waist skirt she wore the first time Melanie had met her. Her legs are clad in light blue overknee socks. Despite the pressing heat, she’s wearing a thin white cardigan.

Looped through her arm is Jon’s bare one. He looks highly stressed in his black button-up and his light grey skinny jeans which she – Melanie is sure of it – has seen on Georgie on the seldom occasion she wears trousers. White socks stick out of his lilac chucks.

“I thought you were bi.” The words escape her mouth like an accusation a second before her eyes fall on Martin who should be the first one to spot due to his height but tends to merge with the background because of the way he slumps into himself, shrinking a few inches to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. He’s in his usual floral-patterned button-up and khakis but someone has painted the rainbow flag on his freckled cheeks.

“I am,” Georgie answers light-heartedly, “but the colours of the pan flag are much nicer, don’t you think?” She lets go of Jon’s arm, at least doubling the anxiety apparent on his face in the process. She twirls and fans out her skirt, curtsying ironically, before looping her arm through Jon’s again.

A moment of silence falls over them, broken only by the chattering and cheering voices around them.

“This is Sasha,” Melanie almost yells, attempting to brush over the fact how uncomfortable she feels and with the thought in mind that introductions are long overdue. She holds up their intertwined hands and Sasha smiles into the round. Tim, whose existence Melanie has straight up forgotten until now, clears his throat behind her. Hastily, she points over her shoulder at the tall guy. “And this is Tim.”

He drops his elbows on her shoulders, leaning half-way over her and stage-whispering: “I want to be offended because you didn’t introduce us earlier, but I can see why you tried to keep your model friends all to yourself.”

A scowl on her face that could rival Jon’s best ones, she retorts: “If you don’t retreat in a peaceful manner, I will not shy away from shanking you.” Tim doesn’t take her seriously, which was to be suspected, and rests his chin on her head, laughing quietly.

“I love your subtle use of the flags,” Sasha says, gesturing widely at all three of them. She’s wearing shorts and an oversized shirt – that could also be one of Tim’s, Melanie’s not sure –, around her waist she’s tied a bi flag like a loop-sided dip hem skirt. “You definitely put more thought into it than Tim.” Her free hand points over her shoulder to Tim, who dramatically rips his arms away from Melanie’s shoulders and stands tall to his full height. Almost knocking his hand into a stranger, he spreads his arms out like wings and showcases the pan flag he made Sasha paint across his whole torso.

“I was never one for subtlety,” Tim admits like it’s a character trait he’s allowed to be proud of. As if he’s waiting for applause, his arms stay extended and he grins at Jon, Martin and Georgie.

“I tried to coax Jon into going shirtless with a giant ace of hearts painted on his chest, but due to unknown reasons he refused,” Georgie intersects, once again causing Jon’s scowl to deepen. He hisses at her: “There are no ‘unknown reasons’, Georgie!”

She ignores him and bulldozes on: “I think it has everything to do with his stunning good looks. If he’d show too much skin too many people would start swooning on the streets. We can’t have that.” She winks conspiringly at Melanie.

Petulantly, Jon interjects: “If I didn’t wear a shirt, where would I have put my pin?”

Only now Melanie notices a tiny pin shaped like two banners above each other on his breast pocket. A teal coloured pin reading he/him.

Georgie waves her hand dismissively at Jon, but it’s obvious that she’s doing it in a fond, loving way.

“It’s cute and you should really buy Martin a drink later as a thank you. However, you didn’t know Martin would gift nice pins to you, so it wasn’t an excuse when I proposed the idea to you back home,” she says with a shit-eating grin on her lips. “And you still have the bracelet, don’t you?” She points to the wrist of the arm she holds onto that pokes out of his pocket. A simple bracelet braided from teal coloured yarn. Then she cups her free hand around half of her mouth and she stage-whispers to Melanie, Sasha and Tim: “Martin made that as well. It’s really nice.”

They all coo appropriately, Martin’s blushing under the sudden attention.

“I wear one, too,” he pipes up unexpectantly and holds up his left arm, presenting a braided bracelet on his wrist. “It matches your socks.” And it’s true. Both his bracelet and Melanie’s overknee socks show the unmistakable colours of the trans flag. She smiles at him, genuinely and thankful. He didn’t have to do that and yet he did. Since their first-time meeting, they haven’t talked much to each other, but this little act of reassuring kindness makes her want to be better friends with him. He always looked like a nice bloke, but this … he didn’t have to do that. “If you want one, too, I– I could do that.”

“That would be really lovely,” she replies, while Sasha squeezes her hand reassuringly. And because Melanie can’t take all those eyes resting on them both, she turns to Jon: “Does that mean you got more than one?”

“Bracelets or pronouns?” He asks, irritation clear on his face. “Either way, the answer is yes.” He’s pulling his hand free from his pocket, showcasing a second pin shaped like the first one – only that this one reads they/them – and a differently braided bracelet. Both in salmon pink.

She makes a mental note to keep an eye on his wrist from now on

Being alone with Jon always feels weird, she thinks, fiddling with the strap of her bag. They’re proper friends now, she thinks, but they both now what’s written on their bodies, and it looms over them every time they talk.

This is the first time she’s in their room. Their roommate Gerry is out, and she sits on the open floor, propped up against Gerry’s bedframe. She’s met Gerry a total of two times and she digs his style, matching her all black aesthetic. But he’s a musician, never too far away from a guitar, and she never had the opportunity to hold a conversation with him. So, they greet each other, awkwardly aware of the other one’s presence and nothing more.

“I don’t want to sound rude, but why are you here?”

Jon’s voice is gruff and clearly irritated, but they’re not hostile which is more than Melanie could have hoped for. Even though they know each other for almost ten months now, she still can’t take the measure of them. If they think they’re friends. (The realisation that they could somehow not be on the same page makes her anxious, nausea washing over her.)

“Did Georgie tell you to add that to sound more approachable?” She’s deflecting and she knows it.

“Maybe, yeah.”

She didn’t think they would admit it. And that calms her a bit, because if they’d still hate her guts, they wouldn’t show the least bit of vulnerability.

“I came here,” she starts saying, pausing nervously. Then she shakes her head, lets go of her anxiety as much as she actively can. “I wanted to talk about Georgie.”

Sometimes it’s easy and people just know what’s going on because they just sense the vibe of the room or whatever, but Jon’s not one of those people. They try to pay mind to the people around them, or at least their friends, but social cues slip past them all of the time. She should have seen their questioning look coming, the way the little crease between their brows appears and their lips curl into half a pout. Slowly, they ask: “What about Georgie?”

“I want to ask her out,” she replies with as much bravado as she can muster. To be honest, she’s quite proud of herself. No quiver in her voice. No hesitation whatsoever.

“I’m not asking for your permission,” she clarifies hastily. “I only want to know if – you know, there are any– lingering feelings. For her.” She clears her throat. “We’re friends and– well, at least I think we’re friends, and I wouldn’t want to hurt you with my feelings.”

The thing is, she thought she’d get a straight and honest no, or a defensive no which really means yes. She didn’t think they’d look that … caught off guard. Like it’s complete fucking news to them that she could be interested in Georgie, or like it’s absolutely ridiculous that anyone could think Jonathan Sims could be hung up on a goddess. Or maybe, just maybe, they really are crushing on someone that’s not Georgie. Like they didn’t expect the conversation to go that way and they didn’t prepare an answer that would satisfy them in the long run.

“I–,” they stop talking, obviously restraining their hands from wringing the hem of their button-up. She catches once again the salmon-pink bracelet on their wrist. “I don’t harbour any romantic feelings for Georgie.”

It would feel more natural, if Jon averted their eyes, but they’re staring at Melanie. Trying to assess Melanie and her reaction, categorising every movement and word into the messy drawers of their mind.

“Okay,” Melanie says. “That’s good.” Her eyes flicker away from Jon’s face. Only for a moment. “For you. Because you’re not together anymore.” The sound that comes out of her throat is akin to a laugh or maybe a scoff. “And, well, for me? You know, with the whole date thing I’m trying to do.”

They look at each other for a moment. Outside of the room a door closes noisily and startles them out of their silence. Jon clears their throat and asks: “Am I obliged to share a personal information about my romantic life as well?”

“I mean, if you want to?”

“Georgie says it’s customary to,” their face scrunches up in something resembling disdain, “’trade’ that kind of information. So, if you’d like to know about my romantic endeavours, I would provide you the appropriate amount of ‘gen’.”

And this is the last straw. Hearing Jonathan Sims saying ‘gen’ like they’re chewing on the stickiest of caramel candies, is so unbelievably funny. So, she laughs. Between bursts of laughter, she tries to explain herself, but every time she stifles it enough to get half a word out, she gets a blurry look of their face and starts over again.

“I don’t get what’s so funny to you,” they state, piqued.

“What comes next?” Despite trying to slow her breath, she’s more gasping than asking. “You’re gonna dish on Georgie and Martin, all fax, no printer? You’re gonna spill the tea and throw some shade?”

Melanie wipes a stray tear from her cheek and the wetness from the corners of her eyes. She inhales and exhales deeply, multiple times. Then she draws another breath for good measure and says: “You don’t have to share anything with me, if you’re not comfortable. I didn’t come here to dig up some dirt on you. If you want to share, I’ll listen, or whatever, but I won’t, like, actively ask you about this sort of stuff.”

“I think, it would be,” they pause briefly, “good.” And yet, they don’t continue. She makes a prompting gesture with her hand. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that I take a fancy in someone. However, I find myself in the predicament of slowly acquiring a liking for … someone.”

“You want to share the name of that someone?” She’s not sure if they need to. When she thinks of it, she isn’t even sure if they know anybody else than herself, Georgie and – Martin. (To an extent they know Sasha, Tim, Basira and Daisy. And that’s it. She doesn’t take them for one who develops feelings for someone they barely know.)

“I don’t think I have to do that,” they reply, sourly. Apparently, they did the same equation as her.

“No, maybe not.” She shrugs. “But if you ever feel the need to say it out loud – you know, not just in front of your mirror but rather a real-life person – I’m here.”

They smile. They definitely smile, even if it’s just the slightest of upward movements of the corner of their lips. And it makes her smile, too.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” they say, softly.

In the end, Melanie doesn’t get around to ask Georgie for a date. She wants to, really, she plans on doing it on this very day. But then she chickens out. Embarrassingly, so.

They went out for ice cream, Georgie in her cute summer sandals, Melanie in the clunky, black boots she’s wearing since she’s sixteen. They must make a weird couple, Georgie all cosmopolitan extravaganza and Melanie every MCR album cover incarnated.

Now, they’re sitting on the couch in Melanie’s shared flat. Georgie’s legs dangle off the armrest and her head lays in Melanie’s lap, once again.

“It must be nice to live in a whole flat,” Georgie says, her eyes closed and sighing contently. “You can throw a party, if your flat mates are up to it.”

“I’m not up for parties,” Melanie replies. “Annabelle and Jude aren’t either, thank god.”

Georgie cracks open one of her eyes and scans Melanie’s face. She catches Melanie’s gaze and brings every thought in Melanie’s mind to a halt. The only thing she can now concentrate on is Georgie’s soft looking cupid’s bow, and the desire to kiss her right there, and on the corners of her mouth, and the place on her cheek where Melanie knows appears a dimple whenever she smiles, and the line of her jaw. Melanie wants to kiss her forehead, along the edges of her brows, down her temples, and right next to her ears.

Sometimes it’s hard to sit next to Georgie and keep her distance. Everything about Georgie draws her near, pulls her in, makes her want to scream from the top of her lungs and remain silent at the same time. There’s a bowl filled with a burning hot liquid inside her, and every moment with Georgie is about balancing it out, preventing it from spilling.

“Would you go to a party with me?” While asking, Georgie opens her other eye and her gaze on Melanie grows even more intense.

“Is there a party?” Buying time seems reasonable, Melanie thinks.

“It’s a hypothetical party. And I hereby hypothetically invite you.” Georgie grins, lifting her chin a little. “Will you go with me to this hypothetical get together?”

“Well, if you ask me so nicely, I will hypothetically agree,” Melanie replies, smiling herself now. She can do this. She can totally ask Georgie for a date. (Her heart disagrees. But if her mind tells it Yes You Can Do It often enough, maybe it will become true.) “Maybe we should do that.” Close. “Go out.” Closer. “Together.” Yes, perfect. Nicely done, Melanie! “To a party.” Overshot.

“I would like that.” Her voice is oh so gentle and it’s as if Melanie had said go on a date with me, as if she hadn’t blown it completely. Georgie’s hand comes up, nude coloured nails brushing Melanie’s cheek. The tips of her fingers sink into Melanie’s hairline. “Your hair feels really nice.”

“Than– Thank you.” She can’t keep the stutter from the two words and it’s a bit embarrassing. She’s stuttering quite often, if she’s completely honest with herself. When she gets excited about her studies or about a paper on intersectional feminism or when she stumbles upon a really, really cute cat video. But never with her friends. It’s been ages since the last time she got so flustered she had to stammer and stumble over the words on her lips. “But it never looks as nice as yours.”

She can do this whole flirting thing, okay, she’s the fucking master of smooth comebacks. Once Georgie had said that Melanie’s coffee looked really nice and Melanie had answered ‘No, you’ like the absolute fucking court jester that she is. (She spends too much time with Martin, is the morale of the story.)

“If you ever decide to grow it out, I can braid it for you,” Georgie suggests, gently playing with the tips of Melanie’s hair. “I think you’d look nice with a small braid right here.” She traces a path above Melanie’s ear. “But I like your short hair, too. It suits you very well.”

Melanie doesn’t answer for a long, long moment. Then her hand finds its way towards Georgie’s face, hovering a good centimetre next to it, silently asking for permission. And Georgie’s grants it, comes even closer, letting her face be cupped by Melanie’s hand.

And with a sudden intensity, she feels the need to tell Georgie just how much she likes her. It’s gnawing at her, making her dizzy and uneasy. Her hand’s cradling the face of the woman she’s growing so fond of that sometimes the first thing she thinks of in the morning is shooting Georgie a little text wishing her a good morning.

Not being able to hold it back, the words spill from her mouth: “I really want to kiss you right now.”

Georgie’s mouth opens into a little surprised o, revealing just the tip of her labial frenulum piercing, shimmering in the warm shine of the coffee table light.

“I won’t do it if you don’t want me to,” Melanie rushes to say. “But if you’d like to, I would really, really like to kiss you right now.”

A heartbeat or two, then Georgie’s other hand shoots up, landing on the other side of Melanie’s face. She’s nodding vigorously now and grinning, eyes crinkling and full of zeal. She says: “Yes, okay, yeah, please do that. I would like that. Very much so. Right now would be good. Perfect actually.”

Before Georgie can spiral any further down the rambling vortex of her words, Melanie leans down and pulls her face up in the same movement. And she shuts Georgie up with the hard press of her lips. Her eyes flutter closed, and she can’t believe she’s really doing this. Kissing Georgie Barker on a humid night in July, sprawled on her couch, butterflies trying to escape from her torso.

This is good, this is nice, this is actually rather perfect.

Their mouths don’t fit right together with Georgie still lying on Melanie’s lap. She must be straining her neck somewhat awful to reach up to Melanie’s lips, and Melanie has to bend down awkwardly, and to be quite honest also a little bit dolorously, to actually keep the kiss going.

Melanie can taste the lipstick on Georgie’s mouth, feels it colouring her cupid’s bow. But she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t mind their uncomfortable position, the state of dishevelment they’ll both be in just a few minutes from now, and the fact that she wasn’t even smooth, asking Georgie for a kiss.

When they part, Georgie’s opening her eyes a tick after Melanie, and she uses it to really look at Georgie’s face. The perfectly shaped eyeliner, the warm colour of her subtle eyeshadow, the faintest traces of rouge on her cheeks, and the smudged lipstick.

“This is,” Georgie starts, finally sitting up without leaving Melanie’s lap. “I didn’t expect this when I came here.” She laughs softly, cupping Melanie’s face now with both of her hands; both resting just underneath Melanie’s jawline. “I’m not complaining, really, I thought about this for long enough. I’m just surprised, I guess.”

“What do you have to be surprised about?” Melanie tilts her head in confusion. “I am still in shock that you agreed to kiss me. I mean, I didn’t pressure you into doing that, did I?”

Georgie laughs.

“No,” she says. “No, you didn’t. I very much wanted to kiss you, thank you.”

“Are you thanking me for kissing you?”

Georgie tilts her head as well, contemplating Melanie’s words as if she hadn’t even realised, she had said them at all. Then she says: “I must have, yes. It was a rather nice kiss, so I think you deserve my gratitude.” She grins. “So, thank you, Melanie King, for the extreme pleasure of kissing you. And hopefully, I can extend this thank you indefinitely, because I very much intend on kissing you more.”

Melanie places a gentle kiss on Georgie’s nose and retorts: “You’re very welcome. And you can kiss me any time you want.” Their foreheads touch and Melanie lets out a shaky breath.

#10

It's rare for Melanie to get roped into things she doesn’t enjoy at all. That includes family functions, student mixers and getting dragged to the nearby lake for a swim.

Swimming, much like jogging, was invented by the devil and exists solely for the purpose of torturing Melanie.

Usually, she tells Sasha and Tim or Georgie to go without her. On seldom occasions, she packs a book and a beach towel and sprawls herself out in a safe, reasonable distance to the water.

Today, she thought she could make Georgie happy and actually wear a swimsuit. – She still wouldn’t go near the water, but she could at least pretend that there’s a chance she won’t stay dry. She didn’t, however, think about the fact that it’s scorching hot today even though they’re in the shadows, and that Georgie isn’t as gullible as necessary to believe her lie about going for a swim.

“Why don’t you put those away?” Georgie asks; this time, Melanie’s head lies in Georgie’s lap, so Georgie has to look down at her girlfriend while gesturing towards Melanie’s clunky boots. “It’s a thousand degrees and you’re wearing two pairs of socks in black boots.”

“I’m also wearing only a swimsuit and shorts and there’s a light breeze,” Melanie counters, tugging at the strap of her black swimsuit. “Regular people sweat. Goths, we simmer.”

Chuckling, Georgie interjects: “You’re not a goth, love.”

It’s been two whole weeks since their first kiss, but Melanie’s still not used to the little jolts of excitement and endearment she feels, every time Georgie calls her a term of affection. She’s just like that, calling Jon honey and Martin our kid and Melanie love or dear or bird. At times Melanie thinks about all the possible names Georgie could call her, and about all the petnames she could think about calling Georgie.

“Well, sweating is gross, so I don’t do it,” Melanie says, shaking off the warm feeling in her chest. It’s warm enough as it is. “If you’re so hot, maybe you should take off your cardigan.”

The hesitation in Georgie’s answer translates to the uncertainty Melanie feels herself: “We could do it together.” Melanie doesn’t say anything at first, contemplating. “Putting it all out there, you know.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Georgie adds hastily, brushing a stray wisp of hair out of her face. It’s the first time Melanie sees her in a bun and therefore the first time she can see Georgie’s ears, the lobes stretched and decorated with little plugs engraved and gilded with a sun very much like the one she’s wearing as a septum. “I just want you to know that you’re safe with us and that I don’t care.” Her gaze is unwavering. “About, like, your mark.”

For all intents and purpose Melanie doesn’t want to look away but she still does it. Takes a look at Sasha and Tim, kicking water at each other and laughing. They are, as far as Melanie’s concerned, a one in a million pair. Sasha’s shoulder adorns the same spiral pattern as Tim’s biceps, and they knew each other since Sasha’s father worked one of the shifts when Tim was born in the hospital. – It’s not romantic, they’re platonic soulmates and they always knew that about each other.

Then she’s looking over at Jon and Martin, sitting on the small landing stage, feet dangling into the water. She doesn’t have to see their marks to know what they are. Beneath Jon’s clavicle OH NO is written in neat small caps. It’s not a nice mark but Jon’s not a nice man, so it’s not far-fetched to imagine that she’s not the only one proclaiming these words upon talking to him for the first time. Martin, on the other hand, has a full sentence on his upper thigh: Just got drunk and walked in. Written in a sharp script, the L reaching as far down as the G and the capital J. Something’s rather familiar about the handwriting, but she seems to be the only one paying attention to the marks at all and she doesn’t want to attract notice to something with so much potential of going wrong.

Georgie and her, they are the only one still hiding their soulmarks. And in this moment, Melanie thinks that there is no reason anymore to keep it secret. If anyone would be okay with Jon’s name on Melanie’s body, it would be Georgie. He’s her best friend and maybe they’re as platonic as Sasha and Tim. Maybe he’ll be her best friend, too. In, like, a distant future.

“Okay,” she hears herself say. Maybe even more surprised than Georgie. “I think I can do that.”

She sits up, blinking against the dizziness and the black dots dancing in front of her eyes. After that she reaches forward, tugging at the laces of her boots. One by one gets pulled free of their confinement and it takes not nearly as much time as Melanie would like it to.

A shaky breath (she should stop doing that, it fucks with her whole bad girl attitude) and she’s pulling off one boot at a time. Out of the corner of her eyes she can see Georgie taking off her cardigan, so she undresses her feet completely, setting aside both pairs of socks.

“My feet are the whitest of white,” Melanie jokes to cover up her nerves. “I don’t remember the last time they have seen the sun. I’m going to get a sunburn.”

“I’ve got sunscreen,” Georgie answers gently, cupping Melanie’s upper arm with her hand. Her nails are painted in the blackest of blacks, Melanie’s one and only nail polish. (Well, that’s not quite true. She’s got two bottles of the same colour, one for her hands, one for her feet.)

Georgie’s gaze falls onto Melanie’s feet. Amazed, she coos: “You painted your nails!”

“I always paint my toenails,” Melanie admits. “I’m usually the only one who sees it, but I like knowing that they’re painted.”

She turns around and for a moment she thinks about sitting tailor-fashion, hiding her left ankle. She doesn’t do it, however. Pulling her legs close, she sits sideways on her hip, showcasing Jon’s name in all its loopy glory.

“May I–,“ Georgie cuts herself off, fiddling with the cardigan in her lap. “May I take a look?”

Melanie shrugs, thinks better of it and says: “Yeah, sure.”

Carefully, Melanie extends her left leg, stretching it out in front of Georgie, so that her ankle is next to Georgie’s knee. Georgie’s hand reaches out tentatively, the tip of her index finger stopping just shy of Melanie’s skin. And suddenly, she’s touching Melanie’s skin, brushing over the swirls and bows and the name that is not hers.

“This is unbelievably funny,” she says, but she doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s funny. Melanie doesn’t think it’s funny. Her brows furrow and she’s this close to pulling her ankle away from Georgie’s touch. But it’s nice, is the thing. This is the first time in forever someone has touched her soulmark. Not even Melanie has consciously laid a finger on it in years.

Melanie’s silence following her statement must have tipped Georgie off that her choice of words maybe wasn’t the best because she startles and tries it again: “Sorry, that was rude. I mean.” This time she has the nerve to chuckle. “That’s not Jon’s handwriting.”

Surprise is not necessarily the best word to describe the thing that hits Melanie square in the stomach, sucker-punching the air from her lungs. Through gritted teeth and a tense jaw, she asks: “It’s not?” She needs the confirmation, needs Georgie to say it again.

But she doesn’t.

Instead she turns around, reaches for her purse and rifles through it until she finds what she’s looking for. A felt tip marker. She stops, however, hovering over Melanie’s ankle in a silent question. Melanie waves her hand dismissively, and Georgie apparently interprets it as affirmative. Then she proceeds, writing for a few seconds, maybe even half a minute. When she’s done, she lifts her head and caps the marker again, accidentally nudging Melanie’s foot with the back of her hand.

“You should take a look,” Georgie says, her voice with a nervous edge to it.

Melanie pulls her legs towards herself and scans her ankle that’s now covered in names in the same loopy script of her soulmark. The Ss of Sasha are as wrongly weighed as the ones in Sims, the bottom half much smaller than the top half. The Os in Stoker and Georgie have the same perfect roundness of the one in Jonathan. The Ks in Blackwood and Barker are written with the same bows as the H in Jonathan.

This is bizarre.

“Can– could you–,” Melanie huffs out a frustrated noise. “May I see yours, too?”

Slowly as if she’s trying not to scare Melanie away, she extends her right arm and Melanie can see the tiny handwriting in the crook of her arm. The tiny, tiny handwriting hat is unmistakably Melanie’s.

“You told me, you heard so much about me,” Melanie breathes. “You came into the library and went all soccer mom on Jon and then you said you heard so much about me.” She stares at the Oh god, I am so sorry engraved on Georgie’s skin. “And I thought: Oh shit, that guy is my soulmate and his girlfriend is the most beautiful being on this planet and he probably told her how much he hates me.”

“I didn’t think anything about it,” Georgie confesses with the softest of smiles. “I met so many people whose first words to me were an apology. Eventually, you start to, well, stop thinking about it.” She casts the marker away and leans forward, cupping Melanie’s hands with both of hers. “And Jon told me about your first encounter, so I didn’t think about it, like, twice.”

Melanie returns the slight pressure of Georgie’s hands and a smile blossoms on her face. She would have been okay with a platonic soul bond with Jon, really, she would have been. (Not at first because he’s a pompous twat and a squabbler, a know-it-all that rubs Melanie in all the wrong ways. But he grew on her like yeast on wet flour, and now she can easily picture herself sitting with him on the floor of her flat, eating ice cream drowned in scotch straight from the tub while decidedly not talking about their feelings or anything important at all.) But she doesn’t know if she would have been alright with Georgie falling out of love with her because of her soulmate. (It’s selfish, that’s what it is. Hoping against all hope that Georgie doesn’t meet her soulmate as long as they’re romantically involved.)

Now there is another bond between them, not necessarily romantic, but they were supposed to meet. Melanie’s allowed to fall as hard as she possibly can, because Georgie is the human the universe hand-picked just for her. The human that loves her the most. The human that she’s allowed to love back, unconditionally if she chooses so.

“I think, I’d like to get this tattooed,” Melanie croaks, averting her eyes.

“Don’t want to have Jon’s name on your ankle anymore?” There’s a chuckle in Georgie’s voice and a loving gentleness.

“I don’t think I mind it as much anymore,” Melanie answers. “But this is nice. Having the names of the people I love on me. Not just the clueless prat that led me to you.” She laughs. “And if they ask, I can still tell them it’s a list of my future enemies.”

They’re both chuckling now, and Melanie lifts their hands up, pressing soft kisses on the knuckles of Georgie’s hand. Warmth floods Melanie’s insides and she thinks that even if they ever were to break up, they can still remain friends. Jon and Sasha are a few feet away and they are living, breathing evidence that Georgie and Melanie can do this.

Something tender sits on the top of Melanie’s tongue and at first, she’s trying to swallow it back down, to not be that vulnerable so soon into their relationship, but then she shakes off the thought. Georgie seems to be honest with her feelings at all times, unafraid of showing her deepest inside, and Melanie doesn’t want to be a chicken about the only thing that truly matters. (Even though the weightiness of it is probably the reason why it’s so hard for her.)

“I really like you,” she ends up saying. The words like camomile on her tongue. What’s even better is Georgie smiling lovingly at her and replying; “I really like you, too.”

#the magnus archives #fanfiction #georgie barker x melanie king #spooky lesbians #what the girlfriends #wtgfs #tma #fanfic: mine #college au #schmok writes #10k fic #soulmate au #non-binary jon sims #trans melanie king #trans martin blackwood

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forkanna · 4 years ago

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Sorry about the long delay in updates. My life's been a bit up and down of late; good things and bad. Hopefully things will settle soon. Either way, I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

CHAPTER NINE

This was definitely a new one on Rise Kujikawa. She felt like the world had turned upside down — again — and she was supposed to navigate her way without a map or a compass. Where to begin?

"What… are you- oh come on, liking girls doesn't make you a boy. Has that really been worrying you all this time?"

Ai blinked across at her for a few seconds. "What? Oh, yes, but… Rise-chan, I'm trying to tell you something pretty major. Aren't you paying attention?"

"Come on, you're not a boy! Regardless of why you think you are, so like, you can cut that out right now. Okay?" She reached over to take up her hand and squeeze it firmly between both of her own, trying to ignore the way Ai whimpered. "We're friends. If you never want to kiss me again, that's okay, but just wanting to kiss me a couple times? Does not mean you're a boy, or messed up, or me and you have to move to Ni-Chome, or anything. It's all good."

Ebihara remained quiet for a second, simply holding her friend's hand. Looking more than a little lost. "Well, Ni-Chome is right around the corner from here… and that's where… people like us go. Right?"

"Hey! There's no 'people like us', we're just people!"

"Ugh, I know," she burst out in irritation at herself, suddenly standing up and pacing back and forth in front of Rise. "I know! It's so stupid that I get in my own head about this, but I can't just enjoy anything. Why am I like this? Do I have no chill?!"

"Guess not." When Ai stopped to glare at her, she rolled her eyes. "Well, you really don't! I'm not saying it's bad or you're bad, but you do need to learn how to relax."

But she kept pacing. Rise had just about given up and assumed that was the end of the discussion, and that she should go back to trying to find another song to sing — when Ai suddenly knelt down in front of her, hands gripping the sofa on either side of the idol's hips.

"Wha- hey, what are you doing?!"

"Getting your attention, girl. I need you to really hear me."

"God, I hear you just fine! We just got done agreeing you don't need to make a big deal out of every-"

"My birth name was Aihiko," she pushed ahead stubbornly, such a fierce determination in her eyes that Rise had to fight down the instinct to cower. Even drunk, she could be a real force of nature. "And I always knew that didn't fit me. It just took me until really late in elementary school before I figured out why.

"What I told you and the others before was true. I was always bullied, always called 'Piggy-hara' because I was fat. Because I didn't fit in, anywhere. No matter how many times I looked at the sports clubs, at the manly men I was supposed to look up to, my parents told me I would become someday… I didn't want to. I wanted to be Taeko Ohnuki, or Utada — I wanted to be Sailor Moon. All the other boys would fight over being Red Hawk when we played Featherman; I was too happy to be Pink Argus, when nobody else would want to touch that character unless we were playing with another girl. My whole life, I knew… I just didn't have a word for it. Not until… Ikko."

When she didn't continue for a moment, Rise cleared her throat to prompt quietly, "Ikko?"

"The talk show host. Trans and fabulous. I could see right there on my television screen, in front of my crying eyes thanks to another day of bullying and shame, a woman who was born like me — living her truth, live and in colour in front of the whole country. And sure, those talk shows are a little corny, but to me, as a little boy who thought he was just going to be broken for the rest of his life? They looked like hope."

"Oh… Ikko, yeah. Think I've seen her on Shin Domoto Kyoudai, and um, Onee MANS. Yeah." Rise was struggling to keep up mentally. She felt like any second now, the whole thing was going to come crashing down around her ears…

"Believe me, I know this is a lot to take in," she said with a sigh, brow creasing in concern for her friend. Which Rise thought was encouraging. "But once I realized who and what I was, and we were now suddenly filthy fucking rich, I asked my parents to help me be who I always was. Ironic that my mother was against it and my father was only too happy to help, but I mean, life is weird. And I have never really looked back… until now. With you."

"With me? Wait, wait… I feel like I'm losing my mind a little bit here. Do I have this right? You were born as a boy — which there's no way I can believe, just look at you! But because of some talk show host, and a bunch of mean kids who were jerks to you, you decided you didn't want to be a boy anymore?"

Ai grimaced. "That is… an oversimplification, but essentially, yes."

"And now you think you made the wrong choice because…" A hard swallow. "Me. Because you like me." Ai gave a small nod. "Whoa."

"You don't believe me." Her head fell forward until it was resting on Rise's shoulder. Now that they were so close, she could feel how badly her friend was trembling. "I should have known. Stupid. Why do I always think I know better, and things will go differently? Do I have brain damage? Maybe that's it, maybe it's brain damage and I need to be admitted to some kind of facility with padded walls and electroshock."

"Shut up already, wow…" Her hand came up to gently caress over Ai's hair. "Listen... It's not that I want to be skeptical. I can tell you aren't just screwing around, but come on, how do you expect me to believe any of this? You are gorgeous! And Ikko, she's also really pretty but I can tell she was born a boy. You? No way. It's just too crazy to be possible — and if you only knew some of the things I've seen, you would know I don't say that for no reason!"

Ai nodded glumly. Defeated. That was really the only word for it, and Rise felt awful, but she also couldn't flick a switch and suddenly not have that healthy dose of skepticism. Who would believe a story like this right out of the gate with absolutely zero proof right in front of their eyes?

"Sorry," Rise finally whispered in a small voice.

"Why? Nothing to be sorry about. In fact, I know you won't get it, but you really helped me today."

"Huh? How did I do that? By not believing you?!"

"Exactly." Standing up again, she brushed off the front of her long skirt studiously. "If it's so inconceivable to you that I could have been a boy in a past life, then I guess that means I'm not crazy for pursuing my dream — living life as who I am inside. So I guess… thank you."

That sinking feeling swirling around in Rise's stomach was getting stronger. Maybe Ai wasn't kidding. But that was insane! Sure, Naoto had been able to hide her gender for a little while, but it wasn't as easy going in the other direction. If Ai were a boy in disguise, she would be doing things to hide certain aspects of her anatomy. Such as…

Such as a frilly lace collar around her neck. At all times.

"Is… what's… under here…?"

Her fingers barely came in contact with the collar when Ebihara took a step backwards — and literally tripped over the coffee table, sprawling on her back on the carpet with a ghastly yelp. Rise hurried around to crouch over her.

"I'm sorry! God, I'm really sorry, are you all right?!"

"Y-yeah," she groaned, even though she was holding her head, which indicated that no, she probably wasn't.

"I just wanted to ask about that collar," Rise said while helping her sit up. "But I didn't mean to scare you, I probably should have asked before I reached for it."

"Yeah, you should have. But it's no big deal." The phone buzzed again. "Ugh. It's getting late, we probably shouldn't ask for more time. This way we can maybe slip back in before final period and avoid catching hell."

"Hah! No way can we make it back in time, I really don't think so. But keep dreaming."

"Always," Ai offered with a slight smirk.

~ o ~

But as her friend answered the phone and she started gathering up their things, Rise's brain was swirling with far too many thoughts. They followed her out of the karaoke establishment and all the way back to the train platform, into the car itself. At least it wasn't as crowded as it would be if they caught a later train, even though they still had a good hour and a half left in their trip. Her poor young mind was plagued by a thousand questions, anxieties, and just random thoughts that were so unwelcome but wouldn't seem to go away for anything.

Could all that craziness actually be true? No. It was so impossible and ludicrous. Yet Ai had said every word with conviction, and no trace of uncertainty. Either this was one of the most convincing scams of all time, or…

Could she really be a boy?

Just glancing over at the flawlessly beautiful profile of Ai Ebihara was seemingly enough to put that possibility to death. Impossible. Even though Rise knew that there were women out there who had been born different, and she very vaguely understood the concept, she didn't know any of them personally. Any she had seen in popular media were various degrees of feminine and pretty, but still obviously not born the way she was; there were readily apparent differences. None of which she observed when looking at her new best friend. How was she supposed to believe such a wild story?

But she couldn't completely let go of how earnestly Ai had looked at her when confessing about her alleged condition. If she really were full of shit, she probably would have never tried to sell it so hard; what did she have to gain by it? Anything? Not as far as she could tell, no matter how she tried to look at it. There was no impetus for her to make up such a wild tale.

So then… crazy as it was, if she had nothing to gain by lying…

'No way, though!' she screamed internally, clamping her eyes shut for a moment as the train bumped along toward Yasoinaba. 'She's so perfect, she's prettier than me. Why is she doing this to me? Why lie? I don't know what to think anymore!'

Her thoughts were interrupted by a hand slipping into her own. Rise peeled open her eyes to see her friend, this beautiful woman who she was suspecting of horrible lies, smiling gently over at her with a concerned expression. Her heart melted. It didn't clear up any confusion at all, but she couldn't pretend this girl was being cruel to her for no reason. Not when she looked at her like that.

"You okay?"

"Y-yeah! Great! Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because I'm a horrible bitch for dropping a bombshell on you," Ai supplied quietly. "You should be pissed."

"Nope. I mean… okay, I do have a question." When there was no reply, Rise continued, "Why didn't you just show me?"

"Show you what?

"You know…"

Ai blinked at her friend's reddening features for a couple of seconds until she got it, and her lip curled. "Oh, what the fuck? You want me to just flash you?!"

"NO!" A few people turned to look at the two of them, and she double-checked that her hat was hiding her trademark hair again. "Not here! And I didn't say I wanted you to, I'm just, y'know… wouldn't that have been the easiest way? To prove what you were telling me?"

"Yeah, I guess so, but that seems really gross. Besides…"

When she didn't finish her thought, Rise nudged her with her elbow. "Hey, c'mon, don't chicken out now. We literally just made out so I don't think there's any reason to be shy anymore."

"I mean, okay, but it's not about feeling shy. I was going to say I had hoped you would believe me."

Damn. That really cut her to the core. But she couldn't even get upset about it, because as Ai said, she hadn't been holding back because she was shy. Obviously, she wasn't sure it was kind of her to issue a pseudo accusation like that. Her own fault for digging.

"Y-yeah. I can see why you would think that, but I mean, I've just never thought about anything like this before. It doesn't have anything to do with you! Yukiko or Chie could tell me the same exact thing and I would be just as skeptical. Does… I mean, do you hate me?"

"No," Ai whispered with quiet urgency, gripping her hand tighter. And Rise gripped back; she needed the comfort, and wanted her bestie to know that none of this meant she was going anywhere.

"You're sure?"

"Really, really sure. I'm sad you didn't believe me but I can't deny you have a point; as great as it is to know I look good enough to pass even when I'm telling you about it point-blank — seriously it's a huge relief, you will never know — I guess this is the one downside."

Rise tipped to the side until her head was resting on Ai's shoulder. She still felt dizzy. This was a nightmare and a dream, and she just wanted to go back to yesterday. Before she had been told impossible things that had to be true, because it was actually stranger that they be lies. It was like some kind of…

Magic.

"I'm being stupid," she finally breathed aloud as the revelation hit her like a bolt out of the blue. How could she have been looking at this so backwards?!

"What?"

"Nothing," she whispered. "Just… I've seen some pretty crazy stuff in my life. You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Ai definitely wouldn't believe her. "And I'm sitting here, thinking it's too weird that you might have been born a boy? That's so dumb!"

Clearly taking that in a slightly different manner, her friend chuckled and said, "There you go. I mean, you were in the entertainment industry."

"It's not like it is in the west, Ebi-chan. Like… a little, but when I toured the U.S.? Lots of people like that, all the makeup artists, and… you know, that Lady Gaga?" Ai shook her head. "She's really big over there, I have one of her albums somewhere."

"Bring it over, then. I mean, if she's queer, I want to hear her."

"Well, I don't know she is, but she has this whole… you know, dressing like a drag queen, big feathers and meat dresses! Crazy stuff!" They both laughed together, relaxing into the closeness. Like it should be.

"Either way, bring it," Ai said, interrupting her weird stomach-upside-down moment of realising what she had just been thinking. "I mean, don't expect me to choose her over Mariya, but…"

Rise giggled and whispered, "Or me. Because you're not a fan of my trash music."

"HEY! Shut the fuck up, I never said- UGH, you are a pain in the ASS." An airy sigh as she kissed the top of Rise's head. "You're lucky you're so cute."

Full blush. Rise was glad for her sunglasses and hat or she would have died of embarrassment. Biting her lip, she reached up to pull Ai closer, almost snuggling into her as best she could on the uncomfortable train seats. All she wanted was for the world to fall away, leaving them to revel in the escape from their reality. Their escape into each other.

"I'm scared."

"Me too."

"Really?" Rise whispered. "I'm… I don't even know… what to think. Are we lesbians? Or, because you were a boy, is it just…"

"Honestly? I don't know, either. That's why I was freaking out earlier. But now, I…" She cleared her throat and said, almost fearfully, "I think 'lesbian' could be the right word. Though I did really like Yu… ugh, I'm a lost cause."

"No," she snapped at her, looking up into her eyes. "Hey. You're the number one hottie of Yasogami High. Everybody says so."

"They say I'm a bitch, too."

"So? You've earned being a little bit of a bitch for a while. But I do think it's time to put the bitchy-pants away and start being Ai Ebihara again. Or, um…" Then she laughed in embarrassment.

"What?" she asked, brow furrowed in preemptive fear.

"I forgot already. Your real name; you told me, I just… you're Ebi-chan, I can't remember it."

"Oh. Well, it doesn't matter, because that's not really me anymore. Like you with 'Risette'; you cringe every time anyone says it. Even just now."

"Huh?! No, I didn't!"

"You so did, Rise-cheese."

The pop star puffed out her cheeks angrily as she glared up at her best friend. Then she pouted extra hard. "You can't make fun of me. It's mean."

"Thought you said I earned the right to be a bitch," Ai teased with a half-smirk.

"Not to ME! And I also said you can stop now! Hmph." Then she turned away from her, folding her arms over her chest as she glared away into the compartment.

"Oh wow, dramatic." But when Rise didn't turn back after a minute, she grabbed her upper arm and shook it slightly. "Come on… you can't really be this mad." More silence. A little desperation began to enter Ai's voice. "Rise… wait, wait, you're pissed off because I called you 'cheese'?!"

"I'm not cheese." But she did peek over her shoulder, and saw Ai looking legitimately conflicted. So she laughed awkwardly and turned back around, raising a hand to smooth over her hair. "Sorry… hey, I'm sorry. I was just messing around."

Ai dipped her head, expression just as conflicted as before. "This… is hard. Wow. I knew it was dumb, and you were being dumb, and I wanted to give you more shit, but my heart just started hurting, and…"

That was quite a wealth of feelings. Rise felt a little worried; would Ai really be able to handle what they were getting themselves into? Would either of them? Unable to hold back anymore, she threw her arms around her and pulled her in for the tightest hug she could manage.

"Ebi-chan… we'll be fine. Don't be so down, don't… don't lose track of what's good between us. How we fit together."

"Yeah?" she asked shakily. "You mean, how we have nothing in common, and didn't know each other before the past few weeks, a-and… and why would you even like me?"

"We have a lot in common. We like singing, and daifuku, and Korean dramas. And we both know what it's like for people not to be able to see you for who you really are; to make a lot of assumptions about you based on your appearance." Her brow furrowed, even while she was speaking. "Oh… and I guess that was even worse for you when you were a kid, huh? If you were a boy… and you felt like a girl inside… is… I mean, did I say that right? Do I know what I'm talking about?"

The softest chuckle floated out of Ai's lips as she pushed her face against Rise's neck. The nose and lips felt warm, and soft, and a little moist where she was speaking against her skin… creating goosebumps in the wake of the breath. "You're saying everything right. You always do. Probably an idol superpower."

"Maybe," she admitted with a light laugh, some of her anxiety beginning to melt away. "But I promise I'll only use it for good. I'll do my best!"

"God, you can't even turn it off. So gross!"

"You don't have to call me 'gross'! That's not nice!"

"Hey, I'm totally nice. What would you do without me being so 'nice' you want to punch a baby?"

When Rise pulled back, the most horrified expression on her face at that last bit of imagery, Ai burst out laughing so hard that she had to double over, arms wrapped around her middle. The mirth was catching; Rise giggled until she snorted like a pig, then was covering her face with both hands in shame while her supposed best friend guffawed openly at her. And she wouldn't have had it any other way, mortifying as it was. At least it meant the worst was over.

Wasn't it?

To Be Continued…

#we'll face ourselves #saphir de lune #forkanna writes #persona 4 fanfiction #rise x ai #p4 fanfic #jess the writer #yuri fanfiction

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clansayeed · 5 years ago

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Bound by Circumstance ― Chapter 15: The House on Prytania Street

PAIRING: Nik Ryder x trans*M!MC (Taylor Hunter) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Circumstance ⥽

Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he’s tripped into.

Bound by Circumstance and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the book Nightbound and the rest of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Circumstance only loosely follows the events and plotline of Nightbound, and features a separate antagonist, different character motivations, and further worldbuilding.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Circumstance/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The gang heads to Prytania Street to meet with the last power left untouched in New Orleans; the Garden District Coven. Taylor starts to experience the side effects of being a fae halfling.

[READ IT ON AO3]

The sun’s heat is blistering on the back of his neck.

It feels unnatural in a way; conducting their business with the darker side of the world in the daylight. They’ve been running between the worlds that exist between sunset and sunrise for so long that he almost forgot what the sun even looks like.

He likes looking at the moon. But looking at the sun? Ouch.

Still it feels strange not to have Cadence’s towering presence hovering somewhere at his back. Looking over at Katherine — he can’t imagine what it must feel like to her.

“Hey — nope, eyes here.”

Taylor winces at the backhand to his arm but Ryder definitely isn’t in the mood. He’s been tense ever since they left the hospital with a time and place to address the Garden Coven. Like he didn’t know that was the plan, or something.

“I’m listening,” promises Taylor. But listening for Nik at that very moment requires eyes as well as ears.

“Really? Then what’d I just say?”

He blames his hesitation on the fact its taking forever for the coffee to hit his nervous system. Looks to Cal beside him for some kind of help but the werewolf gives him a look of you’re on your own.

“Uh —”

“Right, thought so.”

“I get the gist, Nik. Don’t be rude, don’t make eye contact, probably best just not to open my mouth.”

Cal snorts. “Actually that’s scarily close to verbatim.”

“Did I ask you?” snarks Ryder, but the bait remains abandoned in the cracks on the sidewalk.

The Upper Garden District is like most wealthy neighborhoods; nice to look at for a time but not much for entertainment value without a place to actually go. And sure Taylor has entertained the thought of owning one of the many million-dollar mansions lined with black iron gates and enough bedrooms to sleep in a different one every night for a week or more.

But its like the streets know. They know what Taylor and the rest have seen — what some of them have done. They know what creature hunts them and close their entrances off with hanging willow branches and high brick walls.

Claiming innocence, refusing to be witnesses like covering their eyes in cupped palms absolves them of the duty placed upon survivors to recount tragedy when it is over.

Because they might be the only ones left to do so.

Taylor drags his fingertips along the winding bars of an iron gate. Wonders if the prickling he feels under his touch is static, his imagination, or something more.

Nothing about 937 Prytania Street sets it apart from the houses on either side of it, or across the street for that matter. If Katherine hadn’t stopped in front of it he might not have even guessed it was their final destination.

Wasn’t a witches’ home supposed to be covered in sigils or guarded by spirits from another world? At least adhere to the aesthetic, people.

Thank god, though, he’s not the only one underwhelmed by the obviously-new shiny coat of eggshell-white or the lack of shutters creaking in the mid- morning breeze.

“You sure this is the place, Kathy?” asks Cal with his head slightly raised, nostrils flared to try and pick up whatever scent witches carry. “It smells pretty ordinary.”

She doesn’t answer. Just presses the buzzer and waits patiently for the gate to open.

It does and without so much as an ominous creak.

Maybe its his paranoia kicking in but with every step they take towards the house the feeling of unease in Taylor’s stomach grows, and grows, until it sloshes around — doesn’t sit well with his coffee. Everything his eyes take in seems too normal. A lawn too well-manicured, a set of metal golden numbers too polished. Makes him want to grab a fistful of soil from a too vibrant pot of Easter lilies and throw it somewhere, anywhere to make the place a little less picturesque.

Lamrian was beautiful in its perfection.

The House on Prytania Street is perfect the way a staged corpse is perfect.

A stiff gentleman in a three-piece suit opens the door before Katherine can use the knocker. Looks the four of them over with a condescending air about him and there’s a half-second where it looks like he’s ready to close the door in their faces on principle.

He doesn’t, instead steps aside.

The problem with most of the houses in the area is that, beauty aside, most of them stand empty. Not on the material front — they are always filled with collections of things and with more places to sit than is realistically necessary. But whether its the shitty housing market or the fact that they’re just owned like another piece of a collection, rarely are they lived-in.

The Garden Coven house is no different.

While the Suit leads them to a parlor off the right of the house Taylor tries his best to try and find some evidence of life being lived; on the walls, the carpet, even in smudges in the dust that lines various and seemingly unrelated objects on display.

There are none. Not one single fingerprint.

Though the Suit gestures to a matching array of chaise lounges and high-backed chairs for them to wait in, they stay standing because Katherine stays standing.

“You will be collected shortly,” is all the Suit says before returning the way they had come; though this time he pulls the double doors closed behind him. Leaves them all feeling trapped despite the open windows and sunlight pouring through.

“Random question here,” Taylor breaks the silence because it might actually drive him up the wall, “but do we have a plan for if this goes badly?”

He looks to Ryder, who looks at Katherine, who has suddenly taken up an interest in the antique carpet underfoot.

Of course they don’t have a plan. Why would they have a plan for their last resort? The same wonder team that practically broke into Persephone without so much as an escape route on the brain.

Historically things have worked out in their favor, though. Is it wrong of him to hope this time, too, might not be so terrible?

The glowing yellow eyes that bore into his soul from across the room say yes, yes it is wrong of him. Say how dare he imagine that things might not turn out so bad. They blame him for bringing hellfire and brimstone down on this house, on this city.

“— ly shit, Taylor. You okay?”

Its like an out-of-body experience in reverse. Feeling too deep and too trapped within himself to answer the concern on Ryder’s face. Like he’s drowning inside his own mind — or inside someone else’s.

Nothing about her is stable — pinpointing what she looks like beyond the startling gaze with which she holds him captive is about as easy as finding a single raindrop in a stormy sea.

One moment there are wrinkles around her eyes. Lines at her mouth pursed with thin lips in a frown of disappointment. Then youthful candor in aching regret. Grey hair healthy and full then withered, curling like the rumors that hair and nails continue to grow long after you’re buried in the ground.

He doesn’t realize it until the tear burn at his eyes and make him choke, but he’s crying.

“Taylor — Taylor!”

It’s back-breaking to pull away from the vortex he’s been ensnared in. Both the sun and moon in each of her eyes. Glassy and knowing at the same time.

But he blinks. Feels those same tears run down his cheeks and tickle his chin. Looks at the concerned faces of his friends with utter confusion because how in the world could they be staring at him when he’s facing judgment at the metaphorical pearly gates, here?

Even he’s aware of how foolish he sounds when all he can let out is a dumb “What?”

Nik takes him by the shoulders; looks him up and down for any signs of physical harm like it all isn’t in his head. Remains the most tried and true validation of his experiences to this day.

“You — what the hell happened to you?”

Taylor looks to Cal’s frown of concern, to Katherine’s violet curls like whips lashing around her face as she tries to pinpoint what, where.

“You look like you jus’ saw a damn ghost,” Cal sees the confusion in his eyes and thinks he’s helping. He isn’t.

So he cranes his neck back, away from Nik, to the point where it feels like he might snap his own spine.

She’s still there — in the doorway to a shadowy corridor. Both young and old and there and not. Then she isn’t her at all and the elderly man standing in her place reminds him of his grandfather a bit — which does nothing but unsettle him further.

“You… you don’t see her — hi— it?”

No, of course they don’t. Why would they?

He’s used to this — defaults into the old habit of trying to pretend the thing he’s looking at doesn’t exist. Already with denial on the tip of his tongue burning like a sour candy left forgotten.

But this was supposed to have stopped. No more headaches, no more hallucinations. The things he’s seen and accepted… so why is this different? Why now of all the rotten times is he seeing something no one else can?

Sure Nik tries; Cal too. They look in the doorway where the figure hovers like a bad trip on acid. They try, but they don’t see.

“Rook,” — is this where he pulls a Hermione, tells Taylor that seeing things no one else can see isn’t normal even in their freaky lives? — “there’s no one there.”

Only he doesn’t sound his usual level of confidence. Sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself right alongside.

Katherine scoffs under her breath; shakes her head and sits because there’s nothing else to do with her arms folded so tightly across her chest its undeniably a measure of self-comfort. Of keeping herself grounded.

When Cal tries to sniff the air his nose crinkles. “There’s too many different scents. Ritual burnings, smudges — I can’t get a read on shit.”

“I swear,” mutters Nik so low Taylor wouldn’t hear it if he weren’t as close as he is, “if these bastards are messin’ with you —”

For a guy who spent the entire journey warning against this exact type of frustration, anger, Taylor’s pretty sure it doesn’t matter if the Coven — wherever they may be — can’t hear him.

“Stop, it’s fine.”

“It ain’t —”

“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”

“Like I give a damn?!”

“Lower your voice!”

“A-hem.”

At some point the Suit had returned without their notice. Taylor would like to hope it was after his little freak-out but, time to face facts; he’s just not that lucky.

The way he looks them over — he might very well have some sort of magic-witchy x-ray vision. How the fuck someone can have a gaze that feels something like being scored at the top of his head and having his very being pulled back layer by layer is a mystery and, unlike the others, its one Taylor has no desire to solve.

“The Garden Elders will see you now.”

He wants to ask for a second to catch his breath; regain his composure. But why ask for it when he already knows the answer he’ll get?

Like before Suit doesn’t wait for them to speak an agreement. Just turns and begins walking deeper into the old house with purpose. Cal follows close behind — for all his bravado there’s unmistakable gooseflesh riddling his forearms.

Taylor reaches out to Katherine without a second thought; offering like he can help her up when they both know she could very well launch him over the chair and out the window like a rag doll.

Just another thing to distract him from the unrelenting stare digging knives into his back, probably.

Only Katherine takes his hand; surprises them both by doing so.

“You still see them, don’t you?”

The way Kathy’s eyes roam the space behind him, Taylor can tell she’s searching for the smallest speck of something to assuage his worries. But if you see something you don’t look for it.

So Taylor just nods. Follows with her at Nik’s back where he acts like a wall to keep their whispers private.

“Its not the Coven.” She says it so matter-of-factly.

The figure, now a young girl in the same pale grey shroud as the other faces had been, keeps staring even as they leave the parlor behind.

“Then what is it?” Nik throws back through gritted teeth.

“Something much more powerful.”

Taylor squeaks. “Not helping.”

“I recognize that look — I’ve seen it in the mirror,” and when they approach another set of double doors, stalled behind the Suit and his glower, her breath is hot in his ear.

“Keep an eye out. If The Fate is watching then there’s far more at stake than we assumed.”

His first thought is there have to be more witches in New Orleans than this, closely followed by please stop inviting trouble into your life, Taylor.

But even Katherine looks confused at the emptiness of the solarium they’re led into. How unassuming the three occupants look taking their tea with a pristine porcelain pot at a table out of Home and Garden magazine.

The same kinds of lilies, white petals large and curling under the sunlight, occupy every planter and pot in sight. Some of them are accompanied by flowers he’s only ever seen in books or movies — others look like they might be more at home in Lamrian taking root than here; to be appreciated but ultimately with a finite lifespan.

The solarium is a half-circle of heat and glass. Even the door leading out to a back garden path is see-through; the handle made of crystal. Everything catches on the sun and it makes Taylor quite literally hot under the collar.

He wipes a bit of sweat away from his chin uncomfortably.

They aren’t greeted when they enter. There are no chairs for them to take up. The Suit departs with the same wordless condescension with which he arrived and they’re just left there, taking up space on pristine marble, watching the so-called Garden Elders take their tea.

Only one of them actually looks the title ‘elder.’ The cotton on his robes looks scratchy, makes Taylor want to itch along his arms even at a distance. The locs that obscure his withered face fall back when he lifts his head up to the sun — casting shadows in the lines and creases of age he wears not just well but with a sort of pride.

With a delicate two-fingered touch he pushes his cup and saucer to the woman to his left. She refills his cup without looking away from the newspaper folded in front of her setting. The air around her seems to hold back as if afraid to touch — reverent of her existence but willing only to observe. The way the light illuminates her dark skin is practically golden. Makes her shine with some ethereal grace more at home with fae-kind than mortal witches, but the glow is undoubtedly hers.

The third Elder takes Taylor by surprise — he’s seen her before. Can still smell the sour cling of sweat to copper talismans and commercial incense on the ever-crowded floor of the House of Voodoo shop on Bourbon Street. Takes hiding in plain sight to a whole new level.

Would the Taylor from before all of this have felt the power that radiates around them? Would he have understood there was something to be feared about this particular trio; something he couldn’t possibly understand yet could feel in a place deeper than in the marrow of his bones?

I guess we’ll never know.

The polite thing to do would be to wait for them to finish their morning repast.

They don’t have time for politeness.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice, Elders.” Katherine gives a respectful nod of her head when she steps forward. Based on the look she throws at Ryder that’s what they should all be doing — but he doesn’t. And Taylor just doesn’t want to look like an idiot.

Something rattles hollow around the old man’s neck and when he turns Taylor really hopes those aren’t real bones strung together with twine. His eyes are a milky, clouded white but he looks at Katherine with no trouble.

“Despite what rumor may have you believe we care a great deal of our ties to the community.”

Kathy opens her mouth to speak but because Nik is Nik he scoffs “yeah, sure,” loud enough to drag the focus of all three Elders onto him.

“If you’ve something to say, boy, say it,” says the House of Voodoo employee, and Taylor will never hear a customer service voice the same way again with the shiver it sends running down his spine.

“Elder Millet —”

It isn’t politeness that cuts Kathy off when Millet raises her hand. Not with the purpling of her face or the way she seems to gasp around unspoken words.

“Excuses are as bad as lies, Miss Lopez,” she gives a flippant wave to her peers that breaks her unspoken spell; leaves Katherine on the verge of clawing at her throat for fragrant lily-scented air, “if Mister Ryder here has something to say who are we to force him into silence?” Ironic, much?

Now he’s done it — Nik can tell, too. If they want to continue he’s going to have to finish his thought and accept the consequences that come with it.

But he is Nik; so he squares his shoulders and stands his ground despite the unease that Taylor feels emanating from him.

“I mean no blatant disrespect Elder Millet,” —to the old man— “Elder Vion,” —and to the woman still yet to look up from the paper— “Elder Daniels; but if any of you three gave a damn about the community we wouldn’t’a needed to come get you in the first place. You’d have shown your faces at the Beau-Keyes with the rest of ‘em.”

“And look what happened to them,” drawls Elder Daniels as she flips the paper to the financial section, “almost killed due to reckless stupidity and an inability to see beyond the moment.”

The private laugh the three of them share isn’t lost on anyone. In fact it makes Cal bristle and go red in the face.

“You—You knew we’d be attacked? You knew and you did nothing?!”

Pack blood still runs deep.

Elder Vion adds a pink sugar cube to his tea. “‘Doing nothing’ was the ideal course of action.”

And his fellow Elders agree; “It followed the plan precisely.”

“And leaves us with an opening.”

“Though the guests will have to be taken care of first.”

“They won’t be here for long.”

“Hey—Hey! Now ain’t the time to dissolve into crazy!”

Nik’s clapping isn’t just loud — it makes the room tremble. Glass walls, the glass panels on the ceiling all somehow stunned by the weight of his audacity. That he would dare call attention to himself, this small, insignificant creature—

Taylor hastily shoves his palms into the front pockets of his jeans. Like that will somehow stop the feeling prickling at his palms like a thousand tiny needles. Different than anxiety; something borderline painful. Like if he thinks about it too much it will start to hurt, but pushing it out of the forefront of his mind will keep it at bay.

He recognizes the feeling easily enough — still doesn’t know what it means or what’s causing it but there’s one answer he didn’t have before. It has something to do with being a fae.

“So you all know what’s out… there.” Taylor jerks his chin to the garden, to the French Quarter beyond and the rest of New Orleans with it.

Given everything they’ve seen when it comes to the bloodwraith so far it’s almost laughable to think such a gruesome creature could exist—let alone appear—on a day like this.

Elder Millet looks Taylor over like she’s peeling back each and every layer of him with her eyes. Maybe she is — he wouldn’t put it past magic itself. Let alone past the magic that told the Coven Elders how terrible the attack at the Beau-Keyes would be and convinced them to do fuck-all about it.

“We do.”

But they knew that. “And you know what it’s after.”

“We’ve drawn our own conclusions.”

“Do those conclusions tell you how close you’re getting to the top of the list?” It sounds an awful lot like a threat. Good — he wants it to be.

“Do they tell you its only a matter of time until it comes after you — after the entire Coven?”

Nik agrees; “Whose to say it’ll stop with the Elders? Someone takes your place eventually — it can go after them, and the ones that follow, and the ones after that —”

Vion scoffs around his tea. “Preposterous!”

“Actually no; not in the slightest.” Wariness, distrust hangs over Katherine in an aura of thunderclouds. And its growing. “It’s logical.”

The word, the very implication of it makes Millet’s fingers twitch towards something partially obscured by the teapot. At first Taylor wrote them off as napkins but now the shape and size rings familiar.

Her deck of tarot cards doesn’t like being questioned.

“Logic is the predilection of the mundane.” When Elder Daniels finally looks up from her paper its to stare directly at Katherine. Hard and unyielding. Its a look of power; a silent demand for surrender.

And she almost does. Taylor knows without a doubt that she’d deny it with her last breath but words mean nothing when he can see the flash of her soul behind stormy skies — hear the rolling thunder not far behind.

“There are a thousand and one ways to interpret any given reading. And you chose the one that would keep you out of the crossfire.

“Even if it meant turning your backs on the Accords.”

Outside the walls of the sunroom nothing has changed. The clouds have continued to drift lazily by and the sun still beats down upon them. But when they entered the room felt as transparent as it looked.

Now they may as well be trapped in a dense fog. It threatens to block out the sun; to take pleasure in wringing out their last choking breaths.

“You overstep, insolent little Nighthunter.”

Elder Daniels stands and waves her hand. Probably takes a sick sense of satisfaction in the smallest flinch Katherine fails to hold back — but instead the witches’ spread vanishes as though it was never there.

There is no gaping absence of it — they could just as easily have been standing the entire time and had Taylor’s eyes not seen the table and chairs, had he not smelled the brewing tea or heard the clinking of cup against saucer, he would have a hard time explaining why he thought any of it was there in the first place.

Millet’s fingertips hover just above the surface of her tarot deck. The only physical thing to have remained. As much a member of the Elders as anything.

And the wrinkles on Vion’s leathery face have sunken deep like canyons. His movements are ancient and slow as he stands beside his fellow Elders in defiance of some unknown.

The sides are becoming glaringly obvious.

Small as it was Daniels’ display of power served its purpose; reminded them of who—what—they were dealing with. A power strong enough to entice the bloodwraith and prove its worth by remaining untouched.

The continued existence of them was a claim to power that the likes of Carlo de la Rosa and Denna the Shifter could never have dreamed of.

Taylor knows he’s not the only one of them having this fact hammered home inside him. Not solely because it takes some big and important shit to keep Ryder silent for this long but definitely highlighted by it.

“Perhaps,” Millet drags the word out solely to fuck with them, “we are the ones to be blamed. Blamed for our naivete in agreeing to this meeting disguised as an attempt to point fingers.”

And because its Katherine on the line — more than her name or reputation, but her life — she remains the sensible one. She tries to smooth-talk her way out. “With respect, Elder Millet, no one’s pointing fingers—”

“Save your arguments,” barks Vion, “though I’m sure they were well-rehearsed. Even blind to this physical plane as I am, I can see your true intentions for coming here.”

“Well there weren’t any, so —”

“We open our doors to you in this hour of need and yet you seek to accuse us of that which you cannot even begin to understand. Do you deny?”

It’s beginning to feel an awful lot like a trial and Taylor isn’t the only one who can feel it. He knows what the tension in Cal means — the way Nik shifts to the foot he favors standing his ground on.

But something just isn’t right. It’s echoing hollow in his bones; in the air around them. It fills him up, keeps filling him until he’s not sure he can stand it anymore. Until it wants to pour from his mouth or leak from his ears.

“Then why even agree to meet with us at all?” he blurts out to the surprise of the room; to himself.

And all that pressuring weight shifts from Katherine to him. Now he’s deep in it. Way to effing go.

Only its the first time the Elders don’t have a remark ready to be snapped at their heels. A fact that isn’t lost on them — and isn’t lost on his friends either.

And since its the only silence they might be getting any time soon he tries to roll with it in his usual word-vomit way.

“If you can see so much of the future in your cards or whatever — why agree to meet with us at all? Wouldn’t you know what we think of you? What everyone thinks of you? And you guys don’t seem like the type to entertain stupid people for the sake of a laugh.”

Nik gives him a very specific ‘Did you just call us stupid?’ look. Yeah, yeah he did.

But its rambling, and Taylor is good at rambling. Rambling is what he does best — rambling and improv monologues.

“You guys —” he drags an accusatory finger across the spread of them, “— are the ones accusing anyone, here. Which I get, you know, because there’s a lot going on. And everyone’s scared and everyone’s got their walls up because this is—like—ten thousand leagues away from normal even for your crazy world.

“But if we keep pointing fingers and we keep not helping everyone then what’s gonna happen? Right — the bloodwraith is gonna win. Because we’re gonna do its job for it!”

He drops his finger, then, because he’s making a point and leading by example. “Whatever reasons you may think we have for coming here are bullshit. No one wants to help, everyone’s just in it for themselves! And seeing as literally everyone in the city is a target right now that’s a really really stupid way of thinking!”

Like — he’s making sense, isn’t he? He feels almost compelled to look around not just at the Elders but at his friends, too. How many stories about good versus evil demand that everyone band together in spite of their differences for their own survival; for everyone’s survival?

They had been so close at the Beau-Keyes. If they’d all been given more time who knows what they could have accomplished. Maybe Kristof would be more willing to help. Maybe Lady Smoke wouldn’t have gotten hurt.

Maybe Elric would stop hiding behind his wards like a coward.

Taylor sighs and it comes out a ragged thing — takes every last bit of air in his lungs and tries to wring a choked noise from his lips but he’s just too tired.

“If you had already made up your minds about us — about helping everyone — then why bother letting us come here to ask?”

Over Elder Daniels’ shoulder, across the room and through the spotless glass wall he sees the same figure as before. Knows its them by the glint of their golden eyes. The young woman’s face is forlorn; almost weeping. Flickers like a heat mirage from young to old to young again.

The Fate, Katherine had called them.

Why here?

Why now?

Why won’t they do something?

“Such a rousing call to action…” says Millet with the vestiges of praise — yet it looks bitter on her tongue.

Daniels agrees; “And from the unseen complication, no less.”

“Perhaps we underestimated him.”

“What difference would it make? Everything has gone as predicted so far.”

“One wrong move can turn the tide.”

“Yes — but this…”

Again they fall into whispered confidences — as though the others aren’t even there.

Ryder almost growls. More unwilling to call them out on it than before but just as impatient. “This was useless…” he hisses through gritted teeth back in Kathy’s direction.

A small movement draws Taylor’s attention to Elder Vion. To the empty space beside him.

Where The Fate — as a child, making it all the more eerie — reaches up and takes the witch’s hand in theirs. Blood soaks through their grey sleeve; drips down onto the pristine white floor. One droplet becomes two, becomes three and more. A puddle forming at their feet and spreading out of its own will.

He knows it isn’t real — that none of it is really there. There is no child and no blood not only because no one else is freaking out about it but because of the way the blood moves. Spiraling tendrils seeking to consume but only at the Elders’ feet.

The meaning of the whole disturbing sight is clear.

There is blood on the Elders’ hands. They’re drowning in it.

“You didn’t answer his question.”

Katherine cuts Daniels and Millet off mid-word. All that cool calculation hidden behind her pretty face; the perfect mask to hide behind. “Why’d you agree to this? What do you gain?”

Daniels’ upper lip curls. “There is nothing you could offer worth our time.”

“Still doesn’t answer the question.”

“Do you forget you called upon us?”

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “when I thought you’d be useful. But we’re just talking in circles here!”

They are. What more do they know now compared to before?

Nothing is making any freakin’ sense. Nothing except for the sickening feeling growing inside. The blood spreads — devours. Leaves the witches draped in a dark veil thicker than a fog at night and the solarium, once filled with the light breeze of lilies, reeking of rot and the sour tang of open wounds.

A scent he’s becoming all too familiar with — something Taylor never thought would ever cross his mind.

Again there’s a prickling at his palms but this time he reaches for Ryder — a port in the gathering storm. Clasps their hands together tightly; desperately.

Nik who does a double-take when he catches the hollow light of fear in his eyes.

We need to leave.

What do you know?

Too much.

Too much. He knows too much. The Fate knows it and that’s why their figure has vanished but the blood seeping into the hems of the Elders’ clothes remains. The world knows it too, somehow. Keeps that damp and musty smell of molding decay stuck in his lungs and makes him choke on it. Makes his eyes water and an itching pain climb up from the inside of him begging to be let free.

He knows too much. Can’t even begin to understand the how or the why and maybe even a little bit of the what but he does.

He knows without a shadow of a doubt that the darkness that gathers around the Coven Elders and the one hanging as a fatal noose around the bloodwraith are one in the same.

We need to leave.

“It doesn’t matter Kathy,” Nik interrupts — keeps his eyes on Taylor like a grounding point; the only solid ground to stand on, “whether they answer or not it’s clear as day they don’t plan on helping anyone but themselves.

“We oughta get goin’.”

To their credit the Elders don’t deny it.

But the sudden change is a bit too much for Katherine. “Are you—Nik what the hell?”

“Kathy —” Taylor’s wavering voice almost breaks at just her name. Its enough; enough to drag her away from frustrating thoughts building to the fact that he’s white as a sheet and on the verge of unconsciousness. “Please.”

She doesn’t get the chance to argue. Not when the room turns to shadows upon shadows; very real and very not-in-his-head clouds blooming across the sun over their heads.

Even when Elder Vion lowers his hand the spell continues; grows and takes hold of the sky above until the sun is nothing but a distant memory, until the shadows are only a darkness unending.

He tuts and clicks his tongue — such a normal act in contrast to the way he leans on the gnarled handle of his cane. “Finally the consequences reveal themselves.” He bites out, though his scorn is quickly directed to the Elders at his side. “Had you not wished to speed the process this wouldn’t be an issue.”

“Had we?” Millet snaps; gestures with her hands so wide that one of the cards slips from her deck and flutters to the ground face-up.

The Wheel of Fortune stares lifelessly upwards.

“You insisted the Council could not be allowed to congregate, Vion.”

“Indeed we acted on faith of your vision,” agrees Daniels.

Vion, though, is adamant; “The consequences outweighed the risk.”

“And what of that,” Daniels thrusts a finger at Taylor, “little consequence? Was it worth the knowledge he now possesses?”

The energy directed his way makes Taylor double over — from pain or pressure he doesn’t know. But Nik isn’t having it.

“What the hell are you crazy people talkin’ about?!”

“Silence!”

There’s a loud and resistant groan over their heads. They look up just in time to see the metal framework stop — now twisted, coiled like a spring ready to snap and send the ceiling panels hurtling down in what would surely be a painful death for all but the Elders.

“You dare interrupt your betters; dare demand of those who hold absolute power over your mortal lives?!” She’s practically shrieking now; and with each crack of her voice comes a crack in the glass surrounding them. “That you continue to live is a testament to our generosity despite your wretched meddling!

“But a Nighthunter never learns. Not until he is forced into submission!”

The bones around Elder Vion’s neck rattle on a nonexistent breeze. “To give this cur the same punishment would be my pleasure.”

“Why bother prolonging it?” adds Millet in a ravenous growl, “Kill him now and we have a second soul to cut from the veil. A second soldier to finish the task at hand.”

Cal goes rigid; taken by surprise. Now he knows. “Holy shit. It’s you.”

And now Katherine knows too; forces down the oncoming waves of revelation — keeps herself afloat with a strength well-hidden.

“You’re the ones controlling the bloodwraith.”

#nightbound #nik ryder #cal lowell #nik ryder x mc #vera reimonenq #katherine nightbound #nightbound mc #mc: taylor hunter #oblv: bound by circumstance #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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thiswasinevitableid · 6 years ago

Note

Indruck bartender ah prompt???????? Very good A++

Glad you liked it! I liked one of the other ones for them as a pair, so please enjoy this self-indulgent one-shot.

Prompt: you always bring your Tinder/Grindr dates to my bar and have sex in the bathroom and I really think you need to get better standards (spoiler: I’m not so upset when it’s us having sex in the bathroom)

Note: This is Not Suitable For your Workplace. Also, as a CW, Indrid has lots of casual sex that, we learn, started out as something he liked but that he may now be using as a less than ideal coping mechanism

It’s a busy Friday night at the bar; spring has come and folks are ready to be out and about. From his position as bartender (and owner), Duck sees many new faces mixed in with the old ones and smiles. The Beacon is his pride and joy, and he likes to see people enjoying themselves.

When he steps into the hallway leading to the bathrooms he hears a familiar voice under the music and crowd, one that tells him a certain regular is also enjoying himself.

“Oh yes, yes, more, please.” A lilting, begging voice comes from behind the wall. Yep, it’s Indrid alright.

Business as usual then.

The skinny, white-haired man started coming in two months ago. At first he just sat at the bar, ordered the sweetest thing on the menu, and chatted with Duck. After a few weeks, he started bringing in a new date every night, usually two or three times a week. These dates (a term Duck uses loosely) follow the same pattern: Indrid and the guy arrive, make small talk at the bar while they have a drink (also a term Duck uses loosely, since Indrid’s drinks have almost no booze), then disappear into the bathroom for a little while, returning a little disheveled. Sometimes the guy stays, keeps chatting with Indrid, sometimes they leave together. Most times the guy doesn’t stick around long.

Because of the proximity of the bathroom to the supply closets Duck needs to visit during work, he often ends up hearing just what goes on between Indrid and his date of the day. Some nights, from the noises he’s making, it’s clear Indrid is getting fucked, likely against the door. Other nights, he can’t hear him, only his date, meaning Indrid is on his knees with a dick in his mouth.

Duck tries not to worry or judge. Indrid’s a grown-ass man, and can fuck as many guys as he wants. Hell, Duck’s had plenty of bathroom and backseat one-nighters in his time.

But.

Whenever he overhears him, or sees him at the bar after the trysts, all he can think is that Indrid somehow deserves better than a bathroom hook-up who half the time won’t stick around for a second drink. A dinner date, maybe, or a spin through Golden Gate park. Flowers, he bets Indrid would like those. At the very least, he deserves someone who will offer him their jacket when he starts shivering no matter how warm the bar is. Only three guys have, and Duck decide those three are the ones he most approves of.

Then again, maybe the guy he’s with now is a good one.

“Ah! Harder, please, oh goodness yes I-”

“Jesus, do you ever shut up?”

That’s a no then.

When they get back to the bar, Duck glares at the guy as he pays the tab and leaves with only a few words to Indrid, who keeps his eyes downcast.

“Bit of dud?” He leans over the bar, wishing for way to make Indrid look less…muted.

“I suppose. Oh well, they can’t all be charmers.” He flashes Duck a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“That they can’t. Speakin’ of which-hey! Boyd I saw that!”

By the time he’s done calming one of his regulars down from trying to pick a fight with an out of towner, Indrid is gone.

———————————

A week later, when Duck sees Indrid take his latest date by the hand and lead him towards the bathrooms, he beats them to the door. He’s put this off longer than he should have.

“Uh uh, Indrid, not tonight.”

Indrid starts blushing with embarrassment as the man he’s with glowers at Duck. He remains undeterred.

“I been getting complaints from other patrons about your, uh, activities back here. It’s makin’ an awful lot of folks uncomfortable that they can hear someone gettin’ their dick sucked when they’re just tryin’ to use the john.”

“Hey, pal, how about you just ignore those complaints?” The date flashes a twenty at him.

“Nope.”

“Look, asshole, just because you serve the drinks at this shitty place-”

“Do not speak to him that way.” Indrid snaps, crosses his arms. The man looks at Duck, still blocking the door, then back at Indrid.

“Whatever, you’re not worth this much hassle.” He disappears.

Indrid glances at Duck, cheeks still pink.

“I’m sorry, Duck, I didn’t mean to cause trouble for you, or make people uncomfortable. I’ll just pay and go.”

“Hey, Indrid, it’s okay, you can stay I just needed you to know what was off-limits, I ain’t mad at you or nothin.” He touches his shoulder reassuringly and Indrid takes a sharp, shaky inhale.

“I, I’m sorry, I s-should”

Duck’s worked in a bar for years, he can tell when someone’s about to cry. Gently, he leads Indrid back to a staff break area, eases him down into a chair.

“You must think I’m reckless and awful.” It’s a sniffle and Duck, having no tissues, grabs a stray handful of napkins.

“Don’t think anythin’ of the kind. Sometimes wonder how you fell into the habits you have, but I also know that’s none of my damn business.”

Indrid blows his nose, tosses the napkin towards the trash.

“I m-moved here a few months ago to be with someone, after he got hired at a tech start-up. Two weeks after I got here, he dumped me. He, he said I was a walking disaster, that I talk too much, that, that I was a starter boyfriend at best and not really even good enough for that and didn’t deserve someone like him.”

“Asshole.” Duck mutters, rubbing a circle on Indrids back, a motion that seems to calm the skinnier man.

“I barely knew anyone, still don’t, and I liked hooking up at first because it was fun but it, it’s also because he was right, I shouldn’t ask for anything more than a few hours with someone. This feels like what I deserve.”

Duck lowers onto his knees in front of Indrid. Cups his chin with one hand, strokes his tangled strands of white hair with the other.

“Indrid, that’s the biggest load of bullshit I ever heard. I’ve gotten to know you plenty well and I can gauran-goddamn-tee you deserve better than givin’ a blowjob on a bathroom floor. You deserve the best this city and the guys in it have to offer.”

Indrid meets his gaze, eyes still watery behind his red glasses. But he smiles, soft and sweet and genuine.

“Thank you, Duck. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said since I got here.”

Duck tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, takes a moment to admire the strange angles of Indrids face.

A crash from out front, followed by Leo, the other bartender, yelling “Boyd!”

“I better go help out. You stay here as long as you need.”

He glances back just as gets to the door. Indrid is looking at him. And he’s still smiling.

———————————

Duck’s resigned himself to the possibility of not seeing Indrid again. After all, the guy was clearly embarrassed and maybe that means he won’t come back to The Beacon.

But Tuesday night, Indrid is in like usual. This time, he’s alone.

“Hey stranger, what’ll you have?” Duck flashes him a teasing smile.

“The sweetest thing you can make me.”

Duck pours a few ingredients into a glass, tosses a maraschino cherry in and slides it to Indrid. The taller man takes a sip. Grins, takes another, and then chugs half the drink before popping the cherry into his mouth.

“What is this?”

“Shirley Temple.”

“Wait, that’s-”

“Nonalcoholic? Yeah. Look, Indrid, I got a confession: your drinks have had little to no booze in ‘em since week two you of you comin’ here, because I watched you wince and then not drink ‘em when they did. Don’t worry, I charged you less for ‘em. Even made you a few experimental ones that I figured would be to your tastes”

“You….made special drinks for me?”

“Yep.” Duck serves two more regulars as Indrid contemplatively sips from his glass.

“That’s sweet.”

“Oughta be, mostly grenadine.”

“No, I meant what you did. With the drinks” He smiles shyly at him and Duck feels his cheeks heat up.

“I think I’d only like nonalcoholic ones from now on.”

“Roger that.” Duck winks at him just as another regular, one he needs to have a word with, steps up to the bar.

“Ned, for chrissake, will you tell Boyd that he doesn’t need to take on every straight dude-bro who wanders in here.”

“I take it my beau has become overeager in his quest to ensure a safe space?”

“He broke a chair, Ned. And while I appreciate the time he literally carried the guy who took issue with me bein’ trans out the door, if I wanted a bouncer I’d hire one.”

“Very well friend Duck, very well.” Ned notices Indrid, nods at him, “I see you’re flying solo this evening.”

“Yes, I’ve decided a change of pace was in order.” He smiles at Duck again and this time his heart flutters more than it usually does when Indrid’s around.

The pattern changes over the next few weeks. Indrid will come in multiple days a week, though now he favors late afternoon or early evening on weekends, and shows up on weeknights that are usually slow. Duck makes him something sweet, with as many maraschino cherries as ice cubes. Indrid will talk with Duck, or draw on the sketchpad he brings, and as the days go by he starts to open up more to Ned, Boyd, and a few other regulars.

Through their talks, Duck learns that Indrid works as psychic/palm reader/tarot reader as well as taking commissions for his art. That he loves the fog, even though it’s cold, and that he really likes Dim Sum, boba tea, and kool-aid. They swap stories about their tattoos, and whenever Duck recommends a sight to see in the city or in the east bay, Indrid jots it down. Duck finds him easy to talk to, full of ideas and anecdotes, hands moving animatedly as he speaks and it’s so endearing Duck doesn’t mind the few times he knocks a glass over.

Yeah, his ex was full of shit.

———————————

It’s a busy Friday night and Duck is feeling good. He woke up feeling himself (as his friend Aubrey likes to say) and as result is dressed extra sharp, with pants he knows make his ass look amazing. Indrid is in his usual spot, the stool on the farthest end of the bar, and although Duck doesn’t have much time to chat, he still sends the odd smile and wink his way. Towards the end of the night, right before closing, Indrid disappears and Duck assumes he went home.

After everyone is out, he shuts and locks the door and begins cleaning up. He steps into the bathroom to make sure it’s not so wrecked that he can’t leave it until tomorrow when he hears a familiar noise.

It’s Indrid, in the stall behind him, letting out breathy, high moans and clearly trying to keep quiet.

He sighs.

“Okay fellas, I already closed up, so how’s about continuin’ this somewhere else.”

There’s a muffled curse and then Indrid steps out. Alone. He washes his hands hurriedly.

“Sorry, I lost track of time.”

“Someone out there got you all worked up?”

Indrid turns, his eyes slowly taking in Duck from top to toe.

“You could say that.”

“Really now? What else could you say?”

“I’d say-” As Indrid speaks Duck takes a step towards him, accidentally knocking his keys from the counter onto the floor. Indrid kneels down to grab them, ends up eye-level with his belt, freezes as he looks up at Duck. They’re so close, so very close.

Indrid leans forward an inch, kisses Ducks stomach quickly, stands up just as fast and hands Duck his keys.

“I should go.” He doesn’t move an inch.

“First you should finish answerin’ my question.”

“I would say” Indrid whispers, picking his words carefully, “that if the person I was thinking of was in this room, I would very much not object to him kissing me.”

Duck doesn’t hesitate, takes Indrid by the shoulders and pulls him into a kiss. Indrid threads his fingers into Ducks hair, let’s the shorter man press him against the counter. Duck laughs into the kiss as Indrid starts taking the phrase “climb him like a tree” literally, trying to wrap his legs around Duck and bring them closer.

“Somethin else you want, darlin’?” Duck pants when they finally break apart.

“Yes, but I have it on good authority it’s not permitted in this bathroom.”

Duck slides his hands into Indrids back pockets.

“Ain’t no one here to make uncomfortable. And a perk of ownin’ the places is that I can make exceptions to the rules. Like, say, when a cute fella makes me so hard I can’t see straight.”

Indrid kisses him again at that, small eager sounds bubbling up in his throat.

“How d’you wanna do this?” Duck runs a finger along Indrids collarbone.

“Oh. Uh….” Indrid fiddles with the crystal he always wears around his neck, “I hadn’t given, that is, everyone just assumes I’ll bottom.”

“Well, I ain’t assumin’ nothin’, darlin’. Want you to tell me what you want.”

Indrid bites his lip, nervous, as he looks at Duck.

“May I fuck you?”

“Hell yeah.” Duck kisses him again before letting him step around him. Never has he been more grateful for the fact he keeps a basket of condoms in the bathroom for folks to take if they need. He undoes his belt, gets his pants and boxers down in a hurry and rests his elbows on the counter. When he looks at Indrid the man is frozen, condom in hand, staring at him.

“You doin’ alright there?”

“Yes.” Indrid licks his lips and Duck smirks, begins rubbing lazily at his clit.

“Enjoyin’ the view?” He purrs, gasps a little as he slips two fingers inside.

“Ohgodyes.” Indrid scrambles into motion, stepping behind Duck and wiggling his pants down. There’s a sound of tearing foil and then Duck slips his fingers back out so Indrids cock can take their place.

Indrid pushes in with a soft moan that Duck echoes, then pauses, trails kisses along Ducks neck and back. His hands come to rest atop Ducks, their fingers intertwining as he begins steadily thrusting.

“Goodness this is even better than I imagined.”

“Yeah?” Duck grins over his shoulder at Indrid, “that what you been doin’ while you’re here? Thinkin’ about what’d feel like, ohfuck, to get that nice dick of yours inside me?”

“Well, yes. But, oh god, not only that. I daydreamed about every part of you, touching each inch.” His hands begin roving across Ducks body, shoulders and stomach, chest and arms, even his thighs receive reverent, hungry touches. Duck groans in pleasure, and Indrid presses a kiss to the back of his head, breath growing shakier as his touches turn to grabs.

“C-can I go harder?” He whispers, nuzzling Ducks ear.

“Hard as you want, handsomeOHshit.” His nails scratch at the tile as Indrid straightens, grips his hips and pounds into him. He tosses his head back, a stream of praise and thanks leaving him underscored by the sound of skin hitting skin and that settles it, this is the hottest goddamn thing Duck’s ever seen. He locks eyes with Indrid in the mirror, grinning at how utterly ruined he looks. Indrid suddenly stops making noise, looks a little sheepish.

“Ain’t gotta be quiet on my account, darlin’, like hearin’ that sweet voice moanin’ my name.”

Indrid smiles at him before picking up his pace, hips snapping more erratically.

“Yes, gracious, Duck you feel so good, I’m so close.”

Duck growls, pushes his hips back.

“Sweetheart, Duck, ohmy yes yesyesyes.” He drops his forehead to rest against Duck as he comes, fingers pressing into his skin as he moans more high, broken sounds.

When he pulls out, Duck turns around, contemplating how he wants to come but by the time he’s finished the motion Indrid is on his knees. He thumbs at the join between Ducks hips and thighs, panting, gaze flicking between Ducks clit and his eyes.

“Please?” His eyes are puppy-dog wide. Duck smiles indulgently at him, nods and then Indrids head dives between his legs.

So this is why the guys were always so damn loud on nights when Indrid sucked them off. His tongue is fucking magic. Duck moans, tangles his hands into Indrids hair and grinds his hips.

“Holy fuck, shit, Indrid you’re fuckin’ amazing.”

Indrid meets his eyes, noticeably smiling even as he closes his lips around Ducks clit, making the man yelp and then growl.

“That’s it darlin’, suck my dick, yeah, oh fuck yeah, you’re doin’ so good, that’s it honeyohhhh.” He cums against Indrids tongue, which doesn’t stop moving until his hips stop pulsing.

There’s a minute where the only sound in the room is their joint, ragged breathing. Duck pulls his pants back on as Indrid shimmies his back up. When the taller man looks at him, Duck opens his arms in invitation.

Indrid is in them immediately. Duck holds him tight, feels a little hum of pleasure and happiness buzz against him out of Indrids chest.

From the bar, his closing time playlist switches to a new, slow song, and he begins to sway them gently to the melody.

Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help

Falling in love with you

Jumping the gun a bit there, King, he thinks, but then Indrid grins down at him and he tilts his head, kissing him slowly and softly, Indrid caressing his cheek with his cold fingers and he knows exactly what the singer means.

They kiss and dance until the song ends. At which point Indrid goes pale.

“Oh no! Shoot! What time is it?” He digs his phone out of his pocket, “Oh damn it, BART will’ve stopped running by the time I get to the station.”

“Hey, no worries, I can call you a cab or one of those ubery things. Or…” Duck takes his hand, “if you don’t got anywhere you have to be in the mornin’, you could crash with me. I live upstairs, so it ain’t far.”

Indrid arches an eyebrow.

“An offer that comes, I’m sure, from purely the goodness of your heart?” He teases.

“Gotta be honest: yes. Fuckin around with you plus workin’ all night wore me out, so I ain’t gonna try anythin.”

Indrid cocks his head, unconvinced.

“Honest” Duck says,”besides, don’t expect anythin’ in exchange for offerin’ a friend a place to sleep.”

“And if the friend offers it tomorrow morning?” Indrid flutters his eyelashes.

“Then I ain’t gonna complain.” He smiles, offers Indrid his hand and the other man takes it.

Once they’re upstairs, he gives Indrid the chance to take the bed for himself and have Duck sleep on the couch but Indrid simply shakes his head, pulls Duck onto the bed with him. They change out of their street clothes, Duck into his boxers and Indrid into one of Ducks sweatshirts. Indrid makes himself into the big spoon, kissing Duck on the neck as they settle in for the night.

“Indrid?”

“Yes Duck?”

“Will you let me take you out? Like on a real date or two, or more if things are goin’ well?”

“Gladly.” Indrid sighs, snuggles up closer, and Duck squeezes the hand resting on his chest.

In the morning Duck wakes up first, slips out of the apartment for a quick errand. By the time he gets back Indrid is stirring, and the skinnier man smiles when Duck holds aloft the breakfast he brought. The smile grows neon-bright when Duck reveals his other purchase from behind his back:

Flowers.

#indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #au list prompt

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hipsofsteel · 5 years ago

Note

Can we hear more about Jan?

Of course, anon! I’d be glad to yell a lot of information about the man who lists yelling as one of his hobbies.

And, without further ado, an introduction and character summary below.

Jan Kees Jones, personification of New York State

All art credited to @zapphi, 2017, 2018, 2019

Physical Description

Jan Kees is 5′11, with semi-styled sandy blonde hair, and blue-green eyes. He is of a medium build, and decently fit. He has been referred to as a shorter version of his father, Lars. Neither can deny relationship to the other. He identifies as Dutch-American. His birth year was 1614, and he celebrates his birthday on July 26th.

Jan Kee’s face claim is model Andrej Halasa, his voice claim is Gregg Taylor of Decoder Ring Theatre fame, and as of this moment, he has no singing voice claim.

Personality

Money makes the world go around, the world go around… (Me, starting this section).

Jan is a loud, somewhat egotistical bastard, whose got just enough of a hidden golden heart to be worth knowing, somehow. He’s really good with kids, passionate, and driven to do whatever he decides to do. His passion and drive can play against him at times when he comes off as stubborn and resistant to outside ideas, and aides in many negative perceptions of him. He can also be very indifferent at times to various situations, unless he has a direct stake in it, and pride is a very definite and major downfall he has.

At the same time, he believes strongly in family. While he probably fights with his two brothers more than anyone else, he’ll be right at their side the moment anyone else goes after them. And as for his family back in Europe, he considers himself still very close to his father, and visits him often. He’s also a little bit of a prankster, and he and Seth (@zapphi’s Massachusetts) have gotten into multiple prank wars.

Sexuality and Gender

Jan Kees is queer and cisgender. He has tried ascribing other names to his sexuality over the years, but it has been very fluid at times, so he prefers the overall term of queer. The closest he’s come to using any other name for his sexual orientation was bisexual, but he remained somewhat uncomfortable with the term before switching back to queer.

Jan can additionally be very open with his sexuality at times, and has historically been quite the womanizer and been willing to sleep with about anyone who lets him. When other states joke about the “Promiscusquad”, they count Jan Kees in as a founding member. However, if you’re in a serious relationship with him, he’s a one-person man.

Religion

Jan was raised as a Dutch protestant, and while he remains culturally Christian, indetifies as an agnostic or atheist nowadays. He is very aware of other cultures and religious practices, and tries to be very respectful of them, and has spent a lot of time studying Judaism in particular, as both his brothers are Jewish.

Employment

Jan has two fields in which he’s incredibly passionate and focused in, law and finance. Following World War Two, he has predominantly focused in law, although he continues to invest his money. He used to mainly making a living in finance, but after the Great Depression, felt that law was a more stable career.

Pets

Jan has three pets, all gifts from Lars to celebrate another century of age. In order, he recieved:

Niagara

A Friesian mare Jan recieved on his 100th birthday, Niagara was a very practical gift. He was a growing colony, and although he was now a British colony, Lars felt he needed his own transportation and Arthur was failing to provide him it. Jan and Niagara were pretty inseperable until the age of the automobile. Nowadays, Niagara lives on Jan’s property in upstate New York and enjoys her well-deserved retirement.

Hamilton

A blue and white British Shorthair was given to Jan as his 200th birthday present, and named in honor of Alexander Hamilton. Jan is definitely more of a cat person than a dog person, and Hamilton can about get away with murder. He sleeps on Jan’s chest (which is bad when he weighs as much as he does), loves all of Jan’s “enemies” more than he loves Jan, and loves the smell of mint gum which Jan is sometimes forcefed so he won’t smoke.

Hamilton, you traitor, stop adoring Massachusetts.

When life gives you mint gum, Hamilton glues himself to your face.

Rembrandt

Rembrandt exists pretty much solely because of this picture of Jan’s faceclaim. Rembrandt was a gift for Jan’s 300th birthday, and Rembrandt the hedgehog is living the ideal life in Jan’s apartment. He crawls around on the floor as a walking pincushion, Hamilton is terrified of him and Jan’s terrified of stepping on him, he gets taken out for fun photoshoots by literally anyone who’s ever housesat for Jan so they can spam Jan with pics. His life is amazing.

After reiceiving Rembrandt, Jan has made it clear he has as many pets as he wants, so he didn’t recieve another pet for his 400th birthday in 2014.

Relationships with other States

We’ll start with family.

New Jersey

Elijah, only ten years younger than Jan, has never been someone whose content to be in the shadows OR bossed around by his older brother. Fiercely independent from the start, he resisted assimilation into a Dutch way of life, clinging to his native roots and converting to Judaism very early on. Half the time, they’re at the other’s throats over the smallest things. The other half of the time, they’re about the only person watching each other’s back. They’re a formidable team when cooperating, and Elijah admits he’d miss arguing with him if something happened to the asshole, but don’t you dare tell Jan that!

Delaware

No art for Aaron, so imagine Elijah, but approximately one inch shorter.

Aaron always felt a bit like the third wheel of the family, and he isn’t entirely wrong (Jan and Elijah can be rather self-centered at times). At the same time, Aaron serves as a peacekeeper between the two and he and Elijah bond over their shared faith.

Yet, some doubts about his place in the family were destroyed when Aaron came out of the closet as trans. Jan Kees and Elijah immediately stopped using Aaron’s deadname, Miriam, and bookended his seat for several meetings, ready to throw down with anyone who challenged Aaron. Jan Kees has even helped financially with some of Aaron’s surgeries and made sure his brother has all the expensive male fashion that he will probably never wear because “I never wore this sort of stuff before, Jan, why would I start now?”

Okay, family section over onto other states

Massachusetts

He’s only around eight inches taller than Seth, but this is what Seth thinks their height difference is. And honestly, Jan gloats over it, so he does too.

Seth Adams Jones and Jan Kees’ relationship with him is one of the most complicated things in Jan’s life. He can’t decide if he loves or hates the guy.

I’d like to thank Talia and also Talia for my life. -Jess

Jan Kees came into the original thirteen colonies in a lot of turmoil, and Seth didn’t help. Jan Kees had lost his only parental figure at the time, couldn’t speak much English, was a Dutch Protestant rather than a Puritan, and had Jewish younger siblings.

Needless to say, when one of the first memories you have of someone is getting into a fistfight with them for stealing your brother’s Magen David, you have gotten off on the wrong foot.

They eventually figured out some sort of antagonistic truce, and half-cooperated long enough to see themselves through the French-Indian War, and during the lead-up to the Revolution, Jan had a horrible realization, that he had a lot of feelings towards Seth. So in classic Protestant fashion, aka conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them know, he pretended those feelings didn’t exist. He went through the revolution as a spy for George Washington wishing that he was literally anywhere else doing anything else like maybe fighting with his crush by his side but also no I don’t have a crush on him God I’m a mess, help me.

Also, kinda awkward when your crush mistakes you for an actual redcoat and shoots you at one point when you’re trying to bring in your spy reports.

Jan’s crush remained pretty steady until after the Civil War, when it slowly began to fade over the next fifty years (in canon, Jan ends up dating @bottot‘s Florida, Marco). However, in many AUs, it just keeps simmering in this idiot forever until eventually, somehow, it slips out.

They continue to have a semi-antagonistic friendship, because really to Jan, is it worth knowing someone if they aren’t at least a bit of a fucking bastard? (He says, crawling out of the Boston Harbor for the sixteenth time this year after Seth threw him in.)

And, when times are tough, they can set aside the bullshit and be there for each other. Because you’re my oldest frenemy, damn it, I need you to help get me through this.

Michigan

Ever end up as the primary mentor of a kid who thankfully ends up nothing like you? That’s Jan Kees and Fatima in a nutshell. Fatima had been around for a while as a very small and sometimes struggling personification, but when the Erie Canal opened, so did a whole new world of settlement from the northeastern states, and trade, with New York being the center of it.

Jan served as a primary contact between Fatima and the world for a while, and even bought her her first translation of the Quran when she admitted to being curious about Islam. But in some ways, most importantly to her, he introduced her to Elijah. She and New Jersey somehow hit it off, even with totally opposite personalities, and now she’s practically his sister-in-law, so at least she tolerates his bullshit really well.

Florida

This just in: The moment Elijah realizes Jan Kees liked Marco, he had Jan’s type in men pegged to a T.

Marco is a bitter old salt whose approach to life is “Fuck it, if it doesn’t kill me, it’ll be something I can tell stories about later”. Full of salt, short, and ready to argue with anyone who will let him, he and Jan have interactions eeirly similar to some of Jan and Seth’s interactions.

But Marco also has a way of bringing out the kid in Jan again, making him do ridiculous things and actually having him enjoy it. Finally having their first proper meeting right after the Civil War, they were pretty wary of each other at first, but over time, a begrudging respect formed, followed by begruding affection.

They might not admit it, but they’d literally cross a war zone for each other.

At the same time, they have some things in their relationship that are a little explosive and tense. Marco is jealous of several other states who had short-term relationships with Jan since he used to be very promicious, and can hover a little too much in Jan’s space at times because of that. Meanwhile, Jan can be overprotective and stifle Marco with good intentions and concerns. But they’ll eventually set aside the argument, talk it out, and then go to bed together that night, with Hamilton and Pink treating them as their own private heating pads installed on the mattress.

In the end, they’ll never get used to the other’s weather, but they’ll never stop enduring the heat/cold to see each other either. They’ve both waited long enough to have something good like this, and they’re both too stubborn to let go.

Other States-Brief Thoughts

Vermont- Jackass. Rarely calls Ethan by name, since he fought so damn hard to be Vermont.

Rest of the NE besides Vermont and Massachusetts- Eh, assholes, but I’ll live.

Pennslyvania- Is this actually food or are you poisoning me?

Virginia- Oh, fuck off, you got the capital, but I’ve got the banks.

California- Stealing your money, power, glory, and fame since 1849.

Oregon- Feral tree child.

Washington State- Attractive. Slept with her a few times after WW2. Got threatened by Roberto for it. In retrospect, California was probably right but still. Ouch.

Kansas- Yeah, the appropriate way to get over your crush on Massachusetts probably isn’t to sleep with the girl he considers his daughter. Funnily enough, she ends up dating Washington State later, so that happened.

RANDOM FACTS

-In the Statetalia Canon I’ve created, Jan Kees is the Original Yankee because England misheard his name as Yankee. He referred to Jan as this until Jan knew enough English to correct him.

-He ran away to Canada in 1940 and joined the Canadian Army in response to the invasion of the Netherlands and continued US inaction. Alfred didn’t know until Matthew sent him a telegram that basically said “Yeah, I have custody of New York until the war’s over, bye!”

-Sports team rivalries are his life. I, Jess, know nothing about sports.

-Speaks Dutch, Iriquios, Yiddish, Spanish, Italian, Quebecios French, Mandarin, and English.

-Major insomniac, has no really well established circadian rhythm.

-A really good cook, actually! Too bad he prefers to order take-out.

#Anonymous #aph new york #hws new york #oc jan #ask hipsofsteel #you ask for ze boy and i deliver (eventually) ze boy

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